#—this place has gone to the dogs | musings

[siriusmistakes]

DECEMBER 24, 2009; NUMBER 12 GRIMMAULD PLACE.

trigger warning: implied child abuse.

Snow had fallen so gracefully upon London. The muggle homes that lined Grimmauld square had bright, twinkling lights and Christmas trees that glittered in their frosted windows. If he listened closely, Sirius could make out the faint notes of ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’ playing on their static-filled radios.

He sat on a snow covered bench, his un-gloved hands red with cold, listening to the barely audibly music:

I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love Even more than I usually do And although I know it’s a long road back I promise you

The boy, just eleven, had only been home for three days and was already longing for the warmth of the Gryffindor Common Room, with its fire built up and roaring, or the snowy grounds where he and James and Remus and Peter had made poorly-crafted snow-elves (and then proceeded to have a snowball fight that ended with a snowy-faced Professor Kettleburn and a last-minute detention under all their belts, though it had been Sirius who’d thrown the fatal snowball).

His parents’ greeting at the train platform had been frosty—but that wasn’t entirely unexpected—and Regulus had lurked behind them, ever watching, ever the observer.

He heard the sharp shout of “Sirius!” though it was muffled behind heavy oak doors. Of course his mother was calling; he had to look smart for the annual Christmas party. He didn’t move, knowing it would more than likely result in a lack of dinner this evening; he was rooted to the spot. Frozen by the cold? Perhaps. Frozen to the spot because, for once, he craved silence, craved a moment’s peace that was not punctuated by mutterings of “My poor master and mistress, oh my poor mistress. Such a troubled, disgraceful boy.” Or worse, his mother’s shouting and heavy hand.

He still bore a dark welt across his cheek, though three days’ time and basic healing salves had helped it fade to a pale pink. But the imprint of a hand was still visible.

“Sirius?”

He hadn’t even heard the heavy oak door open, hadn’t heard the creak of the hinges or the soft crunching of boots over snow, “Mum’s looking for you.” Of course, of course, it was Regulus. Who else would be able to sneak up on him as easily and noiselessly as a ghost? His little brother was a head shorter than him, and just a year his junior, but he looked as close to a man as a ten year old could get.

Regulus’s dark hair, that same same ebony shade as Sirius’s (though the latter’s was flecked with ever-falling snow) was shorter and perfect styled to be kept out of his face. He wore a child-sized pair of bottle green dress robes—Sirius suspected he had a matching set hanging in his wardrobe—and those luminescent, gray eyes that were too wise for one so small, watched Sirius. Ever the observer.

“Sirius,” said Regulus again, his quiet, high voice tentative as he trudged through the snow, soiling his perfectly polished shoes, “Are you alright?” And there he sat, next to his brother, the snow dampening the seat of his freshly pressed robes.

“Mum’ll have your head if you ruin your outfit, Reggie,” Sirius muttered, his shoulder knocking a bit into his little brother’s. “And ‘m fine, really. Just needed a second. Y’know, before everyone comes in and I’m either the living freak show or a new piece of furniture that everyone ignores.”

A soft, small, warm hand gripped onto both of his chilled ones, holding fast for just a moment, knowing that, really, they didn’t have much time before they’d be parted once more—Regulus, after all, was to be paraded around as if he was Slytherin’s own bosom pal.

“You miss them. You miss being there.” They weren’t questions posed by his little brother, they were statements. He’d always been a little too smart for his own good.

“I miss being anywhere except here,” Sirius’s tone was harsher than any eleven year old’s should have ever been; for a moment he sounded nearly like a man. But those cold words had caused his little brother to stiffen in the slightest, and he sat up straight and tall. “I-“ Sirius’s voice, just a moment ago filled with such resentment, broke, and hot, fat tears rolled down his red-with-cold cheeks. “I just don’t like being back here. They hate me, Reggie. That’s never going away. I-I like it better at Hogwarts than here because… because people at Hogwarts like me,” A watery laugh and a stifled hiccup broke off his sentence.

In a barely audible voice, so quiet that, really, he wasn’t speaking to Regulus, but to himself, he whispered, “Nobody likes me here.”

But that little boy, with his intelligent gray eyes and, the ache in his chest of idolizing his older brother, just squeezed Sirius’s hand once more, and whispered back, “I still like you. You’re my brother. I’ll always like you.”

But the door opened—crashed open—and there stood Walburga, her dark hair elegantly done up and dolled up in a dress that matched Regulus’s plumage, her face white with anger.

“Regulus Black! Get up this instant, you’ll ruin your clothes!” And she took his free hand, and pulled him up and briskly, efficiently, brushed the snow from his robes. She send the younger Black inside, and he went obediently, with only one backward glance towards his brother.

Then Walburga turned her steely eyes to Sirius. “Get inside, I won’t tell you again.” For once, she was not yelling—it seemed her fury had surpassed even that—but her tone was deadly quiet. When Sirius didn’t move, just looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and a snow cold face, she walked and clasped his face with one taloned hand, so tight he couldn’t have moved his jaw if he’d wanted to. “Inside, boy. I will not tell you again.”

But Sirius’s quiet-for-once defiance, his heartsickness, left him still immobile.

“Fine!” His hard-lined mother shouted, inches from his face, that one syllable echoing and bouncing around the square. He flinched. “Fine! Stay out here all night! Freeze to death! At least this way, no one will have to look at the boy I raised and see what you’ve become.” She turned on her heel and walked back into the house.

He heard the click of the lock on the heavy door, and knew that, now, it would be no use trying to get back inside for a while.

He closed his eyes, ears listening hard, and heard it once more, so faintly, taking him to a large stone castle with suits of armor and pesky poltergeists and friends.

Christmas Eve will find me Where the love light gleams I'll be home for Christmas If only in my dreams

[alexiroflife]

"first day"

fluff, happy fushiguro family, slice of life, megs' first day of school send-off

Synopsis: you've been dating toji for a while now and megumi subconsciously calls you mom for the first time on his way out the door

to sum it up: you adore the little family you've come to be a part of

WC: 1,701

Warning(s): none

"Megs!" you call out, standing by the front door awaiting the dark-haired boy's arrival. He soon shuffles around the corner from his room, throwing a bag over his shoulder with a tired expression on his face.

His father turns to watch him walk in, crossing his arms as he leans against the counter. "The hell were you doing in there that took you so long?"

"Nothing," Megumi grumbles, moving to brush past the two of you to rush to the door. "I just wanted to look presentable, that's all."

"So you took thirty minutes to get ready?" Toji quirks a brow.

"Believe it or not, dad, some would say that's not enough time to get ready in the morning."

"Not at all, actually," you agree.

Toji tugs the corner of his mouth in judgment. " Well, you should know," he says to you. "You spend at least ten years in the bathroom when we have somewhere to go."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "That's such an overreaction. I never take any longer than an hour." Megumi and his father exchange knowing looks and you place your hand on your hip. "What?"

"Don't worry baby," Toji assures you. "It's okay to be in denial."

"We've timed it before. The last time we all went out to dinner as a family, you took two and a half hours to get dressed," Megumi adds.

"That's only because I had to shower and pick out an outfit then do my hair and makeup," you defend.

"Isn't that a little overkill? It takes me half that time to shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and get some homework done."

"Whatever. Your sister would understand," you sigh.

"Unfortunately, she may be worse than you."

"Women," Toji tsks. You slap his bicep and he pretends to flinch, smirking down at you playfully. "Ouch."

"Alright, well, I'm ready now. I don't wanna be late," the sixteen year old says, turning back to reach for the door handle.

"Ah ah ah, wait!" you stop him. "You're not going anywhere without me getting a good look at you. Turn around, I wanna see how the uniform fits."

Megumi lowers his head and complies, turning back around stiffly for you to admire him. You press your hand to your lips to conceal your smile, eyes gleaming with pride as you look over the sharp navy jacket and pants he adorns.

"Awwww," you coo. "It fits perfectly! How does it feel?"

"Pretty good," Megumi nods, moving his arm around slightly to show his mobility in the fabric. "It's comfortable too. It shouldn't be a problem during missions."

"I still can't believe how quickly time has gone by," you muse. "You're already going into your first year at Jujutsu High! Are you excited?"

"You better be," Toji grunts. "Your uncle Gojo hasn't gotten off my ass about your enrollment for years. At least now, he'll finally shut up."

"I still don't understand why I have to have him as a teacher. He's such a moron, I doubt he'll teach us anything useful," Megumi mumbles.

"Moron or not, he's the strongest sorcerer of the modern age and he's helped out so much. I'm sure he'll be able to give you a good experience," you say positively.

"We talkin' about the same Gojo here? The one who trashed my house playing tag with Megumi and the dogs in the living room?" Toji points out and his son grits his teeth at the memory.

"Oh come on, Satoru was like twenty one back then. I can only imagine the crazy shit you've with the kids when you were raising them," you tease.

"You don't even want to know," Megumi exhales.

"Please, you came out just fine, didn’t ya?” Toji says, reaching out his hand to ruffle at Megumi's spiky hair. The teen recoils, craning his head away and shielding himself with his arm.

"Quit it. I'm not five anymore."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're all grown up now, I know. Gonna be a first-grade sorcerer before I can even blink an eye."

"Who said that I would be first grade? I'm only a first year."

"Yeah, and look at who your pops is," Toji grins. "Plus, you got an advantage that I never had. You'll do just fine."

Megumi hums indifferently, doubting himself momentarily but accepting the words nonetheless. "Alright, are we ready?"

"No, not yet!" you pull out your phone quickly and open the camera. "I need to get pictures."

The blue-eyed boy slumps. "(Y/n), I gotta go."

"I know, I know, just a few," you promise, holding your camera up to capture his awkward figure in the frame. "Okay, smile."

Megumi doesn't, and of course you don't actually expect him to. Instead, he calmly stares at the camera with his arms at his sides, unsure of what to do with themselves. Toji moves to stand behind you, leaning down to take a peak at the million pictures you're snapping.

"Toji, go stand with him so I can get one with the both of you."

The two groan simultaneously. "Doll, can we just focus on gettin' the kid to school?"

"It's fine. His stuff is already moved into his dorm. We have time."

"But-"

"Shut up and go stand with your son, now," you glare firmly up at the green-eyed man and he huffs.

"Yes, ma'am."

Toji raises a hand to his hip and tilts his head boredly as he stands beside Megumi, the two of them sharing the exact same blank stare as they look into the camera. You squeal happily. "You two are so cuteee!"

"We done, now?"

"No, I wanna get one more with Megs, and then I'm good." The boys give you a look, but you wave them off. "I mean it! Gosh, here Toji. Take our picture."

Toji obliges, grabbing your phone from your hand as you rush over to the tall boy. His expression melts into serenity as you place your hands on his shoulders and lean your head against his arm, smiling widely at the camera as a hint of a smile touches Megumi's lips.

Toji's heart warms at the sight, watching the way his son grows comfortable in your presence. The picture of the two of you looks so natural t to him like you are meant to be a part of his family, which he knows you are.

He snaps the photo and nods. "Got it."

You exhale, turning to face Megumi. You brush your hands over his shoulders to straighten his jacket, ridding it of any lint and wrinkles. "Okay, Megumi, please remember to be safe."

"I know. I will," he nods.

"And don't be too reckless when it comes to training."

"I won't."

"And try to make friends. I know how easy it is for you to push others away."

"I'll try."

You press your lips together with a final sigh, looking over Megumi's face warmly. You wrap your arms safely around him into a hug, your emotions getting the best of you. You have spent the past year caring for Megumi like your own, and watching him head off to achieve his goals makes your heart swell with joy and fear all the same.

"Text me or your father or Tsumiki if you need anything. Anything at all," you tell him. He returns your hug gently.

"Okay," he chuckles lightly and you pull away. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"...I know you will..." you pout. "Okay, I'll let you go. Good luck. I hope you have an amazing first day. I'll see you at the end of the week, yeah?"

"Mhm. I'll call you to let you know how the day went later."

"Please do."

Toji hands you back your phone and walks toward the door with Megumi. "Let's get a move on," he says. He leans over quickly to peck your lips farewell. "I'll be back in a few."

"Don't speed, Toji."

"Speeding gets you places quicker," he winks and you suck your teeth disapprovingly. Megumi opens the door, his dad gripping the frame.

"Bye, boys. Stay out of trouble," you wave, eyes glassy as you watch Megumi walk out.

"See ya, doll."

"Bye, mum."

The three of you freeze the second the words hit the air, everyone stilling in their tracks.

You feel your heart burst as overwhelming happiness consumes you. Megumi keeps his face forward, hiding his reddening cheeks as he processes what he has just said. Toji stares at the back of his son's head, eyes wide, before he turns to look at you to find your shocked, giddy face.

You don't have any time to reply when Megumi clears his throat suddenly, sweat dotting his forehead, and he walks rigidly out of the house and swiftly down the hall without looking back.

Toji stays behind, keeping an eye on you when you look up at him, stunned. "Did he just...?" you murmur.

"Yep."

Your eyes immediately well with tears and your lips wobble, your hands flying over your mouth. "He sees me as his mom?" you whisper.

Toji chuckles, ducking down to you with his hand still gripping the door. "Of course he does. He's always adored you. Him and Tsumiki."

"I'm gonna cry."

The assassin chuckles softly, pressing his thumb to the corner of your eye gently. "You're already cryin.'"

"Shut up," you sniff. "God, I love those kids so much. I just wanna give him all the hugs in the world."

"And you'll be able to. There isn't a better woman on this planet to be there for the kids," he kisses your cheek. "That's why I plan t'marry you someday."

"Fuck you, Toj. You're gonna make me cry even more."

"Sorry, baby. Can't help talkin' about it," he leans back to the doorway. "Let me get the kid squared away and make sure he's not dyin' of embarrassment, then I'll be back to talk to ya about makin' this official."

"You're being for real?"

"Of course I am."

You lower your hands and beam. "Tell Megumi I love him and get back here soon."

"I will," he hums. "But I thought you said no speeding?"

"Just- make sure the two of you at least get to the school in one peace."

He smirks. "Will do, doll."

[didhewinkback]

how bad do you want me

a something old blurb inspired by the taxi pic but that pic was so sweet and this is definitely just filth

warnings: smut city baby; word count: 3k omg

---

“I’m home” he calls out from the hallway, the smile on his face growing when he hears the happy bark and your “we’re in here” call back.

He toes his shoes off and places his tote bag and jacket on the hook, shaking off the day. He feels good, there is nothing quite like a good day in the studio, when the creative juices are flowing just right, the music seeming to fly right off the page, his pen not able to move fast enough to capture the lyrics pouring out of him. Almost felt like divine inspiration but he knows the source of it, knows on the good days when everything’s working all he has to do is think about you and his mind instantly waxes poetic.

Images of you have flown through his head all day, - you in that wedding dress and you out of it, you dancing against him at that bar in Japan, you sunbathing on the beach in St. Tropez. Making him feel like he was burning from the inside out as couplets and sonnets and bridges poured from his brain. Knowing he could write about you everyday for the rest of his life and it still wouldn’t be enough but what a privilege to get to try anyway. 

He’s thrumming with the unreleased energy, the euphoria of a good session, the thrill of getting to go home to his muse. The new melody flowing through his head as he heads towards the tv room, his buoyant steps interrupted by the oaf of a dog greeting him halfway. 

“Hi sweet boy,” he coos, bending down to scratch at Sammy’s back, to accept his kisses as he greets him, tail wagging and body shaking. “Yeah yeah yeah, missed you too, you big oaf.” 

He presses a few kisses to his head and scratches his fingers against the dog’s scalp before standing up and heading through the doorway, having to lean against it at the sight of you on the couch. Hair still damp from a shower, long, bare legs stretched out against the pillows, wearing nothing but an old t shirt of his. He has to clench his fist to keep himself from just diving on top of you, swallowing to try to combat the way his mouth has just gone dry. Knowing all the songs in the world couldn’t capture just quite how he feels right now, looking at you. His wife. 

“Hi.” you say softly, smiling over at him, the glow of the tv making your face already more incandescent than it usually is. “Good day?”

He should answer, should attempt to string some sentences together but he just nods and makes his way over to you as quickly as his feet can carry him, kneeling one leg on the couch in between your thighs as his hand brushes along your cheek, cupping the back of your neck and he bends down to kiss you.

It should be soft, gentle, a greeting kiss for the first time you’ve seen each other since this morning but it’s instantly carnal, his tongue diving into your mouth when you gasp, the hand on the back of your neck tightening as he kisses you deeply, hungrily trying to explore every inch of your mouth. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth before pulling away to press his lips against your jawline, dipping down to swirl his tongue against your neck.

“Good session?,” you ask breathlessly and he hums against your skin, biting down when you roll your hips up against his. You slide your fingers into his hair, scratching at his scalp as he continues his ministrations, knocking his hat off in the process. “Didn’t even take your hat off.”

“Needed you,” he mumbles, shifting so both his knees are on the couch, hovering over you as he brings his mouth back to yours, swallowing down your soft moan as his hand trails down your side, sliding up your t-shirt to clutch at your skin. He makes to move down your body when a soft whine coming from decidedly not you makes him pause. He groans, resting his head against your collarbone when you laugh.

“When was the last time he was out?” he grits out, feeling like he might die if he has to detach himself from you in any capacity. 

“Like 20 minutes ago.” you say, your hands sliding along the front of his sweater and pulling him in closer to you and he almost moans in gratitude.

“Alright, Sammy.” he says, turning to the dog laying patiently at the edge of the rug and lifting a hand to point to the bedroom where his dog bed lays. “Gonna need you to go into the other room, pal. ‘M about to do some things to your mom that may scar you for life.” 

You groan out a laugh as his genius boy, who's going to get so many treats after this, more treats than he will ever know what to do with, stands up and pads away, leaving the two of you alone.

“Dog’s a genius.” he says

“Can’t believe you just told him that,” you laugh and he grins, turning back to you and his breath catches in his throat. 

Your kiss swollen lips, the way you shake your head at him but that does nothing to soften the molten look in your eyes. He leans down to kiss you once before pulling away, pressing his mouth against your jaw, your neck, sliding down your body until he’s laying on his stomach, his head resting against your belly, his shoulders between your thighs. His knees are gonna be fucked tomorrow, bent at a weird angle but who cares when he’s got you looking at him like that, smelling this good. 

He closes his eyes, pressing a kiss to your stomach against the t-shirt still laying across it before pushing the hem up with his hands, his lips following his hands until the shirt rests right above your chest. He drags his lips against your breasts, sliding his hands down to your hips and squeezing when you let out a soft moan. 

“Thought about this all day,” he murmurs against your skin, tongue darting out to lick at your nipple before sucking it into his mouth in a smooth pull. He kisses across your chest before giving the other nipple the same treatment, fingers scratching against your skin when your hips buck up on their own accord. He kisses his way down, pausing at your stomach, licking a stripe across your skin before sucking a mark at your hip bone, the soft sounds coming out of your mouth making him feel like he’s on fire. A symphony he never tires of.

He rests his chin against your hip, looking up at you, the way you’re shakily breathing, staring up at the ceiling, your arms over your head, your shirt pushed up. You look back down at him, looking so gorgeously overwhelmed just from his mouth on your skin that he’s not sure he’s ever felt better about himself in his life. He did that, he does this to you. He has this effect, the same way you do to him. What a fucking gift to give someone as much pleasure as they give you. 

“Y’ so beautiful, you know that?” he practically growls out and he can see your heavy swallow, your tongue darting out to lick at your dry lips. “Got to spend all day writing songs about it. About how good you make me feel. Y’ make me feel so good.”

“H - jesus”, you gasp out as his mouth continues its trail down your skin, his hands sliding down your thighs and back up, a pattern that makes you whine. He could draw this out, could keep sucking marks into your skin, cataloging every moment that your hips twitch, but he knows if he doesn’t get his mouth on you now he’s going to lose his mind. His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, body doing a weird half press up to pull them all the way down your legs, kneeling at your feet as he pulls them all the way down your ankles and throws them on the ground. 

He pulls your ankle up to his mouth, his lips dragging against the skin of your calf, pausing to suck a mark on his way up as he lowers his body back down, hooking your leg over his shoulder as he drags his teeth against your skin.

“Wanna taste you, he murmurs, sliding down your body as he comes face to face with your core. “Want you all over my stache. Want to be able to smell you for days” 

A moan punches out of you at that, hips twitching towards his touch, his mouth and he just takes a moment to take you in, all of you. 

“Fucking - christ, baby,” he groans at the sight of you, how ready you are for him, just from his mouth on your skin. “I got y’ this wet?”

“Please,” you moan out, chest heaving and he has to rut against the couch to take the heat off, the arousal pooling in his stomach almost enough to make him shoot off right there at the sight of you like this. His eyes trail up and down your body, trying to catalogue everything to memory, knowing he’ll have inspiration for the next hundred sessions from the way you’re breathing, the way your body reacts to his touch and the guttural moan you let out when his mouth finally connects to where you need him the most. 

It’s sloppy and messy from the start, his tongue sucking your clit into his mouth in heady pulls, going harder when your hand slides into his hair and pulls as he licks a trail up and down your core. He presses soft, deep kisses against you, taking his time in a way you were not prepared for if the way your thighs shake against his shoulders are any indication. He slides his hands up your thighs, pulling you apart gently with his fingers to give his mouth more room, licking a trail down to your entrance, tongue darting inside to taste all of you. Living for the way you throw your head back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as you roll your hips up into his mouth.

“H, I’m -”

“I know baby, I know.” he mumbles against you, giving you another hard suck that makes you cry out. “Always know just what you need, baby. Always gonna give it to you.”

He slides two fingers into you, deep from the start and your leg kicks out, foot knocking against his back and he doesn’t care, he wants to feel all of it, all of you. He’s a man possessed as he closes his eyes, focusing on nothing else but the feel and taste of you, his favorite taste in the world, the way you’re practically gushing into his mouth and he hasn’t even gotten you there yet. 

You’re out of words, he can hear you trying to speak but its just sounds at this point, and the thrill in reducing you to this state is indescribable. His fingers curl inside you just like you always like it as his nose nudges against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth, running his tongue up and down in a senseless pattern thats only goal is to make you scream. He can feel it before you try to warn him, the way you’re clenching against his tongue, moaning loud, pulling on his hair as your thighs tense against his head and you come, hard, moaning out a chant of his name over and over. 

He doesn’t let up, not yet, continues to drive his fingers into you, continues to taste as much of you as he can and you’re practically writhing against the couch, and it doesn’t take long at all before you’re coming again, practically reduced to whimpers and he has to open his eyes, has to see the sheen of sweat against your forehead, your chest heaving as you gasp for breath, your blown out eyes as you tilt your head down to look at him. 

He presses more soft kisses to your core until you’re practically tugging his head away and dragging his head up to your mouth, kissing him deep the moment he’s close enough, the twist of your tongue against his, the way you’re practically leaning into your taste on his lips has him groaning into your mouth, his mustache rubbing against your skin in a way that seems to make you lose your mind, his hips rutting against yours in a way that makes you both hiss. 

“H, come on - need you -” you’re murmuring half completed sentences against his mouth as your hands slide to the hem of his sweater and pull - he leans away from you for all of two seconds to yank it over his head before his fingers find your jaw, tilting your mouth back to his. You start to tug at the waistband of his trousers before he gets the message, the desperation in your movement pulling him closer to the edge than he already feels. 

He pulls his trousers and briefs down in one go, standing up to shuck them all the way off and freezing in place when he looks down at you, sprawled naked against the couch with your thighs splayed wide. You lift up to pull your shirt over your head and to pull him back down, neither of you speaking, mouths dragging across each other’s skin as he guides himself into you.

“Fucking hell,” he grits out against your neck, biting down as he thrusts all the way in, one smooth push that has your hands sliding down his back to grip his arse. It’s tight, hot, wet, swollen heat, so wet and smooth he has to shut his eyes tight against the sensations flowing through him. “Baby I’m - shit. Not gonna last -”

“Don’t care,” you sigh as you guide his hips into yours again, your legs tightening around his as he fucks into you. He can’t help the moans spilling out of his mouth, would feel self conscious about how quick this is going to be but there’s no time to feel anything but you. The slide of your skin against his, the way you’re clenching down around him, the feel of your nails scratching up and down his back. It’s like you’re the only two people on the planet, nothing else matters but the slick feel of you around him, no thoughts in his head but how fucking good this feels, how fucking good it always feels with you. 

“I love you,” you moan out, as if reading his mind and a full body shudder runs through him as he tries to hold himself back, tries to make this last longer but he’s done for at the sound of your sweet voice in his ear, saying his favorite three words he’s ever heard come out of anyone’s mouth, still in disbelief that you’re saying them to him, that you vowed to say them to him for the rest of your life. “I love how you make me feel.”

“Baby, please -” he shushes you desperately as he licks his way into your mouth, your words pouring down his throat like the sweetest honey he’s ever tasted. Everything he’s ever wanted. 

“Want you to come,” you murmur as you pull away, his nose nudging against yours with every thrust, your hands sliding against his sweaty skin. “Want you to come inside me.”

The moan that escapes him seems to come from the depth of his core as white hot heat surges through him, giving two thrusts more before he comes inside you, teeth biting down on your neck, going to leave a mark but he doesn’t have time to worry about that, not when he feels this good. His body shaking with aftershocks as he punches his hips gently a few more times, unable to control the euphoria flowing through him. God, the way you make him feel. 

He practically collapses on top of you and you just bring your arms around him, both of you panting hard to catch your breath, the onslaught of emotion and feeling taking you both by surprise. It takes a few moments before he’s even able to move, tilting his head up to capture your mouth, kissing you softly, languidly, like he doesn’t know how to stop. Nor does he ever want to. 

You lay there for a while, soft moans pooling into each other’s mouths as you come down, hands sliding up and down your bodies, sweat cooling on your skin. He’s reluctant to move and it’s only when your kisses slow down in their ferocity does he shift, gently sliding out of you as he continues to drag his lips against yours before pulling away, pressing his mouth against your jaw and temple and burying his head into your neck. You run your hand gently through his hair as his hands slide up and down your sides, pausing every so often for a cheeky squeeze, a thumb grazing your nipple, his hand gently cupping your breast. Just wanting to be as close as possible for as long as possible, intertwining his legs with yours. 

“Am I crushing you?” he asks softly, his voice almost hoarse from all the sounds he’d been making. 

“Kinda like it,” you say and he huffs a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to your neck before sitting up. You instantly whine at the loss of contact.

“Hang on, darling. Just gonna -” he wraps his arm around you, pulling you with him as he lays back on the opposite end of the couch, rearranging for a few moments before you’re resting against his chest, his arm holding you securely to him, pressing his head against your hair and just breathing you in. You draw a finger up and down his chest, just drawing mindless patterns against his skin in a way that feels so nice. 

“Studio was that good, huh?” you ask, and he can feel your smile against his skin.

“Y’ can’t expect me to spend all day writing songs about you and not have to instantly get my hands on you.” he says, reveling in the way you shiver against him and he feels insatiable. He starts to mimic you, bringing a hand to draw light patterns across your chest, fingers slowly sliding down your belly and resting low. 

“What are you up to?” you murmur softly, not much fight in the question as you lean into his touch. 

“Just want to love on you some more, baby.” he says softly, sliding his fingers through your folds, circling your entrance and the mess there, living for every twitch and clench he can feel. “Let me hear some more of my favorite sounds.”

You tilt your head up, capturing his lips with yours as you gasp against his mouth as he starts to fuck his fingers back into you, moaning at his gentle touch. He revels in it, revels in you, revels in the sounds you make. His favorite song, the melody he’s always chasing. Loving how you make him feel, how you make each other feel, how you get to do this for the rest of your lives. He could write a million songs about this, about you, and he just might. How lucky is he?

---

that pic just did something to me okay !!!! blame the pic and the amount of espresso i had, i think this is the smuttiest thing i have written yet. hope u like it pls lmk what u think

taglist:@tobesolovelysstuff, @louyoursins, @daydreamingofmatilda, @jojo-blog53, @marzhshaim, @devilsqueen722, @just-happiness-only,@lomlhstyles, @feestyles, @spock4presidnet, @sunshinemoonsposts, @indierockgirrl, @jerseygirlinca, @kissitnhekitchen, @goldnrry,

[womanofwords]

Everybody's Favourite (Part 3)

Over the next few days, you and Penguin get really close. Penguin teaches you the ins and outs of business: branding, advertising, pricing. You encourage Penguin to invest in something that people could go to during the day. "Maybe an ice cream place or coffee," you mused. "You can name it whatever you want."

Penguin looked at you with glee. "I like the way you think. Helps me be less shadowy."

Word spread about the kidnapping scarily fast. "Oswald, are the rumours true? Do you really have one of the Wayne kids here?" the Riddler asked, dropping by.

"Yes, Y/N Wayne. I've been trying to get their idiot father to believe that they're in my custody, but no dice." Penguin dropped his voice to a terrified whisper. "Half of my collection has been organised in five hours! Do you have any idea how large my collection is?"

"Yeesh. Do they know that Bruce Wayne is being about as useful as a map drawn in invisible ink?"

"They must have some clue. They were supposed to have been gone by now, but they're still here. They even made a joke about their family wouldn't notice that they were gone."

Penguin spluttered as he gestured at you. You were asleep in a pile of blankets in lieu of a bed. "How would they not know that this little angel was gone?"

"Maybe they really don't care. Not sure how they could come to that conclusion." Riddler looked at you with a small smile. "You know, I have a bet that you can keep Y/N here for two weeks straight without acting suspiciously or trying to hide them and even continuing to ask for ransom money, and they won't do a thing."

"Does the two weeks start now or from the day of the kidnapping? Because they've already been here for four days."

"From the day of the kidnapping. I'm not a monster. Also, what do you want if you win?"

"I'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Until then, I'm ordering more Indian food. I don't know how to cook."

(PAUSE)

Time went on, and more of Batman's rogues gallery paid a visit to the captive Wayne child as if it were a baby shower.

Two-Face was the first to arrive. "You can't be serious. Brucie Wayne didn't want to collect his child? Didn't you tell him?"

"We sent messengers, we called him, we sent stuff in the mail, he just thinks it's a prank." Penguin threw his hands up with exasperation. "Nothing against the little dove, but this is a little longer than I thought."

"I'll tell him," Dent volunteered. "Me and him go way back. Once he knows that it's serious, he'll arrive with something. Either the bat or the ransom, but something."

"Go ahead, but you're gonna lose me a bet," Riddler said nonchalantly.

"What's happening?" you asked.

"We're . . . having some difficulties contacting your family, dollface," Two-Face said. "They're not taking this very seriously."

"They don't take me very seriously," you snarked. "It's not you, it's me. I'm not exactly on the list of people they're concerned about. Titus ranks higher than me."

"Is Titus another kid?" Riddler asked. "No offence, but he has so many."

"None taken, Riddler. Titus is Damian Wayne's dog." You stretched and straightened out your clothes. "You're going to have to put up with me for a while longer. Also, do you have some spare clothes I can wear? I've been wearing my school uniform for the last four days straight and I'm beginning to stink."

"I'll call Harley about it," Penguin said.

(PAUSE)

The clown prince of crime arrived with his harlequin. "You kidnapped Bruce Wayne's child? Penguin, I didn't know you had it in you."

"Where is the little sweetums?" Harley burst in with bags laden with clothes. "I wasn't sure what they'd like, so I bought everything!"

"Uh . . . hi," you said, waving awkwardly. "Who's that for?"

"You, sweetums!" Harley said. "I also brought soap, toothpaste, shampoo, general hygiene products. Everything you'll need to live here."

"Thank you." You smiled up at the jester. "I just wish my folks could be as nice to me as you guys are."

Harley's smile dropped. "I . . . take it they're not the most attentive."

"They haven't bothered noticing my ransom, why would they notice toothpaste?" you snarked.

Joker and Harley looked at each other with horror and pity before turning back to Reader. "OK, kiddo, can you tell me what the Waynes are like to you?" Joker asked, his tone softened. "We need details. Lots."

"But not yet! You need a shower first. A long one," Harley ordered. "Here's the bag with all the bath stuff and here's the bag with all the clothes. Once you're dry and dressed, tell us everything."

You looked at Harley with confusion. "You . . . really want to know?"

"Of course!" Harley insisted. "Think of it as talk therapy. While you're in there, I'll call Ivy. She's the best with hair. And Professor Crane, too. You are not going to be alone with all those thoughts, honey. Let me know when you're done so I can get you a snack."

Your head was spinning. All those people would be arriving . . . and all for you.

How would you ever get used to this?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3 <- You are here

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Taglist: @tinybrie

[charliemwrites]

Bark bark bark awoooo

No content warnings

You’re gonna fucking combust.

Somehow, someway, this is Johnny’s fault. You’re not sure how yet, so he it isn’t fair for him to be in trouble, but you know it.

“This is your fault,” you tell him, pouting in bed — bare ass naked, but that means nothing to him, he’s a dog. He cocks his head, and you wave your (broken) vibrator at him. “I don’t know how, but it is. Is this because I wanna chop your balls off?”

His mouth closes, eyes big - like he actually understands you. In your horny delirium, you almost believe he really does.

You flop onto your back with a sigh, eyes a little wet with frustration.

It’s been two months since you last successfully got off. Your vibrator (and its replacement… and its replacement’s replacement) keep breaking, or running out of battery. The plug is defective or falls out of the socket.

Once you successfully got right to the edge - just for it to die. You almost did cry that time.

Sure, there’s your hand. But every time you try ol’ reliable a certain four-legged roommate interrupts one way or another. And when you tried to kick him out of the room, and then ignored the howling, scratching, and general drama - there was loud and rapid knocking at your door.

Like fucking clockwork. If you get anywhere at all, you never get to finish.

It wouldn’t be so bad, either. Your libido isn’t anything crazy, you don’t think. At least it wasn’t before. But now there’s Soap.

Soap who you should not be so attracted to. Who has no sense of propriety or boundaries, who murmurs the dirtiest things to you in the most public and otherwise mundane places. And he just keeps. Showing. Up.

Like he’s got a tracker on you or something. (You’ve checked, he doesn’t.)

He’s like every guilty fantasy you had as a good, studious girl back in high school. The kind of guy to grab your thigh under your parents’ dinner table and take your virginity in the back of his car. Maybe corner you by the lockers between classes to kiss you silly and drive up your absence record.

You never actually went for those boys — and perhaps gratefully, they never went for you. In romance novels, it would be a quaint little coming of age story. The stuff to swoon over. But reality was a lot scarier for you, especially with your older sister always keeping an ear out to report back to your parents and… well, yeah.

You’ve always been a firm introvert, anyway. That’s why you live out in the woods with only a dog for regular company.

But Soap. Soap is some unholy amalgamation of those innocent, shy girl fantasies turned R-rated. Like the grown-up version of those cute YA novels.

And you have no defense for it — except distrust, that is.

Soft-hearted as you are, you know you don’t do casual well. And you know that guys like Soap just like to spin you up and up until you finally give in, think the dreaded words “maybe it’ll work out” despite that rational voice in your head saying, “don’t bet on it.”

Doesn’t stop you from secretly wanting him though.

Fear is the only thing keeping you in check now. Some of it for you own feelings; of getting invested in a guy that has done nothing but treat you like a prime cut of meat. The rest of it is a genuine concern that he might be a bit dangerous. He’s so much bigger than you, visibly stronger. Has gone out of his way to make you uncomfortable (doesn’t matter that a very dark and slutty part of you liked it) and ignored your attempts at brushing him off.

Fear, unfortunately, is beginning to add to the temptation.

“I’m not going to do it,” you tell yourself, or maybe Johnny. Soap’s contact is on the screen. You don’t remember putting it into your phone, but you must have at some point. “Nope. No way.”

You slide a sideways look at Johnny, tail wagging at a steady clip.

“He’s probably a former frat boy or something, right?” you muse.

Snort.

“No, you don’t think so?” you question, sitting up. He happily crawls into your lap when you pat your thighs, chin resting on your tummy. “Nah, you’re right. Could almost imagine him beating the hell out of one for pissing him off.”

A little grumbly noise. You smile and start petting absently over his head and ears, phone forgotten now.

“This is dumb anyway,” you sigh, head tilted back to the ceiling. “You don’t like men. I couldn’t bring him back here.”

Johnny’s ears flick. You giggle and start flopping them around, making airplane noises. Eventually he huffs and starts licking at your face until you stop, complaining that you’ll need to wash off now.

—

“Fuck it.”

Johnny picks his head up, staring at you as you run a hand down your face.

“Fuck it all. I’m going to a bar. I’m getting… I dunno. Laid or something.” Thank god it’s only Johnny here. You don’t think you could live with the embarrassment of someone else hearing the way you talk.

You set your hands on your hips, nod to yourself.

“And if it happens to be Soap, then… sign from the universe, right?” You grimace a bit, striding for your bedroom. “Please don’t let him be a murderer or something…”

For once, Johnny is perfectly behaved as you get ready. He doesn’t try to lick at you when you come out of shower (freshly shaved and lotioned and everything). Sits patiently on the bed as you pick through your closet, even noses at a pretty pink dress you rarely wear but were considering for this.

He doesn’t try to bump your arms or hands while you do your makeup, just watches attentively. You choose a pretty, matching bra-panty set, apply a light spritz of perfume. Hesitate over jewelry.

“Is it normal to wear jewelry when you plan on fucking?” you wander allowed.

A little “boof” from the bed. You’ll take that as a yes.

You decide on a set of faux pearls with a gold heart pendant in the center. Not quite a choker, but high enough on your throat to suggest one. A delicate bracelet, a pair of stud earrings, and you’re just about set.

“Christ, I hate doing this alone,” you mutter, fumbling with the zip on the back of the dress.

Lastly, the shoes.

“Fuck it,” you say again. Your mantra for the evening, apparently. Wobble into a pair of heels, a bow on the outside of each ankle where you buckle them.

You pause when you’re done, giving yourself a once over in the full length mirror. Pleased with what you see. Coquettish and pretty, not necessarily bombshell sexy maybe, at least not on first glance. But the necklace, the heels, the cutouts at the waist of your dress… it’s all exactly what you wanted.

“Alright,” you breathe, tummy swooping with excitement. “I can do this… right?”

Johnny’s gotten down off the bed, is keeping a respectful distance. You appreciate it, don’t want to have to lint roll hair off yourself.

“Oh, god. What if he’s bad?” You ask, giving him a horrified look. “What if he’s been, like, compensating?”

To your shock, he stomps his paw and starts damn near howling. Carrying on and on like he’s bitching you out. You blink in shock, almost laugh — then check the time.

“Oh! Don’t worry, baby. I won’t let you starve!”

You toddle off to the kitchen and prep his dinner, scrunching your nose at the raw chicken and beef liver. He grumbles and fusses the whole way, making you laugh as you pretend to have a whole conversation about the economy with him.

“Okay, bonnie Johnny,” you coo, setting his bowl down. “Be good, okay? If I bring someone back here please don’t eat them, okay?”

More grumbles and whines and growls. You roll your eyes, blow him a kiss, and slip out the door.

You tell yourself you just need action with someone. Don’t admit to yourself that there’s really a specific someone you’re hoping to see.

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[dr-octayve]

A Tape Labeled: Reality?

((From this post))

*somewhere in the forest of Ohio, the sounds of shuffling and twigs snapping as a scientist sets up camp for the night* 

Well, not too bad for not having done this in about… *they sigh, their voice echoing in the small cave* well, best not to dwell on how long that has been. *the bleating of a nearby baby goat can be heard* 

… I, finally calmed down enough to at least be productive… get my thoughts in order and such. It is, stupid actually.

I mean, what thoughts? I’m not even real apparently… everything just, did any of it even matter? Why am I even here? 

Am I just, wat? Some form of entertainment?... Did I really think I escaped that?.. perhaps not, but I expected it from them… not, watevah is driving my, “life story” I suppose.

Life story… well, if it is..was a story, I am bloody glad Someone has enjoyed it… not like I remember enough of it to do so. I mean, I only remember bits and pieces. Few actually pleasant, mind you.. me?.. Future me?.. whatever. it’s not like anyone else will be listening to these tapes regardless. 

I doubt I will even listen back on this.. what even for? To listen to my own musings of insignificance? 

*they huff* Don’t even know why I’m recording this actually… perhaps just to have something to talk to that isn’t just the inside of my own head… 

I, I know none of them are real… but I would still rather not put this on them…

…how much of my life was even My doing? How much autonomy do I actually have here? 

How much of me is, even me? 

Why am I even here? *the sound of a lighter and the woosh of flames bursting to life before the soft crackle of a campfire fills the air, the rain in the background overshadowed by it* 

…“Character” … so, nobody is “real”, huh? 

Not me, my family … my kid…

What does that even mean in the grand scheme of things?... or is there no “grand scheme”... is there a plan?... 

…does any of it matter if the twat who controls my fate decides they are fookin’ bored… 

will they just, what? take my family again?... drag me back to that forsaken place.. from the way things have gone, I wouldn’t put it past them…

*there is a beat of silence… the space being filled only by the crip sounds of the roaring campfire, and oddly peaceful night breeze*

… does “god” really hate us all that much… or are we just that insignificant to them?

*As the sound of the night goes on, the odd hissing of a dog as it tries to be comforting. The sound of gloved hands petting him* 

I know you aren't real… but thank you, love *their voice is a bit tight*

*recording ends*

[velvet-paradox]

The Stray

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Captain John Price x female reader/ John "Soap" McTavish Summary: Soap needs a place a to crash for a few days, what he finds is more than he'd thought. Length: Medium Warnings: NSFW 21 +ONLY, explicit content, strong language, detailed smut, m masturbation, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v.

ENJOY!!!

He doesn't take no for an answer.

Johnny likes that about the captain; no nonsense, no bullshit, cut and dry, you never have to guess with John Price who has stated more than once that he hates sugar-coated anything. That goes for food and information, by the way.

Riding shot gun, holding his standard military issued duffel, still holding strong since boot camp many moons ago in his lap, Soap watched as the city lights became sparse. The stacked, snow covered houses and buildings, the noise faded and morphed into faded stop signs and angled parking, was that a town clock tower?

"Yer sure 'bout me crashing at your place? I don't mind a hotel."

"Nonsense McTavish." John said as he rolled his 80's Chevrolet pick up truck to a stop at the light.

As Soap looked around, he realized that maybe this was the ionly stoplight around. Captain lived just outside of the city, nowhere near base, a small town. Smaller than where Soap hailed from even; it felt like a time warp. Gone were modern homes and electric vehicles but older model cars, rusted winnebago's, slanted parking, older brick buildings and a serious lack of a four story brick building in sight.

Instead he saw some young boys chasing each other with snowballs, small piles of snow lined the curb just outside of breakfast diner, a little girl had fallen off her tricycle outside of a pizza joint. Of course Price would live in a town like this.

"My ol' lady wouldn't be too happy with me if I let one of my men pay for some sterile room when we have a perfectly good guest bedroom in wait of use." John chuckled and eased on the gas, shifting gears as the sky bruised and the sun began to descend.

"What size is she?"

John mused. "Perfectly sized."

"Just hope she likes me."

"Aye you'll be a shoe in, sergeant. She maybe a little excited to meet someone new, might rush ya' a bit but she means well." He chuckled again and turned down another street before pulling into a quaint driveway, two car garage, a shovel leaned against the space between. The lights were already on, it surprised Soap to see a little snowman made by the front stairs of the porch.

The captain's house was well kept, maintained and cozy. An afghan draped over a soft looking lounge chair, the loves eat angled perfectly to the TV that HD stood the test of time apparently he hadn't seen a bubble TV in quite some time. A taxidermy pheasant and loon were placed on the coffee table next to an empty glass. There were paintings of farmhouses on one wall, a crocheted cut out of a lion on the other. It reeked of cider, sandalwood, smoke and something that John must've put in a croc-pot before his shift. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious.

"John, is that you?" a voice called out. In shock, Soap remained completely still.

"You know it! brought us home a stray." The captain said hanging up his hat on one of those old school diamond hat racks tacked to the wall, below hung a few coats of military green, muddy boots sat worn and limp on a shoe rack.

"Don't tell me you named it already!"

" 'fraid not little lady; he already came with one."

"Oh rats!"

As soon as he shut the front door, a scratching noise could be heard and as quickly as he looked up he saw a very excited tawny dog came bounding around the corner.

"There she is! Come 'ere ol' girl, did you miss me that much?" John ruffled the dogs fur, her tail winding before she collapsed on the floor for him to rub her belly. She let out a few excited barks before setting her hazel eyes on Soap, wiggling to get herself up off the floor, his loyal companion bounded at him, sniffing and licking at his hands until he dropped the duffel with a thud.

"Oh! you are a friendly one hey." He bent down and felt her curly q's, it almost looked like the dog was smiling at him. A new friend. He moved her collar, little strawberries with smiling faces with a bone shaped name tag; Mary Jo Price. "Ol' girl is a good girl."

"She sure is." Soap jerked at hearing the woman's voice clearer, mid belly rub of Mary Jo, his eyes moved towards the sound. There stood a leaning woman on the doorframe that must've lead towards the kitchen. It was such a stark contrast on seeing a plaid shirt Price had worn early on in the week be draped around a woman's' form versus the captain. It slouched over her shoulder, tied together to her figure by a similarly goofy apron with dancing banana's on it, in a pair of white crew socks.

Soap was stunned, who was this doll strutting around the captains' house, a one night stand who was staying another night, a roommate of sorts? was she dog sitting while John went to work and messed up her clothes? too many gears were working in Johnny's head to piece things together.

"Sorry 'im late, this is sergeant John McTavish, he'll be stayin' with awhile."

"Oh is that so?" She cocked her head at him before setting blazingly friendly eyes at him.

"Thought we could get use out of that guest room."

"Ah yes, excuses excuses. Now let me meet our guest."

A wave of the softest perfume or lotion wafted and hung around like a halo as she walked over, smile bright as the sun, he was expecting to shake hands only for her to swat his hand away.

"Any friend of John's is a friend of mine." She said and hugged him tightly.

"Told ya'!" Price said taking off his jacket to join his hat.

"Told him what?"

"That you'd be excited to meet someone new." He answered with a shrug.

"Um John… you're naked. Again."

"Wha'?"

She pointed to his hands, something shiny on her own caught his eye before lightly slapping his face and returned to the kitchen, Mary Jo following happily, maybe hoping for more pets and a possible scrap of what was cooking for being a good host.

"Oops." John Price made a face and dug into his front shirt pocket after patting his lovingly, Soap's brain was foggy as he was putting two and two together, watching his captain take out a wedding band and slipped it on without care.

He followed him blindly into the kitchen, face as scrunched as a single served napkin.

"Wait… Mary Jo isn't your ol' girl?"

"Wha'?"

"You said in the truck your ol' girl … wait… you're married?"

"Yeah." John said bluntly and opened the fridge to grab a drink.

"To each other?"

The pair turned to look at him. "Who did you think I was? I'm Mrs. Price. Would you like something to drink, dinner is almost ready. You're not vegan are you?"

"No."

"Good! we're having a shoulder roast, John snagged a deer last month and I've been dying to try out this recipe. Water? beer? iced tea? milk…"

"You're married?!"

"Johnny are you okay?" You asked, a soft hand on his shoulder as Mary Jo circled around the kitchen before laying down on her designated bed in the corner by the back door. More fruit and colorful displays, there was even a lemon shaped bowl on the counter with little yellow wrapped candies piled inside.

"John doesn't like to talk about his personal life on base with the company, puts me and him at risk if anything were to happen to him during a deployment, foreign or domestic." You explained.

It made sense but still, the captain could be cold as a blizzard, short, nothing to push or shove so to see you, a bright and colorful extension of him was blowing his Scottish mind.

Dinner was delicious, the bourbon John kept on a little drinking cart in the living room was even better, followed up by a welcoming house tour and showed him to his quarters.

….

Soap woke up to the sound of running water, a few days later, steam and the captains' shower gel of choice warmed through the early morning air of the home. He rolled over and grabbed another pillow hugging it close to his bare chest, fresh sheets, cozy bed, everything was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

The patter of your feet running towards the bathroom could be heard, walls were thin here, as you knocked rapidly before he could hear the door handle. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"John… John!"

"What is it? I'm almost done then you can--"

"No it's not that. I'm ov--" You rushed out in a huff.

"Wha'? 'old on. I can' hear ya' doll."

The shower soon shut off and your voices were clearer through the tiled walls.

"Repeat."

"I'm ovulating." You exclaimed.

"Now?"

"Right now?"

Price grunted and Soap had to cover his face, wondering if he should get up and leave the house for a bit, go for a walk, see the town, maybe the diner was open. But he stayed put, laying there with those fluffy pillows and blankets, he was so warm and comfortable but he didn't exactly want to hear his superior and you get it on.

"Yes. Right now." You answered.

"Well shit, let's do this."

"Language!" You scolded your husband with a slap somewhere on his body.

"He can't hear me."

"You know how I feel about swearing in front of guests. You owe a quarter to the swear jar, mister."

"Fine fine, jus' get in the room and take those panties off this instant, want that pretty cunt on my face stat!"

Jesus H! Soap covered his face with his hands, he was burning hot hearing the exchange and even more so when he could you giggling, running back to your bedroom with a yelp and the slam of your bedroom door just down the hall. Only the bathroom to separate you and even that wasn't enough to drown the sounds you were making.

Clearly you had shed your clothes, your hands had slapped against the wall or headboard, Johnny wasn't quite sure but the captain certainly wasn't some pussy eating slouch by the whines you let out. He covered his ears and rolled over, the soft plush thread count felt light and airy on his bare skin. Which didn't help the situation at hand.

Maybe he should quietly get up and leave the house but then they would know he was listening, not on purpose but he could hear you moaning, muffled sure, but moaning just the same.

"… keep it down or he'll hear you."

"I can't help it when you're licking me like that." You whined out, breathlessly.

"Cover your mouth or I'll find something to keep you quiet."

"Is that an order or a threat?"

John's laugh was bold and carried down the hallway with ease. "Both. Cover your face or you'll be tasting yourself on your panties."

With that he got back to work, your noises and squeals of delight more muffled as you had complied.

Johnny's cock was stirring beneath the sheets, waking to life, urging him to do something. Anything!

He didn't really want to think about his captain and his wife to get off but damn did you sound great. Pleasured by your man, trying for a baby, knowing you were ovulating, knowing for a fact that Price would emptying his balls into your cunt made him hotter.

Fuck it.

Johnny sat up against the smooth headboard cool wood against his naked back as he propped himself up, pulling away the covers, pulling down his boxer briefs as he let himself out.

"Alright princess, on your back, hold them knees up for me." He could hear Price say, his voice a lower, bedroom voice.

"Is that an order, sir?"

"You bet your sweet ass it is, hike 'em up or I'll do it for ya'."

"Ohhh."

Your laugh turned into a gasp just as Johnny grasped his cock, giving it a few wake-up strokes, which didn't take long once he heard you begin to breathe differently, huffing out little puffs of air as your husband was doing god knows what. Whatever it was you liked it. And so did Soap who spat almost gleefully into his large palm, he even spat right on his shaft too for some added help. Small strokes at first, listening carefully with a well conditioned ear, his stomach clenched when you moaned out his name which happened to be his own. Just his luck, he thought mid stroke as he closed his eyes and went a little faster.

"… just a little more, we're almost in ya', all the way."

"Oh god, come on John just give it to me. This needs to take."

"It will honey, it will. Just don't want any damage to your body, no rippin', no tearin', can't mess you up. Can't mess this up." John sighed and pushed forward, filling you up as you sobbed into your hands, muffled begs and pleads, the chants of 'breed me' and 'faster' got Johnny going quicker than he was used to. Watching porn was one thing, listening to it was another but having it so interactively, the pace, the push and pull of the act was something unsuspecting. "That's it that's it, you're lucky I didn't have you on your knees, fuck that pretty throat of yours. You're so good at swallowing me down, look at you, squirming like a worm on a bait line."

"That's not-- uh, that's not an attractive imagine, John." You huffed.

"Suppose not I guess," John chuckled lowly, "but you sure a wiggling around, maybe I do this instead."

Soft slapping sounds hit Johnny's ears, he couldn't make it out just right but…

"Oh look at you! my darlin' lady just loves having her clit slapped with my big fat cock, isn't that right?"

"OH FUCK!"

"I told ya' to keep it down now. Behave."

He did it again and the way you wailed made Johnny's stomach tighten, his pace on his own cock faster with the leaking pre-cum from the tip. He used his thick thumb to circle the head before he spat on himself again.

"I can't help i-it, I've got 8 inches of rock hard steel fucking into me."

"That's it."

There was shuffling and something got bumped along the way, but now he could hear him moving around, grunting at you to get your ass up, spread your legs, hold yourself open for him as he changed positions. Johnny fucked his fist faster and faster, little gasps of his own.

"Princess likes to get spanked, yeah? Doesn't matter where does it, doll? face, tits, pussy, best fucking pussy, her ass. Just a sloppy little mess, yeah? fuck just look at you, held open like this."

"Please sir, breed me," your voice muffled as he could picture your pretty face mushed into the sheets, pillows bouncing, ass bouncing back. You probably looked like an angel. "Come on, fuck a baby into me. You deserve it, you're a good man, even better husband…. fuck yeah, right there! be an even better father, come on baby, give it to me. We deserve it."

"Shit, yeah you wanna' be parents? fuck just playing house huh, let's do the real deal. Mom and dad." John grunted, his hips slamming into yours, skin on skin as Johnny felt a little guilty hearing you two were trying to start a family and yet the image of a juicy cream pie in your cunt made him lift his hips and bite his fist. Cum, ropes of cum spurted out, coating and slicking between his fingers, his body reacting in little tremors as he caught his breath.

"Yes, oh my god yes. Can I cum sir, I'm so close, please?"

"You don't wanna' play Captain Says?"

"Oh god, fine. Captain, please, can I cum?"

Price grunted, slowing his pace to these harsh slams, fucking down into you with each hard thrust.

" 'ave you been a good girl?"

"Yes."

" 'ave you now? you haven't been very quiet, our poor Soap is getting quite the earful this morning."

"Don't say that!"

"Too late."

The thrusts that followed that sentence were obscene and fast, both of you grunting and failing miserably at keeping it down. Johnny didn't mind as he cleaned himself up, listening to you getting railed until you were rendered speechless. Only satisfied moans.

"Captain says rub your clit, cum for me, let it out."

"Oh god, fuck I'm--- I'm-- I'm sorry Johnny! fuck yes, oh my god I'm coming! fuck me harder sir, oh shit!"

Soap stopped cleaning his hands with tissues, pausing mid-motion. In the time he's been here, in your home, he had never heard you call Price, Johnny. Only John and honey. Were you apologizing to him as you couldn't keep your sounds of bliss as quiet as hoped? He smirked at that.

"Give it to me, there you go. Oh lady, you are creaming everywhere. God, hold still and take it, I'm gonna' breed you, breed, breed breed…. fuck!" John made an animalistic noise at the base of his throat, panting for air, for you.

Soap could you two kissing and mumbling words of love for one another.

"Well well, can't have any of this leaking out, now can we, doll?"

The sloppiest of sounds reached Soaps ears and he wondered for a brief moment if he could rub one out real quick. His imagination running a marathon.

"Oh fuck yes John, I love it when you finger your cum back inside me. Uh huh, just like that."

John lowly chuckled and mused that maybe as a formal apology, you both should make him a full breakfast for having to listen to your antics. Johnny's apartment wouldn't be ready for another three days, or so the landlord had stated. Three more days of possible sexual encounters or musings, not that Johnny minded but he if so, he could and would take advantage of bullying the captain about it. Maybe milk him for it too while he's at it, get a nice steak out of his superior.

[shadowsndaisies]

the hard deck: athena settles debts (pt 4)

WC: 898

synopsis: what if Mav's daughter settled his tab that night in the hard deck

main masterlist

athena-verse masterlist

a/n: this was brought on as i rewatched top gun maverick again, because i love it. and even though i should be finishing the last update of season 1 for codename: nightingale (which is only missing the final fight btw its almost done!!!) i took a little brain rot break. also top gun's been officially added to my masterlist!

You'd heard the jukebox get pulled and then the piano, and you couldn't move. Even when Phoenix tried to convince you to join her by the piano. You watched as Hangman and Coyote stayed with a few others by the pool tables at first, but even they started wandering over eventually.

Hangman, however, moved slow. He lingered by you first, saddling up beside the table. And ehen he realized your gaze was going to stay focused on your beer's label, where your fingers were slowly peeling it off the bottle, he knocked on the table. A look far more gentle than you'd anticipate in such a public place crossed his face as your eyes met his.

" 'Thena?" he calls your callsign with a softness that you know is real, and your lips tug down at the thought of having to lie to him when he's being so open with you.

Before you can say anything else before he can ask more, Penny rings the bell again, and chants of "overboard" can be heard. Saved by the bell, literally.

"Go," you nod. "Penny beckons," you tease softly, forcing your lips to turn up.

He nods, and both Payback and Coyote go with him.

When you follow them with your gaze, you meet your dad's eyes, and when the three younger pilots take up positions, boxing him in, a small quirk of a smirk curls at your lips, because it would be him. He seems to catch your eye just in time and offers up a half smile in response. You watch as Penny gives a nod, her head jerking toward the door. Then the three hoist your dad up in their arms and carry him, before throwing him out, a small amused smile now on your lips, as you make a note to stop by the Kazansky house tomorrow, Ice would love to hear about this.

You're so focused that you miss the first few notes. It's not until a familiar voice fills the space with lyrics that you learned as a baby that there's a sickening twist in your stomach and a renewed need to leave as you push out of your seat, leaving the half empty beer behind.

You move to the bar as Bradley begins to sing and have to force yourself not to look at him. You know what you'd see, aviators perched low on his nose, still slightly crooked from when he'd caught a fastball to the face as a teenager. Curls that are almost golden in the light but had to be matted somewhat by the heat and sweat inside the bar. He had that stupid mustache just like his father's, that was just borderline within regs. You know his dog tags were visible on top of his tank top, with some stupid Hawaiian shirt hanging open. You know what you'd see, so you do your beat to avoid looking.

If you had caved, what you would've also seen is how he searched for you while he sang. A slow scan of the bar, for the girl he learned the lyrics beside, propped on an old piano as a toddler as your father's and his mother sang along, holding little you in her arms. In the mass of people surrounding the piano though, he's having a hard time finding you, why did he pick this song?

"Hey, Penny," you call her name, and her head snaps to you, from where she'd been watching your dad get tossed out.

Your lips quirk on end a bit. Years have gone by, and her relationship with your father, volatile as it can be, still has been the most steadfast of your life. She was your mom in all the ways that mattered.

"I didn't realize they called you back too," she says, talking a bit loud over the music.

"Best of the Best, Miss Penny," you muse, though there's a hollowness in your chest as you say it, she seems to catch it.

"What can I get you, sweetheart?" she asks, grabbing a glass and you shake your head.

"No, I, uh… I'll settle for the old man," you tell her, head tilting as you slide your card across the bar.

"No, he'd—"

You cut her off, though, before she can argue. "No, let me. I, uh, I was heading out anyways. You know him, he'd hate to have an open tab," you admit, throwing in a joke to add some levity.

"Sweetheart-" she tries again, and you know she can read you. Despite all the years and gaps in your relationship with her. This was the woman who took you to buy pads for the first time, you knew that she knew you.

"Please, Pen, I… I can't be here, not with this. It's so much worse for him, too. Let me settle it," you admit to her rawly, and her gaze moves to where there's a live performance.

"History's a fickle thing, isn't it?" she offers instead, taking your card. "The ones we truly care about, they always seem to come back in the end, though."

"You'd know better than me, Pen," you shoot back, your tones got a bit defensive but she doesn't even flinch.

She hands you your card with a bittersweet smile, "I guess I would," she nods.

You let out a sigh, and look back at her, "Tell Amelia I'm back?" you ask, and she nods. "At the end of this, whatever it is, tell her I'll take her for ice cream?" you tag on, signing the receipt.

"I will, she'll hold you to it though (Y/n)," Penny confirms.

"I'd expect nothing less as a woman of the Navy," you muse, tucking your card away and turning from the bar.

Rooster's still singing, his voice as pretty as ever. And you can't help your self. You cave.

sue me, you think as you look over at him just once as you pause by the door.

"Well, kiss me baby! Ooh! That feel's good!" he sings, and you smile to yourself despite the ache, shaking your head as you push the doors and walk out. He had a smile on his face, and maybe, maybe you could learn to be okay.

Maybe.

(Probably not.)

You're unlocking your truck when you hear your name. "Athena!" You pause and turn, surprised to see both Phoenix and Hangman; after all, they always seem to be at ends.

"Where are you going?" Phoenix is the one to ask, her cheeks are flushed and her chests heaving a bit from how she'd all but been screaming the lyrics from beside Rooster.

"Home, gotta get some beauty rest before tomorrow," you tell them. "Make sure I'm ready to show you all up," you cover.

"Are you sure?" Phoenix asks, hesitating by the door.

"Yeah, I'll see you bright and early," you reassure her.

She seems to take your word as she nods once at you before heading back into the bar. Hangman, on the other hand, has stayed outside.

"Bravado was never your strong suit, 'Thena, it's mine," he drawls, and though the words are cocky, you understand the question hidden there.

"Go inside, Jake. I'll see you tomorrow," you say softly before getting in your truck. "I gotta keep both my feet on the ground," you add, willing him to understand, before shutting the door.

You notice he stays, watching as you pull out. It's only once you pull out on the road that he turns to go back in.

He be-lines straight to Coyote, missing the look that Rooster sends him as struts back in. The one that lingers on the door, waiting for you to walk back in as well, not that you do.

...

a/n: come talk with me about this athena idea if you want, it's been a while since i've posted anything not DC, so it was kind of fun. I have a longer non-related top gun fic in my drafts too, but that'll come after cnng probably

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 33 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

As it turns out, the Underworld provides a whole slew of services designed to deal with circumstances just like this. Medical care, emergency home repair–and body disposal, all for the price of a handful of gold coins.

You sit with John as a man your lover so descriptively calls Doc sews up Wick’s wounds. There is blood on your face, and your silk pjs. Dog sits on your foot, clearly anxious about letting either one of you out of his sight. In the same spirit, John’s good hand is clasped in yours, or yours in his–neither of you have been able to let go. 

Another man known simply as Charlie orchestrates the removal of the collection of corpses through the house. Yet more tattooed tradesmen work on boarding up the blown out window in the kitchen with a big piece of plywood. 

It’s a miracle, really, the house didn’t burn down. 

“Thought you’d left all this behind you, John?” asks Doc, making a neat knot in the former assassin’s side. 

“So did I.”

“What will you do?”

“The same thing I always do when I’m lost. Talk to Winston.” 

The two men share a snort of laughter you don’t entirely understand. 

When Doc finishes with John he gives you a bottle of pain meds, and a bottle of what are, as far as you can tell, pharmacy grade amphetamines. “In case he has to work again.” You take them with wide eyes and a nod, praying to whatever devil might be listening that that won’t be necessary. 

You’re fairly certain that no one up above is interested in any of you anymore. 

You killed a man. 

You killed a man with a gun to save John, and you do not feel sorry at all. 

Numb, perhaps, but not sorry. 

John groans as he adjusts himself on the couch. You reach out to steady him, helping him best you can. He is heavy, and you look at the stairs with doubt. “Maybe we should sleep down here tonight?”

He blinks at you, undoubtedly thinking you incredibly naïve. “We can’t stay here, baby. It’s not safe.”

“Where will we go?” 

“We’re going to the city,” says John, sounding weary as a man twice his age. “I know a place. Can you drive?”

You have to admit you’re a little dizzy from the whiplash. In the span of a few hours, you’ve gone from being locked up like a princess in the castle, to murdering a man, and now John is going to let you drive?

He must read the blatant surprise on your face. He doesn’t like it, his grip tightening on your hand. “These are bad, bad men who would eat you for breakfast. You’ve got to stick with me.” 

You bristle at this, because even though you absolutely should be thinking about escape? You’re not. You were thinking about how you were going to manage taking care of him in this state, and it pisses you off that he’s still so fucking worried about controlling you that he can’t see the writing written in blood on the wall. 

Or at least, written in blood, on the kitchen floor. 

“You asshole,” you say for the second time tonight. It wins you a lordly scowl that for some fucked up reason thrills you to the tips of your toes. But it’s too late to turn back now. “Were you there, when I fucking shot a man for you? Maybe this is just business as usual for you, but it’s fucking new to me.”

He clenches his other fist on his knee, seeming to count to ten with his eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he finally grinds out. “I know…Are you alright?”

You guess that you put up a good enough front that he forgot that maybe he should ask. Good on you. Maybe.

“No, not really,” you answer truthfully. “But I don’t have any choice, do I?”

He actually has the grace to cast his eyes down, seeming to really think on what you’re saying. “You had a choice,” he muses quietly, his thumb sliding over your knuckles. “In the kitchen.”

You stroke Dog’s head for something to do with your other hand, which is shaking. Your thundering heart beats painfully in your chest. From the corner of your eye you take in this anomaly of a man. This man, who kidnapped you, who has been playing mental games with you for months, who has kept you prisoner, who has taken your body to heights you never even knew were possible, who has spoiled you, who has adored you and degraded you all in the same breath–this man, who somehow, you know you love with your whole heart. 

“John…” He tilts his head to look at you, his eyes glazed with pain. You’re not sure if it’s physical or mental at this point. “Did you really think I could shoot you?”

Perhaps he did, because in his mind, the only acceptable answer to a wrong against you is murder. 

Perhaps in the brutal world he’s occupied since he was just a child, it is. 

Suddenly he can’t meet your eyes. “Maybe I would deserve it, y/n.”

The fact that he knows that is definitely a good sign. 

But the tricky truth is–it wasn’t all bad. And the good? The good was almost worth the bad, you dare to think now that you’ve survived it. You know better than to say that, because you know you are in the midst of a negotiation right now.

“I love our life together, when you’re sweet to me, John. I only want to murder you when you boss me around. And I only mean that figuratively.”

A huff of laughter escapes him; there is a glimmer of hope in his miserable dark eyes. You know it’s insane, after everything he’s done, but you feel sorry for this man. 

“If you would just treat me as an equal, instead of constantly trying to control me…” I’ll be your ride or die. You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud yet. He already has enough power over you. “Do you think…that’s something we can work on?”

He could have pushed you over with a feather, when slowly he nods, bringing your knuckles to his lips to kiss them. “If you don’t want to murder me after everything I’ve done to you…maybe anything is possible.”

You on the other hand, can only blink. Did you just hear what you think you heard? 

That blood-pressure induced ringing has returned to your ears again. The explosion and gunfire surely didn’t help, but somehow this is far more momentous to you. Your surprise for the magnitude of this admission surprises you, and you must show it in the lift of your brows. It makes him smile ruefully; you’re not sure why the sight of it squeezes your heart so. 

You are not so stupid as to think this traumatic event has healed him miraculously, knocked some loose screw back into place. The mind doesn’t work like that. But just maybe, it did put some things into perspective. You are allies now against a mutual cause, rather than enemies of each other. And just maybe, when you tell him that you don’t want to leave him, he will actually believe you from now on. 

“Anyway…I can drive the Rover…” you say with confidence, even though you are still utterly flabbergasted he’d even give you the opportunity. “I don’t know about the ‘Stang.” The Mustang you think you could manage in an emergency, but it’s been a long time since you had to drive a stick, and being responsible for his baby doesn’t sit well with you. 

“That will do.” He grumbles, mostly to himself, “I’ve got to teach you to drive. There is so much I need to teach you.”

You’re not sure what he means by that. You are too tired to hash it out completely right now, but you sense that something, a whole lot of something, has changed in the past few hours between you.  

He makes to get to his feet with a groan–and can’t quite. “Maybe I am too old for this shit,” he grouses. 

“John, you got shot, stabbed, and fought off ten heavily armed assassins. I think you can count tonight as a win.”

Again, that bitter huff of laughter escapes him. You help John to his feet, trying to steady him as best you can. If he’d injured one of his legs badly you would be so fucked; there was no way you could carry him.

“Um…who were they?” You realize you haven’t even talked about who was just trying to kill him. You suppose you already think you know the answer, but then again you could be wrong.

“Camorra goons, I’m pretty sure,” hisses John, clearly in pain. “Guess I should have kept someone alive for questioning…I’ve always been bad at that.”

You press your lips, because it shouldn’t be funny…but if you don’t laugh about it, you might cry. Your life has been so weird lately, it almost just seems par for the course in a way. 

“John…” you chortle and sigh. “Surely the d’Antonio kid gets the picture now? You’ve killed everyone he’s sent after you? Why can’t these assholes just leave you alone?” Why the prince of the Camorra would court such trouble is beyond you. 

“Good question.” He groans as he takes a step, his good arm slung over your shoulder. “The young ones, especially the second or third generation, think they have to prove themselves. Or maybe…he loved his mother and wants me dead. It’s a faint possibility.” 

“Italian boys and their mothers.” 

John chuckles a little, then winces. “Please, sweetheart,” he entreats you. “Don’t make me laugh.” 

Maybe you are a silly creature, but hearing the endearment for you warms something in your heart that had been left out in the cold for too long. “Fine,” you agree, even though humor is absolutely your biggest coping mechanism. “Tell me what we need to do next?” 

“We need to pack.”

“Ok. What?”

“Suits, and guns.” 

You guess in a nutshell, that was the essential distillation of his world, once upon a time. Now, quite against your will, you both are being kicked back into it. By the look in John’s dark eyes, for some reason you have a feeling it’s the Camorra who are going to regret it. 

[siriusmistakes]

「  ✦ robert sheehan . cis male.  he/him.  gryffindor  +  hogwarts  alumni.✦ 」 was  that  SIRIUS BLACK  seen  wandering  the  streets  of  diagon  alley ? the  TWENTY-FOUR  y  /  o  ANIMAGUS  was  last  seen  in  THE HOG’S HEAD. i  hear they  are  working  as  a BARTENDER  and  have  sided  with  THE ORDER. they  have  been  described  as  PASSIONATE  +  RECKLESS  with  the  familiarity  of  bloodshot eyes as he counts the hours until the sun rises; the smell of smoke clinging to his skin, his skin, and lingering on his breath; laughter–too loud and too frequent yet not always entirely genuine; the warmth of the hearth on rainy days. they  have  been  heard  humming  WE COME RUNNING  by  YOUNGBLOOD HAWK

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

Full name: Sirius Orion Black

Age & birthday: 24, November 3

Blood status: pureblood

Occupation: Bartender at The Hog’s Head

Former House: Gryffindor

CHILDHOOD & HOGWARTS

Childhood growing up at Number 12 Grimmauld Place was never one filled with endearment, or hugs and kisses, or, really, affection of any kind. Grimmauld Place had very strict rules, and a strong-willed, energetic young boy always had difficulty following them. He was meant to stand a certain way, to get rid of that “horrendous” London dialect and speak eloquently, to be poised and elegant and graceful. Politeness was taught and etiquette was a requirement. All in all, a Black was meant to be the face of what a good, strong, respectable pureblood should be. There was a reputation to uphold, after all.

Sirius Black always found these rules difficult to follow. 

He was energetic, exuberant, always wanting to play in the square with his little brother, tracking mud into the house without any regard for the extra work this would mean for the house-elves. He slouched, he rocked back and forth on his heels, he hid upstairs at family parties to gawk at all the people and make up scandalous stories. Of course, Orion and Walburga would never reprimand him at such events, that would be rude, but words and blows were dealt with properly, as they should, in the comforts and confines of their own home. 

However, growing up around all purebloods, being entrenched in their fair society, Sirius grew up prejudiced. Of course muggleborns were lesser than he was; he could trace his lineage on their dining room wall, could trace the decades of magic that allowed him to even exist. There was no doubt that, despite their rules and regulations, his family had the correct ideas about blood purity. 

That was, until the age of ten, when his darling mother, Walburga, introduced him to a charming pig-tailed girl and told him that he ought to get to know her now and be very nice to her at Hogwarts, because they were to be married in just a few years. Married. The idea of it shocked him. He didn’t know this girl. He didn’t care about this girl. But the idea of his life being arranged for him, the idea of spending it with a stranger, baffled him. Protestation was not allowed, not with all the onlookers, not until they were home. But this was the first straw, the first hint of wrongness, the first hint that maybe, just maybe, things were not as cut and dry as The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black made them out to be. 

The chaos had all begun on the first of September. His mother had sat him down and told him that being in Slytherin was the family legacy and that he, as the eldest son and carrier of the family name, wouldn’t do anything to tarnish their sparkling legacy. Then, she’d dressed him up nicely and brushed his hair so it wouldn’t fall into his eyes. And that had been the closest thing to affection she had shown him in years (even if it was for her own benefit, she couldn’t have an unruly-looking son running around the platform where people of all sorts could see), and it would be the last time, as well.

Sirius had ended up in a compartment with three other first years: James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. From the very beginning, the four of them had instantly clicked, though it had come as a real shock to them that all of Sirius’ family, dating far back into history, had all been sorted into Slytherin. Not a single person bearing the surname of Black had been an exception. Ever. At the tender age of eleven, he was terrified to not be put into Slytherin -- didn’t want to suffer the repercussions of breaking tradition, didn’t want to stick out (though he supposed he already did). His entire family had been in Slytherin. He was a Black. It was what was supposed to happen. It was law. But, a small inkling in the back of his head, sitting in that scarlet steam engine, was that these three perfect strangers already seemed to be nicer to him than his family ever had, that they laughed with him and joked with him and treated him just like everyone else. 

But, the decision wasn’t up to him. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head, and he had sat there for what seemed like hours (though was probably five minutes at the most) hearing the voice of the sorting hat going through his mind. He was ambitious, that much was certain. That ambition would serve him well in Slytherin. But, after sifting through his brain, was it really ambition? No. It was approval. He simply seeked approval from his parents, he wanted to be loved, but knew, even then, that was a standard he could never live up to. Knowing that he could not reach those standards, at age eleven, was a brave thing to admit to himself. Bravery, the hat knew, bravery is what that kid had. He needed a place that could embrace that courage and make it stronger. A place that would welcome him and bolster his confidence and self-worth. So, that’s what made Sirius Black different from day one. He was the first Black on record ever sorted into Gryffindor House.

The other boys from the compartment he’d met had also ended up in the same House and, coincidentally, in the same dormitory as well. Even from the beginning, there was a streak of mischief in all of them, however James and Sirius were the forerunners. They wreaked havoc around the castle and wound their way through secret passageways that were only accessible on Fridays, or when it was raining, or had to say an incantation in just the right volume. The four of them knew the ins and outs of the castle more in their first year than most students had in their seven years at Hogwarts.

Sirius Black’s first term had brought him into a world that he had never known before. A world where there were people who would stand up for him and with him, he was a star of the first year, with top marks in the majority of his classes (he never could quite get the hang of potions and History of Magic bored him to tears), and quite a lot of detentions under his belt. He would have said that it was a success if he’d ever seen one. 

Though, his feelings of grandeur had deflated inside him like a balloon as soon as he had stepped off the train for the winter holidays and had seen the look on his mother and father’s faces. They hadn’t said a word to him as they swept him off the platform. Those were the Blacks in a nutshell, speechless with anger but too much dignity to make a scene in front of everyone.

His brother had run upstairs as soon as he possibly could, not wanting to get caught in the middle of everything. Regulus had been like his father in that way–quieter–because Sirius, though he would never admit it, was like his mother. Loud and confrontational and never one to back down from a fight. But Sirius had just stood there, for once, his hair long and unruly, his face a smile, bursting to tell his parents everything that had happened at school. Because, though he had known they would be upset with his sorting, he’d hoped his 111% in Transfiguration would help them to see that he was not besmirching them.Despite their lack of warmth and affection, he still craved approval from his parents. But, as soon as he had opened his mouth, his mother had opened his trunk, and a pair of Gryffindor robes were thrown at him, followed by his mother’s hand cracking across his face. She told him he was a disgrace upon the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, how dare he allow himself to be sorted into any other House besides Slytherin. She had spit the word Gryffindor at him like a curse, but told him he would have to come home at holidays because the Black Family had an image to uphold, even though he threatened to tarnish it. Orion had stood there, arms crossed and looking furious, but not uttering a word. 

Then, they’d sent him upstairs with his trunk, and locked the door from the outside. That was when the whispers and thoughts from Kreacher had begun; every time the elf brought him a tray of food, he’d mutter about what a disappointment his Mistress had raised. Sirius despised him for it. 

Sirius had cried and cried, until the only thing left in him was emptiness. So, he’d put everything he had into his winter work. The homework was checked over once, twice, three times before he claimed it finished; each potion ingredient was written in the most careful handwriting; each charm was pronounced perfectly, then a separate wand movement to accompany it. He’d had objects moving around the room with a swish and flick of his wand. But, before he left to go back to Hogwarts, he’d stuck a Gryffindor pennant to the wall behind his bed. There was still a part of him that hoped to impress them, that good marks (despite the numerous detentions) would put him in their favor, that he could still live up to his family name. 

He had never been happier to be out of that house again, and back at Hogwarts, where he had friends that were his family. His marks were impeccable, though he was there around every corner, with all four of his quartet, waiting with a clever ruse. It was Minerva McGonagall who had penned the name, referring to each outing as a maraud, and that there was nothing that she could do to stop the raids (though that didn’t stop her from putting them in detention every other day).

His first four years at Hogwarts passed in a blur of happiness. Love and havoc and top marks, and going home and being banished on holidays, each time he was home, he brought more and more Gryffindor decorum to enhance his Grimmauld Place lodgings (and trying to sneak out to the Potters’ whenever he got the opportunity). Grimmauld Place was the opposite of Hogwarts’ loud and raucous atmosphere, and was instead greeted by house-elves and occasionally punctuated by (though he never acknowledged these) a sweet or note or particularly interesting Daily Prophet article, left for him by his little brother. If he was still in the heart of London, owls would be constantly swooping in and out of his window, though he was usually at the Potters’ during the majority of breaks; they treated him like a second son.

 He still feared his family, feared their hold on him and place in society. He disagreed with their ideologies, now, that muggles and muggle-borns were lesser. Hadn’t he met perfectly nice muggle-borns? Hadn’t Lily Evans always been neck and neck with him and James in classes? He was beginning to think for himself, and the shouting matches between he and Walburga were enough that they could shake the rafters (though, on occasion he might discuss the Daily Prophet with his father). 

It was the summer before sixth year that had done it, that had been the breaking point. He’d received his ten outstanding OWLs (and an acceptable in Potions but he wasn’t going to talk about that) and there was a glow of pride in him. He still clung to that hope, though the rational part of him knew that it wasn’t ever happening, that he could impress them. That Walburga would finally treat him the way she did Regulus – because, of course, he was their shining, shimmering golden boy – that maybe his successes could negate his blood traitor, Gryffindor ways. That, however, was never going to be the case. 

Instead, with a quick flick of her wand, the exam results burst into flame and crumpled to ash. She said that nothing he could ever do would repair things, that he’d embarrassed them, that he hung around with people unbefitting to his status, though his status then was even laughable. Hot, unadulterated rage had erupted inside him, anger so strong that, for once, he was left speechless. So he summoned his trunk, walked to the fireplace, and in a rush of green flames, he never looked back. 

He no longer acknowledged any of them, even Regulus. At school, he’d occasionally jeered at his family, poking fun at them as if it were all a big joke, but stone cold silence, he felt, was how it had to be done. His last two years at Hogwarts did their best to put his familial situation from his mind, after all, he now had three brothers instead of one who couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. 

He’d made a name for himself despite, and in spite of, the disappointment from The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

BARTENDING BANANZA

Sirius still isn’t quite sure how he secured a position at The Hog’s Head. It went like this:

Aberforth: You’re here so much you might as well work here.

Sirius: Alright

And he never left. It’s now been four years and he’s become mildly infamous for giving away free drinks to attractive people, claiming its their birthdays, standing atop the bar while using a summoning charm to refill patrons’ drinks, and getting distracted talking to his friends while he’s on the clock. But, he cleans, and so glasses are covered in much less dust, and he’s gotten a younger crowd in, so Aberforth tends to keep him around. Plus, Sirius suspects the old man has a soft spot for him (they have an estranged brothers bond that neither one has spoken of but Sirius knows he feels it too).

Sirius’s time is split between the dusty old pub and Order duty – he does a lot of good undercover work as Padfoot.

RANDOM FACTS & TIDBITS

HEADCANONS

Padfoot is a Newfoundland. An absolute bear of a dog that doesn’t know any form of personal space. He often sleeps in his animagus form because his human thoughts dull ever-so-slightly when he’s a canine. (He also makes a lot of werewolf jokes when he’s not within Remus’ earshot that he already turns into a dog and so being bitten by a werewolf would give him double dog superpowers).

Sirius joined the Order right out of Hogwarts. He wanted his own say, wanted to make a difference against Death Eaters (and his family) but now, with the werewolves in control, he feels more guilt at fighting them.

After his sixth year, since he was of age, he began work on an old motorbike. It was a piece of junk, to begin with, found somehow in a muggle junkyard and picked up by a particular wizard who felt as if the rules didn’t apply to him. So, he’d somehow fit parts back together (a bit of Reparo here and there), then, with all the intelligence and fancy wand-work he possessed, enchanted it to fly. It was an all summer project that he worked on in between doing his work. He would have ridden it to Kings Cross to show off, but he couldn’t imagine just leaving it there for who knows how long. Instead, he just bragged about his ‘baby’ to anyone who would listen.

Sirius is a walking oxymoron. He’s loyal yet deceptive; he’s selfless, yet has a hell of an ego; he’s reckless yet- no, just reckless. But how can this be? Oxymorons don’t make sense! To the people he cares about, Sirius will stick with them 100%, no questions asked. He’s a huge believer in one-for-all and all-for-one, no man left behind. He’d go over a cliff, for any of those he loved without hesitation. Yet, to those he’s not so fond of, the deception comes in. He could lie, cheat, and steal his way to the ends of the earth, so long as his people were out of the way and unharmed. At the same time, there is no question that Sirius thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread which is saying a lot because he loves sliced bread. However, there’s also that hidden vulnerability that his ego tends to hide. He struts like a peacock, but those feathers are all truly for show. And, though he sometimes doesn’t have the most tact in the world and may say the first thing that comes to mind – he truly does put others before himself. Except people he doesn’t like - then he’s going to upset them; he’s going to mean it and they’ll have deserved it. 

Sirius is messy. He always, always has been. In a house that was ordered and regimented to a fault, this was once again a flaw that he had in which others, if they had it, could hide. He’s messy in the “that sock is right underneath that shirt which is stuffed behind my dresser” way that he knows exactly where everything is, but to an onlooker it would be pure chaos. It drove his dorm mates nuts, because whatever he touched seems to just explode, and his tie will end up hanging from Peter’s bedpost and a shoe will find its way into James’ trunk. 

Sirius is a whiz at nonverbal magic. He first really began to learn it due to laziness, but picked it up really quickly. His mind is constantly sharp, so his tendency to show off with nonverbal spells has that much more increased.

AESTHETICS

Sirius Black is fire. He is staying up too late at night, knowing fully well that you have to be up early in the morning. He is laughter - too loud and too frequent. He is vulnerability and talking about the future that he wants to have, but doesn’t think he will. He is spitting his drink out in a fit of laughter. He is taking his anger out on someone due to other issues. He is never wanting to be at home. He is friendship. He is staying inside on rainy days and talking for hours. Sirius Black is the first lightning strike in a thunderstorm, right when the electricity could be felt in the air. 

Adrenaline kicking in, he’s a sprint across a field, feeling as if something is chasing him. He’s loyalty, and the comfort of a dog snoozing in front of a fireplace. Sirius is running late to all Order meetings; he’s cold hands and snow covered cobblestones. Sirius Black is screaming so much you lose your voice. He is collapsing into silent sobs, torn between two parts of himself. Sirius Black is drying someone else’s tears while holding back his own. He is a phoenix, coming from such hurt and sorrow, and flourishing, setting things ablaze in glory. 

Using sarcasm and humor to cover up his inner pain and hurt. Sirius is staying up into the wee hours of the morning, talking about everything under the sun. He’s cracked lips and bloodshot eyes with dark circles underneath. Sirius Black is a hand on your shoulder, steadying himself even more than the other person. He is making a cup of tea in the morning, trying to keep himself awake. He’s the strict use of the buddy system at all times.

Sirius Black is the last call at the bar, a smirk on his lips asking the bartender to come home with him. He’s a tremor in his fingertips as they hold a mug of coffee the next morning to stave off a hangover. He’s the smell of smoke clinging to his skin, his hair, and lingering on his breath. He’s fits of sullen as well as being the life of the party. Sirius is never wanting to be alone, afraid of what his mind will do to him. He’s the ghosts of his past sneaking up on him in the dead of night, whispering, whispering, whispering. 

Sirius is hours upon hours of waiting for the sun to rise. He is begging the ghosts to stay away, not having enough energy to fight. He is night terrors and shouting in his sleep and shaking so violently he couldn't walk in a straight line. He is pain. He is anguish. He is agony.

BITS & BOBBLES

Residence: a flat in Muggle London, walking distance to The Leaky Cauldron

Wand: 10 inches, ebony wood, dragon-heartstring core, surprisingly springy

Patronus: rat terrier

Sexuality: pansexual

Height: 5’10 – he doesn’t want to talk about it

WANTED CONNECTIONS

The Regular – The person who comes into the Hog’s Head on a regular basis, Sirius knows their drink order by heart. They know each other better than they should, considering they’ve never really interacted outside the pub.

Unlikely Friends – Maybe (?) an Order member that is the complete opposite of Sirius. No one expected them to get on as well as they should. 

Family Drama – A friend of my enemy is.. My friend? Someone who knows the Black family, is maybe friends with the others, but it’s kind of awkward but not unkind.

Ex-Childhood Fiance – this one is pretty self-explanatory. I just think it’d be a laugh (bonus points if they ever got together because Sirius would actually hate that his mother would be proud)

Grew Up Together – also pretty self explanatory, maybe a friends-to-enemies vibe. I just want more uncomfortable situations that Sirius hates. 

[calliesrph]

ANASTASIA (1997) AND ANASTASIA: THE BROADWAY MUSICAL

SPECIFY receiving muse for multimuses.

CHANGE pronouns and phrasing as needed.

❛ How dare you return to the palace?! ❜

❛ Keep up with me, darling! ❜

❛ You’ll never escape me, child! NEVER! ❜

❛ So many lives were destroyed that night. ❜

❛ What had always been was now gone forever. ❜

❛ Everything’s going according to plan. ❜

❛ You’ve been a thorn in my side since you were brought here. ❜

❛ I’m waiting for a sign. ❜

❛ This place. It’s … it’s like a memory from a dream. ❜

❛ Why are you circling me? Were you some sort of vulture in another life? ❜

❛ It’s just … you look an awful lot like … never mind. ❜

❛ I don’t know my last name. ❜

❛ I have very few memories of my past. ❜

❛ I guess every lonely girl would hope she’s a Princess. ❜

❛ I’m allergic to dogs. ❜

❛ Who dares intrude on my solitude? ❜

❛ I can feel the dark forces stirring. ❜

❛ Look at me. I’m falling apart. I’m a wreck. ❜

❛ For a minute there, you had your old spark back. ❜

❛ When the royals betrayed me, they made a mistake. ❜

❛ Revenge will be sweet. ❜

❛ I can feel that my powers are slowly returning. ❜

❛ In the dark of the night terror becomes true. ❜

❛ Stop fiddling with that thing! ❜

❛ Stop bossing me around! ❜

❛ You certainly have a mind of your own. ❜

❛ Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. ❜

❛ I think you broke my nose! ❜

❛ Men are such babies. ❜

❛ I hate to see you forced to mingle with commoners. ❜

❛ I wish I could do the job for you, sir. I’d give her a Ha then a hi ya and then a woowah and I’d kick her, sir. ❜

❛ I am not exactly Grand Duchess material here. ❜

❛ I just thought this was something you had to see through to the end no matter what. ❜

❛ Tell me, what do you see? ❜

❛ There’s nothing left for you back there. ❜

❛ That dress is really beautiful. ❜

❛ I keep seeing faces … So many faces. ❜

❛ It was a nightmare. It’s all right, you’re safe now. ❜

❛ This is no time to lose your head. ❜

❛ I feel a sudden onset of clarity. ❜

❛ I have so many fond memories of Paris. ❜

❛ Take a deep breath. Everything’s gonna be fine. ❜

❛ You have to know the truth! ❜

❛ I’m probably about as stubborn as you are. ❜

❛ Who exactly are you? ❜

❛ I can’t stay. I don’t belong here. ❜

❛ You were born to this world of glittering jewels and fine titles, but I wonder if this is what you really want. ❜

❛ Whatever you choose, we will always have each other. ❜

❛ I’m not afraid of you. ❜

❛ I can fix that. ❜

❛ I’ve stayed too long here. ❜

❛ You tell us times are better, well I say they’re not. ❜

❛ The walls have ears. ❜

❛ He who argues disappears. ❜

❛ There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. ❜

❛ Do you believe in fairytales? ❜

❛ I’ve never been anywhere but here. ❜

❛ You don’t know what it’s like not to know who you are. ❜

❛ Don’t give up hope, come what may. ❜

❛ The rumors never end. ❜

❛ If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it. ❜

❛ Something in you knows it. ❜

❛ Where did you learn to do that? ❜

❛ I don’t like being contradicted. ❜

❛ You have courage and strength you barely know. ❜

❛ This is a remarkable city. ❜

❛ Your confidence in me will be justified. ❜

❛ They’d kill you. Without hesitation. ❜

❛ Be careful what a dream may bring. ❜

❛ A revolution is a simple thing. ❜

❛ Your eyes. A man could look right into them. ❜

❛ As long as there is vodka, life is wonderful! ❜

❛ I raised myself. ❜

❛ Neither of us have a family. ❜

❛ I’m not as strong as you think I am. ❜

❛ You're the stubbornest person I’ve ever met. Almost as stubborn as me. ❜

❛ Who the hell do you think you are? ❜

❛ We’ll find them, never fear. ❜

❛ Everyone imagines being someone else. ❜

❛ I am nothing but a man with nothing but his orders to fulfill. ❜

❛ I don’t know about anyone else, but it’s been a long day. ❜

❛ I’ve never seen you so happy. ❜

❛ A lady-in-waiting’s life is never her own. ❜

❛ Let’s put on our fancy clothes and let’s while our woes away. ❜

❛ Why wallow in regret? ❜

❛ We’re out of second chances. ❜

❛ I crossed a continent for this moment. ❜

❛ Admit you’re happy to see me. ❜

❛ You’re even lovelier than I remember. ❜

❛ Ever since that first day I saw you at court, I knew I was beneath you. ❜

❛ I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to pay me a compliment. ❜

❛ You’re born to take this chance. ❜

❛ God will judge you harshly. History already has. ❜

❛ Men like you deserve every bad hand life deals you. ❜

❛ I admire the way you are proud of who you are, despite your circumstances. ❜

❛ I’m old and impatient. Kindness has become a luxury. ❜

❛ You’re clever, I’ll grant you that. ❜

❛ Do you know what it means to lose everything? ❜

❛ Everything I loved and held dear with all my heart, all lost and gone in one terrible moment; and for what? ❜

❛ We never know which goodbye is the last. ❜

❛ You must obey the rules. ❜

❛ I am my father’s daughter. ❜

❛ I am my father’s son! ❜

❛ I mean you no harm. ❜

[blingblong55]

Until I found you-König

GN!Reader, angst, fluff

Oh, let me hold you I'll never let you go again like I did

Your relationship with König was more than amazing, he always looked forward to coming home to you. But as the missions started to pile up for him, the more he saw himself losing hope to come home safe or alive. He couldn't and wouldn't be the reason why you were sad if he were to die, so he thought that maybe if he broke up with you before one of the toughest missions he's been on, surely you'd be able to move on without him in the world.

The day that he broke up with you was nothing but painful, you were sad but also mad at him. His reasoning was not clear and all you could think about was that maybe there was someone else for him and he just didn't want you to know that. Were you not enough? Was there something wrong with the way you loved him? He definitely knew you loved him with every fibre of your being but you didn't think he was fully aware of how much love you have for him. There was a deeper reason for this, not just because he thought I'd be mean of him to leave you alone and in despair.

Two months ago he was closer to death than ever before. A bullet passed through his shoulder, it was by pure luck he never got hit. That was when reality set in for him. He can't just leave you like that. Stupid excuse for such a valid reason. And now, as he walks into the flat you two called home, your stuff is gone and the home feels colder. The colours and comfort the place brought him once, are now gone with you.

Reality set in. He let the one good thing he had in this miserable world go. If only he was as smart in love as he is on the field. What a shame. König now sits on the sofa that you two once cuddled in after he came home. What a fool was he to think he'd have you for years to come. He used to think he was at risk of getting hurt only to be the one who brought such pain to a wonderful and kind person. Couldn't he be more kind to your heart and feelings? Memories flush through, the night he got news his Oma died, you were there. Holding him close he silently cried for her. You were there the day his mum was in the hospital, calming him down, making tea and visiting his mum every week after the incident. You made sure to clean her face after every meal, made him feel comfort when he felt it was wrong to be weak and you were the one who was there the night he had the worst panic attack due to his PTSD.

Why is he such a fool?

He saw you at the park, reading a book under your favourite tree. He smiles, knowing that at least that part of you has never changed. If he is such a tough and ruthless soldier then why hasn't he gone to you and started to talk? Because he is a coward at love, not war. You laid back, jumper on your back to make the tree bark more comfortable to rest on. He used to be the one you rested on as you read. It was the one thing he loved to do in public. He was Shakespeare and you his Anne. The muse to his love and sonnets.

"Liebe?" he softly says as he finally has the courage to talk and approach you. "König." you sounded surprised. Oh, how he longed to hear your voice and the sweet sound you made when you said his name. Sweet angel, his sweet sweet angel.

Now, four years since he and you rekindled your love, you two now chase your dog around the park because the dog can't let go of the dog bone a little kid threw by accident. You are now his spouse, the one and only for a man like him. Never did he know he could feel so much for one person, yet he is there, loving, protecting and caring for you.

[aestherin]

KEEP MY HEART

goal 09: do you like sweets?

You are fully self-aware that you have delusional tendencies, but you know yourself well enough to think that you weren't that far gone yet to the point that you will start seeing your long distance crush right in front of you.

He's probably real.

Taking notice of your presence, Scaramouche then turned towards you. His face was hard to read, other hand holding his phone and the other inside the pockets of his denim pants. His oversized black shirt was tucked, highlighting his good figure.

'Holy. He's got good style too,' you thought. It was simple, yes. But he carries outfits so damn well.

But what is he even doing here in your uni?

Since an eye contact has already been made, you flashed a sheepish smile and a light wave. Your loud personality online was such a huge contrast in comparison to how you're actually behaving now.

He just stared. 'Oh. So he's the cold type. God, he's exactly my type.'

"Aren't you going in?" You snapped out of your musings upon hearing his voice.

"I was about to. I'm starving," you chuckled. He scoffed. "I could use a bit of food, too."

"We should eat at the birthday party then."

"Kazuha's?"

You nod.

He looked away. "Go and eat inside. I'll find another place to eat at."

You flashed a look of disbelief. Scaramouche raised a brow in confusion. "Dude, you're literally already at a restaurant and you still want to go somewhere else to eat?"

"And you're hungry, aren't you?"

He sighed. "Look, I don't know if you know this, but the one holding a party — well, we're not on the best of terms."

Oh. Yeah.

There's that thing.

How the fuck could you forget that the love of your life is from the rival of your brother's team?

"Ah," You nod again. He seemed to take it as you understanding his reasoning and turned the other way, attempting to head off.

If only you hadn't tugged at his shirt.

"What the?!"

You led him to a lone bench at the parking lot, lit warmly by the streetlight just directly above it. "Sit there and wait for me."

"Excuse me?" He hissed. "What am I? A dog?"

"Your words, not mine." You grinned. "Just do as I say, okay? It won't be long, I promise."

He was about to retort but you cut him off by hurriedly entering the lively restaurant.

When you got back, you easily spotted Scaramouche who was sitting comfortably on the bench where you left him. He immediately scooted over once he saw you.

"Wow," he remarked. "You know I actually doubted if you would even come back."

You chuckled as you sat and handed him his plate. "Do you have trust issues?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Oh, so you do."

He rolled his eyes.

Your late dinner with him was mostly filled with a comforting silence, with some bits of small talk in between. The only ones left on your plate were delectable desserts, as well as the little pieces of food you left out.

"Do you like sweets?"

"No," Scaramouche speedily replied. "They're disgusting."

You subconsciously frown. "Shame. I like them."

"You can have mine then," he says as he picks up his portion of desserts and transfers them to your plate. Unbeknownst to you, his observant gaze failed to miss how your eyes sparkled in delight at the sight of mouthwatering sweets.

As he did so, Scaramouche also spotted some leftovers on your plate. "Do you not like bitter stuff?"

"My tongue can't handle them."

"Give it to me then instead of wasting food, idiot."

You let out a laugh. "Is that your way of saying you like bitter stuff?"

The man just let out a quiet "tch" before taking a bite.

KEEP MY HEART — scara x reader smau

previous . masterlist . next

SUMMARY —you find plenty of guys around you attractive, but there is only one you’re willing to make the first move on: the guy you first saw during your older brother’s soccer game. spoiler: he's a player from your rival university.

NOTES -> a lot has happened lmaoo i was so busy aaa -> i graduated hs finally :P -> i also submitted my requirements for college haha -> also can u guys believe i'm gonna be in college while my college smau is on going omg -> and apologies for ghosting HASDHADHA (also wtf fontaine livestream tomorrow already whaaat time flies so fast omg)

TAGLIST I (closed)

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[hellowoolf]

on strawberries and masonry: chapter i

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

OR

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, ANGST👈🏻👈🏻, reader has a violent past but we don’t get graphic about it yet, knives (at present we only use her for gardening), age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), mention of masturbation (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 3.1k

authors note: i would consider myself a mildly experienced writer but this is my first ever fic! kindness is appreciated but so is constructive criticism. i really hope you enjoy🍓

by the way, a big ol thank you to @macfrog @netherfeildren @5oh5 @swiftispunk @bageldaddy (and others), whose fantastic writing gave me the courage to put this story to paper🫶

series masterlist | masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you don’t remember much about the little fruits, from the time that came before. you were only a child then, 8 when it all crumbled to pieces, and those small sweetnesses aren’t things you’re taught to notice when you’re that young. lemons and airplane engines and the neighbor’s dog; these you remember, what with all the ruckus they made, but berries and peaches were far too soft of creations to make an impression. you suppose to anyone who could see your life in full, it would seem ironic in a tragic sort of way that they were all you cared for now.

you like to ponder these things—torture, really—on your way to the garden in the morning. there’s something about the honesty of jackson air, the clarity of it at daybreak, that make such musings, painful as they are, the only bearable passtime. keeping your hands close to your sides inside your jacket, you let your fingertips brush against the knife stored there. maria had offered you gardening tools, things more fit for the work you did now, but you’d refused; this knife was your father’s once (if you were remembering correctly) and you wouldn’t let it rust over on your nightstand. you like to make use of things, things and people if you’re honest, and trimming plants and flowers and little fruits are no less noble uses for it than what you did before jackson.

the crunch of your boots beneath you whispers up as you trudge along. your house isn’t far from the garden, but ages, it feels, from everything else. you’d gone to the tipsy bison, once, within the first few weeks of moving in, convinced you were young and entitled to normalcy after what they’d collected you from on the outside. the scotch burned your throat in a cliche kind of way, and you suppose you enjoyed that part, but the walk alone in the dark on your way home was enough to keep you from the establishment since. you moved back and forth from your garden, the dining hall, and occasionally tommy’s house when you couldn’t bear the loneliness; these pathways you’d carved out for yourself here are few and stubborn, but you love them because they’re yours. the other young men and women your age in town, most of whom have lived the better part of their lives within these walls, don’t think of you enough to find you as strange as you perhaps are, but their not thinking is a comfort to you. the crunch crunch crunch of your boots on the gravel mumbles in agreement.

“speak of the devil.”

tommy is leaning against the glass of the greenhouse wall with noah when he calls it out to you, grounding you in place. you’d made it all the way to the garden in the time it took for that ugly contemplation, but the both of them are smiling with that back and forth glance only boyishness forgives, and now the morning is real. it’s cold enough that numbness has clawed its way up the bridge of your nose, the frost keeping last night’s snow frozen to the ground. it’s these moments, the arrivals to your garden at dawn, when the day comes to you. you like the both of them, noah and tommy. they make you feel like somebody’s sister. you turn up the ends of your mouth. “all bad things i hope.”

“awful, really,” noah chuckles, tugging on the arm of your jacket to pull you inside with tommy behind you, the both of them still smiling in conspiracy.

you begin to slip your arms out of your coat, laying it carefully against a wall, the wet warmth of the greenhouse rushing you immediately. you’d been heating the inside for a few weeks now, trying to maintain a healthy summer crop output despite the freezing soil, and a few of the sturdier vegetables had steadily been peeking their way up. you plucked a full radish from the dirt last week and nearly wept over it. you look back up at tommy and noah, standing shoulder to shoulder now in the aisle between the planter boxes to block your path forward, humming still with whatever tommy-and-noah-elation they’ve concocted. you tilt your head a little and smile.

“are you gonna make me guess? or can you just tell me?”

they confer with a nod and a jostle side to side, tommy turning back to you. “there’s a strawberry.”

your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth as something golden and beautiful unfolds inside of you. “there isn’t,” you counter. noah turns himself sideways so you can walk through the aisle to the end of the left planter box and you rush there (you’re rarely frantic, nowadays, but you allow this sort of thing for your little fruits).

maria had placed you here in the garden as a safeguard. she thought you dangerous (and you were, at least back when you met her), so she put you to work where your hands could do good and be far from people. it helped, you guessed, that the greenhouse is made of glass; she could keep an eye on you this way. and oh, how you’d resisted it, the softness of a gardener’s job. in the end, though, the black and grime of life left as residue on your palms felt like forgiveness, and you’d taken quickly to thinking yourself a botanist.

by the time you arrive at the end of the left planter box, on your knees like a worshiper at a pew, you’re eye level with the little poetry of red and green parting the soil you’d scooped by hand last month. tommy and noah, you feel, are behind you as your shadow casts itself over the soil, and you almost have to pull the thing out just to bear this feeling. there’s a strawberry. and you actually say it out loud, softer than anything but wild, still, and staring at the child of plant and earth you’d nursed to color. noah and tommy drop to your sides, and you notice then that the three of you are crying, and you laugh and laugh over the little thing like madness and sweetness and pride.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the euphoria of your strawberry lasts you well into the late afternoon. tommy and noah had left you to bask in the glory of it to continue with construction on a little post office right off the main road, and you worked the morning with your thumbs in the dirt, slicing browning leaves off the budding plants with as much gentleness as you could muster. you look down at your knife, cradled close in the cup of your palm, to finger out the soil packed through the engraving along the handle. a last name meant nothing anymore, what with your loneliness and the end of the world, but still the slopes of it peer up at you; you watched your father make the engraving, you think, though the actual memory of it is lost to time.

by the time you reach the beets at the end of the right planter box, a commotion has stirred outside. men’s voices ring and rumble from the main road, and the bass of it hums under your knees on the ground. a great bark of tommy reaches you clearly, even tucked away as your greenhouse is, and curiosity consumes you enough to resign from your garden for the day. these days you are quiet, and reserved, sometimes frightening because you like how it feels, but still curious, always curious, and so you curl yourself back into your jacket to join whatever audience has congregated by the front gates.

he is beautiful in a holy sort of way, whoever he is. you come upon tommy wrapped up in a great big stranger, a horse and a young girl behind him, and the slopes of his nose bend the waning sunlight off into a ribbon of a beam. jesus, when was the last time you’d looked at someone this way? tommy pulls back from him, glassy eyed and awestruck, looking around at those who’d crowded the scene almost incredulously, but you stare still at his stranger, who is so broad and so timid and so clearly unused to his own timidness that you can’t pull your eyes away. he meets your gaze for a moment, as he sweeps his own across the crowd, and looks at you with about as much detachment as he does the rest of this spectatorship. but oh god, he is so divinely pretty, and so you can forgive his lack of immediate fascination with you.

tommy begins walking his stranger and his stranger’s small companion through the throng, introducing and shaking hands, and as you watch them slowly shuffle towards you, you are struck with the thought that this is tommy’s brother. as he shifts his face along the axis of his shoulders, taking in the town, you see more and more of tommy in the motion of his stranger’s face. you’re sure of it now, as tommy calls your name and shepherds the man in front of you.

“my brother here’as decided to make a grand entrance!” tommy says, slapping a mittened hand across his back. you shake his stranger’s hand and give him your name, hoping your little smile doesn’t give away how awful it felt for him to look this way.

“joel,” he musters (and it really does seem like it takes a mustering), and gives your hand a firm shake before stuffing them back in his pockets. he is disinterested, surely, but afraid, too. it almost hurts you how clear his prevailing apprehension is, and you nearly make to apologize for forcing him to introduce himself. his eyes squint in the golden light cast over jackson.

“i work in the greenhouse, a few blocks from here on the edge of the settlement,” you explain, eyes drifting between joel and his little shadow, who both joel and tommy have yet to introduce. she looks a little feral, and this endears you immediately to her. “welcome in,” you offer, and you do your best to direct this message to her from around joel’s shoulder. her eyes are so big for a thing so ferocious (and you are certain she is) and they widen further at your acknowledgment of her.

“we won’t be here for long,” joel grumbles out and you straighten back up. he says it like you’ve offended him, and you bristle a little. tommy’s beautiful stranger is very guarded, you decide. regardless, the width of him, from left to right, blocks the mountain range behind him, and the patchy scruff along his jaw makes you die a little death.

“alright, well,” you start to back away then, feeling increasingly overwhelmed by his face and his broadness and this little girl who looks and moves like you used to, “you know where to find me,” and you nod a little to tommy before turning and walking away. you lasted all but five seconds in front of him, relishing in how little you were in his shadow cast upon you and loving whatever creature the girl he brought with him was, but all the same he looked too tired and cautious and vicious that it suffocated you. he wouldn’t be here for long, apparently; you’ll likely never see him again. as you step towards your little house, you figure it was worth the meeting, if for nothing else than a face to keep you company in the dark when you’re a woman and alone, and a real image to pair with the descriptions tommy gave of a brother who loved him once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

for a while, it seemed you really wouldn’t see joel again. you watched, through your greenhouse walls, the great expanse of him ride out with the girl, and you were left with the comfort of knowing how gorgeous you found him and that you would never have to speak with him again. you warded off your own psychoanalysis of your relief at his faraway-ness in the face of your immediate physical attraction to him, and sunk your fingers again in the soil.

but then he had returned. what with how consoled you felt at his leaving, he almost had to; fate was funny this way. but you figure, still, you needn’t disturb yourself with him. you imagined he’d keep to himself with how unspeaking he was when you first met him, and other than crossing his path every once in a while, leaving tommy’s house or marching himself along somewhere or other, you were right.

you think of him at night, though. in the morning you wake up with the shame and hilarity of it, of this lusting over a man you neither know nor want to know, but past midnight in your bed you let your fingers slip over yourself thinking of how small he’d made you feel. the wanting of him strikes you somewhere between your shoulder blades, and you blame it entirely on how long it had been since you shared your bed with anyone. strictly physical, strictly physical. you’d learned again to care for yourself these years in jackson, and you’d wrought kinship from tommy and noah without realizing it, but in all you attend mostly to flora, and in this you are protected. yes, joel keeps to himself as you surmised he would, but you avoid him, too; to want him in this way, all hands and hips and somewhere within you, is harmless, you determine, so long as he stays tommy’s stranger. he could never be anything or anyone to you.

it’s six weeks or so of joel’s continued disinterest in you, and your insistent avoidance of him (barring the way you touched yourself at night to his face), before a knock at your door past sunset brings you out of bed. people rarely appear at your doorstep, though you imagine it’s noah dropping off seeds found on patrol, or tommy with a similar sort of package, or even ellie, joel’s little creature, who’d spoken all but five words to you about your garden, but all the same materialized rather often there to see the colors of your little fruits. but when maria blinks back at you when you open the door, any semblance of a greeting dies in the back of your throat.

“can i come in?” maria asks, although she’s already leaning her shoulder towards the gap between your body and the doorway. you step aside to let her through. it occurs to you that maria has never visited you in your home before, not in your five years in jackson, and when she turns back to you, back pressed against your kitchen counter, it’s clear she’s just had the same thought. the way she crosses her arms over her chest, the authority of it and the terror, too, beckons you toward her from your place at the threshold.

“is everything okay?” you sigh out as you prop your hip against the adjacent table top. she is inspecting you, but smiles.

“yeah, yeah.” one of you sniffs. you shift your weight. “i came to see what you thought of joel.”

you almost laugh then, really laugh. “i don’t think anything of joel.”

she rolls this answer around behind her teeth. “mhm,” and then this time with finality, “mhm”.

you inspect her, now. “you don’t want him here.” it isn’t a question.

maria hums. “tommy wants him here.”

“that isn’t what i said.”

she purses her lips a moment. “yeah, i know.”

and you’re making the moment torturous for her, you’re certain, because you know why she’s come to you, why she’s standing in your kitchen like the elected leader she is, while something awful, something almost like alarm, leaks from the back of her neck onto your floorboards. you’d come to jackson a wild thing and she’d tamed you, and now you lived as a dirt woman who sunk her dagger into earth and green and life more permanent than humanity. she is proud of this, you think. and joel came as much of the same, with red hands that opened dripping, and maria needs him watched now the same way she watched you through your garden’s glass. you sigh again.

“what do you want me to do, maria? anything i’d say to tommy would be infinitely more effective from you.”

maria nods. “i don’t want you to say anything to tommy. i can live with joel in jackson. but he’s insisting on patrol, and i don’t know who else to put with him.”

your jaw seizes, and the heat of anger spreads itself along your neck and around your ears. you remember when you’d pleaded so kindly, crouching to make yourself smaller, hands collapsed together, begging to be useful, to be put outside, to protect jackson like it was yours. maria was as honest with you then as she is now, and she’d cited your instability (the reality of which is neither here nor there) to keep you off the rounds. you’d told tommy maria envisioned your actions before jackson as far more unforgivable than they were, though you knew that was a lie before you opened your mouth to say it. “patrol?”

she looks so solemnly at you you think you might die right there between your kitchen and the staircase. “yeah. i want you to be his patrol partner. i’m not looking to send him out there with a gun strapped to his back with one of the other gu-”

“and why does it have to be me?” and you’re really angry, now. for your unyielding quiet in this jackson existence you’d sewn together and the little strawberry you’d grown from nothing, still, still, you were at most and at least a violence. “why can’t you assign someone else?”

maria has this answer constructed already, it seems, for how fast she releases it, “because you’ll kill him.”

“noah would, if he had to. and leila. i can think of at least fi-”

“i’m not saying you would kill him. i’m saying you could.”

and suddenly you were again a wasp or spider, poisonous and unthinking, and the weight of the killing you did before jackson, which you had halfway successfully ignored to piece yourself into something good, perched its chin on the crown of your head. your father’s knife, laying up next to your bed after what was now years of tending to vegetables and stalks and leaves, howled with laughter, and it carried down the stairs to you like wind in summer, leadened and screaming and satisfied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i hope you enjoyed this first part! like i said in my authors note, this is my first time writing a piece like this and certainly my first time posting it, so kindness is much appreciated, as is constructive criticism. part 2 coming (hopefully) soon🍓

update: chapter ii!!

[claustrophobic-salamander]

A little snippet of my post control fic <3 maybe give it a little look ?

Separation - W.S. Merwin 1962

Your absence has gone through me 

Like a thread through a needle

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

The Castellan almost fell into the room, Juggling a large container in his arms as he closed the door behind him. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped as he took a second to decompress. The weight of elected leadership was a heavy one indeed. Despite the shockingly dark circles that were permanently inked beneath his eyes and the rapidly widening silver streaks in his once black hair he forced a smile onto his face, closing the distance between himself and his best friend.

“ Julian, my dear.” Garak almost chirped. “ It would seem that we have mail”. 

He perched in his chair, A comfortably worn piece that eternally loomed beside the hospital bed. He patted the doctor’s hand affectionately as he set the box to the side for a moment, Gently smoothing Julian’s hair and noting the levels on the everpresent monitors. He deserved nothing less than Garak’s full attention.  

“ I do wish you had warned me, You sent security into a full panic.” Garak let his mask slip slightly, a touch of sadness creeping into his eyes “ Though, to be fair, you are of a quiet disposition these days.” He harshly pulled the mask back up, working to keep it firmly snapped in place. The Castellan really had no way of knowing how aware Julian was. Sure his eyes were open, but how did he experience the world? Garak could only guess. So he made sure to keep his tone light and his expression soft. If there was anything left of his beloved in there, any awareness of his surroundings, the older man would be damned if he was going to scare him. To push his own hurt onto somebody so vulnerable? It simply wouldn't do. After all, wasn't that why they were in this mess in the first place? Garak worried ceaselessly that he was to blame for Julian’s sorry state. His own hurt infecting the younger man and hardening his heart. Was he the one that encouraged Julian down this path? He honestly thought he had been doing Julian a kindness at that time. Teaching him to put up his walls and protect himself from the world around him. A kindness indeed.   

“ Apparently this package has been in transit for 6 whole months. It must have been important for you to have paid for it to be sent all that way. “ The Cardassian mused . “I wonder why you chose to send it like that? Surely there were easier, cheaper, and faster ways available to you.” 

The man picked up the container again and opened it, curiosity and fear dogging him in equal measure. What could possibly be inside? It was anyone’s guess. This was the closest thing the pair had had to a conversation since Julian had fled Cardassia, Section 31 hot on his heels. A package specifically sent to Garak just before Julian had submitted to his suicide mission. 

The box was filled with a multitude of carefully wrapped little packages and nestled in the top was a book, seemingly hand bound. A rarity in the age of replicators and P.A.D.Ds. But none of that mattered for the moment. The Cardassian flinched reflexively, his hand shaking as he covered his mouth trying to muffle the hiss that threatened to rip from his throat. It SMELLED like him. So much like him it was almost too intense for Garak to bear. He could almost close his eyes and imagine that the doctor was there, happy and healthy. A blessed torture.

Julian smelled different now, Like medicine, dust, and powdery soap. The box smelled of coffee and sweet spices, of sunshine and of LIFE it was intense, overwhelming. It took a moment but he managed to regain a shaky illusion of composure.

  “ Pardon me, Doctor. I wasn't expecting it to smell so much like you.” Garak hummed carefully. Schooling his tone into something a little more calm. “ I miss it, you understand? The way you used to smell. A silly thing to fixate on, I know. It is just that you smell so different now.” He picked up the book with gentle hands, like this mysterious gift from past Julian may turn to ash if treated with anything less than reverence. He set the container aside so he could give the thick tome his full attention. It was unremarkable, Deep brown leather with nothing on the front cover except the relief of two serpents dancing around a sword pressed into the hide. A journal of sorts? The only real identifier being a label written in small golden lettering down the spine announcing nothing but the word ‘Triage’. The older man, feeling suddenly ancient, flipped numbly to the first page. A creeping tendril of dread eased into the Castellan’s mind, making itself at home there. The book was handwritten in the delicate looping hand he knew to belong to the doctor. A quick glance confirmed his fears. It was a reply.

Garak, had over the years, sent Julian a number of letters, ranging from full novels, to a mere sentence or two. To his dismay, Julian had stopped replying a long time ago.  He looked over at his catatonic friend, unable to hide the panic in his eyes. “So now you reply!?” He exclaimed. “ NOW?” Julian still just stared off, unmoved by the Cardassian’s breaking heart.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65887150/chapters/169727188#workskin

[yeoandmoon]

i found the cure to growing older (and you're the only place that feels like home) ( hongjoong x fem!reader )

you're destined to follow park seonghwa. that's how it's been your whole life, and you'd prefer to keep it that way - thank you very much. it doesn't really come as a surprise to anyone when you follow him across the country to seoul to join the lucrative music industry, but perhaps the real surprise comes in the form of seonghwa's 5'8, pink-haired leader - kim hongjoong - and the late night studio visits that he's prone to.

smut, idolverse, producer!reader, friends with benefits, childhood bestie!seonghwa, a lot of music references (both joong and reader are little music snobs), implied seongjoong x reader (if u squint), studio sex, come eating, fingering, clit play, praise kink, bratty hongjoong, marking kink, implied dacryaphilia, wc is 3.1k

note: :) hiiiiiiiii (louder than anyone else) it has been a while! ngl here - this might be a little rusty! but i hope you all still enjoy it :) title is from i slept with someone in fall out boy, and all i got was this stupid song written about me by fall out boy! (ps. shoutout to the girl at blenz who watched me down a peppermint matcha and then go crazy writing the second part of this)

You owed a lot to Park Seonghwa.

You owed him far more than the cheap soju and street side corn dogs you bought him on nights out, despite listening to him whine that he had the idol money and could easily buy for both of you.

Seonghwa had gotten you the job at KQ Entertainment after a drunken night of you musing to him that no one in all of Seoul was hiring musicians, and you were about ready to pack up and move back with your grandma (who had been, in fact, right about moving to the big city) in the countryside. He helped you settle in the small studio full of instruments and sheet music, and he spent time with you around his busy schedules & hectic idol life.

(“It’s like you’re deliberately trying to keep me by your side, Hwa.”

“I did promise your grandmother I’d make sure Seoul didn’t chew you up and spit you back out, didn’t I?”)

He pushed you hard on quiet days, and would sit on the dingy little loveseat on the far side of your studio while he filled you in on random idol drama and rumors that filled the music show halls. Seonghwa would sometimes patiently watch you record instrumentals for songs, and go through demos the company would send you. He’d laugh at the jokes you’d crack about the bad demos, and sometimes you two would produce silly little raps & songs for the demos - seeing if you could somehow save the tone deaf beats & loud guitars that filled the GarageBand app.

Those were the days you longed for; the days you missed with your sweet best friend.

You understood the high school days once filled with old Fall Out Boy songs and pepero sticks were long gone, but you still tried to cling to the remnants that remained in your life.

Perhaps then, it would only make sense that Seonghwa would be the one to introduce you to Hongjoong - KQ’s Golden Boy and his closest friend within the idol world. In Seonghwa’s mind, this was a logical friendship. You two were ‘similar’ and ‘weirdly into music’, Seonghwa would tell you while on early morning coffee runs. He would grin at you when you raised an eyebrow at him.

“‘Weirdly into music?’ You’re the one with your face plastered onto subway cars, Mister Global Idol.”

(The small quips didn’t stop Seonghwa’s mission, though.

“I want you to meet someone.” He had told you, stalking into your cluttered studio one day.

A familiar figure followed Seonghwa through the door, his small stature dwarfed by your best friend. Kim Hongjoong was a colourful man. His hair was a vibrant blue, and his nails were painted a hot pink. He wore a backwards dad hat with the picture of a pastel coloured bass on it and a corny saying that you couldn’t quite catch before he looked up at you with bright eyes.

“So, you’re the one who produced the One Direction and Fix On remix?”)

After all, Seonghwa knew you better than anyone else. He knew all your deep secrets, and happy moments; he knew the things that made you tick and the things that brought you joy. So - maybe that was why you didn’t find yourself surprised when, none other than Seonghwa’s pick himself, Kim Hongjoong showed up outside your studio at 3 in the morning a mere few nights after being introduced; maybe that’s why it didn’t entirely baffle you when he placed a pile of cds ranging from newly released hip hop to eighties new wave, & everything in between, and asked your opinion on each and every cd in the pile. You soon found yourself arguing over the cultural shift you felt ‘Jolene’ brought, and cackling over Hongjoong’s Matty Healy impressions. 

Maybe that was why you weren’t surprised when he reached over and kissed you hard while a Shinee song played from your old MacBook and drowned out the soft moans that soon filled the small studio space.

Perhaps it was the late nights that followed the ‘Shinee Incident’; or, perhaps it was the fact you were both workaholics. You knew you should talk to Hongjoong outside of the oasis you felt you two had built yourselves within the rooms of KQ Entertainment, but sometimes you found the quietness of your late night rendezvous and stolen daytime kisses in the empty practice rooms was easier than the loud bustle of the Seoul streets and the distractions that came with Hongjoong leading a loud group of 20-something year old men.

You could also think of a hundred more reasons why you and Hongjoong kept meeting like this, but you were also content with just ignoring it and accepting whatever was going on until it was over.

[ from: hongjoong :) ] are you around??? [ from: hongjoong :) ] i can hear you playing with the piano. lol

Just like clockwork, you thought when your phone lit up. 

The bright little clock on your phone reads 03:19, and the piano you were working on was nearly finished. You were tired and craving your own bed; your ass hurt from the hard bench you had been sitting on for hours at that point. Despite that, you still found yourself reaching for your phone.

[ to: hongjoong :) ] yea im next door [ to: hongjoong :) ] :-)

Maybe you were craving something else too; maybe part of you was desperate for human affection, and you knew Hongjoong could give you that.

[ from: hongjoong :) ] :-)

(One could only take so much of the vibrator tucked away in their nightstand, of course.)

There was a shuffling in the hallway before the outline of Hongjoong appeared in the stained glass of the instrumental studio’s door. You watched the doorknob slowly turn before Hongjoong peeked his head into the room, a dark green beanie covering his faded pink hair. He smiled, and you swore his eyes always brightened at the sight of you.

“Hi.” You say, wincing at the exhaustion evident in your voice.

Hongjoong stepped into the studio, his eyes glancing around at the array of instruments surrounding you both before stopping back to where you sat on the piano stool.

“Hi.” He echos, stepping further into the room.

He’s wearing a tan hoodie that has little purple butterflies flying up the sleeve - and for a brief moment - you think it’s so sweet and so Hongjoong that you almost don’t want him to take it off. Then, he takes another step towards you and you see how his eyes darken as they take in the way your own hoodie is falling off your shoulder, exposing the lace black camisole and deep purple bra strap underneath. Something in his look stirs you, and you feel your cheeks begin to heat up as you look at the man in front of you.

“How’s the comeback going?” Your words crack, and you know your cheeks must be burning.

“It’s good,” Hongjoong says, his tone confident while he keeps his eyes on you, and pulls the hoodie over his head. A dark brown t-shirt is revealed, stretching across his chest and riding up enough to reveal to you the boxer band peeking from under his jeans. He throws the hoodie in the general direction of your computer chair and a smile plays at his lips, “Hwa and I are recording part of the rap tomorrow.”

He takes a step forward as he speaks, and you can hear the way his own words crack as he speaks so casually about your shared friend.

You know he needs this as much as you do - if the thick bulge in his jeans says anything about Hongjoong’s current state of mind.

You force yourself to pull away from blatantly checking him out and look up at him, “Did you happen to get that song I sent you?”

Hongjoong takes another step forward. “The Counting Crows one?”

“‘A Long December,’” you move to get up from the piano bench.

Hongjoong is suddenly on you with a sense of urgency, and the small talk portion of your evening is abruptly finished. “Don’t get up,” he tells you, pushing you back onto the bench. 

You see then how affected he really is; his pupils half blown, and his cheeks beginning to match the peach in his hair. “Cute.” The compliment falls from your lips before you can stop yourself, and your hand comes up to cup his cheek.

It delights you the way Hongjoong’s cheek burn at the simple word, and he moves to his knees in front of you, “‘Want you to stay there for me, yeah?” One of his hands moves to rest against your hand on his cheek.

You swallow and nod, not taking your eyes off the man who had managed to pry your legs apart, and was getting comfortable on the floor between them. You’re suddenly aware of your body’s reaction to Hongjoong - how sticky your panties were becoming & how heated your body was beginning to get.

Despite how common this occurrence was becoming, you never seemed to get used to how overwhelming his presence was; how much Hongjoong overtook your senses in every way possible. His hands moved to your waist, and he glances at you again before moving to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers gently slip under the waistband, and he nods to you - a request to move forward.

His fingertips are cool against your skin. They feel nice, you think as you nod to him.

Like most things with Hongjoong, he begins to move with urgency after he receives your consent. He leans up to pull you into a heated kiss as he tugs at your leggings and panties, urging you to shimmy out of them so he can get his hands on your thick thighs and the soaked core that’s between them.

Once exposed to him, one of his hands is immediately between your legs - his thumb pressing into your clit while two of his fingers gently run through your folds, gathering the wetness that lays there and sending your brain into a frenzy of Kim Hongjoong. 

You moan into the kiss, and your hands move up to tangle in his hair and pull him closer to you in an attempt to deepen the kiss. He smiles into it, and you just know that if you weren’t too busy kissing the smile away, it would be that impish, cocky smirk he gets every time he succeeds and wins; it’s the same smile he holds every time Ateez wins a music show, and it's the same smile he holds every time he makes you cum. One of his fingers gently breaches your sopping entrance, and you let out another moan against his lips.

“That feel good, love?” Hongjoong laughs against your lips before stealing another kiss.

Before you have a chance to answer, Hongjoong knocks your legs further apart and presses his thumb harder into your clit. His finger pushes into you and all you can do is swear, “Fuck! Hongjoong!”

Hongjoong releases another breathy laugh from his spot below you before pressing kisses down your neck. You feel his other hand begin to crawl up your tummy from its spot on your waist before stopping just as his fingertips hit the wire of your bra - it rests on your soft skin, and he hums against your skin before softly biting down. The sudden sting makes you gasp and your hand in his hair tightens on the strands you were holding, making Hongjoong hiss against you.

“Take it off.” He tells you, his hand coming up over the bra and tugging at the top of the cup to free your tit. His voice is lined with a growl, and his hand on your thigh tightens.

You know there’s bruises forming under Hongjoong’s fingers - adding to the collection of bruises he’s already left along your neck, tummy and anywhere else Hongjoong could possibly mark you. The possibility of them excites you; fills you with a pleasure, and rush of arousal.

His fingers immediately pinch at your nipple and you bite back a particularly loud whine, your hips bucking up against Hongjoong’s fingers. You begin to peel the hoodie off, letting it fall to the floor in front of the piano, while Hongjoong wastes no time to move his hand from your chest and tug the camisole over your head. It quickly joins the hoodie on the floor, and you’re left in only a lacy black bralette for Hongjoong’s hungry eyes.

“Take your shirt off.” You say, locking eyes with him and reaching for the brown fabric, “I wanna see you too.”

The light blush returns to Hongjoong’s cheeks, and you feel a sense of accomplishment rush through your veins. He leans back onto his legs and looks up at you - in the low & warm LED pink lights of your studio, Hongjoong looks pretty. His eyes are dark, and his hair is tousled from your pulling & tugging on it.

“Okay, love,” Hongjoong replies, “just gotta clean up first.”

There’s a small smile playing at Hongjoong’s lips as he moves his hand from your core, and keeps his eyes on you as he brings his hand to his mouth. His eyes flutter shut as he begins to lick his fingers clean, and all you can do is watch in pure pleasure as he licks your juices off his hand. He lets out a small moan, and your eyes widen as another rush of arousal surges through your body.

You tighten your thighs and try - & fail - to conceal the whimper that falls from your lips, and Hongjoong tilts his head in faux confusion. He moves his hand from his mouth, “What’s the matter, sweetie? I just wanted to taste you.”

You’re utterly, and completely, speechless and all Hongjoong can do is giggle from his spot below you. 

He leans up to kiss you again, with his (now “clean”) hand coming up and cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer. You kiss him back and part of you revels in the faint taste of yourself on his tongue. Your hands move to the bottom hem of his shirt, and you break the kiss to pull Hongjoong’s shirt over his head.

It’s added to the ever-growing pile of clothes that are gathering at the bottom of the piano.

“You’re gorgeous.” You say, and you can’t help as your eyes rake down Hongjoong’s newly exposed body and the piercing that glints in the light on his left nipple.

Hongjoong’s eyes flash, and his other hand tightens on your thigh again, “Do ya’ think flattery will get you somewhere, sweetie?”

You play along with Hongjoong’s games. You pretend you don’t see the way he gets flustered & bothered when you compliment him, and he pretends not to notice that you like making him feel like that. You couldn’t deny the absolute rush it gave you every time he whined your name at the smallest praise.

You take a deep breath before nodding, “Will you let me cum?” You ask, giving him a pout.

Hongjoong’s cocky smirk is back, and your hands grip the edge of the bench. They’ve become so tight against the wood that you’re sure your knuckles are white; it was your turn to become flustered. Your mind was beginning to fray at the edges with every second that passes of Hongjoong’s intense stare and the way his hands slowly began to move up your thighs again. 

He pushes your thighs apart again, and promptly takes his spot back between your legs. He gives you a cheeky smile while you gasp at the cold air against your soaking core; before he pushes you back against the piano and pushes his two fingers back into your hole, chuckling when you let out a cry of his name. The piano keys sound out throughout the room, but Hongjoong ignores it as he drives his fingers harder into you.

If Hongjoong wasn’t so determined to fuck you stupid, perhaps you’d think he was trying to see what notes he could produce every time your back bounces against the keys. Perhaps, just maybe - you’d even suggest turning the microphone on, and recording the notes and moans that’d be produced.

You open your mouth to say something - possibly to beg, possibly to cry for Hongjoong but all thoughts are abandoned when Hongjoong leans forward and takes your clit in his mouth. He sucks on the little nub and you swear your brain goes blank.

You cry out in pleasure, and your hands go down to find purchase in Hongjoong’s hair. He groans against you, one of his hands coming up to hold you waist as you gently rock your hips up against his face.

“Joong…” You plea, “Hongjoong, I’m so close. You feel so good, Joong.”

He adds another finger into you, heightening your pleasure and beginning to scissor them to stretch you out as you gasp, “You’re gonna take my cock after this, right sweetie?”

You nod. It’s all you can really bring yourself to do - although you know you’d do anything for Hongjoong at this moment. You’d probably allow Seonghwa to see you like this, if he wanted you to.

Hell, you’d allow Seonghwa to join in, if Hongjoong asked you too right now. 

“Hongjoong, please…”

Hongjoong kisses your cheek, and you flutter your eyes open to find him level with you, “Go on, love. Let it out for me.”

The simple words were all it took for you to come. The overwhelming euphoria of Kim Hongjoong took over your psyche, and you cried his name as you gripped his arms. 

You ride out your orgasm while you chant Hongjoong’s name, and he kisses your cheek & jaw. He now stands over you, his hand gently running through your hair as you slowly recover, resting your head on his tummy and reveling in the feeling of his hand in your hair.

It takes a moment to look up at Hongjoong. You’re still panting, and you feel tears on your cheeks begin to settle. He smiles sweetly at you, before leaning down to kiss you - softer than any other point during the night.

“Do you want to keep going?” Hongjoong asks, his hand coming to rest on the back of your neck.

You begin to pull away as your hands come up to undo his belt, “I gotta keep my word, don’t I?” You bite your lip to stop the smile beginning to grow on your face.