#And every time I bring it up I get hollow empty apologies or excuses and no matter what it will continue to happen

[mako-island-moon-pool]

Ignored again today, going to start maiming the hostages until behavior improves

[teawithkpop]

[M] - PhysCom - Pt 7

pt 1 - pt 2 - pt 3 - bc 1 - pt 4 - pt 5 - pt 6 - pt 7

Pairing: BTS - OT7 x Reader

Rating: Mature [18+]

Length: 5.4k words

Genre: PhysCom AU - smut with dashes of angst, and a shitload of romance and complicated feelings,, uhuhu (porn with plot??)

Warnings: swearing, a lot of emotional turmoil, talk of pregnancy scares (birth control, contraceptives, etc.), implied discrimination towards sex workers (not by any of the boys dw), mentions of sexual acts

slowly hands you a cake that says "I haven't updated this fic in 14 months and I don't know when the next part is coming but here's an update thanks for being patient" in comic sans

-------

The rush to the hospital goes by in a blur of tears and shouting and panic and questions that you can't bring yourself to answer. The only constant is Min Yoongi's hand, firmly locked in your own throughout the ordeal, tethering you to reality.

You now sit in a private room on a sterile medical table and wait to be seen, too numb inside to feel the sting of the cold metal as it cuts into the backs of your thighs. Yoongi stands beside you, still holding your hand, his fingers are laced through yours and squeezing as if it could sap away the fear that eats away your insides, leaving you hollow and empty.

"It'll be alright. Don't worry about a damn thing, okay?" He shifts his weight anxiously, betraying his own underlying worries.

You barely remember him throwing his jacket over you before being rushed out of the house, and you don't feel deserving of the modest coverage. Though the leather is worn and soft against your skin, all you can feel is the harsh metallic zipper, scratching at your chest as though reminding you of your wrongdoings.

"Yoongi…" you start to say, but he cuts you off, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Don't you fucking dare. Don't apologize."

You feel tears well up in your eyes. Your chest grows tight with the words he's forbidden you to say.

"I've already called Namjoon, it'll all be fine. Don't worry." He works his jaw and rubs your hand with surprising tenderness, glancing to the little window in the door every other second.

He's been assuring you with those same words for the past half hour, but it feels like it's been an eternity. As you glance at the clock on the wall, watching the hands tick by, you imagine a scene like that of a health documentary. Tiny sperm, swimming up your insides… fertilizing your previously dormant eggs.

Fuck. You've fucked up.

You might be pregnant with Min Yoongi's child. Your Opticon birth control implant could send you into toxic shock at any moment.

You don't see how things can get much worse than this.

The door finally opens, and what appears to be a nurse steps inside. She holds a clipboard, and examines it while she lets the door close behind her. "Let's see now, Miss..." Her shoulders slump marginally as her eyes reach your name. "Oh, right. The PhysCom."

You don't have the energy to ignore the change in her tone from friendly to disinterested, and simply nod. However, you feel Yoongi stiffen beside you.

The nurse lets out a brief sigh and dons a professional expression. "So, what appears to be the problem?" She directs the question to Yoongi.

"We think her birth control implant isn't working." Yoongi explains, his eyes darting furtively between you and the nurse. "She, um… she reached orgasm."

You flush at the memory, ashamed of your failure to adhere to even the most basic of rules set before you.

The nurse makes a noncommittal noise and jots something down. "Says here it’s an Opticon. And you didn't turn it off, sir?"

He shakes his head.

The nurse touches the end of her pen to her mouth, a note of sympathy forming in her eyes. Not for you, but for Yoongi. "How long have you had her?"

"Excuse me?" Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

The nurse tucks the clipboard under her arm, giving him a weary, patient smile. “With PhysComs, we have a list of probable scenarios we’re supposed to check for, to better inform the doctor of the situation, and speed along the treatment process.”

She barely spares you a glance before returning her attention to Yoongi, her voice lowered just a fraction. “It’s not uncommon for newly hired female PhysComs to try and… well, intentionally get pregnant from their clients. Especially if those clients have any amount of wealth or status.”

Yoongi seems lost for words.

She nods as if to agree with his surprise. “It’s some psychosis associated with the job,” she says with a shrug, then straightens her posture once more. “So has she been acting strangely at all? What are her symptoms?”

Your ears burn a bit at being talked about like you’re not in the room, but this isn’t the first time you’ve been in such a position. Oftentimes checkups during training were the same way, the physicians would speak exclusively among themselves and Madame while they examined every inch of you, inside and out.

Yoongi, however, is not used to such an experience.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” He says, in a voice much calmer than you would have expected. But one glance at his face tells you all you need to know. His eyes are burning like hot coals. Molten and dangerous.

The nurse doesn’t pick up on his irritation, and busily flips through the pages on her clipboard. “I need reliable information, sir. If you please,” she prompts him.

You can feel Yoongi’s hand clench around yours, and you turn to quiet him.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, hoping to reassure him enough so he’ll talk to her, but he stands his ground, his eyes glued on the nurse.

“Get out,” Yoongi says.

The nurse does a double take. “Excuse me, sir?”

“I said get the fuck out of here.” He points to the door. “Send us someone who will actually help.”

She fumes silently for a moment, but decides not to argue with him, and heads for the door in a huff.

Yoongi scoffs as you two are left alone once more. “What the fuck kind of bedside manner was that supposed to be?” He mutters, staring at the door.

“It’s okay.” You place a hand on his arm.

“No, it’s not.” He’s adamant, and you sigh wearily. How do you explain that this is only what can be expected?

You pick out a few haphazard words from the maelstrom in your brain, too tired to find the best phrasing. “Medical personnel… they don’t really get it.”

“Get what?” He asks, turning to you in outrage. “Being a fucking decent human being?”

You flinch, withdrawing your hand. You’re too tired to try and get your point across. But he notices you wilt and immediately comes closer, lowering his voice and placing both his hands on your arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the edge of anger fading away to gentleness. Kindness. “What do you mean?”

You sigh, looking off to the side. You don’t deserve to have him look at you like that.

You carefully remove his hands, trying to maintain some semblance of a professional distance, even in the face of disaster. “Most hospitals don’t look favorably at PhysComs. We were given a few lectures about it in training. We use up their resources and time that could instead be given to patients who didn’t willingly put themselves at risk.”

You remember how your fellow trainees had reacted after those discussions. Many of them found the treatment to be unfair, but you yourself felt that, in a way, the medical field’s viewpoint was reasonable. Your choices are what landed you here.

“What the- what are you talking about?” He huffs, still seemingly in the dark. “You didn’t ask for this… this scare. It wasn’t your fault.” He tries to meet your eyes, but your gaze is fixed firmly to the linoleum floor.

A mirthless smile paints your lips. “But I chose this life. And these risks along with it.”

Before he can question you further, the door bursts open and Kim Namjoon enters the room, both his dress shirt and his hair are rumpled, and his eyes are frantic. “Sweetheart?” He rushes to your side and crushes you in a hug. “Are you alright?”

You hear Yoongi let out a breath of relief. “She’s okay, for the moment.”

Something about the way Namjoon holds you feels like a lamp being held against your cold skin. You’re too damp inside to light a flame yourself, but his own body warms you from the outside in the meantime. You want to let yourself enjoy it, but the memory of your unresolved questions leaves you limp in his arms, filled with nothing but misery and confusion.

He pulls back after a moment, checking you over for signs of injury. His eyes are wide with concern. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

A flare of shame rises up in you at the notion of telling Namjoon about your rule-breaking and everything that occured since this morning.

Thankfully, Yoongi seems to sense your hesitance, and he fills in most of the pieces for Namjoon. Namjoon’s expression remains stoic as Yoongi recounts what happened - you being brought home unconcious, seducing Yoongi - up until the mention of your orgasm. Namjoon’s jaw slackens slightly at this, and his eyes scan your face, searching for something.

It’s at this moment that the doctor walks in, a different nurse at his side. He’s a slightly older man, a few wrinkles creasing his brow, and a smile that appears kind until it lands on you. His face is then tinged with that same indifference that most medical professionals give you.

You wish it was your usual physician, but since this was an emergency, you didn’t have time to take the trip to your usual practice. Whatever hospital is nearest, that’s what Yoongi had told the driver.

The man turns to Namjoon, who arguably commands more presence than Yoongi, and the kindness returns. “Sorry for the delay. Busy night. From what I understand, your PhysCom has malfunctioned, is that correct?”

“Her Opticon malfunctioned, yes.” Namjoon corrects him. His diplomatic tendencies are a blessing right now. You just want to know if you’re pregnant or not. You want to know if you’re losing your job. You want to go home.

The doctor runs a few physical tests on you, feeling your breasts, peering down your throat, and examining your vaginal canal, checking for any other symptoms of malfunction from your Opticon. “All’s well so far.” He says, pulling his forefingers out of you, snapping off his gloves, and disposing of them. “May I take a look at the ComGear?”

You feel a flash of panic, waking you out of your stupor. Fuck, was it still in the group chat? You pull out the slim device, heart hammering as you check. Nope. Just settings. Thank god.

You hand it over, and then remember with a looming feeling of dread exactly why it might have been left on the settings page...

“You do so much for us, jagiya.” Taehyung keeps his hands braced on your arms, his thumb rubbing gently against your skin. “You’re always there for us. Always giving… Now it’s time for you to receive.”

“I’m sorry! It’s my fault-” Jimin’s eyes fall to your compromising position, Yoongi’s dick still out, your leaking core exposed, and claps a hand over his mouth. He looks like he might cry. “Oh no...”

The pieces fall into place, and there’s no doubt in your mind. They must have switched it off.

But why? Why, why, why…?

The doctor - you’re too frazzled to read his nametag - pulls out a pair of reading glasses and takes a look at your ComGear, poking around the device with his pointer finger. “Hm. Strange.” He squints. “The Opticon does appear to be switched off.”

Namjoon blinks. “That’s impossible.”

“I’m afraid that’s the case.” The doctor shows him the setting, the toggle very much in the off position. Namjoon takes the device and looks at it in shock.

The doctor coughs. “I know that, um… for some individuals, the temptation and the… risk associated with no protection during intercourse can be sexually arousing. It’s not the first time we’ve gotten a case like this.”

He removes his glasses, folding them back into his pocket. “However, I would remind you and anyone else who uses this one’s services that although Physical Companions may be virtually expendable, it can become quite expensive for your own sake to impregnate them on a whim, using and discarding them, what with the standard fees for breaching their contract and-”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Namjoon interrupts him, and you notice the iron grip he now has on Yoongi’s arm. Likely the only thing restraining him from throwing a punch. “We’ll be more careful.” Namjoon glances at you, confusion making a little crease between his brows. “Is there some sort of morning after pill she can take, or…?”

“I’m afraid the lingering effects of the Opticon implant render any outside hormone blockers ineffective.” The doctor says, his smile turning thin. “It’s a bit of a blessing and a curse. The hormone production and ovulation suppressant in the Opticon normally make the chance of fertilization zero percent while in use. After it’s switched off, chances are still fairly low at 30 percent, for up to 24 hours. But the chances of fertilization after taking a morning after pill are significantly lower than that, at only five percent.”

He shrugs. “We’ll just have to wait and see. Chances are, your PhysCom will be right as rain and ready to pleasure clients again in about a week.”

A week.

First a week of suspension on Namjoon’s terms… Now it’s on medical advisement.

“A week? What should we do until then?” Namjoon voices your very thoughts, Yoongi seething silently beside him.

“Well, we won’t have any results until three to five days from now.” The man clarifies. “But I highly recommend you leave the implant switched off and keep her on traditional contraceptives until we know for sure. I strongly recommend utilizing other PhysComs in the meantime, just to be safe.”

You’re finished.

The doctor hands Namjoon a paper bag, most likely containing birth control pills and condoms. “She may be somewhat volatile for the next few days. You can bring her in for another checkup in a week.”

You’re weak.

“Thank you.”

You’re numb.

-------

It was a silent car ride back to the house, and as Namjoon helps you step out of the vehicle, one hand holding yours for stability while the other rests on your lower back, you can’t help feeling utterly useless. Detached from your surroundings.

What’s the point of any of this now? There’s no way they’ll want to use you until this is resolved. You’re of no use to them as a sex toy until at least a week from now, and by then it’ll be far too late to earn their favor back.

“We need to have a meeting. Call the others into the living room.” Namjoon speaks to Yoongi in an undertone, and you feel a small ache of hope. Maybe things will work out if everyone just talks to each other.

But when you enter the house and Namjoon begins to steer you upstairs, you finally find your voice.

“No.” You resist against him, turning around at the base of the stairs. “No, I want to be part of the meeting.”

The surprise quickly fades from his face, instead turning to concern. “You need to rest."

Something about the look on his face, about being told yet again through his actions that this doesn’t concern you, it causes something inside you to snap, your apathy vanishing in the wake of this new beast beginning to rear its ugly head within you.

Your throat closes up and a scream erupts from your aching chest. "You don't know what I need!"

Namjoon matches your desperation with an infuriatingly patient look of sympathy. He approaches you, his hand outstretched, but you stagger back away from him. He smiles sadly and drops his hand. "Stay here. It's what's best for you."

What's best for you.

The words throb in your mind, like the memory of an old wound. They bounce listlessly off the walls of your grandiose prison long after Namjoon shuts the door, sealing you away again.

You don't know what comes over you as you see visions of launching yourself at the door, pounding and scratching at the wood like a wild animal.

You could just open the door and follow him downstairs. Some part of you does register that.

But you want them to hear you. You want them to hear you rip your throat raw as you exorcise your demons.

You blink and you're standing still.

You haven't moved.

Your spacious room feels stifling. Like the walls are closing in on you, suffocating you.

Silken ropes sway in the dusk, catching your eye from beyond the balcony window. Your escape route from earlier that day.

You don't think twice before stuffing a few meager belongings into the long forgotten backpack kicked beneath your bed.

You need to leave this place.

You can't stay here.

-------

It had started drizzling not long after you left the house, and even now as you sit on the damp curbside, waiting for the next bus to take you far away from this place, it strikes you as funny, in a way, that the weather is crying for you, since you can't muster any tears of your own.

It's cold and misty, a foreboding atmosphere, by all accounts. It makes you question if what you're about to do is the right call.

But you shut down the arguments in your head as quickly as they appear.

Second guessing was what had gotten you into this situation. You need to follow your instincts.

And your instincts are telling you to flee.

It won't be so bad, you try to convince yourself. After the first night on the road, you'll eventually find a new town, a new home, a new place for yourself in this fucked up world. You've done it before, you can do it again.

You're considering suitable aliases for your new persona, when you sense another person approaching, their shoes tramping through the wet grass.

You don't look up at them, hoping they'll pass by and leave you alone. But they come to a stop beside you.

You keep your gaze on the road, droplets rippling the puddled potholes.

Then the stranger goes to sit on the curb too, and you can't help but look at them.

You'd recognize those lips anywhere, even beneath a baggy hooded sweatshirt.

"It's a bit late to run errands, don't you think?" Seokjin says, pulling his sleeves down to keep out the chill as he perches beside you.

He glances at you, then looks ahead at the road, the same way you were. You return your gaze forward, too exhausted to make a run for it. Though you don't get the sense that he would chase after you, even if you tried to escape.

Maybe that's exactly why you decide to stay put, but you don't give the suspicion any more thought.

"What do you want?" You finally ask, your voice croaky from being silent for so long.

"Nothing."

"Liar," you mutter, hugging your knees to your chest. "Everyone wants something."

He chuckles. Rests back on his hands. "I guess you're right about that."

Damn right you are. You didn't study the human condition through your years of training to be fooled so easily by pretty words.

"So?" You prompt him, still staring at the dreary horizon.

He takes a moment to respond. The silence is punctuated by the distant noises of traffic, an occasional car passing by, its headlights shimmering in the mist before disappearing down the road.

“The others are all out looking for you, you know,” he says simply. “Why do you think that is?”

If it were anyone else that had run away - their manager, a friend - you know what the answer would be. Because they care about that person. But how can you believe that about yourself, when you know you can never amount to anyone with that level of importance to them?

Ironic, since you’re the person with which they can be most intimate and vulnerable.

“I’m a liability,” you reply halfheartedly.

His silence serves to confirm your suspicions. A runaway PhysCom? Far too risky for a group at their level. You could become one of those anonymous sources like you saw in the news. A firsthand account of the BTS members’ secret sexual urges. Unacceptable. Snatches of words from the NDA you signed buzz around the edges of your mind like stray flies.

But since you're no longer connected to your network, then your tracker is probably disconnected. If the bus had come just a little earlier, you might already have escaped without a trace.

“You really think that’s the only reason?” Seokjin’s voice pulls you back to the moment.

His abysmal attempt to divert from the problem gets a hollow laugh out of you.

“Any other reason has ulterior motives. It’s just business.” You check the time on your ComGear. The bus should be here any minute. “I’m leaving, and I won’t let you stop me.”

“I don’t intend to,” he agrees, to your surprise. “God knows you’ve been put through enough.” He then leans forward, resting his forearms across his legs. “But for what it’s worth, you deserve to know the truth.”

Your ears perk up at this.

Seokjin seems to take your silence as permission to continue. “The reason we decided to suspend you. It wasn’t… entirely selfless.”

You purse your lips in irritation and fix your gaze upon the horizon, settling your chin beneath your crossed arms. “Right. Ulterior motives, like I said.”

He clicks his tongue. “Touche.”

You wait for him to continue, but he doesn't.

Your curiosity gets the better of you.

“So, what… were you planning to replace me?” You ask, trying to sound contemptuous. “I heard you all having your little group meeting in the kitchen. There are plenty of shiny new whores at your disposal, take your pick.”

He still makes no noise.

You wait, preparing to accept a bitter confirmation of all your fears.

But then he finds his voice. “We could never replace you, dear.”

You stop. Look over at him. His eyes are half lidded, his smile bittersweet as he stares off into the distance. After a few moments, he fishes around in his pocket and pulls something out, then hands it to you.

His smartphone.

“Here,” he murmurs, sympathy in the quirk of his lips. “In case you need to call anyone. Those devices they give you don’t have a cell plan, I assume.”

He seems to sense your wariness, and waves the phone a bit in a gesture of insistence. “I can buy a dozen new ones. It’s no trouble.”

You very hesitantly take it. “Thanks.”

Of course, he has no way to know that your ComGear is now jailbroken, for all intents and purposes. But… is this a trap? What if there’s a tracker in the phone? But why would he need to put a tracker in it if he doesn’t know your ComGear is off the grid?

The rumble of an approaching motor pulls you out of your cyclical thoughts, and you get on your feet, slowly coming out of your dissociative sulk.

But you still feel numb. Nothing matters anymore.

Nothing at all.

Jin gets up along with you, slipping his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Stay safe, alright?”

You give a brief nod of acknowledgment, only half in his direction as you shrug your bag onto your shoulder more securely. The hydraulics of the bus screech as the vehicle comes to a stop and lowers slightly, allowing you to step onboard.

You glance back, fully expecting Jin to stop you. But he doesn’t. He blinks raindrops out of his eyes while you board, and gives you a small smile once the doors close behind you. He lifts a hand in farewell, then turns and starts to walk away down the street.

He’s really letting you go.

You pay your fare and find a seat towards the back of the nearly empty bus. Rain pelts at the windows, picking up in earnest, and it feels like yet another layer, another barrier, separating yourself and creating an ever-growing chasm from the life you knew up until yesterday.

You pull out Jin’s phone, staring at the dark screen and wiping away stray raindrops from the surface with your sleeve. Why had he come to find you, if not to stop you?

“But for what it’s worth, you deserve to know the truth.”

Maybe he felt guilty. Or remorseful for the hell you’ve been put through recently. You would normally have felt immense satisfaction at such a thought.

But you can’t feel much of anything right now.

You don’t think you’ll be able to feel properly again. At least not for a long, long time…

Hm? The screen lit up. You must have pressed a button by accident. You swipe at it again, and to your surprise it unlocks. Who doesn’t put a passcode on their phone?

Is it possible… he disabled it before he gave it to you? Maybe. Whatever. You’re so tired of thinking, playing investigator and second guessing people’s motivations.

You scroll over to the phone icon, and tap on it, briefly considering calling your parents. But the wetness on your fingers messes with the touchscreen and you open the messages app instead.

You’re about to wipe the screen and try again, but… the most recent messages are… all about you. You tap on the group chat among the seven of them, currently bustling with activity.

[ Kim Namjoon ]: has anyone found her [ Park Jimin ]: hyung I’m so sorry [ Park Jimin ]: it’s all my fault [ Min Yoongi ]: she’s not at the studio [ Kim Namjoon ]: we’ll talk about it later Jimin [ Kim Namjoon ]: everyone keep looking [Jeon Jungkook]: manager said they can call her network to track her down [Kim Taehyung ]: should we do that? [ Jung Hoseok ]: no! she could get in trouble :( [ Min Yoongi ]: she’s not a stray pet [ Kim Namjoon ]: exactly [ Kim Namjoon ]: we need to keep this quiet for her sake [Kim Taehyung ]: she hasn’t replied to my texts or calls [ Min Yoongi ]: me neither [Jeon Jungkook]: hyung... will she be okay? [ Kim Namjoon ]: everything will be fine don’t worry [ Kim Namjoon ]: we’re going to fix this somehow [ Min Yoongi ]: whatever it takes [ Jung Hoseok ]: where could she have gone... [ Park Jimin ]: what if she doesn’t come back?

You scroll further up, past days and weeks and months of texts between them… not even a day between mentions of you. Wondering if you’re alright. Hoping you’ve eaten enough. Wanting to do more with you.

The thread of texts Jimin sent to Seokjin just yesterday.

Hyung I wish things were different I want to hold her I want to tell her she’s enough I wish I could kiss her… I think I love her Do you ever feel that way?

And Seokjin’s reply.

I do I know just what you mean Why do you think I turned those secondaries away last night, hm? No one can compare She really is special…

He didn’t… fuck the secondaries? After you broke at dinner, he… didn’t...?

You switch to his thread with Namjoon from a few days ago.

I know you’re our leader but I don’t think this is the way to go You need to be more cautious

Namjoon’s reply.

What we need is action, hyung If we work together on this, we could get rid of these unnecessary rules We could all have what we want Including her It’s what’s best for everyone

Seokjin took several minutes to reply.

You’re going to lose her.

Jin knew. He tried to talk Namjoon out of writing that stupid essay, or maybe it was about your suspension.

Either way, he defended you.

You open his thread with Hoseok. Dimly, you recognize that you shouldn’t be snooping, but you’re too absorbed to stop.

Hyung, I think she really wants this All of us ♡ I don’t know how, but we need to show her that it’s okay That we want it just as much

How do you know that’s what she wants?

I can’t say ♡ But I know now She wouldn’t reject us Our feelings She feels something too

The date and time lines up with this morning. The morning after he made love to you.

He didn’t tell them. He kept your secret.

“Our feelings”? What does he mean? Him, Jimin, Taehyung… Seokjin? Do they all…?

Your head spins, the hollowness of your heart filling with a rush of jumbled emotions, like a tide crashing in. All your numbness is washed out with light, just a pinprick at first, that grows rapidly into a ray of warmth as you consider what all this could mean. The chasm starts to narrow, and you get the urge to jump ship, to turn back and figure this shit out. To know once and for all what they want from you. What you mean to them.

But how can you trust this isn’t a trap? How can you be sure?

The answer is as simple as they come.

You can’t.

You can’t be absolutely certain that their intentions are pure… that this is the right thing to do… that you won’t be hurt again.

But maybe... trust isn’t about being infallible. Being right. Being sure.

Maybe it’s built on what ifs. On trying again, even with no guarantees.

Guarantees are only as good as their word, and talk is cheap. Lies are easy. Your Opticon had a 100% guarantee, and look where that got you.

But you remember the way Hoseok held you that night, and made love to you like you’ve never felt in your life... When Jimin kissed his way down your body, with only the best of intentions. Namjoon’s strong arms embracing you when you felt powerless. Yoongi’s hand never leaving yours, even while you waited in the hospital. Jungkook carrying you home after you fainted, breaking your door to make sure you were safe in bed. The look in Taehyung’s eyes when he finally kissed you, breaking the ice you’d been growing around your heart.

How Seokjin let you go.

Maybe...

You get up with a start, rush to the front of the bus, and hastily ask the driver to let you off, much to the old man’s disgruntlement, but the moment the doors whoosh open, you take off at a run.

You want to go home.

You want to try again.

No matter how much you try to bury it, to forget the way they make you feel, you care about them. All of them. On a much deeper level than that of a PhysCom and client. And it scares you.

But you’re done running from fear. From uncertainty.

Now you’re running towards it willingly, as you give chase down the torrential streets, searching for that familiar hooded figure and hoping you’re not too late. You’re embracing the doubt, the fear, the uncertainty, the paranoia... letting their shadowy claws sink into you until they can’t hurt you anymore. Until they fade away, cowering under the glow of your determination.

You’re setting some new rules for yourself, no longer letting fear control your thoughts and actions, barring you from any chance of happiness.

You see Seokjin in the distance, trudging home through the pouring rain. You run faster.

You’re fucking terrified. But you’ve never felt so free in your life.

“Jin!” You shout to get his attention, still a block away. He turns around, and shakes his head, seemingly confused, but a smile starts to appear. You smile too.

Finally, you catch up to him, and without warning, you throw your arms around his shoulders. Damn, he’s always taller than you remember.

He laughs, shocked by your change of heart. “What are you doing?”

“I want to hear you say it.” You reply, looking up at him as rain dashes down your face. You don’t know when you started crying, but you’re grateful to the weather for masking your tears.

“Say what?” He asks, his hands resting on your waist to support you. Thunder rumbles in the distance, rain sliding down his perfect face.

“How you feel about me.” You reply, studying his eyes. “Be honest.”

He seems to sense the gravity in your words. He holds you closer. His eyes soften.

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

For the first time since all of this started, you sense no deception in his words, no double meaning, no hidden agenda.

Because you aren’t searching for reasons to doubt this time.

You’re searching for reasons to trust, and you find them.

You want to kiss him. So you do.

[ellsbclls]

White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of  Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here. 

Your secret hideaway. 

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response.  “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare. 

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you. 

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice.  “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way. 

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her?  “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?  

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” 

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb.  “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach. 

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking. 

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening. 

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake. 

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss. 

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines. 

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse. 

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears. 

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill. 

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open. 

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene —  opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

“You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you. 

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that. 

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you.  “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

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[mrslilyrogers]

All I have to do is Dream Part 2

Pairing: Steve x Reader, Telepath! Reader (X-men reader)

Summary: It’s been five years since the snap. You and Steve are stuck at an impasse. You want a family, he doesn’t. He says he’s moved on but has he really? With your doubts growing, you consider risking his trust and use your powers on him to get your answers once and for all.

Author’s note: I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before but reader here has studied at the Xavier Institute so she’s basically part of the X-men. You don’t have to read the comics or watch their movies, it is just part of her background. This is based on Endgame and would follow its progression. If you want to be tagged, please send an ask!! Thank you all for reading!!! 

Part 1 

Steve’s jaw twitched, his throat muscles working, eyes never leaving the photo on his phone. He pursed his lips and let out a huge exhale, running a hand on his face. What the hell had you done?

Nat didn’t question when he came back to the compound late last night nor when he didn’t show up the morning after, only learning from F.R.I.D.A.Y, he was up earlier than his usual and left. He came back a few hours ago, sweaty and gruff, immediately rushing to lock himself up at the gym. Wallowing there until now. 

She had known Steve long enough to know he was blowing off steam. She knew better than to pry, letting him keep to himself until he was ready to talk, and Steve was glad for it. Glad he still had one friend who cared. 

What the hell had you done? 

—————————-

You jolted from the bed, Steve’s eyes drilling holes in your direction from where he sat stiffly beside you, his mouth pressed into a thin disapproving line. If only looks could kill. You had never seen him so angry in your life. His breath coming in rapid pants, his fists clenched tight at his sides, the muscles around his neck and arms bulging. You felt naked under his gaze, bared to the soul with nowhere to hide. Ironic when just a few moments ago, you had breached into his mind, violating his privacy to the utmost. 

“Y/N,” he said, deathly low and lethal, a warning. 

“Steve, I’m sorry I didn’t know--” you scrambled to your feet, panic rising up to your throat, cheeks wet with tears. 

“Bullshit!” He roared, not letting you finish, shooting up to his feet like the soldier he was. His tightly coiled temper finally unleashed. “You went inside my head! Don’t you fucking give me any excuses!”

In his anger, he threw the analog clock from his bedside table to the floor, breaking it into tiny pieces instantly, the sound of it cracking and your crying the only things filling the air. You didn’t recognize the sobs coming from you, not even knowing if it was from what you’ve just discovered or the way he looked at you now. As if he didn’t know you, as if he could never trust you again. 

“I’m sorry,” was all you said. And you were. In every sense of the word. Sorry for yourself, sorry for what you’ve learned, sorry for what you’ve done. 

“How could you do this to me?” Steve asked, disbelieving. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just… I overheard you at grief counseling--”

“You what?” He hissed, eyes incredulous and accusing. “Are you fucking spying on me now?” he pointed his finger at you, circling the bed to stand in front of you, his steps quick and long. He looked like he did on missions. One purpose, ready to attack. It was a miracle he kept his fists at his sides instead of shaking you. 

“NO! No, I was waiting outside and I heard what you said, and it’s made me think…” 

“No, you didn’t think! I told you time and time again, I love you. What more do you fucking need?” His voice grew even louder, exasperation and impatience seeping out of him as if he had been putting up with you for so long.

What more do you need? What more do you need?

“The truth, Steve! I just wanted to know the truth!” You answered back, voice rising in return. The whole time you thought you were only being paranoid, insecure, blaming it on yourself when you weren’t wrong all along. He still wanted her. Yearned for her. 

“And are you happy now? You happy that you’ve forced it out of me?” Steve’s tone turned mocking, his eyes hard and jaw tensed. No denial, no guilt. He baited you and if he had enough presence of mind, he wouldn’t have said that, wouldn’t have deliberately gone out of his way to cut you deep. But right at this moment, all he saw was red. He wanted to hurt you, to punch, to scream. His hands shook, in the need to destroy something, to fight someone. Fists bringing out what he couldn’t put forth into words. He knew he had to leave. 

You flinched from his words as if you’ve been physically slapped. Eyes full of hurt, you were speechless, immobilized to the spot, no other choice but to take it all in and watch him as he bristled past you, heading to the direction of your shared closet, grabbing his duffel bag and stuffing it with whatever he could get his hands on. 

“Wait, where are you going?” your voice was small, hands shaking while you clutched the end of your shirt. 

“I can’t even look at you right now,” 

“So is this it? Is that all you have to say?” You pleaded, a part of you still hoping he’d deny everything you saw. That it was just all it ever was, a dream. A fantasy from another life. That it didn’t mean anything. That he’d pick you, the one who was here, someone he could actually build a future with. Over a dead woman, a woman who belonged to another decade, another lifetime. 

“Since you’re so good at getting into people’s minds, why don’t you tell me?” He taunted, turning his back to you, roughly shoving his toiletries in his bag.

“That’s not fair, Steve!” 

“Fair? You want to talk about being fair when you broke my trust! You promised, Y/N. Does that only mean something when it’s convenient to you?” He turned around this time, nostrils flaring, finger pointing offensively at you again. You were so close to him now, could practically feel the heat radiating off his body. And you were scared. You were scared to lose him. Because you knew whatever happened tonight couldn’t be reversed. The things he said, the things you did, there was no going around it anymore. 

“Do you want me to say I don’t love Peggy anymore, is that it? Is that what you wanna hear? Because I can’t. I still love her!” His voice boomed around you, shaking you to your core. Fresh, hot tears trailed down your cheeks. You were helpless. Broken. 

As soon as the words left him, he knew he’d regret it. At the way you looked, so small and vulnerable, hugging your arms to your chest, his eyes softened,  “Y/N…” he moved towards you, hands out to comfort you but you backed away. 

Shaking your head vehemently, you took another step back. You didn’t want his touch, didn’t want him near you. 

“No, no. Don’t.” you stayed a hand up to stop him. “It’s alright. You’re right,” 

“Y/N, that’s not--” 

“I think you should leave.” you pointed to the bag already in his hand. Your resolve, sure and strong. 

“Y/N, I didn’t--” he tried again, shaking his head. How could he take those words back? Did he not mean them too? God help him but he loved them both. 

“Steve, please stop. Just stop. Don’t make this any harder than it already is,” you pleaded, not knowing what else he wanted from you. You gave him an out; clear and easy. Wasn’t that enough? Did he have to hurt you even more?

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” He let out on a sigh, shaking his head. “But sweetheart, please don’t look at me like that,” You looked like a terrified deer, ready to run at the first sign of danger and he couldn’t bear that it was directed at him. He could handle your tenacity, your fire, anything else but the defeated look on your face. It made his heart ache.

He tried again, speaking gently, “Y/N, if you want me to leave for the night, I will. I think you might be right, we need some space after this, clear our heads,” 

This time, he went near you and you let him, you let his hands hold your arms like he’s done in past arguments. You let him look you straight in the eye like he’s done so many times before. You let him say his piece, already knowing where it was headed like the back of your hand. You operated like this. Clockwork. When one pushed, the other shoved. 

One last time. 

“But promise me you’ll be here in the morning to talk. You went inside my head, Y/N, but I wanna work through this. I love you,” he said it like he meant it, his heart on his sleeve but you weren’t so sure you believed him anymore. 

“You know I love you, right?” He asked just like the last time. Clockwork. 

No. I don’t. 

You nodded your head. 

-----------------

He tossed and turned that night, the look of hurt on your face scarred in his memory. He knew he shouldn’t have left, knew he should’ve fought to stay.

It was true that he was furious but any animosity he felt immediately simmered after the mention of Peggy. He was way out of line. He wanted to apologize, to pull you into his arms and kiss away the bitter words he spoke but he was still so shaken about what you had done, what you had seen, and so he figured he should let it rest first, giving you both time and space to calm down. Everything looked better in the morning, right? 

But your face came unbidden in his mind, he could still remember the exact moment you closed yourself off to him, your eyes hauntingly empty and hollow, shoulders hunched, arms instinctively wrapped to yourself. So small and vulnerable. 

He should’ve stayed, dammit! 

He let out a grunt as he stared up at the ceiling. He still couldn’t believe you used your abilities on him, couldn’t believe you’d go so far when you’d never ever shied away from asking him anything. Heck, you’d basically proposed to him with all your nagging of starting a family.

Why did you have to see that?

He hissed and shook his head, guilt gnawing in his stomach. Your power was able to force out his deepest dreams and desires. But was that the whole truth? If he hadn’t woken up and you’d stuck a little longer then you would’ve known just how scared and confused he was. What you saw was the Steve who still clung to the past, the part of him that wanted to go back, yearned to go back because it was safer, it was where he truly belonged. 

But then again, he wasn’t that same man anymore, was he? Not fully anyway. In more ways than one, he had moved on. For the past couple of years, he did, in fact, envision a future with you. He was going to propose until the snap happened and then, everything changed. He saw his friends, his family, gone to dust. He could still hear Bucky’s echoing words, calling out to him. All those lost souls vanished as if they never existed while he stood, helpless and useless. Why spare him again? Why did he have to go through it all again? Didn’t he have enough pain and loss in one lifetime? 

And so he started thinking of the past. The good ol’ days, if you could even really call it that. It started out as a tiny flicker of curiosity. You both had just found a new apartment in New York, it wasn’t all that hard with the sudden vacancies. You were standing in the middle of the room, hands on your hips while he sat at the edge of the bed his head bowed, elbows resting on his knees. 

“Steve, we need to start thinking of the future. I know it’s hard but they’re not coming back and we can’t keep doing what we’re doing. We can get away from all this, you know, start a new life. Don’t you want that too?”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. He wanted to fight, to try again and again until he got everyone back. He was grieving, angry, and above all, guilty. Why couldn’t he do what he was made for in the first place? How did he let all of this happen? And why, for god’s sake, why did he have to survive while the others vanished?

But you were right. Of course, you were right. The ever practical and optimistic you. He looked at you with tired eyes, not wanting to argue, and nodded his head. He still had you, that was a win. For every shitty thing that happened since, at least you were alive and he wouldn’t trade that for the world but some jaded, cynical part of him questioned how long that would last. The universe clearly had a bone to pick with him and it was only a matter of time before you were taken from him too and that scared the living shit out of him.  

And so he had started to wonder what if?

What if he never had to wake up from the ice? What if he never had to crash the plane in the first place? What if he was where he was really supposed to be? 

All those questions drifted down into one person, the one that got away. Peggy.  She was his link to the past, everything that was sweet and wonderful. The dance he missed, the future he wanted when everything settled down into peace after the war. Peace. As ironic as that sounded, she reminded him of peace. The little dream he had in the back of his head whenever he infiltrated a nazi base camp. Every mission, every fight, he would think one more of this and the war would be over, one more and I get back to her. Peace. 

He craved for that peace so much, he didn’t even realize what he had been doing. He lived in that dream, longing for the time he could never get back. All the while you were hurting, so desperately trying to cling on to him while he slipped into himself. You needed him but he continued to chase the life he lost, for all his talk of moving on. He didn’t even realize how his fear of losing you has led him down to the very verge of it and now, he was anxious and afraid. So so afraid. You wouldn’t leave him, would you? God, he’d do anything, drop everything, to follow you.

That realization just made his head spin, was he really willing to let everything go just like that? Of course, he was. There was no question about it. Nothing else mattered if it meant losing you. It was a damned shame he only realized that now. 

We can work through this, he thought to himself. He couldn’t let you go, wouldn’t let you go. It didn’t even matter what you had done anymore, not right now, not when all he wanted was for you to know everything, that above all, he was choosing you. He loves you. 

I’ll make this work. We’ll make this work. 

----------------------------------

He stared at his friend’s face, her red hair already outgrowing the blonde curls that framed her frowning face. She couldn’t believe it. Hell, even he didn’t believe it. How could you? 

--

Before the sun had even risen, he was already up, tying his shoelaces with his jittery hands. He had never been so nervous in his life. Not even when he had to crash his own plane, with that came a sense of doom and certainty but this? This was torture. This was hell. 

What was he going to say? How was he going to explain himself? What could he do to make you stay?

What you had done the night before, invading his most private thoughts, had been pushed to the side. In his heart, he had already forgiven you, understood why you had to do what you did. He knew you, the kind of person you were and you would never have done it had you not thought it was necessary. And with everything that he’s done and what you heard, could he really judge you for it? 

He rushed into the apartment, his heart already heavy. He couldn’t find it in himself to wait until you woke up and instead gave a tentative, “Y/N?” as he poked his head into the bedroom door, the sight of it knocking the air right out of him. 

No, no, no, no, no. 

The neatly made up bed greeted him, curtains drawn back to illuminate the empty room. His heart dropped to his stomach, “No, no, no, no, no,” 

“Y/N?” he shouted into the room, somehow hoping he was mistaken, that you were still here, that you’d show up. 

Did you really leave him? Could you really have done that?

He ran to the bathroom, calling out to you, but it was the same as he had left it. Except all of your stuff was gone. Your toiletries by the sink, all the little hair ties you kept lying around. Gone. 

How could you do this to him? How could you leave without saying goodbye? 

All the clothes he had always folded for you after you tossed them in the closet weren’t there anymore. Any trace of you was now gone. He let out a curse, his cold hand fumbling for his phone in his pocket. No messages, no calls.

“Come on, pick up,” He prayed into the phone. Please, please, please. When the monotonous operator answered, he let out a shout,

“Fuck!” 

Throwing his phone unto the bed, he realized even the clock he had thrown in his temper had been cleaned away, a letter laid down on where it was supposed to be. 

He picked it up quickly, his breathing rapid at the two simple words scrawled in your distinct handwriting. 

I’m sorry. 

Crumbling the paper in his fist, he shakily put it to his pale lips. Breathe...

What were you thinking? You couldn’t have even left a number to contact you? How was he supposed to find you now? He felt himself grow weak in the knees. He knew the type of training you had with the X-men, if you didn’t want to found, you wouldn’t. 

Had he lost you forever? 

Hands shaking at the thought, he ran. Ran to get away from his emotions. Lost, angry and hurt. What the hell had you done? 

What the hell had you done?

--

Natasha let out an exhale, bringing him out of his reverie. The look of hurt still evident on her face, she couldn’t believe you’d just leave without saying goodbye.

“If there’s one thing I know is that she loves you. You need to fix this, Steve,” 

Before he could even reply, the front gate’s access flashed before her. Mindlessly swiping it, they both turned to the monitor, their minds still preoccupied on where you could be. The man standing outside, waving his arms about looked eerily familiar but that couldn’t be...

Scott Lang?

Oh god, what now?

[whipped-cream-writings]

WC: 3.2k

Pairing: Hitoshi Shinso x Reader

Requested by @in-this-house-we-stan-izuku​!

Genre: Angst/Fluff

TW: Toxic family, cursing

A/N: This is the longest fic I’ve ever written and I had so much fun writing it! I hope you like it too :D

The news is a fickle thing.

No matter how big an affair would be featured on the headline, it would always be replaced the next day. 

Possibly worst of all, the news would spawn rumors. And those rumors would grow and burn through the kingdom, with each retelling falling further and further from the truth.

The servants of the castle would tell you these rumors. Never to your face, of course - some of them shook when you got too close to them. But during their duties, they would spread these strange, twisted rumors from one person to the next.

The royal advisor would tell you, your mother, and your father the news. Most days would be boring, plain, forgetful, even. But news was news, no matter how interesting rumors may be.

But today, the royal advisor ran into the throne room, sweat dripping down his face.

“A thief! There’s a thief!” 

The rumors were true.

“Do you forget who you’re talking to?” Your father seethes between his teeth.

“N-no! Of course not, your highness. Forgive me.” The advisor begins to tremble, and he doubles over, groveling at the King’s feet.

You hate that satisfaction you see in the King's eyes.

In your father's eyes.

“Rise. There’s a thief?”

“Yes, your majesty!”

“Where has he been spotted?”

“The houses of the nobles. They’ll return home to find their house completely undisturbed, yet all of their riches and valuables will be gone. In their place, this is all that’s left.” He passes a slip of paper forward, and the king takes it gingerly. You peek from your throne, disregarding the sharp glare your mother gives you.

The paper is almost barren. There’s only a single letter, written with flair: H. 

A strange signature for a thief, you think.

“The nobles have enough money to buy back what was stolen.” The queen says smoothly, her tone sharp and refined. “Why should this concern us?”

“Because, your highness, the thief seems to be getting closer and closer to the castle by the day. He started on the outskirts of the kingdom, but he’s steadily moving inward.”

Despite yourself, you blurt out, “Are there any-”

“Silence. Ignore them.” He turns to you only moments later. “You are only to listen. Besides, you have more pressing issues.”

You bite your tongue and fall back into your throne.

The golden chair is cold, and it's much too big. Just sitting in it makes you feel like your parents.

You hate that feeling.

“Spread the guards all across the castle,” He demands, “Have two remain outside each of our quarters at all times. Give them orders to restrain any who they don’t recognize.”

“Of course, your majesty. I’ll send the word.” The advisor scurries off, his hands still shaking.

“You shouldn’t be too worried about this, my dear.” Your mother speaks in a sickly sweet tone that makes dread settle in the pit of your stomach. “You have to choose a suitor sooner or later.”

“She’s correct. It was not your place to intervene.”

“My apologies.” You grumble. “Forgive me for being invested in the wellbeing of the citizens.”

Your father tch-s at you. “You are not the ruler of this kingdom yet.

“Never forget who is in charge.”

Another night, another suitor appears before you.

Perhaps you hated this one the most.

His words were sweet, yet laced with venom, and he regarded you in a light that wasn’t human in the slightest. He sang about love and how he knew you were the one, yet his words were meaningless once he became drunk on the thoughts of even more power.

You turned him down, as you had with the twenty-three other suitors your father had chosen.

“I quite liked him. Charming, handsome, a prince... He had it all.” The queen side-eyes you. “Tell me, why did you turn him down?”

“He was a fool. And a bastard.” You smirk dryly.

“Do not speak in such a vulgar manner.” Your father's eyes flash. “He was a perfectly fine young man.”

“He looked at me as if I were nothing more than meat!”

“Will you turn everyone down?” The queen hisses. “You have a duty to marry. Love is never involved.”

Your father agrees, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

The king releases a drawn-out sigh. “You will be marrying the man I see fit for you.”

His words feel like a slap to the face.

“You said I'd have a choice!”

“You’ve had twenty three choices. You’re out of time.”

“Maybe you should find better suitors that don’t see me as a pawn in their little game!”

“I’ve chosen the best of the best, you spoiled brat!”

There’s a delicate silence after his words. His breaths are heavy, and the weight of his words slowly sink onto his shoulders.

“Stay out of my sight until dawn.” His voice is soft, yet goosebumps rise on your arms.

But you comply.

You drag yourself up the stairs and into your room, locking the door behind you. It wasn’t the first time he had called you a brat, and it certainly wasn’t going to be the last, yet, your lip quivers as soon as you’re alone.

Maybe it was that look in his eyes - that fire of pure hate that he saved only for his greatest enemies - that made you so upset.

You doubted you would ever know.

The castle feels unbearable. It wasn't the first time it had felt this way, but this was the first time it had started to crush you. The family pictures feel meaningless. Hollow.

So you grab your cloak and face the window.

With rope that you had stolen from the barracks and anticipation building in your stomach, the moon beams at you as you descend the castle walls and retreat into the town.

When you were younger, you saw the town only through carriages and the windows of your room. That was before the castle became the place you hated more than anything in the world.

But now, walking among the people under the darkness of the night, walking as no more than a civilian, you wished you had started making these escapes sooner.

Laughter filled the air where there would be tense silence. Singing and dancing would replace stiff, robotic movements. Fighting and teasing and pure, contagious joy spreads a fluffy warmth through your chest.

For once a day, in the darkest hours of the twilight, you were free.

You stop by the restaurant that you visited every night. The woman there was lovely - with short chestnut locks and pink cheeks, she greets you with that bright smile she seemed to save just for you once again.

“You want to try the next thing on the menu?” She giggles when you nod excitedly. “Coming up!” You drop the money on the counter and thank her, sliding into one of the empty seats.

“Excuse me.” A weary voice asks. “Is this seat taken?”

You turn around and see a pale man talking to you. He has wild tufts of lavender hair, unlike any shade you’ve ever seen. His eyes are violet too, and there are dark bags under them.

He’s... attractive, in a black cat kind of way.

You shake your head and snap out of your daze. “Uh, no. Go ahead.”

He smiles and settles into the empty seat. “Thanks, your majesty.”

“It’s nothing-” You cut yourself off, and his smile becomes a smirk. “Is it... Is it that obvious?”

“Not really,” He says, “It was a good call coming out here at night, though. You would’ve been caught within seconds if it were during the day.”

You sigh. “Well then, stranger, how could you tell?”

“You look at everything like you’re amazed. And call me Shinso, your highness.” A small smile grows on your face.

“It really is amazing, especially compared to the castle. And please stop with the formalities. I’ve come to hate them.”

“Fair enough. I mean, it would be a little fun to have people kneeling at your feet at first, but it probably gets tiring.”

“Very.” You sigh. “So, what brings you around here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Plus, I’m hungry.” He snickers. “What about you?”

“I don’t want to get married.” His eyes go wide, and you can’t help but let out a loud laugh.

“Wow.” A rosy glow spreads across his face. “Really?”

“Yeah. All of the suitors my father has picked out for me are bastards. So now he’s choosing for me and it’s just…”

“A nightmare?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

He winces. “Sounds rough.”

“It could be worse, I suppose.” You sigh.

“The king and queen have always seemed a bit off.” Shinso ponders aloud. “They felt fake.”

“They are,” You reply without hesitation, “They’re insufferable.”

“I can imagine." He sighs and regards you out of the corner of his eye for a few moments. “I would offer for you to hide away at my house or something like that, but I have a feeling the royal family wouldn't take it too well.” 

You resist the urge to rub your eyes. He seems genuinely... kind. It feels like you haven't met someone like that in years.

“I wish I could take you up on that offer, really. I’d have to get married first. Then my parents would finally get off of my back.” He nods slowly.

“Well, when’s the wedding?”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.” His satisfied smirk only grows.

“I’m not sure, but I’ll be sure to let you know once I find out.”

“I'll be waiting, your majesty.” He rises from his chair, waving to you as he strolls away. You wave back, trying to resist the growing grin on your face.

It’s only after he’s gone that you realize that he never received his order.

The dawn was supposed to mean new beginnings. It was meant to wipe away the mess of the day before and welcome the mess that would be made today.

The dawn never did that. Not within the castle, at least.

When you exit your quarters and descend the stairs, the king is still fuming, and the queen is still ever so distant. Your “mistake” from yesterday would never be erased, not even by the dawn.

“I’ve selected your suitor.” Your father greets you, his arms folded over his chest. The queen is no more than a shadow behind him.

“Who is he?” You ask, trying to mask the anxiety that eats you alive.

“Patience.” Your mother chides, and you bite your tongue once again.

The king gestured to the frozen guards, and they come to life like puppets, pulling back the door and revealing your future husband.

Your heart sinks.

It’s the man from yesterday.

“As you may recall, this is Prince Monoma,” The king ignores the glare you give him. “There will be a ball celebrating the marriage tomorrow.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” You can catch the smirk on his face when he bows.

It’s nothing like Shinso’s-

Why are you thinking about him right now?

“I look forward to getting to know you.” He stands in front of you and grins at the anger on your face. “My love.”

Oh, how your blood boils.

“Meet with me soon, Monoma. We have much to discuss. And you,” The king’s gaze locks on you, “The queen will help you organize the wedding ceremony.”

As you understood it, the king and queen would have control over everything; the ball and the wedding.

You can’t say you’re too surprised - they had been doing this before you could even talk - yet, somehow, you managed to feel disappointed.

“First, however, we must make the announcement.” The king calls for the advisor, who scurries to his feet like a frightened mouse.

“Draft up the announcement,” He orders, “The heir to the throne has finally found a suitor; Prince Monoma of the Southern Kingdom.”

“A-ah, congratulations, your majesty.” He bows to you and Monoma, who wears a crooked smile. “I'll draft it right away, my liege.” He scrambles away, and you can’t help but feel bad for the poor man.

The document is submitted to the king only an hour later.

In tight clothes and in a crown that looked like the kings’, you stand and listen to your father lie to the citizens. Lie about how the two of you met and had fallen and love. Monoma is beaming and waving to the people, relishing in the praise and support of the crowd.

But your gaze isn’t on Monoma.

It’s on the head of vibrant lavender hair amid the crowd.

You return to the restaurant that night, playing with your hands ever so anxiously. The singing was louder tonight, but the tunes and melodies made your stomach twist and knot. You take your regular seat, but you don’t order, no matter how bright the smile is on the face of the lovely woman behind the counter.

Your hands are trembling. Your father’s voice creeps inside your head - It tells you that you’re pathetic, that you’re nothing but a spoiled brat.

You only realize you’re crying when you see the droplets on the wooden table.

“Good evening, your majesty.” You recognize the speaker’s voice - it's Shinso. You don’t quite trust your voice, but it would be worse to leave him unanswered.

"Hello, Shinso." Your voice shatters, and you chew your lip. Damn.

He slides into the empty seat next to you, regarding you as gently as he can manage. His hands land on your back as he rubs it gently.

"Gods, I’m sorry," You sniffle, rubbing your nose, "It must be annoying to have to deal with me."

"Don’t think like that," he says. "It’s okay to cry. You’re going through a lot. Even if you weren’t, crying never hurt anyone, right?" Hearing that makes you smile softly as you wipe your tears away. They’re quickly replaced with new ones, but the words add a little bit of comfort.

Even if that comfort is only for tonight.

Tomorrow night, you wouldn’t see Shinso. You would be shipped away, dragged along with a man who saw you as no more than a piece in his little game.

But for now, for tonight, you relax into his embrace, and you let the tears fall.

The king and queen set about preparing for the gala, leaving you to yourself for most of the day. The door to your room was locked, and clambering out of the window seemed so tantalizing.

"You would’ve been caught within seconds if it were during the day."

You sigh. Shinso was right, no matter how much you wished otherwise.

So you wait. Like a bird of paradise trapped in a cage, or like a glass doll in a dollhouse, you sit in your room and wait for your mother.

Oh, how the castle feels so suffocating.

But eventually, the click of the lock is heard, and you can see the face of your mother. Her face is soured, making the smile she wears unfitting.

"Put this on. The ball begins in an hour. I expect you to be there on time."

"Where else could I go?" She hums at your words and sets the clothing on the bed before leaving you alone once again. Her heels click against the cobblestone stairs, slowly fading into a deafening silence.

You stare at the outfit she had laid out for you.

It looks like her wedding dress.

Eerily so.

The color scheme is a direct copy, and you suspect the stitches are identical as well. It’s unnerving and it feels ever so purposeful.

As you rub your hands across the delicate fabric (was it silk?), you wonder how far you could make it if you ran into the woods. How long would it take for your father's men to find you if you escaped to another northern kingdom? 

But the clinking of iron armor sounds just outside your door. You're forced to resign those fantasies.

The guards lead you down the winding, empty stairs and stop in front of the double doors of the main hall. Behind them, the ball has already begun.

Maids in intricate gowns and men in tight, buttoned-up suits mingle, able to forget class and ranks, if only for tonight.

Was the royal advisor flirting with the owner of that restaurant?

You’re shaken out of your thoughts as your father calls for the attention of the crowd. Prince Monoma falls into place by your side. You fold your arms behind your back and refuse to meet his prodding gaze.

“As you all know, tonight we celebrate the engagement of my child to Prince Neito Monoma of the south. Their marriage will preserve the alliance between our kingdoms for many prosperous, joyous, years to come.” Your father was excellent at speaking out of his ass. “Tonight, we toast to Prince Monoma, and we celebrate.” The crowd erupts in cheers and drinks are raised in your name as well as his.

The sight makes you want to vomit.

Your father gives you a careful look before taking his leave, the queen on his arm.

You separate from Monoma immediately, weaving through the crowds of chattering and dancing guests. You thank those who congratulate you half-heartedly. You just need space. Just a moment to yourself, a moment to breathe and let it all sink in.

You hear your name. It’s a deep, familiar voice.

What’s more, there are no formalities attached.

“Shinso?” You ask. “Why are you-”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, your majesty.” There’s a glint in his eyes that tells you to play along, and you bite your tongue. “I hope this isn’t too rude of me, but would you care to dance?” His smile is playful and his eyes are crinkled with delight.

His smile is contagious.

You nod in agreement, and he takes your hand, leading you towards the center of the room. The stares are accompanied by mutters, but you find that you don’t mind at all.

The music crescendos and Shinso leads your dance. His grip on your waist is rough and he pulls you flush against him.

“Tomorrow’s the wedding, yeah?” His voice has dropped to a whisper, and his breaths are hot against your ear. You shudder and nod weakly. It’s hard to think straight - all of your senses are filled with him.*

He curses under his breath. “We’ll have to make our move tonight, then.” You blink and meet his gaze after he twirls you around.

“You’re actually going to do it?”

“Of course I am. I promised, didn’t I? Besides, Monoma’s kind of an ass.”

You laugh. “So, what’s your plan?”

“You’ll see.” He digs through his pocket and produces a single sheet of paper. It’s almost barren, only one letter on the entire page.

H.

You inhale sharply and he studies the expression you wear.

“Didn’t expect it to be me, huh?”

“I- why are you-”

He smirks. “I sell everything I steal and give the money to people who need it - the homeless, the orphanages, you name it.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. You aren’t scared, however - not in the slightest.

His hand rests on your cheek and he wears an almost amused expression. “Your face is burning.” He chuckles.

“I’m… just surprised.” You say. Both of you know you’re lying. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m just glad you don’t hate me.”

“Why would I hate you?” You make eye contact with him again, and his gaze softens after a few moments. He sighs, his thumb idly stroking your cheek. Your face burns under his touch, even more so under his gaze.

“A few people do. But... I’m glad to hear that you don’t.” His stare meets yours once again, a newfound fire in his.

"You ready to run away, your majesty?"

[lillotte17]

Tomorrow

Got hooked watching Word of Honor and Zhou Zishu's Sad Face Journeys in episodes 33-34 came for my life, so I wrote a little scene set after the whole Heroes Conference Thing. ...And then Wen KeXing showed up and just...*gestures vaguely* I don't know what happened here. XD

~

Zhou Zishu sits quietly beside the bed, watching Wen KeXing's sleeping face with an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his failing body, and everything to do with the fact that he is about to die.

When his shidi had made a miraculous reappearance at the Heroes Conference, his first reaction was gut-wrenching surprise. It felt as though the ground had suddenly dissolved beneath his feet. His heart leaping so high in his throat that he forgot how to breathe. Dizzy with the overwhelming rush of joy and confusion. Uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

But once the shock had subsided, the anger had been hot on its heels. And he wanted to be mad about it. Wanted to take Wen KeXing by the shoulders and shake him so hard that his teeth rattled around in his skull. Wanted to scream and sob and rail against the now inevitably fast-burning candle of his fate. At the unfairness of losing his life just as he had found something worth living for again. Someoneworth living for. For a few moments, the fury had burned so brightly in him he thought it might be enough to kill him then and there. That the fire between his lungs would simply burst his chest open and engulf everything around them in a sea of red.

But when they had caught each other’s gaze, he had seen the apology roiling in Wen KeXing’s dark eyes, raw and miserable, even without a word being said. The apology, and the fear. That same fear Zishu had seen flicker across his face every time he had tried to coax him into confessing that he was from Ghost Valley. The same fear he had seen in him the night Wen KeXing had snuck out of the Four Seasons Manor to intercept Ye BaiYi and tried to prevent him from reveling his identity. And yet again, when Han Ying had died, and he had nearly killed himself in a blind panic trying to fix it somehow. The fear whispered that death was preferable to his hatred. That his blade would be kinder than his revulsion. That Wen KeXing would sacrifice anything to avoid being abandoned once again.

Zhou Zishu was helpless in the face of it; as he always seems to be. The look that passed between them had been fast and fleeting, there and gone again with barely a blink, but it was enough to douse the flames of his anger with a tide of chilling and fathomless grief. The rest of the Heroes Conference passed before him in a daze. Vengeance, and justice, and pride. Wen KeXing blazing in the brightest and truest version of himself for all to see. Dazzling and mesmerizing and impossible to look away from. He does not know if he has ever loved him more, even as he felt his heart slowly sinking down into the pit of his stomach. The numbness of acceptance settling into his bones.

There will be no escape from death, this time.

He had been quiet on the way back to Jing BeiYuan’s Manor. Quiet enough to worry both Wen KeXing and ChengLing, who always seems to see more than he understands. He had listened to their reasons and excuses, and he had done his best to reassure them afterwards, but his own words sound hollow in his ears. The best he could do was to get Lao Wen hopelessly drunk, and pray that it made him less intuitive. The suffusion of elation and hope in the air had nearly been enough to choke him, though. He did not want to rob them of it, but he found he could take part in it either, no matter how much he wanted to. He could not bring himself to celebrate a future he can no longer share with them.

Zhou Zishu understands Wen KeXing. He understands that he is just as abysmal at properly conveying affection as he is himself, if not more so. The man only knows how to protect people he cares for by either sending them away from him or drowning them both in blood. It is how he had managed to survive all those years surrounded by madness and chaos and death. Zishu had done much the same, while he was working in the capital. Hiding all of their softer places far away from where the light could reach them. Playful banter has always passed easily between them, but tenderness is heavier, and vulnerabilities almost impossible to speak aloud. They are both trying to do better, struggling to pull their own humanity back into their hands where it can be shared freely, but Wen KeXing’s hurts are older and deeper. His path back to the world of the living inevitably more winding and complex. He still has not mastered the art of articulating his fears and concerns.

Zhou Zishu’s health was tenuous even before he had been kidnapped and tortured. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been in no fit state to fight an angry mob. Wen KeXing hid the truth from him because he knew that he would chafe at being told to stay out of harm’s way; that they would have argued about it until he was either allowed to participate in the scheme or he was spitting blood and passing out on the floor. Zishu cannot even say that this assessment of his character was a bad one, but it still stung to be kept in the dark, and the hurt was lingering. And yet, however deep the barb of this secret may have landed, however misplaced the caution may or may not have been, he knows without a shred of doubt that Wen KeXing’s deception was born of love, and he can hardly hold that against him.

Especially not now.

Wen KeXing turns his head slightly, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like an extremely slurred version of his name. His expression is smooth and peaceful, his hair a dark fan across the bed behind him. The rosy glow of happiness and alcohol still pinking the apples of his cheeks.

Zishu smiles despite himself. It is much easier to find traces of the little boy his master had planned to take for his second disciple when he looks like this; safe and sleeping and completely at ease for the first time in who knows how long. He wishes he could recall those few precious days they had spent together as children with more clarity, but the memory of it is like a silk brocade left to sit too long in the sunshine, its delicate patterns fading as the colors wash away in a flood of light. Zhou Zishu had been too young to fully comprehend the weight of death when his master had returned from his trip to collect the Wen family without his shidi or his parents in tow. That his master had been sad about it was enough to impact him, but in the grand scheme of things, the wounds to his own heart had been minimal.

What would have happened if they had kept looking for Zhen Yan, he wonders. If he and Wen KeXing had grown up together as best friends and martial brothers and soulmates? Would their master have found a way to soothe Zhen Yan’s rage before it consumed him? Would Zhou Zishu have made the same mistakes with the Window of Heaven if Wen KeXing had been at his side? Perhaps they could have saved each other before things had reached the place they were now. Or perhaps Wen KeXing would have died under Zhou Zishu’s leadership with the rest of their sect, and his failures would have tasted that much more bitter.

He sighs quietly. There is no sense dwelling on things he cannot change. He had been a child, and just as powerless to save Wen KeXing from his fate as the boy himself had been. Feeling guilty about it was meaningless at this point. It was enough to have him here and now. Enough that they had had any time together at all. Enough that Wen KeXing had fallen off of that cliff and somehow still managed to walk back to him.

It has to be enough, because it is all they have. All they can have. Even if he wants more.

“Ah Xu?”

The voice is thick with sleep, but marginally less inebriated than before.

“Mn,” Zhou Zishu hums in acknowledgement, his gaze shifting slightly to watch Wen KeXing blink himself back into wakefulness.

“You didn’t go to bed?” he asks, bleary and swaying slightly as he attempts to sit up.

“There is someone in my bed.” Zishu points out archly.

Wen KeXing looks murderous for a few seconds until he realizes that the person in question is, in fact, himself. When the clouds break, his expression immediately shifts to one of insufferable satisfaction. He leans precariously off the side of the bed, robes and hair both hopelessly askew.

“I am always willing to share everything I have with Ah Xu,” he declares with feigned sweetness.

“How kind of Philanthropist Wen to make a present of what he stole from me,” Zhou Zishu snorts, “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“Ah Xu!” Wen KeXing objects. “How is it stealing when you gave it to me freely? You think I would come to your bedroom with the intention of sleeping?”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about your intentions.” The reply is given with a smirk, but his eyes dart away from him. “You asked me to drink with you, but the jar you brought was empty. Besides, I am thinking about giving it up. I have been told that it is bad for my health.”

“Aiya, first Ah Xu accuses me of being a thief, and now he tells me such scandalous falsehoods!” Wen KeXing shakes his head, attempting to seem wounded despite the grin on his face. “I already accepted your punishment earlier, there is no reason to be cruel.”

“Who is a liar here?” Zhou Zishu inquires laughingly, gesturing back and forth between them. “Which one of us is the most scandalous?”

“It’s me, it’s me,” Wen KeXing acknowledges, his head bobbing up and down in agreement, “But Ah Xu, you cannot expect me to ever believe that you would willingly give up drinking good wine with me? And as for not understanding my intentions, well…I believe that even less.”

“Was your intention to make sure I could not get any sleep?”

Wen KeXing only smiles at him widely.

“…I regret asking such a question,” Zhou Zishu chuckles, reaching out to lightly slap the side of Wen KeXing’s face in both fondness and chastisement. “Ask a shameless man a question and you are sure to get a shameless reply.”

Wen KeXing grabs hold of his hand before he can pull it away, leaning into it with a sigh.

“What is so shameless about it at this point?” he wonders, something soft and shining igniting within his gaze. “Living together. Dying together. Watching as our hair turns gray with old age. We’ve already promised to share these things, haven’t we? Why give me your bed when we could share that, too?”

Zhou Zishu takes a long look at him. At the dark hair spilling across his shoulder in disarray. The front of his robes just rumpled enough to expose the elegant line of his throat as well as part of his collar bones. The flush of his cheeks and the promise burning in his eyes.

He cannot deny that he wants it. Even knowing it might make things more painful later on. He wants to be selfish. He wants to be greedy while he still can. While he can still hear Lao Wen calling for him and feel his skin beneath his hands. His sense of taste and smell have gone already, but can still see him, and that could be enough. More than enough.

But will it be enough for Wen KeXing?

This is the last thing they have to give each other. The last pieces of themselves they have been holding back. Mostly because there simply had not been time for it amidst the chaos swirling around them. It always seemed as though either their lives were in danger or one of them was injured. Up until now, even Zishu had been optimistic enough to assume they would have time for it later, though. Time to use physical intimacy as an almost second meeting. To learn how they need each other in the quiet and the dark. To learn the ways they can be gentle, and the ways they can be fierce. To burn each other up in desperation and desire.

It seems too heartless to have it be a farewell instead.

Zhou Zishu lets out a long breath.

“…Not when you are drunk,” he says quietly.

Wen KeXing blinks at him in astonishment, eyes blown wide and round as saucers, clearly expecting a flat-out rejection.

A moment later, the blankets have been hastily flung aside, and he is staggering off of the bed has fast as he can. Which, as it turns out, is not very fast at all. Zhou Zishu easily catches him with one arm, lightly pushing him back into a seated position.

“Lao Wen, where do you think you are going?” he laughs.

“I need to sober up,” Wen KeXing explains, looking so serious about it that Zhou Zishu cannot help but reach out and pinch his cheek. Lao Wen slaps his hand away, his expression mulish.

“Don’t pout,” Zishu scolds, still chuckling, “It is too late to be staggering around someone else’s house. With my luck, you would drown yourself in the fish pond, and then BeiYuan and Wu Xi would be terribly put out.”

“But Ah Xu, if you won’t let me leave, and you won’t share the bed, just what do you want me to do?” Lao Wen complains. “Even if you don’t want to have sex, you should at least lay down and rest properly. I want you to get well as soon as possible.”

Zhou Zishu’s mouth stiffens slightly.

“I know.”

Wen KeXing’s brow furrows in concern. He reaches out a hand, long fingers hovering just above his heart, when Zhou Zishu catches them tightly in his own. He is not certain if Lao Wen could glean the truth about his condition from his pulse while still tipsy, but he is not about to run that risk tonight.

“Are the nails bothering you again?” Wen KeXing asks, doleful this time.

“No.”

It is not a lie.

“Then come to bed,” Lao Wen cajoles, using their joined hands to tug him closer, “I promise not to molest you unless you ask me to.”

Zhou Zishu makes a sound of grumbling disbelief, but still allows himself to be pulled down next to Wen KeXing. The bed is big enough for two, but only just. Lao Wen retrieves the formerly discarded blankets from whatever corner he had toss them and bundles them up together like two caterpillars in a single cocoon. His face is close beside him on the pillow, warm breath fanning the side of his neck. An arm drapes loosely about Zishu’s waist, and he turns his head slightly, intending to shoot a warning glare in the other man’s direction.

This is a mistake.

Wen KeXing’s eyes are dark and intense in the moonlight, half closed with either sleep or desire, it is hard to say. His lips part slightly as Zhou Zishu turns to him, and the hand draped around his waist clutches faintly at his robes as if on instinct. Both of them seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

“…Ah Xu, you can kiss me, if you like,” Lao Wen whispers finally, so soft it almost seems like a dream.

“What makes you think I want to kiss you?” he means it to sound teasing, but it comes out in almost a sigh.

“Because I want to kiss you,” Lao Wen replies matter-of-factly.

“I never thought of you as a pillar of self-restraint,” Zhou Zishu huffs.

“I promised to be a gentleman.”

Zishu closes his eyes and lets out a deep, soul-rattling sigh. He is almost glad he cannot smell the oils Wen KeXing uses in his hair or the trace of alcohol on his lips. The proximity is staggering enough all on its own.

“…It would not stop with a kiss,” he admits aloud to both of them.

He does not open his eyes again, but he can feel Wen KeXing’s body tremble slightly as he laughs, and that is almost as bad.

“Ah Xu, I would hardly complain,” he replies, testing his luck by shifting close enough so that their foreheads are lightly touching. “But you want to rest, and I want you rested, so it is no great loss, either way. You will still be here with me tomorrow, after all. There is no need to rush these things. Sometimes, a slow spring is sweeter.”

“Yes,” Zhou Zishu manages to reply around the lump lodged in his throat, “I will still be here tomorrow.”

[so-writing]

Things You Never Show - Rafe Cameron x Reader x JJ Maybank (Outer Banks)

I was in my BSB feels, listening to ‘Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely’ and this happened. Not proofread so mistakes most likely

Summary: You are a pogue dating Rafe Cameron and, as expected, chaos ensues.

--

You could be the center of attention at a party and still feel ignored. 

Rafe was a good boyfriend, at best, half of the time. When the two of you were alone, he was more than happy to fulfill your every desire and make you feel like you were on top of the world. He made sure you were satisfied in every way and it was heaven to you.

But when you were out and about, like at a kegger in the boneyard, Rafe acted like a stranger.

-

“You know he treats you like shit, right?”

A figure you didn’t immediately recognize dropped down beside you on the edge of the dock you were seated on, dipping your toes into the water.

“He’s an asshole and you deserve better.” 

You were about to protest until you looked toward the stranger and met the eyes of JJ Maybank. The boy you’d pined after for years when you were younger. Even though you were past your crush, you couldn’t shake his gaze. 

“Cameron is a piece of shit, you know.” 

“He’s not,” you defended, “he just doesn’t know any better.”

“He doesn’t know that he shouldn’t flirt carelessly with other girls when he’s obviously locked down? He’s an asshole.”

You should’ve protested JJ’s musings but you knew he was right and that there was no defending Rafe.

“Maybe, but he’s my asshole.”

It was a weak argument, confirmed by the chuckle JJ released before he took a hit of his blunt.

“There are about a million people in the world that would treat you better than Rafe, but you’re stuck on baby money for reasons I couldn’t possibly understand.”

JJ turned his head and blew smoke away from you before he stood up, ruffled your hair and made his way back to the party.

The friendship between you and the other pogues had existed for as long as you could remember and you weren’t quite sure when JJ became someone you looked at just a little differently. You harbored secret feelings that you were never able to spill and they eventually faded when you matured some and started noticing other boys. 

Rafe Cameron was one of those boys. He didn’t attend Kildare Public, his parenting opting instead to send him to the fancy private school that all the kooks seemed to attend, but he regularly showed up at boneyard parties and that was when he first caught your eye. 

Two years older than you and a haughty asshole, he was exactly what you thought you wanted. Rafe being and kook and you a pogue, you assumed he wouldn’t be interested at all but that wasn’t the case and not much time had gone by until you were spending your nights in his bed. 

The first time you went public as a couple was over a year ago and you were now comfortable in feeling lonely a lot of the time, despite what felt like the entire world knowing you were attached to Rafe Cameron.

“But he’s my asshole,” you said to yourself when JJ had gone, “what a fucking stupid excuse.” 

Feeling dumb and embarrassed, you pulled your feet out of the water and slid into your sandals. Rafe might have noticed your absence and you weren’t feeling up to getting into an argument over where you could have been, not that he cared anyway. 

You found him sitting on a log around one of the few bonfires at the party with his arm wrapped around a girl you didn’t recognize. He was obviously drunk, maybe a little high as well, and you knew you couldn’t say anything to either of them without facing the consequences later. 

He laughed at something Kelce said as he wrapped his arm tighter around the girl, pulling her close enough to kiss her forehead. This behavior was new to you. He always flirted with randoms in public, giving them a hug or rub on the back but Rafe had never put his lips on someone else, that you knew of. 

“See that?” 

JJ’s breath ghosted across your neck, he stood behind you and placed his palms on your shoulders, “he’s an asshole. You know you can do better.” 

“JJ,” you shook him off and turned around to meet his eyes, “this is just how he is. He doesn’t give a shit about that girl.”

“He gives a shit about you though, right?” 

“Yes,” you bit the inside of your cheek as a reminder to keep your composure, “he does.”

He laughed, an easy chuckle that made you equal parts furious and peaceful, while grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the rest of the pogues sat around a neighboring bonfire.

“Raise your hand if you think this one can do better than Cameron?” 

Everyone around the fire, including Rafe’s own sister Sarah, raised their arms above their heads. 

“You guys are not supportive at all.”

The laugh that followed your statement was supposed be happy and jokey but it left your lips hollow and angry.

“No,” Sarah began, “we’re not. He’s my brother and I love him but he is a grade A piece of shit when it comes to the way he treats women.”

She unwrapped herself from John B and stood up, walking over to you and taking your hands in hers, “you do not deserve that. You are better than him.”

“Guys,” you gently squeezed her hands, “I don’t need this. I’m fine. I know how he is.”

“That is the second time I’ve heard you say that tonight,” JJ piped up, “and I haven’t believed it either time.”

His tone was almost cocky, he too had quite a bit to drink, and you weren’t about to get into this with your friends in the middle of a party where everyone could hear you. 

“John B, can you give a ride home? I just really want to leave right now.” 

The brunette gave you a quick nod of his head and the two of you walked in silence away from the beach and to the Twinkie waiting in the parking lot. You both entered the van in silence and he pushed the key into the ignition, bringing the vehicle to life. 

John B drove toward your house without a word, something you were more grateful for than you could say. He pulled into your driveway and you noticed that no lights were on the house. Your parents were either out for the evening or fast asleep, either one was good, it meant you didn’t have to face their innocent questions about your night and your boyfriend. 

“Hey,” John B put the Twinkie in park, “you know I’m not here to judge you or your relationship but I just want to say this.”

You prepared yourself for another bashing of Rafe. They happened pretty frequently, especially when JJ was around. 

“Rafe is not my favorite person, I’ll never hide that. I’m worried about you. I’m worried this rich douchebag is taking advantage of you and sucking the life out of you. I just want you to know that we’re here. We love you, we have you. Please say something if you need any of us.” 

Your heart warmed at his words as you quickly unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned across the center console to give him a hug, “thank you John B, I needed that more than you know.”

Sliding from the passenger seat, you closed the door behind you and turned to give John B a wave before going inside and heading straight to your room. You were used to your friends hating on Rafe but what John B said about the situation had you seriously thinking about your relationship with the charming kook. 

The words ‘sucking the life out of you’ repeated themselves in your head as you lay on your side trying to fall asleep.

 -

Your constantly buzzing phone finally pulled you from slumber at, you checked the time before responding to anything else, 2:36am.

Rafe (11:04)  where are you?

Rafe (11:16)  seriously

Rafe (11:41)  what the fuck

Rafe (12:21)  you left with JJ? Really? Maybank? REALLY

Rafe (1:18)  you went home with Maybank so I’m going home with a blonde too

Rafe (2:04)  I’m sorry. I should have paid more attention to you tonight

Rafe (2:17)  baby please I’m sorry

Rafe (2:36)  call me when you wake up. I love you. 

Normally, when this happened, you would be wooed by Rafe’s apology but John B’s words swan around in your head as you noted the forty-six minutes that passed between Rafe claiming he’d take someone home and his apology.

“Fuck this,” you whispered into to your empty room as you tossed your phone to the floor and rolled over to fall asleep once again. 

-

It was 2:46 in the afternoon when you woke up. You’d slept longer than you intended and when you grabbed your phone from the ground you where met with a marathon of messages and calls.

Not counting what he sent the night before, Rafe had called you 14 times and sent 38 text messages. Most of them were angry, some of them apologetic, but the theme was clear: he hated JJ. 

You scrolled past the many Rafe’s and found your conversation with JJ. 

“J, please text me back as soon as you get this.”

You knew Rafe and you knew he would go after JJ and he would hurt him if he could. Staring at your phone sitting in your hands for about a minute, you decided you couldn’t wait and called him. 

JJ’s phone rang and rang and just as you were about to hang up, he answered. 

“Hey, sorry, was outside with John B, what’s up?”

“JJ,” you breathed a sigh of relief, “Rafe thinks I went home with you. Watch out for him, I have no doubt he’s on a warpath.”

“Him being on a warpath means he has to publicly declare that you’re someone he actually gives a fuck about, he’s not going to do that or come after me.”

“J, please,” you ran a hand through your hair, “please just be careful.”

“Always am. See you tonight?”

“Yeah,” you had completely forgotten about Kiara’s birthday party, “see you then.” 

-

Walking into the Wreck, things looked mostly normal. The main dining room was full of patrons eating and socializing. The restaurant was on a short wait but you slid past the people in line and made toward the smaller of the two decks off the side of the restaurant. 

There were only three tables on the small deck and tonight they were all pushed together for Kiara’s celebration. The usual suspects were present: JJ, Pope, John B and Sarah. Kie’s mom had taken the night off so she was staying permanently while her dad planned to pop in during his free moments. 

“You showed,” JJ shouted as he slid out his chair and trotted toward you, pulling you into a hug.

“Of course I did, I would never miss this. Happy birthday Kiara,” you shook off JJ and moved to hug Kie, wrapping your arms tight around her small frame. 

Your phone vibrated in your pocket and Kie pulled away enough to give you a questioning look.

“It’s your birthday and I’m pissed at him. All messages remain unread tonight.” 

While you enjoyed yourself eating seafood and cake with your friends, you had no idea how serious Rafe was taking your radio silence. You hadn’t responded to any of his texts or calls and the last time you spoke was before the kegger the previous night.

Rafe (7:46)  Where are you? We haven’t talked at all today

Rafe (8:04)  Seriously what the fuck 

Rafe (8:37)  There you are. Sitting to next to Maybank huh

Rafe (8:49)  Fuck it

The messages remained unread and when your chair was harshly pulled away from the table and your friends began yelling did you realize what was happening.

“Rafe! What the fuck?!” Sarah was the loudest, her words cutting through the air.

“I’m tired of this and I’m done. She’s coming with me.”

You hoped against hope that JJ wouldn’t say anything but you knew better. He never failed to come to your rescue but now wasn’t the time you needed him to do so. 

“You don’t get to claim someone when you’re fucking literally everybody else.” 

Rafe’s hands were no longer on your body or the chair you were seated in, instead he was charging toward JJ. The blonde had removed himself from the chair next to you and was now standing his ground, nose to nose with Rafe Cameron.

They began to push each other and one particularly hard shove from JJ sent Rafe into the table, causing everyone to jump up and back away from the fight. 

“Guys, please! Not here!” 

You were nearly in tears, your words falling on deaf ears and they continued to throw punches and accusations. 

Time seemed to slow as you took in everything happening in front of you. Kiara’s mom had her arms wrapped Kie as she ushered her back into the restaurant. Pope and John B were both standing in front of Sarah, blocking her off but ready to jump in and defend their friend if they needed to. Various pieces of seafood were scattered across the small deck and Kiara’s cake was destroyed, icing and cake bits stomped into the floor from all the commotion. 

Everything had gone wrong. You never went home with JJ and you should have made that clear to Rafe. You should’ve responded to his texts earlier, explaining and begging his forgiveness even though you didn’t really want it. 

You ruined Kiara’s birthday and maybe the reputation of The Wreck itself. JJ and Rafe had been pulled apart now but it was too late to salvage anything. Slowly making your way toward the railing, you jumped over the side and landed a few feet below in the soft mud a few feet away from the water. 

It didn’t matter that your shoes were thick with mud, you trampled out of the swamp and toward the road. When your shoes were light enough, you broke into a run. It didn’t matter how you looked, everything was ruined and as much as you wanted to place the blame on either of the combative boys, it was all your fault. 

All you wanted to do now was fucking disappear. 

[songsformonkeys]

All the things he missed (ezra x f!reader)

summary: Five times you meet Ezra. Five things he’s missed while he was gone.

word count: 2900

rating: explicit

warnings: none

notes: This story is for @yespolkadotkitty​ as thanks for all the beautiful beautiful banners she has made for me and my stories, this one included. She asked for Ezra smut and here we are *shrugs*

Ao3

All the things he missed

The first time Ezra sees you, it's like time slows down and his field of vision narrows down so that there is only you. At least that's how he tells the story. You later joke and question whether it was really you that had captured his attention or the pot roast you had been carrying at the time.

Because the first time you see Ezra, as he walks into the small restaurant near the flight hangars on Darwash where you work, he's as thin as a baby bird. He's just gotten home from an ill-managed gig where supplies ran out earlier than the transport home was scheduled to arrive. Luckily, he and his crew noticed before it was too late and managed to ration the food, allowing for all of them to come home alive, if a lot thinner than when they left.

Ezra buys the entire pot roast straight out of your arms that day and actually manages, much to your amazement, to eat the whole thing. He pays a ridiculous amount of money for it, and when you tell the chef, he doesn't believe you. Not until the two of you hide behind the door to the kitchen and watch how the thin man in the too-big suit devours the entire roast in one sitting.

Whatever drink Ezra wanted was on the house for him that day.

”Can I get you anything else?” you ask him and he smiles in a way that brings life back to his hollowed-out face.

”You've already proven yourself to be more of a blessing than I had expected, when finally clocking out from that shitstorm of a gig. I am content for the time being.” He leans back in his seat and rubs a hand over his belly.

”I sure have missed food like this!”

------------------------------------------------------

The second time you meet Ezra, you almost wouldn't have recognized him if it weren't for the suit and that blonde tuft of hair. He's gained a considerable amount of weight and now he looks healthy and less like he's on the brink of starvation.

He shows up on a slow day and takes a seat by the counter. When he smiles at you, you notice a dimple in his cheek.

”Well, ain't this a pleasant surprise. It's the gentle one from last time I was here. The lady with the roast.”

He orders food this time too, although a less ridiculous amount this time around. He chats happily with you both while he waits for his food and in between chewing, once the food arrives. Ezra talks a mile a minute, mixing the twang and dialect commonly associated with the working-class space travelers with long and overly complicated words that you don't always know the meaning of.

You enjoy listening to him, which only seems to spur him on when he notices. He tells you about places he's been and places he would love to go. He paints vivid pictures of the different planets and people he's met. You're grateful that there aren't any other guests in the restaurant because you don't want to stop listening to this charismatic man talk. You tell Ezra that you have spent your whole life on Darwash and that you wouldn't even know where to begin if you were to travel. He immediately rattles off five different suggestions, which you try to commit to memory before he begins his next tale. You can't help but be drawn in by this man.

He stays with you almost to the end of your shift, asking you questions and answering yours, before he checks his chronometer and realizes that he's late to pick up the keys to his temporary apartment. He pays for everything and, despite your protests, gives you a sizeable tip.

”It's not often I find myself with financial resources to spare. Allow me the pretense of acting like a wealthy man.”

You grudgingly agree and Ezra gives you a wink before he heads for the door. He stops and turns as he reaches it.

”Thank you! I've missed talks like these.”

  ------------------------------------------------------

The third time Ezra shows up, he's covered in...something. It's purple and slimy and looks like it will stain whatever he touches.

”No,” you say, as soon as he walks through the door, ignoring the way your heart skips at the sight of him. You quickly round the counter, ready to push him outside if you have to. The other guests closest to Ezra have already begun turning their heads and, as you come closer, you can tell why. The purple goo has a sickly sweet smell that feels like it clogs your nose and makes it feel like you're breathing syrup.

”Ezra, you can not come in here, wearing that!”

”But this is all I've got,” he says, looking a little crestfallen, but there's a twitch to the corner of his mouth that makes you suspect it's all an act. You wave your hands in front of you, motioning for him to step back outside, which he does.

”I am sorry. But I am not spending the whole night scrubbing...whatever this is off whatever you touch in there.”

”Oh gentle one, what happened to your soft demeanor while I was gone?” he says and yes, he is definitely teasing you.

”It wilted away in your absence,” you toss back and Ezra looks positively delighted.

”I'll have to make sure it's not so long until next time then.”

His eyes are big and brown and earnest and you feel your resolve crumble.

”If you want to eat, I can lend you a set of our staff clothes. The suit stays outside, though.”

Ezra agrees and follows you around back to the staff entrance. You make him wait outside while you fetch him some clean clothes. When you come back, he's already halfway out of his suit. He pulls his undershirt over his head and uses it to wipe some goo from his hair. You're struck dumb by the sudden display of his bare back and only manages to clear your throat to get his attention. He turns, and you walk over to hand him the clothes. His hand brushes yours as he accepts them from you, and you feel like one of the maidens from the old romance novels you have at home because your cheeks burn from just that small touch.

Ezra notices and, of course, can't help but comment.

”What lovely color. To bring a flush to those cheeks is challenge I wouldn't mind having a second go at.”

You hear Ezra chuckle when you flee into the restaurant again.

When he shows up inside a couple of minutes later, he's dialed back the flirting slightly, and takes a seat at the counter. He picks some invisible lint off the shirt.

”Thank you, gentle one! These are comfortable. I have missed wearing clothes like these.”

  ------------------------------------------------------

The fourth time Ezra shows up, it's late in the evening right before your shift ends. He just orders a drink and later, once his glass is empty, he offers to walk you home. You both know what he's really offering and you decide to take him up on that offer. He kisses you outside your front door. It's soft and sweet, and you can tell that he's holding back. You nip at his lower lip and the sound he makes at the back of his throat goes straight to your gut.

You invite him in and Ezra barely let's you close and lock the door behind you before his hands are on you, pulling you close.

That night you find out just how skilled that mouth is at other things besides talking. He falls asleep in your arms afterwards. You stay awake for as long as you can, reveling in the feeling of his stubbled face against your shoulder and his arm across your waist.

The next morning you wake up to find Ezra already awake and watching you. He tells you that he has to leave again this afternoon for another gig. Logically you knew that you wouldn't get to keep Ezra in your bed forever, but there's still a foolish part of you that's disappointed.

”It's just one gig, gentle one,” Ezra says, having noticed the expression on your face, ”Pays quite the fortune too. I'll be back before you have time to miss me. And when I return, I should like to treat you to a proper date. Take you somewhere real fine.”

He tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear and you lean into the touch.

”Thank you for tonight, gentle one. I have missed sleeping next to someone this way.”

------------------------------------------------------  

Ezra promises to be back before spring ends, but Ezra doesn't show up. More and more time passes, spring turns to summer, which in turn turns to fall, and still there's no sign of Ezra. You begin to feel foolish, to question what it was you two had shared. It had been stupid to fall for a man you hardly knew, a prospector at that. Of course Ezra wouldn't be back. He probably has a girl like you in every port. The disappointment tastes bitter on your tongue.

But despite the realization that your encounter had probably meant more to you than it had to Ezra, you can't stop thinking about him, and there is still that tiny part of your brain that still hopes...

Which was why, when you open your door almost a year later, and find Ezra standing outside, you don't slam it in his face.

Ezra isn't wearing his suit but a knitted gray sweater and a pair of beige pants that both look new and expensive. One of the sleeves is pinned up, making it clear that Ezra's right arm is no more. His face looks worn and tired.

”I apologize for being late, gentle one,” he says and you can't stop yourself from stepping out in the cold to wrap your arms around his neck. You feel the tension melt away from his shoulders and when you press your lips to his, he makes a relieved sigh.

”Oh I am a blessed man,” he mumbles against your lips and you pull back as he continues speaking. ”I thought myself a fool to think that you would wait for me, but I told myself: I have to try. Gentle one, I truly am sorry!”

”It's okay,” you assure him, as if your last year hasn't been filled with longing and doubt about this man that's currently in your arms. ”Would you like to come inside?”

”I would like that very much.”

You take his hand and lead him inside and up the stairs. Ezra continues rattling off excuses mixed with compliments on your appearance. He has a debate with himself about the pattern of your blue dress and precisely what it's supposed to be.

You silence him with your mouth when you reach the bedroom.

Ezra won't let you undress him, and you suspect that he wants to show you that he can still do it himself. Once he's pulled his shirt off, he catches you looking at what remains of his right arm with a worried look.

”That is quite a story,” he says, ”And I should like to do it justice so I beg that we can save it for later. Right now there are more pressing matters and every fiber of my being longs to touch you and I implore that you have mercy and don't make me wait any longer.”

You would roll your eyes at his dramatics, if it weren't for the fact that the same longing that he describes claws in your own chest. You rid yourselves of the rest of your clothes in a matter of seconds. Ezra lays you out on the bed, naked, and takes a few moments just to observe. His gaze is heavy enough that it feels like a physical touch when he runs it across your body. You squeeze your thighs together and when his fingers finally caress your collarbone, you almost arch off the bed just in anticipation of what comes next.

Ezra's hand trails lower pausing to cup one of your breasts and feel the weight of it in his hand, running the pad of his thumb over your nipple a few times, before continuing down across your stomach.

Ezra is touching you like he's committing every inch of you to memory. Out loud, he compares various parts of your body to things he's seen on his travels, and the wonder in his voice makes you want to wrap him up in your arms and keep him there forever. To him, your body is a collection of hills, valleys and planes, gemstones and monuments. Every part of you is likened to a different place or kind of terrain and when he runs his fingers over the hairs between your legs and murmurs: ”So soft. Like...” you cut him off by leveling him with a warning glare.

”Careful how you finish that sentence, Ezra,” you say and he laughs before leaning down to kiss you. As his mouth covers yours, his finger slips between your folds and you moan against his lips.

He dips his finger inside, just enough to gather some of your slick on his finger, before he pulls it out to gently massage your clit. You have done this to yourself hundreds of times but the sensation of his fingers is entirely different.

He apologizes for his lack of finesse and inexperienced left hand but the only response you can give him is a moan and a whimper. You suppose that contradicts his claimed lack of finesse just fine.

”Look at you,” he whispers and there's that tone of wonder again. He continues to shower you with praise as his fingers and voice bring you closer and closer to an orgasm. You grip his thigh hard enough that you're sure you're leaving marks and your thighs shake as he speeds up his movements. You don't stand a chance and you cry out his name as pleasure washes over you.

Ezra continues to move his fingers through your orgasm and as you sink back against the mattress like a boneless mess, he leans down to kiss your forehead. You tilt your head up instead and capture his mouth in a sloppy kiss that only half hits its mark.

Your lower body is still tingling when you reach for the contraceptives in the drawer of your nightstand. As you lean over, Ezra slots himself against your back and kisses your shoulder and your neck. His hand is still between your legs, gently cupping you.

You take out one of the small soft squares and move Ezra's hand out of the way so you can carefully push the small square inside yourself. Still sensitive from Ezra's touch, the action makes you moan softly. You let it absorb for a moment as Ezra strokes your thigh and tells you how beautiful you are.

When he pulls your hand out, he holds it up to his mouth to suck your fingers clean. As those sinful lips close around your index finger, he lifts your leg and shifts his hips closer. You reach down and help guide him inside. He moans in your ear and the sound vibrates all the way through your body and is almost enough to make you come a second time.

”I feel I must warn you,” Ezra whispers a little tensely, as if he's holding back another moan, ”In surroundings as exquisite as these, I fear I won't last long.”

”I don't care,” you assure him and that's all the reassurance Ezra needs before he starts to move.

He sets a slow pace fucking you, like he's relishing in each slow thrust. He keeps a running commentary of the way you feel around him. Lost in your own pleasure, you hear maybe half of it.

His hand alternate between gently holding your hips in place as he thrusts into you and running up your torso to caress your chest and neck. When he's not talking, and sometimes while he's talking, he places kisses along your shoulder and up the side of your neck and face. Your spine feels taught as a bowstring as he repeatedly hits a spot inside you that sends sparks of pleasure through your body.

True to his warning, Ezra doesn't last very long. His voice gets more and more breathless the closer he gets to his orgasm, but he doesn't stop talking. It's only in the moment that he finally comes that he falls silent, pressing his mouth against the nape of your neck and letting out a soft whimper. You hold his hand tightly through his orgasm.

Later, he is lying with his head on your chest and your fingers play with the blonde lock of hair at his temple. He's in the middle of telling you about this final gig on the green moon, when he suddenly stops and looks up at you. You smile and raise your eyebrow slightly in a silent question.

”Gentle one...before I continue, I have to tell you something.”

”And what's that?”

”I really really missed you.”

Taglist: @yespolkadotkitty​ @agirllovespasta​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​ @larakasser​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​ @beccaplaying​ @ohpedromypedro​ @knittingqueen13​ @pedropascallion​ @scarlettvonsass​ @softskywalkcr​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @holographic-carmen​ @mrschiltoncat​ ( I have tagged people who’ve asked to be on the taglist and people who I think might like this based on previous reblogs and comments. If you want to be added or released from the taglist, just let me know)

[justananxiousauthor]

DestructiveDeath Oneshot

Soooooo, I made this a few months ago.... and never posted it... then shared with my friend... now I gotta post it.... soooo here ya go. @nozapuns Here ya go....

I found myself trembling as Reaper disappeared, my voice still caught in my throat, my throat dry. He didn’t understand, he didn’t understand a thing I’d been through. I’d watched everyone I loved die by the hands of some kid. No, not some kid, Chara. The name made me grit my teeth, I hated that small child with every fiber in my being, and every drop of magic in my soul. They’d taken everything I cared about, everything but Reaper, I guess I took them away from myself. He didn’t understand how much I loathed myself for what had happened, and it wasn’t like I could talk to anyone else in my plain white hell. I’d spend days, months, years maybe, waiting for him to return so we could spend a short time together before he vanished again. I was done living like this, I’d rather return to my timeline and be dusted than spend another moment here, and reaper hated that. I sat on the ground in my lonely silence as time passed by. He’d say he’d be back soon, but here?

Soon could be never.

And never could be soon.

Time passed…….

I don’t even know how long

I could only judge by the exhaustion I felt, so I counted the days by my sleep. 

10 cycles passed and I was still alone.

20 passed and nothing…..

30

40

50…

100… 

Invisible aches filled me, and I don’t even know what happened next. Anger filled me, rage that I couldn’t even understand. I just didn’t understand…..

150…

200…

300…

500…….

5,000………………….

Everything blurred together, the loneliness crushing. Tears burned my skull like fire branding my bones. Then something changed, a new power coursed through my soul as the tears dried to once porcelain white face of mine leaving streaks of light blue. I gasped as I felt the void pulling at my body, glitching it even more than the day I had come here. What was once white turned black, my sockets red eyes yellow, and fingers red and yellow. What was happening?!

I woke up somewhere new, or maybe it was the same place as before, but it felt…..

Different.

I could feel the energy that was hidden in the white space, and it was almost like I could... 

Open it. 

Out stretching my hand I took in a sharp breath, a window opening for me to look out into the world.

Not a window, a door for me to finally escape my endless prison.

Freedom….

5,001…...

Day 11,397 without Reaper.

A day well done as the Destroyer of AU’s, a title I held dear, bringing all other abominations to their knees. I enjoyed my work, which made it easy to keep others from suffering like how I did. However, I found it impossible to destroy a classic timeline, something I was from, maybe it just pained me too much to see my brother cry… but if a single Sans attempted to become Geno and stray from their code, they would be annihilated. I found myself in a void, not one of my own, one created by a new Geno. The new code felt sickly to me, this idiot had no idea what he was doing, but I could fix that. By the end of the fight, if you could even call it that, his dust laid at my feet, a hollow pain echoing in my soul, but before I could destroy the timeline….

A voice from the past came echoing back.

“Geno, I’m here to visit!” Reaper’s voice echoed through the void. My body stiffened at the sound, so this is what he had been doing? Got in a fight with me so he just found a replacement? A new geno, someone with the same face, personality, a clean slate…

I couldn’t help but laugh. 

“What- Error!” Reaper growled, and by the time I turned to see him, he had his scythe ready to fight. So quick to jump to attack the one he claimed to love, not that I was that person anymore, Geno died a long long time ago.

“Long time no see Reaper,” I said, I doubt he remembered, I probably wasn’t even the first Geno he played with. I pressed my fingers to my face for a moment before pulling the brightly colored yarn away from my blackened cheekbones, “Do you wanna play too?” I asked, the pain numbing.

“You killed him,” He began staring at the dust that greyed my feet. He charged, probably mad I broke his new toy, so I dodged.

“What? Miss him already? Oh please Reaper, I know this isn’t the first Geno you’ve played with. Just another toy broken in your miserable toy box right?” 

“You know NOTHING!!” He yelled while swinging his scythe at me, his rage would be his downfall in this fight. 

I was right, the fight ended quickly as Reaper made a mistake and ended up caught in my lines, hands tangled above his head.

“I know nothing?” I asked leaning in, holding the ends of the yarn that tangled him up oh so beautifully. “Is that true? Do I really know nothing? I mean you’ve been Geno hopping for as long as I can remember, their sad faces crying out for you, yet you never come. You never save them, you never saved him.”

“Him?” He asked, he looked so deliciously defeated, like I had destroyed something he actually cared for.

“Geno? All of them, everyone I have ever destroyed.” 

“Did you?” He began.

“Of course I did, they all became dust at my feet. Which is really a shame, dust is so hard to wash out.” 

“Did you kill a Geno, 11,000 days ago?” He asked, wow, color me impressed, he remembered.

“What’s so important about that Geno in particular? He’s just another abomination snuffed out.” 

“He was my Geno, now tell me, did you kill him, 11,000 days ago?” He asked again, his Geno? Me? He was lying, trying to get under my skin. If I had any.

“Yes, I killed Geno, and I watched him scream, I watched him slowly become insane, from loneliness, from guilt, from pain. 11,000 days alone, and I watched, and then, when I became bored with watching his insanity, I killed him.” I said expressionlessly. Reaper’s eyes went dark. “I mean, did you really care about him, you left him alone for so long!” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I cared,” He whispered.

“Excuse me?” I said dryly.

“I cared more than I have ever cared about anyone.” Reaper continued.

“You cared about some random Geno that you ran away from?” I couldn’t help but ask as I leaned forwards to look into his deep dead eyes. “You left him alone, to go insane.” I said simply, “you two get in a fight over something that was killing him inside and you left him.” 

“I didn’t mean to!” Reaper snapped looking up at me, “I couldn’t get back in! I couldn’t open a portal or anything to his void! I tried to go back to apologize but I couldn’t!” He said now tears began to fall.

“You tried?” I said dryly, “you tried?” I began to laugh, “well obviously Reaper, you didn’t try hard enough!” Now I was yelling, the same painful rage as the day I left filled me. “You left me there alone to suffer for years on end! 15 years of isolation 15 YEARS of being alone and you…. YOU…!” I yanked on the yarn to pull him upright into, what looked like, a rather uncomfortable position. “You tried,” I growled, my anger, my frustration….

“You?” The light returned to his eye as he looked at me.

“Me?” I asked, “What about me? You left Geno alone!” I snapped.

“No, you said I left you alone, Error…” he paused.

“Hah! No, I didn’t,” The anger was quickly replaced with stomach-turning anxiety. 

“Error where did you come from?” Reaper asked while looking my body over. “How were you made?” I wanted to hide, remove his wandering eye lights from me.

“That’s a little personal don’t you think?” I asked, feeling sick.

“You’re the one that started monologuing and slipped up. Now tell me, Error, where did you come from.” The look he gave me made me feel like I hadn’t felt in over 30 years. I grabbed my chest with my free hand and looked down. 

“It really isn’t any of your business,” I stated.

“I really think it is Geno,” his words made the yarn slip from my hands, releasing him and dropping the other skeleton to the ground. It took him a moment to recover but he stood. “Now, tell me what happened.” He could see right through me, see right through the lies, through this character I had made.

“Don’t call me that,” I said simply, arms dropping to my sides.

“Alright, Error,” He got up and came to me, hands sliding down my arms before taking my hands in his. His touch, though it did make me flinch, it also made me feel like that love-struck puppy I once was. It wasn’t as scary. “Tell me what happened.” I found myself unable to stop once I started, telling him my new life story, the pain, the tears, everything. Damp dark yarn ran down from his empty socks, sticking to my cheeks as he listened to me, one hand gently brushing over my cheekbone as he hushed me, I pushed him back.

“Reaper,” I said my voice cracking from the pain, “I can’t.” my voice broke my own tears falling. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he hushed me more silently as he pulled me into his arms, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other rubbing circles into my shoulder. I could more glitches coat me but… he was okay... “The loneliness was crushing.”

“It's okay, I am so sorry I left you like that, I tried to go back and apologize, I promise, I’ll be right next to you the whole way, I promise I won’t leave you again,” I swore into my ear. 

“But Reaper,” I started with voice trembling, “What am I going to do?” I asked, “I’m no longer the person you love.” 

“Error no,” He said pulling back and resting a hand on my cheek, “No no my love, it doesn’t matter who you are, Sans, Geno, Error, I don’t care. I know who I love, and that’s you.” His words made me melt into him, returning into his arms as the tears fell heavier. I just wanted to stay there, in his grip as he protected me from the pain I had felt for all these years without him. He hushed me as I sobbed, the crushing loneliness finally lifting off my shoulders as I just melted into the man I loved’s arms. His hands gently ran over me as he tried to comfort me, trying to hide his own tears. “I am so sorry my love, I love you more than the worlds themselves.” 

Day 1 with Reaper again.

[writersplight]

A COMPARISON

AN: I feel I should include a content warning of some kind. There's nothing explicitly done wrong or said, but there is this hint at past bad sex experiences, and well as vague sex talk. ——— When Erwin talks, even if it’s directed at her, his words are chosen precisely. He could be talking to anyone really, and his words float through her like she’s air. It was never full conversations, just words floating from his mouth to her ears, with flat responses. There are hidden messages behind his words, and it takes learning how to decipher him to figure it out. Yet, they are forced and hollow. When Onyankopon talks, it's engaging. He’s fully listening to whatever she has to say, even if it’s nonsense, with questions and the perfect amount of eye contact. In return, she listens to all his facts about airplanes and zeppelins he has to offer. How can she not? His smile is so warm and inviting, she can’t help but sit down with a kettle of tea and hear him explain the mechanics of it all.

When Erwin would touch her, it would be quick, with specific purpose, and fleeting. Even when there were no meetings, no eyes on them except for the moon—completely devoid of life and love. It had to be initiated by him, whenever it was convenient for him. She’d be putty in his hands, though, soaking up every second. It was rare he had any semblance of “vulnerability” with her. Every touch was over way too soon, leaving her with an emptiness to deal with. She always pushed it down, making excuse after excuse for him. With Onyankopon, he listens. His touches are experimental, and he never does anything without asking. The first time they slept together, he reassured her that she wasn’t there for a quick, meaningless fuck. He just thought they should share a bed—he made some comment about how Ena mentioned cuddling earlier in the evening, but she refuses to acknowledge that as her full offer. That isn’t to mention the first time they had sex. She didn’t know the bedroom could be so. . . Satisfying. She was brought up on the idea that her life should be dedicated to pleasing a man in one way or another. The idea of actually living outside of that is a concept she only dreamt of when she ran away from home at the naive age of seventeen. Now, at almost thirty-nine years old, she’s faced with what she wants. And Ena’s never been so confused. At this point, her life is so much different than it was when she joined the Survey Corps at twenty-one. She had options beyond “kill the enemy and live another day”. Beyond “constantly prove how worthy you are”. Everything she wanted, and yet everything was so confusing. She kept expecting Onyankopon to snap and become impatient with her, or to up and leave altogether. But he didn’t. And he hasn’t. There’s no ultimatum with him. It’s always a fair and just compromise. At this point, laying awake at night, listening to him breathing, she realized how unfair it was to compare Erwin to Onyankopon. No one could compare to the openness he willingly shares with Ena. He’ll talk with her for hours about feelings and coping mechanisms, and if he does manage to step over a boundary, he sets time aside to fully hear her side, and to apologize. Rolling onto her side, Ena remembers the first time she initiated that she wanted to have sex with Onyankopon. She was really nervous “taking the lead”, but he was into it. He’s a hell of a listener, that’s for sure. It was a new territory for her, and he was always asking questions and for consent. There was a moment when she became hyper-aware of her surroundings, causing her to become still. That familiar stillness, the lifeless corpse of herself that was waiting for life to be pumped into it. She hated it. Suddenly, the pleasure was stimulating in all the wrong ways, and there was too much air in her lungs and not enough. “Is this—” “God, please stop!” His movements stopped immediately, concerned. She’s never shouted like that. She was never shaking like that. Or still. He pulls out, and gives her space. When Ena sits up, the room seems to turn with her in the middle. She didn’t know when Onyankopon left, or how the water got in her hands, or why she was crying so hard. She didn’t do anything wrong, but she held the guilt of every quiet woman in her bloodline. Onyankopon didn’t do anything wrong, but he did feel bad for not noticing sooner. Like most things in her life, her symptoms were quiet. They crept up on her, and she didn’t blame him. He put an arm under her, with permission, to help her sit up. He put a blanket around her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” she whispers, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief that was handed to her. “Did I hurt you in any way?” “What? Of course not! You’re so good to me, and you know what you're doing, I just—” Ena pauses, and her eyes drop to her hands because telling Onyankopon about her previous relationship was always so hard. She always felt bad for wanting better, due to the circumstances she was faced with before on the island. She made sure to clarify Erwin never

intentionally hurt her, and meant his best. Even still, he would focus on his own pleasure, and believe that if he was feeling good, so was Ena. Not true, but she restated that he didn't know, and she couldn't help because she didn't know how to please herself. Onyankopon nodded along, sipping his own glass of water. He didn't villainize her past "boyfriend"—in quotes because they were together, but they weren't able to slap an official label on it. Even still, he had to wonder why she put up with him for so long. “I don’t know why,” she admits quietly, and he realized he asked that out loud. He began to apologize, but she assured him there was no need. After all, she was beginning to wonder about herself. “I used to say ‘because I love him’, right? But now that I have freedom right now. . . I’m sure it was a form of love, but it’s nothing like what we have. I just feel bad for constantly bringing him up, Onyankopon. He’s just the only frame of reference I have.” “And maybe an unintentional source of trauma?” he wondered, and Ena shrugged. She knew that was right, but it was a lot to admit. She didn’t want to admit that about her dead boyfriend. “It seems to me that he’s the reason you’re hesitant all the time. I don’t mind it, you're open to talking through your problems, but I’m concerned as to why he’s still got a death grip on your decisions. . . No pun intended, I promise!” He sees how her face twists up with this visible guilt. He puts a hand on her thigh. “I could be in the wrong, it’s okay to tell me that—” “I know, but I don’t think you’re wrong. But I don’t want to complain about the life I had in Paradis. It feels. . . Wrong,” she finally looks back at him. Even in a moment like this, he was so goddamn pretty. “You can still love someone even though they’ve traumatized you. It’s nuanced, Ena. For a situation as complicated as yours, there will always be nuance.” He explains. “Yeah?” she turns to face her lover with a nervous smile. “So you’re not upset with me that I yelled at you to stop?” “Of course not! I could never be mad at that. I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner.” She didn’t hold him in contempt, and told him that. She was just overstimulated in all the wrong ways. It happens sometimes. When he suggested relaxing for the rest of the night, she agreed. It started with a shower, where Onyankopon cleaned her hair so nicely. She used her lavender soap that he buys for her to wash his body, loving the idea that he’ll smell like her when he’s out and about in the morning getting groceries. Then he brewed some fancy tea blend bought from Levi’s shop, and they read some book Armin Arlert published, with in depth illustrations and diagrams by Jean Kirschtein. They go on explorations of other countries, studying various plant life and bugs. Weird, considering the ocean is bigger and far more interesting, but it was a good read nonetheless. And Ena totally didn’t slip and nearly cracked her head open when she stepped out of the shower. Nope. Onyankopon catching her and holding her close was merely him showing affection, and not caused by her slipping. It totally was, she’s just embarrassed. Months later, now, she rolls over to face him. He’s so sweet and patient with her. Not to say she isn’t patient with him, it’s just the first time that it isn’t stressful. Ena almost feels like she doesn’t deserve him. He understands her in a way that she’s never known—not to mention he can cook, clean, and understands that sometimes people just want alone time. Oh, and he loves taste-testing her experimental meals. As well as taking her flying on whatever complicatedly named airship he loves. And the way they pick each other’s brains. . . It’s sort of unfair to compare Erwin Smith to her current boyfriend. She can’t help it, she was raised in a society where comparing one another was supposed to be inspiration. Ena never felt inspired by having her hair, her eyes, her nose, her body, or her strength compared to someone else. It felt like an insult above all else. She knew, however, that Erwin liked

that challenge of trying to “best” someone, and that probably hasn’t changed since he died. Ena was okay with that.

[psalloacappella]

Red (oneshot)

Title: Red  Pairing: SasuSaku legit i don’t write anything else  Word Count: 3400~ Rating: E, for like explicit, not for everyone. NSFW. Ya get it. Tags/What you’ll see: Sakura getting the office and oral she deserves 

Summary: An old dress, a new office — Uchiha Sasuke offers regards to both.

Ao3 | FFN |  ↓

(I have to preface when I post this that my top-tier amazing friend convinced me to do so and reminded me not to delete it this morning in the cold sober dawn lol. I consider this absolutely self-indulgent)

.

.

.

“Ah, Sakura?”

Jade eyes alight and ringed with red, her subordinate regrets interrupting what seems to be a bout of sickness or sadness; she’s been busy lately. They all are.

Spine bent in bass clef camber, in exhaustion, she straightens at his words into a ramrod illustration of diligence. Over scrolls and haphazard paperwork, empty mugs sitting in their own fossilized dregs, she snatches up a fountain pen to preserve her dignity and reputation. At her age she’s been handed enormous tasks that she only imagined in her wildest dreams, and most of those, in the past, were of love and marriage and not the nightmares and duties which replaced them.

Extreme stress manifests in mysterious and chaotic ways; she intuitively knows this, especially today, as she basks in the quiet glances, the way their eyes follow her long, long legs leading into ankles in heels that feel like cages. Her choice of a dress underneath her white coat today feels like a wanton beacon, but her battle reputation precedes her, legendary and terrifying; no one will dare blithely approach legs like those or earn the ire of her dangerous hands, so delicate until they’re crushing mountains and throats.

Electricity, a buzzing in the marrow of her bones; she taps the pen on the desk in a stilted rhythm.

She regards the young medic with a hazy gaze for a moment, then waves a hand. “Sorry, I’m just—”

He steps over the threshold; Sakura raises her chin, lips taut.

“No no, I’m sorry,” he insists. Under her bright eyes he feels the beginnings of idiocy and bumbling; his boss makes him tongue-tied, stupid. Younger than him, in a league of her own as she stands at shoulders with new legends; lethal, inured to all the stories about herself.  

He notices the ochre on her lips like an invitation.

“I wouldn’t come too close today,” she says. Grants him a demure smile, the type that doesn’t quite fool her friends but still works with fools like him. “I’m not feeling the best. It could be contagious, and that wouldn’t be helpful to our operations right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Agreeing, nodding fervently with the obedience of a particularly compliant breed of dog. “If I may — you work so much. Too young to be feeling so tired.”

A laugh, it bubbles — starts from her chest as a giggle and drips from her lips as honey. Makes her quake, mottled red seeping through the skin of her chest as a sieve, collarbones sharp.

She looks feverish; she looks like a dream.

In turn she struggles to keep the waver out of her voice, knowing she’s lit up as fulgent as rouge festival lanterns and there's no way to kill the current.

I’ll never live this down — have to get him out of here

The cough she musters up is weak and if this was Ino, or gods forbid, her teacher, they’d call it pathetic. For a young man trapped in her sphere of admiring attraction, it does nothing but induce sympathy. But her legs are shaking, the situation is dire, and she’s loath to have another round of torrid rumor on the flapping lips of civilians and staff.

“Ah!”

At her cry, she lets her temple fall into her hand and her subordinate rushes forward. Gasping, she raises her other one, trembling.

“No, please. That sounded worse than it was. Just a headache coming on. In fact,” she rasps, “if you can let Shizune know I’ll be taking the next hour to recoup? A nap, maybe that’ll help.”

“I don’t know if I can leave you like this.” His tentative step earns her sharp gaze again, pursed lips that start his mind wandering in a way that makes him blush. Physically shaking his head to clear it, he nods slowly, finally, backing out of the doorway.

The hollow sound of Sakura’s kneecap hitting the underside of the desk rings in the space. Her gullible underling starts forward again, but the foreboding slap of her hand on the desk stops him cold. Acute, like it’s one to the face.

Sakura brings her knees together, swift, crushing his damn near regal bone structure and the handsome high bridge of his nose between the muscle of her thighs. A warning.

She glances down at him, he’s slicked with sweat — the glimpse of his glittering black eye and swirling purple one bring her too close to a wave she can’t indulge; she’s still this unwanted visitor’s boss until he closes the fucking door.

“Just me being clumsy! Do as I’ve asked and let her know, and,” here her breath hitches, hand leaving the desk, fingers burying themselves in dark messy hair, “th-thank you for worrying. I appreciate it.”

She’ll pay for the smile she gives this man, a sparkle of hope, like he’ll ever earn his boss’s favor in that way, as if he’ll measure up in any lifetime to the man that has her heart, the man on his knees under her desk.

“Sure. I mean,” horrified at his own too-familiar tone, “of course, right away, ma’am. Miss. I—”

“Oh go now. ” It stutters out in jete musical meter, resembling pain — or other things. “Please.”

She doesn’t have to tell him to close the door, though she’s surprised he didn’t find another excuse to stay with her. Oh, he has it bad. But there’s no time to think —

Sinking into her chair, her hands grip the armrests with an intensity that forces music from them, cracking underneath her fingers. And now all the words of the last few minutes tumble from her lips, an unintelligible medley of curses and pleas cradling the half-formed shell of his name.

Without warning, she yanks him back by the hair and almost comes right there:  His eyes scalding her, the mess on his stupid and incredibly fuckable face, a talented and dangerous mouth settling into a smirk as he thumbs an errant bit of her off his lip.

“That was close. Ah, so are you.”

He says it with such smugness and vanity. Quivering in her office chair under nothing but his stare, still in the grips of the unrelenting buzz and hum he’s enticed, and he absolutely notices.

“One of these days, we’ll be caught!” Tries to sound stern even as he rolls his neck and shoulders with a pithy nonchalance. “Stop that. So arrogant, preening like that—”

“Me? That’s rich.” He lazily trails a finger from her swollen, hot clit to her opening, lingering and lush to force all the heat and sounds he’s craving — her fingernails dig into her thigh while the pallor of her skin and dress seep and marry, reflections of one another. “Why did you wear this, Sakura?” Nudges the fabric with his nose, and she mumbles something hazy under his resumed touch; lost in orbit, in a void, in a place unearthly.

He starts the routine again, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Frowns at the irritating strip of fabric that constitutes clothing; it’s been twisted and pushed aside anyway. Her skin burning against his face, a lean cord of muscle taut underneath her pale skin. Vaguely threatening, but she’s yet to crush him to death and he’s on the second round of bringing her there and back again, and close calls such as those seem to stoke something smoldering. Some days, it feels like the only thing worth pulling himself out of bed for.

He fucks like he fights:  Relentless, consuming. But that essential difference for the former is he never gives an inch; here, he pours it all in, something like an endless apology. Maybe she knows and that’s why she wears the red dress he won’t admit he prefers and paints her lips and runs the entirety of this village hospital system with grace and her own brand of gentle ascendancy — why he’s desperate for just the ragged edge of danger.

One of her legs shudders, the frenzied tap-tap-tap of her heel stammering against the floor in a cadence fit for instruments. “Sasuke-kun.”

Between the presses of his lips leading a hot, agonizing march back to her core, an arrogant noise in his throat escapes, rich and amused. “So this — is your new office?”

“Mmm,” she confirms, still clinging to the chair. The only support she has; the room’s spinning and every cell is vibrating, pink eyebrows knitted as she fights to remain upright and solid and somewhat human because the door’s not locked and she knows he knows, knows he doesn’t care and frankly neither, really, does she. Melting like basalt in unending, stifling heat.

Calloused fingers walk up the soft skin of her calf, catching and searing, sundering the delicate layer where they brush to release the pent-up steam underneath.

He’s fire; she is earth.

Always, all of him ablaze —  possessive in its own discipline but a thing begging for taming. He builds the pyre here, as he has been for the last hour or so, to focus himself, patiently coaxing it into something chaotic but fruitful. Lately all he’s felt is the joyless, sober embodiment of a tool to be used though perhaps this is the same, a compulsion by any other name.

But it can’t be, not with her looking like this. Striding down her hallways with purpose while bending the horrors and ills of the world to her indomitable will. Certainly this dress is no accident, as it never is, not with him coming off a mission full of blood and necessary evil.

Dragging the thin, sorry excuse for fabric down the burning skin of her leg, Sasuke’s tongue finds her clit with terrifying precision and rips a moan from her throat, pulling a jerk of her hips against his mouth. The shockwave shared, vibrating as wires intertwined, a forcible current.

Leans back, takes her in:  Her trembling, knuckles white from the fatal grip on the arms of the chair, knees sinking inward toward one another. The sight of this rich red dress against the stark, starched white of her coat blending with the mottled pinks and crimsons painting her cheeks and chest. Unraveling before him, extraordinary, even while this space belongs to her.

This, sometimes, feels like undeserved forgiveness.

Because she is always, always in living color.

Adjusts his own knees, shifts, a catch of air in his throat as he accommodates the hard length of his own caged cock. They’re no stranger to claiming desks and other surfaces as their own, but she has strings on him and there's authority in here now, where she holds men at the door with a flicker of her gentle jade eyes borne of the grueling process which created her.

Sliding the useless fabric into his pocket, raises his chin to her. Stares as she bites her lip and struggles for composure, though it’s difficult under the gaze of a man like this.

He waits, and the only sounds are ragged breathing from both.

“Please,” she whispers. Quivering, even at the ask. “Before someone comes back.”

“You worry so much,” he says. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“What did I tell you,” he hisses, “about apologies?”

She blinks, startled, and her lips part. A sparkle, a brilliance emerging in her eyes as she clenches and unclenches her fingers. Still, they shake a bit, the anticipation and remnants of the rise and current before still lingering, lying in wait. Predatory. A wetness floods to her lips and she swallows it down, leveling her eyes to his glittering, savage gaze.

With a deep inhale, she spreads herself before him, knees apart. Blushing invisible, lost in the red that’s already dappled every inch of her, she exhales the rest of her timidity with an edged, sharp expression and hopes she’s being clear—

Sakura just barely glimpses the fierce red in his gaze before he answers with his tongue, deft, ardent, and divine.

Breaking the chair arms beneath her delicate hands again, scrabbling to stay on the beautiful planet before it turns her loose. Sinking, again, the boundaries of atoms dissolving — they are nowhere but bliss.

Like before, the careful building of a fire, the agonizing escalation:  He drops a kiss here, employs a firm tongue there, skirting the easy option in favor of the tease as he peels her back, layer by layer. Running it the length of her slit, heart skipping a bit at the dangerous quake of her thigh muscle; how long it's taken to differentiate between pleasure and impending crush. Again, the sensation of crawling into the den of something prized and feral. He feels it, her writhing and the pace and canter of her breathing and she’s liquid gold, fucking melting —

Her hips jerk, hard, when his tongue swirls around her clit, the cry coming from her jagged as broken glass and trembling like music, all things that make his own situation difficult to manage but he will, because these sounds entrench him firmly in reality. Alive. Knees screaming on the hardwood floor, unyielding as his cock cradled only by fabric and not as he wishes, by her hands or her red, red lips like the kind she’s wearing now.

Instead he slows her down again, pendulum swings between teasing and a furious rhythm that coaxes the full spectrum of human sounds from her beautiful throat. Rewarded for it with a whiny gasp as if breaking the surface of water, mingling with his own as he catches his breath. The end of it careens into words, something rough, he’s not even quite sure what he’s saying but he imagines, neither does she.

This—fucking dress—!

Nice, isn’t it?

Gets you attention

But only from you, S-Sasuke-kun

And her hand lands on his head again, thin fingers yanking his hair and guiding him as he splays her open, lays her bare. His name never quite fully leaves her lips, dancing with fragments of alternating pleas and curses. Just for that, for something he’d never thought he’d ever hear in his life, he grimly knows he’d write a fucking sonnet just to hear her like this — and with his tongue, he does, or at least approximates. The tremors of her shift deeper now, approaching release; she’s so slick it feels vile, indulgence in sin. All of which is smeared on his lips, his face, tasting of tang and salt; how many times has he been told he’s selfish? Guilty. Greedy, too, as he pauses to breathe—

looking up at her, he has an idea but can’t possibly know the extent of this, how she’s absolutely wrung out and beyond this dimension, hell, this galaxy, every inch of her humming in tune with the universe and brimming with absolute, inescapable heat, muscles taut and and begging for climax. Though the soft edges of her green eyes that see through him and everything else, rolling back, mouth open and lips parted in mimeo of an oracle, sunken in the weight of divinity, might give him some clue.

Don’t stop, please—!

— he’s there, with his fingers buried and soaked and deep, playing that just-right rhythm with a thumb on her clit that’s been worked to the edge and back again over the span of her busy afternoon. Hairs part from his scalp without remorse; her nails scrabbling and fingers clinging as she prays and sighs and curses occasionally, quietly, into the limp back of her hand. As if she’s really still trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism in the throes of being launched into orbit.

So very close. He knows by the slightly erratic rhythm, the pulsating of muscles inside and out and around him, tight and he steals a quick breath to endure and ease his fingers out to redouble effort with his mouth because the way she’s sounding, that sharp icy note on the ragged edge of pleasure and pain, tends to be the signal, the tipping point. The tremor her free hand sends through the bones of the chair. Knees apart as far as she can manage and desperately meeting him at the hilt —

Steady through until the end.

Release comes as glass shattering, atoms splitting. Unintelligible words trapped in amber, in a moment, in desire. With a mouth full of fire, he rides it with her through every wave, persisting through her slow and ebbing tumble back down to earth. To him.

He leans back at last, groaning at the pain in his knees. Watches her tremble and twitch, wringing out the very last dregs of her orgasm, displacing everything coherent left in her head.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and he gets to his feet as she languishes in a pool of pleasure, steeping as scalding tea.

At some point her hand rises to her own lips, limp and wavering, to clean her own unabashed drippings with an expression of dizzy surprise. The white dissipates from her vision and she finds his eyes on her again, one still richly red in its sole mission of memorizing the glowing after.

“Oh.” That’s all she says, breathless.

Sasuke brings fingers across his own mouth, rolls his jaw side to side, and something about his expression of smug satisfaction resonates, strings of a plucked instrument, a pull again of desire that threatens to ruin the sanctity of this brand new office and the role that comes with it.

For a moment she leverages the chair to rise, then loses strength — she lowers herself back in it, arms still quaking.

She reaches for him, plucking at his shirt. Hair flyaway, askew from her frenzied fingers, still in his mission gear.

Yanking him down by the collar, she crashes her mouth against his, red and hot, the tang and taste of herself immiscible with his own. Whatever sound he makes, this growl or rumble or ache, splits them open.

What pulls them apart is the grating sound of their former sensei’s voice:  “I heard from a bird that someone in here was sick?”

Sasuke feels them in the room now and pulls away. Half-turns, finds himself leaning on her desk in a way that’s almost too casual, but necessary — his knees are shot through. Sakura smiles too widely, masking a secret; after all, both still feel the pinpricks of liquids drying in the new air.

“From your darling subordinate,” Kakashi twinkles, grinning underneath his mask.

“That one who follows you around like a puppy,” Naruto supplies, pouting.

Kakashi tilts his head toward him, both still lingering over the threshold. “Terrible, hm?”

Naruto misses the jibe and instead turns his wide ocean eyes on her new space. Whistles. “Man, Sakura-chan, this office is niiice. I’m jealous.”

“You’ll be in your new one soon enough,” she says, and there she is, her usual self. “I have faith. Anyway, this office comes with responsibility.”

“Well if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“He was under the impression you were sick. Looking at you now, though,” and here Kakashi pauses in a manner all too deliberate, eyes sweeping over Sasuke’s cloak and belongings in a chair, and ends it with looking right at him, “you seem all right. Exhausted, I imagine.”

Her flush threatens to undo them both.

“He’s . . . sweet. To care.”

“He’s a fool,” Sasuke mutters.

“Perfect, you’re dressed nice,” Naruto crows. “How did you know we’d come make you celebrate? You didn’t eat, I bet you didn’t!” He eyes Sasuke up and down, at his unusually ruffled appearance, and clicks his tongue. “You didn’t even go home first, did you? Shitty boyfriend.”

The damage he committed on his recent mission pales in comparison to the crimes Sasuke wants to indulge now.

“Anyway, we’ll wait out here. After all,” Kakashi says, inclining his head, “this is your space now.”

Sakura exhales long and slow as they step out into the hallway. Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “No matter my job, I’ll never escape embarrassment, huh?”

Standing at last, she readjusts her clothes and kisses the underside of Sasuke’s chin. She reaches for his pocket and he moves easily out of her grasp.

“Sasuke-kun!”

“Pointless now. I’ll keep it.”

No matter what time, season, dimension, he regards all of her — the dress, the lips that held their color, the new flush simmering on her neck and chest — and craves, endeavors, to always love her red.

[iicytodoroki]

Jealous! Kageyama Tobio x Manager! Fem! Reader NSFW

WC: 1.7k

Warnings: explicit smut, explicit language, degradation

Synopsis: You and your boyfriend are in your second year in high school. You’re attending Aoba Johsai and him to Karasuno. Kageyama just finished his first match and knew your match should be ending. On his way to your assigned gym, he sees you trying to get the last of the towels to meet up with the guys, until he sees a tall, smug brunette in teal and white casting himself over you.  

Neatly folding the sweat-soaked towels into the team bag and topping it with the empty water bottles, I begin to zip up the bag before the next team comes in. Right when I was about to turn the corner of the doors my face collided with a nylon chest. Craning my head up, I’m met with the smirking face of Kenji Futakuchi, third year captain of Date Tech.  We were well acquainted if you overlook the flirtatious comments and persistent date requests. However, I needed to meet up with the team to drop off the stuff, so I could watch the rest of the matches with Tobio.

“Apologies Futakuchi-san, please excuse me,” I nodded. 

Before I could pass him, he grabbed my forearm to push me against the wall. One of his hands over the side of my head to hold him up, while the other that was once holding my forearm was slowly trailing down to my hand. 

He brought his face close to mine saying, “That’s all YN-chan? ‘Futakuchi-san’? I thought we passed that.” Hearing this, I could only frown at him.

“Kenji-san, I would highly appreciate it if you let me go to my team and see my boyfriend.”

His hand was now holding mine! I looked down to yank it, but he started to talk next to my ear.

“You mean that ‘boyfriend’ of yours that barely gives you any attention?” Futakuchi continued, “If I were in his shoes, I’d give you all--”

Futakuchi couldn’t even finish his sentence when he got shoved away. I even felt the swoosh of the air through my hair. That’s when I felt the rough, long hands of my Tobio encase mine. 

“She doesn’t want anything you have to offer,” Tobio spat back at Futakuchi. Not giving Futakuchi a second glance, my eyes were only trained on Tobio's face as we walked away. 

Tobio was still lost in his thoughts, so I took the opportunity to yank his arm into one of the empty locker rooms. Nobody was around, and it seemed like this part of the gym was left unused for the rest of today. So Tobio yanked my arm to a secluded stairway and brought both of us underneath it; it was the size of a storage closet.

“Tobio I know what you’re going--”

“He shouldn’t have been able to get that close to you in the first place,” he cut me off

When I finally craned my neck to look up at him, his bangs casted a shadow over his frowning face. He really hated Futakuchi.

“He keeps talking to you and never takes the message, it pisses me off,” Tobio’s arm locked me in place against the wall. His free hand caressed the top of my head, as if to reassure me he isn’t mad at me but at the loft captain. Doe-eyed, I didn’t realize he was inching towards my neck and his hand that was once on my head was crawling up from my knee to my thigh.

“I guess I need to make more obvious marks that you clearly have a,” he grips your hip and suckles on your sensitive spot, “attentive boyfriend.”

Giving into his heated love bites, I just grabbed onto his broad shoulders. Knees are buckling when he soothes the more deep bites with his hot tongue. 

“Tobio…”

“Mhmm?” Without much care of what I was going to say next, Tobio’s hands unzipped my jacket and his cold, lithe fingers gently breezed over my skin. 

Gasping at the sudden coldness, his hands went under the bra and started massaging my chest with the nipples going in between his rough fingers; while the other hand was tweaking. 

In a complete hot daze, I grabbed his face again to muffle the unholy moans in his mouth. Our tongues pushing each other for dominance until Tobio’s shoved mine and his went to the back in my mouth. He clearly had some “frustrations” to let out. 

At the almost complete submission of him, I traced my hand down from his shoulders, abs, pelvis, reaching his semi-hard. For a second-year and semi-hard, the outline was still too much for my hand to wrap around. Nonetheless, I palmed him and right away I could feel him twitch and groan.

“Hhng, YN”

With confidence I said, “What is it Tobio?” When teasing him, I only traced a single finger around. “What do you want?”

Tobio wasn’t able to respond in words for a few moments, just furrowed brows while panting on my neck. That is until he regained his mental strength to say in a deep, lust-filled tone,”I want your mouth.”

Frozen at his sudden change, my hand stopped and looked at him. He had that look, the same look when he wanted to bring someone down; only this time he had this carnivorous smirk with his blown-out blue eyes. 

Not able to collect enough thoughts for a cheeky retort, I was already on my knees with the slight push of his hands on my shoulders. In front of me was his now hardened cock. Eyes widened at how big he is now and my thighs rubbing in an attempt to alleviate the ache, I could feel the pooling wetness I now made. 

Bringing my face up to Tobio, speechless at how dirty the situation was going to be, he nudged my mouth open, slipping his thumb in. Instinctively, I held his wrist and sucked while swirling my tongue around his appendage; making sure I keep eye-contact with him. Having enough, he took his thumb out saying, “Just like that babe,” then tugging his sweats and underwear down all at once.

Head red with glistening pre-cum, I licked up his slit making him shiver. I have him in my hand.

Taking advantage of the positions, I never took him in my mouth fully, only padding my tongue on the underside, pushing on that prominent vein of his; hands only gripping his base, never really pumping. Tobio’s hands were keeping him steady against the walls, “S-stop playing YN”

Smirking at his messy state, “No way Tobio, you look li--”

Not able to finish my sentence, Tobio shoved his cock in my mouth, the head grazing my uvula; which caused me to gag a bit, making him grip the back of my head with a moaning groan. Knowing I’m adjusting Tobio didn’t move until he felt my tongue slicking up his slit and circling around his head.

“F-fuck,” he breathed out. Tobio began thrusting while I hollow my cheeks. Whatever I could take in, I pumped from his base. His grip tightens a little more, but not painful, when I padded my tongue all around him. From his base to the ridges of his head, swirling back-and-forth.

“Argh, YN...I swear...I-hngI’m…”

Briefly I asked, “You’re going to what To--,” once again he cut me off when both his hands were at the sides of my head and thrusted into my wet cavern. Drool leaking at the corner of my mouth and tip of my nose hitting his pelvis. At the complete lost of thought and sensations of his large cock grazing all parts of my mouth, I had to grasp his thighs for stability. 

“MMff!” It was so hot feeling his ram into me, I could just imagine what it’d feel like if he was slipping inside the deepest parts of me. Eyes closed to just let Tobio use my mouth I heard him talk, “You’re my fucking cocksleeve,” he huffs, “these plump lips can only be covered by m-my cum”

Just lost in his actions, my arousal was starting to move down my inner thigh. 

“I’m so c-close YN…” Now gripping a hand at the back of my head, Tobio’s cock was so deep inside my mouth his plump head kept hitting the back of my throat. Only moans and whimpers were heard from me as I willingly tried to hold onto his hips since I had little to no strength in my fingers. 

After each thrust, Tobio just became faster and ravaged. He was panting and his eyes were locked on my face from above. The soft flesh of my cheeks felt the side veins and my throat could feel the slow trickle of his cum, ready to downpour. 

“This mouth is mine to use,” he held my chin making my eyes slightly open, “I’m going to fuck y-your mouth so good your throat is g-gonna…Mm!”

As he kept talking, he only went harder. Tobio had to use both hands to hold my head due to his brute force chasing after his high. My eyes rolled back at how he was deep throating me with Every. Single. Thrust. Drool was now slowly sliding down my neck. The fast thrusts while sucking made a tighter vaccum pressure in the inside of my mouth, actually making me suck him in more. Only Tobio’s sweaty panting and my moans were bouncing off the cramped walls under the stairs. 

“YN! I-I need,” before he could complete his sentence I knew what he meant. So I vigorously swirled my tongue at his head, licking the underside vein, contracted my throat which captured his head until he snapped. 

Tobio gripped both his hands to hold my face as he slowly thrusted his orgasim in. His hot strings of cum traveled down my throat and filled my hot mouth. When he was done, his now softening cock slipped through my quivering lips; corners and center bottom lip with trickling cum. Tucking himself in, Tobio grabbed me up and steadied me with his hands on my waist. Looking at him, he brought his index and middle fingers to collect his residue and push it back in my mouth. I tasted his slightly bitter cum on my tongue.

The silence quietly echoed my throat swallowing it. Smirking at his “job well done” he’d call it, he titled his head to give a full, loving kiss; tasting himself through me as he held me tighter. 

All of my strength was fully supported by him, we just stood there for a bit in each other’s embrace. 

“Don’t worry babe,” Tobio’s hand that was at the small of my back switched places to be slipping through my front into my underwear, “I intend to...Fully.

Return.

The.

Favor,” at each word his fingers brushed over my folds, “Times….Ten.”

Now two fingers in-between my slicked up folds, a shiver at his cold temperature went up my spine. Mouth opened at the surprise, he slipped out when he heard Ennoshita calling for us echo down the hallway. With a knowing smirk, he carried our bags and walked a few steps ahead acting as if nothing utterly sinful just happened. 

I guess I’ve always been in the palm of his hand.

[pathofcomet]

loving any of us is a death sentence, isn’t it?

fandom: ikemen vampire

pairing: isaac/MC

summary:  “I trust you,” she apologizes. / “Then you’re nothing but a fool,” he spits out. / But she knows it’s just because he’s watching her break his heart. (OR, MC returns back to the 21st century).

rating: explicit // word count: 5.4k // AO3

She has held Isaac throughout most of the night in her embrace, as he cried on her shoulder over his lost friend, over his newfound purpose and dear humanity, over the feelings that they share between each other. Back in his room, she has wiped his tears away, has allowed him to get lost in their kisses. And when the sighs turned into moans, when his cries turned from hurt to pleasure, she dropped to her knees in front of him, hands working fast to undo his belt, pull at his pants.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

His voice sounded soft, lost, needy – more than anything else. She said nothing, hands already working on his cock. Both of them still in their clothes, just his member out. Isaac’s cheeks burned, for they looked like nothing but two too desperate lovers, rushing for release.

Her mouth was close, blowing hot air over him, and he whined, pushing his hips closer. She kissed the tip of his cock, before her tongue started lapping around him. Isaac’s entire body shuddered, when she took him in, all of him past her lips – and she hollowed her cheeks, his hands flying to twist in her hair. Instinctually, needy, he started moving, pulling out a bit, entering her warmth again, fucking her mouth. She hummed, and he swore.

One of her hands was digging in his clothed thigh, painful despite the material. The other one started playing with his balls.

“Gods!” Isaac exclaimed, and her movements were meeting his, bringing him closer and closer to his release.

He tried to pull out, but her hands hooked around his waist, keeping him in place – and he came inside her. She sucked; opening her mouth to show him that all is gone once done. Isaac felt dizzy and light, and she chuckled, kissing the top of his dick again, helping him back into his clothes.

She laid him out in bed, playing with her hands in his hair. His hand tightened around her waist.

“What about you?” he asked.

She said nothing, just shook her head and kissed his forehead, held him close as sleep took him. She stayed like that for a long time, until the light of the morning started filtering through – and as careful as she could, she left him behind.

***

She’s still thinking of those shared moments, as she sits in an armchair in le Comte’s office, staring at her hands. Her dress, out of which she hasn’t changed yet, is stained in the blood of the person she loves the most, and his dead friend. The shirt turned red under her own blood is still unwashed, in one of the drawers in her room.

Her hands are trembling, as she’s staring at the hourglass on the table in front of her. She can barely see the sand left on top of it anymore. She’s terribly cold.

“Ma chérie…” Comte sighs, when he enters and notices her there. He looks exhausted.

He seems to have guessed what this is about, at least to some extent; and he doesn’t sound the least surprised. Oh well, she thinks, maybe this has been coming since the beginning, and no matter how much she fought against it, the epilogue of this story has already been written.

The cup of black coffee that he offers her shakes in her hold, and Comte is staring intently at her reactions, at the lost look in her eyes, at the determination in her shoulders.

“I want to return to my days,” she says.

The ticking of his clock goes on, ten times, before Comte sighs.

“Of course, ma chérie. No problem. But – does he know?”

A bit of the coffee spills on her already ruined dress. One of her hands is crumpling the material in her hold.

“He will,” she answers, vaguely.

His touch on her shoulder is comforting, and she leans just a bit into his touch.

“Can I do anything for you?” he asks, and his thumb is tracing patterns over her skin.

She wants to cry. Instead, she just shakes her head, gets up.

“Thank you for… everything, Comte.”

She somehow still manages to smile.

***

Isaac is late for breakfast, so Sebastian sends her up to his room instead. She wants to deny the task, but there’s no real excuse for it – and the last thing she wants is for the other men in the house to know what she has in her mind before the actual day.

He is awake, but still in bed, under his blankets; still somewhat lost into his own century. Her heart squeezes in her chest, as she places the tray on his desk, taking just the bottle of blanc with her. She can’t help getting close, kissing the top of his head in greeting. Isaac smiles at her – no, beams at her, like she’s bringing all the light in his life, like she’s the sun who makes the dark disappear. She almost throws up, steels herself instead.

If she can’t go through this, then she cannot expect of herself to pass the threshold of that door, back in the clutches of the 21st century life. It’s the beating of her heart, each one counting another second passing by, that eventually grounds her.

She watches him drink and eat, and she tries to memorize everything: the arch of his eyebrows, the delicacy in doing something as simple as that, the curve of his lips when he catches her eyes. She loves him so much she doesn’t have words, so much that it hurts.

“Isaac…” He looks up, something in her voice already telling him something is wrong. “Today is my last day here.”

He chokes.

“Wh-what?” he croaks, looking incredulously at her.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Where?” He asks dumbly, and he feels pathetic, and this is the first problem he ever encountered that he doesn’t have the immediate answer to.

She reluctantly glances up at him, her brows furrowing at the expression on his face, like he’s hanged in the moment before being stroked down. She moves a bit closer, cradling his face in her hands. He can’t fix his eyes on her.

“Two hundred years from now…. find me,” is all she says.

“Please,” he begs, holding onto her wrists. “You… You’re breaking my heart.”

She tries not to look at Isaac’s face, knowing that if she sees the expression on there, the resolve in her will break apart. But she cannot stay here, living and dying in a world unknown, just because she loves one man. Even if that man managed to so easily become her everything. She loves him, which is why she has the courage to be selfish.

“But I’m saving mine,” she whispers, and he rests his forehead on hers, trying to anchor himself.

If she is to live out the rest of the years left in her, then she wants to do it home. With him by her side, that would be bliss – but she doesn’t want it here. So, she compromises. Or rather, she asks a compromise of him.

If he is to still love her, centuries after her departure, then he will find her, waiting, in her own time. He sobs.

“You’re so unfair…”

She leans closer to him; his arms embrace her with ease, and she places kisses all over his face, feeling the salt in his tears on her lips. She won’t apologize for asking this of him, and he knows it. He can’t find it in himself to be upset over it.

“Isaac…,” she sighs out his name. “I’m just a human. My lifespan is nothing compared to the eternity laid out in front of you. I want to live it on my own terms.”

If he were to answer what haunts him most vividly, constantly, painfully from his life before, then it’s those few seconds of dying, when you know the darkness is coming, and yet there’s nothing you can do to fight it. The incredible fear of not actually coming back, even if he was promised it.

So he can’t hold it against her. He can only hold her close.

***

Dazai is the one accompanying her, the rest of the guys waiting for her next to the door. He shakes his head at her.

“This doesn’t sit well with me, Toshiko-san…”

“It’s okay,” she tries to smile. “It doesn’t have to.”

She makes them all wait until the very last minute, because there’s a particular someone who is missing from the gathering. She tries to excuse it as hugging everyone goodbye. Napoleon lingers a bit in his hold, reproach and hope mingled in his touch. She can’t look at him when she moves away.

Then le Comte’s hand is at her back, slowly pulling her out of her pain, guiding her back to where it all started in the first place. It feels like the time that passed is way longer than 25 days, and way shorter too.

“You should get going,” he says, and even his voice is gentle.

She touches the wooden door, takes a deep breath – then she hears steps, and her heart soars. She turns to the sound, and Isaac is standing in front of her, panting, dressed only in a white shirt, jacket forgotten behind: hurried and broken and, still, hers.

She refrains from touching him. He doesn’t come any closer. They stare at each other for a bit, so many unsaid words hanging between them.

“I trust you,” she apologizes.

“Then you’re nothing but a fool,” he spits out.

But she knows it’s just because he’s watching her break his heart. She turns her back to him, opens a door and walks through time. Her name, a chocked sob on his lips, is the last thing she hears.

***

She learns exactly 25 days have passed in her time as well. Paris, ten times more populated than two centuries ago, never felt so empty or lonely.

She’s late on rent; decides to search for a new place, and make this city in the heart of Europe her new permanent home; based on hope alone. She takes up a new language course. She writes long articles on the Van Gogh brothers, visiting multiple museums, researching. She visits England often, with her work. She falls a bit more in love with it every time, because it holds a part of him. She always makes time to check out at least one of the places in his memories. She fills an entire shelf in her apartment with novels that she thinks Isaac might grow to like, fallen in the gap of time that separates them.

So that when – if, she corrects, he returns, he will return knowing that she has waited for him.

One month after she returns, there’s a letter waiting for her in the mailbox. Only her first name on the envelope, no stamp. Her hands shake; she drops her keys three times before she’s able to get inside. She knows there’s no point in looking around her, le Comte probably having already left a long time ago.

She can recognize his handwriting too – on the paper inside the envelope as well. It’s dated 23 January 1889, and it’s a general update on everyone in the manor. She feels like she’s about to suffocate, her brain unable to make the time jumps that pure blood vampires seem to have no problems with. Still, she accepts it gratefully, cradles it at her chest. For many days in a row, the paper is left sitting on the side of the bed that she never occupies.

There’s only one sentence about Isaac: He’s drowning in his research, and it is telling her nothing, and it is telling her everything. She cries bitter tears, for him.

It doesn’t show the next night, when she works on a photoshoot. The phone numbers left by several workers, she throws them in the trash. She starts wearing a golden band on her ring finger, just so the attention dies out.

She’s aware, how stupid she might seem to the rational side of herself: building a future on the belief that several weeks of love will make-up for a betrayal worth centuries. But she’s anything but rational, as she moves on with her life.

And the letters never stop; so she must not be the only one stuck with the memories of those days stuck in her heart. Dazai and Sebastian co-write a letter in Japanese, dated 1906. Next comes a neat, small package: and inside she finds the ribbon she wore once, back when the constant feeling entirely bloomed in her heart now was just beginning to sprung. She stares at it, not knowing what to make of it – panic overtaking her, her breath hitching in her throat, sob half-formed stuck inside her body. Is this an echo of the past, a mirrored gift… or just Isaac’s way of saying there’s no need for him to have anything of hers? She still wears it.

Then comes Napoleon’s note: He’s counting down to the day he meets you, down to the seconds. It’s 1938 when he writes it – and she sticks it up on her wall. No matter how much she wants it, Isaac never writes to her directly. Still, isn’t it enough that he’s allowing the others to tell her all these things? No, the same selfish part of her that put her in this situation in the first place is saying, but she’s set on never asking anything of him ever again, in this wretched life that she decided to call his.

She spends afternoons piecing together the Isaac he’s becoming, in her absence. The distance keeps getting smaller, until – one day, on the first days of winter, she bumps into someone familiar while on her usual work routine.

“Theodorus?” her voice is weak, and yet the man in question still turns around, to look at her.

“Oh,” is all he says, and it feels like she’s just been cut in half by that single sound. He does his best not to flinch when she grabs his hand.

“Theo, please, is he… is he here?”

He grabs her hand, moves it away, and yet there’s still some kind of gentleness even in that refusal. She’s staring at her palms, trembling, before raising her head, facing him head on, repeating her question.

He shakes his head. The world tilts and she looks like she’s about to fain.

“Breathe, Knabbeltje,” Theo orders, and she does, hungry and desperate gulps of air. “He’s in England, for a while.”

She nods, turns on her heels and leaves. She cannot remember if she properly even thanked him. She played with time like she owned it, so she has no way of knowing if for a while means her entire lifetime or a few weeks or months. She drags her jacket closer to her body. She’s so, so cold.

***

She wears a red scarf; not to match all the Christmas cheer and decorations around her, but because it reminds her of Isaac’s most worn jacket. She meets no one; walks around the stalls, takes a couple of photos, tastes ginger bread and chocolate from various places, ends up with a hot cup of mulled wine in her hands, as she stops to admire this year’s Christmas tree.

She stands there for a while, content with just sipping from her drink, body turning colder and colder the more she doesn’t move. People are good at avoiding her, passing her by for photos in front of the lights, which is why the person stopping right by her side, just as unmoving as her, immediately catches her attention.

She checks her wristwatch, past midnight; she can feel the other’s eyes on her – and it’s a watch that’s been broken and repaired once, in the 19th century. She softly shakes the snowflakes from her scarf, and refuses to really look at whoever joined her when she speaks.

“Happy Birthday, Isaac.”

He hooks a hand around her elbow, pulling until she faces him. Where he touches her, her body warms up.

He carries over two centuries of separation, while she only had to wait months to see him again. A terrible burden to have him to bear; yet Isaac looks like he’s always done, when in her vicinity: lit up from the inside, with love.

She feels her feet giving out below her; he’s next to her, keeping her up, his arms looping around her waist. He’s so close now that she can’t think. He smells different now, soft soap and just the tiny bit of sweetness.

He hisses, hard, when she looks up at him and they make eye contact. He wants to let go, but she grabs him by his coat, keeps him right there, having her in his arms. His eyes go wide.

“Is it- you… you’re real? Is it you, indeed?”

She nods, biting her lower lip so she won’t cry. His fingers dig into her sides, painful even through the clothes. There’s something in his eyes that she didn’t see before – and she knows, that whatever choice she made on that day, it affected him more. And it was close to unbearable for her as it is.

“Speak,” he demands.

“Isaac,” she says, and he shivers against her. Of course, her voice is as it’s always been, maybe just tinged with a more desperate yearning around his name.

He kisses her, desperately, quite literally taking her breath away. His tongue is at her lips in an instant, hungry – and she opens her mouth against his eagerly. What distance is between them, the layers of clothes; it’s all too much.

“Found you,” he says.

***

He pounds into her, and her mind goes blank, a river of curses and moans out of her mouth. She grasps at his shoulders, pulling him closer still, spreading her legs wider, allowing him even more space, to hit her spot just right. It hurt at first; he took her the second the clothes were to the floor, entering her with no warning or preparation – and yet she’s getting fucked so good she’s finding herself melting in pleasure.

“When,” she pants, “did you learn to fuck like this?”

Her toes curl in the sheets, as he fills her completely, stilling inside of her. He rolls his hips, drawing out a loud mewl of his name out of her, and he curses at the sight, her face lost in pleasure, skin flushed all over.

He nips at the skin at her neck, nuzzling at the crook of her neck; the gesture gentle compared to the way he’s been pounding inside of her just a few moments ago.

“I’ve had centuries to imagine you like this,” his hands are tracing her body, stopping to cradle her boobs in his palms, fingertips playing with her nipples. She gasps, biting her lips.

“So,” she starts, and is interrupted by her own moans, as his mouth descends on her chest. “No… womanly adventures with Arthur?”

He stops, his touches gone in just an instant, and Isaac’s expression darkens. He moves one hand on her thigh, spreading her legs open, to the point her muscles burn; the other at her navel, pinning her down to the mattress. Then, he starts pounding in her: wild and fast, back and forth, slamming in her. Her body hitches, her voice hoarse with the scream that first shove inside her makes her feel. She can hear the wet sounds of her arousals, the slaps of his skin on hers.

“To think,” he grunts, and the lewd sound of his dick slamming inside her accompanies his words. “that you’re out here with th-these,” another, and this time he hits her g-spot, and she moans. “assumptions about me, and I’m-” his body lowers, his tongue lapping at her neck “still fucking you.”

He chuckles against her skin, the breath of air at her ear driving her wild with need, as his pounding is incessant.

“Isaa-aah! More, p-please, mo-”

Her voice dies out, because his fangs are against her skin, piercing it. He bites her; the mixture of pain and pleasure sending her over the edge as he drinks her blood. She can feel herself squeezing him, she can hear him moaning. His face looks like he’s a man in pain, and despite it, he still moves inside her, helping her ride out her release. There’s blood trickling down her neck, on her boobs, and she looks sweaty and flushed and entirely spent – and he’s been waiting for this for too long.

“Look at you,” he says, fascination and disgust in one, and he can feel her squeezing him. “To think you still took it so well, even from someone who had to practice for it.”

“Isaac!” her voice is indignant.

He’s still hard inside her, and he rolls his hips, her voice lost in a moan. He moves, licking around her nipples, sucking the sensitive buds one by one, as she writhes underneath him.

“How many men stretched you before, for you to be such a good little slut?”

Her cheeks burn with shame at his words, and her pussy throbs with need. He bites against the thin stick of her left breast, though he doesn’t drink this time around. He just leaves the marks over her body, blood mingling with the sweat of their bodies as he starts pumping inside of her again.

She moans out his name, time and time again.

“Answer me,” he snarls, moving to pin down her hands above her head, shifting their position, his chest pressed against hers. She looks absolutely fucked out, eyes rolling to the back of her head which each hit deep inside her, and yet when he commands it, she does as asked.

“No one, gods--, no one!”

He releases her, a hand of his moving where their bodies connect, finding her clit, tantalizingly pressing against it. Her breath hitches in her throat, her hands grabbing in the air for something to hold onto, finding nothing.

“Then cum for me,” Isaac says, and she does.

He continues snapping his hips to hers, coming as well in just three more pumps, way before she comes down from the high of her second orgasm. He drags a hand through his hair, wet with sweat. She’d like to do the same, her chest constricting. He starts pulling out, and she’s suddenly scared, grabs at his shoulder to keep him in place.

“Can we – can we stay like this for a bit?” she’s shy when asking, not expecting for her request to be granted. She’s already stepping all over the rules she came up with on her own.

He holds her, as he moves her to lay down on top of him. She can feel his cum trickling down between their bodies, yet she basks in her afterglow, and in the feeling of having him at all. She’s tracing patterns over his chest with her finger.

His eyes catch her ring. He frowns. She shivers.

“You should get cleaned up,” he says, and he’s helping her spent body once again.

She presses her palm between her legs. He can’t stop staring at her cunt, as she’s doing her utmost best to keep his cum inside of her. She’s whimpering with each touch of her finger against her folds, hypersensitive.

Isaac leaves; returns from the bathroom with a wet cloth. He catches her eyes, a question in his, a resolution in hers. He approaches to help clean her up, and she takes her hand, her glistening fingers – and presses them against her tongue. Isaac can feel his dick stirring again, and he decides not to look at her at all.

He’s moving as gently as he can, though the material is rougher than her fingers, and the whimpers are louder this time around. She’s hugging herself, arms around her chest – tired, but feeling still hurt by his care and attention.

“Do you hate me?” she mumbles, words hidden in her pillow.

The cloth drops to the floor. Isaac is moving around her room, picking up his discarded things, getting dressed. She can hear him, and for a long minute, he stops, the room dreadfully silent. Isaac is staring at a note taped on the wall, but she can’t bear to open her eyes and actually see him walking out on her.

***

She doesn’t hear from him or of him for six months. She spends the entire Holiday season holed up in her room, regretting everything, hating herself. She picks herself back up again, slowly; because this is a choice she’s made and regretting it now makes no sense. She watches the marks fade from her body.

Then, while drinking her first coffee of the day in her favourite coffee place, Napoleon sits down at her table, his own cup in his hands. She regards him coolly, though she knows she is unfair to him just because of his best friend.

“Long time no see,” he says.

She nods. There’s something eerie about seeing these historical figures in modern days, just having their breakfast in her vicinity. The plain clothes suit him though, which is not something she thought she’d say about a former emperor.

Just when she’s ready to ask her own questions, Napoleon speaks.

“Are you married?”

“Wh-what?!”

He gestures towards her hand. She takes off her ring, pressing it to Napoleon’s palm. There is a phrase engraved inside it: the great ocean of truth. Part of Isaac’s last words, Isaac’s purpose in life and afterlife both. She carries it with her, as penance for the time she asked him to live pursuing it, without her by his side.

“Does he know?”

That it’s her own promise towards him, that she is to love him, like a woman loves her the one, until her own dying gasp? No, of course not. So far, she has only asked, gave nothing.

“Does it matter now? He hates me for what I’ve done.”

She can still remember his angry touches, his hurt love-making – and she’s grateful to have had it at all. How pathetic does that make her?

“You’ve hurt him,” Napoleon agrees. “But that doesn’t mean he hates you. He’s walked through time, at time’s own pace, for you. He’s seen the changes in the world… and he might understand why you decide to stand here and now. Even if he wishes you would have explained it to him before.”

He returns the ring to her. Her coffee is growing cold.

“Is he… Is he in a lot of pain?”

“Less than he used to?” Napoleon answers, though he sounds quite unsure.

***

“I love this century!” Dazai says, as they go out for lunch together, at a Japanese restaurant.

They talk nothing of importance, at least until the food arrives, and they know they won’t be interrupted anymore.

“Dazai-san… I want his number.”

“Unfortunately I have Ai-chan’s express orders to not do such a thing,” he sighs, placing his chopsticks down on the table.

He’s kindly patting her head, with his now freed hand.

“But Toshiko-san… are you in a lot of pain?”

He’s a gentleman, so he doesn’t comment on her tears. He still hands her his handkerchief. No amount of gentle dabbing can stop her face from the red blotches popping up.

“Every minute I’m not with him, is just a minute I won’t have back again.”

Dazai sighs, understanding. This poor girl has been surrounded by immortal vampires, and learnt how to recognize her own mortality. She has given her heart to one of them, and she understands that her life is just a drop in the ocean of his being. And yet – smart, wicked, selfish girl, she has had him for the past two hundred years or so either way.

“Well, I could tell you where to find him…?”

She snaps up to her feet. Dazai grabs her arm, gently but firmly guiding her back to her chair.

“Finish your meal with me first?”

“Of course.”

***

She’s waiting in front of the university gates. In this time, no one bothers her or wonders why she’s here at all, even if back when they met, the sight of a woman on academic grounds was still entirely unnatural. She stole a cigarette from Dazai’s pack earlier, and she’s now smoking as she waits, trying to calm down her nerves.

Then he appears – and it feels almost too easy, to see him after such a long time. He’s talking with someone, walking in fast paces; she’s staring so hard she’s afraid she’ll leave a hole through his body. She throws her unfinished cigarette on the ground, stepping over its lit end. She calls out his name, notices him stop dead in his tracks.

He doesn’t turn at first, passing a hand through his hair, annoyed. He apologizes to his companion. When he eventually looks at her, there’s so much in his expression that she can’t even begin to pull it apart and decipher it.

Isaac stops a distance away from her; enough that they can have a conversation that won’t be overheard by others, enough that he can’t just reach out to her and touch her.

“What do you want?” he asks, trying his best to sound unaffected at the sight of her, seeking him.

“How are you?” she questions back.

She’s holding onto her bag strap with more force than necessary, her nails digging painfully in her palm. She sounds weak and vulnerable and tired, which is why Isaac sighs, comes one step closer.

His fingers find hers, slowly untangling her hold, smoothing out the crescent marks left behind with his thumb. She’s holding her breath, staring at him. Maybe it’s this: the sight of her, as ravaged as he feels the insides of his ribcage, that turns him honest.

“I miss you,” he murmurs, and he takes her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles.

“I’m right here,” she says, and he’s withdrawing, like her skin turns to flame and it hurts him to touch her.

“Y-you don’t understand! I… I don’t want you if you’re not mine…”

His voice dies out towards the end, just above a whisper. His arms fall next to his body, defeated. She reaches out for him, her hand cradling his cheek. She’s never felt the need to comfort him this strongly. The band of her ring is cold against his skin, and yet he can’t push her away, not again.

She searches through the pockets of her pants, and she presses her find in his palm. The metal just as cold there, but her hands are oh so warm. He stares, first at the ring in his hold, then up at her. He hurts with hope.

“Wh-what is the meaning of this?”

The gold glistens in the afternoon sun. He catches the writing, swirls the ring around in-between his fingers so he can catch the entire phrase: all undiscovered before me.

“Spend the rest of my life with me?” she asks, and it’s her turn to sound faint and unsure.

If she were him, she’d say no. She’s been so selfish, and maybe that’s her sin: that she just takes and takes, and has nothing better to give than herself.

What she doesn’t know is that he’d say yes to death for her.

He embraces her, so close and tight that her shoulder blades hurt. In this time, no one cares for their desperate public display of affection. She’s trembling in his arms, and yet she is, finally, warm and safe and loved. His words are mumbled in her hair, as she plays with his hair.

“You’re terrible.”

“Yes,” she hums. “I know.”

“The wait almost killed me.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I know.”

“You don’t really deserve me saying yes.”

“Yes,” she assents. “I know.”

“Th-then how come I love you anyway?”

“I love you too.”

***

The one thing that she misses, now that she lays in the grass by Isaac’s side, holding his hand, ring against ring, promise tied against promise, is the night sky. The lights around them, the city burning bright at all hours of the night, dim the lights of the universe.

And yet, she has spent a long time watching the city lights, connecting them together like stars. They never shined as bright as tonight. She wonders, strengthening the hold on his hand, making Isaac look back at her, who they would be without what they’ve been through.

He smiles at her, rolling around on his side so he can drape an arm around her waist, kissing delicately at her jaw.

Ah, she thinks, isn’t that a worthless question to ponder on? When they’re everything she could have wanted, right here and right now?

[dancedelion]

Sleep of the Dead (part 1 / 2)

Genre: some humour, angst with a happy ending Summary: Jaskier thinks he hit rock bottom when Geralt flushed twenty years of friendship down the drain, but then he finds himself suddenly translucent and rudely walked through by a traveller. Apparently he's dead - that's certainly a new low. He needs to find out what happened, and who better to help him than the man who's made more than clear he wants nothing to do with him. ao3: Sleep of the Dead

Jaskier is reasonably certain that he is dead. The evidence is staggering: He’s got a killer headache, like from the worst kind of hangover. He’s tired and sleep of the dead sounds very appealing right now. And on top of that, a man just walked through him. So that can’t be good. And he is cold the way people get when nothing is touching them except for freezing air.

(He thought it would feel like relief. He had expected it to be a gorgeous, final, end-of-the-road sort of ending. But it’s only more – more pain, more emptiness, heavier limbs. Relief is further than a daydream away.)

How did this happen? All he remembers is going to sleep and then waking up in the forest. Only he didn’t wake up the way humans do. He blinked and then he was here, on his feet, amidst the tall-standing trees of the forest. He – appeared. Like by teleport. He would suspect it was some prank by a mage who (probably rightfully) has it out for him if it weren’t for being half translucent.

“Fucking great,” Jaskier roars at the vast forest, trying to make his voice big enough to fill the space so it can reach whatever deity is listening. “Yes, thank you! What more could we do to Jaskier after we fucked up his life and turned everything to horseshit? Oh, yes, I have the idea. Why don’t we just take it from him? He can’t have a bad life if he doesn’t have a life at all, is that what you were thinking? Hire another solution-maker, you bastards!”

So. So. So, so, so. All he needs to do is keep his cool, which should be easy, considering he’s bloody freezing. Step one after dying: Figure out your where-abouts. Should be useful to know whether he’s about to be ripped to shreds by hellhounds or worse (like running into that nincompoop from court who thought he could actually play the hurdy-gurdy better than Jaskier and died from slipping in the stables a month later).

Taking stock: Trees. Lots and lots of trees. How to categorize those? Trees more a sign of a friendly atmosphere or eternal damnation? Or are these the naughty trees, sent to be punished in the afterlife? (Can a tree commit a sin? Splurged on sunlight, now off to hell with the greedy thing?) He’ll mark it off as a maybe. What else? He’s standing on a path, which is where that rude wanderer just walked straight through him without even so much as an apology. Next to the path, a horse – woohoo, a clear score for eternal damnation. (What do you think is holding them upright? Their frail spindly legs? No! It’s undeniably the power of Satan.) And – might that lump by the road be a person? Jaskier steps a little closer, leaning over the lump.

Ah. Who else could it be but Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken and Jaskier’s fragile heart himself? There was never any question he would be in Jaskier’s afterlife. But which is it? Exquisite hell or torturous paradise? Right now, Geralt is sleeping, so it could be either option.

(Do you wish your last words to me had been different?)

Jaskier steps around Geralt and focuses on the horse.

“Roach!” he coos. “Oh, I’ve missed you. Sorry for what I just thought about horses. I meant it as a compliment, I swear! My mischievous lady.”

He lifts his hand to pet her head, but his hand glides right through her.

(You are careful with your wishes now.)

And she meekly turns her head, takes no note of him, as if he weren’t here at all. And he isn’t, is he? Maybe this is no illusion, no magic, no unknown adventure. Maybe this is the real Roach and the real Geralt and Jaskier is where he is not wanted once more. Forced to spend forever running after Geralt while he’s invisible to the Witcher. Ha! And Jaskier had thought the afterlife was supposed to be different.

(Those rare moments when you let me touch you, when I could find an adequate excuse.)

He stumbles and leans against the tree next to Geralt’s sleeping body, but he falls right through it. The ground can still hold him, but nothing else. He lets his heavy eyelids drop. Legs stuck in a tree. It’s all just a bad dream.

(Does a song still taste so sweet without the lute and with no ears but his own to hear it?)

Nothing has a presence. You can always tell when it’s close by. Years ago, Jaskier was stupid and starry-eyed. He thought he owned the world, he thought he had the future to fall for. At some point, all that hope and optimism had to make room for… nothing. When he starts to listen and stops believing, his chest hollows out.

(This is just the final step, yes? This is where he was headed. No sense in regrets.)

This is what Geralt always thought of him and his songs, all talk and no substance. Har, har, Geralt, bad bloody joke. He is no substance now, only cold air. Once Geralt wakes up, it will hurt so much more. Jaskier lets out a laboured breath that brings no relief. He liked being alive, he thinks. Even when he hated it.

(Marmalade sandwiches. Gosh, he will miss marmalade sandwiches.)

He can’t feel the ground beneath his back, but panic still readily comes to him. The tears don’t. Dreadfully sorry, no tears available at the moment. Why don’t you ask again in an eternity?

Jaskier stands up again and paces the floor around Geralt. Oh, nobody, I’m sorry, did I step on your feet? No one, may I ask for this dance? Here, have a glass of nothing. This is terrible. Jaskier won’t have anyone to talk to. He doesn’t know any ghosts, he doesn’t know the most popular ghost-social-spots, he doesn’t know ghost-etiquette. Although he could always talk to Geralt. This time, there will be no complaints. And Geralt’s responses have always been a rare commodity.

But the terrifying truth is, Jaskier has only himself for company now. No one to sigh at his antics, no one to suppress a laugh at one of his jokes. And he wants – yes, despite the tiredness weighing him down, he still wants. If he is still here, in a world he doesn’t belong in anymore, if the desperate longing is somehow strong enough to keep him here, then he won’t get to rest.

What a sensible man would do: accept it’s over. Accept his chances are up. Put those silly wants and needs into a clean box – place them there like something precious. And then bury them as deep as he can.

Jaskier has not, by any stretch of the imagination, ever been a sensible man.

He lies down next to Geralt, like in a dream, one of the good ones, and thinks about words.

He doesn’t have matter, but no matter, he doesn’t matter.

He lies and thinks about words that have content. Even nothing has meaning. But not Jaskier. He is just – gone.

       is dead air now. Literally dead. A spot of nothing.

       thinks about spirits. Don’t lose your spirit. (Don’t be one.)

       is as tangible as the songs    carried over the lands.

A hole in the world.

When         wants,    wants everything.    wants too much. Of course,    turns up empty, the way the greedy do, with their slippery hands.

The leaves rustle, and say: You have lost your grip. We have seen many fall. You are no different, helpless, unbalanced, immobilized. A nestless child.

The wild wind whispers: You are alone.

Lying in a dreamish nightmare,         watches as the moon moves across the cloudy sky.

But the tiredness doesn’t leave. It clings to     like oil, hanging at every strand of     hair, gathering in    eye sockets. It does not wash off. Tiredness, paradoxically, does not get tired.

And    is tired of wondering. And    is tired of regret.

When sleep will not come and stays away,         turns on     side and watches Geralt. At least   has this. There were times when   thought    would never see Geralt again. But here he is. Still the same way he looked all those years ago when         first became intrigued by him. Beautiful white hair, beautiful features, but tense lines on his forehead, even in his sleep. He is not restful either.

Finally, finally, after hours or minutes he rouses.         gets up, elated.

“Rise and shine, Geralt! Don’t sleep your life away. Take it from me,”    says lightly, and only because    knows Geralt can’t hear    . But Geralt jerks and rolls away in an instant, making a grab for his sword.

“Wait, can you see me?”        asks.

It’s impossible. The man on the road couldn’t. Surely a random peasant won’t be so unfazed by the appearance of a ghost that he just casually strolls through    .

“I can,” Geralt says. “And you know what that means?”

“Maybe I’m not quite as dead as previously estimated?”

“It means I’ll know where to aim.” He presses the sword closer.

“Woah, woah,” Jaskier holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Calm down. I know we didn’t part on the best of terms, but surely this is not necessary.”

“You’re not Jaskier.”

“Wha- why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because Jaskier isn’t dead. He wouldn’t dare. He knows I wouldn’t let him touch Roach for weeks if he died on me. You’re a doppler. An imposter. Something.”

Jaskier’s teeth gnash together. He is dead, all out of the blue. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t plan for this. He certainly didn’t choose to show up next to Geralt’s sleeping body. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he’s had a really bad fucking day.

“Go on then!” Jaskier is seething. “Put your sword through me. The only thing you’ll hurt is my feelings.”

Geralt hesitates. How courteous indeed, at least to hesitate before impaling his only friend with a sword. Or. Well. His “we’re not friends”. His “if life could give me one blessing”. His never-friend.

“So prove it,” Geralt says.

“What do you want me to say? What haven’t I put into a song that half the country has heard?”

He was proud of those songs once. Now they’re only painful reminders.

“What was the last thing I said to you?” “Really? That’s what you’re going with? Out of all things you could ask me?”

Geralt’s face twists again, in an agonizingly familiar way. He lowers his sword, but keeps it in his hand.

“Dammit, Jaskier.” “Oh, yes, that’s what you started with. You want me to give you the whole speech? Because, believe me, I have it memorized word for word.”

Geralt looks conflicted, confused, but also like he is trying desperately to hide everything away again. He takes one step toward Jaskier, and Jaskier twitches, not sure if he wants to step backwards or forwards, so he just stays.

“It’s not the sort of thing you forget.” Jaskier shrugs. “There are very, very few things that could have ever made me even look at you again,” he lies, and spreads out his arms. “It’s your lucky day.”

Geralt is still looking at him like he’s seeing a ghost – oops. Jaskier keeps forgetting.

“But you can’t be,” Geralt says, completely stiff. “That would mean that Jaskier –“

He reaches out to grab Jaskier’s wrist, but his hand glides right through it.

“No. No, you’re not him,” Geralt is nearly shouting now. He is clenching his jaw and has to turn around. He has so much presence in the world. He would leave craters, if he were ever gone. Whole cliffs.

Jaskier gives Geralt one more glance. It’s not like he really expected anything. He’s not Geralt’s problem anymore. Jaskier only really stayed because he thought Geralt would never know.

“How about the last words I said to you, then?” Jaskier says, because he knows when he is defeated. Even when it takes him twenty years to realize. “See you around, Geralt.”

He turns around and doesn’t know where to go and goes anyway. It’s colder now. There is no body to drag around, but Jaskier feels heavy. He is walking down a mountain. He can hear something shuffling in the bushes. He is alone and he can never learn from his mistakes because he is addicted to this one, even though it leaves him bleeding every time.

With every step, he feels himself fading a little more. It would take so little to just – “Wait!”

He should keep walking, but disaster smells so sweet.

Geralt is standing in the same spot, like he is frozen, but Jaskier comes back to him.

“What happened to you?” Geralt asks.

“Ah, I was just, you know, enjoying the afterlife and then I thought to myself, I’m gonna fucking haunt your ass.”

Geralt looks so unhappy and somehow, Jaskier regrets waiting for him to wake up even more now.

“I’ve known my share of vengeful spirits,” Geralt says warily.

“Melitele, Geralt, I was kidding. You’re so self-absorbed.” Kind words have grown tired, don’t find their way onto Jaskier’s lips any longer and sleep at the bottom of his stomach instead. “I know this is the last thing you want, but I need a favour.”

And he doesn’t mention that Geralt is possibly the only person who can see him and he doesn’t want to be alone.

Doesn’t mention he has dreamed of Geralt every night and thought of him every day.

Doesn’t mention he would do it all again, even with the heart ache. (He knew what he was signing up for from the start.)

“What do you want?” Geralt presses out.

Jaskier doesn’t want to be just another person who takes from Geralt, who doesn’t know how to stop giving. But he is not asking for protection or shelter or food. He is only a shadow now, in the corner of Geralt’s eye. And he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I want to know how I died. And why.”

Just let me keep you, he does not say. Just for a little bit.

Geralt sheathes his sword. “What do you remember?”

“I was headed home, I think. Maybe.” Jaskier watches Geralt’s face carefully, trying to analyse his expressions, but not quite daring to come to a definitive conclusion, seeing how badly he misread the room – or, well, the open mountain plane - the last time.

He decides to skip the reaction.

“So? Come on. Avenge me or something.”

“Really?” “It’s the least you could do. After what you said to me.”

Geralt grumbles, but he starts to pick up his bags, which Jaskier takes to assume they’re going. Which is good. Geralt will know what to do. Once they know more - (Once Geralt doesn’t feel guilty any longer -)

Roach neighs softly, and even though she might not be able to see him, Jaskier walks toward her, intending to say something.

“Get away from Roach,” Geralt calls immediately, although Jaskier was reasonably sure he hadn’t even been looking in their direction.

Jaskier starts pouting.

“You know what you did,” Geralt says.

“Can’t touch her anyway.”

Jaskier lifts his hands and backs away.

They start walking then, the Witcher and Viscount de Can’t-take-a-hint. Side by side. And it’s almost like it used to be. And it’s almost perfect – if he had a lute, if Geralt weren’t so unnaturally tense next to him, if it weren’t for the overwhelming tiredness seated deep in his bones. But all anyone would see is a lone Witcher wandering by himself. (And it’s true - Jaskier has long since been written out of that story.)

(When a humble bard

graced a ride along with

Geralt of Rivia)

   Geralt can’t look. Looking makes real. The sound is bad enough, but can be written off as a memory, an earworm, a voice in a deranged head. (Impossible to touch what he so often flinched away from.) (Impossible to hold what has always flown and flickered.)

(All those sweet, tender things Geralt never wanted.)

Jaskier is safe. Jaskier is somewhere. Jaskier has a pulse and a breath and a fluttering heartbeat.

It’s just him and Roach and a faint hallucination to keep him company. Anything else. Any other option. There are no other options.

(So much to miss when you almost have it.)

(Such a distantly warm feeling in his chest where he was once happy.)

(His worst mistake cuts deeper now.)

Jaskier is at the coast. He is playing in taverns. He is safe from Geralt. Safe.

Geralt is doing what he does. He gets scowled at in the streets. He takes a room.

Lies in a lonely bed.

Safe. Warm. Breathing.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to sleep again. It’s simply rude at this point. After all, it’s not like I can join you.” Closes his eyes, all by himself.

“Have you never heard of ‘no rest for the wicked’?”

Safe. Warm. Breathing.

“So how is the mourning going? Maybe you should start wearing black. Oh, wait.”

Sleep makes it go away, for a little bit. Guilt he doesn’t know how not to feel. Regret, his most cherished companion. His… (safe.)

(He must be.)

Waking to a nightmare. Geralt does what he does. He sharpens his sword.

“Am I just supposed to sit here and watch you make the same hand motion over and over? Not gonna lie, I’m a little starved for entertainment here in ghost-land.”

Geralt lays a book open on the table, for no particular reason at all. At random times, he turns the page.

(Still whole.)

(He must be.)

A monster to hunt, that’s what he does.

“Oh my, finally I can see one of your hunts from the premium seat.”

Geralt talks to himself sometimes.

“It’s a hunt, not a performance.”

“You really haven’t seen yourself, have you?”

A group of rotfiends. Looking dead, rotten flesh hanging off their bodies. Necrophage oil coats Geralt’s sword.

“Geralt! Watch out!”

He twirls around, takes off the head of one that was about to lurch at him. Geralt keeps moving, slicing his way through more, but they get up again, stubbornly hard to kill.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

A shriek, the rotfiend is about to miss him, but right behind him is… Geralt twists his body, ensures the rotfiend doesn’t miss. It manages to scratch his chest before he kills it too.

“Why, by the Gods, did you do that?”

Only one left now. He kills that one too. Does what he does.

“How is your furniture doing? Because I suspect very strongly that you have got more than one screw loose.”

He wipes the blood and oil off his sword and sheathes it.

“Are you a squirrel? No? Then how come you are behaving like such a nutter?”

Geralt starts walking, grits his teeth. He’ll have to tend to the wounds back at the tavern.

“I’m dead! I’m literally dead, gone, pushing daisies, bit the dust. It’s a little late for the sacrifice game, understood?”

He arrives alone, with a rotfiend head for proof. Gets disgusted looks in the tavern.

“What were you even thinking? Melitele forbid Jaskier gets stumbled through by a rotfiend? How will I ever live with myself knowing I let a rotfiend unknowingly touch the same air as my deceased friend? What is wrong with you?”

“I’ve done what you asked,” Geralt says.

The man who hired Geralt slides over a bag of coin. Geralt doesn’t count.

Safe. Warm. Breathing. Somewhere far away from monsters and witchers and a life not suited to humans who are far too fragile, who have lives far too short…

(He has never known a vengeful spirit like…)

On his own, he goes to his room. There is no one to tend to his wounds but himself.

[xaz-fr]

I like Clarissa. Like the other two she was also made via smacking the random button on the scrying workshop a few times. And she’s basically your grandma if your grandma could get it. Better not think too hard about that. 

Sliver of the Sun 2

The temple complex of Sirius was the biggest, most extravagant, lavish building Niek had ever seen. It housed fourteen priests and a huge collection of clerics and all the people needed to run such a huge complex. It was a wide garden with a huge structure in the middle sitting in the middle of the largest city in the known word, meandering paths wound through the grounds from the gates to the temple at its heart.

Niek held Ravi’s hand as they walked. She and Ernst were open mouthed staring since they arrived at Sirius. Ernst had no excuse, he’d grown up in Adhara, another large city in the same town chain as Sirius. Niek had to assume he’d been raised in a pond to be shocked by the sights of the city. Little Ravi had every excuse. She’d never seen anything like this.

“Ernst, stop looking like a slack jawed tourist,” Niek snapped at him. Ernst looked straight but his eyes still darted around looking at everything.

People moved quickly around their group. Here to worship or to enjoy the big garden, or just to work. With Niek in the lead they had to go at the pace of his hobbling cane. It made getting to the temple take even longer but there was no rush.

Finally the temple loomed overhead. Ravi’s head tipped back to look at the whole thing. During the night a beam of light shot out the top and pierced the heavens, pointed right at Sirius’ star in the sky. “Big,” she said, her pale eyes wide.

“Yes. For the brightest star in the sky,” Niek said nicely.

“Ohhh,” she said and they passed through the entrance of the temple. In here there were more clerics, noticeable as their pale blue robes and long braided hair.

Niek hailed a cleric. “Yes, my child, can I help you?” Niek didn’t like that they called him that, the cleric he’d hailed was barely older than Ernst!

“I need to see a priest,” Niek said.

“I’m sorry but the priests are not available to everyone,” the cleric said.

“Don’t give me that garbage,” Niek growled. He pulled out his alchemist badge. “I’m an alchemist. I will see one of Sirius’ priests now.” He stamped his cane to punctuate his point.

The cleric was only marginally impressed. “I see. Well you may put in a request-

“Ravi, dear,” Niek looked down at the girl. She looked from her gawking to him. “Will you show this stupid man here that trick you showed Ernst and I?”

“Huh? This?” she asked and held out her hand. The cleric shouted when a super heated light ray shot out of her hand and caught a nearby potted plant on fire.

“Yes, that, Ravi. Thank you,” Niek said. Then he turned back to the cleric. “Now I’d like to speak to a priest,” he said seriously.

The cleric was staring between the new fire and Ravi. He wasn’t the only one. “Ah— that won’t be necessary. I will take her-

“Oh no you will not,” Niek used his cane to crack the knuckles of the cleric when he reached to grab Ravi’s other hand. “You will take myself, my apprentice Ernst, and young Ravi to a priest.”

The cleric rubbed their hand painfully. A few other clerics had also noticed the fire and were rubber necking or approaching to see what the commotion was about. “Very well,” they said. They could at least get some credit by bringing Niek and the others to the priests. “Follow me,” he beckoned. They followed him, walking past the burning plant. Ernst had his eyes down now, cowed by what Ravi had done.

They walked through the atrium of the temple and past the front facing facade of the temple to the back chambers. The place Sirius’ harem of priests lived and did whatever it was priests of the most powerful star did. The open hallways were empty back here but the cleric didn’t mind. He led them back through the halls to a large chamber. It looked like the fanciest office Niek had ever seen but also a throne room somehow. A very very old woman was seated on the throne/desk chair looking at several scrolls stretched across the table.

Despite her age there was no confusion about what they were looking at. This was a priest. A very old one. At her age and power the priest shimmered softly in the light from the windows. “Excuse me, madam,” the cleric bowed respectfully.

“What do you bother me for now, Richken?” the priest asked, not looking up at him.

“I brought an alchemist and his apprentice-

“Then you should have showed them to priest Vani, you know he is more-

“And their charge, who can use magic,” Richken said, speaking over the priest.

The priest paused in what she was doing and slowly looked up at the group. “Come again?” she asked.

Richken went to speak but Niek pushed him aside. “Madam priest, I am Niek Nahuis, this is my charge Ravi,” Niek said, stepping forward up to the desk and leaning on his cane, still holding Ravi’s hand. “She fell from the sky like a star. But she is not a star.”

The priest looked at Niek, looked at Ravi, and then at Richken. “You may go, cleric,” she said.

“Ah— yes, of course, madam,” he bowed and left but seemed displeased to being sent away.

“I’m afraid I did not get your name, madam,” Niek said.

“Clarissa,” the priest said and stood. She stood without a stoop to her shoulders and had a proud stance. It was as though her age only touched her face but the rest of her body was still spry. She came around the side of the desk. “Ravi, you said her name was?” she asked Niek.

“Indeed,” Niek nodded.

“You name her that?”

“No,” Ravi said. “That is my name.”

Clarissa knelt in front of Ravi. “It is a nice name,” she said kindly. “Do you know where you are?” Ravi took a moment and then shook her head. 

“She knows she’s in the temple of Sirius,” Niek offered.

“Do you know where you come from?”

Ravi looked thoughtful. “Only that it is very bright,” she said. “And then it wasn’t bright, because everyone was so sad.”

“Do you remember how you came here?”

“Hmmm,” she looked up at Niek. “I remember waking up with Mr. Nahuis, in the middle of a- a geo?” she asked him.

“The rock that fell to earth was like a geode. The inside hollow full of natural crystal formations. She was also within the geode,” Niek elaborated.

“I see,” Clarissa said slowly. “Did you bring some of the crystal?”

“Yes. Ernst,” he said sharply. Ernst hopped forward and fumbled with the clasp on the bag longer than necessary to open it and pull out one of the large, transparent, yellow crystals. It was about the length of Ernst’s hand and an octagon in circumference. The inside looked not unlike it was glowing and in the dark it was able to be seen despite giving off no light itself. “All the crystals in the geode were this type.”

“I’ve never seen something like that,” Clarissa said. “Have you?”

“No,” Niek admitted.

She took the crystal and did something to it with magic. “It means nothing to me but several of my fellows will find this of great interest,” she said. She haded the crystal back to Ernst. “But you, young Ravi,” she turned her attention back to the little girl. “Can you do magic?” Ravi shrugged. “Could you show me?”

Ravi looked up at Niek. “Go on,” he encouraged her. “Just perhaps don’t set anything on fire, hmm?”

“But that’s the fun part,” Ravi said.

Clarissa chuckled. “It is. Here,” and with a wave of her hand she produced several sheets of paper. “You may burn this, Ravi.”

“Oh. Okay,” and she pointed at the papers. The super heated beam of light shot out of her finger tip and instantly the papers caught on fire. Clarissa let out a cry of delight and wonder.

“Oh my! That is... Major and Minor, I’ve never seen such a thing. Give me a moment,” and Clarissa stepped back to her desk. She picked up a glowing rock on the desk and closed her eyes. “Sirius, I know it is day, but please wake. Something requires your express attention,” she said softly but no softly they couldn’t hear.

“Mr. NAME, who’s Sirius?” Ravi asked.

“I told you,” he said with all little patience he had. “He is the brightest star in the sky.” There was no movement. “So, is he coming?” Niek asked Clarissa.

“Be patient,” Clarissa said, eyes still closed. She squeezed the stone, “Sirius, wake up. Come here. Now.”

Ernst gave a shout when a pillar of flame erupted from a circle of burnt stone on the floor. And there he was. Sirius. Resplendent, decedent. He looked like one of them with a dazzling display of antlers and liquid golden eyes with white pupils and overly large clothes like the type Niek would wear to bed. Next to him Ernst dropped to his hands and knees. Niek bowed low but not so low to hurt his back.

“Clarisssaaaa, what are calling me for? It’s so bright out,” Sirius groaned, sounding exhausted.

“Apologies, Sirius, but you must see this,” Clarissa said. “This girl, Ravi,” and Niek glanced up to see the two of them standing side by side, looking at the three of them. “Sirius? Why the look? Do you know this girl?”

Ravi’’s mouth was open a little, “I know you,” she pointed at him.

Niek’s eyes nearly fell out of his head at what Sirius did. “Ravi— oh Ravi,” and he bowed, deeply to the girl. “I fear knowing what brought you here to us.”

Ravi pulled her little hand out of Niek’s and walked over to Sirius. Niek straightened himself to watch. “Why are you bowing?”

Sirius stood up. “Clarissa, the brief?”

“She was a falling star. This alchemist found her and brought her here,” Clarissa said.

“Ah. Falling does knock the sense out of you,” Sirius said softly.

“Not that you have much to begin with,” Clarissa said like she just couldn’t help herself. From the ground Ernst gasped in shock Clarissa would say that to Sirius.

“Clarissa, not in front of the guests,” he scolded her. Clarissa just giggled. Then he returned his attention to Ravi and took a knee before her. “What do you remember? Tell me?”

“I remember it was very bright, and hot. Then it wasn’t. And it wasn’t because there was a lot of sadness.”

“Yes,” Sirius nodded.

Ravi looked at Sirius and then frowned. “I’m not— hmm!”

“What? You can say whatever you want,” Sirius took her hand.

“I’m not looking for you,” she said. “I’m looking for... I don’t know,” she admitted.

“I think I know,” Sirius said.

“You do?”

“Yes,” Sirius nodded.

“Your godliness,” Niek couldn’t help but interrupt. The god turned his attention to him and Niek admitted it was a bit intimidating. “What is this girl? Is she a star?”

“No,” Sirius said. “No no no,” he stood up, still holding her hand. “She is much more than that. Perhaps not all of it. But enough.”

“Then what is she?”

Sirius was thoughtful. “Do you know, alchemist, that the sun is also a star?” Niek nodded slowly. Based on observations it was determined that the same things that made up their stars also made up their sun when they were celestial bodies. No one was sure exactly what those compositions were of course but the alchemists did know they were similar. “The biggest star in the sky, that we only see during the day.” Niek still didn’t understand. “Large enough and powerful enough that it could lose part of itself and not even notice, that no one would even notice.” Niek’s eyes widened. “What sweet Ravi here isn’t a star really. She’s a piece of the sun.”

Niek dropped down on his hands and knees next to Ernst. That seemed like a good place to start.

[theamberwriter]

Waking Hours [Pro Hero!Katsuki Bakugo]

Pairing: ProHero!Katsuki Bakugo x Reader

Word Count: 1545

Warnings: Cursing, fluff (?)

You tossed and turned. Shivering into the lonely blankets. Your mind wouldn’t shut up. Wouldn’t quiet. Wouldn’t let you sleep. And you knew why.

“Katsuki,” you whined softly, rolling over to stare at his empty spot. “I wonder if he’s busy. What time is it where he is?”

Your darling fiance had taken a PR chance overseas. This was the second night without him. It was twice as bad as the first. It was absolute hell. How on Earth were you going to deal for another week and a half? 

It was winter, and you were so used to Katsuki keeping you warm this time of year. That wasn’t the only reason you missed him, of course. But it was the excuse you kept giving yourself as to why you felt so lonely. The apartment was just too big, too quiet without him.

You were sure the neighbors were relieved. But you? Your world was a hollow shell; freezing, silent, unmoving. You gave up on sleeping. Sitting up to lean against the headboard. You stared blankly into the dark room. But even zoning out didn’t bring sleep.

You’d just leaned over to look at your phone when it lit up on its own. Katsuki’s face was on the screen. HOT CROSS BUN showing over the accept/reject buttons. You couldn’t answer fast enough.

“Katsuki!” you gushed. He let out a surprised grunt. “How are you? Is everything okay? I miss you! Come home already.”

“[Name], why the hell did you answer? What are you doing up?” Katsuki asked, his voice concerned but still edging with annoyance. There was a lot of noise behind him. “Isn’t it like two in the morning? You need sleep, idiot.”

You laughed sadly. “With you gone? How could I even think of sleep? What time is it there?”

“You’ll have to eventually. And you’ll need it ‘cause, when I get home I swear, I’m going to fuck you so hard -” His voice muffled for a moment. Your cheeks, and a few other things, felt warm. “Sorry. It’s lunchtime around here. Everything is fucking crazy. I’m supposed to have some sort of thing here soon. But none of these fucking idiots know what the hell is going on. - Geez, hold on a minute.”

You chuckled to yourself as you heard him snap at someone; Can’t you see I’m talking to my fiance here?! - Yes, I’m getting married! - Get that shit outta my face! Katsuki was as bad with the paps as ever. Then there were more muffled voices. And the sound of a door closing. All the background noise went away. Your beloved apologized as he got back on the line.

You rolled your eyes. A thought dawning on you. “Hey, Suki, if you didn’t want me to answer. Then why did you call?”

He coughed. “Well, I, uh -”

“Yes?” you asked innocently. You knew he was about to have a rare cute moment.

“I was going to leave you a message to wake up to. Nothing special,” Katsuki rushed. You could only imagine the blush on his face. “Just how much I love you and miss you and how much I really wish you came on this trip with me to save me from all the dumbasses.”

“I love and miss you too, Suki.” You couldn’t help the wide smile across your face. You adored his vulnerable moments like this. Where, just for a second, he was all smoke and steam. No flames. This was the Katsuki Bakugo you could not wait to marry.

You didn’t know Bakugo until after he’d become a pro hero. You hadn’t gone to UA, your quirk was nothing special. You had to be one of the only people on earth without the ambition of becoming a hero. You met Katsuki on one of his first missions after becoming a pro. He’d saved your life. 

A villain had collapsed your college dorm. You were pinned under a lot of debris. You could hardly breathe, and your leg was in searing pain. You were very sure you were going to die. When, suddenly, there he appeared! With your vision tunneling, he looked like a guardian angel. You smiled as you blacked out. You knew you were going to make it out.

You were in a coma for a week after the incident. The nurses said Katsuki came every day until you woke up. He was making rounds in the hospital, checking on everyone who’d been brought in. But he always made sure to stop by your room. Always asking about how you were doing.

Later you’d gone to his agency, you wanted to thank him. The secretary had tried to turn you away. Even if you were in a wheelchair. A fractured arm and a neck brace didn’t do well with crutches for your broken leg. You were lucky enough he’d just been coming in. 

He agreed to see you.

And the rest was history, you supposed. You hit it off the first day. And he said he didn’t mind if you came around. So you did. Every few days you’d show up. Eventually getting his number. Then a proper invitation for a date. Once you were totally healed up. Three years later, a ring followed. 

Everything had, somehow, fallen into this fantastical line. You were with a top hero. Sure, the money was nice, you didn’t have to worry about anything. But that didn’t really matter.  Because, most of all, you were with someone who would fight fiercely for you. Who was always there for you. Who had odd moments of sweet vulnerability. Who made sure to tell you he loved you every single day. You wouldn’t give up your life with him for the world.

“Are you sure you can’t come home early?” you sighed, closing your eyes.

He grunted. “I fucking wish. Made me sign a stupid contract. I have to be at every single event. It’s real fucking annoying.”

You breathed out a laugh. “You sound tired. And you’ve only been there two days.”

“Jetlag,” Katsuki groaned. “And you’re not one to talk, idiot. You sound like you’re going to pass out.”

“I told you I couldn’t sleep. It’s cold here, Susu.” You knew nothing irritated him more than you called him that. You laughed at the growl he let out.

“It’s winter here too.” You could practically hear his eyes roll.

“Yeah, but you’re always warm.” You pulled the blankets higher around your shoulders. The cold really starting to seep in. You didn’t realize how much you relied on Katsuki for heat in the winter.

“I know a few ways to warm you up,” his voice was deep and velvety. “How about we - what do you want? - Seriously? - It’s the wrong fucking - Do you dumbasses even know what you’re doing? - Where the hell is Icy Hot? - Why the fuck is he there? - You can’t just lose a whole damn person, idiot! - Are you fucking - Yeah, fine. Gimme a minute. - They lost the Icy Hot bastard. He’s somewhere on the other side of the city. These guys are idiots. We’re not even in the right place.”

“Sounds like you have quite the debacle,” you snickered.

Katsuki groaned again. “I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

You nodded, even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “I’ll be waiting.”

“You better be fucking sleeping.” He argued with someone in the background again. Then came back on the line in a soft, whispering voice. “Hey, [Name], I love you. I’ll talk to you when I can. I, uh, I miss you.”

“I love you more,” you teased, “I miss you. Be safe over there. Don’t kill anyone, please.”

“I won’t, damn, have a little faith in me.”

“I have all the faith in the world.”

There was a voice in the background again. Katsuki sighed. “I’ll be careful, don’t worry about me. I’ll call you next chance I get. I love you, idiot.”

“I love you more, Susu.”

“Whatever.” There was a tinge of playfulness in his voice. “But I definitely love you more.”

Katsuki hung up before you could retort. That was his way of winning that fight. In person, he’d typically hide. Or try to distract you. He always had to win. Even in a play fight.

The smile lingered on your face as you sunk back down into the bed. Maybe now you’d be able to get some rest. You didn’t fall asleep right away. But it came quicker than you thought. In the morning, you woke up to a long string of texts from Katsuki.

You couldn’t figure out why there was a llama. Or why it looked like Deku. But it certainly made your morning. You had a feeling Katsuki had gotten spit on. He tended to get nipped at by the animals when you went to the zoo.

Katsuki ended up signing a new contract. One with the actual company. He would still go on his scheduled dates. Meaning you were still going to be alone. You hated being alone in the apartment. But you figured that, somehow, you would survive until your beloved Katsuki returned to you. You waited anxiously for his every call. And, just for a little bit, you didn’t feel as alone.