#I can’t seem to carve these pieces out of me and they’re making me sick

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[goodlucktai]

always darkest before the dawn

rise of the tmnt x tmnt 2k3 word count: 4k title borrowed from the tornado by owl city post-movie

part two of this prompt

read on ao3

x

Raph’s not a crier.

When he was younger he might have said it was because he was too tough to cry, a New Yorker to his core. In his thirties he can admit, at least to himself, that it has nothing to do with being a tough guy, and everything to do with being extremely self-conscious in just about every avenue of his life, but especially about feeling things out loud where anyone might see it.

Blue’s Raph doesn’t have the same problem.

He’s huge, his shell and shoulders covered in dangerous-looking spikes, a big tail that puts Raphael in mind of Leatherhead dragging across the floor behind him. By looks alone this kid is the definition of a tough guy—and he’s weeping openly, tugging Blue into an embrace just shy of crushing.

“Hey, big guy,” Little Blue whispers, shaking hands fumbling for a solid hold on his brother’s shell. His fingers skate across the big hole carved through the top of Big Red’s carapace. He reaches up to touch the bandage packed over Red’s right eye. That’s about when his expression crumples and his own eyes fill with tears. “I’m so—Raph, I’m so—”

“Don’t,” Red rumbles, burying his face in the top of Blue’s head.

“It was all my fault,” he insists, breath hitching like he’s just a few seconds from bawling. “I’m so sorry, Raphie.”

“God, Leo, don’t. You don’t have to—” Red grits his teeth, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He looks like he’s remembering something that makes him sick to his stomach. One of his hands finds the nape of Blue’s neck, thumb brushing carefully over the grisly bruises there. “You don’t have to apologize anymore, okay? I don’t want to hear it. Everything’s alright now. Nobody’s mad at you.”

“I’m mad at you,” Purple interjects immediately.

“Donald,” Orange says at length, which seems to be enough to shut him up point-blank.

Blue’s next sob sounds more like a laugh.

Red only loosens his tight hug for as long as it takes for Purple and Orange to shove their way in, and then he has all three of them squeezed against his battered plastron like there’s a very real possibility he’ll never let them go.

They’re all clearly hurting, clinging to each other in a way that Raph recognizes, even if he wishes he didn’t. How many close calls has he lived through? How many nights has he kept a frightened vigil in the infirmary, counting a wounded sibling’s breaths, refusing to sleep just in case he woke up in a world he didn’t recognize?

The kids huddled on the floor look like it would take a small apocalypse to wrench them away from each other, and even then, they wouldn’t make it easy.

“You scared me, Lee,” Orange says thickly. His tone wavers between desperate relief and actual heartbreak, face screwed up as if he can’t decide how he wants to look at his prodigal brother. He curls his hands into fists around the strap that stretches across Blue’s plastron. “I thought you were—I don’t know what I’d do if…. Never ever ever do anything like that ever ever again.”

“If you do, I will make you wish you’d never been born,” Purple hisses. “There’s nowhere in the universe you would be able to hide from me, you scheming, self-sacrificial idiot.”

It’s definitely a threat, and it definitely sounds genuine. If it weren’t for the way Purple’s snout is tucked firmly into the crook of Blue’s neck and shoulder, the two of them pieced together like a familiar puzzle, Raphael might have been worried.

There’s also the fact that Blue looks absurdly reassured, like all’s right with the world again now that Purple is here to menace him.

These guys are weird, he thinks.

“These guys are adorable,” Mikey coos a millisecond later. That tracks—Mikey’s weird, too. He pitches his voice a little louder, his friendly tone effortlessly disarming. “Hey, kiddos. I’m absolutely a believer in group hugs, please don’t get it twisted. But there are comfier places to cuddle than the floor.”

“And it looks like some of you might need rebandaging,” Donnie adds gently. “I’m happy to help with that, if you like.”

Raph watches as their alternate selves seem to remember where they are in real time. The new arrivals scramble, each of them trying to shove Little Blue behind them protectively and only succeeding in jostling him around like a snowglobe.

He looks dizzy and tired and he’s probably sore as all hell, and his bloodied eye hurts Raph to look at, but he’s laughing breathlessly, trying to worm free. Red makes a deep rumbly noise in his chest that shuts all escape attempts down. His little brothers respond with clicks or chirps, like it’s second nature—first nature? Whatever, like it’s normal for them.

“Take a chill pill, mis hermanos,” Blue says, perpetually unruffled despite the tear tracks on his bruised face and the manhandling. “These guys are cool. They made me an omelet.”

The defensiveness goes out of Orange and Red right away—whether at Blue’s reassurance itself or just the certainty in his tone, Raph has no clue. Purple, who looks like he was born to harbor grudges with every fiber of his being, scoffs loudly and doesn’t let his guard down an inch.

A huff of laughter beside him makes Raph turn his head to find Leonardo smiling at their visitors ruefully.

“It almost sounds like it’s more meaningful to him that we fed him, not the fact that we treated his numerous life-threatening wounds,” Leo says.

Raph remembers being fifteen. He feels his mouth twitch toward a grin of his own. “It probably is.”

The mention of breakfast causes Mikey to loudly mention to the room at large that Blue hasn’t even touched his, which has the intended domino effect of an exodus out of the cramped infirmary and into the den.

The couch isn’t big enough to accommodate Red, something that Raph notes with a pang. The kid agreeably settles on the rug instead, tail curling around his brothers as much as it’s able. Orange picks his way up to Red’s shoulder, sitting among the spikes there comfortably. Blue is bundled in Red’s lap, with Purple shoving him over none-to-gently to climb in next to him.

“Cozy,” Mikey says, hands on his hips. “But we’re back on the floor again.”

“Losing battle, Mike,” Raph butts in. “You’re familiar with those.”

“Boys,” Splinter cuts them off. They’ll never outgrow that exasperated tone, apparently. “Before we become distracted by the tasks at hand, there is one thing I would like to establish first.”

The kids all straighten when he speaks, not so much out of respect as anticipation. They look more bewildered by him than anything. But they seem ready to follow Blue’s lead as a whole, and Blue is eyeing him curiously.

“What would you like us to call you?” the elderly rat says kindly.

“Ah,” Orange says. “Yeah, we all have the same names, huh? You can just nickname us!”

“Nicknames for you and full-names for us?” Leonardo says as if it’s not the best plan he’s ever heard but he’s made do with worse.

“Full names are a mouthful,” Red replies immediately. “Since, uh, you—” He nods toward Raphael a little bashfully. “—probably go by Raph already, I guess you can call me Ellie.”

“‘Ellie’?” Mikey says in absolute glee. Raph resigns himself to the inevitable—the absolute menace masquerading as his youngest brother is gonna run that goddamn nickname into the ground for the next month. “Really?”

“It’s what these bozos used to call me when they were little,” Ellie replies with a shrug, not at all self-conscious about it. “Mike, how ‘bout you, big man?”

“Angie’s cool,” the spotted turtle pipes up readily. “Looks like we’re going with the last half of our names as a theme.”

Purple, however, adamantly refuses to let Raph and his brothers even entertain the idea of calling Blue “Nardo,” because that method of address is his intellectual property and a Genius Built trademark, whatever the hell that means. Likewise, only Blue calls Purple “Tello,” and Purple looks downright murderous at the idea of these strangers using the name.

“If any of you must speak to me, I suppose you can refer to me as Othello.”

“I thought you hated that alias ever since the whole Purple Dragons situation,” Angie says with a wrinkle in his brow beneath his mask.

“Yeah, and I hate it here, too, so it’s perfect.”

Raph doesn’t take it personally. How could he? The kids look like they’ve been through hell and back. Ellie hasn’t made any move to let his brothers out of his arms. Angie keeps clenching his fists, and then shaking them out, like a tic he’s not entirely aware of—or like whatever is under the bandages wrapped up the length of his arms is consistently hurting him. Othello seems like he’s willing to take a bite out of the next person who looks at him for a second too long but he hasn’t let go of Blue’s hand once.

“And you, little lion?” Splinter asks of the only hold-out.

Leonardo’s younger counterpart hums thoughtfully, then surprises the hell out of Raph by looking right at him, past his own brothers and Raph’s more affable siblings.

“What have you been calling me in your head this whole time?”

Put on the spot, Raph doesn’t have time to think of anything to say but the truth. So he gruffly admits, “Blue.”

Blue’s face lights up. His brothers’ expressions shift into something pleased, a little relieved. Even Othello looks slightly less like he’s about to commit a war crime at any given moment. It’s the same way Blue looked at Mikey earlier, when Mikey knew what drink he liked best; like it’s a hint of home they weren’t expecting to find here.

“Fine by me,” the red-striped turtle allows magnanimously.

Smiling, Splinter begins hobbling toward the kitchen. “Donatello, if you wouldn’t mind looking over their wounds, please? Leonardo and I will make a few more omelets for our guests.”

Donnie mumbles agreeably, heading back into the infirmary, presumably for supplies. Meanwhile, Blue lifts his plate up to Angie, balanced carefully in his casted hand. Angie happily tears the cold omelet in half with his fingers, keeping one part for himself and biting into it like a taco before passing the rest back.

“Eggs?” Blue asks, shoving it under Othello’s snout next.

“I’ll reduce you to atoms,” Othello says plainly, tapping on his phone with his free hand.

“Noted. Eggs?” Blue asks Ellie.

“Leon, if you don’t quit fooling around and eat your dang food—”

“I can’t even tell you how likely it is that I’ll puke if I put anything heavier than jello in my body for the next twelve hours,” Blue says conversationally. It draws Ellie up short, something pained leaking into his expression, and Othello bares his teeth at no one in particular. Sensing that his light-hearted remark didn’t really land the way he intended, Blue adds, “I had some strawberry milk before you got here.”

Somehow he makes it sound like his family is here picking him up from day camp. Ellie’s visible eye gets very soft, the gruff concern melting away and pure affection shining through instead.

“That’s good, kid.”

“Hey,” Angie pipes up, with a depth of care in his voice that makes him sound twice his age, “how ‘bout a fruit smoothie instead, Lee?”

“Say no more, mini-me,” Mikey jumps in, clapping his hands together. “I can blend with the best of them. Baby Blue, don’t tell me your favorite combo, I wanna guess—pineapple and banana?”

Blue blinks owlishly at him. Ellie chuckles and Angie says, “Ohmigosh, the parallels!” so Raph is assuming Mikey was right on the money, yet again. He’s gonna get a big head at this rate—a bigger head—and be impossible to live with.

Don returns at that point, shouldering his Mary Poppins bag off onto the sofa and pawing through it. “Can I see your hands?” he asks gently, offering his own to Angie.

“Oh, no, my hands are fine,” Angie says, flapping them. “They’re not cut or hurt or anything, April only wrapped them ‘cause they kept shaking and the pressure helped.” When Blue shoves far enough away from his siblings to crane around and look up at him in alarm, Angie hastens to add, “I just strained myself, that’s all! It’s like, uh, a torn muscle? In my soul? Dad made us all drink this gross mystic tea that’s s’posed to up our healing game, and he promised Pops that all my pain would go away in a few days.”

Blue stares at him for a second longer. If he’s anything like Leonardo, then he’s able to see right through any attempt at bullshitting him from like five miles away. Angie must be genuine, because after a tense moment, Blue relaxes back against Ellie’s plastron.

“Glad I missed the gross tea,” he announces.

“We saved you some,” Ellie replies shortly. He glances up, and starts at the way Donnie is waiting patiently beside them. “Oh, uh, I’m sorry! I think we’re okay, but you could look at Donnie’s shell, maybe.”

“No,” Othello says shortly.

“Dee—” Ellie begins, but Othello jerks his head sharply, and then glowers openly when Donnie settles down on the floor in front of him.

Raph’s not going to say it out loud or anything, but he’d feel better if Donatello kept his hands away from that kid. Out of biting distance, at least. Don doesn’t seem bothered by his little counterpart’s attitude in the slightest, smiling crookedly at him.

“You’re a softshell, right?” he says mildly. “Your carapace must be spiny and leathery, unlike your brothers’ armored scutes. Is that why you built the metal shell you’re wearing? For protection?”

“Eughh boy,” Angie mutters under his breath, torn between horror and a sort of morbid fascination.

Blue squeezes the hand that Othello is still holding, and Ellie’s arm around him flexes—they’re all clearly anticipating a violent reaction. Raph is taking his cues from them, his muscles tensing as he prepares himself for the act of flinging his immediate younger brother out of harm’s way.

Othello is staring at Don with unblinking gold eyes. They’re a perfect mirror of Blue’s, except there’s a gleam in Othello’s that puts Raph in mind of a deep sea creature lurking beneath an unsuspecting fishing vessel, ready at any moment to casually fuck up someone’s whole day.

“Is there a point to this line of questioning?” he asks in a dangerously blank tone.

“I just think it’s interesting,” Donnie replies, every bit as if he doesn’t sense the danger he’s in. “Yours is one of the most dangerous, aggressive species of turtle that exist in the wild, second only to snappers, but most people wouldn’t be able to tell as much just by looking at you. I’ll bet you’re underestimated pretty often.”

That earns him a blink at least. Othello’s brothers are all frozen, eyes darting back and forth between the two hyper-intelligent turtles like they’re following a tennis match.

Donnie’s smile widens. It’s warm, as always. If you didn’t know where to look, you wouldn’t be able to tell that it was sharp, too.

“I know a thing or two about that,” he admits easily, like it isn’t a painful truth to part with.

Don’s vicious little parallel self tilts his head a bit, considering him. Among the items Donnie has pulled out of his bag is the handheld sensor he modeled after the tricorder from Star Trek. Predictably, Othello’s eyes linger on it. Donnie agreeably offers it to him.

The whole thing reminds Raphael of the countless hours he’s spent with Mikey in countless dark alleys, winning feral cats over with morsels of food.  

Ellie, Angie and Blue all exhale in relief when Othello sets his phone down and takes the tricorder.

“My brothers and I are diamondback terrapins,” Don goes on. “You’d think that, by virtue of belonging to the same species, we’d have had an easier time understanding each other. But growing up, there were times I didn’t understand them at all.”

After a beat, Othello grudgingly engages him. “Human DNA complicates everything. Our genetic donor was equal parts martial arts superhero and an on-fire trainwreck of a man, so at least we come by our eccentricities honestly. But even if my dumb-dumb brothers were softshells like myself, they would still be their dumb-dumb selves, and I would still spend half my waking moments engaged in mortal combat with them at even the slightest provocation.”

“The Cain Instinct,” Angie supplies wisely.

“Indeed,” Othello agrees.

“I guess siblings are the same everywhere,” Donnie says with good humor. “That’s actually kind of a comfort.” He glances back at Othello and nonchalantly adds, “If you show me your shell, I can show you how the sensor works.”

The siren call of an unfamiliar gadget is enough. Othello finally lets go of Blue and extracts himself from Ellie’s hug to disengage his metal shell with a quiet hiss of hydraulics. He leans it against the front of the couch and hands the sensor to Donnie, turning his back to him expectantly and settling tailor-style with a white-knuckled grip on his own legs that betrays his nerves.

Blue plants his elbows on Elllie’s knee and props his chin in his hands so that he and Othello are eye-to-eye. He offers a stupidly charming smile. Othello says, “Get away from me, I’m busy.” Donnie snorts and activates the tricorder, narrating his every move.

A stunned Angie leans down to whisper at Ellie. “Dude, did you see that? Their Donatello just finessed our Dee. He made it look effortless. It took him like two minutes.”

“April is never going to believe this,” Ellie replies weakly.

“Speaking of April,” Blue asks of no one in particular, “how are we getting home?”

“Believe it or not, we jumped in face-first without an exit plan,” Othello says dryly. “We be we, et cetera, ad nauseam.”

“Um, in my defense, it’s really hard opening portals between dimensions, and I’m not even really sure how I did it the first time,” Angie says in a prickly tone. His mouth tugs into a frown, and he bites the inside of his lip, before he adds, “If I hadn’t thrown that chain around you before you disappeared, we might never have found you again, Leo.”

“In the immortal words of J Beiber, never say never,” Blue says immediately. He doesn’t lift his head or look away from the Donatellos, and Raph gets the feeling that the only thing keeping Othello from snapping at Donnie’s hands when they get too close is the knowledge that his brother is keeping an eye on things for him. “There’s nothing in this entire goddamn universe that you can’t do, Angelo, and that’s on god.”

“Jesus, Leo, language,” Ellie snaps. But Angie is smiling again, so Blue accomplished what he meant to.

Splinter, Mikey and Leo return at that point with plates of fresh food as well as reheated food from earlier, and Mike presents Blue his smoothie with a flourish. Othello is quick to scoot back around to press his carapace safely against Ellie’s side the moment Don is finished with his scan, and makes grabby hands at it to view the data for himself. Angie hops down from his perch to take his plate, beaming his thanks at Splinter.

“If I overheard you correctly, you don’t know how to get home?” Leonardo asks, passing food to Ellie with a worried line in his brow.  

This is the sort of thing that would strike absolute fear into Raph’s heart—stuck someplace he didn’t belong, without direction or an immediate next step to take—but the snapper digs into his eggs and only looks vaguely worried about his situation.

“Not really,” he says slowly. “And we may have promised Pops we wouldn’t do anything stupid, but—”

“But if he believed us, then that’s on him,” Othello says unapologetically.

“But,” Ellie stresses, “when the portal opened and we felt Leo’s ninpo on the other side, what other choice did we have? Besides, Mikey tossed them a line before we jumped in.”

Humming around the big bite of omelet he just scooped into his mouth, Angie lifts a hand and makes a grabbing motion in thin-air. Chains materialize in his grip, the same burning gold links that had held onto Blue so tightly.

The length of chain is taught, as if the other end is anchored onto something, keeping the young turtles moored to their place in the unknowable vastness of the universe. Wherever they go, they’ll be able to follow that glowing lifeline back home eventually.

Angie lets it go after a moment and it vanishes. But Raph knows it’s still there, even if they can’t see it anymore.

“We’re not alone,” Ellie explains, as if just that says all it needs to say.

Blue settles back, sipping his smoothie through the pink metal straw Mikey thoughtfully provided. None of the fear or uncertainty that he woke up with has stuck around. He’s listening to his brothers talk without hopping into the conversation anymore, and each time he blinks his eyelids get a little heavier.

God, Raph thinks, these kids could make themselves at home anywhere as long as they were there together.

It’s that, more than anything, that Raphael recognizes innately. Their different species and personalities and abilities aside, they’re the exact same breed as Raph and his family in the ways that really matter, in the heart and soul and marrow of the thing.

Plates are scraped clean, and conversation is beginning to stall, starting again in fits and then petering out again. Blue is fast asleep by the time his brothers are nodding off. Leonardo is still talking in a low, level tone, a tried and true tactic to lull stubborn little brothers to sleep that he perfected when he was ten years old. Like clockwork, Ellie shifts to lie flat on his plastron, and Angie and Othello follow him down into a comfy-looking turtle pile. Blue turns onto his side without waking to take the pressure off his cracked carapace and tucks his beak under Othello’s outstretched arm with a content sigh.

“Finally,” Mikey whispers, blue eyes soft.

Splinter picks the massive homemade blanket off the back of the sofa and unfolds it with a gentle shake. It’s a multicolored mess of mismatched squares, a gift from April nearly a decade ago when she was going through a quilting phase, and a family favorite. Over the years it’s been worn to unbelievable softness, and it has kept Raph warm through even the coldest winter nights in the underground.

It’s big enough to cover their guests entirely. One of them makes a sleepy subvocal noise that’s echoed immediately by three others, and it makes Donnie huff out a fond, amused breath from where he’s silently gathering the pieces of the tricorder that he had gamely allowed his mad scientist counterpart to dissect. Raph helps Leonardo pick up the empty plates and Mikey turns the TV on, volume so low it’s almost inaudible, so the kids won’t wake up in total darkness and silence.

They never outright said what happened to them, what they lived through that left those brutal marks on their bodies, and wrenched Blue away from his siblings, and made them afraid to go more than an arm’s length away from each other. Concern weighs heavy in Splinter’s eyes, echoed in Leonardo’s—obvious in the way Donnie and Mikey find reasons to linger in the room—and hell, Raph’s worried, too.

But for now, they’re safe to sleep and heal. Anything that might want to hurt them won’t be able to find them here. And even if it did, it’d have to go through Raph and his brothers first. That’s not much, but it’s not nothing.

In about four hours, give or take, a very pissed off young woman is going to metaphorically kick the door of Raphael’s dimension off its metaphorical hinges, rattling the entire fucking foundation of the place with the sheer force of her love and loyalty, fully ready to fight god to get her little brothers back. She’ll be backed up by a small army—as mismatched and messy as the quilt Raphael’s own sister made them once, made up of pieces that have no business belonging together that belong together anyway, effortlessly, endlessly, always.

None of them will be immediately familiar, but Raph will still know who they are. Some things really are universal.

Family, he’s learned, is one of them.

[inkykeiji]

i have the warmth of the sun within me tonight

characters: takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut n fluff

notes: this piece was written with someone specific in mind, but i wanted to share it here, too!! this is, by far, the healthiest and most wholesome piece i’ve ever posted on my blog ehehe | title cred: the warmth of the sun by the beach boys

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is extremely scared of thunderstorms, v romantic, shower sex, minimal prep, slight size difference/size kink

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

It’s dark. It’s so dark it almost looks like night despite the fact that it’s only late afternoon, heavy bloated clouds—charcoal and fluffy and overstuffed with raindrops—obscuring the safety of comforting golden rays from the entire city.

The torrential downpour feels endless, and for a brief second you’re terrified it truly may never stop, streets below having flooded with the rain, cars slowly wading through them, tires spraying out streams of water as they do.

Magnificent strikes of lightning crack through the dreary sky like thick roots snaking through the foggy canopy of smoke and steel, momentarily tainting them in shades of periwinkle and lavender and casting flashes of brilliant silver light across the skyscrapers and condominiums.

Their sudden presence makes you jolt, a rapid shudder working its way through your entire body, skin pebbling with chills in its wake.

But it isn’t the lightning that bothers you—not really, anyway.

It’s what comes after.

Rumbles of thunder so loud, so violent they cause the glass windows of Keigo’s apartment to quiver and the hardwood beneath your feet to tremble, roll through the sky, and you swear you can see the clouds ripple from the force.

Arms squeezing tighter around your body, your fingers curl in the material of your—his—hoodie, desperately attempting to resist the urge to grab your phone, to frantically scroll through social media as worried eyes scan for any mention of his name, for shreds of dreadful news, for things you never want to hear.

You hate it when he has to work in storms such as these. And you know, you know you shouldn’t be watching the sky, shouldn’t be searching the splotches of gunmetal adorning the atmosphere for a glimmer of scarlet and gold, shouldn’t be standing so close to the pristine glass windows that your uneven puffs of nervous breath cloud them, tiny blankets of condensation left by the hot air you exhale fleetingly staining the surface, evaporating into nothing just as quickly as they appear.

But you can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, almost—like some sort of sick obsession, some sort of twisted addiction you can’t control. Because—Because you have to know, unable to stand that feeling of uncertainty that gnaws away at your insides, incapable of handling the ambiguity and vagueness that comes packaged with the not knowing. You have to at least try—try to do everything in your power to stay informed, and if that means facing a vicious thunderstorm head on, with your cheek pressed against the cold glass as your gaze searches the tumultuous sky, then so be it.

You can brave it for him. You swear you can.

“Baby,” he scolds gently, his sudden presence surprising you, causing you to throw a quick glance over your shoulder. Topaz eyes observe you, overflowing with concern, pretty bowed lips turning down, soaked strands of gold hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks and neck. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” And although he’s reprimanding you, his voice is sweet, smooth and syrupy like the finest honey. “You know how much thunder freaks you out,”

You scoff, stiffening almost defensively as you turn your nose up a little, still avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t freak me out,”

“Oh?” he laughs a little as he kicks off his boots, tension easing from his shoulders with every step towards you, every step further into the warm sanctuary of your shared home, wet sock-clad feet slapping against the hardwood and leaving gleaming footprints.

“Kei,” you whine a little, gesturing his dripping body. “You’re getting water everywhere,”

“Hey now,” a playful smirk spreads across his lips, and a sudden, sharp whoosh slices through the air as his wings spread, spanning nearly half the living room. He gives them one good, thorough shake, crimson feathers trembling and sending tiny droplets of water flying. “I wasn’t done,” he speaks over your squeal of his name, smirk growing into that trademark mischievous grin. “You shouldn’t just stand at the window and stare up at the sky—it only scares you more,”

“I’m not scared,”

Vicious growls of thunder roil through the sky before you’re even finished speaking, almost as if it’s laughing at you, mocking you, your body flinching as the sounds crash over you, curling in on yourself a little, face puckered up in a wince as your words stutter, catching on a gasp in your throat.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Keigo holds his arms open wide, wings still stretched to span them. “Yeah, right. C’mere,” When you don’t begin moving immediately, he sighs again, strong hands gently pulling you towards him.

Your body melts into his touch—an automatic and involuntary reaction, almost instinctual at this point—and you slump against his damp chest, nuzzling your cheek against the firm muscles.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, arms wrapping around your body as he holds you tightly to his, voice reverberating against your ear. “The Big Bad Scary Thunder can’t get you here,”

Eyes rolling, you scoff at his playful teasing, a tiny smile materializing on your face as you pull away a little to look up at him, greeted with the sight of brilliant eyes—made of sunshine and liquid gold, you’re absolutely sure of it—gazing down at you, lips quirked in a cute little smirk.

His beauty never fails to knock the breath from your chest—it seems you can never be prepared for it; no matter how many times you’ve seen him, how many times you’ve been close enough to count the individual eyelashes lining those orbs, how many times you’ve been close enough to feel the inviting tickle of the short golden hairs decorating his chin—and you’re not sure you’ll never get used to it, either.

A peculiar mix of adoration and concern swirl in his honey irises, though you can see the mirth and amusement dancing just beyond that, thinly veiled by the love and worry.

“Oh, shut up—” another bang of thunder fissures through the sky, so raucous it makes the thick clouds waver and swell, your words morphing into a fearful little squeak, quickly burying your head back against the safety of his chest.

Fingers curl in the wet suede and you hug yourself closer to him, tugging him closer to you, body beginning to shudder.

He’s hushing you now, arms and wings curled around you in a defensive embrace as words of comfort pry past his lips, tender voice sheathing the armor of crimson surrounding you.

“At least they aren’t as bad as the ones back home, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you mumble, unconvinced, eyebrows knitted and mouth sculpted into a deep pout. “I still don’t like them, though,”

“I know, I know,” a warm hand rubs soothing circles into your back, voice only marginally louder than the next bout of thunder as it vibrates against your face, another quiet yelp clawing its way up your throat. “Shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,”

“Kei,”

The nickname escapes in a mangled little whimper, and you can feel it—fright, terror, dread—building in your chest, a strangling type of panic that weaves and winds itself around your windpipe and crushes; because they’re getting worse, they’re getting closer, growls and grumbles following the flashes of lightning almost immediately, roaring loud enough to quake buildings, your heart thudding so violently it’s almost painful. Tears sting your eyes, and you shake your head against him, as if trying to burrow into his chest, to carve out a little space in his ribcage, right next to his steadily beating heart, and live there.

“I-I take it back, they are as bad as the ones back home,”

Or, at least, this one is

Keigo doesn’t argue, all traces of amusement evaporated from his face, replaced by trepidation that mixes with his worry and pinches his features, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he cradles you against him. Ferocious tremors course through your form, chest beginning to hitch with swallowed sobs, and he squeezes you.

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

“Okay, alright,” he’s saying as he rocks you gently, crimson wings wrapped entirely around you both, shielding you from the storm. The scent of freshly mown grass and sticky vanilla ice cream is nearly overwhelming as it washes over your senses, invading your lungs and smothering you in its embrace. It’s a welcomed feeling, the beautiful suffocation it affords you with, vibrant bursts of heat rushing through your veins, whole body flooded and thrumming with a deep-seated comfort—a special type of solace, of reassurance, of contentment unique to him, unfathomable and mystifying on all accounts, that soothes your frayed nerves and calms your irregular heart—because he smells like home; not your home halfway across the world, your real home, your forever home.

“Come,” he instructs a moment later, stern yet tender, keeping an arm draped firmly around your shoulders, one of his wings curving around the limb as he leads you away from the window, scarlet feathers obstructing your vision.

—

The bathroom—comprised of gleaming marble and shining chrome—is enormous, housing a mammoth glass shower that spans the length of the furthest wall, large enough to more-than-comfortably accommodate his wings, and then some.

Steam fogs the glass, and a soft hiss slips from between your teeth as he cages you between his chiseled body and the freezing marble, cold rock stinging your already heated skin, his wings spreading to mimic his arms, providing another layer of protection and entirely immersing you in him.

It’s your favourite when he does this, when he engulfs you in his grasp and creates a tiny universe where it’s just the two of you, whole world having fallen away outside of the barricade his thick wings offer—and you’ve never felt safer.

And it’s amazing, you’re thinking to yourself—or maybe you’re murmuring it, lips moving in a daze—it’s amazing how even after all of the rainwater pouring from the sky, all of the zipping through those dense clouds, all of the vicious wind that whips against him as he soars; none of it could ever manage to wash away, to ever dull, his intoxicating scent, not even for a second.

You’re completely overcome by him, vanquished by his enamoring eyes and his saccharine smile—drunk and high off of it all, addicted to him in the sweetest way—and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

But you’re leaning into him, closer and closer and closer, lips parted as you inhale deeply, filling your lungs, your chest, your heart and veins and blood with his aura, his essence, him. He conquers you, intoxicates you, poisons you in such a beautiful way, and you’re enchanted by it, yearning for more, a greedy and insatiable craving that will never be fulfilled.

And he knows it. He knows the effect he has on you by merely existing near you—his cocky smirk and dazzling gaze tell you so.

But then his eyes soften, glazing over with something else, lidded as they slowly travel across your body bared to him, and his mouth falls open only for his tongue to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, and his fingers reach to trace your features, the curve of your cheek and line of your jaw, the most gentle caress.

“You…Are breathtaking,”

And he really does sound out of breath, as if he’s in awe from your beauty, as if this is his first time seeing you, as if you’re some sort of goddess, having descended right in front of him, and it forces chills to erupt across your bare skin—damp and splattered with tiny droplets of water that gleam like morning dew clinging to grass—despite how boiling it is between him and the steam from the shower.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling you’ve never really been able to find the appropriate words for, something that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and weak, a swirling concoction of contradictions that invade your bloodstream and travel straight to your brain, infusing the tissues with the potent mix and sending tiny sparks buzzing through your veins, collecting to flutter together in the pit of your stomach.

He kisses you slowly, tonight. He kisses you like it’s his last day to live, kisses you like it’s his first time, unhurried tongue deliberately exploring the concavities of your mouth—every nook and ridge and crevice—as if committing them to memory, as if attempting to leave his stamp, his mark, his claim, on the real estate there.

He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, lungs shriveling as your chests heave, exhaling into each other’s mouths only to suck breath from each other’s mouths a moment later. He kisses you until you’re dizzy from the lack of air and he’s burning and hard and pressed up against your thigh, leaking head rubbing against the supple skin, leaving the prettiest gleaming trails of cream. He kisses you until you’ve gone stupid from his spit alone, fervent in the way you swallow it greedily, in the way you attempt to suck, slurp, steal more from him as it surges to your brain, tissues and nerves vaporizing into nothing more than a dazed mist, spiked with him.

The kiss breaks with a sharp whoosh of air, his lids lifting to reveal glassy pupils outlined with the thinnest ring of amber. Your tongue darts out from your mouth to lick and lap at the stringy, viscous remnants coating your chin; starved, ravenous, and forever unsated.

The chuckle huffed out from between swollen, saliva-soaked lips is nothing short of sinful, makes your vision blur and your stomach swoop, a murmured tease following it.

“Eager, aren’t you,”

And you want to point out that you weren’t the one practically humping someone’s hip, but the words tangle in your throat, catching on a gasp as nimble fingers slip between the apex of your thighs, an involuntary groan spilling from his throat.

“Fuck,” his head falls forward, face buried in your neck, and sucks an inhale through his teeth. “How are you already this wet?”

He’s nearly whining as he dips two fingers into you, soft little sounds that fall from his lips and sop into your skin, his breath scorching—sizzling more than the steam in the shower—against your neck.

And those fingers, now plunging into you, knuckles curling the moment they’re deep enough to press moans from your chest and cries from your throat, feel so familiar as they stretch you open—the same fingers that pet your hair and brush away your tears and feed you pieces of fried chicken; they feel like home.

Yet as comforting as that is, as much as it has your chest swelling with something so large, so dense you’re terrified your ribs may shatter and splinter under the strain, they aren’t enough. Not right now, not today.

Because even with the water hitting the tiles and the exquisite symphony of his pants and your mewls, you can still hear it, menacing blasts encroaching on you, deep and heavy and threatening to split the little world Keigo has created, the small haven his wings and arms provide.

“Please, please, Kei,” you’re nearly wailing out, forcing bleary eyes to open, belated in the way they find his gaze. “I-I want you, I need you,”

“Sweetheart,” he starts—and you know that tone, stitched together with hesitation and concern and embellished with thin ribbons of patronization. “You know you can’t take me without being opened up at least a lil’ first,”

Another clap of thunder rattles the apartment, sounding as if it’s just outside the bathroom door, ranting and raging to get in, and both of your hands claw at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away as words bubble past your lips, high and terrified and desperate.

“No, Kei, not tonight. Please, baby, please, I need you now, right now, Kei, right now, pl-please,” and you’re nearly choking on the pleads as they barrel up your throat and out your mouth, all garbled together and stuffed with spit. “I can handle it, promise,”

A hoarse whine hitches in his throat, the worried knitting of his eyebrows carving creases into his forehead. With pinched features and a scrunched face, it looks almost as if he’s in pain; like it’s pure agony to deny you. And you can see it, can see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, stare wrought with the tug and pull between desire and care. But that need is growing, spreading, curling around your organs in a tight embrace, suffocating you with its urgency.

A final please, Keigo, croaked out in a broken whimper and thick with the threat of tears, is what breaks him, shatters his resolve to a fine dust and whisks it away in one breath.

“Alright,” he’s murmuring, though his voice is strained, tense and gruff under the combined paradoxical weight of lust and apprehension. “Alright, hush now, I’ve got you,”

Then he’s hoisting you up, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, one hand clutching the top of the glass door, the other digging bruises into his neck as he buries his cock inside of you in one swift movement, a set of relieved gasps escaping you both.

It stings a little, sharp pinpricks shooting through your gut as his thick cock stretches you open, but they’re chased promptly by thorns of pleasure that dissipate the pain.

Because he feels so good, and you feel so full, and everything feels so perfect like this—everything feels right again.

But a boom of thunder explodes through this moment, blowing it to bits and pieces, and you reflexively jump, whole body flinching in his arms.

“Shh,” he’s whispering to you as he pulls you closer, chest pressed flush against yours. “Don’t worry, songbird, I’m gonna make it better, alright? Just focus on me,”

And so you do, eyes slipping shut as his hips begin to pump—slow at first, almost languid in the way they roll forward, each thrust thorough, cock nearly entirely unsheathed before it plunges back in, the head nudging your cervix, and you revel in the delicious cracks rasps—of your name, of curses, and praises—that fall from his lips with each rut.

“S’deep,” you mumble, words already jumbled from the carnal bliss, from the hedonistic decadence that surrounds you, emanating off him and percolating into you, instantly diffusing the tension and panic knotted like thick vines in your chest—even though he’s barely fucking done anything. “S’deep, Kei,”

“Yeah?” the word fans across your face, sweet and fragrant, hazy eyes opening to be met with glittering gold, strands of honeysuckle hair stuck to his forehead and temples, framing the dark gaze watching you, pupils almost voracious in the way they soak up your expressions, almost greedy in the way they scan your face as his hips move, looking for more. His forehead knocks against yours, penetrating stare boring into your face. “Good? My baby like it?”

“So good,” your head nods in small movements with the whimpered affirmation, bumping against his. It’s already beginning to build, smoldering deep in the pit of your stomach, the spark that had been dulled when you had begged him to stop, begged him to give you more—to stretch and fill and form you like your insides were made for him—reigniting, bright and scalding.

“More, please,”

It just slips from your lips, brain already beginning to melt as you allow yourself to be submerged, swallowed and consumed by him; an innate desire that swamps your mind and floods your senses, and you want it all.

But he complies without complaint this time, void of the usual teasing remarks and requests that you beg for it, because he can see how depleted, how drained you are, utterly exhausted from the terror of the storm, his understanding evident in a gentle confirmation tumbling from his lips.

And his groans and grunts are so beautiful, vibrating deep in the recesses of his chest, louder than any thunder as they rumble in your ears. You find solace in them, gulping them in as he pushes them out, letting them vibrate down the column of your throat and collect deep in your belly, kindling with the flickering embers that burn and glow and multiply with each thrust, furling together in a tense ball of churning heat.

The canting of his hips increases, faster and faster and faster with each rock forward, the escalating force resulting in your body to rubbing against the marble and glass, tightly curled fingers readjusting themselves, slipping a little from the foggy condensation coating the surface.

You don’t even realize that your sensitive skin’s been rubbed raw from the action, too tangled up in his noises, his pleasure, his cock, to notice, too tangled up in him to care at all.

“Here,” Keigo pants out, hips suddenly stilling. A low whine catches in your throat, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, a breathless snicker escaping his parted lips. “I know, baby, I know,” he’s telling you as strong arms readjust you, folded wings suddenly spanning, a gentle gust of air bathing your slick body in little goosebumps, before they wrap around him—around you—sheltering you from the glass and marble as they swoop under your ass and thighs, aiding Keigo in supporting your weight. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, I promise,”

And it’s so much hotter like this, so much more intimate like this, uneven puffs of breath mingling as his forehead rests against yours, florescent lights reflecting off of his thick feathers and tinting everything—his skin, his eyes, his hair—scarlet.

The sudden snap of his hips startles a moan out of you, and he laughs again, carmine-tinged topaz eyes positively glowing. And he looks so gorgeous like this, looks like a fucking god like this, those fine gold hairs that cover his body catching in the soft light and shimmering.

He’s kissing, licking, nipping anywhere he can reach, stamping your flesh with physical manifestations of his love, pace never faltering as skilled, powerful hips continue to pound into you, cockhead dragging against that spot with every buck.

Your legs flex around his waist, muscles coiling as the sphere roiling in your stomach blazes, curled into a concentrated ball of fire. The heat it exudes is nearly unbearable now, heavy as it sinks into your gut, glowing orb spiraling as it coils, tighter and tighter and tighter until—

“Want you to cum for me, baby,” Keigo nearly keens, almost as if he’s begging you instead of commanding, voice cutting through the dense haze your brain has evaporated into. “Can y’do that for me? Be good and cum all over my cock?”

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, emitting affirmatives in the form of high little mewls with each jerk. And it only takes two more sharp pistons of his hips before the fire-filled ball bursts, half of his name escaping your throat in a fractured cry as your entire body stiffens, cunt clenching so vigorously it’s almost painful.

Words start to spill from his mouth, an endless stream of praises, sandwiched between dark groans and broken whines and hitched curses; Y’so good for me, y’know that? Ah, f-fuck—So gorgeous when you gush all over my—my cock, baby, y’feel so good, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hot, thick cum fills you suddenly, coinciding with his last choked out declaration of love, cock throbbing as it spurts rope after rope, taut stuttering hips pressed flush against your skin.

—

Everything aches as you unwind your limbs from around him, muscles sore and legs trembling as Keigo forces you to stand, propping you up against the shower wall and returning with the fluffiest towel only a moment later. Large hands pull you towards him, dragging you from under the shower head and into his arms, swaddling your shivering body in Egyptian cotton and strong arms and soft feathers.

He leaves the shower running on purpose, steady flow of water hitting the tiled floor and marbled wall, efficiently drowning out any roars or claps of thunder.

And you’re so tired, so pliant and boneless in his arms, barely able to keep your weighted eyelids from fluttering shut. He keeps you in his lap as he sits on the closed toilet, cradling you to his chest as best he can as he gently rocks you back and forth, whispering out praises—you did so well, you always look so gorgeous taking my cock—and avowals of his love, constant words oozing from his lips, sentiments cascading over your body like a stream of thick syrup.

Unconsciousness has you in its clutches, nearly slipping into the familiar embrace that promises the numbing ecstasy that comes with such an intense orgasm, until your tummy growls, and Keigo laughs.

“No, sweetheart,” he chides softly as you nuzzle into his chest, an indignant noise sounding at the back of your throat. “You have to eat at least a little before you can fall asleep,”

“Don’wanna,”

“I know,” he’s saying sympathetically as he stands, placing your feet on the floor a moment later. You wobble a little, eyes still shut, and he chuckles again, murmuring to himself about how fucking cute you are as he begins to dress you, tugging soft fleece that reeks of him over your head.

—

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time you’ve been clothed and fed, constant and leaking from the clouds overhead as you snuggle against Keigo in the plush sanctuary of your shared bed, tummy full and happy with roasted chicken and sauteed veggies. A deep contentment settles itself in your bones, weaving itself around the ivory in a protective glaze and imbuing you with a sense of calm, a sense of relaxation, a sense of relief, and you hum, Keigo’s lithe fingers trailing up your spine absentmindedly.

If you’re being honest, you’re not quite sure how he did it, how he slipped, slithered, seeped through the few cracks in your defence without being violent, without being forceful—how he tore down all of the barricades and shields you had built around yourself, hardened and firm from several years of paranoia and distrust, from the perpetual fear of being hurt again. It should scare you, really, how quickly he did it, how easily and inconspicuously he did it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he did it with love; stripping those protective walls with genuity and sincerity, dismantling every brick and stone with gentle touches and soft kisses and tender words. He did it with respect, with patience, with passion and affection and devotion.

So it doesn’t, because there’s nothing to fear—because you’ve never felt more safe in your life, here enveloped by his strong arms and cozy wings, resting on his chest, legs tangled in knots together.

And as you drift off to the gentle pat-pat-pat of the raindrops against the windowpane and the steady thumping of Keigo’s heart echoing in your ears, you realize he’s your very own ray of sunshine, forever present to keep those menacing clouds and malicious thunder away, even in the strongest, the harshest, and the scariest of storms.

[since0202]

Taking Time—Forty Four

In over your head

Do you ever feel like a slingshot? Because I feel like one a lot lately. The thing about slingshots is they’re useful, right up until they're not. But the thing I identify with most is the potential of a slingshot. Its inherent use is obvious whether it’s being pulled taut, loaded with something to launch, or sitting empty somewhere. But lately, I feel like the latter version. I feel empty, but built with so much potential and care that it seems like such a waste. How do I shake this feeling? How do I reclaim the version of myself that feels most useful? Ready to launch and exceed my own expectation of how far I can make things go. Pulled tight, and overstretched but so fantastically full with purpose and determination. I don’t know, I suppose that might sound a little weird, but it makes sense to me. I’m a slingshot, I’ve just got to find that missing piece of me.

Maya made it through her last final by the skin of her teeth. The last few weeks of the semester had been a blur after her scare in the infirmary and if she was being honest with herself, she’d never really been able to shake it off. She had successfully been able to quell Paul’s concerns when she lied and said she thought she had strep, brought on by the unrelenting stress of finals. He had conceded and the next day, a care package had shown up at her dorm filled with vitamin C packets, a heated blanket, weighted neck pillow, her favorite snacks, and a carefully carved wolf figurine. That one had made her smile. And then the smile had faltered and Maya had felt nauseous all over again.

Something still hadn’t sat right with Maya over lying to Paul about the pregnancy scare, but she knew she didn’t want to tell him over the phone where she wouldn't be able to read his face. If she was being honest, she’d even say she was a little embarrassed by all of this, but couldn’t fully pinpoint the reason why. She’s sure it had to do with the fact that this was entirely ironic. What if she had gotten a positive test result back? What then? She knew Becks would never say a word against her, but still, Maya felt a little ashamed with how she had reacted to Becks’ pregnancy and she had almost been put in the line of fire herself. And then there was…a confusing air of disappointment.

Maya had pushed that feeling so far down so as not to have to deal with its confusing effects during her finals, but now, as she packed her suitcases and filled some boxes with the bits she’d gathered during her semester, it began to bubble up again.

Why in the world should she feel disappointment? The thought raged in her head as she tried to focus on folding and pressing her t-shirts into her suitcase. It’s not like she wanted to be pregnant—far from it. Maya knew she wasn’t ready for that and she still had dreams and things she wanted to do first. They were on the same page about that. But still..it left a tiny dime sized hole in the pit of her stomach, and the ache that usually pulsed as a reminder of her imprint squeezed around that empty feeling until her head would start to ache.

Maya brought a hand to her forehead and checked for a fever. Maybe she was just getting sick and this feeling was merely a delusion of that. She felt relatively cool, but how she was to know. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and Maya slipped it out and quickly opened the email notification from Paul with her flight details. She smiled at the short note in the email from him:

Can’t wait to have you back with me.

She sent a quick reply of “Can’t wait to be back with you,” before adding the notification of her early morning flight to her calendar and packing in earnest now. This feeling would ebb and she would feel whole again once she was back home and with Paul, she knew it. Beez was already out ferrying her stuff to the mailroom to ship back home, so when Maya heard a quick succession of knocks on her dorm room door, she raised an eyebrow in confusion.

When she pulled it open, she had no time to react before a bright, warm body was hurtling into her arms with a squeal.

“KEYE?!” Maya yelled as she inhaled the familiar scent of her friend’s shampoo and wrapped her arms around her. “What the fuck are you doing here?!” Keye was laughing and swinging Maya from side to side. When she pulled back to look at her, her eyes were bright with excitement and Maya immediately felt that empty hole shrink. Keye was a bit of home.

“Surprise! I thought I’d come celebrate the end of your laborious finals with you!” she replied with a sound of delight as she clapped her hands together.

“But what..how did you? But you have school!” Maya nearly scolded. She was so happy Keye was here and her own excitement was plain on her face as she held onto her friend's hand. Keye shrugged.

“UW let out a few days ago and I was just putzing around the rez, so! HERE I AM! In the big apple and ready to party, bitch!” Keye walked deeper into Maya’s dorm scanning the contents of the room with a discerning eye. Her eyes landed on the stack of boxes in the corner and she shook her head.

“But how did you get here?” Maya continued, coming to stand beside her friend.

“Psh, what do you think?” She replied, hands on her hips and mirroring Maya’s posture just moments before. “Paul.” She said simply. “He texted me a couple of days ago and asked if I wanted to go out and see you, help bring you back. Said you had been so stressed with finals that you’d nearly made yourself sick,” at this she wagged her finger at Maya disapprovingly before continuing, “And thought I’d be a great little treat for you. So sweet,” she concluded with a knowing grin. Maya rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the rush of warmth that filled her now. It’s like he’d known she was missing a piece and he’d tried to fill it the best way he could.

Maya smiled and nodded. “Very sweet,” she confirmed as she looked at her boxes.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do with all of this then?” Keye blurted out. Maya laughed, thoroughly glad for the company.

“That’s the last one,” Keye said as she huffed and heaved another box up onto the mailroom counter. It had taken them two trips with the dolly to get all of Maya’s things here and both girls were completely out of breath at this point. Yeah, next semester, she was not bringing this much stuff. Which wouldn’t be too hard to do, she thought, because she had the option of living off campus or in the sophomore suites next year. Maya hadn’t quite decided what she wanted yet. Paul was obviously keen on the idea of her living off campus where he could come and stay with her whenever he liked, but Maya still thought being close to her cohort would be the best while she was out here on her own.

She shrugged off the thought for now, not needing to dwell on it for the next couple of months at least and smiled at the student attendants behind the counter.

“Where to?” A befreckled boy asked, as he poised his pen over the clipboard.

“La Push, Washington,” Maya said, her voice drenched in contentment.

After filling out the postage for each box and sliding her black card to pay for the exorbitant shipping fee, Maya and Keye walked arm and arm into the fresh spring air that was mingling with the teasing warmth of summer. They were all smiles, giggling at nothing and everything as they talked, making their way across campus.

Maya could almost feel the weight of this semester roll off her shoulders under the pleasing May sun and as they sauntered across the quad, Keye asked, “So, what do we do for our last night as free women in this big ole city? Because I think—”

“HEY! MAYA!” Maya’s head shot up and she watched with a smile as Noah jogged toward them with an equally pleased smile.

“Oh…my,” Keye said with a hungry edge to her voice.

“What?” Maya asked, confused, but it was too late to confer as Noah was already in front of them, all smiles and giving off a sweet musk mixed with an earthier cologne that made Maya raise an eyebrow.

“Hey, you all packed?” He asked between breaths. Keye was definitely staring. Maya had never thought Noah was exceedingly handsome, not like Paul, but she could see the appeal now with Keye giving him an appreciative look.

“Uh, yeah, just dropped it off at the mailroom. This is Keye, she’s my best friend from La Push,” Maya motioned to Keye who had already unthreaded her arm and was running a hand through her chopped hair and putting on her megawatt smile. Noah turned to Keye as if noticing her for the first time and beamed back holding out his hand.

“Noah,” he said confidently. When Keye took his hand he said, “Wow, the genetics running around La Push are gorgeous. Someone should really do a study.” Keye laughed at this as she continued to shake his hand. Maya bit her lip and had to stifle a laugh. Was Keye really interested in him? Well, Keye was interested in everyone to be fair. “So, when do you head out?” Noah said, finally letting Keye’s hand fall and turning his interest back to Maya.

“Early,” Maya sighed, “Tomorrow morning.”

“So you have one last night of debauched fun, then,” He said with almost a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Keye whooped and turned to Maya with an eager smile. Maya groaned but she realized she was smiling.

“I guess,” she bemoaned sarcastically as her smile stretched wider across her face.

“YES! But first, I was promised the most delicious deli sandwich ever.” Keye fist pumped the air and slotted her hand into Noah’s tugging him toward the quad and he followed her eagerly.

Maya, Keye, and Beez were chatting loudly as they ascended the stairs from the subway station into the warm night air. They were greeted at the top by some other friends from Maya’s cohort, as well as Noah, who gave her a warm smile and tugged her into a quick hug. Keye looked bemused at them before they all quickly conferred on their first stop that evening and headed down the sidewalk. A pack of engineering and math students now free of the shackles of the semester were ready to welcome summer with open arms. Maya couldn’t remember the last time she could breathe this easy.

With most of her outfit choices packed away and sent home, Maya had opted for her tightest pair of jeans that hugged her ass perfectly and a cropped black top that dipped so low in the front that the top of her black lace bralette was easily on display. She’d taken some extra time to do her hair that evening and it shimmered under the lamplights in soft, silky waves down her back. She’d even let Keye line and fill in her lips so that they looked more pouted than usual, finishing it off with an expert, delicate winged eyeliner and a touch of mascara.

The night held promise—the promise of summer, the promise of a good time, and even the promise of a neat end, tied up into a bow and ready to blow Maya back to the west coast. She was ready to lose herself in the laughter and chat of her friends tonight, letting the first year of college sink into her completely and color her into something new and experienced before heading back to the undoubtedly drama-filled summer that La Push would certainly deliver.

But for now, the night was new and the lights and sounds of this city that Maya had come to love and claim as her own settled and hummed against her skin. As they poured through the doors of their first bar that evening, the music shaking the walls and the lights strobing off the center of a dance floor, she was greeted with the vibrant voices of her friends yelling:

“Shots! Shots!”

Keye squealed with delight and tugged Maya toward the bar before everything dimmed deliciously around her and almost faded completely into black.

Maya slowly opened her eyes to the sound of rough grinding construction ringing out of the cracked window to her left. The room was swathed in bright light around her as she put a hand to her throbbing forehead, letting out a long breath trying to quell the pounding ache that was building around her temples.

Birds chirped animatedly between the hammering and clanging of the construction outside and Maya opened her mouth as if to call out to Paul and tell him to keep it down. It was way too early for him to be carrying on like that and she wasn’t even entirely sure how he could make that much noise in his small workshop. The sound of concrete drill rattled to life against some pavement and Maya’s eyes sprang open, focusing on the ceiling above her.

Not home. Her mind confirmed quickly.

Suddenly, Maya felt the shift of an arm underneath the pillow she laid on and she turned her head to see Noah asleep a couple feet from her on his back, one arm slung over his eyes and the other tucked under the pillow beneath her head. Maya’s breathing picked up. She was at Noah’s. Why was she at Noah’s? She lifted her head to look down at herself expecting the worst but she was fully clothed and upon second glance, so was Noah.

Maya lifted her head to see Keye tucked between her and Noah, her head at the foot of the bed and her mouth gently parted in sleep. Her eyes shot around the room as she sat up, trying to recall the night that had led to her and Keye ending up here.

Somewhere between their third and fourth bar is when she lost track of the evening. She recalled at one point hopping onto Noah’s back after stumbling so much that he insisted he carry her. As she clung to him piggyback style down the streets of New York, he had planted his hands firmly beneath her thighs as she leaned her head back and drank in the cool night air as their friends ping ponged around them. But when had they come back here? The sharp shrill of birds chirping made Maya’s eyes go wide as realization dawned on her.

What time is it?! Maya scrambled for her phone in the bed to the groggy groans of Keye and Noah. She found it on the nightstand next to her, but when she attempted to turn it on, it was , of course, dead. Maya sprang from the bed against the protesting of her head and searched for Noah’s phone charger frantically as Keye moaned painfully.

“Keye, get up!” Maya snapped. She found the end to Noah’s charger plugged in on his side of the bed and shoved it hastily into her phone waiting for it to boot up.

“Fi’ more mins,” Keye groaned as she tried to cover her head. Noah was rubbing his face and yawning nonchalantly.

“Please, please, please,” Maya whispered as she waited for her phone to finally open.

9:02 a.m.

“Fuck,” she whispered. They’d missed their flight back to La Push that had been slated to leave at 7 a.m. that morning. Just as her brain was starting to switch into overdrive, a volley of delayed text notifications, voicemails, and missed calls popped up. Maya gave an exasperated groan.

Before she even opened the missed texts, mostly from Paul she assumed, she quickly opened a new text to Michael to get him working on booking her and Keye the next flight home. But just as she began typing, her phone sprang to life with Paul’s face.

“Fuck,” Maya squeaked louder this time. She looked at his face for a solid two seconds before hastily answering the phone. “Paul I’m—”

He cut her off: “My!? Jesus, where are you?” There was a tinge of irritation in his voice but mostly he sounded concerned. That was promising.

“I—I’m so sorry, babe. I was just texting Michael to get our flights changed. We…we overslept,” she admitted, holding onto her head and looking up at Noah who was watching her carefully.

“You overslept?” He asked, confusion coloring his voice. Maya held her breath and shut her eyes tight. She felt so many things right now: embarrassment, annoyance, hung over, and a tinge of sadness. If she hadn’t missed her flight, she’d be almost halfway to him by now.

“Yes,” she said simply trying to hide the tremble in her voice as she fought back tears. “My phone died and we overslept,” Maya realized she was still kneeling next to Noah’s bed and she stood up suddenly with her hand on her hip.

“What the fuck, Maya?” Paul said, his voice slightly raised and the anger ebbing out. Maya let out a huff of breath and turned to see Keye with her hands over her eyes.

“I know, I… I just messed up, I’m sorry. We all went out last night and my phone died and—”

“What the fuck is going on?” Paul asked, anger coloring his tone.

“Nothing, Paul,” Maya said, her annoyance creeping out, “We just overslept. It’s not a big deal. I’ll get Michael to book us on the next flight out of here. Calm down, please.”

What was his deal? She thought this reaction was a little over the top for her accidentally missing her flight home but there was an edge of desperation and worry in his tone and she suddenly felt guilty for a simple mistake.

“I said I was sorry,” she said, getting upset now.

“Oh, you will be,” he said ominously. Maya’s eyes widened momentarily and then she shook her head. He was upset, she understood that but this was almost too much. “Just get home.” He said in a quipped tone.

“Whatever,” Maya replied dismissively before hanging up and grabbing Keye’s arm, shaking it roughly. “Get up! We gotta go!” She scrolled to Michael’s name and pressed the call button before looking over at Noah.

“Maya,” he said slowly, apologetically. Maya held up her hand to him as Michael answered on the other line.

“Michael, hey, it’s Maya. Look, me and Keye missed our flights. Can you book us on the next one out ASAP? Paul nearly had a coronary.”

“Of course. I’ll send you an updated itinerary as soon as it’s booked,” he said.

“Thanks Michael,” Maya said, holding her hand to her forehead.

“Anytime.” Maya hung up the phone and started looking for her things.

“Keye! Let’s go! Airport! Now!” she barked in response to Keye's continued groaning.

Two and half hours later, Keye and Maya were tucked onto their flight back to Washington.

Maya had only forwarded her flight details to Paul via text, but he hadn’t responded. She knew she had clearly upset him but at the end of the day, she hadn’t done it on purpose. Which was why his reaction had seemed so off base. Was he really that upset with her? Or was it something else? Knowing Paul it had to be something else. Maya had clearly looked lost in thought as she gazed across Keye out the plane window because she abruptly asked:

“Are you gonna tell him?” Maya snapped from her reverie, smoothing the worried look that hand scrunched across her brow a moment earlier.

“Huh?” She replied.

“Paul,” Keye said expectantly.

“What about him?” Maya asked, confused still. Keye raised her eyebrows in surprise at Maya.

“Are you gonna tell him about us sleeping at Noah’s?” That thought honestly hadn’t even crossed Maya’s mind but now that Keye had said it…

“Uuuuhh,” she stalled.

“Oh damn,” Keye breathed out with an amused laugh at the end.

“What?!” Maya asked with a lick of accusation in her voice. Keye shook her head, the incredulous look not quite wiped from her features yet.

“Nothing just…Damn, Maya. Didn’t realize you were a cold player,” she was clearly joking but Maya stung a little at that.

“What are you talking about? We passed out at Noah’s, so what?” Maya looked down at her hands and started fiddling with the zipper on the front of her sweatshirt.

“Noah is into you,” Keye quipped. Maya scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“So, I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, and uh, I’ve never had a massively possessive—”

“Paul’s not—” Maya tried to interject.

“Fine, ‘protective’. I’ve never had as crazy of a protective boyfriend as you have, but I’m pretty sure he would not be super siked to hear that you passed out in Noah’s bed, next to him, after letting him get buddy buddy all night.” Keye wasn’t accusing her, nor was her tone hurtful. She just stated it matter of factly and Maya faltered.

“Buddy buddy?” she clarified with an edge to her voice, glancing at Keye.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Keye pushed back, “My, you know what you do to dudes. Paul included.”

“I do not,” Maya said, truly at a loss. Keye was the one to roll her eyes this time.

“Don’t do that. Don’t play that oblivious pretty girl bit,” Keye said, her tone sharp, but sincere.

“I don’t know what the hell that means but if I tell Paul I slept in a bed with Noah, he might very well lose his mind. So, no. I’m not going to tell him. But I do not encourage Noah, Keye. You’ve got that wrong,” Maya shot back. Keye shrugged her shoulders and started pulling out her headphones.

“Okay, just want to get our story straight.”

“There’s nothing to get straight. Nothing happened. We partied too late last night and I slept through my alarm like an idiot. And that just happened to royally piss my boyfriend off. Case closed,” Maya folded her arms across her chest and glanced out the window again. “Keye?” she tried to confirm. Keye poised her headphones over her ears and shook her head.

“My, it’s not a big deal. You know I don’t care what you do. All I’m saying is, if Paul was there last night, you would have not done the things you did,” Keye slotted her earphones in and finished with, “Just be careful.”

Maya tried to determine what could have happened the night before to make Keye think that she had been ‘buddy buddy’ with Noah. But nothing came to mind. She hadn’t held his hand or hung on him. She was never the kind of girl to do that, in fact she was considered the rez prude for most of her life before dating Paul. She had accepted a piggy back ride from Noah to their last bar of the night. That wasn’t leading him on though, was it?

She thought about what Keye said—about how if Paul had been around last night, she wouldn’t have done half the things she did. But what had she done? Hung out with friends? Joked? Accepted a drink from Noah or Ben? But if Keye had seen something she hadn’t then maybe she was saying or doing things without realizing. Maya shook her head, trying to banish the thought. Whatever it was she had or hadn’t done last night didn’t matter.

She was going home for the summer, resuming her life with Paul and being present for her best friend who was about to have her baby. And she wasn’t going to tell Paul because it wasn’t information he needed to know. Not when he was already pissed at her.

It would be fine.

“Fine,” Maya breathed out.

Paul leaned his head back beneath the shower head and let the water rush down over his face and neck. Showers were never the same after he had phased, not as warm, not as relaxing, but today… Paul let out a low groan as water ran rivulets down his hard chest to his legs. He looked down at the girl on her knees taking him deep into her throat and bobbing her head expertly. He threaded his fingers through her hair at the back of her head and gave a harsh huff as he held her face to him for just a few brief seconds, her lips pressed against his hilt.

“My, fuck!” he shuddered as he released her and she continued to take him in earnest now, edging him closer. She gazed up at him around her lashes and smiled around his length, nearly sending him. She knew what she was doing to him.

He had been so mad at her this morning when she had called and nonchalantly admitted on the other end that she had missed her flight. The worry and ache that had been his constant companion since April had exploded in that instant and he had gripped his phone so tightly it had almost cracked in two. But the second she had walked over the threshold of that front door, dropped her bags, and gave him that warm, all encompassing smile, he felt the tension and anger ebb from his shoulders and he soaked up that radiating pleasure she gave off.

The imprint would never let him stay mad at her for long, nor would Maya. That’s how she had ended up on her knees in the shower, her mouth stuffed full of him, eagerly swallowing him down. Paul braced his forearm against the shower wall and leaned his head forward, letting the water hit his back and blocking it from raining down on Maya’s face. She braced her hands on his broad thighs now, taking long, sweet pulls on him before dipping him down and to the back of her throat making him groan. She had him.

“My, I’m gonna–” he grunted and in response Maya quickly pushed him down to the back of her throat, letting him settle there. Paul’s eyes went wide and he held onto her head as he pumped forward into her mouth, fucking her face gently a few times before spilling down her throat. His breathing came in fast, powerful huffs as he slowly pulled her off of him and she swallowed what was left in her mouth before smiling serenely up at him.

“Jesus, My,” he said with a huff of laughter. She stayed on her knees for a moment, smiling up at him and he brought his hand to her face, cupping her cheek and running his thumb across her full lower lip.

As she stood and leaned against his chest, the top of her head not quite meeting his shoulder line, she hummed her appreciation. Maya gazed up at him with that heart-squeezing smile and Paul felt that tug that urged her closer. He wrapped an arm down around her back, resting on her ass as he brought his lips to her forehead. Maya wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into it, letting the relief of the imprint pulse between them.

“Am I forgiven yet?” Maya asked, pressing her lips across his throat as the water poured down and over his shoulders. Paul chuckled and kissed the top of her head.

“Almost,” he teased. “But I want to show you something.” Maya looked up at him curiously and he couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a good thing.”

Paul shut the door to his forerunner and came around the front of the car where Maya stood, slotting her hand into his. The clearing that had once been blank space backed with evergreens that led deeper into the forest was now filled with a prominent two-story, sleek, dark navy home with modern white trim. The graveled drive was still being curved in and dotted with low garden lights, and the ground was freshly tilled and waiting for landscaping, but the house looked nearly done.

Maya let her eyes wander across the damp concrete of the freshly poured porch that wrapped around the right side of the house. The large white paned windows shone in the easy afternoon light and Paul felt Maya squeeze his hand and tug him forward.

“Paul,” she said, nearly breathless. Paul had to admit it, the work they had accomplished in just five short months was pretty impressive. The outside of the house was almost completed and only needed a few finishing touches (lights installed, porch railing sealed, and numbers affixed to the door). Inside would take a little bit longer, but Jacob had asked to wait for Becks so that she could decide the things she wanted like paint color, floor stain, light fixtures, and even window trim. He was going all out for his imprint, but Paul understood why. This family and this life meant everything to him. It was what he had been seeking when he first met Bella and what he fruitlessly tried to achieve when he followed her. Now, not even a year after mysteriously returning—a reason he still hadn’t shared with his brothers—he had an imprint and a baby on the way. It made sense why he pushed all the way down on the gas to jumpstart his new life.

And Paul had jumped at the chance to help.

“Has she seen it yet?” Maya asked, turning to look at him as she ascended the porch steps, her eyes bright and wide and eager. Paul’s heart stuttered in his chest and he let go of her hand to grip her ribcage and hold her in place before him. She was just a little taller than him standing on the second porch step and he stepped forward to close the small gap between them to kiss her. She responded instantly, arching her back and pressing into him, her arms coming up to rest over his shoulders. Paul felt that sensation of being grounded firmly to the earth, that swell and release of joy as he pressed her just a little closer and gently squeezed her ribcage beneath his large hands. He felt invigorated and clear, like the brightness was turned up on his entire world. When he released her, she steadied herself against his chest, laying her palms flat against his pecks.

He gave her an awry smile, “Not quite yet,” he said. “But Jacob wanted to get as much done as possible before the big reveal. We’re way ahead of schedule. But I—,” he paused, watching her carefully, not sure how to proceed, “I wanted to tell you something.”

She raised her eyebrow and looked at him curiously, humor etched plainly across her face. “Oh?” she offered and he couldn’t help but let out a short laugh.

“Yeah, uh,” he began looking away and then feeling the need to stare at her again. “I took some time off from completing commissions this spring. Kind of like a hiatus, so I could help Jacob do this. I haven’t been working at all,” he admitted. For some reason, Paul had felt too nervous to tell Maya this at the beginning of her semester. Her eyes were wide again, but Paul couldn’t place the emotion. Was she disappointed? He hurriedly carried on, “It’s not a big deal really. It gave me more time to work on some side projects in town, make the council happy without having to impregnate my girlfriend,” Maya laughed at that, a tinge of annoyance on the end of that sparkling sound, “It doesn’t really cut into us at all though, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Paul,” Maya said again, bringing her hand to his cheek. There was that look he loved so much from her. Pure adoration. If it was the work of the imprint, he didn’t care. He just wanted Maya to keep looking at him like that for the rest of his life. “This is amazing. You are amazing. For doing all of this?” she gestured around her as she stood still, held firmly in place by Paul’s hands. “Of course it’s okay. It’s more than okay. And I don’t care about it cutting into us, whatever that means.” She leaned forward and kissed him again, soft and sweet this time. “This is absolutely incredible and so are you.”

He beamed at her and then pressed his forehead against hers—something he couldn’t do typically when she was standing next to him.

“I just want to make sure I’m telling you these things,” he said, gently tucking some hair behind her ear. Maya’s face dropped momentarily and her eyes shot through with something unspoken. His interest piqued at that but he let it go when her face changed into one of pleased softness, “You’re a part of all these things and a part of me.” Something inside him thrummed with content. She slotted so easily against him, a perfect fit, molded to him and he ached for more. Later, he told himself. “Let me show you the rest,” he said as he took a step back and placed his hand around hers before pulling her up the rest of the short porch steps and to the front door.

Hungry. That’s how Paul felt. Hungry to start this summer with Maya and spend as much time with her as possible. He was constantly surprised by the fact that their imprint was over a year old, and the length of their relationship almost the same. Paul was hungry to take the next step with Maya, but he was never sure what that next step was. He was worried about putting too much pressure on her.

Their relationship was so different from those of the other imprints. His brother’s imprints were eager, overjoyed even to get married, settle down, and start their lives on the rez. Maya though…was a wild card. No imprint had ever traveled so far off the rez without their partner before Maya and Becks. But Becks was more tethered now with the baby due in just two short months.

His Maya was determined to chase what she wanted and he loved that, admired it. Still, he wanted to make things even more solid, even if just to satiate that itch. She had been adamant that she wanted the same things as him—kids, marriage, their life together, she wanted it all. But the answer of when still hung in the air. He could be patient for all of those things, but he wanted to take at least one step toward that endgame this summer. When and what he did toward that goal was key though.

Once they had returned from the walkthrough of Becks and Jacob’s new house, Maya had said she was going upstairs to take a nap, citing some residual jet lag and the late night she and Keye had had before that caused them to miss their flight. Paul had settled at the kitchen table with his laptop, touching base with Michael about re-establishing his project timelines in July and answering some emails in the meantime. But his eyes continued to stray to the darkened stairs.

Hungry.

Would he ever not feel that predestined pull toward her? The one that begged him to cover every inch of her in every inch of him? She’d been resting for a little over an hour at this point, but Paul’s hands were beginning to itch to touch her. Just to be near her. He’d felt a version of this feeling from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her at that bonfire. A tug, a sharp pull that cinched around his heart and squeezed and that kept his gaze focused on her at all times. It was terrifying if not a little exhausting at times. But when he’d relinquish his control and give into the pull, he was always rewarded by the imprint.

From the moment he had imprinted on Maya, he would listen to every change in her breathing, watch enraptured as the goosebumps sprouted on her arm when he touched her, and finally, when she had let him, he would watch her face devolve into pure bliss the first time he pressed into her. Nothing could top that sight.

He glanced back to the half finished email and swallowed thickly. He could be patient. The rumbling of thunder sounded just off the beach and if Paul trained his ears, he could hear the soft patter of rainfall beginning down on the water. In just a few minutes, the rain began to fall in earnest, creating a soft thrum of noise within the house as it darkened outside. Paul ran a hand down his face and tried to refocus on the email in front of him. Something about refurbishing a mantel in an historic building in Chicago. But his mind was elsewhere.

The time away from her this semester had almost been too much. He’d delayed getting a place in New York once Jacob had hurried his plans along on the house, and the time away from Maya had been nearly unbearable.

Now, as he sat in the kitchen, listening to the rain, with her asleep just upstairs from him, he realized how ridiculous it was that he was anywhere other than beside her at this moment. He’d spent nearly four months without his imprint, he wasn’t going to waste any more time just sitting here when she was just upstairs. That was all he needed to convince himself to close his laptop and take the stairs two at a time before opening the door quietly and peering in. She was there, stretched out on his side of the bed with his t-shirt and some black sleep shorts on with just a knitted throw slung over her lower half. Her breathing came slow and easy. He entered the room, leaving the door barely cracked behind him before pulling off his shirt and sliding silently out of his jeans.

He didn’t wake her as he climbed into bed beside her, pressing his chest up against her back and wrapping his arm around her stomach to gently tug and slot her against him. She breathed out a sweet sigh and Paul leaned down to kiss gently against her neck and shoulder for a moment. He’d let her sleep, but he wanted a moment to breathe in that heady soft aroma that was so distinctly her.

He placed his lips at the crook of her neck and took some slow deep breaths, absently kissing and gently nipping at that delicate spot to revel in her. Maya made a soft sound, mingled with a sleepy groan that made him ache. Paul told himself he’d let her be after just a few more inhales, one more trail of soft kisses from her shoulder to behind her ear. But his control always slipped with Maya, especially when she began to roll her hips back against him. He let out a low groan in her ear when she pressed back against him and felt himself harden. Paul slipped his hand under the shirt that she wore and squeezed her waist.

“You miss me?” she said barely above a whisper in that sleepy, sweet tone. Paul nipped at her shoulder in response and smiled against her ear. She hummed her appreciation and placed her hand over his as he stroked back and forth over her stomach. “I was napping you know,” she teased gently.

“You’ve been napping for awhile,” he said, rolling her gently onto her back, “Plus, I have a better idea.” She was beaming up at him and that heart squeezing feeling pulsed through him again. She brought her hands up to cup either side of his face and he leaned down between them to kiss her softly, letting his hands knead the soft flesh on her hips as he slid his knee up between her thighs. She gifted him with a giggle that sent his heart racing and with a wide grin he dipped his head down to her neck again before swiftly pulling the shirt up and over her head.

“Aaah,” he let out a satisfied sigh at the sight of her. Paul could hear her heart quicken and tried to slow his pace so that he could enjoy every moment with her before devouring her. He dove down to her breasts, pulling one tight nipple between his lips and teasing it with his tongue. The breathy moans he pulled from her were enough to send him, but he held tight to her, relishing in the stiff peaks her tits formed when he let each nipple go from his mouth with a pop. With one hand on her waist, he used his other hand to pull the sleep shorts down her legs and flung them off the bed. He knew she’d be wet before he even dipped his index finger inside her and swiped along her seam, causing her to whimper. Internally, he growled. Whenever she made that sweet, simple whimper his mind darkened and he clutched onto the edge of his control.

Paul kissed along the line of her hips as she tangled her hands in his hair, begging him to go lower. But Paul was determined to take his time. With his hands grasped firmly on her waist and his lips pressing a line across the top of her delicate V, he propped himself up on his forearms to let his eyes cascade up and down her body.

Maya’s chest heaved in anticipation, her eyes trained to his waiting for him to dive in, to pull her under, and press her into the mattress. But instead, Paul let his eyes trace across each line and soft curve of her body, over the swell of her breasts, to the dip at her collarbone, ending in a rich well at the base of her throat. Her mouth hung slack as she watched him, her finger tracing the line of his brow.

This frustrating, sweet, eager, pliant, stubborn woman was his. His perfect little imprint splayed out just for him and still, Paul couldn’t help but be amazed each time she opened herself to him. The bond that tied them together tightened in his stomach and she squirmed in response. The things he would do to her, for her, were unending. He dipped his head to breathe in her scent again—it was intoxicating, making his brain fuzzy and loosening his control just enough.

“Paul?” she breathed out. That wanton stare, her face flush with lust made him snap.

In one sharp move, he wrenched her off the bed and flipped their positions so he was on his back and Maya was sitting straddled across his abs. Paul held tightly to her ass as he yanked her up and with a yelp, Maya settled over his face as she braced herself on the headboard.

“Paul! What—” but her protest dissolved into a solid moan as Paul pulled her down firmly on his face and began to suck at her core, letting his tongue dart in and out of her opening before swiping up between her swollen petals and pressing on the bead of her clit. “Paul, I-I…” she stuttered and stopped, trying to lift her frame off of his face but he held her tightly. She whined in response to his continued assault between her legs and when she threw her head back to let the sound flow freely from her throat now, he knew he had her. With the flat of his palm, Paul gave a swift slap to her left ass cheek and she yelped in delight. After a few more flurried spanks, Maya took her cue and started to grind her hips over his face, deliciously riding him. Paul let out a groan of appreciation that vibrated through her and made her respond in kind.

With another quick slap, Maya picked up her pace, her eyes closing as she clutched onto the bed frame. Paul let one hand travel up her torso and expertly pinched and pulled at one nipple. She was grinding faster, her breathing coming erratically and when she careened, her voice pitched high and her core tightened around his darting tongue, he felt a soft warmth flood over him as he sucked at all she gave him.

She was still twitching and making soft, gasping moans as he lapped at her, but before she could deflate completely, he pulled her off of him and came down on top of her. Her eyes were half opened in slits of bliss as she smiled up at him. This was his favorite part.

Paul pulled his briefs down enough to pull himself out and pressed into her opening. Maya’s mouth fell open in a silent moan as her eyes opened a little more to stare into his as he entered her.

“Fuck,” he groaned as he slid neatly between her legs and pressed to his hilt in one fast snap of his hips. Maya sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden intrusion but stayed open and pliant. He watched the quick tension relax into eagerness. Paul started to pump easily, her channel slick from his workings earlier, and closed his eyes to let the sound of her stuttering small moans wash over him as he stretched her.

Caught up in moments like this with Maya always seemed to bring Paul to a better version of himself. He felt the most like himself just like this with Maya. She had been right all those months ago when they had fought—they were very good at this. But it was more than just the physical bond between them. The imprint lit up every sensation, every heartstring and every deep stirring desire and he wanted it all with her.

He was rocking into her faster now and leaned his head forward to press his forehead to hers. She held onto the back of his neck, her legs wrapped up around his hips as he rubbed his hand up and down her thigh, slamming into her.

“N-nee-need you d-deeper,” she huffed. Oh, she knew what she was doing to him. Paul let that mischievous grin stretch across his face and the little smirk she returned did him in.

“Uh huh, I just bet baby. You’re taking me so good like this though, you sure you want more?” he said. Paul knew when he took her from behind that it felt almost too intense for her. Still, she nodded sweetly, toying with a look of feigned innocence that had him leaning down to bite her bottom lip that she puckered out at him. “If you insist,” he growled before quickly pulling out to her startled gasp, and turning her onto her stomach quickly.

He fully removed his briefs now and sat up on his knees behind her. He laid another harsh slap to her ass before grabbing her hips and snapping them up to meet his.

“Spread wide for me, baby,” he coaxed her as he rubbed his hand over the red print he left on her cheek. Maya let out a quick breath before letting her knees slide wide on the bed. Paul rubbed the globes of her ass before firmly planting his hands on her hips. He stroked along her slit with the head of his cock, pulling it up between her ass and then back down to her weeping opening. Maya’s breathing picked up in anticipation and when Paul slipped back inside of her, he couldn’t help himself from groaning, “Good girl,” as she let out a low whine and clutched the sheets.

So much for taking his time. Paul sank into her and let out a sharp breath when he bottomed out. Maya was breathing fast now, but her stillness as she adjusted to him turned into an eager rocking of her hips as she moved over him. Paul let his hands rest lightly on her hips and watched as she took all of him in. The feeling of her clenching around him was beginning to be too much already and when he was this deep, all he could think about was making a mess inside of her. Still, he held onto his control for as long as he could, letting her bob up and down on his length. When his resolve finally snapped, he gripped her hips tightly to still her before he began to snap his hips roughly against hers. Maya’s small moans ballooned into wails as she cinched and shuddered around him. She was spiraling and he wasn’t far behind. With a few more quick slaps against her hips Paul buried himself as deep as he could and spilled inside of her. His entire body sagged with relief and bliss as she sank down onto the bed. His cock sprang free of her and he watched with satisfaction as he dripped out of her.

Wanting to savor this moment, he lowered himself over her back, making sure to prop himself up on his elbows so as not to put too much of his weight on her, before pressing himself back into her. She groaned in what he could only ascertain as weak protest but with a peppering of kisses across her shoulders she quieted.

She wiggled a little beneath him, overstimulated and feeling his cock twitch in her, but she knew to let him stay inside. Paul would absently thrust into her every so often to coax one of her sweet moans from her, but mostly he just reveled in the sensation of keeping her stuffed full, of her soft body beneath his.

A little while later, they were wrapped in each other, the low light of the afternoon filtering around the storm clouds that continued to gently rain outside. Paul was just beginning to drift off when he heard her:

“I want to tell you things too,” She murmured in the deepening dark.

“Mmm?” he responded sleepily. Paul could hear Maya’s heart beat faster in her chest now. She rolled onto her stomach next to him, placing a hand on his chest.

“That night when I was at the infirmary and said I had strep?” Maya began. Paul looked at her confused, not entirely sure where this was going. When he didn’t respond she continued, tucking her hair behind her ear, “I thought I was pregnant. So I went to the campus infirmary to get a test.” Paul breathed in deeply, keeping his eyes focused on her. Why didn’t she say anything? As if answering his silent question, Maya said, “At first, I thought it was nothing and then I really wanted it to be nothing. And if I told you before I knew for certain, I know there would be nothing in the world that would stop you from getting to me.”

For a moment, the image of Maya being pregnant washed over Paul and he got lost in the quiet joy that flooded his chest. She would look so beautiful—round belly and warm cheeks as she smiled at him with that overwhelming look of happiness that he knew only he made her feel, that the bond made her feel. He itched to see her that way, full with his child and ready to take on their future together and start a family. He could see it so clearly, how the ring he’d bought her would glitter on her left hand as she placed it on the top of her swollen stomach and hummed sweetly hoping their baby could hear her.

But he knew she wasn’t ready. Not yet. And he could wait because that future held so much promise for them. It would still be there when they were ready. So, he let that image of Maya slip from him as his eyes refocused on the beautiful, naked, young woman propped up on his side.

“What?” She smoothed her hand over his chest and he let his look morph into one of light amusement.

“Nothing. Strep, huh?” he teased. Maya rolled her eyes and leaned down to kiss his chest. A nervousness overtook her now and Paul stroked her arm as he waited for her to speak.

“And I was late and overslept because Keye and I went out. I just felt like I needed to…feel like me and not quite so…well,” she ducked her head and looked back up at him. He was watching her carefully, a measured look of calmness on his face and Maya felt the need to tread softly. “We slept over at Noah’s.”

His jaw ticked dangerously and Maya hurriedly continued, “Nothing happened. Nothing will ever, ever happen…. But—”

Paul sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes darkening with that visceral anger she only saw once before right before he phased in front of her for the first time. Still, she was in it now and she pressed on because she had to tell him. Maya laid her hand flat on his chest and pressed against the rising heartbeat.

“We all fell asleep in bed together. Totally innocent, we just passed out, but I just wanted to tell you so—”

“So it didn’t come up later? Or slip out when Keye is just having a good time and pokes fun at my girlfriend sleeping in bed with another guy in front of everyone?” He was getting mad, and could feel the heat rising in his chest.

“Paul, this isn’t a big deal,” Maya breathed. Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. His nostrils flared and he sat up in bed quickly bucking her back and causing her to sit up on her knees facing him, still naked. She hastily grabbed a pillow and held it against her.

“No, Maya, it’s not a big fucking deal to you. But it is to me,” he ran a hand through his tangled hair and shook his head trying to clear it. “He’s into you.”

“So?” Maya said.

“You’re mine!” Paul snapped. Maya jumped at the sound but then her eyes narrowed, slowly simmering with anger.

“It’s not like anything would ever happen Paul, it was an accident, we fell asleep! You’re being crazy about this,” Maya’s voice was raising now too. Paul was grateful that Jacob and Becks weren’t here for once because he was fuming.

“Maya, I need you to operate with a little more common fucking sense, especially when I’m not around. Because—”

“Nothing. Fucking. Happened!”

“Listen to me,” he said through gritted teeth. Maya rolled her eyes and placed her hand to her forehead. “You need to be more careful and more fucking respectful—”

“Respectful?!” Maya interrupted, a look of amused shock on her face. Paul kept going though.

“Yes, respectful of this imprint, of this bond, of our fucking relationship! We are in a relationship, Maya, unless you forgot.” He held up his hand to display the ring on his finger that she had given him at Christmas.

“I know we are! For fuck’s sake, Paul. It was an accident, it wasn’t like I was begging to get into bed with him just to piss you off. We were drunk, we were tired, we passed out, that’s it. What was I supposed to do? Sleep on the floor?”

“You were supposed to go home. To your dorm. Anywhere but a guy’s bed who is very much into you and makes it known, Maya.” Paul was furious.

“You’re overreacting. How am I supposed to tell you stuff if you react like this?” Maya accused.

“God. Grow up, Maya.” He said, shaking his head and getting out of bed to pull on some sweats. Maya made a strangled noise in her throat and stood up on her knees letting the pillow drop from her body.

“Grow up!? Me!? Fuck you, Paul! You grow up!” she shouted. Paul was looking at her sideways by the door as he pulled on a shirt. Even now, he felt distracted by the curve of her body, the shape of her mouth. The hold she had on him was equal parts wonderful and terrifying. He chuckled, annoyed and shook his head.

“Jesus, maybe I should have gotten you pregnant. Might have tempered whatever rebellious teenage bullshit this is,” he motioned to her with a vague wave of his hand and even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew they were wrong. They tasted bitter and made him swallow thickly.

Maya’s face was crestfallen, temporarily suspended in disbelief before it switched to one of sweeping anger. Paul set his mouth in a hard line and when she let out a shout that sounded like a growl and chucked the pillow across the room at him, he ignored it and stomped down the stairs.

One more minute and he was out the door and into the cool night air. Paul didn’t want to phase and let his thoughts that were currently running rampant flood his brothers’ minds. So instead, he hurried over to his forerunner and piled inside before slamming the door with more force than was necessary.

As he drove away from their home, his hands tightened on the steering wheel and regret poured over him.

“Fuck me!” he yelled to no one as he coasted toward the highway in the dark.

[woulddieforgabriel]

Okay but concept: it's a week or so after the 15x19 and Sam and Dean are finally sick of this mini vacation they've been taking ever since they defeated God. Sam finds a case, and they pile into the impala for some good old-fashioned monster hunting.

But then Dean sees Cas walking down the sidewalk. He looks like a hot mess. He's covered head-to-toe in dirt and grime, to the point where his trench coat is barely tan anymore. His beard now puts his Purgatory beard to shame. Even the hair on his head seems to be getting longer — and definitely much messier.

Dean slams on the breaks. It's like 2012 all over again. He'd see Cas, he'd stop, and Cas would be gone. Though he does still seem to be there this time...

But then Sam points him out, and Dean realizes he's not crazy and that Cas really is here. They both hop out of the car — Dean doesn't even take the time to turn it off — and run back to see Cas.

Dean freezes. He has no idea what the fuck he's supposed to do in this situation. It's Cas! He's alive! He's a hot mess, but he's alive! And it's so good to see him again. It really is. But with Cas right in front of him, all he can think about is how they left things. He's gone out of his way not to think about what Cas said to him before he made that sacrifice. In his grief, he found it was just easier to forget. But now he has to face it and he has to try to make sense of it, and he doesn't even know where to begin.

Sam gives Cas a bear hug, bombarding him with questions one after another and not even giving Cas the chance to respond. Dean would tell him off if he thought he could.

And then Cas just ??? collapses??? in Sam's arms, and now neither of the Winchesters really know what to do (though they can both agree this takes priority over the case they were about to head off on).

Cas comes to that night, hours after Sam and Dean dragged him into the bunker. They'd laid him down in a spare bed, and though they'd taken turns watching him for the first hour or two, they'd basically decided staring at him wasn't going to wake him up any faster and decided to go about their lives.

They're in the war room when Castiel walks out, holding onto the wall for balance with every step. They jump to their feet to give him a hand — Sam pulls out a chair and Dean helps him over to it — and they get to talking.

Cas has no idea how he came back, but he did; he was dropped right in the middle of Rossville, Kansas, with nothing but the clothes on his back. He didn't have a phone; he didn't have any money; he had nothing.

And, worst of all, he was human. This entire time he was struggling to find his way home, he was dealing with his newfound humanity as well — mainly, the hunger and the thirst that he couldn't afford to satiate. Finding public drinking fountains became almost as important as finding the bunker over the last few days.

But now he's home. Cas came home. That's all Dean can think about — literally. It doesn't even occur to him to get him something to eat and drink until Sam gets up to do it. He's just so busy thinking about the fact that Cas came home.

And now that they're alone, Dean expects Cas to address the elephant in the room: their last conversation. "I love you," he'd said. What the fuck does that mean?

Except he just... doesn't?

They make small talk instead, and every second of it kills him. Sure, Cas has good reason to ask about what happened with Chuck and whether Billie truly was taken care of and where Jack is, but it doesn't make it any easier for Dean, who really only has one thing on his mind now.

He thinks maybe after Cas eats, he'll be more apt to talk about it.

He's wrong.

But that's okay. Sam's here; it would be awkward anyway. He'll carve out some alone time with Cas that evening, see if it comes up then.

It doesn't.

He's probably tired. Sure, he took an hour-long nap before he even got back to the bunker, but he's also newly-human and newly-alive, and walking for days on end probably didn't help.

Maybe in the morning? Sam is out for a jog when Dean wakes up, and Cas is nowhere to be seen. Dean makes a delicious bacon breakfast for when Cas gets back (and he slips Miracle a piece while no one's around to tell him off for it). Cas has great timing; he comes out right as Dean is finishing up the last few pieces. Maybe a bacon breakfast will put him in the mood to talk.

... Or not.

And this goes on for days. Dean does whatever he can to get Cas alone, trying to get him to initiate that conversation — sometimes half-initiating it himself — and Cas never takes the bait. And, finally, Dean can't take it anymore. He can't keep pretending everything's normal with this eating him up inside. So, out of the blue one afternoon while Cas is reading and Dean is playing tug-of-war with Miracle, he asks.

"What did you mean, you love me?"

And Cas looks up from his book, eyes squinted and head tilted just a little bit to the side in that cute little way he does it, and he says, "I meant just that."

Which, obviously, does not clear anything up. "So you love me."

"Yes."

"Love me how?"

And Cas just stares at him because what the fuck does that mean? And now they're both hopelessly confused and after a minute of terse silence, Cas finally says, "I just do?" and it's more of a question than an answer and it sure as hell doesn't help with Dean's days-long crisis.

And Dean's like, "But what do you mean?" which is quite literally the exact same question he asked the first time and definitely doesn't clean anything up, and the look on the former angel's face says that perfectly well. "You mean you love me as...?" A friend? A brother? A lover? God, why does the English language have so many different definitions of love?

Cas just tilts his head a little more. "I don't think I understand the question."

And Dean can't tell if he's feeling exasperated or if he's feeling desperate what but finally he's just like, "Cas, was that just a heartfelt goodbye or was that a love confession?" and it's crystal clear on Cas's face that he finally understand.

But he still doesn't answer it. "It doesn't matter. I thought I was never going to see you again. I was wrong. Can we focus on that instead?"

And the fact that he didn't answer it almost makes it sound like it was a love confession, but the answer he did give almost makes it sound like it was just a heartfelt goodbye, and now Dean feels like his head is going to explode and what the fuck, Cas, just answer him!

And he might sound a little more upset than he'd anticipated when he says, "No, Cas, we can't!" so he quickly adds a softer, "I just... I need to know," because he does and how does Cas not realize that?

So, after a long pause, Cas says, "It was more than a goodbye, but you don't owe me anything. I truly meant it when I told you that happiness isn't in the having."

This has been plaguing Dean's mind for days but he'd never really thought about what he'd do if it really was a romantic confession, and now he's just??? Not sure??? Where to go from here???

And then Cas has the audacity to just go back to reading his book like nothing happened. Dean is having a whole-ass crisis and Cas is just reading a fucking book. It's unbelievable. How can Cas just drop this on him and then go back to his life like nothing happened?

For some reason, that really sends Dean over the edge, because he walks over and takes the book out of his hands so Cas has to look at him. But what the fuck is he supposed to say? What message is he even trying to get across? What is he —

And before he knows it, he's leaning over and giving Cas a kiss. Cas seems taken aback by it at first — like, really taken aback — but then he kisses back, and it's great; it's something Dean had never fantasized about before and god, he's glad he hadn't because he never could have done it justice in his mind.

It's Cas.

What more does he need?

[bokettochild]

Ooh for a fluff piece you should do Hyrule and Warriors and something with claustrophobia (although that has the potential for angst real fast so feel free to ignore me)

Oops, I think my hand slipped.....

(Sorry I didn't get to this for so long, I've been crazy busy and wasn't sure how to approach writing angst until people apparently started crying at my attempt at crack :)

Glass.

Glass walls and a glass floor. A cork ceiling and too little air, too little space to breathe, too little space to function.

Hyrule’s breath hitches again with a silent whimper, his glow fading slowly with every second spent inside of his prison. Outside, he can hear the reverberating shouts of the others, fear and worry in their voices as they call out, likely shouting for him, looking and worrying and screaming in concern.

‘I’m right here!’ He wants to call back, wants to wail to the glass walls that press closer and closer around him. ‘Guys, I’m here, let me out!’ But they won’t hear. They won’t hear his tiny voice, especially not when it’s trapped inside this glass prison.

“Any sign?” The vet’s voice is strained and desperate, violet eyes flickering with fear as they dart from one tired Hero of Courage to another. “He’s got to be here somewhere!”

“Nothing.” There are tears in Sky’s eyes, and even if he’s clearly trying to be strong for the others there’s a heavy slump to his shoulders as if the weight of all of their problems hangs from them. “Twilight and I looked all over, his trail just...ends...”

“He’s got to be somewhere!” Wind protests, voice breaking and fists clenching as the sailor looks over each of them, fear and worry in the kid’s eyes as he stubbornly denies the report Twilight gently gives the rest of them.

It’s not a pretty sight.

Hyrule had only wandered off for a minute while they’d all freshened up in the stream near their camp, but that was all the time needed for him to disappear, tracks ending suddenly and no sign of him, not even a droplet of blood or a broken blade of grass left behind for them to track him with. It was Four who noticed, and while jokes and laughter had sounded as they all teased each other about the Traveler getting lost, the jokes had faded when Twilight had come back, eyes shining with worry as he informed them of Hyrule’s lack of a trail.

All mirth had died then, and eight dripping heroes had abandoned all save their weapons to search for their brother. Their cheeks redden in the cooling night air, Four sneezing occasionally as he pulls his tunic over his head while they speak. None of the others bother, standing about in all states of dress as they consider what to do.

“We’ve searched everything within two miles.” Wild murmurs pensively. “And there’s only one trail, even Hyrule can’t cover his tracks so well that Twilight can’t find him.”

“But I can’t find him, Cub.” Twilight’s voice is almost a whine, eyes pained as the rancher sits with his head in his hands. “There’s no signs! It’s like he just, vanished!”

Time’s heavy hand comes to rest on his protégé's shoulders, rubbing gently over them in an attempt at comfort that Twilight shows no interest in accepting.

They’re worn, Warriors sighs to himself. His brothers have been pushing themselves for weeks and today was meant to be a day of rest and rejuvenation beside the river. But here they sit, worry carving lines across the faces of even their youngest, shoulders drawn up close to ears or slumped in resignation. It’s been hours, Hyrule should be back by now.

Sky’s tired gaze meets his own over the heads of the younger heroes, there’s determination fighting against reassignment inside of sapphire blue, but Sky forces a weak smile for his sake, silent words passing between the two before both nod in finality. “There’s no sign-”

“We know that Sky!” The vet snaps, hands buried in his still dripping hair. “Twilight, you have your things, right?” The vet asks pointedly, breath hitching and coming in short little bursts as he looks up to the rancher.

Twilight nods, dropping one hand to tug at something hidden under his collar “Yeah.”

“Does Hyrule has any items that let him fly? Oh Nayru! I should have asked him!” The vet’s panicking now, and it’s agitating the younger heroes as his feet tap nervously at the ground, hands shaking as they run repeatedly through his bangs and tap against his thighs.

Wind’s worrying at the hem of his tunic and Wild scratches at his scars, and Warriors has no doubt that if Four wasn’t shivering and wrapping himself in his arms that the smithy would also be fidgeting nervously.

Sky sighs heavily, grabbing his sailcloth from the ground and wrapping it around the smithy’s shoulders carefully. “Like I said, there’s no sign so far. But we have to trust in Hyrule’s abilities. The traveler’s a tough egg, he doesn’t break easily and he knows what he’s doing in a forest, especially a dangerous one.” The Skyloftian shoots Legend a pointed glance, cutting off the young veteran before he can start fussing again. “It’s getting dark and we won’t be able to see, and if we’re too loud and keep disturbing the forest, we’ll only alert any monsters that might be around here to our presence. We’ll make camp here for the night and keep looking in the morning, after everyone has a warm meal.”

“He’s out there!” Legend insists.

“And he’s strong. I can’t help Hyrule right now, none of us can, not in this darkness. But I can make sure you all rest and get something to eat.” Sky’s voice gentles as he lays a hand on Legend’s bare shoulder. “We’ll find him, Bun, have a little faith in the traveler.”

The vet looks instants away from protesting, from shouting something harsh that he probably doesn’t mean. He’s worried, they all are, but Legend responds worst of all of them to injury or illness, and his protégé going missing doesn’t seem to be an exception.

It’s Time’s voice that cuts through the tension, face stern as he meets the veteran’s eyes.  “Rest. We’re no good to Hyrule if we can’t walk a straight line. Cub,” Wild’s ears prick forwards, attentive and eager for orders. The little soldier shows his training, even though he might not remember it; eager for a task to complete to distract from the tension, needing a job to focus on instead of his own spiraling thoughts. It draws a tiny smile to Warriors’ face as he watches. “Could you mix up something warm for everyone? We’ll eat and head to bed, Sky and I can take first watch, Warriors and Wild will have second,” Always best to put the two war heroes together on second watch, less chance of waking the others with their nightmares. “And Twilight and Four can take second.”

Again, Legend looks like he might protest, but their leader fixes him with a stern look. “Vet, try to sleep, please.”

Little chance of that, he muses, watching as the vet huffs and kicks at the dirt, Legend’s a worrier, even if he would never admit it, and if anyone’s going to be up all night long fussing and fidgeting, it’ll be him. What Warriors wouldn’t give to pull Ravio along just this once so that the merchant can calm their friend, he doesn’t know how he does it, but Ravio and Hyrule both have a magic touch when dealing with the ornery teenager.

“Help me get Four settled.” Sky nudges Legend’s shoulder gently. “But get dressed first.”

Tasks. That’s right, give everyone something to do to take their mind off of worrying and running wild with imaginings that will only fuel anxiety and nightmares.

“Wind,” The sailor turns to him with pinched brows, but the kid calms significantly at the sound of his captain voice. “How about you and Twilight gather some wood for a fire? Time, will you scout the borders with me while the others prep camp?”

Mentor and protégé both nod; taking the orders that come easily to his mind, the rancher pulling on his wolf pelt and melting into the forest with Wind at his heels, and Time grabbing his sword and shield and coming to follow at his side.

“Thanks for stepping up.” The older man hums, gaze strained but warm as he offers a small quirk of the lips. “You and Sky both.”

He claps the other man on the shoulder, thankful in part that Time hasn’t donned his heavy armor, thus allowing him to avoid destroying his knuckles. “That’s my job, Sprout. Besides, you had your hands full with a sad puppy.”

Time shakes his head with a soft chuckle, but Warriors counts it as a win.

If Legend was bad the night Hyrule went missing, he’s terrible when the portal sweeps over them midway through their attempts to find his protégé, and the vet’s full-on panicking once they’ve all stopped feeling woozy and sick. He’s not the only one; Wind is almost crying, the poor kids so overwhelmed, and Wild’s agitated behavior has spiked to a full blown manic as he investigates the land around them.

It’s all the three eldest heroes can do to try and keep the younger ones calm, and while Twilight tags along with Wild to scout the area, Time bundles up a shivering and sneezing Four into his arms with a soft hum, hands dragging through the smithy’s long hair carefully.

“Cold?” He calls over to the two.

Time nods. “Probably.”

They should have taken more care to dry off before starting their search.

While Sky attempts to calm Legend, simultaneously holding Wind close to himself and offering one of his Big Brother Hugs to the sailor, Warriors takes care to check their things over and make sure nothing has been left behind.

Wild’s things are nearly always in his slate. Twilight and Time have their bags on hand, but the younger ones and Sky all have plenty to ensure is still in order, and he makes extra sure to check that the potions and fairies they have are all in order and that the bottle haven’t broken during the tumbling of the switch.

There’s light again.

Hyrule whimpers as it floods over him, tucking himself closer to the base of the bottle as large hands rummage around.

His glass prison tilts and swings, but the traveler can only tumble around within, pained hisses escaping him as he fights nausea that he can only assume is from some kind of switch.

It’s Warriors’ blue gloved hand that has his bottle, and hope flutters softly alongside iridescent wings as Hyrule silently prays that the captain will open it. They’ve been looking for him, right? Maybe Warriors figured out his mistake! Maybe he realized that Hyrule isn’t your average healing fairy and has decided to let him go again!

Oh, please let it be so! He won’t burn the captain’s bug-net after all if the man will just let him out!!!

The bottle settles again, and a blue gloved hand withdraws, leaving Hyrule lying on the floor of his bottle, the glass walls and stuffy air of the bag pressing in around him as another miserable whimper escapes him.

The bag he’s trapped in is flipped closed, and he’s plunged again into darkness.

Someone get a fairy!” Legend shrieks, the vet’s panic over the last few hours heightened as his blood soaked hands press against the wound in Time’s side.

Twilight’s face is pale from where he sits supporting his mentor’s head, blood splattering his face and Time’s own as the older man chokes and wheezes, blood bubbling up from between his lips as Legend and Four both work like mad-men to try and tend their leader’s wounds.

It was a freak attack. No one saw it coming, not with how out of it they all were, and there was no time to stop it when the hinox had come rumbling through the forest with ‘blins scurrying about at its feet.

As per Legend and Warriors’ instructions, the heroes had worked to bring down the smaller enemies first, slashing and skewering while the black blood of their enemies gushed out over their blades and darting forms. The ‘blins are hard to beat, as are all the black blooded monsters, but it's become a struggle they’re accustomed too, and the heroes each dart in and out of the battle with the sort of grace of people that are accustomed to battling together and against dangers of all sort.

There’s a flaw in the system though, as they’re short one member, and while Legend and Hyrule usually fight back-to-back, with Four and Wind close at hand, the traveler is gone, and it throws off his battle partners considerably.

Time was only just in time to prevent Wind and Legend both from being axed, but the wound l=that gushes blood from his side now had been the price.

“Fairy!” Four shouts out again. “Now!”

He blinks awake, the blurriness of his vision fogging his mind too, but not so much that he doesn’t register the request this time. Gloved hands fumble with the buckles of his bag, and he’s sweating and breathing harshly with worry as he rips the straps aside and grabs the first bottle he sees. Red liquid glitters back at him and he huffs a grunt out, handing it off to Wind and digging back into his bag.

Thank Hylia he and Four had gone fairy hunting in the last world they’d been in, he’s only got the one fairy, but it should be enough.

Faint pink glimmers in his jar, no longer bright and flittering, but he has to pray it’ll be enough to save Time. His fingers scrabble for the cork, tears pricking at his eyes and burning as he does his best to force them back.

Help Time.

Calm the others.

Break down and cry later.

The cork pops free, and the fairy bumbles sluggishly towards the mouth of the jar.

“Help!” He wheezes, glancing at where Legend and Four have started preforming CPR as tears stream openly down Twilight’s face, the rancher clutching his mentor’s hand tight enough to break bones as he watches the two replacement healers attempt to preserve the ever-fading breath of the man in his arms.

The fairy's wings flit softly as it launches from the mouth of the jar. Its path is sluggish and crooked, but soft glimmering dust flutters from its wings all the same, sprinkling over the gushing wound and slowing the flow of blood. Four leans back to spit out some blood that’s bubbled up into his mouth while he was pushing air into their leader’s lungs, and a stuttering cough breaks the frenzied silence as Time’s eyes flicker. The fairy circles a second time, color returning to Time’s face as raw and tender flesh takes the place of an open wound. There’s no time for a third pass, however, as the fairy’s wings stutter to a halt, pink glow fading as it drops to the earth.

The others are too busy with Time to notice, Wind practically shoving the red potion down the man’s throat while Legend and Four start wrapping the wound in their leader’s side. Only Warriors has seen the fairy fall, and panic lances through his heart again.

Fairies aren’t supposed to collapse after healing someone; they’re supposed to fly away. But this fairy only weakly attempts to rise again, and while the other fuss over the lesser injuries while Legend scolds Time, the captain turns his attention to the fading pink light that blinks on and off in the tall grass.

The fairy shivers in his hands as he gently scoops it up, but when he raises it to eyes level to look at it properly, he freezes.

Tousled brown hair, drenched in sweat, flops over lidden golden eyes. Sure, there six tiny eyes to look at, but the light in them, though faded, is familiar. Same as the freckles that dust drawn cheeks and the tiny green and brown tunic, the shrunken boots the-

“Hyrule?” His voice is soft and disbelieving, too hushed to be heard by the others as they continue to worry over the old man. But the tiny figure in his hands stirs, ever so slightly, golden eyes blinking open as a weak smile meets his gaze.

“W-” The single sound escaped before the fairy stutters in his hands, lights blinking out for half of a second as Hyrule coughs and wheezes.

“Hang on!” Again, he’s digging in his bag, guilt and utter horror filling him as realization hits.

He put Hyrule in a bottle. A bottle that has sat in his bag for days. A bottle that is closed and sealed and-

The captain’s breath stutters as his fingers find the vial of green potion. Eyes glassy as he lifts it to the fading light in his hands, and while Hyrule sips slowly at the vial that’s raised to his lips, it’s all that the soldier can do to not break down crying right then and there.

He locked Hyrule in a bottle!

Tiny wings flutter in his hold as Hyrule pulls himself up to grasp the vial better, but the captain’s so lost in his head he can only stare, unseeing, as the fairy downs the rest of the vial, despite the thing being bigger than himself. The pink glow that signifies a healing fairy stutters back to a more radiant bloom, wings fluttering lightly as Hyrule shakes out his limbs with a wince.

“Thank you for freeing me.” The traveler’s tiny voice chirps, eyes pained but warm as they all stare up at him, and a single tear escapes from the captain at the words.

He doesn’t really think, just gently plucks the fairy up and settles him in a fold of his scarf before jumping to his feet and striding away into the forest. Sky’s voice calls after him, but he ignores it, instead heading for the nearest bunch of trees.

He’s not sure why he brought Hyrule along, but he also knows he couldn’t just leave the fairy hero back in the camp with no one to watch over him, so even as he fights back the tears that well in his eyes and the pain that blossoms in his heart and the sensation of too small- too tight- trapped- glass- trapped-

“Warriors!” The sharp peal of Hyrule’s voice cuts him out of his thoughts. He doesn’t know when he’d fallen to his knees or when his hands had risen up to clutch his hair. It hurts how hard he’s pulling, and it scares him that he hadn’t even felt it. “Hey!” The voice continues, Hyrule fluttering, still weak, only inches from his face, concern glimmering in glimmering golden eyes. “Hey listen! Wars? Can you hear me? Wars?”

“S-sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Hyrule dismissed the apology, and it draws a wet laugh from the captain as he watches the still stuttering wings beating with a speed to rival a hummingbird, Hyrule’s drawn frame looking even paler and thinner right now than it had when they’d first met him.

“I should be asking you that, kid.” He chokes out. He’d locked this kid in a bottle for days! He’d never known it and if Time hadn’t been dying, who knows how long it would have taken him to open it!

Hyrule’s smile is drawn as his wings stutter to a stop again, the traveler falling into Warriors’ lap as the captain starts forwards as if to catch him. Muttered words sound through the air and then Hyrule, properly sized but still pale and thin and painfully still is nestled against his chest. “I’m exhausted and hungry, but I’m out.” The kid breathes, eyes fluttering as a soft breeze ruffles his sweat soaked hair. “I’m out and that’s all I could ask for right now.”

He doesn’t even think as he wraps his arms around the kid, burying his nose in the damp curls and never minding the fact that they are rank with sweat and fear. It’s Hyrule, and he’s safe, and while Legend is probably going to murder him for trapping the poor kid for three whole days, at least he knows that the little one is alright.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice is muffled as he murmurs into the curls. “I know how bottles suck, if I’d’ve known it was you I would have never-” His voice hitches with a sob as he tugs the kid closer, weeping as Hyrule’s gentle hands weakly pat the only thing they can reach within his tight hug, his chest.

“You didn’t know.” Hyrule rasps softly. “But I’m burning your bug-net when I have the energy.”

“Please.” Comes the strangled sob. “Oh goddesses, Rule, I’m so sorry!” The gentle hands move up to wipe away his tears but it only brings them flooding down harder. “Goddesses, I locked you in a bottle! You could’ve been in there forever and I wouldn’t have known! I wouldn’t have checked! I would’ve-”

Left him there. His mind supplies. He would have left Hyrule in a glass bottle where no one could find him, where his shrieks and screams and pleas for help wouldn’t have made a difference to anything or anyone, not when the giant beings that trapped him were unaware or uncaring of his fate, not when he was there to serve a purpose, not when he was there to be used like an item and supply power to those who don’t have enough themselves.

A talisman. I trophy. A tool so that they could do what they needed.

He’s been there. He’s been in that bottle, used like a tool, supplying power to beings so much larger than himself. He’s been in that bottle and left to sit while his friends call his name, while Mask and Tune and Ravio and Impa and Marin and Midna and- and-

“Hush.” Hyrule coos softly, voice hoarse, no doubt from many a scream and wail in hopes of catching their attention, of gaining freedom. “Sush, you’re okay. I’m okay, we’re both okay and Time will be okay.” Rough pads scrape across his cheeks and gently rub his ears. “I got you Wars, I got you.”

And Hyrule does have him, holds him despite being the one in Warriors’ lap, until the others come wandering over and the traveler is scooped from his arms by Sky, who hugs the youngster with tears pouring down his face and voice caught in his throat.

His tears go unnoticed as they all head back, and the instant they reach camp Legend is springing forwards with worry glittering in his eyes as he takes the traveler’s face in his hands, disbelief and shock and hurt and hope and a thousand other emotions swarming in golden violet as Legend gently touches the traveler’s brow with his own, crystal tears leaking out slowly as a tiny smile pulls at the vet’s face.

It only lasts a minute, but then Sky and Legend are fussing over Hyrule, checking him over and clucking their tongues like a couple of mother cuckoos as Wild springs towards the fire, eyes flashing indignantly at the sight of Hyrule’s thin frame, something he’d worked so hard to mend.

“Oh, ‘Rulie, thank Din you’re back!” Legend sighs, cupping the kids face gently in his hands as golden eyes flicker up at the vet with a smile. “Wherever where you? We nearly lost our minds with worry!”

“He was trapped by a monster.” The words roll off of his tongue bitterly as Hyrule frowns up at him, but Legend and Sky are too busy fussing to notice and Hyrule isn’t given a chance to correct anything as they check again for any injuries.

Warriors draws away, leaving Hyrule wrapped in his scarf as he sits on the edge of camp, head aching from tears shed and mind blank in the wake of them. He’s too tired to join in the fuss and celebration as Time sits up again with a groan and Hyrule is spoon-fed soup by a murmuring Sky. He’s tired. He’s cold, and he feels utterly empty.

At least he’s not in a bottle.

The thought sends shivers through him as he curls in on himself, an outlier to the bustle of the camp, free now to descend into the madness of his broken mind.

[whirlybirdwhat]

The strawhats dont know that Jimbe shares the other half of Luffys scar.

Word Count: 2,239

The Straw Hats hadn’t expected it, even as they traced inked lines on newspapers, old and faded with time, watched the news and clips of Marineford, brought by an old enemy’s hands.

They knew their captain would be scarred – saw it in the newspaper, the way his face broke with his brother’s body in his arms, saw it in bloody bandages inked with 3D2Y.

They just –

They didn’t know it would be like this.

Luffy’s scar is a red thing, a bloody thing. It’s roughly healed, clearly gone without proper care beyond the initial wrap, and it lays directly over their captain’s chest. An X, cruel and digging into his skin.

(Legends state that Joyboy, the first adventurer, carved an X on to Raftel. That the poneglyphs are his signature, the X that marks all treasure.

Below this X lies their captain’s heart, burned and flayed by the first of a dog.

It is a treasure that should have never been marked.)

He wears it openly, proudly, as if this X was not in the same place of the wound that killed his brother, as if his hand did not reach up to scratch at it, rest on it, hold it when he stared at the horizon. They have had a day to get used to but still –

Still it is a shock, fresh and unwanted.

(Scars have meaning, and scars have purpose. Zoro has two on his ankles and one on his front, two earned in learning, and one in battle. Another is on his eye, a price paid for being a student who aims to take down his teacher. Nami has scars, covered by blue ink, scars that freed her, scars that saved her. Usopp has nicks on his hand, scars in odd places from trying to repair a dying ship, from fighting his captain.

Lessons learned, purposed gained, willingly, voluntarily.

Luffy’s is nothing like that. )

It stares at them, taunts them, bright and red, a reminder that they weren’t there when Luffy was always there for all of them, wasn’t there when he needed them most, as much as it is a reminder of how Luffy’s brother died in his arms, in a war that should have never been.

(Luffy has scars – he heals fast, but not enough to cover burns from molten gold or holes from warlord’s hooks. But nothing is as vibrant as this one.)

But –

Luffy is here.

Luffy is happy. He smiles, bright and fearless, even if there are new shadows in his eyes and more quiet moments then there used to be. He is still just as strong, stronger even, if more protective of his crew. He’s Luffy – their captain, and their future king.

They weren’t there for him, and he doesn’t care if they weren’t because he’s glad they’re safe but –

Jimbe! Luff cries with joy, when they set a course for fishman island, He saved me!

Someone was.

-

Fishman island is a bright, happy place. The sun shines even here, and now, with Hordy and Vander Decken gone, the people shine as well. Joyful, smiling faces against scales and skin, teeth sharp or smooth, are all directed to their princess – now revealed to them – and to the pirates that saved them. There’s cruelty in corners, but not here.

Not now.

(Children run along the sea floor in Straw Hats, calling out attack names and harboring no prejudice.

Later, years later, there will be legends about a man in a straw hat, and joy written on all their faces – cruelty nowhere to be found. A beginning is here – one of hope.)

Not with Luffy lying on Jimbe’s side, bandaged and with his crew surrounding him. The party thrown by King Neptune echoes dimly in the background, melding gently with the chattering of his crew around him. Zoro sleeping on the ground by Luffy, Chopper atop of him, Usopp and Sanji murmuring together as they eat, the rest of the crew standing around, gazing at their captain who has given so much for them – who has just returned to them.

(They move in groups, now, and when Luffy left the party to talk to Jimbe the rest of them followed. It’s been far too long since they’ve been together and they are reluctant to part from each other.

Never again, they whisper, never again.)

Jimbe is new to them but not, there when they weren’t. He’s comfortable with Luffy, even if he is surprised when Luffy slumps against his side, curling under his arm to sleep away his injuries. There’s a terrible sort of fondness on his face as he looks at their Captain, one they all know is reflected on their own faces.

Luffy – he saves people. More than just in body, but in spirit, taking their dreams and shouldering them on his own until they are strong enough to carry themselves. Selfishly selfless, forcing people to rise and chase what every pirate holds dear.

A dream.

Jimbe hasn’t said his yet, but he’ll get there if Luffy has to drag him there kicking and screaming like he’s done the rest of them.

Though… his eyes hold nothing but devotion as he stares at the Straw Hat’s captain, so it’s more than likely he’ll just follow Luffy.

All the way to Raftel.

Luffy utters a quiet snore, burrowing close into Jimbe, bandages falling and revealing a reddened scar, and suddenly the Straw Hats find themselves with a purpose here.

But like in all things, Luffy is the one to make the first move. The way he has tugged on Jimbe’s kimono, has pulled it to the side, displaying the tattoo of the Sun Pirates, red and vibrant and –

A mass of scar tissue, burned and dark against blue scales, in the same shape as their captain’s.

It’s like the world goes quiet as Jimbe readjusts.

Like another weight has been added to the shoulders of those who love Straw Hat Luffy but weren’t there when he needed them most. Like chains, like nails down the throat, a horrible, awful realization that at Marineford, it hadn’t just been Ace who took a hit for their captain.

Jimbe had too.

He doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t seem to notice the way every Straw Hat has paled or gone wide eyed or slacked jawed (for those without visible skin or eyes.) He just quietly adjusts Luffy, hand ghosting over the scar on his chest, and settles back down.

Nami swallows, throat sick. “Jimbe?” She asks, knowing that he’ll answer her if no one else. “You were at Marineford, right?”

(Even in his sleep, slumbering away, Luffy winces at the name.)

Jimbe is quiet for a beat, then – “Aye. And Impel Down.”

“And afterwards,” Robin says smoothly, eyes bright with the knowledge of a historian who scoured every source for information about her captain.

Jimbe nods. “And afterwards, until Rayleigh took over.”

Everything. He was here for everything.

“Then...” Nami swallows and blinks back her tears. “You were with Luffy when A-“ His name feels forbidden. Taboo. “When his brother died.”

“Aye.” Jimbe’s words are soft as he lays a hand on Luffy’s shoulder, gently calming him from the twist his face takes, even asleep. “I was.”

Nami wants to ask what happens. She wants to know, wants to hold her captain, wants to say It’s okay, wants to know what hurt him so he will never hurt again, and Jimbe can give her these answers but –

The past doesn’t matter aboard their ship of dreams. Luffy had not listened to her story, not until she wanted to tell him herself. He had freed her from her chains, took her by the hand and led her to the horizon that she could map all her own.

Her throat closes up when she thinks about trying to learn his hurts, when he knew not to bother her own.

She can’t do that.

She can’t.

Instead, she lets her lips remain loyally closed as she watches the way Jimbe cradles their captain, as if he was the most precious thing he could think of.

(And really this man – who had conquered gods and armies and kings, yet still smiled so gently at his nakama and the sea breeze – he is.)

But Jimbe speaks anyway, and it’s not a betrayal of loyalty because he was there, when none of them were.

“I knew Ace, before Marineford.” They all hide flinches at the name. Jimbe gives them a somber gaze, and moves on. “We battled, before he joined Whitebeard’s crew and afterwards were friends. I refused to fight in Marineford for his sake, and was instead bound in Impel down, in the same cell as him. There… he told me about his little brother.” His gaze, impossibly, turns even softer. “He would just chatter on… smiling, in the face of death, as he told me about how reckless this boy was. How foolish. How loyal.” He tilts his head back up to the sky then. “He asked me to take care of his little brother.”

Nami’s heart stops. Usopp gasps. Sanji drops his plate. Chopper starts crying. Zoro’s eyes flash open for the first time.

(Under the hot sun of Alabasta, on a ship aboard a river, a man with freckles and a smile had asked, A little brother like that makes a big brother worry - Take care of him for me, okay?

They failed.)

“I failed,” Jimbe says, simply, but his words are draped in pain and agony, as his hand rises to his chest again, in a similar motion to what their captain has done, several times since they have reunited. “And that can never be forgiven.”

“But you were there,” Robin says, just as simple, her voice cracking. “And you saved our captain – didn’t you?”

Jimbe’s hand loosens its hold. “Ace had just died. We were running from Akainu and… I was holding Luffy. My own body was not enough to shield him – I failed-“

“Stop.” Zoro’s words silence the room, accept for Luffy, snoring gently into Jimbe’s side. “You were there, Jimbe.” He gets on to his knees, sword laying across his slap as Chopper is pushed to the side. “We were not. Thank you, for saving him.”

And then – Zoro, future world’s greatest swordsman, the pirate hunter, the demon – he bows, low to the ground, in a gesture of thanks.

It is brief, and quick, but Nami follows instantly, folding over in thanks as the rest of the crew does the same.

This is their crewmate – their future crewmate, from what he told Luffy – who was there when they were not, and took a blow for Luffy straight through his chest that would have otherwise been fatal.

Without Jimbe, their captain would not have had a chance to live.

What is a moment, bowed over, to something as insurmountable as that?

“I – please, do not bow to me!” Jimbe rushes to say, stuttering, eyes wide when Nami looks out. One hand is held out while the other, always protective, lays around Luffy’s shoulder. “It was my duty to do so, my responsibility, same as any of you. Luffy – he’s the man who will become King of the Pirates. To follow him is enough thanks.” His words ring loud. Ring true.

This is the man Luffy wanted on his crew for two years.

Nami can see why.

His faith – the faith that moves seas, moves mountains, changes the world, the faith in one straw hatted man – that’s the faith of all her crew,

She wasn’t sure about Jimbe.

(He had been the cause of so much of her pain – but he didn’t choose to hurt her. He would never, now.)

She is now.

Zoro, ever the leader, ever the loyal first mate, looks up and settles back down. It reminds Nami so much of Water 7, except here their entire crew is present, and here, they will not be fractured ever again.

(She will make sure that happens – by any means necessary.)

“It is our responsibility.” Zoro acknowledges. “We grew stronger over these past few years, on our captain’s orders – did you?”

His single eye pierces Jimbe, and Nami can see him swallow. But he stares back, unafraid, a true helmsman always following the course.

“Aye,” Jimbe says, and the tension is shattered by Luffy turning entirely over in his sleep, shirt shifting to display his scar, but his face entirely peaceful.

They ease back into their conversations, debts settled, crewmates thanked and now equals. It’ll be a few minutes before Luffy is up, running for adventure with them following on his heels but for now –

Now, the savior of their captains rests easy with Luffy by his side, and everything is okay.

(Later, months later, after Wano and after Whole Cake and after Emperors, Nami will see Luffy sit up at night as they all camp out in the aquarium. He will clutch his chest, and curl in on himself, deadly quiet and pale. His fingers will dig in, and dig in, and dig in, and all Nami will do is watch until –

Jimbe sits up and catches Luffy’s hand in his own, his other mirroring Luffy’s position and clutching at his own scar. He will say breathe, and Luffy will breathe, and –

Their captain will be strong, surrounded by those who were not there, and smiling, if dimly, at the one who was.

And, for once, matching scars won’t hurt as bad.)

[barnesandco]

Little Hands (IV)

Series Masterlist

Communication is key.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2021. Word count: 2248. Square filled: “Sung to Sleep”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: More Hydra Evilness, More Sad Child, Parental Anxieties. Brief mentions of war, sickness, death, grief. 

A/N: I know 2.2k words isn’t objectively a lot but boy did this feel like it. I hope every word is worth it and that you enjoy! Lmk what you think!!! Also I won’t even lie, the idea of Steve’s kids is 100% from one of my favorite comfort fics, family means no one gets left behind or forgotten, by the genius, the wonderful cosmicocean. IT’S SO SOFT. Pls read it.

You’re stunned when Bucky tells you what’s going on. The idea that his daughter (?) was made in a lab like some kind of experiment, and that the man who led said experiment now wants her back like she is his property, his weapon, is too horrid to consider for very long. Weaponizing an innocent child. Hydra.

Bucky gave you the broad strokes of the investigation – currently running on little more than educated guesses based on the meagre intel they have – and has let you know that he has had to recuse himself from the case, due to his… personal connection. That leaves him somewhere he finds awkward, to say the least.

It's evident in the way the corners of his lips turn down, how he is constantly rubbing the pads of his fingers against the coarse scratch of denim, while he watches Ana watch Zoya, Steve’s 17-year-old daughter, working on a tablet. Zoya tucks a strand of hair behind her hijab, then continues to draw up a storyboard, narrating the events to the younger girl. Steve had apparently forgotten the lunch his kids had made him at home, so Zoya had brought it in, and decided to stay the day.

Ana’s quiet, attentive for the most part, listening with her full capabilities, but her eyes flit away from the screen every now and then to look at you and Bucky, as if to reassure herself that you’re still there.

Besides that, there aren’t all that many distractions present for an already precocious child. Most of the team has dispersed for the investigation, with the exception of Peter, who is sat at a table in the corner making intentionally fruitless efforts at teaching Morgan chess, while she giggles and tries to stack the pieces like Jenga blocks instead.

However, Bucky’s restlessness is infectious, and you think he needs to get it under check before it grows any further. That’s why you stand, saying, “Could we go for a little walk, Bucky?”

He nods, man of few words that he is, and leads the way. You’re sure he knows that you formulated it like a request for his benefit, but he doesn’t mention it. It’s just as well – that he knows you like that, and knows when to accept the proverbial hand being offered.

Bucky takes you to a corner of the roof that you’d mistake for a community garden if you didn’t know any better. The Avengers seem to have green thumbs, or at least, a significant portion of them do. They’re good with plants, and possessive about them, too. Autumn ferns grow outside the circle they seem to have been planted in – with a sign shouting Wanda! – to invade the territory of a vegetable garden labelled Bruce (accompanied by a Hulkish, green thumbs up presumably not drawn by the man himself).  

Meticulously maintained daylilies and columbines, in vivid reds and vibrant purples, litter the edges of the path that has been carved through this little paradise, and the birdhouses between them stake the claim of the owner more effectively than a neon sign screaming Sam Wilson. Bucky’s told you about his abilities, how they veer into the decidedly supernatural but Sam insists are only the residue of a childhood with homing pigeons.

Nothing here looks like Bucky’s, though. He seems to be taking it in, perhaps thinking about his own little paradise back in the city, and how he’s chosen to keep it distant from that of his teammates. That worries you. He worries you.

And this, the situation with Anastasia, becoming a father, it’s terrifying. Hell, if it scares you this much, how is he feeling? You ask him as much.

“Bucky, are you okay?”

He laughs, softly, disbelievingly, no malice in his scoff, only fear. Only the sound of a voice saturated with consternation and total, complete anxiety. “Would you be?” He asks back.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

Bucky evades the questions, turning first one way on the path, and then the other, approaching the edge clear of shrubbery and blooms alike, resting his palms on the top of the wall.

“I can’t be a father.”

The solemnity in his tone allows no room for negotiations, but then, neither do the facts. “You are,” you reply, somewhat hesitantly, because the technicalities of how Ana came to be are still a little blurry to you. She’s far from a normal child, and not quite a clone, either. She is of Bucky, though. His, in any way that counts.

“That little girl was created in a Hydra lab as a super soldier to serve the cause,” he says, shaking his head vigorously as the cause repulses him even more than it does you. “And who knows what else she was put through before SHIELD fell and Orlov got her out, and it’s my fault.”

“You didn’t—”

“I didn’t ask for it to happen but it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t happened. They used me to make a super soldier from scratch, and now I’m supposed to raise her? It’s not that simple. I’m not Steve. I can’t…”

Being honest, you feel you’re pretty far out of your depth here. But you’ve promised him your help, and you’ll do your best.

“You don’t have to. There are other options.” You’re sure you’re overstepping. Perhaps this gentle companionship has not yet reached the point where you can give advice on parenting. But if you don’t, who will? Steve, whose answers don’t enter the gray territory Bucky’s mind is residing in right now, who parents like he was born for it?

Steve chose fatherhood. Bucky has been nailed to it like it’s a new cross to bear, heavier than all the previous ones put together.

His gaze roams the grounds that stretch as far as you can see. You’re both far away from home right now, far outside your comfort zones.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into my mess, sweetheart. It’s not right. You have things to do, and I shouldn’t have—”

“Bucky, I’ve been staring at the same four sentences of dialogue for the past month. I literally could not have been happier to get out of the house. Even if I do wish it was under better circumstances,” you say fervently. You’re here because he needs you. Because Ana needs you. It’s nice to be needed.

“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, and you’re glad to see it.

“Not to mention, it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault except whoever your team is looking for,” you insist. “And Ana’s a sweet girl. A little quiet, but Baba says I was, too.”

This, Bucky thinks about. You wonder if he was a quiet child, too. “What’s he like?”

“Hmm?” The reverie snaps like a rubber band.

“Your father?” Bucky asks, shyly, his eyes meeting yours, letting you know exactly why he’s asking.

You look up at the clouds, think back to Boston, to time shared between the library and the park. A childhood with books, lunch breaks under a desk in an office at MIT, stealing his glasses and running away with them, rubbing at his stubbly beard like he was a housecat. Inside jokes with your father and rolled eyes with your mother. Laughter and tears, laughter with tears.

After a long while, trying and failing to summarize your father, you say, “A jokester. The most sarcastic person I know. But still kind of neurotic, to be honest. The kind of parent that makes you show up at the airport a full four hours before your flight.” It’s grossly insufficient. For a writer, you’re not very good with words. You suppose it’s not the words that are the problem; it’s the lifetime they have to encompass. “What about yours?”

Bucky sighs. “Soldier. He’s one thing I don’t feel bad for not remembering because it wasn’t Hydra that wiped those memories. He just died when I was really small. Survived the Great War only to be killed by TB a few years later at home.”

“I’m sorry.” You avert your eyes. Grief feels private, even decades later, even in the smallest doses.

He shakes his head, smiles fondly, up at the sky, too, like you did. Only, he’s smiling at it, like he’s thinking of someone beyond the clouds. “Don’t be. Was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t allowed to hurt anymore.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“I sound like my therapist.”

At this, the two of you look at each other and burst into laughter. It feels forbidden, as though the severity of the situation condemns joy. That isn’t fair, you think. The situation is that of a child, and nobody needs laughter more than kids do. Food for the soul.

When the echo of your exhilarations falls, Bucky grows serious once more. “They have them for kids, now, too, right?” He asks, referring to therapists. “Do you think Anastasia should see one? She’s not exactly… normal, you know?”

“Maybe.” It’s a difficult question, but a good indicator of how Bucky is growing to feel about Ana. “You’d make a good dad, if you wanted to be one, Bucky,” you say, and mean it. It’s plain as day that he cares about her.

“I can’t even remember my own.”

“Parental instincts are intuitive, not genetic,” you tell him.

“You been reading handbooks?” He teases.

“You’d be surprised by how much you learn from the rabbit holes you fall down while researching books,” you deadpan.

“Can any of that research get the nightmares out of my head? I think it might scare a kid.”

The self-deprecation hurts, but your response is honest, heartfelt. “She likes you already.”

“She won’t if she thinks I’ve run away,” he answers, straightening up. He might be trying to evade the conversation, but you’ll let him, for now. He’s gotten some fresh air, had some time to clear his thoughts, or sort them, at least. And so you return, to the little girl who has a tighter grip on both of you than you even realize.

------

Ana grows unsettled as night darkens the sky. It could be the ruckus she isn’t quite used to. It could be the toy fire truck Tony has been altering with his utensils to increase its noise output, much to Morgan’s amusement. It could be the actual parrot perched on Sam’s shoulder.

Whatever the cause, she hasn’t succumbed to it enough to make a seat out of the fridge again. She’s sitting in her seat, between Bucky and yourself, eating the hummus Bruce and Wanda have made. Nat discusses sniper scopes with Clint, Peter tries to get away with eating the side of vegetables on Jordan’s plate without Steve noticing, and Bucky eats silently, eyes almost constantly on Anastasia, who takes it all in while her knee bounces up and down with an ever-increasing speed, much like her father’s.

You excuse yourselves soon after dessert, after Morgan has fallen asleep against Jordan’s arm on the couch, and Steve and Tony’s friendly debate is starting to develop the edge it tends to when they’ve been bantering for too long.

Bucky sets up on the sectional in his room, and leaves the ridiculously large double bed to you and Anastasia. It’s been a strange, strange day, and one can only hope that tomorrow brings some ease, a balm for the prickly, fiery ache that has settled over the man you care so much about.

------

When you wake, it’s because of singing. For half a moment, you think you’re in a dream, but as your eyes adjust to the blanket of dark, you see the shadow on the sofa nearby. Only, it’s bigger than just Bucky. Anastasia is sitting on his lap, her head cushioned against his chest. Scrambling for your glasses, and turning on the lamp on the bedside table, you notice that there are trails of drying tears on her little cheeks, and she’s still shaking with the aftershocks of whatever scare she must’ve had during the night.

Not for the first time, you curse your deep sleep that meant you didn’t wake with Ana, but watch in wonder as Bucky sings.

Hush, little baby, don't say a word Papa's going to buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won't sing Papa's going to buy you a diamond ring

Ana’s eyes begin to close, but she fights the sleep. Bucky doesn’t let her. He lies down, easing her down beside himself, singing all the while.

And if that diamond ring turns brass Papa's going to buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke Papa's going to buy you a billy goat

His voice fills the room, low though it may be, and he curls himself around Ana.

And if that billy goat won't pull Papa's going to buy you a cart and bull

And if that cart and bull turn over Papa's going to buy you a dog named Rover

She succumbs to the lull of his tone, his song, his promises, sighs a little sigh, lets the last, little hiccup leave her body.

And if that dog named Rover won't bark Papa's going to buy you a horse and cart

And if that horse and cart fall down You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town

Bucky lifts his hand from where it was stroking the hair at her temple, and lays his arm over his daughter. They’re safe, for now. Together.

[scaryscarecrows]

I'd Crawl on Broken Glass to be the One That Laughs Last

Gotham’s gone straight to Hell in a handbasket. Scarecrow’s dead, which is no loss, but Bruce is missing, Arkham blew up for reasons unknown, and the Arkham Knight’s Militia is still in control. Oh, sure, there’s a fair chunk of them in lockup, but they’ve been getting steadily more riled as the days wear on (three days since the Asylum, their boss has to be dead, who’s in charge now?), and the tanks are still running patrols, the bombs are still in the road, and there are checkpoints and watchtowers everywhere.

Jim thinks they’re waiting for something. There’s been no assault, not like he thought there might be. The street thugs and any uncaptured Rogues are still allowed to run wild, though the watchtowers have been spotted taking shots at something big flying around out there. Honestly, they’re even leaving the police alone, for the most part...but they will still shoot at the cars if they get too close. It’s like they’re on babysitting duty or something until the Knight gets back. It’s unsettling.

He’s out doing a little exploration-he doubts they’ve killed Batman, or they’d be gone, but Bruce still isn’t around-when something drops onto the roof of his car. He hits the brakes, tires screeching, and narrowly avoids sliding into a tank crossing the road.

Breathe.

Jim has no time to go for his gun before the driver’s side door gets ripped open by what Jim can only describe as the Hulk. The man outside is only a little smaller than Bane*. There’s a rocket launcher on his back and Jim’s sure he’s not the one that landed on the car, because the car would be a pancake.

He’s proven right a second later when the polar opposite of the giant jumps down. That said, this guy might be tiny, but he moves like he knows half a dozen ways to kill you. The cherry on the disaster sundae? Both of them are wearing army fatigues.

Militia. Shit.

“Boys,” he says, already planning on how to get that rocket launcher from the big one, “don’t be stupid.”

The little one doesn’t say anything. The big one laughs and before Jim can move, he’s been pulled out of the car.

“Boss wants to see ya.”

So they have a boss. Who. Who is it? One of their own? Riddler? Penguin? Goddamn Deathstroke? Who is his new problem?

“No.”

“Sorry.” The man does sound mostly sorry. “Not really askin’. C’mon.”

Jim tries to slam his elbow into the man’s collarbone. He doesn’t even really get to move before the little guy grabs his arm and wrenches it behind his back. Not hard enough to dislocate it, but hard enough to be a warning.

“We don’t want to have to hurt you, Commissioner,” the big man says. “We’re just picking you up.”

“Go to Hell.”

A gun presses against his back. Fine. He’ll go. But he won’t like it.

* * *

He’s disarmed, bundled into an APC, and blindfolded. After way too many sharp turns and double-backs, he’s...somewhere in the underside of the city. He’s thinking over near Drescher.

Wherever it is, he’s pulled out of the APC, taken inside somewhere, and handed off to new hands. When the blindfold comes off, his kidnappers are nowhere to be seen.

The men in charge of him now (and only for now, give him time…) are less...unnerving...than the other two. One is wearing the white uniform of a medic, and the other is having a snack. Cashews? Cashews.

The medic is a man on a mission. Jim doesn’t even manage to get out a, ‘you’ll be sorry’ before the man’s turning on his heel, jaw working furiously, and snapping, “Come on.”

“Where are we going.”

“Boss wants to see you, won’t listen to reason. This way.”

He stalks off and the snacker chuckles.

“Cashew?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” They follow the medic down a crumbling hallway. “They didn’t scare you too much, did they?”

“What’s with the good-cop-bad-cop routine?” he demands. “Is your friend up there gonna come back and threaten to carve my face off?”

The man just laughs.

“Probably, but he does that to everyone.”

“Sometime today!”

Huh.

Jim thinks they might be in the old mall. Scarecrow had been driving that way when something had happened, and, well, if Jim were going to have an evil base of operations, this would be a good one. Lot of ways in and out, nobody ever comes down here anymore-too dangerous-and it’s big, big enough to hold tanks and soldiers and whatever else these boys have. When they round a corner, he sees a familiar logo and decides that yes, that’s where they are. Hm.

They round another corner and end up in the back of the building. Jim’s not sure what this was, but there’s a corridor lined with doors. The medic stops in front of one and turns, hands clasped behind his back.

“Twenty minutes and no more,” he snarls at Jim. “You’re lucky you get that many minutes. You try anything, you might live to regret it. Might. You tire him out, out you go, I don’t care if it’s been two minutes. Don’t touch shit, don’t knock shit down, don’t--”

“I think he’s got the picture,” his other escort soothes. “Don’t terrorize him.”

“Humph. With the amount of work I had to put in to keep his dumb ass alive, I’m entitled to terrorize people.”

“Still.”

“And I’ll tell you something else. You lay a finger, one solitary finger on him, you so much as breathe too hard--”

“There won’t be anything left to bury,” the other man says, smiles with all his teeth. “Here you go, Commissioner.”

“Twenty. Minutes.”

And then he’s shoved into a room with--and good God, how--the Arkham Knight.

The Knight is lying in bed. He looks the worse for wear, but Jim can’t quite muster up pity for him. This...this is his fault. Gotham, Bruce, Barbara…

He swallows down the rage. Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because the Knight’s not alone. Jim supposes they wouldn’t just leave him unattended, not with those injuries, but still.

The Knight doesn’t seem to notice Jim. He’s certainly not looking at him. He’s looking at the laptop the other man has. Right now, at this exact second, he looks like a sick kid, wan and tired, eyes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake. But he’s not. Robin or not, he’s...the Knight’s not that boy anymore. Robin wouldn’t have done this, any of this. Robin’s dead.

“Sir.” The other man here isn’t wearing a uniform, he’s wearing jeans and a raggedy flannel that hangs open over some sort of band shirt. But his bearing is still that of a soldier’s, and the rifle leaning against the wall by his chair is top-of-the-line. “Gordon’s here.”

“Hrm?”

“Remember? You wanted to see him.” The Knight blinks a few times, heavy and confused, and tries to lever himself up before his companion reaches over to pin his shoulder. “Don’t do that.”

More confused silence. Now that he’s moved his head, Jim can see his pupils are blown wide. That’s not a surprise. He’s pretty sure he was in Arkham when it came down, and he hadn’t looked well before that.

Serves him right, he thinks, remembering the cuts on Barbara’s cheeks and chin. Serves the bastard right.

He keeps his mouth shut. The laptop has been closed and set aside, and the rifle is now in its owner’s lap. It’s casual enough, but the threat’s there all the same: you’ll go through me to get to him.

He wonders, a bit, what drives these men. He doesn’t really care, but he wonders a little all the same. Even the ones in the cells have been resolute that ‘the boss’ will get them out, that he’s got everything in hand, just you wait and see.

...in their defense, Jim had thought he had to be dead, and yet here he is. So.

“S’right,” the Knight finally breathes. He sounds terrible, and Jim suddenly matches the purple swelling on his throat to handprints. That scares him. Not out of pity or sympathy, but because what little he’s seen of the man says he can handle himself. Whoever did that… “S’right.”

“You up for it?”

He’d better be. Jim was kidnapped off the street for this.

“Yes.” Good. “Glad to see you’re unharmed.”

No thanks to you, Jim doesn’t snap, resolutely ignores the memory of the Knight holding up his hands and telling Scarecrow, voice painfully earnest, to take him and let Jim and his men and Robin leave in one piece. He settles for a curt nod, can’t quite muster up a, wish I could say the same.

The Knight pulls in a painful-sounding breath and drops his head to the side.

“Bring up the footage for Commissioner Gordon, would you?”

“Yessir.” The laptop returns, balanced delicately over the rifle. Jim doesn’t know if he wants to know what’s going on. “Hang on...give it a sec to load…”

The Knight moves and visibly bites back a wince, but the new angle means that Jim can see the full extent of the bruising on his neck.

“There we go--you okay, boss?”

“Ribs,” he breathes. “They don’t like it when people zipline into them.”

What.

“Need me to call--”

“No.” He swallows hard and beckons Jim closer. “M’fine. Just sore. And stiff.” He clears his throat, grimacing. “You worry too much.”

“I worry exactly the right amount.”

“M’just not used to being still this long--”

“Deal,” his friend says sharply. The Knight just grins, but that annoys the other guy. “Did you miss the flatline bit?”

“Technically?”

“I--never mind.” He makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Never mind...okay, all set.”

He turns the laptop around and Jim hesitates before perching on the very edge of the bed. Nothing terrible happens to him.

“This is footage from my helmet. How it kept going after that level of trauma, I’ll never know, but my IT department managed to recover it remotely.”

The footage picks up in a dark area, abandoned sewer network or something, probably, and it’s glitchy and stuttery.

Bruce has been caught on camera before, but not like this. This is...savage, animalistic. He comes out of nowhere, dodging gunfire and seemingly oblivious to the shouts of surprise, and moves in via a flying kick to the camera itself, which goes white and static-y for a second. A few of them come up behind him and suffer backhands and powerful kicks for their troubles, and then Bruce fills up the frame, shoulders positioned like he’s got his arms out and...and...

He looks at the Knight, looks at the bruises around his neck, and looks back at the screen in time to see Bruce going down and being dragged backwards.

“He do this to you?”

The look the man gives him is so reminiscent of the little boy Jim remembers that it makes his head spin. It screams, I know you’re not really that stupid...right?

“Well, I didn’t do it to myself.”

“--okay, sir, I’m just gonna…”

The helmet moves and Jim spots the medic from earlier before it gets set on the ground, facing Bruce. Bruce is chained to a pipe, seemingly unconscious.

“Don’t talk, just nod. Can you breathe okay?”

There’s an obvious cut--they don’t want to share it all, apparently--and then Bruce stirs and starts...giggling. Jim knows that giggle.

“What the hell.”

The Knight shudders and burrows under his blankets.

“It’s complicated. We’re reasonably sure he’s been eliminated, or at the very least contained, but--” A hand moves, presumably indicating himself. “I made it out. He might have, too.”

His friend closes his laptop and sets it aside.

“We’ve got teams sweeping Arkham’s grounds to the best of our ability,” he says. “Unfortunately, we are not a rescue team and as such are not fully equipped to handle the more unstable areas. That said, given the police department’s...track record...we would very much prefer that your men stay out of our way until we either find the individual formerly known as the Batman, or definitively confirm his demise. We’re hoping that at the very least, any injuries he may have sustained slowed him down, but we can’t prove that, given the lack of video footage for the incident.”

“It’s our understanding that Batman has, at least for the time being, lost his fight against the effects of J.” The Knight swallows. “Of Joker’s blood. I attempted to contain him--”

“Contain, my ass,” his friend grumbles. The Knight ignores him.

“I attempted to contain him,” he says again, “via...ah…”

“He blew up the goddamn asylum with himself and Batman inside,” comes the sharp interjection. “In case you managed to miss that.”

Jim had not managed to miss that, thank you very much.

“I noticed,” he says dryly. The Knight huffs a painful-sounding laugh and falls silent.

There’s. There’s a lot Jim wants to say. The Knight was Robin, and Joker killed him (and made sure they all knew it, that tape, good God, he’d sent it to everyone and Jim remembers Dove bursting into tears when she tried to tell him), but he’s not dead now, and look at what he’s done.

Much as he’d like to demand answers--or at least bring half of that up--he won’t. He doubts the man with the laptop will react well; now that he really looks, the man’s tense, clearly poised to move if he has to.

Jim can probably take him. He absolutely can’t take the others that will come at the commotion.

There’s a small dinging sound, and silence, and then an urgent, “Sir. Sir.”

“Hrm?”

“We got something.”

The Knight blinks a few times before half-surging up and demanding, “Let’s go, let’s go, then, help me up--”

“Chair or Trent?”

“Neither--”

“Chair or Trent.”

“Chair,” he grumbles after a second. “But I can walk on my own--”

“Yeah, but if the doc sees you, he’ll be mad. Here it is.”

Jim moves, semi-prepared to offer to help but not really wanting to, but they must have a system, because the Knight’s in the chair with a blanket in short order.

“I feel like a cheap Bond villain,” he’s complaining now. “One that rolls down a ramp into an electrified pool or something.”

“Maybe next time, you’ll consider your life choices, sir.”

“They weren’t supposed to come back to haunt me!”

“I know, sir.”

“Christ...what do we have.”

Should he…? Sure, apparently.

What a day. He needs a drink. A good strong one.

“My understanding is it’s better seen than explained, sir. No body, I don’t think.”

“Fantastic...the bastard’ll survive anything.”

Jim privately thinks the same applies to him, but he doesn’t share that thought. He doubts it will go over well.

The computer room isn’t crammed full of people. There’s one guy on the monitors and another one-one of the ones from before, actually, the one with the cashews-lounging in a chair next to him, drinking a Coke.

“What’s going on, you said something turned up--” He doesn’t quite hide a shiver, but when the other people in the room zero in on him, he shakes his head and insists, “M’fine.”

“Boss, I can link this to a laptop if you’re s’posed to be in bed--”

“M’fine. Pull up the footage.”

“You’re not gonna like it,” monitor-guy says, spinning around and wheeling over to make room. “Looks like he got out, same as you.”

“Seriously?”

“Would I joke when it mattered, sir? Here, look. See this?” He makes the screen bigger. “That look familiar to you?”

It certainly looks familiar to Jim. Bruce’s cowl is difficult to mistake, and there it is, crumpled in the rubble. It’s singed, and one of the ears is broken, but it is Bruce’s cowl.

“Damn,” the Knight breathes, and...Jim doesn’t like admitting it, not after tonight, but...he looks so young. A scared little boy, that’s all. “That’s not good.”

“What do we do, sir?”

“We don’t even know for sure if he’s out.” The Knight’s friend leans over the chair to get a better look at the monitor. “Maybe he tried getting out and died, we don’t--”

“I made it out,” the Knight says quietly.

There’s a wave of annoyed grumbling that includes at least one, ‘self-sacrificing dumbass’ and a, ‘in spite of your best efforts’. Jim has to wonder about that one. He can’t muster up that much sympathy, but he does wonder.

The Knight just sighs and adjusts his blanket around his shoulders.

“Fair. Anyways, seeing as I found a way out, it’s not unlikely that he’s done the same, barring the. The possibility of an instant death. I suspect we wound up in a pocket, though, so.”

“You didn’t notice anything on your way out?” Jim demands. “Was he right with you?”

“I was--”

“Concussed and bleeding to death,” a new voice snaps. “And in no shape to be walking, let alone note-taking. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

“Briefing the--”

“Literally anybody else can do that.” The angry voice belongs to the medic from before. “You don’t seem to understand what ‘flatline’ means, sir, or maybe you’ve just got a death wish, but tough fucking titty, said the kitty, you’re not dying on my watch. Say bye-bye to the commissioner, you’re going back to bed and staying there or on God, I’ll put you in a coma and keep you there until you don’t have so much as a bruise. Do I make myself clear?”

Jim expects argument. None of the Robins ever let Batman boss them around to that extent, and he knows damn well that if he’d backtalked his superiors like that, he’d be in, frankly, deep shit. But the Knight just sighs.

“He’s been here long enough, anyway.” Long enough for what? “Keep your men out of our way, Commissioner. No offense, but Batman existed for a reason. You can’t handle him.”

Jim bristles.

“Can’t handle--”

“You know it’s true,” he snaps, and straightens up, turns to the man with the cashews. “Call everyone back.” All of a sudden that’s no longer a little boy playing Soldiers. That’s the man that crippled Gotham within hours. “I want everyone off the streets and back at base, now. Do not engage under any circumstances.”

“Yessir.”

“Get into the street cameras,” he continues. “If a rat comes out of a sewer, I want to see it. I want whatever drones we have left out and searching, but leave the car alone. That hasn’t worked so far and I’m not losing more--”

He must breathe wrong, because he suddenly starts coughing, harsh, violent whoops from down in his chest.

“Get him back to bed,” the medic orders once the coughs cease. “Or he’ll be Snow White and believe you me, nobody is getting in here to kiss him awake.”

“Jones--”

“We can handle this, sir. We’ll let you know if something comes up.”

“But--”

“You trained us for this, remember? We’re professionals.”

The Knight falls silent, one hand still pressed against his ribs, and finally melts back into his chair.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Bye, commish.”

He doesn’t recognize the men that take him back. The streets are empty, though, barring the patrolling drones, and they make it back to the GCPD unscathed.

Unfortunately, Jim returns to, quite frankly, a disaster. The officers on duty are tied up, and the militia cells are empty. Not a man left. He’s just freeing Cash when the broadcast screen crackles and the Knight appears on it, face serious.

“I mean it, Commissioner,” he says. “Keep out of the way, or I’ll put you in a cell instead.”

“You--”

“Tell Bullock hey for me, would ya?” He leans forward. “Stay safe.”

Click.

THE END

*I’m figuring Bane is bigger than the Giant Mooks because his boss fight consists of you jumping on him to slash his Venom tubes AND because he can and will run you over, while Giant Mooks of any affiliation are not rideable and don’t run.

[painless-innit-colourful]

(Liveblogging ‘Tommy Faces His Traumatic Past’ stream)

'Hi I am currently thinking about that moment after Tommy asked Ranboo to leave after the Prison moment went badly, and he waited for Ranboo to go and then swallowed and let the atmosphere hang for a moment and held his totem in his main hand (I’m pretty sure; he was definitely holding it) and I am telling you, the shot of fear that went through me as I thought “No... He’s not gonna ask Tubbo to kill him, is he?” Now that’d be one way to overcome a fear of dying, holy heck.'

---

Rough edges, shining eyes, a heart of gold. He supposes there's a metaphor or a comparison that could be made there, but to be quite frank, he's sick of the poetic parallels and the dramatic ironies. It's not a tale spun of rhetorical devices and an audience: it's his life, and it hurts. 

Appropriately, the skin on his palms is still tender from scrabbling at the walls of the mock cell, and he can feel every groove of the wood the totem's outside is carved from as he grips it firmly. He's doing away with the allusions and analogies and beating around the bush: there's no easy way to ask this, so why make it even harder? 

It's going to be difficult. It's going to be painful. It’s going to be helpful in future.  Just get on with it Tommy.

Ranboo vanishes up the ladder, and Tommy and Tubbo are left alone in their unused replica of the Final Control Room ('cause their dear friend Eret had a more accurate one). When he turns his eyes to his best friend, Tubbo's giving him a quizzical look. Tommy opens his mouth to begin, but fear stoppers his words, and no sound comes out. He holds fast to the totem and to his courage.

"Are you alright?" His friend's light touch to his arm leads him back. Right. Tubbo. Totem. Question. 

"It didn't work." He says despondently. "I couldn't- In there, I couldn't keep it together." "Tommy-" "Look, Tubbo," Like a paranoid exile hiding in a cave, he casts another glance towards the ladder, double-checking that they are truly alone. "And you can't tell anyone this, but I need you to trust me, because I've thought a lot about this." 

Tubbo's expression is unreadable for a moment, like his solicitude is elsewhere, like he's remembering something, and then he's back and he's squeezing Tommy's arm. "I trust you, Big Man." And Tommy can tell he's being earnest, so he pushes on. "What is it?" "We had the chance, back in that vault- We had the opportunity to slit Dream’s throat, and we didn't, and- And we agree on this right? Dream... Dream needs to go." 

Tubbo seems to think about it for a moment, "You think the revive book isn't worth it?" "Tubbo, I-" If his words could stop clogging up his throat every five seconds, that'd be lovely. "Listen to me, I've been to- to the other side, and I've been here, and I've been in between, and- and I mean this, I would've rather- rather stayed there than be in between again." "Really?" Tommy nods curtly. "Really. It's not worth it." "Well, I'm glad you came back, even if it sucked for you." Lightly, but not without a hint of worry in his voice, Tubbo half-laughs. "That sounded selfish." And Tommy feels wretched about what he's going to ask him to do. 

"Look, Tubbo," He clears his throat for good measure. "If I'm going to kill Dream, I can't get into the prison cell and panic. That- That could cost the whole operation, and I can't let that happen." "Tommy, you-" Tubbo cuts himself off this time, "Tommy, do you really have to do this?" 

"Yes, I do." His quiet determination matches Tubbo's building exasperation. "I have to do this because he's- he's ruined me, he's broken me and I can't let anything else happen to this server because of our fighting." Their faces and feelings fall to the same resignation as swords impale them against the walls of a room very much like this one, as L'Manberg burns behind their eyelids every time they blink. 

"Would you like to try again?" The reproduction of the cell, his tomb, beckons, but Tommy's mind is made up. "I can come in with you this time." A jolt of warmth emanates from his heart at the offer (he wishes it were that easy) and races through his bloodstream, momentarily soothing the aching feeling all around his body, from his head to his feet to his fingertips, and he feels practically like a person again for a few seconds. 

"Actually, I- I want you to- Only if you- I won't force you but-" He's abruptly aware of a substantial volume of saliva in his mouth, or maybe he's just too scared to say it out loud. Tubbo waits, his fingers mussing with the end of Tommy's sleeve. "What is it?" 

He raises aloft the totem so they're both looking at it, and then very carefully, so he knows he hasn't said it wrong, he says it: "I want you to kill me." 

"What?" His adrenaline spikes; no turning back now. "I want you to kill me, and because I have this totem I'll be fine. I can't be scared of dying if I have a totem on me, but I still get scared of getting close, so I want you to kill me. Please." He tacks on hastily, opting to look at the sword at Tubbo's side so he doesn't have to meet his eyes. 

"You... Where are you gonna get another totem then?" And Tommy squints at Tubbo for a second, because really, that's what you come out with after that? "I don't know, your husband?" Tubbo giggles a tad despite the concern in his eyes. "Excuse me, I'm the gold-digger here, get your own." And they both crack up, and some of the tension lifts from Tommy's shoulders. 

"Okay, seriously, you want me to kill you?" The terse air settles between them as Tubbo's hand floats to his sword. "I- Yeah." "Because then you can't be scared of being close to death." "Mmhm." "So you want me to kill you, right now, right here?" 

Tommy nods steadily, and Tubbo, still uncertain, unsheathes his sword. The blade isn't the sharpest, but it'll do the job. Tommy swallows thickly. "I- I trust you. If it were anyone else... Never." 

He thought about how, whenever he'd asked to be hit earlier, it was Tubbo who'd stepped up to the plate. Certainly, it was true at the time that he'd felt the jolt of terror and pain, but he was always glad it was Tubbo. There was an unspoken promise in their shared glances, their short requests and careful responses. 

“You know I’d never do that, right?” An echo of an old memory, from a less-than-ideal location. “I won’t turn on you or go insane like Wil and Techno.” “Mmhm… And I you.”

"Ready?" Tommy waves the totem around to illustrate, "This better not be a bloody decoy." Their shared smile is forced and wavering, flickering like a candle, shaking like fraying ropes, reaching for a hand that isn't there. The hand is on his shoulder, Tommy notes faintly: it steadies him as the sword pierces his gut, snatching all the air from his lungs. He's drowning in a sudden wave of 'Why here? Why the hell did we stay here?' as a familiar numbing sensation starts to wash over him like the tide, receding in parts and then coming back for more. The darkness entices him - the very same darkness he's been fighting to outrun all along, the same darkness that engulfs him and all his friends in his nightmares. Once, many moons ago, they were all blissfully ignorant of that shadow that stayed firmly three steps behind them and six feet below. Except now, at least for Tommy, death is a memory, and with a totem in hand, he rises to meet it. 

Tubbo rips the sword out, and the body of his best friend crumples to the ground like paper disregarded and consigned to oblivion. His weapon hits the ground with a clatter and his sword arm falls limp, reluctant to acknowledge Tommy's blood on the blade as he watches, hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as the totem in Tommy's hand starts to glow, golden light emanating from the emerald eyes and intricate details. About time. About bloody time. 

It's pitch black, and the totem is gone. Tommy feels weightless. Tommy feels like a person made of pieces, loosely strung together like a marionette doll. Tommy feels helpless and alone, and quite possibly dead. 

Make no mistake; there's also that perverted sense of comfort, ever-present as it seems. A welcome gift, he supposes, to what should be the rest of your eternity. He feels all his 'worldly worries' start to scatter, leaving him feeling so empty he's clawing at nothing to get them back. No worries, no troubles and no meaning. That is the lot of the dead. Yet, Tommy will not be one of them, not today. 

Everything returns to him so quickly, it almost feels like he's having aspects of his personality thrown back at him with the force of bricks launched from cannons. Should he reach out to grab them, or should he let them go? The darkness begins to melt away, leading him back to a room full of chests and a friend, and for a second he imagines he hears a familiar voice tease: "You should take off your coat Tommy, you look like you're not staying." 

The instant his soul is catapulted back into his body, instincts kick in, and his wobbling legs somehow get him halfway across the room before they get too tangled up and surrender. He doesn't bother cowering - it's Tubbo - instead, he chooses to pull his shirt up to his ribs. The entry site of the stabbing has healed, golden radiance under his skin like godly blood swirling away from the closed wound and leaving it the proper crimson hue of mortals. It worked. He's back. He's back. 

Suddenly, he's hit with a force equitable to several small dogs and, oh, it's Tubbo. His arms rest wearily against his best friend's back as the smaller boy buries his head in Tommy's shoulder, folding him into his arms and cradling him tightly. "I- I'm ok- Are you crying?" His response from the shuddering mass of brown curls next to his head comes quietly, "Don't ever make me do that again." "...Okay. I won't." 

Eventually, they break apart, Tommy noticing the red rims around Tubbo's eyes as he messes with Tommy's shirt. "Ah, dammit." "What?" He gives a tiny snort-laugh marked with tears. "I've put a hole in your d*mn shirt." He looks down at it too. "That's alright, long as you fix it." Consequently, Tubbo gives him a funny look, which he raises his eyes to meet with bemusement. "Yeah, right. I'll fix it, it's nothing." 

Tubbo holds his eye contact for close to ten seconds. "You have..." He shifts across the floor to the left, putting one of the lights at his back, before reaching out and taking Tommy's face in his hands. "You have little flecks of gold in your eyes, dude." "I- What?" Tubbo drops his hands and nods. "You've got gold in your eyes now, boss man." "Does it-" He jumps to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, and strikes a pose. "Does it make me even more incredibly good-looking?" 

Tubbo snorts. "Something like that. It's not bad, just... After-product of the totem, I'd guess. Which is interesting to know." He gets to his feet too, hand finding Tommy's side and holding on by a fistful of cloth. "Hey, how about, are you alright?" Tommy asked, picking the hand up and slinging it over his shoulder so they stood hip-to-hip, heads tilted up and down for each other’s benefit.

"I'm fine, just... That wasn't the most fun." Tommy ponders for a moment before responding. "I think I'd be concerned if it was." They chuckle a little. "No, but seriously man, thank you, for doing that." He says sincerely. Tubbo smiles back, all of a sudden seeming too tired to even stand, and Tommy stoops a little to catch him before he faints or something. "Just... did it work?" 

Did it work? The darkness still terrified him, ripping the warmth from within him, and he wasn't totally expecting to go back there when using the totem. So, points for new knowledge discovered, perhaps? Despite all that, though, the look in Tubbo's eyes makes his mouth move on its own. He looks so weary. 

"Yeah. I feel... less afraid now. Honestly." He tacks on, for the dubious non-believer by his side that could always tell when he was lying. "I... I can do this now." "...Okay."

[whump-a-la-mode]

Can you do a part 3 of The Trophy Room? 🥺

Of course! La voila! I’m really glad you’re enjoying.

Continued from here.

CW//Mentions of death, mentions of sickness, battering rams, nausea

Hero was dying. They were more than certain of that.

Consciousness meant nothing at all, nor did its opposite. They were floating, somewhere in the exact middle of the two. A horrible limbo. Their body was nowhere at all, and, yet, every cell, every neuron, every fiber of every muscle was awake, even as they did not exist in any capacity at all. 

They were awake, and they were sick. Everything felt so awfully, agonizingly sick. Could ears feel nausea? Could arms be dizzy? Could legs become congested? They weren’t certain, but they knew what they felt.

And their eyes...

Their eyes were not sick, even as something burned behind them, deep within their sockets. No, they knew where their eyes were, even in all the chaos, all the mess, all the sickness. There was something beyond them, beyond their lids, something...

Hero was dying, and they were awake. In an instant, their eyes, unburdened by illness, shot open.

The light attacked them, all at once. Shimmering lights of a glaring, white hue stared down upon them, threatening, insisting that they veil their eyes once more beneath their lids. Yet, they could not. No, they wee awake, now, and everything was shifting back to place. Back to where it should have been. Nauseated ears upon their head, dizzied arms sprouting from shoulders, congested legs beneath their pelvis.

Hero...

Where were they?!

In an instant, they jolted up. That time, at the very least, the nausea was in the right place-- jabbing at their stomach with an agonizing quickness. Had their throat not been so terribly numb, perhaps they would have felt as bile arise in it.

Their ears awoke, then. Their terribly sickened ears.

They could hear, again, and the first thing they heard was footsteps. Another flush of bile rose as they turned their blurry vision, looking up, taking in the world around now that they had the senses to do it with.

The hospital room. Their brain awoke, too, in that moment, they remembered. The spying mission gone awry, their return to HQ, the hospital room, Villain-

That was the soft thing beneath them. A hospital bed. And the footsteps...

From what they could tell, the room was the same as they had left it. Same white walls, same sterile same, same complete and utter lack of any useful medical equipment. And same Villain.

Those were the footsteps.

There were only two things different about the room. For one thing, the door was closed-- if the shivering, nervous doctors were anywhere close by, they certainly couldn’t be seen. For the other, Villain was no longer laying unconscious in a hospital bed. No, they were upon their feet.

Back, and forth. Back, and forth. It was with this rhythm that they paced. Back and forth and back again. Pacing in front of the door.

When they looked back at Hero, their movements did not stop-- though, for a single beat, the hero’s heart most certainly did.

Villain looked alive. They had been alive before, most certainly, but... Everyone knew Villain. Everyone knew the defeated villain, existing in their cylinder, attended to by doctors in hazmat suits who never once released them from their iron shackles. They were alive, yes. But they never moved, not really, and their skin was so pale...

That wasn’t to say that that paleness had retreated, nor had the angry red marks around their neck-- where their iron collar had hung for... hell, a year? Maybe more? But, now, there was something more concrete to their wakefulness. Their eyes were open, and there was something behind them. Determination.

“You’re awake.” Hero had almost forgotten that the imprisoned villain had a voice. It was accented, of course, by their footsteps. They seemed to act as though, if they ever ceased pacing, even for just a moment, their very heart would stop to beat.

“I-” They’d nearly forgotten how to speak in their own right. “I am.”

“How are you feeling?”

It was a surprising question, and one that sent Hero retreating back within their body. Focus turned to their own limbs, their torso, their head... Everything was sick, every inch of it. There was no pain, not an ounce of pain, but illness permeated everything that it could touch. Nausea and bile. Their blood was gone, they were certain, replaced in its entirety by bile.

“Sick.” That was all they could say. “Sick.”

“Well, you’re dying, so I can’t say I’m surprised.” Their glare returned to the closed door. What was possibly beyond it? Ever so softly, they could make out the edges of voices from behind the panel of steel, but their words were lost on them.

“I’m dying.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

Villain replied to that with a grunt. For the merest instant, they ceased their pacing, approaching the door just enough to press their ear flush with its metal. Whatever was on the other side was abrasive enough to make them jerk their head away an instant later.

“Your people are pissed.” They muttered, before turning their back to the entrance that they had before been so relentlessly guarding. Upon tense limbs, they moved to Hero’s side.

For an instant, they flinched, images jolting to their mind. Warnings. The doctor’s faces--questions of “Are you sure you want to go in there? Even without a hazmat suit?” Villain was dangerous, everyone knew that. That was why they were put on display-- if anything happened, the world would know in less than an instant.

Then, more images. Visions of the unconscious villain on this very hospital bed, their sickened body barely strong enough to accept healing. To accept the green. They had been so, so close to death, and now...

Their hand touched Hero upon the neck, a single, soft index finger. The slightest of pains, and the sickness cleared. Every inch of bile, giving up its nauseated fight.

“You-” The hero jolted away. This villain could kill with a touch, could destroy their body from the inside out.

“Stop.” The warning was swift, sharp, and clear. “Don’t move.”

“Don’t hurt me!” They hated how it came out as a whimper, a disparate cry.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, you dolt. I’d have done it already. Now, hold still.”

That soft, frigid finger returned. The spiraling pieces of illness, where it had crept into the edges of their muscles, the fibers of their bones, were slowly, agonizingly destroyed. All with a touch.

“What are you doing?” Hero strained.

“Saving your life.”

“I thought you killed. Necrosis.”

“I do.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“This poison.” Villain sighed sharply. “Is as alive as you are.”

“It’s- It’s what? How do you know that?”

“Hibou has been working on this stuff for a long time.” They muttered. “It’s not a neurotoxin, or whatever in the world she says it is. It’s a disease. An infection. And it’s alive. I’m killing it.”

“Then- Seriously, what is going on?!”

The villain gritted their teeth together. It was incredible, the defiance left in them after a year in a cage.

“You give me an answer, and I’ll give you one.”

“Fine, what do you want?”

“Hibou.” There was a certain... tenderness to the way they spoke. All at once, Hero could not help but remember the way that the owl-themed villain had spoken, what felt like ages ago. Called Villain their kid. Their child, stolen away and placed on display. “How is she? And the others?”

“They’re...” Hero bit their lip. “They’re okay. I saw them, yesterday. It’s still the same day?”

“You’ve been out for two hours.”

“Only two?” It felt like so much longer. “I saw them today, then. They’re okay. They really miss you. Hibou... She said she wants me dead. As revenge.”

“Good. I miss them too.” It was so fast, so much emotion shoved into five, snappy words. “What did you want to know?”

“What’s going on?”

“The poison reached your brain. You passed out.” The villain shrugged. “Oh, and I locked us in the room and now your people want in.”

“They’ve been out there for-”

“Two hours? Just about. But some idiot decided that the doors should only lock from the inside. And it was probably the same idiot who made the door out of steel.”

“So-”

“They can’t get in. They don’t get it.”

“Get what?! You’re confusing me.”

“If they get in here and take me away, you’re as good as dead. At the very least, I can keep you alive.”

The sound that lit the room in that instant was more than certainly the loudest that Hero had ever heard. A crash, a crunch, and a dent, carved into the door of steel.

“And it looks like they’ve brought the battering ram.” Villain glowered.

[yeojaa]

( SWEET MAGNOLIAS. )

He was your unlikely muse;  you were the weird girl in the park.  Could you make it any more obvious?

pairing.  myg x named f!reader.  s2l.

genre + rating.   college!au.  fluff, angst, smut.  explicit. 

tags / warnings.  light cussing, yoongi being rightfully weirded out, a whole lotta softness, sadness if you squint at the right times, body painting, and then, of course, the most tender, dumbest lovemaking (unprotected but don’t be silly like them!).  there’s also a really bad callback to the titanic.  i’m not sorry.  lol.

wc.  8.2k

You try not to stare for too long, sweeping your gaze in wide circles so as to be as inconspicuous as possible.  You try not to let your eyes linger, follow the contours of his cheeks - soft, pronounced when he smiles - or the shape of his mouth - delicate, petal pink.  You try not to make it weird - but it’s decidedly, very weird.

You just can’t help yourself.

He’s always here around this time, laid out on a worn red blanket.  Sometimes, he reads.  Books like The Alchemist and the Stranger and once, Dante’s Inferno.  Other times, he pops a pair of headphones on - oversized, intimidatingly large over his ears - and closes his eyes.  Most rare of all, is when he’s not alone, joined at the hip by at least one other boy and on occasion, an entire group of six.  

They’re all interesting in their own ways.  

There’s one with shoulders the size of boulders, a mountain range situated beneath his shirts.  He has a weird laugh that sounds like windshield wipers and your mother’s spring cleaning routine.  He yells a lot and even across the lawn, you can sometimes make out his voice.

There’s the tallest one, with kind eyes and dimples so deep you question if there’s treasure buried in them.  He reads a lot, too.  You’ve seen him in the library more times than you can count, always dutifully tucked away in a back corner surrounded by scattered looseleaf.  Despite the course load he seems to have taken on, you’ve never seen him lose his cool.  You have seen him lose his phone, though, and pencils and textbooks and AirPods. 

There’s Hoseok, whose name you only know because he held your hair once at a fall sorority party.  You hadn’t been drinking but somehow, somehow, your roommate had convinced you to apple bob with her.  He’d been gracious enough to help you out, fisting your hair in a gentle grip.  It’s what spurred you to now always have an elastic on your wrist.

There’s the dancer.  He’s slight and even in stillness, far more graceful than you’ll ever be.  He’s got pillowy lips and hair that gleams like silk.  You’ve sketched him too, once or twice, but never more.  It just didn’t feel right - as if you’d never be able to translate that sort of beauty onto paper.  

There’s the one from your Art 340 Drawing II class.  You’ve wondered, on more than one occasion, how come he isn’t the model.  He’s got perfect proportions - defined jaw, strong nose, cheekbones carved from marble.  It’s almost off-putting seeing him in person;  it feels far more fitting for him to be displayed in a museum, with a plaque that reads Perfection, Mixed Media.

There’s the youngest one, Jungkook.  They call him maknae despite the fact that he dwarfs nearly all of them.  Maybe it’s just the clothes he wears:  boots that look like they’d break your neck and everything in slightly darker shades of black.  You run into him at least four times a week - trading greetings at the campus coffee shop and at the library.  You’re practically best pals by college standards. 

And then, of course, there’s him.  Your muse.  The one you can’t help but stare at - even when you’re trying your hardest not to.  The one who wears glasses though you’re almost certain he doesn’t need them.  The one whose smile is more gums than teeth, who looks unassuming and yet often breaks out into the strangest, most inspired dance moves you’ve ever seen.  The one who plays recreational basketball on Tuesday nights and who drinks more coffee than you think should be humanly possible. 

Min Yoongi.  

You sketch him like you’ll never see him again, dragging charcoal strokes across paper until your hand is muddied and the curve of his ear is looking worse for wear.  You repeat lines over and over, turning the mop of his hair into ringlets and waves, weaving dimension through the india ink that spills over his eyes.  You sometimes add his glasses;  you’re quite fond of the look on him.

You paint him sometimes, too, imagining how he’d look with periwinkle blue hair, or maybe dressed in shades of maroon.  You swath him in textured fabrics and lovely watercolours, turning him into a fantasy that’ll never see the light of day.  Pretty little daydreams with him fixed at the centre.

You fill your pages with his figure, the way he smiles when Hoseok does something silly or how he joins in when Jungkook laughs.  You study every bit and piece, learning him in every admiring way you can - despite the fact that you don’t really know him at all. 

It’s a staggering lesson in futility but one you take almost daily, armed with pencil and paper and not a single ounce of common sense. 

That is, until you’ve done the stupidest thing imaginable.  

No, not getting caught.  Not in the traditional sense, at least.  He hasn’t realised you sit on your bench - yes, your bench, with the sticky metal arm rest and illegible initials scratched into the back - and watch him almost every day.  You thank your lucky stars for that.

What you’ve done is much worse - punishable by death by embarrassment. 

You have no fucking clue where your sketchbook is. 

You could’ve sworn you had it in your bag when you’d returned to your room last night.  You can’t imagine you would’ve left it anywhere in the open, orphaning it on a campus full of idiots.  You were always so careful.  You don’t just lose things.

“I think it’s gone, girl.”�� You’ve never wanted to yell at your roommate more - not even when you’d caught her and her boyfriend banging in your bed after you’d come home early on the long weekend or when she’d eaten all of your Cherry Garcia ice cream.  The desire bubbles about in your chest, fizzing angrily like an agitated soda bottle.  

“It’s here somewhere.”  The words grit between your teeth, insistent as can be.

“You’ve been looking for like, twenty minutes.”  

“It’s here.”

“I really don’t think it is…”  Jisoo doesn’t quite deserve how you explode, rounding on her with hands flying and eyes wild.  “You’re also going to be late for your class.”

Your words falter with the verbalisation of hers. 

Lucky for her;  unlucky for you. 

The hands of the clock above your desk wave at you mockingly.  You are, indeed, going to be late for your class.

“Shit!  Shit!”  Everything you’d torn out gets shoved back into your tote bag.  Band-Aids, mints, too many wayward pencils and pens.  You almost forget your phone, attention only drawn to it when Jisoo catches the strap of your backpack and yanks you back.  

“Don’t forget,”  she hums, far more kindly than your harebrained self deserves.

You forget all the reasons you’re upset with her.  “Thanks, Ji.”  You force a kiss on her cheek before you’re darting out of your room and sprinting across campus to Art 340.

“Nice of you to join us, Miru.”  It’s your professor greeting you as you run in fifteen minutes late, weaving through other students to find your seat near the far wall.  Laughter follows you, coiling around your ankles and over your shoulders as you settle into your seat, fully hidden behind the oversized easel.  

You can’t help the scarlet that paints your cheeks, creeping high across your temples.  You know no one cares - that Professor Kinsella is probably the most laidback professor you’ve had in your four semesters - but it can’t be stopped.  You’re already flustered from temporarily misplacing your sketchbook that everything else just feels like shit icing on your garbage cake.

“Sorry!”  It squeaks out - a mouse, eaten up wholly by cat-ate-the-canary laughter that sounds over your shoulder and not very quietly.

“Having a bad day?”

You’ve heard the voice a handful of times so it shouldn’t shock you the way it does, nearly knocking the graphite from your hand.  

“What?”

Kim Taehyung’s on the edge of his chair, one long leg stretched toward you, the other balanced across his knee.  You’re not sure how that’s meant to be comfortable but he makes it look effortless.  Then again, looking like him, living probably was effortlessly.  You can’t deny you’re a little envious. 

“Your face is all red.  You’re out of breath.  Feels like a bad day to me.”

You try not to dwell on the fact that, apparently, you look like an absolute mess.  “No, I’m good.”  It sounds fake even to your ears, tinny and wrought with anxiety.  

“You sure?”  He’s not really paying attention to you as he speaks, tracing the contours of the model across his canvas.  He begins where you’d never think to, framing the main masses with a languid twist of his wrist.  Unlike you, he doesn’t get caught up in the detail;  he sees the bigger picture for all it is, building from the outside in.   

You’re watching him for longer than you realise, whipping back around once it dawns on you.  “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“Who knows.”  There’s a playfulness in his tone that sets you on edge.  You’ve never heard it before, all rounded vowels and molasses laughter.  You mean to work as you listen, waiting for some indication of whatever lies just beneath the surface.

It’s a mistake.  Your stick of charcoal snaps in half when he continues, low and slow as if he’s dragging it out.

“—maybe you lost a sketchbook?” 

“Did you say…”  You can’t finish the sentence.  You feel like you’re about to be sick.  

The amount of mischief in his expression should be illegal.  It’s dancing in his eyes, curling wide and unabashed over his lips.  It’s practically radiating off of him.

“So, bad day?”  

He waits for you to pack up, hands tucked into the endless pockets of his black slacks.  At any other time, in any other universe, you’d be giddy.  Girls on campus would kill for even a second of Taehyung’s attention.  

(It’s true - you’d heard a group of them talking about it one time.)  

Here and now, you want to sink six feet under.

“They’re really good, you know.”  As if the compliment will dull the mortification that threatens to cleave you in half.  “You’re really good at capturing his boredom.  That’s not easy.”

“Thanks.”  You should make conversation;  it’s the polite thing to do.  

After all, he was kind enough to find and return your sketchbook.  Better him than someone else, right?  Better him than Yoongi himself?  That’s what you tell yourself, at least.  

Yoongi doesn’t know and therefore, it’s okay.  Semi okay.  Distantly related to the idea of okay.

As if he can read your mind, Taehyung speaks gently, with a hand that burns through the linen of your blouse.  You know he means well but it sears white hot, eviscerating your nerve endings.  “You have nothing to worry about.  I didn’t tell him.”

You don’t answer him.  There’s nothing to say - not really.  You’re far too lost in your own thoughts to acknowledge the effort he’s making.  Maybe this was life’s way of telling you to back off - to find another person to paint.  

Or maybe it’s brought you two together, says the silly, naive angel on your shoulder.

You’re ready to flick her off - launch her like some kind of poor Tinkerbell - when your name catches your attention.  It’s announced so dramatically that you double take, making sure you haven’t completely run through a picnic or accidentally slammed into someone. 

“This is Miru.” 

Cognisance comes slow and unhurried, even as your stare swivels wildly in search of context clues. 

Laid out before you, right under that familiar magnolia tree, is one blanket, three bodies, and enough takeout to last you an entire week.  

“Ohf, phey!”  With cheeks stuffed full, it’s hard to make out the two syllables.  They crowd against each other, offered in a garbled mess that has you regarding Jungkook with a mixture of concern and confusion.  He’s swallowing thickly before he rises far too quickly;  you watch a forgotten piece of kimbap go flying, lost to the dirt and bugs.  “Sorry.  Hi.”  

“Do you want to join us?”  It’s the angelic one, fitted with cherubic cheeks and a rounded Cupid’s bow.  “I’m Jimin, by the way.”  He pats the empty space beside him, eyes waning into crescents with the force of his friendliness.

Taehyung had asked if you wanted to grab dinner but you’d never imagined he meant this. 

You’ve never been subtle but you try your damnedest to peek at him from your periphery.  Unfortunately for you, he’s already sat down, fully made himself comfortable beside the last member of the group.

The one who, for all intents and purposes, appears as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.  If looks could kill, you think.  

“Don’t worry about him,”  Jimin says, so sweetly, with a small bento lid held towards you.  It’s already stacked with goodies - a selection of banchan and homemade-looking meatballs sitting alongside a poorly-shaped mound of rice.  “Sometimes, he gets like this.”  

You want to believe it.  Really, you do, but by the way Yoongi’s mouth curls in distaste, all signs point to it being a matter of you rather than a mood.

“Maybe if she respected peoples’ privacy, I wouldn’t have an issue.”

It’s a single sentence quietly spoken and yet it feels like an open-palm slap to the face.  Heat radiates over every visible inch, starkly coloured in contrast to the white of your top.  It burns as it licks over your cheeks and past your temples, tipping your ears. 

“I’m so sorry.”  It isn’t clear who you’re apologizing to, the words tumbling wet off your tongue like a waterfall.  

You’re gone before anyone can ask.

“That was a dick move.”  Jungkook is the first to break the silence, levelling his friend with a disapproving stare.  He’s not used to this side of him - the one that can tear a person apart with just a few words.  It’s not the Yoongi he knows.  It’s not really Yoongi at all.

“Yeah, hyung.”  It’s thinner, but just as reproachful.  “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

Yoongi’s laugh is dismissive but he won’t meet anyone’s stare - a tell-tale sign that he’s just a little affected by their words - choosing instead to shovel bites of soondae into his mouth.  “Mean what?  Invading my privacy?”

“She’s an artist.”  Taehyung doesn’t mean it as an excuse but by how Yoongi bristles, he’s certain the senior takes it as such.  Before the argument can begin, he continues, all while wrapping a piece of samgyupsal in lettuce.  “I doubt she meant any harm, so just cut her some slack.”  Fringe is flicked away from his eyes, something sparkling in the pretty brown of his irises.  “I’d actually be flattered, if I were you.”

“Then you be her model.”

You haven’t drawn in four days.  Well, not really.  

You’ve completed what you need for classes, filling your books with mandatory figures and notes on colour theory.  You’ve diligently mapped out proportions and brought to life sunsets and sceneries.  You’ve done everything you should be doing but nothing that you want to be.

It just doesn’t feel right.  Not anymore.

“I hear he’s a really nice guy.”  You can’t count how many times Jisoo has tried to cheer you up.  From picking up your favourite ice cream (the one she tends to devour anyway) to ordering in fried chicken, she’s been the picture perfect roommate.  It only makes you feel that much worse.

You were moping over something that was your fault.  And she had to pick up the pieces!  It seemed wildly unfair but when you’d told her to stop - insisted upon it with a wail into your pillow - she’d simply shook her head and wrapped you in her arms.  

For all of your stupid, silly little rows, Kang Jisoo was the best roommate you’d had in your entire university career.

“Just go outside.”  She’s perched on the edge of her bed, painting her toes a brilliant shade of neon green.  She’d offered to do yours too, but you’ve more or less refused to leave the comfort of your burrito blanket for anything beyond classes or food.  “You can’t avoid him forever.”  

“I can try,”  you mumble, words lost to the cotton of your sheets.  

Try - and fail, it seemed.  You’d already run into him twice.  Twice!  Even after you’d started taking absurdly long roundabout routes to your classes, the universe had conspired against you.  

The first time he’d been walking out of the gym, shoulder to shoulder with another upperclassmen you didn’t recognize.  You’d seen him coming from a mile away thanks to his obnoxiously bright Lakers jersey and you’d booked it back the way you’d come, nearly mowing down a couple making kissy faces at each other in front of the lecture hall.  

The second time was yesterday afternoon.  You’d thought he’d be in his usual spot - so close to your usual spot - that you’d gone to the coffee shop for a midday pick-me-up.  Even embarrassed, you weren’t about to suffer a caffeine deficiency.  You’d rounded the corner in the same instance he had and you’d sworn he’d seen you, recognition flickering across his face.  Fortunately, there’d been a door directly to your right and you’d all but thrown yourself inside.

It was the first and hopefully last time you’d be in a men’s washroom.

“I thought you were tougher than this,”  Jisoo hums, equal parts disapproval and kindness.  She levels you with a stare - you can feel it burning into your fortress of blankets - and sighs.  It’s a bit dramatic, you think.  

“Tell me you wouldn’t be doing the exact same thing!”

Then again, she’d probably never be stupid enough to lose something so important nor would she fixate so heavily on one person.  Your point still stands.

“Seriously, girl.”  

Her nail polish bottle bounces off your bed, tumbling to the floor with a quiet thump.  You look up in time to see her staring at you imploringly, so wide-eyed and innocent you can’t help but be a little suspicious.  “What?”

“I wanted to have Andy over.” 

It all falls into place then.  Her boyfriend’s in a frat and your (poor) dorm room is the only place they have any sort of privacy.  It makes you want to gag but you can’t blame her.  You’ve always had an unspoken agreement;  you’d just tossed it out the window the past few days. 

Guilt prompts you to extract yourself from your duvet, though you don’t stop the chorus of gross, gross, gross! as you begin gathering your things.  You almost leave your sketchbook, only opting to tuck it under your arm at the last minute.  

“Please, please, don’t use my bed this time.”

“We love you!”  She sing-songs as you tug your sneakers on and slip into the hallway.

You’re at a different bench across campus when you hear the voice.  It comes from behind you and to your left, accusatory and sharp.  You nearly jump out of your own skin, toppling over your water bottle and plastic paint palette. Orange watercolour soaks into the material on your thigh.  Dammit. 

“Are you following me?”

Min Yoongi stands not three feet from you, arms folded over his chest.  

Your heart stutters at the sight of him.  It’s hard to speak when it feels like it’s leapt into your throat.  

“What?”  You hate how you sound - a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.  You have nothing to be ashamed of.  At least, not right now.  You’d come all the way here, as far from the magnolia tree and red blanket as you could.  

“I said—”  His words are glacial and biting.  It’s suddenly winter, far chillier than spring should be.  You wish you’d brought a sweater or maybe, that the ground would open up and swallow you whole.  You can’t be cold when you’re dead.  “—are you following me?”

“Of course not!”  

There’s nothing but disbelief in his expression.  It paints itself in broad strokes, prominent in the shadows beneath his eyes and the curl of his mouth.  He says nothing.  

“Really.  I’m not.”  You’re insistent, apologetic.  Every nerve ending is shot, going haywire beneath your skin and lighting you up in shades of red.  The tips of your fingers are tingling.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”  You wonder if he’s baiting you now.  

“For…”   Words are cherry-picked and perfect, chosen with a shaking head and the utmost care.  “I shouldn’t have drawn you without asking.”

“No shit,”  he returns, completely deadpan.  He’s really not making this any easier.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,”  you continue, a little hopeful and a lot bashful.  “I just— I don’t get inspiration like this that often.  So I couldn’t let it go.”  You don’t need to add what you do, but you do so anyway, because you’ve never been great at making good choices.  “Your face is really unique and when you’re happy, it’s just so expressive and your smile is—”

There’s a siren blaring in your ears.  A red alert going off so loudly you almost miss the way he laughs.

It’s not the same one he offers to his best friends - far more reserved, exceedingly softer - but it’s there and it’s real and you don’t think you’ll ever forget this moment. 

“You’re laughing.”

He stops immediately.  Fair.

“I’m sorry.”  Again.  More.  Draped in apology and optimism that peeks out between your teeth and shines in the dark of your stare.  “Even though I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I did, and for that I’m sorry.  Really, really sorry.  Please don’t hate me.”

It’s hard to read him, even after you’ve spent hours studying his face.  There’s a distinct difference between seeing someone and knowing them, you realize.  You might be able to map out every wrinkle of his eyes - replicate every dot and freckle - but you have no idea what it all means or how it comes together to create something more. 

Silence fits between the two of you for what feels like a long time.  It’s not uncomfortable, though, so you allow it to settle.  You figure it’s better than his anger, in any case.  

“You could’ve just asked me.”

You can’t wipe the disbelief from your face.  “Would you have said yes?”

Yoongi shrugs, a small roll of his shoulders beneath the oversized sweater that dwarfs his frame.  “Don’t know, but I would’ve appreciated it.”  

Because that’s really what it came down to - the thought, not the action.  He’s not entirely sure you understand that yet but he’s willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.  Blame his softening on the steady repetitions Taehyung and Jungkook have made the past few days.  You were lucky to have them in your corner - even if that meant they’d been a thorn in his side.   

“Then… can I sketch you?”  You’re probably (read: definitely) pushing it.  You can’t help it. 

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or scoff at your audacity.  He decides on the former, with a shake of his head that swings his bangs across his forehead and a small, private smile.  “Maybe next time.” 

“Next time?”  You imagine he can’t hear you as he’s backing away and disappearing the way he came.

“See you tomorrow.”

True to his word, Yoongi lets you draw him the next time you see him (and the next time and the time after that). 

It’s different - working off someone who knows they’re being studied.  He holds himself a little more stiffly, a little more carefully.  His laughter isn’t quite as loud, his smiles more forced.  He apologises, even though he doesn’t need to.  

Even his untrained eye can see how you struggle to bring life to a robot. 

Over time, though, it comes - comfort. 

Like the quietly burning coals that melt him down from the inside out, he begins to warm up to you.  It comes slowly but it comes nonetheless, as steady as the sun.  You appreciate his effort - his patience - more than you can ever say.  

You know he gets it, though.  He always does.  It’s a Yoongi thing. 

“You can relax.” 

It’s just the two of you, swathed in sweat and waning light that casts shadows across his cheeks.  The days are longer than they’ve ever been and the both of you tend to lose track of time, spending hours under that magnolia tree. 

“I am relaxed,”  he returns, sinking further onto his back, elbows hardly acting to prop him up.  He’d been engrossed in a novel for the first half of the afternoon.  Another book you’d never bothered to read outside of high school English class.  You never really understood it - you much preferred to watch than read - but you loved when he’d recite the words to you, clear and bright and better than any melody.

“You’re trying to stay awake.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No.  You’re just as good of a model when you’re sleeping.” 

The smile is lazy, hazy like Sunday morning.  It reveals his gums and ticks higher on the left side.  It makes your heart skip a beat.  

“Go ahead then,”  he continues.  The entirety of his body sags, drops onto the bag he likes to use as a makeshift pillow.  You don’t imagine it’s all that comfortable but he never complains.

“If you’re tired, we can just head in, you know.”  

You always offer.  He never says yes. 

A part of you thinks he likes the attention.  It’s different from what he receives from anyone else - thoughtful and careful.  You think he might like the quiet, too.  The benefit of quality time without any of the effort.  

So you push on, charcoal edge meeting paper once more.   “Just another twenty minutes.”

“Why me?”  

The enquiry comes one day, completely out of the blue.  It skips your heart and breaks the pastel in your fingers, dust chalking them a lovely shade of lilac.  

“What?”  You’re not ready for how close Yoongi is - much closer than he ever is - and you shift back, away from the face you’ve spent months filling your sketchbooks with.  “Why you what?”

He’s completely nonchalant as he moves even closer.  

You can smell his cologne - a distinctly masculine fragrance that’s musk and cedar - and the coffee he’s been nursing for the last hour.  It fills your senses, recentring all of your focus so intensely that you don’t immediately recognise he’s continued speaking.

“Why’d you choose to draw me?  Why not someone else?”  He seems genuinely curious, even though it feels dangerous - a dangling string that’s meant to unravel you.

The answer doesn’t come easily, despite the fact it’s something you’ve asked yourself.

Why him?  Why Min Yoongi?

“I don’t know,”  you answer, perhaps too honestly.  “I saw you and it sort of… just clicked.”  How it sounds doesn’t escape you - like something plucked out of a bad romance novel.  “I didn’t expect it to be you.  I thought I’d draw you once - okay, twice - and then I’d move onto another subject.  But I just… couldn’t?”  

“So, what you’re telling me is it was love at first sight?”  It’s glaringly obvious he’s teasing you.  He’s got that grin of his, sly and feline as it creeps across his mouth.  

You don’t bristle, instead painted bright red like the sunset that streaks across the sky.

“I— I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, you didn’t say otherwise.”

It’s an uncomfortable line of questioning.  You’re not used to it and certainly not from him.  You hesitate to speak, turning words over and over on your tongue in an effort to make yourself clear.  

You’re not weird.  You don’t want this to be weird.  But you can’t deny - it’s, decidedly, still very weird.

He tries again - a different tactic this time.  One that surprises you, despite the unique friendship you’ve forged over the past few months.  “What if I told you I was glad?” 

“Glad?”  It feels like an echo chamber.  Repetition.  As if you’re going in circles, chasing a tail that remains just out of reach.  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“What if I told you I’m happy we met?”  

Your blink is owlish, fully caught off-guard.  “I’d say the same thing.  I’m happy we’re friends.”

Amusement rolls off him in waves, evidenced by the laugh that curls into the afternoon.  He shimmies closer and closer until there’s barely three inches between you.  His knee knocks against yours, bony and denim-clad.  You try to ignore the way it burns through your own jeans, sparking heat all the way up to the tips of your ears and down into the soles of your feet.

“What if I told you I don’t want to be just friends anymore?”  

It’s not a surprise, really.  It’s something that’s been on your mind the past few weeks, sown by offhand comments and little gestures you haven’t been able to ignore.  Jungkook had even practically shouted it at you just the other night.

“I’d say…”  You trail off, lost somewhere among the constellations in his eyes.

“You’d say?”  The words are parroted back at you, threaded together by gossamer thin hope. 

“I’d say you’re welcome.  For choosing you.”  The confidence isn’t your own.  It comes from him, crafted by the support he offers easily, hands out like keys.  Keys to his heart, you realise belatedly, with a sudden bashfulness.  Of course.

He can’t wipe the smile from his face.  It eats up every inch, dominating even the playfulness that shines through, turning it the prettiest shade.  It stands bright against his cheeks, staining the pale apples red.  “That’s it?”  

“What do you want me to say?”

You’re suddenly very determined - because you want to give this to him.  Just as he’s given you everything you wanted, you want to do the same.  In this little cut-out piece of paradise, there’s nothing quite as important. 

The one word isn’t much but it feels like a turning point.  “Yes.”

“You want me to say ‘yes’?”

He nods, just once.  There’s so much certainty you can’t doubt him.

“Then yes—”  

It doesn’t matter what you’ve just said yes to.  It doesn’t even matter that it could be something awful or really, anything under the sun.  All that matters is the feeling of his lips, soft and warm and dry on yours.  It’s better than any painting you’ve ever seen, any song you’ve ever heard.  It fills you wholly, stuttering your heart and bubbling giddiness in the pit of your stomach.

You probably sound a little silly, surprisingly breathless from such a little thing.  “Wow.”

“Good things happen when you ask,”  he states, solemnly.  You’d take him more seriously if he weren’t so dopey, grinning at you like he never has before.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Nope.”

Luckily, you don’t mind.  Not if it gets you another kiss.  

You tell him as much and he happily obliges, stealing your breath and replacing it with sugar-coated stardust.  You ponder whether you might be able to create with those same particles, turning them into colourful streaks to paint his cheeks.  You’d like to find out.  

You want a lot of things with Min Yoongi, you decide. 

You don’t know how you ended up here.  

Actually, that’s a lie.  You do.  All because of a dumb joke, uttered in passing by Taehyung and now ingrained so deeply in your psyche that you haven’t gone a single day without thinking about it.

“Get out of there,”  he whispers right against your temple, lips following to soothe whatever’s got you preoccupied.  

“Where?”

“Right there, idiot.”  Fingers tap twice, a quick one-two against the side of your head.  

You can’t help but grimace, a wrinkling of your nose that your boyfriend chuckles at, pressing kisses across the bridge and over your cheeks.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry - just come back to me.”  To this moment, he means.

This strange little scene, with his fingers dressed in non-toxic paint and you stripped down to nothing but a flimsy cotton bra and thong.  

Have him paint you like one of his French girls, Taehyung had said.  It’ll be fun, he’d said.

You think it might be - if you weren’t bouncing with nerves, all five feet three inches of you fizzling with anticipation.  Yoongi was only painting you.  This was a bonding exercise.  Something to bring you closer, to breach the gap between lovestruck artist and inspired musician.  Nothing more.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”  It’s not meant to be a reassurance but simply a passing comment, like looking at the sky or seeing it snow.  So straightforward it makes you laugh, the sound bubbling about in your throat. 

“Thanks, Yoongi.”

“No, seriously.”  He levels you with a look.  You know the one - a touch stern but ultimately playful.  “I wanted to make something beautiful but…”  Digits wiggle, Atlantic blue sweeping over the tips and up his knuckles like the sea.  “I can’t really improve on something that’s already perfect.”

Your cheeks light on fire, as brilliantly coloured as the red in his - your - palette.  

He thinks it looks pretty against his hands.  The same ones that cradle your cheek, so precisely you want to remind him you’re a canvas and not clay.  

“You’re silly.”  

“ You’re silly,”  he returns, as if that’ll somehow win him this battle of wits.

 The roll of your eyes is undeniable.  “Good one.”

“You know, I’ve got a ton of paint, right?  Not your best choice, making fun of me.”  He punctuates each word with passes of his fingers.  Colour appears wherever he travels, dragged over your skin with dreamy twists of his wrist.  A line here, a circle there.  Goosebumps follow in their wake despite the fact that his touch is like candle wax - soothing and deliberate.

You wonder, idly, whether he can feel you burning up beneath him.

“So beautiful,”  he murmurs again, almost to himself as he dips his fingers into another dot of paint.  Pink this time - in the same shade as the magnolias outside.  He spreads the colour over your chest, right where your heart beats an erratic rhythm.  

He takes his time in admiring his handiwork, swirling the two shades together until it’s the most flattering shade of purple.

You try - and fail - to ignore the way it stirs something behind your ribs.  A need that flickers to life without any sort of warning and has you pressing your thighs together.  

“Can I take this off?”  It comes abruptly, with eyes that snap up to yours.  There’s already a hand tucked beneath the small of your back, right under your shoulders.  He already knows your answer - can see it in the blown out pupils that reflect his entire world back at him.  He still wants to hear it.

You’re unable to find your voice.  It’s gone, stolen by the way he ghosts his fingers up and down the sensitive notches of your spine.  You could get lost in this feeling, if he let you.  You almost do, only nodding when he moves no further, flat of his palm a solid weight right against the clasp of your bra.

You don’t mind that the band is coloured pink and blue when he tosses it aside.  You don’t have it in you to focus on anything but how he studies you now.  Openly admires you, like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen.

“What?”  Mellifluous and adoring.  Music to his ears.

“I think I’m getting distracted.”

“I think so, too.”

“Is that okay?”  He speaks more to your boobs than you, single stained hand coming to rest across your ribs.  The pad of his thumb swipes over a single bud, perked and already far too sensitive.  He’d put his mouth on it, if not for the fact it’s now covered in paint.  

Fortunately, there’s still so much of you - places he hasn’t explored but suddenly, desperately needs to.  

From the column of your throat and all the way down to the valley of your breasts, he offers sweet kisses.  Open-mouthed adoration that leaves you needy and breathless and writing.  He catches your untouched nipple between his teeth, gently working it into the same state as its tinted twin. 

You shift beneath him, unable to stop the bolt of electricity that rips through you like a thousand volts.  It cracks your composure like lightning and sends your pulse racing like thunder.  “Of course.”

He hums, content, and nearly falls, dropping his cheek fully against your chest.  You’re so soft beneath him, velvet and pliant under his tongue.  

“I think I love you.”  It’s his voice but your words, spoken so faintly you almost miss it against the roaring in your ears.  

“I think I love you, too.” 

Yoongi stares up at you then, so full of wonder that you can’t help but look away.  It’s an incredibly intimate moment - so much emotion carried in one simple look that you’re not quite sure how to process it.  He’d been your inspiration and now you were his.  The realisation is almost too much, filling you until you feel like you might float away.

His hands act as an anchor, keeping you here with him.  

“You don’t have to say it back.”  It’s careful, loaded with his heart and every key to open it.  

“I know - I want to.”

He grins so breathlessly handsome that you can’t help but return it, rubied cheeks crystallised with delight.  Those same paint-stained hands of his find their newly discovered favourite home of your chest and he sounds like sin when he speaks.  “I want you.”

“You can have me.”

It’s all he needs before he’s ducking down and smothering every uncovered inch of you in sweetness.  His mouth burns hot but he’s unbearably gentle, searing the shape of his mouth over your breasts and across your collarbone.  He licks and sucks as he goes, soothing any ache left behind by the edge of his teeth.

You’re not quite sure where the bites end and the paint begins.  It’s all so pretty you don’t mind either way.  

But it’s not enough.  It’ll never be enough, you think, even as you whine airily, words stuttering out in a half-formed breath.  “Please touch me.”

“Where?”  He’s hardly given you room to answer, crowded so closely against you that you can feel his heartbeat all the way through to your own.  He’s so warm - so solid - upon you that you almost want to tell him that here, just as he is, is perfect. 

A momentary lapse in lust before rational judgment is clouded yet again. 

Instead - and with more demand than you mean - you grind purposefully against him.  A benefit to having him sitting how he is, knees hooked on either side of your hips.  He can’t pretend like he doesn’t feel it, cock twitching beneath the constraints of his boxer-briefs. 

Your eyes meet and he chuckles, nuzzling his head back into that spot between your neck and shoulder that has you whimpering.  The sound alone drives him crazy.

“You’ll be the death of me.”  Yoongi knows this like he knows the sky is blue or your smile is his favourite sight.

You’re teasing him when you catch his face, palms cradling the shape of his jaw.  “Then it’ll be a good death.” 

He doesn’t disagree - especially when he slips his clean hand along the length of your body.  He tweaks your nipple on its descent, tickles the underside of your ribs, and then finds the band of your underwear, all in one fell swoop.  A digit dips below the elastic, neatly clipped nail grazing the jut of your hip before shifting and dropping further.  

You keen when the pad of his finger grazes your clit. 

“Do that again.”  He doesn’t need to tell you twice.  When he repeats the motion, the sound spills off your tongue without restraint.  

He slips further down, pressing his hand to gently part your folds.  Digits glide easily, coated in slick that drips between your legs and sorely tests his patience.  Yoongi’s not sure what he’d expected but this is so much better it’s making his head spin - and he hasn’t even felt you yet.

“You’re so wet, love.”  Shame would swallow you whole if not for the way he speaks with reverence.  “How badly do you want this?”

“Don’t tease,”  you huff, rutting uselessly against the fingers that tease your centre, barely slipping in before resuming a lazy, leisurely path back up to the bundle of nerves that throbs at the contact.  He’s hardly touched you and you’re already at a six, entire body alight with need that thrums heavy in your veins. 

“Just tell me.”

“I want this.  I need this.”  You hope he believes you.  You’re not sure what you’ll do if he doesn’t.  “I need to feel you - please.”

His entire world is spinning, kicked on its axis by the way your tone pitches, demands and begs in the same lilting voice he so adores but has never quite heard like this.  He loves it.  “I need to stretch you out.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

You whine so prettily he almost cracks.  It’s enough to have him choking on his own words, not that he’s saying anything.  He’s too focused on how he sinks into you - a single digit but so tightly it feels like there’s no way he’ll survive his cock buried inside.  

You’re a dream come true.  He never wants to wake up.

“More.  Please.”  You’re so polite, he almost laughs.  You’d really taken his words to heart - always asking for what you wanted now.  He can’t deny how proud he is.  It blossoms in his chest, juxtaposed greatly against the salaciousness that drives him to do exactly as you ask.

His index finger slips in alongside the other.  You make that noise he loves, grinding your core against the flat of his palm as he curls his knuckles and seeks out that spot.  He knows he’s struck gold when he taps it experimentally, pressure turning light but unrelenting when a choked cry ricochets off your tongue and onto his sweat-slicked shoulder.

“Right there?”  

Your nod is enough of an answer. 

He redoubles his efforts, fucking you with measured glides of his fingers and precise presses against your g-spot.  In no time at all, you’re barely coherent, mumbling his name in a slew of breaths that has him grinning.  You’re a sight to behold, moaning so obscenely you’d be ashamed you weren’t so preoccupied by the fact that every part of you feels as if it’s about to splinter.

“Miru— Princess—”  Your clit aches and you nearly shriek when he applies pressure against it with the pad of his thumb, swiping your cum over it in slow circles.  He wants you so badly - just as bad as you want him- but he’s torn halfway between watching you unravel by his hand and wanting that same euphoria when he’s buried home in your dripping pussy. 

“Please, please, please.”  There are tears in your eyes.  You’re so close you can practically taste it, entire body shaking with the effort of keeping the coil from snapping.  “Yoongi, please.”

He’s a fucking goner then, filling you with a third finger and grinding his palm against your clit as you come apart beneath him.  

It starts in your toes, stealing feeling all the way up your calves and over your thighs.  You’re only aware you’re trembling because it vibrates through Yoongi’s body, looped back to yours when he mouths across your shoulders, sucking memories into your heated, sweat-sweet skin.  The stimulation is what keeps you from floating off on a cloud of bliss, the warmth in the pit of your stomach liquifying your bones. 

“Are you tired?”  Because you certainly look tired - too fucked out to properly meet his stare as he looms over you, both hands adjusted to rest comfortably over your hips. 

You are, but it doesn't matter.  You haven’t gotten what you wanted - not really - and you aren’t about to let it go without asking.

He’d taught you that.

You smile up at him, doe-eyed and alluring.  A hand reaches for his, curls around the fingers still glossy with your slick, and squeezes.  “I still need you.”

They’re words he’ll never tire of - also words that have him kicking out of his briefs and rolling your thong down your legs, all too eager.  He’s painfully hard, leaking pre-cum and purple at the tip, but he fists himself in slow, measured pumps regardless.  It’s a show for you, more than anything.

“ Please.”  So pretty, so ready.  He can’t resist.  

Yoongi sinks against you, the head of his cock brushing through your folds as he slots himself into place with his paint-free hand.  The other, still coloured garishly bright, brushes the curve of your lip, the delicate skin beneath your eye.  It’s so tender you can’t help but blink, caught off-guard.  

“I love you,”  you say, though you’re sure he’s meant to, too.  You can read it in his eyes - brilliant and bright like a beacon in the night.

He speaks with a roguish grin and a fluid press of his hips.  “I know.”  

You fit like two puzzle pieces, the stretch perfect as he sinks deeper, a low groan sounding from somewhere deep in his chest.  You’re so tight around him but he glides in easily, coaxed to fill you by your wetness and the soft, whiny noises you make.  

“Holy shit,”  he manages once he’s buried as deep as he can go, head spinning with the way you clench around him, nearly stealing the words off his tongue.  “Am I dreaming?”

Laughter is a salve - a catch-all remedy for anything that ails him.  It pulls him to the here and now, drawing his attention from the overwhelming bliss that creeps up his spine and recentring it on you, beautiful and bashful beneath him.

“No, you’re not.”  It’s a caricature of your voice but he doesn’t mind.  He loves that he can bring you to this.

“Thank God.”

Except it’s not God you’re thanking when Yoongi begins to move against you, dragging his cock through your walls with such slow, measured strokes you think you might combust.  It’s his name when he pulls almost fully out of you, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock, before snapping forward to bury himself to the hilt.  It’s his name that rolls off your tongue like a mantra, hoping and praying and begging for more as he consumes you wholly, in no half measures.  

It’s him - Min Yoongi, your muse, your love - that has you crying out, pleasure coursing through your veins as he adjusts and fills you at a completely new angle, brushing against your g-spot with every thrust of his hips.  

“Yoongi - please.”  You’re chanting the two words again, turning them into a song he’ll never get out of his head, when you spasm around him.  His eyes nearly roll back into his head, the sensation turning his rhythm sloppy as he chases the same high.  The hand that had previously been propping him up falls, thumb seeking out your clit as he charges toward the precipice. 

“One more, love.  Once more for me, okay?  I want you to come with me.”

He asks so nicely you can’t deny him - even as the overstimulation takes over.  You’re shaking so badly you’re not sure how he keeps you in place;  it’s a tremor that won’t stop, traipsing over every limb until you’re sobbing.  

“I love you,”  he chokes out as he tumbles over the edge, falling headlong into climax with you in tow.  It’s so strong it feels like it blinds you, spotting your vision with white as he fills you with his cum and continues to fuck you through it, milking every last moment just like you were his slowly softening cock.

You don’t have it in you to answer, far too exhausted by the last orgasm that has your limbs turned to jelly.  Yoongi doesn’t mind though;  he likes the just-fucked afterglow and how you sink into his arms when he slips out of you and onto his side.  

He eyes the cum that spills onto your thighs, pearlescent and going to waste.  He has half a mind to push it back where it belongs.

He only doesn’t because of the words you speak next, hardly above a whisper but loud enough that he groans, burying his face into your hair.  “So, thanks, Taehyung?”  

“Can you not?”  It’s a playful response, with teeth bared against the sweat-slicked nape of your neck.  

“Sorry.”  A beat.  He wonders if you’ve fallen asleep suddenly.  “I meant thanks, Titanic.”

author note.  this was a drabble prompt i got from the lovely @hecticwonderer​ and i kind of just...  ran with it.  oops. 

[trentaafcsblog]

sorry lovely i didn’t read the note up top! can i just have one for mount instead? xx

Prompts - Boy Things

1. Going to the barbers with him

You’re only going with him because he’s promised to watch Beauty and the Beast with you when you get home, although you know that’ll never come off and he’ll disappear upstairs to play on his PlayStation with his friends like he always does, but you’re clutching onto the tiny bit of hope that he actually listens to you for once and keeps you company for a couple of hours instead of abandoning you to go and scream at Declan for not killing the person that he was supposed to, or whatever it was that you’d heard him yelling time and time again. 

You’re trailing about five paces behind him with your head down and a look on your face that reads ‘I really can’t be arsed for this’ as he makes his way into the barbers. A series of cheers and ‘how you doing, bro?’s meeting you as you follow him into the salon, all of them doing a weird handshake thing before hyping him up over the new trainers that he was wearing. A few of them looking you up and down and undressing you with their eyes as they start whispering and giggling like children, probably discussing how they’d destroy you with their teeny weeny little cocks because they just exude that immature and revolting sense of energy as you stand there staring at Mason, practically begging him to give you the car keys so that you can go and hide in the car park away from this bunch of idiots that he seemed to be in a second relationship with going by the amount of love and praise he always gave them.

“Dunno why you’re still hanging around him when he’s got a trim like that” one of them hollers at you, breaking the awkward silence before the whole shop collapses into a fit of giggles over something that really wasn’t that funny. Fake laughing with them just so you don’t feel anymore awkward as you stand there wishing that 

you hadn’t agreed to yours and Mason’s little deal. The idea of watching Beauty and the Beast on your own seeming much more appealing than this torture that you’d allowed yourself to be subjected to.

“A seat for you, pretty lady” one of them says once they’ve finally pulled through their state of hysterics, gesturing towards the chair that was next to where Mase was about to get his haircut. Glaring at him through the mirror as you perch yourself down, a little smile creeping onto his face at your look of disgust but deep down he knew what his barbers were like and he knew that you’d be drooled over by them, especially since all they did was talk about how good your boobs looked in your latest Instagram picture or how they’d love to spend the night with you, but obviously he’s not gonna make you aware of that because you’d never speak to him again. 

“Say no more, brooo” one of them sings once Mason finishes telling him about what he wants doing, the words ‘shape up’ and ‘skin fade’ being repeatedly used but you have no idea what they mean. Your mind running away with itself as you try to imagine what the hell was about to happen. Is he gonna have his skin taken off? Are they gonna start carving shapes into his hair like he’s some sort of pumpkin? What the fuck are those utensils they’ve just brought out from out the back of the studio? Trying to picture what Mason looked like the last time he came back from this place as you reassure yourself that he looked absolutely fine and that all of these interesting tools and phrases were all part of the process of getting a ‘fresh trim’.

Your heart almost starts beating out of your chest when they turn the electric razor on and a buzzing sound starts humming in your ears, growing louder and louder the more they move it. Watching them change the blade on it before they’re going back in for round two, then three, then four, then five, and then you’re breathing a sigh of relief when it gets put back down on the side. Getting your hopes up that this whole ordeal might be over but you’re clearly kidding yourself when the scissors come out. Praying that they don’t cut random chunks out of his hair since you can’t see what’s going on thanks to the barber obstructing your view, although you’re not sure you actually want to know what’s happening during this whole procedure. 

Spraying his hair with what looks like hairspray but in a cleaning product bottle before they’re stepping back to admire their work. Cocky smiles on all of their faces as they hold a mirror up behind Mason’s head to show him what they’d done at the back, even though it looks exactly the same as what’s going on at the sides.

“That’s sick!” he squeals before leaning forward to catch a glimpse of your reaction. Not really noticing that much of a difference apart from it being a little bit shorter, but you’re politely smiling at him and nodding your head as if to say ‘yeah, so lovely’, despite it not really being a reflection of the amount of time it took or the number of different pieces of equipment that were used in the process. 

Having to wait for what feels like another three hours as they all do their handshake at least twelve times and take about sixty-four thousand photos of Mason’s new haircut to flex on their Instagram accounts. The same few that were staring at you when you walked in now doing exactly the same as you make your way towards the door, licking their lips and eyeing up your ass as you give them a little wave and step outside. A wave of relief hitting you now that you’d escaped those absolute weirdos but you’re still giving Mase the cold shoulder because he obviously knew how all of them would react to seeing you in the flesh, not to mention the pure torture that you were put through by having to sit in the same chair for hours all for a few little millimetres taken off his hair. 

“Declan text me whilst I was in there to ask if I could play Fortnite with him when we get home, is that okay?” he’s asking as you stop in the middle of the pavement to glare at him.

“Mason, I swear to god!” you huff as he tries to stifle a laugh, shrugging his shoulders at you before making his way back to the car, leaving you stood there knowing that you’ll never be able to believe a word that comes out of that man’s mouth again, especially when it comes to promises.

@sanchooo-xo @alexajanecollins @domsgirl

[destiniesfic]

Folktober 05 — for @jurdannet/@jurdannetrevels. In which Jude was never taken to Faerie and grew up in blissful ignorance of the fair folk—mostly—until the night they tried to steal her twin sister away.

First | Prev

The door is the first test. It is difficult not to stare at every new thing I see. There are lamps on either side of the polished wood doors, and at first I think they’re just regular lights, but of course nothing here is that simple; the light comes from two tiny glowing faeries, trapped behind glass. I am immediately filled with questions. Did they volunteer for the job? Is this a punishment for some unknown crime? Do they eat, and if so, who feeds them? Do they live forever, miserable in their prison, or do they eventually burn themselves out?

But I am meant to be glamoured and not ask questions, so I don’t, even though I want to pound my hands against the glass until they bleed and the tiny faeries are freed. I keep my eyes straight ahead and hardly even flinch when I notice the grotesque carving on the door. It looks horrible, a twisted and terrible face, the knocker piercing its nose.

Cardan acts as if this is all totally normal, because of course to him it is, because he lives here and none of this is new to him. Without any hesitation, he reaches for the door knocker. And as he does, the carving’s eyes spring open.

To keep from screaming, I bite my lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood. My entire body goes taut, a coiled spring waiting for release. I force myself to breathe in through my nose.

“My prince,” says the carving.

Cardan smiles at the door in a way I am not even sure he smiled at his friends. “My door.”

I am relieved when the next words from the door’s awful mouth are “Welcome home” and it swings open to admit us. Cardan stalks inside, and I follow.

There is a faerie servant waiting for us, wearing some kind of livery. “Prince Cardan,” they say, with a small bow. “Your brother would like to speak with you.”

“A pity for him,” Cardan replies, handing his cloak to another servant. No one offers to take the jacket I am wearing. “I would like that less.”

“I am afraid it was not a request,” the first servant says. “He wishes to speak with you and the mortal girl you have brought back with you.”

Cardan glances back at me, a frown turning down the corners of his full mouth. “Very well, although I cannot imagine why. Come, Jude.”

I bristle at the command, but I follow after him; it’s what the glamoured girl I’m supposed to be would do. I force a little smile on my lips and trot after him. “What’s going on?” I whisper through it.

“I know not.” The frown deepens. “And I like that even less. Stay close to me and face front, no matter what you see. And under no circumstances may you antagonize Balekin as you do me. Am I understood?”

I want to tell him that if he thinks my meager resistance so far has been antagonism, he doesn’t really know anything about hardship, but there’s an urgency to his voice, maybe something like nerves or fear, that makes me think he’s being serious.

“Totally,” I say, and then I fall back a little so that I trail him.

Soon I see why he warned me to stare straight ahead. As we walk through the hallway, I see another human for the first time, a young man dressed in the same palace livery. At first I want to call out to him, to scream, to tell him I’ve been taken and he has too and we should both run away from this place, but I notice the glazed look in his eyes, and, as we approach, his cracked fingers and chapped lips. He hums to himself as he polishes an old suit of armor on display, and doesn’t seem to notice as we pass.

I shudder. Cardan may have kidnapped me, true. He and his friends might have intended to do terrible things to my sister, and he may still intend to do terrible things to me. But at least I have been spared that fate, the loss of my all my faculties, of any control.

I’m not relieved for long, because Hollow Hall still has horrors in store for me. Soon we come to another set of gleaming doors, through which I can hear the sounds of chatter and the faint thrumming of music. The doors are thrown open for us by another pair of servants, and then we are in the middle of the great hall.

There is what is clearly a party happening. Well, I assume it’s a party, what parties are in fairyland. It looks like the kind of scene HBO would get in trouble for when casting a bunch of nude extras. I mean, by human standards, it would definitely be considered an orgy, but I am beginning to think that human and faerie standards are very different.

And that’s not to say all of the Folk are embracing. Some are eating golden fruit. Some are drinking wine and mead from great goblets, like the ones Cardan brought for his picnic jaunt into my world. Others seem to be falling asleep. Two might be strangling each other to the amusement of onlookers. There is a small band on the other side of the room that includes a green-skinned pixie playing a flute and a boy with goat legs playing an honest-to-god lute. And, yes, there are faeries in varying states of undress, on couches near the perimeter of the room or cushions on the floor, and some are definitely, um, occupied. They are clearly inhuman, but their bodies are human enough that I find myself blushing, out of embarrassment or mortification I don’t know.

But Cardan said I couldn’t stare, so I do my best not to. I face front and think about the places I would rather be. Which is pretty much anywhere. I imagine myself at the Starbucks downtown, sipping pumpkin spice lattes with Taryn, or bingeing She-Ra on Netflix with Vivi, like we had the last week of the summer. Then I think about how my parents will panic when they realize I’m not there in the morning—probably just a couple of hours from now—and I nearly feel sick to my stomach.

“Jude,” Cardan hisses through his teeth. “With me.”

I don’t nod. I just follow him as we chart a path through the revelers, managing to hold it together. A naked girl with daffodil-yellow skin and pink flowers for hair laughs and calls to him, trying to coax him into joining her circle, but he ignores her. I guess being a prince makes you popular.

Our destination is on the far side of the room, unfortunately, which means I have to do a lot more repression to make it there in one piece. For example, I can’t think about how a sharp-toothed faerie seems to be using a tiny bone to pick his teeth, or how another revel guest’s lips shine red like they’re wet with blood. At least I can easily pick out where we’re going and focus on that as I keep from tripping over any outstretched limbs.

Another faerie, one who looks much like Cardan with dark hair and high cheekbones, reclines in a wooden chair carved to look much like a throne, up on a dais. He is in conversation with a very lovely woman in a blue gown, but when she sees us approaching she kisses his ring and leaves. I almost want to tell her to come back, to not leave us with the host of this debauched fete. But there’s nothing to say. I’ll have no help here.

Cardan climbs the dais seps and stops before the chair, inclining his head with deference that seems a little mocking. Without being told, I know that this is Balekin, whom Cardan said was the eldest of the princes.

Brother,” Balekin says, and even I, an outsider, can sense the danger under the familial cheer. “How was your jaunt to the mortal world?”

“Tiresome,” Cardan says, stifling a yawn as he raises his head.

“I was told you brought a companion back with you.”

“Word travels fast.”

Balekin waits for him to say something else, and frowns when he doesn’t. I, meanwhile, am thinking of how I felt like we were being watched as we rode through the forest. Maybe we were. Or maybe the goblins who’d paddled the boat were spies. Nothing here was safe.

“Well, won’t you call her hence so I may examine her?” Balekin asks at last.

“Oh, indeed,” says Cardan, who clearly isn’t happy to have been called out for this. Still, he waves for me, and I take a step forward. “This mortal girl interfered with our fun. She was unhappy that Locke wanted to play with her twin sister.”

“Twins?” Balekin sounds intrigued. He sits forward. I’m learning that twins are probably rare among faeries if Taryn and I are so consistently interesting. “Why not keep them both?”

Cardan shrugs. “It was better sport to promise the freedom of one sister and then take the other. This one was so angry when she found her twin glamoured, and now she suffers that fate.”

I’m angry still, I want to shout. I’m angry now! I want to stomp my foot. I want to haul off and punch him. But I stay where I am, trying to keep the placid smile fixed on my face. I’d thought Cardan and his friends terrifying and wrong, but now that I am face-to-face with an adult faerie, I realize that Cardan can’t be much older than me—or whatever the faerie equivalent is. Maybe he’s ninety and just looks nineteen. But Balekin is clearly grown, less lanky than Cardan, more dangerous. He is looking at me in a way I don’t like.

“Come closer, child,” he says to me, and he almost sounds kind. I try not to hesitate as I approach his chair. When I am near enough, he reaches out and takes my face in his hand. There are thorns poking out of his skin, sharp enough to prick me. I stay very, very still and try to breathe normally.

“She’s not unpretty, is she?” he asks Cardan.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cardan shift uneasily. “If mortals are your flavor.”

Balekin frowns, turning my face from one side to the other. “She has a familiar look. What is your name, girl?”

“Jude,” I say obediently.

“Your surname.”

“Smith,” I lie. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Telling a faerie prince my actual full name seems like a really bad idea.

Balekin’s eyes narrow, but he releases me. My jaw tingles. He swirls the wine in his goblet the way sophisticated people do in movies, and then he leans back in his chair. “So, brother. Now you have a mortal girl. What will you do with her?”

“I have not yet decided,” Cardan replies, sounding thoughtful. “I would rather not put her to work in the kitchens or the hall. Mortals are so fragile, with such clumsy fingers. It amuses me to think of her carrying my schoolbooks, serving my wine, and sleeping at the foot of my bed like a faithful hound.”

“Trite amusements,” says Balekin, but I notice that he doesn’t seem displeased with his younger brother. “If you misplace this one it is of no consequence to me. Do as you will.”

Cardan inclines his head in a mock bow, then says again, “Come, Jude.”

Like the faithful hound, I follow at his heels. Unlike the faithful hound, I chafe doing so. But I can’t see another way out just now, so I will play this game until the end. Whatever that is.

---

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[ask-rwby-multishipper]

Everyone must participate in a competition (up to you what that might be) and the two people who come in last place must get legally married!

Yang: Pffff what???

Weiss: So, literally get married. Courthouse, marriage license, everything?

Blake: Seems like it.

Yang: So this is legit? Whatever this competition will be ends with two of us getting married?

Nora: But what should the competition actually be?

Everyone: ...

Ruby: Art contest!

Yang: Art contest?

Ruby: Yeah! And we could get the boys to judge.

Blake: That might actually be fun.

Yang: Of course you’d say that, I’ve seen your sketchbook.

Blake, shrugging: Guess I’m not getting married then.

Pyrrha: How long do we have to create our pieces?

Ruby: Until this time tomorrow I guess? *stands up and poses dramatically* You have 24 hours to create your masterpieces! Go!

Everyone: *stays in place*

Nora: I have no idea what to do.

Ruby, still posing: Just...think of something, this is getting awkward.

May, glancing at Fiona: Uhh.

Fiona: Indeed.

The next day, in the Beacon courtyard with everyone’s art pieces on display...

Jaune: Okay, fellow judges, how are we going to figure out who wins this?

Mercury: Just...write down your own rankings from worst to best and then we’ll compare?

Sun: How long is this going to take?

Neptune: What, do you have somewhere to be?

Sun: It’s the weekend, I want to do weekend things.

Neptune: Like sit around and do nothing.

Sun: Yes!

Neptune: That’s what you always do.

Ren: Does anyone know what this competition actually entails?

Jaune: Ruby said it was a secret. Maybe the winner gets a date with whoever they choose?

Ren: Something tells me it’s worse than that.

May: *taps Jaune’s shoulder*

Jaune: Hm? Oh, hi, uhh...

May: May.

Jaune: Right.

Sun: What’s up?

May: Okay, so, you guys are judging this art competition, right?

Jaune: Yeah?

May: Could you give me and Fiona a break here? Neither of us have a single artistic bone in our body.

Fiona, nodding: We tried. Really tried. But...it’s not pretty.

Sun: Wait, so hold up, you’re asking us to skew the results to your advantage? Not cool.

Fiona: C’mon, just a little bit? Just to, like, keep us out of last place?

Ren: What’s the concern about last place?

May: If you come in last place, you have to—

Ruby, appearing next to them: Heyyyyy guys, we’re almost ready to start! *looks toward May and Fiona* What are you two doing? *points at them* Talkin’ up the judges, hmm? Trying to get an unfair advantage?

Fiona, blushing: Uhhh no? Just...meeting new people!

Ruby: I’ve got my eye on you two. *chuckles* I’m just joking. Ready, boys?

Jaune: I think so. Though we do have a question: What does the winner of this competition even get?

Ruby, looking to the side: Uhh...they get an immunity for a future truth or dare.

Jaune: Oh. Okay, makes sense.

Mercury, snickering: You sure the prize isn’t a date with Jaune?

Jaune: What??

Neptune, laughing: Pretty sure that’s for whoever comes in last place.

Jaune: What????

Fiona, murmuring to May: Oh gods, that would be even worse...

Sun: You’re not allowed to put Pyrrha in last place, Jaune.

Jaune: A date with me isn’t an actual consolation prize! Like half of them are lesbians anyway, quit being weirdos! *crosses his arms and pouts*

Ren: I’ll go on a date with you, Jaune.

Jaune, grinning: Aww, really??

Ruby, snapping her fingers: Snap out of it, you’ve got art to judge. *waving for them to follow her* Look at mine first!

Timeskip timeskip wheeee....

Ren, holding a clipboard: Okay, we’ve put together a final ranking of everyone’s pieces into tiers, because Sun says tier lists are fun.

Sun: They are!

Ren: Sooooo S-tier, the winner is Blake’s drawing of their team. Very detailed, lovely colors, all-around beautiful.

Yang: Wooo go Blake!

Ruby, hugging Blake: I knew it!

Blake, bowing: Thank you thank you.

Ren: Next, A-tier, Ruby’s painting of Zwei, Penny’s glass sculpture of a bird, Yang’s spray paint mural tribute to her bike, and Nora’s wood burning drawing of a thunderstorm.

Nora, high-fiving Yang: Nice!

Penny, hugging Ruby: Yay!

Ren: B-tier, Pyrrha’s origami swan made of metal, Ciel’s photo collage of sunsets, Ilia’s watercolor painting, and Elm’s wood carving of an Ursa.

Elm, pouting: Aww...and I broke out my good chainsaw for this.

Ilia: Wait. Your what?

Elm, chuckling: Just kidding, I just have the one.

Nora: Wait, Pyrrha only got B-tier? *points at her metal origami swan* But that’s so good though?!

Ren, shrugging: To be fair, with her semblance, she can fold metal as easily as anyone can fold paper, so...it’s a paper swan on steroids, as Mercury put it.

Nora: Hmph...

Jaune, whispering to Pyrrha: I tried to vouch for you, I really did.

Pyrrha, turning to him, grinning: Are you kidding? This is the first time in a long time that I lost at something. I feel liberated!

Jaune: Wow, really? Well, awesome!

Ren: C-tier, Neon’s glowstick sculpture, Harriet’s digital drawing of a rabbit, and Cinder, Emerald, and Neo’s...“dress”?

Emerald: It started as a dress, but then it kinda became overalls, and then a dress again, and then...I don’t know.

Cinder: It has fire dust infused with it, so there’s that.

Neo, wearing said monstrosity: I want to change.

Ren: D-tier, Weiss’ melted ice sculpture. We gave her the benefit of the doubt that it was as magnificent as she described.

Weiss: It was! It’s just...sunny outside...

Ren: However, bottom tier, May and Fiona for their...paper mache...pyramids?

May, sighing: It was supposed to be a model of Beacon.

Yang, chuckling: So, when’s the wedding?

Fiona, blushing, deliberately avoiding eye contact with May: Uhhh we can’t get married, though! We’re legal residents of Atlas, so we can’t get married in Vale, oh well!

Blake: But marriages are recognized everywhere no matter where they’re performed.

Fiona: But...we can’t tho.

May, sighing and putting a hand on Fiona’s shoulder: There’s nothing we can do, fiancée.

Fiona: Wait, you’re cool with this?

May, shrugging: I mean, we could get an annulment immediately after.

Fiona, sighing: Okay, I guess you’re right.

Ruby, throwing rose petals over them both: 🎵 May and Fiona sitting in a tree, M-A-R-I-A-G-E~ 🎵

May: When is this actually happening?

Yang: Uhh, today? Go get married!

May: Sure, let’s elope.

Fiona: How are you so unbothered?!

Later, outside a courthouse...

Fiona: Well, we’re legally married now.

May: Should we call Robyn and Joanna and tell them the good news?

Fiona, sweating: I think it would be totally fine if we didn’t mention it to them.

May: Whatever you say, wife.

Fiona: Don’t call me that!

May: But you are my wife, legally speaking.

Fiona: Stahhhp!

May: Why??

Fiona, blushing: You know...gay thoughts...

May: What, the thought of being married to me is embarrassing?

Fiona: No! It’s just...I dunno...

May, turning and kissing her forehead: Chill out, Fiona, it’ll be just fine.

Fiona, blushing even more: Ohhh...

May, smirking at her: What?

Fiona: Nothing! Uhh...wanna get that annulment taken care of?

May: Eh, I’m sick of paperwork at this point. Let’s do it tomorrow.

[chanluster]

ann summers | {c} ; mild {f}

oneshot | 2.56K words

“ your best friend was weirdly terrified of lingerie, and you found it irritating yet adorable.”

c o n t e n t s >> a very flustered seungmin, constant clownery, mild fluff, mentions of sex toys but no usage, sexual innuendo, a lot of swearing, y’all basically make seungmin hella uncomfortable lmaoaoo

a / n >> inspired loosely by real events when my friends and i got kicked out of a sex shop for fucking around :’) ann summers is a lingerie and sex shop, in case y’all didn’t know!

back to masterlist

YOU FOUND YOURSELF SIGHING OUT MORE THAN YOU PHYSICALLY THOUGHT POSSIBLE.

“Seungmin,” You explained for the last time, ”They’re not going to come alive and bite you.”

The boy stood in front of you shot you an expression which actually doubted your statement. He hugged himself tighter, white hoodie bunching up at the waist, either to warm himself from the bitter London cold or shield himself from another threat.

Monsters displayed in the windows of Ann Summers. 

These creatures that your best friend shied from hung delicately either on racks, or were boasted upon the slim mannequin bodices, intricate lacing and beadings accentuating the dark colours. Posters of models adorning the god-forbidden entity, posing seductively as they showed off the latest collection.

You rolled your eyes, and this time it hurt as they reached the insides of your mind.

“You actual pussy,” you jeered. “Every woman wears a bra you know. Or at least some point in her life.”

You raised your own chest a little higher, pointing towards the goods. “Even I’m wearing one right now.”

Seungmin’s face was a classic painting of disgust. “You didn’t have to tell me that,” he whined, almost hiding within the folds of his hoodie. “Look, I’ll wait here, you go and do your shopping.” 

“But that’ll be boring if I do it alone!” You looked up at the sky, grey clouds engulfing the sun for hours. “And it’ll rain any moment now, I can’t let you stay outside.”

“I’d rather stay outside than step foot in that…” he glanced at the lingerie shop for a millisecond before hurriedly settling his eyes upon you. “That place.”

“You say it like it’s some twisted underworld.” You waved a hand towards the shop. “To women it is a chance of feeling sexy.

“And I wanna feel sexy, Seungmin.”

He raised an incredulous eyebrow at you. “Who for? The men on your lockscreen you cry over?”

Chuckling, he dodged your hand, nearly whacking him. “Watch it, dickhead,” you warned. “And it doesn’t have to be for a man. I want to feel hot for myself.”

“But ___, you’re already pretty,” he pleaded rather than declared, the tone making you suspicious. “You don’t need that lacey shit.”

“Are you saying that just so I don’t go inside the store? Because I will anyway, whether I’m going to buy something or not.”

A few moments passed after the words left your mouth, and you watched his brows furrow irritably.

“Nevermind, you’re mad fucking ugly.”

“Hey!”

This time, your hand managed to hit home, earning a yelp from Seungmin, who rubbed his arm in pain. 

“Now stop bitching and come inside,” you ordered, ready to take him by his sweater paws, but he stayed rooted to the cobblestone street. 

“I’m not going in,” he muttered. 

Perhaps hitting his head would get him to comply. 

Before you could carry out your sentence, thunder reigned upon the ears of the shoppers and other citizens out, including you two who jumped from the rather loud sound. 

You felt a drop of water hit your head. Then, saw another fall upon Seungmin’s face. 

One drop. Two drops. Four drops. 

Until drops became showers, and you started towards the Ann Summers building, dragging the hesitant boy along and rushed under the cover of the entrance. 

You shot a glare as you slowed down, ignored by the boy watching the showers of rain grow angrier. “I told you this would happen.”

He turned, eyes now desperate. “Please don’t make me go in there, ___.”

“Look, this isn’t normal. You gotta learn to be comfortable with seeing bras and pants and sex toys—”

“Wait what? Sex toys?!” He backed away out of cover, and came running back when he felt the icy rain. “No way am I going in there now. You’re on your own.”

“Seungmin!” You exclaimed, and with his surprise, you took the golden opportunity to grab his sweater-cuffed hands, and with the other hand pushed the doors open as you pulled him inside with you.

You looked up at your surroundings, a whimper sounding from behind you.

It was an explosion of dark pink in the background, complimentary with black railings and racks as thousands of different pieces of lingerie hung, stacked and modelled before you, a full colour blast and wild designing. Lacing you had never seen before accentuating body suits, stockings promising brilliant bedroom results and everything naughty you could ever think of presented on a silver plate to the customer. 

The store knew you sought pleasure, and made sure to offer it in an infinite ways and possibilities. 

It made Kim Seungmin nearly scream.

“I’m going right now—!” he turned on his heel, but you successfully grabbed onto the hood, yanking him back to your side. 

“No time for your whining, buddy.” You stared at the sexual haven, excited to uncover what it offered. “Let’s buy some motherfucking bras!”

“Oh dear God,” he could only murmur.

Batting your hand off the hood, he crossed his arms as he miserably followed you around, not leaving his eyesight from the carpeted floor. You, on the other hand, relished in the polished lingerie store, assessing each new piece in each hot collection, feeling like a proper woman. Of course you had some nice underthings for yourself, but there are always times where you wished you possessed something fancier, something with a little black lace and pants which were tied up at the sides. It seemed awfully silly saying all those little wishes to your best friend, but it was what you truly felt.

You just wanted to feel...nice.

“Seungmin, you do know no one is going to judge you for looking around with me.” You studied a certain two piece, a little too big for your breasts. “I think I’d judge you more for constantly looking down. It’s like you’ve already done something vile.”

“Don’t say that,” he grumbled. “I just don’t want anyone thinking I’m a weirdo.”

“No one’s going to think that,” you assured him. “Just don’t sniff the bras or shit like that. That would definitely get you kicked out.”

“I wasn’t even thinking of that, sick bitch.” He slid a little closer to you, wary of the other shoppers walking, assessing by. “Whatever, I’ll just wait for you.”

You let your lips curve into a malicious smirk. “But Seungmin, I wanted your opinion on a few things.”

The boy’s devastation nearly made you cackle. “No fucking way are you going to show me what you want.”

You gave into your wishes, laughing shamelessly at the blush rising in his cheeks. “Nah, I’m not that sadistic. Actually, I already know what I need, but I’m gonna take a while, so…” your knowing smile remained. “You can search around for yourself if you like.”

Those little cheeks blushed harder. “Shut up.”

Whistling, you only shrugged, walking past the lingerie in a slow stroll. “Whatever you say, buddy! And remember.” You glanced back, eyes dancing. “There is nothing to be scared of in here.”

You continued your search for your specific sized bras, collecting a few and hanging them upon your arm as you browsed, Seungmin close behind, ready to bolt out of the shop at any moment. Every so often a scandalous underwear would be shown off upon the shelves, and you’d pick out a piece, waving it in front of the boy and watch him scurry away from it as if it were a poisonous creature. 

It made your insides sing at the thought of his reaction when he saw the contents further down the shop. You were sure he would pass out.

“Okay, Minnie,” You started, walking towards the far end of the room. “I’ve picked out a few things and am just going back there.”

“Hold up!” He sprang into a little jog, hastily avoiding the lingerie and stopping right next to you. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

“You were the one dying to stay away,” you reminded him, already catching sight of Seungmin’s final doom. “Now come here, I need to find myself one more thing.”

Taking his sweater paw, you lead him out of the lingerie section, a pink wall separating the contents behind the other side. A doorway was present, and you entered through it, the biggest, dirtiest grin adorning upon your lips.

You read out the sign, already feeling Seungmin go statue-still.

“Sex toys!” You declared.

And heard your best friend’s response. 

“JESUS ON A FUCKING MARATHON—”

You let out a gasp. Never before had you seen him this frightened, and you’ve been through a hundred theme parks with him. You’ve seen how this idiot had screamed his voice dead at rollercoasters. 

“Seungmin—” you started, but with a jolt you noticed he had wrenched his hood over his head, pulling at the strings so all you could see were his eyes, angry as the thunder crashing outside in the sky. 

“What are you doing here—!” he mumbled into the opening of his hoodie, but you shut him up with your hand, shushing him.

“Look, we’re technically not allowed to be in here, so shut up.” You turned around once more to the sex toys, proudly being shown upon the shelves. The dildos were the main attraction, catching your eye with the vibrant colours, different sizes and special editions being listed on their tags.

Your best friend looked frantically around, making sure there were no employees around to catch you both. “I hate you so much,” he guttered, which only made you smile. 

You dashed to the shelves, observing one brilliantly pink dildo, veins and all carved into the plastic. “Oh my God, Minnie, look!” 

The disgust on Seungmin’s face made you pick up the object, assessing the little details engraved upon it. “It says it’s eight inches.” Your eyes widened. “Eight inches!”

“You better put that back, then,” the boy drawled, still not loosening the strings of his hoodie. “That shit’ll kill you.”

“You’re just mad you don’t pack that much.” You obliged, putting the dildo back. “Didn’t know cocktail sausages were designed based on your dick.”

“My dick is not small,” he argued. When he saw your knowing smirk, though, he visibly shrunk.

“Oh yeah?” You walked on, cackling. “Keep talking shit, Minnie, but I can’t see any bulge.”

“Oh my God-” he immediately yanked his hoodie lower, as red as a tomato. “Stop!”

“Don’t worry, bud,” you sang out, going deeper into the aisles. You’ll find a lovely girl who will look past your 3-incher.”

Seungmin only had his eyes on you, blushing even more. “fuck you, ____.”

His thoughtful comment was ignored, skipping past various sizes of anal beads, magic wands and other innovative little creations, surprised to find so much range. You knew you would probably never use these objects, but the idea of people trying to spice up their sex lives with all this was insane in your head. 

It was too bad you and Seungmin were pain-stakingly virgin.

You were about to call exit when your eyes stopped on a certain invention, and your mouth dropped. 

“What is that?”

You quickly picked it up, assessing its indigo, snake-like bodice, veins engraved all over with two heads on either sides. Laughing, you raised it to get your best friend’s attention.

“Look at this!”

Seungmin came over, took one glance at what you held, and turned a straight 180 degrees.

“Wait, wait!” You grabbed onto his hood once more, pausing his escape. 

“I am not going to admire a double-ended dildo-”

“But look at how innovative this is!” You turn him around, gripping the sex toy like its a snake ready to strike.

Even the boy’s eyes were ready to dagger you. “____, I swear on Jesus and his disciples, I’m going to get your head checked.”

“How cute would it be if we used it together?” you teased, trying to hand him the tip, but he dodged your hand.

“I’m going! Ciao! Adios! Au revoir!” he crowed, finished with your tom-foolery, and leaving the sex toy’s section.

“No, Seungmin, wait!” You called after him, double-ended dildo still in hand, and trying to catch up to his rapid retreat. 

You were about to fall into step beside him when a woman stopped you both.

When the two of you saw the Ann Summers tag on her blouse, and a rather interrogative expression, you both exchanged glances, yours a little more sheepish than his.

“What were you kids doing in the back section?” she asked, hands on her hips.

You could feel the nerves radiating off Seungmin’s body, so you opened your mouth, saying the first words that touched your tongue.

“My friend and I were, uh, at the back...trying things out.”

Suddenly, a laugh escaped your best friend.

The employee looked at the lingerie on your one arm, and the double-ended dildo in your other hand. Then she raised a groomed brow at you.

Your cheeks flushed aggressively, and with further surprise heard Seungmin’s chuckling grow louder.

“Children are strictly prohibited in the sex-toys section,” she scolded, regarding the shopping in your arms. “You can still buy the bras, but the other thing…”

“I’ll put it back right now!” you declared, eyes wide as your best friend’s laughter boomed across the shop. You hurried back in the erotica section, dumping the dildo among its brethren and returning to your surrender spot.

The attendant then took your remaining items and scanned them in, ushering you to the till. You paid the woman what was due, and took the black shoppings, exiting the shop hastily with a near-hysterical Seungmin at your heels.

The London rain had softened to a light drizzle when you burst out of Ann Summers, getting irritated with the continuous howling, and at last you whirled around, ready to shut him up when you stopped.

Your best friend’s hood was pulled over, and he bent forward, soft locks bobbing as he laughed out his soul, eyes disappearing within his grin. The sound of the rain harmonised with his melodious voice, and you watched, mouth parted in awe. 

You had seen Seungmin laugh a million and two times. It was always after you faced the consequences of your frequent fuck-ups - just like this one. However, looking at him now, finally calming his roaring, toothy grin still on display, there was something quite fantastical in his mirth that made your heartbeat run fast -  faster than you when returning that damned double-ended dildo.

“I hate you!” your best friend declared to London, smiling at you.

You could only return that pure happiness. “I hate you too,” you replied, heart still beating rapidly.

He finally strolled up to you, eyeing the black shopping bag. “You deserve that scolding.”

“I know,” you agreed, turning towards the street, another notorious shop in sight. “Let’s do it again.”

Seungmin shot you an incredulous look. “You already know I’m never stepping foot in Ann Summers again.”

“I don’t mean Ann Summers, Minnie,” you said, staring at the other shop. The next destination of trouble.

The boy followed your line of sight, and his joy nearly vanished. His eyes darted to you, disbelief in his expression.

“No, you’re fucking not.”

But you only stuck your tongue out at him and ran towards the building, you now being the one laughing.

Seungmin only rolled his eyes, a small smile escaping his lips when he looked at you and followed your footsteps, right into the Victoria Secret building.