#I’d rather not throw a party at all then set one up an nobody’s there

[demonnstein]

Vent shut up

[justsome-di]

Nobody Ends Up Dead in a Bathtub, Everyone Keeps Their Organs: Chapter 23

Summary: Alex is an ordinary, highly-introverted office worker. He clocks in and out and goes home to his little apartment he shares with his younger sister. He hasn’t dated in years by the time his co-workers set him up on a blind date.

The only issue is he and his date are not on the same page. At all.

While Alex thinks it’s a normal date, Damián is under the impression Alex is a client who paid to be there. No-so-quickly, they realize something is up. It’s all a prank. Damián is a sex worker Alex’s co-workers hired as a sick joke.

After reassuring that they’re both okay, Alex decides he wants revenge for both him and Damián. The plan is to use the stigma of sex work and start a 6-week, scandalous fake dating scheme with a big finale at the office Halloween party. Alex’s co-workers will be too horrified to try to prank him again. At least, that’s the plan.

You can also read this on AO3. If you don’t want to wait for new chapters, the complete story is on Patreon for only $4 with bonus stories! If you’re enjoying the story and want to support me in other ways, consider dropping me a message in my inbox or reblogging this post!

“You’re positive Eve won’t show back up?”

“Positive.”

Alex locked the door behind him. In movies, he had always seen couples throwing clothes off of each other as soon as they got inside. But he and Damián had to behave in the car and in the elevator and down the hallway. Their momentum had been stalled.

Damián took the chance to remove his boots. Alex did the same. It was very un-sexy. The mood was failing.

“What now?” he asked.

Damián tugged at Alex’s shirt. “We do the very, very sexy act of talking.”

Alex didn’t want to talk. He wanted to kiss Damián again and strip him down and, well, fuck him. Or figure out how to fuck him.

“We should set boundaries, okay? What’s a good safe word?” Damián asked. “I don’t know what you say during sex, and we need to know for sure when we need to stop. I’d rather be too cautious than hurt you.”

Alex had heard of safe words before. They were mentioned in the articles he had read but only for BDSM sex. He looked around the apartment, whipping his head around in desperation. Were safe words supposed to kill the mood?

“Uh.” He spotted Eve’s copy of collected Oscar Wilde works on the bookshelf. “Dorian Gray?”

“Ooh. That’s best one I’ve heard in a long time.”

“How many have you heard?”

“One for every client. So, a lot. Too many to count.”

Multiples times a week. Every week for years.

Alex’s stomach flipped. He didn’t know what he was doing, and Damián would immediately be able to tell. It would be like incorrectly pointing out the Big Dipper in the sky to a NASA scientist.

“I say we keep this very vanilla and very tame,” Damián said. He pressed his hips against Alex’s. “Does that sound good?”

“Yes.”

Alex would take anything. He had never been so desperate in his entire life.

“And after this, I’ll walk you through all the testing and stuff you should really schedule.”

“Testing?”

“STD tests. I can give you the whole spiel about how you should get tested after every new partner, but let’s save that for later.” Damián squeezed Alex’s arm. “If you don’t want to go through with this—“

“No! I do! I just never thought about that. And I don’t want you to think that I think that you have—I never gave it much thought.”

In the fantasy of sex, Alex had never thought about the responsibility of it. Testing, talking, safe words for vanilla sex. It had never occurred to him. 

“Consider me your sex ed teacher from here on out. A good one who knows all about PrEP and proper testing. And one who literally just got test results today. Negative, by the way. All of them.”  

Damián kissed him again and again and again. And somehow, they managed to walk to Alex’s bedroom, tugging at each other’s clothes.

“Lay down,” Damián said, guiding Alex to his bed. “Let me take care of you.”

He pulled Alex’s shirt off and then his own. Alex wiggled out of jeans, favoring speed over sexiness. Finally, they were stripped down, and Alex was staring at Damián. All of Damián. He was just as gorgeous naked as he was dressed.

Damián dug around in his front jeans pockets before throwing them across the room. Plastic crinkled as Damián ripped open two condoms. He slid them on both of them like an expert, letting his hands linger on their bodies.

So Damián had shown up prepared. He knew what he was doing. Of course, he would have shown up with lubricated condoms.

“Did you plan this?” Alex asked.

“Plan the sex?” Damián brushed a lock of Alex’s hair off his forehead. “I mean, I prepared for it. Just in case. I was going to wait for you to initiate it.”

And it was all too much.

Alex had no idea what he was doing. He was aching to touch Damián, but he didn’t know where to start. There was nothing more humiliating than just laying there, frozen, while Damián was trying to take the next step.

All of a sudden, he was overwhelmed. It was the stimulation from the club and the anxiety and the fear of disappointing Damián, chasing him away forever.

Alex pressed his hands to his eyes. He didn’t want Damián to see him cry. But thinking about how embarrassed he was only made his face burn hotter and tears push themselves down the sides of his face.

“Alex? Hey.”

Damián pulled Alex’s hands away and held them between his own. Alex blinked until he could almost clearly see Damián’s face. It was gentle. Concerned.

“What’s wrong?” Damián asked.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. No. Don’t be sorry. Do you want to tell me what’s wrong? Do you want to stop?”

“No. I don’t want to stop. I’m just—I’m really mortified.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

Alex made the most pathetic whining sound. “I’ve never had sex before.”

Damián smiled. He brushed his knuckles against Alex’s cheeks, wiping his tears away. “That’s okay.”  

“Is it? I’m 33.”

“So?”

“So, I’m too old to be a virgin.”

“There is no such thing as being too old to be a virgin. Listen, I’ve been with a lot of people of a lot of different ages who have never had sex before. The world has never ended because people didn’t have sex before they were—whatever. 18? 20? What’s the age people are supposed to have sex by? It doesn’t matter. It’s a dumb societal standard. What’s important is you do it when you’re ready.”

“But you’ve done it a hundred times.”

“Well. Yes. But it’s my job.”

Alex took a deep breath. “But you have more experience. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“I have experience in helping people relax and have sex for the first time. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“There we go.”

“You don’t care?”

“No. I don’t.” Damián wiped away the last of his tears. “I want you to be comfortable with this. I don’t want you to do anything only because you think you need to.”

Alex felt a little relief. It wasn’t about the sex anymore. Alex had never been taken care of so well. The last time someone dried his tears, he was six. He had fallen in the park and skinned his knee. His mother had cleaned him up, scrubbed his face with a thin tissue, and his father had patted him on the shoulder and told him big boys didn’t cry over little things. He had said it smiling, trying to make Alex believe he was stronger than he thought.

“Here, let me turn on some music. Can I connect to this?”

Damián picked up the small speaker on Alex’s nightstand. He fumbled with it and his phone for a few seconds and soft, lyric-less music began playing. Alex had no idea what it was, but it was nice. Slow, soft. 

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s been a while since I’ve done this,” Damián said.

“What? Had sex?”

“Non-work-related sex, yeah.”

“Is it any different?”

“Yeah. For me, at least.” Damián laid his hand on Alex’s chest. “Why don’t we get to know each other a little bit. Are you feeling better?”

Alex nodded, honored that Damián wasn’t freaked out. Crying before sex had to have been one of the most embarrassing things a person could do, and Damián had just brushed it off.

Damián picked up Alex’s hand and laid it on his own chest. There was muscle, though not a lot. Damián was more slim than toned. Up close, Alex could see that now. There has always been an illusion that he had nice muscles under his clothes.

Alex trailed his hand down, past Damián’s hip, and to his thigh.

Damián put his hands on Alex’s cheeks. For a disgustingly sappy moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. And Alex could only think about how kind Damián was.

“Are you ready?” Damián whispered, almost like he was afraid of startling Alex.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me if you need to stop.” Damián began kissing him again. “I’ll be gentle with you, okay? I’ll take it slow.”

“Okay.”

Damián slid down from Alex’s hips to his legs.

His kissing trailed from Alex’s lips to his jaw and down to his chest. It was like Alex was suddenly given a million new nerve endings. He had no idea that someone’s lips pressed to his sternum would make him feel like every cell in his body was on fire.

“Fuck,” he moaned, not even bothered by how cringe-inducing he would think it was later.

Damián kissed him one last time before sitting up and re-positioning his body.

He slid Alex inside him.

And Alex had thought kissing felt good.

It didn’t last long. It wasn’t like in movies where everything happened slow and sensually, perfectly timed with quick breathing.

Alex was so pent up, it ended fairly quickly.

One moment, his heart was racing and his hands were reaching out to grab Damián’s hair and the bedsheets. All of his senses were exploding.

The next, his breath was caught in his chest. His fingers curled tight around Damián’s hair, and he hoped he didn’t hurt Damián when he pulled his fist. He wanted to arch his back, but Damián was still firmly planted on his hips.

“Fuck,” he said. Not a moan this time but a breathy statement.

Damián had one hand planted on Alex and the other around himself. His eyes were closed. His breathing was heavy until he gasped and dragged his nails across Alex’s hips.

He collapsed next to Alex.

“Oh my god,” he said.

“Was that too quick?” Alex asked.

“No. No. No.” Damián raised himself up and kissed Alex on the cheek. Their faces were drenched in sweat. “It was perfect.”

Laying there, the effects wearing off, Alex was starting to settle into disbelief. He had just had sex—short sex, very vanilla sex—with Damián. And Damián said it was perfect.

It couldn’t have been perfect.

But Damián kissed him again and was still touching him, his hand over Alex’s soft middle. Maybe finishing quickly wasn’t as awful as everyone made it out to be. Maybe it had been good for Damián.

And for Alex. He had never been so close to someone. Physically, of course. But emotionally as well. He knew that sex would have to be a vulnerable thing. There was so much to it—getting undressed, laying out for someone. But he didn’t expect himself to weep.

“I’m sorry I cried,” Alex said.

“It’s okay. You’re in-touch with your emotions. I think it’s sweet.”

“You really think that?”

“Yes.”

Damián began cleaning them up. He cleaned up Alex first and then himself and re-arranged the bedsheets.

He returned to the bed and pressed close to Alex’s side.

“If you want to know, this is so much better than some guy giving me a friction burn and then leaving me half-hard,” Damián said.

Alex huffed out a little laugh. “That happens?”

“Yes! All the time. And it’s not terrible, but I’m also like. Okay. You could have bought yourself a toy for cheaper. I’m too expensive to be used as a dildo.”

“Ew.”

“Toys are fine, Alex.”

“No, I mean. Ew. People use you as a dildo. That’s not nice.”

“It’s not, but—” Damián sighed. “Sometimes people aren’t nice to sex workers. Shocking, I know. But look at your co-workers. They set you up on a date with a sex worker as a prank. There’s levels to that.”

“I know.”

“But, hey, at least you were so incredibly naive and kind that night.”

“Naive?”

“We got all the way to the hotel room before you realized what was happening.”

“I just thought you were from out of town.”

Damián laughed. He laid his arm across Alex’s chest. It was warm and heavy, and Alex loved it.

“Do you want to stay the night?” Alex asked. He figured it was polite to ask, and he hoped that Damián would say yes.

“If you don’t mind.”

Damián’s eyes were closing. He must have been exhausted. Alex rolled onto his side so that he was facing him.

“Want me to turn off the light?”

“If you’re ready to go to sleep.” Damián rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry I’m already falling asleep.”

The adrenaline had worn off. Alex was feeling drowsy. Drowsy and calm and perfectly willing to fall asleep in Damián’s arms.

He turned off his bedside light. In the dark, there was a rustling of sheets. Damián’s hand found his waist, and he pulled Alex close.

“Goodnight,” Alex whispered.

Damián didn’t say anything back. All Alex could hear was quiet, heavy breathing. It all felt right. Alex pulled the sheets over the both of them and closed his eyes. His mind totally chill for the first time in a long time and his body was comfortable and warm, he fell asleep.

[omiscurls]

I love your writing and how much you’re able to bring out the true personalities of each character!! I was wondering if you could do Kaeya, Xiao, Diluc, Zhongli, and Childe celebrating y/n’s bday. (My birthday was a couple of days ago but I didn’t receive any greetings from my genshin team for some reason... 😔)

happy birthday

a/n: SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! as for your problem, have you tried looking in character>voiceover>voicelines? the wishes should appear there, i dont know what happened if they don't

plot: celebrating the reader's birthday

contains: kaeya, diluc, tartaglia, xiao, zhongli

warnings: brief mentions of alcohol, otherwise pure fluff

kaeya

a surprise party

to be completely honest, kaeya barely cares about his own birthday enough to even remember the date

and obviously he does remember yours, how could he not, but- he's just not used to celebrating, you know?

so watch him know very well your birthday is coming up, with a mindset like: "okay, you've got time, you'll figure something great out, it's gonna be amazing"

and the day or two before he realizes, he indeed wants to do something great and amazing, but he completely ran out of time

fortunately, who cares about reservations when your brother's a bar owner, right?

he figures out that if he waits till sunset with the party he still has an entire day he can spend of preparing everything he needs

so as you sleep peacefully, he sneaks out of the room at the break of dawn, ready to work his ass off

he doesn't want you feeling bad, after all, right?

the thing is, you do start to feel a bit bad, as an entire morning goes by, and not only is kaeya nowhere in sight, literally nobody is! you walk through the streets of mondstadt, looking for any familiar face to spend the time with, but the city seems awfully empty of your friends. you end up having fun at diona's cat's tail, her complaining about everyone, and you, surprisingly, joining in, but it still doesn't replace the companion of your friends.

you go over your day as per usual, and decide to bake yourself a cake, since you think that'll cheer you up. you run out of flour, though, so it's necessary to go over to the store and stock up on some. right as you cross the city's main square, you run into diluc.

"oh, sorry, haven't seen you" you say, not even lifting up your face to look at who's chest did you bump on, until he grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

"someone looks dejected" he says, and you almost want to punch him for not realizing why. instead of doing that, however pleasing it sounds, you just shrug your shoulders. "come on, you look like you could use a special drink of mine"

and with that, he pulls you towards angel's share, letting you complain about your day, though you don't explicitly say it's your birthday, still mad he didn't remember that on his own.

"so he completely ditched you without a word?" he acts surprised and offended "that's so awful-" he continues, opening the door before you.

just as he opens it, and you hear the word "awful" you see the bar as if for the first time. flowery garlands are up beneath the ceiling, the tables are arranged differently and covered with colorful, pastel table cloths, music is playing. the backdoor is opened and you see the outside of the building decorated in a similar manner, candles and fairy lights spread all over the place.

the sun is slowly setting over the buildings visible through the back door, and the atmosphere inside borders on magical, but to top that all off-

"happy birthday!" you hear a lot of voices shout, and your eyes widen at the sight of all those who you hold dear present. you can't help but smile, seeing all of them cheer, grinning from ear to ear.

"i-" you look over at diluc "how'd you pull this off?"

you swear you saw him crack a soft smile before admitting that he in fact, didn't. you're about to ask who did, then, but you're interrupted by a silvery voice, coming from behind you.

"i did" the voice says, a hand moving to cover your eyes "wanna guess who?" you hear a whisper inches away from your ear, shaking from surprise.

affection swells in your chest as you quietly say "kaeya", your smile growing fondler, knowing that aside from all your friends, he's here too, and as a mastermind, at that.

"hope you don't hold leaving you by yourself for a couple of hours against me" he continues, arms sneaking around your waist, chin rested on your shoulder "d'ya like it?"

emotion gets the better of you, and you don't know what to say, so choose only to nod eagerly.

"a lot" you finally whisper, much to kaeya's satisfaction.

"happy birthday, then" he says, suddenly pulling away from you, as to exclaim loudly "attention everyone!!" he takes a fork to ring on his glass "i hereby declare, that the next round's on me!"

cheers fill the room, along with one "yea right" and another "like we'd believe that" before the owner of the bar speaks up as well.

"as much as i'd like to see that" diluc settles "today's drinks are on the house."

diluc

a magical evening

so he’s a fan of planning

not a diehard fan, but a fan nonetheless 

it’s just, he would rather have things planned ahead than wake up a day before and not know what to do (like a kaeya) like an idiot.

so you bet he has already calculated how much time he has left the moment you told him the date of your birthday.

unlike kaeya, he prefers to be working alone, but also likes to keep his plans a surprise. he himself hates surprises, but has to admit, doing one for someone else is quite the fun 

he stays quiet about your birthday coming up until the very last moment, and if you want to ask him if he wants to do anything with you that day, he says he already has something in mind, you know, nonchalantly. as if he hadn’t been thinking about it for archons know how long 

he’ll wake up before you just to wish you a happy birthday the moment you wake up, and he might be unusually affectionate for a bit, but don’t even bother asking what he has planned out - he won’t tell, not even if you beg. 

diluc wanted to kick you out of the house all day. “oh, there’s shopping to be done” “oh, this lady wanted to talk to you”, or “you know, come to think of it, didn’t jean say she had something she’d wanted to show you for your birthday?” every lame excuse in the book, he has used it. 

you decide to finally grant him what he so obviously wanted, and leave, choosing to walk all around the city, and even outside the gates, you make it quite a trip, not knowing when to come back. 

you smile upon thinking about how secretive he tried to be, but how even he, the mighty descendant of one of the noble families of mondstadt, a man as collected and stoic as can be, couldn’t contain his excitement. you saw all his little side smiles and the way he bit his lip a little after settling today’s rough plans with you, he was so happy, you’re satisfied just by seeing that, sometimes forgetting the real reason for why he was actively plotting something. 

you walk and walk, and then walk some more, but your legs start to hurt, and you’re growing hungry, so you decide to finally get back home. 

when you approach the winery, you can see the lights in the ballroom are lit up from a mile away. your heart can’t help but flip with excitement, since diluc hates using the room, hates throwing parties, and would much rather just forget it exists. 

it’s a beautiful venue though, looks like something out of a fairytale, and you always tell him how much you love it. it’s no surprised he decided to use it, but you can’t wait to see it anyway. 

as you get closer to the building, it becomes more and more apparent that the ballroom isn’t the only place that got upgraded to a five star level for one night and one night only. the building looks amazing, and the gates are open all the way, as if there was a party to be thrown and guests to arrive any time soon. 

but as you’re welcomed into the mansion, there’s no one else in the hall, other than a dressed up diluc, his hair in a high pony, just how you always said you liked it, wearing a suit you hadn’t seen on him since... well, you don’t even recall. 

“well, if it isn’t my honorary guest” he announces with an official tone, almost making you a bit flustered. 

“what’s all this? am i not, i don’t know, underdressed?” you giggle nervously, and he approaches you, a tiny little black box in his hand. 

“you could wear a potato sack and shine brighter than all the stars together” he says softly, showing you the little box. “and as tradition orders, happy birthday.”

you carefully open the box, a simple, silver necklace resting on the little cushion inside. you take it out, and watch the ornament, but can’t for the life of you figure out what it is. 

“you see” diluc provides an explanation “it’s a common thing to do to gift someone jewellery as a gift, and almost as common to have necklaces with your star constellation. that is, the allignment the stars were in the moment you were born. but i decided, that i wanted to give you one with the alignment that shone on the sky on the happiest day of my life. well, according to mona it did.” 

you stay silent for a second, astonished with the present, before asking 

“and that is?”

“the day we met.”

tartaglia

how to surprise your lover 101

when i tell you this boy knew EXACTLY WHAT HE WAS DOING from the moment he first thought of it

now. he loves celebrating, anything, really, the atmosphere of a party is almost magnetic to him

he grew up thinking every person deserves to have an amazing day once a year, only about themselves, so it’s very obvious to him that he IS doing something, and it needs to be huge

now, in a family as big as his, it was hard to keep things a secret, so he developed a whole plan on how to avoid having you finding out what he was planning

and that is: by having you know

it’s really getting annoying, how everybody keeps walking up to you, for a good week now, and asking if you’re excited for the big party childe’s throwing. the first time you hear it, you almost immediately run to confront him about it, since you explicitly said that a party, a big one, at that, is the last thing you want.

he obviously says that it’s nothing, and you needn’t worry about that. not that you trust his words, obviously, but you let it go, partly because you know how attached he is to the idea of a huge celebration, and partly because arguing with someone as stubborn can really be tiring.

so you settle, and fake a smile for every conversation with the alleged “guests” for your alleged party, thinking you’ll just suffer through it and then just do something with your childe the next day, having yourself plan it.

the wait is stressful, and when you finally see tartaglia walk through your bedroom door, dressed up really nicely, with a soft ribbon to tie on your eyes, so you wouldn’t see anything before it’s “time”, you almost want to ditch him, but that would be too rude.

complying begrudgingly, you let him guide you through the city, feeling the cold evening air hit your skin, wondering where did he set up this party of his, since you don’t hear anything.

oh god, is everyone gonna jump out of hiding yelling “happy birthday”? please, not that, at least not that.

when he finally unties the material covering your eyes, you see nothing but a wooden platform at the end of the harbor, with a blanket set up, some really nice-smelling food and what appears to be champagne laying on it. the sun is setting slowly behind the mountains in the distance, the only sound you hear being waves crushing on the rocks.

you can’t help but gasp.

“but” you turn around to face childe with a questioning look “what about the party?”

“what party?” he looks surprised “i never said anything about any party” he adds with a knowing smirk.

as you analyze your surroundings, he watches you with a soft smile.

“come on, don’t be so shocked now” he finally says “i know you better than to plan you something you’d hate. i’m not THAT much of an asshole”

his giggle sounds almost too good in the beautiful scenery around you, and you can’t help but let your eyes water for a little while, before rapidly blinking the tears back.

“is this more similar to what you’ve dreamed of?” he asks.

“yeah” you whisper “yes, it is”

“well, that’s the only thing that matters. shall we?” his hand points to the blanket, and you nod, smiling.

this may or may not be inspired by that one episode of Brooklyn 9-9

xiao

trying something new

birthdays? what’s that

you mean to tell him he has lived two thousand years of his life without realizing the day it was brought to him should be celebrated?

yup, no, you can explain it all you want, he still doesn’t get the idea. he just finds it to be way too trivial, okay?

what gets to him, though, is that there’s a custom of doing something meaningful for the person celebrating their birthday, to make them feel important

well, you should’ve led with that, that he can do!

he would never just go and straight up ask for help if he needed any. so don’t be surprised if you hear yet more new stories about the yaksha that allegedly lives near wangshu inn sneaking into the kitchen, or watching through the glass.

he spends HOURS waiting for the chef to finally prepare the dish he hopes for, and once he does, he follows every step very carefully. and then again. and again. and one more time, up until he feels he can do it himself.

when he finally gets to enter said kitchen, it’s already way past midnight, and everything is dark, barely visible. he manages to find his way around, though, preparing all the ingredients, and starting to mix them the same way the chef did.

turns out it’s not as easy as it looks, for example, he didn’t measure how long this thing is supposed to be cooked, or on what temperature, so the process gets a little messy at one point. he might even have to start over. like, twice, tops.

it’s already nearing dusk when he finishes, taking the fruit of his works with him.

as per usual, you wait for him on the roof, and as per usual you don’t realize he’s right behind you until he speaks up.

“happy birthday” he says out of the blue, causing you to jump up in shock.

“oh my, xiao, you scared me! again!” you laugh.

“it’s today, isn’t it?” he continues, as if he didn’t hear you. when he sees you nod, he awkwardly shows you the package he held behind his back, watching closely as you open it with a questioning look.

inside, there’s a carefully wrapped serving of almond tofu, it could use a little bit of touch ups, but it still looks and smells delicious nonetheless.

“did you do this yourself?” you turn around to face him, smiling in disbelief

“mhm” he gets a little flustered, and decides not to tell you about his little kitchen adventure. “is it… is it good?” he asks, and you smile even more fondly.

“why don’t you come over here and taste it with me?”

zhongli

one can never go wrong with a classic

zhongli knows every single tradition there is to know.

literally.

so you don’t have to even tell him anything - he knows. he might not know what to do with his knowledge, but he does know what would make you happy

this man is a gentleman who believes that some moves to make someone swoon never get old

he even got a free day from work just for the occasion, or he may just think he told hu tao that he wants it? either way, he’s not there. not like his boss isn’t used to it.

right as the clock strikes 5 pm, you hear a knocking on your door. checking how you look one last time, you smile to the reflection in the mirror, and walk over to answer.

as you open said door, you find yourself dumbfounded at the sight of a completely soaked zhongli, rain pouring heavily behind his back. his hair sticks to his face, and all the layers of his suit seem drenched to their very core, but a smile you see so rarely paints his face, as he presents you with a bouquet of flowers.

and my oh my, just how huge is it! he barely even manages to hold it in hand, and the flower crowns hide his entire chest and half his face when he places them in front of you.

“i believe this is for you” he says gently “are you ready to go?”

you can’t even find the right words, as you size the bouquet up, taking it from him with a quiet “thank you so much” before taking it back to the house, already in search of the right vase to put them in.

“may i come in and dry myself up a bit?” he asks, still from the doorstep, and you laugh before granting him the permission.

when the both of you are ready to go, you meet in the hallway, both smiling softly at the other, a bit awkwardly, as the beginning of every meeting is.

“you look even better than usually” he finally says, pride rising in his chest at how your grin widens.

“same goes for you, mr zhongli” you answer just as cheekily, waiting for what he’s gonna say next.

“well, thank you, but i don’t think today’s about me now, is it?” he counters with a bit of a side eye. “shall we go?” he points to the open door, and the both of you leave, you grabbing his arm to fit under one umbrella.

“may i ask where’re we going?”

you can’t miss the way his smile turns prideful and confident as he says:

“i” he accentuates “am taking you out to dinner”

he might feel a bit offended by how sarcastically you gasp at the revelation, but it’s okay. as long as he gets to see you laugh, it’s okay.

daily reminder that requests are open [here]

[bibliosophist]

Asmodeus with a mc who is insecure. They thinks they are not good enough for him and think he'd rather be with someone prettier. He find out and go's to comfort mc.

Tonight is the night. Panacea Skincare is having a launch party to celebrate their new line of products, and Asmodeus is the face of the campaign. He’s talked about nothing else but this party for a fortnight, and now it’s here.

The first thing you see when you enter the hall is a screen displaying a thirty foot tall photo of your boyfriend. In it Asmo is sprawled across a white marble bench set amid a lush, verdant garden. One of his milky white arms rests above his head, the other lays across his bare stomach. Only a swath of silky white fabric covers his hips. He’s lithe and lean, with both the indentations of his ribs and the toned planes of his stomach on display. Letters forming the words Panacea Skincare scrawl themselves across the bottom of the screen.

He squeals as he runs across the room towards his own likeness, pulling you along behind him.

“I can’t believe it! (Y/N), look, it’s me!”

“It’s you. You look incredible. I mean, you always look incredible, but you’re practically glowing.”

He giggles. “I know, right? They didn’t even alter the photograph at all. That’s one of their principles- no retouching. Panacea wants everyone to know that they’re honest and authentic. But,” he grins, leaning in to whisper in your ear, “why not stack the deck in your favour, right? That’s why they came to me. Who else has skin this close to flawless?”

You smile and squeeze his hand. “Nobody.”

“Exactly! Darling, would you mind taking a picture of me with me?” he asks, striking a pose next to the photo. He leans forward slightly, one hand braced on his thigh while the other throws a peace sign. He winks at the camera.

You snap a half dozen photos of him from different angles. You know what Asmo means when he says “take a picture.”

A high pitched squeal breaks your impromptu photoshoot. When you whip your head around to the source of the noise, you find a beautiful young demon standing stock still, pointing at Asmo. “It’s him! It’s Asmodeus!”

In a matter of seconds, Asmo is engulfed in a swarm of admirers. Some hang off his arms, others clutch at his hands. One particularly enamored demon drapes themself over Asmo’s shoulders. Camera flashes sting your eyes- it seems that the entire room is desperate for a selfie with your boyfriend. You can just barely see Asmo’s amid the crowd. A perfect smile lights up his face- he’s absolutely in his element.

As the mass of demons around him continues to grow, you’re shunted to the edge of the room. You don’t really mind; it’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Being with Asmo means having to be okay with sharing his attention, and you've accepted that. Still, you can’t say that it doesn’t make your stomach twist when you see the gorgeous demon with their head on Asmo’s shoulder whisper something in his ear that makes the Avatar of Lust giggle.

You’re so preoccupied with watching the encounter that it takes you a moment to notice the two demons standing a few feet away from you, heads bent together over their drinks. It isn’t until you hear your name that your ears perk up.

“(Y/N)... Yes, that sounds right. (Y/N).” says one of the demons. They both have sleek, bottle glass green hair down to their waists and skin the colour of sun bleached canvas. Sirens, you think.

Beside them, their similarly striking friend snorts. “Even their name is common. I can’t believe Asmodeus, of all demons, has settled for that.”

“Maybe they’re more than meets the eye. You’ve met the other human, Solomon, right? They say he’s the most powerful sorcerer to have ever lived.”

“Unlikely,” says the other one. They make no attempt to hide the way their eyes rove over you, or the way their lip curls before they continue. “If they had any kind of magical power, they’d spruce themselves up a bit. Would you be caught dead looking like that if you could help it?”

“No, I suppose not,” says the first, sipping at their drink.

You feel the blood rise to your face. It’s not like you haven’t thought the same thing yourself a thousand times since you started dating Asmo, but to hear it said out loud...

Ducking your head to hide the tears pricking your eyes, you make your way across the hall to the washrooms. Thank whoever designed this building, they’re single occupant. You lock the door behind you and, closing the lid of the toilet, sink down onto it.

They’re right. You know they’re right. You see the way eyes linger on you when you’re together. You went to high school, you know that look. The “what’s he doing with them” look. What did Asmo see in you? He could have his choice of lovers from any of the three realms. Even among humans, you’re... average. What does the most beautiful creature in existence want with average?

You feel the telltale sting of tears rising to your eyes just as a knock echoes through the small room. “There’s someone in here,” you say, trying your best to keep your voice steady.

“(Y/N), it’s me.” Asmodeus.

“I- I’m in here.”

“Hon, open the door. Please.”

With a monumental effort, you push back the tears. Smoothing down the outfit you’d so carefully chosen for his big event, you cross the room and unlatch the door. As soon as the lock clicks open, he’s pushing his way into the bathroom and relocking the door behind him.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, reaching for your hand. Instinctually you pull back. If he touches you now, you know you won’t be able to hold the tears in. He looks crushed. “(Y/N)? Did I do something?”

Well, crap. The very last thing you wanted to do was ruin this night for him. He’d been so excited. You couldn’t have him thinking that this was in any way his fault.

“No, no, of course not. I just- just have a headache, that’s all.”

“(Y/N)-”

“Really,” you say, turning away from him as the tears threaten to reappear. “Just go back out there, I’ll be fine in a few min-”

A warm hand on your waist spins you around. “I thought we promised never to lie to each other. Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

The look in his eyes as they try to catch yours pushes you over the edge, and before you know it you’re sobbing. He pulls you to him, rubbing his hand over your back in slow circles. You pull away, knowing that your tears will leave ugly marks on his beautiful shirt. When you try to say as much he shushes you, pulling you against him even tighter. “To hell with the shirt. What happened?”

Knowing there’s no way you’ll be able to brush this off now you relay what you overheard the Sirens saying. “And the worst thing Asmo, the very worst thing is that I know they’re right. I know it. And I know that someday you’ll leave me, and-”

“Is that really what you think of me?”

“W-what?”

“Do you really think I’m so shallow?”

“No, I didn’t mean- it’s just that you’re so beautiful. You could have anyone- absolutely anyone. Why would you settle for someone that isn’t your equal? Or as close to your equal as anyone could get, because I mean-”

“Stop,” Asmo says, cutting you off. “Listen to me. Normally I’d love nothing more than to listen to you babble about how beautiful I am, but not while you’re being so ridiculous.” He sighs. “I’ve had a lot of lovers, (Y/N). I’ve been with beautiful creatures- Demons, humans, even angels. But,” he runs his hands down your arms, slipping his hands into yours, “None of them were you.”

“So what, you’ve had your fill and now you’re ready to slum it?” You know you’re being belligerent, but you can’t help it.

“I absolutely did not say that, and you know it. I do think you’re beautiful, (Y/N). Of course I do. But that’s not why I love you. I love you for you. Do you only love me because I’m beautiful?”

“No,” you mumble, “but it’s a nice perk.”

The vibrations of his chuckle tickle your cheek. “Darling, in my long, long life I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. Helen of Troy didn’t make my heart stutter like you do.”

“You dated Helen of Troy?”

“‘Dated’ Is a strong word, and that’s a story for another time. Please believe me when I say you’re the one I want to be with.”

You sniffle one final time, squeezing his fingers in yours. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. And, once I’ve taught those Sirens how to accessorize with their own intestines, I would love nothing more than to spend the rest of the night with you on my arm. What do you say?”

[imagineromanreigns]

Unfinished Business – Part 3

As successful as Mr. Anoa'i is, I don't understand why he continues to deal with these stuffy nobodies. He could easily separate himself and start up his own company. Ten times over. Yet here he is, and here I am, stuffing myself into a dress and heels I'd much rather keep buried in the depths of my closet. 

I love me a good party.. or social gathering if you will, and I love me some cute clothes as much as the next one, but I don't want to go mingle with The Stuffs. I'm practically stomping my feet as I slide on my pumps.

I'd quit this job if it wasn't for him. Honest to God. 

And the paycheck. 

But mainly him. 

Come downstairs. 

The text I've been waiting for, glass of wine in hand. I slip back the last sip and a half and brace myself.. to be completely alone with him. It’s a rarity. 

I know better. 

As much as I'm sure Mr. Anoa'i does. 

Yet, he extended the invite.. he offered me a ride to the museum and back.. how could I resist? 

Out of my apartment and down the elevator, I take one last look at the little black dress that could never do me wrong in the glass door and tuck my clutch into my side as the doorman wishes me a good night. Looking past the limo eating up the lanes, I look for the black escalade I've grown to recognize. I whip my phone out to text that I was indeed in front of my building before he turned the corner, when I hear him clear his throat straight ahead of me. 

Something trancelike happens when I look up that transforms the barely red anymore carpet and the building's awning above it almost glint.. because Jeeeesus. 

I thought he looked good in work suits and office parties, but Joseph Anoa'i, in a luxurious, deep blue tuxedo, cuff links and all. 

Drooling. Among other things. 

And to top it all off, accompanied by a freakin' Escalade limo?! Shivers roll down my spine, quickly spreading everywhere else. I imagine my eyes pop out of my head, and the curls on my head go poof into smoke. 

"I promised you a good time in exchange for a dull evening, did I not?"

"I like to believe you keep your promises, boss."

A devilish smirk splays across his pink lips. "Always." 

The door pops up behind him and he holds his hand out to me. Such a gentleman. He even waits until I'm fully settled in my seat to slide in across from me. As he sounds something off to the driver, miles ahead, I take a look around. 

Bougie bougie. 

The door, the underneath of the seats —and almost everything else— glows softly, a mini tv above the mini bar stocked with scotch and my favorite wine.. coincidence?

Hm. I think not. 

That suit clinging to him though.. the things I would do..

The limo goes into drive, smooth sailing. Then the partition between us rises and we're alone. 

Ish.

Mostly.

"What is it about limos?" Joe murmurs, chuckling to himself, licking his lips. 

What's that now? I tilt my head. "Would you believe me if I told you this was my first time?"

His eyebrows rise. "I'm happy to be the one to pop your cherry. Would you like a drink?" 

Good grief. Deep, deep down below, sparks go off. There's a lot of things I can do for the first time in here. "Supplying me with that wine doesn't mean you know me. Just an FYI."

"Perhaps I do.. perhaps not." He leans ahead slightly, collecting and filling a wine glass for me and fixing a scotch for himself. A double. "Nevertheless, I pay attention."

Salut. 

I clink my glass to his and take a grateful sip to quenching my thirst. Slightly. He's not wrong, but I'll never tell him that. I will say, "I'll give you a brownie point."

His eyes travel down the curves of my body, down to the velvet pumps crossed between his shoes and back up again. 

"I'll take what I can get." He throws back the scotch and sets his glass back on the bar. 

"Why'd you ask me to accompany you tonight, Mr. Anoa'i?"

"What do you mean?" He tops off my glass a little bit. 

"I mean, yes, I'm your PA. My company is usually expected. But this is not a work function. So, again, why me?"

Joe runs one hand over his head and the other down his beard.. Do I make him nervous? Unsettled, perhaps? Then his dark eyes fall to my lips. Or my breasts. Could be either or. They’re sitting high in this tight dress.

"We've had some good times outside the office... and you're great company to keep." 

Is that so..? "Am I playing a role of some sort? The girlfriend? The fiancé? The silent wife?" I giggle, almost too loud. 

He laughs, sitting all the way back, stretching out the length of his body a bit. God damn does he look good stretched out on that bench. Good enough to straddle. 

"No one can play you, quite like you.. in truth, it's always good times with you." 

Then I see it. It might be nighttime and there may not be much light in here but I know I see one thing for certain. 

Joe might be trying to ply me with liquor, but I've never needed it. Not where he's concerned. I do slip back what's left of my drink before settling my glass beside his. 

"That's good to know.. I thought it was just my blinding good looks and sass," I quip, and he laughs because he knows I'd never be caught dead talking about myself like that. 

"You do compliment me though." 

I can't help the sly smirk that graces my face. "I can do much more." I'm partially kidding. 

But not really. 

I can ply him. 

With me. 

I uncross my legs, spreading them the couple inches my dress will allow. 

We stare at each other a moment, where I become highly aware of where I am, who I'm with, and all the scenarios that could possibly play out right now. Where I'm highly aware of my breathing, and Joe's, and that there's a man sitting a good 8ft or so ahead of us. 

Then Joe all but falls to his knees, grabbing mine and pulling me to his hips as he goes, shoving my dress halfway up my thighs. He grabs my face, his thumbs sweeping over my cheeks right before his lips collide with mine. 

That moment of awareness slips away and I'm in a trance all over again. I don't hear anything but the soft moans he makes with his lips on mine, the grunts he makes as he bites at my neck. I wrap my arms around him, taking his bun in one hand, pulling on it softly. He lets out a soft growl, looking up at me, eyes heavy and heady. I glance at his now swollen pink lips for a second, then take them again, hungrily making my way to his neck. 

He throws his head back further, giving me better access before almost forcefully removing me. 

No shame. 

There's a small spot. I lick and kiss it softly and he smiles, scandal and mischief written all over his face. 

Joe takes a handful of curls and teaches me a lesson of his own, taking the other hand to expose my breasts to the cool air. My nipples were already hard, but they perk up to an almost painful point now. 

I almost beg him to warm them up with his tongue, the same tongue traveling everywhere but. 

Down my jaw, across my neck, along my collarbones.. he nips and licks all around my nipples like he's saving the cherry for dessert. My knees buckle, bringing me closer to him. Then his tongue finally flicks one, immediately swallowed up by his mouth before he begins to takes turns, torturing me at this point. There's just enough bite with just enough licks to have me squirming, realizing I'm grinding against his stomach. 

That doesn't make me stop. 

Nor does he. 

My nails dig into his back. It feels so good, he feels so good against me, I could almost explode already. Almost. 

Only now, he does stop, lowering my back to the seat, then pushes my dress completely over my thighs as he settles himself back on his heels. He takes the chance to look me up and down again, smoothing one hand up my calf, under my thigh, slinging my right leg over his shoulder. 

"Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" 

Joe kisses the inside of my thigh, sending sparks up to the apex of my thighs. Taking small nips at me as he goes, his right hand mirrors his previous actions to my left leg. 

I didn't think he actually expected an answer until my eyes closed briefly and he snaps the thin material of my thong at the crotch and his voice drowns out the sounds of everything around us.

“I believe I asked you a question,” he growls, biting down on a chunk of thigh demanding one. 

"You have not, boss," I pout. Extra pouty. I wonder if he knows he looks real, real, good from this angle too. 

"Forgive me, love. I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice muffled by my thighs, his mouth inching lower and lower. He looks up once more with that devilish smile. "You look so, so, beautiful tonight."

"Spell it." I shift my hips over him. 

"Gladly." 

Joe pulls my thighs, lifting one over his shoulder, supporting me with one arm underneath and the other splayed across my pelvis to keep me locked in place.. because FUCKKKK. 

I'm not sure if I audibly cry out because I'm suddenly devoid of all hearing. I know I grab a hand full of hair and grab ahold of the sturdy forearm holding me down.

Just a couple slow, slow,  laps of his tongue and I'm already swimming. 

Spiraling.

He unlocks his arm from my waist, moving to pull my other leg over his shoulder. His hands smooth their way under my ass, just at the base, sits further back on his heels and my back lifts from the leather beneath me. My heels cross behind his back. 

I'm almost suspended, but I'm not. I'm perfectly angled for what he needs. Looking.. up at him, I almost wonder if he's done this before, but I push the thought from my mind. 

"Let's cross something off our bucket lists," Joe says, licking his lips before he kisses his way up my thighs once more, slipping his tongue to the exact right spot. 

He said our. 

I instinctively grab at his already messed up hair with one hand, the other above my head on the seat for some support because with the way I'm shaking...

One more swipe of his warm tongue against my flesh and I succumb to it. The orgasm rages through me, sending violent shudders throughout my body. Yet, Joe doesn't stop.. I'm still reeling, gasping for air. And he goes for another one, wasting no time, wasting nothing. Watching him, so focused, so determined, the second orgasm starts to build fast. 

I look up and realize there's a sunroof that takes up just about the length of the limo. The sky is just dark enough to see the stars peeking through. 

That moment of awareness again. 

My breath catches in my throat, Joe wrapping his arms under and over my thighs to keep me as steady as possible. 

The second one sends me off. 

Screaming out what? I'm not sure, but I know I see stars for what seems like ever. Could be the sunroof, could be the orgasms, could be him.

When I snap back to reality, Joe is helping me scooch back up the leather seat, all smiles and messed up hair. While I'm exhausted from that venture alone, as soon as he sits back up, I slide down onto my knees, easily crawling the short distance. He looks down at me excitedly, tongue practically hanging from the corner of his mouth. He leans over and kisses me, hard, his tongue moving with purpose. To get me wetter and wetter, no doubt. 

It’s working. 

And I can taste myself on his tongue. 

Much sooner than I'd appreciate, he pulls away, smacking one last loud kiss to my lips. 

"As much as I'd love to watch you return the favor right now, we're two minutes away and I want to enjoy that for a lot longer." He smacks my bare ass, more smiles, he pulls my dress back into place and slides my now broken thong into his breast pocket, sending tingles everywhere down south. "Let's put ourselves back together." 

I can't help but laugh at him dusting off his knees then fiddling with his bun, that I'm going to end up fixing for him. I'm not quite sure what Mr. Money Bags is thinking.. but it was worth every second, if I do say so myself. 

[spencersawkward]

i’m so happy ur on tumblr now!! i love between the lines so much, could you write a blurb or one shot about mgg and a younger co-star, but like very spicy if possible 🙃, idk i just love that scenario🥵.

i was literally about to write "omg i love this concept too!" and then i was like “well no fucking shit, sophi.” lol. YES i can 10/10 write you a one-shot with a similar scenario! also thank you for your kind words that was the first fic i ever wrote so it’s very near and dear to my heart!

summary: reader goes to a holiday party with her co-stars and best friend, Matthew... but all the fun happens in the dressing room.

content warnings: this one is quite dirty but i’m also proud of it lol. unprotected penetrative sex, oral (female receiving), degradation, use of the term “little girl,” creampie, age gap. dirty talk?

pairing: Fem!Reader/Matthew

word count: 4.7k

masterlist

"no."

"what do you mean, 'no’?” Matthew laughs, looking between me and the mirror.

"I look like the Ghost of Christmas Past." I lift up the soft white tulle of the dress, watching it float back down to settle over my skin. he's got his eyebrows raised and there's a smirk on his lips like he's holding back a laugh. I resist the urge to reach around and hit him.

"would you rather wear that?" he points to the punch-stained gown that's now laying pathetically over the back of the vanity chair. I genuinely ponder the idea for a moment.

"honestly, the crime scene vibes might work well with the theme of our show."

"seriously, it's not bad, Y/N!" he insists, drawing my attention back to the mirror.

"you're just saying that because you're the one who spilled on me and you don't want people making fun of how clumsy you are." I cross my arms over my chest. he gives me a dubious expression in our reflection on the wall.

"do I seem like I care about that?" he challenges.

"I--" the truth is that no, Matthew is not the type. Matthew is the kind of person to flounder in front of anyone and proceed to crack a joke about himself. he's humble. but I kind of like when we talk like this, our back and forth.

after a year of working together on the same show, he and I have grown incredibly close. I'm friends with all my co-stars, but he and I just have the natural friendship chemistry that makes me want to spend all my time with him. when we're not on set, we're hanging out on his couch or ordering dinner or driving out of town to check out wacky sites around California. we just have fun. pure, clean, honest fun.

of course, in my dreams it isn't pure or honest. frankly, there's a lot of sordid scandal to what goes on in my head when he accidentally touches my arm or brushes his fingers over mine. the amount of times I have gone to cast parties trying to work up the nerve to kiss him are embarrassing. he's older and more experienced and, obviously, he has no interest in me.

but that doesn't matter.

the only reason I'm standing in a dressing room alone with him is because he knew someone on the crew who could hook me up with a replacement for the night. he left while I slipped out of the old one and came back in only after knocking and checking, like, twice to make sure I was decent. he's so respectful that it's almost like he's afraid of making me think the wrong thing-- which makes me feel absolutely stupid for my almost schoolgirl crush.

"come on, you look great. let's go enjoy the party."

"was this a dress one of the victims was wearing?" I ask with a laugh.

"probably. not like we carry a lot of gowns on set." he grabs my hand, makes my heart leap into my throat. he only does it to urge me along, but it still feels intimate as I follow him out of the room, tossing one more evaluative glance at myself in the mirror. I seem terrified.

we continue to do our rounds at the party, Matthew filling my glass of eggnog even though I hate it. I wince and take a sip while we talk to some of our co-stars.

"what's wrong with you?" Shemar chuckles at my expression.

"lost a bet."

"with whom?" he glances between Matthew and me, knowing damn well already from the mischievous grin on the former's face.

"I told you not to take it." Matthew says over the rim of his glass.

"if you mention it one more time, I'm gonna throw up eggnog all over your outfit." I threaten him, but we're both smiling. Shemar frowns.

"what was the bet?"

"you know David-- the guy I was telling you about?" I reply quickly, determined to give my side of the story. Shemar nods; I told him last week when David oh-so-chivalrously danced up on me at a club and asked me out. usually in those situations, guys just want a one-night stand, so I was impressed and agreed. "anyway, Matthew said if it turned out that he was a weirdo, he would get to pick my drinks for the next week whenever we go out."

"your drinks? that's specific."

"she's so picky!" Matthew teases me.

"leave me alone, you dick!" I elbow him and he dodges just in time.

"tell him why he was a weirdo." he grins. the glare I give could kill. but Shemar is waiting expectantly for me to share the information, so I sigh and set my jaw before telling the truth.

"he collects antique dental tools."

"what?" Shemar laughs disbelievingly. I throw my hands up.

"I don't fucking know. we went back to his apartment and he showed me his whole collection."

"you're attracted to weird people, Y/N." Matthew says. I raise my eyebrows and almost say something that dooms me. I hold my tongue, however, and turn back to Shemar with a reserved smile.

"anyway, how are you?"

...

the cast holiday party is actually pretty fun. I tend to leave these functions early in favor of my couch and some ice cream, but something about the bright colors and the smell of wintergreen in the air makes me want to linger in the studio.

I stuff myself with sugar cookies and Matthew mercifully lets me switch from eggnog to Sprite. normally, I'd drink at such an occasion, but I'm a messy drunk and this is one of my first real jobs as an actress. I don't want to even come close to jeopardizing that by breaking some expensive equipment or something.

my throat gets a little sore from all the talking I do-- Paget and I spend about half an hour horribly belting out Christmas carols at the baby grand piano they brought in. they originally had someone hired to play it, but the guy disappeared about an hour ago.

by the time it hits around ten pm, my limbs are tired. I thought people would be leaving (a lot of them have families), but the party is still very much raging when I start to wind down. maybe it's because I'm sober.

"hey." Matthew sidles up next to me as I sit at the piano bench with a slice of lime in my mouth. I like to suck the juice out of them; sour things are my favorite.

"hi." I pluck the fruit out and drop it back into my soda. he sits next to me, his cologne filling my senses with the kind of sensual warmth that it shouldn't be making me feel. he always smells so good.

"ladylike." he gestures to the movement.

"is that why you call me 'princess?'" I smirk, half-joking.

"once-- I called you that once!" he defends. it's not a lie. he used the nickname when he was mocking me for my somewhat selective food preferences. it was sarcastic, but I wish it wasn't. something about the way he said it in the moment made me blush.

"is there a reason you've come to grate my nerves?" I raise an eyebrow and he turns away from me as he bites back a smile. I pout. "what?"

"you're talking like a Jane Austen novel."

"what's wrong with Jane Austen?" I defend, skin heating up. his proximity is doing things to me that it shouldn't.

"nothing," he glances at me before moving his gaze to the ivory keys. "do you play?"

"elementary level, sure." I giggle. he runs his fingers over them, never pressing down hard enough to release a sound. I'm entranced by the delicate nature of his actions, the veins and the curve of his fingertips, the sheer width of his hand. I think about it too much for it to be healthy.

"show me." it's a direct order, one that doesn't feel directive but still ends with me placing both hands on the piano and wracking my brain for something to play. I decide on a piece that Paget and I were doing earlier, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

I've never been quite good at piano, and the nearness of his body is like an anvil on my fingers, but I play anyway. and it feels good. his eyes are on me, drawn to my tracings over the instrument as they press and lift and glide.

"sing." I tell him.

"no!" he protests. I don't stop playing, only now getting into the thick of the tune.

"oh, come on. just the chorus..." I plead, turning my head to beg. "please?"

I bat my lashes playfully, fully intending it as a joke, but Matthew softens a bit. for a fraction of a second, I think he looks at my mouth. he turns his head back to the piano and lets out a quiet "here we are as in olden days... happy golden days of yore..."

"there you go!" I egg him on, and he starts to get more into it. his voice is absolutely off-key; he's no singer, and somehow that makes him even more endearing to me.

Matthew has always been this flawless, intimidating figure in my mind. even when we first met, I was certain that he was hiding something because everything else about him is so... perfect. he's funny, sweet, genuinely kind, handsomer than hell. it didn't make sense. but knowing that he can't carry a tune makes me feel a bit better. it humanizes his beauty.

while he sings, I can't help looking at him. his side profile is even more enchanting; the curve of his features meeting a smooth elegance in his jaw and cheek, especially when his mouth is open. he catches me smiling at him and returns it with his own gleeful face, now totally fine with singing like a fool in front of everyone. nobody is even really looking at us-- they're several drinks in and lost in their own universe of drunken laughter.

there's something kind of magical about that, I think. we're sober. when the song draws to a close, I lift my fingers off the keys and into my lap.

"you're quite the Pavarotti." I joke.

"the who?" he furrows his brow with a smile.

"he's a famous opera singer."

"oh," he laughs, "thanks, Mozart."

I twist my face up as I hide my smile. this is also part of the reason I could never tell Matthew how I feel; we just fit together too well. he almost always gets my references and I understand his, even though there's an age gap between us. he's an old soul with a youthful heart.

"how's your night going?" I ask him softly, changing the subject. he sets his hands on his lap, absent-mindedly toying with his fingers. it's not a nervous tendency at all. he does it whenever we're on set.

"as of right now? pretty damn good." he replies with a smile. I get warm again at the implication. he doesn't mean it like that, but god, do I wish he did.

"very smooth." I compliment appreciatively.

"how about you?"

"it was kind of boring, but then this rando sat next to me and started singing Christmas songs and it got a little better." I say flatly, grabbing my glass off the top of the piano and running my fingertip over the rim. he drops his head in a giggle.

"you're something else."

"insult?" I clarify.

"definitely a compliment."

"I like compliments."

"well, I wasn't lying before. you look really beautiful in that dress."

"the murder dress?" I glance down at it to hide the absolute wideness of my eyes at his words. he's completely flustering me and I'm starting to find it hard to breathe. he said I look beautiful. not "pretty," not "great"-- beautiful.

"yes, the murder dress." he gets a little pink in his cheeks, and that makes me want to explode on the spot.

"well, say goodbye to it because I'm gonna go change back into my plebeian clothes," I stand from the piano bench. "it's past my bedtime."

Matthew looks up at me with an unreadable expression and I feel my heart flutter in my chest. I hate leaving him. "do you wanna come with me? like-- walk with me?"

"sure." he nods, stands, and follows behind. I can feel his presence like a delightful reminder of the emotions surging in my stomach. we wind through the crowd of party-goers until we end up back in the dressing room, away from the party. it's quiet.

Matthew walks in with me, carrying our drinks in his hand, and he's about to stroll back out so I can change when I touch his arm. the door shuts automatically behind him.

"wait," I swallow quickly. "can you unzip me?"

"oh." Matthew looks at me, then at the glasses in his arms, then at the vanity. he sets them down and comes back quickly, his frame behind me while his fingertips locate the little piece at the top of my gown. my breath hitches in my throat when he brushes over my spine by accident, one nail dragging accidentally against my skin as the fabric slowly gives way. I don't know if he hears it-- it's nearly imperceptible-- but he definitely hesitates once he reaches the place where my back starts to curve into my ass. he pauses, doesn't breathe until he reaches the end of the zipper.

"there you go." he mutters. his voice is a little more hoarse than usual, and he clears his throat as he steps away. I know he's going to back out. he's going to back out of the room and wait for me to slip into nothing and I know, somehow, that he's going to be thinking about how I look in here with my clothes off. he's going to wish he stayed.

and I'm going to wish he'd done more than stayed.

before I can lose my nerve and allow the moment to be swallowed up by practicality, I shrug the straps of the dress down my shoulders and let gravity take over. it drops to the floor, leaving me in only my bra and panties. I can sense him behind me; he's silent for a moment.

"Matthew." I say, the name sitting on my tongue like a sugar cube. perfectly formed, slowly dissolving.

"y-yeah?" he stutters for the first time since I've met him.

"are you looking at my ass right now?" I ask, still turned around. the way he's frozen in place tells me that I'm right.

"yeah." he admits.

"you can touch it, if you want." I murmur softly. part of me doesn't think this is real, the way each sentence leaves my throat like it's been pre-planned. truly, I don't understand how my brain is moving so quickly.

"are you... sure?" he's hesitant, but even I can taste the longing.

"yes."

his hand smooths over my butt, softly at first like he's still not believing his own eyes, before moving back to grab it. he squeezes the flesh, and a low exhale from him tells me that he's excited.

"do you want more?" my voice barely carries. my head is almost foggy from how good it is to have his grip on my body, even in such a simple way. I can feel myself getting wet.

"how much more?" his lips brush over my shoulder and I get goosebumps. my mouth opens and closes for a moment, searching for the right words.

"however much you want."

it's flint and steel, the way he sparks. the air literally leaves my lungs when Matthew grabs my hips and spins me around to face him. my lips part as I peer up at him, at the lust that now darkens those hazel eyes and the way he holds mine. his touch is certain. he pulls our bodies together, tilts my chin up to kiss me.

it's passionate, strong, the kind of kiss that causes me to lean back a bit just to receive the full force of his desire. but I return the affection easily, moaning into his mouth. I've never been held the way that Matthew holds me. like I'm made of sugar glass, like he wants desperately to feel the soft give of my skin and make a home of me.

the heat between our bodies is almost overwhelming, and I sigh when he subtly pushes our hips together. his erection is against my stomach.

"fuck." I mutter when I pull away for air. Matthew doesn't stop his perfect movements, though, tugging my earlobe between his teeth and starting to leave love bites up my skin and over my shoulder. he chuckles against my throat. I shiver.

"you alright, little girl?" he asks.

"just--" I let out a moan at the sensation of his fingers exploring my bare waist. he reaches behind me to unclasp my bra. "just surprised."

"about?" he slides the straps down my shoulders and looks me in the eye. the lack of physical contact makes me whine.

"that you want me."

"how is that surprising?" he smiles, using one index finger to guide me to look at him.

"you don't seem like it."

Matthew raises his eyebrows as if I'm a crazy person. truly dumbstruck. "what?"

"you-- well, I don't know." I frown, but Matthew takes my hand and moves it over his torso until my palm is resting over the considerable bulge in his pants.

"is this enough proof?"

I struggle for words, sputtering. "yeah-- yeah, it is."

he bucks into my hand a little and I bite my lip, eyes moving up to meet his. something passes between us that I don't fully understand, but feel in my bones. I have never, in my life, wanted someone to fuck me as much as I want Matthew to fuck me right now. my jaw clenches.

"I need you." I tell him like this is the most relevant piece of information that will ever pass between us. he smirks.

"yeah?"

"mhmm."

"then lean against the wall and let me give you what you deserve." he orders. for a second, I try to think through what he means. then I look behind me at the open space and back up, him following me closely. his hands move up to cup my breasts, kneading and tweaking my nipples as he kisses my lips. the coolness against my back causes me to gasp, and he swallows the sound with his tongue before moving down my body.

he's torturously slow, taking one of my nipples into his mouth while he shrugs off his suit jacket. he switches to my other peak, one hand splayed over my stomach, and then proceeds southward with his lips. his kisses are delicate, open-mouthed, as they find their way to the waistband of my panties.

he hooks his fingers in them and looks up at me.

"can I eat you out, baby?" he asks. I bite my lip.

"please." like a beg.

"oh, you're polite tonight." he smirks, tugging the garment down my legs and discarding it somewhere in the room. I don't respond, and he doesn't seem to need me to, because he pushes one leg up for better access to my pussy. "let's see if it lasts."

my back curves off of the wall involuntarily when he holds the flat of his tongue against my clit suddenly, trying to roll my hips against his face. my fingers tangle in his hair, one leg resting over his shoulder.

he starts to flick at my clit. I lose grasp of my own language.

"Matthew, that feels so good, I--"

he attaches himself to my bundle of nerves, seemingly turned on by the sounds I'm making for him. he groans as he laps at the wetness between my legs, dipping into my folds and sucking the soul out of me. I whine and use his curls as leverage to gain more friction. he peers up at me.

"needy little girl." he mumbles against my pussy. I shove him back into me.

"make me cum, then." I beg. I can practically feel the devilish smirk on his face as he devours me like he'll never get enough. every twist and lick of his tongue is sending me to new places. I'm panting, chest heaving, while I grab my own tits and buck into his mouth.

he moans. my orgasm hits me like a wave, causing me to nearly thrash with pleasure as I cry out.

"Matthew, keep going, fuck yes!" I feel tears prick the back of my eyes, the culmination almost too much to bear as we hold contact. he stares into my fucking soul as he eats me out, and I want to stay like this forever. it's hard to support myself with my legs going weak, but I love it. the sensations are otherworldly. it's only when I'm about to collapse that I push his face away from me.

"I love your pussy." he tells me, licking his lips as he sets my legs down. I grin and let my head fall back against the wall.

"thanks."

"come here, princess." he takes hold of my hips and guides me over to the mirror, turning me so that he's standing behind my frame. the pet name causes me to smile.

"what?" I reference our reflection. he stares at me, reaching around to squeeze my tits.

"I wanna fuck you in the mirror." such a vulgar thing, said so beautifully. he kisses my cheek. "if that's okay with you."

"I don't care what position we do as long as you're fucking me." I breathe honestly. he chuckles and draws me towards him so his clothed boner is against my ass. I reach behind and work the button on his pants. he undoes the ones on his shirt. we're silent, him watching my naked body move like he's trying to memorize every detail.

when he's finally stripped, he lets me stroke his cock for a couple moments before pushing my upper back forward so I'm holding onto the sides of the mirror. I see him biting his lip as he lines himself up at my entrance.

"you ready?" he checks. I nod and he smiles at me once. pushing in, the smile melts into a jaw-dropped haze, eyes rolling into the back of his head. "Y/N..."

"it's so big." I try to breathe. he's so deep, I grip the mirror until my knuckles turn white. he's going to snap my body in two with the angle of his cock, filling me easily.

"tight little thing." he grunts as he holds himself inside. I can only watch in shock as I try to adjust to the sheer feeling of him. Matthew runs his hands over my sides, my ass, touching whatever he can. "how's that?"

I start to wiggle my hips and he groans at the feeling of my walls desperately swallowing him up. "Matthew, I need it."

"need what?" he thrusts into me and I have to fight a scream.

"need you."

"fuck... yes." he hisses out, sliding into me. "you're so wet I don't even need to try."

I bite my lip to withhold my sounds and he stares me in the eyes in the mirror as he starts to fuck me harder, building a pace with his hips. he growls a little if he hits certain angles, getting ruthless.

"so many times when I wanted to be inside you, princess..." he trails off. I start to play with my clit with one hand, using the other to stabilize myself with the mirror. the idea turns me on.

"when?"

"whenever you have attitude," he pants. "tonight, in that innocent fucking dress. making me wanna pound you like a little slut."

I make a high-pitched sound at the shudder of pleasure that jolts through my stomach at his words, wanting more. I've never heard him talk this way before.

"Matthew, shit--" I rub myself in circles, caught between watching his face and watching the way his hips slam into mine.

"you're begging to be fucked, you know that?"

"am I?" I smile sweetly in the mirror. we're in our own world, locked in a fantasy that I never want to leave. I can feel him in every corner of my body, sinking beneath my skin. he digs his nails into my ass.

"mhmm." he hums. I can feel the familiar weight in my stomach that indicates how close I'm getting. a knot that screams to be undone by his perfect length. I would do anything for more of this. I can taste everything good in the world on my tongue.

"I'm so close." I whine.

"I can tell," he studies my face in the mirror. "so pretty when you're breaking."

"oh--" I feel my thighs tense and my body pulses, the euphoria almost overwhelming. we move steadily, rhythmically, and he pushes my climax to new levels. "faster." I cry.

Matthew is quick to respond, gripping me closer while he plows into me like he's never going to have my body again. the sound of it is filthy, perfect, a mess. he groans at the sensation of my cunt pulsating around his cock.

"cum for me, princess." he moans, losing himself in the embrace of my core. the foggy stare in his eyes is like drowning in the ocean. I sink below, not caring at all about the consequences of him inside me. fuck working together; I need him. "where should I cum?"

"in me." I groan.

"beg." he commands easily, watching my face contort in pleasure. I could pretend to fight it, to give a little attitude, but I don't want to. I love begging for him.

"fill me up, Matthew. please." each word punctuated by the breathlessness of my voice. he gets even more ferocious with me, beating up my pussy until I'm sure he's going to leave me sore.

"right there, right there," he gasps, hitting the same spot that makes me go cross-eyed. "such a good little slut."

his cum shoots into me, deep and warm and erotically twisted, and I nearly collapse. it feels weird, but so good at the same time. full. he groans out my name and withdraws, quick to grab my shoulders and hold me up as I almost fall. I hadn't realized that most of my body weight was supported purely by his thrusts.

"whoa." he lets out a tired laugh, gentle in his touch. I'm heaving air into my lungs.

"sorry." I apologize, my body unstable.

"are you okay?" he seems genuinely concerned and I nod.

"yeah, I'm fine. just a little overwhelmed."

"here," he scoops me into his arms and brings me over to the old love seat in the dressing room, laying his jacket down before putting me on top of it. "can I get you something?"

"Sprite." I gesture to the glass on the vanity, and he smiles as he goes to get it. I gulp down whatever remains of it. "thanks."

"of course." he keeps glancing at my face and the red marks on my hips where he was clutching me like a lifeline. "I'm sorry."

"what?" I set the cup down. "don't ever be sorry for fucking me like that."

"no, I meant--" he laughs, but then he sees my playful expression and realizes that I'm genuinely alright. I think my legs were asleep.

"you're a saint." I tell him. he frowns and shakes his head bashfully. I'm already getting up and collecting my clothes. "or maybe what we just did prevents you from reaching sainthood. I don't know."

he places his hand on my lower back, kisses my forehead tenderly.

"seriously. you're okay?"

"I'm perfectly fine," I assure him. "but I would be better with a milkshake."

Matthew breaks into a slow grin, staring at me like I've done something miraculous.

"how are you so perfect?"

[roanniom]

The Night That Follows

Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 8,000~ 

Summary: While celebrating a successful mission, you and Poe accidently ingest a mysterious beverage that makes it hard to resist one another, helping you forget the stress that weighs you down and the friendship that you’ve been holding between you two as a shield. 

Note: This is my first ever non-ADCU fic and it is dedicated to the ever lovely and supportive @paper-n-ashes who urged me to get out of my comfort zone and cheered me on.  

Warnings: NSFW, dirty talk, alcohol consumption, sex pollen, drugged drink (it’s drugged with the sex pollen by a 3rd party and not with malicious intent but it still might be triggering), masturbation (f/m), PIV sex, unprotected sex, war-related angst 

When people talk about war, they often discuss the paralyzing fear, the numbing depression. Hopelessness that spreads through your veins like cold water as you face immeasurable odds and stare death in the face day after day. And you can attest to these feelings. You experience them with each dawn that breaks, muddy in the sky regardless of the atmosphere shrouding whatever planet you find yourself waking on each morning. Your life is transient, full of ships and bases and camps. The constants are the clothes on your back, the friends in your squadron (those who survive), and the x-wing you hop in each time danger calls.

The other constant is the part of war that people do not discuss. The rush of adrenaline every time you make it out of a tough scrape. Adrenaline that burns your veins, evaporating the icy hopelessness that had flooded you up until the minute your boots hit turf and your jellied knees catch up to the reality that you are still very much alive. The euphoria that crackles in your brain when you spy your best mate zooming down from above, finally landing and throwing themselves into your arms in the hug you never thought you’d experience again after their coms had gone down in a fire fight. The absolute debauchery of a night of celebration after such a fire fight. Because nobody needs to live quite as much as those who may die.

Which is how you find yourself here, on this non-descript jungle planet, the name of which you didn’t catch during your descent because honestly there have been so many jungle planets and they have all become little more than coordinates on a screen to you at this point. You and your squad have been set up with a mini-festival by the resistance-sympathizing locals as a thank you for your recent decimation of their First Order oppressors. The operation had been pretty seamless, thanks in no small part to the excellent teamwork between you and a one Poe Dameron.

Your flying today had rivaled some of his best, which is certainly saying something since Poe prides himself on being the best pilot in the resistance. You certainly gave him a run for his money, outflying TIE fighters and swiveling shuttle cannons in a perfectly choreographed tandem maneuver wherein the two of you manipulated your assailants to ultimately destroy themselves.

As you knock back a burning shot of the local alcoholic beverage, the liquid tingling and warming you all the way down, you search the triumphant crowd for the cocky pilot who had helped you set the stage for this celebration. You wouldn’t dwell on the earlier events of the day much more tonight. Wouldn’t think much of the comrades you’d lost in the struggle. That was an ache that would throb back to life tomorrow. Tonight, the priority is living.

It is then that you lock eyes with Poe Dameron through the throngs of semi-drunken revelers. His handsome face splits into a wide, cocky grin, so you adopt an exasperated smirk in response as he pushes his way towards you. Such is the game you play. A dance, if you will. Poe plays the role of the self-assured, overly confident golden boy while you, his long suffering partner, humble him with your good-natured criticism and ever rolling eyes.

“Alright there, Sweets?” Poe practically drawls as he reaches you, the nickname both a term of endearment and a teasing reference to the sweet tooth that keeps you hoarding candies of all kinds in your bunk, much to Poe’s own benefit. You beam up at him and upend your little glass to demonstrate its emptiness.

“On my way there, Fly Boy.”

“Looks like you’re falling behind, rookie. Like you did on that triple barrel twist today.”

You throw a punch that lands a little too lightly on his shoulder to produce the grunt and showy flail that he graces you with.

“First of all, you’re not allowed to call me rookie anymore. Your dumb ass might need to be constantly reassured that you’re ‘best pilot in the resistance,’ but by now I am, at worst, second best.” Your gut warms and you’re not sure if it’s the drink or Poe’s deep, full-bodied laugh in response. “And second of all, we don’t talk about the day if we make it to the night.”

Poe almost seems to sober at your words, a phrase of his tossed back at him. The smile remains, though, and he tosses an arm around you before dragging you over to the table that’s been set up with refreshments.

“Right you are, Sweets,” Poe agrees quietly. Louder now and injecting you two into the crowd surrounding the cluster of bottles, he continues, “as for you being second best pilot, I’d rather let the squad decide before you go getting a head too big to fit in your helmet.”

This receives a laugh from the crowd as well as another smattering of slaps thrown towards Poe’s chest.

“Dameron, we all know you already have your own helmet custom made so you can stuff that massive ego in there,” your friend Myrna.

“And those curls,” you add, reaching up and ruffling your hand through his hair in that way that always makes his nose scrunch up in mock anger.

“If you must know, there’s something else they also have to custom make me…” Poe says, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand to slide down his chest towards the bottom of his flight suit zipper and wiggling his eyebrows. You shriek and yank your hand away.

“In your dreams, Dameron.” Poe leans down toward you so that his face is close enough for you to feel his breath fan across your cheeks.

“Or perhaps in yours?”

Suddenly a small, wrinkled face appears between you. It’s an elderly female member of the local alien race and she’s beaming up at you, holding two steaming mugs and smiling around a garbled statement in a language you don’t recognize.

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m not sure I…” you interrupt her, glancing awkwardly between her massive eyes and Poe’s confused ones.

“I might be able to translate!” Myrna cries out, stumbling forward with a newly refilled glass in her hand.

“You sure that’s not just the liquor talking?” Poe asks with a chuckle. Myrna waves him off and kneels unsteadily to listen to the old woman. More garbled speech issues forward as the woman gestures between you and Poe with her mugs. Myrna nods several times and gives little hums of agreement and affirmation. You and Poe trade glances of amusement during the interaction, but you have to look away when the upturned corner of Poe’s mouth begins to distract you.

“Alright alright,” Myrna pipes up. You turn back in time to see Myrna standing back up to her full height, now holding the two mugs, while the woman waddles back into the crowd.

“What’s the deal?” Poe asks, slinging his arm back around your shoulders. You resist the knee jerk actions that come to mind, both to slap his touch away and to lean into it, standing rigid instead.

“She said these are for you,” Myrna says, pushing the steaming mugs into your hands and Poe’s.

“Did she say why?” You peer at the milky, opalescent contents curiously. Myrna has already moved on, however, turning back to the pilot she’d been hanging on before you and Poe had approached. You look to Poe but he shrugs.

“I don’t know, something about you guys deserving it.” Myrna waves her hand dismissively, obviously ready to get back to her own evening. You look up at Poe, unsure, but he’s nodding and smiling.

“Hear that, Sweets? Seems like word travels fast that we’re the top two pilots,” Poe says cheekily, clinking his mug to yours before throwing back his head and downing its contents in one gulp. Your insides ignite at his acknowledgment, as well as the bob of his adam’s apple, but your eyes still flit warily to your beverage.

“We don’t even know what it is and you’re drinking it?”

“Honey, I’m pretty sure that liquor we were taking shots of earlier was actually jet fuel, I don’t think we need to be too worried about this.” Poe smacks his lips and runs his finger around the inside of the mug. “And besides, it’s really kriffing good.”

Watching the way his cheeks hollow out as he sucks the last dregs of his drink from his finger makes a heat boil in the pit of the stomach. You decide you actually are quite thirsty, and since your curiosity is stronger than your apprehension, you knock the liquid back yourself.

“Atta girl!” Poe cheers you on, nudging you. The drink is sweet and thick on your tongue like a melted version of the ice cream you’d tasted once, many years ago. You can still remember the creamy texture, very much worth the credits paid to the traveling vendor who’d brought it to your village during the hottest summer of your childhood. As you swallow this liquid down, however, its cold temperature changes into a burn, similar to alcohol, though smoother than any liquor you’d ever had.

“Good, right?” Poe asks, eyebrows raised. You nod and lick your lips, sure that you’re imagining things when Poe’s eyes flicker down to your darting tongue.

“That was actually pretty good,” you concede with a grin.

“So what have we learned tonight?” Poe prompts, grabbing your mug from your hands and placing it next to his on a nearby table. You shake your head.

“Your cockiness extends to believing locals on a miniscule planet find you special?”

“The correct answer was ‘always give things a chance,’ Sweets, but you can continue being closeminded if you want,” Poe responds with a chuckle. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes to walk away.

“Fine!” You reach out and grab his arm before he can leave. When he rounds back on you with a wide smile you roll your eyes and refuse eye contact. “And just so you know, I’m a lot more open minded than you think, Dameron.”

“Is that so, rookie?” You bristle but as the glee raises in his eyes at your reaction you do your best to tamp it down.

“I’m…flexible,” you say, your grin begrudging. A hubbub breaks out beyond you in the crowd as the makeshift band that had assembled to play party music transitions to a particularly festive song, causing both you and Poe to watch as people begin forming an impromptu dance floor. When Poe turns back at you and raises his eyebrows, expectant, you throw up your hands defensively.

“No. Don’t look at me like that, Fly Boy,” you’re quick to say, but Poe’s even quicker, having already grabbed you by the hand and pulled you to him. Your body collides with his and his other hand finds the dip of your waist.

“Oh I’m sorry, what was that I just heard someone say about being open minded?” Poe asks. In a sudden fluid motion he dips you, bending you over so that your back is parallel to the ground and his face hovers over yours. “Being flexible?”

You let him pull you back up and steady yourself with a hand on his chest to catch your balance, dizzy now, most likely from the suddenness of the motion. You’re about to toss back a witty retort, possibly something that will knock him down a few pegs, but then you catch the glint in his eye and a smile spreads across your lips unbidden.

“You get one dance, Dameron.”

~*~

One dance turned into many, as it turns out. The band, upon realizing their audience’s appetite for raucous music, had begun a steady rotation of upbeat tunes. The dance floor had expanded, spilling out of its original confines in the center of the town square and into the concession areas on the perimeter. Resistance members danced and drank, their bodies jumping and moving to the beat in one chaotic mass of excess energy and euphoria. Bodies writhe against one another in all directions as people seek out friction that can confirm to them that they did indeed survive the day’s trials.

You’re experiencing friction of your own in your little portion of the dance floor. Where things had started out innocently – energetic bouncing to the beat and moving in unison – the tone had long changed. At this point Poe is behind you, arms slung dangerously low on your hips to hold you against him, hands pressed right above your pelvis. The feeling of his chest pressing against your back, his hips bracketing your ass – you’ve lost yourself in the sensations. The rhythm of the music shakes through your muscles but instead of tense and tired, they’re loose and buzzing.

Though truth be told, they aren’t the only thing buzzing. The proximity of Poe’s hands to your lower body feels charged like a magnet. Without thinking you press your hands over the backs of his, encouraging pressure on your lower abdomen. You swear you hear Poe growl behind you has his hands pull you further to him, but it could also be the roar of the crowd. Your hips move in sync, your ass grinding against him in time with the music. Escapism in its purest form is what you’re experiencing in Poe’s arms, held against Poe’s body, matching Poe’s motions. It’s heady and distracting and everything you could ask for to make living feel like living, especially in the aftermath of a day centered on death. You’re content to let this moment last as long as the universe allows.

That is until you realize that the increasing beat you’d thought was a shift in the music is actually the rapid crescendo of your own heartbeat.

Swallowing you find your throat is thick, saliva pooling in your mouth inexplicably. You take a deep breath and allow your mind to reel. How long had you been feeling like this? Why hadn’t you noticed these feelings coming on?

One of the large hands at your hip begins sliding up along the plane of your side and you get your answer. The weight of his touch lights your skin on fire as it drags up and across your collar bone. Your breath feels ragged, rattling around in lungs that can’t seem to take in oxygen no matter how high your chest rises and falls. Poe’s hand lingers on your throat for a second so you swallow again, with even less luck than before. His hand reaches up to grip your jaw which he uses to turn your head back toward him.

Oh.

Poe continues to move behind you, his motions controlling you both on the floor, but his face is strained. Sweat dots his temples, gleaming in his curls, and his teeth seem gritted, making his jaw set at a striking angle. His eyes pin you down, however, and they keep your attention as you gaze back, wide-eyed.

“You okay, rookie?” Poe’s voice is deeper than normal, huskier. The way it reverberates through your body makes a rumbling bubble up deep inside your chest. The beginnings of a moan, perhaps? You’re quick to gasp a response before such a sound has a chance to make its way into the air between you.

“I’m…feeling quite strange.”

The hand still at your waist tightens its grip while the other rejoins on the opposite side. You have to gasp again to keep from moaning. Suddenly you’re being maneuvered forward, Poe’s guidance weaving you through the crowd with ease despite the congested revelry.

Neither of you see the way Myrna is watching you both with a knowing smirk from her place draped around her own handsome pilot beau. Or the way the little old woman who’d gifted you the beverage hovers on the outskirts of the dance floor, a proud look on her wrinkled face as she eyes your retreating figures.

~*~

You’re not really able to follow where Poe is directing you, mainly because of how the imprint of his hands on your body seems to be searing into your skin through your flight suit. While your accelerated heart rate was the thing you had been most worried about, now you are equally worried about the dull ache that has seated itself in the pit of your stomach. You bite down hard on your lip to keep the moan from spilling out, the one you’ve been suppressing since the moment you became conscious to your current discomfort.

When Poe’s stride finally slows to a stop only then are you able to take in your surroundings. Blinking, you’re surprised to find that you’re now outside of the town, far from the lights and bustle of the party, walking into the silent clearing that contains the squadron’s parked aircrafts.

“Why are we all the way out here?” you ask, unsettled by how deep your voice sounds in the darkness.

“Needed to get away from the crowd.” You’re even more unsettled by how breathless Poe’s voice is as he says his first words since the dance floor. So unsettled that you turn in his arms so you can finally take in his disheveled appearance fully.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, it’s the weirdest thing. One minute everything was fine and the next…”

“You can’t catch your breath,” you finish for him and he nods gravely. Both of your chests are practically heaving, pressing into each other with each exhale. When you become aware of this, it also brings awareness of the way his chest pressed up against yours is also adding pressure to your nipples. Since when were your nipples hard? The night is balmy, a cool breeze barely able to disturb the moist warmth that settles in the jungle terrain. You feel sweat begin to collect on the back of your neck and your hairline, much like the sweat causing Poe to shine a bit in the moonlight. And yet your nipples are hard and a shudder runs through your body, nerve endings clearly ten steps ahead of you, taking in some experience to which you’d yet to catch up.

“Wait a minute, look at me,” Poe suddenly orders, his fingers wrapping around your chin to lift your face toward his. You freeze as he stares down at you, eyes widening at whatever he sees.

“What is it?” you ask, voice urgent, almost frightened.

“Your pupils are wide as planets,” he mutters, distracted fingers drawing up the side of your jaw to press to the pulse point at your throat. “Your heartbeat is out of control.”

“I haven’t been able to calm down,” you say, nodding but getting more worried by the second. “Why can’t I calm down? Are you feeling the same way?”

Poe’s mouth presses into a hard line and he turns away abruptly, head tilting down.

“Oh fuck.”

“What?” You try to pull him back toward you but he doesn’t budge.

“I think…we’ve been drugged.”

Your blood runs cold and a hand flies to cover your mouth. You’d known tonight was too good to be true. Your mind races, making connections out of thin air, trying to place when and where you could have possibly come in close enough proximity to First Order agents to be compromised.

“But what – how – what can we do? What is it? Is it deadly?” You’re cut off by a sound issuing from Poe’s now curved body. You wonder at first if it’s a sob, which makes sense because you’re about ready to cry yourself. But then you realize it’s a chuckle.

“I wouldn’t say deadly. Just exceedingly inconvenient.”

“So you know what it is then?” you prompt, tugging at his shoulder some more to try and see his face. “Tell me!”

“Well for starters I’m pretty sure it was that drink the old woman gave us.”

Fuck.

Of course. What was the one suspicious thing you’d ingested all day? The fact that you hadn’t thought about it sooner makes you want to kick yourself, but you press on instead, anxious to have the matter dealt with.

“What does it do?” You hate the tremor that colors your voice. At that Poe finally turns around and you take him in all at once, trying to assess what he could have been hiding. His tall, wide-legged stance makes it easy to notice after a few seconds. As your gaze moves lower on his body you finally see the massive tent forming below the zipper line of his flight suit.

Without even being able to mentally process what you’re looking at your body responds immediately. A rush of warmth and wetness floods the apex of your thighs and the moan that you’d so far been able to hold in finally makes it way out of your throat. Poe’s eyes, which had recently gone hooded, widen in response to the lewd sound. You clap a hand over your mouth and snap your eyes back up to his face, away from the rigid shape that had made the muscles inside you contract wantonly around nothing.

“It’s made from a plant that’s meant to accelerate sex drive,” Poe says matter-of-factly.

You almost don’t hear him because your eyes have already slid back down his body, feasting on the sight of his impressive bulge. You’d heard stories of Poe’s sexual prowess, many from the man’s own loud mouth. You knew he’d satisfied many members of the Resistance, male and female alike. But you had never truly let yourself consider what he’d be like. What he’d look like. What he’d feel like…

“Why would she possibly give that to us of all people?” You feel like you’re going to cry. The feelings coursing through your body are overwhelming.

“Maybe she went around spiking many people at the party. Maybe she just thought you and I would look hot together? You can’t blame her for that one.” Poe winks at you and it diffuses some of your angst. You let out a tense laugh and shake your head.

“How do we make it stop?” you force yourself to ask, just as you force yourself yet again to look back up in his eyes. Poe averts his own, a sheepish look overtaking his face. When he doesn’t answer you step forward and grab his arm in alarm, trying not to consider the way his bicep bulges under his sleeve. “Poe?!”

“We have to…take care of it.”

You’re launching yourself away from him before he can finish the sentence. You probably knew the answer before you’d even asked the question, but his words still sent electricity through your spine.

“We can’t. That’s…that’s crazy – you’re crazy, Dameron!”

“Hey, you think I like this? Standing here like an idiot with my dick so hard I can barely see straight?”

The sexual nature of his words, spoken so plainly and without euphemism for the first time, makes a new wave of wetness pool between your legs against your will.

“Don’t….talk about it,” you say through gritted teeth, closing your eyes in an attempt to center yourself.

“What? Don’t talk about my aching cock?” he asks, almost as a challenge. He’s frustrated now, egged on by your attitude.

“Stop it.”

“Are you about to tell me you aren’t wet right now?”

You turn your back on him in a childish and fruitless attempt at blocking out his words. When you don’t reply you hear his footsteps as he approaches from behind.

“If we’re both having the same reaction, and I’m certain we are, then I’d imagine you’re practically dripping right now.”

His words would have made your eyes cross if you didn’t have them shut so tightly. A hand molds around your hip while the other grasps at the side of your neck, both working in tandem to pull your back flush against his front. The impact, though gentle, knocks the wind out of you. Or whatever wind had been in you in the first place. His lips are at your ear then and you melt into his touch.

“If we take care of this together we’ll go back to normal.”

“…back to normal?” you ask, simply repeating and not really aware of your words.

“Exactly.”

“I…I don’t know.” Poe’s hardened length is pressing into your ass now, insistent and firm behind you. The hand on your hip migrates lower to pull you against him. A swivel of his hips causes your own to follow the momentum, gyrating in their own right.

“We can be quick,” Poe coos, his voice vibrating over your earlobe where his lips are making contact with your skin. Another low chuckle sounds. “Or I can take my time if you want. Either way, I can promise you’ll enjoy it.”

There’s your cocky Fly Boy.

You wrench yourself from his grasp and take a few steadying steps away before gaining the wherewithal to turn back and face him once more. He looks supremely disappointed, arms still outstretched in the place where you had just been.

“Does this really have to be a…team effort?” you ask, face screwed up with discomfort. Poe runs a hand through his hair and casts a distracted glance about your surroundings.

“I mean I guess theoretically one could take care of themselves – ”

“Great!” you cut him off and stalk around to the other side of his x-wing. Of course he’d brought you to his ship. You look around for your own but when you can’t find it you plop yourself down on the ground.

“Are you kriffing serious?” comes Poe’s angry voice behind you as he stomps over. “We could bang this out and feel better but you’re just going to – ”

“Oh ‘bang’ this out? Real nice, Dameron.”

“You know what I mean.” You can practically hear his eye roll.

“The other side,” you say simply, lowering the zipper on your flight suit. When you don’t hear the sound of his retreating footsteps, however, you pause. “Stay on the other side of the ship, Dameron.”

He grumbles but does as you say. When you finally hear the sound of him throwing himself to the ground, you lift the tab of your zipper again. However, the loud and sudden ziiiip indicating that he’s yanked open his own garment seems ring out then in the clearing and you’re inundated with mental images of what that must look like. Poe sprawled on the ground with his flight suit open and askew. You imagine the expanse of his chest, the way the muscle would ripple in the shadows of the jungle. You’d seen him without a shirt before, the arms of his flight suit tied at his waist as he reclined beneath his x-wing making repairs. Covered in sweat and grease. The memory and the subsequent lurid thoughts have you dipping your hand down into the small opening you’ve made in your clothes, not fully comfortable enough to expose yourself entirely to the elements. When you reach the place between your thighs you have to swallow the gasp that bursts forth at the realization that Poe had been right. You’re not just wet. You’re dripping.

“Fuck.”

You think you say it quietly but a chuckle from the other side of the ship proves otherwise.

“Need any help over there?”

You ignore him and try to focus in on your own body, closing your eyes. You allow a hand to ghost over your breast as you ease a finger through your folds. You feel the insistent thrumming of your pulse even down below and your breath is shallow in your chest. The images dancing behind your eyelids show you flashes, glimpses of things you try to banish from your mind. The angle of Poe’s jaw. His faint, ever present stubble. The arch of his eyebrow. The curve of his smirk. His ass in those pants.

“Sweets…”

Poe’s voice interrupts a whimper you hadn’t even realized you were releasing.

“Poe.” Your voice is small and it cracks around his name. Your muscles are contracting but nothing you do eases the sensation. It just continues building within you. “It hurts.”

“Just come over here. I don’t even have to touch you. Just let me help you through it.”

You ponder the darkness before you, the way it envelops the other aircrafts in this makeshift parking zone. You hear a shick shick shick behind you and your cunt aches. Completely in response to the siren call of Poe Dameron’s building pleasure. You’re immediately intensely jealous. Jealous of the way that, you assumed, he was having more luck getting himself off than you were, despite the fingers inside you right now. Jealous of the way his voice didn’t crack when he beckoned you over.

But most of all jealous of the fact that he’s the one currently touching his hard cock. Not you.

You will yourself to stand up, pulling your hand out of your flight suit but not bothering to zip it back up. On jelly legs you make your way to the other side of the ship. The far side, facing away from the town square and the distant glow of the party you’ve now forgotten.

As you round the edge of the x-wing you bite your lip at the sight before you. Poe is indeed sprawled out with his suit zipped all the way down. His thick member protrudes from the bottom of the opening, a fist moving up and down rapidly, pulling from root to flushed tip in skilled motions. However the eyes that gaze up at you from under his unruly mop of curly hair are not doused with pleasure and satisfaction as you’d imagined. Instead he looks pained, almost agonized. At the sight of you he sits up a bit and does his best to give you a reassuring smile though it comes out as more of a grimace.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful, rookie.”

“That’s the drink talking,” you dismiss, despite the way your stomach swoops as you move to settle yourself down next to him, careful not to make contact. “And you know I hate you calling me rookie.”

“I’ll call you anything you want, baby, as long as you start touching yourself.”

Your cunt pulses at his words so suddenly that you almost double over. Your breathing, already ragged, speeds up as you feel the overwhelming urge to have something deep inside you. Dropping your hand into the opening in your suit you halt, however, watching Poe warily in your peripheral vision. He catches you looking and reluctantly stills the hand moving on member.

“Would sitting back to back help?” he sighs. You nod, scrambling over so that your back is to his.

This is better. This is much better, you think as you dip your hand back between your legs and into the waiting slick. You drag a finger in tight circles over your clit and do your best to calm the racing thoughts that flit back to images of Poe’s body.

The body that is currently pressed to yours, though not at all in the manner you would prefer.

Poe grunts then, making you lose your rhythm.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve wanted you, you know.”

You cut your answering gasp off at the source, not daring to make a sound lest it interrupt this information that you desperately needed to here. He interprets your silence correctly and continues.

“I’ve thought about you. When I’m in the cockpit on my way to some distant planet. When not even hyper speed can get me there quick enough before thoughts of you creep in.” He almost sounds mad, but you get it. The emotions coursing through your body along with the hormones are driving you wild and you don’t know how to feel.

“What…what are the thoughts about?” you can’t help but ask.

“I’d love to say it’s your smile or your brains or something sweet like that. And I do think about those things too, don’t get me wrong,” he says on a hoarse chuckle. “But it’s mainly your body.”

You slip a third finger inside your cunt as he says this, his words and the feeling mixing to cause you to let out an unchecked moan. You feel Poe’s body shudder against you.

“Shit Sweets you’re killing me.” You feel him tense as his hand begins moving faster. “I think about how you look poured into that flight suit. The way your tits and ass jiggle when you hop into your x-wing – fuck.” Another shudder wracks through his body and you can’t take it anymore. The way you’re touching yourself isn’t the way you usually do it. Not in those rare moments where you’ve got the sleeping quarters to yourself and you’re able to get yourself off in your bunk to images of a chiseled jawline, a clothed bulge, rippling muscles, soft, curly hair…

You abruptly pitch yourself forward to balance yourself on your knees and one hand while the remaining hand redoubles its efforts between your legs. The shift in position ends your physical contact with Poe and he swivels to see.

“What are you – ”

“Don’t turn around,” you gasp out. Your new angle works in your favor as your swollen clit becomes more sensitive, pulled down by gravity so that every swipe of your finger becomes more potent. “But for the love of gods, don’t stop talking.”

Poe is taken aback by your sudden forwardness, but he doesn’t let it faze him for long. Instead you hear his renewed efforts at jerking off as the sound of skin swiping across skin, made smoother by spit and precum, gets louder behind you.

“What do you want me to talk about? How much I wish it was your tight little pussy I was fucking instead of my fist?”

The whimper you release at that statement is unlike any sound you’ve ever made and it only spurs Poe on.

“And I just know you’re tight. I know it. And wet too, just like I guessed you were. I can hear it, baby,” he practically growls and you become intensely away of the slick, creamy sounds coming from the rapid in and out, in and out rhythm of your fingers delving into your cunt. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” You close your eyes and hear his words and wish the fingers inside you were harder, thicker, him.

“You wish it was my cock inside you, I know you do. You don’t want to admit it but you wish I was pounding into you, making you feel good. Making the ache go away.”

Your answering whine confirms his beliefs and he lets out a triumphant grunt.

“Fuck, baby. I want it, too. Bury myself deep inside of you and fuck you till that drink wears off and you’re still screaming for me, that’s how good it would be.”

“Oh gods.”

“Tell me who you’re wet for.”

“Y-you.” It comes out small. You’re shocked that you even say it, especially with how much you’ve been fighting all of this. You want it. You want it in your bones and in your blood and in your tight, spasming cunt. But you also want Poe’s friendship. Want him to tousle your hair on the way to the hanger. Want him to keep sending you funny messages over your data pad, constantly trying to outdo your own silly riddles and jokes. Want to tease him and eat dinner with him in the mess hall and slap him when he says something stupid and yell at him when he does something dangerous and cry when he doesn’t come back on time from a mission…

A sob finds its way out of your body, sandwiched between two moans. You’re not sure Poe even heard it until his voice reaches your ears again, this time gentler.

“Sweets? Is this working for you?”

You take a shuddering breath before answering.

“No.”

You practically hear Poe slump in defeat, the rhythm of his hand on his length slowing down. You bite your lip before continuing.

“Take me, Poe.”

“What?” Poe whirls around so fast you feel the air woosh over you as he disturbs it. You jump to your feet, still facing away from him and yank your flight suit over your shoulders and down your body, stepping out so it pools on the ground. He watches as you get back down on your hands and knees before him in your underwear, ass in the air, waiting for him to catch up.

“I need you, Poe. Just…just please get inside me,” you say, reaching back to pull the damp fabric of your panties aside, exposing your glistening, swollen folds for him to see.

You don’t have to ask him a third time. He’s on you so fast that you’re confused by his motions. It takes a few seconds before you realize that he’s taken your discarded flight suit and stretched it out on the ground, positioning you over it so that your hands and knees are protected from the dirt. The sweetness of this considerate action is offset by the way his fingers dig harshly into your hips, maneuvering your ass so that it lines up with his pelvis. You tilt forward, aided by pressure on your lower back which raises your click cunt to the level of his cock.  

“I’m going to make you feel so good – ”

“No more words, Dameron. Just shut up and get your cock inside – FUCK.” He spears you mid-sentence and you immediately fall down onto your elbows. Your ass still in the air, held in place by his hard grip, receives a smack and you cry out, feeling no pain. Only pleasure as the sting ripples through you and into your clenching cunt. He feels it deep inside you and groans.

“Maybe you’re the one who needs to shut up, baby.” His words issue forth from gritted teeth. “Always fucking teasing me with that fucking mouth.” His hips rut into yours, taking up an unforgiving pace, while the rest of his body folds over yours so his chest pressed flush to your back. One hand closes tightly around your chin, wrenching up your head and dragging a finger over your bottom lip which has grown plump from biting. “This beautiful, bossy fucking mouth. Always telling me off, telling me what to do.”

Your tongue darts out to meet his skin and his other fingers caress your chin in response. It’s a stark contrast to the almost feral way he is still clutching your hip and driving into you over and over.

There’s almost no resistance. You’re tight, cunt clutching onto his throbbing cock in an effort to keep him buried inside, but you’re wetter than you’ve ever been and it’s making his thrusts effortless. You assume it’s a side effect of the drink. But in some part of your brain you can’t believe that a plant could possibly make a man’s cock feel as good as Poe’s does right now inside you. How a plant could cause you to feel pleasure that is not simply rooted in the way his hand drags down from your jaw to wrench your breasts out of the cups of your bra. How a plant could in any way magnify the surely already intoxicating feeling of Poe’s mouth working at the side of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

“This working, baby? This doing it?” Poe checks in then, not relenting in his thrusts. Never relenting. “You’re squeezing me, so I know your little pussy likes it.”

A shuddering gasp kicks through you before you can answer his question and he laughs. The vibrations go straight from his cock to your clit and you whimper some more.

“Your sounds. I want to record these little sounds you’re making and play them back when I’m flying. Have you fill the space in my x-wing till I can’t take it any more.” Poe presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder, nipping and then laving the skin over with his tongue. “I’m going to hear these sounds in my dreams.”

“It’s…just…the drink,” you practically hiccup, barely able to form thoughts from the way your body has focused all energy, all recognitions of nerve endings to the space between your thighs. Poe slaps your ass again and you keen.

“Just listen to yourself, baby. No drink is making you sound this hot. That’s all you, Sweets.”

Before you can argue further you do take a second to listen. To the way your shallow breaths mix with whimpers and whines. The gurgle in the back of your throat when his cock bounces against your cervix. He’s right. It is hot. You are hot. You reach a hand down to your clit, desperate to increase the already mind-blowing stimulation, greedy for more.

“You feel so good. You’re sosososogood,” you barely manage to slur. Despite your inability to fully speak you make the attempt because you assume that if hearing your gasps is egging him on, your words will amplify it. And amplify it they do. Poe’s hips stutter for a second before he drops down heavier on you, thrusting deeper and from a more primal place. A hand savagely kneads at one of your breasts, playing with the nipple.  

“I’ve never been this full. I can’t take it, I can’t…”

“Seems like you’re taking it pretty well, baby,” Poe coos, pressing more kisses to the side of your neck.

“I need m-more,” you gasp, realizing with urgency that the pressure in your core is finally building past the plateau of the last…hour? Half an hour? How long had this been going on? All night? It doesn’t matter because Poe’s inside you and he’s listening to you and suddenly you’re being slammed into with all the force he can muster. He expertly wrings pleasure from your body and you feel yourself careening toward a release that you can’t describe. Just out of reach and full of all the potential energy inherent in an object rocketing toward the moon only to soon plummet back to the depths.

“Poe! I…I…oh fuck…oh gods…I…”

“Go on, baby. Cum.”

“You ha- ahhhh. But you…y-you…” You’re babbling. You’re incoherent, not wanting to leave him behind in the blinding ache that comes before release. Your hands are fisting in the flight suit below you, desperate for something solid, something substantial to hold onto.

“Don’t wait for me, Sweets. Let go.”

And then his hands are closing over yours, fingers interlacing and squeezing down, pinning you to the ground with white knuckles that would hurt if you weren’t squeezing him right back, finally grounded in the way you needed.

And you’re cumming.

And cumming.

You feel every muscle in your body seize and spasm and bliss roils out through you in waves. You shake and stutter under him, feeling fresh wetness gush down around his cock as he fucks you through the feeling. You keep waiting for it to stop but it doesn’t, it only intensifies. It must be a side effect. Of the drink not the man. But when you feel yourself transcending the moment, the way your soul feels like it is literally floating above you, you use the out of body experience to take in the man who is causing this pleasure. The way he cages you in, bracing you through the storm of your orgasm, giving more and more to keep the flame burning as long as possible.

His muscles ultimately seize sometime around when your soul seems to sink back into your body and you’re one again enough with your senses that you can feel him paint your walls with sticky, hot cum. He doesn’t drop his weight on you like other men have after the completion of such exertions. Other men who had focused more on the destination than the journey, leaving you as wanting for release as you were wanting for air under the pressure of their body weight. Instead, Poe pulls you of you and flops to his back in the grass beside you. Without him holding you up you crumble down, face pressing into the fabric of your rumpled flight suit instead of the dirt, thanks to Poe.

A few minutes pass, silent except for the sound of your slowing gasps for air. When your breathing evens Poe sits up on his haunches to guide you back into your flight suit. You’re sticky from sweat and your combined cum, but you couldn’t care less with your bones liquified and your eyelids heavy. Gone is the buzzing ache, in its place a heavy sleepiness. When Poe lays you, now clothed, gingerly back down on the ground you automatically curl into him, allowing him to wrap his arms around your body.

Neither of you shares another word. You don’t have to.

Because shortly after you doze off. And for the first time in a long time your final thoughts before sleep overtakes you are not of the dread the morning will bring, but the solace you found in the night.

~*~

When you wake it’s to a dawn as grey as all the ones before it. Hazy with receding fog and with the promise of all the danger that looms ahead in the hours soon to follow. One of the planet’s suns has already breached the horizon, and you raise a hand to cover your eyes as you peer out from under the x-wing’s protective wing. Looking down you take stock.

Your flight suit is on but fully unzipped, leaving your chest and stomach entirely exposed, all the way down to your lower belly. A large hand covers one of your breasts, fingers twitching against your flesh as the man attached to it continues to dream. You follow the length of his arm to take in his body, tucked close into your own, equally unzipped, his broad torso showing through the gaping fabric. You watch Poe’s abdominal muscles contract with his inhales and exhales for a moment while you check in with your body.

The humming from last night is gone, that much is for certain. This makes you believe that the effects of the drink have worn off. You’re quick to question this hypothesis, however, when Poe stirs in his sleep and his hand squeezes down a bit on your breast. Your breath catches in your throat and fire shoots through your veins. A lingering symptom, you wonder. Or perhaps just a normal, biological reaction to sexual stimuli. You kick yourself mentally because of course it has to be the latter. It couldn’t be the third option which you won’t even allow yourself to fully consider.  

You require a shower urgently, it occurs to you suddenly. And food, a realization that coincides with a rumbling in your empty stomach. Knowing you’ll never have a good enough excuse to extricate yourself from this gorgeous man’s arms you steel your nerves and pull away. When you stand, Poe groans and allows an eye to crack open, his hand flying up to shield his eyes from the rising sun. You’re silhouetted against the dawn and he takes in your outline. The curves of you.

“Morning, Sweets,” he says, voice hoarse with sleep this time instead of sex.

“Morning, Fly Boy,” you reply simply with a small smile. You feel a buzzing in the pocket of your suit then and pull out your mini com unit, even more portable than your usual data pad. The message that blares across the screen and you relay it before Poe can reach his own device which had similarly vibrated.

“We’ve got a new mission. Briefing is in an hour and then we take off.” The information feels stilted as it leaves your lips. How can you feel so entirely, earth-shatteringly changed and yet in many ways everything is still the same. The sun still came up. The war still rages on.

You look down at Poe and his intense expression as he watches you makes you think that he’s wondering the same thing.

Your heart thumps in your chest, this time unaided by any drugged drink or the eyes or hands of a man whose existence seemed both your making and undoing. Routine is the only thing that can calm these nerves. Routine is what is required to survive war. Routine and protocol and boundaries.

You zip up your flight suit with finality.

“See you at the briefing?” you ask, though its more statement than question.

“Of course.” Poe’s response is quiet as he continues to watch you from his reclining position. You’re still above him and at a distance, a position he often associates with you.

You smile and give him a good natured salute before turning and making you way back toward the town where you know the rest of the Resistance members are already bustling about and preparing for the day.

Another day you hope you, and Poe, will be lucky enough to outlive.

~*~

Doing a smaller taglist since it’s a Poe fic and I’m not sure if everyone on my usual taglist is into it (Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed for future work!): @paper-n-ashes @mariesackler @tlcwrites @foxilayde @mylifeisactuallyamess @sacklerscumrag @jynzandtonic @millenialcatlady @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @hopeamarsu @direnightshade @leather-flannel-liquor @fizzywoohoo @aliveandlonely @wayward-rose @safarigirlsp @emeraldsiren20 @finn-ray-nal-beads @maryforyou @maybe-your-left

[keorami]

I guess some people liked my previous post about c!Dream's diary so I can post more? At the very worst I'll be screaming into the void which is not that bad honestly It's mostly Syndicate shenanigans featuring Dream. There's a lot of crack, some fluff and little angst, as I think we all need a break right now. Enjoy!

It's kind of long, so I'll put it under a Read More! How did I write this much...

While he feels comfortable enough to laugh around Techno, Dream is too scared to make... any noise really, around the rest of the Syndicate. So the only way he communicates is through a notepad.

He's allowed in the Syndicate meeting since currently they're trying to destroy the prison and he knows the most about it ("I already gave you the plans, Tech, do I really need to-" "Yes.") but he doesn't contribute that much. At most he'll add a detail that he remembered but otherwise it's like he's not even there.

And if you know how the Syndicate really is, you know that they don't stay serious for long. They're basically a more dangerous than average book club.

"Okay, we have a plan. Now we get to the fun part."

The fun part, as Dream would soon discover, is not actually enacting said plan, but actually a... tea party?

No seriously, Niki pulled out some freshly baked cookies, Phil apparently had some tea boiling (when???) and Techno and Ranboo were chatting about... something. He doesn't want to listen in and risk being seen as suspicious. He's on thin enough ice already.

So he just observes.

It's been a while seen he's seen people so... casually. Like friends. He's not Techno's friend. Is he?

It reminds him of what he wanted to achieve. 'One big, happy family'... Look how that turned out.

...He doesn't think now is the right time to throw himself a pity party. He brought this upon himself.

When he zones back in, Techno and Ranboo are now having a heated argument about something and he tries his best (and fails) not to flinch. Maybe the pity party is not such a bad idea anymore.

"Ranboo, I ask this in the nicest way possible, but what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Excuse you! I'm normal! You're the weird one!"

W-Would it be rude if he just... left? Maybe they wouldn't even notice?

"I'm the weird one for eating pasta properly?!"

"Everyone knows you're supposed to eat it with a straw!"

...Pasta. They were arguing about pasta. He should have expected this, the Syndicate seems to be passionate about the stupidest stuff, of course they'd have a debate over the right way to eat pasta. That calms him down... slightly. They're still too loud.

Then he replays what he just heard.

Who the fuck eats pasta with a straw?

Well, Ranboo apparently. He can't imagine- actually, maybe...

Oh Prime. The mental image should not be that funny. Ranboo slurping up spaghetti with a straw should not be that funny. Why is it so funny? What had his sense of humor become? Did he ever have one in the first place? He can't help the giggles that escape him.

It's only when everyone freezes and looks at him that he realised what he had just done.

Oh no.

Did he fuck up? Are they angry? Will he get kicked out?

"See? Even Dream finds it ridiculous!"

They... didn't even comment on it. Is that a good thing?

"Ranboo, I'm sorry but no one eats pasta like that."

"Not you too Niki!"

There's a warm cup of tea set in front of him. It has a nice, floral scent that instantly soothes his nerves.

"Here you go mate."

He looks up at Phil who gives him a warm smile in return. It's weird to see that kind of expression directed at him... but in a good way? He thinks?

Niki slides the cookie tray his way and, after a bit of hesitation, he takes one from the bunch. It smells really good... Niki had always liked baking, didn't she? Why is he remembering this now?

He nibbles on his cookie as he watches the argument go from pasta to Ranboo's... interesting... attempt at baking a cake. Which he brought with him, for some reason. Even Dream with his limited knowledge in cooking can tell that it won't taste good. Well, that, and Niki looks absolutely horrified.

"Ranboo! What is that?"

"...My cake?"

He hears Phil mumble an "Is it even a cake at this point...?" that he can't help but agree with. How much frosting did he put on that thing...?

"Oh come on guys, at least try it!"

Niki's face makes it abundantly clear that she won't even touch the thing, Phil is all of a sudden too busy drinking his tea at the slowest pace possible to avoid answering, and Techno...

"No offence, but I'd rather give up potatoes for a month."

Ouch.

And that left him. To be honest, he doesn't want to eat it either, but... they're already doing so much for him, letting him live in the arctic after breaking him out, and they have been the only people treating him decently in a while. He can't say no.

So he meekly raises his hand, and prepares for the worst.

"...Thanks Dream!"

Dream can't tell if Ranboo is happy about someone willing to try his "cake", or getting to kill Dream with it. Well, there can't be a death worse than bleeding out all alone in an obsidian cell right?

Ranboo cuts a piece... which immediately falls over under the weight of the frosting. Dream can tell he's not about to have a good time. Phil and Niki look at him in sympathy.

He picks up the spoon of frosting cake and is about to put it in his mouth when a hand slaps it away. He jumps.

"Sorry." Comes the surprisingly genuine apology from Technoblade. "But I'm not letting you die like this after all the trouble we went through to get you out."

He was joking about the "better way to die" part, you know? Now he's getting genuinely worried.

'It's fine, really, it's just a cake.'

"Dream, I appreciate your sense of senseless sacrifice but this "cake" is just an abomination."

"Hey!"

...At least it can't be worse than poisonous potatoes? He barely remembers what frosting tastes like but it's probably true.

"Dude- okay you know what, give that to me."

He can't, because Techno snatches it away from him anyway. Rude...

"If I eat this and die I'm haunting you Ranboo."

"Wouldn't you still have two canon lives left at worst?"

'I thought Technoblade never dies?'

"I gotta be dramatic, don't ruin the moment."

Dream lets out a quiet snort, and he hopes nobody caught that. If Techno wants to eat the cake in his stead, he can't really stop him.

Dream watches as Techno's face morphs into one of disgust as soon as he puts the spoon in his mouth, and can't stop himself from erupting in his famous tea kettle wheeze. The others laugh with him, and even if the laughter makes his whole body shake and hurts his ribs, he's never felt more at peace.

[joshjacksons]

Joshua Jackson interview with "Mr Porter" (2021)

Minutes before Mr Joshua Jackson joins me in a booth for a Friday afternoon drink at a vibey hotel bar in Santa Monica, he’s confronted by his past. Or rather, a woman in her early twenties who is binge-watching Dawson’s Creek, the teen show about a close-knit group of high-school friends coming of age in a sleepy American town, which made Jackson incredibly famous between 1998 and 2003. The series, which also made household names of Ms Michelle Williams and Ms Katie Holmes, went off air 18 years ago, but is now streaming on Netflix, to the bemusement of Jackson, who played lovable rogue Pacey Witter. “This girl was like, ‘Are you...?’ And I’m like, ‘Yes, I am. He got old. I’m sorry to break it to you,’” he says, before ordering an iced tea and a charcuterie board to tide him over until dinner time. “It always surprises me when young people say they’ve just got into Dawson’s Creek. I’m like, ‘Is it a costume drama to you? Do you feel like you’re watching a historical documentary?’”

The idea of a Friends-style reunion episode or a Sex And The City revival feels equally far-fetched to Canadian-born Jackson, now 43 and wearing it well in a pale green linen shirt and tailored linen trousers by Oliver Spencer that complement his fading brown hair and Cali-tanned skin.

“I don’t know why you’d want to [bring it back],” he says. “Nobody needs to know what those characters are doing in middle age. We left them in a nice place. Nobody needs to see that Pacey’s back hurts. I don’t think we need that update.”

And Jackson doesn’t need Dawson’s Creek. From Mr JJ Abrams’ sci-fi series Fringe (2008-2013) to the Golden Globe award-winning The Affair (2014-2019), from Ms Ava DuVernay’s ground-breaking true-crime drama When They See Us (2019) to the recent Ms Reese Witherspoon and Ms Kerry Washington-produced Little Fires Everywhere (2020), he has commanded the small screen – with a collection of dynamic and diverse work – ever since.

His latest role as Mr Christopher Duntsch, the Texas surgeon convicted of gross malpractice when 33 of his patients were left seriously injured after he operated on them and two of them died, in chilling Peacock crime drama Dr Death, is only stepping his career up another gear.

“I’ve never played anyone irredeemable before,” says Jackson, who is joined in the eight-part series (based on the 2018 Wondery podcast of the same name) by Messrs Christian Slater and Alec Baldwin. “He is charming, gregarious and has a high-level intellect, but he’s also a misogynist, probably a sociopath, certainly a narcissist and a complete incompetent who is incapable of seeing himself.”

If Duntsch is terrifying, then Jackson’s portrayal is even more so. The artist formerly known as Pacey is virtually unrecognisable (thanks to prosthetics) in the opening scene, but the real challenge for Jackson was allowing himself to view someone who is so “spectacularly evil” as a human being in order to walk in his shoes. “It’s a more damning portrayal of the man to make him into a human being, rather than just make him the bad guy,” he says. “He really believes he’s the hero, he’s the genius and that he’s the victim, so once I got past my own judgment, all the other things fell into place.”

Jackson might have his pick of stellar roles – and challenges – now, but it has not happened by accident. Take it from someone who has been in the business since landing his first job aged 14 in Disney’s live-action movie series The Mighty Ducks, opposite Brat Pack alumnus Mr Emilio Estevez.

“You try to make it look like it happens accidentally,” he says, “but there is no way to do this and not be ambitious. I’d say I’m extremely ambitious because I’ve been doing this cutthroat job for nearly 30 years. I’m in the pay-off phase of my career now. One of the benefits of surviving for as long as I have is you get to learn from your own mistakes.”

Such as? “I wouldn’t say, ‘I wish I hadn’t done that,’ because it all becomes bricks in a path, but [after Dawson’s Creek] I was not choosy enough about the things I was doing. You get stuck. You start trying to perform the performance you think people are hoping to see you do. I was so used to working all the time that I just worked all the time. There was definitely a conscious moment in my mid-twenties when I realised I wasn’t really enjoying the work that I was doing. My manager at the time just said, ‘Take a breath. You’re burnt out.’”

The turning point came in 2005, when Jackson was offered a role in the two-hander Mr David Mamet play A Life In The Theatre, opposite Sir Patrick Stewart. “God bless him, Patrick could have made my life miserable because I had no idea what I was doing, ” he says. “I hadn’t been on stage since I was a kid and now I was in the West End in over my head. But it reminded me that I actually enjoyed being an actor, that it’s not about the red carpet or travelling around the world. What I really enjoy is working on good material with good people.”

It’s no surprise Jackson’s time on Dawson’s Creek led to a career crisis. From the ages of 19 to 24, he lived with his fellow cast mates in Wilmington, North Carolina, filming day in, day out, in an arrangement he likens to college. “You get to the end and they’re like, ‘Here’s your degree. Go live now. You’re an adult. Go out into the world,’” he says.

But most graduates don’t have to deal with global fame. “It’s transitory. You’re only ever cool for a moment and then you become much less cool. I was always pretty dubious about flatterers,” he says, recalling a time he was stung in London in the mid-2000s. “I went on a date in Hyde Park with a woman whose name I will not use – she was socialite-famous – and she was acting completely bizarre, looking over her shoulder the whole time. I came to find out that she had hired a photographer to follow us through the park and gave a whole story to the tabloids about how I was going to meet her family.”

It was his growing fortune, rather than fame, that caused Jackson the most anxiety. “Suddenly, at 19 years old, I was making more in a week than most of my friends’ parents would make in a year,” he says. “It was lovely to have the money, but it was that feeling of nobody is worth that kind of money. You feel like a fraud and it took me a long time to forgive myself for not being the thing that I was perceived as.”

Born in Vancouver, but raised in Topanga, California, until he was eight (before moving back to Vancouver following his parents’ divorce), Jackson bought his childhood home in 2001 and lives in it today with his wife, British Queen & Slim actor Ms Jodie Turner-Smith, and their 15-month-old daughter.

“My father unfortunately was not a good father or a husband and exited the scene, but that house in Topanga was where everything felt simple, so it was a very healing thing for me to do,” he says. Fast-forward to 2021 and his baby daughter now sleeps in her father’s childhood bedroom. “There was a mural of a dragon on the wall in that room that I couldn’t believe was still there, years later. The owner [who sold him the house] said, ‘I knew it meant a lot to somebody and that they were going to come back for it some day.’”

Becoming a first-time parent during a pandemic sounds stressful, but it afforded Jackson months at home with his wife and child that his normal work schedule wouldn’t have allowed.

“I now recognise how perverse the way that we have set up our society is,” he says. “There is not a father I know who works a regular job who didn’t go back to the office a week later. It’s robbing that man of the opportunity to bond with his child and spend time with his partner.”

Despite his obvious career ambitions, fatherhood has changed Jackson’s priorities in “every possible way”, he says. “It’s 100 per cent changed how I approach my work and my life. That has been made so clear to me in this past year. For me to feel good about what I’m doing day to day, my family has to be the central focus.

“There are plenty of things left for me to do, but now the thing that gets me excited is experiencing the world through my daughter’s eyes. I can’t wait to take her scuba diving. I can’t wait to take her skiing. I can’t wait to read a great book with her. I’m not worried at all she’ll be a wallflower. She’s been a character from the word go.”

Jackson met Turner-Smith, 34, two days after his 40th birthday. He had been single since his 10-year relationship with German actress Ms Diane Kruger ended in 2016. “I was not looking to fall in love again or meet the mother of my child, but life has other plans for you,” he says.

The couple met at a party. Turner-Smith was wearing the same The Future Is Female Ejaculation T-shirt Ms Tessa Thompson’s character, Detroit, wears in the 2018 film Sorry To Bother You. “That’s what I used to break the ice. I shouted, ‘Detroit!’ across the room. Not the smoothest thing I’ve ever done, but it worked. We were pretty much inseparable from the word go. It was a whirlwind romance and I can tell my daughter I literally saw her mother across a room and thought, ‘I have to be next to this woman.’”

A self-confessed “useless” shopper, Jackson gives his wife full credit for his current wardrobe. He is jewellery-free, apart from a wedding band and a gold signet “JJ” ring on his little finger (a present from his wife), and discovered tailored sweatsuits (by Stampd and Reigning Champ) in the pandemic.

“Jodie has influence in the way that a wonderful wife encourages you, through love, to dress well. She was like, ‘We’re going to throw away all the sweatpants from your past and I’m going to get you some that actually make you look like an adult male and you will still feel comfortable around the house,’ and I’m like, ‘What an amazing idea!’ Who knew you could get sweatsuits that actually look good on your body?”

Jackson’s style has evolved, he says, “from slovenly teen to it’s-nice-when-your-clothes-actually-fit-you”. The penny dropped after he auditioned for his former co-star Estevez, who was directing the 2006 Mr Robert Kennedy biopic Bobby. He said to me, ‘You only got this job because I know you. You came in here to play a very well-put together 1960s political operative and you’re wearing jeans and a hoodie.’

“I had to grow up a little bit. We are very much raised in Canada to never, ever show off, so it took me a while to recognise it’s OK to look good when you go out.”

Still, when you’ve grown up in front of the camera, “every pimple literally documented”, and lived (very successfully) to tell the tale, you can probably be forgiven for the odd fashion faux pas.

“I wore a silk Ascot to an event once in Paris and I still have nightmares about it,” he says. “I looked like Fred from Scooby Doo, but you live and learn.”

[rookie-ramsey]

Forty (Ethan x MC)

Description: Ethan hates surprise parties. That much, he knows for certain. But she has a way of making anything special, even something as mundane as his fortieth birthday.

Rating: 17+ due to suggestive dialogue at the end, but nothing graphic. 

Ethan hates surprise parties.

That much, he knows for certain. He’ll attend events when it’s for the greater good, but there’s nothing about surprise parties that Ethan thinks serves any real purpose.

If he’s honest, birthday celebrations on their own don’t have much of a point. They’re entirely for socialization with people he normally makes a point of avoiding. He hasn’t made a point of celebrating his birthday since high school, and he can’t remember having a surprise party since he was six.

The jovial tune Olivia’s humming doesn’t go unnoticed. She’s hiding something, and everything about her demeanor suggests that he’s going to walk into a surprise party by the end of the day.

Ethan arches a brow, peering over the rim of his coffee mug at her. He knows by the smirk she’s trying to hide that she has something up her sleeve.

She catches his eye and lets the smile widen. “You’re staring at me like you think committed a felony.”

“You’ve been incredibly suspicious all morning.”

Olivia rolls her eyes and leans across the desk. Her lips touch his in a quick kiss that he wants to sink into, but she pulls back with a teasing grin.  “It’s only eight in the morning. How could I have been suspicious that long?”

“It’s something about the way you’ve been smirking and whistling since the exact moment I asked if you’re planning a surprise party.”

Her mouth curls downwards in mock offense. “I said I wasn’t planning a party. I’d never plan a party without your awareness.”

“That sounds… unconvincing. Very much so.”

The glass doors to the office slide open and Olivia smiles across the room. “Tobias, am I throwing Ethan a surprise party?”

The smirk Tobias gives in response does nothing to ease Ethan’s suspicions. “If you are, I’d like to know why I didn’t get invited sooner.”

“See?”

Instinctually, Ethan pinches the bridge of his nose. If this were absolutely anybody else planning a surprise party, he’d insist on sulking and explaining why he refused to partake in such tomfoolery.

“No party.” Still, she winks and grins in the way that never fails to make his heart stutter, even when she’s absolutely up to something.

There had better be whiskey at this surprise party.

XXXXXX

Ethan doesn’t see much of her the rest of the morning.

In fact, he doesn’t see her again until lunch time, in the cafeteria. She’s already seated, huddled close to Sienna and grinning at something Sienna is showing her on her phone. The glance she throws in his direction tells him that it absolutely has something to do with whatever she has planned.

A friendly clap on his shoulder distracts him. He turns to see Bryce standing in line, grinning ear to ear.

“I hear someone hit the big Four-Oh today. Should I bring tequila?”

Next to him, Rafael tries not to laugh. “Come on, Bryce. Don’t tease him so much.”

Ridiculous as it is, hearing his age out loud makes Ethan cringe, not for the first time today. “Tell me what you know about this party.”

“No can do. I’m sworn to secrecy.” Bryce makes a performance of pretending to zip his lips, chucking an invisible key basketball-style into the nearest trash can. The amused smirk never leaves his face as he picks up a tray and walks away with it.

Ethan turns his attention to Rafael, thinking that maybe he’ll show an ounce of mercy. “Well?”

“I’m… going to go make sure Bryce didn’t take the last pudding cup.” With that, he follows his friend, and Ethan’s suspicions are no less than they were before.

XXXXXX

“Ethan!”

At the sound of Naveen’s voice, Ethan looks up from his patient’s charts. Naveen strides into the room, smiling warmly and holding an envelope in his hand.

“Happy birthday, Ethan,” Naveen greets, pulling his former protege in for a hug before handing him the envelope.

Ethan opens the envelope and reads the greeting on the front of the card. “Welcome to your forties, where a night of heavy drinking requires more recovery time than minor surgery.”

Naveen rolls his eyes at the mildly amused snort that follows. “Hey now, if you laugh any harder, you may get hurt!”

Olivia snorts and smiles at Naveen. “Speaking of heavy drinking, and since Ethan doesn’t want a party, we thought we’d reserve a big table at a restaurant tonight. One with a bar.”

“I don’t think I can make it, but who knows? I always did love crashing parties.” Naveen winks, confirming Ethan’s suspicions that apparently the entirety of Edenbrook’s staff is going to be in his living room when he gets home tonight.

Once they’re alone, Olivia catches his stare and sighs. “Ethan, we’re messing with you. I promise, no surprise party.”

“Mm hmm. You’re fortunate that you are the only person I’d go along with this for.”

“I’m touched.” She pretends to dab at her eyes, then steals another tauntingly quick kiss before her pager interrupts. “Gotta go. But I promise… no party.”

She can deny it all she wants, but Ethan knows better. He’ll go to this party, but he wasn’t lying-- there is absolutely nobody else he would do this for.

XXXXXX

It’s the end of his shift and Ethan knows he only has a few minutes of peace and quiet before he goes home to find co-workers he barely knows occupying his home.

Olivia’s fingers lace through his as they make their way to the top floor. Ethan half-expects to already hear music pulsing through the door, but the hall is eerily quiet.

Suspiciously so.

With the number of people she recruited to tease him today, Ethan expects no less than ten people, and that’s assuming she only invited their closest co-workers.

She steps ahead of him, reaching the door first. Her eyes sparkle with a teasing glint as she inserts the key--- her key--- into the doorknob and unlocks it. She tentatively pushes the door open and emits a low whistle.

“Wow, it’s dark in here. I mean, it’s always dark because we’re responsible people who turn the lights off when we leave, but… you know.”

Not subtle at all.

With a flourish, she swipes at the light switch. Light floods the room and Ethan expects an onslaught of people to jump out yelling some pre-rehearsed birthday greeting, but he’s met only with a living room devoid of partygoers.

“Huh. I told everyone to meet in the living room. They must be in the kitchen. Close your eyes.”  When he relents, she bites back a smirk and ushers him into the dining area. “Okay, open them.”

Ethan opens his eyes, blinking in mild surprise when he isn’t greeted with people jumping from behind every piece of furniture. Instead, there’s a table set for two, a bottle of fancy scotch at the centerpiece.

“I… you didn’t…”

“I didn’t plan a surprise party after all?” she finishes, smirking as she leans up to silence him with a kiss. “Told you so.”

“Then why did you go so far with the act today?”

“Because you’re almost impossible to surprise and I thought if I tricked you into thinking you’d walk into a surprise party, you’d actually be surprised by a nice, quiet dinner.”

At that, he lets out a low chuckle. “Well… I suppose I can say I am very nicely surprised to not have people in my house on my birthday of all days.”

The teasing glint returns to her eyes as she wraps her arms around his neck. “Besides, you’re really getting up there in years now. I couldn’t risk startling you like that.”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Such a comedian. If my aging memory is correct, your thirtieth is not far away at all.”

“Shh.” Olivia shakes her head and steers him toward the table. She lifts the lid from the serving to reveal their dinner, the warm spices wafting into the air. “Steak, paired with the best potatoes you’ll ever eat, and expensive alcohol. Three things that I know you like more than parties.”

“Four, if your presence counts.”

Her grin widens, making his features soften in response. “That was cheesy, but I’ll take it since you’re the birthday boy.”

Ethan laughs as he picks up a knife to cut into his steak. “I’d like to know how you managed to do all of this.”

“I have my ways of finding help so I can sneak off to cook fancy dinners using your recipes.” She pours two glasses of scotch and sits across from him. “And there’s chocolate cake for dessert, courtesy of Sienna.”

“So that’s what you two were conspiring about in the cafeteria.”

“Got it in one,” she confirms. She clinks her glass to his. “How does it feel to be forty?”

“No different than it felt to be thirty-nine.”

“You would say that. But I’m curious, how old were you the last time you had a birthday party?”

“Sixteen.”

“Did you have to share your birthday cake with dinosaurs?”

Ethan’s eyes roll again. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Absolutely.” An amused laugh shakes her shoulders and she doesn’t miss the way Ethan’s lips lift into a soft smile.

Companionable quiet falls between them as they enjoy their dinner, followed by slices of chocolate cake. As soon as Ethan takes his last bite, Olivia hands him a long wrapped box.

“Open it.”

“Impatient.” Ethan removes the gift wrap to reveal a framed photo. They’re sitting on his couch, her head resting on his shoulder as she snaps the picture. He’s not looking at the camera, but the side view of his face catches the softness of his smile.

The smile he’s pretty sure he’s making right now.

“There’s more under the tissue paper.”

Ethan moves aside the tissue, his fingers brushing against the plush fabric of a soft bathrobe. “I think someone is enjoying her first year of an attending’s salary.”

“Maybe a little. I know I didn’t go all out and the gifts are pretty small, and-“

He closes the distance between them, cutting her off with a tender kiss. Olivia doesn’t hesitate before she melts into it. Her fingers reach up to graze his stubbled jaw.

“I love it,” Ethan assures her when their lips part. “The dinner, the gifts… I’d rather have quality time with you than extravagant parties and presents.”

Warmth fills her eyes as she takes a seat on his knee and touches her forehead to his. A smirk forms on her mouth. “I got a matching robe for myself, too. But I’m sure you’d rather see what I’m going to wear under it.”

The words send a shiver down Ethan’s spine. He’s half tempted to swipe the dishes off the table and let her have her way with him right here, right now, but he does have self-control.

Her smile widens, tantalizing him. It’s enough to make his heart skip with affection and longing.

For a moment, she pauses, her face inches from his. She steals another kiss before she gently grips his shoulders and urges him out of his chair. “Follow me for the rest of your birthday surprises.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

XXXXXX

Moonlight and glow from the city lights bathe the room, spilling through the window. Raindrops drip down the glass, the sound of their pattering lulling him toward sleep.

Sleep tugs at his eyelids. Ethan stifles a content yawn. His hand cradles Olivia’s head to his bare chest, his fingers combing softly through her hair.  She’s already asleep-- she always falls asleep first-- and Ethan wants to cherish the moment before he surrenders to sleep, too.

His arm tightens around her waist, drawing her closer. Her breaths escape in soft snores, almost inaudible and warm against his skin. Ethan’s not sure what he did to deserve this, deserve her, but he made a decision two years ago to never take a moment for granted.

He couldn’t be happier if he tried.

author’s note: So I definitely cringed at some of my own dialogue, especially since I don’t use present tense often. But I liked the way this turned out! It was originally going to be a headcanon, but... this happened instead.

Tags, part 1

@princess-geek / @lapisreviewsstuff / @silverlitskies / @paulfwesley / @dr-brianna-casey-valentine / @junehiratas / @choicesstanblog / @trappedinfandoms / @justanotherrookie / @bellcat2010 / @desmaranj / @lion-ess24 / @nooruleman / @caseyvalentineramsey / @xee-na / @edith-eggs1 / @oofchoices / @schnitzelbutterfingers​ / @tefigranger​ / @jlynn12273​ / @laceandlula​ / @crazy-loca-blog​ / @somegdchoices​ / @briefdreamlanddream / @forthebrokenheartedthings​ / @lilyvalentine​ / @parkerattano​ / @drramseysownsme​ / @misswhit12​ / @drethanfreakingramsey​ / @juneiswriting​ / @macy-ray85​ / @swimmingauthordreamerbonk​ / @myusualnerdyself​ / @siaramsey​ / @takemyopenheart​ / @queencarb​

[x-infernhoes-x]

Evermore- Maliksi x Reader

Title: Evermore

Genre: : )

Warnings:  Not much but I’ll leave it to you guys lmao. Implied Relationship as well so ye.

Word Count: 1, 690 k +

Description: I don’t know WHY I get ideas for fanfics at ungodly hours of the night like I’m supposed to be on a break here since my neck still hurts from writing that 2k pound of word vomit that is known to be one of my greatest smut piece that eventually earned me the title as ‘The Emissary for Zaddy Cannibal’ WHEEZE and I started writing this at 1:57 am so let’s hope I’d finish this before 4 am. I’m basing some stuff I know about Maliksi from the comics and perhaps the anime as well. I also suggest listening to Evermore from the live-action version of Beauty and the Beast after reading!

PS. I didn’t finish this last night because I got sleepy at 3 am. There’s an AO3 version of this that’s direct to the point if you want something shorter than this one which can be found here! Oh and my grandma suggested that I set the font size to 12 instead of 11! and as always, I finished this at 3:29 am GGWP talaga.

Anyways, enjoy! _______________________________________

If people asked about how the Prince of Tikbalangs was like as a person, most of them would describe him as rowdy, haughty, stubborn at times may even be perceived as a pervert due to his distaste of not wearing any underwear underneath his jeans. Some thought of him as the classical, spoiled rich kid who cared for no one but himself but in reality, he was so much more than what people would perceive him to be. Being a Prince was something, sure he got everything that he wanted regardless of what it was, he would always find a way for it but sometimes it led him to live a rather lonely life that felt like he was nothing more but a slave to live through this illusion of being the perfect prince.

If they took the time to peek through the curtains of his façade, they would see that he just wanted someone to understand and see him for who he is but this also proved to be contradictory for the poor fellow given the fact that every time someone would show him just the right amount of honesty and kindness, he would find out that most of these people were only after him for things such as taming him to become their loyal servant, for his money or even for the sake of his looks. He thought that this curse of his would stay with him for the rest of his Engkanto life but somehow that all seemed to change his rather pessimistic view on life when he had come across someone who would turn his whole life in a different direction.

Maliksi had met (Y/N) (L/N) on one of his father’s many extravagant events where he was forced to sit through it. Of course, while his father was busy chatting away, the prince took this as an opportunity to sneak away which eventually led him towards an unsuspecting person who would change his life forever.

At first, the two of them were like total opposites, always clashing and arguing about something to the point that his father, Senior Armanaz had to interfere with their constant bickering but time seemed to wear both Maliksi and (Y/N)’s dissatisfaction for each other’s presence and instead began to tolerate the other, which eventually led into something more than just friendship among the two.

Maliksi and (Y/N) were completely inseparable, almost attached to the hip to the point that the Prince was rarely seen without them. He would take (Y/N) on trips across the country, sometimes he would take them out on long drives after his races and almost everything in between. People have reported that the two seemed even more in sync especially in battle, covering each other’s backs while bantering about which car model was the best or where they would eat after this whole ordeal like the two of them were playing a mere game of Patintero or even playing a good round of Pogs to see who got the most hits on their opponents and who seemed to be stronger.

But there were precious moments where Maliksi would take them on trips across the country just to escape from the hectic and bustling streets of the city and gave them the taste of what it means to be free and live life in color. He would watch his partner’s joyful and almost curious gaze with a feeling of warmth and care in his chest that would make him smile along with them, the two of them would participate in various festivals such as Flores de Mayo and its ritual pageant, Santa Cruzan, The Masskara Festival in Bacolod down to his personal favorite which happened to be the Moriones Festival that takes place in Marinduque. But out of those trips, the one that he treasures the most was the time Maliksi and his parents had flown out to their home province, Bukidnon to celebrate the Kaamulan Festival where his partner met the rest of the family, of course, this was also the time where he had proposed to (Y/N) after their 3 years of dating, he was glad that they had accepted his proposal.

Who knew things would eventually change from thereon. With the underworld restless and agitated from all the events that have transpired, it seemed to put a strain between Maliksi and his fiancé. To make matters worse between the two, Maliksi began to do races that would conclude in fatal car accidents for both parties. This would result in (Y/N) and Maliksi arguing non-stop every time they meet however these fights never resulted in something physical but it would leave them in tears or the other walking away with a slam of the door. This cycle seemed to break the moment a certain Babaylan-Mangdirigma had beat him at his own game and managed to snap some sense into him as well the moment his beloved ran at him at full force, scolding him right in front of Alexandra Trese before the two left to settle their problems in private.

“Magpakasal na tayo.” Maliksi told (Y/N) the morning after the two of them had reconciled. Of course, this made his fiance cough up their drink, eyes wide and still hacking their lungs out while Maliksi made his way over to them, patting their back gently to ease their pain. Once things were clear, (Y/N) could only look at him, disbelief and surprise evident on their face before they spoke, “Seryoso ka ba?! Paano yung simbahan, yung venue-“ Holding their hands in his own, Maliksi could only give his soon-to-be spouse a grin, placing a chaste kiss upon the back of their hands. “Wag ka nang magalala, babe. I’ve got it covered.” And just like he had said, Maliksi did have it covered, the venue, the church, and everything in between. It was a quick but simple ceremony that had his parents and (Y/N)’s parents present and nobody outside of the clan knew about this union between them. Time seemed to move quickly after that but the two newlyweds felt like it was an eternity for them both.

In a short amount of time the fantasy of church bells and dreaming faded into war cries and chants of ‘Sic Itur Ad Astra’  quickly and we see Maliksi and his spouse come face to face with the greatest foe they’ve ever come across, the war-god of Bukidnon, Talagbusao. With the rest of their forces subdued by the War God and Maliksi trying to recover from the hit he had taken from Talagbusao, the Tikbalang prince seemed to take notice that his spouse was nowhere in sight and panic seemed to take a hold on him like a choke-hold. Standing up, he began to look for them, ruby-red eyes rapidly scanning the area, furiously looking for his beloved, silently praying to Bathala that they were okay or let alone still be alive.

His prayers seemed to be answered when he saw them, still kicking and fighting and running to where Talagbusao was and he immediately knew something was wrong. “(Y/N)!! ANONG GINAGAWA MO!?” Maliksi yelled out through the sound of roaring bullets, trying his best to reach over to where their lover was.  “Alexandra, ngayon na!” Maliksi heard (Y/N)’s commanding voice ring out as she caught the Babylan-Mandirigma’s knife, Sinag throwing it to her while they subdued Talagbusao to the best of their abilities, eyes locked with their husband as they mouthed at him, ‘Patawarin mo ako, Maliksi.’ And as quick as a flash, Alexandra, Talagbusao, and (Y/N) disappeared into the Dragon’s Gate. Maliksi was left to watch his spouse in paralyzed horror and shock disappear right before his eyes, chest clenching in panic as the impact of the closing portal sent everyone nearby it flying backward.

_____________________

A month has then passed after that event and we see Maliksi within the Trese household as he would always do, always waiting, hoping, and praying that his (Y/N) would return to him safe and unharmed. This day was different than the other days he would spend at the household because this day was the day that Alexandra Trese had returned as announced by a pale-looking and wide-eyed Hank. The tikbalang prince was the first to head where Alexandra---who was now swarmed by her older brothers and the kambal, his eyes still searching for his spouse, his expression of hope immediately diminished as he spoke, his voice slowly trembling with each step he took, “Nasaan si (Y/N), Alexandra?”  at the mention of his spouse’s name, Alexandra then refused to meet his eyes as the rest of the Trese siblings along with the Kambal clearing a path for him, all watching him with disconsolate looks and glistening eyes as Alexandra held onto Sinag as tightly as she could, trying her best to find the right words to say to him.

“Wala na si, (Y/N), Maliksi. She’s gone.”

_________________________

“There is a story, of a man who had lost his beloved in a war, some say he still waits for their return, others say that the day his beloved had disappeared, he had soon followed.” 

“They say that this man could be found standing by the tall windows of Tower A [1] located in Ayala Avenue. Urban myths suggest that this man is a ghost bound to the building, others say that he’s the reason why that Tower still exists.” Now in his prime, Maliksi sat in the place where his father used to sit. It had been years since he had taken over the clan and years since his beloved, (Y/N) was taken away from him at such an early age. Beside him was an empty throne reserved for them once they return. No matter how many years it would take him, Maliksi Armanaz, former prince and now leader of the Armanaz clan, would still wait for his beloved, (Y/N) to return to him until the end of his days. He would wait for them for evermore.   

[fandom-monium]

For the Holidays - Part 3

Summary: In which Spencer doesn’t want to go to his high school reunion, but you tagging along changes things. “Please, we're FBI agents. I think we have enough stealth training to get by.”

WC: 2k

Tags/Warnings: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader, fake-dating trope, pining (so much pining), fluff, descriptions of panic/anxiety (non-extreme), defensive Spencer, angst but not from unnecessary trauma, emotional-support Reader, reunion arc, song fic

I'm at a party I don't wanna be at And I don't ever wear a suit and tie, yeah Wondering if I could sneak out the back Nobody's even looking me in my eyes Then you take my hand Finish my drink, say, "Shall we dance?" (Hell, yeah) You know I love ya, did I ever tell ya? You make it better like that

You shield your eyes, “Your class sure knows how to throw a party.”

Immediately, you’re blinded by white and gold, the strobe lights bouncing off the matching streamers and balloons surrounding you. Gingerbread and peppermint bombards your noses as Mariah Carey blasts from the overhead speakers, well-dressed men and women swaying all over the gymnasium. Others laugh, walk around, eat, catching up with old friends. It reminds you of a middle school winter formal, aside from the understandable sophistication that comes with age. And the alcohol.

However, there’s hundreds of faces; they’re worn, deep-set, and wrinkled over time but Spencer would recognize them anywhere.

Memories flood in. His heart rate skyrockets.

No, no, no! Not now!

You feel Spencer tense next to you before you see it. His eyes are unblinking and his breathing quickens.

You don’t hesitate, dragging him aside and sticking to the wall.

“I-I’m so-sorry,” Spencer manages between shuttered breaths.

"Sorry? For what?" You don’t look at him, gently guiding him with a hand on his back, eyes searching. You stop next to a Christmas tree. Perfect. Shadowed, private. No one will look twice at a couple in a secluded corner.

Spencer ducks his chin, “F-for all this.”

Although Underneath the Christmas Tree thunders overhead, you still catch the small whimper that escapes him. Your chest tightens; you knew he was bullied, but what the hell did these people do to make him react like this?

Knowing you won’t get answers now, you rest his back against the wall, shielding him from prying eyes. “Reid, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not 'fine',” He rasps, shaking his head. He tries to focus on something⎼anything⎼but tears muddle his vision. So he shuts his eyes and presses a hand over his pounding heart, willing it to calm down. It refuses. “You came all this way to help me, and-and now I’m wasting your time⎼”

“Woah, hold up,” You grasp his free arm, stepping closer and trying to meet his eyes. Mindful of his aversion to touch and his germaphobic tendencies, you leave a sliver of space. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed. Spencer feels your warmth bloom even through the sleeve of his blazer. 

“You have nothing to apologize for. None of this was a waste of time, and honestly, I still would have come along had you asked, even if I didn’t have to act as your partner.” Your smile turns shy as you add, “And for what it’s worth, I had a lot of fun today.” 

Your words, while an attempt to comfort him, only sends his heart into hyper-speed. He finally meets your gaze, blinking through unshed tears. “Really?”

“Really.” 

Your eyes, tender and earnest, sparkle in the strobe lights. Spencer thinks, if you keep looking at him like that, he might kiss you.

He doesn't even notice his heartbeat leveling as you lace your hand over his tentatively pulling it away from his pounding heart. He flushes when you don’t let go. “Reid, this can wait. Whatever your bullies told you, whatever they did, you prove them wrong every time you put a bad guy behind bars, every time you finish a geo-profile, every time you save a life. You can always try another time. If it really is too much, we can leave now and you can show me that first bar you went to, the one that gave you shots of apple juice?”

Your smile broadens as Spencer gives you a wobbly grin. "You think anyone will notice us leaving?"

You snort, "Please, we're FBI agents. I think we have enough stealth training to get by."

Spencer chuckles. Without another word you pull away from him, leading him towards the exit, hands still intertwined as the double doors come into view. Then you feel Spencer resist and you pause, glancing over your shoulder. 

He’s looking at you, and for the first time, you see him looking at you like he’s never done before. 

But he has. The only difference is it’s completely unrestrained. Spencer has looked at you like this time and time again⎼eyes soft and brimming with adoration⎼never to your face, always held back in fear of what it could mean, how’d you react.

Right now he doesn’t care. He just… wants you to know. To understand.

You chalk it up to the lighting. 

“I know I said this already, but,” His eyes crinkle and his voice, though wavers, is laced with such warmth, you nearly melt on the spot. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

… Oh dear. Only Dr. Spencer Reid could knock the air out of you with just words.

Not sure of what else to say, you bite your lip and nod, lips threatening to turn into a full blown grin. “Me too.” You ignore the way your heart pounds. 

Not now.

Satisfied, he moves to leave, tugging you behind him as you approach the exit.

“Spencer Reid? Is that you?”

You freeze.

We at a party we don't wanna be at Tryna talk, but we can't hear ourselves Read your lips, I'd rather kiss 'em right back With all these people all around

I'm crippled with anxiety But I'm told it's where we're s'posed to be You know what? It's kinda crazy 'cause I really don't mind When you make it better like that

It’s been over a decade. Her voice comes hesitant, deeper than he remembers but he could never forget.

“Reid.” 

Your voice shakes him out of his stupor and he glances at you.

Right, he’s got you. He’s safe with you. 

You frown. “Who’s this?”

Before he can conjure an answer (he’s not even sure if he wants to), the woman steps up, “Hi, I’m Alexa Lisbon. I was Reid’s… classmate.” She says it slow, like she’s not entirely sure either, offering a hand and a tight-lipped smile. You introduce yourself, taking her hand.

Spencer wishes he brought a bottle of hand sanitizer. 

Honestly, the one time he doesn’t bother? IQ 187, my ass.

Pushing down his discomfort, he inches himself between Alexa and you, despite the subtle tremble in his hands.

It’s actually her. She's aged just like everyone around them, wrinkles by her eyes and smile lines at her painted lips. What the hell could she have smiled about after what she did to him?

She's still pretty though. He hates that he still thinks she's pretty.

Alexa’s eyes roam over him, and his skin crawls. "Wow, it’s been so long. You’ve grown.“

“Thanks, it’s the trauma. You know, from working for the FBI, among other things,” He spits out the last part. He feels you press against his side, a warning. He doesn’t care. 

If his biting tone affects Alexa, she doesn’t show it. “Right, right. You’re in the FBI now. That’s amazing,” She trails off, rolling her lips anxiously and clearing her throat. “Hey… can we talk in private?” 

Memories flash like snapshots. 

The grass field. The sports shed. A blank-faced audience.

Spencer bristles, “Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of (Your Name). Why? You want to laugh at me? Criticize me? Stri-” You adjust your hand in his, reminding him he’s not alone. He grits his teeth. 

He almost feels guilty when Alexa flinches. Almost.

“Okay,” Her tone is soothing, careful like she’s addressing a cornered animal. Her gaze flicks between you two, hesitating. “If it makes you feel better, you can bring (Your Name), but we really need to speak with you.”

Spencer’s brow furrows. “We?”

Alexa steps aside, nodding past the crowd of drunken dancing, waiting for him to decide.

“It’ll be okay,” You watch him from the corner of your eye. It’s strange; you’ve witnessed Spencer snap a few times, usually to unsubs, people who deserved sharp tongues and razored vocabulary. There were rare occasions when the two of you had your spats, but he never lashed out at you. Not like this.

You wonder what Alexa Lisbon did to warrant such hostility. 

“She’s not an unsub, Reid,” He shivers, your whisper brushing against his ear. He clenches his jaw as he stares down Alexa, but he leans into you, listening. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll be right behind you the whole time.”

And you swear if something happens to Spencer, you’ll kill everyone in the room and then yourself.

Apparently, that’s enough for him as he steps after Alexa, weaving through the mass of bodies. His grip tightens around your hand. Eventually, Alexa stops and you find yourselves at the farthest corner of the gym, by the dining tables.

Suddenly, Spencer wants to run. To throw up. 

Like Alexa their faces have aged, matured as he expected. Some have gained and lost weight, dressed completely different than back in the day, while others look like the world treated them so, so kindly. It makes him grimace. 

Of course the universe decided his tormentors didn’t need to suffer after what they did. He’d expect nothing else. Karma is nothing if not a bitch.

Maybe he can projectile vomit onto them.

Wait, he doesn’t have the abdominal strength to do that. Damn it.

“Spencer Reid,” Harper Hillman breathes, as if she’s testing the way it rolls off of her tongue. Like his name is new to her. Makes sense, considering all they’ve ever called him was anything but his name. She stands from her chair, smile tight-lipped like Alexa’s. “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

Spencer gestures lamely. “Well, here I am.”

“Yeah, um, would you like to sit? We saved you a seat,” Harper’s gaze switches between Spencer and the table. 

They saved him a seat? They saved him a seat? 

Who are these people? 

Spencer shifts his stance, eyes flitting over each face but never lingering, unable to look them in the eye for long. “I’d rather stand, thanks.“

“Oh, no problem. You remember everyone, right?” Harper glances at Alexa, the few members of the football team that showed up, gesturing to them. 

“I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187,” Spencer’s face hardens. “What do you think?”

To his delight and astonishment, Harper has the sense to look flustered. “Right, almost forgot about that.”

Spencer nods, toeing the hardwood with his converses. The atmosphere is so thick. Seconds go by.

Alexa clears her throat, “Well-uh⎼”

“What do you want?” Spencer grinds out, one hand fisted in his pocket while the other grips yours tighter. He hasn't even been there for an hour, and already he’s tired and afraid. Whatever they had to say, he wants to get it over with.

Mouths open and close as they try to come up with an answer. Harper, Alexa, the entire group trade hesitant looks, like they had a plan and it wasn’t going accordingly. Like they’re not sure how to proceed. Or who should lead the assault.

Then a nod from Alexa and they stand almost in unison. Spencer’s eyes narrow when Harper smoothes down her dress and tugs at her collar, while Alexa wrings her hands together and bites the inside of her cheek. They all exchange looks between each other and the football team, even they look apprehensive, shoulders tense. Readied.

Oh my god they’re going to jump him. Pin him down and strip him naked again. 

“Reid,” Alexa starts, the group stepping forward as if backing her up. 

Waiting, probably for a signal, Spencer realizes. His stomach turns to lead.

“We want to say…”

Well, good fucking luck. The gym is packed with witnesses, and he’s 90% sure you’d risk your job, bust their kneecaps before you’d let them touch him.

It’s a bold but foolish move, really⎼

“We’re sorry.”

He braces himself.

…Wait. ‘Sorry’?

All his brain function stutters to a halt.

AN: 3/4?? 

guess who wrote 4k just to set up a song-fic?? *raises hand* 

yes this entire fic was inspired by I Don’t Care by Ed Sheeran and Justin Bieber okay dont come for me

we all need an emotional-support reader in our lives

also my first reid angst i hope i set the tone and pacing right, wrote it a lot differently :| 

If y'all notice the reference to starstruck by @spacedikut?? Just a small dedication/tribute thingy to them bc I love and appreciate their everything 😚💛

[omiscurls]

omi doesn’t like flowers

sakusa kiyoomi x gn!reader fluff

 cw: the reader has a little sibling, i hope nobody minds, there’s one line of very slightly implied nsfw, you won’t even notice

meant for kiyoomi’s birthday! happy b-day to my favorite boy <3 

one of the first things you’ve learnt about your boyfriend, even before your relationship started, is that he rarely shared personal information with anyone. he’d go as far as put up a fake birthday on his social media to avoid the awkward wishes and tons of yet another gifts from fans he so didn’t like going through. apart from that, there was a lot of weird things going on with birthdays, in his opinion: for instance people automatically thinking about zodiac sign or assuming other things, insisting to have a party, (a surprise one was his biggest nightmare) and a whole lot of other stuff he found appalling.

so it was just simply easier to say his birthday is “mid november” and get on with his life as if he didn’t just straight up lie. and truth be told, many times had you heard that “oh, in summer” or “right before christmas” before you got to know the truth. it wasn’t that easy on its own, but ever since his first little white lie, you knew he wasn’t true with you, and kept insisting, until he finally pulled you to the side and told you his real date of birth, the one only komori, atsumu, and, as he used to say, “unfortunately” his family knew.

march 20th was the date, and since you wanted to tease him, a grin appeared on your face before you mumbled “so a pisces, huh?” and earned a glare so cold and deadly, you visibly shivered before apologizing.

the next thing you learned about him and his birthday, was that he was picky about gifts. which went well with that “i’m an old fashioned gentleman” facade, because he could just say “oh, you don’t have to buy me anything. your company will be enough” with a slight smile he’d practice for years, and people thought he was just being humble and polite. spoiler alert: he wasn’t. he just didn’t want to deal with his own pickiness, and explaining to people what precisely would he like to get was too much trouble, and took away the magic of it even for someone as blunt as kiyoomi sakusa.

it’s not like birthdays were such a big deal for him, anyway, he didn’t need any gifts or parties to celebrate the fact that he just got one year older. what was so fun about that? but like the pain in the arse you were, you kept asking him what he wanted for the occassion way before he asked you out, and he hated it, but not more than he hated the way his heart jumped at the possibility of getting something you spent your time on. 

the first year of your friendship, you got to know the basic thing: omi doesn’t like gifts. gifts make him uncomfortable, he didn’t know what to say, how to act, what to do with it... does he open it right then and there, or wait, but why would he immediately thank someone if he doesn’t even open it? schroedinger’s cat: if he doesn’t open it, it might as well be thin air inside the box.

it was confusing, and weird. you also learnt that it was all caused by the fact that no one was in the house to celebrate young omi’s birthday back in his childhood days, since his parents were working and his siblings long away in college, so he just assumed it was a holiday to be overlooked and not dwelled too much on, and got so used to it, that now it bothered him to be in the center of attention for once. 

the third thing you learnt that year: it was almost impossible to find him a good enough gift, at least from your perspective. you spent literal hours at the store, looking at the different things he might’ve wanted, but nothing caught your eye. you called all his friends, yet he hadn’t mentioned the thing he’d like to anyone, not even komori. so you decided you’d go with instinct and remembered one cold morning when he showed up to practice grumpier than usual, and when he was asked what’s wrong, he answered:

“i woke up late and didn’t have time to make coffee”, half mumbling, half actually speaking, eyes too tired to be annoyed, legs slowly sweeping one before another as if he was forced to come here. And that’s where you got your idea. 

His first birthday with you, being his 21st, had started terribly, because it was wishes from his family. He’d told you multiple times he’d rather have them forget that send those copied off the internet lines that mean less than a “go fuck yourself” 

later on atsumu insisted or telling everyone and it took poor omi more than twenty minutes to convince him not to, and as both the setter and the spiker weren’t in their top moods nor form, MSBY lost a match they had that day. so all he wanted to do march 20th 2017 when he came home was to lay flat on his couch and play with his dog’s fur while watching a crappy TV show. he most definitely didn’t expect you sitting in front of his apartment’s door, tired, almost asleep. 

he sighed, approching you and slightly nudging your foot with his, making you shake your head and look up. 

“you’re back!” you said with a smile, and he raised an eyebrow. 

“and you look like a homeless person” he responded upsentmindedly, avoiding you to reach the door lock. only after you got up did he see a small package you held behind your back. “it’s not a right day to be celebrating me, y/n” he added, opening his apartment’s door and letting you in with a hand gesture. you went inside, not for the first time ever, but every time the feeling was the same, intimidating and cold. 

“why do you think that?” you said, taking off your shoes and putting them on a rack, and turning around to see him navigate you to the bathroom. you placed your bag and the gift on the floor before following his steps. 

“didn’t you see the match? i fucked up big time” he chuckled ironically, looking at himself in the mirror, and you could witness the disappointment and anger in his eyes. 

“so every time you guys win and you get the credit, you say that volleyball is a team sport, but if you loose, suddenly it’s your fault?” you smirked, but to your surprise he nodded. 

“precisely”. 

“well, regardless, it’s a minor set back. you’re still the best they make” you tried to cheer him up, but only received an eye roll in return. “aaaand, you’re a birthday boy today!”

“don’t remind me” he sighed, walking over to the kitchen to see what he can make for dinner for himself and his uninvited guest, meanwhile you grabbed your gift and walked up right behind him, tapping his shoulder lightly. 

“happy 21″ you whispered, a slight, soft smile on your lips, as you handed him the package. he looked at you with a tired look in his eyes. 

“you know i’m not the biggest fan of gifts” 

“just open it, grumpy face” you whined, and he gently took it from you, placing it on the counter and carefully unwraping it, to see a thermal mug. he sent you a questioning look, before you explained “you were complaining about not having enough time to drink coffee before leaving, right? well now you don’t have to drink it before leaving” 

there was silence for a long while before he looked up from the mug and gave you the softest smile you’ve ever seen. “that’s so thoughtful of you” he said, and laughed a tiny bit, probably to cover his emotion, which obviously didn’t work “thank you.”

omi likes thoughtful gestures. 

over the second year of your friendship, as he and his career gained more recognition from the public, he was “forced”, as he’d reffer to it, to share such a personal information that is his birthday date. the managers always claimed that it’s not a big deal, that it’s just gonna be added to the oficial page and his wikipedia, but judging from the amount of gifts atsumu, bokuto and hinata always received, he had his reason to doubt that. 

and as it turned out, he was right. 

because starting from march 10th, his personal mailbox as well as the oficial MSBY’s mailbox has been FLOODED with different things that he really had no energy to go over. and so, he invited one of his best friends to help. 

so it was late at night on march 19th, and you were both sitting on the floor of his apartment, a mess of ripped wrapping paper all around you, loads of different stuff laying on the table, as you still had a lot of things to open. 

“what even is the point in sending presents to someone you’ve never met? i mean less to them than their neigbour’s dog and yet i’m the one getting gifts? this is messed up” he kept on complaining, opening another package. 

“it’s called being famous, sakusa-kun. you mean very much to people you’ve never met, because your journey to where you are now inspires them to keep going on their path until they reach their dreams” you said with a smile, confident it’ll ease his worries, but it didn’t. 

“don’t know if i consider being in the Jackals my dream, though”

“you mean, you don’t think being a key player in a division one team is not a dream come true?” you asked, shocked. 

“no, no, of course i think it is, i’d never thought i’d reach this far, but, there’s more things to be done, it’s not like i’m an accomplished person just yet” 

that, you found interesting. 

“really? than what are your dreams, sakusa?” you asked in a low voice, eyes fixed on his face, as he focused on reading a letter in his hands. 

“national team” he murmured “MVP, a golden medal, a legacy that goes beyond just me” he opened up as if it was nothing, as if he was talking about his grocery list “but that all wouldn’t mean a thing if i were there alone, though. i’ve received plenty awards and mvp’s over the few years that i played, but i guess what would really matter, and make everything else worth remembering, would be... having someone be proud of me, i guess”

you felt your heart getting soft and fuzzy at the confession, wanting to respond, before he handed you the note he was silently reading. 

“this is a poem, y/n, a POEM! what the hell, i don’t even understand what’s going on there” he whined, throwing his head back to rest on the couch seat, as you giggled, reading the note. 

“it’s nice” you said in a high-pitched tone, pushing down a laugh. 

“it’s too... sophisticated” he uttered, looking at you, a tired look in his eyes. “that’s my mother’s thing, to be sophisticated, i like simpler wishes, they’re easier to believe” 

omi doesn’t like fancy words.

you nodded, but before you could say anything, your phone rang, and both of you looked at the screen. the hour on display marked midnight, and as the alarm ranged, the words “omi’s b-day!!!” appeared on the screen. he smiled subconsciously, noticing how you always address him as “sakusa” or “sakusa-kun” but the notif in your phone stated “omi”. 

“looks like it’s the 20th already, birthday boy” you grinned, turning off the alarm. 

“don’t call me that, what am i, six or something?” 

you decided to ignore the comment, and smiled at him warmly before speaking, almost under your own breath:

“happy 22, sakusa. i wish you only to be here to hear me say happy 23 next year. and say so with pride.”

his eyes appeared foggy and glossy, but it was probably fault of poor lighting and tiredness. 

“why stop at 23?” he asked, before standing up, and offering you his hand to pick you up, too. 

omi likes very real wishes. 

over the third year of your friendship you became very close. ever since that night on his living room floor, both of you couldn’t wrap your minds about anything other than each other. neither of you oblivious idiots found out what it was about, but day after day and month after month it was harder and harder to spend time apart. 

before he could notice, sakusa always tried to find you in the crowd before serving, and that’s how he always used up most of his time. once, he even heard ushijima complain “how much longer are you going to take? be a man and beat me without your good luck charm!” 

his good luck charm, huh?

you kinda liked the sound of that. 

you also found yourself texting him every random thought that came to your head, sending pictures of everything, becasue you wanted to share as much of your life as possible, meeting up whenever you could and facetiming whenever you couldn’t. 

it all started to go downhill when atsumu, bokuto and hinata started noticing. noticing the way he’d smile at his phone, the way he’d wink, smile, tease, joke, speak, even the way his eyes wondered when left unfocused, and a dreamy look covered his vision. 

and they started to tease, and joke, and make his life all more difficult, just because “omi has a crush!”

because he didn’t. right? he didn’t have a crush on you, for sure, and it only annoyed him, how childish they were about it, how insufferable. they got on his nerves so bad that he stopped responding to all the messages, stopped smiling, joking around, and all, just to prove his point, 

his point he knew was no longer standing. 

and so atsumu would ask, after one of their practices, “hey omi, is your lucky charm picking you up? some birthday dinner, maybe?” he’d nudge his side with an elbow, raising his eyebrows. 

“i don’t know” he mumbled “and stop calling them that”. the brunette kept looking for something in his bag, just to avoid atsumu’s tiring, curious glance. 

“fine then, how about your significant other?” he continued teasing. it’s not like sakusa would hate that scenario, of course he wouldn’t, yet his mind kept spiraling - what if you came in and heard that? what if you assumed he was calling you that behind your back?

what if you didn’t feel the same?

“stop butting in my relationships for once, miya! how many times am i supposed to tell you i’m not in any way romantically involved with them? i don’t even like them that much!” he lied, straight in his best friend’s face, fed up with all the jokes and smirks behind his back, and judging from atsumu’s shocked expression, and the color running away from his face, it worked. 

“what, don’t you have anything to say to me now?” he kept going, before atsumu shook his head, and pointed behind kiyoomi’s back wordlessly. the spiker raised an eyebrow, turning around to see you, in the flash, eyes wide open, a tiny little package in your hands, wrapped so neatly in colorful paper, with a little bow tie at the top. 

even from a distance he could already half see, half imagine tears prickling your eyes before you smiled sadly, dropped the box from your hand and let it fall to the floor, and began walking out of the gym room. 

“no, no no, y/n, wait!” he started shouting out, but your ears seemed deaf to his pleas, as he ran up to the door you just walked through, leaving atsumu alone, but with a condescending smile. 

“i don’t like them that much my ass, omi-kun” he whispered to himself before walking over to grab his things. 

meanwhile sakusa ran out to the reception room of the stadium, but as it turned out, it was filled with fans waiting for them all to come out, so they could wish him happy birthday, and it seemed impossible to get through the crowd and reached you, especially considering you were already at the exit door. 

he looked around himself and noticed all the people, how many of them were there, and how close to him, and got paralyzed in place, wanting to move, or disappear, that’d be for the best, and yet he couldn’t even move one foot. 

soon enough he felt a hand on his shoulder, guiding him back inside, his savior apologizing to the public.

“sorry guys, we have one more thing to go through! he’ll be out shortly” atsumu laughed off, before closing the door and handing omi the gift you left. 

the spiker mindlessly opened it, only to find out a spotify code inside, put in between a glass frame. he took out his phone from the bag and scanned it with his app, gasping audiably when the page loaded. 

lay back in the arms of someone by smokie showed up on his screen, and a smile crawled up his lips before he remembered how badly he fucked this up a second ago. 

he narrowed his eyebrows before looking up to find the blond setter’s eyes. 

“atsumu” his friend’s eyes widened in surprise upon hearing his first name, instead of surname “is there a back exit from here?” 

atsumu miya smirked. 

“bet ya there is, mr i-fucked-up-big-time” he answered, theatrically offering his hand, before taking the lead. 

you on the other hand, came home peacefully, although hot tears were streaming silently down your cold cheeks as you entered the apartment’s door and looked at the calendar, showing the date of march 20th. in a sudden wave of aggression you ripped it off, knowing that there’s nothing to be so pressed about: he had no duty of feeling the same way towards you, why would you even expect it?

you went on with your day, ordering takeout for dinner, snuggling up on your couch and rewatching a series, not granting your thoughts access to yourself, and it was really going well, until you heard the doorbell ring. 

“nobody’s home” you yelled, assuming it was either atsumu or bokuto on their way to cheer you up, and they’ll probably let themselves in as soon as they hear your voice, but that didn’t happen. instead, the doorbell kept on ringing. “ugh, just come in!” 

they didn’t come in, so you lifted yourself off the couch and walked over to the door, opening it and gasping a tiny bit when instead of your dumbass friends holding McDonald’s you saw a one hundred and ninety two centimeters tall figure of a man, struggling to catch his breath, leaning on your doorframe, his black coat unbuttoned, cheeks red, eyes puffy and hair in a mess, not even gelled into place as they always are. 

“can i help you?” you asked in a cold manner, voice sending daggers into his poor, confused heart, as he finally looked up to meet your glance, an apologetic look in his eyes when he tried to form a sentence. 

“i think i can... no, way, i think i might...” he kept struggling, to which you only rolled your eyes, waiting for the continuation of that sentence. 

“spit it out, sakusa” you stated, sending shivers down his spine with how annoyed you seemed. 

yeah, spit it out, sakusa, he thought to himself before taking a breath and finally speaking up correctly:

“i think i might be in love with you.” 

your eyes widened for a second as you tried to find evidence of honesty in his expression, tone, voice, because you definitely didn’t believe his words. 

his heart dropped when you scoffed. 

“i don’t need your pity” 

that’s when it hit him:

omi doesn’t like to spend his birthday without you. you make it not only bearable, but fun. 

in fact, he never wanted to spend it without you again. and as that realization made it’s way into his brain, he caught you closing your door. 

“i respect you too much to pity you” he spat out as he placed his hand in between the door and the frame, making you unable to close it, even if you wanted to. 

and there was the honesty you looked for. 

“then why—” you started to wonder, but he shook his head before interrupting, a helpless look across his face.

to lay back in the arms of someone

“i’m afraid of... of this, okay? i’m afraid of falling in love, if this is any explanation for you. it’s like... you make me feel as if i’m on the top of the world” he laughed nervously, making you raise your eyebrows, before continuing “and it’s fucking scary to imagine falling from that high” 

you give in to the charms of someone

his glance wondered all over your face to find crumbs of understanding, scared you’d laugh his confession off, a grimace of worry replacing the insecure smile painting his lips, and he was just one step away from shouting “i’m telling the truth!” at you, but you cut him off by opening your door fully, and welcoming him inside with a warm smile on your lips, and a reassuring sentence on your tongue.

happy 23rd, kiyoomi

“i think i might love you back”

omi likes feeling loved. 

the next year flew by on both of you pushing each other’s limits, challenging each other like the both of you always needed, being there for each other, finding out how nice it feels to have someone there. it was coming home with a sore throat after a night of yelling “one more point, omi-omi!”. it was carefully intertwining your pinkies together while shopping without even realizing. it was awkward dates, because the label “date” always changes the atmosphere. it was taking weird selfies, it was having to part for out-of-town games and facetiming from hotel rooms. it was butterflies in the stomach and a ball of fluff in mind. 

it was everything. 

the first year of your official relationship flew by in no time, kiyoomi finding new joy in his birthday since now it was really a day to be remembered, marking your anniversary. 

and just as you got home to his apartment after dinner, ready to unpack all the fanmail once again, the janitor of the building stopped you. 

“sakusa-san, there was a flower delievery for you” he sighed, going towards a locked shelf and coming back with a bouquet, at which kiyoomi stared for a whole five seconds before you decided to take it. 

“thank you for taking care of it” he muttered with a slight bow, you pushing him to go up the stairs. “who’s it from?” he’d ask you a minute later, halfway through the staircase. 

“don’t you wanna check yourself?” you asked, but he frantically shook his head. 

“check it for me, please”

omi doesn’t like flowers.

you nodded wordlessly before checking a card. 

“well if i’m not mistaken this is your surname” you furrowed, struggling to read the handwriting. in your defense, the kanji for “sakusa” are quite complicated. 

he looked over at the text before admitting “yeah, that’s from my aunt, she insists on sending those ever since i got into MSBY” he finally got to his door to unlock it “kinda sad how she didn’t even bother writing a text before” he chuckled, making you want to throw the flowers away. 

you knew he considered them worthless if that’s the story behind the nice gesture. 

the apartment door remained opened, but he didn’t enter, you almost stumbled over him, focusing on the note, and glanced over to see what caught him attention and prevented him from going inside. 

“this is your surname, for a change” he stated, showing you a buffy envelope over his shoulder, but didn’t let you take it when you tried. instead he opened it himself, a neatly wrapped package inside, with a note at the top:

i wore glowes making it! i swear!

there was a typo in gloves, and the writing style could use a little work on it, but that didn’t affect kiyoomi at all, as he was hypnotized with his package after noticing your surname on it. he carefully opened it, to find a keychain, made from cubes, as the ones used in different boardgames, on every one there was a letter or a number, together forming the writing “kiyoomi 15″ with a heart at the end. it was all on a black string, and almost shined with how many times it was wiped before sending. after holding it in his hand for a while, he noticed another card at the bottom of the package, taking it out and reading out loud:

“please take care of my sibling. happy 24th!” he uttered in sheer amazement, as he grazed his fingers over the delicate ornament, before wordlessly going inside the apartment. 

you followed him, closing the door behind you, worried about his reaction about your little sibling’s present, only to find him crouching before his couch, his training bag laying there as he tried to attach the keychain to the it’s zipper, smiling when he managed to do so. 

before he got to turn around to face you, you managed to take a photo of him smiling at the newest addition to his training gear, and send it to your family with a caption:

omi likes personalized stuff. 

over all the years of knowing kiyoomi, you’ve learnt so much about him, his life, his habits, everything. you knew him inside and out, and so he knew you. you’re laughing at your confusion and fear while you were buying his first birthday gift, as you sit on the floor in your shared apartment, plotting his 25th, biggest yet gift, as if he isn’t about to walk through the door, coming back from practice. 

it’s almost ridiculous, how you struggled, wondering if he’d even like a gift, when right now you have a whole list in mind:

although omi doesn’t like gifts, he likes little thougtful gestures. he doesn’t like fancy big words, but likes real, honest wishes he can really take to heart. he doesn’t like spending his birthday without you, he likes feeling love, doesn’t like flowers, but does like his gifts personalized and touching. 

you realize all the moments in your relationship made you know his every emotion and expression, but you’ve never seen your precious boyfriend cry, ever. 

and you decide to change that. 

you’re gonna make him something that’s gonna mask all the memories of his birthday being forgotten, walked pass by, pushed into the back, and not properly celebrated. that’s gonna outshine every single gift he’s ever got. that’s gonna make him so happy, he’ll cry.

an idea pops into your head as you get a pen and start writing. 

dear kiyoomi,

_______

“dear kiyoomi” you get to hear him say a couple of nights later, he reads it out on your plea, with a smile across his lips, as you, atsumu, bokuto, meian and hinata, as well as omi’s older siblings and komori and osamu sit at the table, a cake and two traces of his favorite cupcakes are taking all the space possible.

omi’s voice is colored with a couple of glasses of wine, so it’s easier to him to relax and genuinely grin at the paper as he’s reading, all part of your plan. 

“when i first met you, the first thing i found out is that you’re a private person. not that i was freaked out or anything, but you did have, and probably you still do, a heavy aura around you that may have flustered me a tiny little— a tiny little bit? smiles, your hands literally shivered” he stopped to comment, making you roll your eyes at him.

“zip it and keep reading, birthday boy”

“... a tiny little bit, i agree. nevertheless, the first thing i actually felt, was that you striked my soul as someone weird. thanks, baby” he interrupted again, but you urged him to keep reading. “... weird in a way that made me feel like i’ve never felt before, the kind of safe and terrified at the same time. terrified of what, you might ask? well, kiyoomi, here i’d like to quote you. you once told me that me loving you is like i had the power to break you, and you loving me back was like giving me a map with all the points to strike at. well if that’s the definition of love we’re going for here, than i not only give you a map, i’ll grant you a whole GPS. the trust you put in me every day to not take advantage of what you’ve given me is inspiring, and hence, i surrender every single point of ressistance i’ve held against you, i’m yours to snap at a wish, and trusting you that you won’t do it is something i can spend my life believing in.” 

at this point kiyoomi had to stop and take a deep breath and a sip of his wine before continuing, clearing his throat a bit, chocking back his emotion. 

“... throughout my years by your side, i’ve memorized everything there is to memorize about you and gifts. you generally aren’t a fan, but you like them carrying a lot of thought, dedication, you like them meant exactly to you and to you only. you don’t want pointless blabbing and overused sentences, you enjoy sincerity. you need love radiating from them in order to truly acknowledge them as something special. now, the last thing i know is that you don’t like flowers, but i hope you won’t be too angry with me and with what i’ve prepared for you. enjoy, signed, your smiles” he finished, looking up at you, already moving towards the counter, grabbing a bouquet from behind it. 

he watched in amazement as you handed it to him, taking it in his hands, realizing that- 

it was a bouquet of origami flowers. 

“please, y/n, this is so—” he tried to find the right words, but once again, nothing came to mind as he watched your careful work from every side possible. 

“shh, there’s a special thing to them” you explained, sitting back in your seat, exactly in a straight line from him, watching every single change in his expression as he tried to find what you meant. 

he realized every flower had a little card sticking out from it’s center, and pulled the first one, the closest one to him. 

“the first reason i love you” he read in a weak voice, chuckling nervously again before he found the courage to read it out loud “you make me feel protected” 

he looked up at you with such a gentle and caring note in his eyes that you almost didn’t want to encourage him to keep reading it, but you did. 

“two. you don’t smile too much” after that he raised an eyebrow, but read the next one “three. ...but when you do, you outshine the sun itself. four. you memorized my coffee order within the first two times we’ve been to a caffee. five. you got supplies to redo my coffee order without going to the— hey i swear i didn’t mean anything bad by it!” 

“that’s literally the reason they love you for, idiot” atsumu laughed, urgining him to keep reading with a hand gesture. “come on, this is adorable”

“six. you have a playlist with songs that remind you of me. yes, i know this, omi, we share a spotify account. seven. you claim you don’t like interacting with people, but let a little girl propose to you with a cereal ring in the park.”

“this is too cute, omi is a softie” bokuto whined, hiding his face in his hands, but sakusa only slapped them off. 

“am not. eight. you keep a mental score of all the times you won over ushijima. nine. you take way too much pride in beating atsumu in service aces”

“true that!” atsumu shouted, hiding behind his glass. 

“ten” sakusa shook his head. “you don’t enjoy PDA, yet gave me the kiss of the century when i met your mother, just to annoy her. eleven. your childhood photos are too cute. twelve. you blasted hopelessly devoted to you the morning after we— i’m not reading that, idiot!” he half laughed half whined, in a high-pitched voice. 

“omi-san knows how it’s done, apparently” hinata wheezed, komori accompanying him. 

“did i ask?” he rolled his eyes and went back to picking lines from the flowers. “thirteen, you tug the corner of my sleeves when you’re stressed in public. fourteen, you have me saved in your phone as your good luck charm. fifteen. you put my head on your chest when i can’t sleep at night, to calm me down. sixteen. you make me laugh when i’m sad. seventeen. you almost never intent to make me laugh, yet always do. eighteen. you always make sure i’m carrying all the emergency items all me at all times. nineteen. you make me call you when i get home from a party, if you aren’t there to pick me up. twenty, you always insist on picking me up from wherever i am, because you’re worried about me. i mean yeah, what kind of a boyfriend would i be if i weren’t?” he genuinely asked, half of the guest shaking their heads. 

“come on, five more to go, you adorable, clueless idiot” motoya pat his back and looked over his shoulder to see your careful handwriting, before sakusa hid the message from him. 

“twenty one. you make me not worry about my future. twenty two, you try to do all your little morning rituals in advance when you leave, so i don’t miss you too much. i still do. twenty three, you’re never afraid to be bluntly honest with me. twenty four, you always ask if you can hug me when i’m low or crying. and twenty five—” he stopped more suddenly than anywhere before, eyes visibly watering before he dropped his head down and his it in his arms. 

“what’s on there?” several guys asked over themselves, as omi kept laughing slightly, hiding tears in the sleeves of his fitted shirt. 

“you’re gonna be the death of me” he murmured into the material, making everyone laugh, including you, who decided to walk over to him and hug him, resting your head on his, taking advantage of the fact that he was sitting and you could reach it. 

after a moment of weakness, he showed his red and slightly puffy face, two trails of tears fitting his smiling expression as he struggled to say 

“twenty five. you make me prouder and prouder every day.” he kept laughing through his tears, really trying to hide his emotion and failing miserably. “you really did try to make me cry on my birthday, didn’t you?” he looked up to you still embracing him. 

“i suppose i did”

“well then, i’m gonna outshine you” he said, shifting in his seat in order to get up, wiping the last remains of tears from his face. 

“what do you mean?” you asked, met with his confident smirk. 

“you’re gonna see in a bit, trust me” he huffed, dusting off his pants’ material on the knee level, and reaching over to his pocket, in his hand a tiny, little box. 

with a little more than an origami flower. 

[5-seconds-of-bucky]

December (Part 1)

A/N: Here’s my fic for @wondershawns winter writing challenge! It’s kinda Christmasy but not like a ton so do what you will with that information. Anyways, happy reading! Please let me know your thoughts! There will be a part two (and maybe three 🤭)

Summery: Shawn’s in love with you, his best friend. When Connor starts giving you the same looks he does, Shawn worries that he might lose you to someone else. 

Word count: 3.9k+

Warnings: Swearing, angst

Prompts: The smell of freshly baked cookies and “You know you’re in love with her, right?”

Shawn lit another candle as he waited for everyone to show up at his condo. It set the perfect comfy mood for the small gathering he was hosting. There was a batch of cookies in the oven, the lights on the Christmas tree were on, and various holiday decor was strewn throughout the condo. It was the first day of December, his favorite day of the year: cookie night.

Every year, Shawn hosted a small party where everyone exchanged cookies and hung out until they ate so much they couldn’t move. It was one of his favorite Christmas traditions and he looked forward to the day all year long.

He was getting snacks out when there was a sharp knock at the door. He couldn’t even put down the bag of pretzels he was pouring into a bowl before the door was slammed shut and Brian appeared from around the corner.

“Good lord, how many candles do you own?” he asked, vaguely gesturing to the numerous candles scattered around the kitchen.

“Not enough to keep away that stench of whatever you brought in. What is that?” Shawn replied, scrunching up his face.

“Deviled eggs.”

“Gross.”

“You said to bring food to share. This is my food in a shareable size.” Brian insisted, sliding the plate of cookies Shawn made out of the way so the platter could be in the center of the counter.

“First of all, get that disgusting thing away from my cookies.” Shawn took the platter over to a far away corner of the kitchen. “And second of all, you’re the only one who likes that crap so there was no reason to bring so many.”

“You said shareable-” He was cut off by the ring of the doorbell, making Shawn laugh.

“Would you look at that. Someone has manners and rang the doorbell,” Shawn commented as he made his way to the door. “Y/N, great to see you! Thank you for using the doorbell like a decent person.”

“Hello!” you said from behind the tupperware containers piled in front of your face. “I brought cookies!”

Shawn chuckled as he took the top three containers from you, revealing a bright smile and the top of a Christmas themed sweater. You looked over his shoulder and saw Brian eating something while staring at you with a blank look on his face.

“Brian, what is that?” You stepped inside and Shawn closed the door behind you.

“Deviled eggs,” he said through a mouthful.

“Gross.” You made a face similar to the one Shawn made just minutes before.

“You’re gross.”  

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him either,” Shawn said, nudging Brian out of the way with his shoulder and leading you to the kitchen.

“Holy shit, how many cookies did you make?” you asked, wide eyed as you took in sight of the insane amount of cookies covering the counter.

“Less than I was originally planning, actually,” he laughed. “Quality over quantity, right?” He turned around right as the cookie timer went off, grabbing some potholders and taking the tray out of the oven.

“I mean, I’m not complaining.” You put your tupperware down and reached for a snickerdoodle, knowing that if you were going to eat your weight in cookies, you might as well start early.

“Hands off. We have to wait until everyone’e here.”

“How did you even know I was grabbing one?”

“We’ve been friends for seven years. I’d be more surprised if I didn’t know you were grabbing one.” He turned off the oven and turned around to see that you had already eaten half a snickerdoodle.

“Brian’s eating eggs.” You pointed to Brian, who’d taken a seat at the table and was distracted by something on his phone.

“Nobody else is going to eat that shit though. The cookies are to share.” He gave you a knowing look that did absolutely nothing to make you feel bad about what you were doing.

“I guess I’ll just put it back on top of the pile then,” you teased as you slowly moved your arm to put the half-eaten delicacy back on the plate.

“Disgusting! Finish the damn cookie, would you?” Shawn rolled his eyes playfully and moved the plate away from you, knowing that you’d want to sneak more when he wasn’t looking.

The doorbell rang as you made a face at Shawn, who was busy trying not to laugh as he moved the cookies from the oven to a cooling rack.

“I’ll get it.” You shoved the last bite of cookie in your mouth and dusted your hands off on your jeans.

“Y/N!” Connor said once you opened the door, hands holding a small box of cookies he’d obviously bought at the store. He brought you in for a quick hug and shuffled into the condo. “Good to see you!”

“Good to see you, too! Long time, no see.” You followed him to the kitchen and stood back and he greeted Brian and Shawn.

“Store bought cookies?” Shawn looked at Connor with disbelief. “I said BYOBG. Bring your own baked goods.”

“At least he bought the good ones,” Brian said as he placed his plate in the sink.

“See, I put in some effort,” Connor said. “Ooh, deviled eggs!”

“Hey, those are mine!” Brian swatted his hand away from the plate.

“I thought they were to share,” Shawn said matter of factly.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think any of you actually liked them.”

“Sharing is caring,” was all Connor said before he popped one into his mouth. All Brian could do was grumble something about how much he hated it here.

----

Two hours went by before Shawn realized that he forgot to get goldfish: an essential snack of every gathering at his place.

“Shawn, how could you forget the fucking goldfish? It’s the second most important part of the cookie extravaganza!” You exclaimed, dramatically throwing an arm over your forehead as you huffed in frustration. “I just might pass away from this travesty.”

“Yeah, Shawn. How could you?” Connor asked jokingly from his spot next to you on the couch. He placed his arm around you and rubbed your shoulder comfortingly. Shawn’s eyes squinted the slightest bit at the sight of it, a sudden urge of protectiveness coming over him. Since when did Connor get to do that to you?

“I am simply devastated.” You leaned into Connor’s shoulder, pretending to cry.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll get you some goldfish.” Connor stood up and grabbed his keys off the coffee table.

“My hero!” You jumped up from the couch, a cheesy smile on your face.

“You sure you want to drive all the way to the store for goldfish?” Shawn asked, trying his best to mask the sudden jealousy he was feeling.

“I mean, the store’s five minutes away. It’s no big deal.” Connor shrugged, grabbing his coat and tossing yours to you. “We’ll be back in no time.”

You waved goodbye at Shawn and Brian as you walked out through the door Connor opened for you. You sent a wink to Shawn before closing it, making his cheeks go pinker than their usual tint.

“Smooth,” Brian commented once he heard the start of the car engine outside.

“Shut up.” Shawn chose to bury his face in his phone rather than walk into the conversation he knew was coming. It was the same one they had every time you made Shawn weak in the knees.

“You know you’re in love with her, right?”

Shawn kept his eyes on the game he was playing, knowing that this was going to end the same way it always did: Brian telling Shawn about every little thing that makes it obvious that he likes you and Shawn telling Brian about every little thing that made him think the exact opposite.

“She literally winked at you and you looked like you were about to pass out. Not to mention, you looked hella jealous once Connor got within a foot of her.”

“She called him her fucking hero for getting gooldfish. Since when are they even that close of friends?” Shawn grumbled.

“You could’ve offered to go get some.”

“I didn’t get the chance to before he did.”  

“Well stop gumbling. Connor’s not gonna steal your not-so girlfriend so get over yourself and let the two responsible adults get their goldfish.”

Shawn mimicked the last part under his breath and Brian took it as a sign to stop talking and let Shawn sulk. He would realize sooner or later that you were just as in love with him as he was with you.

Twenty minutes passed and Shawn started to feel a tinge of worriedness seep into the back of his mind. The store was literally three and a half minutes away so was it really taking you 14 minutes to find goldfish?

Brian seemed completely unbothered by the amount of time the other half of the party had been out. Whatever video he was watching was apparently much more interesting than the whereabouts of Connor and Shawn’s not-so girlfriend.

23 minutes. Still nothing.

Shawn put his phone on the coffee table and ran a hand through his hair. “What’s taking them so long?” he asked, hoping that the concern in his head wasn’t as clear in his voice.

“They probably had to get gas or something.”  

“That doesn’t take that long though. They’ve been gone for almost half an hour.” His foot started to bounce.

“They’re 20 years old. I’m sure they can handle themselves.”

“I’m gonna call Y/N.” His phone was pressed up to his ear in less than twenty seconds, anxiously waiting for you to pick up and laugh at him for being so worried. That’s all he needed: to hear your laugh.

“Yo,” you said as you picked up the phone, already knowing the exact reason as to why Shawn was calling.

“You guys are taking a while. You alright?” You could picture him pacing around the living room as Brian sat there and did nothing. Brian tended to be more rational in these kinds of situations (not that you minded Shawn calling, though).

“We’re fine,” you reassured him. “The store was out of goldfish so we had to go somewhere else. Guess they took a play outta your book.”

Shawn sighed in relief. “You almost back?”

“Turning onto your street right now. See you in a minute, Mr. Protective.”

“Alrighty.” He hung up to tease you, knowing how much you hated ending phone calls without saying goodbye. His phone rang almost immediately and he smiled to himself.

“You bitch. You didn’t say bye.”

“Bye.” He hung up again, laughing as he heard a car door slam shut.

The door to his condo opened to reveal you holding a giant tub of goldfish and a very pissed off look covering your features.

“You are the actual worst person ever.” You glared at him and sat down next to Brian, opening the tub and eating a handful before offering some to Brian, who stuck his hand in without a word. Your friendship with Brian was a strange one, but Shawn had to admit that your wordless communication when food was involved was impressive.

Connor appeared in the doorway, chuckling when he saw you staring straight ahead, like you were in a trance, as you ate the fish one by one. “Let’s get this party started for real this time!”

Shawn didn’t miss the look of adoration in Connor’s eyes as he looked at you.

---

The rest of the night felt off to Shawn. Maybe it was the twelve cookies he ate earlier or maybe it was the fact that he could not tear his eyes off of how close you were to Connor.

Usually, you and Shawn were attached at the hip. That’s just how your relationship was: heads on shoulders and hands on the smalls of backs; platonic. Seven years of friendship meant that you were quite comfortable around each other. Too comfortable, almost. The line between platonic and romantic was blurred for the two of you, and it only seemed to get blurrier as you spent more time together.

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were all over Connor and Connor was all over you. Not like how you and Shawn usually were, but more than what basic friends would be like. You were never like that with Brian. Why were you like it with Connor?

He kept his thoughts to himself until he was grabbing a glass of water when Brian came out of the bathroom.

“You alright?” Brian asked. “You look a little mad.”

“Yeah, I’m . . . I’m fine.” He stared straight ahead, watching as water filled the glass.

“You sure? You’ve been cold to Y/N all night. That’s pretty unusual.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not acting cold. I’m being room temperature”

“Okay.” Brian gave him a look as he walked away that made Shawn think that maybe he hadn’t been hiding his jealousy as well as he originally thought.

I’m not acting strange, he thought to himself as he took a sip from his glass. I’m not even jealous. It’s her life. What do I care who she hangs out with?

His thoughts were disproven as soon as he walked into the living room and almost spit out the water in his mouth. Jealousy and hurt surged through his body as he saw you lying asleep on Connor’s lap. Since when were you that close with Connor? And since when did Connor look at you like that? Why was he giving you the same longing look that Shawn gave you every time you turned around?

“You guys look tired,” he said, nodding to the clock that read 12:23 p.m. “We should probably call it a night.”

Brian and Connor hummed in agreement and Shawn tried his best not to stare as Connor softly shook you awake. He turned to go back to the kitchen and grab the tupperware full of leftover cookies you divided up earlier to take home.

You sleepily stumbled over to Shawn as Brian and Connor got their coats, leaning against his side for a second before taking the container from his hands.

“Thanks for the party. It was a lot of fun, even if you forgot the goldfish.”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” he chuckled, wrapping an around you and squeezing you into him. “But I’m glad you had fun. I did too.”

“We need to hang out soon. I feel like it’s been a while since it was just us, you know?”

He nodded in agreement, already thinking of the next free day he had to do so. “You need a ride home? I don’t want you walking back by yourself this late.”

“Oh, Connor’s gonna take me so you don’t have to go out of your way. Thank you though.”

“Oh, okay.” Hard as he tried, he couldn’t hide the disappointment. Taking you back home was something he cherished, even if it was slightly inconvenient. “Text me when you get home, alright?”

“You know I will.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “See you later, alligator.”

“In a while, crocodile.” He forced a laugh. Just like that, what had been an okay night turned into one that would plague his mind for weeks.

---

It was three weeks before the two of you hung out after the party.

Three weeks of Shawn trying to distance himself in order to figure out his feelings: ignoring texts, staying off of social media, letting your calls go to voicemail. Three weeks for him to come to the conclusion that you didn’t have feelings for him in return. Three weeks for him to believe that you had feelings for Connor.

Three weeks of you trying to close the distance he was creating. Three weeks for you to worry that Shawn didn’t have feelings for you. Three weeks for you to decide that if he didn’t want to be around you anymore, he was going to have to say it to your face.

Truth was, you thought you had made it very clear that you wanted more than the friendship you had. For years, you watched as Shawn brushed off every flirtatious comment and relative approach to something more than platonic. You were even sure that he wanted more too; That he didn’t want to sit on the line between platonic and romantic any longer. But now, you weren’t so sure.

So you showed up unannounced at his door, praying that once he opened it, he wouldn’t slam it right back in your face.

Shawn was definitely surprised when he opened the white piece of wood and saw you standing there, a bag of goldfish in your hands and an apprehensive look covering your face, but he didn’t slam it back in your face.

“Hey,” you said nervously, glancing up at the beautiful brown eyes you knew so well. “You wanna, uh, hang out?”

“Yeah. I . . . uh . . . sure.” He stepped out of the way to let you in, closing the door softly behind you and following you to the couch.

“Your house still smells like cookies right out of the oven,” you laughed.

“I’m making some right now, actually. I ate all the leftovers from the party.”

“Me too. They were gone in like three days.”

“Wanna help make the next batch?”

“Yes!”

And just like that, the awkwardness that filled the space of the last three weeks evaporated into thin air.

---

The hours flew by and before you knew it, it was seven o’clock and you needed to be getting home. As much as you wanted to keep talking, your assignments weren’t going to complete themselves.

“Alright,” you put your mug of hot chocolate down and took the Christmas llama blanket you gave him for Christmas last year off your lap. “I should probably head on home.”

“Let me grab my keys.” He knew you’d deny his request to drive you home, but it was cold outside and there was no way he was letting you walk home alone at night either.

“I am perfectly capable of walking home.”

“And it’s December in Canada. No fucking way am I letting you walk home.”

“Oh come on, it’s not even that cold.”

“Y/N.”

“We can look at Christmas lights!”

“We can do that in the car.”

“It’s more of an experience when you’re walking.”

He sighed and begrudgingly grabbed his thickest coat from the closet, causing you to jump up with glee.

“You owe me.” He grabbed a hoodie off the chair next to the door and passed it to you, giving you a look that said you needed to put it on.

“You’re the bestest friend ever!”

His smile faltered at ‘friend’.

“You could say that.”

After forcing a few more layers on you and making sure he had his phone and keys, you were out the door and starting the five minute walk to your apartment.

Maybe the cold was numbing his common sense or maybe it was the number of cookies he ate earlier, but it felt like the right time to tell you how he felt. It felt like the right time but there was one thing plaguing his mind that told him to stop:

Connor.

“So . . .” You tore your eyes from the house to your left at the sound of his voice, eyes just as bright as the lights displayed in front of it. “I see that you’ve been hanging out with Connor a lot more.”

“Yeah. We haven’t really hung out that much before but after cookie night he asked if I wanted to go around the city with him while he took some photos and I was like ‘why not?’ and we became pretty good friends.”

“You’re not into him?”

“Pfft, no,” you laughed, thinking he just made a joke. “No, I’m not into Connor. We’re just friends.”

“You sure?” he pushed, images from the party flashing through his mind. His tone wasn’t joking but that’s all you seemed to hear. “You can tell me, you know.”

“There’s nothing going on between Connor and I. I promise.” You nudged his shoulder with a grin and kicked at the snow on the sidewalk. As infectious as your smile was, Shawn couldn’t bring himself to turn the corners of his lips upwards even the slightest bit.

“Sure as hell looks like it,” he muttered under his breath. He kept his eyes on the ground but he could feel your head snap up at the comment.

“Shawn,” You stopped walking, grabbing his arm and forcing him to look at you. “I am not into Connor, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

“Really?” Shawn gently pulled his arm from your grasp. “Because he’s obviously in love with you.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Connor is not in love with me! And even if he was, how would you know?”

“I’ve seen the looks he gives you, Y/N. I’m not blind.”

“What look, Shawn? What look does Connor give me that just absolutely gives it away that he’s in love with me, huh? What obvious looks have I failed to notice for all this time?”

“I know because they’re the exact same looks I give you!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in frustration. “And the looks you give him and not the same ones you give me.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to escape your eyes. No, they weren’t the same looks. You looked at Connor like your friend. You looked at Shawn like the love of your life.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I . . . I  can’t do this.” You unzipped the coat he made you put on before you left and tossed it at his feet before removing his hoodie, leaving you in just your sweater and light jacket.

You met his eyes one last time, the pain in his mirroring the devastation in yours. With that, you spun on the heel of your boot and started walking home, leaving Shawn standing there, stunned in the snow.

You didn’t get far before Shawn snapped out of his trance, realizing that you were out in the Canada cold without nearly enough protection against it.

“Y/N, wait! You’re going to get sick, or freeze, or worse!” he called out, hoping you would at least come back for the coat and he could look at you one last time. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m an idiot and I didn’t mean it!”

You didn’t turn around so he decided to go to you, picking the now snow covered hoodie off the ground and jogging towards you.

Your patience wore thinner with every step of his you hear getting closer to you.

“Stop following me!” You turned around and all Shawn saw was the absolute heartbreak held by your eyes. “How dare you accuse me of this shit when I’m obviously in love with you!”

Shawn stumbled and stopped, mere steps away from taking your arm leading you back inside where it was warm and you were safe.  

“Merry fucking Christmas, Shawn,” you spat, giving him the dirtiest look you could muster and bolting away.

He knew that he messed up. He knew you were beyond angry and hurt. That you wouldn’t text when you got home. That there was no saving this.

December is a month for hope and love, but hope as he might, Shawn knew that you had no love left for him.

December was almost over, but his mind would be stuck in it forever.

Masterlist // Let me know your thoughts

Taglist // Add yourself

@fallinallincurls @lonelyreputation @yourstrulyamour​ @aelingalthynius @voguesir @shawnsreputation @drayshadow @otaculo @mendesficsxbombay @particularnarry @shawnaus @friendlyneighborhood-mendes  

Additional tags: @wondershawns

(Strikethrough means I couldn’t tag you)

[littlestarofthewest]

*chants softly* Do it - write that modern AU uno fic that the fandom doesn't realise that they desperately need 👿😏😘

Remember this? This came up between Christmas and New Year’s 2019 xD And now I finally did it.

Pairing: Arthur x gn reader | Words: 2325 | Rating: mildly nsft | Tags: strip Uno (yes, you’re reading this right), modern AU

The party is in full swing around you, but you have no desire to join in. It's been a while since a new year made you hopeful, and all the happiness and well wishes for another promising year sound forced and wrong in your ears.

It's too loud, and it smells like alcohol and too many people in a small space. You can barely breathe, so you head along the corridor to the rooms that are off-limits to the other guests. You don't feel like crashing in John's and Abigail's bedroom, so you take the next room that's part office, part storage room. In the past, you sometimes crashed here for the night.

You close the door behind you with a sigh and are about to head for the couch, but then you spot someone sitting in front of it on the ground. He's hunched over a little and looks up when you stop dead in your tracks.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know somebody was in here."

"It's alright," the guy says, offering you a kind smile.

A little lamp next to the sofa throws a soft shadow on his face, and you recognize the beard and nice features. You've seen him many times in photos around the apartment.

"You're Arthur, right?" you ask. "John's friend slash brother?"

Arthur chuckles. "Yeah, I guess you could call me that."

"I'm Y/N, Abigail's friend."

Recognition shows in Arthur's face, and he nods. "Friend slash soul mate slash the only person who understands Abigail whenever John acts like … well, John."

"So you have heard of me."

"A little, here and there," Arthur says, "mostly good."

"Mostly?"

Arthur grins a little one-sided, and something warm rises up in your stomach. You always thought that Arthur was handsome based on the pictures. It's way worse in person.

"I didn't mean to crush your party-" you start, but Arthur interrupts you.

"It's alright. I understand the urge for some peace and quiet. Please stay."

"Thanks." You move closer and sit down on the ground, putting your first and only drink down on the table next to the lamp. "What you got there?"

"Uno cards, if you believe it," Arthur says, and you both look at each other and speak at the same time. "John."

Arthur laughs, and you take a sip from your drink, enjoying the view. You definitely prefer Arthur's company to all the fake happy people outside.

"You gonna shuffle those all night, or are you ready to lose?" you ask.

"Lose?" Arthur measures you with a raised brow. "Around here, nobody takes me on."

You wave your fingers at him. "Come on then. Deal."

Arthur shuffles the cards for real now before setting up the first game, and you try to figure out if you've ever had a stranger New Year's Eve. Sitting in a friend's apartment playing Uno with a stranger is not a plan you would have made.

About two minutes later, Arthur puts his last card on the pile. "See?" he teases, but you just shrug.

"Beginner's luck."

You go back and forth with dealing the cards, and although Arthur wins the first three games, you soon catch up, making you both even again.

"So, why are you in here?" you ask, sorting your cards.

"I only came because John and Abigail wanted to set me up, but she didn't show," Arthur says with a shrug. "Didn't feel like partying after that."

"That sucks. Did her plans change?"

"More her perspective, I guess," Arthur says, something defeated in his voice. "Saw my profile picture, and suddenly she changed her mind."

"Nah, that can't be it."

"Why not?"

"Because you're gorgeous."

"I- What?" Arthur stumbles.

"I'm telling you that you're a very attractive man," you say while watching your cards. "And Uno, by the way."

"Oh, well, thank you, I guess," Arthur says. He puts another card on the pile, his cheeks now sporting a red tinge. "You're very nice."

"Just honest. And I win."

You grin at Arthur as he collects the cards to shuffle again. "You really are a worthy foe. We should make this more interesting."

"What, like strip poker?" you joke and Arthur laughs.

"We only have Uno cards." He's about to deal, but then he looks at you with a mischievous spark in his eyes. "Although it doesn't make much difference, really."

You look at each other and there's a sudden tension as if both of you wait for the other to chicken out or laugh. You wish you could, but the idea of getting Arthur naked is too tempting, even if you might lose some of your clothes yourself.

"We should probably lock the door," you say as casually as you can.

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

You get up to lock the door, and when you come back, Arthur deals, both of you acting as if nothing changed, but you feel a constant wave of heat running up and down your body. Before, you didn't really care much for your cards, but now every move counts. 

Arthur's the first one to win, but the second he puts down the card, he looks like he'd rather take it back. "Look, you don't have to-"

You interrupt him by taking off one of your shoes. "You're just worried you're going to lose."

 "Fine, you're asking for it."

Arthur wins again, getting your second shoe, followed by you winning for the first time. Like you, Arthur loses his shoes first, and then you agree to count both socks as one item. That's how Arthur ends up shirtless pretty soon after. You tell yourself that a naked torso is really nothing special, but for some reason, you play your worst round.

"You seem to have a hard time concentrating," Arthur teases, and you hate that he actually noticed.

"Shut up," you grunt, focusing on the cards. Still, you can't help but peek at Arthur once in a while.

"How did you end up here then tonight?" Arthur asks.

"My ex is back in town and hung around in front of my apartment, so Abigail suggested I hang out here."

"Something to be concerned about?" Arthur asks, his voice making clear how he thinks about a stalker-y ex.

"It's not that bad, really. They're not dangerous or anything, just annoying," you explain. "It's probably just a desperate 'alone on New Year's Eve' thing. Like I'd do that again."

You roll your eyes, and Arthur chuckles. "One of those, huh? Just gotta wait them out then. And this is your shirt gone."

He puts down his last card, and you get to your feet. "I'll go with the pants first if you don't mind. I'm hot anyway."

"Suit yourself," Arthur says nonchalantly, but you can feel his eyes on you as you slide the fabric down your legs. 

Arthur looks away again when you sit, but your skin still prickles, and you wonder how much more of this you can take. Playing freaking Uno shouldn't be this hot.

Lucky for you, you get a good hand, and despite your lack of concentration, Arthur's the one who has to get rid of his pants next. You try your best not to stare at his junk but fail miserably. Suddenly you're very concerned about what could happen next. Arthur must think the same.

"Glad we locked the door," Arthur grunts, "I don't need strangers looking at my junk."

"I'm a stranger, too, aren't I?" 

"You called me gorgeous; you can do whatever you want," Arthur says.

You know he's joking, but that doesn't stop your brain from imagining things you could do to or with him. That very pleasing but also distracting train of thought loses you your shirt in the next round. Still, Arthur's the one who has to get rid of his underwear first.

This time, you have the decency to look away until he sits down again, and the red on Arthur's cheeks is back. 

"So, what now?" he asks. "Can't exactly take off more if I lose."

After what you just thought about, your brain seems to have lost all sensible ideas, and you blurt out the first thing on your mind. "Truth or dare."

Arthur chuckles. "Really? And next up is 'spin the bottle?'" 

"Hey, we're playing strip Uno," you huff, "you really want to get judgemental on me now?"

"Alright, alright, 'truth or dare' it is. Just deal."

You deal the cards with butterflies taking flight in your stomach. You don't even know what to ask or dare Arthur, but the alternative is to get naked yourself. Either way, you're in trouble.

The round goes on and on, both of you putting on more cards rather than losing them, but then the game turns in Arthur's favor until he forgets to say Uno. You have better luck then, finally winning the round. 

This time, it's you who tries to offer a way out. "Look, you don't have-"

"No, no, that's what we agreed on," Arthur says, waving his fingers at you. "Come on, ask."

"Alright, truth, or dare?"

Arthur studies you for a moment, his gaze so intense that a cold shiver runs down your spine. "Dare."

All kinds of stupid things run through your mind, but you don't want to make Arthur look foolish, especially in front of anybody else. You want to keep him all to yourself.

"I dare you not to move, no matter what."

Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise but stays deliberately still. You take all your courage and crawl over to him, scattering the cards without a second thought. 

When you reach Arthur, you run your cheek along his one like a cat before placing soft kisses along his neck. You hear him take in a sharp breath, but he doesn't move. 

You look up to him, and he keeps still as you move closer, your lips hovering so close to his that you can feel his breath. It takes all your willpower not to kiss him, but you're still playing after all.

"Your turn," you say, looking right into Arthur's eyes. They're a nice shade of blue but with an almost golden circle in the middle.

"Truth or dare?" Arthur asks.

"Dare," you say way too fast.

Arthur's lip twitches into a smile, but he still doesn't move. "I dare you to come closer."

You crawl into Arthur's lap, very aware of the fact that only a tiny piece of fabric keeps you apart. With your arms around Arthur's neck, you make yourself comfortable, but your faces are still inches apart. 

"Truth or dare?" you ask.

"The truth is that I didn't say Uno on purpose," Arthur says. You believe him, which means that he wanted for this little game to start. 

"Trickery," you say, running your fingers through his hair, "how very naughty of you. I think that entitles me to dare you again."

"Sounds fair."

You move even closer, your fingers teasing Arthur's neck. "I dare you to touch me."

Arthur places his hands on your knees before running them up to your thighs. You get goosebumps all over your skin and can't help that you fidget a little. The friction takes its toll on Arthur. You can feel him pressing up against you while he runs his hands up along your body.

"Truth or dare?" he asks, his fingers dancing over your back.

"Truth. I want you to kiss me."

Arthur caresses your shoulders while he looks at you, his fingers climbing your neck in slow motion. The touch makes you shiver, but you stay right where you are, letting Arthur cup your face with his hands. Only when there's a barely-there pull, you move, finally closing the gap between you and Arthur.

You can't remember the last time someone kissed you this gently, and you melt against Arthur, promising yourself to stay in his lap for as long as you possibly can.

Arthur deepens the kiss, the taste, and warmth of him making you forget where you are until there's a harsh knock on the door.

"Hey, Y/N? You in there? It's me."

You feel like being doused with ice water, and your fingers dig harshly into Arthur's shoulders.

"Who's that?" he whispers, worry in his expression.

"My ex," you whisper back.

"Come on, let's talk," comes the voice from outside.

Arthur raises his eyebrows in question, and you immediately shake your head, so he tilts his head to face the door. "Do you mind? We're trying to hook up in here."

There's silence, and you bite your lip so you won't laugh. Sadly, your ex doesn't give up that easily. "Who is this?"

"It's Arthur; you might want to remember that name the next time you skulk around somebody's apartment."

It's silent again, then your ex clears their throat. "Just call me, okay? We can talk about this?"

You look at Arthur, slightly shaking your head, so you both stay quiet until you're sure your ex is gone. Arthur leans back with a sigh, resting his head against the couch. "That was not a turn on."

"I'm sorry," you say, running your fingers over his beard. "Like I said - annoying."

Arthur watches the ceiling for a bit before he takes your hands, threading your fingers together. "You know, I have an apartment, too. No exes hanging around that one."

You laugh. "Getting me naked here doesn't mean you can get me naked over there."

"I just borrow these cards, and we'll see what happens."

He kisses you again, and you have to admit to yourself that you'd rip your clothes off in an instant if he asked you to. You still act like you need to be persuaded. "Fine, you may take me there and try again. You might lose, though."

Arthur smiles. "I'll take that risk."

Getting dressed has never been such a thrill for you. Maybe the new year wasn't so bad after all.

[pallasperilous]

Occursus

Castiel/Dean Winchester Gen/Teen, 4341 words 15x20 coda  AO3 version “The natural environment of the human soul is a human body,” Cas says. “Humans have yet to meet a foreign substrate that they don’t immediately attempt to colonize. My form in Hell was not an exception.” 

Then he shuts his mouth very deliberately and gestures back to Dean like his mic is going live in three, two. “Or the bit where my soul gave you some kind of STD?” Dean finishes. “It was a poor analogy. I apologize.” “So what’s a better one?” Castiel drums his fingers for a second. “It’s more like…the way a parasitic jewel wasp injects a cockroach with venom, and transforms it into a willing host for wasp larvae.” “Holy shit are you ever bad at this,” Dean says, with that signature brand of fond horror he special-orders just for Castiel, Angel of the Gourd.

It’s half past midnight by the time Dean gets another run at Cas.

Granted, what the fuck does half past midnight even mean here, where time is as free as tap water? Why does anybody even bother? For all it matters, Dean could set his watch to eleventy minutes past twenty o’ nope and still never miss last call.

Then again, somebody felt it necessary to invent the idea of Tuesday in the first place, and Dean’s not gonna volunteer himself for the task of replacing it with something better. What’s important is that he’s survived (or rather, he hasn’t survived) a battery of poignant moments and tearful reunions. He and Sam hugged out burdens registering in the triple digits. They even had a little fight, pretty much for the fun of it, while Ellen fucking Harvelle watched them over the bar with her eyes shining. She still charged them, though.

Right at the beginning of the party Dean and Castiel had their eyes-across-the-room thing, followed by the same magnetic, exhausted embrace they’ve shared on just about every plane of reality now. Dean supposes he could ask Cas for a nickel tour of the Empty just so they could hit for the cycle, but he’d really rather not. Sam let them eke out a few gruff, tear-choked monosyllables before diving in, sweeping Cas up in a bear hug and laughing like a fucking kid. Dean doesn’t push it, because it’s been longer for Sam, after all. Or something.

 And now it’s quiet, just the jukebox and the clink of glasses back in the kitchen, a few folks murmuring in booths. It might be dark outside, it might not; it’s waiting on Dean’s opinion before it commits to anything. And so is Cas, who is standing in the warm glow of the jukebox, hands in his pockets.

 Dean walks up, leans against it, bottle still dangling from one hand.

“C’mon, sunshine. I’ll show you yours, you show me mine.”

Cas looks up and into Dean’s eyes with the wary, elegant patience of a deer. “What is it that you would be showing me, Dean?”

Dean gives him a long, languid blink and bites his lip, and Castiel lags for half a second before rolling his own eyes. “I see death hasn’t refined your sense of humor.”

“Nope. Guess the billionth time aint the charm.”

Cas remains stonefaced, which means a corresponding you dumbass blush starts crawling up the sides of Dean’s neck. The jukebox switches records like it’s making a suggestion.

“I’m gonna sit down outside,” Dean says. “C’mon and sit down with me. There’s a patio somewhere, right? Ellen was always talking about adding one out back. No way she hasn’t bossed somebody into buildin’ it.”

“There’s a patio,” Cas says, taking his hands out of his pockets.

 Heaven’s patio is pretty nice; twenty square feet, some scattered picnic tables, fences covered in ivy and string lights. It still smells like fresh pine boards. There’s even a fire pit, which seems kinda bougie for the Roadhouse, but hell with it, it’s warm and pretty, and since when did pretentious people get to lay claim to “a hole with a fire in it”? There’s no moon overhead, and so the Milky Way is giving them the full monty — the runnelled spine of it, the ribcage packed with galaxies.

“Are they all alive?” Dean asks. The warmth from inside leaks out of his collar, wisps away.

“Who?”

Dean points up. “The stars. They always make a big deal about how most of the stars you can see from Earth have been dead for millions of years by the time we get the light from ‘em. That still true here? Or is everything on auto-renewal?”

“That’s a very complicated question,” Cas says, not looking up, only at Dean. He does that a lot, Dean knows, but it turns out to mean something different than what Dean had always assumed, which was ironically pretty similar to what it actually meant, but was reassuringly unactionable and therefore unfuckupable.

“I’m a very complicated guy,” Dean says.

Castiel smiles at that. “I don’t actually know the answer,” he admits. “And it would take an extremely long time to investigate. There are some other things I’d rather do first.”

“What, you can’t just call the kid for directory assistance?”

Castiel lets a good-humored sigh. “Like many young people these days, Jack prefers to avoid the phone.”

This is a solid riff, and Dean respects it. He picks the table closest to the fire and takes a bench and Cas sits next to him, instead of opposite. Dean thought he managed to break him of this habit a few years ago, but here all things are made whole again.

“So what,” Cas says, without a single molecule of playfulness or seduction, “is it that you want us to show each other?”

“Yeah, I was…it was a dumb joke. But I mean it, just not in a ‘playing doctor’ way.”

Castiel frowns, tightens his lips; the firelight throws a fluttering shadow across his face.

“I mean…Christ.” Dean takes a medicinal slug of his dwindling beer. “I don’t really look like this anymore either, right?” And he gestures at his usual shitshow personal presentation, which death has also noticeably failed to refine.

Castiel frowns, smoothes his hand across the surface of the table. “This is a corporeal world, Dean. It operates on a different set of rules, but your body here is no more of an illusion than it was on earth.”

“Seriously?” Dean ponders a second, squints through the dim light at his fingernails, at the high-resolution grime contained therein. “Jesus, that sounds like a lot of work. At least compared to Holodeck Heaven.”

“It is. But we didn’t build this place to be a...a…doorprize. It’s a real world,” Castiel enthuses, looming forward. “It’s the one that should have been created for all of you in the first place.” He pauses, glances down. “For all of us.”

Dean shrugs. “Okay, so no holograms. I’ll keep all that in mind next time Charlie tries to convince me to go skydiving.”

Castiel snorts, but not in pure aggravation, so Dean feels like he’s finally got a point on the board. “What I’m sayin’ is…physical or not, this place has different rules, right? So could I look at you without my eyeballs exploding? The…you know, the angel parts of you. Not just your vessel,” and Dean fwippies his hand at Cas to indicate that true beauty is contained within and Dean is completely indifferent to the fact this dork-ass alien managed to bodysnatch a guy who’s never dipped below an 8.5.

“It isn’t a vessel anymore. We can create our own bodies, now.”

“Peachy,” Dean clips, because that shit is a little late coming off the line.

Castiel sighs. “You could see me in that form without coming to harm. But you should know that I don’t consider it any more a reflection who I am than this form. Not anymore.”

Dean rolls the bottle towards him, nudges a knuckle. “You’re a real boy now, huh?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Castiel says, and smiles a smile so small that Dean would need a microscope to figure out if it’s pleased or pained.

So Dean thwacks the bottle down on the totally-real table and claps his totally-real hands. “Well then let’s go. Hit me with that angel weirdness. If we’re gonna do this, I gotta taste all thirty-one flavors.”

Castiel smiles a little more convincingly, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are really only the two,” he says, and holds his palms out to the warmth of the fire.

“Great, then we’ll be done in time to catch Letterman. Then if you’re good maybe you can help me shimmy out of this thing.”

Cas cocks his head. “Out of which thing?”

“This super real heavenly meat-suit, dude. It’s not fair if only one of us gets naked. Peep show has to go both ways. I see your angel-face, you see my soul.”

Cas looks stricken, like Dean is asking to suck on his toes next to a playground. “I mean, unless that’d fuck you up,” Dean adds.

“No,” Castiel replies, a little absently. “It wouldn’t fuck me up. But it…wouldn’t really accomplish anything, either.”

“What, no soul kink? That’s bullshit and you know it. You love this crap.”

Castiel replies, “Your soul is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” with the easy confidence of a regular latte order. With the same uncanny, 2 Blessed 2 B Stressed face he had when Dean plowed Ruby’s knife hilt-deep into Jimmy Novak’s sternum, that he had when the Empty collapsed him  like a carcass in an acid bath.

That face shuts Dean right the fuck up, because it sends him skipping backwards into that fucking basement, where his phone is buzzing and the gritty concrete chill of the floor is seeping through his jeans into the useless meat of his legs and leeching into the hot, wet channels of his piece of shit heart.

Turns out you can work up a good little panic attack in heaven, which seems like a significant oversight.

From a million miles away he feels Cas’s warm, dry palm slide over the back of his hand –– there’s a ring there now that Dean lost down a motel sink drain ages ago, is nobody spotting continuity errors here?—then Cas’s hand tightens on his and it feels like a Xanax kicking in. (The good kind, direct from the hot nurse with the little paper cup, not the kind you get in a from a shady burnout at a truckstop, that’s been ground up with baking soda or benadryl and carefully remolded, as if you could possibly give that much of a shit when you’re freaking out bad enough to buy Xanax at a truckstop.)

Point being, he calms the fuck down.

Cas has good hands. They can do a lot of impressive shit, and they look nice doing it. They don’t look like –– they’ve never looked like –– they belong to somebody whose main job is destroying people, places, or things. They’re hands that how to play the cello, or make tables from reclaimed wood, or give soapy, encompassing handjobs in the shower on cold evenings.

“It’s been years, though,” Dean rasps, not looking up yet. “I was a kid when you got me out of Hell, Cas. I’ve done a lot of shit since then. Maybe souls get stretch marks.”

Castiel’s hand tightens on his, clamps it down on the table. “I’ve always been able to see it.”

“Okay,” Dean mumbles, but Cas keeps on going –

“The only time I couldn’t see any part of your soul was when I was without grace, and I promise you that was one of the greatest deprivations imaginable.”

Dean snorts, looks away, but his hand is still on lockdown. “Worse than going hungry, huh?”

“Much.”

“Hey, what about Sam? Or, hell, fucking Donatello. They both were both walking around minus their creamy filling, and you didn’t say boo.”

Cas shrugs. “I can’t see their souls under ordinary circumstances.”

“So what, mine’s just extra loud, or day-glo, or what?”

“It’s both of those things, but that isn’t why,” Cas answers, and the boy is downright wry.

Dean tugs his hand out, raps his knuckles against the wood. “Okay, so stop bein’ coy and tell me before I get a complex. And if you say it’s because of love or some shit, I’m bailing to Rowena’s.”

“You infected me,” Cas says.

“Uh,” says Dean.

The fire pops and a log shifts; Cas glances over at the kerfuffle, absently lifts his fingers to his chin like he’s looking for an old scar. “In Hell, when I retrieved you…I had to grip your raw soul. I was meant to wear a gauntlet, so I wouldn’t be burned.”

Dean snickers. “You’re telling me you were supposed to be wearing a soul condom. What happened, you get too excited and forget to suit up? It’s okay, I know I’m a lot to take in.”

Castiel purses his lips. “No, I was properly armored. But my arm was torn off in combat shortly before I reached you.”

“Ouch.”

“Ouch,” Cas agrees. “I didn’t have time to retrieve the arm or its protection from the pit, so I had to grow a new one very quickly.”

Dean really should’ve switched to whiskey before starting this. “What, you didn’t pack a spare?” He wheezes.

“Ordinarily, yes, I would have had the resources, but I was equipped very lightly for that mission. It was a raid, not a siege. You understand the difference.”

“Sure, yeah, you left your emergency arms in the trunk. So you just popped out a new one. No big.”

“It was a big. Your soul was close enough that it forced me to grow a human arm, instead of a much quicker and more powerful extensor.”

“Okay, uh,” Dean pinches at the bridge of his nose, “there’s a lot to unpack there.”

“What part of it confuses you?”

“I dunno, the bit where apparently angels are I guess heavenly octopuses,”

“The plural in the Greek is octopodes,” Cas interjects, not without pleasure.

Dean glowers. “Or the part where you can apparently swap in different drill bits,” Dean continues,

“Mm,” Cas notes, careful not to open his mouth,

“Or that I, like, accidentally bullied you into growing a person arm,” and Dean pauses for breath here, which Cas evidently takes as permission to dive in with more Planet Earth commentary.

“The natural environment of the human soul is a human body,” he says. “Humans have yet to meet a foreign substrate that they don’t immediately attempt to colonize. My form in Hell was not an exception.” Then he shuts his mouth very deliberately and gestures back to Dean like his mic is going live in three, two.

“Or the bit where my soul gave you some kind of STD?” Dean finishes.

“It was a poor analogy. I apologize.”

“So what’s a better one?”

Castiel drums his fingers for a second, listens to the fire pop in its little cage. “It’s more like…the way a parasitic jewel wasp injects a cockroach with venom, and transforms it into a willing host for wasp larvae.”

“Holy shit are you ever bad at this,” Dean says, with that signature brand of fond horror he special-orders just for Castiel, Angel of the Gourd.

“What I’m trying to avoid saying,” Castiel sighs, “is that you rubbed off on me.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. That’s fair. I wouldn’t be dumb enough to say that around me, either.”  He lays a couple little pats on Cas’s hand. “Lookit you, though, seeing around that corner. I’m proud of you, man. That would’ve totally flipped your breaker back in the day.”

“Just one of the many ways you have reshaped me, Dean,” Cas says, with warm sarcasm.

“Alright, so you rawdogged me, I whammied you. Chocolate, peanut butter, peanut butter, chocolate.”

Cas’s forehead wrinkles in skepticism. “I still prefer the cockroach. But some part of your soul injected itself into one of my more exposed frequencies. Under different circumstances, I would’ve stopped and excised the affected area before it spread, but. I was being pursued, and the mission had taken much longer than any of us anticipated.”

“Us? Thought it was just you down there.”

Cas looks vaguely offended, straightens and folds his arms like he just remembered he’s giving a deposition. “No, of course not. Michael assigned sixty-six angels in eleven groups of six, each escorted to the field by a seraph. We struck simultaneously at six different areas in perdition. From there we dispersed to individual targets –– to cause as much chaos as possible in order to help obscure the object of our mission, and to increase the odds that one of us would actually find you.”

“And you were the lucky winner.” Dean pushes down a touch of sick shame at the thought of it — he’d been coiled up like a snake around somebody else’s torment, anesthetized by it. It was one of the random rags of infernal time where his own pain decreased in proportion to how much he dealt out, and that was the closest thing Hell had to a Friday night.

“I was,” Castiel nods. “I took some liberties with my assignment,” he adds, squinting. “I flattered myself that I shared a special affinity with The Righteous Man.”

“That guy always sounded like kind of a cunt to me,” Dean notes. “You know, not withstanding the fact that I’m him.”

Castiel shrugs. “I found you, and I did what was necessary to save you, and my siblings did what was necessary to save me.” A little falter enters his voice. “Only twelve of us returned from that mission.” Cas looks up, out, away. A dove coos somewhere nearby of the Roadhouse; did it have a run-in with the windshield of an eighteen wheeler one day and show up here, Dean wonders, or does heaven make its own birds from scratch? That’s gotta be a softball compared to whether Betelgeuse is still open for business.

Castiel waits until the bird shuts up, then says, “Of those twelve surviving angels, I personally murdered nine, in everything that followed.”

After a moment Dean says “Yeah,” with practiced neutrality. He’s got some similar tallies, written in Sharpie on the back of his eyelids.

Cas sighs and his attention comes back down to the table. “By the time I received the authority to restore your soul to your body, the infection had spread almost past the point of containment. That’s why I resisted taking a vessel at first. I worried that occupying a human form would speed up the process.”

“Hey now. I thought you showed up naked because you thought I’d be one of those special people,” Dean quips, “Who can handle angel stuff without going all kibbles ’n bits.”

“That was only a partial truth.”

Dean tips the beer bottle in salute. “You’re a real special flavor of asshole, Cas.”

“So I’ve been told. I was right, though. When I took Jimmy as a vessel, I contracted — condensed — myself very severely. The infection had a much shorter distance to travel to reach all of my extremities, and a human form was the most hospitable environment possible.”

“You got a raging case of the Deans.”

Cas’s head kicks back in a laugh that kinda surprises them both. “Yes,” he says, grinning. “I did. I was very displeased, and very concerned I’d be found out and judged unfit for duty. And I very much was. Unfit, that is. Though I was not found out.”

“C’mon, never? You went rogue on the company.”

“Uriel suspected. Naomi certainly detected it later, as did Metatron. But in the moment, no. The Host’s attention was focused on the Apocalypse ahead, not on debriefing a mission that was considered a success. After the Cage was closed, I had too much influence to come under that level of scrutiny.”

“Hmh.” Dean realizes he’s been systematically picking down the label on the beer bottle, so he sets it on the ground before he gets sticky little shreds everywhere. “So I gotta ask. My little souvenir, the handprint. That’s where you grabbed me, with your lil…Mister Potato Head human arm?”

“It is.”

“If I’m the one who infected you, how come I’m the one who got burned?”

“My hand didn’t burn you.”

“Well, it ain’t fingerpaint.”

“Your own soul burned it, as it flowed out of your flesh and into mine. It burned until the moment when I finally released you from my grip. My hand healed itself; your arm did not.” Castiel gives a thin scoff. “I hadn’t planned to leave you interred.”

“Oh, no? Well that’s nice to hear, you know, a decade after the fact. I still have nightmares about that shit.”

Castiel winces. “It’s no excuse, but I was in a great deal of…the equivalent of pain. It took an immense effort to break off the inflow of your soul, and when I did manage it, I was thrown quite a ways by the recoil. By the time I recovered enough to return, you were already looting a gas station,” He finishes, dryly.

“Yeah, well, Dad didn’t think much of leisure as a virtue. Also I was thirsty, because I’d just crawled out of my own grave.”

“And I was distracted, because I’d just fought my way out of the inferno while being digested by a demented human soul.”

“You wanna call it even?”

Cas lifts his brows. “If you don’t mind.”

 There is a long, dark breath, during which their little smiles fade. 

 “So, all that,” Dean says, because he’s a fucking coward.

“All that,” says Cas, because he isn’t.

 Dean clears his throat. “That means you can see my soul-stuff 24/7, huh?”

Castiel slides one leg up onto the bench, shifts to sit astride it, like he’s maybe about to deliver an after-school PSA on the Real Deal About Drugs. “I can always see myself, and extensions of my self. And since your soul made itself into an integral part of me…I can see you.”

“I take it that’s not exactly in the manual.”

“No. I didn’t entirely understand it at first — for a long time, I convinced myself it was because you were designed to be a celestial vessel, and that I had been destined to save you from Hell.”

That thin, acidic feelings starts to rise up in Dean’s chest again. “Do you…” A dry swallow reflex grabs his throat. “Hm. Fuck.”

“What?” Cas asks, scooting forward. An angel. Scooting. What a world. “You can ask me anything, Dean. I hope we’re both past being offended.”

“Have you ever thought that. This whole deal. Our…thing.” Dean lets out a breath. “The way you feel about me. The way I feel about you.”

“Do I worry that its only basis is our shared material?”

Dean licks his lips, works a jaw muscle, forces out a nod. 

Cas frowns, sets one elbow up against the table, then lets his head tip to the side. “Why do you love Sam?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I get it, he’s my brother. We got shared material, too. But we’re not talking genetics.”

“Genes were the initial basis of your love for Sam. But you share half as much material with Adam. Do you love him fifty percent as much as you do Sam?”

“One, love doesn’t work that way and you know it, and two, fucking of course not. I barely know the guy, and what I’ve seen didn’t exactly blow me away.” Not that the poor dumb kid ever really had a chance. “Sam’s Sam, he’s earned it a million times over just by bein’ him.”

“Then you understand.”

“But Cas, man…I…” Dean laughs, which is an abbreviated form of screaming, “I treated you like shit.”

Cas nods. “You did.”

“Okay, the rules say you’re not supposed to agree with me.”

“But the balance remains in your favor. Dean, are you genuinely afraid that you — care for me…”  and Dean can hear the FCC live-bleep in that one, like does his total cowardice have a special color Cas can see with his soul-o-vision? “Only out of some compulsion?”

“No,” Dean says, to the great surprise of his frontal cortex, which was busy kicking the shit out of itself. “No,” he says again, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, that that answer actually came out of him and entered the living air between them.

Then the wave is rolling towards him and he enters that slim moment of body-physics where you either take a lungful and commit to diving under the break, or you kick out against the undertow, arch your back to meet the blow, and let yourself be flown all the way up to the waiting shore––

“No,” Dean says, “I love you.” And he chokes up a little, first at the release of saying it, then at how much of exactly jack-shit it changes anything so what was he even scared of, and then at the look on Cas’s face: how he’s frozen. Like that dog from that video, the one that loved tennis balls so goddamn much that his owner bought him a thousand fucking tennis balls and dumps them out all at once and the dog absolutely stalls the fuck out, just seconds on end of underspecced dog-brain hang time before he finally snaps back to reality and loses his absolute shit scrabbling all over the porch.

Castiel comes back online with a little choking noise of his own, and a kind of awkward scrabble for Dean’s hand.

“I have for a long time,” Dean continues, because apparently he’s continuing, “I’ve loved you for fucking ages, Cas. In people years, anyway, I’m sure that mean’s fuckall to somebody who’s a zillion––”

“I don’t,” Cas says thickly, “really give a damn about the age difference, Dean,” and cracks into a chuckle.

“So how come you never knew it?” Dean asks, feeling freedom turn into a hunger or something like vertigo. “If you can see my soul, how could you not know?”

Cas shrugs, a bit helplessly.

“Seriously,” Dean laughs, “how did I manage to hide that shit so well? Sammy found every nudie mag I ever shoplifted.”

Cas shakes his head. “You’ve never actually been able to hide anything from me.”

Dean scoffs. “C’mon, man. I snowed you plenty, or else we woulda had this conversation dirtside a long time ago.”

“Whatever I missed, Dean…it wasn’t because you succeeded at hiding it,” Castiel says, softly. He takes a slow, shaky breath, and meets Dean’s eyes with a smile. He lifts a hand to Dean’s face, bone and flesh on flesh and bone. “I just loved you enough to look away.”

 It’s a long time before they go back inside. By any measure. {AO3}