#IN THE SAME SPAN OF FORTY EIGHT HOURS

[north-wilkesboro-moonshine-cave]

how am I ever supposed to look my baby sister in the eyes ever a-fucking-gain and tell her I’ll get home safe and text when I land.

[heartvshand]

On the Road Again

Summary:

Agatha is getting the band back together at the request of Billy Maximoff. But before they can hit the road, she and Rio have unfinished business to resolve.

Written for Agatha All Along (AAA) Week Day 2. Band AU.

---

On the Road Again

A reunion tour. Who would have thought?

The way she left, I figured we’d never be in the same room again, let alone on tour together. I stared at the email and let out a long exhale. It was from Agatha’s personal email address. And her personal phone number.

From: Agatha Harkness

To: Rio Vidal

Subject: Reunion Tour

Rio,

We’re doing a reunion tour. 10 shows, 10 cities, March through September.

Would love to have you join. Give me a call.

Agatha

It even read like her. I chewed my lip, unsure what to say. Did she really want to see me?

I cleared my throat. It had been ten years since we’d seen each other. Eleven years since the band had broken up.

I closed my eyes. I could see her, sitting in the coffee shop, tracing her finger along the lid of her cup. She was still sad about Nicky dying. She blamed me, despite the hard truth that sometimes, people die, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.

Opening my eyes, I pulled up her contact card and called her. After all this time, I still loved her. I’d still do whatever she wanted. If she wanted to go on tour, then we’d go on tour.

“Rio.” Her voice was sharp. “I’m surprised you called.”

“Hi, Agatha.” I laughed, already on edge. “I got your email. You want to do a reunion tour?”

She grumbled something and then cleared her throat. “Management wants us to do it. They’ve got some new young gun in charge. He’s insisting we should capitalize on the surge of popularity we’re having with the kids.”

Nodding, I imagined her slightly irritated but triumphant expression. “I wondered if they’d do this. I’ve been hearing our old stuff on the radio a lot lately.”

Agatha scoffed. “They also want us to do a new album.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s some kid named Billy Maxipad. He’s an idiot.”

Rolling off the bed, I laughed. “Oh, come on, his name is not Maxipad.”

I could hear the smile in her voice when she finally replied. “Fine. It’s Maximoff. Maxipad is just my special little name for him.”

I flicked through the clothes in my closet, already planning what I’d pack and what I wouldn’t. What she’d like and what she wouldn’t. How many suitcases would I need?

“Rio?” Her voice was softer, like old times.

“Hm?” I was afraid to say too much and break the spell, afraid for her to harden again.

“When do you think you’ll be here?” Agatha Harkness sounded nervous.

I paused before answering, still afraid I’d scare her back into her shell if I spoke. I tried to figure out what the right answer would be. I ran my tongue over my teeth, feeling each one.

I cleared my throat. “I’ll pack and look at flights today. When do we hit the road?”

“First stop is March 28th—we’ll start in New York and hit some major cities along the way back to L.A.” Agatha’s voice was all business again. “We’ll start in L.A. for press, then we’ll take a plane to New York for the show, and then, the buses will take us from there.”

“Very cool.” I kicked myself for picking the wrong answer. “Do they have hotels for us already? In L.A. I mean?”

Agatha was quiet. “I was hoping you might want to stay with me. But yes, they have hotels booked.”

“I’d love to stay with you.” I wasn’t sure how to say the right thing. “I’ve missed you.”

She exhaled. “I’ve missed you, too.”

#

Landing at an airport outside of Los Angeles forty-eight hours later, Agatha picked me up without any fanfare.

We threw my luggage in the trunk of her SUV and then buckled into the front seats and for a moment, it felt like we were normal people who might still love each other instead of famous singers on the brink of a reunion tour with a deep scar spanning the distance between us.

The radio started up when the car did. I turned it down just a little as she maneuvered out of the parking spot.

“Hi.” I unzipped my small, cross-body bag and pulled out a small, fake flower. “I got you this. It’s not real, so it won’t die or need water or anything. Very low maintenance.”

Agatha eyed me, then the fake flower. She laughed quietly, taking it. “Charming.”

With a shrug, I looked out the tinted window. “You like it.”

Palm trees and people zipped by us. I fidgeted with the button for rolling up and down the window but didn’t press it. We were quiet, letting the radio fill the space instead of conversation.

“I don’t know if you’ve been to this new place.” Agatha’s voice brought me back from staring out the window. We’d just turned into a gated neighborhood.

I looked over to her.

She pointed out the windshield. “The one at the end here, that’s mine.”

Looking to where she pointed, I nodded. “Cool. I think you’re right. I haven’t been here.”

Once we were inside her home and my suitcases were tucked away in the guest bedroom closest to her room, the canyon of a decade sat between us without music to fill the gaps. We stood in her kitchen, drinking water and searching for topics to talk about without talking about Nicky, our break up, or the band’s break up.

She finally let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Let’s just get it over with. Hash it out now before we meet up with everyone else, before we get on the road and fuck it all up out there in front of people.”

My shoulders fell; I nodded. I knew she was right, but I’d just arrived, and I had hoped for some sort of normalcy before diving into the hard shit.

After a long drink of water, I said, “All right, Agatha. Where do you want to start?”

She blew out a breath and shrugged. “I miss Nicky every day.”

Shutting my eyes, I nodded. “I do, too.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was a strangled whisper.

My eyes snapped open; words caught in my throat.

“I wanted to call you every single day. But. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.” Her eyes were wet. She blinked several times, gaze dropping to the ground. She shook her head. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she looked back up.

Agatha was not someone to apologize. My heart raced; my head spun. I fumbled with the bar stool at the island I was leaning against.

Sliding into the chair, I gripped the marble countertop in front of me, focusing on the cool, smoothness of it instead of Agatha’s words and what they meant.

I failed to say anything before she continued.

“I know it’s not your fault.” Her words were shaky, and her wet eyes were boring into mine. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“And it wasn’t yours.” I licked my lips, gripping the counter, afraid to break eye contact.

“I don’t hate you.” Her voice cracked. The tears ran down her cheeks.

“I don’t hate you either.” I swallowed.

We watched each other.

Agatha’s phone buzzed. Our eyes moved to it and then back to each other.

“Are you seeing anyone?” She silenced her phone when it started buzzing with a phone call.

I shook my head; my heart raced.

She made her way around the island and closed the distance between us. I spun around on the stool and faced her; she stood in front of me. I hopped off the stool. She pulled me in for a hug.

My arms wrapped around her; I buried my face in her neck. Her hand cradled the back of my head. Tension left my body until the buzzing returned.

Her phone buzzed again. And again. And again. “Damn it, Billy.” She pulled away and walked back to her phone. “He’s extremely excited that you’re here early and staying with me.”

My eyes widened. “Oh?”

Agatha rolled her eyes and answered the phone. “What?”

There was chatter on the other end; she held up a hand and moved it in a way that mimed talking.

“Yep, she’s here.” She leaned against the counter and sighed. “No. We were in the middle of an extremely important conversation.”

Billy said something else I couldn’t hear.

She rolled her eyes and glanced at me. “Yes. Don’t lecture me. Bye.”

She hung up and walked back over to me.

“What did he want?” I glanced at her phone.

“Wanted to make sure you got here in one piece, that we hadn’t killed each other, you know, all that.” She waved the question away. “Listen, everyone else is arriving next week. Jen, Alice, Lilia. I don’t want to fight with you on the road. And, in general, I don’t want to be at odds with you.”

My chest tightened, realizing quickly what she was getting at. “They still don’t know what happened with Nicky.”

“No. They don’t.” She dropped her gaze to the floor.

Frowning, I watched her tap her fingers against her thigh. I exhaled. “You didn’t stay in touch with them, did you?”

She shook her head. “Nope. I did not.”

“Did they reach out about the rumors?” I chewed on my cheek. None of them had called me, but they’d always liked Agatha more.

She shrugged. “Yeah.”

We were quiet for a moment.

“He just got sick and died,” I said.

She nodded.

“Those headlines were all trash.” The tabloids flashed across my mind: ‘Agatha Harkness let her son overdose on heroin!’ ‘Was Agatha’s addiction the downfall of her own son?’

My frown deepened. “Agatha. You didn’t let them believe those things, did you?”

She shrugged again.

“Our son,” I said, clenching my jaw. “He did not die from an overdose, and you aren’t even addicted to drugs! He got sick and died, Agatha.”

“I know that!” Her eyes were hard when she looked at me. “But nobody else gets to know me. Or Nicky. The public doesn’t get to have him.”

I blinked several times. “Our bandmates weren’t the public. You could have told them the rumors weren’t true.”

“You and I were very private about Nicky and the cancer. I didn’t want anyone to know. I still don’t.” She took a sharp inhale and wiped her eyes.

“Not even our friends?” I paced in front of her.

“No, because you never know who they might tell. Everyone trusts someone with secrets,” she said.

I stopped and tilted my head. “Oh, come on. That’s a little paranoid.”

“Everyone has someone they tell secrets to. And one of those will leak it to the wrong person. I don’t want Nicky’s face everywhere all the time for the rest of my life paired with to see the headlines about him being so brave, or the articles about his cancer, all of it.” Her voice cracked; she buried her face in her hands. Her body shook with sobs.

I pulled her in, holding her. “Okay, that…I can understand.”

She held on to me, burying her face in my neck. I stroked her hair and took deep, even breaths. It felt good to hold her, to talk to someone about this.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes and untangled herself from my arms. When she spoke, she had a renewed frustration in her voice. “I’m so angry that you let me leave.”

My brow furrowed. “What was I supposed to do? Hold you hostage? Force you to stay and pretend to love me?”

She snarled. “You could have fought for me.”

“Agatha, do you remember that entire last year together? We quit the band, because I was fighting for you.” I clenched and unclenched my fists. “We stayed in that cottage in the middle of nowhere, where all I did was try to fix it. For an entire year!”

Her face, twisted up with anger, softened again. She crumpled in front of me, curling up, squatting, gripping her stomach. She took ragged breaths, and then the sobbing resumed.

I wasn’t sure if I should even try to touch her. I stayed put, waiting for her to switch gears, finding new resolve to be angry with me.

She sank on to the ground and held her fist against her chest. My heart hurt watching her. I couldn’t take it anymore.

I slowly approached her. Meeting her on the ground, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and held on to her again.

She looked up; our breathing mingled. I imagined her lips on mine and swallowed. Then, our lips were pressed together. She was kissing me, grabbing my face. I pulled her up and guided her to the couch, kissing, hands exploring whatever they could reach.

Her fingers threaded through my hair.

I slipped my hands up her shirt. I broke the kiss. “Is this okay?”

“Yes, now shut up and kiss me.” She pressed her body against mine.

My hands slid upward, dancing across the bottom of her bra.

She moaned softly. “Your hands are so soft.”

I smiled against her lips, kissing her then trailing kisses down her neck. “Mind if I start undressing you?”

“Only if I can do the same to you,” she said. Her hands slid out of my hair and found their way to my pants.

“Be my guest.” I laughed, lifting my hips so she could pull the pants down.

I unclipped her bra and pulled her shirt off. Once she was done removing my pants, she tossed her bra across the room, then she tossed my shirt and bra in the same direction. She hurriedly removed her own pants and then stood there, chest heaving. We stared at each other, taking in one another’s bodies. A decade had gone by since we’d seen each other naked. I bit my lip and pulled her to me.

#

“Here’s your shirt.” She tossed me my t-shirt.

“Here you go.” I walked up to her, with her bra in hand. “Turn around, I can help.”

She laughed and took the bra from me. “Stop it.”

“What?” I quirked up an eyebrow.

She shook her head. “You know what.”

I pretended to think about it for a moment before shaking my head. “Nope. I don’t know what.”

“Stop being so…cute.” She eyed me. “Unless you want to take this to the bed.”

“Considering we just lost about four hours to having sex on the couch, I’m guessing we don’t have another four hours to lose, so we probably should keep it in our pants.” I winked. “Maybe later?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

I laughed before my smile slowly faded and reality sank back in. “Agatha. You know we should figure out...things, not just fuck it out.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I don’t want to think or talk about it yet.”

I suppressed a sigh, pressing my lips together tightly and forcing the air out of my nose in an even way. “Okay.”

She whipped around to face me. “Rio, what do you want?”

My eyes widened; I backed up, tilting my head. “I’m fine with talking about it later.”

She looked confused for a moment before her expression smoothed out. “Oh, no, I know. I meant…what do you want?”

She gestured between us. “What do you want this to be?”

I stared at her for a moment, weighing whether I wanted to be that vulnerable. I dropped my gaze to the ground then found the ceiling. Anywhere but her.

“Agatha, I want to be with you. I’ve wanted that the whole time. That hasn’t changed.” I kept my eyes focused on the window behind her, watching birds flitting by outside.

She exhaled and smoothed out her clothes. “I want that, too.”

I looked at her. “Really?”

“Yes.” Her voice was tight. “If you’d give me a chance.”

“Of course.” I reached for her hand. “Want to be my girlfriend?”

She rolled her eyes, but a smile played on her lips. “Yes.”

I leaned in and kissed her softly.

“If the ladies ask, please don’t tell them about Nicky.” Her voice was a strangled whisper. She looked at me with a desperation in her eyes. “Please.”

Shutting my eyes, I nodded. “As you wish, Agatha.”

Opening my eyes, I watched her try to give me a smile briefly before blinking several times and letting out a big exhale. She turned away from me.  “We’re meeting Billy for dinner. We should get ready.”

#

Sitting in the restaurant, Agatha fiddled with my hand; her eyes scanned for Billy.

I draped my arm around the back of her chair and leaned back a little.

She shifted in her seat.

“You nervous, sweetheart?” I raised an eyebrow.

“A bit, yeah. This wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind as our first official night back together.” She ran her hand through her hair.

“Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?” I smirked and tilted my head.

“A quiet dinner, more sex. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Not a business dinner.”

“We were always really good at mixing business with pleasure. Maybe we can have a business dinner and cap the night off with some more sex,” I said, nodding in the direction of the door. “Billy’s here.”

She looked from me to the front of the restaurant.

“Are we hiding this?” I motioned between us.

“No.” Agatha’s brow furrowed; she shook her head. “No, never.”

I nodded.

“I’d never hide you, Rio,” she said, softly.

I smiled before turning my attention to Billy, who was quickly approaching.

“Hey, Agatha! So good to meet you, Rio!” He leaned down for a hug, which I obliged.

“Same to you, Billy.” I wondered if he knew about Agatha’s special nickname for him or not. He took the seat across from us. “What have you two been up to with your first day reunited?”

Agatha cleared her throat and made a few faces. “Oh, um, you know. We talked everything out. We, yeah, we got back together.”

Billy eyed us, then looking at me, he said, “Is that so?”

“Can confirm.” I smiled. The image of Agatha coming undone with me between her legs filled my mind.

He clapped, smiling wide. “Wonderful! Congrats!”

With food in front of us, I took my hand from hers and focused on eating and whatever Billy had called us here to go over.

“Rio, I wanted to make sure the interview questions were all appropriate. Are there any topics you don’t want to be asked about?” Billy wiped his mouth.

“Nicky.” I took a sip of water. “My personal life in general. Stay focused on the music.”

He nodded, taking notes on his phone. “Okay. I’ll do my best. You know how reporters are.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. They’ll get some weird answers if they ask me anything I don’t want to answer.”

Agatha snorted. “I’m sure the whole band will help deflect for each other.”

Billy pointed at her and nodded. “Yes. Definitely.”

I focused on the bite of food in my mouth. After swallowing, I took another drink. “How many interviews will there be before we hit the road?”

Billy rattled off a list of names I recognized as magazines, but I stopped listening after the third one.

“So. A lot.” I sighed, nodding. “Sounds about right.”

“It’ll be a variety of magazines, podcasts, online video channels,” he said, continuing.

Agatha and I exchanged a glance.

“That’s enough, Billy. We get it.” Agatha rolled her eyes and finished the last of her food.

“Everyone else arrives next week. For convenience, we want you two staying at the hotel with them. It’s going to make transport a lot easier. Do you want one room or two?” Billy took a long drink from his water, finishing it off.

We looked at each other. Agatha spoke first. “Two rooms with an adjoining door? Or one room? What do you think?”

“I’m comfortable with either. Let’s do one room since there’s a big chance that we’ll be sharing one most of the time anyway. Might as well save some money, right, Billy?” I looked from her to him and back at her.

“Love that thinking, Rio.” He nodded. “Agatha, one room for you two, then?”

She nodded, trying to hide a smile. “Yep, that works.”

Watching her hide that smile gave me a rush. I smiled at her and mouthed, “I love you,” to her while Billy kept asking his questions.

She winked.

We stared at each other, and I missed anything else Billy had to say.

#

Agatha fluttered around her home all morning, packing, unpacking, and repacking things and muttering to herself and sometimes to me about what she should and shouldn’t bring. I lazed on the bed, watching her. My bags were already good to go.

“Have you talked to Lilia, Jen, or Alice?” I practiced twirling the drumstick between my fingers. It fell and almost hit me in the face. I picked it up and tried again, trying to shake off the rust.

Agatha paused and stared at me, registering what I was doing. “We haven’t been rehearsing day in and day out. Oh my god, what were they thinking? We should have started practicing months ago.”

“We’re musicians. I’m sure it’s like riding a bike.” I thought about the familiar beats and rhythms and way to play our music. “It’s not like we all quit music after we broke up. We all have had our own careers.”

She nodded and went back to running around. “Right. Right. Of course. But we should still practice together.”

“And we will. I’m sure we’ll have time for that.” I yawned and dodged the drumstick as it almost fell on my face again. “You could call Billy and check.”

“Can you do that, please? I’m still packing.” Agatha wandered out of earshot.

I set the stick down on the bed and grabbed my phone off the bedside table. I tapped on Billy’s name and waited for him to answer.

He answered after two rings. “Rio? Is everything okay?”

“Hey, yeah. Agatha’s busy packing, but she wanted to make sure we’re going to have time to practice and play together before we perform on stage together, right?”

“Oh, yes. Practices will start as soon as everyone else arrives.” Billy paused abruptly, and I waited, giving him a chance to say whatever he was trying to before I hung up. He didn’t speak.

“Okay, cool. I guess that’s all. See you soon. Oh, also when do we need to be at the hotel?”

“A car is coming to pick you two up in two hours. Their flights should all be arriving soon, so they won’t be far behind you.”

I groped around with my free hand until my fingers wrapped around the drumstick. I tapped the stick against my thigh. “Cool. See you soon.”

“Agatha?” I rolled off the bed and headed into the hallway.

“Kitchen!”

I frowned. “What do you need in the kitchen?”

“I don’t know. I’m double checking.” She laughed and I heard a few loud noises and hurried to see if she needed help.

____

This was supposed to be a one shot. But there might be more later. I had to stop here for today, but I wanted to still post. Thank you for reading.

[sundrownsthehouse]

Take This Pain And Give It A Name, Part Four

Posted to AO3 (I much prefer the formatting there)

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Summary: George breaks his shoulder. Matty looks after him. It gets complicated.

Words: 4.2k

AN: Much love to my bestie (you know who you are), to @allylikethecat, and to @lookedlikethebins for all the moral support- you're all amazing.

The faded grey light of the city filtered in from the windows where they’d forgotten to draw the curtains closed, casting streaky shadows across the ceiling. There was a gentle hush over the hotel room broken only by the muted hum of the aircon. George gazed up into the darkness. Comfortably cocooned in cool, plush blankets, with a warm body at his side, it should have been easy for him to fall asleep; this was the exact kind of quiet stillness he craved whilst on tour. And yet.

His eyes flicked down to the top of Matty’s head where it lay heavily on his chest, dark curls spilling across his skin. He could tell that Matty was still awake by the cadence of his breathing. Despite himself, George was hyperaware of the fact that Matty must be able to hear his heart hammering out a steady rhythm against his ribs. That notion alone threatened to send it racing.

And that’s sort of strange, George thought as he stared at the ceiling, because they’d done this so many times. Matty’s presence at his side was so familiar, it really shouldn’t provoke much of a reaction at all. Then again, it was unusual to lie awake together, entangled like this, without feigning ignorance; the cuddling wasn’t something they’d ever acknowledged openly in the past. It had never bothered him before, the way they’d always danced around it— it hadn’t really mattered— but to think about it now made him inexplicably sad. He didn’t know why they tried to pretend that they didn’t want the same things.

Over and over the night replayed itself in George’s mind, the gravity of it all weighing on him. In the span of only forty-eight hours, everything he thought he knew and felt about his relationship with Matty had changed. It was confusing, overwhelming, and slightly terrifying. There was so much he still didn’t understand, and the unspoken questions permeated the air between them like a thick fog. What did it mean, exactly, that they both seemed to want something more? Did it have to mean anything at all?

And what if it did?

As much as George wanted to pretend that everything was fine, the degree of Matty’s distress had seriously shaken him; they needed to talk about this. In the morning, he told himself firmly. Now wasn’t the time, not when they were both utterly exhausted. He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he could actually read Matty’s mind; even seeing Matty’s expression would give him some idea of where they stood. Nevertheless, he was secretly grateful they weren’t face-to-face. He was a little afraid of what he might find, and somehow, more intimidated by what Matty might see.

The bed shifted slightly. Matty sighed. The puff of breath fell hot on George’s skin, already sensitized by the tiny brush of Matty’s lashes as he blinked, gazing out at a city still aglow despite the late hour. George shivered curiously at the feeling. An unexpected wave of shame that he couldn’t reconcile burned in the pit of his stomach.

“Can’t sleep?” he mumbled. He was compelled to break the silence, if only to distract from the noise inside his own head.

Matty exhaled softly through his nose. “No.”

His arm was draped across George’s waist, absentmindedly drawing small circles into his hip with his thumb. Whether it was an indication of contentment or anxiety, George couldn’t tell. “Are you alright?” he asked hesitantly.

Matty didn’t respond at first. George lightly stroked his shoulder, aching to comfort him in whatever way possible after having seen him in such a state earlier. Matty shrugged eventually, his voice a whisper as he admitted: “No. Not really.”

George’s heart sank— what was he supposed to do with that?

He tried to sit up, struggling to right himself as the mattress dipped. Suddenly, Matty surged toward him. The weight of his body knocked George off balance and sent him toppling backwards, landing hard on the bed. Fire seared through his shoulder, tearing the breath from his lungs. Matty’s voice rose in a panic, but only when the pain began to ebb could George make sense of what he was saying: “….fuck, sorry, I’m so sorry, Christ….”

Though his head was spinning, George reached for Matty, still fretting, and pulled him in. He gently thread his fingers through his hair, playing with the curls— something he knew Matty loved, but would never ask for. Placated, Matty trailed off with another low sigh.

“Fuck, I… just don’t go,” he said after a moment, his voice thick with emotion.

George’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But I’m not—”

Matty pressed impossibly closer, burying his face into the side of George’s neck. It was sort of startling; he didn’t know what to make of the way Matty was clinging to him. “M’not going anywhere,” George vowed. His fingers traced the smooth expanse of Matty’s back in slow, soothing motions, as if to show him:

I’m right here. I’m not running away. I’ve got you.

Matty sagged with relief, letting some of the tension bleed from his body. He turned his head, his parted lips coming to rest softly at the base of George’s throat.

It felt a bit like a kiss.

It wasn’t.

Breathe.

Clutching one another in the dark, time seemed to stretch on endlessly. At some point, Matty went lax and began to snore quietly. Utterly captivated by the places where their skin met, George gazed up at the shadows on the ceiling, and wondered why on earth that was.

Before he even opened his eyes he knew that Matty was gone.

George could feel the absence of him in the bed even on the barest edge of consciousness. Half awake, he raised himself up onto his good arm and squinted at the sunlit room, only to find it empty. The balcony was similarly vacant. George strained his ears, hoping to catch the sound of the shower running, footsteps, anything, but it was all for naught; Matty had vanished. The only evidence he’d been there at all was the crumpled pillow on the other side of the bed. It was cool to the touch.

Fuck. George curled up into the sheets, mentally berating himself. He should’ve expected this; it’s not like Matty ever stayed when they were at home, either. The thought was tinged with bitterness. If Matty were to disappear on him again, the way he did yesterday, he honestly didn’t know what he was going to do with himself. They had to fix this. Whatever happened, whatever was still going on between them, they couldn’t keep avoiding it forever— if not for their own sakes, then for the sake of the band. So much was on the line, and George didn’t want to think about what could happen to them if they handled this poorly. A series of horrible scenarios flashed behind his eyes anyway, filling him with a sickening sense of dread.

Lost in a grim, imaginary reality where he’d been abandoned in Wilmslow to shovel Chinese takeout into styrofoam for the rest of his miserable life, George barely registered the subtle metallic snick of the door as it was unlocked.

Matty strode into the room humming softly to himself, fresh-faced and vibrant. Dressed in skin-tight jeans and a gauzy black blouse (pilfered from the women’s section, surely), he balanced two paper cups precariously in one hand and carried a nondescript takeaway bag in the other. He caught George’s startled expression out of the corner of his eye. “Oh— you’re awake!” Kicking off his boots, he crossed the room to set one of the steaming cups down on the bedside table next to George, flashing a warm smile: “Rise and shine, love.”

George gazed up at Matty, a little stunned by his presence. He had so many thoughts racing through his head, he couldn’t actually grasp onto any of them in order to form a coherent sentence. He shook himself internally, feeling like an idiot; it’s only Matty.The same messy curls forever falling in his eyes, that familiar gangly frame (too thin these days…), the dark ink peeking out from under his shirt, hinting at tattoos George knew like the back of his hand… and yet something wasdifferent. The early morning sun pouring in through the open window cast Matty in a strange, golden light. Somehow, George felt like he was seeing him properly for the first time.

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

George felt the tips of his ears burn hot at the amused quirk of Matty’s brow. He quickly averted his eyes, training them on the takeaway bag instead.

“The buffet was closing for the morning,” Matty explained, unpacking fruit, yoghurt, and a couple of sugared pastries. “I mean, it’s only closing just now, but you were proper dead to the world when I left— there was no way you were gonna make it. So I searched ‘round online and figured I’d pop out to this little café down the street instead, cos there’s a Starbucks a few blocks over but I just couldn’t be arsed to go that far, and this place was really nice actually, had great reviews and…” He trailed off self-consciously. “I mean, it might be shit,” he warned, holding his hands up in surrender.

George sat back against the headboard, adjusting his sling with care. He took a small sip of the tea— definitely not shit, and just the way he liked it. He hummed happily.

“Alright?” Matty asked, plopping down on the loveseat by the balcony.

George shot him a grateful smile: “S’good— thanks.”

Pleased, Matty dug in whilst George sipped on his tea. It was remarkable how easily they slipped back into their usual routine of spending the morning together, as if nothing ever happened. Though George was more the cook between the two of them, at home, Matty took care of breakfast. He was almost always up first, usually on account of not sleeping very well, and more often than not had something burning by the time George dragged himself out of bed. Waking up to the smell of coffee and charred toast was, strangely, one of the things he missed most about being in London. The little gesture of familiar domesticity… well, it meant more to him than he really wanted to admit.

Seeming so much more like himself than the night prior, Matty rambled at length in a stream of consciousness: he talked about the show (“don’t get me wrong, it was wicked, but I hate that you weren’t there”), the redundant nature of interviews (“honestly George, they could’ve just Googled most of that shit”), Ross’s determination to hit up the pool (“don’t suppose you know what vitamin D’s for, d’you?”), and Adam’s blatant refusal to go out for drinks later in favour of an early night (“but I’ll bet you twenty quid— don’t laugh, you know I’m right!— I’ll bet you twenty quid he’s off his face by ten”).

George smiled into his tea, content. Matty always had a thousand thoughts racing around in his head, and he’d jump from one to the next so quickly that people who didn’t know him often found it overwhelming, if not abjectly infuriating. “Does he ever shut up?” was a question that had been leveled at George more than a few times, accompanied by long-suffering sighs and rolled eyes— but George had never been bothered. Matty’s mind fascinated him, and besides, he’d long since mastered the ability to interject here and there in the gaps.

Even so, when the topic inevitably turned to George’s shoulder, the conversation grew stilted.

“I’m fine,” George insisted, hating the concern painted all over Matty’s face. “Really. It’s not so bad. Just strange not being able to use my arm, is all.”

It wasn’t an outright lie; the pain wasn’t nearly as intense as it had been that first day. Instead, it had morphed into a persistent, dull ache that never really went away, and flared sharply with the slightest insult. Paracetamol didn’t touch it much, but George found himself leery of the narcotics. He’d left them behind on the bus.

Matty searched his face knowingly. George couldn’t help but feel exposed under his gaze. He forgot, sometimes, that their connection went both ways; Matty knew him better than anyone, and was as attuned to George as George was to him. The stretch of silence wasn’t awkward, exactly— it couldn’t be, after all these years— but there was an element of strain. Apprehension.

“Where were y—”

“I wanted to—”

They both paused.

“You first,” Matty conceded. His expression was carefully blank as he set his coffee down on the table. George took a breath to steady himself. Now or never.

“Where were you yesterday?”

He posed the question gently, but Matty fidgeted in discomfort, his hands fluttering in his lap. “Right, that’s what I… I wanna talk to you about that.” He seemed quite small all of the sudden. Shy, even. Shy was a rare look for Matty. “Honestly George, I was freaking the fuck out. I really thought I’d…” He turned away to gaze out at the balcony, the muscles in his jaw tense.

“Matty—”

“And I don’t know why I did that, the other night,” he confessed in a rush, as if he couldn’t stop the words from spilling forth. “I wasn’t planning on it, it just sort of… happened.” George opened his mouth again to speak, but Matty pressed on. “I think— I think I was a bit drunk, and I’d been worried about you, and I got a bit carried away. I’m sorry.”

George shook his head. “You never had anything to be sorry for in the first place. I—”

“Good,” Matty interrupted. “Good, cos I really didn’t mean… I’d like to just forget that it ever happened, if that’s alright.” He offered a small, lopsided smile, but his eyes were hard. Pleading.

Oh. George found himself nodding automatically.

Visibly relieved, Matty leaned back into the cushions and propped his feet up on the coffee table— the very picture of ease to anyone who didn’t know him better. “Though I am flattered,” he teased with a wink.

George snorted and rubbed a hand across his face, lips quirked feebly in an attempt to mask the profound sense of disappointment washing over him. He couldn’t seem to find the right words; the questions that had plagued him all night got caught and died in his throat.

Matty laughed. “I think you need to get laid,” he said as he ran his hands through his hair— another nervous tick that George would recognize anywhere. “Fuck man, I need to get laid.” George felt himself chuckle weakly at the joke, small huffs of breath that left his lungs against his conscious will, but he wanted to melt into the mattress and disappear.

This was a good thing; this is what you wanted, he would remind himself. Matty was fine. He wasn’t mad or upset. He wanted things to go back to normal. Best case scenario.

Maybe, if he kept telling himself that, it would eventually start to feel like it.

***

“WANKER!”

George peaked one eye open from behind his shades as an errant spray of cold water splashed his legs. Waughy surfaced roughly in the center of the pool, sputtering as he flipped off Ross, who was standing on the deck with a suspicious, shit-eating grin. The others howled and scrambled to swim out of the way as Ross landed a cannonball that drenched Waughy (and George’s legs) all over again. Scattered bursts of laughter rose and echoed across the deck.

To Ross’s credit, the pool was a massive hit. He’d gotten word out to the rest of their crew, and by the early afternoon, they had something of a party going. They were being a bit rowdy, but the hotel was evidently letting it slide— one of the perks of being minor celebrities, apparently. Touring was demanding work, and full days off were precious.

George stretched on the lounger where he’d been laying out for the better part of the afternoon, lazy and content. The weather was perfect; the sun was hot, but there was a cool spring breeze that kept the humidity blessedly at bay. Nervous that swimming would mess with his shoulder too much, and unwilling to take any risks, he’d set himself up poolside with earbuds and a book hours ago. A warm glow of deep relaxation had settled into his bones. He yawned, pleasantly drowsy.

Just as he began to nod off, a flash of skin caught his eye.

Matty was lifting himself out of the pool, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting with the effort of it. He pulled himself up to sit on the side of the deck, letting his legs dangle over the edge as beads of water dripped from his hair to stream in little rivulets down his skin. Hidden behind his sunglasses, George dragged his gaze away from Matty’s upturned mouth only to get caught on the slope of his neck. He traced the delicate dip of his collarbone, following it to the black and grey marking Matty’s sternum— the heart over his heart, the tattoo he knew Matty was proudest of. He roamed over the hard plane of Matty’s stomach, lingering as it flexed with his laughter. From there, it was far too easy to drop down, down, down, following a small trail of hair to the top of his waistband, where a glimpse of blue ink peeked out near his hip like a suggestion.

George shut his eyes, swallowing thickly. Stop it.

He didn’t think he’d ever really noticed Matty’s body before. It had never mattered; like background noise, it was irrelevant. And yet as the afternoon trudged on, George found that it was slowly becoming all he could think about. Matty was surprisingly strong for being so slender, all lean muscle and sinew, but there was a softness about his waist… an almost feminine sort of grace in the way he moved. Now that he thought about it, Matty really was quite pretty for a man, wasn’t he? The recognition of it had George’s mind growing hazy. He found himself searching for the tattoos, moles, and scars that marked Matty’s skin, cataloging what he was familiar with and fighting a strange thrill whenever he noticed something new. He’d resisted the temptation at first, fully aware that it was wildly inappropriate to be ogling his best friend— not to mention the little voice inside telling him that he shouldn’t— but Matty had somehow become this new, exciting, mysterious thing that George couldn’t help but be captivated by.

It made no fucking sense.

Matty’s voice rang out across the pool. George couldn’t quite make out what he and Ross were giggling about over the music, but whatever it was, it made Matty grin, animating his features in a boyish sort of way. His stomach flipped. He shut his eyes in some desperate attempt to reason with himself; he was only watching Matty because he was still anxious about everything that had happened between them… he was just keeping an eye on his body language, seeking reassurance that everything was alright. Though that didn’t explain why his blood was humming with electricity, alive with something delicious and traitorous that he couldn’t quite name, elicited by— Christ, of all things— the sight of Matty nearly naked and dripping wet. Just like…

No. He shouldn’t think about it. He’d been trying very hard not to think about it. The way their bodies felt sliding against one another in the steam… the little ghosts of breath on his skin… the careful, feather-light fingertips tracing his hip… the gentle press of impossibly soft lips to his shoulder. To his throat.

“You’re gonna burn.”

A sharp spike of adrenaline sent George’s heart racing as cool, wet fingers prodded the warm skin of his tricep. “I’m fine,” he choked out, gazing up at Matty’s silhouette against the sun. He’d been so distracted by his own thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Matty walking right up to him until it was too late.

Matty snorted and shook his head, little droplets of water flying from his hair. “M’not gonna listen to you whine all night cos you’re burnt on top of everything else.” He jabbed at George’s arm pointedly, watching the tanned skin blanch and then turn pink.

“Won’t be. Haven’t got your delicate Northern complexion.”

“Yeah, that’d be clever if you weren’t blistering as we speak.” Matty reached for a bottle of sun lotion and flipped the cap. “Here, budge up.” He made to sit on the edge of the lounger. George didn’t move.

“You don’t have to do that— seriously mate, it’s fine.”

A hint of irritation crossed Matty’s face. “Don’t be stupid. C’mere,” he insisted, drawing closer.

Too close.

George shot up and took a careful step back, shaking his head. “I can do it myself,” he blurted, holding his hand out for the bottle. A nervous energy snaked up his spine, setting him on edge.

Matty stared in disbelief for a moment, eventually scoffing. “You literally can’t,” he said, squeezing lotion into his hand.

Panic bloomed in earnest, immediate and terrifying. George only knew that— no matter what— he couldn’t bear for Matty to touch him. He waved his hands dismissively and spun around, making a beeline for the changing room. He didn’t care how fucking bizarre it must seem; he had to get away. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe. He was vaguely aware of his name being called, of the exasperated tone in Matty’s voice, but it was all secondary to the buzzing in his ears, growing louder by the second as his feet blindly carried him away.

The men’s room was empty. George huffed a shaky sigh of relief, leaning up against the wall to steady himself. A fresh wave of dizziness had his stomach rolling; for one horrible moment, he thought he might actually black out. He pressed his forehead into the faded blue tile, letting it leach the heat from his skin. It was all just too much. He couldn’t— he didn’t want to face it, whatever this was, whatever was happening to him. As his awareness slowly returned to his body, he noticed that his hands were trembling, among other things.

Please stop, he begged— as if contrition alone would change anything at all. Fear and hunger, shame and desire, it all tangled in his mind, fighting with the conflicting sensations of his body. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore, and God, why was his cock throbbing? He shuddered violently at the feeling, enthralled by the heady rush of endorphins mixed with adrenaline and latent frustration. Slowly, mindlessly, he pressed his hips into the wall to abate the pressure in his groin, only to gasp at the sheer relief of it. Out of that hazy cloud of sensation, clarity struck like lightning— sudden, brilliant, and terrible.

It was difficult to know how long he’d been gone. It could have been minutes; it felt like hours. But when he emerged from the men’s room half-dazed, George glanced around to find the others staring at him strangely— as if they could tell that something fundamental within him had shifted.

***

In the evening they separated off the elevator, Ross and Adam heading to their respective rooms, George trailing behind Matty towards their own.

Matty chatted casually about something banal as he dug through his bag, preoccupied with putting together an outfit. Something about dinner… the restaurant, George recognized dimly. He was grateful, really, that Matty hadn’t brought up their strained encounter at the pool, but he couldn’t pretend to care about their reservation at the best sushi restaurant in Austin, George, it won a James Beard award last year, did you know?

Perched on the edge of the bed, George nodded and hummed in agreement here and there to fill the gaps, but he struggled to follow the one-sided conversation. He was hopelessly distracted, and growing ever more certain by the minute that he’d been ignoring what was right in front of him for years.

“Gonna rinse off,” Matty announced as he walked toward the bathroom, clutching fresh clothes and his toiletry kit to his chest.

“Can I come?”

Matty froze, whipping his head to stare at George with wide eyes.

Fuck.

“Erm— I mean, my hair… the chlorine… makes it dry odd…” he trailed off feebly.

A dozen different emotions flit across Matty’s face. It seemed to take him a moment to find the words— and Matty always had the right words. When he did speak, his voice was soft. Apologetic. “You didn’t swim, George,” he murmured.

“Yeah, I mean, I got splashed a bit by you lot, didn’t I.” George tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. He’d thought… he didn’t know what he thought.

Matty’s expression was inscrutable. He went to speak, then hesitated, swallowing hard. “There’s not a lot of time… m’gonna be quick,” he replied thickly.

George nodded. Shame burned through him. “Yeah, right. Okay.”

“Okay.”

He flinched when Matty shut the door behind him.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

I simply must speak my truth

🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞

🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼

Thanks so much cal💕

💋

Hahahaha love it!

60 for 🪞:

---

Buck can’t stress enough the fact that Eddie helps with everything. All of it. In fact, in the lead up to Buck getting the yay or nay decision on Dove coming to live with him, Eddie is very involved. 

There’s no reason for Buck not to take it at face value. Eddie said he’d have his back and he does. The same way Buck has always done for him where Chris is concerned. At least, when he can. Buck assumes it’s just Eddie supporting him the way he said he would. 

Beyond just being someone to lean on and finding Buck the apartment, he does a ton. He helps Buck move. All the heavy lifting and annoying little repairs, right there beside Buck. He helps him shop for new, kid-friendly furnishings. Including a whole new bedroom. He gives over what things of Christopher’s he can; old kids books and toys. He gives Buck pep talks before different appointments with social services. He’s there every step of the way, and Buck never has to ask. 

Buck gets used to it, sort of. Not that he isn’t already used to Eddie being around a lot. He is. But it’s a bit of a different dynamic than it was before. Their roles are shifting slightly, and Dove isn’t even here yet. But already, Buck can feel himself relying on Eddie. Like there’s a steady thrum accompanying this pulse, saying, as long as I’ve got Eddie, I can do this. 

Then, two days after he officially moves in, he gets the call. He’s been approved. Dove will be with him within forty-eight hours. 

It’s all sort of a rush. He prepared for this, but part of him never really thought he’d be approved. No matter how encouraging his friends and family - and Deirdre and Angie - have been, he doubted it. Like it’s one thing for Connor and Kameron to ask him for sperm out of the blue, but would the actual government trust him with a full person? It sounds unlikely! And yet, here he is. Anticipating her actual arrival.

What a world.

Buck has to accelerate his preparations. He calls and takes a leave of absence from work. This qualifies him for parental leave, and with Gerrard at the helm of the 118, he won’t miss the job as much as he might have. He calls his doctor and asks what he needs to do to add her as a patient. He calls his dentist and does the same. Apparently he’s overthinking that process, because it’s not so complicated. He calls the school district to get her enrolled for fall. He stocks his fridge with any snack, cereal, or meal ingredient he ever remembers Chris or Jee liking. Probably overdoes it, honestly, but he doesn’t know what she likes. 

By the end of the day, he’s exhausted. Completely drained, but he can’t sleep. Laying in bed, brain moving a hundred miles an hour, he calls Eddie. Eddie, who also doesn’t sleep great these days. 

“I’m terrified,” he admits into the phone. 

“I’d tell you not to be, but that won’t help anything,” Eddie says.

“No. It won’t.”

“What I will say is, just because you’re scared, doesn’t mean you won’t do great.”

Buck takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Eddie.”

---

60 for 🔼:

---

The first boy Shannon ever kissed was Sterling Macleod. They dated in the ninth grade. As much as fifteen year-olds can date, over a span of three months. Her best friend at the time, Destiny, called them Stannon. She kind of hated it but didn’t say anything. 

Sterling was nice. He really liked Green Day. Like more than Shannon thought was normal. But she could overlook it because he was a good kisser, as far as she knew at the time, and invited her over to his place to play with his chocolate labs. He had a bunch of SNL episodes on his DVR and they’d watch it together while eating his mom’s homemade snacks. It was a good, easy time in her life. 

A week after Sterling broke up with her because he didn’t need the distraction from lacrosse, he almost drowned in his friend’s swimming pool. He hit his pool doing a trick off the diving board. Sank like a stone, apparently. Shannon doesn’t know. She wasn’t there. 

She just remembers feeling guilty. Deeply, strangely guilty. When she found out, she cried until she threw up. Her mother, stunned at the level of Shannon’s upset, rubbed her back and made her herbal tea.

“It’s not your fault, baby,” Janet had said. “It was an accident. You weren’t even at the pool.”

“We were supposed to go to the movies today,” she’d hiccuped. “But he broke up with me.”

“That’s not your fault, Shan. You didn’t choose it.”

“If I’d been a better girlfriend he wouldn’t have had to dump me and then we’d be at the movies and then he wouldn’t have gotten hurt!” 

The next day, Shannon’s period came, and her mother laughed off the whole thing.

“That’s why you were so hysterical, my sweet girl.”

She hadn’t meant any harm by it. And for a while, Shannon believed her. She’d just been hormonal and overreacting and that’s why she felt a sick, anxious pit in her stomach for two weeks after the pool incident, and then again for two years whenever she thought of Sterling. She was just hysterical. Dramatic. 

But then it kept happening. 

She got pregnant and ruined Eddie’s future. She couldn’t give birth properly, the one thing her body should have been able to do. Christopher got stuck and hurt because of her body. Eddie got shot out of the sky, battered with bullets, because of all of that. It didn’t matter how many times she asked him to come home. He was there because of her. And it almost killed him. 

So there was that pit in her stomach. That anxious, guilty pit. And it grew and grew and grew… 

None of this really matters right now. None of it’s really relevant. What’s relevant right now, as she leans over the rooftop of a fucking Panda Express, watching the water drag Buck’s Jeep away like it weighs nothing at all, is that she can’t see Buck. He has plummeted beneath the water and she hasn’t seen him resurface again. 

So for some reason, all Shannon can think of is Sterling Macleod. 

This is your fault, Shannon. 

“BUCK!” Christopher is shrieking. “BUCK! BUCK!”

Shannon stretches her torso a little farther over, careful not to overextend her top-heavy midriff so that she might not pull herself back again. 

“BUCK!” She calls, too. 

[bropunzeling]

can u do a scene of the soulbond fic from matthew's pov?

ok anonymous maggie i know you gave me suggestions but im ignoring them so here is the scene where leon's mom comes home the first time in the 2022 timeline:

When Matthew wakes up, he wants to puke.

That part isn't new. Matthew has wanted to puke for at least forty-eight hours, if not longer. Like the world's worst case of the flu. It's ebbed and flowed. The worst was that first practice, when he'd passed out in the locker room, woken up in a trainer's room, and threw up directly into a trash can. Since that moment, he's managed to hold it together enough to book a ticket, make his way through the airport, switch flights in New York. The trans-Atlantic flight was bad, though. By the end of it, the flight attendants were giving him worried looks. His transfer in Heathrow was the first time he'd managed to keep anything besides water down.

The next thing he feels is cold, shivery. That part is new. Matthew doesn't often run cold.

He opens his eyes, blinking blearily. He's in a bed, one that's only vaguely familiar. The covers are messed up, half undone; no wonder he's freezing. There's an indent, though, where someone had been.

Leon. Where Leon had been. Where Leon had been when he'd said, I'll be here when you wake up.

Matthew pushes himself up slowly, his gut churning from the loss of connection and from something else, that feels more like fear. That fear courses through his body as he swings his way out of bed and gets to his feet. Leon picked him up, but maybe now he's regretting it. Maybe he's going to come back through that door and tell Matthew to pack it out. Maybe Matthew should leave himself. Yes, the past two days have been awful, but he could probably manage it if he had to go back. It wouldn't be the worst thing he's ever done; only close to it.

Now that he's standing up, he can hear voices through the door, muffled and indistinct. One of them he knows, though, even if he can't hear the words; he knows it as surely as he knows his own.

Matthew takes a few steps closer to the door. Pushes down the handle and slips out.

In the hall, Leon is talking to someone - a woman, middle aged. Leon's mom, whose name is on the tip of his tongue - but that part isn't important to his sleep-addled brain, to the worry and fear and sickness in his stomach. The important part is the person a few feet ahead of him. The familiar span of Leon's shoulders, the mess of his bedhead. The connection between them growing more and more taut, reeling Matthew in as surely as a tow line, the same way it has for years.

"Leon?" Matthew asks.

Leon turns around, eyes wide as he blinks. "Oh," he says. "Um - Matthew, this is my mom, Sandra. Mom, this is - Matthew Tkachuk."

Matthew has to fight back a yawn, even though he knows it's impolite. He wishes, abruptly, that he was meeting Leon's mom under different circumstances. That this was on purpose, instead of what it is - Matthew's own body betraying him, the insistent and ever present demand for Leon's presence undercutting everything else.

Well, there's no point now in wishing for different. Matthew's here, and he's going to have to make the best of it. "Hi," he says, shaking Sandra's hand. "Nice to meet you. Sorry for intruding."

"Any friend of Leon's is welcome," she says.

"Thank you," Matthew says. "I really am sorry," he adds.

"You should go to bed," Leon says. Matthew looks over his shoulder at him, but Leon is frowning. Hard to know what that means. "You look like shit."

Matthew flips him off, mostly by rote. He's such an asshole.

As he steps back, though, he passes within inches of Leon. Immediately, his stomach calms, his head stops pounding. The side of his body closest to Leon already feels warmer. Pathetic, but. So it goes, when it comes to Leon.

And that, maybe, is why Matthew can't think about leaving. That, maybe, is why instead of offering to get out of here, he heads back into Leon's room, into Leon's bed, curling into the indent Leon left behind, and tries his hardest to go back to sleep.

[whitepolaris]

Broadway and Grand

The unluckiest intersection in all of Oklahoma lies in the center of downtown Enid, two hours west of Tulsa. It has nothing to do with faulty traffic lights, traffic congestion, or unsuccessful business venture, mind you, but the fact that, over the span of forty-years, a total of five men, four of them law officers, were killed at this very spot.

The first was in 1895 when Marshal E. C. Williams was shot to death trying to break up a fight. R. W. Patterson, a government official, was scuffling at Broadway and Grand with J. L. Isenberg, publisher of the Enid Daily Wave, over a series of venomous articles that had appeared in the newspaper. Patterson, who was a registrar with the U.S. Land Office, published his legal notices in a competing paper. In retaliation, Isenberg began publishing scurrilous opinions and accusations concerning Patterson. After Isenberg accused him of infidelity, Patterson decided he had enough and punched Isenberg in the face.

About the time Marshal Williams arrived to break up the fight, Patterson pulled out a gun and starting shooting at Isenberg, who quickly ran into a nearby store. Williams pistol-whipped Patterson; Patterson shot the marshal just above his heart. Before the marshal collapsed, however, he took a shot at Patterson, striking him in the temple. Both Williams and Patterson died. Isenberg escaped and later moved to California.

Ten years later, in 1905, another Enid officer was killed at the same intersection. According to a newspaper report at the time, Deputy Sheriff Robert O. Beers received a message one evening alleged to be from the city attorney, which asked for a meeting in the Anheuser-Busch building at the corner of Broadway and Grand. When Beers arrived, he was met instead by two angry men, J. W. Walton and Jacob Erickson. When an argument ensued, Beers pulled his gun but was shot in the head by Erickson before he had a chance to fire. Few details regarding the argument were released, but the confrontation reportedly had something to do with Beers's involvement in an illicit relationship. (Did you get the irony of a man named Beers dying in the Anheuser-Busch building?)

In 1906, less than a year later, yet another lawman was fatally shot in the same building. Marshal Thomas Radford had been in office for only eight months, and just weeks before he had been declared by the chairman of the police committee to be the best marshal Enid ever had. Unfortunately, not everyone agreed, especially John Cannon, who ran a rooming house on East Broadway known for its pleasure of the flash. Redford, determined to close down the rooming house, forced the business's tenants to move, then thwarted Cannon's attempt to set up shop across the street by warning the new building's owner not to rent to Cannon.

Furious, Cannon confronted Redford at the Tony Faust Saloon in the Anheuser-Busch building. Cannon walked up to the marshal, placed his gun to the officer's chest, and fired. As Redford tried to run, Cannon fired back and stuck the lawman a second time, in the torso. Redford continued staggering out the front door, where Cannon shot him again, this time in the head. The marshal fell to the street and died shortly thereafter.

Radford's funeral procession, which consisted of 115 carriages, measured nearly a mile long. John Cannon served twenty-five years in prison.

At the end of a hot July day in 1936, patrons were filling up the German Village Saloon to refresh themselves with a few mugs of beer. Owner Jim O'Neal, however, couldn't relax that evening, as he had been tipped off earlier in the day that someone was going to try to rob him.

O'Neal had been keeping an eye on one particular patron for some time, who seemed oddly familiar. When he realized he may have seen the man in some notorious photographs, he called Enid police officer Cal Palmer to come check the man out. Palmer, along with Officer Ralph Knarr, asked the man to come with them, who replied, "I think I know what you want me for," but kindly asked if he could first finish his beer. The officers agreed.

When the man set down his empty mug, however, he pulled out a revolver and shot Palmer three times. Knarr four times, and another man in the leg once. He then took off out the side door and up an alley, quickly pursued by five other officers. When the killer reached the street, he jumped into the backseat of a car occupied by two men and commanded them to drive.

After the driver hit the gas, he noticed the officers in pursuit, and both he and his passenger jumped out, leaving their hijacker behind. The driver directed the officers to the vehicle, who began firing. The fleeing man jumped out and hid behind the car, but was fatally struck in the head by one of the officers' bullets.

The man was later identified as Lawrence DeVol, a member of the infamous Karpis-Barker gang, which had recently broken up. As for the two officers shot in the saloon, Knarr recovered from his wounds, but Palmer died instantly when one of the bullets struck his heart.

Thankfully, Broadway and Grand, save for a few ghostly encounters reported in the in the surrounding buildings, has been quiet ever since. Probably the worst you'll encounter today is a few red-light runners and the resultant blasts of car horns. But, of course, history is still being written.

[the-firebird69]

wood is terrible but the cmu is heavy dangerous theysay and the block that fuses they wont use. so you use wood. and timber if they fall are heavy. and wood frame is light if you use trusses not beams and clue lam and it is strong. if it oesnt rust so they use metal. and it works. tons use it and recycle steels and metsl. we do this and build. already see it. they dont want it. and dont approve for ages. so we use meetal and they like it. and same for nails no some crhomolly. and up they go. tons do it. and we can do the habitat stuff. and we build now. and panelized yes realy it is only the walls sheethed and framed and floor if not too large a span usually too large accross.

and we worked it out used it works great. an it works great. is a panning thing. and you have floor panels of wood frame plywood three quarter regular. cdx. and about 11-6 wide and stagger as in garths apartment to one side of the wall you bring it and a short filler on the right and the next a long one that crosses over the hall on the right to left small one on the left. and well planned works. fillers and such later. and you meet them wiht staggered panels that go accross. and the plywood would hang over. nope you dont do it that way and you match it less overhang and it is percode. two foot reuired made up by bulkier framing. and he doesnt like it..but does.

and tons like it. i can go get it started. an they like it. see his system. fly the wal panels and twenty to twenty five and he says prob twenty but the stagger and we see it true too. and two foot and clips and all no. but yes join it with bolts and no problem and they see it overlap here and bolts and overlap. and go in fast. tons of them no but fast.

and the wall panels are fast. nailed glued and some screws. overhang set and stggered and window s cut out. and install nail the bottom on and then the overhang below. and done. bolts occasionally and hardare perc ode are on it already.

thier guys have a board and hang it off a rope around thier necks and hit it with big hammers sledge and 12 or 14 lb and yell and scream and get it square an fit in the plywood move it and yell. and about an hour. and check it nail it. and done. the panels done mostly in the factory. and yeh a rush so smetones smaller sections about four panels wide and at garths eight panels. the walls are faster and fit right mostly and you push it no instll then nail and in about one hour for half garths place and fast ok. and better na big crews it is about forty five minutes. it is framed in two to three days. fstest design yes.

and then the frame us up. we can do it in two days. and some of them. but you need twnty to thirty ppl. and active ones. once nailed. off too you roof and enclose the awalls day four. and ok yes. the bolted chocks on the trucks never change usually 2x 6 or x8 will fit ten but ok they only go up four and need 2x8 on two only. fun ok. and it works great. all of it is bolted no but teh main members are andd odown with large simson embeds. and inserts. works great. this is a system ok and we use it. now.

roof and you go about 12' widde per the dedrisign no it is near it. and per every 24" and you sheath the roof same deal two foot connectores. and must be they say can be done calculate it. to the end. and you travel wiht wide load and highways are larger. and usaully only thirty foot long max. we can use and accomodate larger. sheeth it. two foot staggers. travel at night ad on off times mostly. can set down but have to use blocks adn level prior to and it is not easy. we will do that ...and make stantions that you can level andwhen you find the corners and other. we do see it. and auto level no but ok..to a certain level and they are able to comm. and we see it is simple no. he says trianglate and use a block the size of the stantion anchor and drive it on the mark outside outside mark each of four corners. and use a hundred foot tape. mark it and drive them in and they adjust. are wood and ppl have them. up and down. and about a foot of travel. and they will and say it wow fun.

pick a corner. and use a tube level ad it is a water level and your all set. and they set it down. not hard. a tool can drive it but all have hammers. lol. argh argh and they use it and they take the hammers out lol ahahah me probalby

Thor Freya

Zues Hera

Olympus

[obraveyouth]

few things could leave link silent and not of his own discretion but silent he was. sheik was back into the figure of a man, a very shaken up and physical touch imposed man. first, it began with sheik using link’s firm body as leverage—shoulders as something to ground himself with as his breathing was labored. then, came the removal of the sheikah’s wrappings from hands and head to reveal his face in crystal clear view. that was why he found himself in this current state of quietness, why link found an existence so much like one of years ago: to witness the sheer loveliness of another whom hid such tenderness in plain sight, beneath layer of layer of sarcasm and snark but in the case of sheik: cloth that could serve as a physical guard against the people of the world.

pretty. two days, forty eight hours, two thousand two hundred and eighty minutes had passed since link had first revived and came to be knowing sheik of the sheikah ( guide of time / sage of shadows ): and link was rapidly finding his expansive vernacular being reduced to mere fragments ( as mirror shards / as pieces of heart ): of what it was. the hands on his shoulders tightened but it didn’t make link feel any less heavy, any less weighed at the breathtaking sight before him. sure, he knew sheik was soft but the goddesses had to draw the line for one person somewhere—pretty too… pretty too was so unfair and far prettier than any man and nearly every women ( even midna, in all her ethereal being still had the roughness of a warrior within ): that link had ever seen. 

it seemed the embrace of death had painted sheik’s face with the same alabaster complexion worn by the great fairy herself and his vast vocabulary was far too limited like this but link knew of no words that existed within modern or ancient hylian language that could so accurately describe just how, well, speechless link was in this moment. everything was too much and if link wasn’t used to baring the very world upon himself he would have long since crumbled from the look in sheik’s eyes. then, as if the golden goddesses above thought to have mercy, sheik release the hold me physically had over link’s body and the hero of twilight could do as instructed. 

link breathed and breathed and breathed. following orders was something that link excelled at. weather the orders came from light spirits, goron, zora, forest monkey, citizens of hyrule, or the same kingdoms very princess—link had always found it easy to do as others requested of him. even before prewritten history had shackled and chained his very life to the title of hero, of savior: doing for others and putting them first came as naturally to link as birds took flight or as shadows rose within light.

the meeting of their eyes once more was going to be the death of link ( oh, how the kingdom would weep wondering how their indestructible hero faltered ): just why did it seem beings embraced by dusk had such otherworldly beauty within them? maybe to be kissed by the moon and the stars was something people of light couldn’t study nor comprehend ( but link had always been taken with his studies ): even if it took him decades or a lifetime to finally understand.

still as sheik began to speak, link is hyper-focused on his words on his lips ( such a soft pink ): helping is what the ordonion did best, helpful is what he was. sheik was comparing himself to a tool ( as an object / something to be replaced when broken ): and link did not care for it. but still he listened and could voice his distaste and concerns later, it was not about him right now ( but then, had it ever been about link? ): if anybody used their body as a tool, as a mere object, it was link, in his opinion. the soul of the hero was nothing more than a means to an end for the creators of the over-spanning world that kept hyrule, right? but silent was link no more. how could one listen to talk so lowly of themselves, so worthless? maybe someone else but not link, never link.

❛ you ain’t disposable, not den, not now, not eva. ❜ link was furious, but not of sheik no but of the world that bore such a reason to raise a boy ( much less their own mother ): to view themselves as nothing but an existence to ‘be of use’ to another. the fault began with the goddesses, with the destiny, with the very cause that needed the role of a hero and guiders and all of that shit. ❛ nobody is born wit da sole purpose of dyin’. even if ya was raised ta believe dat it ain’t true. havin’ a life is supposed ta be a beautiful thang, sheik. not sumin’ to exist in till ya body meets da dirt again.❜ 

fuck all that already decided and ‘chosen by the gods’ shit. the look in link’s eyes are wild ( that of a beast / that of a scarred man ): but wasn’t link impart to blame too? even if he didn’t want the moniker of hero, he carried it. shade had done the same and the hero before him and the one before him too. couldn’t the previous incarnation of his soul refused the help or found another way? if his mentor had known things would end up like this, that sheik had been raised like this: would his incarnation have felt the same as link right now or would the hero shade have simply seen it as one of many in the burdens of the duty of the hero he always spoke about. all he could do is watch as sheik became like broken glass before him ( maybe he’d always been just so? ): clinging to himself and making his body even smaller than it already was in comparison to link. it was like watching the remnants of a once great kingdom, cease to rise once more: the worst kind of fall, is one of your own making.

❛ i asked ya a lot of thangs. ❜

and it wasn’t like link didn’t have questions for sheik, no he had so many on top of the one’s he’d been asked to repeat but link wasn’t a dumbass, lax tongued and free spirited, sure but even he knew enough of social etiquette to know when someone else needed actual support. so with all the ease of someone who’d once comforted another. link extends his right hand ( not his left, never his left ): and places it ontop of sheik’s hands still folded in his lap, giving a squeeze of comfort. this was all link knew how to do—to be strong and heroic for others. his actions had always been vehement and his will clad in stronger iron than his boots. but maybe in the slowly setting sun of a spring borne afternoon link could take all his resolute and unswerving strength and give it to sheik. knowing the people that most needed someone ( that most required saving, even from themselves ): was the reason link never told others not to call him hero or dare to voice his sacrilegious thoughts and feelings to others. the burden of the hero to him was never appearing weak ( one had to be strong of every second, of every day ): just who would want to be saved by a hero whom needed to be saved themselves? 

❛ i can ask again lata, prettyboy. ❜ the nick drips off his tongue with much playfulness, with a slight smile ( one of understanding / one of shared experience ): in hopes of cheering up the solemn look from the others eyes. wasn’t like link had much experience in things like this, he was a fighter and his words weren’t the best at times, even if he meant well but the road to hell was also paved with good intentions. 

alas, the hand on sheik’s works its way to intertwine with his fingers. again, the pure softness of the other is astonishing to link: no callouses / no blemishes / no roughness ( even zelda had a bit of hardened skin from training with a rapier ): what link could do was take sheik to his happy place. the light spirit ordona’s spring had brought him much clarity and calm his entire life—being surrounded by nature and the peace of ordon’s woodlands was home. he moved slowly, watching for any signs of sheik’s protest to links efforts but couldn’t find way. so he led them both out of his home, grabbing epona and started making their way towards the spirit spring. ❛ not much, prettyboy but helps me, mayb’ can help ya too. ❜

   So he won. His plants were clearly one of the most important things to Link and he had guessed right about that. Sheik watched a full grown very tall man panic and want to rush outside to fetch whatever he needed to turn Sheik back before stumbling once more back inside the house. He took his threatening hand off of the pot and turned to face Link, tilting his head at him and watching as the Hero did what Sheik thought the rod was actually for. Fascinating, so it did work in tandem with that stone. 

   He watched the Hero move closer and those cat eyes, ruby and bright carefully yet distrustfully watching that stone. When it moved closer and he felt it touch his head his entire body flinched and jerked as the same feeling as before began rushing over his body. He hated the feeling, hated having his body jerked around, hated the fire that rushed through it and ripped him apart. 

   The feeling of having his hands back was incredible though, even if he felt entirely shaken to his core and dizzy with the uncomfortable sensations rushing through him. He felt weak and weird, a sensation he couldn’t correctly iterate with proper words. But the feeling was enough that he very nearly tethered right over the edge of the counter. He was lucky Link was as close as he was, because there was a chance he would have fallen right off the edge of it if he wasn’t there. 

   As it was, with Link so close, when Sheik slipped over the edge of the counter his hands managed to catch hold of Link’s shoulders and keep him upright. His fingers curled into the fabric of Link’s weird top and his bare shoulders, fingers scratching at his skin slightly as the amount of words that were hitting his ears kept going and going. He took a breath, felt like he wasn’t getting nearly enough, and moved his right hand from Link’s shoulder to reach for his own face. He grasped hold of the wrap on his hand and yanked it off, throwing it to the ground before doing the same with the mask. Not even bothering to yank it down, just pulling it off his head entirely with the cowl and letting it find its spot on the ground with the head wrap. 

   He sucked in a breath as he leaned forward, pressing the top of his head against Link’s chest and trying to get the world to stop spinning. The barrage of questions didn’t help in the least bit, but at the same time it actually was. The words gave him something to hang onto, a way to ground himself around what Link was saying and to think about. He takes another deep breath, pulling as many of them into his lungs quickly before finally picking his head up. He doesn’t take his hands off of the Hero at all, if anything he gripped him a bit tighter to use his body to pick Sheik’s own up. Bare face and sharp red eyes found the Hero of Twilight’s own face and he blinked at the other as he watched him closely. 

   “Breathe.” 

   Which one of them was he actually telling that to? It was probably both, Sheik just really wanted Link to slow a bit and just talk without berating him with questions. He blinked a few times and slid his gaze away, looking down to the counter beside him as he tried to verse the questions in his head of what Sky had asked him. It was a lot to think about, but overall he just felt overwhelmed. That was the best word to give him for what happened, Sheik hated being turned into a cat against his will and without preparation. He was the type of person that had so much control over his body that he valued it and didn’t even like riding on horses. 

   Not that Epona wasn’t a great horse, he just didn’t have control over it. He doesn’t know how to ride a horse and doing that puts way too much trust in a horse. He likes control over his own body. 

   Shifting a bit more comfortably on the counter he trapped his legs over the edge of them and slid his hands down from Link’s shoulders finally, trailing along his arms before dropping down into Sheik’s lap. Another few blinks and he picked his head back up, meeting Link’s dark blue gaze once more. “I didn’t like it.” He answers, at least one of the questions Link asked he thinks. One of the questions he knows how to answer at the very least. “I don’t–” a breath is taken here and Sheik moves his fingers to grip at the fabric of his suit, clenching it in his hands as he tries to find the way to word this. 

   “I don’t like things I can’t control. My body has always been like one of your tools. I don’t use fancy gadgets, I don’t use hookshots and boomerangs and slingshots. I don’t–wield a sword and shield to fight the entire world with. I just have my magic, the few tools I do carry, and myself.” Sheik motioned toward his body with his right hand before dropping it back down into his lap.

   “My mother when she trained me to be the Hero’s guide, to view myself as disposable. To use my body like a weapon. To risk my life if it was needed and to be fine with that. To expect that at some point I might die, and to be comfortable with that notion.” So he tried to be. He used himself as a weapon, he threw himself around, he risked his life without care in service of the Hero and Hyrule. And he was used to that, he was used to it, to feeling like his body was nothing better than a weapon. 

   And that was exactly what he told the Hero of Twilight at one point. “I am no better than a tool in your belt to be used, Hero.” He had taken that about as well as one can expect, with anger and frustration, but it was the truth. Sheik was a broken compass, one that told him where to go and then stopped working. Pointed the direction and then vanished after the Hero knew where to go. That was it. 

   So desperately had he wanted to do more and couldn’t. But that was what tools were, they served the part they were designed for and couldn’t be expected to do more than that. 

   “So to lose control over myself–it’s stressful.” It’s panic inducing, it’s terrifying, it’s sickening. Sure, maybe next time if they do this again and it’s planned he might handle it better. But that was for a different day to consider, not right in the moment. As he takes another deep breath he finally starts to relax a bit and again drags his gaze up to Link. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember what else you asked me.” He had asked a lot at once and he was lucky Sheik managed to pick something out of what he said to respond to.

[middleearthpixie]

Homecoming

Armitage Summer Splash #27 ~ The challenge is winding down, but not over yet... and thanks as always to @lathalea & @fizzyxcustard

Trope: Anniversary

Quote: “Don’t lie to me.”

RA Character: John Porter

Relationship:John Porter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: oral sex (f receiving), unprotected intercourse

Rating: M

Word Count: 3,519

***

A soft breeze wafted in through the open windows, making the white sheers flutter into the room. The sheers were new. Prior to your arrival in London, John had blinds up. Blinds that made the room seem more like a cave, dark and small and claustrophobic. Thank God he’d been amenable to swapping them out for the sheers. It was amazing how even just a hint of sunlight could make a world of difference. Already, the room was warmer, far more inviting. 

Home.

You tried hard to make sure he knew you weren’t planning on taking over and remodeling his entire apartment, but at the same time, it definitely needed a woman’s touch to a certain extent. He’d only been living as a bachelor for not even a year, and since he traveled extensively for work, interior decorating was hardly his strong suit. 

He was away now. Somewhere in Africa. You didn't know and he wouldn’t tell you. He would never tell you where a mission would take him aside from the most general generalities possible. You understood, even if you didn't always like it. You liked it even less since he was wounded on a mission three months earlier. The two of you had argued about his taking this latest assignment. You wanted him to rest a while longer, to let his shoulder heal more. He was itching to get back out in the field. You were both stubborn. Both had a bit of a temper. And when he left, you were each fuming at the other. Not a great way to part and you knew it. He’d called you twice over the span of the last six weeks, and you both apologized, but you still just wanted to see him. It was silly, but you knew that if you could just lay eyes upon him, all would be right. 

Besides, you missed him.

But, you’d taken the time to get to know your new home city. Your company had an office in London, and when you’d put in for the transfer, your boss begged you to not leave New York, only grudgingly giving in when he realized you had your mind made up. You had to come to London. You wanted to be with John. He’d asked you to move in with him while he recuperated, and so you’d been settling in day by day. In time, London would be as comfortable to you as New York had been.

John was due home sometime in the next forty-eight hours. Or so he hoped. You hoped so, too, because the day after tomorrow marked the first anniversary since the fateful cab ride that brought John Porter into your life. A year had passed since you fell headlong into first an affair, then a true relationship with him. Since that day, his daughter, Lexie had warmed to you. In fact, she was coming to spend the next week with you and John in London since, after their divorce became final, John’s ex-wife, Diane had moved out of the city. And while Diane was civil at best toward you, it was a far cry from your first meeting where she made ice queens look warm and fuzzy. 

You were putting new sheets on the bed when the phone rang and you smiled. His ringtone was Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir, which was his favorite song. You snatched the phone up from the nightstand. “Hey, I was just thinking about you.”

“Were you now?” A hint of teasing wove into his deep, smooth voice. “Good things or bad?”

“Oh, very good.” You sank onto the edge of the bed. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Frankfurt, on my way home.”

You couldn't keep the smile off your face. “Really? I wasn’t expecting you home for two more days.”

“It didn’t take as long as we thought it would.”

“And you’re okay?”

A brief pause, then a sinful laugh rolled toward you. “I’m fine, love. Shoulder is a bit stiff, but nothing a few weeks away from reality won’t cure.”

You sighed softly. He’d been shot and wounded in Iraq over the winter and each time your eyes fell upon the scar, you worried for him all over again, even though to him, said scar was just another for his collection. You tried to push those worries out of your head now. He was on his way home now and he’d be fine. 

“So, how much of my flat have you renovated while I’ve been gone?”

“Not much at all. I just bought new sheets and a bedding set, but I think you’ll like them.”

“Tell me they aren’t girly.”

“No. Shades of blue from pacific to robin’s egg.”

“You say that as if those terms mean something to me.”

“You are such a guy.”

“And you’re complaining about it?”

“No. But yes.”

Another velvety laugh. “Okay, I’ve got to go. I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way home and I’ll see you soon.” He paused. “I love you.”

You smiled. “I love you, too, John. Stay safe.”

“Always. See you hopefully sometime tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait.”

The worst part about John being on assignment were the nights. His apartment was noisy, with rattling pipes and city traffic and all, and while you’d grown used to those sounds, you didn't think you’d ever get used to sleeping in his bed by yourself. You missed him, missed the feel of his body against yours, as he usually held you against him as he slept. You missed the soft woodsy notes of his cologne, the faint hints of eucalyptus and mint from his shampoo and soap.

You missed him.

And the closer you got to his coming home, the longer those nights seemed to stretch on. 

Somehow, you managed to doze off, only to be awakened by the gentle flutter of your hair being swept away from the nape of your neck.

Soft lips grazed that same spot. 

A dull thud rent the air—the sound of a duffle bag hitting the floor. 

Then, the bed dipped and you offered up a sleepy smile as John whispered, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

He came gently against you, peppering the back of your neck with those fluttering, teasing kisses. Your fingers folded into the pillow tucked beneath your head, your toes curling as his lips crept higher, then down over your ear. 

“I though you were’t going to be home until tomorrow?”

“I managed an earlier flight.” 

He lifted off you to give you room to roll onto your back and when you gazed up at him, you did a mental melt at the sight of him in his desert fatigues. The night light offered up just enough soft light to make out the man looming above you. Your soldier.

He lowered against you once more and when his lips found yours, you wound your arms about his neck, let your fingers slip up into his short black hair, let them graze down over the back of his neck, smiling as he shivered against you.

His kiss was slow and sweet and teasing. Playful at first, but it quickly grew serious and deeper. Six weeks was a lifetime to be away from him, and apparently he felt the same, for as his tongue swept along yours, he slid a hand down to the hem of tee shirt you’d been sleeping in lately, and tugged it up. He pulled away and shifted to sweep it up and off you, and smiled as he whispered, “That used to be mine.”

“You can have it back,” you managed to murmur back, tugging him against you once more. Your fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, flicked them open as quickly as you could work them. He rocked back and onto his knees, and you shifted to rise with him, tugging the shirt from his back before catching the bottom of the sand-colored tee shirt he wore beneath it to pull it up as well.

The cotton schwiffed over his head, landing on the bed behind him. His hands curved about your cheeks, tilting your head just so, his tongue demanding as it swept along yours, tangled with yours, drew yours back. You savored his kiss, fiery and demanding and it alone was enough to make your body begin a slow, steady hum. 

You melted against him, easing your arms about his neck as you pressed your body flush against his. His skin was hot and smooth and as your nipples ground against his chest, you sighed into his mouth. 

He wrapped his arms about your waist, gently maneuvered you onto your back once more, and eased his hips between your thighs. The thick, heavy cotton of his trousers couldn't hide his erection, his cock a firm bulge against the front of them. You slid your hand over that rise, smiling as he groaned low. He arched to meet your caress, and when you slid just your thumb over that thick ridge, he whispered, “Holy fuck, I want you…”

You smiled, your lips still locked with his, and caught his belt buckle, unbuckled it, tugged open his trousers, and slid a hand down in search of him. You found him—hot, hard, sleek—and savored his sharp inhale as you offered up a long, slow caress. He shivered against you, rocked to meet you, his lips more demanding now as they devoured yours. 

“Oh… yes…” he breathed, sweeping a hot kiss along your neck before letting his head fall forward into the curve of your shoulder. “Six weeks is too long to be away from you…”

You traced along that thick length with just the tips of your fingers. “It’s too long to be away from you, as well…”

His smile was a mix of sin and seduction and he winked before bending toward you once more. He caught your nipple between playful lips, flicking the tip of his tongue over it as it tightened into a small bead. Your eyelids grew so heavy, but you refused to give in, wanted only to watch him, as if you were afraid he’d disappear if you couldn’t see him.

Because this felt every bit like the steamy, erotic dreams you had of him in his absence. Each fiery kiss, each playful caress brought you to the edge in your sleep, and then… oh… your thighs would press together and you’d arched hard into the bed as the sensations washed over you. You’d be on the very edge, and then wake up to find yourself alone.

But you were not alone. Thank god. He was there. This was no dream, but a delicious reality. 

John winked, letting your breast slip from his mouth. He swirled his tongue about your aching nipple once more, then rained teasing kisses down over your stomach. Your fingernails scratched along his back as he slid lower still, and he pressed a kiss above the triangle of pink lace that kept you hidden from his smoked sapphire stare. 

He pressed a kiss into that pink, lacy triangle, and when he looked up and you met his gaze, there was a fire in his eyes unlike any you’d ever seen before. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice husky and low.

You smiled. “I love you, too.”

He winked, then hooked his fingers in the lace. A gentle tug and you lifted your hips to allow the lace to skim along your legs and vanish into the darkness and you caught our bottom lip between your teeth at John’s soft, almost inaudible whimper. Six weeks was too long, indeed.

He bent to you, pressing a kiss into the damp curls between your thighs. Then, the tip of his tongue slipped into your folds, flittered ever so gently about your clit. An airy moan bubbled to your lips, your fingers found their way into his soft hair, your hips rolling toward him with each caress. Heat built within you, warm at first, but it grew scorching. It bubbled through your veins with each silken pass of his tongue. He slid up, then down, then around, and finally, over that sensitive bead that had been ignored for so long. 

“John…” You arched to meet him, clutching at the sheet beneath you with your free hand as the knits tightened deep within your core. Sparks became fire. Fire melted that core, spread that delicious warmth through your entire body as he slowly drew you to the edge. Everything inside you twisted and tightened, ached for his touch, whether it came from his lips, his tongue, his hands, or his cock. It didn't matter, as long as he touched you somehow. You would go completely insane if he didn't shove you over that edge soon.

You rolled to meet him, to increase the pressure of him against you. You had to, your body tingled hotly with the need to release, your climax tight and wound up and desperate to explode. He moved faster now, circled your clit more tightly, slid down to tease your entrance before gliding back up. You couldn't hold back your gasp as his lips closed about it and he pulled gently at it.

That one motion shattered you. Your back bowed sharply as the knots burst and white-hot pleasure scorched its way through your entire body. He teased and taunted with each delicious pulse between your thighs, his hands tightening about them to hold you still as you arched and writhed beneath him. 

“John!” Your cry rang out, your voice raw with passion and need and delight. He drew out your climax, drew out that bliss until you went limp beneath him—limp, fighting for air, your body heaving from the sweet nirvana of orgasm. 

He rose over you, and as he moved to cover you, you caught the waists of both his trousers and his boxer briefs to shove them down. He straighten to tug both off the rest of the way, and then he was back, and when his body aligned with yours, his cock slid into the damp heat of your folds, slick and smooth along your aching flesh.

“Love…” His voice was little more than a growl as he guided himself to you and pushed hard inside you. He breached you, stretched you, and you wrapped yourself around him, angling to take him deep with his first thrust.

He filled you, thrust hard, stole your breath once more. His fingers twisted into the sheet just above your shoulders as he moved, each stroke more powerful than the last. There were no lazy, leisurely thrusts to tease you both. He wasn’t gentle or tender, but took you like a man who’d been starved of you for far too long and it was amazing. Pure, powerful, unyielding lust drove him and you loved every second of it. It was so much like the first time you’d made love, hard and hot and exciting and every thrust tore through you, each sensation more delicious than the last. He pounded into you hard and fast and relentless, sweat rising along his back, his breath almost gasps themselves. 

You wrapped your legs about his hips and he grunted, a low,” Oh, holy fucking shit…” breaking free as he went deeper still. You tightened all around him, gripped him, greedily squeezed him to steal every last bit of him that you could. And with each one, the knots tightened. The pleasure sharpened. The tingles grew hotter and surged harder just as he did. 

Everything inside you rolled over. Pleasure hot and sweet flooded you once more. You pressed your thighs hard against him and offered up a breathless, “Harder, John… please…”

“Oh, baby…” He obliged, hammering away now as if his life depended on it. “Oh, squeeze me… tighter, baby… tighter…”

A muscle bulged along his jaw, His eyes closed. He shuddered against you. And then—

“OH!” He thrust deep, shuddering once more as he came in a violent eruption that had you clinging to him, your fingernails sinking into his back, your hips grinding up against his. You exploded around him, pulsing and throbbing as you surrendered to your own bliss once more.

The wave ebbed, the roar of your blood quieted and you fought to breath as he went still, his body relaxing as peace reigned. He gently sank against you, his head falling into the curve of your neck and shoulder, and his breath came in hot blasts against your already overheated skin. “Oh, darling… I’ve missed you…”

“I’ve missed you, too, John,” you whispered back, your lips brushing his ear. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said with a soft laugh before sweeping a teasing kiss along your neck. “You probably didn't even think about me this entire time.”

“You know that’s not true.” 

He lifted his head, his blue eyes sleepy looking and soft. God, he was so handsome, your soldier. Handsome and brave and strong and you fell a little more in love with him every day. You let your fingers trace along his cheek, your hand curve against his sandpapery skin. “I’m glad you’re home, Sergeant Porter.”

“So am I.” He brushed your lips with his, then carefully eased off to stretch out alongside you. 

His release mingled with yours to trickle out of you, but you didn’t care. You didn't want to move. Wet spot be damned, you just wanted to lay there, entangled with him. “How long are you home for?”

He lifted an arm, draping it about you as you curved against him. “I don’t really know, actually. I never know. But hopefully for a few weeks.”

“Don’t remind me.” You sighed as your tucked your head against his chest and just listened to the solid thump of his heart beating. His fingers moved lightly along your arm, the gentle strokes making you even sleepier than you already were. You peered over at the clock. Ten after four in the morning. “What time did you get into London?”

“About three. By the time I got my way out, I caught the first hack I could find and here I am.”

“Here you are.” You lifted your head to smile down at him. “And that’s a good thing.”

He smiled. “I thought it might be. So, Tuesday, what do you want to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought.”

“So, give it some thought.” He carefully eased away from you and rolled onto his side. “Hard to believe a year has passed since you gave me shit about trying to steal your cab.”

“You did try to steal it.”

“It was pouring out.”

“Still.” 

He smiled. “I did it intentionally, you know.”

“What?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I saw you and I thought you were cute. I knew if I was a total dick, you’d give me shit and it would give me an excuse to talk to you.”

“You were married.”

“Diane and I were already separated.”

“Still.”

“Okay, yes. Technically, I was still married, but it was over and we both knew it. And I saw you and… I don’t know… I can’t explain it. I just had to talk to you. So, I tried to steal your cab.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. “And it worked.”

“You’re such a jerk. I can’t believe—no, actually, I can believe it. Ass.”

“So I’ve been told.” He propped his head on his fist. “But, not quite a day later, I had you naked up against that window, remember?”

Heat flooded you at the memory of you and John, high above the city, your body pressed against the cool plate glass as he thrust hard into you from behind. One of your more memorable encounters, to be sure. “How could I forget?”

“And now, here we are.” He leaned over and caught your lips in a tender kiss reminiscent of the first time he’d kissed you, in the hotel restaurant where you’d met for lunch that first time you were together. He was walking you out to catch a cab when he turned and just bent to press his lips to yours. That was it. That was all it took. 

“Here we are,” you whispered back. “And I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me, too, love.” His eyes sparkled despite that low light. “And I think we should go back to New York. I’d love to get you up against that window again.”

You smiled and sat up, then leaned over to brush his lips with yours. You slid to the edge of the bed and rose, saying, “We have a perfectly good window right here, you know.”

He just gazed at you, then a slow smile lifted the corners of his lips and without a word, he stood and as he reached where you stood, you melted into his arms once more. The glass was just as cool against your body as it was in New York, and you sighed as you surrendered to him once more, just as you had almost exactly a year ago. 

***

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[licensedqueerio]

Hi there. Can I request derek morgan x male reader, season 2 episode 10 of criminal minds where the reader is in Guantanamo Bay with spencer and the others because he was born in saudi arabia and he knows arabic and can communicate in a way that is affective, he is there in the interrogation room with Gideon when they are interrogating Jamal and Gideon figures out where the next bomb is going to explode so does the reader and when they found out the bomb has exploded the reader calls derek but derek is not picking up because he is on the phone with penelope and ones the are back at virginia and go back home the reader let's his guard down and derek comforts him. If you don't feel like writing this it's okay. Thank you ❤️

Honestly I'm not superly religious but I tried and I hope I didn't offend anyone, but if I did, I sincerely apologize. And I hope this is what you wanted, it was kind of rushed, I apologize!!

---

Word Count: 2.8k

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Male!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Request Here

---

“Everybody, meet Agent Prentiss?” Hotch asked as he stepped into the room, adjusting the button of his jacket as he walked over to his seat around the circular table.

“The other day. I’ve been filling her in on protocol,” JJ said with a grin, standing behind Emily, giving the woman’s shoulder’s a squeeze before stepping away, heading towards the front of the room and standing in front of the TV.

“Derek, Morgan,” Derek introduced as he stepped forward, reaching across the table to take her hand before sitting.

“Y/N L/N,” you introduced with a simple nod, taking a seat beside Derek.

“Emily,” she warmly introduced with a smile aimed at the two of you.

“You can make nice later. What do we know?” Hotch interrupted, hurrying to begin.

“The DEA raided what they thought was a hardened meth lab right here, in Northern Virginia, but they found this instead,” JJ began, stepping aside so everyone could see the image of the dispersal weapon on screen. “Homeland security’s thinking Al Qaeda,” she added.

You frowned.

“They've developed devices that span the spectrum of sophistication, some as simple as soda bottles and paint cans,” Reid informed.

You and Emily both spoke the arabic word at the same time.

You turned to her in surprise. Her expression mirrored yours.

“...literally meaning ‘the invention’,” Emily slowly continued on.

You looked away from her. “What's the chemical agent?” You spoke up. “Mustard gas is usually more common. Or even anthrax if they have access to it,” you commented.

Derek turned to you in alarm.

“We don’t know yet. But we would’ve heard about anthrax being stolen, so I think we can cross it off the list,” JJ said before handing you a slip of paper. “The cell members bailed out through a tunnel. But the DEA managed to intercept a message,” she said, gesturing to the paper.

You read over the Arabic script, brow furrowed. Once you read it, you began to translate. “Our friends surprised us and eloped. We can no longer wait for the wedding as planned. We can deliver our gift at the next crescent.”

“The next crescent?” Gideon asked.

“Muslims sometimes use a lunar calendar,” Emily answered. “I’d have to look it up-”

“It’s in two days,” you interrupted.

Gideon turned to you. “So whatever they’re attacking is happening in less than forty-eight hours?” He demanded.

You laid back in your chair. “It appears so,” you said, blowing a breath out.

“Payment for the nextel the message was intercepted from is linked to this man,” JJ clicked the remote, a picture of a man appearing. “Jind Allah.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. It was sickening what some people did in the name of Allah. It wasn’t right. “Soldier of god,” you scowled.

Derek reached for your hand under the table. Giving a small squeeze before letting go again. “It’s pretty poor operational security for a sophisticated plot,” he noted.

JJ nodded in agreement. “He was caught two months ago leaving the US using a forged Pakistani passport. He’s been held as a ghost detainee in Guantanamo Bay ever since,” she explained. “So…technically he doesn’t exist.”

“Jind Allah isn’t a name,” Gideon stated.

“No, it's most likely a name taken on for the Jihad, meaning struggle. Extremists claim it's a holy war,” Emily said, beating you to the punch. Which..kind of annoying, but you dealt with it. You wondered where she’d learned Arabic.

“Yet the words holy and war never appear together in Quran,” Reid mused.

“Every culture has extremists who twist religion to fit their own hatred,” you sighed, drumming your fingers against the table, stamping down your irritation.

“Do we know his real name?” Gideon moved on.

“Nope,” JJ answered. “The CIA hasn’t gotten anything out of him. They need us to break him. All we know is he’s a recruiter,” she said. “He came into this country to assemble the omega cell, a sleeper cell with an unknown mission.”

“We have forty-eight hours to do what the CIA failed to do in two months,” Derek sighed.

“Or else we might be looking at the first attack on US soil since 9/11,” Gideon gravely said, his brow furrowed.

---

“I want you to bring Emily with you to Guantanamo,” You overheard Hotch say to Gideon. You were leaning against your desk with Derek until you had to leave. You quirked a brow at him.

Derek shrugged. “Two’s better than one,” he mused, his hands squeezing your hips. “Right? Maybe with two it’ll be easier to crack him. The CIA’s failed for two months, Y/N.”

You hummed, glancing up as Gideon approached Emily, who had just pulled a go-bag from seemingly thin air.

“Car leaves in four minutes,” Gideon say as he rushed past her. Hotch must have convinced him.

You pressed a kiss to Derek’s kips. “I’ll see you soon,” you said with a smile. “Have fun at the crime scene,” you laughed, stepping away.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Have fun with your interrogation,��� he replied, going to find Hotch, before the man left without him.

You turned to Emily, bag over your shoulder. You raised a brow. “Are you fluent in Arabic?” You asked, waiting for her before beginning to walk outside to the car at her side

“I am,” she answered. “I lived in a lot of middle eastern countries growing up,” she nodded. “What about you?”

“Born in Saudi Arabia,” you answered. “It’s nice to have someone else who speaks Arabic on the team,” you said, switching to the language.

Emily shot you a smile. “It’s a beautiful language,” she replied. “So, you and Derek?”

You smiled. “Yep,” you answered, cutting the conversation short and stepping outside. You walked towards the car where Reid and Gideon were waiting. You put your bag in the trunk before getting into the car, Emily following suit. Then you were off to the airport.

---

You weren’t surprised when you saw the treatment of Jind Allah. Sparsely wearing clothes, wrists and ankles chained. He was kept in a small cinder block room with cameras on him all time.

You watched the security feed on the monitor, brow furrowed as you tried to distinguish what he was saying. Then it hit you. “He’s reciting the Quran from memory,” you realized. “He’s a hafiz. It takes discipline and determination, depending on how long it took him,” you mused.

“Some muslim children can do it since age twelve,” Reid informed, before he seemed to remember who he was talking to and smiled sheepishly.

“Two months of interrogation and that’s all we’ve been able to get out of him,” the supervisor scoffed.

“There are cuts and bruises under his left eye,” Reid observed, leaning in close. “What kind of tactics are being used?”

“Well, they’ve had to get rough with him,” the supervisor explained. “My protests about their methods have gone ignored.”

You looked back at the screen. “...let the interrogation continue as planned,” you murmured. “It’ll be better if they don’t know we’re here.”

“It’ll make for a more genuine reaction,” Gideon agreed. “Y/N. You’ll go in with me. I want you to stop the interrogation and demand they stop the harassment,” he said. “Prentiss, I want you doing what we discussed.”

You nodded, watching as the two CIA agents were let into the cell.

“You’re really gonna put a show on for them?” The supervisor questioned.

“Not for him,” Gideon argued. “For Jind Allah. We’ll give him a complete contrast of the treatment he’s expecting from his captors. It’ll get him talking,” he explained. “We have less than thirty-six hours. Read, Y/N?” He asked.

You nodded and stepped back. You were escorted to the cell where the man was being kept. You glanced at Gideon once more, who nodded, handing you an orange prison jump suit.

You took the clothes and opened the door to the cell, watch=hing as the men inside fell silent. You stepped fully inside. “Step away from him.”

“Who the hell are you!?” One of them demanded.

“Special Agent L/N. I’m with the behavioral unit of the FBI. Now step away from him, don’t you think he deserves at least some respect?” You asked.

The man scoffed. “You have to be kidding me. He doesn’t deserve any respect. He’s no better than an animal!”

You raised a brow. “Even animals deserve respect,” you replied. “Now if you don’t mind.”

“Y/N!” Gideon said sharply, startling you. “Apologies, boys,” he said to the agents. “Agent Bingaman has asked you to step outside so we can have a turn at interrogating him,” he said, stepping forward.

You frowned at him, watching the two agents file out of the room, door shutting behind them.

“Y/N, step aside,” Gideon instructed. “I’m conducting this interrogation,” he said.

You figured this was the role he was deciding to play. So, you ignored him and stepped towards Jind Allah. You placed the clothes on his lap. “I’m sorry for the treatment you’ve suffered,” you said, hoping the familiar language would generate some trust. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you.”

Jind Allah was watching you carefully, his eyes glancing between you and Gideon. His recitation had stopped as well. His gaze lowered to the clothes in his lap, then back at you.

“If I don’t mind?” He repeated.

“Y/N, step away,” Gideon warned.

You paid him no mind, nodding at Jind Allah. “I’d like to get to know you. I’m intrigued by your faith.”

“To what extent?’ He asked before narrowing his eyes. “Are you not religious?”

“I am,” You responded. “But you and I may have different interpretations of the Quran. I’d like to know yours.”

“Is that so?” He scoffed.

You nodded. “I don’t know what you did, or even what you planned to do. All I know is we have different perspectives and I’d like to get to know yours.”

Gideon was looking between the two of you blankly, that being the only snippet of the conversation he understood.

“Until I say something he doesn’t like,” Jind Allah snidely replied, looking pointedly at Gideon. “Or I don’t give you whatever it is you want. And then I’ll be treated like before.”

“I won’t let that happen,” you said plainly. “I just want to talk. Ignore him,” you said, glancing at Gideon. “I can handle this, Gideon. You can step outside while I speak to him.”

“I’m not leaving the two of you alone,” Gideon replied. But the undertones of his words still carried.

You fought not to react to that and simply sighed. You walked to the edge of the room, dragging it over so you could sit in front of Jind Allah, leaving Gideon standing.

And you commenced with the interrogation.

Only after a handful of questions, your watch beeped once and that signalled the end. You stood up.

“Are we done all ready?” Jind Allah startled.

“The sun’s about to set,” you offered in explanation. “Mecca’s that way,” you said, pointing to the west. “I’ll have a prayer rug and water bowl brought in,” you said, walking out of the room in front of Gideon.

---

You felt your heart stop as you watched Jind Allah unball his hands. The tension in his shoulders releasing just enough that you noticed. If you hadn’t been watching him so closely you might have missed it. That’s what ticked you off.

You stepped out of the room the second Gideon did, pulling your own phone out. But Gideon had been faster, urgently barking, “Get everyone out! Now! Now!”

You held your breath as you heard the explosion over the phone before the line went dead. It was silent in the room after that.

“Oh god,” Emily mumbled.

For once you agreed with her. You fumbled with your phone, heart beating out of your chest as you thought of Derek, who’d been inside just seconds ago. You didn’t know if Gideon’s warning had provided them with enough time to get everyone out safely. And knowing Derek he wouldn’t leave until he’d gotten everyone out. That’s what had worried you.

You finally managed to click on Derek’s contact. You put the phone to your ear, breathing quickly. “Please pick up,” you whispered. “Please pick up, Der. Please be okay.” You gripped your phone tightly, your other hand balling into a fist.

Your breath caught when there was no answer and you slowly took the phone away from your ear, staring at it in disbelief.

“Y/N,” Reid said gently. “He’s probably fine.”

“He always answers,” you mumbled. “He always answers his phone, Reid. What do I- what if he-”

“Y/N,” Gideon took over, voice sharp. “I need you to focus. He took the phone from your hand, setting it down. “We still need to go back in there with Jind Allah. I need your head on straight. Understand? Calm down,” he commanded.

You tried to nod, fighting back the tears that were stinging at your eyes at just the though of Derek not being okay. “I’m okay,” you managed to get out. “I can do this.”

“Good,” Gideon said, pushing the door to Jind Allah’s cell open.

---

The only thing that kept you focused on the task at hand was word from Hotch that everyone was okay. But once you knew that Derek was okay, the concern was replaced with growing anger. He hadn’t called you once. He hadn’t texted you or given any other sort of communication. And yes, you understood you were both busy with your jobs, and sometimes communication was difficult, especially when you were in different countries. But still. This was an extreme situation and you had hoped for at least one returned phonecall.

But no. You had gotten radio silence from him.

You gave him the same treatment when you got home.

The anger was quelled a bit by the comfort of being home and the terrorist threat subdued, but it still lingered. It simmered under your skin, heating your blood everytime you thought about your boyfriend. You hated the feeling, but you just couldn't seem to stamp it down like you usually did with your feelings.

So when he walked through that door, with that smile on your face upon seeing you, it flared right back up again. You had to turn away to stop from lashing out. Your defenses were up high tonight.

“Y/N?” Derek asked as you turned your back to him, looking for something to eat in the kitchen. “I missed you.”

You kept your eyes focused on the bowl as you poured corn flakes into it. Not your optimal meal, but you couldn’t summon the energy to find anything else.

You relaxed into him when you suddenly felt his hands on your hips, pulling you flush against him. “I missed you,” he repeated, his breath tickling the back of your neck.

You wanted to indulge in his touch, but you couldn’t, you were supposed to be mad at him. So you pulled yourself out of his grip. “Don’t touch me,” you said. “I don’t want to talk to you,” you stated. You didn’t want to say something you’d regret. But your anger wasn’t going anywhere so you figured it best not to talk to him at all.

“...okay,” Derek said slowly, stepping back. “Hey, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” He asked gently. “Y/N, look at me.”

You glanced at him before turning away once again. “I said I don’t want to talk, Derek,” you snapped.

“We agreed we’d talk our problems out and not let it fester,” came Derek’s calm reply. “Come on, love. Whatever’s wrong I’m sure we can fix it,” he assured, stepping closer to you once again. “Talk to me. Please.”

You could feel the walls that had built over the past few days crumble at the gentle tone he took on. Tears flooded your eyes once more as you were reminded of the terror that overtook you when you heard the building blow up.

You turned around and quickly hugged him tightly, burying your face against his neck. “I hate you,” you choked out around the knot in your throat.

Derek’s arms came around to pull you impossibly closer to him, holding the back of your neck. “I’m here, Y/N,” he whispered.

You melted against him. You had missed him so much. “You scared the shit out of me, Derek,” you whispered. “I called you and you didn’t answer. And I thought you were dead.”

Derek was silent for a few moments before he pulled away. He kept his hand on the back of your neck though, looking into your eyes. “Is that what this is about?” He asked. “Baby, my phone broke right after that call with Garcia. I told Hotch to tell you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Garcia?” You asked. You quickly stamped down the jealousy. Now obviously wasn't the time. “Nevermind. It’s not important,” you dismissed. “Next time, if there is a next time, please just call me yourself,” you whispered, dropping your forehead against his, closing your eyes. “Please.”

“Even if I have to use a payphone,” Derek agreed. “I love you. I’m sorry I worried you.”

You nodded. “I love you, Derek,” you whispered.

[enhas-bestie]

uni love [05]

chapter five : "means he's still chill👌"

sunoo and riki are my only friends, you think childishly as you lean back on your bed. you're alone in your dorm for now, seeing as your roommate hwang yeji had late afternoon classes, while you were lucky enough to have almost all your classes relatively early in the day. you scoff, at least that was one thing in your favor at the moment.

sighing, you look at the sad condition of your bed; covered from bottom to top in business notes and textbooks. none of them were yours of course. no, they all belonged to your beautiful and kind roommate yeji, who had taken pity upon you after hearing your sad predicament (and sad it definitely was) . or more like hearing it after you forced her to listen to you wail for hours on end about the unfairness of the world.

well, either way, yeji was kind, and you were extremely grateful-you really were. but notes could truly only get you so far. and all you had done so far, was learn the key definitions for the shitshow of an essay you were preparing to write.

ten percent of your first term's grade. an essay that apparently was last years major assignment-though this time it was scaled down into a smaller task. a gesture of kindness from the lecturers to allow students to have a strong starting mark. a way to make sure students truly understood the basics of what they had learnt last year.

all of that, you had heard from yeji. and not your useless TA lee heeseung.

god, just thinking about him made you mad. in the span of fifteen minutes, he had made you think he was the cutest person alive; and then he opened his godamned mouth and showed you who he really was.

just plain fucking rude.

and maybe, just maybe, you were overreacting. but honestly, you didn't expect him to blow you off like that.

but, fine. it was whatever. all in the past, you thought bitterly. it really didn't matter if your TA was a bit of a jerk. you didn't need him to pass a subject that you had never taken in your life before. you didn't.

all you had to do was what you always did-take things one challenge at a time. you were studying for a degree in medicine for god's sake. and if you could write an eight paged long essay on bodily functions, then you could most certainly find it in yourself to write a three paged essay on whatever the hell the topic was. all you had to do was take it slow.

nodding to yourself reassuringly, you pulled your laptop towards you. your intention? binge watch helpful youtube videos about business management until you were a fucking expert. and since you had about a week until the paper was due - you could take it slowly, seeing as none of your other classes decided to bestow upon you the same misery as business studies 122.

you were in the middle of typing 'youtube' in the search engine when an email notification banner popped up on your screen and you opened it unconsciously. the act of clicking email notifications was so part of your daily routine, that you didn't even second guess it.

though you fucking wish you had, you thought scornfully, as you saw the senders name.

___

TO : l/n_y/n@HYBEuni.com

FROM : lee_heeseung@HYBEuni.com

cc: 2nd year business 122 dep. (group 31)

SUBJECT LINE : assignment one drafts

hi all :)

it's heeseung here. since the assignment is basically a recap for all of you, please note that you are permitted to copy and paste RELEVANT information from your old essay into this one. though you can do this, you must NOT use more that five hundred words from your old assignment. this is to ensure that you are able to explain the same concepts from last year in multiple understandings.

it is also compulsory for your first draft to be sent to me by tuesday , seeing as how I'll need to go through at least forty of them.

regards,

lee heeseung.

___

you weren’t exactly proud of how long it took you to realise that today was monday, which meant that tomorrow was tuesday...but when you did, you swore to yourself that never hated anyone other that lee heeseung for such a beyond petty reason in your entire life.

that, and you had to start with that godforsaken essay asap.

prev -> chapter five -> next

synopsis : you have high hopes for your second year of university. so it’s a damn shame that your university’s administration messed up your timestable and put you in a business course you had no intention of being in. you’d think being assigned an attractive teaching assistant would at least make things a little bit better, but of course you were wrong once again. luckily, you’re allowed to swap modules in the new term, but only on the condition that you pass the business module. sounds good,, except for the fact that you’ve never done business in your life…but not to fear! TA Lee Heeseung promises to help make you pass your module.

p. s do NOT fall in love with him :)

main UL masterlist

a/n : yeji has made her appearance 😉

[tag list] : @nyfwyeonjun @adoreyeonjun @sunghonkers @blossomnct

[etruatcaelum]

The question stops whirling thoughts dead in their tracks; Ozma, too, ossifies where they stand—eyes flickering wide, then tightly closed. Right. Not old news for the old bird who’d spent more or less the same amount of time locked away in the cage of a different friend-become-foe. Hardly at the forefront of anyone’s mind when Qrow and the others made it to what passes for home these days.

They rub their eyes. (Oscar’s eyes.) “I don’t know that Salem ever talks to anyone except in person.” As inappropriately-timed stabs at levity go, it’s a feeble one. But not so feeble they can’t run it further into the ground. “Not the most sociable.”

It’s fine. They’re fine. The sad song of this rotten thing in their chest will be strangled again in due course by their curse, and then—they will not feel better, but they will feel less. Diminished, as she put it. Near to forty lifetimes now of going through the motions. Their palliative fog.

Ozma lurches into motion again, prowling restively to the tiny window. On the other side of the scratched and pitted glass, Vacuo rambles out in masses of clay and canvas, claustrophobic—and beyond that, the boundless hostility of rust-colored sand which had eaten paradise piecemeal after they pried the staff from its tree.

Not for the first time, they wonder what Salem would see if she stood here. If she would look upon their works and find more than despair. Or if despair would look to her more like a feast: they never did find a delicate way to ask how thoroughly the darkness had changed her.

“She captured us—well, me, I don’t think she knew Oscar was still alive until he spoke to her—within about,” a wince, “two hours after delivering the siege. Evidently she’s gotten anxious enough about what I’ve done to the Beacon vault to suffer my presence again. Although she did delegate most of the unpleasantness to Hazel.” All told, and excluding the dramatics before she’d ripped down the hard-light fortifications like so much tissue paper, Salem had given them perhaps seven or eight minutes of her time in the span of those two days. Ozma scoffs. “Frankly it went quite a lot better than the last time we saw each other face-to-face. Or—well,” they mutter sourly, “you saw what happened the time before that.”

words do mean something, actually, when they're the right ones. when they're meaningful. Oz staying and saying anything at all after that question instead of leaving qrow in loneliness means everything.

though, in thousands would he know, and in an instant he realizes this voice no longer rings of Ozpin, not really. of course, Ozpin had never fully existed as Ozpin either, had he? and Oscar's still in there now, as he so often liked to remind. life and existence get messy and interwoven like that, like a braid; he's combed the knots out of other people before, if only to steady himself better in the layers of it.

Raven used to twitch and snap like this, too, but the broken humanity of unhinged rants and laughter wring around qrow's heart enough to wince every time.

he may have already confronted his apathy in a wine cellar abyss, but the echoes of its spiraling silence stated aloud stings.

a sigh deflates weary lungs as he leans back against the wall between Oz going off and that little whisper. sand catches wrong under the sole of his shoe, but instead of slipping, he slides along with it; hips scuff down to sit him on the floor with long legs sprawled, adding a new snag to his cape. more holes in the garment of a hero.

but that sigh also rushes as a breath of relief; a scarecrow sits down. Ozma releases the reaping that lifetimes and lies have sown up to this moment. he need not explain cycles to a harbinger of harvest, nor the near-impossible necessity of breaking them to a recovering alcoholic. he speaks as freely as he should have all long, had he not withheld knowledge from the corvid at his side. Oz owns up to uncertainty, now - a new look, for sure, but vermillion eyes never leave him, waiting out the storm and the story, and the joke apparently, with as much curious wonder as ever.

in all of that, qrow pecks at the tiniest, though admittedly tastiest crumb, "...you talked t'her? ...Salem? ...in person?" ...and escaped? goes unspoken.

damn, of course he's not alright.

[sundrownsthehouse]

Take this pain bestie 👀🥹

I'm determined to have a new chapter posted by the end of the year! I know it's been so long, and I really appreciate that people still care about this silly little story. I've been writing today actually and realized that I have about 5K down, which would make this my longest update so far. I'm still very in love with this fic- I'm just trying to figure out who I am as a writer a little bit.

But! As a treat and a sincerely heartfelt thank you, here is an excerpt from the next chapter with some insight into George's thoughts, starting where we last left off:

The faded grey light of the city filtered in from the windows where they’d forgotten to draw the curtains closed, casting streaky shadows across the ceiling. There was a gentle hush over the hotel room broken only by the muted hum of the aircon. George gazed up into the darkness. Comfortably cocooned in cool, plush blankets with a warm body at his side, it should have been easy for him to fall asleep; this was the exact kind of quiet stillness he craved while on tour. And yet.

His eyes flicked down to the top of Matty’s head where it lay heavily on his chest, dark curls spilling across his skin. He could tell that Matty was still awake by the cadence of his breathing. Despite himself, George was hyperaware of the fact that Matty must be able to hear his heart hammering out a steady rhythm against his ribs. That notion alone threatened to send it racing.

And that’s sort of strange, George thought as he stared at the ceiling, because they’d done this so many times. Matty’s presence at his side was so familiar, it really shouldn’t provoke much of a reaction at all. Then again, it was unusual to lie awake together, entangled like this, without feigning ignorance; the cuddling wasn’t something they’d ever acknowledged openly in the past. It had never bothered George before, the way they’d always danced around it— it hadn’t really mattered— but to think about it now made him inexplicably sad. He didn’t know why they tried to pretend that they didn’t want the same things.

Over and over the night replayed itself in George’s mind, the gravity of it all weighing on him. In the span of only forty-eight hours everything he thought he knew and felt about his relationship with Matty had changed. It was confusing, overwhelming, and slightly terrifying. There was so much he still didn’t understand. The unspoken questions permeated the air between them like a thick fog. What did it mean, exactly, that they both seemed to want… something more? Did it have to mean anything at all?

And what if it did? What then?

As much as George had wanted to pretend that everything was fine, the degree of Matty’s distress had seriously shaken him; they needed to talk about this. In the morning, George told himself firmly. Now wasn’t the time, not when they were both utterly exhausted. He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he could actually read Matty’s mind; even seeing Matty’s expression would give him some idea of where they stood. Nevertheless, he was secretly grateful they weren’t face-to-face. George was a little afraid of what he might find, and somehow, more intimidated by what Matty might see.

The bed shifted slightly. Matty sighed. The puff of breath was warm on George’s skin, already sensitized by the tiny brush of Matty’s lashes as he blinked, gazing out at a city still aglow despite the late hour. George shivered curiously at the feeling. An unexpected wave of shame that he couldn’t reconcile burned in the pit of his stomach.

[ddarker-dreams]

Hell Within Reach [Memory Reels I]. Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Mild not SFW implications.  Word count: 1.1k.

Summary: This reel is a collection of short side stories from the main work, sometime before or after the main story is completed. It’s basically just shenanigan's of Reader with Phantom Troupe members or Reader with Chrollo. 

i.

It’s three in the morning. You and Phinks are running on fumes at this point — it’s been over forty-eight hours since you last slept — but you could both maintain enough alertness regardless. Crickets thrum their wings and owls call into the night, creating a symphony of pleasant white noise.

“I’ve figured it out.” Phinks’ sudden declaration is almost enough to make you jump.

You turn your head to the left, staring at the man who appears to be in uncharacteristic deep thought. It’s then you realize he’s prompting you for a response. Sitting here in silence until another Troupe member comes to cover your watch shift doesn’t seem particularly appealing, so you give.

“Alright, enlighten me on your latest epiphany.”

Phinks puts a hand to his chin. “If for whatever reason, we needed to take down an entire country… all we would need to do is have Kortopi copy their biggest bank fifty times.”

You nod your head at his idea. “I understand. The resulting inflation would induce a nationwide panic, as their currency would no longer hold any value, and thus the market would collapse. A great depression would ensue. In this weakened state, the government would find itself unable to operate. Supply chains would no longer have an incentive to exist. Electricity would go out first, followed by a shortage of food and water. There would then be a subsequent rise in crime to meet necessities...”

He stares at you. You stare at him. Were you not on the same wavelength?

“I was thinking people would be so busy fighting over the new money,” he scratches the back of his head. “And then, y’know, it’d be more vulnerable to attack.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“...”

“...”

You clear your throat. “Should we switch watch duty with the others?”

“I think we should.”

ii.

It’s a shame that En can’t be used to locate objects, Chrollo thinks to himself.

He lifts another pillow on your couch. Much to his chagrin, it’s not here either. The custom bookmark that you got him for your first anniversary has seemingly faded out of this physical plane. Chrollo absolutely adores the finely crafted work of art, it was handmade to your specifications and one of a kind.

The sound of running water in the distance acts as sand falling through an hourglass. He was hoping to join you in the shower but ended up distracted by the missing bookmark. It’d be a shame if you finished up before he could admire the voluptuous curves of your—

Chrollo tells himself to focus. He hoists up the couch’s cushion with ease, unsurprised to find it clean. You’re dedicated to keeping things spick and span. That’s why his attention is piqued at a small, rectangular object set upside down in the far corner. From the shape, it’s undoubtedly a book, perhaps belonging to you?

He picks it up. While he’s respectful of your privacy, it’s more or less impossible not to give the book a once over. The title on the back doesn’t resonate in his memory. Chrollo flips it over, eyes widening at the cover image. There isn’t a lot in this world that can shock the leader of the Phantom Troupe. He’s seen it all — gore and nightmare fuel alike — things that would ruin a common man is nothing to him.

But this…

It’s rather steamy-looking cover art. A dashing man with his shirt peeled off with a woman in a crimson red dress hovering her lips above his. These are the types of books common in grocery store lines, cheesy explicit romance with the target audience of women in loveless marriages hoping to escape into a fantasy world.

You told him you don’t like the romance genre. When he tried sharing poems themed after love, you’d get immensely bashful, unable to sit still while he recited the words to you.

Was this a hidden guilty pleasure of sorts? His mind is torn between teasing you over the discovery or acting like he never saw it to begin with. You are rather adorable when he tries to rile you up… though he doesn’t want to risk humiliating you too much. These things are best kept in moderation.

He hears you turning off the faucet in the other room. Not only was he so enraptured that he forgot to start yours and his tea, but now he’s stuck in this compromising position. Chrollo glances down at the book and up towards the door frame. It’ll be a few minutes until you finish drying off, he’s still got time. A benefit from his combat prowess is that you won’t be able to sneak up on him like he can’t with you.

“Chrollo?” Your muffled voice calls from the room over.

“Yes, love?” He replies, standing perfectly still and keening his ears.

“Would you mind bringing me my lotion? I left it on the nightstand.”

“Of course,” Chrollo puts the book back and covers it up with inhuman speed. Your dignity will be saved another day. He then pauses, an idea hitting him. “However, only if I may put it on you.”

It’s a shame the door to the bathroom is obscuring you, he can only imagine the flustered expression on your face.

“Be my guest.”

And with that, the romance novel is left in the dust, at least for now.

iii.

It’s been a long day.

Chrollo wants nothing more than to return to your apartment, take a shower, and go straight to bed. City lights pass by the window in soft glows, illuminating your peaceful face to him. He’s intentional in keeping every muscle in his body perfectly still.

The taxi driver in front of you must have gotten the hint, as he’s turned the radio off and stopped speaking. A wise decision, Chrollo thinks. Otherwise, he may have had to borrow Shalnark’s ability so your rest would no longer be disturbed. Any irritation that burdened him from the day’s grueling work leaves his body when he observes the gentle rise and fall of your chest.

For you to lower your defenses and fall asleep next to him like this… that must mean you trust him. Chrollo’s certain the slightest shift in the atmosphere would be enough to wake you up, so he tries to control his pounding heart. Your lips are slightly parted and your eyelashes fluttering against your cheek.

His grip on your shoulder tightens when the roads get bumpier, not wanting you to get hurt from the impact.

“Mn,” you stir ever so slightly, mouth twitching and eyebrows furrowing.

Chrollo shushes you and places a featherlight kiss on your forehead.

“Rest, sweet [First]. We’ll be home soon.”

It’s been a long day, but that’s remedied when you’re by his side.

[askcarlislecullen]

this isn't really a 'question' question, but how are you doing? with the state of the pandemic it can't be easy both mentally and physically, so hope your doing ok :)

This is a very thoughtful question and it caught me more than a little off-guard. Thank you for asking.  I wish I could say that yes, everything is swimming along, and I am optimistic and hopeful, and I am enjoying my work and am lovingly resting with my family. That is not true. I am overworking and I know it; I am exhausted and worried and quite frightened and sad. That’s a good part of the reason I’ve answered far more questions here than I ever intended to after whatever happened in August which caused people to take such a renewed interest in my family. I find answering them encourages me to dwell on happier things and lets me be reflective in a way that helps my mental health, even if periodically I have to step away from the questions for long stretches to work or to be a fully attentive husband. Vampires don’t become tired in body the way humans do; exhaustion manifests for us as a shortened attention span and restlessness. To combat the restlessness, I am right now working at two medical centers which are two hundred fifty miles apart. With my commute time, I am usually away from the house for around ninety to a hundred twenty hours a week.  When we moved here, it was because the pandemic was absolutely out of control in these counties; I was signing between five and ten death certificates a day. That has slowed down significantly, thank goodness, but I still lose patients to COVID on more shifts than I don’t.  Esme has been restoring the home we live in. It’s one of our former homes, and I suppose I was remiss in the question I answered not so long ago about not having given any anniversary gifts yet. This wasn’t an anniversary gift per se, but I did surprise her with the plans to return to it. She was overjoyed. Its construction pre-dates both electricity and indoor plumbing, and while it had been retrofitted for both even when we lived here last, it was nevertheless always retrofit. So we spent the better part of November living with no interior or exterior walls, and for one forty-eight hour period, no roof, while Esme ran entirely new systems in the house. Living like actual vampires does not suit either of us well and I regret to say that we (mostly me) were snippier with each other than is usual. But we have lights and plumbing and even things like crown molding now, and it will be a long while before I again take for granted the ability to enjoy a steaming shower. I haven’t hugged my children in nearly ten months. I talk to them frequently—Edward and I phone almost daily—but it’s not the same. I ache with how much I miss them. And last week I watched in horror as the seat of government in the country I consider my adopted home, the country where I truly found my freedom, was brutally ransacked by insurrectionists at the urging of the sitting president. That was beyond heartbreaking. I believe in this country. I am angry about where we seem to be right now. I am confident we will recover, but I am unsure how many human lifetimes that will take. That all being said: Part of the reason there’s need for me to work is that we are keeping many more patients alive than we were eight months ago. One of the vaccines I worked on has now been administered to millions of people. My children and granddaughter are safe. And I am living in a home I cherish and have wonderful memories of with the woman I adore more than anyone on this Earth. When I wanted to relocate back to the U.S. to help with the pandemic, I was adamant that she stay with the children, knowing how busy I would be. She was equally adamant that she come with me. Esme has possessed the ability to see straight through the lies I tell myself since she was an injured sixteen-year-old girl, and thank goodness for that because this would all be so much harder without her. We share at least one passionate kiss every time we’re together, no matter how short a time span; I make love to her as often as I’m able; I cry on her shoulder when I need to.  I’ll be all right, in the end. We all will be.

[terri-theslime13]

There's probably subtext (are you picking it up?)

Sorry I saw the word subtext and blacked out

but yeah we're in the same boat

I'd love to go through everything but it's hard to pay attention to everything cause you have to consider it all as a Whole (see what I did there?) and I don't have an hour and forty-eight minute attention span

WAIT DOES SOUL EVEN REFER TO HEART AND MIND AS HEART AND MIND EVER BC I CAN’T THINK OF ANY EXAMPLES OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD