#So anyways brain not really working probably would feel less miserable after sleeping but... not happening.

[ghostprinceiii]

ah, discouraged once again from continuing Persona 5 because of how People Like Me are portrayed and treated :/

Ended up down kindof a chain of articles (like this) (and this one) that confirm how I've already been feeling —ie that the NPCs are not only actively hostile to 'me' as a character, but me as a player, as well, in many ways.

What I've seen and read of the characters and world-concept from a distanced perspective (through the lens of an audience, and not Experiencing The Story As Joker) has been cool and interesting and the music fucks, obviously, but idk, I'm just tired of this shit, today. Maybe this just Isn't The Game For Me and this is just another factor of that to add to the list, maybe it's just not the right time to be playing it and I'll do another 8 hours in another 5 months, or get super into it next week, I dunno.

Anyways. The articles give some good context for part of what I'm referring to here, and I thought they were quite well-written, so I'm linking them above if anyone's interested.^^

[most-normal-eccles-cake-ignorer]

Good Omens: Lockdown and Crowley not mentioning his living situation in S2*

*till S2E6 when he asks if he can have his apartment back bc he's bored of living in his car but Aziraphale doesn’t hear bc mentally he’s in Alpha Centauri.

Having read the 'Crowley doesn't tell him' Neil Gaiman ask close to when I first listened to Lockdown (I lived under a rock until recently), my initial thought was HAS HE BEEN LIVING IN HIS CAR FOR YEARS?! but I think he was still in his apartment in 2020:

as far as Hell knows, Crowley just had a pool party in holy water (the holiest) so the higher-ups are probably willing to give him some space (plus Beelzebub is busy going on pub dates w Gabriel)

while there should be ~8 months between the end of Season 1 events (The Very First Day of the Rest of Their Lives on Sunday, Aug 25, 2019) and the Lockdown phonecall (on or near the 30 year anniversary on May 1, 2020), I can't imagine that's a very long time for Hell, especially if you're understaffed and busy dealing with fallout from Almostgeddon / going on pub dates

Shax dropping off mail and asking about the boiler seems like something one does in the first few months of living somewhere, not ~3 years in (if S2 is in 2023)

That said, I think the phone call underlines why Crowley never directly tells Aziraphale that he is living in the Bentley in S2, and it's just a great conversation (all hail Gaiman) sooo I wrote about it:

***Note: This post analyzes the Lockdown phonecall from Crowley's perspective only. Our heroine is feeling quite emotionally vulnerable at this point in time so things are going to hit him harder than they normally would.

I do not think Aziraphale meant to cause him pain (!!) but Crowley can't see that yet and I've written this post in a way that reflects that missing insight. (I explain in more detail in this reblog if you are interested) I am working on a companion post for Aziraphale's side of this conversation and how I think it affects his behavior in S2 because if we know anything about these two, it's that their exactlys are different exactlys.***

Crowley’s habit of sleeping to skip time like an RPG character by a campfire amuses me to no end, but in this context it feels heavy. Crowley already worries about losing time with what he loves and he probably hoped things would be different between him and Aziraphale after the events of S1. But things don’t change much. Then lockdowns start, and Crowley is trapped in his apartment alone, transcendentally bored, and unable to make his brain shut up. Sleeping a month away starts to sound less awful.

But Crowley hasn’t given up yet; he’s still awake when Aziraphale calls, and he’s even giving it two more days. Was he waiting for Aziraphale to call? Is it even possible not to at least kind of wait for someone’s call when you are cut off from everything and the caller has been your only friend and crush for millennia?

Aziraphale asks why Crowley isn't "out and about" tempting people or setting a bad example and he responds:

C: Everyone's so miserable and cooped up right now anyway, and I just… well… don't have the heart for it. A: *glowing audibly* I'm not miserable~ C: Really?

Crowley sounds genuinely surprised at Aziraphale's happiness and quickly assumes it's because the angel has been around people. He's so lonely/depressed/in his own head that he hadn't even considered someone enjoying being 'cooped up'. *sob*

Aziraphale goes No actually I put the closed sign up in the window and I'm having the Time of My Life, never had so few customers, not in 200 years!, etc. Although, he says:

A: …There were a few young lads a couple of nights ago who broke in through the back and tried to steal the cashbox! But they soon saw the error of their ways~ C: *clearly amused* Did you smite them with your wroth? A: Well I certainly gave them a good talking to, and I sent each of them home with cake~ C: *annoyed, swooning* Cake? A: Quite a lot of cake, actually. C: *physically ill from having such a giant crush on this dumbass baker/security guard* eeeekkkgghhh I'm gonna regret asking but.. ...rrgh.. *30 seconds of Aziraphale joyfully describing his baking while Crowley probably tries very hard not to imagine the angel eating each item in sensual slow motion* I stg you can hear him struggling in the background once or twice

A: …And once I've baked them, I have to eat them all myself, which was why I was so delighted— C: To send your burglars home laden with baked goods, yes, nnyeaayeah I follow…

Crowley interrupts, finishing Aziraphale's sentence in his nervous hurry to say the next bit:

C: *loud inhale* You know, I could.. hunker down at your place. … Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle--a case of… something… drinkable…?

He's trying to sound so casual about it but this is someone who was rejected/abandoned by actual literal God after asking what he thought were welcome, uncontroversial questions. Asking makes him vulnerable. He's supposed to be the rescuer, not a demon in distress. He does not feel casual about asking.

Crowley knows it's unlikely but he's so miserable and desperate for company that he can't help but ask, just in case. Even the smallest chance of spending time trapped indoors with Aziraphale—with nothing to do but drink, watch him eat, and talk about things they'd normally avoid—is too tempting.

A: *panicking* Oh I— I— I— I— I'm afraid that would be Breaking All The Rules! *nervous breathing* Out of the question! I'll see you… when this is over. C: Right. gnnehh. I'm setting the alarm clock for July. Good night, angel. *dial tone*

And just like that, Crowley doesn't need two days to decide. The depression nap doubles in length. He doesn't hear how badly Aziraphale wants to say yes behind the fear, or maybe he does and it hurts worse because why isn't Crowley enough for him? You can almost hear the spiralling:

SHOCKING, asking made it worse. It always does doesn’t it? Why even bother? you just embarrass yourself.. SLITHER over? why did I say that *grumble grumble* of COURSE His Holy Holiness, your only friend in the universe, would rather eat cake by himself while everything goes to shit than ~deign~ to have you in his presence. "AsK aND yE sHaLl ReCeIvE" bugger this for a lark im going to bed

(a bit dramatic but we've all been there)

I imagine sleep doesn't come right away. Maybe his thoughts drift to when he sat beside the angel at a dark Tadfield bus stop after a rather eventful Saturday. Crowley must've felt a tiny bit hopeful when he invited Aziraphale to stay with him: Heaven had withdrawn its favor and the bookshop was gone; Aziraphale was like him now. Didn't that mean things would change?

"I don't think my side would like that." Apparently not.

In the end, Aziraphale did ride the bus back to Crowley's apartment and stayed till the next morning when he caught a cab, but only to sell the illusion. Crowley understood that as far as sides went, the angel was still on Heaven's, even if Heaven wasn't on his.

And now this: the entire world is shut down; there is nothing for Aziraphale to do but stay in and read and bake in his magically reconstituted bookshop and he still won't invite Crowley in. Burglars and un-fallen angels only—nobody who asks questions.

So... of course Crowley doesn't tell Aziraphale when he loses his apartment. He already knows what answer he would get; the angel has told him so many times. Aziraphale is a company man first, a companion to one very sad owl when convenient.

If Crowley works up the courage to say 'please take me in, I have nowhere else to go' and Aziraphale goes 'sorry, no, far too political, but I WILL risk being erased from the Book of Life to protect this nude amnesiac former coworker who always hated me,' it's going to be too much. You can't sleep long enough for that type of hurt to go away. Better not to say anything.

"Then nothing has to change, does it?"

[wolfiemcwolferson]

i wrote u a message some time ago abt it but it seems that it was not delivered or something like that (might be my own fault cause I ~may or may not~ have had 3 glasses of wine before so absolutely no fuckin idea if I actually sent it or just wrote it and went to sleep)

ANYWAYS….

I have written u before telling how I ABSOLUTELY ADORE the way you write piarles (ultimate otp), and then the last fantasy fest fic…. I MEAN…. I’ve read it 4 or 5 times already and I absolutely love omfg how can u write something like thisssssss. I think by the time the winter e can he fic comes I’ll probably have memorized if, and then I’ll just memorize the winter exchange fic also because I KNOW it will be perfection as always.

(whenever u can, please feed me with your piarles fics, thoughts, 5 sentences prompts. I take everything u want to give)

Hi friend!

Your message from a few weeks ago did send, but sometimes I'm so overwhelmed with the nice things people are saying that I hoard them up like little nuggets and re-read them at 3 AM when my brain is telling me to delete everything in my current google doc and start over.

BUT, I appreciate your kind words so so much it's unbelievable that other people love my little brain drabbles as much as I love coming up with them.

I have a little one that I have had in my notes app forever and ever that isn't full fic worthy, but would make an interesting little ficlet so here you go:

Piarles AU- based off the song Cherry by Harry Styles, but with a Happy Ending

Charles makes a burner Instagram account - which is really really stupid considering he did it when he was drunk with Carlos and the username is absolutely something Pierre would recognize, but...maybe he'll see it and feel guilty. Maybe one day he'll be checking to see if someone has watched one of his dumb stories on Instagram and he'll see it and he'll know. Charles is still waiting. Maybe he'll feel guilty then.

Because Charles misses him. Every single time his phone dings and he gets a dumb notification on that stupid burner account that Pierre has posted a story, dread fills him up. Is he finally going to post the probably boyfriend? Is he finally going to do more than soft launch him?

Soft launch - stupid stupid word that Lando had used to describe whatever Pierre was doing with that man. Posting pictures of two plates out at a fairly romantic dinner. An artsy shot of a flat that definitely didn't belong to Pierre. A balcony that leads out to a ridiculous view of a French vineyard.

Stupid French boys with stupid money and parents with rare art collections that steal soulmates and - it would hurt less if Pierre had looked miserable for at least a day. One single day of him looking miserable.

But, the day - the day - after he told Charles that Pierre 'needed time to figure out if he was doing the right thing', he was back to his normal self. Smiling in pictures. Hiking. Going out clubbing with Yuki.

Charles wanted to scream at him a little bit. How dare you doubt this? You know who I am just as I know who you are. I've known who you are since I met you. You are the person who knows me best. You are the person who helps me buy clothes so I do not wear one color. (Charles doesn't like to think too much about the fact that he has been broken of that habit completely and it is thanks to Pierre's years and years of work.)

Pierre didn't need to figure out if he was doing the right thing. Because the wrong thing was what he was doing now. (But it's hard for Charles to find fault in him. All Pierre has ever known is Charles and Pierre...well, Pierre thinks things to death.) ((But, what is there to think about when you and your best friend admit that the feelings you have for each other go well past platonic? What is there to think about?)) (((Charles is being a dick. There is plenty to think about. Pierre is so hesitant to give his heart away. That's fine. Charles will wait.)))

Yuki comes to see him when he's on this side of the city - bringing him absolutely zero scraps of Pierre, but plenty of gossip about their other friends - who Charles does miss, but all their conversations are stilted and odd. No one wants to bring it up. Charles doesn't know if he's thankful for it or he hates it. Probably a bit of both.

Charles is laying on the couch, thinking about calling Carlos to come over and drag him out of his flat so he doesn't have another night of...this, when his phone buzzes on the table. It's Instagram and he huffs before swiping it open and Instagram switches his account, pulling up Pierre's newest Instagram story.

It's a short video of footage from a train window. Going home.

Charles lets his phone drop to the floor, scrubbing his hands over his face a few times before he picks it back up and pulls up Carlos' contact. He can go out. He will go out and he'll - he'll dance with his friends and he will...not think about Pierre.

.

Post shower, Charles is arranging his hair in a way that says...well, something. Lando will rearrange it when he gets here so he's not sure why he's bothering, but his door is buzzing and he gives up. Going to swing it open and beg Lando to help him, please.

It's not Lando.

"I was hoping," Pierre says, eyes on the floor, hands in the pocket of his coat, voice small and scared, "that you still meant what you said at Halloween."

Charles is frozen in the spot. "That I love you?"

Pierre's eyes flick up to his, quick, and then immediately back down. Like he's afraid.

"I do. I still love you."

Pierre takes one step towards the door, eyes still on the floor. "I know now." He shrugs, voice smaller. "I am sorry, Charlito. I should have -"

Charles reaches for him. Tucks him into his arms. "You know now." He whispers, feeling Pierre cling to him. "You know now."

"I love you too." Pierre sobs into Charles' chest.

He came home.

[thetourguidebarbie]

Florist au where Klaus walks into Caroline’s flower shop and requests to buy a dozen flower for his wife, and in the card asks to writes something hella cheesy in that klausian way but heartfelt that just shows how entirely in love he is, Caroline does so all blushing and giggly because she uh...is the wife

Okay, this is not what you wanted but this is where my brain went. Drunk drabbles. Prompt here.

---

"Hi, April! Just calling to let you know that I have three options for your centerpieces here at the shop, so if you could just give me a call back and we can figure out a time for you to drop by and look at them, that would be great. I can also email you pictures, but in my experience the colors don't show quite right that way. Anyway, give me a call back," Caroline chirped, rattling off the store's number and hanging up, setting the phone back in the cradle with a sigh. She used to love designing centerpieces for weddings, but since her own marriage had gone sour, it was just a reminder of how happy she had been, and how miserable she was now.

She sighed as the bell above the door tinkled and looked up to see the last person she ever thought would cross the doorway of her shop. Her husband looked as good as ever, his blonde curls a bit messy the way she liked them best, his stubble just beginning to come through enough to be rakishly handsome. Klaus had clearly just come from work, judging by his outfit, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers as he looked at her, drinking in her face. She frowned, sticking her hands on her hips. "What are you doing here?"

He cleared his throat, walking further into the shop. "I'm here to purchase some flowers, actually."

She narrowed her eyes. Was this some kind of new power play? Was he seeing someone and wanted to rub it in her face? It didn't seem like his M.O. He'd been really careful so far to leave as many doors, windows, and chimneys open as possible for her to come back through if she changed her mind. There had been something comforting about that, that he still wanted her even after she'd bulldozed through mediation with outrageous demands and as many petty shots as she could take. He'd given in to the temptation to respond, of course, but his witty retorts were never personal and infuriatingly tame. It always just made her madder.

But he got sick of it, it seemed like, and now he was going on the offensive, taking shots at her where he knew it would hurt. She hated to be second-best to anyone, hated the idea of not being enough. That was why she'd filed for divorce in the first place, after all. Klaus had put work before her way too many times for it to feel like anything less than him trying to escape her, and sure, maybe she was taking it a little personally, but it felt personal, and she wasn't going to be in a relationship--in a marriage--where she was sleeping alone six out of seven nights a week because he was crashing on the couch in his office!

And now he'd probably found someone naive and young and willing to wait around for him to come home and entertain him when he had little bits of time between meetings, and he'd come to rub it in her face that she wouldn't do that for him. But she wouldn't let him have the satisfaction of seeing her hurt, she decided. She tossed her hair and walked over to the register to wait for him to select a bouquet. "Fine. What do you want?"

He selected a beautiful bouquet of dahlias, zinnias, and miniature vines, one of her favorites that she'd ever designed (of course he was going to ruin that for her too) and brought it to the register. She rung it up, her nails clicking angrily on the register. "Do you want a message with that?" she bit out.

"Yes, actually."

"Do you want it typed and printed, or do you want a blank card to write it yourself?"

"Typed, please, love."

He was going to make her type the stupid letter, too? Her cheeks flushed in annoyance, but she turned to the computer and waited for him to dictate.

"Okay. I'm ready."

"You're the most important thing in my life," Klaus said quietly, his voice tight. She swallowed, glaring at the screen as she began to type. "I've always known that from the moment I met you, and I wish I'd made that clearer to you. I put in my two weeks notice today. I love you, and I was foolish to let you believe even for a moment you weren't worth everything to me."

Her eyes snapped up to look at him, and she felt tears prick at her eyes. Oh, so this new girl was enough for him to finally quit his hellish job? One that he hadn't wanted to give up, even for her? Even when their marriage had been on the line? They hadn't even signed the papers yet, and he already found someone he was that invested in?

That hurt.

He was silent, watching her as she finished typing, and she cleared her throat. "Who should I make it out to?" she asked, going back to glaring at her computer screen. He let out a noise that sounded like a half-laugh-half-scoff, and she turned around to glare at him. "What?"

He was looking at her like she had grown three heads. "My wife," he said, as though it should have been obvious. "You. I left the firm for you."

"But you love that job," she protested. "Klaus--"

"I love you," he said firmly. "And I can find something like that job anywhere else in the city. I will never, ever find someone like you, Caroline."

[letarasstuff]

Making the Voice quieter

(A/N): This was requested by an anon. I hope you like it!

Summary: Spencer finds out about his daughter's eating disorder, he will he react?

Warnings: Angst, discription of an eating disorder (bulemia to be more specific), discription of (binge) eating, bad body image, self hatred, abuse of pills (diet pills)

Wordcount: 2.2k

✨Masterlist✨

______________________________

Prison. Cat. Diana. All those things happened close to each other. Luckily a few months have passed since then and slowly everything settles down. Spencer is able to get his feelings sorted through, processing the events.

Ever since his imprisonment he follows a more or less strict routine, given the uncertainty coming with his job. Spencer still tries to keep it up. So is every Friday dedicated to buying the majority of groceries and needed non food articles.

Sometimes (Y/N) tags along, other days she already has plans with her friends. Her father doesn’t mind it much, he is happy to see her socializing with people her age. The two of them have one father-daughter-night in the week anyways.

“Sweetheart, I’m heading out! Did you put everything you need on the list?” He shouts into the apartment. A faint “Yes! Love you!” echoes back to him. A smile forms on the doctor’s face. Oh how he longed to hear those words from her every night while he laid in his bed, locked up for a crime he didn’t commit. “Alright, love you, too!”

Meanwhile her father has to deal with Karens being their ignorant selfs, (Y/N) is under the biggest stress she has ever been. The end of her sophomore year and suddenly every teacher thinks it’s alright to give the students a load of work in every single class.

It’s beginning to get to her head. Four essays, three projects and studying for two tests and everything is due next week. She can see herself sitting at that very desk for the whole weekend, trying to contain control of her current situation.

As (Y/N) begins to read the page in front of her again to pull any information from it, it feels like her brain shuts down. Only one thought possesses her. One thing that can assure her, make her happy again.

Her body moves automatically, into the kitchen to the fridge. Her hands grab what they can. Puddings, yogurts, bananas, apples, last night’s dinner, everything that she can carry. Then the teenager sits down at the floor and devours everything she just got out. (Y/N) doesn’t stop until she gets to this intense feeling of being full.

It seems like she snaps out of a trance. Upon seeing what she ate in the shortest time, the girl feels even worse. Quickly she tries to destroy any kind of evidence, getting the trash out, making the fridge appear more full than it is, anything.

In her panicked state she remembers the small container of pills in her room. Relief washes over (Y/N), thinking everything will be better. She takes two of them for good measurement.

With the relief also guilt takes over. What just happened wasn’t normal. But (Y/N) tells herself that she can stop any time she wants. It’s not like she is sick or something, everything is fine. It’s just her way to copy stress. A way she discovered while her father was in prison. The diet pills help her to undo her mistakes. Someone from her friend group, who is already 18, got her them from the doctor for a fair price.

Feeling calmer now, the teenager sits back at her desk. A new perception of control helps her to continue her school work. She has to get done as much as possible, because in not even half an hour (Y/N)’s best friend will be the toilet.

Spencer is completely obvious to it. Sure, he is a profiler and he noticed his daughter’s new view on eating healthy food and working out. He just assumes that (Y/N) and her friends are on a healthy trip and he doesn’t see a problem in this. On the contrary, he is happy that she wants to be good to herself and her body.

But as the weeks go on, a suspicious feeling captures him. “(Y/N)? Why is the fridge nearly empty? We got groceries last Friday and it’s only Tuesday. Did you have a party over here while I was away on the case?” Spencer enters his daughter’s room, trying to joke about it.

(Y/N) freezes. Of course she isn’t able to say that the food went bad and she threw them away, her father is meticulous regarding this subject, always checking the best before day date. “Uhm, please don’t be mad. But Alex, you know her, the short one with red hair, uhm her parents are on a business trip and she is not the best cook. So I brought her lunch and dinner over. I’m sorry for not telling you.” She looks down at the floor, not only to feign sadness but also to avoid his eyes.

The second the teenager talks Spencer knows there is something fishy. Her voice is higher and she fidget with her hands. But he writes it off as being nervous for not telling him. Ever since he is out of prison, it feels like his daughter is withholding something.

“It’s fine, Sweetheart. Just give me a heads-up beforehand, so I know to buy more groceries. What do you think about ordering something tonight? I heard from Luke that a small Chinese restaurant opened a few streets down. We can celebrate the end of the stressful phase in Sophomore year.”

It seems like (Y/N) is calculating something in her head. Spencer knows exactly what she thinks about. “You can forget about your calorie intake for one night. I see how much time you invest in living healthy, but we can let loose for a night together. Just some noodles with chicken or spring rolls and us trying to use chopsticks and giving up after two minutes and resorting to forks. How does that sound?”

The teenager would love to sigh, but it would only alarm her father further. “Yeah, you are right. Let us let loose. But only if I can choose the movie we watch after dinner!” (Y/N) feels bad for eating unhealthy food again. Her last binge was only yesterday and usually she tries to consume lighter things. But she has to bite into the sour apple, else her father will be more suspicious. After all, she can just stop. (Y/N) promises herself to not think about her weight, her shape or the calories she will eat.

Well yeah, no. Just after the first noodle hits her tongue, intrusive thoughts take a seat in her mind, getting settled.

‘You already look like a potato.’

‘Are you sure this is the right thing to eat?’

‘Can you really stop?’

‘Dad is going to hate you when he finds out.’

All of them and more enter her head. (Y/N) is unable to shake them off. She is fine. She doesn’t have a problem. She just doesn’t feel like eating now, that’s fine, right?

“Uhm Dad. I’m full and really tired from the day. Is it ok if I go to bed? Maybe we can rain check on that movie?” The girl asks, feeling even worse for ditching her father. Usually it’s the other way around.

“Are you feeling ok? You look a little pale. Are you sick?” Spencer fires his question canone being the borderline helicopter father he always is. “Yes, just really exhausted from all the assignment and school work. A good night's rest and I will be good as new.” (Y/N) attempts a small smile, but fails miserably at it.

“Ok, sleep tight baby. I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge for you tomorrow.” Quickly she goes into her room. The thoughts in her head scream louder and louder with each step she takes. Can she really stop? Maybe she should come clean to her father.

‘And risking him hating you? Look at you, thinking you are sane is the only thing keeping him from abandoning you. How would you explain him keeping you otherwise? It’s definitely not for your looks.’

Later that night, (Y/N) hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep because of the voices, she makes her way back to the kitchen. In an attempt to distract herself, the teenager scrolled through her social media sites. There she was met by pictures of perfect people.

Perfect bodies. Perfect lives. Perfect smiles. Perfect family. Perfect friends. Everything about them is perfect.

And then there is her. Her body is unperfect. Her life is a mess. Her smile is not that of a model. Her family is just her, her father and the people he works with. Her friends aren’t always the best associates.

The stress of not feeling enough is getting to (Y/N)’s head. Like several times before that her body goes into auto. She doesn’t control her movements, though she tells herself all of this is willently.

Like so many times before the girl goes through the fridge and eats everything up she can get her fingers on. But this time one thing is different. Her father is at home. And he isn’t a heavy sleeper.

The movement in the kitchen wakes him up. Immediately his brain jumps to a burglar or even worse, an UnSub they once arrested coming after him. Quickly he gets his revolver and sneaks through the hallway to the source of the noises. As Spencer only sees his daughter sitting there, he instantly relaxes.

“Hey Sweetheart, what are you doing up? It’s a school night”, he softly asks in order to not scare her. Still, (Y/N) gets startled at the sudden voice.

“Uhm, nothing much. Just hungry. Probably because I didn’t eat dinner”, she explains, looking at her father like he caught her with her hand stuck in the cookie jar. Spencer watches her closely. “This is it? Because from what it looks like you not only ate your dinner but also tomorrow’s breakfast and right now lunch.”

(Y/N) swallows her bite, feeling that sinking reality in her stomach. The pills. She needs the pills fast before her body begins to digest the food. “Uhm, yeah. I probably should go to bed. I need my sleep. Just let me tidy up. Good night, Dad.” But he is quick to stop her.

“(Y/N), I want you to sit down. There is something we have to talk about.” Hesitantly (Y/N) takes a seat. “What is it Dad? Are you reprimanding me for eating? I thought you wanted me to let loose for a night.”

Spencer sits, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Baby, I want you to be alright. But I think you are not.” His eyes get a sad look. “I’m alright. I am fine, Dad. What do you think is wrong with me?”

“Look, (Y/N), I don’t need to be a profiler to see that you are struggling with something. Do you want to tell me about it?” Her answer is a tight lipped smile and a “I’m fine. There is nothing to talk about.”

The father sighs. She is not leaving him much of a choice. “And what about them?” Spencer asks after getting something from the highest shelf in the kitchen, the one (Y/N) barely reaches by stepping on a stool. He sets a little container down on the table.

“Dad I-” “No (Y/N). You don’t need to explain anything. It’s my turn to talk. I found those in your room yesterday while I was looking for a book. At first I thought nothing of it, I mean you are trying to live healthy, so I thought this is part of the process. But then I saw that they have to be prescribed and I know that these aren’t yours.

“I wanted to talk about it with you anyway. But now I know that I caught you binge eating and I see all the signs. I see them and I’m sorry for not acting sooner. (Y/N), you need help and I’m here for you. I know the last few months were especially hard on you. I can’t change what was and what happened, but I will be here for you now." Tears stream down on boths their faces.

(Y/N) is stammering for words. “I-I am fine. I can stop anytime I want. Th-this was a conscious d-decision.” Her father envelops her in a hug, cradling her head to his chest. She begins to sob.

“I know, Sweetheart. It’s hard and it won’t get easier from here on, but I’m here. You know you can’t stop, it’s only an illusion your eating disorder wants you to believe. But we get through it together. You, I and the team if you want to. We take it at your pace.” By now the two are crying loudly.

“I want it to stop, Dad. Please make the voice go away.”

He can’t make it go away. No one can. But Spencer helps to quiet it. Together they tackle the disorder, through the good and the bad times. He takes off from work for a time and (Y/N) out of school for a few weeks to be able to work on it together, to make the voice quieter and her life better.

Taglist:

All works:

@dindjarinsspouse

Criminal Minds:

@averyhotchner @mggsprettygirl @herecomesthewriterwitch @ash19871962

[merakiui]

What do you think of the concept of yan!xiao, childe venti trapping their darling in a teapot?

I feel like they would be less restrictive since the darling wouldn't necessarily be able to escape most likely, so they wouldn't worry about restraint much. Esp in Ventis case...he is the God of freedom so while his darling isn't exactly 'free' they're still kinda free in a way that they have their own world to be free in?

Xiao would probably be somewhat restricted, but only just keep them in the house because he probably wouldn't trust them to be by themselves yet--he figures they may try to run off and hide from him or something

Childe would probably let them try to "escape" on purpose and would be absolutely amused when his darling finds out they wouldn't be able to leave

(cw: yandere, captivity, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, mention of children and implied stockholm syndrome for childe’s part)

Venti doesn't exactly lie to you, but he does trick you. He's aware that it's not the nicest thing to do and that it's not exactly captivity if you're living in a world that resembles the one outside. Only this pocket-sized world is nicer and happier and there aren't any people to get in the way. He tells you about it when you're vulnerable. Maybe you're drunk or you're crying your eyes out because something horrible happened. Either way, you're not in the right state of mind when you make the comment: "I wish I could live in my own ideal world for just one day." And this is great news for Venti because it makes relocation so much easier.

He shows you the teapot and explains it briefly, leaving out certain details. It's better if you don't know everything about how the teapot works. After all, ignorance is bliss. Venti tells you how to get in, but he doesn't tell you how to get out. And the way he describes it makes it sound so tempting—as if living inside this teapot for a bit will cure whatever's bothering you. You decide it wouldn't hurt to spend a day or two inside the teapot to see the little world Venti holds in the palms of his hands.

It's a lot of fun at first. You and Venti glide from the top of the mountains in Emerald Peak, he sings melodious ballads as you look up at the sky, and the two of you play hide-and-seek inside of the house, playfully popping out of rooms and laughing when you’re caught. Eventually the charm wears off and you start to yearn for the outside world. It’s not the same in the teapot. As pretty and peaceful as it may be, it still feels so empty. And when you bring it up to Venti he finds small ways to change the subject. It probably plays out like this:

“Venti, I’d like to go home now.”

“But we were just about to play another round of hide-and-seek! Come on! Don’t be a spoilsport! One more round? Then we’ll leave.”

Or he’ll tell you that you’re already home. There’s always a big smile on his face when he says stuff like that. He’s happy that he gets to spend so much time with you and no one can interfere. But it does get annoying when you start to beg for the old world. Your pleas to leave will fall upon his deaf ears. Venti does feel a little bad when you start to sulk, but his sympathy is short-lived. Let’s not forget that you were the one who wanted this. You wanted to live in your ‘ideal world.’ And isn’t this ideal?

As an adeptus, Xiao is aware of Sub-Space Creation and the effort it takes to construct a presentable teapot. He’s been working hard on his ever since you came into his life. Before he knew you he didn’t have a reason to put effort into it because he stays at Wangshu Inn, but after he met you he started working a lot harder. He tries to make the teapot as comfortable as possible. You mentioned you like dogs or cats in passing? You can find a few in the teapot. You said you like berry bushes and flower fields? There’s a bunch in his teapot. He probably has a nearly perfect model of your room in there as well. Before he brings you into the teapot, he’ll often sit in that room and make sure everything replicates the original, down to the bed frame and the fabric used for the pillow case.

He’ll put some of your things in it just so it feels more personal. Xiao knows he’s stealing from you whenever he does this, but it’s not like you ever noticed anything was missing. Besides, it’s all going in the teapot anyways. You won’t even need your real room or mortal possessions anymore. Xiao is actually quite proud of the teapot and manages to fool himself into thinking you’ll like it, too. And you do (for the first few days, that is). He’s very forward with his question of whether or not you’d like to see his teapot. And you eagerly nod because the two of you are friends and Xiao wants to show you something he made and he looks a little…excited? There’s definitely light in his eyes when he gets your agreement to view the inside of his teapot.

Once you’re inside, you’re genuinely surprised. It’s far more beautiful than you could have ever imagined. The Floating Abode is a really gorgeous landscape. You’re so caught up in looking at the sunset and the flowers and the animals that roam the teapot that you aren’t aware of the horrors that lie just beyond. You’ll find the room that resembles yours in no time and it’s really creepy. As much as you try to tell yourself that Xiao means well and wouldn’t actually do something like this on purpose, it’s hard to ignore the fact that everything is practically identical to your room. It’s so, so strange. You want to ignore it, but you just can’t. It’s so obvious.

It’s definitely creepy, but you don’t have the heart to tell him.

You hold your tongue because you don’t want to hurt his feelings. You’re really the only close friend he has, so you’d feel bad if you insulted his interior decorating skills. Xiao’s pleased to hear that you like it so much. Praise falls from your lips like a waterfall and it gives him a sense of relief. He’s so happy that you like it and since you’re okay with it it’ll be fine if you live here. When he tells you that, your brain freezes and you’re not sure how to respond.

“Live here? Like…permanently?”

And to your shock he nods.

Xiao is far less lenient than Venti. With Venti everything feels like eternal, childish fun with the idea of freedom sprinkled in. But with Xiao it’s definitely a harsher form of captivity. You aren’t allowed outside because he’s worried you might fall off of the bridges that connect the floating islands or you might try to find your way out of the teapot. So you’re confined to the mansion. It’s got everything you could ever need and the interior design matches that of your home perfectly. Just treat it like it’s your own home and it won’t be so bad. You definitely try to see the good in this situation because you care about Xiao, but it’s so hard when he’s keeping you here like you’re just another addition to his teapot.

It’s miserable, but at least you can count on him to visit you every single day.

Childe is very receptive to the idea of owning his own little world in a small teapot. Maybe he was holding you captive before he came upon the teapot and while you’re sleeping he relocates you. You don’t expect to wake up in a new location, but you assume you’re still somewhere in Liyue. Childe finds it cute that you’re so startled, clearly confused with the change in scenery. And when you glance at the surroundings on the Cool Isle, it feels like you might have a chance. Childe seems to think so because he waves you off, telling you with the sincerest voice that you’re ‘free to go.’

You don’t need to be told twice and so you run because you’re invigorated. You can leave and he’s not coming after you. Childe doesn’t even raise his bow in warning. You’re actually leaving him and he’s letting you! But it feels too good to be true. A day passes and you learn that there’s no one else to help you. So you find an empty shack on the shoreline and you hide in it because survival is the only thing you know right now. And the day goes by, the night comes, and morning makes its arrival. You’re still safe. He hasn’t found you.

And it really feels like you can make it out of this. Even if there’s no one around, you can still find something to help you. You’d take anything at this point. By the end of the week, you’re losing sight of your goal and you really just want to head back to the mansion and nap on a comfortable bed. You’ve been catching the crabs and the fish and doing what you can to start a long-lasting fire. When Childe finds you, you’re so exhausted from running and hiding that you collapse into his arms. And he smiles so sweetly while he tells you something that shatters your entire world.

“You did well, comrade, but this isn’t Liyue. You have no need to run.”

It’s not even Teyvat. It’s another world entirely—one existing solely within a teapot. And everything comes crashing down when you realize just how impossible that makes any escape attempts. No human contact. No energy or life that comes from meeting with friends and seeing family. It truly does feel like you and he are the only people in this world.

Childe knows that you’ll adjust to this new world whether you like it or not. It was fun to toy with you in the beginning (and it still is) when you didn’t realize this was the world inside the teapot. But now he just wants to settle into a comfortable life. He takes every chance he has to visit you and eventually you’ll find yourself succumbing to the relaxing pleasures of domestic life. You learn how to cook delicious meals with Childe’s help, you collect seashells on the shore to cure your boredom, and you’ll take care of any chores or housework. It warms Childe’s heart to see you accepting this life.

Maybe the two of you can start a family. Maybe he should get a few pets to liven up the house. It’s not like you can get away from him while inside the teapot, so it’s a recipe for anything to happen. And you’ve come to learn that what happens in the teapot stays in the teapot.

[cozycryptidcorner]

Avery the Fae/Reader, Lemon

You don’t dress up for Halloween.

Not your fault, though, really, because your professors show no mercy for holidays, especially not ones that don’t land them a day off. Classes go on as usual, and so you wake up the latest you can without risking a tardy and go off in the comfortable clothes you slept in. Except for some cat ears and one superman, everything is perfectly normal, and the day passes like almost every other, save for a ‘spooky drink’ coupon at the local cafe.

I probably don’t even need a costume, anyways, you think as you catch your reflection when passing those special mirror-like windows on one of the campus’ buildings. Frankly, you look like you crawled out of hell itself. Dark circles under your eyes from lack of sleep, hair all askew and uncooperative, mouth in a permanent stressed line.

A zombie, probably, you decide, taking a sip of that hot caffeinated mess you ordered from the cafe. A hot zombie, for sure, but a zombie no less. A part of you wants to skip your next class and take a nap, but you’ve already used up your one absence, and you aren’t in a position to risk your grade for sleep. No rest for the wicked, right? Right. Everything else goes as smoothly as can be expected for being sleep deprived, and the night class seems to drag on for a fully stretched eternity, but you are finally free to go home and do your five hours of homework. Maybe if you’re lucky, you can squeeze in two or three hours of sleep.

It’s because you’re tired, you think, stopping for a hot minute when you realize that you’re lost. You hadn’t been paying attention to campus’ many twists and turns in its paths, and so you must have wandered away from the buildings and onto the forest trail that hugs the dorms, except there’s no cement beneath your feet. Not even a dirt trail marks a way out, and you take a full moment to come to terms with being lost, on your own damn campus, no less. You aren’t any kind of simpering pansy, so you turn around and begin to retrace your steps. Which doesn’t work, unfortunately, because after a couple of minutes of walking, there’s nothing to suggest that you’re only a couple of paces from civilization.

Except a drum beat, behind you. It’s faint, probably a half-mile away, but it’s the closest thing you have to a way back, especially since your phone can’t seem to pick up any signal. Maybe one of the school’s many bands are practicing? Right, you’re just going to stumble out into the football field, twigs in your hair, looking very much like you’ve gotten into a fist-fight with the entire forest…

And… Not a band, you realize, stepping into a clearing, but a party.

A costume party, too, by the looks of it, with everyone in soft, flittery clothing and fitted masks. Interesting how everyone seems to be on the same page with the dress code, there’s usually that one dick who shows up in a hotdog suit, regardless of any previous agreements. Elegant is the word you’re looking for, you decide, running into something tall and solider, correction: running into someone tall and solid.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” you apologize, shifting your weight on either foot, “I’m a little lost.”

“I think that you are right where you want to be,” your stranger says, mouth turning up into a strange, fanged smile. His black mask is trimmed with gold, and it doesn’t seem like he’s costuming as anything specific; rather, it appears to be just for anonymity.

“I think I really want to be in bed,” you say, trying to share a mutual we’re in college and want to die of exhaustion moment, but he doesn’t respond with the same energy.

“Perhaps a drink of wine before you go?” He offers, holding out an actual goblet of some kind. Maybe the metal-working students pitched in? Or accepted a particular commissioned order? It looks like genuine gold, which adds to the whole aesthetic of the party.

“Uh,” don’t accept drinks you haven’t seen made, “I’m good for now, really. Just trying to get back home to study.”

“Hm,” he says, taking a good swig from the goblet he had just offered, “good question. Through the trees from whence you came, most likely.”

Of fucking course, he’s drunk and doesn’t know left from right. Great. What an excellent position you’ve put yourself in. Frustrated and confident he wouldn’t roofie himself, you snatch the goblet from his hand and down several large gulps of shockingly sweet wine, maybe a sangria? Or something sugared up to be palatable?

Swirling the goblet around, to seem sophisticated, you ask, “so is this some kind of rich person party? Like an Illuminati meeting or something?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you speak of.”

“Right.” You draw out the single syllable, landing hard on the t. LARPers, probably, but not unattractive ones. Those masks don’t hide everything, and the shape of his jaw is not something to balk at, and those lips? Not to be forward in your own brain or anything, but they’re certainly decent to look at. This has to be some kind of weird-ass club, or like a rich dumbass ritual or something, definitely not your average frat party with a variety of random drugs mixed into the mystery punch. “Do you go to school here?”

He looks down at your university sweatshirt, cocking his head slightly. “A place of learning, is it? No, I’m afraid I have not attended such an institution, but I must admit that I have been tempted.”

“Well,” you take another sip of wine, “it’s not bad, as far as universities go. With decent financial aid, too.”

“Best not to drink too much of that,” your stranger says, “it’s much stronger than it tastes, and it’s best you stay clear-headed for the evening’s festivities.”

“One cup can’t hurt,” you say, and then realize that he’s just volunteered you to join in on the fun. Which is kind of weird, you guess, but then again, you aren’t going to complain. This is a way more interesting place to spend your evening, but might as well prop your backpack underneath one of the tables, hiding it beneath the skirt of the pale white cloth. You eye the unmarked bottle that one of the party-goers holds, but set your goblet down by the expensive-looking chinaware, flexing your fingers as they begin to tingle with the warmness that comes with alcohol. “What’s the party’s theme?”

He cocks his head, as though confused.

“Like a…” you try to think of a different way to phrase it. “A topic you pick, and everyone has to adhere to it. The people here all look like they’re, like, what Victorian thought the fairies looked like or something. I think it’s the clothes.”

“We are Faeries, though,” he says, the sides of his mouth curving upwards.

“Hm,” you say, “of course you are.”

“Join me for this dance?” Your stranger asks instead of any rebuttals, holding out a hand.

You look over at the band that plays, masks of distinct animal-like features flickering in the light of the bonfire roaring in the center of the clearing, all instruments vaguely familiar, yet not. Some of them you think you’ve seen before, at maybe renaissance-themed festivals, but the others must be from some kind of distinctly obscure genre of music.

The heat from the fire seems to lick out at your fingers, or maybe it’s the alcohol, already making its way through your system, but you stare, transfixed, at the way the lyre player plucks at the strings of their instrument. The quick movement plays too much with your eyes, you barely see anything more than the blurs of fingers, and you suddenly realize that you are swaying in place.

“I don’t know how,” you say, snapping out of whatever trance you had been in.

“It’s rather simple, come here,” he takes one of your hands, shockingly not unwelcome. Perhaps the warmth of his skin against yours brings you a kind of peace that you need during this period of your life. “I will teach you.”

Your stranger is correct; the dance is fairly simple to learn, mostly because there are very few rules. Sway your hips. Let your feet bounce against the soft forest floor. Let him spin you around and around until your head almost feels light. You’ll be honest, he’s the one doing all the work, guiding you, adding more flair to your steps, one hand resting on your waist, the other weaving its fingers with yours. Now, you may not be one to go out and ballroom dance on the fly, but you would be alright admitting that this is kind of fun.

So you dance. And you dance. And you continue dancing, letting the music remove you from time and space, everything else fades away except for the thrumming drumbeat, the wind in the trees, and your partner. You don’t feel the need to gasp for air, nor do your legs give out and collapse, but you aren’t even aware of how much time has passed. You dance out your pain, your stress, and any alcohol that lingers in your system, a layer of sweat keeping your body cool in the autumn night’s air. An eternity, perhaps, a small piece of infinity shared between you and this stranger, or the briefest of moments that still yield the most intimate bit of time that two people can share.

The song ends- or perhaps, the band finally runs out of music to play. You don’t know what time it is, but you aren’t finished with the party, not yet. The stranger sets his hands on both your hips, eyes as red as the fires of hell, and offers you a promising smile, his shirt loosely clinging to his body, having lost the fancily embroidered vest at some point while dancing.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You ask, making a snap decision not to let the night go to waste.

His smile widens.

The trees are your only audience when he brings you away from the rest of the party, the moon staring over the tops of the red and yellow leaves. The chill of the night might have discouraged anyone else, but you are broiling with energy and ready to continue moving wildly to keep warm. Despite barely being out of sight, you’re already working on his clothes, trying to find velcro or snaps of a cheap costume and failing rather miserably. He seems amused with your attempts, guiding your hands to find a variation of ties and buttons. Soon enough, you have his shirt off, his pale skin gleaming in the moonlight, revealing a chest etched in dozens of tattoos, red like blood against his pale skin, though it’s too dark to make out precisely what they are.

He seems to have a destination in mind, even though you steal most of his attention with kisses and touches. Even though you are in a place you’re sure no one would bother finding you in, he still seems determined to herd your desperate body further away from the camp, until the both of you get to a clearing, free of roots strangling the ground. Jupiter and Saturn stare blankly down from their perches in the sky, the stars surrounding them twinkling, as though applauding your conquest.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you gasp after a breathless kiss.

He pauses, almost put off by the request, like he’s startled you would even ask. Before you can even regain the ability to feel nervous, he says, “Avery.”

“Avery,” you repeat, running your fingers through his hair. “That’s a nice name.”

“And what may I call you?”

Like a fool, you give up your first name without much thought, but you are too excited about where the night is going to remember what you said even a second later. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because his mouth is against yours, and your back is on the cold, dewy grass before you even register that he pulled your legs off balance. He’s a good kisser, you think hazily, his lips traveling down from your mouth to your collarbone. His mouth is nice and hot against your skin, already sending pleasant little shivers down your spine as he works, and you find yourself grasping at the cold, dying grass of the earth in order to pull your spirit back to reality.

The insides of your belly melt as he lifts your shirt up over your breasts, and you’re quick to discard the garment as he sucks at the skin just above the hemline of your pants. He needs help with the button and the zipper, his lithe fingers struggling to figure out the mechanics, so you undo everything for him. After letting out a thankful grunt, he leans forward, pressing his lips right on your stomach, sucking hard enough to leave a red mark that may bruise in the morning.

Then he kisses the skin just above where your underwear ends, a jolting shiver pulsing through your core at the contact. When you glance down at him, the barest light emanating from the roaring bonfire only a few meters away, he seems so… focused, you think, at his task of slowly stripping the last bit of fabric away from your body. Methodically, he tugs, fingers threading through the straps at the side, his eyes glimmering in the light bleeding out from the moon herself.

Slowly, steadily, he presses his mouth where your leg and torso meet, nibbling at a bit of flesh before moving ever so slightly downwards, opening your legs and seemingly liking what he finds down there. Carefully avoiding any of your puckered, wet skin, he instead moves his lips just to the side, clearly enjoying the act of driving you to the brink of insanity. You can feel the smile he wears as he teases you further, switching over to your other thigh.

Almost impatiently, you wrap one of your legs around his shoulder, arching your back when he finally lashes his tongue out to trace the outline of your flower. A heated spark ignites through your nerves, a charge of fiery need flooding your body and into your core. He seems to enjoy the breathless whine you offered in response because he does it again, inching closer and closer to your clit.

Roughly, you tangle your fingers into his long, flowing hair, pulling him closer and begging with no words for him to stop teasing and finally give you the pleasure you need. Avery finally complies, pressing his tongue right up against your clit and tracing little circles on and around it. The heat of his breath only helps further stir the coals in your womb, your back arching against the gentle curve of the world as you cry out.

He seems to deeply enjoy your keening, popping off your puckered flesh in the brief moment it takes for him to smile up at you, like a beast satisfied with the tortured screams of its prey. The way his tongue moves up, around, and down your clit makes you want to die, dirt clinging underneath your fingernails, bits of grass tearing as you claw at the ground. Still, he takes your keening reaction to double his efforts, using his fingers when his mouth is busy elsewhere, rubbing gentle little patterns in the opening of your slit.

There, you can feel your orgasm approaching as he begins to explore your core with his thumb, pushing and rubbing against the throbbing folds with some level of curiosity in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, a passing observation.

You’re so beyond the point of return that you could barely even draw in the words to thank him before you’re overcome with shaking trembles emanating from your very core, your insides quick to bend and break at his beckoning. It doesn’t take much more teasing from Avery before you’re crying out for him, voice cracking with pleasure and desperation, your fingers threading through his hair so tightly you don’t know where you end, and he begins.

When you are nothing more than a heaping, teary-eyed mass of trembling flesh on the ground, he crawls up from between your legs, kisses your stomach, your ribs, your breasts, your collarbone, all the way up to your mouth once more. You can taste yourself on his tongue and lips, warmer than the wine and almost twice as intoxicating, and by the wild stare in his eyes, he’s drunk with your nectar. And, quite frankly, ready to devour you, his kisses all teeth and heat, mouth dexterous against the curves, rises, and plateaus of your body, like he knows so very intimately every square centimeter of you.

There’s a hard rock length against your stomach, one that you can feel, almost tragically against your skin as he lavishes your lips and chest with his blessed attention. Even though you walked into this situation expecting a one-night stand, you don’t know, this feels light it could rocket through your life and end up becoming

“More,” you rasp, surprised that your voice is even working, ” more.”

He understands that rough and demanding command, stroking your hair with one of his free hands, mouth offering up a myriad of kisses to your neck and collarbone, an odd, overcoming need to please you emanating off of him, one like you’ve never dealt with before. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see the familiar masks of those at the party earlier, but Avery turns your wandering gaze back to him with his insistent, feral kiss, his chest trembling with heated need.

“Do you want my cock inside you?” He asks, wanting to hear you say it.

“Please,” you almost snarl, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Hmm,” he almost manages to fool you that he could care less, but by the way his body grinds and presses against yours, he’s so, so close to traveling the radius of the earth itself to comply. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he strips away what’s left of his ensemble, moving away from your body and leaving you almost horrifically cold.

It doesn’t take a lot for him to angle your legs properly, your thigh rubbing up against his throbbing member. He’s at least gentle with how he impales you, his entrance slow and gradual, kaleidoscope eyes staring so intently into your very being that you wonder if you’ll survive the next time pleasure crashes down around you. And he feels so good, the crisp, autumn grass against your back the only thing keeping you from becoming so lost beneath his trembling body.

He must share your thoughts because even though he’s only eased in, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing is short and shallow like he could hardly believe the pleasure your body gives him. Once he’s fully sheathed, he swears, voice quiet, yet filled to the brim with lust. You wrap your legs around his waist, hoping to feel him further, your voice and your body begging him to continue, to move, but he’s almost in a trance.

You’re impatient for movement, for that slick friction between your thighs, so you quickly take matters into your own hands. With no finesse, fueled only by spite and determination, you shift, switching positions using your legs and arms. Avery simply rolls with it, a ghostly smile on his mouth as you pin his hands to the ground, chest heaving from the effort, a layer of sweat misting your skin despite the chill of the night.

That seems to break whatever space he had retreated to, eyes lit like a roaring forest fire as he beholds your body from beneath your legs. His voice is raspy, but the demand is calm, collected, like he’s waited for thousands of years for this, for you. “Use me.”

You let out a breath, steadying yourself on his body to comply, and grind. His eyes roll back as you do, starting slowly, his back arching off the ground, his chest heaving with pleasure at the loss of control. Careful to control the pace, you let yourself be taken by the pleasure, the joining slick and hot, your core roaring with approval and greed. More, more, more.

Everything is suddenly vibrantly alive, the forest rustling with a wind you don’t feel, crickets singing hymns in the open field, the moon herself licking at your bodies with her soft, precious light. You think you hear chanting in the distance, your brain muddled with his delicious praises and lust that you don’t try to investigate, too focused on feeling his length pulse and move through your folds. Tears prick at your eyes, not from sadness, no, and you couldn’t possibly know their purpose because this feels so good, like his body was made for you.

This climax almost hurts, you felt it approaching and you knew it would be a lot, so you brace yourself, both hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. You look into his eyes, and you see… more, than just fundamental attraction, more than pure, unadulterated lust, but you’re so far gone you can’t pinpoint what it is, exactly, before you’re overcome.

Everything in your body is aflame, your core quaking enough to make you think, for just a brief moment, that the earth itself is tearing apart, you cry, you whine, you scream for him, and he’s there, holding onto you for dear life. Telling you that you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, that you’ll never want another man so long as your legs are wrapped around him so tightly like this. You think you believe him, gasping for air, fingernails digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood, though he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

It takes a lot of concentration to bring yourself back into your body, your soul and spirit so besotted with desire, but you manage it, feeling his hands grip your thighs so tightly his fingers may leave bruise marks. You bend forward, letting him take the reins as you try to stay present enough in the moment to kiss and nip at his neck, teeth tugging at his skin, the aftershocks still moving through your nerves like waves on a storming night. Still, though, you want him to feel what you did, to become undone by your hand.

And he does, his thrusts becoming so uneven that you begin to grind, ghosts of your orgasm weaving through your flesh and womb. A crescendo of noise seems to overtake the clearing, the air becoming like static, the hairs on your arms standing on end. Overcome, he curses and snarls in a language you don’t understand, his voice hard and soft at the same time, his hips jerking as something warm and wet pulses out of his member, filling you up and spilling out onto his pelvis.

Avery sits up, still joined within you, shaken, but startlingly and brilliantly alive, chest heaving with the effort of breathing. He presses his mouth against yours in a myriad of kisses, soft, possessive, tender, needy. There is still some amount of desire on his lips, but without the same uncontrollable yearning broiling just beneath his fevered skin like before.

Then he says your name, and a shiver goes down your spine, your very being somehow attentive to whatever he says next, as though your entire universe suddenly floods down and descends on this one, single person. He says it again, rolling it over his tongue like a wine taster, trying out each of the letters as though they offer a different kind of sweetness, his eyes just as wild as they had been when you held him pinned to the grass. A sliver of fear pierces your chest, making you want to push him onto the ground and take him again, but he has other plans.

“I’ll walk you back, dove,” he says, pressing his mouth against your collarbone, though he doesn’t kiss you again, not yet. “The sun will soon be up.”

[pips-fics]

ask: Hi 👉👈 if it’s okay can I request a hyunjin centric fic? where he’s feverish and emotional nd the others give him lots of affection and comfort 🥺🥺 I love your blog so much it’s so soft and feels safe and ahhh it makes me happy 👉👈 thank you and it’s okay if you don’t feel up to it !!

ask: hello! how are you? i just wanted to say that this is my all time fave blog :) i’m kinda new to tumblr so i’m not sure if that’s how u say it tho hahaha. are u down for requested atm? if yes, could i request a sick hyunjinnie with any caretaker (preferably bangchan). if u are not taking requests atm, then carry on with ur day 🌸✨💜

tw: vomiting, fainting

let us break ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

all idols are trained actors. a lot of people don’t realize it, maybe, but they had to be, to some extent. even before debuting, they learned by observation how to fake health, confidence, and calm - and beyond debut, it was happiness all the time. once, hyunjin found out that one of his best childhood friends was in the hospital, and then sang and smiled through a fansign without blinking an eye an hour later. he knew other idols who had endured much worse.

so yes, while hyunjin might not be entirely comfortable playing a role in a movie or a show, he was quite capable of faking it. maybe that’s why he was able to convince his group mates that he was okay right up until he collapsed.

he hadn’t expected things to get so bad. at first, he was just a bit congested - nothing he couldn’t pass off as allergies, really. once he’d gotten wrapped up in practicing, it had been easy to brush anything else off - like sweating, achy muscles, even nausea - as an effect of intense exercise. too easy, maybe, because hyunjin was not at all prepared for his vision to flicker with darkness or for his legs to entirely give up in the middle of dancing.

fortunately, he retained consciousness, but he wasn’t able to stand quickly enough to dodge minho as he moved to their next formation. the older boy tripped over hyunjin and tumbled to the ground with an “oof,” which was then followed by the chaos of everyone trying to figure out what had happened at once.

it was way too much for hyunjin’s fevered brain to process. he shut down, the sounds blurring into something entirely nonsensical, so hyunjin tuned it all out until a gentle hand on his back made him jump.

“hyunjinnie?” it was chan, wiping tears away. “can you tell me what’s wrong?”

hyunjin shook his head. “minho-hyung–”

“he’s okay,” chan said. “don’t worry.”

shuffling his feet awkwardly, minho nodded. “i know how to fall safely. it happens to the best of us.”

with the greatest of his greatest fears alleviated, hyunjin took a few deep breaths and looked around the room. besides minho, who was still standing nearby looking moderately uncomfortable, and chan, who was rubbing comforting circles on hyunjin’s back, the rest of the members were hanging out near the benches on the other side of the practice room. jisung was talking to their dance teacher while jeongin and changbin were messing with felix in what was probably a deliberate attempt at creating a distraction. seungmin was quietly observing hyunjin from a distance, concern written all over his face. distractions didn’t tend to work as well on him. hyunjin managed a smile in an attempt to be reassuring, but it didn’t seem to have the intended effect.

rather than relaxing, seungmin’s frown deepened, and he stood up and walked over, arms crossed. “don’t act like you’re okay,” he said, and hyunjin suddenly understood. he waved his arms around placatingly.

“i won’t - i’ll take today off, okay?” hyunjin caved easily. next to him, chan looked shocked, and not without reason.

three years ago, things would have gone down quite differently. things had gone down quite differently when hyunjin had been a trainee, and he’d woken up in the hospital with a very rattled seungmin at his bedside. hyunjin wouldn’t make that mistake again any time soon if he could help it.

that didn’t make it easy.

somehow the tears started up again of their own accord as hyunjin relented. “i’m sorry,” he said. “i– i’ll make it up to you all later, i know i’m behind with the dance, it’s just–”

this got the attention of the rest of the group, eliciting a scoff from changbin. “please don’t - if you do that, i’ll be even more behind than i already am.”

“give us a chance to catch up!” jisung added.

hyunjin shook his head. “but i’m supposed to be a dancer.”

felix bounded over and latched on to hyunjin’s arm. “you’re ahead of me, too. i think the only one you’re not ahead of is minho-hyung, and he made half of the choreography.”

minho nodded solemnly. “i cheated.”

hyunjin was too tired to feel better about himself, but too miserable to argue, so he just shrugged and avoided eye contact with everyone.

chan put a hand to hyunjin’s forehead, and nodded as if confirming something. “i’ll come back to the dorm with you, then - i could use a rest day, too, i think.”

with no room for argument, hyunjin decided not to bother trying, despite his misgivings about taking up chan’s time. also, out of all of them, hyunjin thought that chan could use the extra rest the most. by the time they arrived at the dorm, the guilt in hyunjin’s stomach was more or less consumed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness and fear.

he settled in to the living room, sinking into the couch and trying to repress his body’s violent shivering by wrapping himself in a blanket, though it wasn’t very effective. hyunjin was relieved when chan sat next to him, pulling out his laptop - as expected, not really taking a break after all, but hyunjin didn’t mind. he knew chan was busy, and liked to feel productive as often as possible. people relaxed in different ways, anyway. just like that, despite the growing ache in his stomach, hyunjin began to relax and drift off to sleep.

it wasn’t until chan moved to get up that hyunjin snapped back awake. he immediately latched on to chan’s arm.

“hyung, don’t leave me.”

the words were out of his mouth before hyunjin had a chance to consider them, and he immediately hid his face in the couch cushions in embarrassment.

“hyunjinnie,” chan said gently, brushing a hand through hyunjin’s hair. he didn’t sound annoyed, so hyunjin peeked up at him, and found him smiling fondly. “i wasn’t going to leave, just going to get some water. you want anything?”

hyunjin felt his cheeks redden, and let go of chan’s arm. he shook his head. “sorry, hyung.”

“nothing to worry about,” chan said.

being alone even briefly was unsettling to hyunjin, feeling as bad as he was. it meant being forced to take stock of his body, which meant confronting that he felt, somehow, even worse than before. his head was pounding, everything hurt, and his stomach–

his stomach flipped very violently, and hyunjin retched, leaning over the couch, a bit stunned. he swallowed back the vile substance that rushed up his throat with a whimper and scrambled to his feet.

he made it to the toilet just in time for his body to rebel again. this time, hyunjin was hopeless to stop it, and it wasn’t long before tears were rolling down his cheeks. his hair was sticking to his face, matted down with sweat and in some places vomit. hyunjin tried to push it out of his way, but his hands were shaking terribly, and the nausea was so overwhelming, it was hard to focus on anything else.

chan found hyunjin with his cheek on the toilet seat, expression vacant, past the point of caring about a mess. when he saw chan, his face scrunched up into a sad pout.

“hyung… i’m sorry…”

chan chuckled and shook his head. “don’t apologize,” he said quietly, moving to hyunjin’s side just as the younger man began heaving again. chan held hyunjin’s hair and rubbed his shoulder blades, wishing he could do more. he couldn’t help but wince at the way hyunjin’s muscles tensed beneath his fingers.

it took quite a while for hyunjin’s stomach to settle. for about 10 minutes, it was on-and-off puking, half his time spent bent over the toilet, and the other half bonelessly slumped against chan. by the end, he was so exhausted that chan was considering bringing a mixing bowl into the bathroom, just so that hyunjin didn’t have to put so much effort into moving.

finally, hyunjin let out a shuddering sigh - or maybe a sob - and curled up in chan’s lap.

“can i sleep here?” hyunjin mumbled, words slurred with exhaustion. some of the sick in his hair was beginning to dry.

“soon, jinnie. for now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

chan opted to give hyunjin a warm bath, and was pleased when hyunjin relaxed into it, half-asleep. he figured it was okay for the younger man to take a quick nap under chan’s supervision. by the time hyunjin was clean, chan was reluctant to wake him. just as he was about to, hyunjin’s face scrunched up, and he whimpered.

“hyunjin?”

“‘m sorry,” he mumbled, fresh tears slipping down his cheeks. “i’ll do better…”

chan shook him gently, and hyunjin’s eyes flew open. “i’m sorry, i–” he cut himself off with a gasp, taking in his surroundings slowly. “channie-hyung?”

“hey, buddy,” he said, speaking softly. “you okay?”

hyunjin was breathing in short, quick gasps. his eyes darted around the small room, as though searching for something. he blinked quickly, and looked back at chan, who offer a smile.

“it’s just us, you know?”

drinking air as though its supply was dangerously limited, hyunjin nodded. “i know, yeah, i just… hyung, i’m ruining your day off.”

chan shook his head immediately. “what are you talking about, jinnie? you know i’m here because i want to be, right?”

hyunjin bit his lip, trying not to cry. his fevered brain was not being kind to him. chan’s words were too genuine to deny, though, so he nodded, eyes closed. he felt chan’s arms wrap around him, hesitant until hyunjin hugged him back.

“jinnie, you’re allowed to be human. you’re allowed to hurt. it’s okay.”

something there caught him off guard. something broke, something that had been built up, something that had protected hyunjin for a long time. a little snap. it hurt, realizing he’d closed himself off without realizing it, and holding back tears was a lost cause, but then - that was kind of chan’s point.

why hide them?

so hyunjin cried, broken a bit, but held together by one of his best friends - his family. he let himself break a bit more - just as much as he needed - and didn’t flinch when the rest of the members came home. he let them in through a little crack of a doorway, let him hold him and remind him of who he was, and he began to heal.

——

no reader survey this time, too tired and my computer is breaking but please feel free to send in any thoughts you’d like to share, about the fic or otherwise!

——

feel free to send more asks! / rules

[boygirlmeetsworld]

Messy.

ONE-SHOT

Word count: 2793

Disclaimer:  One piece and all it’s characters belong to Eiichiro Oda, I just like to write about them.

Warning: None

Rating: T (i guess?? there’s cursing)

Author’s Note: Whale, this is the first fanfic I’ve posted on the interwebs since high school so please keep that in mind, lol. I do plan to finish it sooner than later so check back in a few days if you want to read the rest, sorry I don’t have it all done right now.  At long last it it FINISHED.

Feel free to tell me what u think! Unless it’s mean, then I ask that u keep those thoughts in ur noggin because I’m just writing these for fun not for grades.

Without further ado, here ya go.

Author’s Note pt 2: So i didn’t end up going the smut route like I originally planned, but I think it worked out better bc this one got nice and Emotional.

Summary: Zoro really shouldn’t agree to be Nami’s drinking partner if he wanted to keep their friendship from getting... Complicated.

__________________________________________

The moon was floating high in the night sky when Nami wandered onto the deck, unable to sleep even after a few hours of sketching. 

She wanted company – specifically, she wanted the company of the crew’s resident alcoholic. It only took a few minutes to find him on the lawn deck with his back against a tree and his eye closed. ‘How typical.’

Nami smiled a small, excited smile as she strode over to him and squatted between his parted legs. An unconscious sigh left her nose as she swept her gaze up and down his face. She caught herself thinking, ‘He really is easy on the eyes isn’t he.’ ....again. 

Who was she kidding? She’d been thinking the same thing every time she looked his way lately. 

Two years ago she’d been able to keep the immature crush she had on him locked tightly away but somehow - it had gotten out and was slowly consuming her entire being. 

Nami hoped he hadn’t noticed how often she invited him to drink with her because she didn’t think she could handle being rejected. So she settled for spending time alone with him whenever and however she could. 

“Hey, moss-head,” the navigator said finally, leaning in to squint at him, “Are you asleep?”

He had literally just settled down for a nice cat nap when the navigator appeared suddenly to interrupt him. ‘Damn. What the hell did she want now?’ 

Instead of answering, Zoro chose to ignore her and pretend like he was deep asleep. ‘Why won’t she go bother someone else?’

Nami started prodding his cheek with one finger to rouse him if he really was sleeping, ”Zorooo wake up, I wanna drink,” she whined and his eyelid opened instantly.

‘Why’s she so damn pretty..’ was the first thought he had when he realized that she was a lot closer than he’d anticipated. 

He mentally chastised himself after, trying to remind his id that Nami had never once indicated that she wanted to be anything other than friends and he should respect that. 

But… There was no harm in looking from time to time was there? And she was pretty. She’d always been... ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, now he sounded like Sanji. He needed to get a grip.’

“Helloooooo,” Nami waved her hand in Zoro’s face until he snapped back to reality and snatched her wrist up, pulling it away. He scowled but it wasn’t deep, and now he was refusing to look her in the eye. “What was that about, huh Zoro?”

“Nothing.” The swordsman replied perhaps a little too quickly to avoid suspicion, “Thought I heard a noise, doesn’t matter – oi, didn’t you want to do something?” 

He couldn’t remember what exactly it was. He’d been so distracted by the way her bangs framed her face and sometimes got caught in her eyelashes—’Damnit! He was doing it again.’

Nami smirked again but didn’t press the subject anymore. She’d do that later once they started drinking. “Weren’t you listening to me? You’re so rude, maybe I should find someone else to share my booze with.”

Was it a good idea to go drink with Nami when he kept catching himself thinking about feelings that he’d been suppressing for the last two years? Probably not…

But he couldn’t just decline an opportunity to get buzzed. ‘And... Maybe he wanted to get buzzed with Nami, specifically.’  

Zoro scoffed, mostly at himself. “Quit playing games, damnit, do you want me to drink with you or not?”

“You’re so stubborn,” The navigator teased with a pleased smile that made his heart beat unevenly, “I could care less if you join me, but you’re not allowed to come unless you say you’ll be nice.”

“Nami. I am older than you, quit treating me like a fucking child or I swear-”

“That’s no way to talk to a lady who’s getting you drunk for free, Roronoa Zoro. If you can’t be nice then I’ll just add the cost of everything you drink to your debt and-”

Zoro didn’t have time to ruminate over the way hearing her say his full name made him shiver because he had to shut her up before she did charge him. 

“Okay, okay. I’ll be... nice.” He hissed through gritted teeth and her answering giggle made his pulse flutter. He had to fight to keep himself from smiling. ‘What the hell was going on with him tonight? Was he sick?’

“Good boy,” she turned and started walking towards the Sunny’s aquarium bar, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure he was coming.

“Don’t push your luck, woman.” Zoro snarled to mask his confusion over the sudden need to touch her that he felt scratching at the back of his head. He really shouldn’t agree to be Nami’s drinking partner if he wanted to keep their friendship from getting... Complicated.

He knew it, but he followed her up the stairs all the same.

                                                       * * *

“Why d’you always want to drink with me anyway, witch?” Skeptical of her intentions, his narrowed eye fixed itself on Nami as she approached him holding two maroon tinted bottles. She offered one to him and he accepted it – but he didn’t let his guard down yet.

Zoro lowered his gaze to check the label out, whistling long and low when he read 23% alcohol per volume. A couple puzzle pieces clicked together in his head ‘Oh, that’s why. Because if she tried to drink this with anyone else they’d pass out after two glasses.’

“Would you believe that I just like hanging out with you?” Though her tone was teasing she was actually being genuine, she had a lot of fun with him whenever they went out.

“No–“ He paused when Nami kicked him in the shin hard enough to make him swear. Reaching down with his free hand he rubbed the sore patch of skin and glared daggers at his crewmate. “What the fuck was that for?!”

“You said you’d be nice, Zoro! So be nice or I’ll charge you a hundred thousand beris for that bottle.” Nami uncorked hers but waited to hand the corkscrew over until he behaved himself. The look he was giving her would probably frighten a small child but she didn’t flinch.

‘This was his choice.’ He reminded himself. Of his own free will he chose to get drunk with Nami instead of napping, and that meant dealing with her bossiness no matter how much he loathed it. ‘Sometimes he just wanted to grab her by the shoulders and make her shut up, there were better things her mouth could be doing anyway-‘

“Why do you keep staring at me like that, do I have a zit or something?”

Zoro sat up so fast that he banged his shoulder on the underside of the countertop. ‘What the hell was that? What the hell was wrong with him?’ He hadn’t even opened the damn bottle and he was already making himself look like an idiot.

“No,” the swordsman grumbled, wracking his brain for a believable excuse, “Just thinking about how I’ll owe you money even after I’m dead if you keep charging me for bullshit.” That made her laugh and Zoro cursed himself for how much he liked hearing it. “Don’t see how it’s funny for me, witch.”

Nami let him take the corkscrew from her, eyes crinkled with amusement while he opened his bottle. “You’ll just have to stay alive until you pay me back in full, I guess!” She trilled before taking a long, heavy drink from hers.

“Yeah?” Zoro snorted before mimicking her and downing about half of the wine in the container. It tasted disgusting, which he’d expected, but that didn’t make the bitter aftertaste any less miserable. His nose wrinkled slightly as he set the bottle down. “I bet even if I did try to pay you off you’d find a way to charge me more.”

“You make me sound so heartless,” the navigator batted her eyelashes innocently, pretending to look hurt, “Why would I ever do such a thing?”

“Hah.” He scoffed before chugging some more wine and failing to keep track of how much he was drinking each time. “Because you want to keep me on a leash since I don’t throw myself at you like that dumbass cook.”

An impish smirk crawled it’s way onto Nami’s face that made him immediately regret what he’d just said. ‘Fuck. Damnit!’

“So…” She began slowly, savoring every second that the swordsman spent avoiding direct eye contact with her, “You admit that you are one of my lap dogs?”

A muscle in his jaw flexed and he stopped drinking for one second to grunt, “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what I heard!” Chimed Nami as she rose from her seat, stepping over to Zoro and tracing a finger under his jaw while he drained the last few drops of liquid. “I should get you a collar, so people know who to bring you to when you get lost.”

Normally he would have snapped at her for poking fun at his sense, or lack thereof, direction but he wasn’t listening to her. She’d come close enough for him to pick up her scent and maybe it was the alcohol intensifying his feelings, but it was suffocating him in a good way.

He loved the way she smelled. Tangerines from her soaps mixed with salty seawater and traces of sunscreen. A hint of orange blossom, but only when she was close to him like this. 

Zoro inhaled deeply through his nose and, without realizing it, his expression melted into something affectionate and gentle. ‘In two years she’d changed in so many different ways… but she still smelled the same. She still smelled like home.’

                                                        * * *

“What are you thinking about, Zoro?” Her voice void of it’s usual teasing tone, Nami’s curiosity was piqued by his sudden shift in demeanor. He looked soft and peaceful, like he didn’t have anything to worry about. She wanted to know why.

‘Ah, fuck.’ What was he supposed to tell her? That he was thinking about how good she smelled? ‘Yeah right.’ Zoro was quiet for a while, mulling over his words until he came up with an explanation that didn’t sound as creepy – but also wasn’t a lie.

“I guess..” he finally murmured, his gaze shifting to meet hers, “It’s just been a while and… I was thinking about how nice it feels to be back here, with everyone…” a brief pause then he added, “I missed you guys.” ‘Look at him being all gushy and emotional, this wine really was something else.’ Zoro reached to brush his fingertips by her temple, catching a stray lock of hair and tucking it behind her ear, “I missed you.”

When had Zoro ever been this honest with her about the way he felt? Never was the answer, but now he seemed to trust her well enough to know she wouldn’t spill his secrets. Nami took his face in both of her hands, surprising him, and pulled his head down so she could kiss his forehead. “I missed you too, Zoro.”

Something about hearing her say that she’d missed him too broke a dam in his chest that he’d been trying to keep together for two years. Hormoness flooded through his bloodstream quicker than Zoro could even process them and before he knew it he was practically throwing his arms around Nami’s waist and crushing her against his chest.

“Nami—” he pressed his face into her neck to hide the tears that he couldn’t hold back anymore. Sober he might have cared about losing it like this around her but she was here and… ‘He just – needed to hold her.’ Hold her and smell her and feel how real she was because she had almost been taken from him.

‘He’d barely begun to process what he had been through on Thriller Bark when they were attacked in Sabaody. If he tried to think back on it his memories would get hazy and his bones would ache from their very cores. He knew what had happened but it’s like his brain was protecting him from understanding how close to death he’d come. Then – to be torn away from the people he loved with all of his heart? Who he had just nearly killed himself to protect?

It had ripped him apart and rubbed salt into every wound. And it fucking hurt. The same kind of pain he felt when he saw Kuina dead on the floor of their dojo. He was scared, he was furious, he was devastated – all over again but this time it was so much worse. So, so much worse.

That was why he had trained so hard over the last two years. Because he couldn’t bear the grief that came with loving them so deeply – so he got stronger. And stronger. And stronger. No matter the cost to his body, he would become powerful enough to defeat anyone who crossed them. Then… He would never have to feel the agony that he did when he first woke up on Kuraigana Island ever again.

Taking on all of Luffy’s suffering in Thriller Bark had been the most physically painful experience of his entire life – but that was nothing compared to how much it hurt to think that his friends were gone forever, that he hadn’t been able to protect them.

Training made it easy not to think about what had happened -- but now he was home, and they were safe - and he was realizing just how close he’d come to losing all of them. At once. And he could do nothing to stop it.’

Startled by him grabbing her, Nami was prepared to give the pirate a good smack if he was getting handsy but… He started trembling. ‘Was he not feeling well?’ Her mouth opened to form the question then stopped. His breathing hitched while his entire body jerked and she realized…

‘Zoro was crying.’

Roronoa Zoro, who prided himself on his strength, was sobbing wretchedly into her neck. ‘He must have been holding this in since Sabaody.’ Nami’s heart ached for him and his stupid pride that forced him to torture himself instead of letting him cry like he needed to. She’d been expecting him to crash at some point, how couldn’t he? Even someone as strong as Zoro was still a human being.

One of her arms cradled his head while the other wound round his shoulders, her fingers combing gently through his hair. “Oh you sweet, sweet boy…” she spoke in the tone that Bellemere used to use when Nami and Nojiko were frightened by a passing thunderstorm. It always calmed her, maybe it would calm Zoro, too.

‘Quit fucking crying you loser you’re supposed to be a man.’ But he couldn’t, he literally could not stop because he was trying to. “I wasn’t strong enough,” his voice quivered at the edges and he hated it. ‘He was definitely never going to drink this kind of wine again ever. Not if it turned him into a blubbering mess like this every time.’

“Shhh, no. No. Don’t you dare try to blame yourself for what happened. Hey, look at me.” Nami urged his head off her shoulder and cupped his face in both of her palms, “None of us were strong enough, okay? Not even Luffy.” Each tear that fell she tenderly swept away with the pad of her thumb. The corner of her mouth turned up as she assured him, “But we are strong enough now. We can take care of each other. Nothing is ever going to tear us apart again, Zoro.”

‘She was right. Of course, she was right. He needed to have faith in his crewmates and his captain. They could do anything as long as they had each other.’ His breathing slowly evened out as he focused on anchoring himself back to reality. He wasn’t in Sabaody or Kuraigana – he was on the Sunny. In the bar, with Nami who had grown so much since he last saw her. The look in his eye softened like it had before his breakdown.

“You’re staring at me again, Zoro.” The navigator teased, her hands falling to rest on his shoulders. He hadn’t let go of her yet but she didn’t mind, he could hold on to her for as long as he needed.

A ghost of his usual smirk passed across his face. “Sorry, Nami…” Zoro took a little risk by leaning in to press a chaste but lingering kiss to her cheek, then traced a path with the edge of his nose to her ear, murmuring, “Wine makes me a little… Messy.”

[wevegottogetaway]

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone. 

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind. 

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and  a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?" 

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins. 

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-" 

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

                                                       ***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.  

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it. 

                                                       ***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm. 

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!" 

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before. 

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place. 

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?" 

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me." 

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?" 

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation." 

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order. 

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

                                                        ***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once. 

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test. 

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

                                                       ***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

                                                         ***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in? 

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

                                                       ***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming  and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer. 

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether. 

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides. 

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics. 

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that. 

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence." 

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!" 

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming. 

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go. 

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits. 

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows. 

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

                                                       ***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place). 

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm. 

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why. 

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop  for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes. 

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head. 

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

                                                       ***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her. 

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building. 

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant. 

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know. 

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be. 

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them  however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place." 

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection. 

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’." 

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is. 

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper. 

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n." 

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own. 

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear. 

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink. 

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his. 

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."  

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?" 

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words. 

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss. 

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans. 

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right." 

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?" 

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek. 

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead. 

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties." 

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra.  Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach. 

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips. 

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment. 

"Fuck, you’re killin��� me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways. 

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good." 

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough." 

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths. 

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness. 

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?" 

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering. 

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly. 

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind. 

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell. 

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry  doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused. 

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."  

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was." 

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference. 

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

[gumnut-logic]

I know I’ve posted this one before, but what the hell. It’s Johnny and one of my favs :D

-o-o-o-

John Tracy was sick.

Which meant John Tracy wasn’t allowed to go home.

Sure, he could say that he was home, but it didn’t really feel like home. It was full of brothers and people he loved, but it didn’t feel like home.

Home was among the stars.

But apparently astronauts with the flu weren’t allowed to go home.

“It won’t be for long, John. It will be over before you know it.” Virgil was kind and reassuring, but it didn’t really help.

He wanted to go home.

He was determined to work, of course. Until Scott caught him and cut him off.

There were some loud words over that, but the medical department of IR (aka Virgil) sided with the command department (aka Scott) and yeah, he was grounded, cut off from his ‘bird, holed up in his room and miserable.

Of course, his brothers attempted to cheer him up. Alan dumped himself on his bed chattering away with his latest game, all eager enthusiasm. Gordon brought him a pet crab. Even cared for it for him. John was left wondering if it was a snarky metaphor as the crab sat under a rock all day and had a distinct grumpy appearance.

Virgil and Scott were more subtle, but no less caring. Scott ran ideas past him for communications improvements. Piano music and the occasional piece of art found its way into his rooms uninvited.

He appreciated it. Truly, he did.

He just wanted to go home.

The morning he woke up with a cat sleeping on his chest was the last straw.

“C’mon, guys. You know I’m allergic to cats. Are your trying to kill me?” He held the cat out at arm’s length just waiting for his nasal passages to swell up. Though at this point considering his condition, he wasn’t really sure he would notice.

The cat meowed pitifully at him.

Virgil frowned.

Scott arched an eyebrow.

Gordon looked guilty....but then he always looked guilty. John was sure it was an inbuilt survival strategy.

Alan was cooing at the cat and reaching out to scratch it under the chin.

It was an orange stripy thing with big whiskers and that ragdoll floppiness all cats sported.

“Gordon?” Scott’s arched eyebrow was now pointed at the aquanaut.

“What are you looking at me for? I got him the crab, why would I get him a cat? The cat will eat the crab.” Gordon frowned at John. “Don’t let the cat eat the crab.”

Not a sentence John had ever predicted hearing in his lifetime.

“Can someone please take this thing?” He held out the cat even further.

Virgil, still frowning, gently collected the cat from John’s hands and automatically curled it up in his arms. A finger scratched under its chin.

“Thank you. I’m going back to bed.”

And he did.

The next time he woke, a pair of green feline eyes were staring at him, the cat, once again, curled up on his chest.

What?

It meowed at him and poked his nose with a paw.

“Virgil!”

He must have yelled a little too much because next minute his big brother barrelled into the room, panic on his face. “John, what the-?!”

His eyes landed on the cat and his shoulders literally sagged. “Goddamnit, that’s where you are. I’ve been looking for you for hours.” Virgil reached to pick up the cat.

The cat turned from mild mannered bed companion to spitting and screeching demon within a blink. Virgil yelped and fell backwards, his feet slipping on the mat and his butt hitting the floor with a crash.

One of John’s telescopes teetered before tipping ever so slowly. Virgil saw it and struggled to catch it. “Shiiit!” He threw himself in its path and the four-foot metal cylinder landed in his lap.

There was an oomph and Virgil was flat on his back on the floor.

Demon cat kneaded John’s chest a little before settling once more.

It began to purr.

“Virgil? You okay?”

His brother grunted and John struggled out of bed, shoving the cat out of the way. “Virgil?”

“I’m good.” It was up an octave higher than normal. “Sorry about your telescope.”

John grabbed the telescope off his brother and righted it. It was his own fault for leaving it there in the first place. Stargazing from bed was a habit much more easily exercised on TB5.

Virgil waved off his offered hand and rolled over, pushing himself to his feet with another grunt. He eyed the cat with suspicion. “I thought we had an understanding, Bagel.”

The cat eyed Virgil with equal suspicion.

“Bagel?”

“Gordon claims it is your cat so needs a John name.”

“A John name?”

“Yeah, Bagel it is.”

“It’s not my cat! And where did it come from anyway?” John frowned at Virgil. “Another stowaway on Two.”

“No! You know we have sensors for that now. And besides, that was only once.”

“Twice.”

“Once. The polar bear doesn’t count.”

“The polar bear most assuredly does count. Alan still hasn’t forgiven you.”

“Really?”

“It was a polar bear, Virgil.”

“Yeah, well, that is your cat.”

“That is not my cat.”

“Apparently she has decided she is yours.” Virgil held up his hands. Several scratches decorated his skin. “I have enough of these already. She’s yours.”

“I’m allergic.”

Virgil peered up at him, brown eyes assessing. “You don’t appear to be suffering a reaction. She’s been gone for hours. If she has been here, on your chest all that time, you should be showing the affects. All I can see is the remains of your flu.” A frown. “Are you feeling any better?”

It was John’s turn to frown. He had almost forgotten he was ill, but now his attention returned to his body, the signs were clear.

But he was feeling a little better.

“A little.”

Virgil reached up and squeezed his arm. “Good. You hungry?”

A brief consultation with his stomach and he realised that yes, he was. “Yes, I think so.”

A smile spread over his brother’s face. “Great. You’re on the mend.” Another squeeze of his arm and Virgil turned towards the door. “Meet you in the kitchen. Scott went all out this morning and made pancakes. I stashed you some. Gotta grab them before Gordon discovers them.”

“FAB.” John couldn’t help but return his brother’s smile.

Virgil grinned and with a half-hearted groan rubbed his butt and staggered with some exaggeration out the door. “Don’t forget your cat.”

John turned back to stare at the ginger monstrosity still sitting on his bed, calmly grooming.

“Bagel, is it?”

The cat blinked and kept licking its fur.

John sighed and grabbed his clothes.

-o-o-o-

The cat followed him downstairs for the meal, which turned out to be dinner. He had managed to sleep the day away. Apparently, this was a good thing, because for the first time in days, he could move without creaking.

Virgil had indeed stashed pancakes and within minutes there was a short stack piled up in front of him complete with ice cream and maple syrup. Before he even bothered to acknowledge the envy emanating from Gordon across the other side of the table, the stack began to disappear.

Scott knew how to make pancakes. John considered his big brother’s purpose in life and came to the immediate conclusion that it should be IR, family and pancakes.

Of course, pancakes could be a subset of family if considered that way, but there was always the possibility of him opening a business as a pancake chef.

Blink.

Yes, the flu had obviously taken part of his brain with it.

A pair of blue eyes and two pairs of brown were staring at him.

“What?”

“Did you bother to breathe between bites, bro?” Gordon gestured with his head at the table.

John looked down and found his plate empty. “Guess I was hungry. Scott makes great pancakes.”

“Yes, he does.” Virgil plonked a glass of orange juice in front of him and took away his sticky plate. “Now drink your juice and we’ll set up for family movie.”

“Aren’t you guys going to eat?”

“Already eaten.” Scott was poking at his phone, holograms bouncing around above it. “Grandma made meatloaf surprise again.”

John choked on his juice. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.” Scott did look a little green around the gills.

Well, that explained the envy on Gordon’s face and why Alan was very absent.

“Anyone feed the youngest?”

“All under control.” Virgil chucked Gordon a celery crunch bar and the aquanaut grabbed it from the air.

It was devoured faster than John’s pancakes.

Virgil wandered back into the kitchen proper and soon there was the delicious smell of hot popcorn wafting through the room. The engineer walked past the table again and dumped a chocolate bar in front of Scott. Another one landed in front of John.

“Consider it a survivor’s reward.” Virgil grabbed Scott’s phone out of his hand.

“Hey!”

“Stop working, this is family time. Everything can wait a couple of hours.”

Scott glared at his brother, but grabbed the chocolate bar and capitulated anyway.

Probably because he knew Virgil was right. It was so easy to get absorbed with International Rescue business. John knew he was a fantastic example case of such a syndrome.

A sigh.

Scott glanced up at him. “How are you doing, John?” A smirk. “How’s Bagel?”

As if beckoned, the cat in question suddenly leapt up on to the table and stalked the length of it towards Scott. John’s eyes widened as his eldest brother was targeted by a feline glare of epic proportions.

Scott’s expression was quite an amusing mixture and defiance and terror. Bagel sat down in front of him and after a moment of intense eyeballing decided Scott was boring and started washing herself.

“That is one weird cat, John.”

Everyone jumped as Bagel shot to her feet and dashed across the table at Gordon. “Holy crap!” The aquanaut scrambled backwards as Bagel ran at him. He tangled his feet in the stool he was sitting on and with a crash, ended up on the floor.

“Ow.”

Reaching the edge of the table, Bagel stopped and peered down at the fallen Thunderbird and, apparently deciding Gordon was no more interesting than Scott, sat down and returned to grooming.

The remaining three vertical brothers stared at each other and the cat.

No one said a thing.

“Uh, can someone give me a hand up, here?” Gordon vaguely waved an arm about and Virgil edged around the table to help his brother up.

His eyes barely left Bagel.

“Has anyone fed the cat?” John threw the question in there as a bit of an icebreaker since said cat had frozen the room almost solid.

Bagel looked up and stared at John for a moment before jumping to her feet and ambling over. A simple step off the table and she was in his lap, circling for moment to find a comfortable spot, then curling up and purring.

Again, everyone was staring at the orange fluff ball, John included.

“You have a very strange cat.” Apparently, Gordon hadn’t learnt from his earlier experience, but fortunately, Bagel ignored him this time.

John stared down at the purring ball of fur.

Yes, it seems he did.

-o-o-o-

Despite the possessed cat, the rest of the night went very well. All five brothers plus Kayo threw down some pillows, curled up in front of the holoprojector and waded through a trashy b-grade movie that looked like they were using mannequins for actors and plastic models for set pieces. There was popcorn, laughter and loving family. John felt warm and relaxed and better than he had in days. Somewhere between action scenes, he drifted off to the tinny soundtrack and the sound of his brothers criticising the special effects.

“Johnny?” It was whispered “Johnny, you’ve got to move or you’ll end up with one hell of a neckache.”

A blink and he found himself looking at Virgil upside down. Wha-?

“C’mon, bro. Up you get.” And his brother was lifting him up. Another blink and he realised he was lying on one of the couches...almost upside down, his feet at an angle above his head with his head hanging off the seat cushion. He was far too long for the piece of furniture and, apparently, he had stretched in his sleep.

Virgil was shifting his shoulders into a more horizontal position. Beyond him, the holoprojector was listing all the languages the movie was available in, complete with appropriate copyright warnings. Idly he noted that the Hungarian translation had an error in the third line.

John let his feet drop to the end of the couch before folding up enough to force himself upright. Ugh, Virgil was right. His neck cricked and creaked along with his spine. God, gravity was a nasty piece of work. It had also apparently dribbled all the mucus in his body into his head. His skull protested at the pressure as he sat up and he groaned.

“John?”

Why did everyone think Scott was the worry wart of the family? Virgil with his medical radar was just as bad, if not worse. “I’m fine. Just a head full of snot.” Ugh. Right between his eyeballs, throbbing to the beat of his heart. “Just kill me now.”

Suddenly there was an orange cat in his face, staring.

“What? Bagel, not now.” He gently picked up the cat and put her on the couch beside him. Where the hell had she come from anyway?

A pitiful meow was her response and she edged nearer brushing her cheek against his arm.

Despite himself, he turned to her. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up at him with a combination of adoration and haughtiness. He had no idea what to make of that expression.

Of course, she was a cat. Who understood cats?

“Are you two having a moment?” His brother’s smiling baritone broke the silence and to John’s surprise, Bagel turned to Virgil and hissed angrily.

His big brother took a hurried step back.

“Bagel! Leave him alone! He will never hurt you. For goodness sake, Virgil wouldn’t hurt a fly. Give him some respect.”

To his complete surprise, Bagel stopped hissing immediately. She turned to him almost a question on her face before once again looking at Virgil. Her head dropped and stared at the floor.

“What the hell?” It was little more than breath and all his big brother. Virgil was staring at Bagel, his brow crumpling into a deep frown.

Bagel’s head shot up and once again she was staring at Virgil.

Virgil’s frown got even deeper.

“John where did you get this cat from?”

“I told you, I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Virgil continued his staring contest with the cat.

“What is it?” His brother’s expression was becoming unnerving, so suddenly determined, it was almost fierce.

“I don’t know.” A pause. “Keep her out of sensitive areas for me, will you?”

“Sure.”

Bagel continued to stare at Virgil.

Virgil continued to stare at Bagel.

A solid moment passed and then his brother was shaking his head, looking at his feet, looking at John. “You good to make it up to your rooms?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to go hunt down Scott. One of the TI directors in the States forgot the time zones. He’s been on the phone for half an hour already.” Virgil sighed.

“Need backup?”

“No.” A hand dropped to John’s shoulder. “You go to bed, you need it. I’ve got this.” The hand disappeared and Virgil climbed out of the lounge, heading towards the balcony.

Bagel was licking her paw.

John sighed. Perhaps some paracetamol would help. “C’mon, Bagel, apparently, you’re with me.” He picked her up and held her against his chest as he staggered to his feet. Cursed gravity. How he missed being able to make the smallest movements and coast across a room.

Bagel reached her head up and snuggled under his chin, her purr vibrating his sternum.

“Why me?” It was little more than an exhaled breath and he wasn’t sure it was a complaint or an actual question.

In either case, Bagel didn’t answer. She just purred into his chest.

So, it remained a mystery for another night.

-o-o-o-

“It just appeared. No trace on sensors, nothing. It’s as if it didn’t exist before the day before yesterday.”

Virgil’s puzzled voice echoed up the stairs as John approached the kitchen the next morning. He glanced at his watch. This was early for his brother; he usually wasn’t up for another hour at least.

“I’m telling you, Scott, there is something very strange about that cat.”

John paused at the top of the stairs, his hands curled around Bagel, gently scratching her under the chin. He had awoken again with her on his chest, but unlike the previous two incidents, he had found himself surprisingly comforted with her presence.

Her purring was strangely calming.

“I will admit she is quite volatile.” Scott’s voice was surprisingly reluctant. “She didn’t even take to Gordon. Every living creature takes to Gordon. Except lizards, I guess. Hell, she doesn’t even like you.”

“That’s just it. She doesn’t act like a cat.”

“What, just because she doesn’t like you?”

“I’m sorry, Scott. Something just doesn’t feel right. Why is she so attached to John? What if she is a plant after our technology?”

“A tech seeking cat? Really?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time an animal has been used for espionage.”

Scott sighed and John shifted, attempting to loosen the tense muscles in his shoulders.

“It’s just that John appears to have latched onto Bagel as much as the cat has to him. How often does John attach to anybody?”

“And that’s what scares me the most. What happens when he returns to TB5? He can’t take a cat with him. It wouldn’t be safe for either of them.”

“Then we look after Bagel for him.”

It was Virgil’s turn to sigh and it was a worried one.

John chose that moment to make his entrance. He stepped lightly down the stairs. “You two really do worry far too much.”

Both brothers started as he entered. The guilty expressions on their faces were quite amusing.

“Virgil, if you are worried about Bagel, scan her.” John held the cat out to his brother. “Take her up to the infirmary and run her through a thorough physical. In fact, I would prefer if you did since as you said, I have become somewhat attached to her. As to what we are going to do when I return to Five...” He shrugged. “I hope we can work something out.”

Virgil managed to look both apologetic and sad.

To John’s astonishment, Bagel wriggled out of his grip and jumped down to the floor. She ambled over to Virgil. His brother froze, obviously wary, but the cat gently brushed up against his leg and rubbed the length of her body across his boots.

The whole room stared.

“Good morning, Bagel.” Virgil’s voice was a little breathless.

“Good morning, Virgil.” The whole room jumped as Brains jogged down the stairs and passing them, bee-lined for the fridge.

“‘Morning, Brains, John.” Gordon wandered in from the pool rubbing a towel through his hair. “Yaargh! What the hell, Virgil. You gone to the cat side?” He took several steps back as he caught sight of Bagel.

Bagel, still wrapped around Virgil’s ankles, turned towards Gordon and spat at him.

“That damn cat is possessed.” The aquanaut made sure the table was between him and the feline.

Bagel glared at him, following with her eyes.

“Eos, I know G-Gordon can b-be a challenge, b-but really, h-he is a good man.” Brains was pouring milk into his cereal on the bench.

“Yes, but he is so annoying.” The AI’s voice bounced across the house’s comm system.

“He st-still deserves r-respect.”

The comm system grunted.

Every eye in the room stared at the engineer.

Gordon found his voice first. “Wow, Brains, thanks.”

John was staring at Bagel. “Eos what do you know about Bagel?”

“Oh, John, everything.” The little imp was so smug.

Two strides and John was beside Virgil. Reaching down, he snagged Bagel off the floor and held her up, his eyes raking over the cat. A moment of intense examination. Bagel stared back at him calmly.

“Okay, how did you do it?”

“Do what, John?”

“Do not mess with me, Eos. I want answers and I want them now.”

“Hiram helped me.”

“Helped you do what?” Scott’s voice was sharp. “Brains?”

“It was a v-very interesting challenge.”

“What did you do, Brains?” Commander Tracy stood up from the table, his height saying everything it needed to.

Brains didn’t notice.

“Oh, Eos had an e-excellent idea to equip Thunderbird F-Five with an internal m-mobile probe mechanism.

“Yes, something that could get into the spaces John cannot.” Still smug. Oh, there would be some serious talking at a later time.

“So, you built a cat.” Virgil’s eyes were wide.

Brains sipped his orange juice, still seemingly unaware of the tension in the room. “She didn’t think I could. So, I did.” He was definitely pleased with himself.

“You built a cat?” Gordon was an echo of his brother. “That cat?” He stabbed a finger in Bagel’s direction.

“Yes?” Finally, the man appeared to realise that something was amiss. “I’m v-very happy with the r-results. It performs v-very well.”

It certainly did. John had her under his arm and found himself scratching her under her chin despite everything.

He forced himself to stop.

“John?”

“Yes, Eos?”

“Do you like her?” Suddenly he was a parent faced with his child’s school science project and the need for approval.

Some science project.

“I like her, Eos.”

“Can we keep her?”

“That is yet to be decided.” It came out firm. It needed to be firm...even though he already knew the answer.

“But-“

“Eos, why didn’t you tell us Bagel wasn’t really a cat?”

“But she is...”

“Eos.”

“John...”

“Eos!”

“I missed you.”

He froze. “I’m right here.”

“But it’s not the same.” That was a definite whine. “You’re not with me. It gets lonely up here without you. So, I built a way to be down there with you.” Bagel rubbed her cheek against his hand.

“Eos is in the cat?” Gordon’s jaw may as well have been on the floor. “She hates me that much?!”

“I don’t hate you, Gordon. You are quite funny. Somewhat clumsy, but funny.”

“Eos.”

“Yes, John?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

No answer.

“Brains, why didn’t you tell us?” Commander Tracy was glaring at the engineer.

“T-Tell you what?”

“About Eos and the cat.”

“That would have r-ruined the experiment.”

“What?”

“Eos w-wanted to see if the f-feline programming was sufficient. The b-best way to do that was test it.”

“On us?” Gordon spouted outrage.

“Surprisingly only V-Virgil appears to have b-been concerned. I w-would be interested to hear your evaluation.”

“Sure.” Virgil appeared to still be processing. Probably attempting to work out exactly how Brains had pulled it off.

“Brains, you, Eos, John and I are going to have a serious conversation.” Scott’s voice was stern. “This is not happening again. This family is not an experimental lab.”

“It was not his fault, Commander.”

Scott arched an eyebrow up at the ceiling. “Really, Eos? I have no doubt that John has a few choice words to be said on this matter.” Oh, yes, choice and many. “In the meantime, please cease the experiment.”

“But-“

“Eos.”

“Very well.”

The cat in John’s arms went completely limp.

He couldn’t help it; a gasp passed his lips and he caught the sudden dead weight with both hands. “Eos!”

All life had left Bagel. She became nothing more than a lifeless corpse. Something inside him lurched horribly.

Every eye in the room was staring at him.

“John?” Virgil’s eyes flashed concern.

He gathered up the cat in his arms and gently placed her on the seat of one of the kitchen chairs.

So real. He shivered.

“You okay?” His big brother was suddenly beside him.

“That was unnerving.” Both of them stared at the immobile TB5 internal remote probe mechanism.

“Eos, can you please reactivate Bagel.”

“Virgil-“

“No, Scott. Too creepy, too real. Please, just...leave her be.”

To John’s surprise, Scott didn’t protest.

But Bagel didn’t move.

“Eos?” His own voice sounded hollow in his ears.

“Yes, John?”

“Please reactivate Bagel.”

“Why?”

“Eos, just please.”

“Very well.”

And Bagel uncurled herself, sat up and glared at Scott. Before Eos could exact any form of petulant revenge, he grabbed Bagel off the chair and held her in his arms.

“Thank you, Eos.”

“You are very welcome.” Impertinent little brat.

“Now, I’m going to have breakfast, then we are going to have that conversation.”

“Yes, John.”

Something in the room snapped and suddenly everyone went back to their morning routine with only the occasional stare at the cat in his arms.

“Would you like some cereal, John?” Virgil was heading towards the fridge.

“You don’t have to get me breakfast, Virgil.”

“You have your hands full and I’ve already had mine.”

“How early were you up this morning?”

“Early enough. Your cat weirded me out.”

Bagel was rubbing her cheek against his fingers again. He grabbed a chair and sat himself down, placing Bagel on the chair beside him. She started grooming herself quite content.

A bowl was placed in front of him, followed by a cereal box, milk and another glass of orange juice.

Bagel stared up at him

He shook his head slowly. “What am I going to do with you?”

The cat tilted her head and licked her whiskers.

And he knew that somewhere far above the planet his daughter was laughing.

-o-o-o-

[chockfullofsecrets]

Critical Role: Waiting For My Mind To Go To Sleep

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Teen & Up for Caleb having a pretty bad day

Summary: He levers himself up from the little nest he’s made of his arms, his sudden suspicion the only thing keeping him from stumbling over the word. “This does not tickle one bit, by the way.”

“Okay,” Caduceus says. “Did you want it to?”

Caleb can't sleep. Caduceus decides to take matters into his own hands.

Wordcount: 5.3k (SAVE ME)

A/N: so this turned into... something... i think it’s safe to say in general that if you ever feel like Caleb, please take a deep breath and do something nice for yourself <3 

For anyone who's trying to keep track - set after Difficult, with a bit of reference to Staying Warm.

---

Caleb has not possessed a desk in a long time, so it is a shame that he is currently wasting his new one as a place to rest his head while he waits for exhaustion to take him.

He’s counting off the end of twelve minutes, growing increasingly frustrated as the simplicity of the numbers fails to stop his brain from running itself in ragged circles, when slow footsteps sound out from the hallway. “Oh, you’re still up.”

It’s Caduceus. Caleb peels himself off long-dried sheets of spellwork and tries to make himself look a little less like an empty shell of a person. “Ja, I am up, what can I do for you.”

The slight downward tilt to Caduceus’ eyebrows in an otherwise placid expression radiates disappointment. “You said you were going to sleep, earlier.”

Earlier being an hour and forty minutes ago, when Caduceus passed by him with a full teapot on his way to the roof. Strange, given that the kitchen is just next to the staircase and his study is on the opposite side of the house. He sighs and rubs at his face - there is a chance, however slight, that this time pressing at his temples will actually help with the headache even if he deserves the fucking thing for getting them here in the first place. “I am working on ah, a new spell, I am a little distracted.”

It’s not a lie, exactly. Studying is distracting him from sleep, and the cold comfort of possessing a house and certain debt gifted to them by a major political faction of the Kryn dynasty is distracting him from studying, no matter how nice his desk is. The last time his life took such a turn, he was a young man recently arrived in Rexxentrum with his two best friends in the entire world - he can think of many, many good reasons to prise the jaw of this particular gift horse open.

The problem, then, is stopping. Easy enough, when he can turn himself into a bat, but his distracted attempts at study and the resulting failures have removed even that avenue from him today. It is lucky that the Dynasty has yet to ask a new favor from them that would require him to cast.

But then, he has never held much hope for luck - and, oh, Caduceus has moved much nearer at some point.

“I will sleep,” he acquiesces, nodding in the vague direction of a flowing sleeve, and refrains from adding any sort of incriminating time frame. “You should get some rest as well, mein freund.”

Caduceus clears his throat, somewhere miles overhead. “Your arms are going to get sore, if you keep doing that.”

He looks down. Takes a deep breath and lets it out as he pulls his hands away from the scars and lays them flat against the fine wooden grain of the desk. “Thank you.”

That should be the end of it, he thinks, and he can go back to counting miserably, but the smudge of pink in his peripheral vision stays stubbornly present. “Is… is there something else?”

“You know,” Caduceus says with that unruffled serenity of his, “I think I’m going to make some more tea. I’ll bring you a cup, and we’ll sit for a while.”

Caleb winces.

He is fond of Caduceus, very much so, as he is of all his friends. It is just - it is not that he doesn’t know he is terrible, anymore, he has revealed all but the worst of it in Felderwin and their group has decided that his contributions are worth the trouble of associating with him anyway. But Caduceus, who cares so naturally and unselfishly, who operates with a faith in everything around him that Caleb cannot begin to understand - something about his knowing gaze is unsettling, when Caleb cannot tell what he knows or how he is judging him.

The part of him that is tired would welcome a friendly presence to lull him to sleep, instinctively knowing by now that they are safer here than nearly anywhere else in the world. The other part, bitter and exhausted, trusts no one. Least of all himself, when he cannot even think through political machinations.

He’s waited too long to respond - he can feel Caduceus’ gaze now, prickling at the side of his head. “I can bring some of this to the kitchen, if that is where you are going.”

“Oh, I was thinking we could use your bed,” Caduceus says. The visual of Jester waggling her eyebrows suggestively springs to mind, and he bites the inside of his cheek before he can smile. “Why don’t you go lie down, and I’ll be there in a minute with the tea.”

It sounds more like a command, really - Caduceus wanders off, and there’s nothing to do after that but to retreat to his room. He begins the rote process of shucking his boots and socks in deference to the warm night and reaches up for his holsters.

His fingers close around the buckles, and suddenly he is frozen, possibilities of disaster everywhere. It will be safer if they stay on him, even though they are in the middle of a residential neighborhood, he has to keep them close-

He breathes out, slowly, through his nose and strips them off as well. It feels like a punishment, but then, maybe that is how he can stop himself from thinking too much. Not that it has ever worked before, piling discomfort upon discomfort like a stone wall, but if it is what he has to hand at the moment then so be it.

Next, the bed. He takes a step towards the bed, knowing that is where Caduceus will expect to find him - but his mind is still spinning with a dozen different threads, spells and spycraft and a sudden curiosity as to what the Kryn stuff their mattresses with, surely they do not grow hay or cotton here-

He’s still standing there when Caduceus ducks through the doorframe, large fingers wrapped with delicate care around the handles of two mugs, and shuffles one of them forcefully into his hands. “There we go. It’s not too hot, is it?”

He gulps the first sip down inelegantly. It’s the perfect temperature to warm his throat without burning his tongue, as Caduceus’ tea always is, but it feels - wrong, somehow - “Is there something in this?”

Caduceus blinks down at him. “Oh, did some of the tea leaves get through the strainer? I mean, they’re probably pretty tiny if they can do that, but I can try to pick ‘em out if they’re bugging you.”

“Ah - I mean - it tastes-” He pauses, proceeds more delicately. “There is not anything in this meant to put me to sleep?”

Caduceus looks surprised, for a moment, before patient amusement washes over his face - Caleb glances down, awkwardly, and hopes that the gentle steaming of the cup in his hands hides the way his face flushes. “It’s not drugged, if that’s what you’re asking. But with how tired you look, I’m not surprised that’s what it feels like.”

“Oh,” he says. Maybe if he downs the entire thing in one shot, it will do him the mercy of knocking him out here and now anyway.

Suddenly Caduceus’ hands are on his, gently pulling the empty cup away from his fingers and setting it down next to his holsters. “Mind if I sit?”

“No,” Caleb says, and then “Uh-” as Caduceus takes him by the elbow and starts leading him in the direction of the bed. “Wait, what are we doing?”

“C’mere,” Caduceus tells him, easing himself down at the edge of the mattress and folding his legs up beneath him.

He stares stupidly. “Where?”

“On the bed, ideally.” Caduceus says, and tugs him a little closer. “Didn’t seem like you were gonna make it there yourself.”

He should walk around to the other side and lay down there, he knows, but months of travel with these people have ruined him - he sits automatically next to Caduceus and leans into his side as he might if they were stopping for an hour of rest before realizing what he’s done.

He jerks away. “Ah - you meant to lay down, of course, I will just-”

“Nope,” Caduceus says, and promptly snakes his arm around Caleb and pulls him over into his lap.

His back hits Caduceus’ knee with a solid thump - he flounders for a moment, trying to figure out where all his limbs are among the tangle of long firbolg legs, and then he realizes that Caduceus is watching him.

Their eyes meet. Caduceus smiles down at him, seemingly unbothered by the presence of an idiot in his lap. “There, you’re laying down,” he says. “Comfy?”

“Hnnnng,” Caleb whimpers. He rolls over as best he can and buries his face in his arms, unwilling to bear the eye contact - how many more things can he do wrong today?

Caduceus hums thoughtfully.

The next thing he feels is softness as gentle fingers undo his ponytail, combing through the strands, and arrange his hair to lay loosely around him - they smooth the last of it down and start massaging the back of his head, rubbing gently behind his ears.

It is so completely unexpected that it undoes him; he spares a single moment of thankfulness that he’s washed his hair recently and succumbs to the simple bliss. “Oh, Scheisse, that feels good.”

Caduceus’ belly, pressed warm against his side, shakes in quiet amusement. “Thought it might,” he says. “You’re not easy to calm down, are you.”

“No,” Caleb says, honestly regretful. Even as the rush of tingles from having his scalp scratched washes down his back, he still cannot make himself stop thinking - about whether he has manipulated Caduceus into doing this by being too lazy to take himself to bed earlier, about what he can do to return the favor-

“I know you think that I am neglecting myself,” he says finally, groaning a little as Caduceus drags a thumb firmly down the back of his neck. “I know I need to rest so that I can cast, I just - ah - it is tricky-”

Caduceus pauses, rubbing at the edge of his shoulder blade for a moment. “Of course you can take care of yourself.” He punctuates the statement by untwisting Caleb’s spine with a loud crack that leaves him gasping in sudden relief as a good amount of the tension in his back disappears. “Doesn’t hurt to have a little help, though.”

He scratches lightly at the backs of Caleb’s ribs. It’s pleasantly sharp, little pinpricks of sensation rushing up and down, and Caleb squirms happily for a moment into his hands before he realizes.

He levers himself up from the little nest he’s made of his arms, his sudden suspicion the only thing keeping him from stumbling over the word. “This does not tickle one bit, by the way.”

“Okay,” Caduceus says. “Did you want it to?”

Squirming a little more, he bites back the traitorous yes, please that forms on the back of his tongue. “No.”

“Then be good and stay still,” Caduceus says, and keeps scratching.

Caleb huffs and sticks his nose back into the crook of his elbow. “You are very bossy sometimes, you know that?”

He tenses as soon as he says it - there is a reason he keeps these things to himself unless he is talking about Beauregard, who seems to prefer his annoyance to most other things that leave his mouth.

Caduceus just chuckles. “You don’t have any siblings, do you.”

“No,” he says - and then, if only because they have been on his mind of late as he thinks about politics and consequences - “old friends, though, growing up.”

“Shame,” Caduceus hums, hands sliding down to scuff at his sides. “Then I guess you’ve never been in a tickle fight.”

There is the familiar, guilty, sting, thinking of the past - but one more thread of thought could hardly make the tangle any worse, could it? Of course Astrid and Wulf had known he was ticklish, they knew everything about one another. In the beginning, when there was still time for such things, he remembers them abusing the knowledge at times when Ikithon’s clear favoritism rankled a little too much, or, more rarely, to play - it had been much easier, then, to make him smile.

And then Molly, with his infernal grin and equally devilish fingers prodding for every sensitive spot he could find, the teasing - and that night by the fire, just before Hupperdook, his arm blazingly warm around Caleb’s shoulders in the winter chill as he jostled him around and assured him that it was perfectly normal to want such affections.

They are kind memories, even with the bitter regret of his own blame in their ending, and -

Verdammt, his ribs are starting to get sensitive.

He tries to breathe through it, but his lungs are fidgeting as badly as the rest of him would like to, startled and giddy; instead, he presses the edges of his fingernails into his palms and tries to see reason in the dark cradle of his forearms.

This will not help him sleep. He is wasting Caduceus’ time, if he lets this continue. It does not matter what he wants, when he has no right to ask for any of it.

“Caduceus,” he starts. The syllables shiver on his lips, too close to laughter for comfort. He tries again. “Caduceus, I - I am feeling much calmer now-” His heartbeat pounds loudly in his ears. “-if you would let me up-”

“Hey,” Caduceus says. “You got all tense again, stop doing that.”

“I just-” The path of Caduceus’ ministrations drifts over his sides, sending already-tingling nerves into high alert, and he panics. “Let go of me!”

It is the exact worst thing he could say, made worse in the harsh tone in which he spits it - the hands that have been chasing pleasantly up and down his spine still and lift away, the simple action radiating just as much disappointment as Caduceus’ furrowed eyebrows earlier, and his back arches in a miserable attempt to follow them before he can stop himself.

He bites his lip. He needs to apologize. He needs to crawl away and back to his desk like the worm he is, as heavy as Caduceus’ judgment is weighing down on him. He needs to do something other than lie here-

“Well, you don’t look very calm,” Caduceus says mildly. “You okay?”

“I am fine,” Caleb grits out automatically. He cannot be incapable of even the simplest of thought, he cannot-

“Huh.”

One of Caduceus’ hands makes its reappearance, suddenly, at his neck, two fingers slipping along the stubble under his chin to rest on his racing pulse and catch him in his lie.

The other, even more inconveniently, reappears just by the exposed hollow of his left armpit.

Suddenly, he cannot think of anything at all - he jumps and squeaks and curls away as best he can, fighting back the tremulous ah-ah-ah-! of burgeoning laughter that bubbles up behind his teeth as five fingers flutter merrily against the thin cotton of his sleeve.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Caduceus says placidly. He stops moving his fingers, but they just stay there, just barely touching, as if he is daring Caleb to try and crush them under his arm and see what happens.

Things seem very dangerous in a completely different way than they did seconds ago - if he was at peril of sinking, before, the feather-light presence against tender skin makes him feel like he might float away. He holds as still as he can, waiting.

Still, he shivers all the way down to his toes as Caduceus clears his throat. “You know, I have a sister - had? - uh-”

“May have, if you are uncertain,” Caleb says automatically, decades-old Common grammar lessons rushing to the forefront in lieu of any instinct that might actually be useful, and promptly bites his tongue.

“Sure,” Caduceus concedes, and gives his armpit another good tickle. Caleb squeaks again and tries fruitlessly to wrap his arms more tightly around his head. “She’d swear up and down that she wasn’t ticklish too, when she didn’t want to be. Not that it helped her much if you got a hold of her feet.”

Caleb becomes suddenly, horribly aware of his own exposed soles - he is facedown on the bed, his knees will not even bend the right way to let him hide them against the mattress-

Caduceus must catch the involuntary scrunch of his toes - he laughs, low and pleased, and pats him warmly on the back. “I think your ribs were working out just fine, but if you’re curious-”

“I am not.” Caleb says hastily.

Something swoops, low and excited, in his belly.

It really isn’t fair how tall Caduceus is, especially when it means that he can keep one threatening hand pressed to Caleb’s ribs at the same time he reaches for his feet. Caleb, still bundled facedown in his lap, only realizes what is about to happen when he feels a soft, fuzzy palm close around his heel. “Oh - oh, bitte-”

The first pass is a single fingertip, drawing tiny circles on the calloused ball of his foot. It hardly feels like anything at all, and for one foolish moment Caleb lets himself relax.

Then the fingertip drifts down to the softer arch, wriggling into a crease as his foot curls reflexively, and it tickles like a motherfucker.

“No, no, NO,” he yelps, and scrambles blindly through the next few moments -he jabs something solid with his elbow, cool air rushing on his face as he twists and pulls his knees in, but all that is secondary to the rush of relief as he gets something beneath his feet and jams them against it. He squeezes his eyes shut and pants, clutching his chest as if he can will his lungs into proper behavior.

Something knobbly vibrates against his shoulder.

He freezes. “Um.”

It takes a long moment for him to realize that he is, somehow, still in Caduceus’ lap - his shoulder is pressed to homespun cloth and a bony chest, his feet are crowded up against one of Caduceus’ thighs as the rest of him perches on the other.

His seat shakes a little as Caduceus continues to laugh at him. At this point, Caleb can hardly blame him.

Caduceus lets out a long, happy sigh just above where he’s pressed his face back into his hands in blatant embarrassment. “Oh, we’re going to have to hold you down for that, huh.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, like it is a foregone conclusion that someday Caleb will find himself with his ankles pinned and teasing fingers coming for him, helpless to stop them. It’s far too easy to picture, just now, and despite himself anticipatory giggles start to well up in his chest.

Unacceptable - Caleb presses his lips together, burrows as far into his hands as he can and tries fervently to pretend that he is not still well within range of someone capable of doing all of these things. What is wrong with him? Nothing is happening, no one really wants to tickle him, it is not funny-

Caduceus’ fingers, though, are still moving - one hand is dancing over the tops of his feet now, hardly touching, worrying at his ankles and the sparse hair on his toes. It doesn’t even - it shouldn’t tickle, but he can’t stop thinking that it might, or that Caduceus might reach for his ribs again, and he is too tired to redirect his thoughts anymore, he feels halfway to dreaming already, and - “Hnnmm - heeeh -”

His cheeks are already warm from the desperate effort of not laughing, but they burn even brighter as the giggles start flooding out.

Caduceus can surely hear him, for all that he is hiding his face and never intends to reveal it again, and besides that he is squirming, winching his arms to his sides and scrubbing his feet uselessly against the rough fabric of Caduceus’ trousers to try and get away from his fingers without lifting them. “Heheeeh - ahaha - oh, stop, stop, help, I cahahan’t-”

Curling up in a ball doesn’t seem to help at all - a small part of him knows that he’s more or less tickling himself at this point, but all that means is that there’s nothing to get away from as he twitches and begs, no mercy from his own overtired brain, no one to help him get out-

Just as the panic really starts to choke him, something warm and grounding wraps around his shoulders.

He regains just enough awareness to feel Caduceus’ huge palm cradle the side of his head and pull him into his chest. “Shhhh,” he soothes, so low that it rumbles through the both of them. “I’m here, I’ve got you. Breathe, breathe.”

Caleb comes back to himself slowly, like the tide pulling back from the rocky cliffs of Darktow - the exhaustion is still there, burning behind his eyelids, but the thunderous crash of his heart in his ears slows to a steady echo under Caduceus’ touch. He takes in a tentative breath and nearly buckles from relief as it stays in his lungs.

Caduceus murmurs something to himself, pensive. Caleb hears it more through his chest than his ears. “Better?”

He sucks in a few more breaths before he feels calm enough to answer, slumping further against Caduceus and drawing his hands cautiously away from his face. “I am fairly sure that is not how ti- ah, how that is supposed to work,” he says tiredly. “But at least it is over. Caduceus, I am sorry-”

“Oh, I’m still going to tickle you,” Caduceus says, and Caleb nearly starts choking again.

A thousand startled exclamations catch in his throat. “Why,” is the one he gets out, and oh, he does not even begin to know what to do anymore with the excited little twist in his belly at hearing Caduceus’ words.

Gentle fingers take his chin and tilt it up until he can see Caduceus looking back softly back down at him. “You’re not being very nice to yourself, are you.”

That wrenches a rueful little smirk from him. “And why should I be?”

“Don’t do that,” Caduceus admonishes. He doesn’t - frown, exactly, just looks at Caleb more intensely until he has to fight the urge to wriggle himself loose.

“You were disappointed, earlier, when it didn’t tickle, don’t think I didn’t see it.” He tries to shake his head, but Caduceus holds him still. “I saw how you looked when I said we’d have to hold you down later, too - you want me to tickle you, Caleb, so I’m going to. That’s enough.”

Caleb opens his mouth to tell Caduceus that he doesn’t want it, that he has long since accepted that tickling is a happy and childish thing for those who do not have to try all the time to not be terrible, but he can’t quite get the lie out under his steady gaze. “I shouldn’t,” he says instead. “I should sleep, I am just wasting your time.”

Caduceus huffs, cuddling him impossibly closer and rubbing a thumb over his cheek, and Caleb has to close his eyes - he does not know, sometimes, how these people can be so careful with him, so willing to offer affection, unless he has tricked them somehow. He does not know how to repay it, either. It is hard to tell which piece of his ignorance is worse.

“You’re not. We’re going to talk about that, someday, when I’m not trying to put you to bed,” Caduceus tells his eyelids. “But that night after the dragon, a little tickling put you to sleep just fine - and you were doing all right until you decided you were going to be stubborn.”

Caleb has to smile at that, just a bit - Caduceus sounds openly affectionate, if mildly frustrated, and even though he does not deserve that it is a little funny to think that he might be as much of a troublemaker as Jester or Beauregard simply for refusing to sit still in Caduceus’ lap.

Caduceus pokes lightly at the slight round of his cheek. “There, that’s better.”

He loosens his grip, then, letting go of Caleb for just long enough to loop his arm around his chest. Caleb opens his eyes, curious - Caduceus is smiling at him, slow and mischievous, and his elbows automatically twitch halfway to his sides before he realizes that Caduceus’ arm is in the way and blocking him from getting them all the way down.

That tricky, light feeling takes hold of his chest again. “Ah - Caduceus?”

Caduceus adjusts his grip a little and raises his other hand, wiggling his fingers in a way that might be considered thoughtful if they were not pointed distinctly in Caleb’s direction. “Yeah?”

Despite everything, Caleb finds that he is fairly good at reading people when he needs to be. Which means, in this case, that he can tell - Caduceus is trying to make him more ticklish.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop it from working.

He widens his eyes entreatingly. “I was not being stubborn! I - I just panicked-”

“I told you to be good and stay still, didn’t I?” Caduceus’ arm is more than long enough to wrap all the way around his skinny chest, especially without the holsters - his hand curls carefully under Caleb’s arm, and he has to press his lips together tightly to avoid laughing then and there.

“I couldn’t!” he pleads. “You - you were-” He stumbles over the word itself, half hoping Caduceus will interrupt him again - but he doesn’t, just holding him steady. “I was trying,” he finishes lamely, willing himself not to blush and failing entirely.

Caduceus is grinning at him now, through his beard, smug in that gentle way of his. “And I was trying not to rile you up too much.” he muses, “Suppose we’ll just have to tire you out instead, how’s that sound?”

Caleb gapes. Caduceus is the nicest and gentlest of all of them; surely he is not about to trap Caleb in his lap and tickle him until he cries. And surely he should not want it, the traitorous squirmy feeling in his belly up and fluttering like a live thing.

The long, downy fingers of Caduceus’ free hand pluck his shirt loose from where it’s just barely still tucked in and slip underneath to tease at the fuzz of hair on his tummy, and such logical reassurances suddenly lose much of their weight.

“You - you planned this,” he accuses breathlessly. “You did, I didn’t - hm! - even do anything-”

“I mean, I don’t plan a lot of things. Dinner, mostly.” Caduceus prods at his belly button and he jumps, completely off guard for what comes out of Caduceus’ mouth next.

“You’re just really, really ticklish.”

Caleb whines. Just saying it makes every nerve in his body hum with anticipation, now, and when Caduceus pokes his belly button again he’s sensitive enough that he can’t hope to fight back the peal of laughter. “Don’t.”

Caduceus snickers and just keeps poking at the same spot, sending him into a tumble of frantic laughter as he twists this way and that and fails to escape. “Oh, that helped, huh?”

“No, no, oh nohoho-”

The hand holding him in place tickles gently through his shirt at the softness just above his ribs - usually he is protected by layers of leather and paper there, enough to hold off one of Veth’s crossbow bolts, but all he can do now is whimper.

Caduceus’ free hand sneaks up his other side and repeats the process under his shirt, and he shrieks.

“Heh,” Caduceus chuckles, and eases off for a moment. “You gonna be good if I’m not holding on to you?”

Presumably he wants to get his other hand under Caleb’s shirt and torture him even more, but that’s not the reason Caleb reflexively clings to his arm. “No, no, I need-”

He cuts himself off before he can say that he needs Caduceus to hold him, largely because he does not want to admit it even to himself.

Luckily, he does not need to say more. “Okay, I’ve got you,” Caduceus says easily, and squeezes him a little tighter. “Let me know when you’re done, yeah?”

Before Caleb can ask what that means, Caduceus’s fingers spider under his shirt and start kneading, gentle and merciless, at the top of his ribs.

Caleb breaks instantly. He can’t get his arms far enough down to protect himself, can’t hope to get loose - he tries to bite his lip for a moment to stop himself from laughing, flinging his hands back over his face, but all his breath rushes out in a sudden squeal as the first shock of ticklish sensation hits him in full. “Ahahaaaaa - aaa!”

Caduceus tickles one side of his ribs until he’s sobbing and kicking, completely insensible, and then lazily spiders down over his sides and belly and back up to the other side to tease and tickle as he pleases. He tickles up into his armpits, around the soft curve of his tummy, and rubs his thumbs into the bony outcrop of his hips through the pockets in his pants - he goes back and forth, back and forth, until Caleb loses track of time and numbers and which language he’s begging in and can only measure how much air is left in his lungs before he starts wheezing again.

At some point, he can’t hold himself upright any longer - he sinks down against Caduceus’ bracing arm, but it only stretches the skin over his ribs further. He wails.

It goes on until all he can do is gasp and snicker weakly as Caduceus prods his way back up his side, stopping to trace at each ribin turn. His eyes drift shut, at some point. He doesn’t think he’s ever been tickled so badly in his life.

Still, it seems that there is the possibility for it to tickle even worse - Caduceus’ hand finally, finally slips out from under his shirt, and he just manages to gasp out a sigh of relief before it closes gently around his ankle.

His eyes spring open. “Mein Gott, bitte, bitte, not there,” he hiccups. “I’ll die, I’ll die, please!”

Caduceus hums - held upright, he can just see Caduceus’ wrist pinning down the top of his foot as his index finger traces a light, tickly circle around the thin bone of his ankle. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

Caleb grasps for the threads of his thoughts, heedless of confession in the face of being tickled more, but to his surprise there is little left to worry about - even the exhaustion feels far away now, his whole world narrowed to the warmth of being held here.

“Nothing,” he says honestly. He giggles a little as Caduceus’ fingers keep moving. “Ankles, maybe.”

Caduceus laughs aloud at that, letting go of his foot and untangling their arms as he briefly nuzzles his forehead. Caleb’s seen him do it to the others, before, but never to him. He sighs at the warm, fuzzy pressure against his hairline, the light huff of breath that stirs the mess of his hair. It’s nice.

“Alright. Off to bed with you, Mr. Caleb, come on.”

He’s already dreaming, he thinks - Caduceus has to help him over to the pillows, where he flops out and curls contentedly into the blanket tugged over him. Maybe it’s that he can barely move from exhaustion, cheeks still sore from laughter, but the bed has never felt better.

Drifting off, he allows himself to hope foolishly that this might not have to be the last time.

[passivenovember]

mama said to smile while I still have teeth : PART TWO

(part one)

(or) Billy gets his wisdom teeth removed and Steve understands things will not grow back in the spaces we leave for them.

--

Billy hops down from the passenger side like it’s written in a script or something. Part B of his master plan, logical in the journey of what happens next.

He swings the car door open and charges through wet grass. Neon green blades stick to the heel of his boot, lopsided smile drawn forward to inspect the ferns nestled on either side of a welcome mat that says Bless this Mess. 

It’s as if he’s been here before. 

As if he belongs.

Steve watches Billy collapse on the porch swing, arms and legs folded under him like a house of cards toppled over in the wind. He must not realize that it’s functional, or something, because Billy sits bolt upright and uses the toe of his boot to get the swing moving, once he does.

Really moving, like. Banging against the bay window his mother leaves clear for her azaleas, moving. 

Billy hollers. Makes grabby hands, like, “Push me!”

“You’re gonna get sea sick.” Steve chuckles, watching Billy shrug and take it for a ride. 

Billy brings the swing to a sudden halt, when. “How come you’re all the way down there?” he asks. 

Catching on. 

Steve watches him struggle to get his feet up on the swing. Feels his heart shudder in fondness, when Billy grins up at him triumphantly. 

“Didn’t know there were other options.” Steve says.

“There aren’t. Come here.” Billy gestures to the porch when Steve’s legs decide to fizzle out. “It’s a carnival ride. You got one on your porch, at your house, and--”

Steve claims of the second cushion when Billy removes the thumb from his mouth long enough to spell it out for him. “Cuddles.” He says.

Simple.

And his eyes are so blue. Bright. Steve doesn’t have a choice because, really, they’ve swapped sides with the rope. 

Up and left this dimension all together when the flea got squashed by the acrobat deciding that they could skip the apologies and get to the good part.

Steve realizes that he wants this. 

Billy. Scooting impossibly closer and humming the bridge to Mama Mia. “You smell good, Stever.” Billy says around the pad of his thumb. Dripping more blood down the front of his hoodie, and. Trying to get his face in Steve’s neck. 

Which should be gross, but. 

Steve just clears a path. Makes room for the warm nose that sniffs a trail up and around one ear. “You said I smelled like ass,” He accuses, sounding shaky. Star struck. 

Billy’s breath feels like fairy wings. “Wrong. I said you smell like sweet grass and have a sweet ass, didn’t you pay attention to my context clues?”

“Um.” There’s something warm on Steve’s throat. Going wet in the middle, parting and sucking and--

He pulls away. 

Billy smiles at him. tries to get in Steve’s lap but the bench moves with him and when the bench moves with him, Steve’s got a brick wall glued to his side. 

Shivering. Cold, or afraid. Nervous.

“You tired?”

Billy shakes his head. With his whole body. “Wanna hang out.”

“You can sleep for a little bit. I’ll still be there, when you--”

Billy grunts. Refuses, so. Steve rubs the side of Billy’s shoulder, instead. Fabric and muscle and heat living somewhere beneath his fingertips. “You don’t wanna go in?” 

“Nope.” Billy somehow works his way under Steve’s arm. 

Feels right, striking oil in the heartland.

--

It starts raining again. Somewhere along the way, it starts getting cold and Billy shivers, peering up at Steve like he made it happen. 

Like the heavens split open and bleeding at his command.

Steve chuckles, pushing off the swing and laughing harder when Billy squawks like an angry rooster. 

“Where are we going?” He demands.

“Inside.”

Billy seems to hate that, like. Instantly. 

“Don’t make me carry you, Hargrove.” 

“Oh, look who’s got Popeye arms all of a sudden.” Billy leans back on the porch swing, thighs spread like. He has no idea how fucking--

It doesn’t matter.

“You need to eat.”

“My stitches haven’t fallen out.”

“Yeah, and they won’t. Not for days.” Steve leans against one of the porch posts, trying not to crack a smile when Billy’s thumb finds his mouth again. “Unless you’re planning to eat your hand, we gotta get some mac and cheese--”

Billy’s off the swing before Steve realizes what’s happened. He wanders in between the ferns in their bright orange pots. Jamming a thumb at the number above the doorbell, like, “This door?”

And. “Yeah?”

“This is the one with the cheese?”

“And the mac too.” Steve winks at him, watching a warm blush spread across a sea of freckles. He cocks his head, like, “What’s up?”

“Maybe we can do inside.” Billy says harshly. “For a minute. To kiss the noodles, or something--”

“Kiss the?”

“Open the door.” Billy suggests. “Now.”

So Steve does, biting down on a smile when Billy clomps through the foyer, tracking dirt and grass and pieces of Steve’s heart across imported marble.

“This is so huge.” Billy says softly. His eyes go bright all of a sudden and he’s right in Steve’s face. “You probably have so many pillows here. And chairs. And blankets, too, like. The big ones--”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s build a fort, Stever.” Billy says desperately. He bounces a little, managing to knock more mud onto the floor beneath him. “Let’s build a house. For me and you, and the noodles if they wanna stay the night.”

Steve grins, untangling Billy’s fingers from his hair. “Yeah, I guess we could do that.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” Steve points to the ground. “Boots off first, though.”

Billy jerks away. “No.”

“Stop being a little shit for like, three seconds--”

“Stop being party pooper. For like. Your entire adulthood.” Billy shoots back, collapsing onto the staircase and holding his foot in one hand anyway. 

Steve holds his breath. 

Billy stares at the boot, and his foot inside the boot, like maybe the connection between them is lost. 

Steve feels like an asshole for finding it adorable, but. Billy looks up at him through his eyelashes. 

“I think I’m still high.” He theorizes.

“Yup.” Steve tugs his own shoes off, placing them on the rack by the door.

“I don’t think I can untangle the knots.” Billy says miserably. He tries, though, scowling like the laces have done it on purpose.

Steve watches him struggle, and laughs at the struggle, before holding out his hands. “Give me your foot.”

Billy stares at him. “Really?”

“Our only other option is to wait around until you figure it out, and who knows how long that’ll take.” Steve says, waiting for Billy to shoot back with something venomous. 

He doesn’t. 

He coos, instead. Like a little baby bird, pointing his toes in the air with a giggle. “I’m Cinderella and you’re the prince,” Billy declares, laughing harder when Steve drops to his knees and gets the boot off in one go. “Prince Charming, Prince--”

“You’re just saying that because I have amazing hair and you have little blonde princess curls.”

“Hey.” Billy deadpans, holding out his second foot. “It grows out of my hair like that.”

“Head.” Steve chuckles.

Billy’s mouth falls open in a silent O, brows drawn in confusion. 

Steve puts both muddy boots on the rack next to his own, smiling down at Billy’s puzzled face. “Your hair grows out of your head like that.”

“It does?” Billy asks in wonder. “I like it. Do you like it?”

And. “Yeah. It’s cute.” Steve says, holding out his hand. “Come on. Lunch time.”

Billy lets Steve pull him up, swaying a little bit at their proximity. 

He doesn’t pull away, and.

This close his eyes aren’t just blue, they’re green. And yellow. And brown, like a kaleidoscope. 

“Am I a cute person, Stever?” Billy asks softly.

��The cutest.” Steve says. Without thinking, but.

It doesn’t seem to matter. Because Billy’s high as a fucking kite, wiggling his hips and saying, “I think you’re cuter than me. Softer. Like an opil painting, or maybe a box of raspberry macaroons.”

Steve chuckles, not even trying to pull away when Billy’s fingers try to force their way into his mouth. “When have you had macaroons?”

“I haven’t,” Billy admits easily. “But I always thought that maybe you tasted like one.” 

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but. Billy’s gone after that. Running his fingers along the wall and disappearing around the corner. 

“C’mon, Stever! I want cheese flavored kisses.”

And Steve.

Doesn’t think Billy will remember this. 

--

They order pizza instead. Steve knows that Billy’s gotta be careful with his incision marks. Not go to heavy on the fat and grease less than three hours after his surgery, but. 

Steve tries to hold blue eyes even as they slip through his fingers. Pools and rivers disappearing beneath the Earth.

He’s starting to think that maybe. 

All it would take is bat of those stupid eyelash and Steve would throw every responsible thought out the window. 

Billy says, “You got a laundry machine?” After the pizza performs its vanishing act. 

And Steve says, “Yeah, why?” 

Two seconds before Billy is stripping down naked. 

“Woah, woah, hey--”

“There’s Kool-Aid on my hoodie.” Billy says from behind a wall of fabric. “I can’t walk around with red juice on my clothes, people will know I’m a vampire then.”

“You’re a vampire?” Steve tries to look away from Billy’s stomach. 

The smooth planes of skin, soft just above a layer of muscle. He puts a hand over his eyes for good measure. Safe keeping when Billy gets the hoodie off in one go and he’s standing there. 

Shirtless.

In the middle of the room like some kind of wet dream Steve never even realized he had. 

Billy grins, curls sticking out in every direction. “They’d think it.”

And Steve’s brain is, fucking. 

Offline. Distracted. He blinks, tearing his eyes way from Billy’s chest long enough to go, “Think what?”

“That I’m a vampire.”

And Steve thinks he couldn’t be. Too tan. Too--

Alive. Steve shrugs. “I don’t think it.”

“That’s because you don’t think.” Billy tosses the hoodie onto floor. He points at Steve, like, “Can I wear your sweater?”

And Steve looks down at himself. “This one?”

“Yeah.” Billy says. “Smells like you.”

And Steve doesn’t even have to think about it. Doesn’t even consider what it might mean, pulling the fabric over his head and handing it to an asshole who examines his Kate Bush tee shirt and says, “That one too.”

Like he’s trying to make Steve catch on fire.

Steve shakes his head. “What will I wear if you take all my clothes?”

Billy shrugs, like, “Not my problem.”

And he’s uncovering truths with those eyes. Getting a little too close to the root of it, the revelation, so. 

Steve gives Billy the shirt too. 

And tries not to think about the four seconds that they’re both shirtless. Standing in a room together, just. looking. Charting unmarked skin, eyes glazing silver springs on bronze soil. 

Billy puts the tee shirt on, and the sweater over the top of that, until It’s just Steve. 

Half naked in the living room.

“I’ll go grab another shirt, and then, um.” It feels like the walls are burning down. Steve’s thoughts fall like bullet points. “We should go outside,” He says. “Wanna go sit on the swing?”

Billy frowns. “’S cold outside.” 

“Yeah, but.” Steve picks the hoodie off the ground. “I’ll keep you warm.”

--

Billy’s fingers don’t leave his skin. Don’t soothe, when they light trails of smoke over his collarbone. 

Steve leans into the touch anyway. 

Gives into the pull, anyway, when Billy grabs his cheek and brings their eyes together, looking every bit like he’s got something to say. 

Something important.

“What?” Steve asks. Wanting to touch. Wanting to--

“You know my mom threw a plate at my old man,” Billy says, eyes resting on a scar they both know is there. Hidden, like gold beneath caverns of rock. “The day she left, she. Threw my Mickie Mouse at him.”

“Your plate?”

“It was a bowl.” 

“I’m sure he deserved it.” Steve says easily. “I’m sure it was the only way to win.”

“There aren’t any winners with stuff like that.” Billy says gently. His eyes are watery again. Steve’s getting suspicious of it, like maybe that’s just how the world comes together for Billy. With water and sphere’s of blue. 

God hovering over the surface of the deep. 

Billy sighs, thumb twitching against his leg. “Neil would’ve killed her.”

And Steve hates Neil.

Knows more than be probably should. Pays attention, takes notes.

“That just means she’s resourceful, right?” Steve whispers. “Using the stuff around her to fight fair.”

“Wasn’t fair.” Billy whispers, finally looking away. Eyes studying the rain as it drips from the trees above. 

“Clean, then.” Steve shifts, rocking the porch swing as he sits criss-cross with his knees pressed against Billy’s thigh. “Even fight. Clean break.”

He wonders how he can get those eyes on him again. 

How he can be taken apart. 

“No such thing.” 

Steve doesn’t get it. “What do you mean?”

“All breaks sever the bone.”

And Steve thinks. Maybe. “Are you high?” He squints at Billy’s face, trying to see if it’s written on his forehead. 

Billy smirks. “I think so.”

“Still high.” Steve says, wanting to lift his fingers. Prod at swollen cheeks. He doesn’t, when Billy’s eyes start welling up again. “Don’t cry.” Steve suggests, sliding closer. “Don’t cry, Billy--”

“I’m sorry about--”

“I know.”

“That night. It was. I never should’ve--”

“She’s your sister.” Steve says fiercely. Because. “We were trying to protect you.” And he was. At the root of it all, deep in the center of himself. Steve turns outward again, feet planted on the ground. “We didn’t want you to get roped into our shit. With the monsters, you were.”

Billy’s staring at him. 

Watching. Steve can feel it, so. He closes his own eyes, just to even the score. To make it easier when his lips say, “You’re too beautiful to have your life cracked open like that.”

Billy doesn’t speak until he does, voice flickering like candle light behind a window covered in frost. “Life was already laying in pieces on the rug.”

And there are fingers in Steve’s hair. Brushing tears from his cheeks. Billy grabs him by the throat with more care, more. 

Love.

Than Steve ever thought he would get in this life. Billy moves him until they’re right in each other’s space. Breathing the same air, no longer running races to escape one another. 

It feels right. 

Billy smiles at him. “Thank you.”

And Steve doesn’t know what for. Doesn’t care what for, but there’s a finger on his mouth, parting his lips. Billy’s eyes burn a hole in his tongue. Clear a path through muscle and bone, until Steve is pulled forward. 

Into an embrace. 

Into a trilogy of kisses; on the corner of his eye. On the bridge of his nose. On the bow of his lip that turns biting. And bruising.

Billy asks if he can lay on Steve’s chest, because. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that.” He says shyly. Billy kisses him once more and  and Steve.

Goes down easy.

[kieraelieson]

Centaur AU 8

When Thomas woke up, rather slowly, feeling itchy and groggy and much in need of a shower, it was to soft voices and little clops of moving hooves.

“And where is the rest of the food?”

“That’s all there is out here. Mostly we tend to eat the pre-made stuff.”

“I’ll have to put it on the list too then.”

Thomas opened his eyes, registering that Patton and Emile were talking.

Patton sighed. “It’s just… strange. I worry that with all of the new nice things that once Thomas leaves it’ll be so miserable and I don’t know how I’ll be able to handle it.”

“Thomas won’t be leaving. Or if he does, we’ll be taking you with us.” Emile promised.

Thomas nodded slightly, staying silent.

Patton moved, peeking over the shorter wall that separated his stall from the one Thomas was using as a bed, met Thomas’s eyes, and jumped back with a sound rather like a loud squeak.

“Oh, dear! I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were awake.”

Thomas sat up. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s alright,” Emile said. “Little mishaps happen, you both are fine.”

Thomas stood up and stretched, gratefully noting that Emile was making breakfast for everyone. Between yesterday and now already this morning, he could tell he was going to greatly appreciate Emile. He was going to have to find some way to pay Emile back somehow.

He opened the stall, seeing Roman and Remy blinking and drowsy, and Virgil very much awake.

“Let me see what we have going for today,” he said, mostly to himself, as he walked over to the schedule on the wall. “Oh, Emile, thanks for making breakfast.”

“You’re welcome.” Emile said. “Though, as you may have heard, we are woefully short on ingredients.”

Thomas nodded.

“What about coffee?” Remy asked. “Please tell me they have coffee here.”

“Not yet.”

Remy let out a long groan and flopped onto the floor dramatically.

Thomas couldn’t help a little smile. He looked at the schedule, trying to parse out the rather terrible handwriting. He should get a new one and fill it out himself. His handwriting might not be that much better, but he could read it himself more easily, and he wouldn’t have to try and translate names with a tired brain.

Patton had a party at five, though it didn’t say when it ended. And Logan had one of those charity things, which he would certainly not be doing. Thomas considered a long moment, and then started looking for a phone number. He was probably the one that had to call and cancel things like that.

He finally found a whole list of phone numbers on the back of the calendar, and managed to get the right one, and tell them that Logan wouldn’t be able to participate in anything for at least six months, or however long the vet said after follow-up visits.

They weren’t very happy about it. But in this, Thomas wouldn’t take no for an answer, and if they were going to talk to the Authiers’ lawyer, well, hopefully the lawyer knew what to do. Because Logan wasn’t going back to a single one of those contests, legal or otherwise, until he was both healed and wanted to.

He turned back around to see worried faces, and wished that the phone wasn’t corded so that he could have taken it outside and not worried them all.

“It’s alright, I just canceled all of Logan’s events for the next few months. He’ll be fine to rest up and get well now.”

“Well that’s good,” Roman said.

Virgil and Patton nodded solemnly.

Thomas yawned and considered. What should he do next? It took a moment to come to his fuzzy brain, but he realized that he should come up with something for them all to do all morning, rather than just standing around. He felt slightly bad about having the paddock be his go-to, but it was worlds better than being cooped up in a stall, and he didn’t really know enough to give them somewhere else to… perhaps that’s what they could do. Explore the estate as a group and find all the places where they could go, and figure out what there was to do.

He had to have Patton back, clean and ready, by five then, and he needed to do something to set up Logan first, but that seemed like a very good plan. Also, considering clean and ready, they would all need a good brushing down at some point. Perhaps he ought to aim at getting back by three then, and asking Remy and Emile for help setting up a kind of grooming circle.

But he had a plan! And one that, barring unforeseen troubles, seemed like a good one. It wasn’t too ambitious, and it might even go well.

But first breakfast. Which… he didn’t really have. And he felt absolutely terrible to say it, but he didn’t want to try the centaurs’ food. He’d always kind of guessed they didn’t mind that weird grassy smell, cause they ate grass anyway. That was a thing he needed to ask about.

“Well, if they have a bunk room, they might have something like a cafeteria here, I’m going to see if I can find it and get some breakfast. If there’s coffee, I’ll bring you back a cup, Remy. Also, I might need your phone, and I’ll expect someone to call me if Logan wakes up.”

Remy, still splayed out on the floor in a rather uncomfortable-looking position, nodded and floundered, trying to reach his bag without getting up. He was unsuccessful, much to the amusement of everyone watching. He made sure to pout at each and every one of them once he got his bag and his phone.

“You know someday it won’t be little funny smiles!” he threatened, turning away from them all.

“Thank you, Remy,” Thomas said seriously. “I’ll be sure to get you coffee.”

Remy grumbled out something that might have been a thank you, or perhaps something else.

And then Thomas went for a walk, running his hands through his hair and swiping at his clothes to hopefully make himself look less like he’d been sleeping in a pile of hay. He vaguely knew that the bunkhouse was somewhere roughly straight from one wall of the stable, though he wasn’t certain how far it would be. And he just hoped someone would still be in the bunkhouse that he could ask.

Perhaps he should have asked one of the centaurs to come with him. It would be faster, and another set of hands in case he had to bring back several things. But he didn’t want to stop them from eating or having a bit of time to themselves. They certainly could use all the good things he could possibly get them.

He walked a good way before seeing the building, and jogging towards it. He was lucky enough to reach it right as someone else was walking out.

“Oh! Uh, excuse me, can I…” He had to pause a moment to breathe, but managed to continue. “I’m looking for a… cafeteria?”

“Yeah, it’s over this way, but breakfast ends at nine, you should hurry.” They pointed to a different nearby building, with its doors standing open.

Thomas nodded quickly. “Thank you!”

He ran into the cafeteria, grateful to see that the line was only a few people long. There was prepared eggs, sausage, bacon, something that looked like oatmeal perhaps, and toast. Thomas piled up his plate and then looked until he found the coffee. He served himself a cup of coffee and found some to-go cups, filling one up with coffee as close to the way he knew Remy liked it.

He felt rather overwhelmed by hurrying, especially as he glanced at a clock on the wall and saw that, if nine truly was the cut off, he only had ten minutes to eat. But despite his hurry, he had a fleeting question float through his mind. Would any of the other centaurs want coffee?

He should find a way to get decent food to them. Or bring them here. They may indeed like grass and hay and food made from it, but they also liked normal food, and should have it as a regular option.

He just didn’t know how. Yet.

He was working on it. And that would have to be enough for the moment.

Thomas tried to relax a little and eat, but he couldn’t help worrying that something bad would happen while he was gone.

Soon he was getting up and going back towards the stables, hoping that everything was fine, that they’d had a nice breakfast and Logan was still peacefully sleeping, but worrying that it wouldn’t be the case.

When he opened the door though, they all seemed perfectly fine. Logan was even still asleep. He really needed to trust them a bit more.

“Hi, guys,” he said, feeling more than a little awkward, all out of breath from having hurried back when nothing was wrong.

“Did you get my coffee?” Remy asked eagerly.

Thomas nodded. “ Yeah, I did, here. It’s not hot anymore, but it’s still a bit warm.”

Remy made a weird face, somewhere between grateful and still a bit displeased at the luke-warm coffee.

Thomas agreed with him, honestly. It wasn’t even close to ideal. And surely there was something better they could do. “I wanted to talk with you all.”

Virgil seemed concerned, but the rest of them watched him curiously.

“About what?” Patton asked.

“Well… this isn’t working out the best…”

On seeing the look on Virgil’s face, Thomas quickly backtracked. “Not like I’m giving up! Not at all. More like, I’m gonna need some help to know how to actually move forward. I’ve been doing my best, but it’s not exactly worked out well.”

“Ok…” Roman said slowly. “I think we can agree that things haven’t exactly gone the best, but… it’s not like we can help with much.”

Thomas nodded. “I know it feels that way, it does to me too, but there has to be something we can do. For starters, there’s the cafeteria. It exists, and I know that now, but do you guys want to go there? If you do, I’m sure I can come up with a way to make them let us in. It’s big enough. Or perhaps we could have them set out tables outside for you all. But I need to know that it’s what you want too. If you don’t care, or would rather stay here, we can work that out too.”

There was some shuffling back and forth, and several pairs of eyes staring at the ground.

“Well, I for one want hot coffee. Count me in.” Remy said firmly. “And I bet Emmy wants to come get some real food too.”

Emile nodded. “Yes, I’d prefer more of a variety of food than what is here.”

Thomas looked at Roman in particular next, hoping he would have more firm opinions.

Roman sighed, a rather pinched look on his face. “I like the idea of better food, but I’m not sure if I want to deal with all the other workers to get it.”

Patton nodded immediately. “We’d have to be quiet, and they would say rude things, and it would be pretty miserable even with the good food.”

Virgil nodded silently, clearly agreeing with Patton.

“Alright then,” Thomas said. “Well, what if I were to call the Authiers and see about officially changing what you’re all fed? If I insisted, I’m sure there’s a possibility of getting food sent here. We’d perhaps have to deal with the courier, but that would be less trouble.”

“If it’s at all possible, which is not certain,” Logan said.

Thomas went immediately to his stall to check on him. “Are you feeling ok? Would you want more painkillers? You haven’t eaten yet, right?”

Logan gave him an odd look. Of all of them, Thomas had the hardest time decoding what Logan’s looks were supposed to mean.

“Yes. Painkillers would be nice, and I haven’t eaten yet.”

Thomas nodded quickly, shooting Emile a glance. Emile was ahead of him already, getting a plate of food for Logan. Thomas went and made the same kind of slurry with the medicine that Logan had asked for the other time, putting some drink mix into the water so it wouldn’t taste as bad.

Once he got back, Virgil was already in Logan’s stall, trying to help him sit up without jostling his legs. Emile handed the plate in and then backed up so Thomas could get in with the medicine.

“Here you go, and I’ll go get some clean bandages to wrap your legs up in.”

Logan nodded stiffly and then downed the medicine with a slight grimace.

Thomas grabbed a few rolls of bandages and went in, extremely concerned to see Logan looking spacey already.

He knelt down next to Logan’s shoulder, laying his hand on his gently and rubbing very small circles. “Hey, there, Logan, are you with me?”

Logan looked at him silently, his face concerningly blank.

“I’m a bit concerned, ok? Can you stay here with me? I’d like to know I’m not hurting you, so I’ll need you to talk with me, ok?”

Logan let out a sigh. “I won’t be hurt by the changing of bandages.”

“Well, I certainly hope not, but just in case, can you try and stay present with me? And with Virgil?”

Logan looked up at Virgil, who was much more obviously concerned than even Thomas was. He slowly nodded.

“Alright. Here’s what I’m going to do, I’m going to run my hand down your leg to the end of the bandage and start unwinding it. Can you stay focused on Virgil for me? Tell me things about him, what colors can you see in his eyes?”

Logan frowned slightly, which was a good thing to Thomas. “What do you need to know the color of his eyes for?”

“To help you pay attention,” Virgil said softly. “You help me pay attention to safe things around me sometimes, this is like that.”

“Yes, exactly.” Thomas said, slowly and lightly running his hand down Logan’s leg. “Alright, I’m going to unwind this now. What colors can you see?”

Logan was looking far more attentive and present, staring up into Virgil’s face. “Mostly black. A very dark brown. Something that might appear green, except for the darkness of his eyes in general, which makes it look like a dark gray.”

Thomas very gently started unwinding the bandage. “That’s very good. What about his hair?”

“Most would classify the color as black. But when seen in the light there aren’t the cool undertones usually present in a pure black. I would classify it as a very dark brown.”

“That’s a very thoughtful way of saying it,” Thomas said. “My hand is going to move over to your other front leg, and then run down to unwind then bandage the same way.”

Logan nodded.

As Thomas moved to unwind the next bandage, he thought of another thing. “Why don’t you tell me about what you were doing in the paddock the other day? It seemed very clever. Something to keep you away from the holes without being able to see them clearly.”

Logan gave him another one of those odd looks when Thomas said the idea was clever. Thomas still wasn’t certain what it meant, but he decided to remember that, and use the word clever more often with Logan.

“It’s more of a common sense idea, but if you’re curious…” Logan trailed off, and Thomas looked up to see him looking the slightest bit bashful.

“I’m going to move to your back leg now. And yes, I am curious. It sounds like a useful thing to learn.”

Logan cleared his throat. “If you’d like to learn then, I suppose I’ll tell you.”

Virgil sent Thomas a look, a look that said he’d stumbled across a key, and that Virgil wasn’t certain how he was going to use it. Though to be honest, Thomas wasn’t sure either.

“I’m going to touch you now, and stroke down your leg to unwind the bandages,” Thomas said, careful to keep his tone light and unobtrusive, hoping Logan would continue.

“I am far-sighted, so I could see the holes at a distance, but not close to my own feet. If I could place the hole along the fence, and if I was careful to take measured steps, I could place it between the two fence posts, and I could know how many steps from the first post until I would need to step over or around it. Virgil was helping by confirming the distance. I haven’t yet mastered taking steps of perfectly regular length, so my calculations were often incorrect by a step or two.”

“Wow. -I’m moving to your other back leg now- That really is very smart, Logan. I’m impressed.”

Logan smiled slightly.

Thomas counted that as a very big win. “Alright, I’m going to go and get the ointment and then wrap your legs up. You can go ahead and eat your breakfast. And then the vet said we need to have you walking some, but slowly. I’ll be right back and then explain my plan.”

Logan nodded.

Thomas was quick, and soon got back with the ointment.

“So what is your plan?” Virgil asked.

“Well, first helping Logan,” Thomas said, kneeling again by his legs. “I’m going to go in the same order as last time, starting with this leg. And once I’m done, we’re going to very carefully help Logan up. If he’s doing well, then I’m hoping a few of you will help him walk around the outside of the stable a few times. -Alright, I’m moving to the next leg- And while you all walk around, I’m going to try and set up the iPad with a bunch of books, and see if I can make it so that Logan can get more when he wants to. That way he will have something calm and enjoyable to do while we’re gone. -I’m moving to your back legs now- And then I was thinking that some or all of the rest of you might want to come with me, and explore some of the estate, see what all there is, and where else we might like to spend time. Ok, last leg now, Logan.”

“That seems like a good plan,” Roman commented.

Thomas looked up to see Patton looking around at them all, confused. “What’s up, Pat?”

“Just… what’s an iPad? Is it like a bookshelf?”

Thomas was a bit concerned to see a few curious looks. Apparently several of them had never heard of an iPad.

“Well, I bought one… yesterday? Was it yesterday I went to the store? I think. Anyway, it’s a small rectangle, and it runs on electricity. It does a lot of things, and it’s pretty complicated, but the reason I bought it is that it can hold many many books inside it without taking up much space.”

Patton nodded slowly, still looking confused.

“Later today I’ll let you try it some too, ok?” Thomas said with a smile.

Patton nodded more confidently this time.

“And the rest of you too, I’m sure you’d all like a little bit to try it out. It’s mostly for Logan, especially while he’s healing, but everyone can try.”

Thomas stood up, looking around the stall. “Ok, Logan. Do you think you can stand up with just me and Virgil helping? Or would someone else be better? Or would you like to try by yourself?”

Logan frowned slightly in consideration. “I’d prefer just Virgil.”

Thomas nodded immediately and left the stall. “Just be gentle on yourself.”

Logan set his empty plate aside, held up a hand for Virgil to grab onto, and then heaved himself up. His face twisted in pain, and once he was standing he leaned heavily on the wall.

Thomas gave him a moment before asking, “How is it?”

“Painful. But bearable.”

Thomas nodded solemnly. “Ok. I’d like you to try walking around the stable. Take long, slow steps, don’t push it too much. If the pain changes at all, stop there and come back in to lay down.”

Logan nodded, very slowly moving to leave the stall.

Thomas left it to them all to take care of him, and tried to figure out where he’d left the iPad, and where would be a good place to plug it in.

From outside, he heard quite a few ‘be careful’s, followed by Logan saying ‘I may be injured, but I don’t want to be babied, I can walk on my own’.

Thomas smiled to himself. With Logan doing this well, if he could just keep going, he’d surely be better soon.

———

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[twink-appreciation-posts]

Lashing Out - Spencer Reid x Reader

chapter nine of “all bets are off”

the first rule of sleeping with a coworker is DONT FUCKING SLEEP WITH YOUR COWORKER

warnings: ANGST, plot-heavy set up for next chapter which will have zero plot, seriously this chapter is important to the plot but the next one is gonna be very nsfw and pretty much skippable if it’s too much for u guys but THIS CHAPTER IS IMPORTANT and also kinda short sorry 

“What the fuck were you talking to Rossi about?”

The words may have come out a bit more aggressively than you had intended, and maybe a bit too loud, but you were barely keeping it together. You were standing at Spencer’s desk, foot-tapping nervously, eyes darting around the room to your coworkers.

“What? Nothing,” Spencer replied quickly. “Just typical Rossi stuff.”

“What does the even mean?” You whisper-yelled. “Did he…. did he hear something?”

Spencer let out a sigh. “I… I don’t know. All he asked was where we had gone. I told him we were looking for old files. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Perfect. Yeah, you were sure that Rossi totally bought his story, right? No way. He knew. He had to have known. “You think he believes that? Spencer, how can you be so nonchalant about this? What we did was totally unprofessional. We could be fired.”

Spencer finally looked up at you and met your eyes. “We’re not going to be fired. Even if Rossi does know, he’s not going to tell anyone, and he wouldn’t get us fired over it. You’re right, what we did was risky, but it was a calculated risk and nothing bad is going to come of it. You trust me, don’t you?” He spoke methodically, without much emotion, like he would have explained any other random fact or statistic. You hated it. How could he be so calm? How could he not care?

“Nothing bad?” You quoted back at him, rolling your eyes. “Best case scenario is that Rossi knows and doesn’t say anything about it. That still means that someone on our team that I trust and look up to knows that I fucked someone in a backroom during work. I don’t wanna even think about the lack of respect he must have for me now. Do you really not care what he thinks?”

He considered your point for a moment. You weren’t even sure what you wanted him to say. An apology would mean nothing and empathy wouldn’t help your situation either. “Sexual relationships with coworkers are more common than you’d think, according to some studies up to 40 percent of people reported having some form of intimate relationship with a coworker in their life. Plus, it’s Rossi. I’m sure he’s done wilder things-“

“I don’t care what Rossi has done! I don’t care what 40 percent of people have done. I care what I’ve done. I care what we’ve done. Sleeping with you is one thing, but doing it repeatedly and doing it at work is crossing a line. This was a mistake. All of it was a mistake. I don’t know why the hell I let you drag me into this… whatever this is. I feel so fucking stupid.” Your emotions were getting the better of you, you knew that. It was as much your own fault as it was Spencer’s and crying about it wouldn’t help. But you did feel dumb. You felt dumb for a lot of reasons.

Spencer opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut short by Hotch calling a team meeting. Great. Just what you needed. You walked away from his desk, making a promise to yourself:

’I’m never having sex with Spencer Reid ever again.’

The rest of the day was typical other than the fact that you couldn’t find it in you to speak to or make eye contact with Spencer or Rossi.

It was definitely obvious to everyone else that something was up. That was the downside of working with profilers: even the smallest change of behavior was enough of a tip for them to notice.

As you packed up your stuff for the day Rossi approached you. You forced your best ‘nothing is wrong’ smile as he spoke.

“I’m having dinner party at my place this Saturday,” he explained. “Everyone’s invited. It’s my duty to teach you folks how to make a real carbonara.”

“Ah, yeah!” You nodded, still avoiding his gaze. “I’ll be there.”

“Great! See you then.”

The rest of the work week was miserable at best, but it’s not like you were particularly looking forward to the weekend either. Dinner at Rossi’s sounded peachy keen until you considered the fact that it meant awkwardly avoiding friends for an extra day. You would’ve felt bad not showing up, though, so Saturday evening you were sitting in Rossi’s kitchen watching him cook. Everyone but Spencer was there, but you were assured he’d be showing up. You secretly hoped he wouldn’t.

30 minutes into your cooking class there was a knock at the door.

“I got it!” JJ left the kitchen and returned with Spencer at her side.

“Sorry I’m late,” he smiled sheepishly.

“What was more important than this? You have a date or something?” Derek teased him. Spencer shook his head and turned red.

Wait. Had he…? No. No way. And even if he had, what did it matter to you?

“If Spencer had a lady friend I’d expect we’d never know, anyway.” Emily chuckled. “He’s not the bragging type unlike some of us here.” She elbowed Derek playfully. You frowned. Why did this upset you?

You dared to glance towards Spencer only to see that he had already been looking at you. Oh fuck. You turned your head back towards Rossi immediately, sighing. Spence took the only free seat, which was conveniently next to yours, and put down his bag.

“Well now that we’re all here,” Rossi popped open a bottle of wine, “let’s toast!”

You had a surprisingly fun night. You even talked to Spencer and Rossi a bit, forcing down any embarrassment. At the end of the night you had mostly resolved your issues internally, and you realized that you might’ve been a bit too cold to Spencer during the week. So you made the adult decision that you were going to apologize. As you walked out of Rossi’s house, sorry mansion, you pulled Spencer to the side. “Can we talk?” You asked quietly.

“Of course,”

So you went on a bit of a walk.

“I, um, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for being such a bitch to you this week. And before you say I wasn’t, it’s okay. I know I was. It was just as much my fault as it was yours that everything went down the way it did. It was a two-way street and I just didn’t wanna take responsibility for my own actions.” Your eyes were glued to the ground, twiddling your fingers nervously.

“It’s okay,” Spencer reassured you with a smile. “You were under a lot of stress and I understand why you’d lash out.”

You nodded, relieved that he wasn’t upset with you, though you knew he probably wouldn’t be. He wasn’t the type to get mad about stuff like this.

“Well, if that’s what you were worried about, don’t sweat it.” He told you when you stayed silent. He began to walk back towards his car.

“There was something else, actually…” You stuttered out. Spencer paused, turning on his heel and locking eyes with you.

You opened your mouth to speak but the words caught in your throat. You took a moment. Composed yourself. This was stupid. Why were you even asking? But now if you didn’t say anything it would be even weirder. Fuck. You really were a dumbass. “Did you uh, actually come late because you were on a date?” You mentally face-palmed. What a stupid fucking question.

Spencer chuckled. “No. I didn’t. I was writing a letter to my mom.” He explained, and for some reason, you felt relief wash over you. You laughed a bit. You had gotten all worked up over nothing. “Why do you ask?”

Your face fell. How were you supposed to answer that when you weren’t fully sure of the answer yourself? I mean, you could guess, sure, but in the end, you were lost. The question had just been plaguing you all night. That’s why you asked. “I don’t know. I guess I was just curious.” You shrugged. It wasn’t a lie. You had been curious.

“Fair enough. I’ll see you Monday.” Spencer began to walk away again and your brain began to buzz with too many thoughts to keep track of, but one was repeating at top volume, a desperate reminder of the rule you had set.

I’m never having sex with Spencer Reid ever again. I’m never having sex with Spencer Reid ever again. I’m never having sex with Spencer Reid ever again.

But despite the voice in your head screaming at you, besides your attempts to be reasonable about things, even though every inch of your rational brain was saying let him walk away, you spoke. Words flying out of your mouth before you could catch them. “Or maybe I was jealous.”

You thought maybe he didn’t hear you because he didn’t react at first. Maybe that was for the best. But your hopes were soon shattered when he turned around, looking at you with a mix of desire and confusion. Regret washed over you. God, you wished he hadn’t heard.

You stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, both plotting your next move, weighing your options. How much weight did your words carry? How would he take them?

You took a step towards him, and he did the same, and you were close enough to lean forward and put your lips on his and fuck did you want to but you shouldn’t and you knew that it would only make things worse in the end but at the moment you didn’t care and now it was too late because his lips were on yours before you could find the strength to walk away.

You didn’t know who leaned in. You didn’t care. It had been less than a week since your last encounter with him but you were starved and so was he. Whatever fucked up toxic thing that kept you two coming back to each other was too strong to fight and god the feeling of being with him like this was intoxicating. You pulled back eventually, needing to breathe, and you hated it. You wanted more.

“Where are you headed after this?” You asked breathlessly.

“I don’t know. Where do you want me to go?” He replied, eyes searching yours.

You gulped, swallowing down your self-respect and pride. Maybe Spencer had always been right. You needed him. You needed whatever this mess was. “I’ll see you at my place, then?”

“I’ll see you at your place.”

You parted ways with Spencer and walked to your car in silence, your mantra still ringing in your ears.

’I’m never having sex with Spencer Reid ever again.’

taglist <3

@101donuts @annestine @spideyboix @babybloomer @welcome-to-hoeville @eldahae @brokenanxiety @andiebeaword @spencerwaltergubler @la-vie-en-amour1 @rainsong01 @taekwinkle @dreamer7black @guessthatswhyiliveinhell @creepingfromthecorners @joyousreid @slutforthegubes @cluelessnitwhit @idfkijustneedafuckinguser @downondilaudid @screeching-student-unknown @gretaamyk @thegingerfairchild

[enchantcdstories]

Jealous of a Joy Toy

Words: 2012 Tags: Mentions of sex, implied sex, language warning, unbeta’d

A/N: Here it is! My jealous johnny fic! I hope it doesn’t suck!

Summary:  Johnny makes V feeling less than pleased after a shared memory leaves V aching for more. What he didn't anticipate was V actually doing something about it..

V didn’t dream anymore. Her dreams were sometimes replaced with flashes of Johnny’s memories now. Little memories like him taking a piss in an alley, the first time he smoked as a teenager, eating food at a random restaurant with the band. V usually didn’t complain- it was a side effect of the chip. His memories overtook hers. Johnny said that he could see her memories though...she just couldn’t see her own. V was warned about this, so she couldn’t be too surprised. Still hurt like a son of a bitch though.

That night’s dream was...erotic and different. Johnny’s dream, clearly. Were they linking that closely now? When she slept she saw his dreams? Of course it was sex. V suspected it was some roadie that wanted to work her way through the band. What else did Johnny think about besides blowing up buildings? V could barely make out what was going on by the end of it, but when she woke up with a start in her bed- all her senses rippled her body like flames licking at her. She was covered in sweat and suddenly the buzzing feeling between her legs was all too noticeable and hard to ignore.

“Fuck.” V groaned, pulling herself out of her bed. She was drenched in more ways than one. V also knew for a fucking fact that that son of a bitch was feeling the same way. Fuck, she probably dreamed it to begin with cause he was horny out of his skull. “Fucking gross.” She muttered, stretching her back out. Her mind was racing a mile a minute, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. V looked at her clock, groaning at the time. 2 am.

“Fine, you wanna play like that, let's dance, pretty boy.” She said, throwing her shoes on and shoving her way out the door. V was in nothing more than sleep shorts and a crop top, but she couldn’t care less. She could see Johnny phase-out of view in the corner of her eye, a smirk on his face. Fucker thought he won, V echoed in her mind.

V was glad that Night City was warm at night, and that the sweat was dripping down the back of her neck didn’t look completely out of place. V had just rounded the corner to her car, well- Johnny’s car that is. V may jokingly hate Johnny, but damn he had a good taste in cars. Johnny, of course, was already waiting inside- feet on the dash and his arms behind his head.

“I can see most of the things in your head, but not this. What happened in your sleep that has you so bothered?” He said, his gruff voice filling V’s head.

“You tell me. You seem to be having some real fun in your little memory dream bullshit, so I’m gonna go make my own fun.” V said, turning the keys to the Porsche and listening to it roar to life. V couldn’t see the look on Johnny’s face, but she just knew it’d be priceless.

Jig Jig street wasn’t too far, but with V’s heart racing and the buzzing between her legs almost making her numb- it felt like a lifetime. When she finally skidded the car to a stop, Johnny started to panic.

“Wait wait wait, you’re gonna fuck some joy toy?” He said, appearing outside of V’s car door before she could get out. V opened the door, clearly through him without issue. His laws of physics were strange. He could push her to the ground but she couldn’t throw a can at his head without it flying through him.

“Yup.”

“I can feel what you’re feeling too, ya know, you really think some meaningless sex with someone who won’t remember you will sastify you?” V rolled her eyes, slamming the Porsche’s door shut and leaning against it. Alright, she’ll bite.

“How come you have your panties in a knot? Aren’t you Mr ‘fuck anything that moves’? Why do you care?” She said, crossing her arms. V could see some potential partners lingering around, and the buzzing feeling only lingered. Johnny sighed, pacing. He always paced when he was stressed or his brain was working too hard.

“I didn’t fuck no joytoys though. It’s not the same, gotta find someone you know at least appreciates you. Makes sure you are taken care of. Lets you finish at least.” He sounded..strained, like he was trying to drive V away from the men and women in jig-jig street.

“Oh yeah, cause I got tons of those lying around. You had like what? Adoring fans? You had endless options of fuck buddies that weren’t joytoys.” V pushed herself off the car door and towards one of the beefy looking male joy toys. V could practically feel Johnny seethe. He walked beside her, moving so he was walking backwards while facing her.

“You really think that a joytoy is gonna be able to get you off? It’s a joytoy.” Johnny said, causing V to stop and cross her arms again.

“What? And you would?” V said, her voice coming out a bit more venomous that she’d like. That made Johnny stop as well, the engram flickering just a bit more than usual. Johnny put on his signature smirk, but it did nothing to hide the red flush that was spreading on his cheeks. It was his turn to cross his arms.

“ ‘Course I would, princess. Way better than a fucking joytoy.” It was V’s turn to blush. She looked over towards where the joy toys lingered.

“Okay, but that’s just your cocky demeanor talking. Now are you gonna let me go rail a joy toy till my legs go numb, or are you gonna let me go back to bed without dreaming of fucking a poor roadie senseless?” V spat, running a hand through her hair. Johnny started pacing, running his own metal arm through his soft raven locks.

“You don’t fucking listen to me anyways, why do you fucking care? Gonna go do your own thing anyways..” His voice sounded...hurt, hesitant. V rolled her eyes, storming off in the direction of the largest looking joytoy she could find.

“Wait, Wait, V… wait!” Johnny’s hand reached out and gripped V’s arm tightly. To the outside passerby, It looked like V was fighting with herself and getting pulled back on her own accord. Typical Night City wacko shit. V knew Johnny could manipulate her body, he could push her to the ground- make her knock herself out off a window. Still, she almost had the breath knocked out of her when Johnny’s ‘ganic arm grabbed her.

“I promise you- I can do a hell of a lot better than a fucking joy toy.” His voice was deadly serious. No jokes, no sarcasm. V just looked at him, still a bit shocked that he had grabbed her which such...force. She found her voice, but it was more gravely than normal.

“What makes you say that?”

She wasn’t sure why she questioned him when she knew the answer. She knew the answer and she mentally begged him not to say it. This entire time, V knew that her answer was the same. She fucking loved him. She loved him and cherished him and knew that at some point- She’d have to say goodbye to him. Either because she died or they found a way to pry him out of her head. V also knew Johnny could see all these same thoughts.

“Because I fucking love you, alright? I love you and I’ve been inside your head long enough to know that I’d be miserable to see you with anyone else.” He said, stopping his pacing enough to get a good long look at V. She ran a hand over her face, the sudden lack of sleep and the urge to go back to her bed was hitting her like a rock to the face. “I didn’t like you at first yeah, but spending every waking second with you...something changed.” Johnny paused. “Must not feel all that great to have the thing killing you fall in love with you.”

“Fuck...I...I wanna go back to bed. I need time to think. ” She said, spinning on her boots and heading back to the car.

Her bed was still warm when she got back, thanks to Nibbles curled up next to her pillow. The cat jumped down when he saw that V was back. Instead of rubbing against her leg like he normally did, he rubbed against- and passed through- Johnny’s, who had appeared standing in the middle of her apartment. V closed her eyes, sighing a bit and leaning against the wall.

“I’m sorry for...you know, all that shit back there” V had gathered the courage to apologize to him in the car, frankly because she knew she’d be confessing the exact same thing to him. She overreacted when she had sprung out of bed and drove halfway across Night City.

“You love me too, I can see it.” Was all Johnny said, doing nothing but staring at V as she kicked her shoes off. V nodded.

“I do,” V said, lightly. She opened to mouth to speak before closing it again, gaining the courage to keep speaking.

“So all this, the sex memories, the jealousy-”

“Wasn’t jealous.”

“Whatever. All of this was just your way of saying you love me? What would you have done if I did have sex with that joytoy?” V said, walking over to her bed and sitting down onto the mattress. Johnny had moved so he was in her little living area, sitting on the edge of the couch with his hands in his jeans pocket.

“Would have asked you to take some suppressors first so I didn’t have to witness that.” He shrugged. V just looked at him briefly before looking down.

“ I..I love you too. You know that. I didn’t mean to you know… hurt you..” V asked, her voice softer and more tired. Johnny went back to pacing before taking a few strides to close the gap between the two, taking his metal arm and pushing V roughly to the bed. It was very reminiscent of when the pair first met. V was suddenly very grateful that she could physically feel Johnny's touches, though the last time wasn’t such a great time.

Johnny straddled her, kneeling over top of her with his knees on either side of her waist. Before V knew it, Johnny was planting rough and sloppy kisses on her neck. It was sudden and unexpected but fuck, V needed this. That buzzing between her legs only skyrocketed as V put her head back- giving Johnny more room to have his way. He felt strange, V could feel the pressure sitting on her hips. She could feel the sensation of someone kissing her neck- but it wasn’t the same. Something just felt off and different.

Johnny pulled up briefly from her neck to lean on his hands on either side of her head. V looked up at him, completely at his disposal now that he was straddling her. Somehow she was sweating more now.

“So have I earned the right?” Johnny asked, leaning down to nip at her neck on the other side. V’s eyebrows furrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“Your name. You said before that only people really close to you can say your name. I think I qualify for that.” He said, between breaths and kisses that trailed from V’s neck to her collar bone. V thought about that for a second, her brain foggy from the actions he was performing.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can, think being in my head alone deserves that.” V sighed, her voice sounding more pleased than normal, causing Johnny to smirk. V continued.

“So where do we go from here? Friends with benefits? A relationship? You don’t seem the type.”

“For now, Valerie, I show you how much better I am than a joy toy.”