#Spiral bound stiff wraps

[jokeanddaggerdept]

[itsdappleagain]

99 for spotify wrapped prompts!! Anything you want!

99: Shout, Tears for Fears

They gave you life and in return, you gave them hell As cold as ice, I hope we live to tell the tale I hope we live to tell the tale

carmen has trauma and nightmares one-shot because of course

It is three in the morning.

It is all Carmen can do to stop her entire bed from rattling as she shivers uncontrollably, and she stares blankly at the glowing red numbers that tell her the time. It is three in the morning, and Carmen is trying very, very hard to erase the sound of her own bones breaking from her mind as they replay over and over and over again.

She shifts, trying to stir herself from the haze, and when a plush of hers brushes her arm in the movement she jumps so badly that it forces her onto her feet, her sweaty sheets trying to drag her back as she goes.

It is nights like these, when the house is dark and silent and she is left alone with her worst thoughts, that Carmen spirals.

A smudge of nothing flits past her peripheral vision and her mind jumps to the worst. Her muscles all tense as one and the goosebumps already present on her skin only get worse as she clutches the vanity in her bathroom, trying not to look her reflection in the eyes.

She is being paranoid. She knows this. Her body doesn't, and she is afraid anyway.

It's the same fear she feels when Coach Brunt is standing over her as she is half bleeding out on concrete, or bound and gagged in a train car, or holding the front of her shirt with one already-bloodied knuckle grazing her chin, feet dangling. And yet, here she is, experiencing it in her warm, comfortable, safe room, surrounded by the only people in the world she trusts with her life.

When she emerges from her bathroom, fingers stiff and numb from gripping her countertop, it is almost 3:30, and she didn't realize she'd been in there that long.

She moves to the window, shoving it open with her shoulder and letting her eyes unfocus as the warm San Diego night rolls over her, the ocean glittering just a little bit in the moonlight.

Three in the morning, Carmen decides, is the worst time. It's the time when her body decides that it's still back in a ravine in Stockholm freezing to death, or in the sibling's rental van slipping in and out of consciousness as Zack asks if she is about to die and Carmen doesn't know the answer.

It's the time when her mind decides to torment her with the woman who raised her and taught her everything she knows today. When it feeds her thoughts of how, without the very thing she is fighting so hard to destroy, she would never have the tools to destroy it. How VILE will always be such a fundamental part of her that if she tries to separate herself from it she loses the core of what she is.

It's the time when her lullaby is the sound of what she was willing to accept as her last moments, repeating like a broken record in her head until she has to scream into her pillow to drown them out.

Despite her mind's willingness, her body does not want to die for her cause, and it makes sure she knows.

"I'm sorry." She lets the ocean's salty breeze take the words off her tongue and carry them out to Pacific. She's not sure who she's apologizing to. Maybe to Coach Brunt, for killing the daughter she raised for 17 years on VILE Island. She'd choose to do it a thousand times over again. She does- she chooses it every day she chooses to run or fight instead of letting herself collapse into the beckoning arms of VILE. But she's sorry, sometimes, at three (-thirty) in the morning, that fate had to twist so that they never could have been family after the truth laid its head on Carmen's shoulder and whispered its meaning into her ear.

Maybe she's apologizing to herself. Even though she and her body both knew from the day they put on the hat and coat that the price they would pay for leaving would be their life, she is sorry, sometimes, about that too.

Tonight, she leans on the window sill and wails into the night, knowing no one will hear her. She funnels her regret into that stuttering scream, tastes the salt of her tears on her tongue, and receives a cry back from a lone seagull she can't see in the darkness.

She shuts her window and climbs back into bed, piling the blankets back on and hugging a panda stuffed animal to her chest. They help a little with the shivering, even though it isn't caused by any cold from this place and time. She closes her eyes and silently begs for the morning, knowing she will wake up and pretend like she is completely fine, like she has every morning for the last three years.

[affectionatemeconopsis]

It always sounded like it was raining, but this time it actually was. 

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting here, muddy puddles seeping into her jeans. The face of the boy on the ground was pale, the color likely leached out by the bitter chill. It was open, expressionless, despite pointing directly towards the heaving sky. Droplets traced down his closed eyes, like tears.

For as long as she could remember, her ears were filled with a constant buzzing, a slow rush. Sometimes it sped up, like water was thundering down onto her head. Sometimes it descended into a gentle sprinkle, echoing far beyond her.

She placed a hand on his cold cheek, tilting his head so that it rested on her lap. He was soaked, his wet, bedraggled hair the same color as the glistening asphalt. It stuck to his skin and spiked up in weird places. She drew little shapes with her finger on his forehead. “Where did you come from?” She asked his face. She couldn’t tell if she had made any true sound, or was simply mouthing words in the rain. 

She tugged him up and shuffled along, both pairs of their feet dragging through streams of water running towards gutter. At some point the boy stumbled and moaned, and he was suddenly a bit easier to carry. His head lolled on her shoulder. She didn’t think she was tired; her limbs were getting a bit too numb to tell. Maybe she was humming. For the most part, she let the world be swallowed up by the dull roar of falling rain, both inside her and out. 

                                                            ***

His thoughts were full of grey water and rain, but when he fully came to he was upright, in a warm cushioned booth. He blinked, hard. His eyelashes had stuck together, as if he’d been asleep for a long time. Wooden tabletop with chipped lacquer stood under his fingertips, which stung with the feeling of having become warm very quickly. Smudgey carpet softened what had once been unforgiving concrete beneath his feet. Sluggishly, he lifted his head. 

A girl sat across from him, as still as the table between them. Her face was partially obscured by tangled hair, and her dirty fingernails tapped rhythmically on the tabletop. The eyes that flicked towards him were colorless. Above her head, he could see little lamps hanging from the ceiling, which illuminated a small cafe.

“You’re up,” she nodded, almost to herself. Sliding a mug and a book towards him from the other side of the table, she continued. “I don’t think you need to sleep anymore.”

He lifted up the book. The worn, cloth-bound cover proudly announced, A Field Guide to the Birds. “What’s this?” he croaked. His throat felt scratchy, and a bit like he would soon be coming down with a cold.

“It’s supposed to help.” She nudged the mug closer, which he saw was full of tea, from which spirals of steam were rapidly dissipating. The tea was the same color as the gutter water he remembered being eye level with, but when he brought it to his lips it was sweet, and tickled his nose with a warm, herbal scent. 

The girl was still again, her eyes focused on something beyond him. He tried to clear his throat. “Where am I?” Her eyes focused again on him, and her head tilted, as if trying to shake water out of her ear.

“I don’t really know.” 

He considered this, fingers wrapped around the mug. “Where should I go from here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it must still be raining. I shouldn’t need to leave for a while.” He finished the last of the tea, and stood up, his joints aching with leftover stiffness. He left the mug on a counter beside him, and walked over to the window, the only point in his surroundings still awash with grey.

Despite the window being covered in little droplets, he couldn’t see any still falling down. The large puddles outside the cafe were smooth as glass. So why did the thrumming of rain on the roof fill his ears?

[allthewhumpygoodness]

Fantasy whump story Volume II

They awakened to the unsettling feeling of pressure around their head. Even before consciousness had fully come to them they gave a yelp, realizing they were being touched.

"Hold still," said a gruff voice somewhere near them. "You aren't doing yourself any favours."

(A) squeezed their eyes shut, struggling to keep their spiraling thoughts in order. There was a rough canvas something underneath them, dull voices around them, but too far away and muffled for them to make out what words they said. A groan slipped from their lips when they registered the aches and pains that covered their entire body. Their ankle throbbed, as did their head under the hands on it, and one of their arms was horribly stiff - they tried to move it and blinding pain flared through it. A horrible thought came to them - were they tied down?

A hand pressed into their shoulder, firmly but not ungently. "I told you to hold still. You'll only hurt yourself further."

(A) opened their eyes slowly, fighting a wave of dizziness that hit them when they did. The face above them came steadily into focus, frowning down at them. After a second of confusion they recognized the one who had taken them from the battlefield.

"You," they said hoarsely. "You...didn't kill me?"

"Not this time."

(A) squirmed again, only for a white hot pain to shoot through their arm and down into their chest, immobilizing them for a few agonizing seconds. "Let me go," they said weakly. "Please let me go."

"Easy, now." (B)'s voice was surprisingly gentle. "I'm not going to hurt you. We wouldn't have bandaged you up if that was our plan."

Bandages...that was it. Not ropes, as they'd feared. Strips of cloth wrapped their arm in a sling, their chest and shoulder similarly bound. They felt more down on their ankle, another across their forehead.

(A) breathed shakily, painfully, struggling to get their thoughts in order. "But...the others in the field...they were being slaughtered...you didn't...why not me?"

A shadow of anger crossed their enemy's face. "They weren't supposed to be. Our orders were to return with living captives to ransom, not corpses. Those still alive after the battle was done were to remain alive."

"So why...why was I the only..."

"Because I was the one who found you. Not the others."

(A) leaned their head back again, shutting their tired eyes. So that was it. They were a prisoner now, to be used as a hostage until whatever ransom these people wanted was paid. And if it wasn't? What then?

Their leg gave a horrible twinge and they couldn't stop the weak groan of pain that escaped them. "How...how bad is it?" they managed to get out.

Their captor, who strangely had not yet left their side, shrugged. "Broken ankle, wrist, collarbone, and two ribs. A sword-cut on your side, luckily it was shallow, and another gash on your head. That one was the most concerning, but the bleeding seems to have stopped now. And that arrow, we took that out while you were unconscious. Would've been cruel to wait until you woke up. You took a beating, that's for sure. I wouldn't move too much if I were you."

Move? (A) wouldn't dream of it. All they wanted to do was sleep, but they knew their many wounds wouldn't allow it. Sleep, and forget all that had happened that night, and if they were very lucky wake up and find it had all been nothing but a bad dream. It occurred to them that they had not cried - even probing their thoughts of their dead companions, or their own uncertain fate, was not enough to make tears come. Maybe now they were too tired, maybe when they were stronger their tied up emotions would spill out of them all in a rush. They did not look forward to it.

"You need rest," said (B). "Keep your strength. We need you alive when we get you to the Tower."

The Tower. (A) shivered, thinking of the tales they had heard of (B)'s people and the enormous stone watchtower the most important and influential commanded their lands from. It was the dungeons they heard the most tales about.

(B) gently tapped their uninjured shoulder. Turning their head the smallest possible amount, (A) saw they were holding out a small cup to them. "Drink. It'll help with your pain."

Ignoring the embarrassment at having to be fed like a child, (A) let the other lift their head and tip some of the medicine into their mouth. It was bitter and thick, but they choked it down. They couldn't help noticing through their layers of pain and terror how gentle (B) was with them, seemingly knowing just how to move them so it would not hurt. How many times had they helped equally injured people before?

"We're heading out two days from now. Get some sleep while you can."

(A) nodded, then winced - though the medicine had already begun to do its work, the sharpness of their pain dulling.

(B) left the tent, the lantern swinging in their wake. (A) lay in the dark, their fear steadily dulling as well, to their surprise. It's just the medicine, they told themselves, you have every reason to be afraid.

But it wasn't the worst it could be. They weren't being tortured, they weren't tied up outside without food or water. Thus far, their treatment had been little worse than what they would expect from their own people.

Only because they don't want their prisoner harmed, without the ransom they would kill me in a second.

They knew that. But still, it was curious.

The wind gusted through the branches outside, buckling the walls of the tent. And despite themselves, (A) finally allowed their body to relax, their exhaustion dragging them into sleep.

Part 1

[wandas-sunshine]

"If you'd just leave me alone that'd be great" + Clint Barton

Prompt: “If you’d just leave me alone that’d be great”

Character: Clint Barton

Warnings: Descriptions of panic attacks, some severely unedited angst

You were livid. Beyond that even. Maybe that was selfish; Being angry with Cling when it wasn’t even really his fault. But how else should you handle the terror thrumming through your veins?

When you’d started seeing Clint, you knew about the dangers of his job. He made sure of that from the very beginning. You knew just how often he laid his life on the line for the safety of humanity as a whole. It was always so attractive to you knowing that you were dating a hero in the purest form of the word, but you were bound to worry. After all, that was only natural when he came home beaten and bruised more often than you cared to think about.

You were grateful to be with someone so attentive as well, so constantly aware of how you must be feeling when he was facing danger head on. Your messages never went unanswered for long, your calls never unreturned. Just a little bit of patience, and he’d check in with you as soon as he could.

So you were patient, you waited all day long. A handful of messages and one phone call for the day. After no response from the time you woke up ‘till the time you laid down for bed, you were reasonably concerned. You woke up the next morning with worry simmering in your stomach, and hope floating in your chest. You would hear from him today, you were sure of it.

Morning brought more of the same results. Panic was settling in now, and you called a few more times. You tried Natasha’s number too, then Coulson’s until finally you were left with one daunting option.

You paced your room so many times that you were convinced you’d wear a hole straight through the floor. Every ding of your phone sent you into a flurry, a predictable chain of events; Hope that it would be Clint, fear that it would be bad news, and then crushing disappointment when it was only your friends checking in on you.

You couldn’t control your thoughts as you called numbers and searched the news channels. You kept calling, leaving voicemails until voicemail boxes were full. Maybe you were being too overbearing, but you didn’t care. Finally you gave in, sitting on the floor with a tearstained pillow clutched tight against your chest. You tapped the contact, giving in to the terror and facing your worst option. The name flashed as your phone began to ring.

N. Fury

As the hours dragged on, you found yourself growing used to your calls going unanswered. You were helpless, trapped with nothing but the worst case scenarios in your head. You loved being in love with a hero, it was a constant reminder that the world was in good hands. But this was simply too much to handle. The next few days ran together, a mess of tears and nightmares broken up and held together by protein bars and coffee.

Somehow, with all of the knowledge you had of Clint’s life outside of your relationship, with all of the missions he’d gone on in the past, you had never properly given any thought to what would happen if you lost him.

Your phone said it had been nearly a week without hearing from him. Your tears had run dry, but the sobbing never seemed to stop. It was mid-afternoon maybe? Sunlight tried weakly to filter through the closed curtains. You were simply staring at your phone, not looking at anything in particular. There was a knock at the front door, loud and sharp. You ignored it, but the silence only lasted a few minutes before it came again. Three loud raps, slow and steady. Persistent. You refused to move, you weren’t entirely sure if you could move at this point. The quiet lasted longer now, and it was oddly stifling.

You were sure that whoever had come was one, but then it came again. This time was louder, practically rattling your eardrums. So you dragged yourself to your feel, all of your stiff joints and underused muscles screaming in protest as you trudged to the door. The fourth round of knocking was cut short as you pulled open the door.

Standing there, right in front of you, was none other than Clint. He was beaten and bruised, but most definitely alive and on your doorstep.

“You’re here.” You whispered, not entirely sure how to feel. “You just show up now? After all of that radio silence?”

As you asked the questions, tears once again pricked your eyes, and sheer panic and rage settled in your chest. He couldn’t even be bothered to leave a message? Couldn’t be bothered to ease your worries. You thought he was fucking dead for god’s sake. He let you believe you were going to be all alone again. Had he thought of you?

“Come on, let me explain. (Y/N), please.” He tried to step inside, but you didn’t budge. Tears were free falling now, sliding down your cheeks and dripping off your chin as you gasped for air. You shook your head frantically.

“No! I don’t...don’t wanna hear it. If you’d just leave me alone, that’d be great.” You whimpered. You pushed the door closed with shaky hands. You leaned against the door, sinking to the floor and hugging yourself tight as you let the sobs wrack through you.

Clint listened from the other side, each sob and gasp for air making his heart shatter in his chest. He ached to hold you and fix it all. It was his fault that you were crying, his fault that you were scared. He’d let his guard down, gotten himself caught on a routine mission.

“Please let me in, baby. I need to see you.” He begged. You clapped your hands over your ears. Everything was too much, even the sounds of your crying was too loud, and every inhale hurt your chest. The room felt like it was spinning as you scooched out of the way of the door so he could swing it open. There was a pause as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Then he was at your side, knelt close enough to be in your line of vision but not touching you just yet,

“I’m so sorry. It was an accident, I promise. I didn’t mean to leave you alone. I didn’t mean to keep you in the dark, I’m sorry.” He mumbled slowly, finally bundling you against his chest. Your hands fisted into his shirt, as if you would lose all of your sanity otherwise.

Clint had helped you through plenty of panic attacks, he knew how to help. He rubbed slow circles into your shoulder, gently reminding you to focus on the feeling. He continued talking, throwing you a rope to pull yourself out of the spiraling thoughts.

It was a handful of dragging moments before you found that the terror had subsided, and the crying was giving way to exhaustion. You leaned closer to him, not able to force words out in this state. You’d scold him more in the morning when you had more energy.

“I’m not leaving. I love you.” Clint promised. You nodded weakly. With his arms secured tightly around you, and his familiar scent wrapping you up tight, you knew that he meant it.

[tacticaldiary]

Hai! Can I request for Akaashi, angst to fluff where he accidentally made me insecure please?? Arigato~😊

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Thanks for the request! :) @akadrea

Misunderstanding

Pairing: Reader x Keiji Akaashi

Genre: Hurt/Comfort - Angst to Fluff

He feels incredibly guilty for making her think she wasn’t good enough. He just wanted her to not worry about him. Insecurity is a dangerous thing.

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

He bites back a curse as he falls hard, onto the polished gym floors. He tries catching himself with his hand, but it gives away under his weight, throbbing painfully. He had been trying to get under a particularly poorly received ball in order to set it, but ended up tripping. As the ball bounces away from him, he hears his team frantically approach him asking if he was alright. 

“Akaashi! Someone call an ambulance!” Bokuto practically screams, flopping down beside his friend and helping him sit up. 

“I’m fine.” he groans, cradling his hand to his chest. While the others convince Bokuto to not call emergency services, Akaashi examines his injury, by flexing his fingers and twisting his wrist around slowly. It doesn’t seem too serious, nothing fractured or broken. The coach finally reaches them, asking the others to back away as he kneels next to Akaashi. 

After inspecting the injury he deems it as a simple sprain. 

“Nothing too bad.” Akaashi nods silently and stands, taking a second to steady himself. He had dealt with sprains before, so he waves off the offers to go see the nurse. He informs them of the wrist brace he has at home and he’s forced to stay on the bench for the rest of practise.

 When Bokuto comes bounding up to him after practise, asking about his wrist, Akaashi assures him that he’s fine. They stop outside the gym.

“Waiting for Y/N again?”

Akaashi nods. It had become some kind of a habit for them to walk home together after school everyday. His girlfriend would meet him in front of the gym and Akaashi would then walk her home. They lived close by, so it wasn’t too much of an issue.

“Alright.” Bokuto glances at his watch, before grinning at his friend. “Don’t die, Akaashi! Who would set for me if you were gone?” he pats him on the back, laughing when Akaashi rolls his eyes and gives him a small smile. Bokuto soon departs, leaving Akaashi to wait for his girlfriend.

Y/N’s eyes light up as she spots Akaashi. Her pace increases and she waves at him. When he takes notice, he smiles at her. 

“Hey, you.” Y/N says, finally reaching him and pulling him into a hug. He winces a little when she brushes against his injured wrist, and wraps his other arm around her. Y/N finds the, in her opinion, half-hearted hug a little strange but brushes it off, assuming he was just tired. 

“Hello, love. How was your day?” he questions as the two start walking towards the front gates to the school. Y/N starts telling him about how she aced one of her tests today, and Akaashi’s only half-listening. The periodic, dull throbbing in his wrist is painful, but he doesn't want to let Y/N know and worry, so he sucks it up and nods every now and then, showing that he’s listening. His silence doesn’t discourage Y/N in the slightest, since Akaashi never talks excessively anyway. 

Mid sentence, she reaches over to hold his hand as she usually would, and falters when he pulls back a little too quickly. Frowning a little, she shakes it off and picks up where she left. Around 10 minutes later, she tries again and looks up at Akaashi confused when he pulls away for a second time. 

He looks straight ahead, not even sparing her a glance. Truth be told, he’s just trying to make sure she doesn’t see him wince in pain, so he holds a stoic expression. She deflates a little and the conversation turns dry, her voice much quieter than before. As observant as Akaashi usually is, he doesn’t take notice of the change in atmosphere between them.

Y/N can’t help but think if she did something wrong when he doesn’t kiss her goodnight at her doorstep like usual. By the time she reaches her room and puts her backpack away, her thought are running wild. 

Did she do something to make him mad? Not that she could recall and Akaashi was the kind of person to confront any problems head on instead of ignoring her like that. He had let Bokuto touch him, she saw the ace pat him on the back herself, and he had smiled at him. Why did he pull away from her then?

Sighing, she sits at the edge of her bed frowning. She catches a glimpse of herself in her mirror, which was on her closet door. Her frown deepens as she gazes at herself. Her uniform was rumpled and her hair was messy, reaching up to touch it, she starts carefully looking at herself from top to bottom, scrutinising herself.

Did her hair always stand up like that? Were those spots on her face there before? Her gaze drops to her stomach. Had she gained a few pounds? A little upset, she looks at her posture and straightens it. She couldn’t even sit properly, could she? She realises with a start that, of course, Akaashi hadn’t wanted to hold hands with her.

He didn’t want to be seen in public with her. Who would? she thinks bitterly. She huffs and lays back, consumed by her harsh thoughts. She’s in a downward spiral, and it feels like she’s drowning. Was she too clingy? Oh god, she was, wasn’t she? She was always linking their arms or leaning onto him. She thinks back to Akaashi’s silence. She talked too much. He was probably hinting at her to be quiet when he wasn’t talking.

She clenches her eyes shut, keeping the burning tears at bay. She was so wrong for thinking she was ever enough. A muffled sob escapes her and she rolls over, shoving her face into her pillow. He probably wanted to break up with her, but just didn’t know how. 

Her thoughts become panicked. She didn’t want him to leave her. She loved him! She could change, couldn’t she? She’d be better for him. It would make them both happy. 

With those thoughts, she eventually drifts off to sleep. It was only 7pm, but she was exhausted, feeling the world pushing down on her shoulders. The fact that she may be overreacting or overthinking didn’t hit her, her insecurities winning over the space in her mind and washing away all rational thought. 

She doesn’t look like herself, is her first thought when she gets ready. Her posture is straight, her clothes ironed and her hair neatly half tied up. She’s missing her slightly ruffled look. Y/N sighs, making her way downstairs. She waves off her mother’s offer for breakfast, claiming she’d eat at school. 

She never missed breakfast before.

Upon approaching the bus stop at which they met up to walk the rest of the way, she finds Akaashi already waiting there. Steeling herself, she takes a deep breath, before approaching him and offering him a smile. He spots her immediately and his face softens.

“Hey, you.” Y/N greets. She keeps a careful distance between the two and beckons him with a nod of her head to start walking. 

He replies, but is a little confused when she doesn’t greet him with a hug as she usually would. He’s even more confused when the silence between them stretches out for the entire walk. By the time they reach the gates, Akaashi knows something’s wrong. The silence between them was too tense and fragile.

The whole walk felt...wrong. Y/N hadn’t tried to link arms, or hands, even once and she hadn’t told him about anything new. She carried herself differently too, he had observed through stolen glances. She was a little too stiff and her posture seemed uncomfortable. She wasn’t her cheery self. 

She wasn’t acting like his Y/N.

Reaching the gates, Y/N spots some of her friends, who quickly wave her over. 

“Y/N, is everything alright?” he finally breaks the silence, glancing between her and her friends. The smile she offers him is a little too bright.

“Of course! I’ll see you at lunch!” she calls over her shoulder as she walks away to her friends. As she walks away without kissing him on the cheek like she usually did.

Something was very wrong.

“Akaashi! You’re not dead!” Bokuto cheers as he slips into his seat at their lunch table. He doesn’t get a response, Akaashi’s blue eyes carefully scanning the cafeteria for his girlfriend. He eventually spots her as she makes her way over to him, her gaze fixed to the floor, lunch tray in hand. When she slips into the seat next to him, she still keeps an annoying amount of space between them. Akaashi feels his stomach drop when he sees her lunch tray.

“You're eating a salad?” he asks bluntly, not one to beat around the bush. Y/N freezes, before clearing her throat, looking at him with a strained smile. 

“I wasn’t that hungry today. Had a big breakfast.”

His gaze is calculating and she almost shudders, she has a feeling he doesn’t buy it. She’s right. He drops the topic, deciding to confront her about it in a place where there weren’t this many eyes, desperate for gossip around them. He keeps an eye on her all through lunch, tuning out the chatter of his other friends. When Y/N leaves to use the bathroom, he notices that her plate is still full. 

Frowning, he stands, wanting to follow her, but nearly falls back into his seat when he bumps into another girl. He catches himself by bracing himself on the table with his injured hand. He exhales sharply at the flash of pain. It was a very minor sprain and was half-healed already, so Akaashi decided not to wear the wrist brace to school. When the pain subsides, he eventually turns to the girl, who lets out a string of apologies.

Y/N looks at herself in the bathroom mirror for a second, before drying her hands and walking back out. When she sees her boyfriend with another girl, her stomach drops. She sees them talking, and when she leans forward to touch his arm, Y/N stalks up to the table. Akaashi notices her but before he can get a word to her, she speaks. 

“I’ll be in the library.” Her voice a little strained, she grabs her backpack and leaves quickly, not sparing a glance back to him.

She doesn’t get far until she hears his brisk footstep behind her. When he calls out for her to wait, she complies, her gaze glued to the floor. He reaches her and moves in front of her, both of them in the middle of the almost empty hallway.

“Love...tell me what’s wrong.” his voice is soft and concerned and it makes tears prickle Y/N’s eyes. She shakes her head and opens her mouth to assure him, but he cuts her head.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been acting strange all day. What’s bothering you?” His voice is calm and level as he gently tilts her chin up to look at him. 

When she sees the love and concern in his eyes, she nearly breaks. Couldn’t he see that she was doing this for him? Didn’t he like it?

“I’m trying to be better, Keiji.”

There’s a second of silence, in which Akaashi processes her words. “You don’t need to-”

“I do!” She cuts him off, taking a step back. “I’m not good enough. You know that!”

“Y/N. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but, trust me you-”

“No! I’m trying my best here. I’m clingy and talk too much, and when I finally fix the problem, you tell me somethings wrong?” Her eyes are shiny with tears, because dammit, why couldn’t he see how hard she was trying? 

No. This couldn’t be happening. What had he done to make her feel that way. He racks his brain, but can’t come up with anything. He shakes his head calmly and reaches for her hand with his good arm, grasping it. The contact reminds Y/N of why she’s trying to be better in the first place.

“Listen to me-”

Needless to say, he’s hurt when she rips her hand from his, like she’s been burnt

“Y/N?” As emotionless as he could be sometimes, Y/N picks up on his hurt look and tone immediately. Realising with a start that she couldn’t even do this right, she turns on her heel and runs away from him, ignoring his calls for her.

He finds her quickly, around 10 minutes later, crying quietly to herself behind the gym. She’s on the ground, face buried between her knees. Akaashi sighs in relief and slowly walks to sit down next to her. She stills a little, but doesn’t move. They sit in silence, until Y/N cries die down.

“I’m sorry.” she sniffles. He responds by shuffling over to her and carefully slinging his good arm around her, pulling her to his chest. He waits for her to speak, and she does, after taking a deep breath, His presence is comforting, and she buries her face into his chest, feeling his hold on her tighten protectively. 

She tells him everything. It just comes spilling out and once she starts, she finds herself unable to stop. Akaashi sits there and listens, his heart aching. He feels incredibly guilty. Once she’s finished, she feels a lot better, but still can’t bring herself to look up at him.

Y/N feels him exhale slowly, and his hand goes into her hair. Her eyes widen as she feels him tug the pin she used to keep her hair up, out of her locks. He holds it out in front of them, before looking down at Y/N’s blotchy, tear stained face. 

“You don’t need this.” he tosses the pin away. “You don’t need to turn yourself into someone you’re not for anyone. Not even me.” He tilts her chin up with his finger and looks her in the eyes, seriously. 

“I love you. I love you, just the way you are.”

She feels her face heat up. “But what about yesterday? You didn’t want me to touch you.” she mutters. Akaashi shakes his head and brings up his injured hand, showing it to her. It’s still a little swollen, but has healed for the most part. At Y/N’s questioning look, he explains how he sprained his wrist and why he pulled his hand away. 

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Y/N feels incredibly stupid. “You were in pain? I’m so sorry, Holy shit, I didn’t know! You-you could have told me!” She gently grabs his wrist and examines it, frowning when he winces a little.  

“You didn’t know. I apologise for not telling you and making you think I didn’t like you. I’ll try to be more open next time.” He pecks her gently on the forehead. When they hear the bell ring, signifying that the last class of the day was over, the two realise that they’d unintentionally ditched class. Neither of them seemed to mind. 

Akaashi stands and offers Y/N his hand, which she accepts. When they’re both standing, he suddenly pulls her forward into a warm hug, resting his chin on the top of her head. The blatant display of affection is uncharacteristic for him, but it only proves to Y/N how badly she misinterpreted the situation.

“There you are- oh no...did I interrupt something?” They jump at the loud energetic voice, and Y/N giggle when Akaashi drops his head onto her shoulder. 

“Bokuto-san-”

“You’re late for practise!” he crosses his arms. His face lights up with an idea. “Y/N, are you coming to watch today’s practise?” he asks excitedly. She glances between the two boys and nods. 

“I’ll keep Keiji company on the bench.”

Bokuto cheers and leads the pair to the gym, talking about how many awesome spikes he’ll hit to impress Y/N. As they walk, Y/N feels Akaashi reach over grasp her hand interlacing their fingers.

 She smiles to herself and pulls him closer, linking their arms together. 

 Requests are Open and Welcome

[valwrite]

the bella-vista avenue book club; daveed diggs

masterlist

summary: if only she’d double checked her Amazon shopping cart, Y/N L/N wouldn’t find herself torn between what book to give her hot neighbor next.

warnings: fluff, cheesiness, a slither of smut, mentions of a car accident, cooper is a basic dog name, i know but stfu about it.

fic style: oneshot.

word count: 6455.

author’s note: this fic took way too long to write, bye. no but for real, i’ve been back in uni for one month and so far i’ve: done way too many assignments; had more breakdowns than a disney child star; had a covid scare; and spontaneously dyed my hair dark blue/green at 4am instead of finishing an essay. we’re doing well, folks :)

It took exactly twenty one days for the loneliness to kick in.

On the day the lockdown was first announced, Y/N L/N felt the most confusing sentiment of relief and fear blended together. She'd spent just about the whole day in the meeting from Hell, during which three people had stormed out of after countless shouting matches had broken out and her boss had blatantly fired one of the guys from her department, right in front of everyone. When she did eventually get out of said meeting- a whole two hours later than her usual work days ended -, she was struggling with an impending migraine, threatening to blur her eyesight the whole drive home. She arrived home safely that evening, by the force of some miracle, only to find countless texts from relatives and friends alike, detailing the quarantine announcement and all the rules that came with it. Though concerned over the state of the world battling against the rapidly spreading virus, Y/N was just glad there would be no meetings for a while.

Quarantine was exciting at first. In the normal day-to-day life she lead, Y/N often found herself falling short on time to do things she truly enjoyed. There was just always one more task needing done at work; one more errand to complete; one more mile to run. By the time she stepped into her home come the end of the day, her eyelids were always battling to stay opened. So, it was very fair to say that the sudden infinite amount of free time had her feeling rather excited.

Day two and she'd already set herself a list of goals to spend all this time on, a chance to do all the things her schedule got in the way of. Of course, with the situation at hand, all these goals were modified to be achievable from within the confines of her home. The first goal she achieved was knitting a sweater. Granted, it was a mess she'd ended up trying to turn into a dog sweater only to watch as her fur-baby, Cooper, chewed it into rags.

There was no goal on the list to be good at all those goals.

In the following weeks, Y/N found herself trying her hand at pottery - she both made and broke a mug -, baking - the first cake burned but the second she made was actually pretty edible -, guitar playing - it really was just like riding a bike: one never really forgets how to do it - and many other hobbies. In between finding her artistic calling in life, it seemed family quiz nights became the norm.

But twenty one days, that's when she finally took notice of just how lonely living had become for her. A full twenty one days of not having made eye contact with anyone outside of a screen or who happened to not own four paws and a tail.

The loneliness wasn't unique to her, she was very aware. But she was stuck quarantining in a house all by herself, hours away from any of her family and she knew it was going to be a fair while before she even spoke with someone face to face. Much longer than most people. She was still at the point where even bringing up the thought of going to the store- with a trusted mask on, of course - would send her mother into a spiral of worse case scenarios and her father would be threatening to call her doctor.

As neurotic as the two could be about her health, Y/N completely understood their reactions. Things had never really been the same since her accident, even with the years gone by.

She was sat on her sofa- well, actually, sat on her floor, with her back against the sofa - when the door bell rang. She was up at lighting speed, bounding her way over to the front of the house before peaking a look through the peep hole and finding no one there. Unfazed by this, she unlocked the door and pulled it open to unveil a package at her doorstep, the ever familiar Amazon logo splashed across it. In the past few weeks, the delivery service and her bank account had become well acquainted, with most of her new found hobbies being aided by it.

In a matter of seconds, she'd picked up the package, shut the door and made her way into her kitchen, a drawer being pulled open as she dug through it for a pair of scissors. The package was ripped up and there she found a sight she wasn't awaiting, her eyes widening ever so slightly and a "Huh." noise escaping her.

There, laying on the remaining cardboard package, sat a hardback copy of A Tale Of Two Cities. And right next to it sat an identical copy, both of them staring up at Y/N.

“This can't be right, right?” She proposed the question down at Cooper, who'd at some point sauntered in to the kitchen and sat down at her feet, his tail wagging lazily upon being spoken to.

Sure enough, when she checked her receipt online, there was only one copy on the list. She wondered if it was perhaps a “buy one, get one free” kind of deal but quickly found no evidence to back up her hypothesis.

Thinking of what the right thing to do would be, Y/N on instinct began to investigate how she could possibly return the additional book they'd sent to her. As she came to the realization that it would entail her having to return both books and, then, waiting once again for a copy to be sent to her, she changed her mind instantly. A few other solutions came to mind: she could mail it to her sister-in-law, she was just as much of a book worm as Y/N; or she could keep it until the next time she needs a birthday present for someone; or she could just keep both of the copies, even if it felt a little wasteful.

It was only later on that very evening, as Y/N chopped away at some onions and was struggling to contain her tears- she had a spoon in her mouth because her mother swore it stopped you from crying, spoiler: it did not -, that the perfect idea struck.

In the corner of her eye she spotted him, strolling about his own kitchen. He hadn't lived next door for very long, he'd only moved in at the very start of the year, if she remembered correctly. And though they had never really spoken or interacted- polite waves and stiff smiles when spotting one another either leaving or arriving home wasn't exactly very conversational after all-, Y/N couldn't help but decide he was going to be the honorary recipient of the book. After all, what was the worst that could happen? Well, he could use the book to keep his fireplace alight, but Y/N was more eager to just think optimistically about it.

With her mind firmly made up, she neatly wrapped the book in some stray wrapping paper she'd found in her junk drawer and tied a neat, makeshift bow around it. His doorstep was only a couple feet from her own and it wasn't long till she was stood right in front of it, finger hovering over the doorbell as she wrestled with the thought off handing the present directly to him. She recalled one night, where her bedroom curtains had been wide open to let in the moonlight, and he'd walked past his own bedroom window, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. The image of water dripping down those defined abs made her mind up and she placed the wrapped book next to his door, the little note she'd written taped on to it carefully.

Happy housewarming! I hope you're taking care during these trying time! - Y/N, your neighbor from door 27. p.s. Cooper (the German Shepherd) says sorry for peeing in your flowers :(

A few days later, as Y/N and Cooper arrived home from their daily walk, a mysterious package sat on the doorstep. What made it mysterious was the fact it wasn't from Amazon, nor from her local grocery store either. Cooper possessed no hesitation and dashed over to investigate, his tail beginning to wag as Y/N approached the front door.

“What is it, Coops?” She crouched down, her hand rubbing over the top of his head as his tongue dangled out of his mouth. There was a small piece of paper stuck on the package and, at first, she wondered if perhaps her attempt at a kind gesture had backfired and the hot neighbor had just dropped it back off. Then, she read the note. “Housewarming? Took you a while. This Dickens guy's good, hope he finally get's some popularity soon. - Daveed, your neighbor from door 28.” A smile crept onto her face as she learnt his name. It felt nice on her lips. His calligraphy skills only made the name look prettier. “P.S. check this book out, author is a real hidden gem. P.S.S. tell Cooper it's chill, I got my revenge and peed in his flowers.”

It was there on her doorstep, with a thin layer of sweat decorating her face and a tired out dog at her feet, that Y/N upgraded Daveed from hot neighbor to hot and funny neighbor.

It was almost like an otherworldly sign when Y/N stumbled over a chew toy the next day, her whole body slamming right into her bookcase and out from it fell a book, smacking her right on her head to add yet another bruise on to her list. Her mother had always joked that she bruised easier than a peach, partially on account of her incapability to walk five paces without stumbling over air or slipping on dry ground.

She let out a groan, her hand rubbing at the spot the book hit her and she reached down to grab her attacker- which lay face down - off of the floor. The cover turned out to be that of The Great Gatsby and the sudden urge to wrap it up, attach a note and drop it over at Daveed's doorstep became overwhelming. It still felt so personal to know his name.

Was she seriously about to use a book as an excuse to try catch a glimpse of her hot neighbor, who just yesterday was claiming to have peed on her flowers? Yes, yes she was. Because, after all, he was hot. And if society had taught her anything, it was that hot people were excused of everything. Okay, perhaps she was exaggerating just a little bit but it all added up to the same thing: Daveed was hot and she was thirsty.

Maybe quarantine really was beginning to have an effect on her.

A few hours later, Y/N was comfortably snuggled under her blankets in bed, the room illuminated by nothing but her television screen and the streetlights outside. A door opened somewhere, her anxious brain questioning if it was one of her own doors but the sudden laughter she could hear changed her train of thought quickly.

Oh my god, his laugh was music to her ears. And, oh my god, she'd actually made him laugh.

She lay back, wondering which part of her note had made Daveed laugh as consciousness slowly slipped away from her. One house away, her hot and funny neighbor was near mirroring her position in his own bed, his head replaying the note he'd received from the cute girl next door.

Not too sure about this author, he seems to have a fetish for big feet! I'm beginning to question exactly what kind of weird foot erotica you read, Daveed from door 28! -Y/N, your foot hating neighbor. P.S. this guy definitely needs more clout, can't you just picture his writing being used to teach the younger generations? P.S.S. Cooper isn't happy about you peeing in his flowers but he is happy about the treats.

Two days later, in the morning, Y/N was sat at her kitchen island. Her computer lay open in front of her, untouched for the past half hour as she flipped through the pages of her book and sipped away at the smoothie she'd blended up for herself. Cooper lay sound asleep under her seat, the occasional snore coming from the pup. It was those moments in her quarantine that she enjoyed most, just pure tranquility. It took her mind off of the loneliness.

A feeling overcame her, as the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. It was almost like she could feel someone's eyes on her. She tore her own eyes away from the printed text and checked her surroundings vaguely. It was only when she looked straight ahead, out of the window that she spotted the intrusive stare of his.

They were sat in near parallel, him also sat at his kitchen island with a computer opened, only he had a mug of coffee instead of a smoothie. When their eyes made contact, he grinned at her, waving the book in his hand before pointing at the cover. The Great Gatsby.

He really was reading the book she'd sent over.

Mirroring his actions, she lifted up her own book, the one he'd sent over all those days ago. The Hobbit.

It was short, it was sweet and it was the longest they had ever interacted off paper. Even without verbal communication, so much was said between them both in that small instance. It was a sign that these little book deliveries were appreciated, they both cared enough to read whatever the other sent over.

Maybe it was time to consider Daveed her hot, funny and caring neighbor.

The book exchanges continued onward for weeks.

Daveed sent over a collection of fairy tales by the Grimm brothers, his attached note read: Thanks for putting me onto Fitzgerald, gonna have to see if the school board will let me teach his work in my lectures. Think they might be against it, what ya think? In the meantime, check these indie short stories out. Think Cooper will resonate with the wolf in the Red Ridding Hood story. -Daveed, your literature professor neighbor. P.S. Noticed the Raptors jersey on your washing line, tell your boyfriend the Warrior in me is unimpressed.

To which Y/N replied to with, alongside a copy of Twilight,: Cooper loved the Red Ridding Hood story, but he says you remind him of the grandmother in it. Speaking of wolves, check out this classic example of American literature, the lack of emotions this author puts into her writing is truly astounding. -Y/N, the Raptor next door. P.S. The Raptors jersey is mine, but I'll applaud you for smoothly trying to find out if I have a boyfriend. For the record, I do. He's tall, dark haired and lives in my imagination. P.S.S. Could you ask your girlfriend if she knows any good foundations? I'm thinking of changing mine.

He took less than a day to fire back with a copy of 50 Shades Of Grey: If Cooper is the wolf, and I'm the grandmother, would that make you the girl? I think the romance in this book is quite poignant, it really values the emotional over the physical. - Daveed, your grandmother neighbor. P.S. Not sure about my girlfriend's foundation, seeing as she doesn't exist, but I use L'Oreal. Very creamy, or whatever it is foundation is meant to be like. P.S.S. You looked cute in your paint splattered t-shirt the other day.

Not even an hour later, he opened his door to find a hardback of the Holy Bible and the following: I went into that book expecting a rush of happiness and sweetness, but ended up feeling scared and turned on in the most confusing way. I worry about your taste, Daveed, and that is why I'm recommending this book to you. This will cleanse you of all you've done wrong, my friend. -Y/N, your concerned neighbor. P.S. I'm not the girl, I'm the huntsman. P.S.S. Your dog is so cute, Cooper wants her/his number.

It took 45 days of lockdown for Y/N to finally venture out to her local grocers, tired of ordering food online and desperate for some human contact which didn't have to be separated by a great distance and united by a glass screen and a stable internet connection. She'd felt wrong; out of place; strange the whole time she'd been wandering up and down the aisles of the shop, her mask secured on her face and a near full basket hanging on her arm.

The fact Cooper was at home, holding down the fort for the time being gave her a little comfort.

Despite paying through self-service, and using a contactless card payment, her father's voice was ringing in her ears, scolding her for even taking the risk of stepping outdoors. Naturally, she appreciated his caring tendencies but she liked to consider herself old enough and smart enough to manage her own health problems.

With four bags stacked awkwardly in her arms, she took a few steps away from her car, attempting to peak over her shopping to see just where exactly the gate to her garden was. She could very faintly hear Cooper's excited whining, his paws scratching against the metal gate.

It was the sound of a voice, a very distinct voice, calling out her name that halted her movement and turned her head.

“Let me,” He, Daveed from door 28, paused, his hand clutching at his heaving chest. As her eyes drifted over him briefly, she took note of the trainers, the sweaty running shorts and, most of all, his bare chest, perfectly lined abs scattered along him. “get that for you.”

Before Y/N could so much as protest, Daveed had already snatched all four bags from her arms and was stood holding the gate open for her, a stupidly handsome smile decorating him. Her mask was still firmly held up but she smiled beneath it and done her best to share her gratitude with him.

“You don't need to do that.” Despite her words, she never attempted to take her bags back from him, instead cautiously slipping her way past him into her open garden. Cooper launched his paws up onto her, a bark of excitement escaping him before he licked at her arm and redirected his attention to Daveed. Cooper was still fairly young, not even a year old yet, but he was a fierce dog when it came to guarding his owner from any stranger. So, for Y/N to turn back and find him happily circling Daveed's legs, his favorite toy in his mouth and his tail wagging at lighting speed, it was purely a shock to her system.

And the clearest sign she'd ever seen that Daveed, whether he was a complete stranger to her or not, could be trusted.

“Where should I leave these?” He ignored her protest, effortlessly walking up the path of her garden with the heavy bags secure in his hands. Having him around her, all sweaty and heavy breathing and half dressed was more of a health hazard than her trip to the shops. Y/N began to wonder if it was legal to look so good.

“Uh, just,” She fished through her purse for her door key, avoiding the temptation to peak at his abs again. “on the table over there, if you don't mind.” She nodded her head in the direction of the small table sat out on her front porch and, within a couple seconds, she felt as Daveed brushed past her, so close she swore she could feel the heat radiating off of him.

He done exactly as she requested and lay the bags gently to rest on the table, the muscles in his arms flexing. Y/N had to wonder if this was a purposeful action, a way to tempt and seduce her, as if he needed to try much to succeed at that. She'd more or less been whipped for him the second he delivered his first book to her.

“Are you looking after yourself?” Her parents had asked this every time they spoke on the phone - which was basically a daily occasion - but hearing it from Daveed felt refreshing, as though she'd never heard the words before; as though she'd never been spoken to with such tenderness. She let her eyes meet his face, a dangerous choice when she found a dazzling smile reflected back at her.

“I am.” Was it possible for a smile to be brighter than the sun? “Are you?”

“Yeah. Even started eating kale.” Daveed chuckled and she followed suit, because his laugh was infectious and she would willingly let it consume her. “It tastes like shit, don't get me wrong, but it's gotta count for something, right?”

“Oh, totally, kale-boy.”

“Excuse me, I'd prefer if you called me by what I really am: a kale-man.”

The mask slid down the bridge of her nose as she smiled wider than the Cheshire cat. In her mind, she cursed her heart-eyes behavior but it did nothing to halt it, Daveed simply put her on edge in the best way.

“It was nice to finally hear your voice, it's cuter than I thought.” She wondered if he was aware of the effect he was having on her, if each word and every gesture of his was carefully calculated to make her weak in the knees. “I'll save you from my sweaty smell and head off now, I can hear the shower calling my name.”

The last thing, yet also the best thing, Y/N needed to be envisioning was a water soaked Daveed. “I didn't want to say anything but, yeah, you smell worse than Cooper's breath.”

“There's the attitude from all your notes!” Daveed had at some point stepped closer to her, to the point where it was likely a big enough inhalation of a breath would have their chests touching. He was so tall, and muscular. “I'll see you around, Y/N from door 27.”

For two minutes she stood there, mask slapped across her face and her breath caught in her throat, nothing but the raw memory of his body so close and, yet, so far away from her own. She made her way indoors, finally, in a zombiefied state. Cooper trailed happily behind her through the house and all the way into the kitchen and, like the good pup he was being raised to be, he helped put away a few of the groceries, by greedily grabbing at the packet of dog treats when something else in the bag caught Y/N's attention.

“Thank you for the bible, now may I rebut with a copy of the Torah? The characters might seem similar but I swear it's different. Friend? Was that you officially friendzoning me, Y/N? And to think I was willing to look past the fact you're a raptor.” She mumbled allowed without even noticing, her eyes drifting across the note in her hand. When Daveed had snuck this into her shopping, she didn't know. Perhaps he'd left it earlier on that day and simply scooped it into the bags after carrying them for her. That sure made more sense than her theory of him hiding the book down his running shorts. “P.S. My dog and I share a number, so I guess I'll just have to give you that one. Just tell Cooper no phone calls past ten o'clock, that's her bedtime.”

She'd never thought it would be so easy to achieve her hot neighbor's number, but the crumpled paper in her hand told her differently.

The room was dark. Or maybe her eyes were closed. Y/N honestly didn't know nor care enough to find out which was the truth. No, all she cared about was the feeling of her nerves being lit on fire and simultaneously soothed. As the moments passed, she became more and more aware of the predicament she found herself in. Her head was thrown back on the comfort of someone's pillow- it couldn't be one of her own, it was far too plush and soft -, both her legs were bent up at the knee, her hands were busy grasping on to anything and everything close by (the bed sheets, the headboard, the hair of whoever was currently positioned between her thighs) and her mouth was agape. Hushed moans and whimpers of ecstasy filled the thick air of the room, and they were all coming from her.

The tension was building in her gut, a knot winding itself tighter and tighter all the while threatening to snap at any moment. Her hips started grinding in time with the warm tongue against her heat. Or, maybe, she'd already been grinding before. Nothing was making sense. Up was down, left was right and Y/N was on the brink of the most thrilling orgasm she'd felt in a while, or ever, really.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?”

Her eyes- which apparently had in fact been opened all along-, with heavy eyelids, flickered down to between her legs. The man was certainly a specimen built to the likes of a Greek god, or something deriving from one. His fingers, buried deep within her, coaxed out another moan from her as they curled upwards. Daveed only smiled in satisfaction at this, as if he was getting more pleasure from it than she was.

Daveed.

Holy shit.

Daveed was between her bare legs.

Y/N bolted up and out of bed, hand reaching out and switching on the light. Just as she expected, there was no sign of Daveed in her room: not on her bed, not under her covers, not in her closet. But he was everywhere in her mind. Fully dressed, Y/N had never felt more naked in her entire life as she gazed out of her bedroom balcony door, over at the very window of the man who'd soaked her dream in a haze of steam. 

His light was on.

Worst of all, she found that Daveed was sat at his desk, typing away at something on his opened laptop. As though he felt her intrusive gaze, he looked up from the screen and met her eyes. Due to the distance between them both Y/N couldn't tell for sure but she could have sworn he sucked in his lower lip before releasing it in a teasing smile, his hand lazily waving at her.

With all the shame in the world, she shut her curtains and flopped back on to her bad.

In the span of five minutes she'd dreamed of Daveed doing unspeakable things to her with that mouth of his and been caught peeking into the bedroom of the very same man.

She hadn't phoned him.

She hadn't sent a book over to him.

She hadn't opened her blinds.

He'd been stuck thinking about her for eight days straight, yet it was beginning to feel like she'd been nothing but a creation of his own socially starved brain.

In the grand scheme of things, Daveed was not a narcissist. But he also wasn't an idiot. He was very aware of his own looks, of the lingering stares he'd receive from his students- male and female alike-, of the way soccer moms would shamelessly pay more attention to him than their own sons when he coached the local little league team. And, up until that point, he'd been sure Y/N had been reciprocating whatever feelings he'd amassed for her.

One thing Daveed was is decisive.

Mask pulled across the lower part of his face, he let himself into the gated front yard. In a couple seconds, Cooper had pounced up at him, tail wagging a million miles an hour and tongue lapping away at his face. He chuckled as he lowered the dog safely back onto all four paws.

It only took knocking on the door twice for him to get a “Hold on!” shouted from some part of the house as a response. Relief flooded him at the sound of Y/N's voice, reassuring him that everything was okay. But it only brought on more questions about her sudden lack of communication.

“Hell- Oh, Daveed.” A mask decorated her own face, meaning he was unaware  of the hint of a smile on her lips. All Daveed could see were her widened and tired eyes. “Can I help you?” He'd been stood staring her in silence for a little too long, it seemed.

"You never called.” He'd never sounded more pathetic in his life.

“You noticed.”

“Of course I noticed. Did I do something to make you uncomfortable?”

Apart from appear in one of my wet dreams? “What?! No! I've just been busy and I also didn't want to burden you, if I'm honest.”

“I gave you my number so you'd call me, Y/N.”

“And here I thought it was so our two dogs could kick off their fairy-tale romance.”

“As their parents, don't you think it's our responsibility to get along?” Daveed wanted to ask what had kept her busy for eight days. He wanted to know what she thought about in the morning, in the evening. What she thought about him. About the prospect of there ever being a “them”. But it wasn't the time nor the place. “Promise you'll call.”

“I promise I'll call you, loser.” She laughed behind her mask, leaving him with a longing to see her smile. “Now get lost, I've probably just burnt my omelette because of you.”

Daveed had just closed his front door as he felt his phone begin to buzz in his pocket, an unknown number displayed across the screen.

“You owe me an omelette.” Were the first words he heard as he answered it.

Two months passed. The quarantine rules had loosened and tightened over and over again. The supermarkets had restocked their shelves many times. An entire season had come and gone. And Y/N and Daveed had spoken nearly every single day on the phone.

He'd come to learn a few key things: a health scare had kept her busy those eight days; she was allergic to bullshit and always called him out on his; she loved rose wine, or any wine really; she had the most beautiful mind.

She'd also come to learn some stuff about him: he was a university professor, specifying in classic literature; despite the muscles, he was one heck of a dork; he knew a little too much about the rap industry and was prone to throw himself into tangents about the subject; his voice was even more heavenly in the morning.

“Make yourself something to eat,” Daveed spoke down the line, a twinge of excited demand in his voice. “pour yourself a glass of wine and go up to your bedroom balcony.”

“Ooh, someone's feeling bossy tonight, huh?” Y/N laughed, switching the phone between hands as she pushed herself off of her couch, disturbing a sleeping Cooper. After a few strokes to his head, she began her journey to the kitchen, suppressing a laugh as the tired dog chose to follow her, much like he done all the time. “Am I allowed to ask why I'm doing this?”

“Just do it, before I hang up.”

“I'll add grumpy to list of Daveed Moods tonight.”

With a bowl of heated up leftover pasta, a bottle of red wine and a glass balanced in her hands, and her phone glued between her ear and her shoulder, Y/N found her way up stairs to her bedroom. She was incapable of turning on the lights until she'd put down the items in her hand. It was then, as the lights lit up her room in a warm, golden hue, that she noticed Daveed.

No, not in her room. That would have been completely creepy, and partially arousing.

He was sat out on his own balcony, room lit up behind him, with a dish of unknown food, some wine and a candle lit in front of him. He was dressed casually, yet Y/N still found herself on the cusp of drooling at the sight of him. And when he finally noticed her, Daveed waved with the most shit eating grin on his face.

“Cute onesie. What is it, a bunny?” His tone was friendly, as always, but that never stopped her from groaning in frustration at his teasing.

“Did you call me up here just to criticize my choice of clothing, Diggs? Because I was taking part in an intense Criminal Minds marathon before someone interrupted me.”

“I actually called you to invite you to enjoy the evening with me.” It was a curse and a blessing to be so foul minded, Y/N's instantly flooding her with different meanings to his words. “The sky looked pretty tonight and I need someone to appreciate it with me. Unfortunately, you're the only one who answered my call.”

“I won't hesitate to hang up.”

“Stop talking and sit down, your dinner'll get cold.”

Who knows how much time really passed as the two sat staring out at the other, bellies filled by food and wine, hearts filled with desire and longing. There was a great distance between the two balconies but Y/N couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so close to someone, even before social distancing had become the norm.

“It's crazy, I know. How can we be prepared to teach classes now that the infection rates are higher than back at the start of the year, where we all shut down?” Daveed had brought up the fact he was going back to work soon, a topic which made him a perfect blend of relieved, infuriated and confused. “I give it one semester till they make us go back to online teaching, honestly. What about you? Any signs of getting back to your office?”

“We just got the go ahead last week, we're opening back up in a fortnight.” Her reply was paused by a sip of wine, her second glass of the night. “I say we but I really mean them. My doctor told me I'm not allowed to go back yet, apparently I've got some tests left to do.”

The silence that ensued lasted quite a few minutes, then Daveed sighed down the line.

“Is it alright for me to ask why?” He seemed to regret his words instantly, at least from the limited expressions Y/N could read on his face. “I mean, the doctor thing. Are you sick or...?”

“Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't ask sooner.” In their months of getting to know each other, there were times she couldn't even open the door to him when he'd deliver some of her mail or drop off a bunch of flowers he'd stolen from a neighboring garden. It was always under the excuse of doctor's orders and he never questioned or doubted her, he just accepted her for everything she said and gave of herself. “I was in a car accident a couple years ago. It wasn't fatal for anyone, thankfully, but it was pretty bad. One of my lungs ended up collapsing.

I pretty much lived in and out of the hospital for months, which almost sucked more than having a lung that was pretty much giving up on me. I don't know if you've ever spent a lot of time in hospital but it's like attending your own funeral. Everyone that visits you has this look of grief, everything they say is apologetic and there are so many tears. Not to mention the fact the place smells like a crime scene with how much bleach cleaning they do. Anyways, I'm okay now but I guess they consider me high risk or something so they're taking extra steps to make sure I'm as safe and as far away from that virus as possible.”

“So, correct me if I'm wrong, but does that mean I won't be able to take you out anytime soon?” Daveed spoke up finally, and boy was she glad that he didn't want to stick on the topic of her hospital stay. It was a dark and sad time, and she didn't want to experience any of that with him.

“Nope, not until I get permission from my doctor.”

“Can't believe I'm getting cock-blocked by some fucking virus.”

A laugh, so loud that Daveed heard it without his phone pressed to his ear, erupted from Y/N. “You'll just have to settle for balcony dates for now.”

“This isn't a date, Y/N.” It was his turn to laugh.

“Oh, sorry.” Clearly, she was worse at reading signs than she'd thought. She'd never felt more foolish in her life.

“When I eventually do take you on a date, there won't be so much space between us.” His words honestly had the chance to make or break her in that moment, her entire soul depended on whatever he said next. “It'll be a night where I take you to the most ridiculously expensive restaurant. We won't really like the food on the menu but we'll stay as part of a principle. You'll be reluctant to let me blow all my money on the bill but I'll get my way eventually. We'll find some excuse or reason to stay out. Maybe we'll find some piano bar, do some dancing, share some drinks. I don't think I'll be able to stop thinking about how beautiful you look. We'll still be hungry because dinner was shit, so we'll get some fast food before you let me drive us home. I'll probably hold your hand while I drive. I'll walk you to your front door and, even if I really wish you'd invite me in, I'll be relieved when you don't. I'll try tell you how much I enjoyed our night but I'll probably fumble my words. You'll finally send me on my way but I'll find a way to steal a kiss from you. I'll probably think about your lips until the next date I take you on.”

“The english major really jumped out of you.” Y/N wished she didn't lack the self control to say something normal when a man spoke to her like Daveed did. “But, uh, that sounds really nice. Honestly. Except the bill part. We'll be splitting it or I won't be coming on that date.”

“You're so high maintenance, Y/N from door 27, but I guess that could work.” The eye-roll was audible in his tone. “Speaking of english major, I actually have a book for you to read.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I'll drop it round in the morning.”

“I'll be at the doctors in the morning, sorry.” The wine had rushed to her cheeks, heating them up and making the chill in the air all the more relaxing, lulling her into a half asleep faze.

“Don't worry, I'll leave you a note.”

[lustbile-archive]

[5:52PM]

smut

Your body squirms against the soft fabric of the bed at the warm and tacky feeling of the lipstick tugging at your skin. His dampened breath hitting your skin with every exhale adding to the sensation, making your nerves stand on end and your toes curl.

Lucas always had a habit of presenting the objects he had accumulated on his shopping trips as if they were newly discovered inventions, and with his excited puppy dog eyes, you could do nothing but give him your full attention as he showed you each trinket or new article of clothing. You usually showed excitement, or at least feigned it, but when he pulled out a cheap tube of red lipstick you could only tilt your head in confusion.

“You didn’t have to buy me lipstick,” you attempted to argue. It’s not that it wasn’t a pretty shade, but you had enough tubes holding similar if not the same shade mix into your makeup. That, and just looking at it you knew the cheaper brand would never wear long enough to excuse you wanting it in the first place.

He only grinned, all teeth displayed and a devious glint in his eyes, as his head shook slowly. The lipstick danced in his long fingers as he played with it, his eyes moving across your face and body as you sat curled at the head of the bed.

“It’s not to wear,” he slips his blunt thumb nail in the seam under the cap, the quiet click of it opening only adding your confusion, “well not on your lips at least.”

He had seen it in a porn. Of course he had, and ever since, the idea of writing whatever he wanted across your bare skin in the bright red hadn’t left his mind since. Maybe he wouldn’t write things as degrading as the ones used in the film, but he wanted to write something. The idea of decorating your skin in color outside of the dark marks he liked to leave with his mouth, made his blood rush around his body.

You agreed. How could you not? He seemed so giddy with the idea of marking you all up, and the lipstick was already purchased and opened. All you could do at this point was take off all your clothes as per his gentle request, and lay yourself bare to the adventurous boy.

He lost his shirt, mumbling something about not wanting to ruin the fabric the way he had let you in the past when the colors you’d like to wear would transfer onto his neck and inevitably the collars of his shirts. He left his jeans on, the rough fabric already tighter around the crotch as he loosely tied your hands above your head and around the posts at the head of the bed with the black tie he kept for special occasions.

“Don’t want you to hinder my artistic process,” he quipped, his nose stuck playfully in the air as he situated himself between your open thighs. You stop yourself from telling him that he could just admit he likes seeing you bound and powerless when the fingers of his empty hand brushes gently against your ribs.

His broad back hunches slightly as he leans over your body, his hand starting to gently knead at your flesh, while the other gently shakes while holding the lipstick over your body.

With a whispered reminder to not twist too much of the product out, or it might break against your skin, he makes his first mark.

You’ve felt lipstick on your skin before, a quick kiss landing on the back of your hand to take off the extra product, or a swipe against the inside of your wrist to test if the color would clash with the tone of your skin. But instances like those were nothing compared to the tentative strokes he made below directly below your collarbone. Maybe it was the idea of him marking you with something so visible, or the wet kiss he placed next to whatever he drew, but whichever made your hips stir in response. Your toes curl against the sheets of your shared bed when your small movements cause the rough fabric of his pants to dig gently into the dampening skin between your legs.

“So pretty,” he speaks almost as if he’s been hypnotized as he travels further down your torso. His marks get more confident as he moves, and his mouth gets more aggressive. Not only was he now adding heated kisses to each drawing, but also bites that were likely to bruise as his teeth sink into your skin.

Your mind is too cloudy to be able to feel exactly what he writes onto your skin, but with the time he spends with what wraps around the swell of your breast, you know he’s graduating to longer words. You almost ask what he’s written, but the words die on your tongue when his lips wrap around your nipple.

He’s always been a bit messy, and now is no exception as his drool slowly slips down the side of your chest and curls around your back to wet the sheet below you. His front teeth nipping a few times at the stiffened skin before he pulls away to blow cool air onto it. The whine you let out in response pulls a boyish laugh from his chest before he returns to his job of decorating your skin.

You can only imagine that you look like a mess as he continues to add to the collection of words on your skin. A long pull on the skin of your stomach makes your brain swim with curiosity and your lower belly warm with anticipation at what you must look like.

Your eyes had slid closed in the time he spent drawing on you, only for them to snap open at the clicking sound of the lipstick hitting the hardwood of your floor. He must have thrown in behind his back as he decided he had written everything he wanted. His now free hand moves to your side to brush his fingers against your ribs. Your back arches into the air when the flat of his warm tongue drags against the skin at the center of your rib cage and his other hand finds itself wedged between your bodies to tease the warmth between your legs.

He hums into your skin in response to every whine you let out at the feeling of his mouth moving against the span of your stomach and the feather like swipes he gives to the skin of your core that’s being made slick by your arousal.

The pleas you let out into the stuffy air of your room is his favorite sound, and the one thing that makes him tease you for longer than you're used to. He’d always seemed keen on spoiling you, but now it felt like centuries before his ring and middle fingers dip into your entrance to collect your dripping arousal onto the tips.

He presses his fingers deep inside you, thrusting a few times, before pulling out to flatten to long digits against your hypersensitive clit. His sharp teeth nip at the swell of your chest in time with the moment his fingers begin to circle the buzzing bundle of nerves.

Lucas feels like a breathing furnace as he’s pressed against your already heated skin. His unrelenting fingers and heated breath has you hurtling towards the edge far sooner than you anticipated. The way your hips jump and move in time with his fingers, paired with the high pitch of your whine is all he needs to tell that you're reaching your finish.

All at once, he lifts away from your body, his hands moving away as if you’ve suddenly become electrified. Being denied an orgasm so abruptly rips a desperate whine from your chest as your legs tense around his hips as if they won’t stop you from clamping your thighs together to gain some friction.

He has the nerve to laugh at the way you desperately squirm, a goofy grin pulling at his lips as he leans over your body to undo the knot of his tie.

“Hey now,” he shushes you while massaging the irritated skin of your wrists, “you’ll get to come don’t worry. Just want you to see how pretty you look when you do.”

He pulls you from the bed by your wrists, moving your body in front of his to walk you to the mirror he had put into the wall across from the end of your bed. ’It just makes it easier to get ready,’ he promised you and your friends when they questioned the design decision, but you knew him well enough to know watching himself fuck into you was something that sent his brain into a spiral and made his blood boil. Your friends were probably equally aware of the mirror's real purpose with how shamelessly handsy he was with you at any given time of the day.

You shuffled to stand in front of the mirror, a petulant put on your face as you move your fingers to rid them of how stiff they were from gripping the posts.

“You could have at least let me come once,” he stops you crossing your arms when he grabs your wrists again and pulls your hands to cross behind your back.

“You’ll get to come if you shut up and look,” you stop whining to look at your forms in the mirror, the sight in front of you flushes your skin with a blush as you see exactly what he’s done to you with the lipstick.

The decorations start innocently enough at the space below your collarbones, little hearts scattered across your skin and curving around the dip of your sternum. What causes the embarrassment that roars in your ears is what he wrote further down on your torso.

Sweet names like “baby” and “lover” are placed on the space below your chest and across your ribs, the hearts still making an appearance.

It’s not until you see what he’s written on your stomach, that you curl in on yourself and try to hide yourself in his chest. The word ‘mine’ is written right above your belly button in all caps, the red of the makeup making the word harsh and possessive. The idea of being claimed in such a raunchy way is enough to make you squirm, but the large arrow he’s added to point directly at the space between your thighs hits a place deep in your stomach.

“Aren’t you so pretty?” he traps your wrists in one hand, bringing the empty one to your front to pet your belly. The lipstick smudges slightly from the motion of his fingers making you whine at not only his praise but also his lingering touch.

“You’re my pretty baby aren’t you? Decorated all nice for me hm?” your blush only darkens at his words and the muscles of your thighs tense. You feel your breath pick up and become shallow at the sound of him putting his hand between you again to undo the fastening of his jeans. The rustling of fabric fills the room as he moves to pull himself from the inside of his underwear. You quietly moan when the dampened head of his cock hits against your tailbone, “my pretty baby is gonna let me fuck them deep and hard too aren’t you?”

His hand kneads roughly at the flesh of your ass as he waits for a response, the way his eyes stare intensely into yours puts your brain on slow motion and delays you from forming a coherent response.

A sharp sting against your skin and a loud smack fills the air of the room in response to your lack of answer, the burning pain makes you yelp before you're eagerly nodding your head.

He smiles widely at your response. His fingers soothe the skin he hit, before he returns to hold himself in a fist. He slowly pumps himself between his fingers before he’s dragging the tip against your skin.

You can’t help but jump every time the head digs into your clit, your hips stirring when he presses only a inch or two into you.

“Xuxi please,” you beg, your fingers flexing around nothing making your nails scrape against his wrist. A rumbling laugh shakes his chest at your neediness.

You quietly gasp in unison when he finally begins to press into you. The size of him never failing to knock the air from your lungs as he stretches you and presses against every nerve inside you.

Once he’s fully seated inside you, he releases himself and lifts his hand to wrap around your neck. Your head falls back onto his shoulder when his fingers dig into your jaw and he slowly starts to thrust into you.

The pace of his hips are rhythmic and sharp as he focuses on reaching as deep inside of you as possible. If it wasn’t for the grip he had on your neck, your legs would have buckled and you would collapse on the floor.

“All mine,” he speaks sharply through his gritting teeth, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, before he turns your head to press your mouth tightly together.

A deep rumbling moan leaves your mouth and invades the space of his, when he dips his tongue in to lick at the back of your teeth.

His hips don’t falter once as he pulls away from the kiss to look into your eyes. An uncharacteristically mean look dances in his eyes as he holds your mouth open with his fingers.

“Open wide sweetheart,” his hips begin to move faster, the vulgar sound of your skin smacking against each other fills the empty space around you as you look up at him with innocent and desperate eyes. The look of confusion that flashes across your face makes the corner of his lip lift with a grin as you watch his tongue move across his top teeth as his mouth stays closed.

The devious wink he offers is the only warning he gives you before his lips pucker softly, and he harshly spits into your open mouth.

He quickly moves his hand to close your mouth and press his palm flat against it. Your head is pressed harshly against his shoulder once again, as the hand that was holding your wrists let’s go to move back to between your legs.

His fingers immediately find your sensitive clit, rubbing harshly as he laughs at you again. He thrusts slow to harsh deep presses. He barely moves out of you and grinds against the sensitive spot deep inside of you.

Your thighs clamp around his hand as he forces you to your end faster than your body is ready. If it wasn’t for the hand pressing against your mouth, the sound of his thrusts would be covered by your wails of pleasure.

“You get to come this time okay? Can you come for me?” the deep rattling voice in your ear is almost unrecognizable. The dark commanding tone it holds pushes you even closer to your orgasm and your toes begin to curl into the wood of the floor, “look at my baby going dumb just from a good fucking? Why don’t you come?”

Big tears roll down your face as your orgasm begins to slowly bite at you. It feels like pleasure crawls from between your legs and up the length of your spine before your eyes are rolling back and your groaning into his open hand.

His fingers never move from your clit as the way you clench harshly against him throws him into his own orgasm. Harsh grunts hit your ear and incoherent mumbles about how tight you feel and how wet your cunt is for him fill your muddled brain. The warm feeling of him spilling deep inside you makes your legs shake and your nails claw into his pulsing hips.

It feels like years that you two are stood there pulling aftershocks from the others bones, and it’s not until you scratch at his wrists that he releases you.

You would have undoubtedly landed flat on your face if his long arms hadn’t wrapped around your waist to pull you into his chest. He’s still seated inside you as he sit down on the end of your bed, holding you in his lap as he rests his forehead between your shoulder blades.

You hum quietly as you lean back into him, once again getting to look at the words he’s written onto your skin. The marks are now smudged and unreadable, the only thing still visible is the large ‘mine’ that points to the space that he’s pressed into.

You two sit there absorbing the warmth from the other's body, your nails gently scratching at his arm as he rocks you back and forth.

A petulant and grumpy grunt is heard from the boy below you as you stand on shaky legs. The feeling of his softening length slipping from you and his come rolling down the inside of your thigh makes you gasp, but you continue to walk a few steps to grab the object that has caught your eye.

He’s leaning back on the palms of his hands when you turn back around, an arrogant smile on his stupidly pretty face when he sees the way the evidence of his orgasm starts to dry against you.

“Don’t look so happy Lucas,” you offer him a tired smile as you straddle his lap. His eyes grow wide when you open the lipstick and begin applying it to you chapped lips, “cause I think it’s your turn to get decorated nice and pretty hm?”

[darkistmalfoyhead]

My Little Ghost~ Ficlet

Draco Malfoy hated Hogwarts. Absolutely loathed it. Yet when he found an old, dusty piano tucked in between several writing desks he felt quite happy for the first time in a while. Some of the best memories he had was teaching piano to his little cousin, Grace who made insufferable family dinners bearable.

It was the witching hour, where reality faded away and there was nothing but him and the music. Time had no meaning and his hands danced until they shook from strain. The sad looking piano was his little friend. But it creaked and groaned, skipping several chords so the day after he began the daunting task of fixing the rusted thing. After the others went to sleep he toiled, back sore and sweat dripping down his face by the end of the night.

Yet as the days drew by, he made no progress whatsoever. If anything he’d made it worse. However one evening there was a curious stack of books on a desk. He flipped through them. Vanishing rust, transfiguring ivory and polishing spells. Who had done this? Maybe Madame Pince didn’t hate him as much as she let on. Draco grinned and returned to work.

The very next day he left a plate of cookies on her desk and a girl snorted. Granger. He shot her a glare.

The treats must have worked because the books kept coming. By third year the piano was completely fixed and the stacks became filled with music theory and classical pieces. He dutifully played through them all.

Draco didn’t feel so alone anymore but the weariness never left him. His hands grew calloused and worn. Maybe it was because of the swirling whooshes of air that always passed by him as he practiced or the gentle sound of whispered breathing but he pretended that he was playing for the ghosts, the ones who were forgotten. Six years later raw agony coursed through his veins. The Dark Lord killed his sweet cousin for being ‘too soft’.

And it was all his fault. Why?

Because she had been caught practicing the piano instead of working, playing a tune that was for ‘children’.

He tried to break his fingers, to burn away the beauty he’d created just for her that became the cause of her death. Everything in the world seemed to work against him. But the quiet ghost of the library stopped him, always watching and never leaving. And slowly, ever so slowly, the boy who spiraled down came to a halt.

But it wasn’t Madame Pince with her sour expression who helped him. There was another girl, a first-year who was brushed aside by everyone else and left in the shadows. She would often borrow Harry’s cloak and wander the library, happily running through the shelves.

One day, however, she wasn’t alone. The pretentious Malfoy had wandered in, the very same boy who called her filthy names. She debated hexing him. How dare he take her only sanctuary from her.

Yet for the first time she had seen something other then pure arrogance on his face. His eyes were wide, filled with a quiet wonder as he lifted the lid of the forgotten piano she had walked by many times.

And then he started to play. The notes were wobbly at first, the pianoforte creaking as his hands moved but soon they began to dance, slowly but surely.

She’d left the world in that moment, the time he touched the instrument and made something beautiful out of the weathered old thing. Hermione tried playing after he left, tentatively pressing the still-warm keys. It sounded awful.

The next day he returned. She pretended not to notice what he did but she again would find herself listening. Maybe she cared enough to cast several tricky sound barriers- she told herself it was only to ensure Filch didn’t find them from his foolishness. Yet she made sure the barrier was large enough to cover the whole library so that she could hear the songs as well.

That was there rite for the next few years. As the lanky little Slytherin became leaner and taller, she would take the cloak and run to the library, doing homework amidst the archives and leave tomes that would help whatever was troubling him.

Because seeing the cold, calculating Draco Malfoy with a soft smile on his face as he hummed in tune made him so utterly human she couldn’t resist but stay for him.

And as the years passed, his expression became sadder and filled with exhaustion. He would talk to her, too. It always made her want to smile for he would address her as his ‘little ghost’ because she was careful to make sure he never knew her identity. Sometimes he would ramble about his day, other times it would be nonsensical chatter.

But one night slammed his hands against the keys, creating a primal, ugly sound. He doubled over, grimacing in pain. She still didn’t know why she did it, why she held her enemy. But Hermione Granger wrapped her arms around his torso, pinning his hands before he could do further damage and letting the boy sag into her arms.

Two lonely souls finding refuge among the must of pages, bound by the music and comfort they brought one another. The next day it was all gone as both awoke to worlds that were no longer in there control. Mornings were dark and lonesome, evenings the only time when her blood thrummed, when his fingers danced with happiness.

She silently cried in the bathroom after Malfoy had split her book bag in the hallway, gritting her teeth. There was a danger of growing accustomed to the soft, sweet boy in the library. She had started to forget the monster he hid behind during the day. After everything she’d done for him, felt for him he still didn’t know. Would never know. Because she was so afraid of that smile he gave only to the quiet ghost would disappear if he saw the muggleborn that she was.

Yet a persona she’d gazed upon many nights tentatively stepped into the girl’s bathroom. Shocked, she froze, unsure of what he was playing at in there sixth year. Was he there for more? To torment her, humiliate her because she tolerated it due to her stupid unrequited love?

Those familiar, long fingers delicately pinched a tattered cloak. It was Harry’s. Oh no. No, no, no, no. She’d left it in the library last night.

Hermione paled, reaching for her wand as he came closer, his face unreadable. Does he know? Is he going to hurt me?

Instead he slumped beside her, his arm dangling over his knee. The two, gray storms looked at her with such a bitterness she nearly recoiled. His hand found it’s way around her shoulder, the other crumpling the cloak. She cursed her beating heart as she stared at him with mixed fear and delight.

I’m so sorry, my little ghost, he murmured, eyes filled with anguish. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She inhaled sharply, not daring to breath.

He knew. And he didn’t hate her.

So she curled into a ball, making herself as small as possible and leaned against the broken boy’s chest. Idle arms wrapped around her and she heard something muttered about ‘payback’. But she could feel his stiffness, for she knew he’d never imagined that it would be her.

In fact, Hermione wondered why he hadn’t asked the question yet.

Why didn’t you tell me? It was quiet, barely audible. There it was. She felt his arms grow tense, his reflex to fear the worst that she’d observed over the years.

Because I thought you deserved to be happy.

He shuddered, his lips grazing her ear.

I was your tormentor. And yet you still though about me? Draco pressed his face into the nape of her neck. I hope to repay you, little ghost,

She shivered for she knew what was coming next. The hands calloused from the old piano tilted her chin, a question in his eyes. Then the world was gone, gone, gone as his mouth met hers.

It was asking if she wanted him for the broken thing he was. And she said yes, digging her fingers into the pooled fabric, arching her back as he laid himself on top of her.

The cloak would no longer be necessary in the library tonight.

[sexbirthdeaths]

her hollows, her unholy son

summary: because this - this isn’t hotch's job. his job is to make sure they don’t get killed out on the field, to make sure they do their job and that they finish all their paperwork, not give his agents haircuts in his office,

warnings: emetophobia (vomiting), panic attacks, implications of depression and anxiety, mentions of spencer’s dad

words: 2500

The walls feel like they’re collapsing in on him as he stumbles numbly to sit down, lean against the cool tile and just desperately attempt to breathe. He can feel his heartbeat thrumming through him, head to toe, down his fingers like an invisible thread strung along them. Leaning his head down onto his knees, he feels himself curl in on his body, wraps his arms around himself.

Scrunching his eyes tight at the thought, he pulls his legs in a bit closer. You're an idiot, he thinks, can't do shit without freaking out.

He wishes he didn't live alone.

Everything is spiralling around him, water whirlpooling down a drain and he’s trapped right in its eye. All he can do is wait it out, he figures, try to force himself to breathe steadily. But god, it’s so hard, like there’s a boot on his chest pressing down further and further, crushing him under cruel rubber.

There’s this sickening sensation in his stomach, like a rock at the bottom that’s pulling him down further and further, churning as it sends waves of nausea through him. Forcing himself up, he fumbles for the toilet and collapses in front of it, emptying the contents of his stomach. So much for dinner, he thinks bitterly, dizzy and vision blurred.

Scrunching his eyes tightly closed, Spencer moves to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, not even caring anymore. The taste of bile and now-regurgiated takeout sits sour on his tongue, but he can’t will himself to stand and wash it from his mouth. Too much energy, energy he doesn’t have right now.

This is a panic attack - he’s never had one before, he's read enough about them to know what triggers them, to know how to help himself. Five things you can see, he recalls as the first step, but he can’t will himself to open his eyes. Four things you can hear is the next step -

One. The sound of his panicked breath as it racks through his body in quick, shallow waves.

Two. The humming of the light above him, too loud.

Three. The air con that's sending a cool breeze around him, chills him to the bone.

Four. Fuck- fuck- what’s four? The sound of blood in his ears, heart thudding in his chest.

That’s four, that’s four, why doesn’t he feel any better?

Another wave of nausea overcomes Spencer, forcing him over the toilet bowl again. His hair falls past his ears, over his face as he retches, tears streaming down his face at the sensation in his throat and stomach. It’s more bile than food this time, he supposes he really hadn’t eaten that much. It’s hard to have an appetite these days

His hair is bile-soaked now. His stupid goddamn hair, he’s wanted to cut it off for years but he can't find the energy to get up, go to a barber's. Just the thought sends a rush of panic through him.

Though his chest still heaves, Spencer's breathing has fallen back into a steadier rhythm, he feels less like he’s suffocating. With weak knees, he pushes himself up from the toilet, wipes his mouth again. And he faces himself in the mirror.

Pale and clammy, his skin has taken on a ghostly sheen that’d only worsened by the unflattering warmth of the bathroom lights. The contours of his face are more prominent under the harsh glare, the hollows of his cheeks and deep violet valleys beneath his eyes. His dark hair is a mess, clumped together with vomit at the front. You’re supposed to be better than this, he thinks bitterly, you’re an FBI agent, not some weak child who can’t handle being alone.

The person in the mirror isn’t him. It looks like him, sure, it walks and talks like him but it- it isn’t him. He wants to just throw a sheet over it, cover it, out of sight out of mind, and it takes everything in him not to shatter the glass then and there. He feels sick, he feels sick, sick in a way that’s bone-deep, something needs to change and it needs to change now. He feels like he might die if it doesn’t.

So Spencer rummages through the medicine drawer, finds a pair of craft scissors they only keep in there for opening stubborn packaging, brandishes them with certainty. He’s been dreaming of this moment for months now. Of chopping off chunks of hair, pulling it by the fistful, dowsing his scalp in gasoline to watch it all burn, anything if it means it’s gone.

When he was a kid, his dad had used the word 'defiant' a lot. Defiant, as in going against orders, as in questioning his judgement, defiant as in refusing to go down easy. Where has this new you come from? he would keep asking, expecting some sort of concrete answer - what has changed? What part of you have I failed to control, allowed to become so overgrown that it the ivy has swallowed up everything good?

But pruning is a means of growth, he thinks, and he lifts the scissors to his head.

There’s a chunk of hair in his hand. A few inches, maybe, what’s left on his head just curling past his ears. He drops it, watches it fall into the sink, bright and dry and gone. The scissors are shitty, and they don’t cut through hair evenly or easily, but they’re better than nothing.

He’s crying again before he even knows it, and he isn’t quite sure why, but the tears are rolling down his cheeks as he keeps cutting, throwing fistfuls of hair down into the sink, the stench of vomit still in his nose and the taste of spite on his tongue. He’s crying, but maybe they’re happy tears. It’s oddly cathartic, all of this.

It takes a long while to cut it all, get it even semi-even, but he manages. The street lamps outside his apartment have turned on by the time he creeps out of the bathroom, hair shaggy and shorter, and it gives him this rush. Taking control, finally reclaiming this part of himself. It tastes of rebirth, revival, a life that arises from rain-soaked earth, of becoming new again.

He goes to sleep with a smile on his face. It's the first time in years.

When he gets up for work in the morning, the house is empty. It's never not empty, he thinks as he eats breakfast alone, he doesn't know why he hasn't gotten used to the quiet after all these years. He wears a hat on the subway, knowing the haircut isn’t the cleanest, but atleast he doesn’t get those looks anymore. Having no eyes on you makes you feel so… light, he realises.

Stepping into the elevator, there’s a peaceful quiet to the building this early in the mornings, only a few people in sight. There's a peaceful quiet, one more comforting than the silence that suffocates his apartment. He likes to get to work earlier than the others, so it's no surprise he's the only one there - besides Hotch, of course.

Stepping into the communal area, Spencer is met with the sight of Hotch and Rossi, talking quietly by the coffee machine. From their stiff body language, it’s probably just business - some business higher up, likely Strauss. Hotch's eyes meet his from across the floor but quickly drifts to his hair instead.

“Excuse me, Rossi,” he says to the older agent, who takes his queue to leave. He gives Spencer a knowing look as he departs, stalking off to his own office to spend the rest of the morning until the day officially begins.

Hotch hums, peers down at him with a steely glance.

“You cut your hair.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer nods, unable to hide his smile. He combs his fingers through it. Hotch chuckles shortly, raises an eyebrow.

“You didn’t do that bad, honestly. But I can fix it for you - come on,”

So he guides Spencer away from the coffee machine, down the halls and into Hotch's office, somewhere a little more private. The shutters are drawn, door locked, and Spencer looks guiltily at the floor - what if someone needs Hotch? And he's busy, here, giving his subordinate a haircut?

Hotch pulls up a chair and sits Spencer down on it, facing the window where he can see the streets of DC, the thick morning fog of early spring.

“It won’t be long,” the agent promises as he drapes an old dress shirt over Spencer's shoulders, “I’m no barber, but I can atleast even it out.”

There’s a strange feeling in Spencer's chest, but it isn’t the same as last night. It doesn’t feel crushed tight, like his lungs are bound to collapse in any moment - if anything, he just feels light. He feels appreciated, he thinks, hearing Hotch's search for a pair of scissors in the drawers. When was the last time someone had done something like this for him? Something beyond obligation, because they just wanted to help?

“You didn’t have to do this,” he murmurs as he feels Hotch get closer behind him, run a hand through his hair, “It isn’t your job to take care of me like this.”

Hotch starts cutting, the sound of the metal scissors slicing through his hair ringing in his ears. The only other sound is the clock ticking in the background, steady and echoing in the loud, silent room.

“No,” the man agrees, “It isn’t. But I’m curious as to why you did it.”

“I needed a change.” It’s the rain that washes the slate clean - gives him a chance to start over, beginning the path of reclaiming himself bit-by-bit. He's felt so helpless all of his life, taking the backseat and watching it all unfold. And one day - likely, soon, given the dangers of this job - he'll die and he’ll die young, with no agency over his life, too scared to try and take it. He’s done being scared.

The clock ticks, filling the silence as Hotch seems to contemplate. He’s moved from the right side of Spencer's head to the left, and the boy can feel chunks of hair fall onto the shirt on his shoulders.

"Do you think the others will like it?"

"I hope," Spencer admits, "I hope."

Hotch tilts his head down, touch unusually gentle for the typically stoic, blunt man. He can see strands of dark hair on his clothes, a tangible recognition of the new control he has over his life. It’s the best high he could ever experience, one he’ll be riding for months.

“I always thought you liked having long hair, I kind of figured if you didn’t you’d cut it,”

“My mom likes my long hair. She always wanted a girl,” Spencer mumbles absentmindedly. "I've just never had the energy to change it." Hotch hums in thought.

“You know,” he starts, “You’re stretching so far you’ve lost sight of where you started.”

He tilts Spencer's head again, leans to cut the hair short by his ear - it’s difficult to get it close to the skin without clippers, but he can make do. He bites his tongue between his teeth as he tries to avoid clipping Spencer's ear.

“Maybe you don’t hate your hair, or yourself for that matter - you hate what it proves.”

“It doesn’t prove anything.” Spencer huffs indignantly, brushes hair from his lap absentmindedly.

“It proves that you don't have control. Something's holding your life over your head. This is your act of reclamation, Reid, and I have to commend you for it.”

There’s a long silence as Spencer mulls his words over. He can hear more and more of his colleagues arriving in the bullpen, laughing as they talk. He can hear JJ, who’d been the first to notice how long his hair was getting. And yeah - he’ll admit, having long hair was fun at times, but not when it was unkempt and dirty because he couldn't muster up the energy to wash it.

Hotch brushes the rest of his hair off of the towel and onto the floor, runs a hand through Spencer's trimmed hair.

“I’m done, Reid, you can stand up."

He doesn’t know how to say thank you in a way that sounds genuine. Because this - this isn’t Hotch's job. His job is to make sure they don’t get killed out on the field, to make sure they do their job and that they finish all their paperwork, not give his agents haircuts in his office, not treat them with the same love and attention as a son.

He wants to cry.

But instead, Spencer swallows down the lump in his throat, fights the tears, and just smiles.

“Thank you,” he says, and prays that Hotch understands what he isn’t able to say.

[shooting-starry]

Trust me. Love me. Shoot me

Atsumu Miya x female reader

Warning: extremely unedited, mentioned blood, implied fire, implied violence,

Previous//Next

Well almost perfect. The only problem was that he didn’t own any silk sheets. He had scratchy cotton ones. In alarm, Atsumu sat up straight and looked around the room. He was is a room with lightly coloured walls and a few plants which hung from the ceiling. Beside the door was a body length mirror with two coat hooks beside it. Next to where he sat was a beige bedside table with two drawers and a single daisy in a small glass jar and 2 doors which he guessed led to the closet. Directly across from him was a  desk with a small stack of books, a spiral bounded notebook, and a few pens. It was all crazy. How did he end up in this strange room, that was not his. And what baffled him more was the fact that he was on a bed. With silk sheet?!

Still in confusion, he walked up to the mirror,  wearing the slippers that were left by the bed. The distance could not have been more than 3 meters, but his legs felt stiff and wooden. Every step he took sent lightning bolt into his brain and breathing was the hardest task.

When he looked in the mirror, he could hardly recognize himself. He was wearing a pair of sweat pants that rod up to his knees, with bandages covering his thigh and knee poking out from the sweatpants. Large bandages were wrapped around his chest, covering some of his tattoos. His face wasn’t looking great either, there was a large cut from his eyebrow to his cheekbone that had straight looking stitches keeping it shut along with a swollen lip and a bruise above under his other eye. His arms also were heavily covered in bandages and stitches. His blond hair, which was typically swept to the side of his face neatly, was covered in soot and messed up. Memories of the pervious night flashed through his mind.

“Wait, then why am I here?”  He thought to himself. After what could have been an hour of careful deliberation, he reached the conclusion. He was kidnapped. He ran through the house of who ever took him and flew down the stairs and ran to where ever the front door was. In his crazed search for an exit. He hear a voice behind him.

“Oh good you are awake! Do you want anything to eat?” The voice asked. Astumu turned around to see the kidnapper, and he saw a girl. Her y/h/c framed her face and her y/e/c eyes stood out from the rest of her facial features. Maybe he wasn’t kidnapped? He doubted a lovely looking girl like this couldn’t have kidnapped him.

“Uh who are ya?” He asked. His throat was scratchy and his accent was much heavier than normal.

“I am L/n Y/n. Anyways what do you want for breakfast, eggs, porridge, onigiri ?” She asked. At the mention of food his stomach growled. He felt like he had not eaten in over a year. L/n laughed at this as she turned around and walked towards the fridge. Atsumu gingerly followed L/n, not sure if he should trust her or not. Well maybe he should. He is in an unknown with someone who is willing to make him breakfast? That sounds great. Except for the fact that he was covered in bandages, felt extremely weak, and was in this unknown lady’s house in an unknown location. He was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard a plate being set down onto the long kitchen island. On the plate was an omelette with some vegetables. He sat down in front of the inviting meal. He decided he should at least know this woman if he was going to eat her food.

“Wait who are ya again?” He asked again. He was sure he sounded like an idiot.

L/n looked at him for a minute before responding. “Do you want to know my name or who I am?” She asked cheekily. Her question took Atsumu aback. Her eyes seemed to be peering into his soul as he looked at her. “The second one.” He responded when his mind finally comprehended her words.

“Well I am technically a doctor. I grew up in Tokyo and know I am here.” L/n said an expression of great thought. A doctor. That is a well respected profession. And besides doctors are trusted. So maybe he should trust her as well.

The omelette stared back at him with its beautiful yellow hue and the reds and greens of the vegetables she added. The first bite was heavenly. The explosion of flavours the egg was exquisite and the texture that the vegetables added? Perfect. He took another and another and another bite of the dish until there was none left. When he finally looked up, she were still looking at him.

“So maybe as a thank you, could you tell me who you are and what happened to you?” She inquired. It was a perfectly just question, but if she knew then the Boss would kill her. And someone who made such delicious omelettes should not die. So maybe he could lie. Yeah that was the best option. To lie.

This decision was a good decision, except he wasn’t good at lying. He was the fighter, while his twin brother, Osumu, was the manipulator. Even as kids, his mother could always tell when he was lying. In fact everyone could. But of course Atsumu didn’t even think about this. What a silly boy.

“A was umm, uhh m m mugged. Yeah totally. A was mugged.” He lied. L/n looked at him with great dissatisfaction spread across her face.

“So why was a yakuza mugged?” She asked. Damn. How did she know. Atsumu knew that he wasn’t as good as lying as his brother, but he was still decent. Astumu looked at L/n with a shocked expression coating his face, stuttering out “How did ya know?”.

L/n just pointed at his tattoos which went down both arms, across his back and some of his chest. His mouth hung open in surprise, or maybe shock at his own stupidity. Of course you would have known he was yakuza. He had the tattoos to prove it.

L/n walked around the kitchen island and got on her knees right in him.His mind raced in both anticipation and confusion. She placed her small dainty hands on his thighs and looked up at him with her doe eyes. While batting her eyelashes, she moved her hand to his bandaged thigh and squeezed. Atsumu doubled over  in pain and fell to the ground. Shrieks of pain escaped his mouth as she held him knee. It felt like electricity was firing through his body as he convoluted on the ground in pain on the cold, hard ground. He screamed as she mercilessly held his thigh in her small hand.

“Fine I will tell ya, ya crazy bitch!!” He screamed in an attempt to surrender. She let go of his thigh and let him catch his breath.

“Good. When ever you are ready.” She stated in a very matter-of-fact tone as she stood up from his body, which was spread on her kitchen floor. As Atsumu started to catch his breath, he attempted to stand up only to feel a wet patch growing on his bandage. When he looked down at his leg, the blood had already seeped through his bandage and his one-size-too-small sweatpants. He looked up to see L/n’s alarmed face as he lost more blood.

“Hey Dr. L/n, if ya could please help?” He asked as he gestured toward his leg.

“Wait, what? At least give me your name first.” She said stubbornly. Atsumu’s vision was starting to blur and he felt as if the world was spinning. 

“Can ya please help me first?” He asked, with the same stubbornness. The patch of blood on his leg was growing and he felt the blood trickle down to his ankle and onto the slipper under his foot. The slipper felt entirely soaked. In the background of the entire scene, he heard a door open.

“No. Tell me your name and then I will help you.” She retorted, oblivious to both the squeak of the door and the small puddle of blood on her kitchen floor. Atsumu felt his mind spinning faster than a merry-go-round, and his vision was blurrier than any selfie he had ever taken. Maybe this was the end. His vertigo was not doing to well as he felt his body shutting down.

“Miya Astumu” he said as he fell to the floor. The last think he remembered was your y/e/c eyes and a tall man with messy black hair and piercing cobalt blue eyes.

[thyme-writes]

NSFW Lucifer fic

This was the first fic I wrote that spiraled my problems, aaaaaaand now I cant stop.

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Lucifer x Female MC

Summary:

"We'll continue this later" He says in a voice that's very soft, but just a tiny bit husky. I must have been standing there in awe, for the 4th time now, as he shot me a look when the door began to open and Barbatos came back in with refreshments. But inside I was screaming "Wait there’s more?!" My mind was racing, what more is he planning to give me, am I going insane?

Later, alone...

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you?"

______________________________________________

I'd agreed to assist Lucifer with all the Halloween prep for a few reasons, for one, how could I say no to him between the ordering around and the cheeky smiles he knew I would agree. Two, it gives me more time with him which I'm always craving, so much lately. 

But while waiting for the info on Diavolo for his party, "There's someone else who is special to me" he said to me. He stepped forward slowly and the look in his eyes slowed down time, my breathe caught when he reached up and around my head to sink his hand in the crook of my neck and leaned forward to kiss my lips. My body responded by leaning into the kiss but my breathing gave me away when I took a sharp intake of air as he stepped back.  In 2 seconds flat my knees were weak and I knew my face must be burning red.

Over the time I've spent in the devildom he's flirted with me, charmed me with his smirks and been overly protective of me. That was very normal. Then it turned into more playful teasing, and lately he's gotten more physical. He wiped a crumb off my face last week at breakfast. I had woken up late so the boys were all gone, so I thought. I remember eating as quickly as possible when he walked in the room strode over to me with a gleam in his eye and wiped my cheek slowly and just lightly grazed my lower lip. I thought I was dreaming, he just chuckled at my disbelieving expression and walked away. Three days ago I was reaching for something a bit too high up in the kitchen and he came behind me and placed his gloved hands on my exposed waist to move me gently so he could reach what I was trying to get. And again, gave me a smirk and a chuckle as he walked away from my stiff body, which was heating up rapidly from such a tiny gesture. After school  yesterday he was asking me questions about a lecture I attended, I was going over the important notes with him when he reached up to my chin to gently raise my head higher and said "you continue to impress me" and cocked his head just slightly to one side before releasing my face and strolling away. And yet again, I was frozen in place with the warmth of my belly growing.

"We'll continue this later" He says in a voice that's very soft, but just a tiny bit husky. I must have been standing there in awe, for the 4th time now, as he shot me a look when the door began to open and barbatos came back in with refreshments. But inside I was screaming "Wait there's more?!"My mind was racing, what more is he planning to give me, am I going insane? But I managed to pull myself together and focus, while stealing small glimpses of Lucifer while we were taking notes.

When we arrived back to the house he bounded inside firmly stating "MC, please follow me to my study so we can compare notes' ' without checking to ensure I was keeping pace he just strode through the halls seeming unabated. I followed, maybe not with the same confidence, but I kept up his pace.

Once in the study he set a chair next to his desk for me and shut the door behind me, I felt like he was running circles around me while I was moving slow as a snail, still patiently waiting for him to explain that kiss, what was that?! I gave myself a little shake and as I began to walk over to his desk, he came right back to where I stood with a pained expression on his face and walked so furiously toward me. I dropped my notebook and I began taking steps back when my back finally hit the door with a soft thud and he slammed his palm into the door right above my shoulder.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you?" he sighed in a dangerously sultry voice that ignited flames in my belly  "You are so damn sexy" He breathed as he leaned in and got closer to the side of my face, my breathing was beginning to get ragged, and every word that came close to my lips died before they came out hearing him breath and feeling his warm breath on my skin. My face was burning hot and arousal was building up inside me so quickly I almost moaned and begged for more.

"You spend so much time assisting me" he brushed my hair away from my face and kissed my cheek. It was a hard kiss for my cheek and the pressure caused so much more heat in my body. My breath hitched and my legs felt as if they would give out any minute. My lips were parted and I was practically panting when he moved in closer to our bodies just barely touching. Then grabbing my hands with his and raising them just slightly above me. With a little pressure he pinned them against the door. I let out an audible gasp, but it came out more like a moan. The arousal in my belly was burning hot and my body was desperately begging to be touched.

"Tell me MC," he leaned in with a gleam in his eye looking like he was going to kiss me, then dipped his head to gently kiss my neck and this time a full on moan escaped my lips. "are you trying to please me?" he looked at me so fiercely, his eyes absolutely burning with desire. I would've said anything he wanted to hear in this moment just to have him tease me more. But it was a good chance to tell the truth, which was far hotter at that moment.

"Yes Lucifer," I breathed shakily, trying to shove the words out of my lips "I like pleasing you" . I wanted his mouth on me again so desperately that my body moved against his, my hips rolling against his hips, and I heard a low groan under his breath.

He pulled back one of his hands holding both of mine up with just one, with very little force as I was giving in to his every move. With his free hand he trailed his gloved finger down the side of my jaw, down my neck and just slowing down at the base of my cleavage sending shivers down my spine. I fought the urge to let my eyes roll back at his touch. "I want to reward you for being such a good girl," His voice took on a raspy deep tone. Then he popped open the top button on my shirt and my chest rose up a little urging him to go on "Would you like that MC?" He popped open the second button waiting for my answer.

"Please Lucifer" I managed to whimper and moan audibly enough for him to hear me and he pushed his body against me pinning me to the door. I could feel his erection hard against me and I gasped. In one motion he released my hands and they rested on his shoulders. He grabbed my legs pulling them up and wrapping them around his body. His fingers were gripping my thighs as he began kissing my lips, with such a gentle pace but I could feel him holding back. My hips instinctively tried to rock against him and he groaned into my mouth and bit my lower lip, shooting pain in the mix of my extreme arousal and I groaned back. "Take me please" I whimpered again. His eyes met mine and the look was pure hunger. He pulled back from the door supporting my weight as his hands slid over my ass gripping each cheek I moaned again.

He walked over to his desk and with one sweep pushed everything off to put me down on it. Once I was on the desk he stood a moment just looking at me, for a second it wasn't a devious hunger it was a look of admiration and he took in every piece of me. Feeling more confident  I began unbuttoning the rest of my shirt and biting my lip while he watched me. He smirked and pulled his gloves off slowly then his jacket, and for a moment we were both just grinning watching each other undress slowly. He was pulling off his shirt when I was down to my panties and bra and he leaned in to kiss me hard, our mouths were both desperate, his hands dragging along my body sending electricity through me. He began undoing my bra, then his pants and had me stand up to watch me drop my panties to the floor as I watched his cock spring out of his pants. His cock was as gorgeous as he was, smooth with light veins pushing out, nice and thick and longer than I was used to. But my body ached the second I saw it.

Putting his hands on my shoulders he spun me around and begin biting and sucking the curve of my neck on one side making my eyes roll back in my head and reached his hands up around my body to cup my boobs and roll each nipple in his fingers and my body was aching now to have his cock inside me. I gasped from the stimulation and I felt like exploding. My ass grinding against him feeling his cock pressed between my cheeks.  I couldn't believe I was here, Lucifer fully erect against my ass, ready to plow into me. The thought was exhilarating, but the feeling was pure delight.

One hand began trailing south when his fingers grazed my pussy lips which were very slick with my arousal and upon touching the wetness that took over my pussy lips I heard him let out a shuttered breath. As his finger slid down my folds I felt his cock twitch against my back and we both let out a groan "You’re soaking wet for me" he mused. I simply nodded my head as his fingers found my clit and began rubbing side to side making my legs convulse slightly. He slipped two fingers in and out picking up speed and I was moaning like clockwork with the rhythm he finger fucked me

"Do you want me to fuck you now?" his lips brushed my ears and my pussy clenched automatically

"Yes'' I begged "Please" Pushing my ass against him more "I want to feel you inside me" He pushed me forward and my torso down on the desk so my nipples were against his cold desk and immediately his cock was pushing inside me stuffing me as he entered me halfway. I moaned , grabbing the edge of the desk desperate to grab at something turning my head  and saw the pure ecstacy on his face making my pussy grip him tighter, causing him to buck his hips shoving his entire length inside me. A guttural scream escaped my lungs and I started begging for more. "Oh fuck, like that" He picked up the pace and started pounding into me. I was practically panting, savoring every time his hips crashed into me and his cock barreled into my depths. I could feel my legs start to shake and my eyes rolling in my head, feeling so close to losing control.

"Mmm that's my good girl" he said as his palm slapped my ass with a sharp sting, causing my pussy to tighten again and he groaned. Grabbing my ass he pulled out of me and took my body to flip me so my back was on his desk,  and positioned his cock against my hole.  "You look so good on my desk" he said with a cheeky grin as he pushed slowly into me. The speed was so slow I was groaning and grabbing at his chest, and he grabbed my nipples and started rolling them in his fingers. He was watching every inch of me, watching me ache desperate for more, seeing my pussy swallow him up and my face as he squeezed my nipples. But the pace was still slow, he was dragging his cock in and out of me and I was aching for him to go harder and faster.

One hand trailed off from my boobs down to my pussy where his fingers rubbed circles on my clit gently. I was gasping and repeating "yes" over and over as he got faster rubbing my clit, my legs started to shake desperate for him to fuck me hard and make me cum.

"Harder please, Luci" I begged reaching up to his neck and pulling to him

"You want me to fuck you harder?" he readjusted so he could lean against me with his pelvis against my clit, locking my hair between his fingers, before I could answer he yanked on my hair and started pounding me.

The desk was bumping rhythmically against the wall as Lucifer drilled me with what felt like every ounce of his willpower over and over. I was so full and the pressure of him filling me was so painfully good I knew I was going to explode.

"Oh f- Luci, I-" I couldn't talk while taking him over and over so deep and so hard, but I was so close. All that came out was constant moans in tune with his rhythm

"Cum for me" he said with a burning ferocity and I felt my whole body shake at his command.

"Oh yes" I cried out, my back arching instinctively, gripping around his neck pulling him close as my orgasm flooded me in waves of release. My pussy contracted and quivered against his hard cock and I felt him push inside me as hard and deep as he could.

He let out a grunt grabbing my hips and pulling me hard against his as he reached his climax. I could feel his cock spasm and empty inside me as he bit down on my shoulder moaning into my skin.

After a few moments of catching our breath lucifer paused looking over me in pleasure, I caught his eye and he smirked at me 

"I do expect you'll compose your notes tonight still"

"I-"

"Relax, i'm joking," he leaned down to kiss me hard as he slowly pulled his cock out of me, leaking our juices on the floor. "Let's get cleaned up"

He helped me off the desk safely and led me by hand to the shower.

[blitzturtles]

Title: First Kiss (Sort Of)

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): FuMis

Summary: [FuMis_Week2021 / First Day of FuMis Week: First Times, Marriage, Betrayal]

He’s terrified. With a heart beating too fast and bounding so wildly that it leaves his sternum aching. He feels light-headed from the effort it takes just to keep his breathing under control, and it’s all he can do to keep on his feet, rather than sink to the floor. God knows his legs are weak under him, ready to give. It’s the only thing that keeps him from running now.

(Takes place after Purple Haze Feedback.)

Notes: Btw, I'm doing a writing / fic giveaway! Check out this post to see how to enter. Goes until 8.25.21!

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Fugo stands in Giorno’s office, awkward and stiff with a mask covering the lower part of his face. He’s waiting; the office is empty, devoid of even the Don’s presence. The air is stiff without Giorno, as if the life has been sucked out of the room in its entirety, and all that’s left is a broken shell of a man boy. Standing alone, and awaiting his judgement.

He’s terrified. With a heart beating too fast and bounding so wildly that it leaves his sternum aching. He feels light-headed from the effort it takes just to keep his breathing under control, and it’s all he can do to keep on his feet, rather than sink to the floor. God knows his legs are weak under him, ready to give. It’s the only thing that keeps him from running now.

This meeting is one that he’s desperately awaited for weeks, but has continuously put off since he last saw Mista. He’s only spoken to Giorno; every other familiar face has gone unseen, and it isn’t for lack of trying on anyone else’s part. They ask; Fugo says, ‘no’. They ask again, and Fugo refuses to relent. Refuses to give up his self-imposed exile. And no amount of convincing from Giorno has been able to change his mind.

Until now.

Until his selfishness got the better of him, and he asked the Don to set up a meeting (‘Don’t tell him it’s me,’ he remembers all but begging) between the single most important person in his life and himself. A shadow of who he once was.

If he could only get his legs to move. To get one foot in front of the other. It’s not too late to back out now. He knows Giorno will cover for him. Won’t mention his name. Won’t speak of his cowardice, but that’s unfair to Giorno. Worse is, it’s unfair to Mista; Mista who’s been asking after him for weeks now. Mista who still sends barely comprehensible texts to his phone in between short-but-sweet voicemails. Mista who loves so unconditionally, and continues to expect nothing in return.

Fuck, Fugo truly is the worst kind of person. He wipes at his eyes to try to clear them of the tears that begin to build in the corners. He’s so caught in his own, spiraling thoughts that he doesn’t hear the door open, much less someone step inside.

“Fugo?” The name doesn’t quite break through the cacophony of self-hatred swirling in Fugo’s mind, but the second attempt-- the quiet, “Panna?”-- is more successful.

Fugo’s eyes snap up. He’s a wild, frightened animal in that moment with a gaze that shifts past Mista and locks onto the doorway, but Mista shifts so he’s blocking the one and only exit.

“Hey, you okay?” Mista asks, quiet and gentle, like Fugo hasn’t spent countless days avoiding him. Leaving him out in the cold with no explanation. No timeline of a possible return. Just. Nothing. And Fugo knows how he’d feel if he were in Mista’s shoes right now, but he only sees worry in those dark eyes.

It’s not fair. In fact, it’s wrong, and Fugo is less than human for putting Mista in this position in the first place.

“Panna,” Mista repeats when Fugo still hasn’t responded. He steps closer with a touch of hesitation. He watches Fugo, waiting for a sign that he’s misstepped, and that only makes Fugo feel worse, but it doesn’t stop Mista.

“Don’t,” Fugo breathes when Mista gets close enough to reach out and touch him.

“Don’t what, Panna?” Mista asks, fingers already outstretched and reaching.

Fugo catches his hands in the air. Squeezes with just enough force to emphasize his point. “You don’t want to see what’s underneath, okay?” He knows what’s under his mask. The gnarled tissue greets him every day in the mirror. Giorno’s offered to heal it for him on two, separate occasions, but the Don has since dropped the subject, which Fugo is grateful for. He can’t bring himself to erase the scars on either side of his face. They mean too much, as a reminder and a path forward.

“I think I do,” Mista answers with a cheeky grin. It’s half-assed and fooling no one. Fugo can see uncertainty. If only he could find the words to impress upon Mista. To make him understand, but Mista’s always been stubborn. Take six bullets and keep going kind of stubborn (though Fugo’s heard that Mista’s broken that record. Much to his horror.)

Rather than fight a man that he knows can out stubborn him, Fugo drops his hands and lets his arms hang slack at his side. He takes a slow, deep breath and holds it in, while his eyes remain downcast. He can’t bring himself to watch the reaction.

“Oh,” Mista breathes when he gently unhooks the mask with his fingers and pulls it forward and free from Fugo’s face. The scars are mostly healed, though there’s some persistent redness that indicates their freshness. Each one extends from the corners of his lips and wraps around his cheeks. The ends disappear into his jawline, and he knows they’re unsettling. Unsightly. There’s a reason he keeps them covered, and it’s not to spare his own feelings.

“I-” he starts, or tries to, but Mista’s surging forward with both hands cradling Fugo’s cheeks. He’s mindful of the scars, but there’s no sign of avoidance. Any thought that Mista is disgusted goes out the window when Mista captures his lips in a kiss. Their first since his return, despite the two having met a few times between the Boat and the incident that led to his new scars.

Mista grins at him when he pulls away. This time, it’s a genuine, beaming thing that could blind a man. “You look badass, Panna,” he says before Fugo can speak. “Seriously, you think these’re going to freak me out?” His thumbs gently caress over the knotted flesh. “Do you know how many bullet holes I have?”

“That’s different,” Fugo answers immediately, but his voice is weak. His heart feels like it’s skipping too many beats, and he feels like he might float away if Mista dares to let go.

“It’s really not,” Mista tells him with a humorless laugh. He leans in to kiss Fugo again. This time with a bit less urgency. It’s slow and gentle and perfect, and Fugo wants it to never end. He can feel his cheeks growing wet, which he expects. What he doesn’t expect is that, when he opens his eyes, he finds he isn’t the only one crying.

“I’m sorry,” Fugo breathes when they pull apart. He shifts against Mista’s hold, but Mista doesn’t let him pull away.

“Don’t be. I’m just glad you’re here,” Mista says. He brings their foreheads together gently and closes his eyes.

Rather than fight Mista, Fugo decides to give in. Just this once. He can have something nice for a moment. Something he can’t ruin no matter how hard he tries, because Mista won’t let him.

[mshermia]

LYKHIW Timeline - WIP Page

Welcome! This post records the status and progress of my work expanding my Post-Endgame (MCU) series to “Like You’d Know How It Works”.

I left the cinema post-Endgame incredibly mad and disappointed. After I aired my immediate frustration with the movie in two One-Shots, I decided for my own peace of mind, I had to try and salvage the mess that was Endgame somehow, because I simply like the characters too much, not to. A week after I started writing, I published the first chapter on AO3. About a year later, I felt the need to expand on the original fix-it. I have and will continue to add to this timeline, writing different adventures that will mostly focus on Tony Stark and Peter Parker.

Genre: MCU fanfiction

The Fix-It

Like You’d Know How It Works (completed)

Setting: sets in right after the battle at the Compound is over, supersedes the concluding events of Endgame.

Premise: Straight after the battle is won - or lost, depending on your perspective - Peter tries to convince the Avengers to save Mr. Stark by going back into the Quantum Realm.

Tropes: time-travel, quantum realm, protective Peter

Mood: grief & loss, hope, family

Someone had organized this room at Metro General hospital for them to sit and talk. Sitting was not an option for Peter though. He couldn’t bear to sit. He couldn’t bear to have anyone look at his injuries either, not when there were more pressing matters to attend to.

“You said that whatever we do in the past will not change our present!” Peter’s fist hit the table with a crash. They simply weren’t listening. His face felt grimy and tight in places where the dirt from the battlefield stuck to the tears he had cried over Mr. Stark’s body. Maybe he should have thought of washing the traces off his face before confronting a few of the Avengers and Doctor Strange. It might have made him seem a little more collected. A little more rational. “That’s what you just said!”

Chapters 9/9 | 42 K | Teen and Up

Follow-up Shorts and Multi-chapters

Just Outside The Door (completed)

Setting: Days after Tony was brought back from the multiverse

Premise: Peter did it. He found his mentor and brought him back, but sometimes it all just seemed too good to be true. Sometimes, his mind played tricks on him and he just couldn’t sleep, wondering if he had really brought Mr. Stark back or if it had all just been a desperate dream.

Tropes: nightmares, PTSD, protective Tony, Whumptober 2020: No. 23

Mood: fear, working through trauma, comfort

There was only silence in his room now unless you were to count the frantic beat of his heart and the deep shaky breaths he sucked in and blew back out. It hadn’t even been a nightmare this time, not truly. He hadn’t really fallen asleep in the first place. Exhaustion was tugging at the edges of his consciousness and that’s where his thoughts had started to spiral.

Mr. Stark was okay. Peter was… he was pretty sure of that. He had succeeded, had brought him back home and now he was okay. But there was a little voice in the back of his head that kept nagging, that kept telling him that maybe… maybe he was wrong. Maybe it had all been a delusional dream, too good to be true, Peter wishing something into reality that was unobtainable. He had seen his mentor die after all. He had died right in front of him, the memory etched into his memory, right there whenever he closed his eyes. Dimensions, time travel… was that really real?

Chapters 1/1 | 4.2 K | Teen and Up

Nothing Left To Lose (in progress)

Setting: 2 weeks after Tony was brought back from the multiverse

Premise:

The reversal of the Snap added an additional 3.5 billion people back to Earth’s population. 3.5 billion more people to house somewhere, 3.5 billion mouths to be fed, 3.5 billion people who return to a world that was not expecting them to ever come back.

Tropes: food shortage, starvation, looting, blurred lines of good and evil; Whumptober 2020: No. 3

Mood: anger, desperation, conflicted who to help 

Tony groaned, rolling his stiff neck from one side to the other as the gate clicked shut behind Pepper. “Remind me again… Why did we agree to this?”

Pepper didn’t bother to send him a scolding look as she wrapped the security seal around the gate’s locking mechanism. “Because we’re good neighbors?”

“We are?” He smelled like damp fur. When did wet fur and barn animals become his life? “Since when exactly? Was there a house meeting? Did I miss it?”

“Mh… do you need a reminder of the process of negotiation?” She took a step towards him, one hand twisted in his shirt pulling him close against her, their lips almost close enough to touch. “You smell like wet alpaca.”

He pulled in an affronted gasp. The hand that was still holding his shirt pushed him away from her, her lips stretched wide in amusement. “Come on, Cesar. Maybe I’ll remind you after a hot shower.”

Chapters 1/2 | 3.4 K | Teen and Up

Unnamed WIP (unpublished)

Setting: 4 months after Tony was brought back from the multiverse

Premise:

For months, Peter has been commuting between the city and the Stark’s remote cabin in the woods. But now that life in NYC has regained some normalcy, he really wants to show Morgan what the greatest city in the world has to offer.

Tropes: power outage, panic attack, PTSD; Whumptober 2020: No. 27

Nope. “Not going down that rabbit-hole, Parker,” he muttered to himself.

“What rabbit-hole?” Morgan was sitting opposite him, munching on the cookies Pepper had put out.

“Nevermind.” Peter scooped two tea spoons of sugar into his coffee, then added another one just to be safe.

“Mommy says coffee corrupts the soul.”

“Please, like you even know what ‘corrupt’ means….”

Morgan tilted her head to the side, just like her mom would do. “I know it’s not nice.”

Peter gave her a look. “Well, your dad says it’s the elixir of life.” And Mr. Stark would know. Peter gave his head one hard shake. Tony. Tony would know. One sip of the black brew and Peter’s teeth hurt. Definitely too much sugar. “Okay, remember what we talked about?”

Morgan sat up straight, her eyes wide. “Ask mommy first!”

“That’s right! Make sure you use those puppy eyes, too.” Morgan nodded along enthusiastically while he quickly nicked her glass of milk and poured a generous potion of it into his mug. “We wait till, you know, till Tony’s gone downstairs or something and then—”

“And then you’ll ask me what?”

Chapters -/2 | - K | Teen and Up

Christmas Eve - At Peace (completed)

Setting: 5 months after Tony was brought back from the multiverse

Premise:

Just a couple of months after they defeated Thanos, Tony and Pepper throw a Christmas party. Instead of a partying kid, Tony finds his Spiderling outside in the snow at the grave he has been trying to ignore ever exists.

Tropes: anger and grief, blame and fear, no prompt

Mood: wholesome, family, frustration

Tony narrowed his eyes at him. "I mean it!" For good measure, he took a healthy gulp from the cup, positively burning his throat in the process. But it wasn't until Harley threw his hands in the air and turned his back in defeat - for now - that Tony allowed his face to cringe at the sting. Those little trouble makers were not helping with his heart condition. Speaking of trouble... "Where is Peter?"

Harley crossed his arms in front of himself, his mind clearly brooding on a new strategy. "No clue."

Tony's next sip of the hot wine was a lot smoother than the first. "What do you mean, no clue?"

"It generally means that the person doesn't have any information about the subject that you are—"

"Alright, short stuff..." Tony's eyes were searching the room but the little spider was nowhere to be seen. "A bit less of the asshole routine please?"

"Listen, if you want me to babysit, same rules apply as they do for Morgan." Brazen in his brattiness, the little shit ladled a good helping of mulled wine into a new cup. "I'll need a heads-up and generous compensation that I'm happy to re-negoti— Hey!"

Harley tried to hold on to the cup that Tony once again just plucked from his hands. "You've had enough of this!"

"That one is for Rhodey," the boy scowled.

Chapters 1/1 | 3.8 K | Teen and Up

The Winter Air (completed)

Setting: 6 months after Tony was brought back from the multiverse

Premise:

Tony, Peter, and Morgan spent a winter day outside the Stark residence.

Tropes: accident, hurt Tony, hurt Peter, Whumptober 2020: No. 13

Mood: fun to fear, injury, accusations, blame

Well, it wasn’t that easy. Because things were apparently never just easy in the life of one Peter Parker. Turned out, there were still some assholes out there. Not the Thanos-kind. Not for now at least. The regular kind though and Peter for one saw absolutely no reason as to why anything should have changed in his responsibility to stop them from being assholes.

His aunt somehow disagreed more often than she didn’t. Annoyingly now though, she managed to drag Mr. Stark to her side a lot more than she used to, too.

Peter shook his head at himself. Tony. T-O-N-Y. It wasn’t that hard, was it? He still slipped up every so often. But as much as that bugged him, it was the others who bugged him even more. Colonel Rhodes and Hawkeye among them the most willing to tease Peter about it. Him, and Tony too, for his mentor never commented on it with more than a crooked smile. When it was just the two of them, that was often the only indication for Peter, that he had said it again.

It made the times when it really was just them so enjoyable. A new ease between them. They had never had this, this kind of bonding. Sure, they’d spent time together before everything had gone downhill on their little space adventure, in the lab or on a normal earth-bound mission. Not like this though, not like Peter staying over at the Stark residence for a few days at a time. Not like him sliding along-side Morgan on the ice on the lake, trying to catch Tony. Not like Morgan falling over and taking Tony right with her and the way Peter’s stomach hurt from laughing so hard when Mr. Stark’s sweet little Morguna drowsed him with two full hands of snow and he just hadn’t seen it coming.

Chapters 3/3 | 14 K | Teen and Up

Unnamed Multichapter WIP (unpublished)

Setting: picks up where The Winter Air ended, 6 months after Tony was brought back from the multiverse

Premise:

First time all of the Avengers come together after the Snap was reversed. With Tony retired, Peter has to find his place in the team and learn to work with the other Avengers without Tony. Tensions are running high with the events of Civil War still largely unresolved and lingering resentments stemming from Peter’s multidimensional rescue mission to save Tony.

Tropes: Avengers mission, mistrust, growing as a team; Whumptober 2020: No.7

Tony’s eyes went wide. Was it possible that…

“Hey, FRI?”

“Good morning, boss. It’s 10:16 am on February 5th, 2024. The temperature outside is—”

“Yeah, just… can you stop for a moment?” He waved her off. “Send Dory out to the lake, would you. There’s some stuff still lying out there on the ice.”

“Right away, Sir.”

Tony watched as the little blue drone circled the lake, getting closer and closer to what he was sure were the Spiderling’s clothes still lying out there, where he had taken them off to—

“Hey, what are you doing out of bed!”

Despite himself, he twitched as Pepper made her way into the room. She had pushed the door open with her hip, balancing his breakfast on a large wooden tablet.

“Here, let me—” Tony stepped towards her, arms at the ready to take the tablet but she held it out of his reach.

“What do you think you’re doing? Get back in that bed!”

Chapters -/- | - K | Teen and Up

There... And Back Again (in progress)

Setting: about a year after Tony was brought back to life

Premise:  The Starks drive upstate to the old Mansion where Tony grew up. To Tony’s horror, the trip takes him and the kids a lot further down memory lane than anyone could have predicted.

Tropes: time travel, Howard Stark’s A++ parenting; Febuwhum2021 Day 12 - Who Are You

“Pete, seriously…” Tony looked up into the review mirror trying to catch his eye. “Can you not? I don’t want Morgan up all night, terrified of some dumb ghosts.”

“Come on, it’s just a story, Tony. Morgan knows I made it all up, right?” Peter winked at her, then wiggled his eyebrows in a way that seemed kind of familiar.

“Yeah, daddy.” But Morgan was full-on ignoring Tony, her eyes on Peter trying to imitate the wink and wiggly eyebrows he had just sent her way. “It’s just a story.”

He could do little more than groan as Peter continued to spin a tale of spirits and witches, ancient pacts and promises that had to be kept, ransoms that the spirits had vowed to retrieve.

“It was a night very much like tonight,” Peter continued, his voice low and full of dreadful foreboding, “that the witches broke that pact they had signed with the blood of the innocent…”

“Morgan’s gasp morphed into a giddy giggle while Tony could only rub a hand across his brow and mumbled, "Blood of the innocent, give me a fucking break…”

Chapters 1/3 | 4,4 K | Teen and Up

Are We Out Of The Woods Yet?, (completed)

Setting: 4 years after Tony was brought back from the multiverse

Premise:

 Peter takes Morgan into the depths of a National Park so she can collect samples for a biology project.

Tropes: Peter & Morgan, protective Peter, hurt Morgan, hurt Peter, Whumptober 2020: No. 12

Mood: disappointment, mistakes, anger, angst, comfort

“There are so many reasons why online classes are better than going to school.”

Peter shook his head. “And there are plenty of reasons why learning in school with other students is preferable. How it helps retain the material better than—”

Morgan groaned without even looking at him, her nose in the air, eyes on the leafy trees above them. “You can learn the same things at home, only then you could have dinner at night with us instead of in your stinky room in Boston.”

“Hey,” he craned his neck to see where she went, then walked after her. “My room doesn’t stink.”

“It’s a boy’s room.” She said it like that alone was a valid argument, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, the girl’s dorms he had been in—

He stopped himself. Not the time and place.

Chapters 2/2 | 8 K | Teen and Up

[somedayonbroadway]

Hello! Could you please write some angsty Sprace? Thank you!

@badthingshappenbingo

Rock Bottom

Trope: Backhand Slap

Fandom: Newsies

Word Count: 2,634

Characters: Racetrack Higgins, Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly (mentioned)

Summary: Race was free falling. But the bottom had to be close. It had to be.

TW: Character Death (no one was supposed to die...), swearing, alcohol abuse, abuse

“You can’t keep doin’ this. You cannot keep doin’ this—“

“You don’t understand! You neva’ did!”

“So help me understand! I’m tryin’ ta understand!”

“You can’t—“

“Try me!”

“Could you stop trying to control me?!”

“I’m tryin’ ta save you from yourself—“

“I don’t need you ta save me!”

Once upon a time, they’d been the perfect couple. In fact, they’d been in love.

Sometimes they forgot what that felt like. They supposed that it was bound to be this way. After all, once they’d made it to the top, to the happiest part of their lives, things could only go downhill from there. The worst part of it all was, neither of them knew how much farther rock bottom was.

Judging by the backhanded slap that seemingly resounded off of every surface of their apartment, it was easy to have hope that they were close. They had to be close.

Race froze, standing in shock as he watched his husband’s face snap to the side, a big red mark beginning to swell on his cheek. The blond gasped, not moving, not even speaking. He just waited for the inevitable.

It wasn’t long before Spot recovered with a small, bitter laugh, grabbing his wrists and slamming him back against the wall. Race hardly felt it. The bottle was wrenched from his fingers and thrown across the room, shattering against the wall as some leftover beer dropped down onto the hardwood floor. Then Spot let go of him. They were still nose to nose. “You wanna fuckin’ hit me, Race, fuckin’ hit me!” the slightly shorter man dared, scowling and glaring daggers at the younger man who tried to stare back down at him angrily.

Silently, his mind reeled. This is what Spot said would happen. He couldn’t believe this was happening again. He wasn’t thinking. He couldn’t think. He didn’t want to. All he knew was that he was unmistakably, without a single doubt, completely and totally wasted. He just wanted to drink himself to sleep, maybe even further. It helped with the bad thoughts. It helped with the bad days. It just helped.

Except for when it didn’t.

The anger had worn off a bit. Honestly all Race wanted to do was cry. But he shoved those thoughts away with all the other ones that swirled around in his broken brain. “Get the hell offa me, Sean,” he growled, his voice slurring only a little.

“Make me,” Sean challenged, standing his ground. It was no secret that the man was strong, but even though he might not look it, Race was too. They were evenly matched. “I can’t keep goin’ through this with you Tyler— Tony— whatever the hell it is you wanna be called these days! You’re out of control n’ I can’t watch you keep spiraling!”

The blond growled a bit. “Then leave,” he spat.

The words hit Spot harder than Race ever could. He backed away, feeling like he’d just been punched in the gut as he forced himself to say, “Fine. I’m done.”

The world slowed down for a moment as Race watched the man he’d loved for so long walk away from him. Everything was a blur after that door slammed shut. All Race knew was that he had to get out, he had to do something. He couldn’t just stand there. Anger and despair rose up in him and the alcohol swirled it together before Race let out a bitter laugh.

He couldn’t remember what happened after that.

He woke up in a holding cell. It wasn’t the first time. If he did say so himself, he’d gotten very good at sleeping in the stiff benches that were built into the ground. It didn’t mean it made wake up any easier. His head pounded and his mouth was dry. He felt stiff and sore and nothing felt right.

Running a hand over his face, Race stared up at the ceiling. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut when he tried to move his gaze. The lights hurt. “Hey! I want my phone call!” he tried to yell, but his voice was coarse and his head was pounding. All that came out was a broken whimper.

“You already made your call, Higgins,” someone said. It was a vaguely familiar voice but Race didn’t care to look up to see a familiar guard.

“Does it count if I don’t remember it?” he groaned, knowing he must’ve screwed up big time.

No one answered him. So he let out a heavy sigh and just lay there, trying not to break at the bits of last night he did remember. His memories always came back in fragments. He ran a hand over his face and then dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He really didn’t want to remember.

Finally forcing himself to sit up, Race found that he wasn’t alone in the room. On the other side of those bars a man was staring at him, leaning against the wall and as much as Race wanted to cry right then and there, he didn’t. He just walked over to the bars that divided them. “Spottie…” he muttered, unable to look at his own husband.

“Asshole,” Spot shot back quietly, not moving from his place against the wall.

Race’s heart dropped when he managed to look up for just a moment. A bruise and a split lip was prominent on the man’s face. His gaze shot back down the second he caught a glimpse. “I’m sorry—“

“Bullshit, T,” Spot spat, still quite comfortable on the other side of those bars. “If you were sorry at all, this wouldn’t be happening again. It’s been goin’ on for too long, Race!” The shorter man shook his head, looking vulnerable for just a moment as he pushed himself off the wall and walked closer to the person he’d walk through hell and back for. “I’m tryin’ ta hold on for you, but I can’t do this forever n’ we both know it.”

Daring to look up when his husband came closer, Race felt the tears prick at his eyes but he refused to let them fall just yet. “I… I thought you were leavin’...” he whispered, leaning his forehead against the cold metal that kept him contained.

Rolling his eyes, Spot shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah… I made it about halfway through packing a bag before I found out that you were trying to break into someone’s house.”

That’s when a few thin tears began to fall down Race’s face. “I-I didn’t call you, did I?” It wasn’t a question. He knew very well that he hadn’t called his husband. No, there was someone else he needed to talk to, someone else he had to hear from.

With a small sigh, Spot pulled out a phone that wasn’t his own and managed to find, through a cracked screen, a voicemail message.

“H-hey… l-look this time I knew he wouldn’t pick up… I just,” Race heard himself break off into a sob. “I just really needed ta hear his voice right now. B-but I know you’re there, Spottie.” Every word was shaken and squeaked and broken. Race let his tears fall listening to it. He just sounds so hopeless and desperate. “I… I… God, you’re probably gone already. N’ I can’t blame you f’r that…” he slurred a bit, clearly still drunk, but his mind was clear enough for him to think at least somewhat clearly. “I guess I just wanted to, uh, go home… I wasn’t thinkin’, Sean, I know I wasn’t I just wan’ed ta see him again.” Race was crying now. Both in the message and right there in that cell. He had just wanted to go home. “I’m… you don’t have ta come… but… if you’re leaving just know that I love you n’ that I’ll regret everything I did till the day I die…” The young man tried to make the tears stop, he scrubbed at his face. “Anyways… uh… goodbye, I guess…”

By the end of the message, Race could no longer lift his gaze from the floor. He felt so heavy, like gravity was pulling him down even harder. He didn’t speak. He had nothing left to say.

With a quiet sigh, Spot put the phone away, walking up to the bars. He wrapped his hands around them. “You wanna look at me?” he asked.

“No,” Race admitted, his voice watery and broken. He shook his head and pressed his forehead up against the cool metal in front of him. “No, I wanna stand here n’... realize for the first time that I’m only wearin’ one shoe,” he sniffled, almost laughing. That just made him want to cry even more. “Jesus, if he could see me now…” The words came in a breath followed by a bitter laugh. “I can already hear him—“

“‘Kid, you’re an idiot’,” Spot imitated. He used to do it a lot more often. Not so much anymore. “Yeah, I know that lecture.” They both knew that lecture. “Then he’d give you his shoes and take you home and make you breakfast but refuse to make you bacon because it’s the only thing you’d ask for n’ it’s the only way he knows how ta punish you.” It was true. That’s exactly what would happen.

The tears only fell so much faster down Race’s face as his throat tightened. He wrapped his arms around himself. He wanted to make a joke. It was his first instinct, even if they had gotten darker in the past eight months. He wanted to ask Spot if he was just going to leave him here, in this cell, just to get even, but words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t speak, all he could do was close his eyes and pray for shoes that were a size too big for him and a long lecture that would never end and a big breakfast with everything but bacon.

Swallowing hard, the young man raised his head to find the face of the man he loved with a handprint bruise on his cheek. “I-is this rock bottom?” he asked desperately, needing it to be over.

“Baby, you broke right through the floor,” Spot sniffled, looking right into those broken blue eyes.

They hadn’t been the same since the crash.

“I thought my back hurt,” Race tried to laugh, but he couldn’t. Not when he looked at Spot’s face. He reached out to caress his husband’s cheek. Spot only barely flinched. “I really am sorry,” he breathed. “I shouldn’t a’ said any a’ that… I shouldn’t a’ fuckin’ hurt you, I—“

“Shut up, Racer,” Spot sighed. “Just, shut up. You do this every time. You do somethin’ magnificently stupid n’ you think an apology will fix it,” he shrugged, only feeling slightly bad for being so blunt. “That ain’t gonna fix it this time. You need help. N’ you know it.”

Race shook his head. “You still don’t fuckin’ get it,” he grumbled, letting himself stumble back a bit until he slouched onto that bench.

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit anymore, Tyler!” Spot spat, making Race flinch a little bit at the name he’d been called. It hurt to hear. “You really wanna keep tellin’ me I don’t understand? Like I didn’t lose someone too?”

“You weren’t there, Sean!” Race cried pathetically, his voice breaking despite his attempts to keep it strong and together but it wasn’t working. All he sounded was broken. “You… you weren’t there…” He squeezed his eyes as he let his head fall into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. “You didn’t hear them tell you that it was him or me. You didn’t hear him begging me to let him go—“

“Race, stop,” Spot insisted. “Just, stop.” He’d heard it all before. So many times over again. “I know I wasn’t there. I know that. And I know that you somehow think this is your fault but it ain’t.”

Groaning, Race looked up at him, his eyes red rimmed and tired. “I don’t wanna do this right now—“

“Well that sucks, sweetheart, because you’re stuck in here right now n’ you got nothin’ ta do but listen, so ya better shut your mouth and chill,” the shorter man said, looking down at his husband. “What happened to Jack was not your fault.” Race twitched at the sound of that name. He could hardly say it anymore. Spot had never seen someone so deep in grief. It had been painful to watch in the beginning. He hated that it was so familiar now. “He wouldn’t have wanted this for you—“

“Yeah, well, he’s not here, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?” Race spat, glaring now. It was easier to be angry than to be broken. And damn it, Race was angry. Race was angry because there was no one left for him to blame but himself.

The words hurt to hear. “God, you don’t really believe that do you?” Spot breathed. “Tyler, I know that you think I’ll never understand. But I didn’t just lose my best friend in that wreck, I… I fucking lost my husband too…”

It was true. That day had changed Race forever and he knew it. All of it was so painful for him and the only thing the kid knew how to do was distance himself, even going so far as to change his name, try several times to change his look and refuse to visit his nephew who looked too much like a man who was never coming back for him. Spot watched as the boy he loved so much slowly faded away into a drunk, drugged up disaster.

Still, Race only scoffed. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he whimpered with a shrug. “That… h-he was my brother, Spottie. He raised me. H-he… he gave up everything he had for me n’ then he…” The blond shook his head. “N’... every time I think I can breathe again, I see it happening all over again n’ I just…”

“You need a drink,” Spot finished for him. He sighed, holding out a hand to the man he loved so much, waiting for Race to take it. When the blond did, Spot pulled him up towards the bars and guided his hand to his own swollen cheek. “I want you to get help, baby. Real help. Please.”

Looking down at his own handiwork was heart wrenching. Spot had been Race’s friend for nearly a decade. Race had watched him grow and get tougher and stronger and better throughout the years. Spot Conlon was the strongest person that he’d ever met and yet here he was, standing beaten because he didn’t hit back. He never hit Race back. Not really. “I need help…” the young man admitted, terrified, as was evident in his trembling voice. “Fuck, I need help.”

Spot nodded, clearing his throat before turning to the guard. “You can let him out now,” he supposed, watching as the guy went to unlock the door that held Race inside.

For a long moment, Race didn’t move. He just stared pathetically at his husband and shrugged. “What do we do now?” he asked.

The shorter man sighed and walked up closer to his husband, the man he adored above all else. He took his hand gently and looked up at him. “We take it one step at a time,” he breathed. “You ready?”

Race swallowed hard, nodding almost numbly as he looked past his love out into the cruel world before him. “Yeah… I think so…” he lied.

Still, Spot turned and tugged Race’s hand.

They walked out of that cell together and each step, still weary and uncertain, was easier than to one before.

Okay, before ya’ll come asking, I have no idea how Jack died. All I know is that it was some kind of situation where only Jack or Race could be saved, whether someone deliberately did that to them or they were in an accident of some kind where they were both gonna die but the EMTs got there and figured out to to save one of them, I don’t know. I’m not that medically creative, but there you have it. If anyone has an particular ideas, I’d love to hear them. 

I’ve really been beating on Jack lately. It’s oddly satisfying and so sad.

Anyway, let me know what you guys think!

Thanks for reading!

[chxrity-burbage]

Welcome to the Panic Room

TW Death, Murder, Torture, Vomit

July 20th, 1979

Nightfall came all too quickly, it seemed, as Charity finished the last chapter of her book and placed it neatly on her coffee table next to the mug of tea. For years, this had been her routine. Get into pajamas, make a nice cuppa, read a book, and go to bed. Tonight, as it seemed, time got the better of her. When on holiday she always had extra time, though she hadn’t remained up this late in a long while. Carefully, Charity leaned forward and wrapped her hands around the mug, still warm. A few sips were left at the bottom as she tipped it back, the beverage soothing her throat. Tea always tasted better in a cup that had been reused, thus, she sat the mug back down in its place before heading off to bed, to use in the morning. 

Quickly, Charity did a sweep of the windows and made sure all of them were locked with the curtains pulled closed before heading to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Compared to the rest of the home, Charity’s room was quite lavish. Plenty of space, a large wardrobe, decorated with memorabilia from her childhood. It was a comfortable space, where she could go to relax and unwind at the end of a long day. While she preferred to read in the lounge, her bed was no stranger to a plethora of books she’d taken with her, either. With a flick of her wand, Charity pulled back the duvet on her mattress and slipped into bed, setting her wand aside in the drawer of her nightstand. 

It never took long after her head hit the pillow for Charity to fall asleep, these days. Ever since she had developed her nightly routine of tea and reading, her body had been conditioned to understand that rest came next. Within minutes, she was sound asleep. That was, until the break in. 

The abduction happened quickly and silently, so much so that Charity never heard them enter the home, but awoke only when struck with a spell that caused her body to wake from pure shock and agony, writhing in pain. In the darkness, she couldn’t see who her foe was, nor could she reach for her wand to defend herself. The screams of pain were quickly muffled as they gagged her and bound her body up. Struggling as they fought against her, Charity did as much as she could to free herself from the restraints, but was unsuccessful. Soon after, the witch fell unconscious.

Hours had gone by before Charity came to, in and out of consciousness as the death eaters taunted her and cast unspeakable curses her way, torturing her for their own amusement. Her clothes looked as though they had been torn off of her body in several places. There were gash marks from where she’d been hit with curses. With every crucio thrown at her, Charity faded back to the darkness, only to be woken up by the pain that would come moments later. Overhead was a witch rambling on about how surprising it was that she’d survived this long after all of that. Charity might not have had her wand, but she was stubborn, and determined 

An unknown period of time passed between her arrival at an undisclosed location, and being suspended above a rather large ornate dining table, upside-down with rags still stuffed in her mouth like a doll. Her body was stiff, she couldn’t move even a finger. Though she was unable to see those who sat beneath her, Charity could hear the conversations being had. How they planned to kidnap the son of Lily and James Potter, their desire to maintain blood purity... The Dark Lord’s demand of Lucius Malfoy to willingly give his wand to whom he served, so that he may regain power lost. Charity remembered all of it. And then, with a jolt to her body, she could feel again.

Writhing in pain against invisible bonds, Charity groaned and struggled to break herself free. All she had managed to do was free her mouth of the garb that had once prevented her from speaking, voice hoarse and strained.

“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?” 

 “Severus... Help me!”

“Ah, yes...”

Charity panted, her heart pounding against her chest as she pleaded for her life, knowing that this might be the last chance she had to. Her pleas would fall on deaf ears as Severus did nothing to stop their slander, nor did he respond when she cried out to him. 

“Severus, please... please... We’re friends...”

“Avada Kedavra!”

---

Charity awoke with a gasp, clutching her chest as she struggled to regulate her breathing. Her body was shivering, sweat coated her palms as she grabbed at various limbs to reassure herself that she wasn’t dreaming. This was real. She was alive, though hadn’t the slightest clue how. The initial shock had struck a second time, and for a moment, she was paralyzed, as if the invisible bonds that had restrained her were somehow back and she would be dragged out of bed again. Nails sunk into the mattress, clinging on for dear life as she stared at the ceiling. In the darkness, she could almost see the clear image of her face reflected in the large ornate table she had been held over. Her eyes had betrayed her, flashing images of that night over and over again even as she tried to slam them shut. 

Severus… help me!

Suddenly her body lurched forward with a scream. It was only then did she realize where she was. This was not the manor to which she was forcibly brought. She was home. The first thing she did was crawl out of her bed in a frantic state, stumbling through her bedroom as if she were re-learning how to use her legs. Standing before a mirror, Charity nearly fainted at the image before her. There were no wrinkles on her face, no lines from laughter over the years. There were no gashes, no cuts from that horrid night. Her hair was messy, but not dirty as it had been after what they’d done to her. Her sleepwear was neat, and crease free. Not to mention the fact that she was significantly younger looking. Bringing her fingers to her face, Charity touched the areas where she should have had wounds, and found nothing but smooth skin. Thus, her hand retracted with horror, unsure what to think of this all.

Her eyes fixated on the window in her bedroom before  immediately rushing to tear the curtains open only to find that it was not the warm summer evening that it’d been on the night she was abducted. In fact, it wasn’t summer at all. There was snow on the ground, and her breath could be seen as clear as day as she opened the window and let out a gasp. Charity stood there for ages, trying desperately to make sense of it all. When she couldn’t bear to stand any longer, she sat, but did nothing more. Eventually, the post came, as did the daily paper, which was the only thing she could think of when it had arrived. With shaking hands she fetched the paper, eyes scanning furiously for any inclination of what had happened. The date at the top read January 1st, 1979. Her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach, a nauseous feeling arising before dropping the paper and running to the bathroom.

Hunched over the toilet, Charity hurled repeatedly until there wasn’t possibly anything left in her stomach to give up. Even then, the thought of grabbing a drink of water made her feel as though she were about to be sick all over again. Remaining in the bathroom for what felt like several hours, Charity did nothing but cry softly as she thought about everything that had happened. Too many years had passed by for this to be an intense dream. Too many lives lost, too many sacrifices made. How she ended up back in 1979 she had no idea, though there was no room in her thoughts to ponder that question further. The only things she could think of were the mistakes she’d made leading up to her death. The reckless behavior she displayed by openly defying the ideals that wizardry should be kept within the families who bear pure blood. Her silly dreams of a world where magic and muggle can live together as one. How foolish she was to put her trust in a man whom she’d defended countless times, who let her die before a crowd of people simply because of her blood status. A status that, despite many people not knowing, the two of them shared. Severus.

Severus, please… please… We’re friends… 

What use did friendships have in a lifetime where loyalty meant nothing? 

When Charity finally pulled herself together, the next thing she thought to do was run a bath. Despite the blood and sweat and dirt from before no longer being visible on her skin, there was a deep rooted feeling she couldn’t shake of being filthy. Aside from needing to scrub away all of the memories associated with that night, she hoped that a bath would ease her mind. While the water filled the tub, Charity undressed herself from the nightgown she’d been wearing and tossed it aside. Later, she’d have to dispose of it, as it carried the memory of death she didn’t want to be reminded of. Sinking into the water, Charity let out a long and built up sigh. All she wanted to do, really, was sleep. Sleep and forget everything that had ever happened, but that wasn’t possible. Any time she closed her eyes, blinked for too long, it came flooding back to her.

Sat in the bath, Charity let time pass by as she soaked in the water and tried to think of what the next thing to do would be. The thought of spending another second in that room haunted her, though she knew that she would at least need to go back to retrieve her wand, and some personal belongings. Eventually, Charity pulled the plug on the drain and watched the water slowly spiral down, washing away the remnants of the night. Unsure of how long had actually passed while sat there, Charity stood slowly, retrieving a robe that hung by her tub and wrapped herself in it. She felt numb; as though she were a ghost walking through her home, making her way through rooms she no longer belonged in. There was no sense of belonging there anymore, no sense of purpose. While she did not wish to die, Charity couldn’t help but wonder if she was meant to. Then again, if she were to die right now, would she wake up once more in her bed? With all of the memories of years that haven’t yet begun?

Bundled in her robe, Charity slowly paced to the door of her bedroom, and reached out a hand. Wandless magic was shaky to her, having not used it in a long time. The alternative was setting foot across the threshold, which she was not willing to do. Pointed directly at the drawer beside her bed, Charity cleared her throat. Wandless magic, while not impossible, was difficult to perform, and required a lot of concentration and skill.  “Accio wand.” The drawer shuddered lightly, but did not budge. Standing her ground, Charity planted her feet firmly and took a deep breath before repeating, louder this time. “Accio wand!” This time, the drawer shot straight out, her wand finding its place in her hand firmly. Relieved, Charity began to slowly move things out of the room. Her clothes, blankets, a few other personal items that would make it easier to sleep elsewhere. All of the belongings she directed to find a place in the lounge, before closing and locking the bedroom door. 

Perhaps one day, she would open it again, though that was surely not for a very long time. Not until she was ready to confront Severus.