#a bit wobbly but that always happens when switching glasses

[nyarados]

just got my new glasses and the VISION I'm experiencing 😭😭😭 bro I can see clearly now that's for sure

[black-and-yellow]

The Mind Electric - Loudspeaker AU

Hizashi Yamada gets a stern talking-to, because someone has to reel him in, and of course it would be Kayama.

~2.7k words Yes it's named after the Miracle Musical song, the vibes were just chefs kiss. Based on this comic.

Also on AO3 here

Yamada awoke with a start, eyes snapping open, expecting to see sunlight filling the room, but it was still almost entirely dark. He didn’t know what had woken him, he didn’t remember having a particularly horrifying dream – in fact, he couldn’t remember having dreamt at all. He moved a hand to his stomach, his skin burning hot against his fingers.

That was when his eyes caught a glimpse of something, a silhouette in front of the roof window, where the pale glow from street lights outside filtered pathetically through the thin cloth ‘curtains’ he’d stuck up to cover the smashed hole in the glass.

Clumsily, he pawed around for his glasses and found them on the floorboards by his mattress. He knocked over an empty takeout box as he did, sending disposable chopsticks and the remnants of some kind of cheap sauce spilling onto the floor.

When he’d pushed his glasses up onto his nose and his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see her.

At first his heart jumped, but he calmed himself, knowing there was a more realistic answer. He blew out a sigh, the short lived elation drowned out by disappointment.

“You’re in my head.”

Kayama looked down at him, her arms behind her back, standing there bathed in an unreal glow. Her face was only just visible, but Yamada could make out the whites of her eyes and the lenses of her glasses. She wore an off-the-shoulder sweater, something she’d wear around the house when she was off-duty. Warm and soft and baby pink.

“That’s right,” she said, voice flat and expressionless.

“So I’m dreaming?”

“Obviously.”

Yamada slowly pulled himself to his feet to step closer, gangly legs wobbling under the unsteady weight of himself. He could see her better, then; the dark mole under her left eye, her perfectly applied mascara, the faintest hint of smile lines at the corners of her mouth. Not a detail absent.

“I’m just how you picture your conscience,” she told him, and he sneered a bit, perhaps at himself. Don’t people usually dream about their teeth crumbling or something when they’re nervous? Why did she have to be here?

“So my conscience has Kayama’s face. What’s up with that?” he asked, although he knew the answer perfectly well.

“Oh, please,” she responded, in that short and fed up manner that she always used on him when he wore her patience too thin with his feigned stupidity shtick, “You respect her. You love her, you value her opinion, you need her to talk some sense into you. And you’ll listen to her. More than you’ll listen to yourself, at least.”

He narrowed his eyes, drew himself up to his full height. He hated being read like this, but he paused to remind himself that he was simply talking to himself, in an unconventional way.

“What do you even want?”

“You know full well what I want. I want you to stop all… this,” she threw her arms up at him, regarding him with a certain air of disgust, “This has all gone too far.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a danger to yourself. You’ve been a danger to yourself for years. But this…?” she slowly shook her head at him in a disapproving way, “You don’t even know what you’re doing any more, or why. You lost sight of yourself the moment you started to spite Aizawa.”

He internally cringed at hearing Aizawa’s name. Admittedly, there had been a switch flicked in his head for a while, but he couldn’t put his finger on when it happened. Maybe it was at the park, when Aizawa had knocked his teeth out, or when he hadn’t shown up to the bar. He’d even been intending to turn himself in at that point, racked with guilt at what he’d said to him. Aizawa’s words when they met up in the back alley rang in his head,

“What do you think Nemuri would say if she were here?”

And he’d justified it to himself since then. Nemuri would have understood, he’d told himself for weeks – months, even. She would be on his side, she’d respect his decision, she’d say ‘If you think this is for the best, I’m right behind you’. But now here she stood, even though it wasn’t really her, but it was what he really knew she’d do, and she was clearly angry with him. She regarded him with obvious disgust and just a hint of pity, like how you’d look at roadkill.

“You started taking a more active role in the vanguard squad. Every time you go out, you use more of your quirk. You like it,” she went on.

And he had to admit. He did like it. Working in close proximity with other heroes, as well as innocents he couldn’t risk hurting, he was constantly holding himself back. But here, he didn’t have to worry about it. When Shigaraki had questioned whether he was even worth keeping around, in his first few weeks with them, when he would mostly provide intel, he had insisted that his quirk could be a worthwhile asset to the PLF. Some of the other villains took him to a secluded area, far enough away from any patrols that might hear, and insisted he prove his claim. He stood on his own away from them, about the same distance the other heroes always kept behind him. He cranked up his bass, his volume, his reverb, his everything, to the point that he had to stop because Dabi started throwing up and the others were all clawing at their ears, but he could have kept going. He’d earned his place in the Vanguards, he’d sat up straighter since then, he kept an ongoing rumble in the back of his throat, and the rest of the squad generally kept their distance from him. And he liked it

That was the kind of respect he just didn’t get back at UA. Even when he’d lose it, Aizawa would always shoot a glare at him and his voice would be cut off and he’d look a fool to everyone. Nobody took him seriously, even when they knew what he could do in theory, like they knew that he was simply too pathetic to actually use it for anything except being irritating and the occasional stun attack, which they didn’t usually see anyway because he was mostly off to the sidelines. Maybe it was because he’d always been shadowed by the statures of the other heroes. Even Midnight could pick him up, and she would, just to be annoying, or embarrass him at parties.

“You’ve stopped caring who gets hurt,” Kayama carried on, then she jabbed a finger at him, inches away from his chest, purposefully not touching him, “All that’s in here is rage. You’re fuelled by it. Spite and rage.”

He’d always been angry, since he was a teen. He’d keep quiet when he was irked, but he never really calmed himself, he just put on a grin and simmered in it. If he started to boil over, Midnight would cool him down, telling him sternly to sit down and stop it. And he only did because it was her. And after she was gone, there was nobody to metaphorically take him off the heat. He could feel the stove growing hotter even now, even though it was her face, because he knew she was right.

“You can’t go back now, you’re like a cassette with all the tape unravelled. You’re all over the place. You’ve got your head in the PLF, your heart stuck in a past you could never have had back anyway, you’ve got your feet somewhere between home and Tartarus. I don’t even know where your backbone is. Oh, you just get so much worse, don’t you?”

He clenched his jaw, heat building in his chest. He could feel the nerve endings in his face twitching but he bit his tongue.

“What happens when you finally end up killing someone, Hizashi? You’re a natural disaster squeezed into a body that can hardly even keep a rein on it anymore. What happens when you get yourself killed?”

“STOP IT!” he snapped at her finally. His voice came out sharp and sudden like a crack of lightning, but Kayama didn’t even flinch, “If you’re in my head, why can’t you just- Just tell me I’m right! Just tell me what I want you to!” He stopped to breathe through bared, gritted teeth, the air coming in shakily and out again in shivers. Hot, angry tears pooled at the corners of his eyes and his entire form tensed.

Kayama closed her eyes and shook her head again, slow, solemn, disappointed. She remained entirely calm and collected.

“I don’t think you know what you want,” she said.

He balked, scoffing at the notion, throwing his head to the side, his arms falling back down limply, as if the very notion were ridiculous.

“I want… you know,” he started, then stopped. He looked back at her, his expression shifting from unbridled rage to indignant to confusion.

“I want… I…”

He hadn’t thought about it in a little while. At the outset, he knew exactly what he wanted. It seemed so simple. He bought his friends’ safety, he wanted to be the wall between Aizawa and death, he wanted to keep Eri swaddled in a blanket. He wanted the others to adore him. He wanted All Might to tell him how brave he was, because he was brave, wasn���t he? Giving up all he had, his radio show, his hero career, his dorm in Heights Alliance, his name in UA’s books, just to keep the people he cared about safe. How was that not brave? How could that be bad?

But that’s not what happened, it could never be that easy.

Aizawa didn’t thank him, his colleagues didn’t respect him, and his stomach churned with anger. Everything he ate tasted rotten, he got nosebleeds, his hands shook, his hair was streaked with grey, his head pounded every waking minute, the scar over his eye leaked and bled.

Then he only wanted to spite Aizawa, because wasn’t Aizawa oh so much worse than he was? Aizawa walked away from him after high school, Aizawa hated spending time with him outside of work, – and he hated how juvenile it made him sound, like he was yearning to play with his friend – but Aizawa refused to spar with him, even when he was hopping from foot to foot with his sleeves rolled up, urging him ‘come on, Sho! Come on, Sho! Fair fight, no speaker, no studs, come on!’ He’d just turn his head away and tell him, ‘what’s the point, Yamada?’ or ‘that’s enough, Yamada’. Just like he said when he’d tried to talk about Kayama. Aizawa didn’t let him mourn Kayama. And that was the catalyst to all of it, if he’d just been there. If he’d just listened. It would have been so easy, just to sit and listen and pat his shoulder, he didn’t even have to say anything, just don’t stop him. Then none of this would have happened. All of this was Aizawa’s fault. And there he was, back in UA, acting like nobody could have seen this coming, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He wanted to grab that man by his greasy unwashed jumpsuit and shake him back and forth until his brain rattled around in his skull like a maraca.

“I… want…”

Yamada hadn’t even noticed he was shaking violently, lurching back and forth as every new thought popped into his head and he found something new to be angry about, and linked them all together in his brain, and packaged them up with a pretty red ribbon.

Then he stopped, stood still for a moment, entirely pathetic, engulfed in Kayama’s shadow, then let his legs go out from underneath him, and fell to his knees.

“I want you back, Kayama. I want Aizawa back. I want to go home.”

She was completely silent, and so was he. But he knew she was there, and he could feel her icy blue eyes drilling into his spine and crawling about under his skin. The tears rolled down his cheeks and fell to the floor with little pitter patters in the silence. The silence just went on and on, dragging out for what felt like hours.

“KAYAMA!” he yelped, his whole situation dawning on him, looking up to her like a lost, scared child, eyes burning, “Just say something!” He raised his arms, still trembling, “Hold me! Just… please.”

“Yamada…” Her voice was calm and softer now, and sounded like it came from inside his own head, “Come on. Do you think that’s what she’d do? If she were here?”

He dropped his arms to his sides again and admitted defeat. There was no point arguing any longer. He knew Kayama better than this, no matter how much he’d tried to fool himself, he knew that she would never stand for any of this.

“You know her brutal honesty always kept you in check. Now you have to grow up and do it yourself.”

Yamada didn’t bother saying anything. He found the chest of drawers by the wall and managed to pull himself to his feet, trying to regain any sliver of his composure. Not that he really cared what Kayama saw him like, she’d known him since their UA days, she’d seen worse of him. And this wasn’t even her in the first place. But it was second best.

“The big fight tomorrow, in the city centre,” she went on when he’d stumbled back over to her, pouring with sweat, “You know the kids from UA are going to be there. That’s why it’s scheduled for right then and there. Because you’re the one who told Shigaraki. You know the schedules. How much danger do you think they’ll be in? How much danger were you planning for them to be in? You helped plan it, after all. You planned most of it. You never intended to stand on the sidelines…” she paused, “So. What are you going to do… Mic?”

It gave him a start, that name. It sounded so foreign. That dumb, obnoxious, pain in the neck DJ, peacock-ing about with his chest puffed out. Had that really been him?

He wrapped his arms around himself, thinner now than he had been, but if he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the polished floorboards of UA under his feet, smell the books and office chairs of the staff room, hear Aizawa taking homeroom with a lacklustre role call. He breathed out a sigh, putting the thought out of his mind. A past he could never get back.

“What can I do any more, Kayama?”

She sounded closer to him when she finally spoke, and when he opened his eyes, he found that she was.

“Figure it out.” She said. Not demanding, not bitterly. Not like she wanted to grab him by the nape of his neck and dangle him out the window.

Just kindly.

He took a step forward until he was directly in front of her, then slowly hung his head over her shoulder. He didn’t expect her to put her arms around him, and she didn’t, he knew better than to expect that, they didn’t touch, she was always just out of reach. He kept his arms by his side too, eyes shut tight. But they stood there for a minute without saying a word, and that was about the extent, he reckoned, of what he deserved.

“Yeah. I will,” he said, near whispering, “I promise, Nem.”

It felt as if she wasn’t there all of a sudden, and she wasn’t, because of course she wasn’t, she never had been. But Yamada still felt the tug in his heart when he opened his eyes and saw the room completely empty. Like it had been the entire time.

[greeneyed-thestral]

"Say, what time is it? I wouldn't want to keep you up 'till late, y'know with your shop and everything. It's been rather a long day." said Crowley, after emptying the last glass of wine Aziraphale had poured him.

"Oh, it's no problem really. No one actually knows when the bookshop is meant to be open. And anyway I don't think I would be able to sleep yet. I still can't believe we pulled that off without our miracles-- and on the West End!" said Aziraphale, with a big smile that surely wouldn't have worn off for at least another while.

"Such a big success, maybe they are talking about it on the radio. Or maybe someone has noticed a couple of nazi zombies leaving the theatre and they're talking about that. Shall we check?" and Crowley got up from his chair, wobbling a little, to switch on the radio. "That certain night The night we met There was magic abroad in the air" Crowley didn't even have time to change station, because Aziraphale had already got up on his feet, swaying towards him, a full glass in one hand, the demon's hand in the other.

"What are you doing?" said Crowley, blushing for his friend's sudden choice to grab him, but not really pushing him away. He was very glad he was wearing glasses in that moment.

"I've never heard this song and yet...it seems so right, don't you feel so?" said a tipsy Aziraphale, and somehow his head was now on Crowley's chest, his puffy cheeks a lovely shade of pink.

"You are drunk, angel."

"We can sober up whenever we want, we can't always dance though!" The angel kept swaying gently, while Crowley took away the glass of wine from his hand, like a responsable grown-up that knows when the other has had enough.

Aziraphale tried to fight him a bit, and so gravity had the best on both of them. They were now on the floor, lying next to each other. "The whole darn world seemed upside down." They couldn't help but laugh as they tried to get up. But in truth, Aziraphale rolled closer to Crowley and found himself on top of him. He removed his glasses, as he often wanted to do, to see Crowley's pretty yellow eyes.

"It was such a romantic affair And when you turned and smiled at me..." Aziraphale leaned over, his warm hands on Crowley's cheeks. And then it just happened. A happy kiss, that started out as two smiles meeting. The kind that children give each other on the playground. "How strange it was How sweet and strange There was never a dream to compare" They opened their eyes, still laughing, unaware of what they had just done. Aziraphale sitting on Crowley's belly, his hands on his breathing chest. Crowley with his knees bended, supporting Azi's back, his fingers resting on the angel's thighs. "Ah, this heart of mine beat loud and fast Like a merry go round in a fair" "I-- I'm so sorry Crowley, I--I don't know, I wasn't thinking! It must have been the alcohol and the song and, y'know all the excitement from the night and--" said Aziraphale in panic, with tears, no longer of laughter, now streaming down his face. "Angel, don't overthink it, really. It was an accident, I understand." Crowley lied, trying to get up and hiding his face behind the glasses he managed to grab back. "Please, tell me I didn't ruin this night." said Aziraphale seriously, and he grabbed Crowley's hand as he tried to look through those black lenses. "Everything is fine, I mean it. Listen, here's what we're gonna do. Tomorrow I'm coming back, without saying anything; you can do your little apology dance, if it makes you feel better, and I'll just know. We won't ever have to talk about it again." And yet, they probably both wanted to say something more.

"Oh, thank you. ...Perhaps from now on that's the only dancing we should stick to."

"I do love seeing you do it. Maybe you should have to apologize more often." Crowley smirked and put his hat back on his head. "Was that a dream or was it true?"

[witch-hazels-musings]

Hey there! I wasn't sure if this was something you're comfortable writing, so if not, feel free to skip! I couldn't find anything in your faq but I just wanted to make sure!

Can I request a reader who never really drinks getting a little tipsy after a particularly stressful day? Just acting kind of giggly and clingy to their s/o? Nothing dubious ofc just some fluff 🥰 for Diluc, Xiao and Kaeya?

^ This made me laugh. I am a LIGHTWEIGHT, so I tend to get drunk after like ... one beer - haha! Anyway - enjoy ;) 

Tipsy, Touchy

Warning -> flirty, touching, fluff, mentions of alcohol, and getting drunk

Includes: Diluc, Xiao, Kaeya

Character x GN Reader  |  Anthology

Diluc

He’s a bit shocked when you go beyond your normal one drink, in fact, he’s a little surprised at your demeanor in general - normally you only had a drink if the event warranted it, but today, you seemed to be throwing them back all on your own 

“Did something happen?” he asks you, his attention on the third glass you’ve begged him to pour. 

“Today,” you groan, your words already slurring a little, “was … not. good.” He can see the alcohol already making an impression on your skin. Your cheeks were flushed and you kept fussing with your hair, little strands making their own decisions as if in defiance of your touch. 

“Hmm, well don’t go overboard.” 

Once you reach your fourth drink, we gotta cut you off, too drunky. And worse, you were starting to get a little handsy with the people around you. You’d already given a few of the female patrons a hug goodbye, telling them you were the designated “send-off committee”

In fact, you were having a hard time keeping your hands to yourself especially when it came to Diluc. When he forcibly switched you from wine to water you grabbed onto his arm, or tried to convince him to lean in close so you could share with him a secret - he wouldn’t 

You thought everything was funny, and he often caught you giggling to yourself or chuckling after the small conversation you and he shared 

He wasn’t really on board with your ostentatious behavior, but he did enjoy seeing you smile in the grandiose way you were - unreserved and relentless 

As the evening beings to slow and patrons leave the bar, you were trying to work out a thought in your head. It had been floating around for a while and you weren’t doing a good job keeping it off your face. 

“Hey,” you finally speak up. You wait to finish your thought until Diluc looks at you. He’s been gathering the final glasses from the tables so he takes a bit to react to you. “Come here.” You beckon, uneasily, with your finger for him to walk closer to you. 

When he does, you wave him down so his face is close to yours. 

“You.” You point your finger at him, “are my favorite person.” There is a smirk on your face and playful energy in your eyes. 

He scoffs at you and tries to retreat but you grab his face in your hands, “Wait. Wait. Diluc Ragnvindr ... “ he’s so close to you, his face, his eyelashes, his lips … it’s too much and in defeat you let him go, dropping your head in your hands. “Ugh, you are much too attractive for me right now.” 

“You are a lot of things right now.” You peek your eyes out from over your arms and see him rubbing the back of his neck, his head turned to the side. There is no doubt in your mind he is blushing. 

“You’re blushing!” you shout. The excitement of his reaction is too much to handle. 

“Shut up.” He tosses a towel your way and disappears into the back office. 

Diluc makes a mental note to not let you drink that much in public again, not only is he worried you might do something dumb, but he worries how he will keep his composure

Xiao

Xiao would have no idea what to do with alcohol. He doesn’t touch the stuff, so he wouldn’t really know the common behaviors of inebriated people 

He’d probably take whatever you were drinking and dump it out in front of you the drunker you became - he could barely handle normal humans, let alone a drunk one 

“What are you drinking anyway?” He looks at the bottle, turning it over in his hands. 

“I don’t know, I picked it up on the way out here.” You rub your hands over your face, the wine hasn’t fully hit you but you know with the amount you drank it’s only a matter of time. 

“Is it normal for humans to drink so much, all at once?” 

“Meh, maybe? Today was the worst though, so I’m giving myself permission.” 

It’s hard to tell if he would have any reaction to your tipsy behavior other than being exhausted by it

The way you laugh at things, that to him, aren’t funny or how you try to ask him really silly questions about things he wouldn’t know anything about 

Xiao is prickly, so you’d have to push through a lot of spikes to get to the gentle core he’s given you flashes of, so don’t get offended if he reacts to your clingy-ness in an irritating way 

He just doesn’t let people in very easily, and even though you two are together, and you’ve been physical before, this level of touch might be overstimulating for him 

You look at him from the floor of the inn. He is sitting on a pillow with his eyes closed. There were many nights you spent with him where you just fit yourselves into each other's space, like pieces of a puzzle nestled tightly together. He looked so regal, and you wondered how he would act if you poked at him. 

Carefully, you crawled your way over to him with wobbly limbs. When you got close enough you whispered his name. 

“Xiao…” He opened his eyes and is startled by how close your face is to him. His arms launched to his sides to steady himself as he leaned back away from your proximity. The reaction made you laugh.

“What?” 

“Nothing, I just wanted to get closer to you.” you desperately want to touch him: his cheeks, his forehead, his collarbone, his arms and hands, you wanted to touch them all. The alcohol emboldened you. You scoot closer to him, your sides practically touching, and, in an instant, you wrap your arms around his. The grip you have is possessive. 

He sighs but doesn’t push you away. So you tread onward. You slide behind him and wrap your arms around his chest, each of your legs on either side of him Rubbing your face against his back you breathe him in, he smells like rain after a thunderstorm. 

“I like you.” You place a kiss on his exposed shoulder before resting your cheek against him. 

It’s quiet for a time, all you hear is his beating heart and slow breaths. You don’t expect him to answer you, or say anything, you know he likes you by the way he lets you cling to him like this. That’s all you’ll ever need him to say. 

“Are you always going to be this clingy when you drink?” the question breaks the silence. 

“Mm, possibly, I don’t normally drink this much. Why.” You return his question with your own, slightly tilting his body to the side so you can strain your head to look at his face. 

“No reason.” Even in the dim lighting, you can see the blush on his face. 

Kaeya

Kaeya finds your behavior hilarious. He’d be so enamored with the way you were acting and amazed it happens with only a few drinks of alcohol in you

“You’re putting those away,” he’d muse over his own beverage. 

“Well,” you’d say as you empty yet another glass. “Today sucked! So i’m drowning my stress in sweet, sweet alcohol.” 

“Cheers to that!” 

When you laugh he melts, when you giggle he nearly passes out, and he’s having a hard time not fainting right now. Everything he says to you sends you into a fit of laughter and he just can’t stop himself - he’s obsessed with you and when he can see something new that he’s never noticed before he is filled with pride 

For instance, he didn’t know that when you laugh when drinking that you shield your eyes and nose and let out breathless laughter. He didn’t know that when you had several drinks you started to get louder and louder - which may have annoyed others, but he found it endearing

“... and after finishing the bottle he passed out for three whole days. And that is why our aloof bar owner doesn’t drink.” You can’t help but laugh, you’ve heard this story already but it makes you chuckle every single time. 

“Kaeya, how many times are you going to tell that story…” Diluc warns from behind the counter, his hands dangerously wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle. 

“Oh, come on. Look at how happy it’s made them.” 

“I’m cutting you both off.” 

“Hey!” Even with the cap on your drinking for the night, you couldn’t stifle your laughter. 

Normally, Kaeya is the overly touchy one. His hands cannot keep themselves from your tempting body. So when you cling to him he finds the action rather refreshing 

Wrapping your arms around his, leaning your head on his shoulder or digging it into his arm. Scooting closer to him, practically sitting on his lap, he finds it all a riot - don’t be shocked if he helps you into a comfortable position on or between his legs 

“Kaeya,” you look at him, your head bobbing around, your cheeks the color of pomegranates, and your hair falling out of place. 

“Yes, lovely?” He helps steady you, a possessive hand wrapping around your lower back and his other moving from your shoulder or lower arm, whichever one needs the most support. 

You giggle, and the sound pulls at his heart, “Do you know that you’re handsome? Like, really, really handsome.” 

“I’m glad you think so.” 

“No, listen, it’s kinda ridiculous how attractive you are. LIKE … WhO do you think you are with this face?? hmmM?” You wave your hand in front of him as if to drive home your point. You aren’t sure what answer you wanted from him, but his laughter seems satisfactory enough and you join in shortly after. 

He finds everything you do to be adorable, but multiplied by ten when you start drinking - he will always make sure you have a good time, and as long as you are safe and happy he will be there to join in on the fun

[mypoisonedvine]

Side Effects | Bruce Banner x reader

summary: you never know what might be in the beakers at another chemist's station. you never know which of your colleagues might come along just in the knick of time to become the only antidote to your affliction.

word count: 3.6k

warnings: smut! (dub con due to sex pollen), semi-public sex (because technically someone could have walked by but unlikely), guilt/hesitance, kinda pining??, fingering, creampie,

a/n: yes, this is an accurate depiction of emergency shower protocol in a chemical lab and yes it is every lab technician's worst nightmare. thankfully the other stuff is not an accurate depiction of any known chemical, lol.

You wiped your forehead with a tired sigh, staring down at the calculations in front of you before using your pen to scribble over them before tearing out the page and throwing it away.

“You still do that by hand?” Bruce interjected, making you look up at where he was leaning in the doorway to the lab, watching you work.

“Oh, Dr. Banner!” you greeted with a smile, wondering if it was too ecstatic. You weren’t so good at the ‘playing it cool’ thing like he seemed to be.

“We have all those fancy screens and digital whiteboards, you know,” he explained as he stepped in and looked around at your work. “Not to mention the computer can do that stuff for you.”

“I know,” you scoffed, “but I always feel better doing it myself, on real paper. Not that I’m having any luck at the moment…”

"Here, I'll give them a quick look while you take a break," he offered, glancing at the numbers from over your shoulder. "You just get up and stretch your legs for a minute, doc."

You always thought it was sort of silly for him to call you that when he was a doctor as well, but you didn't complain.

Regardless, you were about to tell him that it was fine and you didn't need a break, but he was leaning in closer to take your seat and the proximity was so intimidating that you hopped up and went along with it anyways. He sat down and pondered your calculations while you circled the lab, taking a moment to appreciate how nice it felt to stand up and move around after sitting for so long.

"Your handwriting is…" Bruce trailed off, adjusting his glasses.

"Feminine and graceful?" you finished sarcastically.

"Sure," he chuckled.

"Yeah, just like me—" you started to quip, but mid-sentence you (ironically) stumbled and tripped, using a nearby table to catch yourself— but you accidentally grabbed onto a beaker, which tipped over and smashed onto the ground. The liquid inside spilled onto the floor just before you did, and you winced as you fell into the puddle of the unknown substance.

“Shit!” you hissed as you scrambled to get up, looking down at your clothes and seeing they were covered in the fluid, which was beginning to evaporate, or steam, or something. Remembering lab safety protocols, you instantly began to strip, closing your eyes and wishing Bruce hadn’t come in just before this. As you shirked your lab coat, shirt, and skirt, you walked to the emergency shower, pulling the lever and gasping when the chilly stream of water poured down on you. Bruce looked at you with wide eyes before being kind enough to turn around as you shivered and removed your bra and underwear, now completely naked and weakly scrubbing yourself with your hands in hopes that none of the chemical had gotten onto your skin.

“What is it?” he asked nervously, turning his head back enough that you could hear him over the flow of water, but hopefully not so much that he could see anything important.

“I don’t know,” you answered, “it’s not mine. It’s something Dr. Sutherland was working on…”

“Is it… are you in pain at all?” he asked, even more concerned, and you tried to decide if you could feel any effects.

“N-no…” you answered hesitantly. You felt hot, and strange, and you were covered in rolling chills, but you figured that was just the situation you were in— naked in a tepid shower in front of your coworker who just so happened to be incredibly sexy.

“I should call poison control,” Bruce offered as he reached for his cell phone.

“No, I’m fine,” you denied as the water flow slowed down and you wiped your face, confident that you looked like a complete mess— but at least you saved yourself from whatever was in that beaker, right?

“Here,” Bruce offered an emergency blanket to you after pulling it off a nearby shelf, and it was not at all absorbent but it helped with the draft as you stepped away from the shower which was still leaking the last few drops of water onto the drain on the floor.

“Thank you,” you nodded nervously, shivering and dripping and looking back at him with no idea what to say at all.

“Do you feel alright? I should check you for burns,” he suggested. “I— I won’t look…”

“Please,” you sighed, pulling the blanket a bit to expose your chest and stomach. He brushed his hand over the skin there, making you instantly whine as heat burned just under your skin, clouding your mind and making you crave even more.

"Did that hurt?" he asked anxiously, pulling away, but you stepped closer.

"No it's… it's good, it's so good."

He furrowed his brow as he looked down at you, putting the back of his hand to your forehead. "You're burning up, doc, you must be running a fever of 105."

"Touch me more, please," you whimpered. It was like you were in a dream, everything foggy and distant, and the only time that anything made sense was when he touched you. Or maybe it was that his touch sent you further into delirium; you couldn't be sure.

He gasped when he looked at your quivering legs only to find slick arousal running down the inside of them, threatening to drip onto the floor.

"Oh," he sighed.

"Please," you begged mindlessly, "Dr. Banner, I n-need you…"

"No, you need medical attention."

You whined and grabbed as his shirt, humming at the feeling of his warm skin just beneath. If the forearms that he often left exposed in rolled-up sleeves were anything to go buy, his chest was probably toned and tanned, lightly dusted with dark hair… you were all but drooling at the thought. "Please, Bruce… just help me," you pleaded, looking up into his eyes which were swirling with conflict.

"I can't," he shook his head. "I'd be taking advantage."

He must have seen the heartbreak of rejection make you wince, because he tried to soothe you with his hands resting on your arms— even just that contact making you suppress a moan.

"I've wanted this for so long," he explained, "and you— you haven't. You're unwell, you need to go to a hospital."

You sobbed a little at the idea of being taken away from him and examined by strangers, when you knew the solution was right in front of you. "No, no Bruce they'll touch me! Nobody can touch me but you, I only want you."

He scoffed, but you heard the weakness in it and you needed him to give in soon before you melted from your own hear. "You're deranged— delirious," he reiterated.

"It'll feel so good, please Bruce, I'll be so good for you— anything you want, I'll do it, I'm yours."

"Stop talking like that," he winced. "I can't… I can't."

"I need to feel you inside me, Dr. Banner, I need it more than anything. It's just gonna get worse… please, help me. I want you. I trust you."

"You'll hate me in the morning," he asserted. "God, this is so wrong…"

But much to your relief, he reached down and hesitantly slid his thick middle finger through your folds, gasping gently as he felt how wet you were. "I should t-take you somewhere private."

"No, need you now— right here," you pleaded, trying to chase his touch with your hips.

"But if someone came by—" he began to fret, glancing at the door; but his attention was turned back to you by your hands weaving into his hair.

"Nobody else stays this late, god, Bruce please I just need you so bad—"

He cut you off with a sudden kiss, which was enough on its own to make warmth bloom in your gut, but then he started to move his finger again and you shuddered with a moan that was muffled by his lips.

"Maybe I can make you come like this," he offered as he pulled back just enough to whisper to you, "would that help you? It'll take the edge off."

You bucked and moaned against his fingers, just those subtle touches driving you wild. "N-no, it has to be inside! You have to fuck me, I need your cock."

He breathed through his teeth, like he was almost considering it, but then looked away. "I can't," he shook his head.

"Can't or won't?"

He frowned. "Won't. I'll get you off with my fingers, otherwise it would be… too selfish."

"Bruce, I'm literally begging you for it," you sighed, the irritated tone that you'd intended lost in the moans he elicited by rubbing your swollen clit.

"I know," he winced, "I know and it's killing me that I can't give you what you're asking for… I swear if it wasn't like this…" he trailed off as you looked up at him with your bottom lip between your teeth.

"What would it be like?" you asked lowly. "Tell me how you would fuck me."

For all his shyness before, there was a brief switch in his demeanor as he leaned in, breath hot against your neck as he whispered, two fingers sliding into your channel at the exact moment that he spoke.

"So fucking hard."

You whimpered, knees wobbling a bit as you tried to ride his fingers— but he wasn't pushing back, wasn't giving you enough force to balance against when you sought more friction. "P-please, Bruce— I know you want to, please, please baby I need it so bad…"

"I know," he breathed, free hand cradling your face as his thumb stroked your cheek, and it was so needlessly compassionate, so effortlessly soothing that your heart had no choice but to clench at his tenderness. Other parts of you clenched as well, in much more literal ways, but the heart thing was more important.

You gingerly reached forward and palmed his cock through his pants, moaning when you felt how hard it was. "You're desperate, too," you informed him with a little smile. "It hurts, doesn't it? It aches."

"Yes," he answered tensely.

"I'm hurting too. I'm aching, for you. Please, Bruce, help me."

As he pulled back and examined your face, he chewed his lip and contemplated. He couldn't stand to see you in pain, but he couldn't comprehend what he had to do to help you. Well, okay, that's not totally accurate because he had actually "comprehended" the idea of making love to you plenty of times. But that was just a fantasy, a very misguided one that he only indulged in in his weakest moments. And in those fantasies, shockingly enough, you were always completed lucid and of sound mind and body. He sadly could not say that for you at the moment, and of course he couldn't because of course when you were sober and healthy, you didn't see him that way.

Bruce prided himself on his logic, his integrity, his patience. Suddenly, those qualities were falling prey to a much deeper, carnal instinct that saw this not as a predicament but as an opportunity. Logic states, after all, that it would be wasteful to have everything he wanted thrown into his lap and to let it go to waste.

"Fuck," he groaned as he kissed you again, fucking you faster with his fingers. You moaned and went for his belt, barely managing to open it with your hands shaking so much; part of you had considered just trying to rip the leather off of him, and with the force of your need it seemed almost plausible.

Finally getting his trousers opened just enough to reach inside, you purred as you reached in and navigated past his boxers to wrap your fingers around his hard cock. It was so thick and smooth and hot and you almost wanted to drop to your knees and take it in your throat right then, but you had better plans.

He pulled his fingers out of you slowly, grinning against you at the way you whined, before wrapping his arms around you and quickly instructing you to jump.

It was infuriating, how easily he caught you when you wrapped your body around him. Infuriating and so painfully sexy.

He never broke the kiss as he walked the two of you to your lab table, sliding the papers aside and onto the floor to set you on it. You started on his aggravatingly-small shirt buttons while he pushed his trousers and boxers down the rest of the way, and god his cock was right there between your legs, so close but very much too far away for your liking.

You didn't have the time or energy to get his shirt off, settling for just running your hands over the exposed skin instead. He grinned and watched the path your hands made, hissing slightly when they wrapped around his shaft— for a second you swore you could feel it throb.

"Don't make me wait anymore," you whispered your plea, sighing a little when he nodded.

"Okay baby," he agreed.

"Been waiting so long," you whined.

"Me too," he nodded, and with a little push, his cock slid all the way into you and filles you to the brim. Even when you were completely drenched, the girth of him was so wide that it stung, that it tore you open, but you loved it. Your head fell back and just from him being inside you, you came. The substance had you so needy and sensitive that that was all it took. It wasn't enough yet, of course. You knew you needed more. But God, he felt so good you could hardly breathe.

"Baby," you heard Bruce gasp, his fingers digging into your hips. Your chest twisted when he laughed a little, breathless and just teetering on the line between complimentary and mocking. "Did you just come?"

You considered playing dumb, but nodded instead.

His smile was apparent when he pressed his lips just below your ear to suck on the delicate skin there, his teeth trailing up to nibble your earlobe lightly. You hoped he would leave a mark, you hoped he would leave lots of marks that you could remember this by for weeks to come.

"Couldn't help yourself, huh?" he asked breathlessly, whispering so quietly you could barely hear it over the beating of your own pulse which echoed in your ears.

"You feel so good," you justified, "so fucking good, Bruce."

"You too," he sighed as he finally pulled back and slid into you again, the friction making your back arch instantly. "Even better than I imagined."

You smiled and wrapped your legs around his hips, forcing him to push deeper with each thrust. When he pushed you to your limits it felt like you might just fall apart right there, but it was so worth it.

As if that wasn't enough, he reached down and circled a thumb over your overstimulated clit, grinning down at you at the sight of you writhing and bucking wildly in his arms.

"Fuck!" you cried as you tightened your hands on his shoulders into fists hard enough to risk tearing through his shirt.

"Too much?"

"More," you pleaded instead, crying out when he gave you exactly what you wanted with fast, rough thrusts into your drenched walls. "Yes," you sobbed, "yes, fuck— m'gonna come, Bruce, gonna come again."

"Go ahead," he encouraged, voice so much rougher than normal, "show me how good it feels, baby."

It felt like his words were the thin that pushed you over the edge, as if your body somehow both understood and obeyed his command. You could feel a renewed wave of slick leak out from you, enough that you could hear the wetness in each slap of his hips against yours. His name was somewhere in the litany of curses and praises that spilled from your lips, your mind too clouded with hazy pleasure to keep track of what you were actually saying.

"Just like that," he groaned, "doing so good, fuck, say my name just like that every time I make you come."

An easy enough stricture to follow, especially when it seemed like he was all you could think about. He looked so different with his clothes half-shorn and his eyes dark with lust. He hadn't taken his glasses or labcoat off and you weren't sure which of those you were happier about.

His lips and hands were all over you; you couldn't even keep track of everywhere he was touching you, that's how overwhelming it was. "God, you're so fucking perfect," he groaned against your skin, finding a hardened nipple as his tongue explored you and wrapping his lips around it. "You are so goddamn sexy, you know that? I love seeing you with your legs spread for me like a needy little whore. I love hearing you moan and knowing I'm the one making you feel this good."

He took a moment to look at you and soak in your shocked reaction to his words before leaning in to continue.

"I love feeling you come for me," he purred in your ear.

"Then you're gonna really like what I'm about to do," you shivered.

"Yeah? You can gimme another one already?" he smiled. "Such a good girl…"

You really couldn't help it, it felt like everything he did only enhanced your pleasure— his words, his hands all over you, not to even mention his cock inside you. As much as the hedonistic corner of your brain was happy to let this go on forever, the ramifications of constant orgasms were finally catching up with you as you wondered how much more of this you could take.

"F-fuck, are you close?" you asked weakly. "Want you to come for me, Bruce, please."

"I-I'll pull out," he suggested, although the way he looked down at his length sinking into you and pulling back out, covered in your abundant arousal, didn't exactly indicate that he was willing and able to actually make good on his offer.

"No!" you yelped, pulling him closer by his unbuttoned shirt. "It needs to be inside, Bruce, please come inside me."

"Fuck," he hissed through his teeth.

"Please, Bruce, please, promise you'll come inside."

"I will," he sighed, "fuck, I will baby, I promise I'm gonna fill you up so good, you're gonna have my come so fucking deep inside you…"

"Yes!" you moaned, completely unabashed as the unknown substance had apparently absolved you of any shame whatsoever. "Yes, I want it, Bruce, I want your come."

The moment you felt his seed start to paint your walls, you felt relief begin to wash over you. Your mind and body relaxed, the overwhelming heat under your skin subsiding into a comforting warmth, the desperation that had burned in your gut satiated at last.

And that left you staring up at him in realization of what you had done, just as he looked back at you with the same.

"God, I'm so sorry—" he shuddered, moving to pull away. Instinctively your legs wrapped around his hips again, holding him close.

"N-no, wait," you groaned, "it's okay. Don't go."

"You don't hate me," he said, the exhaustion in his tone making it hard to tell if it was a question or a statement.

"Never," you sighed with a weak smile, sitting up to clutch his face and kiss him again. "God, Bruce, now I'm just wondering what took us so long."

"Our lab safety is just too good, clearly," he smiled as he kissed you again, pulling back a little too soon to examine your face where he held it in his hands. "Are you okay? You should still probably go to a doctor…"

"I'm already with a doctor," you smirked, "and his treatment was very effective."

"Yeah, that was…" he trailed off, wide eyes as if he were reminiscing about what had only just transpired.

"Sorry for being so… desperate," you cringed. "I didn't mean to… um… impose…"

He just laughed and kissed your forehead, making you feel your cheeks warm a bit; ironic that with everything that had just happened, this was what made you blush. "A beautiful, amazing woman that I've been dreaming about for months begs me to take her in the laboratory… really inconvenient."

"I mean, cleaning up these papers and the broken glass is gonna be pretty tedious, along with the incident report," you frowned.

"I'll help you with it," he offered.

"Tomorrow," you decided. "Right now, I'm taking you to my place."

"Is that so?" he asked with a bemused smirk.

"Yep. We both are in serious need of a shower, and then I wanna go again," you grinned wickedly.

"I thought you said you weren't feeling the effects of the chemical anymore," he recalled, voice tinted with concern.

"I'm not," you reassured, "I'm just feeling the effects of you."

[billyrussohaven]

My sweet Emilly

Billy Russo / Reader

Rated: PG (for now)

A/N: So I’m feverish and been feeling like absolute rubbish since getting my 2nd covid shot last Thursday. I can’t sleep and my brain came up with a cute Dad!Billy story. I might do a second part if you guys like it, we shall see!

Credit: @mainlysubmv​

Follow me!

“Just where do you think you’re going dressed like that exactly?” Billy asked his daughter sternly, looking up at her over his glasses. Glasses that he was still getting used to by the way. You kept telling him he looked like a hotter version of Clark Kent but it still seemed to hurt his pride. Billy Russo needing glasses, insane right? What was even more insane was just how much his sweet Emily looked all grown up these days. Her seventeen birthday last month had hit him like a train. He stared at her and let a long sigh out.

Emily reappeared, taking a few steps backwards, tugging down on her green hoodie dress and rolled her shoulder nervously the doorway of the living room. A little nervous gesture she shared with her father that always made you smile.

“It ain’t that bad Billy,” you said looking up from your crochet project on your lap to his daughter’s outfit, your step-daughter.

“It is on the short side but she’s smart and careful, isn’t that right, Millie?” You said, giving her a quick look with a wink.

She grinned back at you before turning to look at her dad.

“It’s still warm out Da…and I have a pair of leggings if it gets colder later,” she said, opening up her backpack and showing him a black pair of leggings, smiling back at him. He snorted at her innocent-like face, he knew better, she was after all his own daughter.

“Fine. No heels. Wear those ridiculously worn-out converse of yours,” he said letting it go and dismissing her with a smirk. She zipped her bag up and ran to give her dad a quick kiss on the cheek. She was out of the room as fast as she entered it.

“Back at midnight! I’ll be with Devin!” Emily said loudly already halfway to the front door.

“11PM!” Billy yelled right as the front door closed with a loud thud. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Wait, who? The fuck’s Devin? Wasn’t it that Jay-” he said with a deep frown turning to look at you.

“Jeremy,” you corrected him going back to your crocheting.

“Jeremy…last week?” He continued giving you a stern look for correcting him that made you chuckle. He rolled his eyes heavenward, taking his glasses off and rubbed his tired face with a groan. You reached to caress his soft hair and smiled. You didn’t comment, you knew he could be a bit overprotective of his Emily sometimes but dads were often that way with their daughters. It reminded you of your own dad and  the shit you did in your youth. It was a wonder he still had some hair left…

*****

Billy woke up abruptly and sat up yawning, looking at the alarm clock on his nightstand next to the still turned on lamp.

1:25AM

He had fallen asleep in bed reading while waiting for Millie to come home. He turned his sleepy face to you sleeping soundly next to him. He smiled gazing at your serene face and caressed the side of your face softly. He heard a loud thud. He frowned and turned around instantly to the door, listening intently. He quietly got out of the bed, tiptoeing to the door, silent as a cat.

“Ow!” a hushed voice said after another loud thud. Billy yanked the bedroom door open and walked face to face with his daughter. His daughter who definitely wasn’t in her pajamas, dressed exactly the same as earlier and who reeked of alcohol and cigarettes.

She looked up at her dad glaring at her with disappointment etched all over his face. Her dark brown eyes filled with tears and hurt behind her drunken state. She broke down in sobs and hid her face in her hands. Billy’s heart broke at seeing her cry like that. He was very angry and disappointed at her for coming back home so late and drunk on top of it. He sighed and walked to embrace her tightly as she cried. She held him tightly, her warm tears running down his chest. He kissed the top of her head and rubbed her back.

“You know better than that, Millie. Walkin’ home drunk instead of calling me or Y/N,” he said softly yet sternly. He cradled her head in his hand and moved to look at her tear stained face. Her chest was racking with sobs and her lower lip was quivering as she looked up at him. He had a feeling she wasn’t crying only because he caught her drunk and way past her 11PM curfew.

“What happened? Talk to me princess,” he asked with a sad frown, brushing her hair back from her face. She broke down into even louder wails and he had to hold part of her weight to help her stay upright.

You put your mid-thigh satin robe on and walked to see what was going on. The light of the bedroom pooled in the darkened hallway as you opened the door wider and you gave Billy a sad smile. The poor thing was so upset and in no state to think clearly. You took a few steps and rubbed her back.

“It’s okay princess, why don’t Y/N help you get ready for bed and we can talk tomorrow,” he said, giving Emily a concerned look. She nodded as he rubbed her tears away with his thumbs. He gave her a kiss on her forehead and let you take her to her bedroom. You grabbed his hand on the way and gave it a squeeze before letting go.

You walked a wobbly and sniffly Emily to her bedroom where she flopped and sat down on the edge of her bed dropping her bag with a loud thud. You walked to her own connecting bathroom from her bedroom and grabbed a small square towel. You ran it under the cool water and wrung it. You took a bottle of tylenol knowing she was gonna need it in the morning and a tall glass of water too.

You walked back to Millie who was undressing and putting on her pajamas. You were somewhat impressed she didn’t fall on her butt taking her leggings off before stepping into her pajamas shorts.

“Here, drink this you’ll feel better,” you said softly, handing her the glass of water. She nodded and drank half of it before putting it down on her nightstand next to the two Tylenol for tomorrow morning. You rubbed the cool wet cloth on her forehead and neck and she sighed before letting another sob out.

“I’m-I’m sorry I woke you up. I didn’t mean to get home alone so late…Da looked so upset,” she said, hugging you and cried on your shoulder. You hushed her soothingly and rocked her a bit, hugging her back.

“He still loves you, Millie. He’s just disappointed you came home so late and in a very vulnerable state I might add. Now, I’m not gonna scold you, it’s not my place but something could have happened to you baby,” you said brushing her hair back.

“We much rather have you wake us up late to pick you up than having you stumble drunkenly home alone. What happened? I thought you were hanging out with Devin?” You asked, helping her get in bed. She started crying again at the name and you knew right away the poor girl was heartbroken.

“W-we went to this party together a-and it was really fun. Everything was great, we’re great friends and I love when Devin’s around, you know?” She mumbled, looking at you with her father’s dark brown eyes filled with hurt.

“B-but we drank and I-I I thought Devin liked me a lot too and we kissed but-” She didn’t have to finish her sentence, you knew. You sighed and cradled her small frame in your arms.

“She abruptly stepped back, pushing me away a-and calling me names and stuff. S-she left a-and I didn’t have money for a cab because I paid the fare to get there. She was supposed to pay the cab fare back a-and then I didn’t want to call Da and have him angry at me.” She said, wiping her wet face in her pillow. You nodded, brushing her soft hair soothingly.

“Get some good sleep now, we’ll talk more tomorrow, alright? You suggested standing up and tucked her in. She nodded with a sniffle and closed her eyes.

"Thank you Y/N…Nini,” she said softly, watching you walk away to the door. You turned and gave her a warm smile,

“Anytime Millie. Good night sweetheart,” you said before flipping the light switch off and closing her bedroom door.

You tiptoed out of her bedroom and back to your own where Billy was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for you. He looked up at you, his face conflicted and tired.

“How is she?” He asked standing up to give you a tight embrace. He really appreciated how you were with Emily, the special bond you had developed with her. It made him love you even more as he kissed your head.

“She’s young, in love and broken-hearted I’m afraid,” you said with a long sigh, resting your head on his chest. You gave him a brief summary of what she had told you. You felt a bit guilty at reporting it all back to Billy but he’d probably know sooner or later too.

“I’m gonna beat the shit out of him when I find him,” he snarled pacing in front of you. He brushed his hair back and thought about the best way to throttle the asshole.

“Devin is a girl, Billy.” You said with a small smile, wondering what his reaction was gonna be.

He stopped pacing abruptly and his eyebrows shot upwards as he looked back at you dumbstruck.

“Oh! Oh,” he said, rolling his shoulders and clearing his throat. You looked back at him with one eyebrow up wondering what was going on in his head at the moment.

“Well, I guess I won’t…punch the brat then,” he said somewhat sheepishly and a bit confused. Not that it mattered to Billy if his little Millie liked guys or girls. It’s just…

“She never really talked about it. She always showed up with  boyfriends before so I guess I just…took it for granted really,” he said with a frown sitting by the bed. After a long silence he looked up at you with a vulnerability that broke your heart to see.

“Am I a bad father for it?” He asked, his voice wavering slightly, he cleared his throat and rolled his shoulder, looking at the picture frame of her on his nightstand.

You took your robe off and stood in front of him between his legs. You cradled the side of his face and tilted it up so he’d look at you.

“No, Billy. It doesn’t make you a bad father, baby,” you brushed a strand of hair away from his eye.

“I guess you two just never really brought it up. I remember when I was seventeen myself, a young woman still in high-school, afraid of being bullied for being any kind of different,” you said with a sigh, remembering how cruel high-school was.

Billy scoffed and sneered at his own memories of it. Lonely guy from the group home with no family or friends beside small pets he’d keep in jars. He smiled warmly with a silent snort remembering how Emily had her own pet snail for a while and how much she took care of the little one.

“She might still be figuring herself out too,” you added with a shrug.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to her tomorrow anyway, maybe she’ll want to open up and chat about all of this,” he said, rubbing his tired face with his hands. You kissed him slowly before breaking the kiss and crawling back in bed in your short satin nightie. He groaned looking back at you, suddenly very awake for almost 3AM. He rolled over on the bed and pulled you flat against his body with a sly smirk. You chuckled at the attention he gave you and kissed him languidly with a moan.

“I’m still gonna scold her ass,” he mumbled over your lips, reaching over you and turning off the light.

A/N: Random Fact. My fiancé’s name is Devin. I remembered him telling me he had a girl classmate once in school named Devin. 😋

[quillerqueen]

Not a Universe Goes By (11/31)

(a series of fic(let)s for The Ted Lasso AU-gust challenge) #11: Health & Medical

Ted skims through the papers Rebecca has just handed him, detailing the booster shot schedule for the eligible players and staff—easier to organise in bulk, she explains, and with all of them getting it on a Friday before a free weekend, no one will have to miss any trainings or matches due to potential side effects.

“Coming with us, Boss? Team trip?” Beard asks.

“Oh, me?” Rebecca winces, her voice raising an octave. “Fuck no.” She clears her throat, hands clasped in front of her, fidgeting slightly. “What I mean is I’ve got my own—private—appointment already.”

“Are you afraid of needles or some shit?”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” she dismisses, throwing Roy a dirty look, wringing her hands once more before she smooths out non-existent wrinkles on her skirt and marches herself out of the coaches’ office with her chin stuck up and a lofty excuse me, gentlemen.

Well then. Ain’t that mighty interesting. Ted knows armour when he sees it, especially on her—knows those fences, too, and how to jump over, even though he’s not had much practice lately.

He raises it tactically, in the privacy of her office, in their regular slot as she’s munching blissfully on her biscuits.

“Hey, Rebecca, would you mind if I tagged along to your vax appointment? It’s just, needles can be a bit eesh, ya know? Can’t go wrong with a bit of emotional support.”

“Oh. I—” she hesitates, glancing down to brush biscuit crumbs off her desk. “Would that make you feel more comfortable? If you and I went together?”

Ted doesn’t want to lie to her, he already feels bad enough for misleading her, but perhaps the distraction of having him there will make things easier on her, and why embarrass her by admitting he’s seen through her denial if she clearly doesn’t want people to know? 

“I’d like that, yeah.”

She stuffs the entire biscuit in her mouth, chews, and swallows before fixing him with a soft, determined gaze.

“Of course, Ted.”

Niles drives them in her Rolls, and Ted brings out his funniest anecdotes for her, warm all over when she seems to relax and forget about shots and needles for a while, throwing her head back with laughter.

She tenses as they enter the vaccination site, her smile forced—she lets out a small sigh when their arms press together as they wait for their turn, and he takes that as a sign that the contact gives her at least a teeny bit of comfort, so he makes sure not to move too far away.

“Wanna go first, or—?” Ted asks, unsure which order might make her more comfy.

“I can hold your hand?” she suggests, twisting one of them big rings she likes with shaky fingers.

“I—yeah, sure. Right. If you’re sure—”

“I really don’t mind. You can hold mine later,” she says bracingly, like the brave lioness she is, even though her voice betrays her just there with a single wobble he pretends not to notice.

It’s a quick process. Ted barely notices the nurse or the sting of the needle—the only reason he even knows when it happens is the way Rebecca’s hand squeezes his in a viselike grip. He smiles at her as they switch, though she doesn’t manage to return one of her own, and she seems grateful to be sitting down. Still she won’t say a thing, just anchors herself with his hand, holding firmly as Ted runs his thumb over her knuckles. She’s staring stubbornly at their hands until the needle goes in and she squeezes her eyes shut, shuddering as the nurse slaps a bandaid over it.

“There ya go,” Ted mutters. 

Rebecca looks up at him curiously, eyes widening, but she says nothing until they’re well clear of the building and back in her car, heading towards the Green.

"Ted, are you free tomorrow?”

“For you, Boss? Always.”

“Wonderful,” she gives him a dazzling smile. “We're going to the optometrist."

Shoot. Caught. Yeesh.

"I don't need glasses,”he says stubbornly because he’s been in denial for weeks and sure wasn’t planning on changing that anytime soon. “No siree, I’ve got perfect 20/20 vision."

Rebecca rolls her eyes, then raises a sceptical eyebrow at him.

"I'll wear mine if you wear yours," she says slyly.

Ted swallows heavily, his cheeks hotter than a summer barbecue.

How could anyone say no to that?

"Okey-doke."

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Bloom // H.P.

Summary: Healing doesn't happen overnight. It’s a process that can take months, if not, years to come to terms with. It’s been five years since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the Second Wizarding War. Harry finally feels ready to confront feelings that have long been sat, growing unattended in the recesses of his mind and soul.

A/N: This was inspired by the made-up fic title that I did a few weeks ago. I got so stuck on this, I couldn't get any further, but inspiration somewhat struck and here we are. I know this is long, but I am so so proud of this, I would love some interaction with this. Take a chance, please.

Warnings: feelings of sadness, grief, worthlessness, more visits to graveyards, talks of death. This sounds dark, and parts are, but there is so much fluff and comfort and pining in this.

Word count: 9.4k

Harry’s Flat, London, England, October.

For the fourth night this week, sleep evades him. Deciding to surrender this particular battle, Harry sits up in bed and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.

With clearer vision, he turns to the digital clock next to where he places his glasses. He hangs his head in his hands when he reads the time. not even two hours of sleep before he awoke; his mind unwilling to alleviate him long enough for him to fall into a dreamless sleep.

He supposes it could be a good thing, or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he throws the covers off his body and swings his legs out of bed. As he sits on the edge of his bed, Harry gives himself a moment.

He gives himself only a single moment to give into the tidal wave threatening to drown him. A single moment simply to feel everything before he packs it all away into corresponding drawers in his mind.

A heavy sigh leaves him as he plods into the living room and through to the kitchen. As he boils the kettle, he thinks of you and your ingrained belief that everything can be put to rights over a cup of tea.

Settling in the living room, he grabs the remotes for the television. Turning it on, he switches the volume to mute, not wanting loud noises, but rather the comfort of monotonous moving pictures. Harry cannot tell what the programme is; a muggle show dedicated to archaeology, he thinks, but he pays it little mind.

He runs a hand down his face; feeling the tiredness deep within his bones. The insomnia had started in the months after the end of the war; beginning with repetitive nightmares in which he would suffer through the deaths of his friends countless times before being awoken by the sounds of his own screams. From there, it shifted into a fear of sleep, a terror of closing his eyes and seeing Hermione’s or Ron’s lifeless bodies. He knows – he knows they are alive and well, but the fear remains.

He wonders how long he’ll continue to feel like this should do nothing; how long he will deal with the sleepless nights and the nightmares that greet him when he does close his eyes.

However, as he watches the soundless pictures play on the television, he cannot help but feel an urge to get better. To do better and to be better in all that he does. At the age of eighteen, he defeated the darkest wizard to have ever walked the earth in the last century. At the age of twenty three, five years later, he feels close to laughter that he has let his life come to this.

But no-one warned him of the aftermath of the war. No-one readied him for the feelings of guilt that twists his stomach; leaving him unable to eat. No-one explained to him just how long the nightmares would last; seeing the faces of those that fell at the battle of Hogwarts and before as he tries and tries to dream of happy things.

Harry’s bottom lip begins to wobble. The tears won’t fall. It’s been years, Harry thinks, since he had cried in earnest.

As Harry sits on his couch for the fourth night that week, he readies himself to start putting his life back together again.

The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, October.

The Burrow had always, to Harry at least, been a place full of happy memories. The home of the Weasley family physically exuded warmth and happiness. To put it bluntly, it was Harry’s safe haven; the place he could go where he would find no judgement for his state of sleeplessness or lack of appetite. He would catch Molly watching him worriedly, but she knew not to press, and for that, he was thankful. To appease her worries, or at least to lessen them slightly, he visits the Weasley matriarch once a week.

Immediately, Harry is wrapped up in hug after hug. Molly keeping her hands on Harry’s cheeks as she moves his head side to side, getting a good look at him. She clamps her lips together to keep the frown from forming on her face; worry rises in her gut, but she does not voice it.

The food cooking on the stove has Harry’s mouth watering as he walks through the kitchen to the large table in the dining area. There, he finds your eyes. They remain on the door as he walks through, as if you knew it wouldn’t be long before he entered.

“Mate,” Ron greets; pushing a drink into Harry’s hand. Harry nods at Ron, taking a swig of his drink before smiling at Hermione.

He moves to sit next to you; wanting nothing more than to sit by your side so he can tell his plan of which he came up with by himself. All around him conversation continues as if he had never walked in in the first place. He supposes that’s bit big-headed of him to think, but as he looks around those he classes as his family, he comes to realisation that they’ve all started to move on.

It hits him then and there; just how terrified he is of being left behind.

“How have you been?” You ask; voice gentle and caring as you lean into him.

Harry smiles at you; spooning vegetables onto his plate but feeling no pangs of hunger. “You just saw me last week,” Harry reminds in humour; his attempt at avoiding the twinges of fear ravaging his gut.

You roll your eyes, “That means it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. So, how have you been?”

Harry hears the meaning in your words; he hears the undercurrent of worry in your voice, and it only adds to the pit growing in his stomach. After his decision the other night, it was as if all the realisations hit him at once and he came to see just how much of a bad friend he had been to you all. He’d had been so caught up in his self-loathing that he failed to see just how much you were struggling with it all; he hadn’t even noticed that Ron and Hermione had also sought out help too.

Harry nods; reaching for his knife and fork, “I’ve been okay.”

Even he can hear the lie in his voice, and it makes him sick to his stomach. Thankfully, you don’t address it. You simply nod; patting his hand twice before turning your attention to your own meal.

Cutlery scrapes on plates as happy conversation lightens the atmosphere. It isn’t mentioned, but it is there – the absence of Fred’s laughter and his smile, the pointed comments, and his love for his mother. It is there, and it only adds to the guilt pooling in Harry’s stomach and invading his bloodstream.

It’s as if you sense it; as if you sense Harry starting to spiral, his thoughts turning to that dark place that he so often finds himself in. It’s as if you know; changing the hand in which your fork sits to free up your other hand so you can take Harry’s under the table and squeeze. A silent reminder if there is any.

I’m here, you remind him, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

Harry squeezes back; unable to do or say anything else, meeting Arthur Weasley’s pained eyes from across the table, and beginning to wish that he had in fact done and said more.

At the age of eighteen years old, harry defeated the darkest wizard in a century. Yet, he had lost a friend he had classed as a brother, and now finds it hard to look Molly and Arthur in the eye.

There is a lapse in conversation and Harry slips his hand free of yours, needing to leave the room before the guilt he’s sitting in drowns him. He smiles apologetically at each Weasley, eyes lingering on the empty chair across from George and promptly leaves the room.

The night air is cold against Harry’s bare arms as he sits on one of the many benches littering the Weasley’s gardens. It’s so cold that his breath is coming out in white puffs, but he doesn’t feel the need to fetch his coat. In fact, he would rather feel the cold against his skin. It reminds him that he’s alive and that he’s breathing. It reminds him of those are who no longer living.

He stiffens at the sounds of footsteps behind him; his hand immediately reaching for his wand kept in his back pocket.

Harry relaxes somewhat when he realises it was you who followed him outside, and not Ron or Hermione. He doesn’t turn, but he smiles when he hears you swear quietly, having tripped on a rogue stone.

You sigh as you sit down on the bench next to him; rubbing at your sore knee.

“How are you not freezing?” You ask; rubbing at your clothed arms, not happy with the chill seeping through to your bones.

Harry releases a breath; it puffs white, “I don’t feel it.”

You raise an eyebrow; running a finger over his arm which is covered in goosebumps, “I beg to differ.”

Harry doesn’t reply; he flashes a smile your way before returning his attention to the night sky and all that he can see of what the Weasley’s own. For a few minutes, no words are spoken between you both. Sinking into a silence that could only be described as comfortable; he doesn’t feel the constant need to reassure you that he’s okay. You check in on him every now and then, but no true pestering takes place.

Truthfully, Harry basks in your attention. He rather likes the fact that you do make a fuss of him when you check in on him because he’s sure that without you, he would be doing a lot worse than the nightmares and insomnia.

Breaking the silence, you broach the subject of Harry’s health, “Harry, can I give you the name and number of my therapist? I’ve made real progress since working with her, and I think you will too.”

Harry smiles at you; feeling grateful for your help but feeling like an awful friend for shaking his head and declining your offer. “I just… I don’t feel ready yet to speak to someone.”

You nod your head, “I get that, but Harry, it’s been five years since the end of the war, and you know how I worry.”

He nods, letting the conversation collapse into nothing in front of him. This is the time, he realises, to tell you his plans for getting better that don’t involve divulging his deepest and darkest secrets to a stranger, even if they are a trained professional.

“I have a favour to ask you,” Harry prompts, “And I’ll understand if you say no.”

“If I can help you, Harry, I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t want to speak to anyone, not yet at least, but I do want to start moving on.”

“So what’s the favour?” You ask; your curiosity piqued with his mystery.

“I want to visit the places where things have happened, whether they’re good or bad. I want to go back, and I want to see them in a different light.”

“That,” You pause; thinking of your next words, “That sounds like a really good idea, Harry. Where do I come into it though?”

Harry smiles at you sheepishly; running a hand through his forever messy hair. “I want you to come with me,” He states as plain as day.

“What?”

“I’d like for you to come with me,” Harry amends, “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”

“What about Ron or Hermione? I’m sure they would help.”

Harry shakes his head, “They’re both so busy, and they’re starting their lives together. I don’t want to dredge up bad memories for either of them if I can help it.”

You sigh, picking at an invisible thread on your sleeve, “How were you thinking of doing this? I have to work too, you know. Not everyone can inherit a fortune, Potter.”

Harry blinks, letting your words settle before a small smile breaks across his face, “You’d come with me?”

“Harry,” You start, “I don’t think there was any chance of me saying no to you. If I can help you in any way, I can. I’m always here for you.”

The familiar burn of tears starts at the back of his throat. Harry has to avert his eyes; glancing up at the night sky as he swallows past the lump in his throat. He should have known you would say yes; you’ve been by his side for everything since Third Year, but the small voice in the back of his mind had him doubting whether you would.

“Thank you,” He whispers eventually.

“So,” You begin, “Where too first?”

Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, November.

Upon the untimely death of Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had been passed down to Harry through Sirius’ will. Sirius had no children for the house to go to, but Harry was as good as.

Standing on a residential street in Islington, you watched as the house appeared as if from nowhere. Appearing amongst number eleven and number thirteen as if it had always been there; as if it was part of the furniture at this point.

Thick dust covers each and every surface. Simply opening the door sends a cloud of dust into your face; leaving you coughing and sneezing as Harry battles the enchantments placed upon the home after the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Turning your gaze to Harry, you could remember the last time you had stepped foot in the ancestral home of the house of Black. It hadn’t been long after Sirius’ death; Harry’s gut-wrenching screams still echoing in your ears as you had bundled him up in any blankets you could find and sat him down at the kitchen table.

He hadn’t spoken much; he hadn’t even cried. Instead, his face set in steely determination, his desperate need to avenger his godfather overriding any common sense. That night, instead of comforting him and drying his eyes, it had been argument after argument, trying to make Harry see sense.

It took hours; the both of you tired not only from the arguing but from the grief sitting on your shoulders. It took hours, but Harry eventually agreed with you, choosing to sit back and wait for the right moment instead of lunging headfirst into attack that would surely get him killed.

Memory after memory washes over you, dragging you into its grips. If the memories are this strong for you, it was not hard to imagine how it must be for Harry.

You focus your attention on him, watching him warily as he wanders further down the hallway, heading for the kitchen where you still expect to hear Sirius’ raucous laugh despite years having passed since his death.

“How are you feeling?” You ask; running a finger across the now clean surface of the kitchen table.

Harry releases a shuddering breath. “I thought,” He starts, “I thought by coming here it would help me come to terms with Sirius and what happened in the Department of Mysteries but being here simply makes me hate his family more.”

“What makes you say that?”

Harry gestures to the large room. “He hated being here. He despised being locked up in the house that he left at sixteen, but he wanted to help the Order, so he stayed here and let it be used as the headquarters.”

“That… That is a very noble thing to do,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the man in front of you, taking in his tight fists and clenched jaw.  

Harry laughs without humour, “The noble house of Black.”

Silence lapses and the tension in the room only increases. Biting your lip, you can only think that this was the wrong thing to do, that this is only pushing Harry further away instead of helping him come to terms with the last years of his life.

“We can leave, Harry,” You remind him, “We can leave right now and do this another day, when you’re more ready.”

He shakes his head, shaking himself out of his funk but also steadfastly refusing to go. He’s made this far; he’ll see it through to the end. He throws you a smile; it doesn’t reach his eyes and your heart cracks a little.

Holding a hand out to you, Harry states, “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

The room he enters is one he has told you about countless times; describing it with so much detail that as you enter the room behind him you feel as if you’ve already been inside.

It cannot be denied that the tapestry is nothing short of piece of art. It cannot be ignored that the depth of detail to the Black family tree is not breathtaking, but at the same time it is so utterly heartbreaking to see the scorch marks litter the walls. The consequence of turning against one’s own family, you think as you step further into the room, taking in its beauty but also its darkness.

“The noble house of Black,” Harry spits, gesturing to four walls, pointing at each scorch mark before settling on the one that once showed the portrait of his beloved godfather.

“He got out,” He states brokenly, “He left his blood family to live with his found family. He had a life ahead of him. He had my father, he had Remus. He had his family, and it was all taken away in one night. In one night, Sirius lost his best friend and then his freedom.

“And all I feel when I think about Sirius is anger. At how he was treated. He was good, (Y/N),” Harry states, his tone pleading, full of emotion, “He was good, and he was treated like shit. His real family didn’t care but his found family did and then he lost all of it.”

“He found you, Harry,” You remind him, “Sirius found you. You didn’t have half as long with him than what you should have, but he made sure to be involved in your life. After the Triwizard Tournament and you had come back with Cedric, Sirius would not leave your side in the hospital. I remember seeing him every morning and he would stay every night. He loved you, Harry – remember that.”

“And what did I do?” Harry laughs, “I got him killed. Some godson I am.”

“Harry, you are not to blame for Sirius’ death.”

He scoffs, disbelief and derision echoing off the walls. You stalk over the green eyed man, your determination growing with every step. You grab his face in both your hands, bringing his face to your level, “Listen to me, Potter. Are you listening?”

He nods, eyes wide and voice silent.

“Good,” You smirk before turning serious. “You are not to blame for Sirius’ death. He knew what was happening in the Department of Mysteries. He knew that there was a chance he was not going to come out of there alive and he still went in to find you, to protect you.”

“If I had paid more attention to what Voldemort showed me though… I could have figured out it was fake…”

You shake your head, “You were a sixteen year old boy, barely trained in occlumency and legilimency. You weren’t to know that what you had seen was fake. All you saw, Harry, was someone you care about being tortured. You acted on instinct.”

“Foolish instinct,” He argues.

You roll your eyes, “Not foolish at all. More brave than foolish.”

Harry remains silent; letting your words sink into his skin, binding them to his bones. It isn’t going to be as simple as one speech and all is forgiven, it is going to take time to forgive himself for the death of his godfather. There is always going to be an element of himself that believes strongly that he was the cause of Sirius’ death; if he hadn’t acted so rashly, if he had stopped to think things through, to go over exactly what Voldemort had shown him, Harry might have been able to delay Sirius’ death.

If, if, if.

If, if, if. He repeats that word; hindsight is a wonderful thing. If he had done this, if he had done that. Hindsight was going to be the death of him.

Harry focuses his attention back on you and the warmth of your hands on either side of his face. Gently, Harry places his hands on top of yours, “Can you let go of me now?”

You smile before pursing your lips, pretending to think through the answer. “I don’t know,” You ponder, “Are you going to continue to argue with me?”

“Probably,” Harry admits, “But I’m ready to go now.”

Harry lets his hands drop from yours, his eyes running over your face before stepping back. Your hands drop to your sides, clenching as if they wished to be touching him some more. His face feels cold now that you’ve let him go, as if all the warmth his body carried was in your hands.

“Do you think you’ll come back?” You ask, unable to help yourself.

Harry pauses, closing the door to the Black family tree behind him. He looks up and down the hallway; thinking of the memories he has cherished over the years. He had Sirius in his life for far shorted than he deserved, but he had Grimmauld Place to help him discover the man he idolised.

Meeting your stare, he nods. “I think I will eventually.”

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands, December.

It didn’t matter how long it had been since your last visit; it didn’t matter how long it had been since you roamed the corridors of the place you once considered your second home, seeing Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry rise out of the Scottish Highlands would never be something you could get used to.

From your spot in Hogsmeade, you can just make out the turrets of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. Slight unease spreads through your chest as you think back to the last time you had been at the school; still a student, hurling curses and jinxes at any Death Eater that happened by you.

Reflexively, you curl your hands into fists, your fingernails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. You gasp slightly as the pain; your mind becoming clearer and your focus becoming sharper. Harry’s hand takes yours; unfurling your fingers and replacing them with him, tangling your hands together.

“(Y/N), are you okay?”

You take a deep breath; mentally working through the exercises given to you by your therapist,. Shakily, you smile at Harry, “I’m okay, Harry, don’t worry about me. How are you feeling?”

His eyebrows furrow as he squeezes your hand. “I’ll always worry about you,” He says gently before continuing, “I’ll be okay though. I have you.”

You smile weakly; letting yourself be led through the well-worn path from Hogsmeade to the school. Small conversation is made; Harry bringing up happier memories of your education at the magical castle. The time when Ron received a Howler from his mother; the time when Hermione punched Draco Malfoy in the face.

Happier times now turned to memories; each one tinted with age.

Hogwarts soon looms in front of you both. Harry’s hand tightens on yours, fingers squeezing to the point of cutting off blood flow as he leads you into the grounds of the school.

It feels like coming home, but it also feels like facing your worst enemy. The Battle of Hogwarts had been hard on everyone who found themselves there; it had been hard for students and teachers. You would never forget the screams and the sound of breaking stone. It would be a long while until the sight of dead bodies could be scrubbed from your mind.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall greets from the stairs; voice warm and fond, “To what do we the pleasure of this visit with Miss (Y/L/N)?”

“I was hoping to walk the school and its grounds for a bit, Professor. If you don’t mind, that is. I’m trying to get better,” Harry states; sincerity ringing in his voice so much so that even McGonagall looked to be taken aback by his words.

She nods; finding her voice but needing to clear her throat first of all the emotion he had brought up, “Of course, Potter. Take as long as you need.”

Harry smiles at the beloved Professor gratefully, stretching out a hand towards you. You take it, resisting the urge to tangle your fingers together as Harry leads you to the Great Hall. “Where do you want to start?” You ask; eyes scanning the familiar walls, lingering on the Gryffindor table.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, sounding lost as his eyes dance around the repaired room.

“It’s strange for me too,” You whisper, voice loud in the cavernous hall.

“It was entirely destroyed,” Harry recalls, sweeping his gaze over the large wall of windows by the Ravenclaw table.

You hope up on the closest table, crossing your legs as you watch Harry work through it all in his mind. He hadn’t been in the hall too long, but even that was long enough to have to branded into your memories.

“The tables were pushed back against the wall,” He states, gesturing to both walls before sweeping his hands above the floor, “And bodies were laid out on the floor, resting on blankets and towels,” Harry turns towards the staff table, pointing to a flagstone just in front of it, “That was where Fred laid – Molly and George crying over his body,” Harry spins, his finger now pointing back in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, “Remus and Tonks rested there. Teddy, my Godson, now an orphan… like me.”

“So many lives lost,” He whispers brokenly; eyes lined with tears that won’t fall, no matter how sad or broken he feels.

You slip off the table, going to his side and clutching his hand. “We lost a lot that day,” You whisper, “There isn’t a person here who doesn’t feel that same loss, Harry.”

“I was terrified of finding you laid out in the Great Hall,” Harry admits though not for his own good; he’s coming too close to admitting his feelings for you, but this is something he had never told a living soul, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to tell you.

“What?” You ask, all thoughts emptying out of your head as you focus on Harry entirely.

“I was terrified of finding you in the Great Hall. I was so scared that I even hesitated at the door, wondering whether to walk in or walk away. I have dealt with a lot, and will continue to deal with a lot, but if there is one thing I cannot cope with the idea of, it is you hurt or worse,” He takes a deep breath, “The Battle of Hogwarts brought that out of me.”

“I’m here, Harry,” You reassure, “I’m here and I’m whole.”

“I know that now, but then I didn’t and even thinking of it drives me close to madness.”

“I wouldn’t leave without saying anything,” You laugh, “You know that Harry.”

Harry laughs, but there’s no heart to it. “I have you now, that’s something.”

Your heart skips a beat; thudding in your chest so loud you believe that it is entirely possible that Harry could hear it pounding away in your chest. You lean in, hiding your face in Harry’s shoulder – a rare moment of tenderness from both of you. Harry’s hand slips from yours to wrap around your waist, holding you to his body.

Hiding your smile in Harry’s shoulder, you murmur as loud as you dare, “You have me now, Harry. You have me forever.”

Neither of you make it further around the grounds of the castle; sticking to its interiors, wandering the corridors when students are firmly placed in classrooms, not wanting to be a distraction to their education.

Harry’s words continue to play through your mind; how he would not be able to cope if he lost you too. It makes this all more important for you, helping him come to terms with what he has experienced in such a short amount of time.

However, a small part of you rejoices in his admission, the words echoing in your head with a hint of hope. A hope that Harry may feel the same as you after all.

Hogwarts is left with a wave to McGonagall and a promise to write soon. Harry’s muscles relax the further he gets from the castle; the tension leeching away as he breathes in fresh air and Hogsmeade comes into view. He adored Hogwarts; it was his home, but he had to admit that it would be a while before he could face the whole castle without wanting to scream at the walls.

It’s a start however, Harry thinks as he grabs your hands and apparates the two of you back to his flat. It’s a start, he thinks, and now for the rest of it.

Little Hangleton, England, January.

Little Hangleton resides six miles from its paired village Great Hangleton. Little Hangleton was very much a village that was powered through gossip; the rumour mill only grew upon the deaths of the Riddle family. By the time an arrest had been made, the town had become judge, jury and executioner – sentencing poor Frank Bryce to a life of social exclusion even after being proven innocent.

Little Hangleton is made up of one main high street; five or six shops with a pub near the middle. It has a small village green where the local cricket team likes to practice every Saturday morning. It isn’t an extraordinary village; plain in comparison to other dwellings, but it’s history with the Riddle family would go down in wizarding lore until the end of days.

Harry continues to hold onto your hand long after you apparate into the village, landing in side street rather than in the high street as not to attract too much attention from the villagers. You refuse to be the first to let go; admitting to yourself that you rather like the way his hands fits in yours, how it feels like a steady anchor holding you in place.

Taking one look at the dark haired man next to you, you knew in your gut that this was going to be a hard day for him. Harry doesn’t talk about his nightmares often, but form what he has told you, this picturesque village features enough that you can see the tension line Harry’s jawline.

Nudging his shoulder, you smile softly, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s hand tightens on yours. He doesn’t reply verbally; nods his head and focuses on finding his destination. He can’t verbalise his gratefulness; he cannot put it into words just what this means to him because Harry is fairly certain there are no words to cover the scope of what he feels for you in this very moment.

He knew he was asking a lot of you to keep doing this; to visit these places and relive his darkest times with him. He knew it affected you more than you admitted, but he still was selfishly grateful you choose to come every time.

He thinks that he wouldn’t have been as half as productive with his feelings if it wasn’t for you. Harry’s feelings for you only having grown through these visits; he remains in awe of you, as he always has been, but now he can no longer deny himself the depth of his love for you. To deny himself that would be a grievous crime.

However, even Harry is aware that he is nowhere ready to confront the idea of a relationship. In the last few months, he has only been able to accept that Sirius’ death and your injuries at the Battle of Hogwarts were not his fault.

He has to keep working on himself; he has to keep healing so he can be worthy of a love like his parents had.

So for now, Harry is more than content to hold your hand with each apparition, to savour the way your hand fits in his perfectly and how each squeeze of your fingers sets his heart racing.

For now, Harry is happy to remain in the throes of puppy love, but still eager for the day when he can proclaim his love for you in the hopes that you feel the same.

Such thoughts are thrown out of his head when his eyes catch the sign for graveyard. His steps falter, before coming to a brief stop by the sign. Your free hand touches his arm and Harry turns to you, seeing the question reflected in your eyes.

“Are you ready?” He asks, voicing the unspoken question.

You nod, “Ready when you are.”

The graveyard looks just as it did all those years ago; dark and miserable.

You shiver as Harry pushes open the creaky metal gate. He holds the gate open for you out of politeness, but he does not return your smile of gratitude. Harry keeps his facial expression neutral as he turns to face the memories that still plague him all these years later.

His eyes run over the gravestones as he puts one wary foot in front of the other. You follow behind him timidly, footsteps slower as you too read over the names written in marble, granite, limestone.

It doesn’t take long to find the place. Harry’s feet take him there automatically despite the fact that the last time he was here, he had been apparated in and did not walk out.

The Reaper stands proudly among the gravestones; his scythe crossed against his body in readiness. Harry stills, coming to a stop in front of it. He tilts his face; staring into the faceless stone hood of the figure that had him trapped like prey all those years ago.

Harry doesn’t turn from the figure as he points directly behind him. “That is where he killed Cedric,” He states bluntly, hearing the thud the Hufflepuff’s body made as he landed lifeless at Harry’s side.

Your eyes leave Harry; body tensing as you make eye contact with the patch of grass that would be the last thing to touch Cedric’s body.

Harry finally turns; gaining control of the anger and upset that had been raging in his body since landing at the graveyard gates. He needs to approach this carefully; he needs to approach all of this carefully, so he doesn’t fall back into the dark pit he found himself in months ago.

Harry gestures to the centre of the small copse and then to the Reaper, “That is where I had to watch as Voldemort rose again.”

“Oh Harry…” You whisper, voice breaking as you say his name.

Harry’s eyes shutter closed, and his bottom lip begins to wobble. He had been fourteen years old; he had not had his first kiss and yet, he had to duel the darkest wizard to have been produced in a century.

“I thought I was going to die that night,” He confesses after a moment; opening his eyes to once again focus on the faceless depiction of Death himself. “I thought I was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Resolve steels your nerves and once again, your feet find their way to Harry.

“You did make it out, Harry. You made it out alive.”

“Two of us went in, (Y/N).”

“It can’t be ignored,” You start, “Cedric’s death was an utter tragedy; completely unexpected and blindsided everyone in the school, but you cannot blame yourself for this, Harry. Cedric died at the hands of a madman – not you.”

“I could have done something!” He screams, finally losing all grip on his temper, “I should have done something. Instead, as Wormtail murdered Cedric, all I did was shout his name as if it was going to help. I did nothing, I as good as murdered him.”

Breath leaves your body in one fell swoop; you had never seen Harry like this. He runs both hands through his hair in frustration as he tries to get a hold on his temper, reigning it in. You remain silent as Harry works to control himself; you watch him pace the small copse, flattening the green grass under his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, breaking the silence, “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“Harry,” You sigh, “I am more than capable of handling you shouting at me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong though, and I just take everything out on you.”

You laugh, short and sweet, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever shouted at me, Potter.”

He smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I try not to make a habit of shouting at my friends,” Harry states, throwing you a look that states the obvious.

Wringing your hands together, you brace yourself for your next words. Meeting Harry’s stare, fixing your gaze on him, you politely demand, “Tell me more about that night, Harry.”

So he does.

It comes rushing out of him in a torrent; words flying so fast that his speech gets muddled up and he sometimes has to say his sentences again. For so long he has been holding this in; there are very few people who know what happened that night in this very graveyard and out of those, many are dead or imprisoned so Harry has been left to deal with the pain.

It feels like a confession. It feels as if he is seeking forgiveness from his crimes; seeking repentance from a priest of his choosing because he needs to get it out, he needs to know whether penance is possible for the sins committed that night.

Harry feels as if a weight is being lifted off his chest as he tells you about duelling Voldemort and the spell that had taken place beforehand. Harry seeks solace in your comforting gaze and reassuring smile as his voice breaks when he speaks of his parents, not having seen them in any physical form since that night with the Mirror of Erised.

Once he starts, he finds it hard to stop. He stutters over his feelings over Cedric’s death, pausing once in a while to let you interject a thought and for the first time since starting this exercise, since asking you to come along with him, Harry feels as if it is starting to work.

Eventually, his voice falls quiet as does his mind.

“How do you feel?” You ask; an expected question that accompanies each location visited.

Harry nods, “Better. Happy to have finally said what happened that night.”

“I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell you.”

“I trust you with my life,” He states honestly and plainly.

You bite your lip, averting your gaze to wander across the dark graveyard once more before finally turning to face Harry. “Are you ready?”

Harry nods: more than happy to leave this place and never return. What happened in Little Hangleton will always remain a heartbreaking tragedy; a life cruelly taken before it even got the chance to begin. The village would always be stained with such misfortune, but now, Harry feels that part of his life come to a close.  

As Harry reaches for your hand, readying himself to apparate you back to your flat, his heart soars at the words you utter with conviction.

“You’re a good man, Harry.”

--------

Landing back at his flat, Harry takes a seat on his couch and hangs in his head in his hands. He had dropped you off at your flat; needing to be alone to deal with the emotions that had been threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. Whilst Harry had accepted that he played no part in Cedric’s death, he still had to confront the magnitude of what had happened to himself.

It hits him all at once; the scale of what he had been through throughout his education. From the ages of eleven to eighteen, Harry hadn’t seen a school year through without injury or battle. It’s as he sits there that he realises the extent to which he was used by the headmaster he looked up to; used as a pawn to further the game of chess being played by Dumbledore and Voldemort.

The waves never cease; his parents, Sirius, Fred, Remus, Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and Cedric.

No tears fall; he isn’t sure he has the capacity to cry anymore. Tears haven’t fallen since they fell out relief for the end of the war, but out of sadness for the deaths of Fred, Remus, and Tonks.

Sitting on his couch, shivers overtake his body. His teeth chattering as he reaches for the blanket kept across the back of his couch, wrapping it around his shoulders. Harry bites back the scream that is slowly crawling up his throat; he pushes it down as he fights for control of his mind.

Collecting his thoughts, Harry comes to a conclusion.

He needs to return to where it all began.

Godric’s Hollow, West Country, England, March.

Spring blooms real and true, and Harry feels ready enough to return to Godric’s Hollow. Harry could count on one hand how many times he has stepped foot in the village his parents once called home. He had been born in Godric’s Hollow; at the end of July to two loving parents who adored him just as much as they adored each other.

Out of respect for James and Lily Potter – murdered at the age of twenty-one – the house in which they lived had never been repaired. The thatched roof remains caved in; a large hole in the middle of it, letting the elements now batter the house.

It had been twenty-two years since Harry had stepped foot inside the house he was born in. It had been five years since he stood outside of it with Hermione; only beginning to feel the grief for the parents he never truly knew.

It was this that had plagued Harry from the moment he turned eleven and arrived at Hogwarts. How does he grieve for those he never truly knew?

As crass as it is to say, Harry didn’t know his parents outside his need for food, comfort, and love. The memories of his mother and father are so clouded; he can no longer tell whether they are his own or whether he’s simply simulated a story told to him by family friends.

He was fifteen months old when they were murdered. He was fifteen months old and barely aware of his own shadow.

Whilst he hadn’t visited the house much – it being too painful to see the sight of his parent’s murder – he had visited their graves in the years that have passed.

With you in tow, Harry leads you down the worn, familiar path. He slows his pace every now and then; warning you of an upcoming dip that may make you lose your balance.

All too soon, however, you stand in front of the grave of James and Lily Potter.

Quietly, he asks, “How do I grieve my parents when I never knew them?”

Your heart breaks for him; unable to stop yourself, you wrap an arm around his waist offering any form of comfort you can. Shakily, you answer, “I guess you can mourn what could have been or you grieve the fact that they were so young. Either way, Harry, they’re never going to leave you.”

“I know that,” He whispers; gaze fixed on the grave of his parents, “All I know of them is what I’ve been told. I feel as if my memories have been tainted, and I know that they all mean well, but sometimes-”

He cuts himself off with a huff; kneeling down and drawing out his wand. Silently, Harry conjures a bouquet of Orchids, Chrysanthemums and Lilies and then bows his head in silent prayer, continuing to grieve the parents he would never know.

You place your hand on his shoulder, “Sometimes you what, Harry?”

He sighs, “Sometimes I wish they would stop. I was so young when they died – any memories I have of them are practically gone but sometimes I have these flashes. I have no idea whether they’re real or not, but I feel as if they are. Yet, when friends tell me stories of what it was like to go to school with them or to fight alongside them, it’s like they’re pushing they’re version of James and Lily Potter onto me. Does that make sense?”

Squeezing his shoulder, you answer, “It makes perfect sense. The James and Lily you knew is different from what Sirius knew or what McGonagall knew.”

“I just worry that the more stories I hear, the quicker I lose what I know of them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Harry.”

“You don’t?” He asks, shifting to his feet and facing you.

You shake your head, “I don’t. I think you’re going to remember your parents for the rest of your life; their morals and values make up yours, Harry. You might not think, but you are a lot more like them than you realise.”

Harry bows his head, feeling the familiar burn of tears at the back of his throat. He clamps his mouth shut, begging the feeling to go away. Quietly, almost ashamedly, Harry asks, “Do you think they would be proud of me?”

Then and there, your heart breaks, cleaving itself in two for the man standing before you. It’s the only dream of a child; to make their parents proud, but what about children who do not have parents – who grew up in a home that did not cherish them like it should have?

Silver lines your eyes; tears threatening to make an appearance as you reach for Harry’s hands, pulling him into a hug. Against his shoulder, you state with conviction, “They would be extremely proud of you, Harry. So proud of you it would shine out of them.”

Harry sniffles; ducking down somewhat to tuck his head against your neck, hiding his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder. From the outside, it looks as if two lovers are embracing, unable to keep their hands off the other for too long. However, you know that Harry is trying his best to maintain his composure, to try and gets to grips with the emotions that follow never knowing the ones who were supposed to raise you.

Minutes pass and neither of you move; neither of you willing to be the one to break this moment, but for the day to progress, you need to step away from the only man you have ever loved.

Releasing Harry, you send what you hope is a reassuring smile in his direction, “Come on, Harry,” You prompt, “Show me the rest of Godric’s Hollow?”

Framing it as a question, you offer Harry the choice. He is in control of this moment; h can choose whether he shows you the rest of the wizarding village or whether the two of you apparate back to his flat and spend the rest of the day mooching about.

Harry smiles: it’s watery, but fixed as he nods, stepping around you to lead you out of the graveyard.

Hands brush every now and then as the both of you wander back to the high street. A simple brush of hands, a simple twitch of fingers and your heart would start to race, practically shouting for Harry to take your hand and tangle your fingers together.

“I think I’m going to live here,” Harry murmurs; eyes scanning the high street.

“Are you sure?” You ask; worried not only for the fact that you may miss him while you remain in London, but also for any potential setback this may cause him.

Harry nods; his eyes now focused on a small café straight across the road from where you stand. He gestures towards it with an open hand, “Let me explain over some food.”

The bell above the door tinkles as you follow Harry inside. He chooses a table on the left hand side of the shop; sitting at the seat that faces the window and the door. It’s with stark realisation that you come to see that he’s chosen this exact spot so he can have eyes on each entrance and exit point.

You sigh as you sit across from him; old habits die hard, you guess.

Menus are placed in front of you by a teenaged witch looking as if she would rather be anywhere else but here. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in Harry’s form; the menu in her hand shaking as she places it down before him.

You bite your lip to repress the ever-growing smile on your face as you watch the waitress grow flustered under Harry’s smile and green eyes. She walks away in a daze after having taken your drink orders – coffee for Harry, Yorkshire Tea for you.

You shake your head fondly at the young witches departing figure; noting how she bumps into numerous tables before making it safely to the kitchen. Harry follows your gaze, wanting to know what’s taken your attention from him, “What is it?”

You shift your gaze back to the wizard, “You still don’t see the effect you have on people, do you?”

Harry frowns; his hand reaching up to touch his forehead self-consciously. He had grown his hair longer in order to cover the scar that mars the centre of his forehead; his black hair now fell around his head in curls he didn’t know he had until you had found an old picture of his father. The glasses and the curls along with the smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts; he was the spit image of his father.

“Not your scar, Harry, nor your name. I meant how you look; you have to know you’re handsome.”

Blush paints Harry’s cheeks as your words settle. The last thing he expected from today was to be told he was attractive; least of all, from you. He’s never had the chance before; to act upon his feelings for you. He realised just what he felt for you at the end of Sixth Year, and then the war happened, and he absolutely refused to let anything happen to you. He couldn’t tell you his feelings for you should it put a target on your back, and if anything happened to you, he would never forgive himself.

He laughs, shaking his head, “You’re a flatterer.”

You hold your hands up in playful surrender, “Only speaking the truth. You’ll see it one day.”

“One day,” He promises; eyes earnest as they gaze into yours.

It’s too much; just like that, it’s too much and you have to avert your stare before you end up blurting your inner most thoughts and scaring him away for good. Clearing your throat, you wait for the teenage waitress to place your drinks in front of you before you change the subject, “Why do you want to move here?”

Harry shrugs, picking up his coffee and taking a long drink, thinking over his words. “I think,” He begins, “I want to be close to them, but I also want to start carving out my life properly and this place is so peaceful. It’s so peaceful and it’s beautiful. I think it’s one of those places that if I don’t move here now, I’ll still move later on.”

You nod, “I get that. It is gorgeous here.”

Harry hums, “I’d still be in London every week.”

“You’d commute?” You ask, puzzled in terms of train schedules.

Harry barks out a laugh that turns into silent shaking of his shoulders as the teenage waitress returns, her pad in hand as she waits for your food order. Harry continues to repress his laughter throughout his order. As the waitress walks away, you fix Harry with an unimpressed stare. “Are you going to let me in on the joke?”

Harry smiles at you; as in, he really smiles at you. He beams as he whispers somewhat in awe, “I love you. You’re one of the smartest witches I know, and you still forget about the fact that we can apparate.”

You reel back in your chair, knees knocking into the table as the air leaves your body in a single breath. “What? What did you say first?”

Harry’s smile, if possible, grows as he shrugs his shoulders, “I love you.”

“Since when?” You demand, wondering how on earth he could discuss something as important as this as nonchalantly as one would discuss the weather.

“Sixth Year,” He confesses, blush beginning to paint his cheeks.

“That long?” You ask, voice hushed, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry finally frowns, finger tracing the lip of his coffee cup, “There was a war, and then I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.”

Of course he wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to confess his love for you, you admonish yourself. He had defeated the Dark lord and then had to cope with the survival guilt for years. It had only been in the last year that he finally let himself let go of the guilt surrounding the casualties of war.

“I love you too,” You admit, chewing on the inside of your cheek from nerves.

“You do?” Harry asks, about as breathless as you were when he confessed only moments ago.

“I do,” You confirm, smiling.

It isn’t much in the way of confessions, but the look on Harry’s face says it all. His green eyes remain bright and the smile wide on his face even as the waitress returns with your food. He looks as if no wrong could be done in that moment; the food could be the worst he has ever eaten but it wouldn’t matter.

You love him.

You love him as he loves you, and suddenly it all makes sense. His motivations through the war; not only wanting to rid the world of Voldemort but wanting to secure a safe future in which he can love you.

The food is eaten quickly; the both of you rushing to make it outside where you can talk more, and in private.

The bill is paid. The waitress wanders back to the till; stunned at the sight of Harry’s smile – and you couldn’t blame her.

Harry stands from his seat, reaching for his jacket and waiting patiently for you. Electricity thrums between you; holding promises of more to come, the headiness of it having you gripping the table tightly as you rise to your feet. One look at Harry’s face and you know he’s feeling it too.

Pausing outside the small café, you hold your hand out for Harry to take.

A soft breeze blows through Godric’s Hollow, disturbing your hair and the trees around you. Harry holds onto your hand tightly as the both of you begin to wander down the high street; the blossoms of the trees fluttering around you as they fall to the floor. Harry inhales deeply; the floral of the blossoms mixed with the sweetness of your perfume providing the perfect backdrop to his future.

Harry’s Flat, London, England, September.

Healing is a process. It is neither quick nor slow; it follows its own pace.

Through this process, Harry has realised that he is in fact getting better. He has his bad days; days where he seldom leaves his bedroom and refuses to stare at anything but the wall.

However, those days are becoming scarcer. Harry can sometimes go weeks before he has an episode that leaves him bedbound, and for that, he is proud of himself.

He doesn’t do it alone; he has you by his side through it all as you both prepare for the move to Godric’s Hollow. For both the good and the bad days.

********

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @harrypotter289 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @figlia--della--luna @probably-peeves @darlingdelacour @big-galaxy-chaos @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood @mytreec @haphazardhufflepuff @stupxfy @chaoticgirl04 @accio-rogers @starlightweasley @dreaming-about-fanfictions @lestersglitterglue @msmimimerton @obx-beach @izzytheninja @slytherinprincess03 @bbeauttyybbx @breadqueen95 @acciotwinz @kashishwrites @slytherinsunrise @kylosleftbuttcheek @remmyswritings @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon @ria-rests-here @superbturtlemakerathlete @inglourious-imagines @ithilwen-lionheart @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @ilovejjmaybank @theweasleysredhair @theonly1outof-a-billion @phuvioqhile @moatsnow @storyisnotover @missmulti @himooonlight​

[delimeful]

(dont) take this the wrong way (5)

warnings: injury, blood mentions, past psychological&emotional&physical abuse, ptsd, sickness

-

Virgil woke up, which was only unsurprising for the few moments it took him to 1. realize that his head was pounding and 2. remember the two very large reasons why.

His eyes flew open, and he found himself half-submerged in a shallow pool of cool water, surrounded by flat ledges of dry rock. The sound of ocean waves lapping against the cliffside echoed around the cavern, which was dimly lit by overhead cracks in the ceiling.

In one of these beams of paltry light, Logan was slumped over on his side, glasses askew. Virgil’s relief at seeing him was instantly overshadowed by terror at what could have happened to the human after Virgil had gone and gotten his skull knocked against rock.

His headache worsened, and he lifted a hand to press against the sore spot, pausing when he found more of those stiff bandage strips wrapped around his head.

The soft sloshing of water seemed to be enough to startle Logan into wakefulness, and the human brightened slightly at the sight of him. “Virgil. It’s good to see you awake. Are you feeling any pain or nausea?”

“What happened?” Virgil replied in lieu of the real answer, which was ‘everything hurts’. “Where are we, I thought we were dead for sure—!”

“Take a few deep breaths,” Logan advised, shuffling closer to the pool and offering a hand. Virgil took it gratefully. “We’re not currently in any danger. I believe we’re at the home of the seal-hybrid mer, if—“

“We’re what?!” Virgil’s voice dropped to a horrified double pitch, his grip on Logan’s hand instantly turning crushing.

“Ow,” Logan said in a pointed monotone. Virgil eased up before his claws could turn the human’s palm into bloody ribbons. “Let me finish, please. I’ve managed to work out a rudimentary method of communication, and as far as I know, we’re not currently at risk.”

“From the giant mer-eating monsters that literally kidnapped us, you mean?”

“Yes, that was the potential risk I was referring to.” Logan pulled Virgil further upright, reaching out with his free hand. “More importantly, you’ve been out for some time. Will you allow me to take a look at your injury?”

Virgil shuffled a little closer, allowing the hand to make contact with him. He had traversed currents of all temperatures, but in chilled still waters like this, Logan’s warmth was more than welcome. “I dunno how that’s more important than our inevitable, rapidly-approaching deaths, but sure, fine. Knock yourself out.”

“I will not? You are already dealing with a likely concussion, I see no reason to double that number.” Logan squinted at him like he was concerned that the head wound had taken a worse toll than he’d thought.

“No, it’s-- it’s just an expression. Don’t actually pass out, or I’ll freak out.”

“Ah,” Logan acknowledged, his hand twitching like he wanted to grab something before returning to carefully peeling the bandages away. “My apologies. Colloquialisms are not my strong suit.”

Virgil blinked back at him, because five syllable words were a little much even when he wasn’t concussed. “No worries?”

Logan continued to gently probe the back of his head. A sharp pang made him jerk away with a muted hiss, his vision blurring with pain as the sharp motion only agitated all his other cuts. He waved off Logan’s apology before it was fully formed. “S’fine. What’s the damage?”

“The bleeding has stopped, which is a good sign. It’s swelled significantly, but the cool water is hopefully helping reduce that as well. The best course of action now is for you to rest and recover in a dark, quiet place, ideally for at least two full days.”

“Yeah, but that’s not happening unless we get away first,” Virgil shot back, irritably twitching his fins down as Logan rewrapped the injury. The human let out a slow breath.

“Virgil. I believe the situation isn’t as dire as you think.” He settled back on his heels, back stiff as he spoke. “Our captors have shown no signs of aggression or hunger, even with the significant bleeding from your head wound. It’s possible--”

“It’s not possible!” Virgil cut him off, scowling fiercely. “That doesn’t mean anything. They’re playing some kind of sick game the way they always do, and if you let them trick you, you’re going to lose!”

Logan looked back at him inquisitively, still not getting it. “What evidence are you basing this off of? I was under the impression that you’ve spent only marginally more time in their company than me. Have they attempted to trick you in the past?”

“Yes, no, I mean--,” Virgil groaned, pulling at his bangs. “They don’t have to say it. That’s just how giants like them operate. We’re smaller, they can do what they want to us, we don’t get a say in it. You escape or you die.”

“Yet, we’ve been in their admittedly less-than-ideal care for over 24 hours, and they haven’t hurt us or made any indications they intend to hurt us.” Logan gestured expansively, his hand a bit wobbly. “That’s a rather long time to pretend, and for what purpose? If it was what they desired, we have been easy targets for a meal from the moment they relocated us.”

A rather long time to pretend. Virgil swallowed down a hysterical laugh, feeling dizzy. If a day of false niceties was all it took to buy his trust, he’d have never gotten away from his first encounter with a giant mer. “You’re— you’re human. You don’t know anything about this.”

Logan frowned. “I may be human, but that does not make me an idiot. Even with a language barrier, body language and expression are invaluable tools for communication, and I’ve been doing very little but observe them while you were unconscious. Virgil, if you just tried talking to them—“

“No!” he snapped, curling in even as his fins flared wide and threatening. He wouldn’t do this again, wouldn’t be subjected to the world’s most torturous game of catch and release, wouldn’t be lured back into too-tight hands by false promises and meaningless apologies. He couldn’t do that again.

Measured, rhythmic tapping on the back of his hand slowly brought him back to the present, cool air and Logan’s steady voice by his side. His throat was closed-up-too-tight, his gills too far out of the water to switch lungs— but the rhythm was counted out over and over, breathe in, hold, and out.

“There you go,” Logan said as Virgil took in another long, shuddering drag of air. “Well done.”

The air smelled like iron. He realized that somewhere in the past few minutes, he’d dug his claws into the soft sides of the human’s hand, drawing blood. He pulled away as though he’d been burned.

Logan didn’t even twitch, still searching his gaze intently. “Are you with me?”

Virgil nodded stiffly. “Yeah, I— fuck, I’m sorry.”

“No, I shouldn’t have pushed you. I didn’t realize— but I should have.” A deep, resolved breath. “It’s okay. I’ll find you a way out that doesn’t involve interacting with them.” Logan’s gaze went distant and hazy with thought, and Virgil hesitantly drew closer, pulling a bandage free to wrap around his bleeding hand.

… He was really warm. Clammy, too, and he’d been sitting in a cold, wet cave for hours, hadn’t he? Had been completely drenched for even longer.

“You’re sick,” Virgil said, and Logan took a moment too long to refocus on him. How had it taken him so long to notice? “That’s why you need me to talk to them. You need to get home.”

“My illness is no more severe than your injuries,” he deflected, adjusting his glasses clumsily. “Right now, the priority is getting you away from triggering circumstances. If my suspicions are correct, I will be fine regardless.”

Right. His suspicions, based on his willingness to trust his own abductors. He’d trusted Virgil, too, back in those tunnels. He’d known that he might be abandoned and he’d freed Virgil anyways, taken his hand anyways. Gotten hurt for his trouble.

He’d get hurt worse if Virgil left him here.

“... Yeah,” Virgil said, tucking the edge of the bandage in carefully. “But you should sleep for now. We both should. You said they haven’t done anything yet, right?”

“Yes, but…,” Logan’s brow was furrowed slightly, as though he knew something was off, but wasn’t quite sure what. “I mean, you do need rest. If… If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Virgil replied, curling against the edge of the pool and pillowing his head on his arms to hide their shaking. “Get some sleep, Specs.”

—

It was early morning when Patton woke to the splash of something small dropping into the water from his air room.

The room wasn’t overly large, being designed only for occasional use when he needed some extra oxygen in his system. It was also quite a few caves up above his sleeping den, but with two delicate little guests staying over, his senses were on high alert. He disentangled from Roman, who had been clinging to him for extra warmth, waking the shark mer in the process.

“Mwha’huh?” he asked groggily, and Patton chuckled at the way one side of his hair had been pressed into a tangled bundle.

“I think they may be awake!” he reported quietly, and Roman perked right up. They had originally hovered in the room over the two of them, only leaving after the human-- busy tending to the tiny mer’s wounds-- had gotten too fed up and used charades to shoo them away, leaving them with nothing to do but sit around and think about how badly they’d messed up. As such, they were both more than eager to start fixing things.

Upon popping up into the air room, however, they found only the human, lying completely still apart from the slow rise and fall of his chest. Deep in sleep, with an empty pool at his side.

Roman and Patton exchanged a panicked look, and ducked back underwater to search through his home and see where, exactly, the injured mer had gone.

It didn’t take long to spot him. The mer had practically every fin and frill puffed out, even the ones that were still injured. The threat display as eye-catching as they got.

He was hovering in the opening of a vent crevice, one that helped circulate seawater through the caves. It was small enough that if he vanished through it, they wouldn’t be able to stop him or see where he was headed. He knew it, too, staring them down with sharp defiance rather than absolute terror.

“Don’t move,” he said, as though they hadn’t both frozen at the sight of him. “I’m going to-- to make a deal with you.”

“A deal?” Roman asked, and received a sharp, wild-eyed glare for his troubles.

“Yeah, a deal. The other one is sick,” a slight jerk of the head toward the air room, “so he won’t last long here. Probably already too far gone to even play a single game.”

Patton was torn between concern (the human was sick?) and confusion. Game?

“But I’m fine. I’ve had much worse than this.” The mer drifted back slightly, closer to the crevice. “If I leave now, you’ll never find me, and then Lo-- the human will die, and you won’t have anything to play with.”

A creeping sense of dread overcame Patton. He still didn’t know what was going on, but it was sounding more and more like something was seriously wrong here.

“So, a deal. You take the human back to where you found him, and I’ll stay-- I’ll stay here,” his voice cracked painfully, but he ignored it, staring at them with a desperate sort of intensity. “With you. I won’t try to get away or anything. I-- I swear.”

“Get away?” Roman asked, his voice going high with the same sort of horror that currently swamping Patton. The mer ducked back at the sound, gaze flitting between them, some of that terror returning.

“I will! I’ll leave, if you-- you can either have one or none, that’s the deal, I’m not kidding. I’m not!” His fins flared wider, blood beginning to leak from some of them. “He’s human anyways, he can barely even swim, you don’t want him--”

“Kiddo,” Patton cut in urgently, raising his hands peacefully and trying not to wince when the mer flinched, “if he’s sick, of course we’ll take him back to where he can get help. No deals necessary, okay?”

The little guy didn’t look reassured at all. “I want to watch. I have to see you put him back, where other humans will find him, or else the deal’s off.”

He didn't believe them. Patton exchanged a helpless look with Roman, who finally nodded.

“Of course,” the shark mer said, “You are more than welcome to accompany us back to the mainland where Patton found him, provided that you’re not exacerbating your injuries.”

The mer hissed at him, a tiny, reedy sound. “And whose fault is that?”

“Irresponsible human fishing vessels?” Roman tried, and then wilted under both Patton and the mer’s looks when the joke fell flat. He cleared his throat. “It is, of course, mine. I wanted to apologize for the way I manhandled you before. Regardless of my intentions, it was unbefitting behavior, and it hurt you. I am truly sorry.”

He bowed with a little flourish, moving slower than normal. The mer stared at his bowed head apprehensively, and then covered the look up with a distrustful scowl.

“If you’re sorry, get Logan out of this place before he gets any worse,” he finally replied, and Patton nodded and went to retrieve the human-- Logan, presumably.

Glancing over his shoulder as he left, he could see the way the tiny mer’s fins had settled just slightly, not quite as frantically overextended as before.

It was a start.

[itsbeaconhillsbaby]

shatter us || tom holland x reader

a/n: hello gorgeous people. this is not the cutesy road trip fic that I have planned - the follow up for a luminous love. but instead just a little sprinkle, little dash of some angst for your casual sunday. yikes, I hope you all still enjoy (still ends fluffy bc I'm not a heathen...yet) 

since I love hearing your thoughts so much, is there anything you’d personally like to see from me, alongside what i’m working on? hit me up and I might just work on some fic for you, got a full week off work so let me know! as always, stay wonderful and come chat! x 

word count: 2166 warnings: we do have a swear and some smashed glass, some sad thoughts but nothing too dark or dangerous - very tame summary: emotional outbursts lead to some much needed conversations

6:10.

There was a lack of chirping birds that morning. The sun stayed behind the clouds, keeping itself out of view. The air cold and stale. Sheets were pulled taught at either end of the bed. Two bodies, usually yearning to be held in each other’s embrace clutching instead to their designated edges.

You were fearful to exhale your breath, one small movement and this frozen moment could all come crashing down around you. As though you were stood at the very edge of a precipice, toes hanging over the side. One tiny blow away from tumbling into a dark abyss.

Before you thought your chest was going to explode from the inside, you felt the springs next to you dip only slightly. The signs of someone moving.

He hadn’t moved all night. You wondered if he’d managed to catch any sleep at all before you felt the bed dip further as he untangled his legs from the sheets, heading into the en suite bathroom.

You reached a hand out from your cocoon, your phone lighting up as you tilted it towards you.

10 missed calls.

15 texts

You’d told your best friend that you’d screwed everything up, unwilling to reveal what happened before you let your tears lull to into a restless sleep.

You weren’t sure at what time Tom joined you. Sighing, you heard the click of your phone locking as you lay it back down.

Tom comes back out of the bathroom, slowing slightly as he sees you curled up in the corner of the bed instead of star-fished or snuggling into his pillow as you usually did when he left the room – resulting in playfighting or cuddles.

“I think we need to talk.”

His voice was rough and scratchy. You slid yourself up against the headboard, pulling your jumper sleeves over your hands and nodding in agreement. You couldn’t speak yet, you weren’t sure you knew how. Words refusing to form as your stomach churned.

“Okay, I’ll see you downstairs then.” He grabs a hoodie of his own before leaving the room, you could hear him moving through the flat.

You take a few deep breaths, taking note of the room around you. glancing over the space you had shared for the past year and a half. Something told you this could be the last morning you’d wake up here.

Exhaling, you slide your feet onto the golden wood crossing the room to reach the bathroom. You splash water over your face, fluffy towel ready to catch the droplets before finishing up.

“Here we go,” you mumble to yourself as you push against the sink counter and head for the kitchen.

////

Tom fills up the kettle, unfocussed eyes staring into the distance. He put it back on its stand before flicking down the switch.

A hand ran through his messy bed head of curls. This was all so wrong, all of it. He told you that he wanted to talk but as he routinely made two teas, he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say. But he began filming in four days and you both had to fix this tension between you. For the first time, you were both unsure of what the outcome would be. 

Taking a small brush and pan over to the wall he brushes up the broken glass, hearing it tinkle as he gathers it into the pan, releasing it into the bin, frustrated at his own outburst the previous night.

He’s against the counter stirring the two mugs when you walk in. He motions to the sofa.

He takes you in as you stand in front of him, shyer and more nervous that he’d ever seen you. He hated that you felt like that. Drowning in one of his sweatshirts and a pair of his cotton shorts, your face was tinged pink and he hoped that you hadn’t been crying in the short time it took to make your teas.

You gave a small smile of thanks at the steaming mug he slid across to you before heading to the sofa. You rolled your shoulders, caressing the mug between your hands - letting the heat warm them.

“I’m so sorry-“

“I’m so sorry-“

You both blurt out simultaneously. His eyes twinkle slightly, as he huffed out a slight chuckle.

“Well that’s a good start at least.”

You nod, stifling a nervous laugh, mouth upturned. He offers you to go first. You take a sip of your tea, letting it soothe your nauseous stomach.

Swallowing, you trace your finger around the rim of your mug. Closing your eyes for a single moment before staring into his, so wide and filled with hurt.

Last night played on repeat in your head.

“Stop saying you love me as a response for when things get too hard - it’s just words Tom! Just because you love me doesn’t mean that I feel loved by you!”

Tom’s mouth fell open, eyes wide as he stood transfixed on you. You stared at him in shock, completely taken aback by your own outburst. The room was blanketed in an unforgiving silence, your voice wobbling at the building honesty that had come tumbling out.

“Wow. I offered to fly you out to be with me before filming officially started for fucks sake! You declined! Was that not enough for you?! Does that not show you I love you? My career is important and I’m sorry that annoys you!”

“That is not what I meant Tom, and you know it.”

His brows furrow, eyes darkening with anger. You wanted to straighten them out with your fingers, lightly gliding over the uncontrollable hairs and press a feathery light kiss in the space between them. Something you usually did when he was tense or frustrated.

“Please, enlighten me then.”

“Fly across the other side of the world to do what?! Sit in silence in a room with you as you read over scripts with Harry. Sit alone in a room whilst you meet the cast and team, stay away so you can go for your lush dinners and lunches. And then fly out when things get underway, that’s unless I want to sit in your trailer day in and day out. I love you Tom and I support you and I think you’re brilliant - I always will think that. But being your hidden girlfriend is exhausting and lonely, and I don’t know if I can do it!”

You’ve never been this vulnerable with Tom before. You’d never let on before how hard it could be sometimes being his girlfriend, how utterly alone you felt. How much of a stranger you felt in regards to Tom and parts of his life.

“Then don’t! If you hate it so much, then don’t be my girlfriend then. Problem solved!”

You gasp slightly, standing completely rigid. Heart pounding in your ears, heat rising through your entire body. You can feel the moisture building behind your eyes, trying so hard to keep it at bay.

“Fine. Wow. Easy fix for the golden boy, got it.”

And with that you turn on your heel and head straight into the bedroom. Door slamming behind you.

Tom throws his beer bottle at the opposite wall. Hands going straight up to his face as he let out a cry of frustration. Glass shards littering the floor.

“Fuck!”

////

“I’m so sorry for saying what I said. It didn’t come out right and I don’t know, I think I was just being dramatic and anno-“

Tom cuts you off with a shake of his head, resting one hand on your leg.

“Don’t do that. Please don’t do that. My response was completely irrational, but you...you were honest and hurt and valid. Do not deny your emotions to make me feel better, that’s not going to fix this. You know I love you, you said it yourself, but you don’t feel loved - and that’s on me.”

You bite the inside of your lip, looking down into your swirling cup. Your heart was beating so fast, it was making you feel almost dizzy. 

“I feel pathetic, please let’s just forget it happened Tom.”

Tom takes the cup out of your hand, planting it on the coffee table in front of the couch. He pulls your legs that little bit closer, your body moving forward, closing the gap between you both.

“I can’t forget it. I’ve been playing it on repeat all night. Please just be honest with me. I want to listen. I want to understand.”

You exhale a shaky sigh,

“Sometimes it’s just so much harder than I ever thought it would be, Tom. I love how much you adore your job, you inspire me every single day as I watch you inspire millions of people. but sometimes I feel like an outsider looking in on your life. Instead of feeling like someone you want to share your life with, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hate that.”

He nods, his forehead creasing slightly as he takes in your words, and presses for you to continue,

“And take away all that comes with your job. On the rare days when it’s just me and you, you make me feel so alive. I feel needed and wanted and loved. So loved. But it’s not enough for me to have a few gulps of that feeling. God, it sounds so selfish. I hear it from my own mouth and I sound ridiculous.”

You take a pause. wishing for your voice to straighten out. For that wobble to stop as you can see the concern on Tom’s face rising,

“Maybe there’s been a reason we’ve kept it a secret for so long, because you and I both know that the minute this gets out...everything is going to crumble beneath us, and I’m the one not going to be able to handle it.”

You let out a shaky breath, sniffling as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve.

When you didn’t start up again, Tom gave a deep sigh, before pressing ahead,

“I’ve been doing this all wrong. I thought keeping you out of things would protect you, we agreed on that being the best option. And in the beginning it was. The sneaking around, the constant phone calls, video calls, surprise visits - we did it all.”

You nod in agreement. Your heart sinking. Even though you’d brought it on yourself, letting your insecurities and loneliness take over - you still weren’t ready for the inevitable goodbye that was coming your way.

“But we’ve grown individually, and our relationship has grown. And yeah, there’s a part of me who still wants to keep you all to myself, I know what press and fans can be like. But you’re right.”

You look up at him through wet eyelashes. He catches a tear with his thumb, wiping it away from your cheek,

“I’m not losing you to my own fear. And you’re not losing me to yours.”

“Wait, what?” you whisper, confused.

“You need to talk to me. You need to tell me when I’m not pulling my weight in this relationship, when you’re feeling low like this. Sometimes I do get stuck in my own world a little...and you’re the one suffering for it.”

“So. You do still want me as your girlfriend?” More traitorous tears fall from your eyes, your body relaxing and therefore no longer willing to keep them at bay.

“Oh my god I can’t believe I said that. Of course, I do! There’s no still wanting about it, I’ve always wanted you. Never questioned it for a second. The real question is, do you want to make this public? I want this to be your choice. It’s going to be crazy, but I promise you, I’ll be beside you every single step of the way. I won’t make you feel like you’re on your own again, I promise. Or, if you feel like it’s too much…then we figure something else out.”

He cups the side of your face, thumb still trailing after the tear tracks.

“I’m just scared that it’ll break us, Tom. But we can’t keep going as we are.”  

He nods in understanding,

“I won’t let it break us. You have me, all of me, for however long you want.”

You pushed your forehead against his shoulder, his hands coming up to cradle the back of your head as you curl into him.

He can feel your body quivering against him as you finally let yourself feel all the emotions you’d gone through in the past 12 hours, feelings you’d been hiding for far longer than that.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise. I think we needed this. Now we can be better, work harder on loving each other properly. Communicate.”

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” You whisper into his chest, “I thought I’d ruined everything.”

He squeezes his eyes clothes. pressing his lips to the top of your head, releasing soft kisses in between every couple of words,

“No, you’ve not ruined anything. All you’ve done is remind me how much I truly love you. And every day I promise I’m going to show you just how much.”

[mothandpidgeon]

The One That Got Away -- Part 2

Part 1

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Dave York x F Reader

Words: 3495

Rating: E 18+!

Warnings: Dave York, violence, guns, masturbation, fingering, choking, shoe kink, slapping, spanking, unprotected p in v sex

Summary: Five years ago, before you cut and run, you had one last job with Dave. And one final name on your list.

a/n: I had no plans of expanding on this (Part 1 was written for @autumnleaves1991-blog Writer Wednesday picture prompt) but once again, this took a life of its own. Thanks as always @pascalslittlebrat for giving this the green light!

MACAU, 5 YEARS AGO

There were three things you knew.

First, the target was some Eastern European oligarch named Stanislav. He liked women so Dave had tapped you for this gig. You would deal with the target up close and personal.

Second, Stanislav knew he had a lot of enemies so he brought a lot of friends with him. No matter where he went, there were armed guards, staff, friends who were also rich or powerful or corrupt. It was likely you would have to deal with some of them too.

Third, after you’d killed Stanislav, gotten past his posse, out of the casino, and back to the safe house, Dave was going to make you cum at least four times.

You and Dave had a good thing going. He was meticulous and thorough in his work but you discovered that wasn’t where those qualities ended.

He’d looked you up and down before you arrived at the penthouse suite where Stanislav was hosting some party. You were wearing something that hugged your curves and a wig, high heels and make up. You knew Dave would allow himself exactly two minutes to think about what he’d do to you when this was all over, all the ways he’d have you, and then he’d switch his mind off to focus on the mission at hand.

Between your outfit and the observant security detail, it had been decided that it would be wise to go in unarmed. Less of a chance od tipping anyone off before the two of you got through the door.

You split from Dave as soon as you got in and it didn’t take you long to get to chatting with Stanislav. Your fingertips touched his wrist, you bit down on your bottom lip, you let him whisper into your ear. Dave kept an eye on the situation from across the room.

It wasn’t difficult to slip the drugs into your target’s glass. And it didn’t take much convincing to get him to invite you to a more private place once he’d drunk it down. In less than five minutes, he’d be dead. Until then, you’d let him paw at you. What a way to go.

Right on schedule, Stanislav was gasping, terror in his eyes, clutching at his chest. He sunk to his knees, grasping at the air, pulling at his collar. His hand slid inside his shirt and you saw him yanking on the chain around his neck. Shit. He was wearing a panic button. Of course he was.

Your heart started pounding. Within seconds one of his goons was bursting in, gun drawn.

“Something’s wrong with him!” you cried, covering your mouth with your hand.

He rushed to Stanislav’s side. You took off your shoe, gripped it around the middle, and thrust the heel into the body guard’s eye with force, twisting his wrist with your other hand. He cried out and you came again with the shank of your pump over and over until he dropped his weapon, his face a mess of blood. Poor bastard. You used his gun to put a bullet in him just as one of his friends was charging in.

His weapon was pointed right at you and you whipped around to fire but he jerked forward and fell to the floor. Dave was behind him with a gun he must have lifted off of another unfortunate guard, his eyes looking wild. You wiped your bloody shoe on the dead guard’s coat and slid it back onto your foot.

“Thanks,” you managed as you skirted past Dave.

You had enough knowledge of the suite to get to the exit before more of Stanislav’s men arrived. Dave was right behind you as you went into the hall, both trying to keep your pace casual. As soon as you hit the stairwell you pulled off the wig and shook out your hair. Dave put his jacket over your shoulders and rolled up his sleeves. He had a pair of glasses in his pocket. These weren’t the best disguises but they didn’t have to get you far. You ditched the wig in a trash can once you’d gone down a few floors, out to the landing, and then caught the elevator.

As you snaked your way through the casino floor, you tucked your face into Dave’s neck, doing your best drunk girl wobble. His arm curved around your back, guiding you towards the exit. And soon you were home free.

Now that your work was done, all that was left was your adrenaline. You were ready to let it out and you knew Dave was too because this had become your little routine.

The first time it had happened, you had barely finished a job. Dave cornered you in the elevator, your heart still racing, gun still clutched in your fingers. He’d nudged his knee between your legs and pressed his mouth against yours. You knew he was married but you didn’t stop him. You’d wanted him the same way he’d wanted you. And you’d just killed five people. That kind of made things like fidelity and sisterhood seem unimportant.

By now, though, things were slow and careful, controlled. You and Dave weren’t pouncing on each other but he would nod his head for you to follow him to his bed once you were back at the safe house.

“Take that dress off for me, baby,” he said. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs open so you could stand between them. You turned around allowing him to unzip you and you stepped out of your dress.

“You can leave those on,” he said when you went to kick off your heels. You grinned.

Dave’s dark eyes took you in and he ran his fingertips under the strap of your bra to loose it from your shoulder. He repeated the motion on the other side, his hand barely grazing your skin. It gave you goosebumps. You wanted to devour him but you liked it when he unwrapped you like a present.

“Take off your shirt,” you told him, running a finger along his chin.

You liked it when the corner of his mouth twitched into a wicked smile.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. You bit down on your lip. He took his time unbuttoning his shirt and revealing his skin. He was in good shape considering his age but you liked the soft edges around his body.

Dave pulled you in to nuzzle at your breasts as he unhooked your bra and you slid your palms over his broad, smooth shoulders. He rolled one of your hard nipples between his teeth and you moaned.

“That’s what I want to hear,” he growled.

He spun you around, tracing his hand around the curve of your ass down between your legs. You were already so wet that he could feel it through your panties. Dave peeled them down your hips and then sat you in front of him between his legs. He held you against his chest, one hand pushing your thighs apart so he could stroke you. You could already feel yourself pulsing as you swooned under his touch.

You heard him undo his belt with his other hand and he held his palm open in front of your lips. “Spit,” he demanded.

You could feel him behind you pulling at himself with his wet hand in time as he touched you. Dave rubbed you gently, teasing at the spot that you liked the best. He knew that it made you lose your mind, slow and careful winding you up like a toy.

“I can’t wait to get into this pussy,” he breathed into your ear.

When you bucked against him, he let go of himself and put his hand around your throat, sticky with spit and precum. Dave gripped tight. You trusted him and you had signals in case he got too rough but, as much as you enjoyed his careful touch, you liked it when things went a little too far. There was something that thrilled you as Dave squeezed and your vision went hazy. You knew he was capable of going all the way, and not in a theoretical sense. He’d killed people with his hands around their throat.

“That’s right,” he rasped and as you hit your high he let go and you gasped and shook against him.

He continued to swirl his fingers over you until you were writhing and you wrenched his wrist away.

“I think you can do that again,” Dave said.

He slid his palm over your wet lips, the heel of his hand rocking over your already overwhelmed clit. You moaned when his middle finger went inside of you.

He worked at you like this, heat twisting once again in your belly. Dave was holding you close, his weeping cock pressed against the small of your back. His thick finger seemed to double the sensation between your legs.

This time when you came, Dave bit at your neck, grunting. Your heart was pounding in your ears.

“Turn around,” he instructed.

“Can’t I get a minute to catch my breath?” you complained, still drunk on the bliss spreading over your body.

He set you on your feet and you turned, finally able to admire his ripe length. You set your foot on the bed between his legs. You’d noticed a while back that Dave had a thing for heels. So much so that you started packing them in your bag even when the job required something more practical.

Dave traced his hand down your shin and slid them over your shoe, his fingers still slick with you. As he smudged your arousal onto the leather he let out a hum and you saw his cock twitch. You moved closer, the toe of your pump just barely grazing his shaft from base to tip. There were still hints of dried blood on the heel which somehow disgusted and aroused you at the same time. Dave’s eyes drifted shut.

There was something else Dave liked but wouldn’t admit to. With an open palm, you slapped him across the face. His eyes shot open, shaken from his reverie. He snatched your wrist, tight, his gaze darkening from desire to danger.

“You’re gonna fucking get it,” he said with a sinister smirk.

He wrestled you face down onto the bed and then clamped your ankle in his hand, sliding you across the sheets until your lower body hung over the side.

“I make you cum and that’s the thanks I get?”

His hand connected with your ass. You knew it was coming but still you cried out.

“Quiet,” he demanded.

He pulled you up by your hair, the sting delicious, and put his fingers in your mouth until you were practically gagging. You loved getting Dave riled up like this.

You weren’t so introspective that you thought about why you and Dave treated each other this way. You were sure he didn’t slap his wife around in the bedroom and you would kill any man that did half of the shit that made you wet for dave. Was it some kind of penance? You both knew you didn’t deserve soft and sensual. It might have just been that your senses were completely dulled. After years on the job, it took an awful lot to make you feel anything. Or possibly it was just the release. How else were you supposed to forget about the things you’d done?

Dave pushed into you and you arched your back. He grabbed your hips hard enough that you knew you’d have bruises where his fingers dug in but he stayed motionless within you.

“Lay still,” he said when you wiggled your hips around him earning you another slap on the ass.

It was torment, his thick cock sheathed in you when you wanted more. You wanted him to drive you out of your senses. Suddenly, Dave pulled back and then snapped his hips against you. He thrust into you relentlessly. The wet noises that came between the two of you were making you feral.

You felt the tension pool again moaning as his hands travelled up to massage your breast and then wrap around your shoulders for leverage so you were feeling every inch of him.

“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted.

You felt like you were already close to hitting another peak.

“Say it,” Dave demanded.

That made you fall apart and you buried your face in the mattress to muffle your moans.

“You liked that, huh?” Dave said, his hips still moving without slowing. “Turn over I want to look at that pretty face when I cum.”

You were still shuddering as you laid on your back. Dave kissed you with urgency, his fingers massaging between your legs to make you gasp. He slid into you easily with a groan.

Dave bent your leg and gripped his hand around your shoe once again and took up his pace.

This was your favorite part, watching this man who was so disciplined, so steady, shudder and break inside of you. He lost the rhythm of his hips, his brow furrowed, and he made noises you knew he couldn’t control. He pulled out and spilled all over your shin and the top of your foot and watched his cum drip down to your shoe as his chest heaved.

You sat up on your elbows enjoying the expression on his face where he went blank, his mind completely destroyed.

He kissed you again, hard, his teeth raking your bottom lip.

“Get in the shower. I’m not done with you,” he breathed.

When you were both spent, your bodies practically giving out, you collected your clothes and you left. You and Dave never slept together. You didn’t need him for that.

/ / / / / / / / /

When the job in Macau was over and you’d gone home, you were exhausted. Every job was the same cycle of emotions. Excitement, the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation as you held your breath and fingered the trigger. It was quickly followed by darkness, self-loathing. You wished you could erase it all from your memory. But it was a living so you pushed it down and got back to work. That’s where you were, at the bottom of the roller coaster, when you went to pick up your next gig, to see which sorry son of a bitch was going to eat it next.

You’d get a call on your burner with a location to meet your contact somewhere where you wouldn’t draw attention– a park bench, a busy coffee shop. Today you were meeting him at a bus stop across town. He was already sitting patiently and he didn’t make eye contact with you. This was how it worked, you both went by first names that were probably fake, you tried not to look at one another, you kept it short and clean.

He slid you an envelope of cash which you threw into your bag. The rest of the money would be wired into an account when the job was done. Next came a file with a name and some information to get you started along with a picture. Usually you just threw that into your bag, too, but you were alone in the bus shelter so you cracked open the folder.

The person in the photograph you had only seen once but you recognized them immediately. You stopped breathing.

“What is this?” you asked.

“It’s a job.”

You stared at the photo. It was like all of the others, the subject unaware that they were being watched. The woman was good looking with dark hair in soft curls over her shoulders, beautiful bronze skin. It looked like she was on her way to work, wearing a neat blouse and dress pants. It put a knot in your stomach.

“Who’s job is it?” you asked.

“What’s it to you?” he replied and you could hear the impatience in his voice. “Do I need to tell the client there’s a problem?”

You frowned and shoved the file into your bag on top of the envelope.

“Nope. We’re good,” you said and you walked away.

You felt dirty. You wanted to go home and climb into the shower. It wouldn’t change the fact that you’d just accepted the job of killing Carol York.

Your bag sat at the center of the kitchen table for hours like it had been contaminated. You stared at it, leaning against the counter and holding onto a cup of coffee you felt too nauseated to put to your lips.

You’d never felt all that shitty about fucking her husband. Sure, somewhere deep down where your humanity still resided, there was a voice that told you how despicable it was. It was bad enough that Dave surely lied about what he did for work. But he was a big boy, you told your conscience. What he did and what he said to her were outside of your control.

You’d certainly never wished any ill on the poor woman. You weren’t jealous, you didn’t hate her. Whatever you and Dave had going on, it was like your work– it didn’t exist outside of those moments when you were on a job.

What had Carol York ever done to anyone? Maybe she forgot to sign a permission slip for a school trip or she’d gossiped about someone in her office. This hit wasn’t about her. It was to get to Dave. That’s what happened, you pissed off the wrong person and you found yourself in a file. But after all of the shit he’d put her through, whether she knew about it or not, it seemed unfair that his wife should have to pay for what he’d done.

You finally worked up the nerve to take the file out of your bag. You looked at it again, at the picture of Carol. You could see why Dave had married her, how the two of them would fit together in a family portrait.

You’d killed a lot of people without a second thought and you’d done it in all types of ways. You’d heard them struggle and beg. You’d seen the look in their eye as they realized that they were about to die, the fear and then the resignation and then acceptance. And you’d seen the light go out of them. It was simple once you got over the first few kills. But you took no pleasure in it.

Maybe that was what had drawn you and Dave together. Killing chipped away a part of you that other people couldn’t understand. It wasn’t like you could build it back by being with him but it was at least a good distraction, a way to remind yourself that you were human and living. A way to forget that actions had consequences. There was no good or bad in this game.

But that was just something you told yourself. There were people who didn’t deserve to be at the other end of your gun. Carol was one of them.

You went over to the stove and turned on one of the burners. You carefully dangled the corner of the photograph over the blue flame until it caught and you watched it curl and burn until her whole face had been engulfed and turned to black ash. When the flames licked close to your fingers you dropped the last of it into the sink.

You weren’t going to kill Carol York. You couldn’t do that to her. You couldn’t do that to Dave either.

You’d thought about getting out of the game before. Everyone broke eventually. But it was impossible to quit. There were two ways out of this life and both of them were ending yours. For some reason seeing Carol’s face in your file was what pushed you over the edge. Most likely, if you didn’t kill her someone else would. But you couldn’t.

You gave yourself three days to plan so you didn’t have time to chicken out and change your mind. You bought fashion glasses with clear plastic lenses at the mall. You got hair dye. You collected the cash you had on hand including the new envelope that had come with Carol’s file. It was enough to get you going for a good while. You already had passports and IDs with your face and somebody else’s name. You had to be prepared in this business.

You didn’t tell Dave. You didn’t warn him or say goodbye. You were doing him enough of a favor and he ought to be grateful for that.

You went to the bus depot, paid cash for a Greyhound ticket heading out of state, and just like that you were gone.

-----

let me know if you'd like to be added to the tags!

@pascalslittlebrat @mouthymandalorian @starlightmornings @originallaura @purplepascal042 @cheekygeek05 @fangirl-316@fairytale07 @tuskens-mando @danniburgh @casualpalacebagelrascal @rebel-soldat @skulliebythesea @221bshrlocked @goddessinwolfskin @pedrocentric @tigpooh67 @pedrito-es-mi-favorito @sara-alonso @buckysthing @stevie75 @rosiefridayrogersunday @a-skov @oceanablue @evyiione @buckwildbarnes

[imaginejamesandsirius]

I fucking love your writing!!! You're like one of my favorite fic authors ever!! Theres this cool ass quote that I really like that goes- "I'll take care of you" "It's rotten work" "Not to me, not if it's you" and I was wondering if you could work that into a fake dating AU??

This was such a bad idea, but that had never stopped Sirius before, and it wasn't going to stop him now. James had asked for his help, and Sirius was helpless to do anything but promise that he would do his best.

Granted, he would've been a lot happier to help if it hadn't been acting as James's boyfriend as they went to Lily and Remus's wedding.

Sirius was a nice guy and all, but after he agreed to help, he had to ask, "Why do you need a date at all? We were both invited. It's not like you have to sneak me in."

"The last time I saw either of them, I was being a massive prick because Lily had broken up with me."

"I remember," Sirius said. Mostly he remembered because he'd thought it was funny, at the time. Then, when it had become clear that Remus wasn't planning on talking to them anymore because of it, he'd felt a little bad. Not that they'd stayed best mates after leaving Hogwarts, but they used to meet up every few months. 

"I just want to let both of them know that I'm not going to make a scene."

"I don't think they would've invited you if they thought that was going to happen," Sirius said.

"If you don't want to pretend that we're dating-"

"I'm fine with it," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "I was just pointing out that I don't think it's necessary."

"I think it's very necessary."

"Whatever you say, love." Disaster. This was going to be a complete and utter disaster.

Sirius should be smart and tell Remus ahead of time that it was fake so that he wouldn't say anything incriminating, but if James wanted him to pretend that they were dating, then that's what he would do.

*

Dumb. Idiotic. Stupendously moronic. These were all words to describe Sirius in this moment, and his only comfort was that it was James's stupid idea for this in the first place.

"I'm glad you two finally got together," Professor McGonagall said.

James's arm around Sirius tightened. "Right."

"How long have you been dating?" she asked, and it should've been a perfectly innocent question. They were at a wedding, presenting themselves as being in a serious relationship. These were the sort of questions people asked couples attending a wedding together. Sirius knew this, but given the way James's arm tightened even more, he figured that James hadn't known.

"The lines are a bit blurry," Sirius said with a smile. "You might as well ask if the phoenix came before or after the flame."

Professor McGonagall laughed, which covered the sharp inhale from James. They kept talking, exchanging idle conversation about her new students and their jobs for a couple minutes before they parted ways.

"You need to calm down," Sirius muttered to him.

"I'm perfectly calm," he said, but his jaw was tight and he looked like a pat on the back would shatter him.

Sirius only snorted. "Let's get you something to drink. That'll loosen you up."

An hour and too many drinks later, Sirius wondered if he should cut James off. It's not like he was an alcoholic, but he was pounding back drinks like it was going out of style.

Lily walked up to them as Sirius was debating whether or not he could get away with switching his glass (champagne) with James's (whiskey). They'd said hello to her when they walked in, but she was too busy making the rounds before this to really talk. Not that Sirius knew what they'd talk about. He'd never really gotten on with her, in spite of her dating James for over a year; he'd had plenty of time to get used to her, but he hadn't. "Hi, Sirius," she said with a smile. It was a cliche, but she was definitely glowing with happiness. "James."

James turned to look at her, then his eyes went wide and he swallowed thickly as he saw who he was face to face with. "Erm. Hey Lils. Lily. You look- erm, I mean-"

Sirius switched their glasses.

"It's good to see you- not that- er. Congratulations," James finished weakly.

"Thanks," Lily said, ignoring his stuttering. "I'm glad you two finally worked things out."

"Finally?" James asked.

"Yeah, I know that- actually, it's not my business," she said.

Sirius was very grateful that she wasn't going to get into it, and he was about to thank her aloud when James ruined it.

"No, what do you mean?"

Lily glanced at Sirius, who tried to give her a look to convey how much he would appreciate her not saying a word.

He wasn't sure it came across.

"I might be reading too much into it. It's not like I was ever very close with Sirius, and god knows I never knew what was going on in your head."

"Lily," James said slowly, "what are you talking about?"

"Just that you two have always been close. When we were dating, sometimes I felt like the odd one out."

"Sorry about that," Sirius said, because it had been a touch purposeful on his part.

She gave a small shrug, smiling again. "It all worked out in the end."

Sirius tried to focus on the conversation, asking how Remus had proposed and what they had planned for their honeymoon, but he couldn't help but keep an eye on James, who was staying horrifically silent. He noticed too late that James had stolen his drink back.

Eventually, Lily walked away to rescue Remus from a conversation with her sister, leaving James and Sirius alone again.

"Okay, that's enough," Sirius said, snatching James's glass from him. It was almost empty, but he wasn't going to risk it. "We're calling it a night."

"Fine," James said petulantly. He got to his feet, then wobbled.

Sirius put an arm around his waist to steady him and steered them towards the lift. "One foot in front of the other, love."

"I know how to walk," he muttered.

"How comforting. Do you also know how not to drink yourself into a stupor?"

"I'm not that drunk."

"I respectfully disagree."

"Respectfully?" James repeated with a laugh.

"Would you prefer disrespectful disagreement?"

"Sure. It'll make this feel more normal."

"As you wish, love.” Pause. “You're a sodding idiot. I can't believe I'm having to haul your arse around like we're eighteen again."

"It doesn't count as disrespectful if your voice still sounds like that."

"Like what?" Sirius asked.

"Like you love me."

"Use your imagination for that part."

James snorted, and they kept walking. It was slow going, mostly because James was trying to pretend he wasn't as drunk as he was. They made it into the lift, and James leaned heavily against him. "Maybe I did have a bit much."

"Maybe," Sirius agreed.

By the time the doors opened onto their floor, James had turned morose. It's how he always got when he got pissed instead of staying at buzzed, and Sirius was impressed that it had taken him this long to have his mood turn. Not that he'd been particularly happy before.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"What for?"

"That you have to take care of me."

"Don't be, I don't mind."

"You should."

"And why's that?" Sirius asked.

"Because it's-" he paused as he stumbled over his toes "-bloody rotten work."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Not to me," Sirius said.

"It should be. Why would you want to take care of me?"

"Because it's you," Sirius said softly, knowing that James wouldn't remember this well enough come morning to figure out what he meant by it. "Nothing rotten about that, love."

One of these days, James was going to know that when Sirius called him 'love', he meant it exactly as it sounded. It wasn't going to be tonight though, so he kept helping James to their room. They'd done this song and dance too many times for Sirius to feel weird about it. If James needed help getting undressed, he'd help him. He knew how to keep from staring, so he wouldn't feel like he was taking advantage of the situation or summat. He'd get James to drink some water, and in the morning, James would thank him for the help and nothing would change.

It had been years, and nothing had changed between them.

Despite the countless comments they'd gotten today about people saying 'finally' or 'always knew you were together', Sirius knew that the chances of it happening were slim.

*

The rest of their stay at the hotel for the wedding passed without incident. It was the wedding day, and then the day after everyone was leaving. The day of the wedding, people were busy thinking about Lily and Remus, so people stopped commenting on the relationship between James and Sirius. It was a relief, but the sad fact was that all the people here that weren't family, they all knew from Hogwarts. They all knew Sirius and James, and the next time they saw any of them, they'd probably have to explain that they weren't dating anymore. It would be years before Sirius had to have that conversation with anyone, but he was already dreading it.

They packed their bags, checked out of the hotel, and headed home. Home was a flat they shared and had been sharing for the past five years. Sirius dreamt, sometimes, of them moving into a different flat, one that only had one bedroom because what would they need with a second one?

"Did we talk?" James asked, frowning. "When I was drunk?"

"We talked some, but nothing important. Why?"

"I thought... nevermind."

"Okay," Sirius said easily.

There was a minute or two of silence as they walked up the stairs to their flat and unlocked the door. Once the front door was closed, James asked, "Do you think that'll ever be us?"

"What will?"

"The big white wedding. Or- y'know, any wedding."

"I hope so," Sirius said.

"Really?"

"Well yeah." Sirius wasn't terrified of being alone or summat-- well, maybe a little bit-- but he'd like to have that kind of relationship some day. Something with that much trust and being intertwined in each other's lives the way Lily and Remus now were.

When Sirius turned around, James kissed him. Full on. Hands on either side of his face and leaning close like he wanted nothing more than to seep into his soul.

It took a couple days for Sirius to replay the conversation in his head and figure out that what he'd answered hadn't really been what James was asking. His answer was the same, no matter what, but he really hadn't thought that when James asked 'Do you think that'll be us?' he'd meant specifically the two of them together.

He sure as hell wasn't going to complain. 

[prewar-james]

3zun Month, Nielan Week: Hurt/Comfort - Collapse, rated T, 1k

(read on AO3)

Baxia meows from her spot on the couch when Mingjue gets home but doesn't get up, as usual. He always assumed she preferred staying by Xichen's side receiving pets and cuddles to making all the effort of getting up and coming to greet him when he got home, so he is a little hurt that, even with Xichen being nowhere to be seen today, she still stays put.

"Xichen?" he calls as he sets down his things and enters the house properly.

"In here!!" comes the cheery call from the kitchen, and Mingjue immediately knows something is off.

Xichen has a half empty wine glass in hand, Mingjue notices as he comes to the kitchen entrance to greet him with a kiss.

"Hi! Welcome home!"

Mingjue kisses back and tries not to be too worried as he takes in the scene.

"What are you making?"

"Soup! I'm making chicken soup!" Xichen replies, and downs the rest of his wine.

Mingjue presses his lips with concern. Xichen only drinks when he's upset, and he never cooks if he can help it. Something bad happened.

The kitchen doesn't look like a disaster. In fact it looks suspiciously clean, not a single seasoning in sight, just an open pack of frozen chicken breasts, a cutting board and a knife Xichen had apparently used. There’s a cooking pan on the stove top, in which Mingjue discovers some sad little chicken breast pieces floating in the boiling water.

"Do you want to taste it?" Xichen asks. Thankfully, he is too distracted by reaching for a spoon in their cutlery drawer, slightly uncoordinated, to notice how Mingjue's eyes widen with fear and hesitation.

But Mingjue is a good husband, and he does his best not to upset his partner, so he agrees. "... Sure."

Unfortunately, his best isn't enough. Xichen dips the spoon in the water, blows on it a little and brings it to Mingjue's mouth, and he takes a second to think how cute of a scene they must make, before he actually takes it. It tastes... well, like unseasoned boiled chicken breast water, which is to say, absolutely nothing with a hint of bad. Mingjue cringes, but this time Xichen is watching his reaction, and Mingjue sees his excited smile drop off his face like lead, a clearly hurt expression taking its place.

Before he can apologize, though, Xichen spins on his heel and leaves the kitchen. Mingjue curses at himself and hurries after him, but not without turning off the burner under the disastrous pot first.

He finds him curled up on the couch, face pressed to his knees and arms locked around himself. Next to him, Baxia looks from Xichen to Mingjue with a blank stare, but he feels her displeasure anyway, like she is scolding him for hurting her favorite person. Mingjue lifts her and sits in her place, positioning her on his lap with only a weak protest meow.

"A-Chen... What happened?" Mingjue asks softly.

"You hate my food," Xichen mumbles without lifting his head.

Mingjue winces again, this time at himself. "I'm sorry I reacted like that. I don't-- it just needs a little more flavor. We can fix it, if you want."

Xichen shakes his head minutely. "That's not..." he sniffs.

"That's not why you're upset, right? You were drinking." Mingjue continues when Xichen trails off.

There is no need to ask again what happened, Mingjue knows Xichen will tell him if he wants to. All he can do is shuffle closer and put an arm around his shoulders, in a gesture he hopes is comforting enough.

After a few moments, Xichen sighs. "Uncle won't come to the gallery opening next week."

Mingjue frowns. "What? Why?"

"He has a meeting he can't reschedule with international investors, and he is really disappointed I won't be going with him," he quotes in a choked up voice.

"But you painted the new piece for him..."

Mingjue feels his heart tighten when he sees Xichen start to sob, shoulders hunching up and down as he cries into his knees, heartbreakingly silent. He brings Xichen closer until he's curled up against his chest, keeping an arm around him as he cries.

All the anger management in the world wouldn't keep Mingjue's blood from boiling right now. He can't believe that man doesn't realize how much he hurts Xichen by acting like this, with this insistence on a subject that should've been settled years ago. Xichen loves painting, he would be miserable without it, but still Lan Qiren goes out of his way to make his disapproval about his career choice clear whenever he has the chance.

Mingjue tightens his arms around Xichen's figure and tries to not let his anger show when he speaks.

"Do you want me to talk to him?"

He realizes he failed when Xichen abruptly lifts his head and disentangles himself from him, startling even Baxia.

"Oh no, da-ge, I didn't mean to worry you." Xichen visibly attempts to get himself back under control, swallowing back his tears and wiping his cheeks in rapid motions. "You don't have to do anything, please don't, it's fine, I'm fine, see?!" A wobbly, forced smile appears back on his face, and before Mingjue can get a single word out he continues, "I'm gonna get more wine."

Xichen stands up way too fast and immediately collapses back down, barely saved from hitting his head at the arm of the couch by Mingjue's quick reflexes.

"Xichen!"

Baxia jumps from his lap as Mingjue gets up to catch Xichen. He lays him down carefully, worry now clear in his tone.

"How much did you drink?" he asks and kneels beside him.

Xichen frowns up at him, blinking a couple of times before his eyes focus, and shrugs.

"Did you eat anything?"

"I was making dinner."

"... Right. But before that? Have you had anything after lunch?"

Xichen shakes his head. "No, I... I called Uncle right after eating and..." He breaks eye contact and doesn't finish the sentence, tearing up again.

All the exasperation leaves Mingjue, leaving only sadness and worry for his husband. He sighs and grazes the side of Xichen’s face with the back of his fingers, wiping a few of his tears away, and rests their foreheads together when Xichen closes his eyes at the feeling.

"It's okay to be upset, A-Chen. I know he means a lot to you, and the way he's acting is unfair. You don't have to pretend to be fine, okay? Not with me," Mingjue says, softly.

Xichen nods minutely.

For a few moments they remain like that, quietly enjoying the closeness of each other. In the silence, Mingjue thinks about how he's going to make sure Xichen has the most perfect gallery opening event he could possibly want, uncle or no uncle.

"I'm sorry I ruined dinner," Xichen whispers a couple of minutes later in a tone that makes Mingjue's heart ache.

"It's okay," Mingjue reassures him, briefly pressing his lips at his forehead. "Do you want to fix it, or to order something?"

Xichen seems to think it over for a bit. "We could have burgers?"

"Of course." Mingjue smiles at him. "With extra garlic mayo?"

It's like a switch turns in Xichen's gaze, lighting his face up like the sun is shining in their living room despite the late hour. At least this time he sits up more slowly before throwing his arms around Mingjue, now kneeling between his legs.

"Yes!!! Da-ge, I love you so much!!"

Mingjue hugs back, laughing at the sudden change in his mood, but feeling relieved by it. It doesn't fix anything, but the way Xichen gets excited about eating things Lan Qiren would never have allowed in his house brings Mingjue a little peace of mind. They're gonna be alright.

"I love you too."

[sholiofic]

(1/2) I've got a prompt that might be a bit R rated and gory, so I understand if you don't feel like it. SamBucky and Zemo are in a middle of a fight, Zemo gets in a very tight situation and to survive he has to resort to violence too extreme even for him (for example by ripping out his enemies throat with his bare teeth). Sam and Bucky see it happen and, to put it mildly, are deeply fucking concerned. Zemo tries to brush it off with "well you know I'm a bad guy >:3" but inside he is shaken, +

(2/2) + not only by what he had to do, but also by the onslaught memories of what he had to endure during the war in Sokovia in the late 90s. On top of that Sam and Bucky saw him do it, and it bothers him for some reason. So basically three veterans from three different wars dealing with PTSD.

--

Also on AO3: Catalepsis.

--

Zemo was covered in blood when they got to him, leaning with his back against the inner wall of the HYDRA outpost. There were ten guys dead on the floor, at least. He'd rescued himself before they even got there, and every last person in the compound except for Zemo was dead.

It was Winter Soldier stuff, Sam thought, a little dazed. Or Sokovian death-squad stuff, was more like it. It shouldn't have shocked him. He knew Zemo had killed probably about this many guys on the Madripoor docks getting them out.

But ... not like this. That had been fast, with a gun and the element of surprise. These guys had been killed with hand tools and probably bare hands in some cases, and it showed. It really, really showed.

"You're late," Zemo said, straightening. He coughed a little and wiped his hand across his face, leaving painted streaks of lurid red.

Despite all of that, Zemo had himself fully pulled together by the time they reached him, and Sam just found himself staring. Zemo smiled back. There was blood all over Zemo's face and even on his lips and teeth, along with a split lip and a bruise on his cheek.

"You okay?" Sam said at last. "I need to check you over—"

"I'm fine. Oh, stop with the shocked looks. You know what I am," Zemo said, pushing off from the wall. There was a slight wobble, and then he got his footing. "I never lied about that."

Sam traded looks with Bucky, and was a little surprised and maybe a little worried that the former Winter Soldier looked one step away from being freaked out himself. Some of those bodies were fucked up.

---

They set fire to the place on their way out. Sam hated it, but he didn't fight it.

Back at the safehouse, Zemo vanished into the bathroom and was in there for a really long time. The shower ran and ran.

Sam made burgers on the general principle that they all needed to eat, and then regretted it, and regretted it more as the smell of barbecued meat filled the backyard and the interior of the kitchen. He turned off the grill and ditched the charred burger patties in the trash. He turned on the stove instead and put on a pot of water for pasta.

Bucky was sitting against the wall, lightly running his flesh-and-blood hand over the metal one.

"No need to feel sorry for them," he said, and Sam looked around sharply. "They got what was coming to them."

"I don't," Sam lied. On some level he was aware—he was always aware—that everyone they dealt with, everyone they fought, was someone like Karli, someone like Bucky or him, or Zemo: someone who had a different choice at some earlier point in their life and for whatever reason, didn't take it.

The pasta water boiled over. Sam turned off the fire under the pot and after a while he dug into the fridge again, found cheese and sausage, and crackers in the cabinet above the stove. He made a plate out of it.

Zemo was still in the bathroom. Bucky had found Looney Tunes cartoons on the TV and lay down on the couch.

Sam had a definite feeling that a snack tray wasn't going to solve their problems, but he made it anyway, finding some kind of satisfaction in laying out cheese slices. There was a jar of olives and he added those too.

The water upstairs finally shut off, and some time later, Zemo came down. He was wrapped in a robe and shaved, and also pale and tired-looking. The bruise stood out brightly on his cheek, along with the sharp line of his split lip.

"Oh, that's very thoughtful, Sam," Zemo said, with a glance at the cheese plate, and he went straight past it to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a crystal glass half full of something amber-tinted and strong-looking.

"You mind sharing?" Sam said.

Zemo glanced at him, and then poured another and handed it to him. "James?" he said over his shoulder.

"Why the hell not," Bucky said, sitting up on the couch.

Zemo passed drinks around. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and his smile was passing and perfunctory, not touching any other part of his face.

"You want me to look at anything?" Sam asked. "I'll trust that you're fine if you say you're fine. Keep in mind, though." He rolled the hand not holding the whiskey glass, and took a drink. It burned behind his teeth. "Pararescue," he said hoarsely.

"Ah, right. That's your damage, isn't it?" Zemo said. Before Sam could respond to that, Zemo sat on the arm of the couch and pulled the robe down from his shoulder. "I was wondering about this," he said brightly.

Sam knew exactly what was looking at. Electrodes left that kind of burn, and the resulting spasms that kind of bruise, rising to the pale surface.. The spasms could sometimes be hard enough to break bone.

"Mind if I touch it?" he said neutrally.

Zemo simply raised his chin in response. Sam explored with his fingertips, found no worse damage than what showed on the surface, aside from a slight heat that hinted at deeper bruising to come.

"It's not that bad," Sam said. "Put a little heat on it, might help it feel better in the morning." As Zemo twitched up the arm of the robe, Sam added, "We should've gotten you out earlier."

"You're not my keepers."

"No, we kinda are, actually." Bucky's voice was casual, but he was sitting up now. "At least according to the UN and Wakanda."

Zemo said something in what Sam assumed was Sokovian, guttural and soft and fluidly beautiful.

"Sorry, didn't understand that," Sam said.

Zemo looked a little surprised. "I'm sorry, that wasn't English, was it? A passing comment on brothers' keepers, that was all. Not worth repeating."

Sam got up and got the whiskey decanter, and also the cheese plate. He could still smell that barbecue aftertaste of the HYDRA compound, overlaid with all the blood on Zemo as they'd hustled him out of there. And behind that was the memory of finding Riley, years ago—or what was left of him, when they got to him. Different worlds, he thought, different war, but it didn't feel all that different, sometimes. He cracked open the jar of olives and laid the whole thing out on the coffee table.

"We've got like a hundred channels here," he said. "There's gotta be something on other than old cartoons."

"Hey," Bucky protested. He'd switched to the Flintstones. "I haven't seen these."

But it was a token protest. Sam took away the remote and skimmed quickly across the news, a romcom, and some sort of action movie with explosions and car chases, and settled on a cooking show. People making cakes and laughing, dumb escape kind of stuff.

No one objected. Instead, Zemo sat with his back against the couch where Bucky was lying. Bucky drowsed, and even Zemo was half asleep from the look of things, eyes fixed on the television and fingers playing across his mostly-undrunk second glass of whiskey. And after a while, Sam built himself a stack of cheese and sausage and crackers, and even had the appetite to eat it.

[oftenderweapons]

Dry and Tumble - Namjoon

Pairing: Namjoon x Vixen

Wordcount: 1k

Genre: fluff, romance, established relationship, idol!AU

Rating: 18+ (these two are very explicit in their flirting)

Hello everyone! I've been through a rough bit of time and decided to return to my comfort couple for a little. This scenario was inspired by @ironicarmy's Dirty Laundry (you can find the teaser over here). Thank you Lau for introducing such a great concept in my life. I will forever owe you my most delightful drabble. Writing this really brought me extreme joy while I was in a really dark place and I like to believe it was some sort of a gift you sent me haha ✨🥰

Big thanks go to @thejooncrew for beta reading. Bucca, your love for these two has very few rivals 🥰💕

Plot: not much. Just watch Namjoon have an mental breakdown as he finds Vixen bent over the dryer while she's trying to get the laudry out.

Warnings: these two flirt *heavy* (Vixen is wearing just an oversized shirt and Namjoon loves groping her), DDLG dynamics, tolxsmol galore, allusions to voyeurism and recording a uhmmm... mature video (?), biting. Very domestic flirting

Here is my masterlist! Enjoy 💜✨

◖◗ ◯ ◖◗ ◯ ◖◗ ◯ ◖◗ ◯ ◖◗ ◯ ◖◗ ◯ ◖◗

Namjoon stood from his chair, finding it extremely strange that by now you hadn’t yet sneaked into his home studio, curling up on his sofa and mewling obnoxiously until he paid attention to you.

He secretly loved when you acted dramatic and needy, especially because all he needed to do was pat his thighs to have you quiet and cozying up in his arms.

Furtively, he opened the door, suspicious and almost scared of what he would find. It was almost midnight and by now you should already be pestering him for sleepy time and booty rubs.

He started organising the potential scenarios in his head, grading them for increasing level of danger.

Asleep in the bathtub.

Baking biscuits.

His stomach rumbled, his mouth watering. Biscuits and hot chocolate before bed.

He scratched the idea. Too much sugar and you’d be up all night, dashing around the house like a fennec.

Maybe you’d hit the gym?

His eyes rolled close at the thought, a knowing smirk appearing on his face.

Maybe curled up on the sofa, half asleep as you pretended to watch tv. Maybe reading?

The lights in your small studio were off. He walked down the corridor, ready to reach the living room when he spotted a familiar scene in the laundry room.

With an oversized shirt on, you were cutely bent over the dryer, long, naked legs stretched as you stood on your tiptoes, trying to get the last few bits of laundry from the bottom of the machine.

Namjoon grinned and leaned against the door jamb, crossing his arms — already trying to feature the look that always made you go wobbly legged, blushing and babbling. He smiled even brighter when he noticed your tiptoes leaving the floor, your calves tossing a little as you tried to finally reach the piece before trying to regain your balance.

He watched you struggle a little, his feet padding softly across the floor before he licked his lips and purred, “Need any help, little fox?”

You tried to regain your composure as his hands appeared around your waist, your head hitting the lid of the dryer with a hard thud, causing you to whine in pain.

Namjoon chuckled, completely endeared, empathy overwhelming him. “Poor baby,” he cooed, helping you up and wrapping his forearm around your waist while his other hand rubbed your head. “Are you okay, Vixen?”

You were more than okay. You felt only slightly sorry for your clumsiness. What you felt the most was his hard chest against your back and his crotch against your ass. You clamped your lips shut, nodding wordlessly as Namjoon held you closer.

“You should be asleep, babylove,” he kissed the crown of your head, where you knew the bump would be appearing soon. “Why don’t you let me do these things, mh?”

“Because you always forget about them,” you replied, trying to twist in his arms before noticing he was now pinning you harder.

“Leave me a post-it on the door. I promise I’ll take care of it,” Namjoon kissed the sweet spot under your ear. “I don’t want to see my little one upside down into the dryer.”

“Such a sorry view...” you said through a pout.

“Too sorry to make me get ideas,” he teased, pressing his hips against you in a way that let you know he had spoken anything but the truth. “Poor little, helpless fox, upside down, tiny, struggling, stuck in the dryer.”

“Maybe you should put a camera to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” you suggested with fake innocence.

He hummed in appreciation, gripping you harder as an excuse to feel you up. “Sure. A camera. Maybe next time I’ll feel the obliterating need to watch your cute ass appear from there. Accidentally naked...”

“Your back would look so good caught on camera while you’re fucking me,” you purred, letting your thoughts wander.

“Should we get a mirror installed on the bedroom ceiling?” he asked, letting a hand snake under your shirt, palming your thigh heavily until he reached your waist. “I see you’re already half ready.” The arm around your waist grabbed your shirt and tugged it up, until his free hand could comfortably cup your naked mound.

“In my defence, I was digging for my favourite panties,” you said, pouting at him over your shoulder before batting your lashes, swatting at his wrist before dashing for the door. “Shirt off, sir.”

He arched an eyebrow and licked his lip before shaking his head. “Come here.”

“Shirt. Off,” you said before showing him your teeth.

He cackled at the empty threat you were. Feisty but adorably little. He crossed his arms in front of his waist, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt and tugging it up, taking off the garment and throwing it at you.

“Here, Vixen.”

At the sight of his chest, you trotted over happily. “Catch!” You called before stopping in front of him, wrapping your arms around his neck and giving a small skip as you threw your legs around his waist.

“Good girl,” he murmured fondly as he secured your grip, fixing the room quickly as you nibbled his warm skin. “I’m not a snack, Vixen.”

“You’re a whole damn meal. A large one,” you cooed back, still leaving small, harmless bites.

“All yours, babe.”

He carried you straight to the bedroom, making sure you brushed your teeth before getting anywhere close to the bed. He knew the moment you’d get under the covers would be the moment you crashed. Once clean and calm, he allowed you to tuck yourself under the comforter, laying at your side for a minute. “I need to go switch off my equipment, babylove.” He kissed the tip of your nose. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Once he came back, he turned off the lights, taking off his glasses and finding his spot at your side, your limbs adjusting naturally.

“Love you, baby fox.”

“Love you, big bear.”

He smiled and cuddled in closer.

[kuredono]

when the clock strikes midnight | Sukuna x gn!Reader

TW: mentions of being sick, fainting, hands on neck but not strangulation?

“Yuuji!” You scream as your boyfriend finally loses consciousness. 

Sukuna isn’t surprised, in fact the damn brat had actually exceeded his expectations and lasted longer than he thought, though it meant that he was in terrible shape. Well, he’ll get healed up later by that girl anyway, so Sukuna just sat back and watched as you defended his vessel from being eaten by the curse. It was a nasty curse, a particularly tenacious vengeful cursed spirit that appeared to learn their moves the more they performed it. You had caught on this pretty quickly, and figured out that it was a new curse only just starting to learn its capabilities, and you were its test dummies. Not that Sukuna cares, but it would mean bad news if it escaped with all the knowledge it has just accumulated. Not that you would let it. 

Sukuna’s smirk grew as he saw that switch flick in your head, your gears changing from calculated moves and intelligence to pure strength and instinct, your eyes seeming to glaze over. He loved it when that happened.

 Since you entered his vessel’s life, he rarely had to raise a finger because you would always finish the job for him and often stopped his vessel from nearly killing himself. He still took over if and when he felt like it (if Yuuji wasn’t actively suppressing him), and had spoken to you more than a few times. Yuuji would let his guard down when he was tired or sleeping, which was the perfect time for him to talk to you, especially since you stayed up late the majority of nights in a week. 

You were interesting. He wanted to know how you were so strong, but you never gave him the answers he wanted. You were usually studying, and he often heard the line ‘if you aren’t here to help me study then please be quiet.’ with a heavy sigh, though you always used polite language when speaking to him. Some nights if he was especially stubborn, he would manage to annoy you enough to have a proper conversation with you, but you were just as stubborn as him when it came to hiding your secrets. You never told your boyfriend about any of your conversations though. Sukuna had considered exposing you to his vessel, but then he probably would never get to speak with you again.  

Just as Sukuna had predicted, you dealt with the curse. He almost moved from his throne when you had stumbled over your own feet for crying out loud and nearly lost an arm, and probably your life if you didn’t react as quickly as you did after catching your footing. Sukuna had overheard you throwing up yesterday evening, but he didn’t say anything. Why would he? You insisted it was just exhaustion from doing back to back missions and went to bed, flopping next to Sukuna and promptly going to the land of nod before he could tell you he didn’t care. 

Currently you were laying on your back, hand clasping the front of your shirt while gasping for air after finally exorcising the curse. After a minute of catching your breath back, you hauled yourself up, knuckles kneading your temples. 

“Ugh... Let’s get you to Ieiri.” You sighed as you looked over at your boyfriend’s body. You shuffled over and ripped up your camisole under your shirt to make bandages to wrap around his head while calling Ijichi requesting a lift to the HQ. You looked beyond exhausted and your cheek was fast blooming into a bruise from when the curse has backhanded you. Ride home confirmed, you let your head hang lowly with a heavy exhale. “I just want to go home.”

After a visit to Ieiri, resulting with the vessel regaining consciousness and fussing over your vast collection of small injuries, nearly 4 hours later, you both arrived home. Sukuna’s vessel was still exhausted and you both had a simple soup which you had the foresight to make last week in anticipation of this week being busy (you somehow could always sense when you were both going to be busy and prepared in advance). Yuuji had wanted to stay up and wait for you to finish your nighttime routine, and he put up a good fight, but lost as fell asleep before getting to wrap you up in his arms. 

When Sukuna decided it was safe to switch, he opened his eyes to an empty bedroom, a line of light coming from under the bathroom door where he could hear your strangled sobs and gags. He waited. There was a flush, the sink running, then a gruesome thud. The tap continued running. He waited. You weren't moving. Heaving a sigh, Sukuna rolled out of bed, carpet soft under his feet as he stopped in front of the bathroom. He kicked the door open with his foot, the door stopping as it hit a hand laying on the floor. Stepping in, Sukuna found you laying on the cold tiled floor.

“Human, wake up.” Sukuna nudged your limp body with his foot. Thankfully your eyes fluttered open.

“Huh?” You asked dumbly, watery eyes clouded with sickness, “How did I get here?”

“You passed out. Now get up.”

“I can’t move.”

“Why not?”

“Everything is broken.” You huffed, voice wobbling dangerously, “I feel really wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“I don’t know. Something’s wrong with me,” You stifled a sob, Sukuna rolling his eyes.

“Only now you realise? There are many things wrong with you dumb creature.”

“Sorry...” You rolled your head to the side as your lip quivered, “You’re such an asshole Sukuna.” You hiccuped, tears now falling which only increased Sukuna’s urge to kill you. He hated weak creatures. “Am I dying?”

“No you’re sick. But I might kill you if you don’t stop crying.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to die. Can't stop crying.” You wailed.

“You really have a death wish don’t you?”

Sukuna had enough and straddled your unmoving form, wrapping his hands around your neck, but not squeezing just yet. You looked so small in his hands, and now he was close enough, he could feel heat radiating from your frail body.

You bit your bottom lip and sniffled like a child, eyebrows knitting together. “I’ll beat you first.”

“Oh is that so? Not if I kill you here and now.”

“That’s cheating, I told you I can’t move. What’s the fun of killing something that doesn’t move?”

Sukuna’s brows raised as you pouted, serious in what you said. He whipped his head back in hearty laughter, “Oh you know don’t you?”

“I don’t, I just thought you might spare me if I said that because it seems like something you would say.” You were exceptionally chatty tonight, and refreshingly honest with your reactions, though you still kept the polite language. “Can you get off me, I can't breathe and it hurts. I’ll fight you in earnest if you get off me.”

“Will you now?”

“I can try my best King of Curses.” You smirked, though it looked strange when you had fresh tear tracks on your cheeks which were flushed a deep red. This was certainly amusing.

“Fine then. Show me your true self Y/N L/N!” Sukuna strode back to the bedroom, waiting for you to follow. He watched as you shuffled out the bathroom after him, eyes almost shut as you leaned on the doorframe, cursed energy surrounding you and swelling. “That’s more like it- ?!” 

Sukuna rushed forwards as your body slumped forwards, a deadweight in Sukuna’s arms.

“S’kuna, can’t see. Sorry. Feel wrong.” You slurred. 

Sukuna easily picked you up and unceremoniously dropped you on your shared bed, “If it’s not one brat dying, it’s the other...”

“Sorry.” You huffed, lifting your hand in front of you and slowly closing your hand into a fist, “Fight me...”

“You can’t even stand up.”

“Can too.”

You began to wiggle your arms under yourself to lift yourself up until Sukuna growled, “Don’t you dare.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Sukuna growled.

“Sorry...”

Sukuna pinched your cheeks painfully between his fingers, amused as you squirmed in his grip, whining about your bruised cheek, “Apologise one more time and I will rip your little mouth off.”

“No! Don’ do dat! How else am I s’posed to talk to you o’der’wise?” You cried out.

“Hah? That’s what you’re worried about?”

“I like talkin’ to you a’ night. E’en if you are a jerk sometimes.” Sukuna squeezed your cheeks tightly for a second before releasing you. You grabbed onto his wrist before he could walk away and lightly kissed the back of his hand, “Thank you.”

Sukuna snatched his hand out of your grip, “What do you think you’re doing?” He snarled.

“You said I can’t apologise. And I’m thankful to you.

“Stupid human...” 

It was silent for a moment as Sukuna glared at your panting form, sweat rolling down your temples. He wet a towel and slapped it on your face, startling you out your probably delirious thoughts. He then went to get you a glass of water when he heard another heavy thump from the bedroom. He growled to himself as he swore he really would kill you. Just as he anticipated, you were collapsed in a heap next to the bed, one hand gripping the bedside table and the other squeezing your temples like a lemon. 

“I should leave you to die seeing as you’re so keen.”

“Where’d you go?” You panted helplessly, unseeing eyes briefly scanning around the room, cursed energy flickering around you, before you gave up and hung your head in defeat.

With a sigh, Sukuna set the glass of water on the bedside table and hoisted you back onto the bed.

“Just lie down and go to sleep, idiot.” He sighed, putting the wet towel back on your forehead. You were really in a terrible state, he couldn’t deny it anymore. 

Just as Sukuna moved to go back on his side of the bed, your hand gently caught his wrist.

“Are you going now?”

“I was going to lay down. I’m tired from making sure you don’t die.”

You interlaced your fingers with his, “Oh okay. Thank you.”

“Let me go, I want to lay down.” You wordlessly released his hand, albeit hesitantly. But the moment he crashed next to you on the bed, you clung to his arm and began to trace the marks across his chest.

“What are you doing?”

“Thank you for the towel.” You hummed quietly. A smirk grew on Sukuna’s lips, leaning over and caging you between his arms, closing the space between your faces,

“If you wanted to thank me, you should’ve just-” Sukuna found his lips pressed to the back of your hands as you covered your lips. “Hah..?”

“You’ll get sick.”

“I’m the King of Curses.”

“In a human vessel susceptible to illness.”

Sukuna glared at you but couldn’t for long with you looking up at him with big innocent eyes. Your hands moved from your lips to Sukuna’s face, cupping his cheeks and tracing his marks with your thumbs.

“Thank you.”

Neither of you spoke for a while, Sukuna paralysed in place as you gradually weaved your hands into his hair, gently carding your hands through, watching intensely as your eyes watched him lovingly through the growing sleepy haze.

“Thank y-”

“Shut up and go to sleep.” Sukuna finally moved away and lay down next to you. He had expected you to say something, so looked over, only to find you asleep. You did listen to him. He stretched his arm over to rest the back of his hand on your cheek, freezing as you placed your hand on top.

“Love you.” You murmured into his fingers, rolling over to face him, the wet towel falling onto the pillow.

Sukuna rolled closer to you and put the towel back on your forehead before snaking an arm over your waist and pulling you closer to him. If he was going to be stuck sharing this body, he might as well enjoy the perks it came with. 

(If anyone asked though, it was because that brat Itadori would usually sleep holding you in his arms, so if he did the same, Itadori wouldn’t suspect a thing when he switches back and wakes up.)