#and his dumb teeth and his stupid laugh and his FUCKING cheekbones

[mirror-is-distured]

Can't wait

PISSFIC WARNING!!!

NSFW MDNI!!!

Rain had been squirming around on stage all night, desperately trying to hide the way his tight pants pressed against his abdomen. Swiss hadn't let him go all day and it was just too much. The second the ritual ended he was scrambling off to find a restroom. Fuck this venue for having such a confusing backstage. He collapsed to the floor in a random hallway, his shakey hands rushing to cover his crotch. "Fuck..." he cursed to himself, a small dark spot forming on his pants. "Fuckfuckfuck" he watched the dark spot grow and form a small puddle on the floor. "Shit... i cant go on the bus like this.." he rushed to tie his cape around his waist. He looked so pathetic like this, kneeling on the cold concrete, panicking and trembling. Just then, Swiss rounded the corner, whistling some bullshit song. Rain froze, slowly turning his head to meet the multi ghouls gaze.

"Rain? Are you ok?" His lilting voice echoed around the bland hallway, funneling into rains ears and straight to his cock. "Y-yeah im fine swiss, g-go away." Rain muttered, he sounded more agressive than he meant too. Swiss stepped forward, cooking his head.

"Are you sure? Looks like you've got a little issue there." He gestured to the puddle under rain.

"Swiss dont... dont look at me" rain whimpered, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Swiss walked over to tower infront of the whining ghoul.

"Poor baby, made a mess of himself.. couldnt hold it?"

"Fuck you.. leave me alone" rains head dropped to his chest, tears rolling down his flushed cheeks

"Oh but i like seeing you like this, all soaked.. you wanted me to see you like this" he purred, grabbing rains face and pulling it up to meet his eyes.

"You were just begging to get all wet."

"I hate you." Rain growled through his teeth.

"No you dont, you love it when i treat you like this" swiss was fucking laughing at him. It was so humiliating but so... nice.

"Look at you, you're fucking hard right now. so pathetic."

Rain whimpered at the name, he knew it was true, but it didn't stop swiss's words from sticking in his brain. "Stand up." Swiss's voice was so eerily calm yet so commanding. Rain rose to his feet, his wet pants rubbing against his cock felt so good it was dizzying. "Such a good boy~" swiss cooed against rains ear, gently grazing it with razor sharp fangs. "Tell me what you want." Swiss slotted his thigh between rains, feeling the way rains cock twitched at every movement.

"I-i dont know... please i just need to c-cum" rain slowly started grinding against swiss thigh. "So stupid, you can't even think straight." The taller ghoul groaned.

Rain sobbed, ruting against the swiss's leg, precum dripping through his already soaked jeans. "You're such a good little whore for me. You wanna cum on my thigh like a dumb puppy?"

Rain nodded, frantically trying to get himself off. His high pitched moans bounced off the walls, he was sure everyone could hear him but his mind was too clouded to care. He threw his head forward into the crook of swiss's neck, sobbing into the crisp pressed linen. Swiss's hands roamed over rains chest, trailing down and under his shirt. "Swiss please..." rains voice broke.

"Thats now how you ask and you know it. Do it correctly or you'll be dry for the rest of the tour."

"Please... sir.." rain cried out into swiss's shoulder. "Thats it, good boy~" swiss traced his claws over rains nipples, sending shivvers down his spine. "S'close.."

"Take what you need pretty boy." Swiss rolled one of rains nipples between his fingers. Rain whimpered and rutted faster against his leg, gripping the collar of his shirt between his teeth. Copia was going to kill them for ruining the brand new uniforms so quickly.

"G-gonna-" his breath hitched and his whole body shook. Cum leaked through his tight pants, dribbling down onto swiss's thigh. "Such a pretty puppy... i should show you off like this to everyone" swiss growled, kissing over rains cheekbones. "You would love that, wouldnt you?" Rain nodded. "We should go get on the bus, everyone is waiting." He grabbed rains shakey hand, pulling him down the hall.

"Oh yeah, copia said were sharing a room at the hotel"

[childeaether]

new religion.

cw: 18+ only, scaramouche/f!reader, religious themes, god kink, heavy (?) degradation

wc: 1.3k

“c’mon baby,” scaramouche purred, gently sinking his teeth into your collarbone, “i’m being sweet, don’t you like it when i’m sweet?”

you whimpered and tightened your grip on his hair. he had been in a weird mood all night. he’d come home angry about god knows what, probably some fatui bullshit. you’d decided to give him his space, but here he was, pinning your hips against the wall as he lightly nipped at your neck.

“what’s gotten into you?” you murmured. he didn’t respond, only bit harder into the crook of your neck. you tugged on his hair, bringing him up into a kiss. it was surprisingly rough, considering how gentle he had been before. but it always got rough with scaramouche. he moved the hand holding your right hip to settle between your legs, pulling your skirt up and thumbing your clit over your panties.

you moaned against his mouth and lightly bucked your hips against his hand. “yeah, that’s what i thought,” he hissed, and bit hard into your bottom lip. you whimpered and pushed against his shoulders.

“hey,” you said as you pulled away, “what happened to being sweet?”

he grinned and pressed his forehead against yours. “i am being sweet. look,” he circled his thumb, “i’m even touching you.”

you whined, desperately trying to grind your hips further, but he pressed you back against the wall. “greedy slut,” he growled. he shoved his knee between your thighs and you felt yourself throb. “what, are you gonna use my thigh to get off now?”

“scaramouche-”

“jesus, you’d ride my boot if i told you too.”

you whimpered and lightly pulled at his hair. “please,” you whispered. he smirked.

“begging already?” he said. “good girl. guess i’ve got you pretty well trained.” then, he slid his hands under your shirt, gently grazing his fingertips against your nipples. your breath hitched and he grinned down at you.

“such pretty tits,” he whispered, and pinched a nipple between his thumb and index finger. you bit your lip to muffle your yelp of surprise. “and so sensitive, too. i love it.”

“it hurts,” you whined.

“aww, poor baby,” he mocked, “don’t give me that shit. your panties are fucking soaked.”

he leaned forward to catch your lips in another hot, rough kiss. it felt less like a kiss and more like he was trying to swallow you whole. you let out a frustrated groan. “just fuck me already!”

he pulled away and you felt your heart skip a beat. he was looking at you calmly, but you could see the fury in his eyes. you knew you were in trouble.

“you’re gonna order me around?” he hissed. a shiver ran down your spine. “you really are a dumb slut.”

his hand was around your throat in a second, squeezing in all the right places and forcing your head against the wall. you tried to gasp and found your airflow was blocked. your nails instinctually dug into his shoulders.

he yanked your panties down. “you wanna get fucked that bad?” he snarled, and you winced as he forced two fingers into you. “then fuck yourself on my fingers.”

you blanked at the thought.

he wanted you to ride his fingers.

while he choked you.

“christ, you're clenching,” he said. “go on. do it.” he must have really been feeling sweet, because he lightened his grip enough to allow you some air. the thought of him controlling even your air supply made your heart flutter.

he glared down at you. he leaned forward and you shivered at the feeling of his warm breath hitting your ear. “i said, fuck yourself on my fingers.”

and just like that, your hips were moving. slowly bouncing up and down around the three fingers inside you. you could feel your insides stretching to accommodate the rings on his fingers.

he bit his lip as he watched his fingers move in and out of you. “fuck,” he whispered, “look at you. good girl.”

he tightened his grip around your throat and you whined, picking up the pace. he curled his fingers to hit your sweet spot and your back arched, pushing yourself further onto his hand. “so fucking desperate. i knew you were a whore, but this is low, baby.”

all you could do was whine and writhe in his hold.

“you’re so desperate you’re riding my fingers,” he said, now thrusting his fingers in time with your hips. “this is just pathetic.”

he loosened his grip and you gasped for air, a high pitched whine escaping your throat. “please,” you cried, desperately bouncing up and down his fingers.

“what’s the matter, baby?” he said mockingly. “what do you want?”

you moaned and thrust your hips faster.

he gave you a firm look. “use your words, slut.” again, his fingers curled against your g-spot.

you gasped and grabbed his shoulders, digging your nails into his flesh. “please, let me cum, scaramouche,” you cried out. he thrust his fingers harder; you were starting to see stars.

“please, sir, please let me cum,” you babbled, your hands now coming up to tug at his hair. he suddenly paused. you whimpered at the loss of stimulation and forcefully ground your hips against him.

“pleasepleaseplease-”

“call me god.”

it was your turn to pause.

“what?”

his eyes met yours. “call me god,” he repeated.

you frowned. “scaramouche,” you groaned. “why can’t you be normal? like, make me call you daddy, or something. not god.”

an amused smile graced his features. “oh, baby. is that what you think i am to you?” he chuckled. “your daddy?”

your knees were weak.

he leaned closer to press his lips against your collarbone. “c’mon, you’re not that stupid. you know this is more than that.” he bit your shoulder surprisingly gently. “you think you’re my little princess? and i’m, what, your fucking daddy?”

he shook his head as he laughed. “no, baby. you worship me. you beg me to touch you. you beg for my cock. you beg for my fucking fingers,” he said, and thrust harshly into you. you couldn’t hold back the cry that left your throat.

“i am your god. and you’re not my sweet, precious little babygirl,” he hissed, “you’re my slut.”

your cunt throbbed almostly violently as soon as the word left his lips. judging by the look he gave you, he could feel it.

he removed his fingers one by one and you nearly sobbed at the loss. but then, he returned his thumb to your clit, and any capability of thought of anything else was gone. he rubbed slow, torturous circles against you. an embarrassing sound left your throat.

“don’t worry, baby, you don’t have to call me god,” he whispered. “i can do this for hours. you don’t have to cum tonight.”

your eyes widened. he would. he wouldn’t stop for hours.

“please,” you begged softly.

he looked at you with a hunger you’d never seen in him before. “please what?”

and in that moment, you knew he was right.

“please god,” you breathed, “please let me cum.”

his eyes were sparkling. “such a good girl.” with that, he shoved his fingers back into your cunt, continuing to thumb your clit at a maddening pace.

“yes!” you cried. “yes, oh god.”

his middle finger was fucking into your g-spot over and over and over again. “that’s right,” he growled, “cum for me, slut. cum all over my fucking fingers.”

you felt tears stream down your face as he sped up his administrations on your clit, and then curled his fingers, and thrust in and out and-

“oh, fuck, yes- oh, thank you,” you cried, riding out your orgasm against his palm. “thank you, god, thank you-”

you were cut off by his lips against yours, sucking at biting at your lower lip as he lazily continued to thrust his fingers into you. you could barely think.

he smiled against your lips before pulling away to see how fucked out you looked. “so pretty,” he whispered, “so good for me.”

he raised his hand to cup your cheek and you instinctively leaned into the touch. he stroked your cheekbone with his thumb. your heart swelled in your chest.

“now,” he said, “on your knees. you’ve got some worshipping to do.”

[sgtjbbhasmyheart]

Drunk Texting Is(n’t) Bad for Your Health- Chapter Four

Series Summary: Talk about your unconventional meet-cute! Bucky receives a text by mistake requesting he prove he's not Reader's sister. The easy dialogue between Reader and Bucky sparks a natural friendship, but could it lead to more? Bucky still deems himself unworthy of any form of affection or love. Reader is hellbent to prove him wrong. With the help of some (meddling) friends along the way, Bucky may get his happily-ever-after after all.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2960

Warnings: Itsy bitsy amount of angst, bad language words, mentions of phone sex and masturbation

A/N: divider credit- @firefly-graphics

DO NOT copy or replicate without my permission

“James?”

You held your breath after you uttered the name into the phone’s speaker. Your heart galloped at the thought of actually speaking to him. You’d be lying if you had said you hadn’t imagined how his voice sounded. You pictured something deep and raspy but drawled and sweet.

In the last five days, you’d imagined many things about James. Not just the sound of his voice, but his laugh, too. Rich and soothing. And of his scent- distinctly his own or a fresh, citrusy cologne of bergamot and tangerines. You imagined his rough, calloused hands sliding over your skin in slow motion.

And how he kissed. You daydreamed about that, too. Often. You couldn’t count how many times you’d stared at his sorry excuse for a selfie. You found yourself drawn to it daily. It was only part of his face, but what you could see was ruggedly handsome. His lips looked soft and delectable. You pictured yourself nibbling on his bottom lip, deepening its color to blush pink.

A sharp sigh escaped through your nose as you waited for his reply. Maybe he hadn’t heard you the first time? “James?” you asked again. “Hello?”

No response.

You pulled the phone away from your ear to make sure you were still connected. The call-time counter ticked ominously second by second on the screen. You tucked the device back under your hair to find the call was still active.

Did he get cold feet and change his mind last minute? He hadn’t hung up yet, so you weren’t exactly sure why he was waiting. Maybe he was tongue-tied? Or hadn’t expected you to pick up?

“Did you butt-dial me, James?” you laughed, trying to dispel some of your anxiety.

You heard a muffled “ shit” and two beeps. You glanced at the phone’s screen again, and call ended flashed in bold white.

Ignoring the hang-up, you immediately re-dialed James. The line rang and rang. And rang.

You weren’t confident you were going to speak with James, the longer the rings continued. He wasn’t ready to talk to you yet, and that was okay. It had only been five days.

Five days wasn’t long enough to build a bond over stupid Would You Rather? questions or form a simmering crush on a stranger that made your stomach flip whenever he sent you a funny cat meme. Nope. Five days was much too short of time for anything.

A generic voicemail greeting clicked over and rudely beeped at you. You took a deep breath and quickly thought of a reason to be calling someone who didn’t want to talk. “Hey, James. Just calling you back. It’s (Y/N), by the way. I’m not sure if you meant to call the first time or if sneaky ninjas have accosted you and somehow did a crazy pocket dial. Y’know, because of the whole military-trained assassin athlete mchottie thing. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. And no pressure! If you’re not comfortable talking on the phone, I completely understand. I’m sweating bullets just talking to your voicemail box.” You chuckled nervously. You were starting to babble.

“Anyway,” you continued. “I hope you’re well. And don’t leave me hangin’. I really wanna know if you’d rather sneeze every hour or burp when you saw a pretty girl.” You laughed again. “Goodbye, James.”

You mashed the end call button and face-planted into one of the throw pillows on your couch. You groaned loudly into the fabric, chastising yourself in your head. If he didn’t want to talk before, he most definitely wouldn’t want to now. You shook your head in disbelief. Sneaky ninjas, seriously? What. The. Fuck?

Hours later, while in the middle of a Say Yes to the Dress marathon (dammit Robyn!) and a self-induced diabetic coma of ice cream and chips, your phone vibrated. You swat at it on the coffee table with a foot, only to realize you lack the limberness or the dexterity in your toes to retrieve the phone. As a result, it tumbled to the ground as you groaned in displeasure. Cursing your luck, you bent forward to pick it up. Awakening the phone’s black screen, a text popped into view.

James Sorry

Your heart lurched for a moment. With every second that had passed since you’d left your voicemail for James, the least likely you’d felt he’d call back or even respond. Hence the pity party with Ben & Jerry and Cool Ranch Doritos.

James My so-called “friends” grabbed my phone from me and led to accidentally calling you.

Ahh, the old “invade-your-friend’s-privacy” maneuver, you thought, shaking your head.

James I didn’t want to hang up on you, but I’m not quite ready to talk yet. I like what we have.

Your heart flopped. You liked what you had, too, but a small part of you- a dumb part- wanted just a little more.

Shaking off the feeling of longing churning your insides, you thumbed over the screen to reply.

You No worries, James. We can go at whatever speed you like.

It was weird to have the guy, for once, want to take things slow. Usually, it was always you pumping the brakes in the relationship. Was this even a relationship, though? Were all the texting and personal questions leading somewhere? Or were you bound to end up friends with an interesting story to tell your other friends?

Not allowing your negative thoughts to curtail the joy of finally texting James again, you quickly punched out:

You I’m just glad you’re okay and not being held for ransom somewhere.

James It would take a whole horde of ninjas to take me down.

You giggled at the confidence contained in this one text, but talking to a girl on the phone threw him for a loop. We are definitely back in junior high, you thought.

You You sound awfully confident for a man who wouldn’t talk to a friend on the phone.

James You don’t want to talk to me.

You pinched your eyebrows together in frustration to form a crease between them. Was he serious?

You Sure, I do. I have a bet going with myself on how your voice sounds. Is it deep and masculine or high-pitched like you sucked in helium?

James Which are you betting on?

You pulled your bottom lip in by your teeth, biting softly. You smirked as you thought of the two options. The former would be nice, but the latter would be pretty damn funny.

You I mean, deep and masculine is very desirable. Listening to the low timbre of a man’s voice is very relaxing for me. But, considering the ridiculous “selfie” you sent me, I’m placing my money on high-pitched.

James What was wrong with my selfie?!

Somehow, you knew that would get him worked up.

You Well, for starters: I can only see, like, part of your face! Did a blind person teach you how to take them??

You And secondly, there clearly wasn’t enough “Blue Steel.” With cheekbones and pouty lips like yours and a chiseled jaw, I’d be blue-steeling the shit out of all my selfies!

A wave of remorse washed over you once you hit send. Had you really compared him to Zoolander? Not only had you objectified him by mentioning how aesthetically pleasing he was (let’s face it- he’s really, really, really ridiculously good looking), but you may have criticized him for his terrible selfie abilities. At that moment, as you waited for the inevitable “fuck off” text to come through, you wished for a giant sinkhole to appear under your apartment and swallow you whole. What were you thinking?

James First off, I’m a selfie amateur. My past line of work limited my contact and/or exposure to the outside world. I didn’t learn what a selfie even was until recently. Remember, I’m also a man of mystery. I’m trying to keep up appearances and can’t reveal too much.

James What is “Blue Steel”? I’m not very pop-culture savvy unless it happened before 1944.

James Did you just call me pretty??

Your cheeks flushed with the heat of a thousand suns. He called you out as you expected him to do.

You Uh...

You Are we gonna talk about the fact you said you didn’t know about pop culture after 1944?? You are a grandpa!

James Nice try with the subject change! Admit it- you think I’m pretty.

You rolled your eyes. Of course, that would be the thing he focused on out of the whole conversation.

You I have no idea what you’re talking about.

If all else fails--deny, deny, deny.

James Right. Sure about that, doll?

Your pulse spiked.

You never did like pet names before you met James, but doll had a goo-ing effect on you for some reason. Everything seemed to turn to mush whenever he mentioned the word.

You Absolutely. I have no reason to believe that if you weren’t a military-trained assassin athlete mchottie, you’d be a male model. None what-so-ever.

James Uh-huh. I’m going to pretend that you aren’t lying through your teeth and getting back to our scintillating game of Would You Rather?

James I’d burp every time I saw a pretty dame, by the way. I wouldn’t want to take my chances with sneezing in my sleep. Would you rather eat only fruits or vegetables for one year?

Several nights after the voicemail incident, you were sitting in Penelope with Robyn after work. She wanted to meet up to decide which centerpieces worked best for the reception. Scattered across the table were three samples she and Kevin had narrowed it down to. With your thumb, while playing with a corner of the hand-drawn example closest to you, a sigh escaped your nose.

Your sister’s talent mesmerized you. Each storyboard showed the intricate detail of the flowers and candles themselves and what the tables would look like next to each other with every centerpiece. You were in awe.

“These are so good, Robbie! They must have taken forever to put together,” you said, admiring a different sample on the table.

“Nah,” she replied, brushing the compliment aside. “Just an afternoon’s time last week.”

“Well, shit. I hope they’re paying you the big bucks at work.”

She quirked an eyebrow devilishly as she reached for her drink. “You know it,” she jested before taking a sip.

You laughed at her cheekiness. Robyn had always been a go-getter. One of the many attributes you loved about her. Never took no for an answer.

“Soooo,” she drawled as she set her glass down. “How have you been?”

You looked up swiftly, eyeing her suspiciously before returning your gaze to the storyboard in your hands. “I’m still alive if that’s what you’re asking.” You set the drawing down to take a drink from your glass. “Haven’t been murdered yet, but the night is still young.”

Robyn rolled her eyes at your petulance. “You know I worry about you. Are you still texting James?”

You smiled sweetly. “Each day that goes by, you act more and more like Mom. You know that?”

Robyn scoffed. “I do not!”

She could deny it all she wanted, but Robyn was turning into the spitting image of your mother. You laughed again. “You do too. Even down to the eye roll.”

She folded her arms over her chest, waiting for you to answer her question.

Two could play this game.

You wiped the corner of your mouth with your napkin unhurriedly. “If you must know, yes, James and I are still texting.”

“Has he sent any dick pics or asked for nudes?” Robyn asked earnestly.

“Yup. We engage in wildly pornographic phone sex every night.”

Robyn glanced around the restaurant with eyes wide as saucers, making sure none of the other patrons heard you. “(Y/N), I’m serious! Has he propositioned you?”

You huffed a small laugh. “Nope,” you admitted. “In fact, he’s the one that wants to take things slow. He accidentally called me the other day and hung up from jitters.” Robyn didn’t need to know the full truth.

“The jitters?” Robyn queried.

“Yeah. I even called him back, but he let it go to voicemail.”

“Then, he must be weird or ugly.”

You grimaced at her assumption. “Ew, Robbie. Don’t be gross,” you chastised. “He’s the opposite of ugly. I might even go as far as to call him handsome.”

“How? You don’t know what he looks like,” Robyn questioned.

You took a quick sip of your drink, holding up a finger. “Au, contraire mon frère. He sent me a selfie in the very beginning.”

Robyn looked at you, perplexed. “You know you just called me your brother, right?”

You waved a hand at her to dismiss her accusation. “Ma soeur just doesn’t have the same ring to it.” You pulled your phone out to offer proof.

“You can barely see his face!” she exclaimed. “What if he’s horribly disfigured on the other side? Or missing an arm?”

You shrugged. “Then, he’s missing an arm.” You got a distant look in your eyes as you recalled the last ten days of texting with James. “He’s different, Robbie. He’s smart and funny and caring. Polite. It feels like he has an old soul. He calls me doll for chrissakes!”

“Are you sure he isn’t some crusty, old man?” Robyn gagged at the thought.

“No, I don’t,” you chuckled in response. The faraway look returned after a moment. “To me, he’s just James.”

Realization dawned on Robyn’s face, lighting her up like a light bulb. “Oh, my god. You like him.”

“Well, yeah,” you acknowledged, “he’s my friend.”

“No. You like him like him.”

Your face reddened quickly with the awareness of your feelings. They weren’t real, were they? Shaking your head, you replied, ”Nothing will happen, Robbie. It’s just a crush.”

Skeptically, she agreed, “Uh-huh.”

“What?”

“I believe that as much as I welcome a cold sore on my wedding day.” She scrunched her nose at the thought of a gross, red blemish on her face for her big day.

“Fine,” you acquiesced. “If I fall head over heels, madly in love with James by your wedding day, I’ll owe you a hundred bucks.”

Robyn raised a sculpted brow in interest. “I’m listening.”

“One hundred dollars. End of negotiation,” you stated. “I don’t have a spare hundred bucks, so it will be a motivator not to fall for James. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

She smiled smugly, shaking her head in disbelief. “Uh-huh.”

“Will you stop saying that?” you said, throwing a piece of lettuce at her face. “You definitely sound like Mom.”

Robyn huffed in annoyance, back-handing your shoulder softly. “Shuddup! I do not!”

You chortled heartily at the mini tantrum she was throwing about becoming Mom. You’d say anything at this point to get her to forget about you and James.

In all honesty, there was no you and James. Not really. You were friends, but could you move past that?

He was hiding something.

Something big.

And it wasn’t part of the whole “man of mystery” persona, either. James was holding back.

He had a hard time giving up anything personal to you that went beyond his likes and dislikes, which led you to believe he had found it difficult to trust.

It angered you deeply without really knowing why. Something in his past had sparked the inability. You only wish you knew what.

Deep down, you could really see yourself falling for James, and that scared you to death.

Breaking you from your reverie, Robyn piped up, “You know, James is probably jerking off to your voicemail.”

“Oh, absolutely!” you retorted, both of you dissolving into a giggling fit.

After leaving Robyn with a clear choice for centerpieces, you made your way back home. After a fifty-minute subway ride, you popped into the corner bodega for some essentials for the coming week.

Sauntering up the stairs to your third-floor walk-up, you steadied your armful of groceries with each step. It had been a long week, and now with the revelation of how you felt about James clouding your mind, a glass of wine, ice cream, and a bubble bath sounded good right about now.

You could barely see over the bags and juggled them precariously. As you stepped onto your floor, you recognized the voice of your next-door neighbor down the hall. He was talking with someone, but you couldn’t tell with whom or what about.

Blindly, you called out, “Hey, Peter? Can you be a lifesaver and help a neighbor out?” You heard the scuffle of footsteps over tile rush toward you.

Sighing in relief, you relinquished two bags to the arms reaching out. “Thanks, Pete! You’re a pe-”

You stopped mid-sentence when your view was finally cleared. Your sixteen-year-old neighbor wasn’t standing before you but a tall man with chestnut hair tied in a knot. Your lips parted slightly as your eyes widened to take in the figure’s full breadth holding your groceries.

Your eyes flicked to Peter as everything came back to focus. He was adjusting your other two bags in his arms.

“Miss (Y/L/N), this is Mr. Barnes from my Stark internship. He’s a friend. He was helping me with some history homework,” Peter explained, gesturing to the hulking man standing outside your apartment door.

“Peter,” you admonished, “how many times-” Last names weren’t meant to be spoken by friends slash neighbors.

Peter winced. “Right! Sorry, (Y/N)!” he apologized. “This is Bucky.”

Recognition crossed your face at the name. Smiling, you stuck out your hand in front of you. “Bucky Barnes, it’s nice to meet you.”

Bucky shifted one of your bags in his arms to reach out his hand. He smiled softly, “ Li-likewise.”  

Chapter Three | Chapter Five

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[peterprkrsbtch]

sapphire - part 1

Peter Parker x reader

A/N: This is some type of wish fulfillment writing for me because I like to imagine becoming a hot and badass superhero when I fall asleep and I thought other people may be entertained as well :) If you enjoy it, like or reblog to share!

REMINDER: in this story, the reader gains superpowers and I do describe the appearance of her body. i hope you know every body is a superhero body and weight does not impact your beauty at all-i just needed to show how drastic the changes were!

Warnings: Swearing, fighting, attempted kidnapping, guns/violence

The sun that came beaming through your window brightly as you opened the blinds in your room immediately brought a small smile to your face. Summer had always been your favorite season. As smart as you were, a three month break from Midtown has never sounded better. Junior year had not been easy for you.

Small goosebumps appear on your arms as you shiver when the memory of that night crosses your mind.

***

You’d been walking home after your first day of school, distracted as images of the day flicker through your mind. The first day was always exciting, new classes and people. Probably why you were too distracted to notice the man creeping up behind you until he wrapped his hands around your backpack and yanked it off of your back, making you let out a yelp of surprise.

Or, he’d tried to. Unfortunately, this dumb ass criminal didn’t know how backpack straps work and when he tugged, the straps caught around your arms and yanked you off your feet, slamming your body into your attacker with a groan.

Panic immediately clouded your mind. You’d never been mugged before. You try desperately to remember anything from the self defense class you’d taken in seventh grade. The attacker seemed surprised that your bag hadn’t slid off your body and this gave you the opportunity to scream. “Help!” You shrieked. “Somebody!” It was the middle of the day in New York and yet, the street you were walking was dead empty.

“Shut the fuck up.” The man growled in your ear and you suddenly became aware of his death grip on your arm. Before you could contemplate punching him in the face or kneeing his dick, a sharp poke on your arm made you whip your head, just in time to see a needle full of glowing blue liquid being injected into your arm by the man. He hadn’t wanted your backpack at all.

The shock you felt as you watched the unfamiliar substance enter your body was amplified at the burning sensation quickly spreading from the injection site to your whole upper arm. The man lets out a harsh laugh, and you finally turn to see his face. He did not look like a homeless man. Or a thief. The sight of his groomed beard and expensive jacket made you feel like you’d been plunged in ice. What the hell was happening?

“What did you do to me?” The sound of your voice is much stronger than you expect it to be, and it helps to ease a couple of the butterflies going mental inside your stomach. At least you didn’t sound terrified. He just lets out a low laugh and begins to drag you by your backpack towards a car parked on the opposite side of the road you hadn’t noticed until now.

“You’re coming with me.”

The burning had spread to your entire left arm and was now taking over your left shoulder. If you didn’t have adrenaline coursing through your veins due to your current situation, you would’ve been doubled over with pain. You struggle against the man’s hold on your backpack as he drags you closer to the large black SUV.

Hell no. I am not getting kidnapped today. You force yourself to calm enough to quickly think of a plan. Any plan. When the man reaches the car despite your struggling, a disgusting sneer on his face, he lets go of his grip on your arm to reach for the handle, and you take your chance to head-butt him as hard as you possibly can-letting your arms slide out of the backpack as you do.

“Ow! Get back here you little bitch!” But it’s too late. In the two seconds when the man doubles over to clutch at his head, you’d snatched your backpack from the ground where he’d let it fall and sprinted down the street. You try to tell yourself that the unbearable burning sensation now settling into your chest is from running, not from whatever the fuck he’d injected you with.

***

A loud beep, beep from the clock on your bedside table snaps you out of reminiscing on your near death experience and a large smile grows on your face. Finally it was 5 p.m, the time when your mom usually went over to her boyfriend’s apartment across town. Every night, like clockwork, since you were 13.

It used to bother you, but now the silence gives you the opportunity to do what you needed to do alone. You get up and move towards your closet as you let your mind slip into your memories again as you reminisce on the events after the attack.

***

You’d run home like hell and had never been so grateful to find that your mom had left early. Within ten minutes, the burning had spread and you were left to writhe around in pain on your bed for hours. There was no let up, no break. You knew you were going to die.

Whatever the man had injected in you was breaking apart every muscle, every atom in your body so slowly that you could feel it. Eventually, your pained screams became quieter as exhaustion began to take over. This is it. I’m really going to die. My mom is going to come home and find me like this-

Before you could finish your thought, a harsh gasp involuntarily left your mouth and you launch forward to sit up. Okay, maybe I’m not going to die. You thought as the pain suddenly ceases. You slowly bring your hands up to stare at them, scared that the pain will return. Just as you’re about to let out a breath of relief, it hits you again.

And it’s so much worse. The burning sensation shoots through your body, and every broken muscle and molecule felt as though it was being bound together again. The minutes bleed together as exhaustion and pain take over your body.

***

Looking back, you still have no idea what was in the injection. All you know is what happened because of it.

***

Beep, beep.

Beep, beep.

BEEP, BEEP.

The incessant beeping of your stupid alarm wakes you from quite possibly the weirdest dream you’ve ever had. You’ve never had pain in a dream feel so vivid before, and the memory alone draws your body inwards, hugging your arms in for comfort.

Your arms. Hold on.

They didn’t feel like this last night. You glance down at your skin, the shadow of your blanket making it hard to see. You rip the covers off and storm over to your full length mirror-and all you can do is let out a gasp. I’m going crazy.

With shaking hands, you grab your phone and unlock it, scrolling until you find a mirror selfie you had taken at the pool over summer, just two weeks ago. You glance at the photo, then back up at the mirror. Then at the photo, then the mirror. Photo, mirror, photo.

A shocked laugh rips through your lips as you stare at the photo of yourself. Smooth skin and curves. A couple extra pounds of baby fat you had yet to lose, a spot or three of acne on your forehead. You weren’t an extraordinarily insecure person, but you were a teenage girl and a couple of those things had bugged you but-

Your eyes flicker up to the mirror. You run your hands along your arms. You used to describe them as flabby, but you can feel and see the toned, tight skin. You move your eyes to your boobs. Were they bigger? They definitely looked bigger.

Any “baby fat” you carried had seemingly disappeared overnight. You slowly lift your shirt and let your jaw drop, running your hands over your small waist, not missing the muscle you can feel under your skin. Your skin was perfectly clear and your hair and lashes both seemed longer and healthier.

When you were younger and more naive, you’d hoped puberty would involve waking up one morning looking like a Victoria’s Secret model. But that was stupid. Things like that don’t happen, right?

Slowly, the events of yesterday began to register in your mind. The attack, the injection, the pain. A million questions flooded your mind. The most prominent being what the actual fuck??

“Y/n? You almost ready to leave for school?” Your mom’s voice rings out into your silent room as she knocks on your bedroom door.

“Yeah, Mom! Just a couple minutes.” You call out nervously, waiting until you hear her footsteps walk away from your door. You let out a curse as you race into the bathroom, the harsh lighting illuminating even more changes to your face.

Your lips were bigger, your eyes more open, and your cheekbones and jaw more defined. Fuck. If you weren’t so worried about anyone noticing your overnight transformation, you would’ve taken more time to think about the positives of this situation.

You were always shy and quiet at school, choosing a small group of people to hang around and mostly focusing on your classes. But every teenage girl dreams of being beautiful, and now you finally were. You pull your hair up to brush your teeth and wash your face faster than you ever have before, electing to ignore the fact that you should have a nasty bruise from your head-butt yesterday.

You choose to skip makeup completely, knowing it would draw more attention to your new face. You took one last look at your body in the mirror before pulling on the baggiest sweats you owned and a loose hoodie, hoping they would mask your new curves.

You had no idea how you were supposed to hide this all year.

***

You smiled as you remember how silly you’d acted the next day. You were overly paranoid, covering your face with your hoodie as much as you could and choosing to sit alone in the library rather than at your usual table. No one questioned you, not once.

You had felt a pang of loneliness at first, knowing that no one at your school even cared enough to notice the obvious change had hurt just a bit, but it made dealing with the powers easier.

***

You’d first noticed it on the walk to school. It was barely September and the summer sun was still coming down on the city. This paired with your heavy layers of clothing and the long walk to school would normally leave you slightly breathless. As you arrived at the school feeling more energized and alive than ever, you noticed you’d gotten there in a fourth of your normal time without even trying.

You next noticed it in gym, when the daily pushups the teachers forced you all to do every year were suddenly easy. Effortless. As soon as the final bell rang, you ran home within minutes without feeling winded at all and winced as you threw your door open, nearly ripping it off it’s hinges.

Something else was definitely going on. Your appearance was not the only thing that seemed to go through an upgrade. You said a quick hello to your mom before running up to your room.

For the first time since you woke up that morning, you relaxed once your door was closed and locked. Your shoulders release as you sink to your bed, dropping your head into your hands. You try to recall anything you’ve read about people being totally changed after some sort of injection.

Your heart sinks. Captain America jumps to mind. The Winter Soldier, Wanda Maximoff and her dead brother. They’d all been injected.

You bite your lip and glance at a book sitting on your bedside table. You straighten up and thrust your hands towards the book, trying to make it move. Unsurprisingly, nothing happens. You close your eyes and breath out a small breath of relief. Ok so I’m beautiful now and have great endurance, at least I’m not a superhero. You let yourself relax slightly, your eyes still closed. Now you feel dumb for throwing your hands around like some kind of knock off Scarlet Witch.

When you open your eyes, your blood runs cold. The book is floating in front of you, a blue glow surrounding it. Slowly, you raise your, now shaking, hands again towards the book until they flash with the same blue and it launches towards you, the force of it making you rock back as you catch it in your hands.

Well. Fuck.

***

After that, you were thankful that no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary. You bite down a smile as you remember the first few months after, thinking about how much you’d changed since then.

***

You spent nearly every night for weeks studying every superhero fight video you could find on youtube and practicing the moves alone in your empty house, over and over.

It didn’t take much for you to perfect them as your new body seemed to be built for this kind of shit. Black Widow was your favorite to watch, and you made sure to spend extra time working through her signature moves, letting the flips, kicks, and punches become muscle memory.

You spent time practicing your real powers as well, though those seemed to come to you naturally. After that first delay with the book, it had almost felt like second nature to lift up the heaviest objects in your house with just a wave of the hand, but still, you practiced. Over and over and over. You quickly learned you could move people as well, namely yourself. Flying over New York in the middle of the night was something that would always leave you breathless.

Once winter settled over New York, you decided you were finally ready to try and use your abilities for good. You had near perfect control over your “magic” and you were pretty sure you’d spent more hours in the past month punching the air than sleeping.

You spent all day Sunday bent over the dusty sewing machine you dug out of a shelf in your kitchen closet. The trip to Joann’s reminded you of your mother teaching a younger you how to sew, though you two never bought yards of spandex to make a skin tight suit.

It had taken a couple minutes for you to remember how to use the machine, but you were extremely proud of the final product. You’d made a simple skin tight black suit with a zipper up the front and a mask to cover most of your face, but you figured no one could recognize you by just your mouth.

Once you finished the last hem on your face mask, you took the suit and the mask and hid them in your closet next to a pair of black combat boots. You put the dusty machine away and finally made your way into your bathroom, glancing nervously at the box on the counter.

Although you had exactly zero friends at Midtown, you had grown up with some of these kids and you couldn’t risk one of them recognizing your hair color if they saw you in your superhero suit and the box advertising temporary spray on hair color seemed to be the perfect solution.

You take the small can out of the box and spray blonde-ish highlights into your hair and brush it through until your long hair is shades lighter than your natural color and you’re happy with the results.

Your hands shook as you pulled on your suit, then your mask, and finally, the black boots. You move to your mirror and nervously give yourself a glance, only to be pleasantly surprised. You really do look like a superhero, even more so when you will your hands to glow blue with your powers.

***

That night, you learned that you had severely underestimated yourself. You thought memories of your own attack would flash before your eyes every time you knocked down a criminal, but it didn’t.

Every time you would wrap your thighs around someone’s neck to drag them to the ground you felt strong and every time the person you just saved would begin to thank you aggressively, you knew you made the right decision to help people.

You kept your guard, and your hood, up during the school days but your months of training and now your late night rescues, had caused a spike in your confidence. After a particularly hard 18 vs. 1 fight in which your zipper had gotten yanked down a bit, you just left it. It looked better like that anyway.

You wished you had someone to show the new you. You used to be so unsure of yourself, and now because of a seemingly random attack, you had the ability to help people. It definitely felt good to be doing something good.

Unfortunately, your endeavors started to become sensationalized. New York was obsessed with superheroes, you knew this. But you never thought people would start paying attention to you.

You should’ve known better. A girl with enhanced curves in a skin tight suit, flying around the city with glowing blue hands and fighting crime with her front zipper pulled down, and you thought you could remain invisible in the media too?

Luckily for you, the spotlight was cast upon another new superhero around the same time-a Spiderman. Once he entered the superhero scene just weeks after yourself, you noticed the articles you’d previously seen sexualizing you and your costume turned into articles about the two of you instead. If only those reporters knew you were 17.

You were thankful for him even though you’d never met him, and your two names “Spiderman and Sapphire” were often used in the same headlines to discuss you two newcomers.

At first you hated the nickname the media gave you simply because of the increased attention, but you learned to love it. It was nice to see people appreciating what you were doing, even though every camera that was ever pointed your way made you anxious to protect your identity.

Ever since your first winter night spent fighting crime, you’d quickly fallen into a pattern. School with your eyes glued to your desk the whole time, sweats and hoodies concealing your body, then homework until your mom leaves, then go out and help your city.

Your fighting has improved to the point that you almost prefer hand to hand combat rather than using your powers. On especially slow nights, you’ve let yourself drag out a fight with some bank robbers or kidnappers just to entertain yourself.

It was your escape. In your suit, with your face covered and your hair thick with the lightening spray, was the only time you felt like yourself. Really yourself.

But you had a plan to change that. As easy as it had been to lay low throughout the last year at school, you’d had enough. You wanted more. So you had a plan. A new body and face overnight is impossible, but over three months? Totally plausible.

You were excited for three months with nothing to do but go out as Sapphire, and you knew these few months were going to be the calm before the storm if you really decided to go back to Midtown as the new you.

God, enough with the reminiscing. You told yourself, but you do allow yourself to feel pride at how much you’d matured from your first day of school this year to your last as you tug on your familiar suit and mask.

***

You glance down at the buildings beneath you, eyes silently scanning every dark alley and corner for trouble. Your hands glow blue as you fly yourself gracefully through the sky. Suddenly, loud sirens and screams sound from beneath you and you look down to see 8 large men climbing into a bank as they smashed the windows.

You quickly fly yourself down and through the hole behind the men as they point guns towards the only two people in the bank, a janitor and a man you assume is the manager. “Give us the fucking money.” One of the men growls and the others laugh menacingly at their friend’s threat.

The manager notices you standing behind the men and his eyes widen, causing the men to start to turn towards you. You grab the gun out of one of their hands using your powers and smirk at the oh, shit look on their faces. Before you can make a move to knock the man nearest you off his feet, a web snaps through the broken window and snatches the gun from his hands before you can blink.

Spiderman comes swinging through the opening, landing gracefully. “What’s going on here, fellas?” He asks, and you can’t help but smirk at the sound of his voice. The two of you seemed to live similar lives, and yet this was your first time meeting him.

The white eyes of his mask flicker from the men, frozen with fear, towards you, and his eyes grow with recognition and maybe shock? Hard to tell with the mask. He opens his mouth to say something else, but one of the men still holding guns raises it and fires towards Spiderman without a second of hesitation.

You raise your hand quickly, stopping the bullet in mid-air and everyone around you stares at the bullet suspended in mid-air, your glowing blue hand outstretched, almost as if you were catching it. Spiderman’s eyes widen even more. “Holy shit.”

You smile to yourself and clench your hand into a fist, letting the bullet crumble to the ground in dust. “Nice try.” You say to the man. “But you’re getting on my nerves.” You turn towards the 8 men in front of you, 5 still holding guns. You move your hand to face the men, and with a sweeping motion, the 5 guns are yanked from their hands to suspend far above their heads, where they couldn’t reach.

You can’t help a small laugh as one of the men tries to jump up and grab it. You turn towards Spiderman who’s standing there with his mouth wide open. “Sorry if I stole your moment.” You say genuinely. You had no doubt that he could’ve taken care of this himself, but you had gotten here first.

“Are you kidding?” He nearly squeaked. “That was amazing, oh my god! I can’t believe we haven’t met until now.” Your cheeks blaze slightly under your mask from his praise, you’ve never had a superhero compliment you before. You adjust your focus back to the men quickly, who seem to be thinking of a way to run.

Your eyes meet Spidey’s again. “You wanna web ‘em up?” He nods excitedly, his eyes finally breaking from yours as he jumps into action. As impressed as he was by you, you couldn’t help but watch in awe as he swings around the room and with a thwick, he webs all of the men together in a cocoon, hanging upside down from the chandelier of the bank ceiling.

He swings himself one last time to land next to you again. “Cool.” You say before you can even realize your mouth is open. “I mean, you’re not too bad yourself.” He bows his head a bit, seeming shy even though it was a half-compliment to cover up your embarrassment.

“Sorry to bust in on your fight,” He says, glancing around the room towards the two terrified employees staring at the two of you in shock. “Not a lot happening tonight, and I didn’t know you were here.”

“Ugh, I know.” You agree. “Not to complain about less crime, but our jobs have been a little bit too easy this past week.” His mask crinkles as he smiles.

“We could...work together sometime if you wanted too, of course.” He says nervously, nearly stuttering on his words. “It’s just, you’re really good and you seem really cool and I-”

You interrupt his word vomit. “Of course I want to! I’ve been wondering when we would meet.” His eyes move from staring at the eye holes in your mask down to your lips when you smile. “How’s tomorrow?”

“How’s right now?” You don’t think your smile can get wider. “One sec.” He holds up a finger before quickly running over to the two bank workers, who thank you both over and over and then they both hugged him. You were wrong, your smile grows and remains goofy and big as he runs back over to you. “Let’s go.”

That night you found out that your view of the city is 100 times better when you can also see a red and blue suit swinging from building to building out of the corner of your eye.

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Crashing | Jurdan Fake Hating One Shot

Written for: @poeticbrownmermaid​ for my 1k celebration!

Massive thank you to: @clockworkgraystairs​ and @sweetlyvillainous​ for beta reading this and holding my hand before I posted 🥺❤️

Summary: You’ve heard of fake dating. Get ready for fake hating. It’s all very romantic.

Rating: M/E for explicit language and a short, soft focus smut scene (a steam scene, if you will). The sexy parts start and stop after the ☽☽ in case you want to skip.

Masterlist

“You taste—” I’m cut off by my own giggle, which rises to my lips like my mouth is a glass and my laugh is the Champagne they’re serving at this dumb party. “You taste like bubblegum.”

Cardan looks at me funny, then snorts. “What?”

His eyes are beguiling when they’re amused. Even more beguiling when they’re amused and looking at me. They are dark intoxication. They compete against the night sky for vastness. I could swallow them whole.

We’re on the terrace under the stars outside his fancy-pants mansion. I’m sitting on the stone railing, my knees bracketing his lithe frame. His hands and lips are breathless effervescence on me.

I’m in a daring dress of red satin that I would’ve never chosen for myself had Oriana not insisted on finding us girls a tailor. It’s an elegant, backless number with an audacious slit up the side. The whole time before this in the ballroom, I could sense Cardan’s eyes eating it up while he pretended to hate me.

In this dress, I am a femme fatale spy from a film, meeting her tryst in the secret of shadows. Which is honestly not too far off from the reality of the situation, though I am no spy.

Cardan ghosts one hand up the exposed skin of my thigh. The night air is bracing as his touch.

“Jude,” he murmurs, “Are you drunk?”

He’s in a rakish black velvet suit with two blood-red rubies dangling from the pointed tips of his collar. It is decadence and sin given form. The first hour of this hell party was just that: Hell. By the time Cardan pressed a napkin into my palm with the words “Terrace. 10 min.” scrawled on it in smeared ink, I was beginning to glare at him in earnest—if only for the way he must’ve known he was teasing me.

Now, we’re making out behind two conveniently tall potted plants.

It’s all very romantic.

“I had one glass of wine, Cardan,” I say. I slide my hands from his hair and scrape my nails lightly down the column of his neck. It is heady, watching his eyes shutter. My hands slide down his chest and take up his lapels. I give them a firm tug. “I’m fine.”

“Well, I,” he says, lips hovering over my own, “Don’t believe you.” His breath fans across my face. It really does smell like bubblegum. And not the minty kind, either. I’m talking bright pink and bubblicious.

I lean back a little and stick my bottom lip out in a mock-pout. “Why not?”

“For starters,” he says, “You’re a lightweight.” He trails that damned hand down my exposed thigh again.

I shiver. “So? I also ate like twenty of those canopy things.”

“Canapés?” Cardan smirks.

“Yeah, whatever, Your Highness.”

He flashes me a grin and I’m briefly stricken into silence. “Then, what have you to say to your unprecedented giddiness this evening, Your Majesty?”

“Ew, don’t call me that.” I grimace. “I just called you ‘Your Highness’.”

“What? Scared of the implication?”

“Uh, yeah.” My brows shoot up on my forehead. “Mainly because it implies that I’m your mother.”

Cardan’s face goes slack. “Shit, really?”

I nod and bite back my grin.

“I thought they were interchangeable.”

“About as interchangeable as a fork and a spoon.”

He sputters a laugh. “Shows what I know about royalty.”

“You realise how ironic that is, don’t you?” I say, nodding pointedly in the direction of the party.

It goes on without us, spilling its mirth in great golden shafts out onto the terrace. It doesn’t touch us, though. The air is cool, clear of the preening bullshit that so regularly lathers these kinds of events. And though he makes me dizzy, Cardan is the only real thing here.

I think I like parties better this way. From the shadows. In there, we’d have to talk to people, explain ourselves. We’re supposed to hate each other. We were always supposed to hate each other.

A smile plays at the corners of Cardan’s lips as if he’s gleaned these thoughts of mine. “You haven’t answered my question.”

I narrow my eyes. “You think I’m too giddy to not be drunk.”

“Mhmm.” He nudges his nose against mine. “I’ve never heard you giggle before.” A slender finger tracks up my spine and it takes a considerable amount of concentration not to squeeze my thighs together. Goosebumps and a flush spring to my skin, anyway. “It’s delightful,” he tells me.

“Well, maybe you should work on your sense of humour.” My voice comes out shakier than I want it to.

“Maybe,” Cardan says, grabbing the back of my knee and hitching it up. “But that sounds like effort.”

I want to roll my eyes. This is exactly the reason we used to hate each other. His laziness, his arrogance, and entitlement made me want to punch him clean across his pretty cheekbones. I know my stubbornness and sharp tongue made him hate me right back.

Yet, when our worlds crumbled around us, we found ourselves crashing into each other. Entwined in a thicket of mutual understanding. Suddenly, there was so very little to hate.

We pretend to in public to keep up appearances. Everyone knows we hated each other. If we started being friendly around everyone else, people would talk. That’s the last thing we want. Even if they’d technically be right.

In private, though, Cardan is probably my most closely held secret.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s still annoying as all hell. Like right now. But I’ve always liked a challenge.

I hook my leg around his back, pulling him in. My fingers card through his hair again. “I can be delightful in other ways,” I say, biting my lip.

His eyes lower to my mouth. “Oh, I’m well aware.” Cardan’s voice comes out a rasp. He cants my chin with the crook of his finger, pulling my lip from between my teeth with the pad of his thumb. He looks at me with undiluted lust. The weight of his gaze is like a dizzying nightmare.

Then, he devours me.

Our mouths slide together, slowly at first, but building in fervor. Hot and heavy, like a fever. His grip on my thigh is bruising. His other hand splays across my bare back, crushing me to him, long fingers twining in my hair. Everything turns saturated and slow.

I invade his mouth with my tongue, determined to drink him up. He tastes like bubblegum and our reconciliation. At the same time, I hook my other leg behind him so he’s pressed flush against the apex of my thighs. ☽☽

A muffled groan rolls between his teeth. “Fuck, Jude.” Cardan is growing firm beneath his trousers. The feel of it sends a curl of sweet desire, dark and throbbing, through my core.

“You’re going to have to be quieter than that,” I tease. I’m so featherbrained on the savour of his mouth, his liquid touch. My veins feel full of amber liquor instead of blood. I know I’m not drunk, and yet I feel it.

His fingers drawl back up my leg. “The question is, dear,” he says, “Can you be quiet?” The coolness of his hands sends a shock along the heat of my inner thigh.

I realise where he’s going with this and my breath hitches. My cheeks blaze. “Yes,” I tell him, though I don’t sound as confident as I should for such a high stakes rendezvous.

“Hmm,” Cardan thrums. “We’ll see about that.”

His fingers are deft and twice as sly. He hisses through his teeth when they glide over me, exploring.

As a steady rain, he begins my unravelling. His mouth covers mine, swallowing a soft whimper that escapes my throat. I want to moan his name, to curse aloud, but I can’t if we’re to stay hidden.

The thought is both terrible and exciting at once.

Cardan keeps a torturous pace. I cling to him, panting, clutching at his arms, clawing at his back. His mouth roams my jawline. His teeth tug my ear. My mind is frenetic, frenzied, and at once thick in a viscous haze.

All I can think about is how this party is so stupid and soul-sucking, but Cardan is the farthest thing from stupid and soul-sucking. About how he makes me feel very much alive. About how I like him more than anyone here, probably more than even myself.

His other arm wraps certain and solid around me as he spins my world on its side. I lean my forehead on his shoulder. He kisses my neck. I can’t help the gasps that leave me.

My heart is racing. So quickly does it pump, in time with his ministrations, I think I might turn to white lightning in a bottle before all is said and done.

I know it when I’m drawing towards that precipice. My toes curl and flex. My legs begin to quiver. My knees lock up.

“Cardan,” I gasp. “Please.”

“Can you be quiet for me, Jude?” Cardan murmurs rough against my ear. He sounds a little breathless, too.

I am so muddled, I am so close. I can only manage a soft sob in response. Now he’s doubling his efforts and oh, gods is he clever.

I bite his shoulder to keep from making a sound as I shoot over the edge, a wondrous arc so high I’m sure I scrape the stars of their dust.

My hips writhe against his palm. I pull and rake my fingers through his hair as I spiral through the five stages of sweet delirium.

He holds me through it. Presses his lips to my hair and whispers what I think must be comforting things into my ear. I can’t tell because I’m incapable of comprehending much of anything beyond myself in his arms. He strokes soft circles over my back until it’s done. ☽☽

When everything settles, I’m still clinging to him, my forehead against the sureness of his shoulder. A sheen of sweat dewing my skin.

I’ve always hated this part about intimacy. The aftermath. Everything is too quiet. The excitement is gone. You’re faced with the reality of looking at each other without the rosy filter of lust. Maybe you’ll see each other for who you really are, and that’s a scary thought.

That’s probably how I felt once with Cardan, too. Back when we started…whatever this is. But now, in this moment with him, it feels less vulnerable and more like holding someone’s hand as you stare upon something a little terrifying.

Which is why I’m able to look up at him and ask in every manner of seriousness, “Why do you taste like bubblegum?”

His responding laugh is gentle and he shakes his head. “One-track mind,” he says. I shrug and wait.

“They’re serving bubblegum cocktails at the bar inside.”

My nose crinkles. “You actually drank one of those?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“No, I think I’ll sleep quite soundly if I never do.”

Cardan gives me an awful kind of grin that makes my toes curl anew. “Didn’t hear you complaining earlier.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” he says, then tucks a loose curl behind my ear. “I happen to like bubblegum cocktails.”

I give him a dubious look. I can’t help but feel that maybe we’re not talking about bubblegum cocktails anymore.

For a long moment, we just sit there staring at each other. There’s a bloom of laughter from inside the house. The clink of glasses. His eyes trace the lines of my face. I still feel drunk on him and he’s looking at me too soberly.

So I say, “You have shit taste, then,” and hop off the railing. I side-step him before beginning the task of smoothing down my dress. If I walk back into the party all flushed and disheveled, people will know what I’ve been doing—which is almost as bad as if people knew who I’ve been doing.

“Oh, you can’t say that dear,” Cardan lilts as he leans back against the balcony with all the insouciance of someone who lives in this ridiculous mansion. And rightly so, because he does. “Not when you taste equally delicious.” Then he brings his fingers, the ones that have just been inside me, to his mouth and closes his lips around them, burning gaze locked on mine.

My eyes go wide. My jaw slacks as I watch him. I’m somewhere between affronted by his audacity and completely turned on again. Which is a confusing place to be.

He laughs at my probably very foolish expression and I turn on my heel to head back to the party. I’m not actually offended. I just can’t bear to look at him while he’s tasting me off his fingers without combusting on the spot.

Cardan grabs my wrist. “Wait, wait,” he says, still laughing.

I arc a brow and turn to face him. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” he says and sounds earnest enough. “It’s just… you make me giddy, too.”

His words are a punch to the gut. I hadn’t realised it until he said it, but it’s true. It’s not the way he kisses me or the high of a climax, though those are surely nice things, too. It’s the way I feel when we’re together. Just his presence makes my head swim, my stomach turn flips.

He makes me feel a little bit invincible, and entirely beyond reason.

I look at him, the warm glow of the party playing off the sharp angles of his face. He’s still holding my hand, fiddling with the ruby ring I always wear.

On the crest of a breath, Cardan says, “Stay tonight.”

“Why?” I whisper, because we’ve never spent the night. I’m not sure we’d even know how.

“Because I’ll miss you terribly?”

A smile tugs at my lips. “I think you’ll survive.”

“Because you’ll miss me terribly.”

“Oh, I’ll definitely survive,” I say. Even as my heart gives a squeeze. I don’t want to leave.

Not yet, not yet.

“Because you’re too intoxicated to drive home,” he says.

“I took an Uber here, Cardan,” I tell him. “And for the last time, I’m not drunk.”

“I’m not saying you’re drunk, Jude.”

He’s not grinning at me, which I think is a good sign. It means he’s not hinting at something sexual. Then again, that might also be a very bad sign. It means he’s hinting at something deeper. I’m not sure I want to get into that conversation just yet.

“Fine,” I say. I do want to stay. The thought of it sends a little thrill through me. “Hate me for an hour more. We’ll have a big argument about… something. And then I’ll tell Madoc I’m leaving.”

His hands snake around my waist. “What will we argue about tonight?”

I smile at him sweetly. “If your head is half as cunning as your fingers, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Cardan hums. “I do love it when we’re at each other’s throats.”

I roll my eyes but I’m betrayed by my laugh for not the first time tonight. Stupid punch-drunk feelings.

☽☽☽☽☽

Enjoyed this? Try:  King  |  Wicked Game  |  We’re All Mad Here

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AN: So this was supposed to be a drabble for my 1k celebration but my hand slipped and whoops! It’s 2.5K words. I really hope you enjoyed this secret tryst one shot. I had so much fun writing it. If you liked this and want to see more from me, comments and/or reblogs are very much appreciated!

I have a tag list so if you’d like to be added to that, let me know in the comments/my messages/inbox and I’d be happy to add you! I also recently jumped on the Twitter/Instagram bandwagon. You can follow me @/rebelwriter23 on Twitter and @/slightlyrebelliouswriter23 on Instagram.

Back to the forest now. -Em 🖤💫

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[charincharge]

Angst prompt: “why can’t you just look at me for one god damned second?” For Rowaelin. Don’t completely wreck my heart please!

Skin melted into skin, and Aelin relished the feel of his mouth on her neck. Rowan had always been good with his mouth. He spoke seven different languages with perfect inflection, so his skilled lips and tongue were barely a surprise.

Aelin arched her back into the pillow, a soft moan escaping her lips as his stubble scraped against the soft skin behind her ear. Though they were both thoroughly sated and exhausted, it seemed that Rowan wasn’t quite done with her yet.

“Rowan…” Aelin warned, thinking of the marks he surely wished he could leave behind. His teeth nipped at the skin again, and she could feel him smile there.

His lips pressed a final kiss to her jaw as he rolled off her, eyes glowing and a warm smile on his lips. Aelin ran her hand down his cheek, cupping the jaw of his she loved so much in her palm. His bright eyes fluttered shut, his blonde lashes sweeping against the tops of his cheekbones, the ones that made him famous, and she couldn’t resist pressing a kiss against his pouted mouth.

“I can’t be late,” she whispered. “It’s my last day of filming.” And he nodded into her palm. But neither made any move to leave. Rowan grinned wider, sensing Aelin’s hesitation, but his eyes remained blissfully shut.

She pressed her mouth against his again, swiping her thumb across his bowed lip. “How do you always look so kissable?” she asked quietly.

“All part of my charm.” His voice rumbled low in his chest, and it made Aelin’s stomach flip. What had started out as a casual attraction with the writer of her latest film had become something she never could have predicted. Her heart felt as if it were about to explode every time she looked at him. They’d kept it a secret all through filming, four months of secret rendezvous in her trailer and hotel room, not wanting to risk the film’s delicate balance with Aelin, her romantic lead, and the film’s temperamental director. It was her first leading role, and she didn’t want to risk messing anything up. But today was the last day of filming, and tomorrow… she’d be free to tell Rowan and the whole world that she loved him. She couldn’t wait.

Her alarm blared loudly, and she pried Rowan’s fingers from her waist and pulled them up for a soft kiss. “I will see you on set?” she whispered against his fingers. And he nodded.

“I’ll be the one looking uncool with my nose stuck in a script,” he laughed, reaching for his glasses and perching them atop his nose. “Break a leg, Ae.”

Aelin resisted drooling as she took in his shirtless form, glasses on, perusing today’s shooting schedule on his phone.

“If you don’t stop looking at me like that you’re definitely going to be late,” Rowan smirked, barely looking up from his phone. Aelin threw a pillow at him and turned to get dressed as he chuckled softly.

Aelin arrived on set, floating on air, ready to crush her last day of filming. The morning went perfectly, going even faster than normal because of her preparedness.

Her happiness faltered however as Arobynn Hamel, the director, called her into his trailer during lunch. He sat on the edge of his table, arms crossed as his eyes slowly trailed down her robe-covered body, his red hair pulled into a tight bun, making his harsh features somehow even harsher.

Aelin stood silently, wondering what he had to say and hoping it was okay. Hoping she was okay. The only time she’d been pulled into his trailer before was on the first day, when she had been so nervous she’d forgotten a hefty amount of her lines. He swore at her and said if she couldn’t memorize lines then she could easily be replaced.  

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Hamel asked, his dark shoe tapping against the side of the table incessantly.

“I’m sorry?” Aelin replied, not knowing what he was getting at. Arobynn shook his head, a wry laugh coming from his snarled lips.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Galaythinius.” He frowned. “You knew what you were signing up for when you accepted this role. Fucking the writer was not a part of it.”

“Excuse me?” Aelin gaped, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment and horror.

Arobynn took a step forward and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him, grey eyes flashing with fury. He laughed, but his cold gaze held no humor. “You already signed the damn contract. You’re my muse, and you’ll remain unentangled.”

“That’s harassment,” Aelin whispered, her heart pounding against her chest.

He stuck out the thick wad of papers with Aelin’s signature at the bottom. Sure enough. In fine print, a sub-heading of the publicity and press obligations was a note that Aelin was to remain single. She couldn’t believe it. How could she have been so stupid?

“End it. Today,” Arobynn growled. “Unless you’d like to be sued for breach of contract.”

“He’ll fight this.”

Arobynn smirked. “Then you’d better put those acting skills to task and make him believe it.”

Aelin nodded, but couldn’t feel a thing. She was like a ghost through the rest of the day, and she barely remembered wrapping her scenes, the crew applauding her as she made her way back to her trailer. How was she going to end this? What could she possibly say?

Rowan was waiting for her in her trailer, a bouquet of jasmine in hand, her favorite. Her heart panged uncomfortably.

“Congrats,” he said with a wide smile, wrapping her into a hug, but Aelin kept her eyes trained on the carpet as she extricated herself from his grasp with a weak smile. She began to change into her clothes quickly, the only sound between them the rustling of fabric.

“Aelin, what’s wrong?” he asked, and Aelin shrugged, continuing to change quietly.

“Nothing, just tired.”

“Too tired for a celebratory dinner?” he asked, and Aelin frowned.

“Probably.”

He paused. “Aelin, what the hell is going on? Did something happen?”

Aelin breathed deeply as she let herself be swallowed by her giant sweater, wrapping herself n the cozy fabric. “I just… think we should probably end things.”

“What?” Rowan’s voice was strained and panicked, and she didn’t want to see his face, for fear of his matching expression breaking her resolve.

She cleared her throat as she laced up her shoes. “We knew this was just for production. Production is over now. Let’s just call it.”

“Aelin, what are you talking about?” he asked. And she shrugged again, smoothing out her hair and running her fingers through it. “Production’s over we can finally be together.”

She shook her head again, holding back tears. Determined not to let them fall. She needed to convince him, so she’d have to convince herself.

His arms clasped her by the shoulders roughly, and Aelin tucked her chin into her chest. She refused to cry. She would not break. “Why can’t you just look at me for one gods damned second?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

Aelin steeled herself and looked up. His green eyes swam with anxiety behind his black framed glasses, his chest rising and falling with his unsteady breaths.

“I never cared about you,” she said, staring straight at him, her heart cracking in two with each word. “I just wanted better scenes and knew that’s how to get them. It was all an act.”

See through these lies, she begged internally. But she’d done her job too well. Rowan let her go as if he’d been burned, the panic in his gaze morphing to disgust as he looked at her.

Rowan chuckled humorlessly. “I hope you win an Oscar. Because your talent astounds me.” Aelin cringed as he stepped away from her, turning his back on her. He looked over his shoulder once more and shook his head.

No, she wanted to scream. Come back.

As her trailer door swung shut, Aelin crumpled onto her couch and gave into her tears.

~*~

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[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Wrath and Rage

Wrath x reader

Word Count: 1762

Summary: Wrath already had a queen when he was summoned to Emilia’s side. Needless to say she wasn’t happy about his absence. 

Note: He’s hot, and I had a plot bunny. don’t worry about it

You didn’t bother to hide the laugh that bubbled up from your throat at what your husband just told you. “So you got spooked and dropped your knife, is that it?”

Those golden eyes of his seemed to glow with irritation as he looked over at you. “Well, I don’t exactly want humans to know I’m around, now do I?”

This time you scoffed. “If some little witch managed to figure out that she’d just laid eyes on Prince Wrath himself based on that teensy little interaction, I’d want to meet her and shake her hand.”

“But the knife--”

“Is no indication of who you are on its own, and you damn well know it.” You slid your hands down the front of his shirt, fingers deftly opening it button by button. “Relax, my darling. You’ve been running around like a chicken with your head cut off about this whole Pride thing for so long. I’ve hardly seen you in weeks.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”

You did. The trips never took very long at all, after all, but you still missed him. Before this it’d been centuries since he’d been away from you in the human world for any real length of time. “Be that as it may . . .” You slid the shirt off of him and allowed your fingers to trail down the golden snake on his left arm, a mark that had an exact twin on your own skin. “All you have to do,” you kissed that shoulder, “in order to keep Pride’s whole search,” this kiss was to his neck, “a secret,” jaw, “is get it back before the little witch does anything stupid.” That last bit was whispered next to his ear.

Then his lips were suddenly on yours, as demanding as ever as he shoved you against the wall. He tugged at the laces to your pants while his lips moved to your neck.

“See what you miss when you’re--” your teasing voice cut off when the heat of his body suddenly disappeared, “gone.” You opened your eyes. Sure enough, Wrath was nowhere to be found. Anger flared through you, its presence making the shadows writhe around you.

The only reason he would leave like that would be a summoning, something out of his control. And the only person dumb enough to summon a prince of Hell would be that. Fucking. Witch. Rage, the emotion your power stemmed from, swelled throughout your body.

She will pay for this.

~

Little did you know that in the human realm, your husband was thinking something similar. 

The combination of Emilia’s staring and the searing mark that’d appeared on his normally-clear arm set his teeth on edge. It shouldn’t be possible, a second betrothal spell in addition to the already fulfilled one he had with you--willingly, he might add--; yet there it was. Moon-shaped and clashing with his color scheme.

Still, he didn’t let on to what it truly meant. Odds were good that it wouldn’t amount to anything anyway, especially if he had a say. And if it did . . . Heaven help the woman that had to face the ire of the Queen of House Wrath.

~

In your time spent forcefully separated from each other, you and Wrath found yourselves weaving a complicated web to end this stupid endeavor in your favor, not the way Emilia wanted. And as soon as she agreed to marry Pride, your victory was sealed. Hours before that, when he’d died in the human realm, Wrath explained fully what had been going on since the messengers that’d been frantically flitting between you two could only convey so much, and you’d spent the time planning the final pieces of this battle of wits.

And enjoying each other’s company, but that was neither here nor there.

When it came time for Wrath to retrieve her, you lounged on the bed as he dressed, crown and all. “You can’t kill her when we return,” Wrath was saying while you watched him.

Your eyes moved to stare hatefully where their mark of betrothal used to reside. “I am aware,” you bit out.

“Are you?” There was an evil little smirk on his face when he turned to look at you. “Because your shadow seems to have other ideas.”

Sure enough, when you glanced down you saw that your shadow seemed to be holding a knife. Always the cause of your bad poker face, that thing. With a flare of gold in your eyes, you brought the shadow back under control, and it resumed being a silhouetted version of you, nothing more. The frown that’d been on your face since this mess started though, that stayed stubbornly in place.

Wrath took that as his cue to sweep closer elegantly, fingers trailing lightly down the golden body of the snake on your arm. “I swore to you the day we married that no one would ever come between us, did I not?”

“You did.” And Hell if your voice didn’t sound sullen despite yourself. You wanted to be unbothered by this. Truly, you did. But it was just so . . . unsettling to hear that someone had (however ignorantly) tried to steal him from you.

His free hand drifted over to grab the crown that still rested on the duvet. Your crown. The match to his own with spikes sharp enough to kill a man if you so chose. “Have I ever given reason for you to doubt that vow?”

“You haven’t.” That was true. A demon like Lust might have warranted such a fear, but Wrath was another kind of beast, an honest one. At least when it mattered. Mattered to you, that is. A warmth settled in your chest as your fingers moved to lightly hold his.

“Then why are you doubting me now?” his lips were pressed to your temple and he placed the crown on your head as he murmured the question.

Moments like this you remembered why you married him with perfect clarity. For the first time since he was stolen weeks ago a heat other than rage burned through you like a flashfire. “It’s not that I doubt you,” you said, turning so you could see his fierce, golden eyes. “It’s that I hate her.”

“Soon enough she will be Pride’s problem,” he soothed, “not ours.”

“Good,” you snarled before sealing your lips against his.

~

If Wrath’s lips were swollen suspiciously when he stepped out of the shadows to bring her to Pride, Emilia couldn’t work up the courage to comment on it. She was already in this mess with these demons so much deeper than she ever expected; she didn’t think her heart could take the stress of picking that particular fight on top of everything else. Besides, they weren’t bonded anymore; it wasn’t any of her business who he did or didn’t kiss.

Still, for some reason her heart stung at the thought of him with someone else after all they’d been through together.

But then they were bantering like it was all normal.

And then she was trying to scream in agony as it felt like someone lit her soul ablaze.

And then they were standing in a throne room steeped in black and gold and red.

This wasn’t House Pride, she realized abruptly. These were Wrath’s colors through and through.

“You’ll have to forgive the brief stop here,” a woman’s voice called Emilia’s attention to the front of the room. She was beautiful. Leather pants, a billowing shirt, boots that looked artfully worn-in, all steeped in nothing but black. The only spot of color in her wardrobe was the golden crown atop her head. A flash of gold on the back of her hand drew Emilia’s attention. “A prince of Hell like my husband can only travel directly from the human realm to his home. An envoy from Pride awaits outside to escort you to your Betrothed.”

Emilia’s ears started and were still ringing at the word ‘husband’ by the time she finished talking. The gold she’d noticed on her hand. It was an exact copy of the snake she’d seen on Wrath’s body the night she summoned him. Confusion lanced through her. “What--”

You laughed, cutting her off. This was rich. “You never stopped to wonder what the mark on his other arm was?” You rose from your seat, shadows coiling around your feet menacingly. “You’re dumber than I thought.”

Emilia could only stare at the approaching figure, alarmed by the casual display of power as well as the pitch black veil surrounding her that was every bit as threatening as the black and gold one around Wrath. She had to fight to retain any form of dignity and stay carefully neutral-faced when Wrath’s hand settled on the woman’s lower back in a display so casual it couldn’t have been faked.

“How terrible to meet you,” you scoffed. “You can call me Rage.”

A fitting emotion for such a terrifying queen, Emilia supposed.

“I think it goes without saying that if I ever see you lurking around my husband again, not even your betrothal to my brother-in-law will save you.”

Said husband had a look of evil smugness on his handsome face that made Emilia recoil a little. Then a thought occurred to her. “If you already have a queen, then why--”

“Was everyone pushing me to make it official with you?” Wrath cut her off, one eyebrow arching. “That answer is quite simple if you think about it.”

“Which is exactly why she hasn’t figured it out,” you smirked. “They don’t like me because I’m not intimidated by them just existing as princes of Hell.” You turned to face Wrath, loving the automatic way his eyes trailed over your form heatedly. He’d been worked up since the two of you dressed; there hadn’t been time to burn off some of the aggression that danced within both of you. “ Now,” you addressed her even as your hand moved to cup his face, thumb skimming along his cheekbone appreciatively, “you’ve robbed me of Wrath here for quite long enough on top of forcing me to singlehandedly deal with the idiocy of lower demons. You’re lucky I don’t kill you for the former, and I hate you even more for the latter, so kindly get the hell out of House Wrath.”

You didn’t spare the girl a glance as a guard moved to escort her out. No, you only had eyes for your husband . . . at least until your eyes closed when you dragged him down for a bruising kiss.

[what-the--curtains]

Not a Piece of Art

(Javier Peña x f!reader)

Part 5 - Revelations in the Moonlight

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: Will Javier reach you in time? That is if he’s coming at all.

Notes: sorry this keeps getting longer and longer! This is the second to last part I hope y’all enjoy it (if not let me know how to improve!) 💕🌻✨

Tw: 18+ (NO MINORS ALLOWED) Violence, blood, language, nudity.

Tagged: @agingerindenial @diogodxlot @trash-dino-5000

Words: 3.7k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your eyes flutter open as you feel flecks of cold water bounce off your cheek. Your pupils dilate into the fluorescent lighting bearing down on you, and a dull throb begins at the base of your skull. You go to rub the ache, but your hands are tugged backwards at the movement causing your shoulders to stretch around the pillar you were currently being tied to. Your eyes scan the area landing on the two men from earlier who stand guard at the doors of what you assume must be the mansion's basement.

“Carlos...What the fuck is going on?” you rasp out, miraculously remembering to maintain your accent.

“I could ask you the same question?” he snarls. Feeling his meaning you hold your tongue, waiting to see what he knows. “You know why you’re here?” He asks, taking a sinister step towards you.

“Carlos I can honestly say, I don’t have the foggiest,” you respond, the metallic taste in your mouth worsening the growing nausea caused by the lights.

“The painting, the one you gave me, was stopped at the border yesterday. The first time it’s happened in years. Some of my best men were taken, they're dead now of course. Loose ends have to be tied up. The painting, and its components were taken by the DEA. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?” he snarls. You do your best to maintain your facade, though a panic has set in. “Still not getting it?” he queries, taking your face between his hands forcing your eyes up to him. “Maybe you are as dumb as you look. Let's try a different approach, shall we? Why would this painting be stopped? After years without issue, then you show up and in one day, our program has been compromised.” he continues, letting go of your cheeks and swinging your head out to the side as he walks back over to his desk.

“Statistics dictate…. “ you start, not turning back to face.

“Shut up!” he shouts, slamming his hand down onto the desk, causing your body to flinch into the stone pillar.

“Carlos let me go, I do not know what happened or what was with those paintings, I thought they were for your friend. Why were they taken?” You try and reason frantically.

“See I do not know that, my wifes convinced you're too convenient, and after today I’d have to agree. Ohhh…” he tuts in mocking sympathy, noticing the waiver in your voice “Don't worry cariño, all shall be revealed soon, I wouldn’t dare keep you in suspense. I had a man deliver a message to your supposed husband. He has 15 minutes to show up here alone or we kill you.” he states flatly, pulling a small pistol out of his desk, checking the barrel.

You swallow, leaning your head back against the pillar, 15 minutes, that's how long it was from the DEA’s main office to the house. That's how long it would take for a SWAT team to get here and catch Carlos, but not to save you. A cleverly crafted plan, no doubt administered by Helena, heavens knows Carlos wasn't capable. You can’t help but let out a tiny laugh, as you blink back tears, making your peace as you prepared to meet your maker. If there was one thing you knew about Peña it was that he would do anything to catch Escobar.

“Five minutes left darling, any last minute confessions?” He says now inches away, staring down at you.

“Carlos, please, I didn't do this.” you beg, playing your final hand.

“We shall see. A shame to waste such beauty, but ….” He brushes your cheekbone with the gun and you close your eyes. They open as the sound of doors swinging open echoes throughout the basement. Looking towards the sound you see a sweaty and enraged Peña emerging. You’d never more happy to be seeing his stupid face. You exhale shakily cursing yourself for nearly bursting into tears when his eyes meet yours. Immediately he starts towards you, one of the men places a hand on his chest, but a swift uppercut breaks the guys nose and the other two henchmen retract allowing him to make his way behind you.

“Are you hurt, my love?” he asks, frantically untying your wrists that were rubbed raw from where you had worked to free them. You shake your head no. He unties your hands and you feel yourself unravel with the cord, as your entire system begins to shut down. “I’ve got you” he whispers, as you fall into his arms.

“Now, friend, come let us chat for a moment,” Carlos says, almost as surprised as you that Javi had shown up.

“No, I don't talk with people who kidnap the only thing in my life that matters” he spits, hooking his arm under yours and starting slowly towards the door. You're almost out when you hear the unmistakable sound of the safety being turned off. You both turn to see Carlos aiming the gun at you.

“You passed information?” he sneers more of a question than a statement.

“Think Carlos,” he snarls through gritted teeth, “You never gave me any information,you asked for a painting and we provided, you never told me more.” After a few minutes you hear Carlos click the safety back into place as he lowers his weapon.

“You’re right. We thought perhaps we had been infiltrated but it seems like someone else has been leaking information. My wife was wrong for the last time.” he mutters, tossing the gun back into its drawer.

“We’re free to go then?” Javi fumes, the rage he felt towards Carlos seeping out of every pore. With a curt nod, the two men clear the door and Javi scoops you up and carries you out the house and down across the beach where the moon had risen high. You look over his shoulder, and back towards the house. You make out Helena's outline on the balcony watching you as you leave.

“I should have gone with you” he whispers as he places you down onto your feet at the front step so he can open the door. You waiver for a moment, but you're quickly steadied by Peñas hand supporting your waist as you lean into him. He hadn’t had time to assess the damage but the moonlight illuminated the blood coming from your lip and forehead. Wounds caused by his incompetence, by his failure to assess the situation.

“Then we'd both be dead” you respond walking into the kitchen and stupidly lifting yourself up onto the counter, the movement causing every ounce of your body to exude with pain, eyes watering as a result. Despite your attempt to mask your pain, it did not go unnoticed by Javi. Based on everything he knew about you, he figured you’d try and play down your injuries, but based on your expressions he knew the visible blood wasn’t the only damage done.

‘Hey, don't strain yourself,” he says, watching you grimace when you lean over to take off your shoes. You go to shift off the counter. “No, don't move now, you're already up there,” he continues, bending down and taking off the shoes for you, tossing them to the side before rummaging through the cabinet for the first aid kit. He passes you the bottle of tequila that was blocking the kit. You bring it to your lips, hoping it would help mask some of your pain.

“We have to get you to a hospital” he says, as he tilts your head gently from side to side seeing darkening areas around your forehead. Dried blood covered your hairline and your mouth.

“No then the mission will be ruined, beside i'm still breathing and no blood’s been coughed up, so nothing’s punctured” you murmur, your breathing was fine as well, albeit painful, but no wheezing. There was nothing that needed immediate care.

“What?” he says, glancing down to your side, increasingly concerned with each passing comment. Your eyes dart up to the ceiling, not wanting to burden him anymore than you already had “Show me.” he demands softly.

“It's fine Javi,” you try and reason, not wanting to put any additional stress on the man, knowing he’d already be blaming himself for your injuries.

“Show me,” he repeats, firm this time, but his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them, “that's an order” he muses, causing you to roll your eyes.

“It hurts to lift my arms” you admit, he nods and slowly removes the straps of the dress pulling it down to your waist immediately identifying a concerning dark patch covering your entire left side. You didn't look down, you knew it was probably internal bleeding but, you didn't want that information to get back to Javi.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he whispers, amazed that you were still conscious let alone rolling your eyes at him. He pulls out a bag of ice from the freezer wrapping it in a tea towel and placing it gently on your side.

“Hold that there for a second,” he says, turning back to the freezer for more ice.

“He's going to kill Helena, we should try and get her out” you reason, shifting the ice around.

“How hard do you hit your head querida?” He laughs “She's the one who ratted us out and you're worried about her?” He continues, bringing the ice up to your forehead. You shrug wincing as your side is inadvertently pulled on by the motion. “For someone with such an ability to hold a grudge you're certainly very forgiving when you want to be”

“C’mon Peña, you know she's doing it to survive, she doesn't deserve to die. Besides she may have information she's willing to trade ” you offer, Helena was no angel, but she was definitely useful.

“After what they did to you? They don’t deserve to live, not in my book,.” he says, placing the ice back down on the counter as he takes a damp cloth and begins to wipe some of the blood off your face. You laugh, presuming he’s kidding, but when you look at him, he's not laughing, there's no trace of humour on his face. His head’s down as he wipes your face. He looks... vulnerable, visibly upset by what's happened to you, almost like he cared about you. Had he this whole time and you were too busy being angry at him to notice? Angry about something so stupid in the grand scheme of things. His eyes meet yours and you find your answer, their softness only confirming your current feeling.

“What wrong querida?” he asks, his free hand caressing your cheek. Your hearts beating out of your chest. How can he not hear it? You're sure everyone within a 50 mile radius could. You bring your hand up to his pressing it against your cheek hoping to convey the sudden onslaught of feelings you were having. He stares back into your eyes, not willing to try anything without your full permission, a hand hold wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the proof he needed to kiss you like he'd been wanting to for the past four weeks, hell, the past year.

You drop your hands and run them along his shoulders encouraging him forward. He doesn't drop the ice he's holding to your side, and using his free hand he pulls you closer to him. Your faces now centimeters apart and each of your breaths shallower than the next.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

“What about the contract?” he says, making sure this was what you wanted.

“Fuck the contract,” you say and with that you press a gentle kiss to his lips, pulling away when you don’t feel him kiss back. You keep your eyes closed wondering if you had misread his meaning? His thumb traces over your split lip gently pulling your chin towards him for a deeper kiss, warm . You smile into it and he goes to close the gap between. Lost in the moment, his grip becomes rougher than intended and he feels you flinch away from him.

“Fuck, i'm sorry,” he says, pulling back and placing a kiss on the area before reapplying the ice

“We should get you to bed, before I do any serious damage” he says, and you nod your head in agreement, allowing him to carry you back to the room bridal style. He places you on the bed, but noticing the blood stuck in your hair he makes you an offer you can't refuse.

“You wanna wash that blood out of your hair? Might make you feel better,” he says. You nod silently, too tired to speak, and Javi leaves to run you a bath. He helps you lower yourself into the tub and begins to rinse the blood out your hair, hands slowly massaging your scalp and running down from roots to end the runoff staining the water a light pink. He glances down and sees your eyes staring up at him, your lips pursed slightly, silently hoping he’d read your mind and kiss you again.

“Gotta stop looking at me like that” he chuckles, and you let out a small grunt.

“You want something darling?” he asks, and you extend your neck out, parting your lips expectedly causing him to smile “you want more kisses cariño? From me? They gonna make you feel better?” He asks.

You nod causing him to grin as he washes the last of the blood out of your hair before leaning down to pepper your lips with light kisses pulling back and chuckling at the small humph you make in his absence.

“What?” you murmur sleepily

“Last thing I thought i'd get to do was kiss you” he admits, turning off the shower head.

“You thought about it a lot, Peña?” you tease, feeling better now you weren't plastered in your own blood.

“Every day,” he confesses “every time I’d walk into your lab and you’d ignore me,” He continues lifting you up out of the tub and toweling you off.

“You want pyjamas?” he asks.

“Just want to sleep” you murmur, shaking off the towel and crawling under the linen sheets.

“Okay i'll get the lights, call me if you need anything, i'll just be next door,” he says, preparing to sleep on the couch.

“Javi…” you whisper, as the lights go out.

“Yes” he responds, turning around, overjoyed at the sound of his first name coming from your lips.

“Stay with me” you plead,

“As long as you want,” he says, crawling in under the sheets with you allowing you to settle around him comfortably, not closing his own eyes until the faint sound of your snoring starts up.

You shoot up in bed as the sound of gunshots ring out through the night. You turn quickly and see the imprint of where Javi had been before you fell asleep. Stumbling out the bed, you grab a nearby lamp, the pain from your side dulled by the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you descend the stairs.

“Javi” you whisper-yell frantically, wielding the lamp as you turn the corner. You breathe a sigh of relief when you see his figure on the balcony, placing the lamp down on the counter. The sound causes Javi to turn around and he rushes towards you grabbing you by the shoulder.

“What was the gunshot? Are you okay?” you ask running your hands over him scanning for an entry wound.

“Im fine dulzura, im fine. Go back to bed,” he whispers, with a tone indicating that everything was not fine.

“Helena?” you ask eyes wide.

“I don’t know” he lies, “We'll figure it out tomorrow.” he continues trying to sooth you, despite knowing exactly who was at the other end of that bullet.

“Tomorrow?” you whisper.

“If we go over there now, he’ll kill us both, if he's not already on his way to do it now. Go back into the bedroom, lock the door, do not open it for anyone. I'll keep watch” he says, more serious than you’d ever heard him.

“Stay with me.” you plead, not willing to lose Javi now that you had him.

“No, they put me with you to keep you safe, that’s what I'm going to do, that's what you're going to let me do.” he says, escorting your back up the stairs to the bedroom, not leaving until he hears the lock click into place.

Your eyes open as the mid morning sun seeps in through the cracks of the curtains reminding you of the events from the night prior. Quietly, but quickly, you get out of bed and unlock the door, holding your breath as you tip-toe down the stairs, turning the corner you exhale upon seeing Peña sitting on a chair gun in hand facing the door. He glances at you once, then again, he was over tired and on edge from being up all night.

“You should get some sleep, I'll keep an eye out,” you offer, going over to him and taking the gun from his hand, placing it down on the coffee table.

“How are the ribs?” he asks, reaching back for the gun.

“Broken, but fine,” you say, grabbing his hand in yours to stop it.

“That’s an oxymoron, you need to see a doctor,” he responds rubbing his thumb over your knuckles

“And you need to sleep, If he hasn’t killed us yet I think we're in the clear,'' you say, beginning to pull him up. He gives in and gets up himself, knowing you're only making your ribs worse. He lifts your chin and sleepily kisses you before heading off into the bedroom, leaving you with a gun that you didn't know how to use. You begin to cook breakfast leaving a plate in the fridge for Javi when he wakes up, you hoped the DEA would be extracting you soon. The situation was already volatile, you didn't want it to become explosive when the second painting was stopped. As you're cleaning up the dishes you hear a faint knock at the door. Your heart drops, and you look over to the door, letting out a shaky breath as you place the pan down in the sink. You open the door to Carlos who's standing before you looking charismatic as ever. You want to call out for Peña but you know it'll only make the situation more suspicious.

“Carlos,” you say taking a step back, crossing your arms over your chest

“You did not go to the hospital?” he asks, eyes scanning over your body as he speaks

“We don’t trust hospitals,” you offer up.

“Or the police? Kidnapping is a very serious crime after all.” he muses, smiling down at you.

“If we don’t trust hospitals, why would we go to the police? They’re a bunch of incompetent fuckers. Besides, they don’t need to know about the counterfeit work I've been doing on the side,” you offer, as you hear the sound of Javi descending the stairs. It had only been a moment but it felt like forever when Javi finally showed up at your side, quickly putting distance between you and Carlos.

“Get out. You may have built this house but we bought it, leave.” he spits

“Listen…” Carlos chides.

“You think you can break my wifes ribs and I will welcome you back with open arms? That I would listen to you, no, no, no….” he laughs.

“Darling... '' you say, trying to get his attention, but he's not done.

“Get out, do not come back, we’ll be moving shortly. As I said before we like to keep decent company and it seems we’ve run out of it here.”

“Darling.. that’s quite enough, Carlos apologies please do go on.” You interject. You can practically see the steam coming off Javi when you say it, his eyes wide as he turns back to face you.

“Thank you querida, I came to offer my sincerest apologies, I was mistaken in my belief that you were federal, misinformation is like a disease. It festers, rots your brain, I let Helena rot mine. As a result we will be moving for a time, we suggest you two do the same, police will be sniffing around here soon enough”

“Wait” you say, exiting into your art room returning shortly after with the portrait “here. The last counterfeit you had asked for, it rough but passable. Think of it as a farewell gift” He takes it and just like that he was gone, out of your lives for good.

*************************************************

The two of you sit in the uncomfortable blue plastic chairs in the ER’s waiting room, you'd been there for a few hours now, mainly sitting in silence, still trying to process what was going on.

“She's dead because of us,” you finally whisper out, Helena hadn’t left your mind since the gunshots had sung out last night, “We could have tried to get her out, she could have had information,”

“Then the whole operation would be gone, and this all would have been for nothing,” Javi responds in an attempt to unburden you of your guilt. He wanted to wrap his arms around you and pull you into him, to kiss your pain away, but you were back to the real world and the rules were different here, less clear to him.

“She was telling the truth and she still died. Do you realize how fucked up that is,” you state, emotionlessly staring off into space unable to process how you were feeling, or not wanting to, knowing it could result in everything flooding out of you.

“It’s just part of the job, they think the paintings can be linked to Escobar which is the only thing that matters.The only thing good that came out of all this pain is that were one step closer to catching the bastard” he reassures, not realizing the meaning of the words he was speaking.

“The only thing Javi?”, you question, unable to believe that everything between you had meant nothing to him.

“Ya, the only thing, in the end,” he says, turning just in time to catch the look on your face, only then realizing what he was implying. He opens his mouth to explain that what he had just said was not what he meant, but the doctor calls your name and you stand up quickly, walking ahead leaving him in the dust. He looks from the chair then to the exit, weighing his options.

[greenninjagal-blog]

Let Me Hear You Scream pt2

Ready for more spooky vibes? If you missed the first part you can find it [here!]

Summary: Upon waking up in a forest he doesn't recognize, Roman vs a Bear Trap goes almost exactly how you would think it goes.

Words: 6374

TW: Bear traps, blood, violence,

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

Roman has always had an unusually high pain tolerance. He had to, being twin brothers with Remus and all that. The sheer amount of danger the two of them got into as kids delegated that if he was anything less than completely indestructible, he’d be dead the next time Remus started a conversation with “I bet you won’t…”

He remembers that summer when Remus dared him to ride his bike down the concrete stairs, and he remembers how the wheels pitched him forward and his helmet cracked on the sidewalk, his knee skidded on the concrete, and his arm went snap with pain so white hot that Roman actually thought that the whole thing had popped right off his body entirely.

He remembers lying on the ground so shocked that he couldn’t even breathe, much less cry, and he remembers Remus laughing in the background, “I didn’t think you were going to actually do it! Oh shit, Ro? Roman! ROMAN!”

He remembers it so clearly.

“REMUS!” Roman shrieks into the forest, with tears rolling down his cheeks. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY, YOU FUCKER!”

His ankle burns. He can’t feel his toes, he can’t feel his ankle, he can’t feel anything, but there’s blood all over his hands and he can’t look down in case he faints.

His hands are trembling as they blindly work over whatever the fuck he stepped on. He can feel the slushie that he last ate, swirling in his stomach, boiling and bubbling until he feels it corroding his back molars. His fingers fumble around the… the metal teeth, oh god he’s going to vomit. His ankle screams in pain when his fingers prod too close to his actual limb. His ears echo with the painful awful SNAP of the jaw mechanism like its seared right into his soul.

“Remus,” He sobs, “I’m going to fucking kill you--”

Because there was a line here; Yeah, Remus dared him into a prank war with one of his stupid “I bet you wont, you prissy goody two shoes…” and Roman poured glitter into Remus’s laundry once, then Remus replaced Roman’s toothpaste with mayo, then Roman put white hair dye in Remus’s shampoo, and Remus swore he would get some type of revenge, even though he loved that look so much that he kept a stupid white streak in his hair. At least Roman thought he did-- He did, right?

Remus wasn’t the type to keep it to himself if he was upset. Neither of them were: Roman had perfected the art of loud sighs and dramatic monologues into a microphone and Remus had set things on fire to make people pay attention.

He didn’t-- wouldn’t--

He wouldn’t drag Roman into the middle of nowhere and make him walk into a bear trap for hair dye that would come out in another few weeks.

((Wouldn’t he?))

Everyone said Remus was insane, through whispered rumors and gossip that dissipated the moment that Roman walked into the room. Roman hadn’t ever seen the insanity himself; he grew up with Remus chasing squirrels in the park and diving into dumpsters for cool treasures and it was normal. Remus had always found humor in strange and weird things and as they had grown up those things had become less real and more abstract and Roman still didn’t think it meant that Remus would do this.

The forest is dense around him, stupid, dark; Roman isn’t sure he could recognize it even if he had a map in front of him, but then again Remus was always the more environmentally aware person of the two of them. He doesn’t know where Remus went the fuck off to either-- he’s brain is fuzzy at everything more than a few seconds ago when he blinked opened his eyes and took one step forward into a metal death trap, but he… he thought Remus had been right beside him, so close that… that…. His head is singing with pain and the backs of his eyes are melting.

“Hey!” A voice calls out and Roman flinches so hard that the metal spikes dig into his ankle and his scream strangles him.

Roman blinks back his tears just in time to see a figure stumble right out the thickets nearby, with the grace of a new born fucking dear. Roman swears in every language he knows and then some he doesn’t as the person scrambles back to their feet and zeroes in on him with an expression that Roman usually associates with the memory of his science teacher right before she demonstrated how to break a frog's ribcage for their dissection.

“No,” Roman says, “No, back off--”

He tries to scoot back and agony shoots up his leg so bright and violent that his vision whites out.

“Don’t move,” the person says, holding up their palms up suddenly to show they were unarmed or something. Roman isn’t sure what that’s supposed to do when he knows that Remus himself has never needed a weapon to be a lunatic. “I’m going to try to help.”

“Do not fucking come near me,” Roman snarls. “Who are you? One of Remus’s fucking little friends--”

“I assure you I don’t know a Remus, but you are in pain and believe I am qualified to help.”

“Fuck off!”

Roman swears that the pain is getting to his head, meddling with his thoughts like alcohol except not fun and Roman would not suggest anyone repeat this experience. The stranger-- Remus’s friend or whatever-- is staring at him with a patient impatience: like his mother waiting for him to finish his story before she runs off to answer a call on her work phone. They’re older than Roman, by a year or two, with sharp cheekbones and back framed glasses of a stereotypical nerd but a height that makes it hard to even imagine anyone looking down on them. Their eyes are colder than ice, and frost wafts off their breath. They’ve got a sweater vest on, with a tie, and converse dotted with glow in the dark paint in the shape of space nebulas.

Between his teary eye lashes Roman thinks that this guy looks incredibly tame for someone who associates with Remus and he fights the urge to vomit.

Is his leg supposed to be feeling cold?

Oh god, was he going to lose his foot? His breath swells up in his lungs, like a balloon pressing against his ribs. He wouldn’t be able to walk without a foot-- He wouldn’t be able to move or leave these woods or get help-- Remus and his psycho friends could easily cut up the rest of his body and let the wolves get him and then at school when someone would ask what happened to that dumbass who used to make dumb jokes on air during the football games, everyone will be like “Who?” and “didn’t Remus used to have an annoying twin? What happened to that guy?” and no one will ever find him because no one would car--

“Please,” The Doctor Who-ever says, in a faux calm tone as Roman nearly swallows his tongue. “I have medical knowledge, and you are clearly in distress.”

Agony races up his leg and Roman whimpers again. He swears he can hear the sound of metal grinding against his ankle bones, biting in deep and forcing the marrow to crack and shatter and explode until it's just a bunch of broken glass-like fragments under his skin. His head feels light and he frantically breathes deeply because he is not going to pass out, he is not going to make it that eas--

He’s cut off by a sudden crashing from behind behind himself: snapping of branches like a wild animal is tearing through them, the crunch of dead leaves steadily getting louder and heavy and deadlier, the swearing that are all tell-tale sounds of Remus crashing directly into someone and both of them eating the dirt as they barrel through the thickets and roll to a stop a few feet away.

Nerdicus jerks back like they were expecting anything less of Remus’s spectacular grand entrance.

Roman bites down on his tongue to stop himself from outright whimpering. Remus, his twin, his mirror image, rolls back to a sitting position like a possessed doll coming to life, untangling his limbs from another crumpled, groaning form that must be some other friend of his, and snapping them back in place because what are limbs to a maniac like him? The setting sun paints him in an eerie light and Roman’s skin itches with equal parts rage and terror at him, for dragging them out there, for putting out bear traps, for doing all this as pay back for a stupid little prank in a prank war he fucking started--

Remus’s laughter is obnoxious as always and Roman tries not to flinch at the sound of it alone, holding back a white wash of fear with just his force of will.

His other friend is another person that Roman hasn’t seen before-- not that he spends a lot of time getting to know the faces of the delinquents that his brother hangs out with. They’ve got on black jeans and a black T-shirt with one of those reversible sequin designs in the shape of a skull. Their blond hair dances in the last dregs of the evening, even as they pull a leaf from their bangs and yanks their dirty yellow beanie back over their head.

“Holy shit!” Remus says, spitting out dirt from his mouth. “Is that a bear trap?”

“Remus!” Roman whimpers with a tight throat. “This isn’t funny!”

“Au contraire! I left you alone for like five seconds and now you’re in a bear trap!” There’s a glint in Remus’s eyes and Roman recognizes it from those times when Remus climbed too high in the trees back at home, when he stared at a growing flame of a match too long, when he reached across the console and yanked on the steering wheel, screaming Roman’s name--

Roman brain pulses to the point where he can feel it knock against his skull and that hurts almost as much as ankle and he swears he sees stars on the backs of his eyelids and he does not want those to be the last stars he ever sees.

Remus swoops towards him and Roman flinches back, nearly screaming when his leg jostles.

“Chill out, Prince Charmless,” his twin says, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna get it off. What’s your range of movement?”

“Do not come any closer to me, you asshole!”

“You can’t get that thing off yourself,” Remus says.

“And whose fault is that?” Roman snaps.

Remus freezes, tilting his head slightly to the side. His rat's nest of hair creates an unearthly silhouette as he looks down at Roman, something straight out his Halloween horror films, and Roman bares his teeth in warning. He’s not thinking about how Remus’s foot can stomp down on his injured, trapped leg, he’s not thinking about how there’s no one around for miles, he’s not thinking about how there’s nothing and no one to stop him from straight out fratricide--

“Why am I suddenly getting the feeling you think I know what the flying fuck is going on here?” Remus asks.

“Don’t you?”

“No!” Remus says, delightedly, happily, cheerfully and his voice makes some distant bird caw. “I thought you snapped and took me to the woods to kill me yourself! This is much more boring now that I know I haven’t managed to break your last shreds of sanity.”

“Why would I--”

“This is ridiculous,” Glasses McGee cuts in sharply, adjusting said glasses with their index finger. “We need to remove your foot from that trap now.” They look at Remus and the other person. “Are either of you knowledgeable about the mechanics of bear traps?”

Remus throws two thumbs up, and Roman remembers vaguely a rant from a year or two ago about unethical bear hunting and steel jaw traps and how animals would step in and then lay there for days suffering as their mangled limb held them captive regardless of them trying to chew it off for freedom and oh god he’s going to be sick--

“Roman,” Remus says somewhere beyond the screaming in his head. “Oh shit.” It sounds like he’s far away and distant, or maybe underwater and Roman is drowning. He can’t seem to breathe anymore, like the teeth biting into his ankles had wrapped around his chest and was slowly crushing him.

People are moving around him, faint voices talking and then suddenly burning blinding white hot pain that shoots all the way up to the back of his eyes.

He screams and bites down only to find there’s something in his mouth-- fibers and the unmistakable taste of wool and Roman nearly gags on it. He blinks back the foggy pain and finds that he’s leaning on Remus and Webster Dick-tionary is pressing a multicolored sweatshirt to his leg delicately with the bear trap fully closed a few feet away, tethered to the ground with a heavy metal chain coated in a red paint that makes Roman’s vision sway all over again. The slushie claws back up his throat and he gags.

There’s someone new standing just behind the nerd: a very pretty person in a pretty skirt and headphones with cat ears on them around his neck. The splash of freckles and the round glasses makes them look a bit younger than the rest of them, but that could also be Roman’s brain twisting things around the moment that they wince in sympathy as the nerd prods part of his ankle.

They’re magnificent, Roman decides with a dizzying certainty. They’re the sun in the middle of this dark and dreadful forest, the stars in the night sky, the lighthouse in the storm guiding Roman back from complete devastation with just those shiny eyes behind cracked lens.

The other person, the one in the black skull shirt, Sid from Toy Story come to life, is standing just behind him and Remus, looking on distastefully from a good distance away. It takes Roman a moment to realize he’s biting down on the guy’s beanie, and gross. He spits it out at the same time as the nerd presses too close to where the trap had caught him.

“Son of a Witch!” He hisses. “A dragon witch, a fucking---”

“Oh, boo,” Remus says. “He’s alive.”

“He was not in any immediate danger of dying,” Space Case says firmly. “And isn’t he your brother?”

“Looks like someone is an only child,” Remus says. The person in black reaches out and snatches back his beanie, his entire face curling into some disgusted expression as they hold the part with Roman’s saliva away from themself.

“Wonderful,” they say in deadpan and stuff the beanie in their back pocket.

Roman blinks, struggling to sit up by himself. He scrubs his face trying to get rid of his tears, and buries that boiling humiliation being the center of attention like this. Of course, he has to be grievously injured for anyone to care about him, for anyone to take a moment to look at him, for anything--

Remus lets him go, stretching up and yawning like nothing about this is weird or strange or scary to him.

Part of Roman is reassured by that. Like, of course Remus isn’t terrified out of his mind; what is there to be scared of when he’s the most terrifying thing in a 100 mile radius? When he handcuffed himself to the doors of the city history museum to protest its demolishment even though the wrecking ball was right there, when he wore a mini skirt to school to protest the dress code even though he’d been beat up for less before, when he marched into the Governor’s office when he was refused a meeting about the rescinding of the pollution standards in the the county and laughed in the face of the armed guards that told him to leave.

Remus had an endless supply of guts and determination and Roman had wished for so long that his reckless bravery could be contained, controlled and banished, but now it kinda felt like Remus slipping a familiar jacket over Roman’s shoulders and telling him to relax.

Google.com-- Roman is seriously running out of names for them-- leans in and tears the new holes in Roman’s jeans further-- Roman grimaces at the thought of having to buy another pair to make up for this, but the nerd expertly uses the excess fabric to tie up his wound with a professional precision.

“Alright, Doc Oct,” Remus says while they work. “What is the diagnosis? Amputation? Do I need a body bag?”

“I just said that he was not in danger of dying,” they say, finishing the knot which only causes Roman to grunt a little bit. “And my name is Logan, if you must know. I am not a full medical doctor by any means, but I believe that he will recover fully; the trap broke skin and there will likely be a nasty amount of bruising deep in the muscle tissue, but he will recover in a few weeks of rest. It will probably be best to keep weight off your foot as much as possible.”

“See, drama queen?” Remus says to Roman, shoving his shoulder. “You’re fine.”

Roman gives him double middle fingers for his trouble and tries not to shake too hard with relief. He stares down at his leg, forcing a steady breath through his lungs and out his nose, and wonders with a dizzying amazement how his leg was not only in one piece but recoverable, after all the pain. He isn’t sure that it’s not just the placebo effect of someone saying that everything’s going to be okay, but he wiggles his toes and swears that the pain only wracks his limb moderately this time.

Even closed, the bear trap looked menacingly at them: Roman’s blood on the jaws that were curled into a ghoulish grin, just waiting for someone to get close enough to open and bite down on. He’s not sure how Remus and the Doctor Doolittle-- Logan-- managed to get it off him.

Logan turns and offers the sweater to the person in the skirt. “Ah, sorry, I’m afraid the blood has…”

Roman sucks in another breath at the sight of it: the bright splotchy blobs of red that bled through the pastel tye dye design that would likely never come out and eternally remain a reminder of how Roman put his foot directly in a bear trap like an idiot-- What would he have done if there was no one around? Died? His own stupidity had ruined such a nice piece of clothing and--

“It’s okay!” The angel says with a somewhat cartoonish voice. Roman blinks in surprise at the sweetness of it, tasting sugar even as the words hold over the air. He swears he can envision their I’s dotted with hearts; a soft and kind tone despite the fact that Roman had ruined their sweater. “I’m much more relieved he’s going to be okay!”

“Let’s not get too excited,” Doctor Doom says, causing Roman to stiffen and Remus to glance back curiously towards them. They’re turned away from the rest of the mismatched, miscellaneous group, looking into the trees with a gaze that makes Roman’s stomach roll over and not in any way that is even remotely good.

“What?”

They glance back at them with an expression something that Roman can only call shifty. Like a snake before it strikes, they’re poised on the balls of their feet, coiled with the power to move at a seconds decision. Untrustable, Undependable, Unkind-- and Roman squares his shoulders just to prove to himself that there isn’t actually a dagger point about to plunge into his back.

The person’s voice is silky smooth, but Roman can’t find it in himself to be jealous when the meaning of the next words hit. “I don’t suppose any of you remember just exactly how we came to be here, do you?”

The woods echo with a strange emptiness, like the trees themselves are holding their breaths. The silence is eerie-- Roman’s never been a forest this quiet. He’s never been anywhere this quiet. The hairs on the back of his neck raise up.

Logan and the shining, shimmering, lovely vision share a look and the former shrugs, occupying their hands with tying their sweater around their waist.

“It’s fuzzy,” they admit, thoughtfully. “I was leaving my dorm...and then…” They grimace, which is downright awful to witness: Roman doesn't think anyone deserves to look so uncomfortable, and certainly not a beauty like them. “...then I was here.”

Logan makes a sour face like he managed to misplace a decimal twenty seven steps back in his math equations. “I was uncharacteristically late to class, but I seem to have some form of amnesia surrounding the hours since then as well; It was just past two.”

Dr. Facilier-turned-teenager turns to Roman, their eyes asking a question they already know the answer to. And part of Roman wants to snarl at them, tell them to knock it off with the creepy aura and better-than-you-expression, explain to them exactly how they ended up all here together because there’s a logical, causal explanation.

But Remus is already laughing. “Oh come on! We were…. What were we doing again?” Remus freezes for a moment, some of the smile leaving his face. “Ro? Where were we…?”

Remus is dressed in another one of his ripped T-shirts, the Save the Turtles one that he wore to that protest a few months ago and when he volunteered to clean up beaches for the weekend. His sleeves are ripped off to show off the endangered Tiger tattoo on his shoulder up to his neck, and his jeans are the recycled ones that he bought second hand and begged Roman to repair rather than buy a new pair and “give his money to the capitalists that are trying to kill us all”.

In comparison, Roman is wearing his letterman jacket, with his name engraved on it that he got for being the announcer for the football team three years in a row. He’s wearing his announcer uniform too-- his hair is styled and his colors are coordinated to the white and red of their school, but Remus never comes to the football games anymore.

Or well, he’s not allowed to come to the games anymore after he stole the tuba from the band players and charged into the field during the game back in their freshman year.

Still he-- remembers… he thinks he remembers... They were in the car together, Remus needed to go somewhere and Roman had to drop him off and then speed off to the game, right? Remus' feet were up on his dashboard, mud flaking off into his freshly cleaned car, his air fresheners weren’t working, they were fighting over the radio, Remus’s hand reached out, latching on to the wheel and a scream--

“Fuck,” Remus says, rubbing the side of his head like Roman had slapped him. “Did you crash our car out here?”

“Me?” Roman says, incredulously.

“Yeah!” Remus says. “Did you get brain damage in the crash too? Are your brains going to fall out? You were the one driving, dumbass.”

“You grabbed my steering wheel!”

Remus snorts. “What? No, I didn’t?”

“Yes you did!”

“No way!”

“Yes way!”

“I wouldn’t get anything out of--”

“Boys!” Skeletar says, clapping to get their attention. “Less arguing, more answering the question.”

Remus looks at Roman and Roman glares right back because he did not crash the car. Between the two of them Remus was more likely to crash a car-- proven from how he totaled their green Ford Fiesta nine months ago and now even around the pounding headache he can still remember the feeling of surprise as Remus’s sporadic movement jumbled through his own, the yank that caused him to lose control, the-- the--

He doesn’t remember what happened after that, but he knows that then Roman had opened his eyes out here, taken a step forward, and nearly lost his foot to a bear trap.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Logan says. “Even if perhaps you happened to have a car around here, that does not explain how the rest of us came to be here. And likely from the events that you are describing the car is not in functional condition-- although I’m unsure how your persons would have come out of such a thing without a few visible injuries…”

“I didn’t crash the car,” Roman says firmly.

“Oh, like you didn’t step into a bear trap?” Remus asks innocently antagonistically.

“Why are there bear traps out here anyway!” Roman hisses. “Isn’t bear hunting or whatever illeg--”

Roman almost doesn’t hear it: it starts so softly and then it raises in pitch and suddenly it's ringing in the air like cracks in the fragile glass silence. He feels his breath disappear right out of his chest, his body tensing and everyone jerks towards the direction the sound comes from, like they’re expecting to see something out there.

Roman remembers hearing people yell at Remus to get out of the way of the wrecking ball, remembers hearing the teachers snap at him to go change into his gym clothes, remembers the armed guard spitting on Remus’s face, his own shouts turning to something just above an animalistic growl when he told Remus to knock it off, you’re making me look bad.

And still he doesn’t remember hearing anything sound so horrified. So desperate. So despondent.

It is the noise that causes Roman to break out in goosebumps, electricity dancing along his skin causing all of his hairs to raise, and himself to find it suddenly very hard to swallow. Roman is scrambling back before he can remember that his foot should not be moving and he bumps into Logan as he does.

It cuts off short and disappears like someone took a pair of scissors to the sound itself, snipping the scream for help away before it reaches the end.

And Roman doesn’t think anyone is breathing anymore. His heart pounds in his chest, waiting for the rest of it.

The trees cast shadows so deep and dark that not even the moonlight will touch them. Somehow without Roman noticing, the temperature had dropped until the air feels like frostbite licking his exposed skin. Roman doesn’t dare move another inch-- doesn’t like the idea of what might happen if he reminds the rest of the world that time is still passing.

“I…” the person in the skull T-shirt says, in a very low, strangled tone. “I don’t think bears are what's being hunted.”

“No,” Roman says, “No.”

“Oh god, I’m gonna be sick,” the person in the skirt says.

“No!” Roman says, throwing out his arms before his thoughts can catch up. “This is not--”

“We need to leave,” Logan says, face pale. “Now.”

“I think I saw a gate,” Remus said, no hint of his unhinged grin. He thumbs the direction that he and Kaa came from. “I pulled the switch but it didn’t open. I thought about climbing but there are no holds and barbed wire around the top--”

“It’s likely lacking a power source then,” Logan says steadily calm and Roman feels like he’s losing his whole goddamned mind. “Let me take a look at--”

“We are not being hunted right now!” Roman blurts out.

The others stare at him for a solid, endless second and Roman’s stomach threatens to crawl up his throat. He waits for them to agree with him, waits for them to laugh and call it a joke, waits for Remus to tell him he’s so easy to scare, come on Ro, did you really think there was a murderer in these woods? This is grade school level effort!

Roman gets the feeling that he’s going to be waiting a very long time.

“Guys,” Roman says, slightly more wobbly than he means it to, slightly more softer than he means it to, slightly more terrified than he means it to. “We aren’t being hunted for sport, right?”

Because-- Because he’s seen horror movies. And he remembers once how Remus poured a bag of popcorn over his head and said that if they were ever in that situation, he’d leave Roman to rot, maybe even toss him to the killer himself, laugh as Roman screamed and begged and cried.

He doesn’t look at his foot. He doesn’t look at his foot and think about how he can’t run. He doesn't look at his foot and realize that they’re going to leave him behind and no one will ever know what happened to him and no one will care--

Remus is suddenly right in front of him, offering a hand right into Romans face. Roman blinks back the burning tears on his cheeks and looks at the limb with a trembling lip.

“Come on,” Remus says. “You’re a little bitch when you ruin your mascara, Ro.”

And Roman tries to articulate the billions of insults he has in his brain, but all that comes out is a whimper as Remus latches on to his wrist and pulls him to his feet. He stumbles the moment that he tries to put weight on his foot, flickers of pain echoing in his brain although it's not nearly as bad as he was expecting. Remus pulls Roman over his shoulder with his injured leg raised between them and all of his weight on Remus’s shoulders.

“I’m not leaving you behind, dumbass,” Remus says.

((Why wouldn’t he?))

“We need to help them,” the person in the skirt, the good and just and wonderful person in a skirt, says suddenly.

“I don’t think they need our help,” Hans Gruber-minus-the-German-accent says. “In fact, I don’t think they need anything, anymore.���

“How could you say that?!”

“Easily,” they respond, shortly.

The person in the skirt is shaking, Roman realizes. They’re shaking and hugging themself and they look slightly green in the face.

“I came from over there,” they say from behind trembling hands. “I-- I didn’t hear anyone else over there but they must have been there and I-- I can’t--”

“They’re dead,” Dr. Jerkyll says clinically, like a surgeon with a knife. “Us rushing towards that area is only going to get us attacked next. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to die, thank you very much.”

“We can’t leave them!” The other argues.

The person in the skull shirt steps towards the other and grabs their upper arm to spin them back to the direction the scream came from. Then with a derisive and terrible sneer, they shove. The cutie in the skirt stumbles forward, nearly face planting on the uneven ground.

“Then you go help them,” they say, with streaks of faint and awful moonlight painting them in a pale halo. They wave back to Logan, Remus and Roman, and Roman feels very much like he doesn’t want to be included in this group all of a sudden. “Don’t drag the rest of us into it.”

“Hey, don’t be a dick!” Roman says, stepping forward and hissing when he places a slight weight on his foot. “What if it were you out there?”

They scoff. “Me? I would never let myself get caught by a psycho murderer in the woods. But if I did, the last thing I would want is my valiant savior to come charging to my rescue and then get slaughtered right beside me like an idiot!”

“I’ll keep that in mind, you slimy snake,” Roman says.

“I bet you will, Hiccup,” they shoot back. “The gate is this way. Try not to step in another bear trap, won’t you?”

“Damn!” Remus says, “You’re a bitch! What’s your opinion on plastic in the sea?”

Roman slaps Remus’s arm and gives him a glare because really? Right now? They’re in the woods, someone just screamed and probably got murdered, they don’t know how to get out, Roman’s injured, and Remus is doing one of his weird flirting attempts.

Great.

The person in the skull shirt at least looks slightly thrown by the question, narrowing their eyes and shaking their head as they turn away as if they can brush off the rest of the group. “The sea turtles are dying.” They say blandly, without a hint of actual emotion. “Oh no. Next time I see one I will give my condolences about it’s mother.”

Remus’s mouth pops open for a retort that Roman knows is going to be bad, but before he can get the words out, there’s a loud sound of cracking branches from behind them. Remus drags Roman back from the area, planting himself in front of Roman like some kind of human shield and Roman wobbles, without anything to put his injured leg on.

“Jesus Christ!” A new voice screams, as they trip over a thicket and fall into the clearing.

They move like a blur; barely more than a shadow with the ungodly amount of black they’re wearing. Roman can make out a pale face, dark bangs and terrified eyes, before the scramble back in the ground leaving… leaving smears of deep red on the ground in front of them. Their flashlight goes flying off to Logan’s feet, but they don’t seem to care as much about that as moving away from whatever is behind them.

The air tastes like metal, like copper, and Roman swears the world sways under him. His heartbeat blares in his ears almost louder than the newcomer’s hysterical sobs.

There’s a thud. And another.

And the trees themselves seem to shake and draw from the shadow that takes form. It peels away from the others, massive, hulking and distorted in all the wrong ways: at some point it must have been human, Roman thinks hysterically. It has two legs and two arms and a torso and a head, but it's elongated towering over even Logan at his ridiculous height. Its skin is covered in soot and dirt, layers upon layers to the point where Roman almost thought that it was wearing some kind of leather armor. It has rubber overalls on, strapped...strapped to its body with metal hooks that catch the thin moonlight peeking out of its bulging bare shoulders in a way that looks…looks self mutilated. The patchy ugly skin is healed around the metal, molded to it, absorbing it. In one hand is a cleaver, cobbled together from various metals with an unfinished touch and dripping scarlet all the way down the handle to its massive hands. Roman thinks that with one hand it could easily crush one of their skulls.

But worse than that, than the blood, than the stench coming from the thing, than the bloodlust that's echoing out of it: worse than all that is the mask welded to its face. A pale white skin that nearly glows in the darkness, framed with jagged sharp edges of bladed teeth in a terror inducing smile. Soulless orbs exist where eyes might have once been: now there are empty voids without a human behind them.

In a slow, almost robotic motion, it raises the cleaver in its hand. Blood rolls down the handle onto it’s hand and Roman watches the bulb of red drip down into the grass right between the newcomer’s sneakers.

Oh, Roman thinks suddenly very clearly without any room for a single doubt, This is what death looks like.

“NO!” The person in the skirt screams and suddenly they shove forward and throw themselves in front of the swing of the cleaver. Roman isn’t sure who screams louder at that: him, the person in the skirt, or the person on the ground bleeding out.

His brain is on fire, every atom in him is screaming so loud that he can’t hear his thoughts. His own breath flees his lungs with abandon that Roman’s brain somehow hadn’t gotten because instead of running away he’s running towards the monster. His blood boils in his veins and he pushes through Remus with the sort of reckless abandonment of sanity he never would have thought he’d ever make.

His vision locks onto the kid on the ground and his fingers latch on their left shoulder and he hauls them back.

The air next to his ear whistles as the cleaver misses them by centimeters and the person in the skirt screams as they fall to the side, and specks of something wet and warm and sticky flings through the air like its a water fountain; Roman feels it splatter across his face and his brain heart thuds in his chest.

Remus appears on his other side, grabbing Roman’s hostage by their other arm and they both pull them to their feet, ignoring the way they scream in pain. Their torso drips ruby into the dead grass at their feet and Roman-- Roman--

The hulking monster in front of them gives his cleaver a shake and drags it over its own arm to wipe away the blood, like it's nothing more than a hindrance. It turns its entire body towards the person in the skirt, the gorgeous selfless angel of a person that Roman hasn’t gotten the name of-- of someone he isn't going to get the same of because the abomination raises the cleaver again.

Roman screams because he does not want to watch someone die, please he doesn’t want to be in this nightmare anymore, wake up wake up wakeup--

There’s a brilliant white light that explodes at the last second. Roman himself jerks away from it, but that’s nothing compared to the inhuman howl that the creature makes as it stumbles back to the edge of the forest, covering its beady eyes with its massive hands.

Logan flicks the flashlight off and grabs the person in the skirt by their uninjured arm and looks back at them only briefly with an air of finality.

“RUN!” He says.

And Roman does.

[ceilingfan5]

taakitz fake dating+bodyguard+proposal :))))

“I don’t want a bodyguard! I want to go places on my own! I want to have some fucking freedom again! What’s the point of being rich if I can’t be in charge of myself??” Taako’s horrible mood seems to radiate off of him, threatening to kill the houseplants. 

“You know that just isn’t possible,” Lucretia sighs. “I’ve been your manager and done your PR for a long time now, Taako, and we both know-”

“Augh!” Taako pops a piece of gum in his mouth and chews angrily, loudly snapping it like he’s imagining sinking his teeth into any stray fingers that might dare approach him. “Don’t tell me that ‘we both know’ speech again! I’ve heard it! I get it! I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.”

“Taako, you aren’t-”

Taako very nearly growls at her. Kravitz clears his throat. 

“Ah, yes,” Lucretia says, almost another sigh. “You know Kravitz. He’s got an excellent resume, he’s been your bodyguard before. How about today, you two go solo? Rather than a whole team?”

It’s a compromise. Taako hates compromises. But he wants out of the fucking house, so he complies. 

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. But you have to keep up with me.” He glares at Kravitz, in his nice black suit, with his rippling muscles and nonplussed expression and high cheekbones and gold in his hair, which is just gorgeous. He’d be sexy even if he couldn’t bench press three Taakos. Taako pops his gum again, thinking. “And I’ve got a plan.”

“Oh dear,” Lucretia says. 

“Whatever it takes,” Kravitz says, looking and sounding very professional. Taako’s going to fix that. If he can’t have some alone time, he’s going to cause mischief until they wish he was alone. He spits his gum into the nearest plant. 

“Let’s go. I’m driving.”

“You are not-” Lucretia’s voice gets a little more tense. “You don’t have a valid license!”

“I’ll drive you,” Kravitz says, still cool as a cucumber popsicle. Taako rolls his eyes. 

At least Kravitz drives fast. 

“So here’s my plan,” Taako says, gesturing dramatically. 

“I’m listening.” Kravitz passes another car that seems like it’s standing still. Excellent. 

“You’re not my bodyguard today. You’re gonna be my boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“Keep up, big guy. You’re going to be my boyfriend. We’re dating. Hot new goss. Delicious and fresh. Everybody will want to know the tasty celebrity deets.” He smacks his fist into his palm, getting excited. And then the paparazzi will swarm, and Taako will be able to slip out of the crowd and run off. It’s perfect. 

“I take it you’re going to insist on this.”

“I sure am.”

“Then, I suppose we’re boyfriends,” Kravitz intones, deadpan. “Yay.”

Taako snickers. 

It’s harder to lose Kravitz than he thought. The dating made for a lot of attention, but it also gave Kravitz an excuse to literally hold him by the arm when the cameras got close. So what if Taako’s heart beat faster when Kravitz slipped them out of the hot zone, running three blocks half-carrying him in the process? So what if they share a hot dog and an indirect kiss? The suit is a little conspicuous, so Taako makes Kravitz wear a shiny purple shawl he finds in a second hand shop. Taako shouldn’t even be going into second hand shops. That makes it great. The look on Kravitz’s face? Greater. 

He tries to slip away again after lunch, but the mustard incident barely phases Kravitz, and neither does the old bathroom trick. Kravitz is stuck to him like glue. 

“Taako! Who’s your new boyfriend??” People with expensive cameras call. And, okay, maybe it’s fun to bask in it. It’s been a while since he had someone on his arm, and that last someone wasn’t half as fine as Kravitz. It’s almost...nice. He thinks less about slipping away and more about wiping that blank look off Kravitz’s face. And he knows just what will do the trick, too. 

Sorry, Lucy. Here comes a PR disaster. 

They slip into a jewelry shop, and Taako buys several things, quite sneaky like, while Kravitz, bored, admires the security cameras. Taako suggests they go for ice cream as they step out into the sunshine, and within minutes, they’re swarmed by paps again. Perfect. 

“Hey Krav,” Taako says, sweet as butter. 

“Hm?” Kravitz looks at him. Taako splits into a dangerous grin, and then he gets down on one knee. 

Kravitz blinks. 

“What are you doing?”

“Tying my shoe,” Taako quips, sliding around in his designer flip-flops. “What does it look like?”

Kravitz squints at him.

“Everybody, gather round!” 

“Taako, no.” 

“Kravitz,” Taako grins so hard his teeth are going to fall out, and he’s going to step on one, and it’s going to hurt, but God, will it be worth it. “I love you so much.”

Kravitz’s jaw drops. His eyes are full of confusion, embarrassment, intrigue. They almost sparkle. 

“You make every day of my life so happy.” Taako pulls out the little ring box. Kravitz covers his mouth. “Will you make my day, and every day after that? Be with me forever.” 

“I,” Kravitz stumbles. He looks around at the paparazzi, who are very much swarming. “Don’t know what to say.” His voice is a weird kind of tense, and Taako pushes it as far as it will go.

“Say yes, baby. Be mine.” And he tilts his head and gives Kravitz the smoulder that got him into a dozen blockbuster films. Several passsersby swoon. 

Kravitz is making a funny noise. Taako frowns a little, thinking he’s choking at first, but Krav’s hand can’t cover it-- he’s laughing. And he’s laughing hard. The more he tries to stop, the worse it gets, and he doubles over, coughing, spluttering, giggling, wheezing. It’s a beautiful show, but Taako’s embarrassed. 

“Well?” he demands. He’s invested now, even if it is fake. Kravitz gets the hint and tries to stop laughing, but his smile is warbly and barely keeping the snickers in. He bends down and pulls Taako up and kisses him, for real, on the mouth and everything, and Taako forgets the ruse for a minute and really kisses back, swooning just like the gawking commonfolk. 

“Of course I will,” Kravitz says nice and loud, and then he leans in and whispers in Taako’s ear, “How are you going to slip out of this one, hm?”

Taako flushes brightly. So maybe Kravitz was a more challenging opponent than he thought. Two can play at this tango. 

“He said yes!” Taako declares, and the crowd cheers. In an instant, Taako’s phone is buzzing so hard he could fry an egg on it. 

“She found out,” he says out of the side of his mouth. 

“She always does.” Kravitz smiles-- really, despite the rest of it, he’s so glad he got to see that gorgeous smile--and he kisses Taako again, once for the tabloids and once more to let him know he’s really fucked it up this time. 

[ragingbookdragon]

You Can Take Off All My Clothes And Never See Me Naked PT. 1

A Haytham Kenway x Reader Story

Word Count: 2,060 Warnings: Explicit Language, Mentions of Assault (Past & Present)

Author’s Note: I’m a dumb bitch who really can’t stop myself from starting new stories. Regardless, enjoy! -Thorne

“Tell me about the tavern we’re going to Charles.”

           The man looked to the Grandmaster with a smile. “Oh, I believe it’s called The Ethereal Crew Tavern.”

           Haytham cocked an eyebrow. “Quite an odd name for a colonial tavern.”

           “How so? Charles wondered, trying to understand the statement.

           “Most taverns this side of the Atlantic usually have humor in the name.” He glanced at the other Templars coming their way to the crossroads. “The Ethereal Crew almost sounds mystical.”

           “I’d never thought about that.” Charles remarked, and the Templars stopped to greet the larger group.

           “Evening Master Kenway.” The Irishman thrust a thumb back to the road. “Tavern’s just up the way here.”

           Haytham nodded, greeting the other Templars in the group before taking the lead, going into an easy conversation with them.

           The tavern came into sight, easily a two-floored building from the view. The cracked slate gray paint along the side reminded Haytham of the old boats that he saw dry docked when he was a child at Queen Anne’s Square. It made a bitter taste form in his mouth as he thought about his father and family. The borders of the doors and windows were painted with an onyx coat, and as they climbed the stairs, they caught sight of the sign next to the door. Someone had hand painted a crew of ghostly pirates standing behind a captain with swords and pistols raised. Haytham couldn’t help but huff quietly at the sign, hand curling around the handle to open it.

           They stepped inside and he was mildly surprised to see such a relative cleanliness within. Sure, there was a spill of ale here and there, but a certain level of neatness blanketed the place. His eyes drifted up the walls to the Jolly Roger flags hung up. Whether they’d been sewn and hung for decoration or were real flags, he didn’t know, but to hang them up so brazenly, the pub owner obviously didn’t fear reprimand. Haytham didn’t know if he should’ve praised them for their audacious bravery or sheer stupidity. Time would tell if he managed to meet the owner. A woman appeared in his peripheral from behind the counter.

           She offered a polite smile to them. “Good evening, gentlemen.” They tipped their heads in greeting. “You must be the group under,” her eyes drifted to the writing board she had in her hand, “Kenway?”

           Haytham nodded. “We are.”

           Her smile brightened and she tipped her head. “Fantastic! If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the back!” She appeared from around the counter and started through a doorway, leaving them to follow.

           They entered into a backroom and Haytham was pleasantly surprised at how elegant it looked. Perhaps that was the wrong word—more refined in the piracy theme. She watched them take their seats before stepping between his and Thomas’s seat. “My name is (Y/N) and I’ll be handling your orders for tonight.” She gestured to the table. “The cards in front of you hold the items our tavern serves. The first page is the specials for the evening, the next page is the normal dishes.” (Y/N) gently turned the card in Haytham’s grip with a quiet, ‘excuse me.’ “And the back is the listing of our drinks. We serve alcoholic drinks as well as non, and we have quite a bigger selection than most taverns in the colonies.”

           “How do you manage that?” Shay piped up, obviously impressed.

           She smiled at him. “We have exclusive deals with many dealers and traders across the seas and lands. We also happen to brew some of our own liquors.” (Y/N) looked at them. “Can I start you off with drinks?” her eyes drifted to Haytham.

           He nodded. “I’ll take champagne.”

           “Shall I bring the bottle?” Haytham tipped his head. “Of course, sir.” Her eyes drifted to the Shay. “And for you?”

           “Take a pint of Guinness, lass.”

           (Y/N) quietly nodded, taking the rest of the orders, and with a quick of the quill into its holder, she said, “I’ll go get those ready. In the meantime, please decide what you’ll be eating for the evening.”

           Before she could leave, Thomas had an arm around her waist, and she froze. He gestured for her to lean over and when she did, Haytham watched her eyes go wide at whatever the man had whispered in her ear.

           She let out a laugh, but someone as well trained as he could tell it was one to hide the embarrassment she felt. She pulled from his grip and remarked, “Now sir, you should focus on dinner.” Thomas merely gave (Y/N) a salacious grin and Haytham watched her flee as inconspicuously as she could. His eyes narrowed on the man who didn’t seem to feel the weighted gaze, immediately going into conversation with Charles and William.

***

           Laughter echoed from behind the closed doors and (Y/N) sighed internally—partial tiredness, the other part infuriated. God, what I wouldn’t give for these bastards to go home already. Every time she’d gone into the room, that lecher Thomas had made some inappropriate comment or put his hands on her. She could feel the thread that held her patience fraying and it was about to snap.

           She needed the money this place provided though, and she slapped a smile on her face, stepping into the room. “My, my, it seems you’re all having a great time!” They raised their glasses in return save for the one at the head of the table. He’d removed his tricorn since (Y/N) had left. Her eyes rested on him for a few moments—he didn’t seem the type to drink in excess somewhere he didn’t feel secure. He was rather handsome in her opinion, dressed in clothes too sharp for any colonial man, personal care much too meticulous for one as well. He had a sharp jaw line, high cheekbones, a strong nose, and his dark brows made his steel eyes shine as if they were made of polished metal. Rather handsome, she finally decided, and much too dangerous for someone as skilled as her to ever take on in a fight.

           Eyeing the many weapons he carried, she wondered if perhaps he were apart of an elite group of soldiers, but she’d never heard of redcoats like that. The man’s foot shifted in a light tap, and she looked up, meeting his steely gaze—turns out all the time she’d been observing him, he’d been doing the same. Her cheeks warmed and she glanced the other way, wondering just how much he’d managed to size her up in mere moments they’d stared. “Well, I wonder if you’ve saved room for dessert?” Their attention was immediately drawn in and she couldn’t help but laugh. “We’ve cakes, cookies, pies, any and all kinds you could want.”

           The men cheered around the table and Thomas leaned over, wrapping his arm back around her, though in his drunken haze, he slipped it under her rear, making her go statue like. “Say—how much—for your—dessert?” Most of the men laughed at that, but Shay and Haytham, who both wore looks of general disgust.

           (Y/N) wanted to laugh, but that thread had finally snapped and she grabbed hold of his hand and yanked it off her body, shoving him sideways in his seat; he collided with Charles who was sitting next to him, and before he could say anything, she was standing over him with a glower. “Listen and listen well, you fuck.” Her sudden use of an obscenity sobered everyone at the table. “I have spent the last three hours being sexually harassed by you and I’m done. I doubt a stupid bastard like you has ever heard of the word ‘consent’, so allow me to explain.”

           Thomas’s mouth opened and she raised a hand. “You say anything, and I’ll bash every one of your fucking teeth out and make you eat them one by one.” His mouth snapped shut and she said, “Consent is when someone gives you their express approval to touch them. Since you got here, you haven’t requested my consent to touch or speak to me in such a way. Allow me to tell you exactly what I think about it.”

           She gripped the back of his chair and got in his face. “If you put your hands on me again, if you speak to me again, if you even look at me again.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and her voice became a withering hiss. “I will claw your fucking eyes out of your head and shove them down your goddamn throat. And while you’re choking to death at my feet, the last thing you’ll see and hear will be the sound of my laughter. Do you understand?”

           He could barely form a thought to phrase back, but he managed a light threat. “Murder’s illegal.”

           (Y/N) barked a laugh that sent shivers up their spines, then she sneered, “You’re not the first man I’ve killed. You won’t be the last.” A grin crossed her lips, and Thomas thought he was staring at the mouth of a lioness. “But I would love nothing more than to add you to that list. Would you like that?” Thomas shook his head rapidly. “Coward.” She spat and stood straight.

           For a moment she simply glared at the man, then a mask fell across her face and she turned to the rest of them. “So, shall I take dessert orders then?” When no one spoke, she smiled. “Then I’ll go get your checks. Please excuse me.”

***

           As the group stumbled through the tavern, they seemed to avoid the hostess’s eyes, still terrified about her threats. (Y/N) saw them off with a smile, and when Haytham came up to her, she regarded him with a polite gaze, but one that held resentment and suspicion. “Did you enjoy your evening sir? I hope you’ll come back to visit.” Her smile brightened. “We enjoy high-class company.”

           Haytham huffed through his nose and stared at her. “I apologize for Thomas’s behavior.”

           Her smile dropped and that rage began to slither out. “If he ends up missing, don’t come here.”

           He cocked an eyebrow, but his eyes held humor. “Because you wouldn’t have anything to do with it?”

           (Y/N) leaned forward and hissed, “Because I’ll be halfway across the colonies by the time the authorities get here to arrest me.”

           “You’re fairly confident to speak of killing a man so openly.”

           She scoffed. “Oh please, anyone I’ve ever killed had it coming.”

           “Had it coming?” he echoed, steely gaze narrowed with interest.

           “They did.” (Y/N) averted her gaze to the window and Haytham watched as she seemed to recount the past; her voice turned into a mumble, almost apathetic, like she expected what had come before. “Most of them escaped justice because their money lined court pockets.”

           “And you ensured the victims had justice, then?” It wasn’t much of a question, more rhetorical than inquisitive.

           She looked at him with heavy stare and as if her mouth were a gun, she was spitting words like rapid-fire bullets. “Who is to be held accountable when the justice system is found corrupt? Who brings them to justice when they fail those they’re supposed to protect? Who stands up for the people when no one stands for them?” (Y/N) thrust a finger into his chest. “Who protects the women and children from the ones who are supposed to be their protectors? Who protects the innocent from those who would strip it from their very souls?” Her jaw clenched. “If not them, then who? If we don’t…then who will?”

           Haytham simply gazed at her and she pulled her hand away. “I’m not asking you to understand, but don’t write me off as some crazy murderess. Any life I’ve ever taken has been an evil one, dark and corrupted. And I ensured their victim never had to live another day in pure terror.” She gestured to the door. “You should leave. Your group has been waiting for some time.”

           He didn’t move, but murmured, “If I were to offer you a job…to eliminate evil people…would you take it?”

           She met his gaze. “Only if I you keep the one man as far away from me as you can get him.” A smirk crossed her lips. “Or I’ll kill him.”

[ambitiousskychild]

Glasses

It was just supposed to be for a little while. Just until they could fix his lenses. Two days tops, and then he’d have his glasses back. Contacts are torture, actual-ass torture, and he can’t be fucked to deal with them a single second longer than he needs to.

Of course, that’s what he said two days ago.

That’s the hill he would have stupidly died on two days ago before he bravely went to school expecting the very worst and instead got a whole bunch of positive reinforcement that, okay, maybe he was wrong. Maybe, on second thought, contacts aren’t quite so horrible. Maybe in the end, all they are are innocent clear little discs that, alternatively to glasses, open up your face so people can actually see it, and maybe, okay just maybe people have different opinions on his face—now that they can see it—than he’d always been led to believe.

Before, he would have said he’s always known what he looks like. He knows that he’s tall and gangly and awkward with a too-large nose and only-recently perfected teeth. He’s known that he’s pasty and loud and that his glasses, though ridiculous, surely aren’t the most ridiculous thing about him.

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Because usually, people don’t really see him, but now people stare at him like he’s a different person—and maybe he is without his glasses. He certainly feels like one. Maybe in a weird, ridiculously fitting way, his glasses have been holding him back all this time. Like—like Velma from Scooby-Fucking-Doo, or even fucking Steve Urkel when he turns into Stephon, and isn’t that fucking nuts.

That’s how it feels when people stare at him these days. Like he’s not quite so much a dweeb anymore, and he doesn’t really know what to do with it.

Bill Denbrough himself tells him that he looks really good, which Richie doesn’t think Bill’s ever said to him in his entire life and he just does not know what to do with that. He doesn’t know what to do when Stan gives him a once over and ends it with a smile rather than a fondly exasperated sigh, or when Ben tells him he looks so grown up, or when he locks eyes with Eddie who does an up-to-now completely unprecedented doubletake.

“Wow,” he drawls, with his wide endless eyes so open and focused it’s scary. “You look like a real person.”

“As opposed to what?”

“A cartoon character,” he clarifies, which makes Richie laugh while Eddie just stares. He stares as the others continue to react, then he opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, then evidently changes his mind and leaves instead.

It’s weird.

And it’s like that for the next couple of days.

For the next couple of days, people see him. In the hallways and in class. They talk to him like he’s worth getting to know, like he’s somebody, and Eddie stares with that strange expression Richie can’t really decipher.

Some stupid part of himself wants to think that when Eddie looks at him like that, he’s star struck. Eddie stares at him like he’s never seen him before. He stares at him like he can’t look away, like he just can’t stop himself. It shocks Richie uncharacteristically silent, makes his mouth go dry, tongue like cotton in his mouth whenever he finds himself thoughtlessly looking around for Eddie only to find him already looking back.

Then midway through the week, he gets his glasses back.

He and his mom go pick them up after school and then his problem is officially over. He can take the hell-lenses out of his eyes, pop back on his frames and move on from this altogether weird experience. That’s what he tells himself.

And in the morning, he shoves the contacts back into his eyes and calls himself a dirty liar.

Just for the rest of the week, he tells himself, then he’ll stop. He’ll fill up on having positive attention for once, then he’ll stop. He’ll stock up on whatever having this version of Eddie’s attention means… then he’ll stop.

Come Friday, he already doesn’t believe himself, though. The losers go their separate ways after school with plans to meet up and waste time tomorrow, and Richie goes home, mind racing with thoughts of Eddie’s eyes on his and the set of his lips.

He thinks he’ll be stuck wearing these stupid contacts forever if it means Eddie will look at him like that. He thinks, as he falls asleep that night, that’s the stupid sacrifice he’s willing to make.

In the morning, he’s pulled rudely from floaty, blurry dreams by an incessant knocking sound somewhere that keeps going and going until he foggily realizes someone must be at the door. Until he realizes that his parents must not be here to answer it, so he’s going to have to get up and answer it himself.

Sleepily, he grabs his glasses off his nightstand, slips on a shirt and stumbles his way downstairs, bumping blindly into corners and doorknobs all the way. He yanks open the front door and nearly gets Eddie’s knuckles against his chest.

“Oh!” Eddie says, rearing back a bit in surprise. “Richie.”

Richie blinks blearily down at a pouting Eddie, takes in his pastel-colored polo and his scuffed up shoes. Takes in his wild, bewildered eyes and tries to make sense of it. “Expecting someone else?” he yawns.

Eddie looks up at him with furrowed brows, lips pressed together. “It’s one. You were supposed to meet us an hour ago.”

“What am I in trouble?”

“Just let me in.”

Upstairs, Eddie starts to relax, thick brows unfurrowing, shoulders unhunching. He’s sitting on the bathroom counter as Richie brushes his teeth. He’s got his arms folded across his chest as he leans against the mirror, one leg drawn up to his body as the other swings untethered, foot smacking lightly against the cabinet because his legs still aren’t long enough to reach the floor.

Richie watches Eddie’s foot swing so he doesn’t have to see his reflection any longer, doesn’t have to see the way his glasses magnify his eyes, the way they draw attention to his nose and block his cheekbones.

“Stan told me to remind you to put on sunscreen,” Eddie pipes up. Richie looks up to see him just about glaring down at the counter. “So you don’t fucking burn and peel in the sun like a fruit.”

“Oh, is Stan going to be the one to rub it on me?” Richie garbles. “Or do you want the job?”

“Don’t fucking talk with the toothpaste in your mouth,” Eddie snaps, sighing like he’s exasperated, but his small smile says otherwise. He still won’t meet Richie’s eyes though and that won’t do.

“That’s not really a no, you know.”

“Spit it out if you’re going to fucking talk! You know I hate when you do this.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s why I do it,” Richie laughs, but nonetheless, spits into the sink as unfavorably as he possibly can, watches as Eddie grimaces at him.

“You’re like a fucking animal,” Eddie tells him, a muted smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Richie nods smugly back as he rinses out his mouth, watches the way Eddie stares at him, small smile spreading and spreading, so Richie’s heart races and races until he knows he has to stop looking.

He removes his glasses, reaching for his contacts—

“Wait.”

Richie pauses, waits for Eddie to continue, but instead Eddie just stares like he’s surprised himself just as much as he’s surprised Richie. “Uh, why?”

“Because we’re gonna swim,” Eddie says. “You can’t go swimming in the dirty quarry water with contacts in your eyes.”

“Why not?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Well then I just won’t swim.”

“Oh, like you’re not gonna swim.”

“I won’t!”

“Bullshit, Richie, just wear your glasses.”

“No way, dude, apparently I’m hot like this. Your mom even—”

“If you finish that fucking sentence—”

Richie laughs, but suddenly can’t stand Eddie’s scrutiny. He twists the legs of his frames between his fingers under what he knows, even blind, is the weight of Eddie’s gaze. “Everybody likes me better like this.”

“Everybody,” Eddie scoffs, and Richie half wishes he could see Eddie’s expression, but is mostly glad he can’t. “Says who? Who the fuck is everybody?”

“You said I don’t look like a cartoon anymore,” Richie admits with a small laugh. “You know, you look at me different now. Like you see me. Like you don’t mind.” He can see a blurry Eddie just a foot away, staring at him like he just shook the world and drops his gaze back to his fingers, back to his glasses.

“So, me?” Eddie asks slowly, like he’s bewildered. “I’m everybody?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Richie backpedals, tries to laugh it off, but he sees Eddie roll his eyes.

“That’s literally what you just said,” Eddie says back. Richie can’t help but glance up only to see Eddie a little less blurry than before, a little closer, leaned just so over the edge of the counter, and Richie contemplates, briefly, just running right out of his house. “You said everybody and then talked about something I said specifically.”

“Okay, well you’re part of everybody. Like everybody is.”

“So, everybody tells you you look like a cartoon?”

“Okay, like, no, but—”

Eddie laughs. “Are you listening to yourself?”

Richie laughs helplessly back. “You know I usually don’t.” He’s somehow a combination of amused and embarrassed as he stares down at the blurry line of Eddie’s leg against the counter. He watches, almost frozen as Eddie’s hand moves across the counter and closes around his glasses.

“Yeah, you do,” Eddie rolls his eyes, hands coming up to carefully slide the glasses onto Richie’s face, and Richie stares dumbstruck as the love of his life comes into perfect clarity. Eddie is staring him right in the eye like he’s someone worth seeing, and he looks so soft. Soft like Richie’s bringing it out of him, soft like Richie’s got the power to even do that, soft like a dream. And Richie is hopelessly trapped in Eddie’s honeyed gaze as his thumbs tap the legs of Richie’s glasses over his ears and says, “You listen to that dumb voice inside that gives you shit all the time. The fucked-up one that told you no one sees you like this.”

“Hah,” Richie chokes out, throat full of nerves as he realizes how close Eddie is. He tries to laugh it off, but it only comes out strangled. “Okay, you can stop fucking looking directly into my soul now—”

“Will you just shut up and let me tell you that I see you?”

“I—huh?” Richie asks breathlessly.

Eddie looks just as breathless. “You blind motherfucker, I like you. Like this. Glasses and everything, okay? So if you wanna wear your dumb contacts because you like them, then whatever, but if it’s because you think no one sees you like this, then—” Eddie shrugs but it’s defensive because he’s nervous about Richie of all people—it makes Richie feel like he can’t breathe.

“You kidding?” Richie manages, heart beating a mile a minute as Eddie stares at him like that. “I’d probably fucking sleep in these if you said that’s what you wanted.”

And Eddie rolls his eyes, says, “You’re so fucking stupid,” then kisses him, lightening quick before Richie can do a thing about it, pulls away before Richie can follow, and stares up at him, looking just as surprised as Richie is. Face blooming redder, Eddie jumps down off the counter and ducks around him. “We’re late, come on,” he calls over his shoulder. Richie hears him hit the stairs, footsteps quick and frantic like he can’t stop moving, like he’s worked himself up.

Richie can’t say he doesn’t feel the same.

Before he leaves the bathroom, he catches himself in the mirror, red-faced and grinning, glasses big and a little crooked over his face, but fitting. Just the way Eddie apparently likes him.

[hyunhour]

in the A.M ] [ minho au

a/n: i wrote this while listening to sunshine - skz and i recommend doing so as well or bonnie and clyde - dean works too! i’m not good at writing fluff (?) but whatever i just really wanted to write one about minho and this whole vibe fit him so well :p for fictional purposes only! enjoy c:

 tsundere!minho, stoner!au, fem!reader x minho fluff, slight angst

 tw: mentions of drinking, drugs & smoking

 word count: 1.6k words> Life had always been a blur. You were always high off into the sky, drinking like your life depended on it, surrounding yourself with guys who shared the same interests as you. The only thing (or person) that kept you sober for a moment, your only escape from reality without getting high, was Minho himself.

The night breeze danced around you, sweeping strays of your hair behind your exposed shoulders. The weird concocted smell of nicotine, weed and hard liquor poisoned you each time you inhaled a deep breath, coursing through your veins. You were sprawled across some random person’s rooftop, with your best friends. You were all each chasing your own individual high, in desperate attempt to escape from the reality that had bound us all to so much misery.

The blunt that you were smoking had long burnt out, it still rested between your fingers, that laid above your tummy. You felt a lean arm snake around your waist, pulling you in. Another arm, a bit more muscular, found it’s way around your shoulders as it tried to prevent you from going to the opposing side. You let your body be tamed by the two selfish boys, as they grumbled in return, playing their own tug-of-war with you in the middle.

“Hands off, Hyunjin.” you hear Jisung almost practically growl in your ear, and you found him nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

“Back off, Han. Can’t you see she enjoys it more with me?” Hyunjin’s words were slurred, but that was expectant of him of course, after smoking from the multiple bongs that Changbin had prepared. He was in his own state of inebriated stupor, mumbling some other incoherent words before planting small kisses on your earlobes.

You simply laughed, which eased the tension between the two of them. They let out their own stifled chuckles right after, giggling away. They were too engrossed in their own state of euphoria, as their senses had been heightened a lot.

“It’s..” you pondered, each arm of yours were wrapped around each boy, and your fingers found themselves trying to tame their tendrils that danced in the breeze. “..good to share.” you finished, a smug smirk finding its’ way up to your face. You absolutely adored how these guys tried to establish their ownership on you_. It was cute actually_, thinking that they had you for themselves, when they were the ones wrapped around your fingers effortlessly.

A chorus of “mhm’s” and “ugh’s” followed after your statement. They fell into silence after a while, slumber enwrapping their figures that intertwined with yours.

You felt a pair of eyes burning a hole straight right at you, and you almost instinctively knew who it was. You only barely managed to peel away your eyes from the starry night sky, your vision still as blurry as ever.

But how could you miss that stunning face that had its’ eyes on you, and only you? Minho.

His bottom lip jutted out, and the strays of moonlight illuminated the perfect facial features of his. All the way from tip of his nose bridge, his prominent cheekbones and jawline, and milky white pale skin. He looked absolutely ethereal. He ran a hand through his unkempt brown hair, his shaggy bangs falling into place right above his eyebrows. His eyes were hooded, filled with so much blackness, that it reflected close to nothing.

“Slut.” he mouthed.

Your lips parted agape in shock, but it wasn’t as unsurprising coming from Minho. He took every chance to nitpick at you coupled with his incessant insults and never seemed to acknowledge anything good about you. It hurt at first, but you soon came to terms with it by flinging the same insults at him, if not worse. You weren’t intimidated no longer, instead felt more challenged.

Your grin only grows wider as you pull the two guys by your sides closer, and the two of them gladly obliged as they closed off all space between your body and theirs. Jisung still had his arm wrapped snug around your waist, his breath fanning against your neck. Hyunjin had his arm slung around your shoulders, his thumb rubbing small circles on the side of your clavicle.

You were quick to notice the hint of fury behind his solemn eyes, and it satisfied you to a certain extent to gain that sort of attention from him. He scoffed, rolling his eyes before lighting a new blunt and sitting back on his hands that propped him up.

Changbin was spread out on the rooftop with no care in the world, lost in his own humming of melodies while Felix laid atop his stomach, his fingers that were in the air, swayed to the tunes. Chan had been caught in his own deep slumber, curled up right next to Jeongin and Seungmin that were full of jittery laughter.

Everything seemed to fade out into white noise as your eyes looked only at Minho. He was no longer looking at you, which formed a pit at your stomach. You didn’t want to acknowledge it, so you brushed it off as your so called hatred for him. But you couldn’t deny the attractiveness of this man, he was the epitome of the beauty itself. He seemed to take notice of your eyes lingering on him, as his head whipped to your direction.

He lifted his index finger, motioning for you to come to his side. You were reluctant at first but it didn’t take you long to immediately snake out of the two boys’ holds, and come scurrying to Minho’s side.

A laugh escaped his small pink lips, his teeth barely showing through the small smile. You felt your heart flutter a bit, the butterflies in your stomach practically doing somersaults. “Fuck you.” was all you could say to him, you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. You were so hell-bent on manipulating yourself that you hated this man, simply because you did not want to burst his inflated ego by further pumping it. It did the opposite of repel, you were only feeling more attracted to him than ever.

“Time and place, princess.” he replied nonchalantly, flashing a flirty wink. Gosh, you wished you could wipe off that stupid smirk of his. You slap his arm playfully, and he winces slightly, rubbing his exposed arm. The loose grey muscle tank he wore flashed his biceps, which he was so obviously flexing in front of you, not that you minded it anyway.

After a moment of exchanging weak laughters, he stopped abruptly. His eyes were now glued onto you, it was like something had overrun the darkness inside of them and replaced it with... brightness? You could’ve sworn they glimmered gold for a second, before settling down back into hues of dark brown. You breath hitched at the newfound sight of him.

“You’re so fucking dumb.” he says, inching closer to you. You found yourself backing up just a little, shocked by the close proximity you found yourself in with him.

“What?” you croaked, it barely came out as a whisper. Your heart was threatening to jump out of your throat, all of a sudden all you could hear was the thumping of your unsteady heart, his hot breath fanning against the front of your face. You watched his lips move, but you couldn’t seem to capture anything he was saying.

“So dense. I said I like you, fucking idiot.” he sighs, finally pulling away from being so close to you. You noticed the way his ears had immediately went red, although his facial expression remained stoic. How cute, he was trying so hard to be the arrogant guy everybody built him up as.

The confession didn’t settle in until moments later. You thought that it was your high finally enclosing you. Instead, your vision wasn’t as muddled as before. Your heart was physically thrumming against your ribs. The gloomy sky blended into a garish shade of blue, and scattered stars danced among it. You realized that his face wasn’t as pale as before, they were a light shade of pink now. You could see faint glimmers of stars in his eyes, from the reflections of light perhaps, but time seemed to be perfectly still as you admired his side profile. It looked like he held the universe in his eyes.

Everything was so much clearer and distinct. Like your feelings, that found it’s way out of the cage you kept them locked in, and flowed right out of your lips.

“Me too. I like you too, idiot.” you couldn’t help as the sides of your lips tugged upwards shakily, as his eyes met yours tentatively. He let out a furtive laugh, shaking his head. He patted your head before tussling it a little to annoy you. Why were you two dead set on avoiding each other’s feelings anyway? It seemed all silly now that you thought about it.

“Well fuck, what now?” he breathed, billows of smoke from his blunt overshadowing his face for a moment.

He put the fire out from the blunt by stubbing it onto the rooftop tile. The same cheeky smile was plastered onto his face as his arms were wide open for you. “Come here, princess.” he muttered, and you could have sworn that actual hyperactive butterflies were poking at the insides of your stomach at the new nickname he had for you. All you wanted to do was jump into his arms, and so you did. You tackled him to the ground, as both of you burst into fits of giggles.

Everything fell into place. You could no longer smell the nicotine, or whatever that lingered in the air around the both of you. All you smelt was him, his citrus scent mixed with a faint scent of cheap cologne, he smelt like, home. You found yourself in a newfound safety as his arms pulled you in closer, your racing heartbeat matching his as your head rested upon his chest. You felt his lips leave a peck on your forehead as he tucked the strays of hair behind your ear, leaving a tingling sensation that made you crave for more of his soft kisses.

You whimpered softly, snuggling in closer to his chest, basking in his warmth. It seemed like he understood your desperate pleas as he peppered small gentle kisses all over your face. They left a trail from your forehead, the tip of your nose, your eyes, your cheeks, and finally rested atop your lips. He was taking in every inch of you, worshipping the whole of your perfectly-sculpted figure and embraced you like you were fragile. To him, everything about you was perfect. He saw past the imperfections that you so stubbornly insisted upon. Sparks ignited from within you, and pure bliss melted into the entirety of your body, you were beginning to see white.

It all feels so perfect.

You’re all his now, and it’s fucking real.

[catharrington]

13 from that prompt list is so cute🥺💖

13/ This wasn’t meant to be a date, but we’ve had such a good time and now it’s 2 a.m. and I should really go home…

I’ve already done this one but I’m doing it again anon because I love you just that much!!!

***

Trick or treat! (Give me something good to eat)

Billy thinks he was in love with Steve before walked up to stand next to him in the middle of the street dressed as Michal Myers, but now he knows. The rest of the kids all piled out next to him, in their own nerdy costumes, the boys giddy as fuck joining where El and Max stood waiting. Billy’s breath caught in his throat as Steve casually got close enough to touch.

“Hey,” he greeted easy, trying not to give away the affect the pretty boy has, “ready for a- wait a second, Harrington?”

Steve was wearing his light blue zip up windbreaker, some stone wash true blue jeans, hands on his cocked hips, a preppy attempt at the blue jumpsuit Myers wears in ‘Halloween’.

Billy’s got his eyes focused on that goofy rubber mask, the mess of plastic hair on top. “Please tell me you didn’t take the time out of your life to style that fucking mask’s hair?”

And Steve turns to him, the mask moving, his big browns showing through the cut eye openings. “Maybe I did, Hargrove.” He casually mumbles. “Did you glue leaves on that ugly net to make it look like Jason Voorhees coming up from the bottom of the lake?”

So Billy’s smiling behind his own mask. A cheep hockey mask hand painted with red slashes and some brown paint to make it appear worn, dirty. To look like Jason as close as Billy could get inside his small budget inside his small bedroom. He shrugs and the dark green net laying over his shoulders with Melvald’s general store olive green leaves and moss dollar floral picks glued to it jostles with the movement. He spent too long on this dumb costume.

But it’s totally worth it when he’s standing next to Steve. Michael Myers with gel and hairspray locking his hair into a handsome swoop. At least he’s not the only teenager taking this too seriously.

“I told you guys before, we so don’t need babysitters for trick or treating,” Mike opened his mouth from behind Billy’s shoulder.

“Yeah, no,” Steve sighed, his voice still muffled from the mask but still sharp with authority. “Dustin told me all about the kids who stole your candy last time. Sent Will into a full panic attack. That’s not happening this year, not with us here.”

“Very heroic,” Mike drawls back, he rolls his eyes. Such a fucking headache. “But we’ve got El for that! She’s stronger than anyone-,”

Steve shakes his head, cutting mike off with a wave of his hand. “We are also here to make sure nothing happens to El because she’s still not supposed to be in the open like this. Hopper’s orders, Mike. Why don’t you go argue with him, hum?”

“How ‘bout this,” Billy interrupts Mike as he opens his mouth to say something else bratty, “I want some punk kids to pick on you so I can bash their fucking teeth in. Genuinely looking forward to it. I’m here trying to have a fun night- and you are my nerdy bait!”

Max rolls her eyes, kicks some dirt across the road. But Billy’s words shut Mike right up. And the rest of them look warry, but on board to say the least. Billy side glances Steve, wishes he wasn’t wearing that mask so he could see if that made him laugh.

The kids all look exasperated in their own ways. Billy doesn’t miss the way Will gives a shy smile turned only for Mike to see.

Steve traces one hand down Billy’s arm, cups over his shoulder with all the scratchy net and thick hot glue. Runs comfortingly and steady down the back of his arm, curls around his elbow soft, then brushes off the end of his jacket. Like smoke evaporing off graveyard soil on Halloween night.

Billy snaps his head to watch as Steve leaves. Following the kids as they start walking. Billy jogs to keep up.

That’s how they find themselves in the Wheeler’s upper middle class basement huddled in the corner while the kids sort through their plastic pumpkins. Making confusing piles of candy bars and taffy, some pixie sticks and gum, one huge mountain of jaw breakers Billy wouldn’t mind snatching a couple off the top of. Or a whole handful.

Mrs. Wheeler had opened the front door in a full saloon girl get up, dark mole drawn on her upper lip, smiling in a tight frisky coil as her eyes trail over the tightness of Billy’s jacket across his shoulders. Steve’s already ripped his mask off as they came up to the porch, whimpering in his pretty voice how much he messed up his pretty hair.

“I’m all sweaty,” he whines, pushing both his hands through his hair so his zipped up jacket raises off his hips. His skin pale blue in the cold porch light.

Billy gives Karen one glance, a smile as he lifts his own mask to rest on top of his head, before he offers to hold Michael Myers’ rubber head. Holds his hands out all gentlemanly. It’s worth it for the surprised perk in Steve’s glossy brown eyes. And the annoyed start in Karen’s perfect smile. Billy holds Steve’s mask so he doesn’t mess up the hair as they follow inside.

That’s how they find themselves sitting so close their shoulders are touching. Arms flush and warm feeling, the muscle of Billy’s flexing and taught. Steve’s softer, relaxed, letting his body’s weight tilt ever so to rest against Billy.

The shitty costume net bunching up to make room for Steve. Billy sucking in a breath as he lets Steve get comfortable.

He feels so damn warm on the cold October night. His hair is messy, smells like roasted pumpkin seeds. Billy can’t help it, must be how tired he is from walking around until midnight with a bunch of kids. He must be deliriously high from spending all night trailing behind Steve’s perky ass in those tight jeans. Must be all the sugar going to his head and making him damn near drunk on it. Because Billy knows better.

Knows he shouldn’t. But he wants, he so wants. And Steve’s made it so easy. Made it smell like roasted pumpkin seeds his mother used to make, one of the few smell of home.

Billy leans over and nuzzles his nose into Steve’s hair. Uses one hand to cradle the back of his neck gently, if not possessively, as he does it. Steve jostles alert, his eyes drowsy from dozing off. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t startle or even stiffen in Billy’s hands.

The hands that could beat him, have beat him. The hands that know blood more than chocolate. Abuse more than love.

Billy’s breath catches in his throat as that word ghosted around his head, love.

Steve turns from where he’s leaned. Shifts so he’s pushing himself off Billy’s shoulder to look into his eyes. Bracing himself up on one of Billy’s thighs.

“Hey,” he says dumbly, like they haven’t been shackled together on babysitter duty all night long. Brown eyes move over his face, across his dark circles and ratty mustache to his lips. Billy slightly parts them.

“You made that mask look really good,” Billy compliments him like an idiot. A full on skeeze brain. “You can make anything work, Harrington. Like a super power.”

“Think I could work a mullet?” Steve snarks back, and it serves Billy right for how embarrassing he’s being. His hand tightens in Steve’s long hair slightly grown out in the back, a baby mullet, strands gossamer across his fingers that don’t deserve it.

“Yeah,” he nods.

Steve smiles as he leans forward, nuzzles that sharp nose right up next to Billy’s chubby one and seals their lips together in a kiss. Eyes flutter closed. Billy wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, pulls him in close. Gasps into the kiss while Steve’s still smiling.

He tastes like chocolate and peanut butter, kisses deep and sucks on his tongue like he means it. Because he does. Steve’s hands come up to cradle his cheeks as if Billy’s something precious to be held.

They part for beath and Billy can still taste him. Never wants to stop. Laughs because he’s so far gone. So in love he’s making Halloween costumes in his room and babysitting brats when there’s perfectly good high school parties to hit up. Got him complementing a stupid Michael Myers mask with stupid pretty boy hair.

Steve swipes his thumbs over Billy’s cheekbones before leaning down to kiss him again. He’s sure it’s been the best Halloween of his whole life.

[rhysismydaddy]

The Librarian Ch.1 (Nessian fic)

Wowzers, it’s been a while since I posted! I’ve been writing though! I just have a problem where I start writing shit and never finish it haha.

I finished this one, and it’s 4 parts, they’re all written, and they’ll be becoming out this week!

Synopsis: Cassian Nezara is the King of Campus. He’s the star quarterback for the winning football team, he’s got a great personality, and he’s pretty good looking, too. But when he’s forced to volunteer at the campus library because of a fight, he meets Nesta Archeron, the mysterious and sarcastic librarian. Finding out her secret changes how he views his status on campus forever. 

| Masterlist | Part 2 | Part 3 |

________________________________________________________________

~Cassian~

Cassian barreled through the sea of freshman in front of him, almost knocking one into the bookshelf next to her. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, not slowing down. 

Coach would kill him if he was late. 

He practically ran up to the little desk in the corner of the first-floor lobby. “Hi, um excuse me,” he said to the woman sitting behind the desk. She had her back turned, feet propped on the desk in front of her without a care in the world. “Do you work here?”

She didn’t turn around. Maybe she didn’t work here. The back of her head looked a little young to be a librarian, anyway. 

“Excuse me,” he said again to her back. 

She still didn’t turn around. Cassian managed to put his temper on a tight leash before slamming his hand into the little bell on top of the desk. 

With a heavy sigh, the woman snapped her book shut, whirling around. 

Cassian froze. And stared. 

He’d been right about the young part. She was probably his age, maybe a little younger. And fucking gorgeous. Crystal blue eyes, high cheekbones, lips that begged to be kissed. She was in an oversize sweatshirt and jeans, but he could tell she had a small figure that’d fit perfectly in his arms. 

Why the hell was she in this dusty place? 

“Books are organized by topic and last name, reference numbers are posted at the end of the columns,” she said drily, then made to turn back around. 

He reached out and grabbed the edge of her chair. 

“I’m not looking for a book.”

She glared at the hand clamped on her chair until he released it. “It’s a library. Surely even you noticed that.”

Jesus, what was this chick’s problem? Weren’t librarians supposed to be sweet old ladies with cats and a kink for romance novels?

“Yeah, I noticed,” he replied, equally as terse. 

She just raised an eyebrow.

“I’m Cassian Nezara. I’m... a volunteer.” 

The librarian looked him up and down. “Blood drive’s next week.”

“I’m not here for the blood drive. Coach Hampton should’ve sent an email-”

She’d been terse before, but her tone shifted even more toward something like hatred. “Coach Hampton.”

Cassian nodded, confused as hell. Everyone loved Coach. 

I mean, he’d led the school to victory in the National Championship for eight years in a row. Football was practically a religion around here, and Ron Hampton was the god. 

He supposed that made him and his teammates angels. He didn’t exactly hate the idea. It sure as hell matched with how the population of the school treated him. 

Ever since his first game when he’d been subbed for the starting quarterback, he’d been revered on campus. And had started. Everyone around him loved football. Loved coach. 

But the woman in front of him rose to her feet, jabbed a finger into his chest, and practically shoved him backwards, growling, “You tell Coach Hampton to find somewhere else to stick his delinquent players.”

His eyebrows shot to his hairline, and he would’ve retorted, asked why, but the look in her eyes told him not to. Plus, it’s not like he wanted to be stuck volunteering in the library every day. 

So Cassian just shrugged, grabbed his phone as he walked out of the building, and called coach. 

“What the hell did you do now,” the old bastard gruffed as soon as the line went through. 

He huffed a laugh. “Actually, I think it might have been you this time. The receptionist, librarian, whatever she is told me to tell you to ‘find somewhere else to stick your delinquent players.’”

Coach paused at that. Then, “Who was it?”

“Didn’t get a name.”

He could tell coach was pinching the brim of his nose as he said, “In your twenty-two years of life, when have you ever not gotten a girl’s name?”

“Listen,” he explained, “This chick is seriously pissed off at the world. And possibly deranged.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” 

The line went dead.

Cassian groaned, resisting the urge to chuck his phone into a nearby fountain. The fact that he was being punished in the first place as stupid to him. But it was stupider that coach seemed it fit to make him suffer in a library of all places. 

Plus, he was being punished for “fighting,” if you could even call it that. Cassian had landed one punch to the bastard’s face before his teammates pulled him back. 

Plus, the idiot had deserved it. Captain of the rival football team and an all-around prick, Tamlin O’Connor had practically goaded him into a fight. And Cassian had been stupid enough to let him. 

So stupid. 

Coach usually didn’t care if they fought, but the prick was threatening to sue if the school didn’t “discipline” him. So library duty it was, apparently. 

Coach’s car pulled up, and the stout man hopped out, already looking pissed off. 

“Okay, you bonehead, I’m here. This has to work out, Cassian,” he scolded, that signature scowl of his deepening. “The library is the only place on campus you don’t have to have a record of working. Labs, working as a TA, the gym... they all record it. So if it goes in the system, it’s official, and I’ll have to bench you.”

Cassian rolled his eyes in annoyance, following coach back inside. 

He pointed over to the desk where the receptionist sat, facing them this time, but still holding a book. 

“Excuse me. I need to talk to someone about one of my player’s volunteering here,” Coach’s usually raspy voice was nicer, softer. 

The woman sitting in front of them just looked up at Cassian as if to say, Ran to daddy? 

Then flattened her gaze on coach. Waiting. 

“The dean has ordered Mr. Nezara here,” he flung a hand in Cassian’s face, “to volunteer somewhere on campus as punishment for something, and we think the library would be a good fit.”

“Interesting. I don’t.” 

She looked back down at her book. 

Coach gritted his teeth. “Can I speak to your boss, young lady?”

Blue eyes flashed up at him, and a cruel smile twisted her mouth. “I don’t have a boss, old man.”

If Cassian had been anyone else, he’d have pulled up a chair and grabbed some popcorn. Coach was used to being listened to. Feared, even. And yet the woman lounging before them, looking at them as if they were filth... she didn’t seem the type to listen to anyone. 

“Listen here-”

“No, you listen. I’m not one of your little preening ogres in a leotard you can boss around. I run this library. So I know about you’re little scheme.” She whispered the last part conspiratorially, “The one where one of your players does something stupid and you tell the dean he’ll “volunteer” somewhere, then let him nap in the library for an hour every day.”

Coach opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. 

If he wasn’t being insulted every two seconds, he’d swear he was in love with her for that gesture alone. 

“Mr. Nezara,” she spat, “will not be serving his sentence here. People who volunteer here want to volunteer.” She looked up at him. “And usually know how to read.”

With that, she simply opened her book again. Conversation over. 

Cassian turned to leave, both annoyed and impressed, but Coach asked, “What will it take? For you to let him volunteer, and I mean actually volunteer, here?”

The librarian closed her book with a deep sigh. “Five percent of the annual earnings from football gets donated to my department,” she said as if she’d been waiting for the question.

Holy shit. That was insane. Coach would never-

“Two. Pre-season only.”

“Three. Regular season, no playoffs.”

“Deal,” Coach practically growled at the woman, turning to stomp out of the building. “He starts tomorrow.”

Casaian followed coach outside, and managed to contain his laughter at the man practically spitting fumes. 

“You realize that if you don’t win the championship this year and make the money back, I’ll kick your ass, right?”

“Why the hell did you do that?” he asked instead. “Three percent of our regular season is still a good chunk of change.”

Coach shrugged, jaw tightening. “When I was your age, I made a similar mistake. And it went on my record and hurt my chances of going pro. I still made it happen, but it was harder. A lot harder. The school will still make millions from the season, and the majority of the cash comes from the playoffs anyway.”

Cassian usually didn’t run out of things to say, but he found himself struck dumb. Coach was a mean old bastard, but he cared about his players and would do just about anything for them. “Thank you.”

Coach spat on the ground. “Get your punkass to the stadium. And, for the love of God, don’t piss that woman off even more.”

~Nesta~

A cheap, cheap woman. That’s that Nesta was. 

She’d sold herself out to the football team. For a chunk of money. Granted, it would probably be the biggest income for the library in years, but still. The thought of what she’d done made Nesta queasy. 

And to Ron fucking Hampton out of all people. Her hatred for him and his entire team of stupid, muscled toddlers pretending to be good guys ran deep. And she’d agreed to spend an hour with one. Every day. 

A cheap, cheap woman indeed. 

Two years ago, she’d promised herself she would never again lay her fate in the hands of someone like Hampton. And yet, she’d just done exactly what he’d wanted her to do. 

Granted, she didn’t roll over and take it like a good little young lady, but she ended up giving him what he wanted. Exactly like everyone else. 

But, no. She wouldn’t let it be that easy. She’d punish Hampton the only way she could: through “Mr. Nezara.” 

As Nesta walked into her apartment, locked all three deadbolts on her door, and took a steadying breath, she vowed to make her new volunteer’s life hell. 

And smiled.

~Cassian~

Cassian hustled into the library once again the next day, sliding to a stop in front of the reception desk. He checked his watch, then smiled. A whole thirty seconds early.

The woman from yesterday just closed her book and jerked her chin to him. “Follow me.”

She walked through aisles of books, hips swaying in a way Cassian couldn’t help but watch. He’d thought about it after he’d left yesterday, but still had no idea why someone so young and beautiful would work in a boring, dead-end job like this. Or how she’d come to run the place, despite being the youngest librarian he’d ever seen. 

He shook his head, continuing to follow her her down a set of stairs, a narrow hallway, and into the room at the end. 

She strode on through, but Cassian paused in the doorway. The room was covered in dirt and dust and cobwebs, stacked floor to ceiling with boxes overflowing with books. Empty shelves stood along the walls, the middle space being taken up by the mountain of boxes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She ignored him. “Books go on the shelves. Cleaning closet is across the hall.”

“What the hell’s the point? They obviously haven’t been touched in years.” The thought of going through all of them made him growl. 

“They’re books that have been taken out of circulation. We don’t throw them away.”

Cassian muttered, “Pack rats.”

The librarian rolled her eyes, striding for the door and gesturing for him to move.

He shook his head. “What’s your name?”

“Move.”

“Nope.” He had no idea why he wanted to know, but calling her the librarian was getting old. 

A flash of something in her eyes. It looked like panic, but it was too quick to read properly. “My name is Nesta. Now move.”

He just stuck out his hand, smiling. “So good to meet you, Nes-”

The vile woman grabbed his hand, twisted it so hard he almost fell to his knees, and pulled him out of the doorway. “Asshole,” she muttered, smacking the back of his head for emphasis as she strode by him. 

By the time his breathing returned to normal and the ache in his now-sore wrist dulled, she was gone. 

It seemed as if little miss Nesta was trying to make him miserable. Probably so he’d quit and she didn’t have to deal with him anymore. 

He grinned, eyeing the monstrous stack of dusty books once more. You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that, Nesta, baby.

~Nesta~

Nesta smiled as she headed down to the basement fifty minutes later. She made her footsteps quiet, hoping to catch him sitting on his ass. If she was being honest, she couldn’t wait to see how miserable he was. 

It made her a terrible person, but she didn’t fight it. 

Nesta peered around the corner. 

And lost every thought of malice in her head. 

The room was pristine. And that was putting it lightly. The shelves were shining, filled with clean books, the floors still wet from being mopped. Hell, even the ceiling looked like it had been scrubbed down. 

Cassian stood in the corner, the last box of books on his shoulder, and said to her, “You guys invest in way too many books on the Civil War.”

Nesta forced herself to sound unimpressed, bored even. “They’re the most requested. But new ones come out every year with different information, so we have to replace them.”

He hummed, turning around to face her, that stupid little smile on his lips.

Apparently done with the box, he took it between two hands and crushed it, the motion making the muscles in his arms bunch together. 

She looked around the room again, and his smile widened proudly. So Nesta just sighed and said, “Put the boxes out back in recycling, and you’re free to go.”

He managed to only look a little disappointed as he grabbed the rest of the boxes, then walked in front of her up the stairs. She sat behind her desk as he went outside, taking a sip of her smoothie. 

Which she almost spit everywhere as a smooth voice said from behind her ear, “That, by the way, is how you sneak up on someone. See you tomorrow, baby.”

She swirled around to strangle him, but he was already walking away, hands in the hair in mock surrender. 

Oh, she was going to kill him. Or at least make his life miserable. Let the games begin, baby. 

________________________________________________________________

PART 2 will be out Thursday :) I promise it gets a lot more interesting. Let me know in my asks if you want to be tagged! 

@bamchickawowow

[tybaku]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30691259/chapters/77712440

Midoriya Izuku finds the incarnation of beauty and divinity sitting at a window of a hole-in-the-wall café just a few blocks away from home.

Or: An artist in search of inspiration unexpectedly finds a new muse.

Chapter 2: Him

Bakugou Katsuki finds himself standing at the foot of an altar fit for something more than a god at a quarter to 1.

The day is bright and clear, and the sun is hot on his head and shoulders. It’s too early to be out here, and yet too late, and there was already a thin crowd formed, curled around the centerpiece like a halo, or a crown. Katsuki shifts where he stands, dark eyes never leaving the piece of art on the bricked alleyway wall. He barely breathes.

He had been dragged here not out of his own accord, directly after a nearly two hour long elective class that was nothing but a bore, despite it sounding vaguely interesting down on paper.

“Analysis of Modern Art and Media 101” taught by Aizawa Shouta had been a bust of a class to choose, and each time Katsuki attends he wonders why the hell there is more of the same damn class, judging by the fact there was a 101 tacked on at the end of the name, and also it was probably the most soul-sucking class he was taking this school year. Katsuki doesn’t even care about art!

And yet, he’s still standing here. He’s standing here in a dingy, dirty back alley and gawking up at this piece of artwork like some kind of fool, his hands curling up inside his pockets. There’s a red warmth to his face that isn’t from the afternoon sun, and vaguely he thinks, maybe he could learn to care about art. Maybe he could learn to care because of this and this only.

“It’s me,” Katsuki says, not fully aware of his surroundings, or the murmurs that trickle about the little sea of people in the alleyway that are witnessing the same thing he is.

Because it is him, it’s the best version of him he’s ever laid eyes on. It’s a perception of him so pure and human, and flawless to the point where it’s perfection is debatable, and he has to take another look at it to really see what’s there. He’s wrong, the painting isn’t perfect, but it’s authentic. It isn't flawless, but it’s him, really and truly him; near flesh as it can get with its graffiti lines and colors and shapes.

Katsuki doesn’t want to look away.

Kirishima, the very guy who had brought him out here to view the godly offering on the wall, then pats his shoulder and grips onto him. “It’s you, man. Your mentions are sky high,” he says, eyebrows raised and obviously impressed. He shakes Katsuki a little when he becomes the victim of a dirty looking side-eye, wearing a little frown. “What?”

Katsuki shrugs his shoulder harshly, effectively shooing his friend off. “The hell you on about, shithair,” he says more than he asks. Kaminari’s head then pops up from beside them unexpectedly, with Ashido right on his toes, smiling from ear to ear. There’s a mischievous little glint in their eyes that they share unabashedly, and Katsuki sneers at it.

“Oh, you haven’t heard? You’re trending!” the other, less important blond exclaims, fishing out his phone to wave it around in Katsuki’s face. “Well, more like the art itself trending, but people are recognizing you! Tagging you in the pics on Insta, at’ing you on Twitter, linking you to this one art blog and shit like—” Kaminari only stops when Katsuki starts to bat his hands at him angrily, irritated at the fact he didn’t understand a word he was saying.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Kaminari makes an ugly looking face like he took a whiff of something foul, but Katsuki smells sweet as hell, thank you very much; his shampoo and conditioner have black and white charcoal in them. “Dude do you even check your phone like, ever? This”—Kaminari waves giant circles in front of Katsuki’s portrait as Katsuki himself mumbles a quiet I mute that shit during class—“is trending. Trending.”

Before Katsuki could tear one into him, Ashido pats at her friend’s shoulder, squeezing herself into the terrible excuse of a conversation. “I think he gets it, babe. What Denki’s trying to say is that this”—she gestures to the painting—“is gaining a whole lot of traction right now, not only because it’s stunning, but because the artist is literally one of the biggest deals in Japan right now. Deku’s like, hot-hot. He’s practically famous in the modern art scene, and he just painted your portrait without you even knowing about it. Do you really have no idea how huge this is?”

And, no, Katsuki doesn’t know, since there wasn’t even a reason why he would know in the first place (again, that modern art class sucks, and even though Aizawa-sensei was good enough of a teacher, Katsuki sometimes thinks even he didn’t want to be teaching it from the way he talks and lectures so tonelessly, a whole new level of bored flat) so the only thing he can do is blink, and blink, and glare as he tries to take in this new information.

It’s weird, isn’t it? Katsuki has never heard of this “Deku” guy, despite his supposed status, and suddenly he’s got a whole mural dedicated to him by the guy? He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with any of this, and he can’t even bring himself to be angry about it. He’s just confused, out of place, and so damn flattered that it’s absolutely ridiculous. Someone painted his portrait and painted it well. It should feel freaky, because it is; it’s an unfathomable situation, but it doesn’t really feel anything less than nice. Really damn nice.

“Oh my god,” Kaminari gasps suddenly, the back of his hand hitting the top of Ashido’s chest in exaggerated shock and disbelief, “do you guys know what this means?”

Katsuki’s eyes find their way back to himself. His profile is sharp and frustrated. Kirishima gasps, eyes blown wide in anticipation. “What?” he asks Kaminari quickly, ever the little worrywart of their group. Katsuki raised an eyebrow.

Kaminari goes smug, a little warp appearing in his dumb smile. “Kats-kun here’s got a not-so-secret admirer,” he sings in a tease, wiggling a little in place.

Despite the weird feeling curling in his chest, Katsuki scoffs at the claim, rolling his eyes. “More like a stalker,” he says, but his so-called friends outright ignore him, and turn their attention to, well, him.

Ashido giggles in delight, clapping her hands. “Oh that’s so true, there’s no way this isn’t a romantic thing! I mean, he even got Kats’ little pouty glare right!” she exclaims loud enough for everyone in the alley to overhear, like an idiot.

Katsuki narrows his eyes, and he swears one of them twitches. “My what,” he says more than asks.

Kaminari decides to take the mic, like a dumbass. “You know that thing you do when you get all frustrated about something and you try to pout, but it looks more like you wanna commit first degree murder or something?”

Katsuki doesn’t have any chance to maim him for the explanation he has unfortunately asked for, because Ashido is shrieking again, grabbing Kaminari and holding him close to her in excitement. “Oh my gosh, you’re so right! This is so romantic!” she draws it out annoyingly, before it becomes a straight up whine. “That’s so unfair! Why are you getting romanced and not me?”

And it’s not his place to say, so “Because Spikey has no balls,” stays trapped in between Katsuki’s grit teeth.

Sero then miraculously appears from somewhere behind Kaminari, a muffin and even Shinsou in tow, and Katsuki groans up to the sky when instead of saying something useful he decides to say, “They got that little beauty mark on his cheekbone too,” with a stupid smirk.

Blinking tiredly, Shinsou adds on “That’s some attention to detail,” like it means anything. “Though they missed most of the other ones.” He starts to unwrap his own muffin, peeling back the thin paper with his teeth. Katsuki wants nothing more than for him to choke on it.

“Hanta! Hitoshi!” Kaminari yells, as if the pair of them weren’t standing barely three feet from him. He reaches over and happily pulls Shinsou under his arm as Sero stalks over to Ashido. “Where you’ve been! You missed the big reaction!”

Sero lifts his hand. “Getting a muffin,” he says flatly.

Shinsou nods in agreement, humming in amusement. “Bet he blushed like a flower.” He takes a bite out of his muffin as Kaminari laughs and jokingly goes to bite at the bread.

And if Katsuki goes a little warm in the face at the dumb claim, it’s no one’s damn business. “What the hell does that even mean,” he snarls unkindly, crossing his arms.

Shinsou unwraps the other side of his muffin with his hands this time, and actually allows Kaminari to take a small bite. “I said what I said,” he shrugs, unapologetic.

“Oo, new slur dropped.” Ashido wiggles her pink eyebrows. Sero snorts, and Kirishima laughs amiably at her.

Katsuki has terrible friends, he decides, and they all can go burn in the under. He shoots them all a heavy glare they all ignore in favor of oohing and ahhing at his portrait. Shinsou looks over at him after a quick inspection of the piece. “So,” he starts, giving up the rest of his muffin to Kaminari’s grubby little hands, “what’re you gonna do?”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow, expression and stance slanted slightly to the right as he crosses his arms over his chest and cocked out his hip, leaning most of his weight onto one foot. “Hah? The hell you talking about?”

Shinsou blinks plainly at him. “The graffiti, genius. You think it’s weird, right? Figured you want to beat the guy’s face in for painting you without permission, or something.”

Katsuki frowns. Shinsou isn’t wrong really, or at least he shouldn’t be, but Katsuki doesn’t feel like violence was the answer here. (A shocker, he knows, but can you blame him? It’s like wanting to punish the Earth for rotating, or the sun for setting at the end of the day. Punishing the moon for moving the tides, and many other metaphors Katsuki can’t think of at the moment.)

He doesn’t want to go about this the wrong way. Beating his admirer’s (damn it, he means artist, thanks a lot Pinky ‘n Sparky) face into a pulp is definitely the worst approach he could possibly take. There ought to be a better, and much more appropriate option, shouldn’t there? What exactly should be done in this instance? What could he do?

There’s only one thing, really.

“I’m gonna find him.”

—

It’s easier said than done in a weird way, tracking down Deku. He really is a popular and well-known young artist, and his art is plastered practically all over every social media you can think of. He’s got his fair share of admirers and haters, and critiques of his more professional work (he’s not just a street artist like Katsuki had first assumed a few days ago, he’s actually got even better pieces than Katsuki’s portrait, if you can believe it) range from big art magazines to small internet influencers. There’s all kinds of stuff about his artwork, including videos and articles.

Deku’s work speaks to all kinds of people, he finds out.

Though unfortunately, there isn’t any public information about the artist himself. In fact, Deku is a pseudonym, and there is virtually no personal information pertaining to him anywhere. His identity is kept closely underwraps, and any interviews with him are all written word (Katsuki knows this because he has scoured all of Youtube trying to find a video with Deku, and has come up empty handed). Katsuki has absolutely no method of contacting him about the alleyway art, and no way of finding him about town.

Pushing his laptop away an inch, Katsuki sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He’s hit yet another dead end on this art blog in his search for Deku’s damn contact information. It’s terribly frustrating at this point, because he’s so close it’s ridiculous. He’s pretty sure he’s figured out who Deku actually is: Midoriya Izuku, a journalist who looks to be based here in Musutafu, and the guy whose blog Katsuki’s been snooping through for the past three days.

The guy’s got a plethora of articles and photography on a number of different artists, but according to the internet, he’s more known to be a Deku enthusiast, and most of his material stems from Deku’s artwork. In fact, he’s already got an article up about Katsuki’s portrait, dated three days ago. That was the first giveaway.

If you look through Deku’s official Instagram, Katsuki’s portrait (titled Musutafu Delight, after the side of the café it was painted on, but Katsuki ain’t gonna call it anything else but his portrait) was posted bright and early at 7 in the morning three days ago, and Midoriya’s article on The Canvas about said portrait was posted not ten minutes later. Awfully speedy for someone who is allegedly not even the artist of the piece, no?

And if you read through Midoriya’s blog and Deku’s written interviews, the connection between them becomes even more glaringly obvious due to the fact Midoriya writes his articles similarly to the way Deku does in his interviews, so much so that it couldn’t possibly be counted as a mere coincidence. Their wording and phrasing of things is near exact, and their pools of vocabulary are closely shared.

Plus, you’d have to be an idiot to not see where the artist’s pseudonym comes from.

“Deku can be derived from the same kanji as Izuku. It’s literally the same,” Katsuki had explained to his stupidly incredulous group of friends, who dismissed his “theory” on Deku’s true identity like the bunch of morons they were. The only one who seemed even halfway convinced was Sleepy, and even then he just looked amused at Katsuki’s frustration trying to map out what he was talking about to the rest of the group in his overly simple terms.

Anyway, Katsuki had little to no doubt about Deku’s real identity, but that didn’t exactly mean it made finding the guy any easier. Seriously, what kind of a dimwit doesn’t even put down their email on their own goddamn blog?

Deku, apparently.

Katsuki sighs once more before sipping what was left of his coffee and exiting out of Midoriya’s blog with a dull click. Without any other clear leads, there wasn’t much he could do in regards to finding the guy, and he rather not run himself ragged trying to do so all at once. He could always chase his tail looking for Deku later, since he wasn’t really getting anywhere anyway. Such a damn shame.

Unexpectedly a throat clears, and Katsuki looks up halfway prepared to throw a scowl at Kirishima’s stupid little smile (Katsuki told him specifically not to bother him today since he had so much shit to get done, which may or may not have been an excuse to keep on internet “stalking” Deku, as Sparky and Sleepy so eloquently put it), but finds a completely different stupid little smile he doesn’t recognize by a long shot.

It’s a guy with a scatter of freckles all over his face and green highlights in his curly black hair. He has big round eyes and a healthy pink glow to his cheeks. In short, he’s cute, but he carries himself like a wounded animal, a shy and skittish little thing. He looks like a big dork in his glasses and sweater splattered with paint at the hem.

“Hi,” the dork says in a sort of sigh filled to the brim with nerves as his fingertips flinch around the little ringed book he carries in his hands.

Katsuki quickly fits a frown onto his face, intentionally standoffish to lure this four-eyed man away. Somehow, it doesn’t work, and instead of being deterred by the attitude he was putting on, the man sits himself down in the empty seat in front of him, a wobbled smile on his lips. Katsuki narrows his eyes slightly, annoyed but impressed by the gall of the nerdy looking guy.

“Uh, my name is M-Midoriya Izuku, I’m a full time artist and journalist and”—the guy shifts in his seat and lets out a huge huff—“wow, you are super pretty up close.”

Katsuki blinks, and promptly blushes like a flower. (Thanks for that, Sleepy.) He didn’t take Deku for the bold type.

“I, um. That’s not what I—Well, yeah I did mean that, you are very pretty—uh, handsome, but that’s not what I—”

Scratch that, Deku definitely wasn’t the bold type, just the “doesn’t think before speaking” type. Fortunately, Katsuki was well acquainted with those types (i.e. his friends), so he doesn’t find it as annoying as he would've. Plus, Deku wasn’t saying anything bad, he was complimenting him.

“You’re fine,” Katsuki has to cut him off from his quick paced rambling. Every word had sounded like it was stuffed into the last, jumbled and nearly indecipherable.

“You’re Deku, right? I got your message,” he smirks in a tease as he leans back casually. Spikey and Pinky were going to freak when Katsuki told them he found Deku, and Sparky was going to eat his words. (Midoriya isn’t Deku, his ass. All the clues were right there. In plain sight.)

Deku stops, and then color bursts into his face. “How did you…” he drifts off, speechless for the first time since he sat down. Katsuki raises his brows and then holds up a finger in a hold on gesture, clicking his laptop awake and opening up his history tab. He turns the screen so Deku can see all the websites he’s visited in the past three days.

At a glance, it’s obvious everything is related to Deku and his artwork, but Deku’s lips downturn in confusion and Katsuki has to explain. “It’s research. Was trying to find the dork who painted my face on the side of the café,” he says as Deku gives a little squeak. Katsuki clicks the most recent tab and opens up The Canvas, aka Deku’s blog.

“You said your name was Midoriya Izuku? Full time artist and journalist? Izuku can be read as Deku, meaning either you are Deku, you work with Deku, or you’re some freak obsessed with Deku. Your pick,” Katsuki finishes before turning his laptop back toward him and clicking it to sleep.

Deku only gapes at him, eyes wide and shining in something Katsuki could only describe as awe. “You’re amazing,” he says in a certain way that entails he was talking before thinking again, and weirdly enough, Katsuki feels an unexpected warmth in his chest because of it.

“Bakugou Katsuki, by the way. And I ain’t a snitch. It’s obvious you wanna keep your identity a secret. Just knowing I’m right is enough. Did’ya want something from me, Freckles?” Katsuki lolls his head to the side, staring Deku down and ignoring the tingling in his hands.

Deku startles slightly, one step behind and still mouthing Bakugou under his breath like he was trying to familiarize himself with it. Weird, but cute in a way. Deku shifts around in his seat, fiddling around with his fingers in his lap. “Oh well, um. It’s nice to meet you, Bakugou-san, and I, uh…actually had a proposition for you?”

Katsuki wrinkles his nose, but nods at him to continue.

Deku gives him a shy little smile, one that crinkles the tiny freckle above his top lip. “Would you like to model for me?”