#and they haven’t worn through but because the fabric is thinning there it’s gone soft and like.. pouchy?? baggy?? but JUST along those lines

[areyouwho-ithinkyouare]

just been payed but need new jeans (worn down in a way i can’t fix) and need new boots (cobbler can’t patch them together at this point) two things i insist on investing in decent quality for which means two ~£100 purchases which means that’s ALREADY it for my budget for the month so enjoy september everybody i will be locking myself in a dark room for the duration

[princess-of-riviaa]

A Little Too Much

Cavillmas Prompt Day 9: Christmas Wrapping

Pairing: August Walker (Mission Impossible: Fallout) x Female Reader

Authors Note: shoutout to @cavillsthighs for being the mastermind behind this whole Cavillmas idea 🥰

Summary: You find August wrapping up a sex toy for your gift and ask him to use it on you “as an early Christmas present”

Warning(s): use of toys (vibrator), ddlg themes, fingering, dirty talk, overstimulation, use of safe words, mention of sensory deprivation, slight angst, fluff

Word Count: 2958

“Fuck, August!” Tears streamed down your face as your body continued to convulse. The amount of pleasure coursing through you made your mind foggy. If he hadn’t tied your hands to the bedframe, you’d have pushed him and the vibrator away a long time ago.

10 Minutes Earlier:

He had gone to the restroom when you found it. The gift he had been wrapping in the living room. He was only halfway done with it and the soft baby pink shade of the plastic had lured you in. Before you knew it, you’d taken it out of the wrapping and examined it carefully.

August had bought you a new vibrator. You didn’t understand why. He kept you stocked with five different vibrators, all with different additions and gadgets. But this one was different from the others. Smaller. Before you could figure out how this one worked, you felt a presence behind you.

You exclaimed when you turned to find August less than a foot away from you.

“Snooping, are we?” He raised an eyebrow, his eyes locked on the toy in your hand. “I’d planned on surprising you for Christmas. Guess you’ve ruined that.”

You swallowed. You always toed a line with August, balancing between revealing his soft or dark side. But anytime you disobeyed or got out of line, he switched to your dark dominant in less than a second.

He sighed. “You’re always such a good girl for me, little one. I’m surprised by you. Good girls don’t go snooping.”

You lowered your gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” There was no worse feeling than when you disappointed him.

He took a step towards you. There was no distance between you now. You gasped as his chest brushed against the thin shirt you were wearing. It was early; you were still in August’s shirt that you’d worn to bed last night. The soft fabric fell halfway to your knees. August always insisted that you both sleep naked “so it will be easier to fuck you awake in the morning” but he had a weakness for seeing you in his shirts. You didn’t mind at all. You loved wearing his warm shirts, especially after they’ve already been worn, because his scent was intoxicating.

“Look at me, little one.” He brushed his thumb across your chin a second later, tilting your head back until you met his gaze. “Normally I’d punish you for something like this.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. August’s punishments weren’t fun. The few times you’d acted out, he’d spent hours edging you, not letting up even when you were crying, begging for him to let you cum. Another time he hadn’t fucked you for a week. You were needy by the seventh day that you’d practically came the moment he touched you.

He continued, “But you’ve been so good for me lately, haven’t you?”

You nodded meekly. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I just saw the wrapping and you know I love pink—I didn’t mean to, I don’t want to disappoint you—”

He shut you up with a kiss. It was brief and teasing. You whimpered with disappointment when he pulled away.

“I know you’re sorry, little one.” He placed a featherlight kiss on your forehead. “What do you say we try it out?”

“Hmm?” You frowned at him, not catching his meaning.

He smiled down at you. That familiar darkness filled his eyes, his pupils dilating until they had swallowed up all the blue and brown of his irises.

The nervous in your stomach quickly turned to heat. You’d been together for six months now, but that look in his eyes still made you weak in the knees. You squeezed your legs together, your body already preparing to feel him fill you up. As if involuntarily, your mouth began to water at the thought of him fucking your mouth. No matter what he did, you just wanted him to fill one of your holes.

“If you’re so curious about the vibrator, we may as well try it out. See how much you like it.” The corners of his mouth curved up in a devious smile, revealing the devil inside of the man you loved.

You nodded again. “Okay, Daddy.”

He linked his fingers through yours and led you to the bedroom you shared. The curtains were wide open, revealing the sprawling hills just outside of the floor-to-ceiling windows. A bookshelf and your favorite reading chair sat in the corner, your book and blanket still where you left them last night before August had carried you to bed. Your shared bed took up the majority of the room. The king-sized bed was more than big enough for the two of you. August had insisted on that size “so I’ll be able to fuck you without having to worry about us falling off the bed.” The maroon sheets were sprawled across the mattress. Both of you had been too lazy to make the bed this morning. The dark sheets brought of the contrast of August’s black pillow and your pink one right beside it. Your mind instantly flashed back to last night. He���d fucked you from behind, spanking your ass until your cheeks were red and the skin was burning. You’d cum so many times that you were screaming by the end of it, and you’d bitten down on your pillow to muffle your sounds. He’d simply spanked you again.

Don’t you dare hide your screams from me. Daddy needs to know how good his little slut is taking my cock. Unless you want me to stop?

You’d pushed the pillow away from instantly, filling the room with your screams again. He had growled good girl before increasing his pace and making you cum again. He spilled his load inside of you a few seconds later, watching his seed spill out of you before making you suck it off his fingers.

By the time you came back to the present moment, you were lying on your back, the soft sheets cool against your back. You’d missed August taking your shirt off. He was busy tying your wrists around one of the bedposts with his favorite rope. He had bought the pink rope on your one-month anniversary—the first night he had tied you up and revealed his devilish side to you.

“Why are you tying me up, Daddy?” you whined. He normally only did this when he was about to punish you.

The smirk he failed to hold back made you shiver. Whatever he was planning… it made you nervous. “Don’t worry, little one. You’re not in trouble. I just can’t have you trying to stop me when I start pleasuring you.”

“I don’t—” you began, but he gave you a look to silence you.

He moved back on his knees and spread your legs. You were already dripping with the promise of him pleasing you, as well as all the thoughts running through your mind of previous moments of mind-shattering intimacy.

“Already wet for me,” he sighed, leaning down to kiss the inside of your thighs in approval. He brushed his nose against your cunt.

Your hips bucked up at the teasing, barely-there touch. “Mmm, Daddy.”

“That feel good, little one?” He looked up at you between your thighs to see you nod.

You tried not to whine when you pulled away. He slipped the silicone vibrator onto his forefinger. “This is called a finger vibrator. I’m sure you can guess what it does.”

You opened your mouth to reply—

He shoved the toy inside of you and switched it on with a flick of his finger. The vibration started out light, but it still pulled a gasp out of you. The toy’s coldness contrasted against the warmth of August’s finger, sending tingles straight through you. Your walls began to squeeze around the toy, silencing its vibrating sound.

As August switched it to a higher setting, he pulled you in to give you a rough, openmouthed kiss. His tongue pushed past yours, swallowing your moan as he switched the toy to a higher setting. When he began to move his finger inside of you in that familiar come-hither motion, you bucked your hips up against his. His erection brushed against your naval and you moaned.

“You like it, baby girl?” he breathed into your mouth.

You replied with another moan. Your hands tugged against the rope as you instinctively moved to wrap your hands around his neck, forgetting your predicament in the throes of your growing pleasure.

August switched the toy two settings higher in the span of ten seconds. Not long after, your walls squeezed sporadically as the heat in your core spread throughout your body—

You threw your head back as you came. August didn’t ease up, pushing you through your orgasm and into another one. You came for what felt like a minute straight before you were able to open your eyes and look up at him. That dark look didn’t fade in his eyes; if anything, it had become more needy, desperate to pull another orgasm from you again.

“So fucking pretty when you cum, you know that?” he breathed. “Love the way your body shakes. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He began to move his finger faster inside of you, drawing a whimper from the back of your throat. The toy had been on for less than two minutes. Still, true to his nature, August didn’t relent. You doubt he even knew what that word meant. The room was filled with the sound of your shaking breaths and whorish moans, occasionally broken up by August’s filthy words. They only spurred your arousal on more.

The ropes around your wrists dug into your skin. With every passing moment you tried harder to break free of them, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer against you. Your efforts were in vain, though. If there was one thing August was better at than fucking, it was making unbreakable knots. You’ve never been able to break out of his ties, but you still held out hope.

August chuckled darkly. “I love it when you struggle like that. Such a desperate little baby.”

Another orgasm hit you, lasting just as long as the others had—no, longer. Your body reacted instantly, quick to squeeze your legs together. The pleasure was too much. You were too sensitive. August didn’t mess a beat. With his free hand, he pried your legs apart, moving between them until his thighs stilled them. He wouldn’t let up. Your torture wasn’t going to end.

“Please!” you cried out. Your throat tightened as your eyes began to water.

“I thought you said you wanted to try it out,” August reminded you, a hint of cruelty in his voice.

For however much you hated this, he loved it. He got off your pain just as much as your pleasure.

The smell of sex filled the room as the air between the two of your bodies grew hotter. Your cum leaked out of your hole, drenching the sheets beneath you. Just as you opened your mouth to beg him, to plead with him to stop, he switched the toy onto the highest setting and you lost the ability to speak. Your eyes rolled back in your head. Your fourth orgasm rolled through you, burning you alive, taking all your senses, ruining your body until all you knew was August and how much you loved him, not because he gave you such intense pleasure but because he made you feel alive and loved every inch of you—

One orgasm rolled into another. “Fuck, August!” Tears streamed down your face as your body continued to convulse. The amount of pleasure coursing through you made your mind foggy. If he hadn’t tied your hands to the bedframe, you’d have pushed him and the vibrator away a long time ago.

You jumped as he slapped your pussy, sending a sharp sting through your body.

“What did you just say?” he growled.

You couldn’t fight through the blur of your mind to answer him.

He grabbed your face in his hand, forcing you to open your eyes and meet his gaze. “What. Did. You. Just. Say.”

And then it hit you: you called him August. “S-sorry, Daddy.”

“That’s better.” He released his grip on your face—only to mark the skin above your left breast with a stinging bite.

“Please, please make it stop!” you begged, tears streaming down your face now. “It’s too much—”

“Do you remember your safe words?” he asked.

Safe words—yes! You did remember them. “Red!” you cried out as sobs continued to spill out of you.

The vibrator switched off. August pulled out of you immediately. You could hardly process the sensation of his thumb drawing slow, soothing circles into your thigh.

“Tell me what you need, baby girl.” For however dark his demeanor had been half a second ago, it was now the complete opposite. A switch had flipped inside of him. Now he was your protector, willing to get on his knees for you, willing to move the earth and sky if it meant your happiness.

You took a second to breathe, to focus, to think clearly again. Once your crying eased, you looked up at him. There was a look of such sadness—such deep, regretful guilt—on his face that you whimpered.

“Do you want me to draw you a bath?” he asked. Those usually helped calm you down after a particularly rough go in the bedroom.

You nodded meekly.

He moved towards the bathroom.

You close your eyes and focus on slowing your breathing, on coming down from that mental place August had brought you to.

He came back a minute later and, with hesitancy in his voice, asked, “Do you… want me to join you?”

On your one-month anniversary, he had shown you his dark side. And he hadn’t held back. Luckily, you had established safe words right before, so you knew to use them if you needed to. He had attempted sensory deprivation on you that night. He knew you liked being spanked and choked while he fucked you. He had ensured to do both that. But with that blindfold around your eyes and your other senses maxed out, it was too much. Your moans had quickly turned to sobs and you’d cried out your safe word as soon as you could remember it. He had stopped. He was always good at that. If you told him to, he would stop as soon as he could, even if he was seconds away from his own orgasm. But that night… when he had taken your blindfold off, you couldn’t look at him. And when he moved towards you, you skirted away. That night had changed things. Made August realize that, if he pushed you to a certain point, if he crossed a certain line, you wouldn’t want anything to do with him. It took you a while to trust him after that, to remember how to lower your guard with him. But he had waited. He had been so patient. So willing to do whatever it took for you to be comfortable around him again. It had brought even closer eventually. But that moment in your relationship… neither of you would ever forget it. Now, on the rare occasions that you use your safe words, he doesn’t push it. He understands that you might need to be away from him for a bit. He doesn’t ever push it.

That’s why he asks with such hesitancy now. Because he knows that you could so easily say no, that you need your space. He would hate it—hate being away from you when you’re in this state—but he would respect it.

You took a moment to consider it. To consider if you could enjoy a calming bath with him just moments after he pushed you past the edge. But today was different from that first time. Today, you wanted to be near him. You wanted—craved his comfort. So you told him yes, and when his eyes filled with relief and he gave you that soft smile that only you knew August Walker was capable of giving, you knew it was the right choice.

He lifted you in his arms and carried you to the bathroom. The tub was already filled with steaming water and your favorite rose-scented bubbles. You let out a sigh as you stepped into the bath. August joined you a second later, pulling your back against his chest and leaving light kisses along your shoulders and neck.

“I love you.” He pressed his forehead against your neck. Something wet hit your back. He was crying. “I’m so sorry, my love. I only want to make you feel good—”

You turned around as much as you could to look him in the eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks wet. You wiped away the few tears he had let slip down his face.

“I know, Auggie,” you said, kissing his cheek. “We’ll get better at recognizing each other’s limits the longer we’re together. It just takes a few tries to get it right.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, closing his eyes before he said, “I can’t lose you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You waited for him to open his eyes again. “You won’t. I’m so madly in love with you, August Walker. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

He smiled in relief before pulling you in for a soft kiss.

You pulled back to murmur, “I definitely enjoyed the gift, though, just in case you were wondering.”

...

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[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Melted Mask

awitchbravestheverge prompt: I don't know if you're still taking prompts but you are a master of hurt/comfort and would sell you my soul for some of that for Janus. Maybe where he's feeling insecure or like he's worn out his welcome post acceptance, or maybe a little touch starved, or both. Preferably with Virgil or Patton as the comforter, but if not thats ok. I just have a never-ending need for fic where people are soft and gentle with the snake boy, and I love everything you write with my whole heart

Thanks for the request, babe!

Read on Ao3

Pairings: DLAMPR, focus on anxceit and moceit, can be platonic or romantic you decide I don’t mind

Warnings: uhhh sympathetic deceit and remus

Word Count: 4804

 “How many masks of your own face are you currently wearing?”

 “At least four.”

Between the gloves, the cape, and the hat, there’s not an awful lot of Janus that is seen most of the time. Not that he particularly minds. There is a certain benefit that layers upon layers of clothing provides. One, they’re perfect for concealing his cane—the others always look so surprised when he summons it from nowhere. Two, he is Dark Side, thanks to Roman’s fantastic naming system. There is an aesthetic standard that must be met. What was he going to do, show up in some ratted old hoodie?

 Three, well—there is an awful lot to look at. If the others are focused on the clasps at his throat, the shock of the yellow gloves, the logo hidden under the black fabric, they’re not looking at him.

 If they were, they’d see his scales.

 He is the only side with a visible animal trait, after all. The scales cover the left side of his face, down beneath his collar. He doesn’t mind the stares—come on, it’s so easy to catch them off guard, how could he?—but sometimes he does wonder if they’ll ever get used to it.

  To him.

 The scales are a reminder. That he’s different. That he’s not like them. He’s not like the others, he doesn’t look like Thomas, at least not to the extent that they do. Thomas doesn’t have golden scales along the side of his face. Thomas doesn’t have a mouth that curves up along his cheek. Thomas doesn’t have a slit-eye pupil. No, no, Thomas is normal.

 How dreadful.

 Then, of course, there are the lies.

 ‘Deceit.’ Such a funny word. And so…polarizing.

 ‘Deceitful,’ ‘dishonest,’ ‘dastardly’—lot of ‘d’s, here, hmm?—all of the words that just mean he’s a liar. And lying must be bad, right? So it follows logically then, because we simply adore logic in this house, that he must be bad.

 He’s not to be trusted, he’s a liar. He’s not honest, he’s a liar. They have to double and triple-check everything he says because he’s a liar.

 They always conveniently seem to forget that you can always trust a dishonest person to be dishonest. It’s the truthful ones you have to watch out for.

 Janus knows he’s a liar. Frankly, he’s quite proud of it. He’s gotten very good at it too; twisting the words together just right in order to tug slightly at a heartstring there, block off just a little rationality there, get the job done. The others always get caught up in his words, too busy focusing on the minutia of it, the details, leaving him free to step around them and speak to Thomas.

 They see the gloves, they see the scales, they see the lies.

 They see the masks.

 Oh, sometimes he’ll put on a little bit more of a show if he needs to make a point, if the normal masks aren’t quite enough to get Thomas to listen. He’ll tie a hoodie around his shoulders, push a pair of glasses up his nose, knot a tie around his neck. Problem is…those ones are a little easier to see through. No matter how hard he tries, all of his disguises end up being a self-portrait.

 Which is how he ended up here.

 “You know the rules,” Patton says, his hands on his hips, “no impersonating others outside of filming!”

 Janus rolls his eyes and idly flicks a speck of dirt off one of his gloves. “Oh, please. You don’t want me to do it during filming either.”

 “No, I don’t, but we made a compromise, kiddo, now we both have to stick to it.”

 Janus raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m sure the others will be relieved to hear so.”

 “What have we said about impersonations?”

 He sighs. “The others may be idiots—“

 “Oi!”

 “—but idiots are also deserving of respect,” Janus finishes, glancing at Virgil draped over the back of the couch. “And I would never dream of being anything less than perfectly respectful.”

 Virgil snorts. “What do you even get out of it anyway?” He sits up a little straighter. “Wait, you haven’t been tricking Roman into telling you how to impersonate us better, have you?”

 “Now why would I do that?”

 “Janus!”

 “What? Like you don’t make a habit of going to the others for advice.”

 “There’s a difference between openly asking for it and tricking them into giving it to you.”

 Janus levels a stare at him. “I suppose there is, isn’t there?”

 “Hey!” Patton steps between them. “That’s enough.”

 “Oh, well—“ Janus makes a show of resettling his cape—“if you say so.”

 Patton sighs. “Janus, we are trying, okay? You heard Thomas, you’re…well, you’re more welcome now.”

 “And you’re doing a marvelous job of that.”

 Patton doesn’t quite deflate, but it’s close. “Well, maybe we could all try a little harder.” He gives Janus a pointed look.

 “Yes, I’m sure my efforts will be richly rewarded.”

 “Well, you could start by showing up as yourself more often.”

 “Myself?” Janus gasps theatrically, putting a gloved hand to his scales. “Who’s that?”

 “Dude,” Virgil sniggers—Virgil did always appreciate his sense of humor—“how many masks of your own face are you currently wearing”

 “At least four.”

 Patton lets him go with another verbal slap on the wrist and Virgil flips him off. Janus sinks out, striding down the hallway near his room. It’s quieter here. The walls hum a little less. He can think.

 He hadn’t gone to Roman to gets tips on his acting. He’d gone because Roman doesn’t want to talk to Janus.

 Janus, the liar. Janus, the manipulator. Janus, the Dark Side.

 Janus shuts the door of his room and instinctively slumps, the cape hanging off his shoulders. He knows Patton means well, and Virgil’s…Virgil, but sometimes it stings a little more than it should. Not that the others will ever see it.

 He’ll never forget the look on Thomas’s face when Logan said he was the side that acts with the one priority of self-preservation. Of how it instantly demonized the idea of protecting yourself. Of Thomas keeping himself safe.

 He looks at his hands, sees the gloves. They still don’t fit quite right, even after all these years. He can’t get the seams to run down the sides of the fingers, not curve around to the front or the back. It really shouldn’t be this difficult. Especially considering how much use he’s gotten out of them.

 Lying kept Thomas alive. It kept him safe. He helped keep Thomas safe. When Virgil couldn’t breathe, when Logan faltered, when Patton froze, Janus would quietly make his way over to Roman and whisper a suggestion. Just a suggestion. To lie. To keep Thomas safe. To get them out of here. And it saved them. So many times.

 Janus walks over to the mirror. It’s a fairly modest thing; about the size of a small sink, oval, large enough so he can see himself completely if he takes a few steps back. He ignores his own face and reaches for the golden latch on the side. He turns it.

 The cabinet swings open to reveal a dark velvet interior with several small podiums. Each has a thin mask laid atop it. They gleam in the low light of the room. Janus reaches out and carefully makes sure each is perfectly centered. As he does so, his gloves linger on the fine print beneath the podiums.

 Everyone has masks. Versions of themselves to present to the world when they need to. A mask that keeps you safe, a mask that keeps you alive, a mask that has the courage to speak when you don’t. The mask they wear around their homophobic relatives, the mask they wear when they need to make a phone call, the mask they wear when they need to pretend they’re something they’re not.

 Janus is very, very good at making masks.

 He never wears these. These are for Thomas. When Thomas needs help, Janus slips one of these out of the cabinet and sets it on the desk in front of the mirror. He looks at it, then at the mirror, and works. These masks are what helps Thomas.

 He shuts the cabinet with a decisive click, suddenly confronted with his own face.

Janus is so good at making masks that he doesn’t even need a mask to wear one.

 A mask because you’re the bad guy. A mask because you can never be trusted. A mask because when you try to be vulnerable they won’t listen. A mask because they don’t want you, they want the character that you embody to survive.

 He pities the others sometimes. They don’t have these masks and they hurt. They can’t distance themselves, pull away just a little more, embody a role so that when it’s over, when they’re safe again, they can take it off and breathe. But they don’t. So they just get hurt. Over and over and over.

 Janus’s lips involuntarily curl up into a snarl. The hand on the mirror closes into a fist.

 They’re not supposed to get hurt. That’s not how this is supposed to work.

 He’s not supposed to hurt them.

 Part of him argues that he has to. If he keeps working the way he’s been working he can get right to Thomas, who is who needs the most protection. If he tries to do it their way they risk Thomas getting hurt and Janus won’t have that.

 Part of him whispers that this is good for them. If he can make them a little tougher, help them get thicker skin, they’ll be safer. And then it won’t matter if they hate him. They’ll be safe. That’s all he cares about.

 The rest of him—

 …well, the rest of him is currently the reason he’s having trouble looking in the mirror right now.

 The problem with wearing so many masks is that it becomes harder and harder to figure what’s the mask and what’s not. And he’s gotten so good at making them that now…now he doesn’t have to think about it.

 A mask for when Logan asks to debate about philosophy. A mask for when Remus wants him to help him and Roman make something new. A mask for when Patton wants to bake. A mask for when Virgil comes to him for help.

 A mask for all of them. A mask for none of them.

 Janus doesn’t want to wear the masks all the time. He wants them to be warm, to care, to smile when he comes into the room, or even ask where he is. He wants to laugh as Patton smears batter all over his nose accidentally. He wants to listen to Logan ramble about some new advancement in quantum gravity. He wants Virgil to come plop down next to him while everyone else is in the living room. He wants Remus to stay with him while they watch the others get into ridiculous fights over board games. He wants Roman to not be afraid to come talk to him.

 He wants.

 Janus is selfish.

 But he isn’t stupid.

 He knows they don’t want him. He knows they don’t want him, even without the masks. Deep down, he knows they don’t need him either.

 But Thomas does.

 So here Janus will stay, in the dark, in the cold, wearing too many masks of his own face to keep count.

—————————————————————

The Mindscape is cold. It never quite feels solid. Drafts blow in and out of the walls, through the little gaps in the floor, from places that Janus can’t find, no matter how many times he looks for them. He bundles himself up in his cloak and his hat and does his best to hold still, sink in as much warmth as he can. He sneaks up behind the others, pressing himself up near them, purring in their ears, just to snatch their body heat. They always shove him away with flustered protests and blushy little faces. They’re so adorable.

 Plus, he knows that’s all he’s ever really going to get from them.

 But he’s cold, goddamnit. Why do they keep the air conditioning so high in this house? Snakes are cold-blooded. They get slow. Lethargic. Hypothermic, if it gets very bad.

 Janus can’t afford to be slow.

 So he wears his gloves, his cape, his hat. He stands opposite the window so he can get the most sunlight. He finds the patches of warmth where none of the others will find him and he can curl up for the warmth he needs...

 …and fine, maybe it’s a little more than just being cold.

 The others are…touchy. Patton throws his arm around just about everyone. Bumps his hip against theirs. Pats their shoulders, squeezes their hands, kisses their cheeks. Roman sweeps people into his arms, pulls them in for hugs, keeps an arm around their waists for as long as he’s allowed. Remus can and will just tackle whoever he wants. Logan holds himself a little further away, but even he’ll lay a comforting hand on someone’s arm. Janus will admit he was shocked when Virgil started exhibiting spider characteristics. That Side is a cat and you will not convince him otherwise. And everyone knows if a cat falls asleep on you, you’re not allowed to move until it wakes up.

 Not that Virgil has fallen asleep on him recently.

 Janus is not too proud to admit that at first, he didn’t want their touches. He had a job to do, he didn’t need to be distracted. But now…now he does.

 He sees the way they move around each other and it stings. The accidental brushes he gets from standing too close or when they aren’t thinking about it sear through layers and layers of clothing to burn into his skin. When he stays close to them—close, but not too close—his whole side begins to tingle, reaching for them, their warmth, for them. But now it’s too late. His mask is already firmly in place and they know Deceit hates being touched.

 That’s another reason for the layers. For the gloves.

 Janus knows that if they ever touch him directly, skin to skin, his mask will shatter. And that is too dangerous to risk. With his gloves, his cape, his hat, his masks, the only way that would happen is if one of them tried to touch his face.

 And that is certainly very likely indeed.

 The clothes give him a barrier. A last line of defense. No touch is better than unexpected touch.

 But that doesn’t stop him from being cold.

 He can tell it’s going to happen when he can’t quite close his fingers around the end of his staff in the middle of their conversation. His gloves don’t catch on the wood quite right and he has to fumble to grab it properly. He glances up. No one’s looking at him.

  Are they ever?

 He tucks his hands smoothly out of sight, frantically burrowing them into his cloak to see if they’ll warm up. He locks his knees. No good. His fingers start to hurt as he flexes them. They’re still not moving faster. It’s cold.

 He glances at the clock. Two minutes. He can last two minutes. Or so he thinks, until his jaw starts to clench. He clenches it harder, ignoring the protest from his neck, his shoulders, trying to make it stop. He takes a deep slow breath and tries to relax, to stop his muscles from tensing. It works, barely.

 One minute.

 His hands aren’t responding properly. He can barely move his fingers. He just needs to get out of here. If he gets out of here he can get warm. He has his electric blanket, he has everything he needs. He just needs to leave.

 Thirty seconds.

 The conversation draws to a close and Janus nods deeply, tossing one last barb over his shoulder as he sinks out, only to collapse in the hallway as soon as he does. A draft flows out right next to his shoulder, freezing fingers dancing up his arm, along the back of his neck, diving into his collar to snatch more of his warmth. He curses, heaves himself to his feet, and makes it to his room. It’s so cold.

 Something tugs in his chest. No, no—!

 “I suppose there must be a good reason for summoning me back,” Janus drawls, snapping his gloves right back into place as he appears in the living room.

 Patton and Virgil stare back at him. Patton fidgets with his hands. “W-well, we, uh, I had a question for you.”

 Damn. “Well.” Janus spreads his arms, trying to play off how slow he’s moving for dramatic effect. “I’m here. Ask away.”

 “I, uh, a few days ago you mentioned that you didn’t feel as welcome here.” Patton looks at him with such an expression of sincerity that it makes Janus’s tongue itch. “And I wanted to know what I could do to help.”

 “Aren’t you sweet?”

 Patton won’t be deterred, it seems. He stares at Janus, resolute as ever. It’s so cold in here he’s going to start slurring in a moment.

 “Janus?”

 “That is my name, yes.”

 “Are you…are you feeling alright?”

 Janus gestures to himself, movements growing slower by the second. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

 Slow. Too slow.

 Patton frowns. He gives him a look. “You don’t seem like you normally are, are you sure?”

 “I am entirely in one piece.”

 “That doesn’t answer my question.”

 “Honey, if you’re looking for a straight answer, I’m afraid you’re looking in the wrong place.”

 Virgil moves. Right, Virgil was here too. Janus is slow. Too slow. He can’t move. He can’t get away. His mask forms a bored expression on his face, quirking an eyebrow. Virgil approaches him and holds out a hand. A cold part of Janus’s chest leaps.

 The lips of the mask part. “And what exactly do you intend to do with that?”

 “This,” Virgil mutters, and cups the side of Janus’s face.

 Everything stops.

 Distantly, he feels Virgil’s hand leave his face. Hears something about being too cold. Sees a blur of blue rush away. But all he can focus on is—

  Warm. Virgil touched you. Warm. Warm. So warm. Keep the mask on. Don’t let the mask slip. Warm. If the mask slips everything will be ruined. Warm. Don’t you remember how to take the mask off? Virgil. Patton. Warm.

 “Janus? Janus!”

 Janus blinks. Virgil is still standing in front of him. There’s a little wrinkle between his brows. The mask is frozen in place, iced into a neutral expression.

 “Hey,” Virgil says quietly, “you’re freezing, bud. You gotta get warm.”

 Janus can’t speak. The mask is so cold.

 “You remember what happens when you get too cold,” Virgil continues, taking a step closer. Janus can’t move. Virgil’s frown deepens and he tilts his head. “What’s going on, Janus, you don’t normally let it get this bad.”

  Yes, Virgil, we’re aware.

 “You could’ve asked, dude,” Virgil says, taking another step closer, a little exasperation mingling with the concern, “any of us.”

 The mask smirks. Barely. “Yes, because I’m sure everyone would be so willing to cuddle me so I could steal their body heat.”

 “You don’t know that.” The mask doesn’t move. Virgil glances over his shoulder. When he speaks next, his voice is lowered to a whisper.

 “You don’t have to keep that on right now, Jan,” he says quietly, “it’s okay. It’s just me. I know you. You can…you know. Emote and stuff.”

 Janus huffs a laugh. It’s weak. 

 “You ever wear a mask so long you forget how to take it off?”

 Vigil pauses. “Huh?”

 “Ever pretended to be something for so long you forget which is real and which isn’t?” Janus’s smile turns sad. “Made yourself believe it too?”

 Virgil’s eyes close for a second. When he opens them, the concern in his gaze takes the last of the warm breath from Janus’s lungs. “Does this have anything to do with…?” He waves in Janus’s direction.

 Janus nods, slowly, so slowly. “I can’t. Because I’ve been…I’ve been trained out of it. I built my masks to hide behind. And now I can’t take them off.”

 “And we haven’t been good about helping you do that, huh.” He sounds so tired. He’s been through so much…

 “I’m…”

 The mask won’t let him apologize.

  Like they would ever accept it.

 “No, no,” Virgil says, “don’t apologize. You aren’t to blame for what you’ve been put through.”

  Oh, Virgil…

 Virgil glances over his shoulder. Then he shakes his head. “Just…look, go.”

 “What?”

 “I know this isn’t the time to talk about stuff. You’re not in any sort of shape to do that and Patton will understand. Go get warm.” He gives Janus a pointed look. “You take care of yourself first, okay?”

 He tries. He goes back to his room and buries himself in blankets, in pillows, in more layers than he can stand. The pressure is good but it’s still so cold. The weight of the electric blanket is nothing compared to the warmth of Virgil’s hand. Everything in here smells sterile, clinical, detached. It’s all so cold.

  You take care of yourself.

 The last sentence rings through his head late at night. He wants. But everyone’s probably asleep by now, and god knows they need to sleep. Surely it’ll be alright if he just goes to the living room? That’s not too far, right?

 There’s a fire going in the fireplace—since when did they have a fireplace? And there’s someone sitting on the couch. Hmm. Maybe if…if he’s quiet, if he doesn’t make too much noise, he can slip in and soak up some of the warmth. 

 Virgil turns around.

 “Hey, Janus,” he murmurs, standing, and comes over to him. “Can’t sleep?”

 Janus shakes his head. It’s warm in here, but he’s still cold. Virgil can see that, apparently.

 “Here,” he says, handing him a cup of tea that appeared out of thin air, “drink. It’ll warm you up.”

 Janus takes it cautiously. Isn’t it Virgil’s? There’s no way Virgil would’ve know Janus was coming…right?

 “This is my third one, figure I should let you catch up first.”

 He gestures to the couch, an encouraging smile on his lips.

 “Sit. C’mon”

 Janus does, sinking into the plush couch and cradling the warm mug in his hands. The couch groans as Virgil sits next to him. He can feel Virgil just out of reach, just there…

 “I like watching the fire,” comes a low voice from next to him as he sips the tea. “Helps me think. Or stop thinking.”

 He keeps talking in that low voice and the warm tea flows through Janus, sapping the cold slowly away from his body.

 Distantly, he feels someone steering him down onto the couch, and heavy arms around him.

 “Or maybe you just need a cuddle. Go to sleep, Janus.”

—————————————————————

 “ — stop twitching, Remus! You’ll make a mistake!”

 “Stop tugging his arm all over the place and then you won’t.”

 “Will you two pipe the fuck down? You’re gonna wake him up.”

 “Says the loudmouth!”

 “Roman, stop it.”

 “Stop moving his arm!”

 What is…? He’s lying on something. It’s warm, really warm. It smells like…coffee, makeup, and…cinnamon? He shifts slightly, and oh he slept on his neck wrong. A low groan escapes his throat.

 His pillow stiffens. “Shit. He’s awake.”

 “Good going, Remus.”

 “You were the one yelling!”

 “Shut the fuck up, both of you.” The chest underneath him vibrates. “Shh, snake-face, go back to sleep. You’re alright. Go back to sleep.”

 Janus shifts again, trying to look around, but he’s held down by another strong arm. A hand cards itself through his hair—where’s his hat? “Shh, be still, buddy, you’re okay. Can’t we get you back to sleep?”

 “What…’s going on?” His tongue feels heavy, swelling up in his mouth.

 “I believe the chances of getting him back to sleep will increase if you tell him what you’re doing.”

 It’s…Logan? He appears, fuzzy but definitely there, over the back of the couch. Janus tries to turn to make it easier to see him but his right arm is pinned and he can’t move—

 “Easy, J, easy, shh, shh, you’re okay, you’re safe, just keep your arm nice and still, okay?” Virgil, it’s Virgil he’s lying on, runs his hand through his hair again. “I’m pretty sure Roman would pitch a fit.”

 “Hah.” Roman snorts from somewhere close to the ground. “If this got ruined, yours would be too.”

 “If you hadn’t insisted on going last,” Remus says, “this wouldn’t’ve been an issue.”

 And then he feels it. Something is drawn sharply across his right wrist.

 “Shh, shh, Janus, breathe, breathe, you’re okay, damnit, Princey, stop! You’re making him freak out!”

 It’s gone, the contact is gone. His arm is still hanging over the edge of the couch but it’s held there by Virgil’s arm and another hand.

 “Hey there, Snakey.” Remus appears over Virgil’s shoulder. “You’re okay. We’re just making sure you’re okay.”

 Roman snorts. “There’s something wrong with how you phrased that.”

 Then suddenly Patton appears out of nowhere and doesn’t surprise him at all. Luckily, or unluckily, Janus is far too exhausted and disoriented to react more than rucking up the fabric of Virgil’s hoodie a little. Patton looks at the couch.

 “There isn’t room, Pop-star,” Virgil says, lazily stretching so his bulk takes up all of it, moving slow enough so Janus isn’t jostled too much. Then Virgil yelps and their lower bodies are lifted and he can feel the couch sag under another body.

 “What the hell, Pat.”

 “Now there’s room.” Patton reaches up and ruffles Virgil’s hair.

 There are so many people and it’s warm but why are they all here? Did he miss something? Does he need to leave?

 “Looks good,” Patton says, interrupting his train of thought, “it’s coming along well.”

 Logan clears his throat. “Would someone like to inform Janus about what exactly ‘this’ is?”

 “Oh, right, sorry, Snakey,” Remus says, crouching back down, “let’s show you.”

 Virgil turns over slowly, lifting his arm and using the leverage to shift Janus onto his chest. “Jeez, Janus, you’re light. Patton, have we been feeding him enough?”

 “I suspect there’s been a lack of communication, kiddo.”

 “Now is not the time to yell at him, Patton,” Logan says quietly.

 “I’m not yelling! But yes, now is not the time.”

 Virgil coaxes his head to one side, and Roman lifts his arm by the back of his hand.

 Janus’s mouth drops open.

 There are little animals drawn on his right arm, from his wrist to his elbow. There’s a navy cat, simple and clean, near the vein. A light blue frog with little glasses. A purple and black spider. A green octopus with large black tentacles. And an unfinished red dragon right near his wrist.

 “If I could finish,” Roman asks softly.

 “Alright, calm down, here.” Remus lowers his arm and holds it steady. Roman puts the brush back to his arm and starts painting again. Virgil and Remus start arguing about something, probably, but he can’t focus on anything besides the soft bristles of the brush on his arm, the rumble of Virgil’s chest, and the warmth of the weight on his legs.

 Logan stands behind his head. “You don’t need to wear a mask here, Janus,” he says softly, “not unless you want to.”

 No one else hears him except for Patton. He gives Janus’s leg a squeeze.

 It’s warm. It’s so warm.

 He wants to watch as Roman paints the dragon but he’s tired but he doesn’t want to sleep yet…not just yet.

 Patton reaches towards his face. His finger lands on his forehead and drags gently down the bridge of his nose.

 What…?

 Oh.

 As he follows his touch, Janus’s eyes drift closed.

 It’s so warm.

 And a warm hand on his cheek wipes the last of the mask away.

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[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 5)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, (here) Part 6, Part 7,  Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

Happy to announce that Thicker Than Water will be getting a companion piece from Geralt’s POV called The Blood of the Covenant, but probably not for a little while, because it’s still in the very early stages yet.

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The three days to  Ard Carraigh were torture for Jaskier, and yet they were almost numb. He’d finished his story for Ciri and was talking less. Part of his brain delighted in it. Talking less would make Geralt like him, he was being good, not being too much. He knew, though, he was just too tired to talk. 

It seemed that a weight had taken up residence in his chest. Many weights had, the feeling of being a burden, the constant ache of rejection, but this was a new feeling, cold and heavy and hot all at the same time. He was slower too. Jaskier tried, he tried so hard, but he needed a new cloak and better boots and even with them he got the sense that his body just...couldn’t go any faster.

Since only Geralt had a horse, he’d taken to walking alongside Roach, rather than riding her. Ciri was happy to skip ahead and come back and walk all around so that she probably walked twice the distance Jaskier did. Sometimes she took Jaskier by the hand as if trying to pull him along, and he’d smile at her and trot a few paces to the front of the group, but he just couldn’t manage more.

He wondered if it was because he wasn’t eating much. Jaskier knew he needed food, but he just wasn’t hungry, and wasting food on someone who wasn’t hungry for it wouldn’t get him into Geralt’s good graces.

They day before they reached Ard Carraigh the first snow had fallen. It was tiny and wet and gone by the time the sun was fully above the horizon, but it crunched underfoot and set a chill into Jaskier’s bones. He’d eaten a little more heavily than he had lately at breakfast that day, and he wondered if that was why his body felt so heavy.  He was unable to stop himself from falling to the back of their little group, even with Ciri’s coaxing. 

Once, when she tugged at his hand he chuckled and jokingly said, “Little lady, please spare an old man such exertion,” with a funny little bow, then exaggeratedly put his hand on his back, as if he were too geriatric to straighten fully. When Ciri giggled at that he mimed hobbling along with a cane, and moving his lips as though he were toothless and gumming at something. She laughed, bright and clear, and even Yennefer smiled. Geralt’s eyebrows lowered, though. It wasn’t an angry face, but it wasn’t a happy one and Jaskier couldn’t parse it out. 

As the day wore on Jaskier felt the cold. His traveling cloak had seen too many winters and wouldn’t bear another one. It was patched and dirty and worn so very thin. The wind bit at Jaskier, feeding off of him, feeling like it was freezing the very air inside his lungs. No matter how he tucked his cloak around him, no matter that his doublet was buttoned all the way to his chin, Jaskier felt frozen. 

He slowed down, feeling panic rising in his throat. He was too slow, he was going too slow. His mind hurtled backwards in time. Those times that he’d woken up to an empty camp, with Geralt packed up and leaving while he slept. Waking up in inn rooms that had held two people when he fell asleep, only to find himself alone, all of Geralt’s posessions gone. 

He was going to get left behind again.

His legs were lead, though. There was very little that hurt more than Geralt leaving him behind, but maybe it would be for the best. He felt like he’d just fall forward onto the frosty ground and stay there. The little family could go on and he could just stay, dissolving into the leaf mold. 

Ciri would worry though. She’d come back and take his hand and he knew if he stopped he couldn’t get up again and she’d worry. She might even cry. Making Ciri cry, those big green eyes filling up because of him, that would be worse, even than being left behind. Hurting Ciri would be worse than anything. 

Jaskier found a few more steps. 

It was like turning a crank handle that never did anything, or riding a horse all day, but every time he thought of Ciri, lip trembling, he could continue. 

When it was almost evening he slowed further. He was maybe twenty paces behind Yennefer and Geralt. Yen, despite looking much better, was still not healed, and walked slower than her standard, brisk pace. Geralt, of course, walked at her side. Jaskier considered that twenty paces was good enough. The wind was behind them and it almost seemed to push him forward, digging icy fingers through his cloak. 

Part of him fretted for his lute in the cold weather, even inside the case, but what did it matter. He would sell her in less than a day. 

He wasn’t going to cry about it. Tears prickled at his eyes but he wouldn’t let them fall. Not one. Because there was Ciri, up ahead, so bright in her Cintran blue cloak. She’d found a stick and was stabbing at imaginary villains. Jaskier would do anything for her. He would make it to Ard Carraigh, he would make it up the mountain and to the keep. He would even sell his lute. 

His body had other ideas. 

Jaskier stumbled on a root, hidden under fallen leaves. He fell, one knee down, the opposite hand catching him against the ground. It was like Atlas, carrying the world, as if a weight was pressing him down. He couldn’t stand back up. 

Ciri trotted over and took his other hand. His fingers were stiff and going blue, but he wrapped his hand around her mitten, which was slightly too big for her hand. He stood, Ciri tugging him slightly.

He smiled wanly at her and she grinned back. 

It happened again, though, only a few more paces along. Bumps and ditches that would normally mean nothing overrode his weakening limbs and shaky balence. He stumbled and fell, catching himself again and feeling the cold ground ache his knee where it hit. 

His head spun. 

Ciri was tugging at his hand but his ears were ringing. Something big and warm wrapped around him. It was slightly rough fabric, and it smelled like horse. Geralt’s cloak was sturdy enough to block the wind and the hood over Jaskier’s head warmed his ears. 

Jaskier’s eyes were open but he wasn’t seeing anything. He could feel, though. There were arms around him, warm, big arms, cradling him as easily as if he were a sack of flour. He recognized the feeling, too, from more than a decade ago, when blood had welled from his throat and Geralt had held him. Jaskier felt the lift as Geralt mounted Roach, settling  his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“We’ll stay in an inn in Ard Carriagh,” Geralt was saying. Jaskier didn’t care. He was too tired to care even that he was being a burden, because his eyes slid shut and Geralt was holding him as though he were something precious.

As if Jaskier were something to be cared for.

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

Jaskier woke up in an inn room. Alone. 

His heart raced, tears welling in his eyes. He’d been a burden. He couldn’t keep up and they’d left him in some inn and moved on. The blankets were suffocating and he kicked them away, getting tangled in them. He could hardly see for the tears in his eyes. They’d left him. He hadn’t been good enough, not fast enough or strong enough and they’d gone. Even Ciri.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt was standing in the doorway. 

“Uh, Geralt, hi, wasn’t expecting you here.” It was the truth.

“...I heard your heartbeat.” 

Of course, his heart had been beating out of his chest, it was only now calming down.

“Oh, well,” Jaskier said, trying to play it off. “Woke up in this room and I didn’t recognize where I was.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. “You passed out.”

Jaskier hung his head and fought tears again, feeling hot shame seep down his neck. He’d failed. He’d really failed. All that work to not be a burden and it was all down the drain. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at his hands. I’ll do better, he thought. I can do better please don’t leave me behind. Please don’t take me off your hands.

He didn’t say it. It was battered and broken and worth very, very little, but he still had some pride.

“You’ve been eating little,” Geralt said. There was an undertone there, a soft undercurrent of something else. Jaskier didn’t know what it meant but he wanted to sink into it and wrap it around himself.

“I just haven’t been hungry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I would faint, I just truly wasn’t hungry.”

Geralt shrugged awkwardly. “We would have stopped here anyway, Ciri needs it.” 

“Is she alright? You’re not disguised, is that safe?”

Geralt shook his head. “I am disguised, you can just see through it.” Geralt shook his head again, a little more dramatically, and just for a second it was as if the magic needed time to catch up, and his hair and eyes were dark, a full beard covering his face.

“Woah,” Jaskier said. 

“It tired Yen out,” Geralt grunted. “So don’t annoy her.”

Right. With the almost easy companionship and tentative worry Jaskier had almost forgotten. He was just an annoyance.

Jaskier stood, fighting his spinning head. “Right,” he said, glancing out the window at the water light. “Morning, and I have things to do, so...” He picked up his lute in her case and...

And they were in Ard Carriagh. Where Jaskier needed to sell her. 

“I might just tune up this lovely lady,” he said, sinking back onto the bed and cradling the case. 

“Yen is consulting on an apothecary’s question,” Geralt said. He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, like at any moment he would either sit down or leave.

“Good for her,” Jaskier said, not looking up from the lute case as he flicked open it’s latches, savoring the familiar click. 

“Ciri is with her.”

“That’s good, she’s safe then.” Jaskier dragged his fingers over a scratch on the wood, it was thin and long, but had no effect on her sound.

“So you have to stay with me.”

“Why?” Jaskier let his index finger curl over the lovely inlay work on her front. In his opinion, it was unmatched, but what did he know of wood working?

“To be safe,” Geralt said, still in his odd posture.

“I can take care of myself.” Jaskier, looking down at his lute, felt, rather than saw the skeptical eyebrow raise. “I’ll just eat something and be right as rain, promise.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Fine.”

Jaskier strummed one sweet chord and closed the case. No need to torture himself further. He stood and adjusted his clothes. He’d slept in them, but there was nothing nicer for him to wear. Then, he proceeded down to the taproom on the first floor of the inn. Geralt followed like a shadow. A very tall, broody shadow.

They ate in silence.

The taproom was well packed, but early enough that no one was rowdy. Between the spaces of their unhappy silence, Jaskier could hear the inkeeper complaining about the maid going off to get married and leaving him shorthanded.

It was a while since Jaskier had been to Ard Carriagh, but he had a good memory, and walked quickly through the winding streets to the luthier. His breakfast wasn’t sitting well, it was too much and too little all at once and he felt sick, but he said nothing. Any bard was an actor and Jaskier was the best. He was fine. The luthier’s shop was between a ladies clothing store and a jewelry store, tucked in and not as well kept as the shops on either side.

There was a bell above the door and it jangled as Jaskier stepped in, Geralt just behind. 

“Lute strings,” Geralt said, looking around. “Can you afford that.”

“No,” Jaskier said simply. “I’m selling my lute.”

The words burned like acid. The pit of his stomach rolled like he’d swallowed one of Geralt’s disgusting potions, but he knew his face was totally impassive.

Geralt’s however, twisted. It looked like panic, anger, and pain all at once. It looked like Jaskier felt. He almost looked to check that Geralt hadn’t dropped something heavy on his foot to make that face.

“Ooh, you wish to sell,” said the shopkeeper, next to a display of gitara picks. “The case looks very good but let’s see...”

He reached forward. His hands were pale and sweaty, fingers grabbing and outstretched and Jaskier wanted to step back, yearned to clutch his lute case to his chest rather than relinquish his beautiful girl to this man. 

He set the case on top of a glass display case instead. The clasps clicked under his unwilling fingers. The lid creaked.

“Oh, what a lute,” the shopkeeper said. He stroked the strings and Jaskier noticed his dirty fingernails. “rather mediocre condition, though...”

Jaskier wanted to audibly scoff. His lute was in mint condition, apart from the single scratch, and he knew it.

Geralt snapped the lid of the case shut, nearly catching the shop owner’s fingers. “He won’t sell it.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t buy it,” the owner protested. “Beautiful lute. Elven made?”

Jaskier nodded grudgingly. It wasn’t fair, but he didn’t like this man.

The shopkeeper hummed. “I thought so, I would probably have the frontal piece,” he opened the case again and traced the wood with the inlay. “Removed. For use on a different lute.”

Chop her up?

Geralt shut the lid again, more carefully this time, but somehow the slower closing felt angrier, rather than calmer. 

“He’s not selling. We’re leaving.”

He lifted Jaskier nearly off the ground, taking the case in one arm and gripping the bard by the back of his collar with the other hand. Jaskier spluttered as he was frog marched out of the shop.

“I was going to sell it!” He protested, back out in the watery sunlight. He clutched at his lute case, though, as Geralt pressed it back into his arms.

Geralt’s jaw was tense and his lips were thin. 

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You aren’t selling your lute.”

Jaskier felt guilty and relieved all at once. Here was Geralt  saying he didn’t have to sell his lute. He was free of that burden, but they also needed to purchase a cart and supplies. He himself needed a cloak, boots, and gloves. Probably a hat and scarf as well. The pair ambled, unhappily silent yet again, to the center of town. Jaskier glanced at the notice board. 

“Ghoul problem,” he noted.

“No.”

“You need a contract, they have a harpy issue too, looks like. Two contracts, Geralt.”

“You have to stay with me--”

“And you won’t take me into danger, blah blah,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. He knew he was being a pest, but two contracts would likely solve their money problem. Hopefully. Not for sure.

“You should go back to the inn,” Geralt said. “I would do the contracts, they’re quick, then get you.”

An idea glimmered in Jaskier’s mind. He yawned. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds good, I’m pretty tired still.” It wasn’t a lie because Geralt could basically smell those. Going back to the inn did sound good, and Jaskier was definitely still tired.

Geralt huffed, and they walked back to the inn. It was too late for breakfast and early for lunch, so the little taproom was basically deserted. Geralt hummed again, pressed one hand onto Jaskier’s shoulder as if trying to stick him to the floor, then left.

Jaskier walked up to the inkeeper. 

“Hi there,” he tried. He was too tired to really flirt, but the inkeeper put down his barcloth at least.

“What?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re a little short handed at the moment...” he let the sentence linger. 

The inkeeper scoffed. He was a big, red faced man with red hair to match, and when he scoffed his whole torso moved with it. “You want to do a little work for some coin, then,” he said. He didn’t sound opposed to the idea, though, so Jaskier beamed at him.

“Absolutely sir, I’m a very helpful--”

“I’ll not have you around food,” the man cut in. “That man brought you in half dead and you still look pale. Bad business getting customers sick.”

Oh. Jaskier deflated. 

“Got a water barrel needs filling though, so’s long as you don’t cough in the water. Privies need cleaning too.”

They haggled a little over the pay, but Jaskier was a world class haggler. Finally the man slapped his hands on the bar top. “Fine,” he said. “And a meal for you thrown in if you get the privies really clean. One for the little lass too.”

“She eats a lot,” Jaskier warned. He felt it was only fair, considering he would be paid decently for his work. To his surprise the man grinned. 

“My youngest does too, eats like a lion and she’s only nine. I’ll have as many helpings as your daughter wants, no problem.”

Jaskier thanked him profusely and the inkeeper waved his hand. “Just consider playing something tonight at supper, brings in customers. And get that privy really clean, mind.”

Jaskier, figuring he wouldn’t find a better deal that day, hightailed it out of there to look at the water barrell.

It was a big barrel. It would need between thirty and fourty buckets of water to fill it, and it was empty right down to the bottom. The well was at the center of town, like wells tended to be, and the inn wasn’t close, but there was a pump in the inn’s yard.. Jaskier sighed, rolled his aching shoulders, rocked slightly on his aching feet, and began to pump.

One bucket at a time, Jaskier filled the water barrell in just under two hours, feeling blisters form on his hands from all the pumping. Then he filled two more buckets and went to the privies. 

Yuck.

He sloshed one bucket each into the men’s and women’s privies and went back to the inn to ask for some soap and a scrub brush. Then the real work began. Scrubbing the wooden walls and floors of the fetid outhouses was backbreaking, and of course he had to pause every time a patron wanted to use them, but the grime came off the wood eventually and Jaskier was willing to work hard sometimes. He wasn’t being a burden.

An unintended benefit of the work was that Jaskier’s mind was temporarily taken off of how miserable he felt. HIs chest still rattled a little, and he was tired beyond belief, but maybe all he’d needed was a full meal after all.

It was late afternoon when he fetched the inkeeper to inspect the privies, and the man nodded in approval at them. Then he gave Jaskier one last task.

“Fill that tin tub by the door with water and put it over the fire there,” he said, pointing to one of the two large fires the inn’s kitchen had. “Then haul it upstairs and bathe because you smell like a privy yourself.”

Jaskier grinned tiredly and took the offered coin before doing just that, wincing as his aching muscles protested. When the water was warm but not boiling he took the small tub upstairs to his room and washed what he could. It wasn’t a big enough tub to properly bathe in, but with soap and a rag he managed to at least get clean.

He tipped the tub out and replaced it in it’s spot then curled up in the inn bed in a change of clothes, dozing. He’d been there perhaps a quarter of an hour before Geralt tapped on the door.

Geralt looked at him. “You’re clean,” he said.

Jaskier shrugged. “Struck a deal with the innkeeper. Contracts done?” Geralt held up a bag of coin in answer. 

It was odd, he thought. It was like normal, almost. Walking along at Geralt’s side. Several times he had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting on this or that. It was so hard to remember that they weren’t friends, or at least travelling companions. Whatever they had been before the whole...dragon hunt thing. His brain argued that they were still traveling companions now, and it was true, but only in the literal sense. Geralt didn’t want him around.

It got easier to remember because Yennefer rejoined them, Ciri trotting at her heels.

“Julian,” Yennefer said, using his real, more innocuous name. “Cleaned up I see, and dressed in finery,” it was a jab, although not very sharp. His clothes were worn and badly patched. “Going to go cuckold some poor husband?” It was said lightly and Jaskier smiled. 

“How do you know I haven’t already,” he said. Yennefer laughed, but Geralt growled.

“Are you and your conquests going to get us thrown out of town?”

Jaskier startled, skittering a few steps away in shock at the low, angry tone. “I was only kidding,” he protested, but he cursed his stupid mouth, always running ahead of his brain. Just like that, it seemed, the brief truce had broken, and he was back to being a shit shoveler once more.

Ciri slipped her mitten into Jaskier’s hand. “Yennefer says I need a hat,” she said. 

“I need one too,” Jaskier confided. “Why don’t you and I go get hats and scarves while those two grab other supplies.”

“You aren’t going off on your own,” Geralt growled and Jaskier wanted to flinch, but then Ciri would notice.

“I’d be only a street away,” Jaskier said. “I’ll look after her.”

“Can’t even look after yourself,” Geralt snapped. Jaskier did flinch that time, just a little bit. It was true, though. He was kind of worthless, especially if there was a fight.

“We’ll all go,” Yennefer said, glaring pointedly at Geralt. Jaskier wondered what that was about.

They all went. Jaskier paid for his new cloak, hat, and gloves, and ignored Geralt asking where he got the money.

“Did you steal it?” Gerals said, quietly, so Ciri wouldn’t hear. Jaskier sniffed.

“I’m not a thief.” 

Geralt dropped it, but his expression was stormy. 

They bought a small cart, light enough for Roach to pull by herself, and some more supplies. Yennefer even bought Jaskier new boots.

“Just giving advice on apothecarial matters is worth a hefty fee,” she explained. “I have plenty of coin.” Pleasantly surprised, Jaskier thanked her. When he tried the boots on in the shop he made a show of how much he liked them, going over the top until he heard Ciri giggle. Mission accomplished, because he made Yen smile too. 

Geralt didn’t smile.

Back at the inn Jaskier ate a big dinner, even as his stomach rolled, and delighted in seeing Ciri do the same. They were all well fed, but seeing Ciri’s delight in getting a second helping was worth any amount of blisters, or privies. 

He played after dinner, although he barely felt up to doing so, and of course was careful to avoid all mentions of the white wolf. He winked at a few patrons and even the inkeeper just out of habit. Then he ended his set early.

“Any reviews?” he asked his table, cheekily. “Three words or less?”

“Tolerable,” Yen said, smiling widely. She looked younger when she did that.

“Great,” Ciri chimed in. 

“Should’ve sold it,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier felt ice slip down his spine.

“What?”

“Should’ve sold the lute,” Geralt growled, lowly. 

Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the strap his lute hung from, feeling hurt well up like spring water.

“No,” Yen snapped. “You two go outside and sort that out, I’m not dealing with it. Ciri and I will finish our dinner while you idiots figure this out between yourselves.”

Jaskier obeyed, feeling the heat of shame and hurt in his face and longing for some fresh air. Geralt lumbered out behind him. 

The night was cold and felt icy against Jaskier’s burning face but he turned to Geralt fuming.

“What the hell,” he said. “You tell me not to sell the lute, then you make me sit at the inn all day like a child, then you tell me I should have sold it after all? Do you hate me that much or do you just like seeing me do things wrong?”

“Better you sell the lute than whore yourself,” Geralt growled. 

That was so far from what Jaskier was expecting that he actually stepped back. “What?”

“Struck a deal with the innkeeper? All that coin? And you move like your knees are bruised,” Geralt said, jaw moving tightly. 

“I didn’t have sex with the inkeeper!” Jaskier said, half amused. “I didn’t have sex with anyone. I thought we needed the money, so I cleaned the privies, that’s why my knees are stiff. My hands are sore too!”

Geralt took one hand and turned it over to see the red, irritated skin. 

“You--?”

“No,” Jaskier interrupted. “I don’t care what you have to say.” Even though he did, he cared so much. “First of all, don’t pretend that there is anything wrong with prostitution, we both know you visit those ladies from time to time. Second, even if I was having sex with someone, for money or not, it isn’t any of your business, and third, nothing about your assumptions gives you any right to be so...so rude!”

Jaskier was ashamed to feel tears leaking from his eyes but right now he was angry, so angry and hurt, so he just kept going. 

“I am sorry,” he said, softly. “That life couldn’t give you the blessing you wanted, but the least you could do is not make this worse for both of us.”

Jaskier turned on his heel and went back to his room, where he curled up and cried himself to sleep. 

He was awoken later by a tap on the door. It was Yennefer and Ciri standing in the hallway.

“She wants to be with you,” Yennefer said.

Ciri sat on the bed and looked up at Jaskier with wide eyes. Jaskier sat next to eachother.

“Dandelion,” Ciri said, using her special name for Jaskier. “Do you hate Geralt?”

Jaskier sighed and hugged her close. “Not at all,” he said, truthfully. “But it’s like I said, bards aren’t welcome forever, it’s just how it is, and I’ve overstayed my welcome a little bit.”

“No you haven’t,” Ciri said into his shoulder. “I think you’re welcome. I want you around.”

“Thank you, little highness.”

“Geralt doesn’t hate you, I’m sure of it, he was really worried about you when you fainted.”

“He worries about everyone, that’s just the way he is,” Jaskier said. Geralt had a big heart, even if those feelings came out gruffly, he was a real hero. He just couldn’t stand Jaskier so long as Jaskier was concious.

“When my grandmother was worried,” Ciri began. “She could seem sort of mean, she’d yell or snap and it was scary unless you knew that she was just scared. Maybe Geralt was scared for you.”

Jaskier wished it was so. Could almost believe it was true. Ciri didn’t know about the dragon hunt though. She didn’t know he was a shit shoveler. Didn’t know about Geralt’s unfulfilled blessing.

Jaskier curled on his side, letting Ciri bury her head into his shoulder until she fell asleep. Eventually, face solemn but eyes dry, Jaskier slept too.

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

I promise, I PROMISE Geralt isn’t trying to be an asshole. Like I said, I intend to write this from his POV as well, he’s just worried for Jaskier and thought that Jaskier had prostituted himself, despite his illness, becuase he wanted to earn them money. Geralt felt so guilty that Jaskier would do that and, well, he’s not good with emotions and can’t control his tone well, so it came out like he hates Jaskier. He just loves him very much and is very worried about him. He also thinks Jaskier hates him because he tried to sell his lute, which Geralt also sees as a tie between him and Jaskier, so it hurt his feelings.

Tag List!

@frywen-babbles @mordoriscalling @thedarkestangel1 @kerfufflezz @samukai @charlies-dragon @live-long-and-trek-on @holymotherwolf @morte-mistrata @mewithanie @sharondn @stinastar @ionlylikemycat @annafortoday 

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas20 Christmas Eve: All These Broken Things

... Is it really the end of FicMas if I haven’t posted something from All These Broken Things? I think not. The first sections can be found here and here. This is the fic where Alice travelled with James and doesn’t meet the Cullens until that baseball game. 

It's very strange finally being with the family she was always destined to be with, when she thought she had lost them so long ago.

She finds great satisfaction just watching them - Emmett yelling at the sports on the television; Edward perched at the piano, Rosalie working on her cars. She hovers, like a little ghost, folded into corners and against doorframes, vanishing the second they might acknowledge her.

Esme seems to like her company, as she goes about day-to-day things, chatting away to the silent girl with the enormous, sad black eyes, who trails after her like a stray.

She stays away from Carlisle, trying to avoid the moment he declares her to be cast out, too far gone for them to redeem.

And she stays away from Jasper, because it hurts too much. She doesn't tell Jasper what she knows, what they were meant to be to one another. The past is gone, and she has been broken into too many pieces. He watches her like a hawk, and without words, she knows he will be the one to destroy her if she steps out of line. His hands will crack her limbs apart and he will not flinch or feel any loss.

She wonders if she should tell him that if he was the to destroy her, she would not fight it. She would part in his hands like a paper doll, and hold no ill will to him for such an act.

Sometimes, she lets herself remember the old visions, the ones where they were everything to one another. Only when Edward's away, though; she doesn't like him rifling around in her head. No one deserves being forced to see some of those things.

And it hurts, a raw wound in her heart, that she was meant for something else, for happiness and peace and love, instead of what she was dealt in life. One of her greatest unanswered questions is why? What unforgivable thing did she do in her forgotten human past that earned such a punishment?

Then she remembers what she has done at James’ side for so many decades, at the faces and the screams and the suffering, and somehow she lived her crimes and her penance at the same time.

So she continues to pretend she doesn’t notice that Edward keeps Bella away from the house; that Emmett or Jasper hover in the background as she trails after Esme, as she watches Rose. That she can only go hunting when Jasper and Emmett can go along too; the ones strong enough and fast enough to restrain her.

When Edward does bring Bella back to the house at Esme’s insistence, she sits on the opposite side of the room, and listens to the conversation, keeping still and silent.

When Carlisle arrives home from work, she focuses on the magazine or book she has found, pretending to be absorbed by the glossy pictures, still and silent, to not notice as he studies her with patience she isn’t sure is genuine.

When Jasper joins Emmett for something noisy and angry on the television, their gazes occasionally sliding towards her, she is frozen in place, her gaze out the window.

She’s played this game before. Be good and quiet and still. The blow will come, eventually, but at least she can prepare herself for it, brace herself for the inevitable fall. They don’t trust her.

She doesn’t trust her, either.

Six.

They settle into a sort of routine.

She’s allowed to hunt with Esme and Rosalie now, though she’s careful to keep her distance, to trek a little further into the forest, to reassure them. She usually waits until they call her back.

She is always carefully supervised during their hunts, and finally, finally, the cracks James left across her nose and cheeks have finally faded away. They hunt too often for her, and when she forces herself to finish the animal, she vomits everywhere. She says nothing, but she feels safer a little hungry, her eyes black rather than a strange gold-orange.

Edward lets her sit beside him when he plays the piano, tells her about each of the pieces of music. He tries to teach her once, attempts to guide her hands into position, but she panics and jerks away, and he doesn’t offer again.

Emmett is nice to her. He seems to understand not to come up behind her without warning, not to touch. Sometimes she perches on the end of the couch and watches the television with him. She doesn’t stay very long, but he always gives her a big smile when she leaves, as if he’s had a wonderful time.

She doesn’t understand Emmett, but she thinks she could like him.

Rosalie can’t seem to decide whom she dislikes more – her or Bella - and she’s sure that Rose is going to get whiplash from changing her mind about both of them so many times. But Rose addresses her and is reasonably civil, mostly out of some kind of misguided caution that she is some kind of threat, and that is some kind of progress.

She and Bella have few words to say to each other. ‘Sorry I helped someone attempt to torture and exsanguinate you’ isn’t something she can work out how to say out-loud and have it sound genuine. Mostly because the truth is closer to, ‘I’m sorry you found yourself in this situation, but I don’t regret my choices. The consequences for me would have been much, much worse than you can ever comprehend. Your fragile mortality would have spared you of the worst of it. I’d make the same decision one hundred times in a row without a second thought.’

She’s certain that would upset everyone.

Bella seems rather reluctant to spent time in her presence, and she does wonder if that’s because she’s the side of the coin that isn’t beauty-wealth-love. She’s the side of suffering, of pain and of misery, murder and regret. Bella wants perfection, wants the glamour and magic of the Cullens, and none of the honest truth of being a vampire.

But it’s probably the murder attempt.

Then there are things that haven’t changed since she arrived. She’s not allowed to be alone, or to leave the house aside from hunting – even then, she has to be accompanied.

But every single day, James is still gone and she is still here. And there will never be a time when that knowledge is not sweet.

//

Her wardrobe is limited - a few old t shirts that once belonged to Esme and are too big, her worn jeans and the filthy, stained cardigan that she had when they found her. Her thin knees have long since torn through her pants, and the cardigan's sleeves are frayed and holey, but she is clean and free.

And then she is deemed in control enough to go shopping. Esme approaches her with the idea, with glossy magazines and gentle suggestions. It is an idea that has even intrigues Rosalie enough for her to join them.

They clearly still think she is a risk, though, because it is a family outing, with looks of such boredom and long-suffering on the faces of the male Cullens when it is decided, that she laughs softly behind her hand.

The building they take her to is huge and full of people. It is like a blow to the face, of blood and scent, and she visibly recoils from it at first, unsure and on edge. And they are patient, escorting her in, with encouraging words.

Eventually, though, they show her the clothes and the sight of the racks is enough to distract her from the heady scent. It is overwhelming, the colours and fabrics and styles, and she simply stares, with Emmett laughing at her stunned expression.

Esme is so kind, guiding her gently through the racks, telling her to choose anything she likes. She is careful, though, picking new jeans, a new cardigan, soft and clean and sunshine yellow. Esme helps her pick shoes out - the first pair she's had in decades. Soft brown winter boots, black sneakers, gold and black flats that make her feel like a princess. At her childlike delight with her fancy shoes, Esme buys her a black sundress with ties at the back and bows on the straps, that will bare her arms and triangles of flesh on her back.

Underwear is a strange concept. It's nothing that she has ever bothered with before. She is useless in the wake of so many choices, and let's Esme and Rosalie choose what she needs, dress her like a doll, whilst she amuses herself with how clearly uncomfortable both Jasper and Edward are in such a department.

She almost feels pretty – even desirable - in the plain cotton that make her skinny frame look almost womanly. She’s too embarrassed to even try on the satin and lace sets Rosalie has chosen. They aren’t for girls like her – girls that wear those things are more than she will ever be – prettier, sweeter, bolder. They are too much, and when she refuses, she doesn’t understand the look Rosalie and Esme exchange, Rosalie looking sly and Esme with an expression of warning.

Afterwards, they look for other things. The books hold little interest for her, as do the endless electronics. She doesn’t mean to wander off, but a demonstration by the art supplies store catches her eye, and she stands a little away from the crowd, watching the man draw. It is Esme and Jasper who find her, both looking alarmed, but she pretends she doesn’t see them, her gaze focused on the pencil that so carefully makes its way across the page.

“Alice,” Esme is at her side. “You scared us.” Her smile is bright, but her eyes worried – what would the Cullens do if she attacked in a place like this, with so many eyes? She doesn’t get to ponder that thought much longer, as Jasper’s hand closes over her shoulder and she is guided away.

For the rest of the afternoon, Jasper is her ominous shadow, as she dutifully trails after them.

She doesn't have her own room, but she doesn’t truly need one. Until now, she hasn’t had any possessions to store, and she doesn’t require the privacy a mated couple does. But, she has found she likes the attic. Full of things that need repairs or to be stored, it is a mad tea party of furniture and items.

There’s an old grey chair is missing a leg, and has an ugly stain that not even Esme could draw out that she likes. She folds herself into it, and she feels safe in that little corner, with the narrow window that overlooks the forest and spills in afternoon light. There's an old dresser up there, too, so that's where she arranges her new things, carefully folding and smoothing them into each drawer, precisely and lovingly.

Rosalie brings her some cosmetics and half a glass bottle of perfume – the bottle is shaped like an egg and etched with tiny flowers and curlicues and it is so delicate and beautiful, she is frightened to hold it. Rosalie watches as she sprays the scent into the air, the delighted look at the scent of flowers. She is nervous at Rosalie’s gesture, but grateful. Grateful enough that she allows Rosalie to cut the matted ends of her hair off into a neat, shorter style.

It makes her look more delicate, younger, maybe sweeter, she thinks as she strokes the strands in the mirror. And less like a roving maniac, at least according to the shiny-haired Rosalie, who watches her with satisfaction in her eyes.

She should be offended, but there’s this tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, Rosalie is turning her into something new. Something good and better.

Something like a sister.

//

It’s Esme’s idea to invite Bella around the evening of her birthday. Just a family gathering, with a few simple gifts. Everyone sort of agrees, and try to work out what to give the sullen girl.

She manages a portrait of Bella and Edward seated together at the piano that Esme gushes over, and has framed.

There have been some hints, from Carlisle and Edward that she will have to attend school eventually. She doesn’t understand that, but is just waiting for them all to graduate. They’ll leave when they’ve graduated and she won’t have to worry about school again.

She arranges peonies on the piano for Bella, upon Esme’s request, and is reminded of her old, fragmented vision of blood and glass. But nothing comes to her; the future is clear and her mind has decided to play tricks on her again.

Or perhaps her mind is the best part of her, the gentle warning she ignored becoming obvious as soon as Bella’s finger slips against the wrapping paper. Jasper’s eyes blacken as soon as Bella’s flesh parts and the blood beads, and suddenly he is lunging. She sees it in an instant, Bella’s crumpled body in his grip and Edward’s howls and the house of the Cullens irreversibly fallen. She sees an endless parade of James’ victims, broken and dead in Bella’s blank eyes.

She sees the horror and the guilt in Jasper’s eyes, sees the vastness of Mexico and the rise of a monster born of regret and impulse.

It is over before he even moves, decision made, and she has to stop this.

The shriek startles them all, coming from her mouth as she darts in front of him.

In another life, the flavour of her desperation and fear would be enough for him to pause, to grasp wildly at his resistance. Instead, he throws her aside, her body crashing through the front windows in a rain of wood and glass, leaving an imprint of her body in the flowerbed outside.

She picks herself up out of the flower bed as Emmett and Rosalie drag Jasper bodily from the house, Esme close behind them. Their eyes are all pitch black; a harmless paper cut did not cause this reaction.

“She cut open her arm,” is Emmett’s grim explanation as Jasper’s struggles slow, his eyes firmly on the door of the house.

“It was an accident,” Esme adds, shame in every line of her stance.

“Alice seemed to know,” Rosalie murmurs, her eyes still on Jasper.

She will never understand Rosalie, why she always needs to assign blame, to identify the victim and the antagonist. She ignores the statement, even as they all swing to look at her, as she examines her shoulder. Jasper didn’t hit her hard enough for cracks to form, but it doesn’t look like it’s properly aligned.

When she does look up again, she can see it in all their eyes – did she let this happen on purpose? Does she hold some ugly vendetta against poor, sweet Bella?

She did help James …

She’s surprised – she thought it would be Edward that came after her, later, to criticise and punish her for the limitations on her faulty gift. He still might – he hasn’t decided properly, too focused on patching up Bella.

But it’s Jasper, wrenching out of Rosalie and Emmett’s grasp, with murder in his eyes and the target on her.

He doesn’t yell, but his words are poisonous, nasty and accusing. She flinches, Esme gasps and even Emmett tries to get him to stop. Some of them, she knows, aren’t meant for her. They are frustration, humiliation and disappointment directed at himself, at his own weakness.

But when she instinctively backs away, and he grabs her wrist, and she lets out a tiny cry of fear; it is Rosalie who comes to her rescue, who snarls and yells and pries his iron grip from her.

“I don’t care how pissed you are, you don’t touch her like that.”

The words seem to echo, and Carlisle, Edward and Bella are watching from the front door.

Her apology is stammered, weak in the sudden silence, her insistence that she didn’t know sounding bewildered and feeble as she darts away, into the forest to pick glass and wood out of her hair and wonder just how many other warnings she’s missed.

//

[caught-in-a-seesaw-stigma]

Peripheral 7.5

Pairings: OT7 x reader; Taehyung x reader; Taehyung x Jimin

Series Summary:  An unfortunate accident leaves Kim Namjoon with amnesia, and Big Hit, BTS, ARMY, and the entire world is desperate to help him regain his memories and knowledge. Fortunately, a new genetics company has successfully created a system to alter our brains into human databases which can help someone regain knowledge and memories through a simple input/output exchange. Can this new invention give us back our beloved leader?

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Idol AU

Word Count: 2K+

Warnings: NSFW 18+ Cursing, oral (female receiving), teasing, groping, bisexual overtones

Word Count: 2K+

Taehyung POV

All that skin...so soft, so smooth, so pretty…

Y/N’s thighs were rubbing together slightly and her hips lifted off the mattress as she released a barely audible moan. The oversized RJ shirt covering her body shifted further and further up her thighs and Taehyung licked his lips at every inch that was revealed before him.

“Tae,” she breathed out. “Please, touch me.”

Taehyung groaned at the needy tone in her voice and palmed himself over his pajama pants. The impressive tent he was rocking was barely contained behind the thin fabric. Y/N’s seductive movements caused his dick to twitch to life with a copious amount of precum pooling on his pajama pants,

Probably should’ve worn underwear.

Y/N reached out and pulled on Taehyung’s forearm, encouraging him to get closer to the bed. As soon as his thighs made contact with the edge of the mattress, Y/N was already trying to pull him onto the bed.

“Y/N-noona,” Taehyung chastised playfully. “You should be resting.”

“Rest with me, Tae-Tae,” she pleaded sweetly. “Come on, I’ll let you be the big spoon.”

Taehyung looked around the room in search of another person, but alas, Yoongi was nowhere to be seen, even though Taehyung could swear his hyung was just in the room a moment ago. Now, it was just him and Y/N.

Big spoon, little spoon.

There was a seven second pause before Taehyung released an exhale full of excitement and climbed onto the bed, hovering over Y/N’s barely clad body. The RJ on the shirt slowly morphed into a Tata graphic, and Taehyung was incredibly pleased.

It’s not just about being cute, it’s about being unique.

“Tae,” Y/N sighed. “I need you.”

“Do you now?” Taehyung grinned. “Where do you need me, beautiful?”

Y/N’s smile increased in brightness as she reached down to remove the oversized T-shirt from her body. The golden skin that was revealed nearly blinded Taehyung as he drank in every centimeter of her glorious body. His breath caught as she lowered one hand down her stomach and straight into her dripping folds. Taehyung gulped as her fingers split into a V shape to reveal her swollen jewel hidden in the folds. It glistened enticingly in the dim lamplight of the room, and Taehyung felt his throat dry up in response.

“I need you right here, Tae-Tae,” Y/N purred. “Be a good boy and help me out, yeah? Are you my good boy?"

"Fuck yeah, you know I am," Taehyung responded gruffly. "I'm a good boy, I swear."

“Show me how good you are, Tae,” Y/N pleaded. “Show me what that silver tongue can do.”

Taehyung happily situated himself between Y/N’s legs and started licking, kissing, and nibbling his way to her flushed core. The trails of arousal he swiped away with his tongue just made his dick ache even more.

She’s fucking delicious.

Once Taehyung’s lips made contact with Y/N’s hidden jewel, she released the most incredible sound from her throat. It was airy and light and full of passion and sweetness. Taehyung wanted to record it and play it on repeat so he could always have it bouncing around his ear drums. Every erotic moan she released just increased his desire to have more of her in his mouth, in his ears, in his world.

He dragged his tongue across every millimeter of her sex, not allowing a single drop to go to waste. The more he licked and slurped, the wetter she became, and the flavor of musky fruit pirouetted along his taste buds delightfully. Y/N’s essence rivaled the most exotic fruits and Taehyung was lost in the extravagant taste on his palate.

How can one person be this unbelievably sweet?

“Tae,” Y/N groaned. “Kiss me.”

Taehyung placed one last lingering kiss on her glistening lips before traveling to the ones above. He slotted himself between her legs and allowed his girthy erection to nestle on top of her throbbing sex. She hissed out of sensitivity, but the fabric was so soft that it wasn’t causing any discomfort. With measured precision, Taehyung dipped his lips to capture Y/N’s and he began languidly teasing her with small kisses and playful tongue flicks.

Y/N’s hand slid between their bodies to grasp Taehyung’s warm length over his pajama pants and he groaned as soon as she applied any pressure to his turgid length. Her delicate hands stroked him up and down while he continued drawing small whines and moans from Y/N’s mouth. The numerous rings on her hand confused him at first because he didn’t remember her wearing much jewelry, but he quickly dismissed the thought when Y/N sucked especially hard on his bottom lip. He moaned out in response and pushed his cock harder into her ring clad grip.

“Tae,” Y/N gasped as his lips traveled across her jaw and to her neck. “Ah, Tae.”

“That’s right, beautiful,” Taehyung whispered. “Say my name.”

She continued to chant his name in a hushed, breathy voice and her hand tightened around his shaft, causing him to groan and buck forward against her upper thigh. Taehyung nipped at her earlobe and made his way back to her lips, which were fuller than he remembered. In fact, they seemed to have doubled in size in the last few minutes. He sucked on the bottom one, puzzled by its plush texture.

What’s going on? Am I imagining things?

Y/N’s other hand traveled into his hair and pulled gently on the golden locks, desperate to recapture his attention.

“Tae,” Y/N whined cutely. “Why aren’t you touching me?”

Taehyung chuckled at the pout evident in her tone and he lowered one of his hands to palm her plump ass. It was unbelievably firm and warm in his palm and he used his leverage to rut against her even more, drawing more breathy moans out of her with every shallow thrust. As a matter of fact, her ass felt firmer than he thought it would.

Weird, but nice. She’s got a dancer’s ass.

“Tae,” Y/N squeaked out. “Tae, Tae,”

“What is it, beautiful?” Taehyung grunted as his pushed himself against her bare sex. “Do you want me to put it in? Tell me you want my thick cock inside of you. Say the word and it’s all yours.”

“No, Tae,” Y/N’s voice deepened slightly. “I want you to wake up.”

Did she just say she wanted me to wake up?

“Wake up, Tae,” Y/N persisted while stroking him. “Wake up.”

Taehyung wrinkled his forehead in confusion and took a moment to clear his lust-crazed mind. Her voice didn’t sound the same. It was almost like she sounded like someone else, someone he knew very well.

It couldn’t be his voice. That’s impossible.

As he pulled his face up from Y/N’s neck, he was pleased at the bright pink blossom he’d left behind, but that elation was short lived as he looked down and realized Y/N was no longer beneath him.

“Taehyungie,” Jimin smirked up at him. “Wake up.”

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

Abruptly, Taehyung lifted his head and realized that he was still on the couch in the living room. He glanced at the lap he was in and repressed the urge to yelp. He looked up and realized that Jimin was giving him the strangest look and he gulped nervously before pulling himself into a sitting position, grabbing a pillow to cover the erection begging to be released from the confines of his pajama pants. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before he met Jimin’s curious eyes. As soon as he did, he immediately hoped that he hadn’t done anything to Jimin to hint at what his dreams consisted of.

“Are you ok, Taehyungie?” Jimin asked sweetly, while scooting closer to him. “You looked like you were having a nightmare. You kept moaning and moving against the couch. Was something chasing you?”

After releasing a nervous giggle, Taehyung shook his head and breathed out a sigh of relief. Jimin lifted a hand to rub at Taehyung’s shoulder, trying to ease the tension he could see tormenting his soulmate. Fortunately, Jimin didn’t seem to have a clue about what just occurred in Taehyung’s dream, so it appeared as though he was in the clear.

“I’m ok, Jiminie,” Taehyung assured his soulmate. “Just a weird dream, that’s all.”

Still though...what the hell was that all about?

Footsteps were heard coming from the hallway, and Yoongi appeared at the threshold looking less pissed than before. His facial expression gave off a serious vibe, but his eyes were sparkling with contentment.

Oh man, something happened between him and Y/N, I just know it.

“Hey, guys,” Yoongi greeted them with a sigh. “I’m sorry about my harsh words earlier, but I was really worried that we’d harmed our guest and it really upset me. I apologize if I hurt any of your feelings, but I didn’t want Y/N to have a bad impression of us. She’s only been here a few days, and we haven’t been taking care of her properly.”

Everyone offered up an apology at once and Taehyung almost missed Jimin’s hand slipping down and under the pillow on his lap. Delicate ringed fingers slid over the hardened outline of his erection over his pajama pants and Taehyung resisted the urge to yelp. His head snapped over to look at Jimin, but Taehyung found the cherubim's eyes locked onto Yoongi.

What the fuck are you doing, Jimin?

Yoongi lifted his hands and quieted everyone down and then leaned against the kitchen counter to look at them.

“Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook piped up. “Is Noona ok?”

“Yes, Jungkookie,” Yoongi smiled softly. “She’s awake and she’s ok. She used some machine to run some tests on herself, but we have to wait for the results. Whatever fever she had earlier is gone now, but she’s feeling a little weak. She will probably be in bed all day.”

“Can we go in and talk to her now, Yoongi-hyung?” Hoseok asked. “Would she be ok with that?”

“I told her that you needed to talk to her and she’s waiting for you now,” Yoongi replied. “Visiting hours are open, but please, only go in a few at a time. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

“Hobi-hyung and I will go first,” Jungkook spoke up. “We want to tell her about the weird stuff that’s been happening.”  

Taehyung was about to speak up, but Jimin’s hand retreated from his lap and he was momentarily distracted.

“You guys go ahead,” Jimin suggested. “Taehyungie and I will go in and see her after you’re done. If we all take turns, she won’t have to be alone unless she wants to.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Yoongi agreed. “Where’s Jin? Still sulking?”

“I sent him to his room,” Hoseok explained. “I told him he’s grounded until we find out more information from Bang PD-nim.”

“Ok,” Yoongi nodded. “I’m going to go shower and change while you two visit. It’s been a long morning and I’m exhausted. Tell Y/N that I’ll be back to bring her something to eat after I’m done.”

With that, Yoongi turned around and made a beeline for his room and Hoseok and Jungkook followed him into the hallway, heading to the end of the hall to Y/N’s room.

Left alone, Taehyung readjusted himself on the couch as Jimin turned sideways and stared at him with a neutral expression on his face. The living room was eerily quiet and Taehyung zoned out listening to the sound of the air conditioning kicking on once again.

“So,” Jimin’s voice broke through the tension in the room. “Do you want to tell me why you were dry humping the couch while nuzzling my dick earlier, Taehyungie?”

Taehyung inhaled too quickly at Jimin’s sudden question and ended up coughing uncontrollably. When he was finally able to speak, he met Jimin’s fiery gaze and gasped at the seductive grin blooming on his face.

Fuck...

Author’s Note: I finally got back to this story again. I’m hitting a stride with the plot and I am going to start working on the next big chapter since I already have most of it outlined. Things are getting a little sticky in the VMin corner, and I think the dynamics of their relationship are finally evening out. Should make the next couple of chapters very interesting. Thank you to @xxxille-girlxxx​, my gorgeous Goguma, for Beta reading this for me. Borahae, soulmate!

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PERIPHERAL MASTERLIST

Caught-in-a-seesaw-stigma’s MASTERLIST

[menswearmusings]

My Spier & Mackay Custom Shirt Guide

If you’re looking into having a custom shirt made through Spier & Mackay, I recommend them. Of the online custom shirt makers I’ve tried, they have my favorite pattern. Something about the way they cut the armholes and chest is magic—fitted but not constricting.

The process is pretty straightforward, but it can nonetheless be daunting because the pressure to get it perfect on the first go is high. I’ve ordered a few shirts at this point, and have some tips for getting the best results.

Fit considerations

Measuring

I prefer to measure shirts I like the fit of and combine those measurements into the ideal amalgamation of them all. That gives maximum control over the resulting fit pattern. Below are some tips to make sure you get it right.

Pay attention to their specific instructions for how to measure by watching the embedded YouTube videos for how to do it. In particular:

Neck measurement is measured from the button to the middle of the buttonhole, not the far end of the buttonhole (like some other shirt makers).

Cuff is measured end to end, not button to buttonhole (this is huge; don’t mess this up).

The sleeve measurement is straightforward, but many people have a misconception about how long a shirt sleeve should be. A sleeve should hang about an inch past your wrist when the cuff’s unbuttoned (and your cuff should be cut slim enough that when it’s buttoned, your hand stops the cuff from slipping down). Watch the video of how to measure your body for a shirt and that illustrates where it should go. When you’re inputting your own shirt measurements, adjust accordingly.

The armhole measurement is tricky to figure out. You measure a shirt by laying it flat but that makes the armhole curve a little. The instructions say to measure straight, though. So here’s how to think of what you’re doing to alleviate confusion: Measure the full length of the seam. You can either do that by leaving it curved and measuring around the curve, or pulling it straight and measuring it straight.

Speaking of armhole, my suggestion is to go for a relatively small armhole and relatively loose bicep. My first shirt had a high armhole and slim bicep and it feels constricting. My second shirt had a slightly more relaxed armhole and slim bicep, and it still felt a little constricting. I locked it in at a small armhole, with looser bicep, and it’s awesome. Great range of motion, comfortable, and wearable.

Elbows and forearms. I hate feeling like my shirt might tear at the elbow. But if you have a fairly fitted cuff and relatively fitted bicep (compared with the way many shirts are super loosely cut), that can happen. So I specified the elbow measurement in the comments of the shirt order. That measurement is simply measuring the sleeve from the end of the cuff to the shoulder seam, and right in the middle is where to measure the elbow. Measure it straight across the sleeve.

If you also want to specify the forearm, which might be unnecessary (I did it but if you specify the elbow it’ll probably work itself out), you measure 6 inches up from the cuff seam (where it attaches to the sleeve) and take the measurement straight across. Measure straight across the sleeve.

Do you have to allow for fabric shrinkage?

My experience has been that the shirts are cut accurately, and shrinkage has been minimal. I asked Rick, the owner of Spier & Mackay, and he confirmed that they cut with normal shrinkage allowance in mind, so you don’t have to game the system to get the result you want (which mirrors my experience so far). A few years ago, a couple fabrics they offered had major shrinkage, which got lots of chatter on Styleforum, but he tells me those fabrics were discontinued 2 years ago and it’s been a non-issue ever since.

What if the shirt comes out wrong? What’s the cost for a remake?

Remakes for fit problems that are your own making—say you don’t carefully read the instructions for cuff width (edge-to-edge, not button-to-buttonhole!) and they’re super tight—are half price. To initiate that process, just email their customer service at service@spierandmackay.com to get the ball rolling. However, like any good company, if the shirt is cut wrong—say you specified a measurement and it comes out way off by more than a normal tolerance—they’ll make it right on their dime.

Design considerations

Collar choices are personal and many design choices are personal, too. But below are some of my preferences based on my own style and recommendations for design combinations based on what I’ve seen good designers do.

Button-downs

The button-down collars from Spier are rockin’. The classic one (C3-K) is really great for almost everyone. The Italian version they sometimes use off the rack for special makes (C22), like the washed denim shirts, is 10% extra cool and a little bigger, but not so noticeably bigger as to call more attention to itself. For those who want maximum collar drama, there’s the biggest Italian button-down (C23), which I plan to test eventually.

Design pairings with button-down collars

Pair button-down collars with the rounded single button cuff and normal placket. On the back, go for a center box pleat if you’re a traditionalist, but side pleats give it a modern twist that breathes a bit of life into the OCBD. Pocket or no is your choice. If it’s striped, specify “one piece yoke” in the comments.

Spread collars

I personally go for either large cutaways (which I like when worn without a tie the best), or large spread collars. So for me that’s the C21 and C19 collars. Big, tall collar band and big, long collar points, which tuck under a jacket nicely and stand tall. However, for someone with a smaller frame and/or shorter neck, the standard version of these collars would also work well (C13, C16, C17).

Design pairings with spread and cutaway collars

Pair these with either the rounded single button cuff or a mitered cuff (mitered is more business-y if that’s what you’re going for). For the placket, a French turn placket is the more business friendly approach; go standard placket for more casual fabrics like chambray or oxford cloth. And on the back, either side pleats or no pleats. I do no pocket, typically. One designer who makes a great shirt that dresses up or down excellently is Sid Mashburn who makes his with spread collars, a standard placket, rounded cuffs, side pleats and a front pocket in all types of fabrics, and it looks great in every situation.

Collar linings (and cuffs and placket, too)

Unusual for many custom shirt makers is the ability to specify collar, placket and cuff linings. Most of Spier’s shirts have a fused interlining of some sort by default but you can specify in the comments box during the checkout process for them to use something different. Here’s the down-low:

There are four levels of collar interlinings ranging from lightest to stiffest. The linings can be either simply sewn in, or fused into the collar, and you can even have them use two layers if you want.

From lightest to stiffest, the identifiers are soft, medium, medium-firm, and firm. My preferences are for the lighter linings, which allow the collar to roll and have some shape to them (which is an Italian affectation; you may prefer the collar to stay starched in place). Here is how I have done shirts so far, and I like it. I may experiment in the future but for now this has given me good results:

For shirts in more casual fabrics like oxford cloth or cotton-linen or madras, I go for a single layer medium sewn interlining. It gives the collar just enough body to shape nicely, but doesn’t weigh it down. Inside button-down collars, it gives the collar a perfect amount of body to roll beautifully, but is thin enough the collar still has some of the charming unlined look. This feels about like how a Drake’s Oxford collar feels to me.

For shirts in business-y fabrics like broadcloth or pinpoint oxford, I go for the single layer medium fused interlining. The fusing makes the collar smoother in appearance, so it’s a bit more professional. It still stands up well under a jacket without a tie on, too. This feels about like how my Eidos dress shirt collars feel to me.

Just remember to specify in the comments box no only the collar lining, but for clarity, also specify that you also want the same in the cuffs and placket if your shirt is being made with a placket. (They might do this automatically but I’m not sure so it’s safer just to put it in writing.)

Basically unlimited options

You can ask them to do almost anything in the comments section. I haven’t gone too far down the rabbit hole with minute changes, but I have specified changes to the base collar pattern. Specifically, I’ve asked them to increase the front collar band height, and requested the collar be cut with no tie space. They accommodated both requests on my orders. (In case you’re wondering, I did that on the C21 collar, which modified it to be identical to my favorite Eidos shirt collar, the “Marcus”).

You can even send in a shirt you love and simply have them copy it, too. I haven’t done that, but if you want to give it a try, email info@spierandmackay.com and they’ll tell you how to proceed.

So that’s it. Those are my tips for ordering a custom shirt from Spier & Mackay. While the program’s UI/UX on the website leaves a lot to be desired, and I still wish they’d allow you to order fabric swatches, the results and quality of the end product are excellent; and the price is outstanding.

Is there anything else you’d like to see covered in this article? Let me know in the comments below!

(Help support this site! If you buy stuff through my links, your clicks and purchases earn me a commission from many of the retailers I feature, and it helps me sustain this site—as well as my menswear habit ;-)  Thanks!)

If you’re just getting into tailored menswear and want a single helpful guide to building a trend-proof wardrobe, buy my eBook. It’s only $5 and covers wardrobe essentials for any guy who wants to look cool, feel cool and make a good impression. Formatted for your phone or computer/iPad so it’s not annoying to read, and it’s full of pretty pictures, not just boring prose. Buy it here.

Read more at Menswear Musings

[tepre]

Prompt: they're just fooling around, so where did that "I love you" come from and WHAT DID IT MEAN?????

*clickbait voice* you’ll never guess what SHE MADE OF THAT

ok so here’s your classic “9 times Draco said ‘I love you’ and 1 time he didn’t” because CLASSICS ARE CLASSICS FOR A REASON, RIGHT?!?! Also: Rated M! Warnings: blood, ghouly stuff, general October spoopiness 🎃👻 

~*~

The first time he said it was sixteen hours into the undercover mission.

The one he didn’t want to be on. Not with Harry, not in this muggle ditch of a town, not on the wettest days of the season, and certainly not while all of it felt an awful lot like they were being punished for the drama with the last case—even though Robards insisted it was nothing like that.

So when he first said it was purely to annoy, purely to needle at a stoic and still-pissed-off Harry. To make things harder than they already were, than it was necessary for them to be. When he first said it it was when they’d run into a small pub to escape the rain, when they’d sat down to eat while they were there, and the way he said it was like this:

“I do love you, Midge, but we’re absolutely not having venison for lunch.” He said it more to the waiter than Harry, then added, “Make that a clear broth and a side of bread, thank you, yes. No, no, certainly not beer, we’re not farm hands, thank you. And you can take the menu, we shan’t be ordering further, thank you.”

The waiter stumbled over the words yes and very well as he took the menu from Draco. Harry sat with his jaw clenched tight and a hot flush up his jaw. He stared at the table cloth, and Draco guessed he was counting himself down, which felt like an achievement but also like not nearly enough.

“Oh, cheer up, Midge, would you,” he said, stretched out a leg and let his ankle brush Harry’s, smiled around the room—as though surveying for nothing in particular.

“Jim,” was Harry’s correction, flat, tense. “And you’re overdoing it.”

Draco waved merrily at the couple sitting several tables over: the Gladwells from the B&B, whose room was two doors down from Draco and Harry’s and who’d spent the previous night trashing the place, foaming at the mouth, possessed by a band of wayward ghouls.

“Nonsense,” Draco said, still twisted in his seat, and the Gladwells hesitantly waved back.

*

The second time he said it was two days into the mission. It was after a long night where the Gladwells had left and the Berendsons had arrived and had been promptly used as vessels for a low-level demon trying to enter into the human realm.

Draco found Harry in the kitchen with the owner,  asking questions in a way that was supposed to be subtle and curious but was nothing of the sort: Harry was stiff and steely-eyed and brooding, firing off inquiries at an increasing speed.

“Midge, my dear,” is what Draco said, coming up behind Harry, a soft hand at the dip of his waist. “Why are you bothering our host? Hasn’t she been lovely to you?”

“Oh,” started Mrs Till, a breathy giggle. “Surely, Jim didn’t mean it like—!”

“I’m awfully bored,” Draco told Harry, feeling him tense under the shift of his fingers, light on the fabric of Harry’s shirt. “Come, my Jim, come take me on a walk.”

Harry gave him a short look, lip curled like he wanted to growl, and Draco let his grin turn soppy, added a sweet, “Do love you, though,” and tugged a seething Harry back into the dining room.

They spent that evening having a hushed fight under three different silencing spells, Harry furiously insisting Draco was wasting time and Draco telling Harry in no short terms that he was single-handedly ruining the investigation and then all the tenants on the second floor had turned into mice and the conversation was promptly put on hold.

*

Third time Draco said it was a week into the investigation and less to annoy and more for show and perhaps also to do with the three odd glasses of wine he’d chased through over dinner. They were still sitting at the table, they and the other guests and Mr and Mrs Till, too, and someone was telling a story and Draco was woozy and had a distracted hand in Harry’s hair. Harry was peeling an apple for himself, no longer tense under Draco’s touch, oddly loose and slow. He sliced off a wedge of apple, gave it to Draco, and Draco accepted it and leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. As real lovers might, as lovers who slept in the same bed and not on transfigured heaps of pillows on the floor, who looked at one another, held one another, who put their lips on one another, who—

“I do love you, dear,” Draco told him, a whisper, still to the hollow of Harry’s cheek.

Harry turned, a minute movement, his short breath tart and sweet and his eyes cast down to Draco’s mouth. In the middle the hubbub of the long dinner table they shared a kiss: a soft one, a clinging peck, Draco’s hand still in Harry’s hair. It sent his heart beating fast, a drumming below the surface of his skin.

“Yeah,” Harry said, voice rough. And, “You’re really selling this.”

Draco wanted to say something more in reply, to say something like, I haven’t even started, to drag Harry’s mouth back to his, to lean into him, to feel him, but then a small circle of hell opened at the centre of the table and all the guests went black-eyed and blood started dripping from the walls and so there were other matters to attend to.

*

The fourth time was a week and a half in and they’d just saved the Rothbergs’ baby from being stolen by a half-goat creature and they were frantically making out in the hay barn, right by the patch of ashes that once was the goat man. Harry held him like Draco, too, ran the risk of melting into the underworld at any second: one hand under Draco’s shirt, one clamped at his thigh, hauling him half off the ground, half against the wall. He would not lean out of the kiss, kept it close and wet and their breaths were damp between them. It left Draco dizzy and breathless and blushing, even though it felt as though this was no time to be blushing: surely the blushing would’ve stopped at the first heavy glance, the first touch of lips? But blush he did, running hot and hotter still when Harry grumbled,

“Good job on the goat man,” into the soft spot under his jaw.

Draco made a sound, a horribly humiliating sound, and answered with a broken, “Not bad yourself,” then added a throaty, “Oh god,” when Harry pressed closer, the bulk of him a heavy anchor, a safe one. A dear one. “I love you,” he said, stupidly, and Harry said,

“What?”

And Draco said, “I’d love to,” all in a panic, and, “I’d love to do this with a, a bed involved.”

And Harry breathed into the crook of Draco’s neck, like he was smelling him, taking him in. It made Draco shiver. “Let’s,” Harry said. “Let’s go involve a bed.”

“Yes,” Draco said, rubbing his chin to the mess of Harry’s hair. “Let’s.”

*

The fifth time was later that night, with Harry asleep against him and under him and under the blur of sheets and there was just so much skin, so much skin, all of it warm and scarred and freckled and Draco was horrified, absolutely horrified.

“I love you,” he whispered into the dark, aghast. “Good lord, I do.”

Harry exhaled a deep breath in his sleep. His toes curled and uncurled against Draco’s calf, again and again.

“Oh lord,” Draco said, and put a soft hand to his mouth, fingers to his swollen lips. “Oh no.”

*

The sixth time was two weeks in, after they’d taken a walk down the cliffy path to find a safe communication spot to tell Robards that it most probably, certainly, most probably certainly the Tills’ teenage son who’d probably, accidentally, in a fit of rage, opened a few odd doors to hell in down the B&B storage basement.

Robards said, Oh okay then, and asked if they needed backup. Draco said yes as Harry said no and they’d squabbled over the loud sea winds until the wand-o-gram connection fizzed, and broke up, and then disappeared altogether.

They argued some more and then made out against a tree. Draco’s hair flapped about and his hands were so cold and he kept them warm under Harry’s arms, under his jacket.

“Backup would just create chaos,” Harry said when Draco was catching his breath, face buried in the heat of his neck. “Bring attention to ourselves. We should find out more, first, make sure we know what we’re—”

“It’s not safe anymore,” Draco mumbled. He had a more sophisticated argument at some point, but it’d been worn thin and syrupy in his mind at the feel of Harry’s mouth below his ear.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Harry said, a horrible smile in his voice, and the image of his from that morning flashed through Draco’s mind: when Draco tried to get out of bed and Harry, waking up, asked him where he was going. Draco had said, To wash my face, and Harry’d muttered a simple, No, and pulled him back into the warm sheets. They’d been slow and stupid and Harry had looked so vulnerable without his glasses. His eyes bright, impossibly green.

“I love you,” Draco confessed with the cliffs behind them, but the wind stole his words and carried them away and Harry didn’t hear.

*

The seventh time was after they’d managed to open the door.

The black hole gaping behind the frame was sucking the contents of the house into its maw, chairs and tables and vases, and Draco had pressed himself back against the wall. The noise was overwhelming, and the debris flying around made it hard to see what was going on.

Harry kissed him on the mouth, once and hard, before making to jump into the void.

“I love you!” Draco shouted, and then Harry was gone.

*

The eighth time it was after the void spit Harry back out and with the gates of actual literal hell cracking open in the storage-basement floor of Mr and Mrs Till’s destroyed B&B.

Their son, Victor, was lying unconscious in a corner, his face pale and a trickle of blood running down his temple. But he was breathing. Thank god, he was still breathing.

“How long has this been going on!” Harry shouted over the roaring din of a million demons set on fire.

“Hard to say, really!” Draco shouted back, his raincoat dancing wildly in the storm. “It sort of just came out and then it was like, all right, I guess!”

“You guess!” Harry shouted, the steaming heart of the netherworld rising up around them. “You guess you love me!”

“Yeah!” Draco laughed, madly, shook his head. “I guess I love you!”

Harry laughed in reply, just as mad, looked up—at a loss—then held out his right hand for Draco’s to take: palm up, the diagonal cut still bleeding. “Okay!” Harry shouted. “If we make it through this, remind—!”

But Draco didn’t let him finish. He took Harry’s hand into the cradle of his own slashed palm. He lifted their grip over Hades’ creaking jaws, and held on tight.

*

The ninth time was when Harry was alive and not dead, as he too often was, far too often, Draco thought, laughing and crying as Harry blinked awake, his head in Draco’s lap.

The remains of the B&B were still coming down in flecks of ash around them. A few fires were burning nearby. A few feet over, Victor was hugging his mother, weeping into her arms.

“Hello,” Harry croaked, cracking a wobbly smile up at Draco.

“Hello,” Draco sobbed, his hands on Harry’s face, pushing his hair back. He leaned down to kiss him, laughed again, said, “Hello, you daft bint.”

“You love me,” was Harry’s reply to this, as though he’d just remembered their last conversation. This followed quickly by a groan as he tried to move, lean up into Draco.

“Lord help me,” Draco said, pressing his forehead to Harry’s. He whispered: “I do. I do.”

*

The tenth time he didn’t say it out of principle. He held the words back like it hurt him, like stones held below the tongue, ones he could not swallow, could not spit, and so they made him quiet: at St Mungo’s, holding Harry’s hand through it all. In Robards’ office, when he wanted to reach across the divide of their chairs but couldn’t. Back at Harry’s cottage, in the kitchen, when Harry hovered close but would not kiss him, just held his face in his hands and their foreheads pressed together and had them breathe together, noses brushing.

Not in the aching silence of Harry’s bedroom, when it all suddenly felt impossibly new all over again and made Draco nervous, made him shake under Harry’s touch. He closed his eyes against it, sucked Harry’s thumb into his mouth, listened to the seagulls outside and the beat of Harry’s heart thudding against his back.

Harry was slow as he moved inside of him, his breaths short and hot against Draco’s neck. Draco kept his lips pressed together, moaned with his mouth closed, his hand twisted behind him, holding on to Harry’s hair.

“Do you regret it?” Harry asked, later, his eyes restless on Draco’s face. He had his thumb to the plump rise of Draco’s bottom lip.

Draco closed his eyes, and blushed at his own words before he’d spoken them:  “Would you say it?”

Harry’s thumb moved to the corner of his mouth. He leaned in to kiss Draco in that same spot, kissed the plump of his bottom lip. The wet cupid’s bow of his top lip. He breathed, “That I love you?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered, helpless, returning the kiss. Harry’s hand slipped to cup the back of his neck, the scarred slash on his palm dragging against Draco’s skin. Draco licked into his mouth, rolled his body closer, hitched his leg up Harry’s thigh. Harry pulled back for a moment to say,

“I faced literal hell for you.”

Draco smiled, shakily, eyes unfocused. “Surely not just for me. Society, the world as we know it, the good people of—”

“No,” Harry said, kissing the tip of Draco’s nose. The corner of his smile. “Just for you.”

“So you love me?” it came out small, half into their next kiss.

“Mmm.” Harry rolled them over, settled between Draco’s legs. “I must,” he said, playful, then chased it with a softer, a truer: “I do.”

[youarejesting]

Quarantine.2

[Masterlist] Pairing: BTS x reader (i don’t know if this will have ships or just friendship or what I am just letting it run its course) Genres: friendship, drama, romance Rating: All Summary: Your brother works with a few BigHit dance teams and whilst having permission to accompany him at work the city shuts down banning anyone from stepping outside for a whole WEEK while they disinfect the streets. If you step outside you might get arrested, shot or poisoned by the chemicals they are emitting through the city. Words: 3.1k  Announcement: I have 901 followers this. I can’t thank you guys enough. Stay safe. (this has a tiny inspiration from the movie exit and that is that they can’t go outside that's about it)

[Part 1]  [Part 3]  [Tag Yourself Here]

When the sun poured in from the window, you deemed it time to wake up, though you hadn’t actually slept, not that you didn’t try. There were specific requirements you needed to sleep. It had to be pitch black with soft tone music in the background and there had to be air running across your face by a fan or you would feel claustrophobic.

Stepping out into the hall, you heard two young female employees talk as they passed about ‘hot water running out’. Following them down the hall you saw the first set of bathrooms. It was packed, the line stretched out down the hall. 

“Maybe we should try the bathroom on the third floor?” one of the two women said,  “No these are the best and it will be packed as well so we should just stand in line.”  

You walked away and to the third floor to see the line, you weren’t worried about showering anytime soon. It was also out the door with tired men and women sitting against the wall. Humming thoughtfully you remembered the storage room, there was an old bathroom beside it, what are the chances there was a shower in there. 

Taking the service elevator to the basement. It was clean and brightly lit, just as it had been the day before. There were cameras in some corners of the halls. You walked to the end cautiously, why did basements have such a bad reputation. Seeing the familiar storage room ahead of you and to the right was the bathroom. You pushed the door open hesitantly; you saw the stalls they were clean and unused, and like luck would have it the last had a shower. Locking the door you showered quickly the water was hot because there was a personal hot water system in the corner of the stall. 

With a towel wrapped securely around your chest, you quickly ducked into the storage room. Cleaning up a little and hanging ropes across the pipes on the walls. Making a makeshift clothesline to hang the clothes you had washed in the shower. There were some old costumes and props and hoodies. Searching the piles of clothing for something that fit. You found something you were nervous to wear. Embarrassingly you had found a box of old merch and discontinued items in various sizes, none of it had been worn they all still had tags and were sealed in their packets folded professionally. 

You pulled out a set of BT21 underwear in your size and felt your face grow hot if you were caught wearing these character underwear you would be mortified. You found what looked like a plain black hoody in an XXL and slipped it on. It reached to your knees. You chose this size as there were no pants in the pile and boxes you had searched just hoodies and underwear. 

You took the service elevator up to your floor and stepped out walking past the two women who had lined up in front of you still haven’t gone in. Continued walking you slowed past the boys meeting room you could hear groans of annoyance, “there is no hot water and the lines for the showers are huge” 

Deciding to take pity and potentially losing your secret shower, you knocked on the door. Met by a dishevelled Jin. Slipping past him and shutting the door, the room had a very manly musky scent and you blushed “I um… found a secret shower with a personal hot water system but you have to promise to keep it a secret or I won’t tell you?”

Their eyes lit up. Scrambling to you. You told them to pack their shower stuff in a discreet bag and they lined up waiting. 

“Follow me?” Turning and peeking out the door you heard them gasp and start laughing hysterically. You froze confused, had your hoody rode up and exposed your underwear. Tugging the back of the hoody down you sighed in relief realising that wasn’t the case. Whipping around to see they were hanging off each other trying to suppress their laughter.  “what is it?”

“We didn’t know you were a fan of Suga?” “Who?” They pointed at the small thin young man, his eyes sleepy and his face blank, the corners of his mouth seemed permanently turned down.  “You're wearing my uh merch, it says ‘Suga’ on the back” you turned to have a look and facepalmed. 

Yoongi couldn’t help laughing at your shocked reaction, his eyes lost all their sleepiness and turned into rainbow arches, his soft cheeks lifting and his smile revealed. You could see his pink gums and you knew he was genuinely amused. 

“I uh stole it from the storage room, I thought it was a plain black hoody you have a lot of merch clothes down there,” Leading them from the room and past the line of employee’s to the service elevator.  “Why do you take the service elevator?”  “What services will we get when the whole city is stuck indoors? And the regular elevator is small and busy” 

“You are pretty smart?” Namjoon nudged you with his shoulder, which would have been fine if your body wasn’t tired and lethargic from lack of sleep. Stumbling back into Jimin’s arms. “Thank you, I find I can be smart when I need to be” The doors opened and like every time you stepped into the basement you felt like you were in some action or horror movie. 

“This is where we die?” Hoseok laughed his voice cracking a little. You laughed, actually laughed. There was something about the way he said it in English with his cute accent.

“That’s what I think every time I come down here. The bathroom is in there, there is only one shower but if you wash your clothes with the bucket and the generic soap I stole from the supply cupboard down the hall, you can wash your clothes and hang them in the storage room. It has decent ventilation down here so they won’t take to long to dry”

You left them to it, going back to the storage room, cleaning some more you found a board game and some promotional cans of drinks. There were some more clothes in another box, you tried to find a pair of pants that would fit but were unlucky. You couldn’t have it all. 

You sighed hanging a long white fabric backdrop over the slightly stained couch. Sitting as you emptied some more product boxes while waiting. You were tired but you couldn’t sleep. Deciding to use the BT21 makeup, you found you put on some makeup and smiled it was nice. You wondered why the storage room was filled with random bits of their work. 

You finished applying the lip tint when they walked in clean wearing only towels, “oh um” you turned to cover your eyes, “you have clothes and costumes over there”

They all sorted through the clothes and dressed while you faced the corner of the room. When they said they were done, you walked back to the couch to find it already occupied. “You look happier” Examining the group of boys, Taehyung was tying his shoes on the couch and Jimin and Yoongi were talking quietly looking up and down your legs your cheeks tinted pink 

Jin and Jungkook were hanging out washing and they stopped staring at your bra and underwear, causing you to get redder especially your neck and ears. Taehyung hooked his finger under the hem of the hoodie you were wearing and gently pulled it up at the side. With a squeal and a jump, you flailed slapping his hand away. 

“Taehyung, you can’t just do that?” Namjoon scolded and Taehyung blushed holding his hands up in defence.  “Sorry I wasn’t trying to look at your underwear I was just wondering if you had pants on, but, um… are you wearing Cooky underwear?” Jungkook froze his cheeks going red and you looked away refusing to answer your face feeling like it was on fire. “I don’t know the character names but it’s a bunny?”

“Oh JayKay you lucky boy” Hoseok slapped the younger boys back and you frowned.  “Again I just wore what was clean and I could find” You walked out of the room unable to stand to be near them your face was too warm. On your way back to the corridor they all caught up joining you in the elevator to the second floor. You were all going to the dining room for some breakfast. 

Your brother again was nowhere to be found, many of the boys were wearing prescription glasses complaining about not having contacts.  “You look good don’t worry” you mumbled to Jin and he seemed to fluff right up like a proud peacock blowing a kiss at you from one end of the table. 

Taehyung sat in front of you and it was kind of hard to eat. He was so handsome. His face was mesmerising. His eyebrows were thick and eyelashes were long. He had rounded ears that stuck out giving him a silly kind of look but you thought it was so cute. You seemed mesmerised by the tiny freckle on his nose. 

Eating slowly giving up your kimchi again and settled for rice and the lightly seasoned side dishes. “You mustn’t like kimchi,” Namjoon said “It’s a strong flavour I am still getting used to but as for now it is making my stomach hurt my body is not used to fermented foods” “But kimchi is so delicious” Hoseok defended

“It’s like, imagine how you would feel if you had to eat bread every day your body would react. It’s nice at first but then you get sick of it, wanting something you are used to eating. Your body would bloat unused to the carbs. My body does the same thing with kimchi but instead of bloating if I eat it I might just vomit”

Yoongi nodded understanding and you sighed “I just want something bland like mash potatoes and chicken with no chilli or kimchi just plain food, just once” you sighed pushing the food around your plate Jungkook laughed beside you his teeth were adorable, and when he smiled his eyes did too you were lost for a moment. He handed you some of the plain food from his plate. They were all really handsome and you had to keep yourself from saying or doing anything embarrassing. 

Parting ways you went to find your brother, he was practising with the dancers. You sat watching, even helping one of the students through the routine. Dancing was a family trait, you had been dancing for as long as you can remember but you didn’t anymore, you had gotten so many rejections from your auditions that you finally gave up. 

So your brother tried not to act too surprised when he saw you standing and doing the very basic steps to show his student the routine. They were practising for a festival which might not even be held due to the virus. sighing, the kids all took a break and your brother left sparring you a glance. 

Frozen in place you didn’t know you were walking until you were face to face with the stereo. Pressing the play button the music played and all you could hear was the rejection. 

‘I am sorry you didn’t get the part’ 

‘We regret to inform you, your audition was not accepted’ 

‘You didn’t make it to the final audition round better luck next time’. 

Shutting off the music you were having a panic attack. Again. Racing out of the room, you ran straight into Hoseok. He grabbed your arm. Looking down at your face, “hey breathe it’s okay, look at me and breathe” You copied his breathing until you felt yourself slump against his chest. He rubbed your back, “Hey, tell me what’s wrong?”

You hadn’t let any tears slip not this time, and you were determined to keep it that way. “It’s nothing” “Come on, that was not nothing?” He squeezed your hand, “tell me about it, I am a really good listener” He sat you down in your brother’s office and poured you some water, “it’s stupid” “Nothing is stupid if it makes you react like that?”

“I used to do something I pursued it and loved it very much, but everyone rejected me, said I wasn’t good enough said I wouldn’t become anything and after all the rejection I couldn’t take it anymore I couldn’t even think about this thing without panicking, I miss it so much, it use to make me happy. I use to get an electric buzz through my body and it was surreal. I could express myself and become whoever I wanted to be, but now all I hear is their voice telling me no”

“I understand, I wasn’t always this famous guy, I was a street dancer, I tried and tried and tried and I got rejections after rejections until one day I got scouted by BigHit” “How many times were you rejected? If you had to take a guess.” “Fifty to a hundred at least”  “I was rejected 873 times, I had a tally that’s the equivalent of being rejected every day for two and a half years, forgive me if I felt worthless”

“Don’t let the no’s stop you okay, keep pushing until you get that yes because a life of struggle is better than a life of regret” he smiled patting your knee before leaving quietly and you sat there confused. 

You spent the day thinking about it, it scared you how your feet began itching to dance. Your body wanted to move. You walked past the dance studio rooms at least three times before finally, you got the courage to step inside. You sat off to the side watching your brother and Hoseok perfect their routine. 

“Hello” Namjoon smiled as the two of you were talking, he started teaching you a tiny bit of Korean, you only got through greetings, my name is, how are you? Where is the___? what is this? It was fun and took your mind off the dancing. 

You caught your foot tapping and left the room slowly before the feeling caught up with you. You went to the basement and to the storage room your clothes were almost dry, you continued searching through the boxes and bags of clothes and found some more stuff. It was a shirt that said plus multiply plus in yellow and blue, and the sweat pants you found the tag said soobin and was a perfect fit. 

Slipping them in a bag you headed upstairs, everyone went to dinner. Sitting beside your brother you ate slow, mind wandering with what if’s. He was right a life full of what if’s and regret was worse than the rejection. Your brother was talking adamantly with his students and the dance team, you ate what you could before you excused yourself leaving. Laying in the storage room you really couldn’t get the feeling out of your body or the music out your head. Your fear had morphed, you were scared to feel the joy that only dancing could bring, a fear of how bad you must be after the long break.

It was torture, it got dark. You got changed and travelled up the stairs this time trying to tire yourself out or slow yourself down because you knew exactly where you were headed. You took your time and you finally arrived on the fourth floor. You stepped into the empty dance studio and turned on the lights dimming them so they gave a faint glow, you didn’t want to alert anyone that you were inside. 

Turning down the stereo system you plugged your phone in and started a slow song, it started small, feeling the music, trying a few moves and stopping you didn’t have anything to go on just yet you were warming up. When none of the songs could draw anything out of you, you switched to the CD and hit play on whatever was inside. The song title appeared on the small led screen ‘Louder than bombs’. The music was able to move you, it had been so long you danced the lyrics ripping through you 

Louder than bombs I break. 

You finished the song crying and you wanted to do it again but the next song had you with the beat of the drums it was called ‘On’. Slowly getting into the songs each one bringing out a new emotion. Expressing everything you had, you had gone through the album twice. Dancing to black swan, the music died out when you heard clapping and turned falling on your behind. 

There was a slapping sound and a deep “ow what was that for?” “Tae, She isn’t supposed to know we are here idiot” The lights grew a little brighter and you saw the BTS boys and your brother.  You frowned “how long have you been here?” “I have been here since pretty much the start,” Hoseok rubbed the back of his neck “you were dancing to some English songs”

“I came in halfway through louder than bombs the first time” Jimin grinned doing a few of the moves he memorised. “Your brother was looking for you, we had been searching everywhere,” Namjoon said “We worried you went outside”

“Your dancing was really nice?” Jungkook said “I liked what you did with my song and the black swan dance you did was very pretty” “Y/n I haven’t seen you dance in years” Your brother stepped forward, you were feeling a little overwhelmed, “it was really good?”

“Well remember it because I am still not dancing” Trying not to cry the declaration ripping through your chest. Namjoon started explaining the meaning behind black swan you looked at your shaking hands “I have to go I really can’t do this” you tried to push past them as you staggered off down the hallway wiping your eyes on your sleeve. 

“It was nice” You froze the gravelly tone made you turn. Yoongi walked over and placed his hand on your head awkwardly patting it. While refusing to look at you. “I have never seen anyone move like that to my songs before, it made it seem like it was something more I don’t know beautiful it looked like actual art” 

He shuffled looking a bit nervous. Walking away leaving you dumbfounded. Sure it was one thing to hear. ‘You are so good’  but it was another to hear the sincerity in someone’s voice as they said something as deep and meaningful about your dancing like Yoongi had said to you. He called your dancing ‘Art’ for crying out loud. That’s the highest compliment you could possibly think of at this moment.

[Part 1] [Part 3]  [Tag Yourself Here]

[ms-maj]

Jug’s Last Day

I know you guys were really jonesing for another songfic ;)

All of the gratitude to @bettycooper for her amaze beta and graphics skills. Cat, as always, thank you for turning my alphabet soup into a lovely word salad. You the best!

And to Sarah, @theheavycrown​, thank you for your support and friendship and believing in my words even when I don’t <3

Oh when you left home and moved to Ohio

The summer had come to an end

My best friend goes I try to follow

Running as you disappear

Stay, you know how bad this hurts

It’s been three weeks and just gets worse

Come back to PA

Forever this time

Greg’s Last Day- The Starting Line

May 24

“So do you know when you’re leaving yet?” Archie asked quietly, trying not to draw the eye of their friends wading down the bank of the river.

Jughead shrugged, eyes cast down, kicking at the pebbled ground with the worn toe of his boot. “Not until August, I don’t think. Before school starts for sure. I think I get the summer at least.”

“Did you tell her?”

He stopped and sighed, head shaking no.

“Neither part I take?”

Jughead finally met his best friend’s eyes. What was sadness a moment ago is now abject horror. “Why would I do that to her? To me? I’m only going to be around for another two months, max—”

“Okay, okay!” Archie held up his hands defensively, dropping them when he noticed his friend’s attention had once again been captured by the meandering bank of Sweetwater River and the blonde ponytail that traced its path. He stepped forward to nudge Jughead’s shoulder with his own. “Then don’t tell her that thing, but you have to tell her that you’re leaving, Jug.”

“I know, Arch, I know.”

June 10

“How are we already seniors in high school, Jug?” Betty sat cross-legged on the cot in the back of the projection booth.

Jughead grunted in response, the bulk of his attention on the finicky machine in front of him.

“Maybe I’ll finally get a real date to homecoming this year, since Kevn has a boyfriend and all.”

His hands stilled on the projector. At thoughts of Betty in dresses of satin and lace, across every color of the spectrum, hair curled in soft waves over her shoulders, spinning out of his arms and onto the dance floor a smile crept to his lips. He could almost feel the warmth of her hand in his, hear the soft lilt of her voice when she says—  

“Juggie?” He’s snapped back to reality, the dream sequence bursting appropriately above her head as he turned to meet her questioning gaze, the dawning realization that all of those things will come to pass whether he’s in the picture or not sinks like hot lead in his stomach.

“Sorry, this thing’s a piece of shit. Always takes a while to get going. If you want, you can go find Kevin and Archie. I know a bunch of other kids from school are here, too, so you don’t have to sit here and watch me fight the projector,” he swallowed the bile down with the lie. The projector was old but well-cared for, and in all the years of the Twilight’s operation it had never failed.

“Oh,” her voice was hushed, almost disappointed. “I thought we…”

The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears as their eyes held over the projector. “It’s just not going to be much fun watching me try to keep this thing running.”

It was dark in the booth save for the light emanating from the machine which gave off just enough to see the tears welling in her eyes. “Sure, whatever you say Jug.”

She was gone before the last of the breath he was holding escaped.

(read below or check it out here)

July 7

The lights were hung from the trees in her backyard, encircling them and twinkling in the humid July night. It was Betty’s seventeenth birthday and yellow frosted cake sat too brightly between the various healthy snacks that seemed terribly out of place at a teenager’s party.

“You look really pretty,” he managed as his hands sat awkwardly on her waist. The pink fabric of her dress was slick yet stuck under the dampness of his fingers.

She smiled. “Thanks, Juggie. I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He felt the furrow of his brow, his fingers tightening against satin.

“Oh,” she flicked the hair off her shoulder, eyes cautiously glancing back to meet his. “It’s just that you’ve been really busy. I haven’t seen you much.”

Her voice was soft. Even through the music and raucous laughter of their peers, it was lyrical and light and maybe just a little bit sad. Jughead tightened his grip on her sides in a poor attempt to tamp down the ever growing desire to run his hands across the entirety of her body.

“Work,” he said, probably more terse than he meant, but it was a lie he was trying to sell. “Between the Twilight and taking shifts at Pop’s...it’s been a busy summer.”

Betty nodded. “No, I know that. It’s just…” Her head shook softly as her most tried and true generic Cooper smile faltered. “I was hoping to see more of you before we got bogged down by school.”

Jughead could swear he smiled, but the look reflected back at him conveyed he did not. He could feel the sweat forming under the betraying rim of his beanie, a lock of escaped hair sticking to his brow. Her arm rose from his shoulder, and while he missed the sensation, the one that replaced it made him shiver. Her soft, slender fingers found their way to the unruly curl, sliding under it and wrapping it around them before gently brushing it from his forehead and back under his beanie.

“Betts,” he swallowed thickly, her hand still lingering on the side of his head.

“Hey, Mr. Jones!”

Jughead felt the air leave his body as he turned toward the gate to see Mr. Andrews and his father talking.

“Are you here for Jug? I can’t believe you guys are leaving already!” Archie called out from behind them.

“Leaving? Where are you going, Jug?” Her hand fell from his face and landed awkwardly on his shoulder.

There was no way around it now. Not when she should have known since the beginning. Not when she was looking up at him more confused than he’d ever seen her. “Um, do you think we could go somewhere and talk?”

He was so fixated on the wrinkle between Betty’s eyebrows, the way her face scrunched up when she was deep in thought, that he didn’t see the movement to his left. Didn’t know his father had made his way through the crowd to clap him on the back and proclaim to the entirety of their classmates: “Truck’s all packed. Just a good night’s sleep is all that’s separating us Jones men from the Buckeye State.”

“Buckeye?” Betty echoed absently, her arms dropping from around his neck. “Jughead?”

He swallowed, opening his mouth to speak and promptly shut it when no words came out. The dawning realization stole over her face, confusion melting away to hurt. Shaking her head, she turned out of his arms, her hands in fists at her sides, before she ran from the yard altogether.

“Fuck!” Fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose while the other hand balled up at his side.

“I’ll let that one go, boy. Looks like you have bigger fish to fry,” FP squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, gaze softening as he walked back toward Fred.

“Bro, how did you not tell her?” Archie’s voice sounded distant in his ears even though he was standing right next to him.

“Because I’m a fucking idiot, Arch,” he slipped the beanie off his head and grabbed a fistful of hair.

“You know what you have to do, right?”

He looked up at his best friend, who looked far more sympathetic than Jughead deserved. “I know, I know. But where do I even start?”

Archie clapped him on the shoulder and nodded encouragingly. “You know exactly what you have to do, man. And now you have to tell her the other thing too. Good luck. She’s got a mean left hook.”

There was another reassuring squeeze of his shoulder before Archie ran back into the crowd. Jughead sighed, replaced the worn beanie on his head, and took off for the one place he was sure Betty would be.

Except she wasn’t.

Not at the river. Not at Pop’s. Not in Archie’s old, dilapidated tree house nor at Picken’s Park. He stalked through the streets berating himself, kicking at the pavement and scuffing the dangerously thin soles of his shoes.

Archie said she hadn’t made it back to the house yet, which meant his search wasn’t completely wasted, but the longer he walked with no sightings, the harder it was to accept she wanted to be found. Not that he’d stop looking. There were too many things left unsaid and too much history between them to let it all fall to the wayside, because he’d been an idiot.

He wished it was cooler. Sweat beaded on his brow, so much so he resorted to using his beanie as a rag, shoving the damp wool into his back pocket instead of back on his head. Between the stagnant midsummer night air and the way his anxiety seemed to simmer just under his skin, he felt fully aflame.

If only he had…

There were so many things he could have done, or said, so many missed opportunities and moments left to chance. He played every interaction he and Betty had since school let out, since he knew he was leaving and understands—knows implicitly—he is the only one at fault for his current predicament.

And yet he wants to lash out at everyone. At Archie for spilling his admittedly stupid secret, at his dad for insisting they leave right after Betty’s party, at Betty for looking so sad and hurt when he knew that she’d miss him for maybe a minute. Tops.

“That’s not true, and you know it,” her voice came from behind him, louder and sharper than usual. He slowly turned to find her sitting on a bench, the harsh light from the streetlamp cascading down on her.

“I didn’t think I said that out loud,” he started toward her, halting when she held up her hand. It dropped to her lap after a moment, joining the fingers of her other hand clutching at the fabric of her dress. “Betts…”

“Do you really believe that, Jug? Has our friendship meant that little to you, or are you just trying to make yourself feel better for being a dick?” He saw the tear roll down her cheek, the attempt to leave it unacknowledged, and then, the hasty removal of it from her face. “You know, honestly, at this point I don’t know if I care,” her sniffle carried across the space, somehow not drowned out by the restless cicadas or the pounding of his heart.

“No! No,of course not, Betty. I know you would miss me for at least five whole minutes,” he deadpanned. However, it seemed Betty was not in the mood for his misguided attempt to deflect. The roll of her eyes and the sharp set of her jaw had him reaching for his sweat-soaked beanie, retrieving it from his back pocket and pulling at it aggressively as he tried to cover his hair. “Can I try this again?”

He was answered by a curt nod as Betty looked away from him once again.

“My dad is about a hairsbreadth away from both falling off the wagon and back into the inglorious cesspool of gang life. As a last ditch attempt in not destroying everything, he and my mother came to some sort of arrangement if we moved to Toledo.”

Betty’s mouth opened slightly before snapping back shut, the juncture of her jaw throbbing against the soft curve of her cheek. Her eyes closed for a moment before she spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not a conversation that I wanted to have with anyone, Betty. Least of all you,” his hand scratched at the back of his neck, eyes not daring to look up from the pavement.

“But you obviously told Archie, right? So why not me? Are we not…” she stopped and pressed the tips of her fingers against her lips. “I guess we’re just not as close as I thought.”

The hand dropped from Jughead’s neck as he stepped toward her. “You know that’s not true either.”

“So what was it then, Jughead! Tell me why you could confide in Archie but not me? Tell me why you pulled away when you already knew you’d be leaving?”

“Because I refused to have you look at me like that! Like some sad, lost cause with one foot in the grave and the other following exactly in dear ol’ dad’s footsteps.”

“What? Jughead,” she stood, quickly wrapping her arms around her torso, seemingly to stop herself from reaching for him, tears freely flowing down her cheeks. “You know, I don’t know what hurts worse. The knowledge that my best friend is moving. Tomorrow. Or that he thinks I think so little of him and our friendship I would (A) judge him for things completely out of his control, (B) not understand what it was like to deal with fucked up parents, or (C) think I wouldn’t be there for him.”

His arms stretched before him of their own volition, long fingers wrapping around her upper arms. “Betty,” he breathed, willing her eyes to meet his. “I know you wouldn’t have done any of those things. It wasn’t because of you that I didn’t tell you. I was embarrassed and ashamed and million other things that I have no explanation for at the moment.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t step out of his grasp. “I just don’t understand, Jug. What changed?”

“Nothing! And everything, I guess. It was supposed to be different. It was all supposed to be different this year. We were gonna get control of the Blue and Gold and fill out college applications at Pop’s over milkshakes and burgers and…”

Betty looked up at him, tears clinging to her lashes, vestiges of her party makeup smeared around her eyes. “And what, Jug?”

“And,” he swallowed, unable to help the thumb that had crept up to wipe the mascara away. “And I was finally going to work up the nerve to tell you how I feel.”

He could feel the laser focus of her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the thudding of her heart under his fingertips. “What?” Her voice came just above a whisper.

“To ask you to be my date to homecoming and winter formal and prom; to ask you to be mine.” Jughead’s hand slid from her arm to her waist, pulling her closer to him in the process.

“That’s not fair,” she trembled beneath his fingers, chin wobbling and shiny eyed.

“Betts,” his thumb dipped to her chin, angling her face up to his, “this wasn’t how I wanted to tell you.”

“Which part? The part where you have feelings for me or the part where you’re leaving tomorrow? Because right now, both of those things hurt the same.”

“I know. I know, and there’s nothing I can do to change how it came out but,” he could feel the air sucking into her lungs they were that close. “I can only say I’m sorry for one of those things, Betty, because as awkward or poorly timed as this is, it’s led to this. You and me. In this moment.”

Her eyes were wide “You have no idea, do you? How long I waited for this, how badly I wanted this.”

“I’m still right here, Betty.”

“Yeah, but for what? A few more hours?” Her hands grasped at the fabric of his shirt. Stretched out on tip-toe, her lips landed gently on his cheek.  “All I wanted tonight was to finally be brave enough to kiss you. I never imagined our first kiss could be a goodbye, and honestly, I just don’t think I can do that to myself.”

She slid out of his arms, his fingers flexing on her skin. Words to keep her there flew through his brain—screamed through his veins—and yet he simply let her fall away. His fingers traced where her lips burned his cheek and wondered if he would have survived the phantom feeling if she’d kissed his lips. The sight before him nearly choked him. His mind latched on to the creases in her dress, the patterns of mascara on her tear-stained cheeks, her jasmine perfume that hovered around them and stuck to him long after he finally moved from the spot.

July 8

Jughead woke before the dawn. Never much of a sleeper, he found it exceedingly difficult when the image of her turning away from him played over and over in his mind. The ancient hot water tank couldn’t produce a stream scalding enough to burn it from his mind either. He stewed in his own thoughts, typing out and subsequently deleting about a hundred different messages to his blonde haired best friend, but couldn’t find it in him to send a single one.

No platitudes seemed enough, and what good would it serve? Maybe it would be easier to be in Toledo if she hated him or if he thought she did. He threw his head back on the couch (the one they wouldn’t need in Toledo, where he’d have a real bed, in a room all his own) and tried to remember what the world was like before Betty Cooper looked at him like he was a leper.

His downward spiral didn’t get to progress too far before the sound of an approaching car snapped him back to reality. He peeked out the bare window, the sight before him bringing a smile to his face.

“So this is really it,” Archie sniffed, standing beside him, a cup of half drank Pop’s coffee between his palms.

Jughead nodded, taking a slow sip of his own coffee, trying not to choke on the words and feelings that seemed to lodge in his throat. “Thanks for the pick me up and the donuts. Those might make it to the state line.”

Laughing, Archie knocked his shoulder into Jughead’s. “I’m gonna miss you, man.”

“I’m gonna miss you too, Arch.” The cup stilled at his lips again. “Have you, um, talked to Betty at all?”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” He ran over to his dad’s truck and reached through the open window, producing a large tupperware from inside. “She didn’t say much; she didn’t have to. She looks about as good as you do.”

Jughead chuckled morosely as he took the proffered container. Perched on top, folded as neatly as could be and inscribed with her exacting script was a note addressed to him. He sucked in a breath, shakily peeling it off and tucking it into his pocket before prying open a corner and seeing a rather large chunk of her birthday cake inside.

“She knows me too well,” he set it down on the hood of his dad’s truck, shaking his head. “I really fucked up this time.”

Archie grinned.

“What? That makes you happy?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, it does not make me happy. None of this is exactly happy, Jug. But the fact that for once in our lives the ire of Betty Cooper is directed, in its entirety, at you is not something that is lost on me. Now, let me bask in this short-lived glory, because I’m going to be the shoulder she cries on when all of this sinks in.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he swallowed down the last sip of bitter coffee with the bile that started to rise. “Just tell her…”

“She knows.”

He nods, somber, letting the words and feeling sink in. Coffee finished and goodbyes thoroughly dispensed, the Andrews men departed Sunnyside and left the Joneses to start their new lives.

“You ready for this, son?” His father asked as they slid into the truck. Even though the sun was barely up, FP seemed energized; happy. He smiled despite himself.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“A new chapter for us, boy. Hell, a new story all together! I know it doesn’t seem like it right now but, it’ll get better, I promise.”

His father’s hand rested on his shoulder for a moment before making its way back to the wheel. Jughead sighed, head hitting the window with a dull thud. “Yeah, well, it can’t get any worse.”

As the truck pulled away from the trailer park, and he watched as Riverdale shrank behind them in the mirror, he wondered if the note in his pocket would ever stop burning or if the ache in his chest would ever cease.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Marked (Part 25 - Epilogue)

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2740

Warnings: Bit o’ smut, but nothing too explicit and nothing you haven’t seen before in this story. 

A/N: This is tied closely to Part 16, aka the djinn chapter, and I recommend re-reading that one first if it’s been a while. It also references Part 20 a few times.

As many of you know, by now, this fic is very personal and very honest. I’m not going to get into it too much, but this story is my way of telling anyone who needs to hear it that things will get better, and the bad days will pass, and the scars don’t define you. I hope you wake up tomorrow and decide to try again. 

Thanks for reading. 

This is not a happy ending. 

We’re not always happy people, Dean and me. We have good days, but we have bad days too: days when it’s all I can do to get out of bed, days when I feel like I’m being crushed by the weight of everything we’ve been through. We are battered and bruised and worn around the edges. We’re kind of a mess. I’m okay with that.

Love is messy. Love is showing someone your weak spots, your knitted-up ripped-apart insides, the dark broken pieces, and saying, here I am, I’m yours to hurt.

And yes, sometimes we hurt each other. Sometimes we rip each other apart all over again. Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing but scar tissue, held together by duct tape and sheer stubbornness.

At the end of every day, though, we dust each other off and bandage each other up, and in the morning, we try again.  

- - - - -

The humid spring air drags at my skin, tugging at my fingers when I stick my hand out the open window and let it ride the pressure of the wind.

It’s an overcast day, threatening rain, and Dean looks as stormy as the sky as he drives in silence. I just shrugged when he asked me about work, and we’ve both been quiet since. When he catches me watching, though, he gives me a rueful little attempt at a smile. It looks more like a grimace, but he’s trying. I know he’s trying.

I’ve been working at a new place nearby, a roadhouse one of the boys’ hunting contacts opened recently. It’s perpetually full of plaid and testosterone and people asking if I’m “Dean’s girl,” trying to get a message to the Winchesters. I guess word spreads fast with hunters. On the bright side, though, I can be honest if I need to call out because of a potential apocalypse, or something.

Dean usually comes inside, has a beer while I’m finishing my shift, but today he was waiting outside with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped.

“Can we go somewhere?” he said. It wasn’t an apology, but I know better than to expect an apology right away. He’ll get there.

We don’t fight often, not really. Usually when I get scared and pull away, he knows how to follow, how to reassure me, how to make me feel safe. Usually I’m tough enough to withstand his sharp edges and push through the walls he likes to hide behind.

Today has been a bad day. It’s bad for both of us, in our own ways, but this morning started with his nervous little sideways look as he folded up his pocketknife, and it ended with the vicious things he says when he’s angry at himself but wants to make me hurt for it. Usually I’d roll my eyes and tell him to go punch something, but today marks exactly two years since the demon showed up on my doorstep. Today I already felt raw and vulnerable and stripped-bare; when he lashed out, he cut right into the softest parts of me, and I slashed right back, snarling at him through my tears, and we were still screaming at each other when I stormed out to go to work. The anger’s gone now, but it’s left a cold, heavy ache in its place.

He takes us to Lawrence, of course. We park in front of the old rusty gate and hop the fence. He reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a little squeeze without actually looking at me, and we set off down the old path together.

We sit on one of the big flat rocks, watching the water: green-grey, steady, endless. It’s familiar, now, the shape of the eddies and the gurgle as it rolls smoothly around the rocks.

Just a couple weeks ago, we had a picnic here for Sam’s birthday. The surprise had been Dean’s idea. He’d told Eileen and Cas beforehand, and we’d packed a checkered blanket, a cake, the whole nine yards. We didn’t tell Sam where we were going, not until we’d pulled up at the fence and he’d stared at us blankly.

“So, you remember when Dad used to take me fishing?” Dean had said, running a hand through his hair nervously. Sam had gotten teared up when he realized, and Dean looked so startled, like he usually does when his efforts to open up are met with something other than disgust.

The memory makes me soften, slightly. I move in closer and Dean shifts to meet me, and I tuck myself snugly into the curve of his arm, resting my head on his shoulder. He lets out a long shaky exhale and then clears his throat.

“I love you,” he says gruffly.

“I know,” I whisper.

He kisses the top of my head and I rest my hand on his knee, thumb stroking over the rough denim. The rock is too hard to make a comfortable seat, and my neck is at an awkward angle, and the sky is slowly growing darker, and I don’t mind.

We sit for a while without talking. It’s enough just to be here together; I know what he’s trying to say.

Around dusk, we get up. My legs are cramped and stiff, and Dean helps me get to my feet. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight, and I bury my face in the softness of his worn flannel.

“I love you too,” I say, muffled against his chest. He strokes my hair and takes one more deep breath, and then he grabs my hand, and we start along the path back to the car. It starts to rain as we jump the fence, warm heavy drops that thud into the dirt, and for a moment I stand still and turn my face up to the sky, letting the water run down my cheeks.

I still feel cold and achy, inside, but mostly I just feel leaden with exhaustion. I’m ready for the day to be over. I’m ready to be home.

I curl up in the passenger seat and turn on the tape deck. Dean sings along just a little bit off-key, and when the rain drumming on the roof starts to drown out the music, I turn up the volume. Dean pulls back onto the highway and we head west.

“You gotta drop me at my car,” I point out, as he cruises past the exit to the roadhouse.

“You can just take Baby tomorrow,” he says, deliberately casual. It’s a big gesture, and we both know it; it’s like the Dean equivalent of a dozen roses, or jewelry, or whatever the stereotypical romantic gift is. I can’t help the way my mouth twitches up in a smile.

My clothes are still slightly damp from the rain when we get back to the bunker, and I strip down to my underwear as soon as we get back to our room, burrowing in under the big comforter. Dean follows, slower, pausing to turn on the small bedside lamp and turn off the overhead lights before he takes off his jeans and his flannel and crawls into bed. He looks at me hesitantly, like he’s not sure I’ll want to touch him, but I slide on top of him and kiss him, and I feel his sigh of relief against my mouth.

We kiss, deep and heated, until my lips feel bruised, and then I sit up and look down at him, running my hands down his chest to the hem of his shirt so I can tug it up. He lifts it up over his head obediently and tosses it away.

I grab his wrists as he settles back down. I press them into the pillow on either side of his head, leaning in to pin him, watching the way his lips part and his eyes go huge and dark.

“Do you want…” I ask hoarsely, thinking of the cuffs I got him for his birthday, but he just shakes his head slightly, looking up at me, open and trusting.

“Just like this?” he asks quietly. I kiss the frown line between his eyes and hold his wrists tighter.

We take our time. There’s no rush.

I kiss his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, nibble his earlobe, and then I drag my mouth down the side of his neck, sinking my teeth into the soft skin, biting until he’s bruised and gasping. I grind down until he’s rock-hard, until I’m soaking the thin fabric of my panties where I’m pressing against the length of him. He stares when I sit up and take off my bra. When he reaches up, reaches out for me, I grab his wrists again and shove them down, and the way he whimpers sets my skin on fire.

I roll away clumsily, just long enough for both of us to get rid of the last of our clothes, and when he reaches out again, hands flying to my waist like he can’t help himself, I let him pull me up to straddle his face. He holds me down and fucks me shallowly with his tongue until I reach down and pull his hair, tugging sharply. He moans low in his chest and I rock down against his mouth, tilting my hips, until the filthy slick suction of his lips around my clit has my legs trembling and my head spinning. His nails rake down the small of my back and that’s it, I’m gone, arching my back and shaking, coming so hard I black out for a second.

My muscles are limp, totally useless, and I’m unsteady as I swing my leg over and tumble onto my back. I pull him on top of me and he fucks into me hard and desperate, muscles surging under my palms as I run my hands down his shoulders. I dig my fingernails into the swell of his ass, urging him closer, and tell him how perfect he feels, how good he is, how much I love him, and when he slams into me one last time, he lets out a long broken groan and then melts down against me, a hot perfect weight all over me as our heartbeats slow and our sweat cools.

I almost drift off, just like that, with his breath tickling my neck, feeling the flutter of him starting to go soft inside me. I grumble when he starts to pull away and he makes a soothing noise, turning to shut off the lamp. I roll onto my side and squirm back against him in the pitch-black, and he spoons up behind me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“S’okay. Me too,” I sigh, already half-asleep again.

“Is this… are we okay?”

He sounds so small and scared in the dark.

“We will be,” I say.

We sleep.

I love waking up with Dean, the way he holds me in his sleep, pressed firmly to my back with his arm curled protectively around me, his breath tickling the nape of my neck. I take it in for a few minutes, still and silent, until he starts to stir, his thumb stroking over my collarbone and his nose nuzzling my ear.

The alarm hasn’t gone off yet; I have a few minutes before I have to get up.

I roll over lazily, molding myself to his chest, and kiss him properly. He’s frowning against my lips. When I look at him, he’s looking back through half-closed eyes, sleepy and sweet and soft, the Dean that only I get to see. I love him, love him in a way that makes my heart swell and puts stars in my eyes and brings every other stupid cliche to life. I love him so much I can barely breathe sometimes. The bad days don’t change that.

“We’re okay,” I say firmly, before he can ask again, and the tight worried line of his mouth eases slightly.

“I’m trying,” he whispers. “I don’t know why I can’t just - I get caught up, and… fuck. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I love you,” I answer, and I run my fingertips over his cheek, rubbing my thumb over the curve of his lower lip.

The alarm goes off, beeping insistently, and we both grumble in unison as Dean swats at the clock.

“Do you have to?” he pouts. I kiss the tip of his nose.

“Gotta get to the library and finish this essay before class.”

“We have a library.”

“And if I needed to write an essay about ghouls, I’d be all set, but I need actual books, not grimoires.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll go get coffee started.”

I watch him get out of bed and fumble with his pants. I admire the muscles in his shoulders as he pulls on a shirt, half-tempted to drag him back into bed and map the freckles with my tongue.

He looks back at me as he leaves, and his smile gives me butterflies, even after all this time.

Dean’s got my favorite mug waiting by the time I shower quickly and shuffle into the kitchen, and there’s a fresh pot of coffee, still steaming hot. Cas is sitting at the table and staring into his own mug like it holds the secrets of the universe. Dean is muttering darkly as he slams cabinet doors, looking for another box of his favorite cereal.

Laughter from down the hall announces Sam and Eileen’s return. They come in sweaty and beaming, fresh off their morning run.

“Egg white omelettes, anybody?” Sam asks cheerfully, rummaging in the fridge, and I just roll my eyes.

Dean sits down, nursing his coffee and looking sourly at the empty cereal box on the table. I sit next to him.

“Frigging morning people,” he mumbles.

“Seriously,” I agree, and kiss his cheek.

“Sure you don’t want an omelette?” Sam asks, pointing at me with a bundle of spinach.

“Gotta go. Abnormal psych essay to finish.”

“What’s it about?” Sam asks, as Eileen ducks under his arm to get to the coffee.

“Assholes,” she says, and holds up the empty pot accusingly. Cas sidles away with an apologetic grimace.

I suppress a laugh and answer, “Sublimation. I think I’ll probably do okay.”

I smirk at Dean, who huffs and rolls his eyes. Sam and I exchange a knowing look.

Dean grabs my hand. He squeezes gently, interlacing our fingers, and I pick up my coffee left-handed, reluctant to let go.

The classes were Sam’s idea to begin with; he always asks how it’s going, and he fusses about my grades like a proud parent, even though it’s just a part-time thing, for now, to see if anything really grabs my interest. I’m on my third psychology class, now. I’m starting to think about enrolling full-time, but… we’ll see.

I drain my mug and give Dean’s hand one last squeeze before I let go and stand up.

“You gonna be home for dinner?” he asks, watching me as I fish around in a cabinet and pull out a granola bar for the road.

“Yup,” I answer absent-mindedly, checking my pockets for my wallet as I head to the door.

Dean calls my name, and I turn impatiently. He catches up and cups my face in his hands as he kisses me.

“You forgot something,” he whispers, and gives me one last quick peck before he releases me.

“Love you,” I say. “You big fuckin’ sap.”

He grins. “You know it. Love you more.”

I can’t help but ogle him slightly when he turns his back: broad shoulders, bowed legs, mine.

I wave to the rest of my strange little family before I leave. There’s a chorus of goodbyes, and I smile to myself as I walk away.

Today is a good day. Not all of them are, but today is a good day.

I think we’re going to be okay.

-----

This is not a happy ending.

This is not an ending at all; it’s just another day, just another step. And I have no idea where we’re headed, Dean and me, but it’s not about the destination.

We woke up this morning and chose to try again. We chose to keep moving forward, one tiny step after another. We chose to move forward together.

It’s not about getting somewhere. It’s the step that matters.

.

.

If you enjoyed this, please reblog, leave a message here, or buy me a coffee over here. 

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[mollymauk-teafleak]

A Backwards Glance

Based on an idea by my wonderful girlfriend @spiky-lesbian!

Please leave a comment on Ao3 or reblog and let me know what you thought in the tags! 

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Juno is about to marry the love of his life but its hard to forget the last time he wore a wedding gown.

So he's come to remember how far he's come.

--------

It seemed to Juno that there was more dust than there should be.

How much grime, how many fragments, how many days manifested as faint clumps of barely there grey, could really accumulate in just under two decades? More than he’d ever realised. It stuck to his fingers in drifts as he moved box after box, aging his skin before his eye like he was moving further into the future rather than digging back into his past. There was no system to them, they were just stacked haphazardly with no labels and uneven weights so he had to clamber through them all to find the one he wanted. Clearly he hadn’t ever expected to be back here, when he’d been a brokenhearted younger lady he’d just wanted to shove it all away in this storage unit and forget.

Part of him wanted to go back to that, the part of him couldn’t understand what exactly he was doing here now. They only had five hours left on Mars, a quick, whistle stop trip to collect Mick for the wedding and to stretch their legs before another long haul into space, and he was spending it trawling through the shit that was too depressing to keep around even when he was Mars’ PI who most needed therapy. He knew he should be out seeing old friends and visiting old haunts before remembering he didn’t have any old friends and all his old haunts had been destroyed and then just going to a bar or a restaurant with the man he was going to marry in less than a month.

But instead he was here. And there was a reason.

That man Juno was going to marry was currently leaning in the doorway, politely not questioning his fiancee's decision to bring them here, also not going near any of the boxes that landed near his feet as they were thrown aside, waiting for Juno’s permission because of course he was.

“You can look,” Juno grunted, wiping the dust off his hands, not making them much cleaner and ruining his trousers into the bargain, “It’s just junk.”

“Your junk,” Peter Nureyev amended, like that made it important and worth looking at.

He bent and looked through the first of the boxes Juno had jettisoned over his shoulder when it didn’t hold whatever he was here to find. That one was just old toys of his and Ben’s. Turbos mostly.

“They’re in quite a state,” Nureyev hummed, turning one over in his hands, watching as one of its arms sagged in the socket and counting the crayon marks, “I take it you weren’t as fond of this one?”

“Haven’t you ever had a toy, babe?” Juno snorted, moving aside a box of old school assignments. All Benzaiten’s, he’d thrown away all his own, “The more banged up it is, the more you liked it.”

“Ah...no. I never did, actually.”

Juno stopped, screwing up his face and cursing himself in his mind. Of course his thief had never had a toy, he’d never had the chance to be a child, “Sorry…”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Nureyev said lightly, as if he thought it really was, “My love, what is it you’re looking for?”

Juno bit his lower lip as he thought, eyes scanning the boxes that had seemed so few when they’d walked in but, now he was crouched amongst them, covered him like castle walls, “I...I think it’s in this one…”

Of course it was in the box that had been pushed furthest back, right into the corner of the chilly, cramped little space that had been all a younger Juno could afford. It was the one he most wanted to forget. The one he’d wanted the most space between it and him.

Again, the smell was mustier than it should have been. Inside the box, the old synthetic lace smelled like dust and stasis and just the faintest hint of rot. Juno stood and shook it out, unfurling the dress to its full length and holding it up so the pale sunlight from behind them washed yellow through the fabric and made it look like a skin of something. It made it look hollow, a space made to be filled.

“Oh,” Nureyev murmured faintly behind him, his voice catching just a little. He sounded further away than he really was.

Juno remembered when he’d first got this dress, spending far more money on it than his junior HCPD salary minus his addictions could stretch to. But at the time, it seemed worth it. When he’d worn this dress, even when he’d just held it up on the hanger in the store and imagined it on him, everything had felt like it would be okay. When he’d moved quickly and felt the waterfalls of tiered fabric had whispered, it had drowned out the doubts in his head. When he’d tried a twirl, just because he could, and watched as the lace floated in the air like it was weightless, he could forget the last argument they’d had and could ignore the fact that now a night couldn’t go by that didn’t end with them screaming at each other. When he’d looked at himself in the mirror and felt beautiful, he didn’t have to think about how Sasha still hadn’t replied to her invitation, how Mick changed the subject whenever Juno tried to steer it towards him being his best man, how Rita asked nearly every day now if he was sure this was what he wanted.

And he could forget that the answer wasn’t coming as easily anymore.

When Juno had worn the dress, it all felt right. Like an actor being given his costume, it had all solidified. The lines had felt more like truth, the repetition of them was only practise for the real thing. All the problems had felt trivial, things that every bride must surely worry about before their big day, before everything became as fairytale as they’d promised. Before the bad parts stopped and it was all just the good days, the bits he kept going back to them for.

The dress stopped him being just the son of the woman who’d gone mad, the brother of the dancer who’d died tragically young, the fuck up from Oldtown who’d thought he could make a difference, the jaded cop who’d started out with wide eyes and a clear heart but now needed as much drugs and drink as the rest of them to get through the day. He wasn’t Juno Steel. In the dress, he was Diamond’s wife. And that had it’s good days, at least.

Nureyev stepped up quietly behind him, his voice soft and almost reverent as he placed a hand on Juno’s hip, “It’s a beautiful dress, my love. I’m sure you were a vision in it.”

Juno paused a moment before laughing roughly, “It isn’t. And I wasn’t.”

With Nureyev’s hand against him, the dress looked different. He didn’t like the style at all, it was overly flashy with it’s ridiculously puffed up sleeves and it’s ruffled tiers. He must have looked like a damn wedding cake with it on, one someone would spend too much money on and would turn out to be nearly all fondant. The front was cut too short and the back draped way too low, the fake gems around the bodice were tacky and dull even in the light. It just wasn’t Juno’s style. Which made sense, seeing as he hadn’t chosen it.

And it was so small, reminding him how unhealthily thin he’d been back then, how the drugs had made him drawn and all sharp, painful angles. How food had never been a priority because he was too busy at work or because Diamond had taken his wallet again and their own fridge was bare. How, without Benten to feed as well, there just hadn’t seemed all that much point in remembering to eat. In taking care of himself at all, as a singular person who was meant to be part of a pair.

“Well…” Nureyev was attempting a charitable kindness, “I think you would look dashing in anything, of course…but you do have a point. It’s not quite your style.”

Juno made a soft noise of agreement, passing the material through his fingers, “Good thing I only had to wear it the one time.”

There were marks of that one time all over the dress. Not the ceremony that never happened, obviously, but the night that had followed. And, almost ridiculously, Juno found himself smiling at them. He found the dark amber stain on the skirts where he’d spilled his fourth whiskey at the Pour and Floor. He saw the grease on the back where he’d ridden behind Mick on his hoverbike through the streets at two in the morning, far too fast, fast enough to kill them both if they’d crashed but Juno had just whooped and cheered until his throat was so raw he couldn’t make a sound. He found the mud on the hem and the burn at the edge of the sleeve from when Sasha had turned up, given him one of her rare, tight enough to hurt hugs and they’d hopped a chain link fence behind a store to shoot cans off the wall with his and Sasha’s blasters. And of course the whole thing was crumpled and creased, when he’d staggered to his own apartment and fell asleep on the couch well past sunrise, he hadn’t been in the right state of mind to take it off and fold it nicely.

And when he’d woken in the morning, he’d never wanted to see it again.

That night had been reckless, profoundly stupid, one wrong step from turning into broken sobs and beating his fists against the pavement. But it had been wonderful too, everything feeling slightly unreal and just perfect enough to feel like the best days of his childhood. He’d breathed deeply, like his head had been underwater until that moment, and he hadn’t needed any powder or pill to feel it. After a while, even the space where Benten should have been standing began to feel less painful and almost friendly.

He’d felt like Juno Steel again and, honestly, for that night it hadn’t seemed like a bad thing.

He’d almost forgotten that night, in it’s bitch of a hangover that had stretched on for years and years of bitterness and depression and clawing himself back to some kind of control over his own body and his own mind. But it had been a pretty fun night.

“Would you like to keep it?” Nureyev asked gently, hand moving from his waist and sliding round until his arms encircled him completely, holding him fast, “We could take it with us and...I don’t know, perhaps I could sew it into something for you, a garter or…”

Juno leaned back in his arms until Nureyev’s forehead was pressed to the crown of his skull.

“Nah. I’m gonna throw it out. Should have done it years ago, honestly.”

There was a tinge of relief to how Nureyev smiled and kissed the top of his head, “But I think you needed to come here today. Am I right?”

Juno smiled crookedly, “I did...thanks for coming with me.”

“Of course,” Nureyev murmured, as if Juno didn’t even need to thank him for something like that, as if it was obvious he’d wanted to be with him as he’d faced his difficult memories.

But standing there, holding his old wedding dress, Juno felt like he really did.

“Come on, I’m done moping. Let’s go do something fun, there’s a tea place over in Halcyon that’s right up your alley,” he turned in Nureyev’s arms and kissed his cheek lightly before leading him back to the door.

Now he could understand why everything seemed so much older, so caked in dust that seemed to show more years than had actually gone by. It wasn’t because of time as it was distance. It was the fact that he was a completely new Juno Steel, who could barely remember being so sad, so angry at the world. He was looking at the relics of another life, one he’d gladly left behind.

Maybe that was the reason Juno had wanted to come back here, when he could have been feeding his fiance cake from the end of a fork or something else suitably romantic and engagement-y. After all, it wasn’t really as far off as it seemed sometimes. He’d made those bad decisions, he’d hurt those people and been hurt in turn. It did Juno good to remember that.

Because now he could see how far he’d come.

He would close the door and plunge it all into darkness, the dress melted into a careless puddle of fabric where he’d let it fall. He would toss the keys down at the desk of the storage unit place and tell them cheerfully to throw out everything, he was done with it all. He would pull Nureyev out into a surprisingly sunny afternoon, into their new names for the day, and live the kind of life he’d always dreamed he’d have but had never really believed he would. And then he would leave, back into the stars with his family.

And Juno Steel wouldn’t look back.

[prince-toffee]

Fallin’ For A Fallin’ Angel II

His eyes slowly opened, struggling to keep apart as they adjusted to the bright light. A pained grunt escaped his throat as the clone began to regain his consciousness. HTK 218-666 did not know where he was. His mind was sluggish, trying to process whatever had transpired. The first thing he truly noticed was his comfort - not often did he awaken to softness, never infact. 218′s pod was hard, metallic, cold and jagged. With malfunctioning cables - they didn’t serve much real purpose now as the ex-general had used up all his Life Force rations. The cables that binded to his neck, back and arms were more of an ornament than a necessity - to make the the crashed wreck feel more... homely. It was a familiar feeling - not a pleasant one, but a one he knew.

But then it hit him, he wasn’t in his pod, was he. He opened his eyes to see something above him. Some sort of rectangular canopy of fabric, held up by four pillars which descended all around him. And a light pinkish red veil surrounded all the sides between the pillars. A force field perhaps. Was this a prison?! Was he captured?! The defective clone shot up, looking around his new unfamiliar surroundings. There was a sheet of thin fabric covering him, it was smooth and cool to the touch. 218 flanged the cover off. Only then realised that most of his uniform was gone.

Which wasn’t a novelty to him, back on The Velvet Glove uniforms weren’t gifted until after the cloning process and then taken away again when put into storage. Being bare wasn’t new. What 218 was worried about was perhaps they had searched him, maybe taken samples - his wounds seemed healed.

Who? Who was it? Who captured him? The memories slowly returned back to him, bit by bit as he strained his mind. There were attackers, creatures of the desert. He remembered he was near victorious, but his will power was not enough, he was knocked out. He was weak. Brother was right. ‘Near’ wasn’t enough. He failed, again. 218′s fist tightened and he grew infuriated at his own shortcomings, he had to make this right. He looked over himself, his wounds were tended to, strange. He had to make sure if all the injuries were sealed up right. But first, the forcefield.

He looked at the pink veil, it was see-through, probably taunting him with freedom on the other side, no doubt. He had to be careful, it could incinerate him on contact for all he knew. One of the plush stuffed bags that was placed under his head was thrown at the forcefield, but it did not react - it simply flew through it. Curious. Did someone accidently deactivated it? Was the plushie bag some sort of unlocking key? That could be his chance. He gently and slowly pocked it with his finger and pulled it back as quick as possible. His brain module took a moment to read what the nerve receptors had came back with - nothing. No pain. No resistance. No forcefield.

Now braver with the confidence of a survivor, he pocked his whole hand through, and even waved it around. Success! Next he poked his head through looking from side to side. No guards. A pitiful prison. He noticed the tattered remains of his uniform, no good, it was already worn out - past its time. 218 already had the lower half of the uniform already on him, he didn’t know why it was left on. He placed a foot on the floor then the next. His muscles screamed at him, but he managed to stand. It seemed his defection was getting worse. It seemed like his feet were the next to fail.

He did not like his defective form on display, so he reached for the covering that was laid onto of him and draped it around himself.

He pushed on, literally, and doors to the room weren’t even locked. Perhaps this was no prison. As the clone opened the doors he was hit by waves of incredibly bright light and loud noise. 218 was in some corridor or porch, because he looked apon a busy hustle and bustle of a town square at work. Few steps forward and he was holding onto an ornate wooden railing, he looked down at the society at work. The town was constructed at the foot of the mount on which the castle stood in which 218 was in. Marketeers selling, customers buying, children running through the streets. 218 did not know how long he had been unconscious, but it looked like a busy morning with the rising... moon... and suddenly he remembered why he hated this planet.

218 also noticed a strange statue at the centre of the town. Chiselled out of stone, a tribute, he was familiar with such things - countless worlds under the control of the Horde had erected tributes in the image of their holy lord and master. But what creature held dominion over this world?

The being was in the position of natural wings a part of her physique, it reminded him of the Horde insignia - the wings of the vampire. This was terrible. These people were living under a false idol, praising a pretender. This was unacceptable. He had to save these people - bring them into the light. Perhaps... this was it! The redemption he was waiting for! He could save them, direct them to their true saviour. He could save them!

He began to walk off, he was still in his capturer’s base of operations. He had to get out. The thought of rallying the people below briefly crossed his mind, but he shook it off - he clearly needed to get back to the crash site, return to the repairs. Fixing the warship and leaving that miserable backwater planet was imperative! But all the bots were destroyed, defences weakened, and his assailants knew where he would be - there was no more hiding. He wouldn’t be safe back there. So where now? He couldn’t exactly blend in with the local populace.

Just then his thought process was cut off as another person walking in the opposite direction bumped into him. 218 didn’t have much weight to him so he got pushed out of the way quite easily. The individual in question who was storming off was not of the same race as the invaders at the wreck. Their skin darker, shorter, no scarlet exo-skeleton over their body. The creature had short violet hair and what looked like oil and grease on her clothing. “Hey buddy, watch it!”

“...Watch what?” 218 asked to himself quietly under his breath. The passer by clearly didn’t hear him, nor did they care to. 218 reached large stairs, leading down to the town square. It looked like the guards occupying the top of the stairs were both distracted by some raving salesman. This was his chance. However, he was startled by a voice behind him.

“Ah, so I see you have woken up.”

The clone spun around to see a tall figure cloaked in shadow. The intimidating character set 218 slightly on edge. The figure wore a black cape and black uniform, body biologically the same as all the other native beings around this complex.

218 could have sworn that the mystery man’s eyes lit up with a spark of red. It was probably nothing - a trick of the light. The Horde trooper remained silent, so the figure decided to take the lead on the interaction. He stepped forward, into the light. 218 unbenounced to himself clutched closer the blanket sheet.

“Heh, welcome back to the land of the living, my friend. You slept like a log.” 218 simply listened and stayed quiet, partially because he didn’t know what to say, this wasn’t the way he thought the situation would play out. He did not know he was going to be greeted, not after what happened in the wreck.

He saw the creature look him up and down examining his form, as his chest lay bare. But there wasn’t much to look at, due to the defection he couldn’t keep on weight - all fats and necessary nutrients degraded quicker than normal, as did his body cells. He was a walking corpse. A shameful form in the eyes of his Brother. The individual stopped mere few small centimetres away from 218, their chests almost touching. The caped being was a head taller than him. “I’m glad to see you fit enough to attempt an escape.”

218 swallowed down on his heart attempting to jump out of his throat. His voice was not as deep as 218′s but held just as much authority. “Ah, I see had the splendid pleasure of meeting Princess Minerva, her winning charm never seems to fade with time, hmm.”

Her?... The clone guessed the creature he was referring to was the being that had stormed off, pushing 218′s shoulder. Her?... He did not know what that was.

The towering scorpion looked back at 218 looking as if he was expecting something. 218 didn’t get it. “Not one for jokes are we? Well, not every one is a zinger. I’ll work on it. Don’t let that discourage you. Come on. I can’t exactly let you go right now, but I’d rather we speak as civilised people rather than have those prickly gents over there force you to follow me.” The scorpion pointed with his claw at the two spear wielding guards whom had positioned themselves behind the clone. Ready to strike. That made 218 comply with the peaceful option, of course.

218 followed close behind as the individual led him through the corridors and hallways and down a stair well. The soldier memorised the whole journey backwards just in case he had to run out and escape. “Oh, Ra-dammit, haven’t even introduced myself. I just presumed you knew who I am, but well, you don’t look like you’re from around... anywhere. Do you know who I am?” He asked softly, and curiously. 218 just stared back without words.

“Yeah, course you don’t. Nobody does, nobody cares. I’m the King of this kingdom and what do I have to show for it? What do I truly have, huh?” He looked back at 218 with annoyance in his expression, the clone simply starred back. “Well, my name is Niro, King Niro if you want to be formal, I guess. But like I said, nobody cares.” Niro? Noted - 218 thought to himself. And a ‘king’ was ruler of some sorts, 218 was pretty sure, his troops had encountered all sorts of societies and civilizations on their voyages across galaxies. This was a figure of power standing infront of 218. He didn’t know how Niro compared to other worlds’ authorities - opposition to his Brother never lasted long. You never really got to know them before heads started rolling. 218 was not apart of guest accommodations, he was a general - a soldier. On the frontlines until the end. He didn’t ‘get to know’ people, he ended them.

“And what’s your name?”

“HTK 218-666. Top-General of the 218th Legion. Brother amongst the ranks of the Galactic Horde.”

“...Cool... So you’re not from around here, figured.” They approached a dark rusted door with two guards at it’s sides. They both bow at the sight of their king, and each pulled down a lever on the wall behind them. The ‘klank’ was heavy and loud. 218 then beard many gears and cogs turn and the rusted door began to raise upward. This so called Niro strolled inside, he of course followed. He briefly turned back to see the four guards remained outside as the door shut back down.

The clone quickly turned back, narrowing his eyes at the table that stood infront of them. The room’s walls and floor were all metallic, dark, from what 218 could tell, they were scorch marks. All around the room. “What is this?” Niro slowly made his way around and sat opposite the clone on the far side of the table. He gesture to 218 to do the same.

“So you do talk. Great. We’ll be doing a lot of talking. Please, my friend, sit.” He extended his claw towards the empty seat. But there were no guards in this room, he had no power over 218, 218 was weak, he admitted that to himself, but one on one, surely he could take him. But then what? Four armed guards still waiting outside, possibly hundreds more patrolling the complex. He was trapped.

“And please don’t try to escape, I know you’re thinking about it. You see this glass sheet behind me?” Niro knocked on the glass as he leaned back on his chair. “It’s one way glass, my ever so trusty Force-Captain is on he other side. One word and she pulls a switch and electrocutes this entire room. And don’t worry about me, I won’t feel a thi-”

“Because your hide is electrically resistant.” 218 recalled to himself the confrontation at the power core back at the ship - the scorpion soldiers were unaffected by a direct current of electricity from a dislodged cable. He needed to think of alternate offensive techniques.

“You’ve got quite the keen eye. So you know what’s at steak - you, getting fried.”

Fried?

“I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“You threaten me first, and then you want me to comply? Negative. I will tell you nothing. An assault on the form of Prime is a crime throughout the known universe. Unhand me and bring me back to my Brother and you will be forgiven.”

“Forgiven? Who- wait, universe? You mean that which is beyond the barrier?”

This conversation was puzzling 218 more and more he did not understand what this creature was talking about. Did- did he really not know what the ‘universe’ was? From the looks of this planet it was incredibly primitive, but THIS primitive? It could be that these naïve natives haven’t yet discovered interstellar travel. This idea led to more bad news, if so, then this world could not yet offer resources needed to fix the warship.

“You’re an alien, from outside. Please, tell us more.” The king leaned over more, clearly eager to listen, encouraging 218 with his captivation with the topic.

218 realised this was unsafe, he had already told those people too much, much more than they ever anticipated to hear. He couldn’t let the secrets of the Horde be taken from him by a backwater people. He could not fail his Brother again. “I will say no more.”

Niro looked displeased. “Opal.”

In that moment the room went red, the sound of... some thing veering up, a machine of sorts maybe. But 218 did not have time to think too much about it, because the shock came soon after. The air did not change, there was no heat, it was cold rather. The pain was quick to spread, started at the bottom of his feet and shot up to his brain. It felt like having nails hammered through his organs. He was weak. He only lasted a few seconds in silence, after three he let out a scream. The pain disappeared as soon as the first tear formed at the edge of his eye. The room lost its red glow and reverted its colour palette back to the dead still greys and silvers.

“Sit.”

He complied.

“I must admit that was a bit too much than I would’ve approved, Opal.”

“You cannot break me, for I am already broken. I will not fail my Brother again. I will have nothing out of me.”

In that moment of defiance 218 and Niro looked into each other’s eyes. The scorpion king saw the devotion and pride in the clone’s eyes, the willingness of self-sacrifice. Niro knew the man opposite him was going to die for whatever cause he believed in. That spark of determination. The same look he saw in the mirror every morning in his own eyes. Both of the men spotted the room once again turning into a dark shade of red. Niro watched the enigmatic man shut his eyes and took in a shaky breath. Niro knew very little about the man infront of him, but he knew in that moment he accepted his fate. A conviction and dedication few have.

“STOP!”

The Hillian king exclaimed at the sheet of glass behind him at his Force-Captain. The colour faded away, yet it didn’t completely disappear. The voice of the Force-Captain came through the window. “Sir, he took out an entire detachment, this is an interrogation room - he’s being interrogated.”

“Force-Captain, are you disobeying a direct order from your king?”

The Force-Captain did not respond, but the shade of red did veer and disappeared. The captain remained silent in that Niro hoped was shame. The king turned back to the frightened prisoner. 218 chose to reopen his eyes, he looked at Niro in confusion - weighing out his options. Was trust earned in this moment or was it a ruse?

“Why not just kill me?” 218 asked.

“Like I said: we’re here just to ask you some questions. I would only kill you if you were a threat to Scorpion Hill, you’re not.”

218 knew he shouldn’t have, but he kind of took offensive from that, he was dangerous.

“But trust me, she wanted to. You killed her husband, on that scouting party. Through those eight hours of unconsciousness I had to make sure she wouldn’t kill you. Best sleep you’ve had in a while I’m willing to bet, by the looks of that train wreck to live in. Do, you... live in there?”

“A ship wreck, and yes I have taken residence in it for shelter a- have you said eight cycles?!”

“Hours, but- sure.”

“This is unexpectable! I have already wasted six more cycles than usual! So much possible productivity gone! I must return to the repairs immediately!” 218 rocketed up onto his feet ready to walk out.”

“How- what? Hold on, what repairs?”

“I will tell you no more.”

“If you won’t tell us, we can’t help you, friend. Its simple as that. You appeared from nowhere - your a mystery. And so you are seen as a threat. People hate what they don’t understand. Help me understand.”

“Niro, was it?”

“Yes.”

“All you need to understand is - if you return me to my spacecraft, if you aid me, you will be rewarded and welcomed by my Brother. He can show you all the light. He can offer you a perfect world.”

“Who is your brother?”

“Horde Prime.

The Emperor of the Known Universe. The most powerful being in existence, his empire is endless - far superior to whatever your world holds. But give into him and he will take you in and make sure faction a jewel in his empire.”

“I’ll have to decline on that offer. I find that the more power people have, the more they see themselves as saviours. You’re not going anywhere.”

“But the Horde can gift you, reward you, the empire has collected and melded technologies from across numerous galaxies - he can give you interstellar travel, advanced communications, synthetic nutrition, biological enhancements, limitless knowledge of the cosmos, language, salvation, weapons-”

“Weapons?... What kind of weapons?”

Of course, should’ve known. 218 knew this might be his only way out of this predicament, he needed to tell this Niro what he wanted to hear, “The Horde has taken dominance over countless systems, many by force. To do this the engineers and scientists of the Horde had to develop instruments of destruction which could topple armies. I can give them to you. I was a general - I hold the accumulated knowledge of dozens of battalions I have commanded. Horde Prime needs me, I am crucial to the cause. Help me and the knowledge to conquer worlds, can be yours.”

218 saw Niro deliberating, thinking over everything said. He had a lot to consider, but 218 needed the answer now, he needed to rush him, make him slip up - act rash. 218 needed to return to his Brother’s side, his Brother needed him! He was one of his top generals. And bringing a world with him for the Horde to assimilate, an offering to show he wasn’t a waste, a failure. Brother would see that 218 was worth something - a useful tool, a loyal soldier. THIS was his redemption.

“This ‘Horde Prime’ is he really that influential? Would he have the might to liberate Scorpion Hill from the mercy of other kingdoms?”

“There has never been a mightier lord in the universe’s history.”

“And if I decline?” Niro decided to test the waters.

“Then my Brother’s wrath will rain down on you, and a different party would be blessed with the fruits of my Brother’s labour.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. Other kingdoms of Etheria are not so welcoming to outsiders from beyond their walls, not to mention from beyond this dimension. Scorpion Hill is your best bet. The others will simply label you - mad.”

“Than you accept?” 218 raised the brow at the talking king.

“I suppose I do.”

Niro agreed to aid the alien man, if he was a man, he was no fool of course, he knew that spark of devotion in those eyes meant he was telling the truth, but that spark had the possibilities to burn forests. Niro needed to watch his own back. But he also needed to see more - how good were these weapons - was this prisoner worth keeping around. Niro extended his claw to 218 in acceptance, however 218 did not quite understand the motion, he stared at it discombobulated.

“Am- am I supposed to do... something with that?”

“Oh boy.”

---

After a far too long explanation of what a hand shake was, the two did. 218 was lead off by the guards back to what was then labelled his quarters and Niro returned to Opal’s side behind the one way glass in the observation room. He could tell she was displeased, no, more like infuriated. Understandable.

“Your highness, may I speak freely?”

Here it comes. “[sigh] Opal if you want to berate me then just get on with it.”

“Are you insane!??!”

“Aren’t we all?” Niro replied calmly juxtapose to the loud bark of his Force-Captain.

“He killed a full detachment of our troops! I cannot even explain how untrustworthy he is! You don’t even know his name!-”

“Yeah, I do. It’s 321-123 or something to that effect.”

“You’re joking around? Why are you joking around?” Opal placed her hands on her hips eyeing the king waiting a twist.

“Cause the talk’s not over yet. First of all, you saw his physique, that man’s made out of match sticks, with all the guards clogging the corridors there’s no chance he’s escaping. Especially now that he doesn’t have the home advantage. He’s trapped and he knows it.”

“What if he wants to be there? The whole alien story, it’s- it’s out there. He could be a spy for BrightMoon, or the Salineas, the princess of Dryl wasn’t happy with the deal. Dozens of other smaller kingdoms too.”

“Second of all, Scorpion Hill is home to a multitude of races, from all around Etheria, I’ve seen them all. I know my people. I don’t know him. And those eyes? Eyes of a believer. He’s not lying, and if he is, you get to say ‘I told you so’. And we know how much you love that.”

“We’re taking a huge risk with this. The Council of High Priests will be hounding at the door the moment they find out. I’ve managed to hold back the paperwork’s circulation, but they will find out. And that man you just let out, interrogated in secret - is a walking omen of bad mojo to them. We could be- no, we are in serious trouble!”

“Third of all, he can be the answer. If what he says is true, and I believe that he is. Then this man, if he is a man, can be the way by which I can free Scorpion Hill from the parasites that drained it of its life. With those weapons hierarchy won’t mean much, and what do those crooked old fools have? A wooden stick, some holy water?”

“You- are you serious!? You’re planning an overthrow. Don’t get me wrong Niro, I hate the council, just as much as you and I’d stand by your side until the moons crash down, but it’s a spider web, the council is tied to dozen other kingdoms and unknown benefactors - you pull that string and heaven’s gonna fall on your head.”

“And last of all, we match out - war - kingdom after kingdom, until we’re truly free.”

Opal looked at Niro, his eyes narrow and his claw bending steel in its grips, the desk gave in under his claws strength. Niro grew more and more irritated with each day in his position of powerlessness. He knew she was worried, maybe even scared, but she knew why he was willing to risk it all. Niro would fight armies single-handedly, if he had to, his blood boiled for a fight - for his people. This individual, whoever he was, was in deed an omen of the council’s worst fear, but if Niro played it right it could be an omen of a brighter future.

Opal placed a hand on the king’s shoulder, she felt the need to persuade her old friend out of whatever crazy act he was about to write, she began, “Niro-” and ended, as a guard entered the room with an announcement and a pant in his voice from the urgent sprint.

“My lord, Force-Captain.” They bowed, “The scout survivor from the last mission has woken up.”

“Like I said the talk’s not over yet. Led to the infirmary soldier.” The three marched off with haste. It did not take long for them to reach the infirmary, all the medical staff bowed as their king entered. He ignored the gesture as he often did, he said countless times to treat him like anyone else, or at least no bowing. Niro hated the feeling of superiority, of being worshipped to. In his eyes he was just someone who wanted to make a difference. He got to the resting bed of the survivor, bruises all over his body, many blood stained changed bandages. The Hillian soldier attempted to salute to the royal, but pulled their arm back the moment they felt something crack.

“Easy soldier, rest. Can you talk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fantastic.” Niro pulled up a chair next to the injured scout and sat down, “Mission report.” For the next half an hour Niro questioned about the mission and about the enemy they had met there. New details came to light: robots, traps, some sort of power core, a savage yet resourceful opponent. And their name.

“And then he proclaimed himself as - Hordak, my lord.”

“Hordak.” Niro repeated, the name lingering on his tongue. Curious.

[clawedcosplay]

Space and Sinners

A scifi AU for Promare, in which Lio dedicates himself to making change, but looses sight of what he's changing the world for.

Chapter One

18+ Galolio

There will eventually be accompanying art and cosplays!

Exhaustion had long since dulled itself to a roaring background noise, like thunder in the distance. Lio wanted to turn off the blurring light of the Vivitpad, but his sense of duty kept his purple eyes open and trained on his document. After being elected, the pressure had been on. Lio wouldn’t be like the decades of council seat members who made promises they never delivered on. 

Neon lights slipped through the window across his face, and despite his duty he found his attention dragged to it. He stood in his silent and dark office, strolling to the massive windows to the city. His city, now. Below him there was a woman dressed ornately, pinned against a building as her things were searched. 

The bright green eyelashes that framed his eyes narrowed. Another prostitute getting arrested. A Cytype. Didn’t they know they brought down all of the lower class when they acted so deviant? They gave people like him a bad name, he who had fought tooth and nail to be the first Cytype on the council. And a Burnish Cytype at that.

Lio cracked the window, and the sobbing mixed with police radio buzzing swirled around him like a lullaby. He fished out his juul, taking a drag and letting his body be bathed in smoke and neon. 

He would change it. The Cytypes would be seen as equals to the Biomen and Biowomen upper class. Lio will make real change in this worl-

The lights flashed on and the doors slammed open. 

“Boss!” two voices shouted, and Lio flinched, juul falling from his fingers.

He fumbled for it as it clattered out the window, smacking against the sill and down past the upper level, into the abyss that was his home. The lower levels of the city. 

He was only given a second to mourn the loss of his blessed TCH when two pairs of arms threw themselves around him, dragging Lio back from the window. 

“Boss, you’ve been stressing way too much since you won-,” 

“Yes, you haven’t even left the capital building. So,”

“We decided to get you something! Help you relax a little, yeah boss?” 

Guiera and Meis. Those two would finish each other’s sentences as they bumbled over themselves in excitement. Lio sighed and turned around in their arms so he could look at them. 

“Tell me it’s a fix.” he grumbled, still salty about having dropped his old one, “If not, then I need to get back to work.” He tugged out of both sets of hands to get to his desk again. Damn… His Vivitpad had gone into sleep mode. He danced his fingers across the screen to wake it back up, only to have it slip from his hands. 

Guiera lifted it high into the air, smirking. “Sorry boss! No can do! Mandatory break! You need to destress a little.”

“O-oi! Give that back!” Lio hissed, reaching after it.

Too late. As much as he hated to admit it, Guiera had about a foot on him. He couldn’t reach. 

Lio fell back down to his heels. “Fine,” he huffed, hair bristling, “What did you get me?” 

The two shared a shit eating grin. 

‘God, they shared the same gay braincell’ Lio thought to himself. 

Then movement out of the corner of his eye brought Lio’s attention back to the door. For a moment his jaw dropped before he could manage to gather it back up. 

Another Cytype. Likely an Iceist. But that wasn’t what caught Lio’s attention. 

The blue haired man was clad in exotic clothes, even by modern day’s fashion. A neon green curtain skirt fell over the man’s slim hips, and a neon green top clung to his muscular chest, barely held together by straining black cords. Neon green and black were Lio's election campaign colors, and the clothes just emphasized this man's body perfectly. Lio himself felt outdone in his tired mandarin collar shirt and dress shorts with capital sash. Part of him longed to dress in exotic fashion and let loose in the underground music clubs that the Cytype people created with their own hands. Maybe he could take this gorgeous stranger along. Get lost in those almost glowing eyes… 

Lio’s daydream snapped shut as he himself slammed closed the drawer of his desk. This was a prostitute in his office. The Biomen and Biowomen could fool around, that was fine for them. But Lio had to hold himself to a higher standard. He would just be another deviant Cytype if he lowered himself in such a way!

“Boss,” Guiera grunted, clapping his hand down onto the other’s shoulder. 

Lio jumped, looking at him. 

“This is just another fix. Just like your other habit. Unbutton your collar and relax, yeah?” he said, in a surprising moment of stoicism. 

“Well… maybe-,” Lio stuttered, considering it for a second. 

“Cool! Bye!” Guiera shouted. 

“Have fun boss!” Meis added, slamming the door shut with the beautiful stranger stuck inside. 

“Damn it,” Lio grunted, rubbing his hair. 

“Councilman Lio?” the stranger asked, cocking his head to the side. His bouncy blue spiked hair flopping along. 

He looked like a dog… 

Lio slumped down in his large chair behind his desk. “You know, I’m not the biggest fan of your industry.” 

For a moment the stranger’s face fell, but the look quickly disappeared. “Well, most people aren’t. But if you wish me to provide you my service, I would be pleased to,” He said, striding to the desk. 

“You only say that because those two have already paid you, no?” Lio snapped. 

Something flicked through his eyes again, before he stepped around the desk. Lio forced his eyes to look anywhere but how the skirt hugged around the stranger’s ass. They would save the politics and discussion for later though. Lio did need to relax. He couldn’t do his job if he kept so tense. He sighed, feeling tension roll from his skin like the smoke he missed so dearly. 

Worn and warm hands run over Lio’s hand, and Lio felt flames lick at his stomach. Suddenly he realized he missed this just as much, if not more than the clubs and freedom of a life without politics. Companionship… was hard to find when your life was your work. 

The blue haired stranger sinks down to his knees, his rough fingers running down to Lio's ankle. 

“May I?” he asked, fingers hooking into the laces on the councilman’s combat boots. 

Lio’s mind muses how soft the stranger’s voice seemed, nodding wordlessly. 

The man pulled at the laces, painstakingly. Every time his fingers brush the latex material on his shoes, Lio feels his skin light on fire. Oh god… how long has it been? Lio slumps into his chair, feeling shivers run up his spine. 

The fingers finally slip his shoe off, the three inch sole clunking as it falls to the ground. Then finally skin meets skin again, sliding up his thighs. 

“You shave your legs, councilman?” the prostitute asked, letting his face run against the soft skin. 

Lio frowned. “I like the feel-,” He starts to say when his entire body jolts. 

The stranger had parted his lips to drag his tongue up from ankle to knee. It was precious, sacred, like the act was an act of worship. And Lio had never felt that before. 

Lio quickly overcame his shock to ask, “They’re not paying you hourly, are they?”

“No. fixed rate,” he muttered, dragging his face up to where Lio’s shorts started, teasing his tongue up under the tight fabric. 

“Then what are you doing?” Lio hissed, gathering at his constitution like sand that kept slipping from his fingers. 

“Is this not what you want?” the stranger muttered. 

Lio frowned. 

What did he want? 

“Master Lio?” the blue haired man asked timidly. 

Lio’s attention and purple eyes were dragged down to him. 

“Yes?” 

“The name’s Galo,” He said, standing to his full height and slamming his hand down on the wall behind Lio, “And you better learn it fast, because it seems you want me to make you scream it.” 

“Pardon?” Lio asked, hair fluffing out of place. Did this man just flip a switch?! What the hell?! What happened to worshipping him?! 

"Well, that's what you want, right? No more slow burns." The man's hand found Lio's tight collar and yanked it even tighter around the thin neck. "You want me to take control?" 

Lio closed his purple eyes, feeling the steady flame of arousal ignite into a roaring fire. 

Oh god he wanted someone to take control. Responsibility had been weighing his shoulders down and down and down, and he wanted to release. Wanted to lose himself- 

"No," Lio said, "I can't lose control. For all I know you're an assassin. I'm sure the Iceist leaders are mad that the first Cytype councilman is a Burnish."  

'Galo' looked put out. "You don't even use your flames. I'm pretty sure if I wanted you dead, you would already be." 

The circuit board over the other Cytype's arm appeared with an icy blue glow and the collar of Lio's shirt froze ever so slightly. 

Lio felt breath catch in his throat like an ice cube. 

"But, that would be stupid. Pretty sure I wouldn't get paid," Galo laughed, releasing Lio's collar. 

The councilman's lips pursed. Something about this man seemed honest. Though maybe it's just the mesmerizing blue eyes. 

"Okay." 

"Okay???" The man mirrored with a look on his face. 

"Okay I'll use your ...services. I have been too tense. It's affecting my work." Lio grumbled, "but I'm not giving up control. Just because I choose to not use my flames doesn't mean I'm untrained in them." 

Lio's own arms lit up with his fire circuit boards. He gripped Galo by his neon green harness and yanked him forward, and the sheer heat generated by Lio's power made the other's bangs dance. 

Though Galo's eyes lit up, not in fear but in amazement. He pressed forward as the burnish's knuckles seared into his chest, but teased his lips just an inch from Lio's.

"Suppose that means I'm in for an interesting time tonight," Galo whispered to him. 

Lio felt his stomach flip over. 

"Suppose that does." 

[readyplayerhobi]

So You Wanna Be The Best

; Pokemon Trainer!Jungkook x Pokemon Trainer!Reader

; Genre: Fluff, crack

; Word Count: 8.1k

; Synopsis: Every Pokemon trainer has a rival, and it’s just your luck that you got stuck with your hometown nemesis Jeon Jungkook. As any good rival, he’s determined to beat you to the title of Pokemon Master and he might have a chance at both that and you...if he wasn’t so dang inept.

; A/N: So I finally hit 10k followers and I’ve had this floating around almost finished for months...so I finally finished it to say thanks! It’s nothing serious...and it’s probably not even good but...I hope you get some enjoyment out of it anyway! :) slight spoilers for Stranger Things season 2 and season 7 of Game of Thrones lol

-

Groaning quietly, you pull out the water bottle from your bag and take a deep pull. It’s a little warm from being stuck in your bag for so long and you’re beginning to run low, making you vow to drop by the PokéMart when you next get chance.

The next Mart isn’t for another half a day’s walk, though you could definitely shorten that distance if you used the fold away bicycle you’d finally invested in the other week. Blinking up at the blazing hot sun, you chew your lip lazily for a few minutes as you place your bottle firmly back onto the side of your bag.

It’s too hot to bicycle, you decide to yourself and begin to trek forward once more. Your shoes are getting a little worn out, the rubber thinning and you resolve to hit up Goldenrod City when you next get chance. The magnet train would take you there, but you’d have to reach Saffron City first.

And you’re nowhere near there.

It only takes another half an hour of walking before you’re tugging at your blue vest top, grimacing at the sight of it slowly turning transparent around your sweaty areas. Looking down at the ridiculous amount of boob sweat you’re generating under your bra, you decide to finally do something about it to try and cool down a little.

There’s no-one on the path, so you grasp the third Pokeball on your belt and press the button to expand it. “Come out Starmie!” You call and watch as a purple, multi-pointed star Pokémon appears. Letting out a little noise, it jumps around and leans backward to look up at you, red jewel glinting in the hot light.

“Hey girl, it’s really hot. Can you help me out and give me a little spray? Little! Not water gun please.” You warn, reaching a finger out to warn her. She had a mischievous temperament and was as likely to knock you flying with a water gun as she was to give you some spray.

Thankfully, she must be in a pretty happy mood as her second set of arms spins frantically while she makes a high pitched noise. Moving away from you, she leans forward slightly and a gentle spout of water erupts from her in an arc, tiny droplets falling and creating a rainbow curtain.

Grinning, you dash between the arc and giggle wildly, tugging your black and white cap off and letting your hair go damp with the cool water. Dancing around under the spray, you laugh and sigh happily as the water cools your hot skin to a pleasant temperature.

“You know, if this was Jurassic Park then you’d be the first one to get eaten by the T-Rex doing that.” A deep voice suddenly calls out, making you shriek in surprise and jump away from whoever it was. Almost immediately, Starmie reacts and shoots a high powered jet of water in the direction of whatever had made you scared.

A loud yelp sounds out around the quiet area as the young guy gets thrown backwards from the force, his white shirt immediately going see through and sticking to his defined abdomen while his navy jeans darken even further.

“Starmie, stop!” You call out, running over and running a soothing hand along her top arm. She lets out a frustrated sound before stopping, her second arms spinning to show her agitation. You pat her gently and give a smile. “Thank you girl, I really appreciated it. I’ll make sure to give you a Poke Candy when I get one, okay?”

She makes a happy sound at that and jumps, going back into the Pokeball without complaint as you turn to face your rude interloper. Striding over to where he lays on the ground, you stand next to him with hands resting on your hips while looking down at him with a brow raised.

He gasps on the floor, wiping at the water on his face before brushing the wet strands of his dark hair away from his forehead. “That Starmie is a menace.” Is all he says for a moment as he lays there, before groaning and sitting up on his hands.

Your eyes graze his figure, noting the defined abdominal muscles on show along with delightfully thick thighs in the tight jeans. He really must be a sucker for pain because those jeans must be chafing anyway in this heat, nevermind now that they’re wet.

“My Starmie just doesn’t like you because you’re always mean to her. And it was the Lost World, not Jurassic Park. Loser.” You mumble, rolling your eyes as he glares up at you with those pretty eyes that has everyone else thinking he’s sweeter than sweet. And okay, maybe he is sometimes,

Since you were little, Jeon Jungkook has always been the boy that has needled you in the worst way. When you’d gone to Professor Oak’s lab to choose your starter Pokémon, he’d proudly stood to the side and waited until you’d picked yours. Your Chikorita had seen him pick Cyndaquil, cackling at how fire beats grass. Probably the only time he’d ever got a type right.

Ever since, he’d been your official Pokémon rival trainer. You might respect him more as a trainer if he wasn’t a giant buffoon who was about as good at training Pokémon as you were at ballet dancing. And consider you fall over if you turn too fast, you’re really not good at dancing. But he wasn’t a terrible friend in fairness, just overly competitive.

“You’re a loser.” Is his quick witted reply and you sigh deeply, rolling your eyes. How did you get stuck with him again?

“Why are you here anyway? I thought you were supposed to be heading over to Kanto?” As much as you make a lot of noise about him, you actually kinda miss Jungkook when he’s gone for long periods. He may say some of the dumbest stuff you’ve ever heard, but he wasn’t the worst travel companion you’d ever had.

And travelling across the world could get a little lonely sometimes.

He sits and stares at you for a moment before standing, grimacing and sticking his tongue out in an ‘ick’ face as he peels his wet shirt off his chest. “This is gross. Actually disgusting. You need to train your Starmie better.”

Spluttering at his outrageous words, you viciously rub what hair of his you can reach until it’s going in a million directions while he whines at you and tries to dodge. “You take that back you little shit! Do you even have a water Pokémon? I know that when it comes to types, you become as useful as a chocolate fucking tea kettle.”

He slides out of reach and raises his hands in a karate gesture, causing you to fling your head to the side. Honestly, for a 21 year old man he’s incredibly immature. And he turns you just as immature.

“Anyway, I was gonna go to Kanto but then I found this sick Pokémon and I just had to show it off to you. He looks freaking awesome, I bet you have nothing like it.” He goads childishly, crossing his arms over his chest, almost transparent under the wet fabric, and smirking. You’ll admit, you’re distracted by the way the muscles in his arms bulge at the movement and you curse the fact that Pokémon gyms aren’t the only kind of gyms he goes to.

“You’re such a fucking kid. You’re like that kid in Stranger Things that finds that baby demogorgon and thinks it’s cool when everyone else is screaming that it’s dumb. I swear, you’d destroy the world if it involved something you thought looked cool.” You scoff and he glares at you.

“SPOILERS. Oh my fucking god, you know I haven’t seen season 2 you bitch! Keep it up, and I’ll fucking spoil that Viserion dies in Game of Thrones.” He hisses, pointing at you in anger and you scream while running at him, hands clawed to his throat.

“YOU JUST DID YOU ASSHOLE!” For a moment you’re both fighting with each other, neither of you realising how ridiculously dumb you look. It’s only when you hear a soft cough that you both freeze, glancing over at a youngster stood there with wide eyes. Jungkook is bent in half, his head firmly underneath your arm as you push at his head.

Immediately, you’re both jumping away from each other and looking away innocently. Coughing yourself, you tap at the ground awkwardly before grinning at the young girl. “Hey, don’t do drugs. You’ll end up like this guy.” You point at Jungkook.

The words have him jumping at you, teeth bared before they turned into a clenched smile at the girl. “Ignore her, she’s just angry that I got a cool Pokémon and she didn’t.” You stare at him in disbelief, ignorant of the way the girl nods slowly before quickly skating away.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” You curse, hands flailing in the air. He stands by and rolls his eyes, sticking his tongue out immaturely.

“Whatever. Wanna fight? I wanna show you my Murkrow.” Jungkook grins, his face practically radiating excitement at his new Pokémon. Sighing, you shrug before dropping your bag to the floor.

“Sure...why not. It’s not like it’s a boiling hot day or anything. Of course, let’s fight with our Pokémon, because that makes sense.” You grumble to yourself, grabbing the Pokeball that you want to use as you watch him send his new acquisition out.

Immediately, a Murkrow appears out of the ball. You watch as the dark Pokémon flies around for a few moments before landing on the ground, giving you an evil glare from underneath his hat shaped feathers.

He does look pretty cool, but Jungkook has more knowledge about video games than he does Pokémon. So you send out your Pokémon with a tiny smirk, knowing he’ll immediately ridicule it. Which he does.

A tiny pink flower floats in the air while a white Pokémon with a green lower half clutches tightly onto the flower. It gives a little chirp at the sight of you before zooming to face the rumbling Pokémon in front of it.

At the sight, Jungkook cracks up and his cackling laugh is probably all that can be heard for a mile around. He laughs for about a minute, arms wrapped around the still damp top of his middle half as he bends over before wiping away the tears.

“A fucking flower? You sent out a flower? What even is that? Murkrow is dark and flying Y/N, oh my god. And you tell me I’m useless with types.” He snorts, rolling his eyes. Smirking at him, you watch as he orders his Murkrow to use pursuit, the dark type move causing it to fly with purpose towards your Pokémon.

“Flabébe, avoid it!” You call out and immediately she darts out of the way, floating gently away from the Murkrow which squawks with outrage. Grinning, it’s with a glance to your Pokémon that you call out. “Okay Flabébe, use moonblast!”

Flabébe squeaks cutely and spins in a circle, looking up into the sky. Today, the moon is just barely visible in the sky as the sun outshines everything else, but it seems to glow a little as your tiny Pokémon draws on its power. As she gets brighter, she suddenly spins in a circle before a glowing, pure white light erupts from her in a direct beam.

It hits Jungkook’s Murkrow head on and you both have to cover your eyes at the blinding light. Once it finishes, Flabébe is left floating happily while Murkrow is collapsed on the floor, having fainted from the instant KO. Smirking, you watch as Jungkook’s jaw drops.

“What the fuck!” He curses, running over to his Murkrow and drawing him back into the Pokeball while he looks up at your Pokémon with wide eyes. “It’s a fucking flower, what the fuck was that?!” Jungkook sounds outraged and you giggle, walking over and letting Flabébe rest on your hand gently.

“You’re still useless with types. Murkrow is dark, Flabébe is fairy. Fairy has a type advantage.” You grin brightly as his disgruntled look, the gentle pout on his lips as he scowls at losing adorable.

“I’ll beat you one day.” He grumbles to himself, cheeks tinging pink with embarrassment at losing. You laugh and pat at his chest lightly as you give Flabébe a tiny stroke of thanks, sending her back into her ball and picking up your bag.

“Sure thing Jungkook, and I look forward to it. I also look forward to the day Michael Bay makes a film without one of those stupid slow mo scenes with an explosion in the background but I doubt that’ll happen soon so...keep hoping! Everyone has to have a dream right!” You call out, waving to him as you begin to make your way down the path.

“Michael Bay’s movies are great! Transformers is fantastic!” He shouts out and you smile despite yourself, shaking your head.

“That right there, is why I never take you seriously. That and you consider Batman & Robin to be the best Batman film!” He curses you out as you walk away from him, causing you to chuckle to yourself. Jungkook might annoy the hell out of you, but you sure do enjoy beating him time after time. Everyone needs some experience right? And he makes it so easy for you.

Especially when he looks that good.

-

You reach Violet City by the end of the day, just as the sun begins to creep past the horizon and the sky erupts in swashes of pinks, purples and oranges. It’s with more than a little happiness that you situate yourself on a grass verge outside of your hostel and munch down on a kimbap and some lemonade that you’d bought from the local store.

You’d swung by the PokeMart as well to buy some potions to heal your wounded while also stocking up on rare candies to treat them all. For half an hour, you simply enjoy the time to yourself. No other trainers are staying at the hostel apparently, so the street is quiet and peaceful with the scent of the nearby flower garden dancing through the air lazily.

Swallowing the last of the kimbap, you dust off your hands before pulling out the packaway bowls and pouring a small amount of Pokémon kibble inside each one. There’s six bowls to go with your six Pokémon, and each one is well aware of which is their bowl. It makes feeding them easy as they all require different amounts as well.

Pouring out water for them as well, you take out your Pokeballs and call them all out, balls popping open as each one of your beloved team emerges. Starmie lets out an excited scream and begins to eat eagerly, which makes you feel bad as you’d asked her to help you so much earlier.

Flabébe chirps softly before floating down to rest at the edge of her bowl, tiny hands grasping a piece of kibble and little mouth taking the softest bites. You have to stop yourself from cooing at the sight before turning your attention to your others.

An annoyed snort lets you know that your Rapidash is irritated and his diamond hard hooves cause sparks to erupt every time he paws at the ground. Walking over to him, you pat the soft, white fur on his neck before running your hand through the blazing hot flames. His trust in you means that it just feels a little warmer than normal and you grin as he noses your pockets, nostrils flaring.

“Okay big guy, okay. Let me heal you first okay?” You murmur, tugging the potion bottle off your belt and heading to his back hooves. A cut from the fight you’d used him in today is prominent and you sigh, running fingers over the top as you crouch down to get a better look. “I’m sorry Rapi, you did good though!”

He’d won the battle for you though, charging forward in a blur of speed to become what looked like a flaming meteor. But he’d suffered before, the Pidgeotto hurting him before it eventually fainted. Spraying the potion on the cut, you watch as it bubbles slightly before healing right up, causing you to smile.

“Good boy, anywhere else hurting?” You ask, running your hand along his back before coming back to his head. Big, bright and kind eyes stare back at you, filled with love and affection. For a moment, you’re left breathless as they remind you of a certain rival trainer. Rapidash shakes his head and you smile, rubbing his silky soft nose before pointing at his bowl.

“Okay, good. Go eat.” Soft clomping is heard as he heads over to his bowl and you cross your arms, watching them all eat. Your Meganium, the final evolved form of the Chikorita that had started your whole journey years ago, has finished eating and is happily playing with your Raichu.

Sitting down next to them all, you sigh deep and let your head fall, the content noises of your Pokémon all you can hear. A soft nose bumping your hand causes you to look down, spying the black body with yellow rings of your Umbreon. Grinning at him, you cross your legs and watch as he purrs happily before jumping into your lap, his big body taking up way too much space.

Running your fingers through his soft fur, you simply watch as his breathing begins to deepen and he slips into a quick nap already. Sometimes, you remember back to when he was a tiny, fluffy Eevee and nostalgia grips your heart. But you love your little dark Pokémon so much, so you know it was the best decision to evolve him.

“Hey butthead, thanks for just leaving me.” Your peaceful moment is interrupted by the voice of your rival, causing you to groan out loud as your head rolls back. There’s silence, before your looking at the upside down figure of Jungkook’s face only inches away from your own.

Letting out a cry, you shift forward and mumble an apology to Umbreon as he grumbles at being jostled around. “Christ Jungkook, what do you think this is? The Spiderman movies?” You grunt at him, fingers getting a little tighter on Umbreon’s fur until he growls at you softly.

The guy sits down with a flop, letting out a deep and long groan as he extends out his long legs and relaxes. Starmie begins to make irritated noises and you make a negative gesture to her, shaking your head. You really don’t want to hear Jungkook’s whines if he ends up wet again. Especially as he’s obviously staying the night at the hostel too.

He surprisingly stays quiet for a moment before he interrupts it as usual. You swear the boy has never spent more than five minutes being quiet or not moving except when he’s sleeping. Even now, his feet are slowly rocking from side to side in a rather childlike movement.

“Your Pokémon are such girly Pokémon, you know that?” He says before getting into a crouch. His own bag, army camouflage and ridiculously big, opens up and he begins to pull out his own Pokémon bowls and food. You sometimes forget that he is actually a trainer too, despite how bad he is at it.

Raising an eyebrow at his words, you watch as he releases his own Pokémon and instructs them to eat. Your own watch warily before you smile at them and gesture. “It’s okay, you can play.” Almost immediately, his Pikachu runs over to your Raichu and they both begin conversing intently.

“Since when did Pokémon have gender norms you butthead? Besides, you’re one to talk. Overcompensating much?” You state wryly, pointing to his ominously large Gyarados that has taken over the fountain in front of the hostel before gesturing to his Arbok that is coiled up.

Jungkook gives you a droll stare. “Yeah, your shitty attitude.” He’s obviously visited the Pokémon Centre as his Murkrow is back, squawking happily as it chows down on kibble. His Typhlosion, the evolved form of Cyndaquil, is sunning himself lazily on a flat rock nearby.

The Scyther he’d caught in the Safari Park in Kanto is currently glaring at everyone from afar. You don’t know why he keeps it around, as it has to have the grumpiest disposition you’ve ever seen in a Pokémon.

“Weird, didn’t know I meant that much to your life to make you revolve your whole team around me. Besides, if you didn’t like this shitty attitude, why do you keep following me around?” Taking a sip of the now warm lemonade from your side, he simply watches for a moment.

His clothes have dried again but there’s still something rather appealing about the way he sits next to you, one arm resting on a knee while his other leg rests on the floor. Scoffing at you, he tugs out a granola bar and chews down on it, making soft noises of annoyance at the bland flavour.

Rolling your eyes at his behaviour, you reach into your bag and throw him the remaining kimbap, trying to ignore the way his face lights up in an adorable bunny-esque smile. “Because of that. You’re too kind-hearted to turn me away yeah?”

Watching him through narrowed eyes, you scoff lightly and push at his broad shoulder. “More like your mom would ream my ass out worse than Mrs Weasley if I let you die.” He glares at you at that, giving you the finger before taking a huge bite of the kimbap.

“Fuck you too.” He gets out, voice muffled as his cheeks are stuffed full of seaweed, rice and spicy tuna. “Anyway, you’d be so lucky to see my dick and see if it stacks up.” At that, he nods to his Gyarados that is now napping in the water, giant body breathing softly despite the permanently angry look on its face.

“Are you...are you seriously comparing your dick size to your Pokémon? Wow Jungkook, I don’t know about being a Pokémon master but if you’re being serious then maybe you should consider a role in PokePorn. They’re always looking for...well endowed folk.” You glance meaningfully down at his crotch then and miss the slight flushing of his cheeks.

“You are the worst person. How do you even know that exists? It’s...it’s a bad place okay? The internet is a wonderful place but that...that is a dark place. You must never go there young Padawan.” His face is blank as he stares out, raises his hand as if he’s showing you some grand painting or something.

It’s with a heavy sigh that you simply roll your eyes at him. “You mixed up two films dumbass. It’s from the Lion King, not Star Wars.” You finish your lemonade and simply go back to stroking Umbreon’s long ears, smiling softly as his back leg begins to shake as you itch at a troublesome spot for him.

You don’t see the fond way that Jungkook watches you quietly, nor the way he jerks his head away when you bring your eyes back up to the human sized pain in your butt. “I didn’t mix two films up. Mufasa is voiced by the same guy who does Darth Vadar...ergo Star Wars!” He exclaims, raising his hands wide while his eyes go big endearingly.

Laughing softly, you shake your head and point at him. “That’s like saying that because Liam Neeson plays both Qui-Gon Jinn and Aslan the lion, then Aslan is a Jedi master badass.” A smile plays on your lips as you watch Jungkook nod enthusiastically, shuffling around to face you as he sits cross legged with a childlike look of happiness.

“Exactly! Have you ever listened to Aslan? He could easily be a Jedi. Everything is connected, I tell you.” He nods sagely at that, pretty pink lips pouting adorably and you get the bizarre urge to reach out and poke that soft, rounded cheek of his.

Humming lightly, you tap your lips to your fingers. “So by your logic, then Xenomorphs are real in this world right?” He pales slightly at that and you giggle, remembering how freaked out he got when you both watched the Alien films at the hostel in Celadon City when it had been raining too hard for either of you to leave. Jungkook had whined at you for weeks after that, too afraid to sleep.

“Well...no.” He mumbles, fingers playing with the grass.

“Yes! Natalie Portman was in Star Wars and also in Thor: The Dark World. Chris Hemsworth was in Thor: The Dark World and also The Cabin In The Woods….and Sigourney Weaver was in that. Which leads me to...Alien.” Sitting back on your hands, you smirk at him with a raised brow as his mouth simply opens and closes a few times.

“You ruin the fun sometimes.” Is all Jungkook mutters, carding his fingers through his hair and leaving it styled rather attractively. It’s hard not to focus on just how attractive Jungkook is sometimes, especially when he unleashes his forehead like now. It makes you want to reach other and ruffle his hair back.

Stupid Jeon Jungkook and his stupid good looks. Who did he think he was?

Silence falls between the both of you and it kind of surprises you. Umbreon shifts in your lap and lets out a little content sigh, causing you to look down and give a tiny smile as you run your fingers through his soft black and yellow fur.

Looking back up, you note the sun is even lower to the ground now and it’s almost blinding at eye level. The sky is now a stunning painting of stark colours, as if the sky Pokémon have decided to become artists in their free time and smear an abundance of colours together in a work of art that could grace any museum.

Turning your eyes over to Jungkook, your breath stutters as you capture the sheer beauty of him. He’s turned his head to watch the sunset as well, pouting lips parted ever so slightly. The softly dying rays cause his golden skin to almost glow while the gentle breeze blows soft strands of dark hair across his forehead.

The bridge of his nose extends out before rounding off softly while the sculpted line of his jaw is even more prominent than before, making you swallow quietly as it really, completely strikes you that Jungkook really is no longer that obnoxious young boy you knew who dreamt of being a Pokémon Master. He’s still obnoxious of course, but he’s grown into himself so much.

Strong biceps peek out from under his shirt while broad shoulders fill it out in a way they hadn’t only 3 years ago. The tightness of the shirt simply magnifies his tiny waist, a waist you already knew was hiding a spectacular pair of abs from the many times he liked to waltz into your hostel room shirtless.

The blue jeans are currently clinging for dear life to his spectacular thighs, truly they’re a work of art that would look wonderful next to the sky painting, and you can almost imagine the seams of his jeans screaming from the strain. Where he gets the time to end up buffer than a Machamp is beyond you. It hits you square in the face then though - the realisation that Jeon Jungkook is quite possibly the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

When he turns his attention back to you, your eyes track over his stunning face. Buck teeth that are endearing peek through his open mouth while his eyes, so achingly wide with innocence right now, watch you in turn.

“Don’t you think the sun looks like the yolk of an egg from the side?” He muses to himself, brow creasing in concentration while his lips pucker out. Almost immediately, the moment is lost and you internally sigh. Right there is why you can never take him seriously, no matter how beautiful he is.

Groaning, you let yourself fall backwards onto the soft grass and ignore the protest from Umbreon as you do so. “I swear, you’re like...the biggest moron ever.” You whine, pushing his hand away as he moves to poke your side.

“What? It does! A big ball of yummy yolk. Mmm, I want ramyeon now. Do you wanna go get ramyeon?” He asks idly, humming to himself as he taps his chin lightly. Your face creases in a combination of awe, disgust and confusion - impressive the emotions he can pull from you at once.

“You literally just ate a roll of kimbap...and you want to eat a whole bowl of ramyeon? God...do you have a bottomless pit there or something? If I stare into it, will it stare back at me?” He ignores your sarcastic remarks as he begins to call his Pokémon back, securing them safely away in their Pokeball homes.

“Come on! I walked so far today! And you beat me so like...you owe me.” At that, you stand up abruptly and press his chest your finger to his chest firmly, causing him to whine as he moves back.

“Are you fucking kidding? Since when does the winner buy the loser the meal?” You swear, it’s like he lives to annoy you. But then, you remember when he got asked if you were his girlfriend when you were 13 and he’s staunchly answered that you weren’t his girlfriend, you were his opponent.

Both of your parents were forever convinced that you were going to get married one day. You know, the usual ‘childhood-friends-to-lovers’ thing and honestly? You agreed. There was only two routes for Jungkook and you realistically. You either killed each other after an epic Battle Royale, which you would win because he’d be the one stuck with a frying pan from his backpack, or you fuck and eventually get married.

And given that you really enjoyed being alive and weren’t particularly interested in seeing him dead, you knew it would be the second option. Plus, the idea of someone else getting to fall in love with Jungkook annoyed you. He may be as annoying as Ashley in Resident Evil 4, and lord was she annoying, but he was your annoying.

No one could accuse you of not being a realist. Besides, you occasionally acknowledged that he was attractive and there had been more than one occasion where you had dreamt about doing something other than pushing at his abs casually.

“You’re bitching at me...but I’ve noticed you haven’t said no.” Jungkook sings sweetly, his voice pure as he spins in a circle slowly. You glare at him before pushing at his back, the solid muscles giving in easily as he lets you push him forward.

If you didn’t buy him a meal, he’d just whine at you until you eventually did. So you may as well just get this over with.

“Fine...let’s go. Everyone,” You call out, voice slightly louder as you look over your team with fondness. They all stop what they’re doing and turn to look at you in varying stages of alertness and you feel a twinge of sadness that they have to go back into their Pokéball’s. Your Pokémon are tired and haven’t had a lot of time to have fun lately so you sigh and point at them. “Stay here okay? Don’t run away, we’ll be back soon.”

They’d be fine within the area of the hostel, a common sight for trainers who were making their way through the world and they were all well behaved. All of them make an affirmative noise to you as you walk over to your Rapidash, smiling and patting his soft, milk coloured fur with affection. “Hey boy, will you take us into town please? I’ll make sure to get you the spiciest treat!”

His large eyes narrow slightly as he takes in Jungkook, who stands behind you paling slightly at the sight of the fiery mane and tail that dance lazily in the cooling breeze. A slight dip of his head lets you know he’s willing and you smile brightly, petting him harder before kissing his solid cheek and turning back to the young guy behind you.

“Come on, he’ll let us ride him there.” Jungkook looks over Rapidash warily and you laugh lightly, moving over to him before smirking. “What? Are you scared of him?”

“Errr...yeah. He’s got fire for a mane, he could give me fire crotch. Like...real life fire crotch. And he’s huge! And really fast!” The excuses fall from his lips easily but you can also see the curiosity in his eyes, causing you to smirk and poke his chest lightly.

“Yes, he does have fire for a mane and tail. Very hot fire. But he’s said he won’t hurt us, so he won’t. He loves me, so he’s definitely not hurting me.” At that, Rapidash slams a diamond hard hoof down onto the floor, the flames on his fetlocks flaring slightly. “Come on, you’ll enjoy it. He won’t go too fast, right boy?”

Rubbing at the base of his horn, Rapidash nickers quietly as he shakes his head before nodding exaggeratedly and you chuckle in amusement. You do love the personality your Pokémon have sometimes and you’re beyond thankful that they’re just like you.

Jungkook moves up quietly, for once no longer cracking any wise jokes and you smirk as you lift a leg to him. He looks confused until you gesture towards your Pokémon and his mouths opens in a small ‘o’. Rapidash is almost as tall as Jungkook, and there’s no way you’re getting on top of him without leading him over to something.

He gives you a lift up and you sit on Rapidash’s slim back with happiness, letting your fingers run through the odd sensation of his flame mane. It just felt slightly warm, which really did feel strange at your crotch.

Hopping up behind you, Jungkook lets out a small noise of fear as Rapidash begins to move towards the town centre and his arms wrap tightly around your waist. Your recent realisation that you might actually genuinely like the guy behind you makes his pseudo-hug feel like he’s lighting you up from the inside and you wonder if maybe you should have just walked instead.

But he feels nice pressed against you, so you don’t say anything. In fact, you just enjoy it.

How you’ve managed to end up falling over the years for the dumbass who thought he’d picked up a bottle of ketchup once only to discover it was actually chili sauce was beyond you. But opposites attract and all that you guessed.

“So err...why don’t you ride him more often? I mean...he’s fast right? You could’ve gone everywhere by now...left me behind.” Jungkook’s voice is so close to your ear that you jump, looking back at him with wide eyes before your cheeks heat slightly at how his plush lips are so close to your own.

“He’s my Pokémon, not my ride. You gotta treat them like friends, they’re your partner not your workhorse. Like the girlfriend or boyfriend who’ll never let you down.” You give him a raised brow at that and he whines quietly.

“Hey...it’s not my fault that everyone I’ve dated has been about as solid as half the MCU at the end of Infinity War.” Snorting, you shake your head and look back towards the slowly approaching town centre.

“Wow, too soon man. And you ever notice there’s something that links all these particularly flaky people together? Namely...you know...you?” He doesn’t respond to that for a moment before sighing, his hands almost subconsciously stroking your stomach and your abdominal muscles tense at the sensation.

“I know I act an idiot...and that I failed most classes, I’m aware you don’t need to point that out, but I’m not actually one. I just...don’t like educational environments. I like being out here, in the real world. Learning out here with people and Pokémon. And maybe I just didn’t want proper relationships with any of them. I’m only 21, there was no need to go full on Notebook with someone yet.” He sounds serious for once and you give him the respect of taking him seriously too, humming lightly.

“I know you’re not stupid Jungkook, even if you act very odd sometimes. You’re...not a terrible Trainer. Definitely need to actually do some studying on your types, which I’ve been telling you for years but whatever. And no, you don’t need to be in a proper relationship yet. There’s a lot of life out there.”

It’s Jungkook’s turn to hum this time, only he sounds slightly reluctant. Reaching the centre, you both dismount from Rapidash and pet him while he goes to graze on the public grassland in the centre, underneath the overhanging branches of the blossoming tree while the pond ripples when a Goldeen swims to the surface.

You sit on a bench facing the pretty scene, smiling at two Pichu as they chase each other around in the longer grass surrounding the pond while a Girafarig bends awkwardly to drink.

The sudden tapping of your shoulder brings you back and you turn to see Jungkook offering you a cup of ramyeon, steam rising off the spicy noodles and you smile a thanks as you take it and dig in with the chopsticks he gives you too. How he’d managed to bring them over you have no idea as he’s got two cups for himself, his lips already swelling and going red from the spice of them.

“How do you eat that much? Seriously, don’t you like...want to vomit?” You query, watching him with wide eyes before scooping a helping of noodles into your own mouth. The spice makes your nose run already a little and you scowl at him, wondering why the hell he got the extra spicy version.

Jungkook just gives you a gross smile, noodles dangling from those spice-inflamed lips before he slurps it down happily. “I get the shits, what do you expect? And I get a bit bloated too but...it’s filling and I like the taste.”

Coughing slightly, you wave your chopsticks at him and note the red tint of the ends of them with amusement. “You like your ass feeling like Mordor and your tongue disintegrating?”

Snorting, he shakes his head and stuffs another mouthful in before letting out a content noise that’s borderline disgusting. “Mount Doom you mean. Mordor’s just the place, Mount Doom is the volcano. And no, I don’t like my ass feeling like that but here we go. Did you know that your ass feels like that when you’ve eaten spice because it has the same nerve endings as your mouth?”

Pausing with your noodles halfway to your mouth, your brow turns in before you shake your head. “You’re impossible you know that. How do your Pokémon stay with you?”

“Because I may not be the best Trainer, and I may never be the best when you’re around, but I love them. Even if they’re not the Pokémon everyone thinks is cute.” God dammit, why did he have to go and say something adorably sweet like that? You’d almost got over that weird little crush you’d realised earlier only for it to come flooding back at his words.

You should’ve realised long ago that it was all futile...that you’d long been fighting a losing battle and that your parents were right. It was a good measure of a person with how they treated their mom and how they treated their Pokémon.

Jungkook adored his mom, he called her every night for at least half an hour to update her on all the cool things he’d done that day, and despite his lack of common sense when it came to battles, he really did love his Pokémon. He’d even adopted some who’d been abandoned because they were considered ugly or scary, like the Houndoom he’d sent to go live with his parents when no one wanted it because it scared people.

You’re not entirely sure what takes over you, but you place your cup of ramyeon to the side and shuffle up to him. He’s so unused to you being this nice to him that he gives you the side eye before looking you over suspiciously.

It’s almost hilarious how he almost hugs his last cup of ramyeon to him closer, as if you want that.

“Hey...Jungkook. Has there ever been like...a reason why you never take dating seriously?” You want to laugh at how he tenses up so suddenly, his shoulders almost to his ears as he instead focuses determinedly on the Totodile that waddles up to him. Giving it a sweet smile, he reaches down and strokes the Pokémon’s head before it walks off with happy eyes.

“No...no reason.” His Pikachu suddenly arrives out of nowhere, slightly out of breath before jumping up into arms with a sweet ‘Pika’ before he begins berating Jungkook with quick sounds that have you laughing. Jungkook seems to be happy that he’s got a distraction and he makes soft soothing noises before his Pokémon lets out a sleepy yawn, blinking at you blearily before crawling out of his arms and into yours.

Watching as the yellow and black electric mouse Pokémon falls asleep, Jungkook’s lip kicks up in a smile before he’s shaking his head. “Even my own Pokémon like you more than me.”

You cringe slightly and shrug as best you can, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

He lifts a hand up to stop you before giving a soft smile, looking way too sappy at you as his eyes practically shine while he watches you with his favourite Pokémon. In fact, he’s rather watching you in the same way that he watches his favourite Star Wars movie and your stomach twists slightly, your hand stroking Pikachu’s head before you finally ask.

“Do you like me? Is that why you never dated properly?” You’re pretty Jungkook wishes that he could burrow into the ground like a Ditto and just...never emerge or something. Become a legendary Pokémon that’s only spoken of in hushed whispers.

“So you’re just gonna ask it like that, huh? Really confident of yourself there?” He says, eyes wide and you just smile at him so softly that he practically deflates.

“On a scale of one to the ending of Red Dead Redemption 2, how obvious was it?” Biting your lip, you try hard to stop your smile but fail as you watch him squirm about awkwardly with what is possibly the sappiest look you’ve ever seen him give you. Honestly, how he ever thought he was subtle was beyond you.

“Jungkook...you’re a terrible liar. I’m pretty sure anyone with eyes has probably noticed.” His cheeks are bright red now before he covers them with his hands, his normally confident self collapsing in embarrassment and you place a hand on his shoulder comfortingly.

“You can let me down easy, I mean...please. Don’t be mean, not now.” Jungkook mumbles into his hands, refusing to look at you and you roll your eyes at his dramatics.

“Why do you think I’m going to turn you down?” The question is legitimate, and you watch as he rolls his eyes in turn at you before holding out a hand and counting down the reasons.

“You think I’m an idiot, you always bitch at my types because I never remember, you always beat me so I’m weak and I don’t think I have any redeeming qualities for you. You’re gonna be a Pokémon Master one day and I’ll...I dunno...be working in a PokéMart or something.” His words are practically silent by the end but you let out a soft tut before pushing at his shoulder, wiggling your body across the bench to keep Pikachu asleep until you can comfortably rest your head on him.

You’ve done this before, and it always felt nice. It feels nice now, but slipping your hand into his feels even nicer.

“You’re smart where it counts and you’ve stopped me making stupid decisions out here, like that time when I was going to buy a Love Ball until you pointed out how dumb it is and that it’s just a waste of money. And you’re totally right on that. You don’t care about types and it’s stupid for fights...but it’s because you just pick Pokémon that you like and stick with them, even if they’re not the best. You’re loyal, because you’ve stayed with me all these years. And PokéMart’s are important to the economy so don’t knock them or the people that work there. They’d be privileged to have you.” Jungkook is suspiciously quiet and you try to get a glimpse of his face, curious to see if he’s crying.

“Are you crying?” He’s shaking his head furiously and you chuckle, pushing your face into his arm. “Is this like that time you totally weren’t crying at Endgame and it was just popcorn dust in your eye?”

“This is exactly like that. I’ve just got...ramyeon dust in my eye.” He mutters, using his free hand to wipe at said ‘not-crying’ eyes.

“I don’t think it works like that, but okay.” You shrug and quieten down, focusing on the little tuft of hair his Pikachu has on top of its head, almost like a super tiny mohawk.

“Do you mean that?” A nod is his silent response. “Would you...consider it a privilege to have me?”

Your heart practically clenches at his soft words and you grin, shifting until you’re both looking at each other. He’s nervous, his eyes glancing everywhere until you finally pull his attention back to you. It’s weird to see him like this, but you find it endearing either way. For once, he’s being serious about something, and it’s you of all things.

“I would. And I do, hence why I’ve never quite properly gotten rid of you.”

Before you can do anything else, your face is suddenly smashed against his awkwardly and you both let out a surprised noise, your mouth against his cheek and nose against his eye. It’s not even slightly comfortable, or romantic, and you both push away to spy your Rapidash standing behind the bench, an almost mischievous look in his eye.

“Did your...Rapidash just smash your face against mine?!” Jungkook asks, eyes wide as he watches the Pokémon in suspicion. Smirking, you turn back around to look at him with a raised brow and shrug.

“Well...I do pick smart Pokémon right? He’s just trying to tell us to get a move on already.” He goes to ask with what, you know him that well, but instead you take both hands and cup his cheeks gently.

Almost immediately he shuts up, eyes going wide as you slowly lean into him. You give him plenty of time to back away, but he just lets his eyelids flutter shut before his lips purse into a sweet pout, waiting for the kiss you’re about to give him.

And you really are, until a sudden blast of icy cold water causes you both to go flying off the bench with a loud shriek. Sitting on the floor, your shirt soaked to your skin, you spot the culprit and let out a groan of frustration.

“Starmie! He wasn’t hurting me! Why are you even here?!”

“I told you! That Starmie is a menace! I can’t believe she just...ruined the best moment of my life!”

“She isn’t a menace, she’s just protective! You just don’t lik-”

“Can you just shut up and kiss me please? I’ve waited years for this.”

“Oh...okay. Yeah...Starmie, don’t you dare!”

[idreamofplaid]

Crossing the Line

Square Filled: Face Fucking for @spnkinkbingo ; Free Space for @heavenandhellbingo 

Characters: Sam x Reader; Dean

Rating: Explicit

Tags: oral sex

Summary: Sam is haunted by possession and the demon blood inside him. The reader convinces him love is stronger than all that.

Word Count: 2232

Created for @spnkinkbingo @heavenandhellbingo

Dean held his chin in his hand then dragged his fingers down each side of his jaw. He shook his head in exasperation and disbelief. “He believes it, Y/N. Sam actually thinks he’s a murderer.” Dean ran his hands roughly through the longer hair on top of his head then slammed one down on he hood of the Impala before leaning back against the fender of the car.

You propped yourself against the car beside Dean and sighed deeply. “He couldn’t have killed someone in cold blood, Dean. We know that. So what is this?”

Dean shook his head again, harder this time. “I don’t know, but I’m sure the fuck going to find out.” Dean moved toward the car door and opened it. “I need to do some digging. You keep an eye on him while I’m gone?”

You answered Dean through the open car window as he shifted Baby into gear. “You know I will.”

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

The promise you made to Dean was an easy one to keep, a natural promise to keep. You’d been in love with Sam since well before he came to terms with Jessica’s death. You’d shared a bed with him from time to time in those early months of his grief. You offered him comfort. Your body was soft and warm, and you could be trusted. 

You’d been on several hunts with Dean since the older brother had started hunting without his father. If Dean was willing to let you ride shotgun with him, you’d passed the ultimate Winchester test. The older brother liked knowing you were there for Sam, giving him something he needed.

Time passed and your feelings for Sam grew deeper. He had nightmares about the way Jessica died. More than once you saw him cry in his sleep; and there was nothing you could do to help him. If he had only returned your feelings, maybe you could have taken some of his pain away. Love could do that. It could ease just about anything.

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

You found Sam sitting on one of the motel beds. The bedspread was thin, worn in places and was a green the color of moss clinging to a rock at the side of a muddy creek. It looked as tired as Sam did. He glanced up at you briefly as you entered the room, then looked back down at his hands in his lap. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

You sat sown next to him on the sagging mattress and took his large hands in yours, turning him slightly to face you then you rubbed his knuckles with your thumbs speaking to him in the soothing voice you’d used so many times before. “Sam, you didn’t kill anybody.”

He pulled his hands away from you and let them fall back into his lap slow and easy. “I did, Y/N. You saw the video. His eyes fixed on yours.” I drained the life out of that man. He’s not breathing anymore because of me. He had a family.” Sam dropped his head again.

He tried to get up and turn away, but you stopped him by grabbing one of his wrists with your hand and putting your other on his cheek so you could turn his face toward you. Tears were in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall.

You’d seen that stubborn, determined, and haunted look in his eyes before. Sam had had plenty of reason to cry, but sometimes you felt he wouldn’t let himself because he believed he didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve to release his own emotions but that he should instead suffer with them in silence.

There was only one time Sam released any of that emotion pent up inside him, one time he’d allow cracks in that wall he’d put up around himself. It had such a strong façade that to the outside observer it appeared Sam was completely together without anything haunting him whatsoever. That was during sex. It was the time you could show him what he meant to you without any words, the only time you could cross a line of your own.

You covered his mouth with yours, starting with a gentle kiss. Between those kisses, you breathed against his lips, took his breath into you, and told him everything short of “I love you.”

Your fingers were buried in his hair combing through it and marveling at how it could be so soft. “You’re a good man, Sam. I know it.” You moved your hand to the waistband of his jeans and began to unfasten them while you continued to talk. “You didn’t hurt anyone, because you wouldn’t.” You had freed his cock and now wrapped your hand around his shaft and began to stroke it.

He was rock hard when you let go of him long enough to unbutton his shirt and push it off his shoulders. You rubbed your hands down the thin cotton fabric of his t-shirt; the muscles in his chest and stomach were firm, and you smiled at him as you sank to your knees and took the end of his cock in your mouth. You swirled your tongue around the tip, and when you dropped your head down to take him deeper in your mouth it was Sam’s fingers that went into your hair.

You bobbed your head until Sam took over, grasping our hair between his fingers and moving our head on his cock while he thrust deep into your throat. You took as much of him as you could and stroked the base of his cock that wouldn’t fit into our mouth. After several more thrusts, his body tensed; and he came spurting hot streams of his release into your mouth.

Sam lay back on the bed and propped himself on his elbows. He panted for a few seconds catching his breath then sat up and pulled you against his chest, holding you there tightly, and resting his chin on top of your head.

He was holding you so close then, without warning, let go of you. “How can you let me touch you, Y/N? How?” When he looked at you, his eyes were still slightly glazed from the orgasm you’d just given him. “I’m full of demon blood. You don’t know I haven’t done something awful. You don’t know that I won’t again. Even if I haven’t, what’s going to stop it? What’s going to stop me from becoming evil? What’s going to stop me from hurting you?”

The taste of Sam was still salty on your tongue, and you were still positioned on the floor between his legs. You eased his socks from his feet and pulled his jeans down along with his boxers, never breaking eye contact with him. “You will Sam. That’s not who you are, and it’s never who you’ll be.” You kissed from his knee along the outside of his thigh to his hipbone.

You removed your own jeans leaving yourself in only your tank top and panties. Then you sat on the bed and scooted toward the middle taking Sam’s hand and pulling him along with you. Once the two of you were settled under the covers, you lay your head on Sam’s chest where you could hear his heart. Your fingertips traced softly along his forearm, over his bicep and back down again. You kept doing this until his breathing slowed, and you knew he was sleeping.

He was peaceful like this, and the thoughts running through your mind brought you comfort and unsettled you at the same time. Sam let you be close to him. Even when he pushed Dean away, he allowed you to be close to him. What if that stopped? He would push you away too if he thought it would protect you.

“Y/N.” Sam called your name in his sleep. You softly kissed his shoulder, and Sam quieted. Brushing his hair back from his face, you kissed his forehead before laying your cheek back on his chest. His skin was warm, his smell familiar.  

Still sleeping, Sam shifted. You moved with him, and he circled his arm around your waist. You tucked your head under his chin and whispered, “I love you, Sam.” For a minute, you thought about taking off the clothes you were still wearing so you could feel your bare skin next to his. That always made you feel closer to him. When there was nothing between you physically, it seemed more like there was nothing between you at all, and that was what you truly wanted. Fearing that your movement might wake him, you decided against it. 

Sleep overtook you, and you dreamed with your head on Sam’s shoulder. Your dreams were filled with beautiful dimpled smiles. There were no monsters and no demon blood, just a happy Sam. In your dreams, he told you he loved you before he leaned down to kiss you. 

Before his lips could touch yours, you were ripped from your dream by a pounding sound on the door. Dean’s voice called loudly from the other side. “Y/N, you need to get out of there.” It was the sound of his foot kicking the door. 

It was going to break soon. Dean had plenty of practice kicking in doors. You scrambled from the bed and grabbed for Sam’s flannel that was still on the floor. You wrapped it around you and managed to fasten a couple of the buttons before Dean came bursting through the door.

He was next to you in an instant, pulling your arm to get you away from the bed and yelling, “Y/N, you have to get out of here. That isn’t Sam! He’s possessed.”

You could hear the commotion of Sam grabbing at the sheets on the behind you. You tried to release yourself from the hold Dean had on you. “He’s not, Dean. That is Sam.” 

“Meg’s been possessing him this whole time, Y/N. She wants to destroy him and having him hurt you would be a great way to do it.” You started to struggled to get away from him, but Dean held tight and reached for a flask of holy water inside his jacket. He opened the cap with his teeth. “Just watch.”

The sheet had slipped around Sam’s waist, but his chest was exposed. Dean splashed a generous amount of the contents of the flask on his brother. Nothing happened. You angrily snatched your arm from Dean. “I told you it was him.”

Dean’s mouth fell open ever so slightly; he looked from you to Sam and back to you finally noticing that Sam was wearing nothing, and you were wearing his shirt. “I tortured three demons. All of them said Meg was possessing Sam.”

You sat back on the bed next to Sam who now looked ashamed and confused. “Well, he isn’t now.” 

Dean found the cap and closed his flask knowing better than to challenge the flash in your eyes. He secured it back in his jacket, took a long look at you and quietly said, “She isn’t done with him.” Then he left. 

It was so still in the room you could hear the leaky faucet in the bathroom sink dripping. You took off Sam’s shirt and used it to dry his face and chest. He didn’t say anything but wrapped you in his arms and buried his face in your hair. You sat there while he held you, the sound of the faucet replaced by the sound of his breathing.

When Sam let go of you, his eyes had that soft and haunted look in them. “Dean’s right. I could hurt you. Just because I’m not possessed now, it doesn’t mean I won’t be again or that I won’t turn into a full on demon. Maybe that’s what the blood does.” He shook his head causing his hair to fall in his eyes. “I can’t let myself hurt you, Y/N.”

“Sam, you are not going to hurt me.” You tried to touch his cheek, but he pulled away. That wasn’t something you were going to accept. You reached for him again, and this time he let you touch him. “We’ll deal with it, Sam.”

His forehead wrinkled, and his eyes became focused and intense turning darker, almost brown. “You don’t understand, Y/N. I love you.” It had never occurred to you that he would say it first, and you were temporarily frozen with the shock of it. “I do. I love you.”

When you could move again, you also found your voice. “Sam, it’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this together.” You smiled. “Because I love you too, and there’s no way I’m leaving you alone with this.”

Sam kissed you then with a desperate and sweet passion. His tongue tangled around yours, and his hand held your cheek. Your world shifted when Sam made love to you. His touch was tender as he undressed you. He kept you on his lap so he could look into your eyes while he moved inside you. You climaxed together in a body shaking double orgasm that left you collapsing into each other.

Sam lifted you from his now soft member and lay you down gently in bed, taking his place beside you. He pulled the over you, and you settled into his arms. There were no words. You didn’t need any. 

Forevers: @bitterstar88  @coffee-obsessed-writer @timelordy-fangirl2 @stusbunker @girl-next-door-writes @mariekoukie6661 @sandlee44 @cosicas-cuquis @ohnowin-chester @waywardbaby  @oldfreakything @akhuna01 @tumbler-tidbits @maddiepants @evansrogerskitten @sorenmarie87 @ladywinchester1967 @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @sea040561 @atc74 @mrs-meghan-winchester @ladycynthia @brinkofinsanity77645 @dean-winchesters-bacon

Forever Sam: @sammyimpala-67 @crashdevlin @theladydetective @logical-princey @zombiewerewolfqueen @fandom-princess-forevermore @heycasbutt @idabbleincrazy @a-mess-of-many-fandoms @rebelminxy @peridottea91 @mereka18 @deansyahtzee @saltandburn-ilovesamwinchester @onethirstyunicorn @unabashedsoul97 @princessmisery666 @invisibledevour @beenlovingromansincedayoneish @arwenadreamer @fullmooner @waywardwilled @ketchacabra @taylasara @wendibird @littlemiddlefoxbabe @mtngirlforever @focusonspn @kickingitwithkirk @dreamsfrozenincandyland @keymology @daisymoder72 @mymysosa @spnxbsessed @wingledsam @alleiradayne @princessofthefandomrealm @that67chevy @volleyballer519 @buckyscrystalqueen @autumninavonlea @muggle394 @ballistic-bailey