#anyway this is one of my many posts on force's eyelashes

[icouldhyperfixatehim]

[licks finger and holds it to the wind] hm. doesn't feel like this is the year i'll get a forcebook drama where force is the one pursued and book gets to make him blushy with compliments for his absurdly long doe lashes...guess i'm hanging in there til 2026 at least. i will wait.mp3

[1d1195]

Protection VIII

Read the rest here: Protection

Hi, this is kinda fast paced, idk. I'm def not confident about this section at all. I feel like it's got potential but I don't think I know what I'm doing. But I don't have a choice but to give it a shot anyway. I know I've mentioned before, but I like Grey's Anatomy and stupid cheesy movies with scenes like this.

Warnings: angst, blood, weapons, lots of sad sad stuff. I actually don't know how blood loss works or g*n shot wounds either but it's for the plot also this is very dramatized because the writing side of my brain is a drama queen. I don’t think it’s very accurate scientifically or logically so if you would be as so kind as to look at it “holistically” and try to just envision something super serious along these lines I would GRATEFULLY appreciate it. Also, I don't know how tech works. Sorry if it seems a bit awful

~5.9k words.

Thank you oh so much to @freedomfireflies for beta reading so I could feel a little better about actually posting this.

More than anything he wanted her to be there. Sitting on her bed reading or sleeping as she always was. He imagined her smug smile and her lilting voice murmuring “gotcha,” like this was the funniest prank.

Harry, for better or for worse, prided himself on being a hard worker. But for the last three days, and especially today, he didn’t care. He had spent the first half of that horrific day answering thousands of questions. The latter half was spent learning his new office job. When he got back to his apartment—a place he’d hardly spent any time in over the last two weeks—he finally let the tears and frustration course through him. He tried to call her again, but he received a message that his number had been blocked.

He called his mum and broke down.

So, he entered the building. It would be this way now. Day three of filing paperwork that he had spent so many hours writing for her. Now he was at the other end of it. Learning an office job when all he wanted was to head right to her flowery little place and beg her to explain. He wanted to kiss her, touch her, and promise her anything her heart wanted. He didn’t understand and he was floundering. How did he fix this? How was he supposed to breathe? After all that. After all the kisses, all the touches. All the touches he didn’t get and all the ones he deprived her of because it wasn’t protocol. What a stupid idiot.

Good luck, honey bun :( his mum texted. She texted it yesterday too and he wondered how long she would have to text it to him before the frowny face disappeared.

Harry was destined for another hundred meetings explaining that he had no idea she was feeling this way. Because of course, despite the fact he did know what she was feeling—because he felt it too—he felt so much loyalty to her. He didn’t know what her game was or why she was trying to sell it that it was one-sided, but despite how sad he was, she was brilliant. A biochemist in the making, of course, and if she had to break his heart, he believed (or wanted to believe) that she was doing the right thing.

Harry sat at his newly assigned desk and looked at the papers in front of him. Eventually, he would make her grovel for forgiveness. This was too much paperwork for him, and she had to have known how much he would have hated it. But he also thought that she would just look at him through her pretty eyelashes that drove him mad, smelling like flowers, and say sorry and that would be plenty.

There had to be an end to this. He was certain of it.

Niall wasn't allowed to tell him anything that he heard. Harry wasn't allowed to ask about her either (Niall, naturally a stickler for protocol, was following the rule--he didn't even know what she was up to. His job was to train Harry. Their supervisor saw to it that she was under his own surveillance.

"It feels m'being forced t'write with m'left hand after being right handed for m'whole life," he explained to Niall dejectedly. For five months his thoughts were consumed with the flowery girl he fell so incredibly hard for. Overnight she was just gone.

Harry began flipping through papers and tapping at his keyboard for all of four minutes when Niall suddenly dragged him out of his seat, down the hall, and back out the front door without a word. “Niall!” He ground out bitterly. He wasn’t in the mood. He wanted to kill his friend a bit for even recommending he be part of this. He wished he wasn’t her bodyguard. At least he wouldn’t be sour with heartache.

But honestly, Harry owed Niall his entire life for bringing him to her.

“She’s gone.”

Harry stared at him blankly. “Who?”

Niall slapped him across the face—not quite hard but enough to stun him and knock some sense into him. “She’s gone.”

Harry felt like this was a dream. His brain was floating distantly. “What are y’talking ‘bout?”

“There's an email on my phone, to my private email, from a random address, a random IP address. It’s her. She said DSS is compromised...that someone in the department wants her out of the picture and if I’m reading it, it means that she is not in her apartment regardless of what they say. The very same email is going to be sent in ninety minutes to everyone at DSS.”

Harry shook his head. “No, that’s a lie.”

“Harry,” Niall said. “It’s going to...blow everything up. You have to—”

“Niall, that’s ridiculous. She would—”

“She said to tell you the email is from Miss Wildflower.”

The words died in his throat. “No,” he shook his head. That wasn’t something he’d ever written down, wasn’t something he called her to anyone else. That was for him and her...and... “No...it’s not her. She’s fine,” he was in denial. How could he not be? The thought that something happened to her? This wasn’t just some long routed way of her anxiety taking over and ruining something before it started. It wasn’t getting Harry off her detail so they could spend Christmas together (something he had convinced himself of when he was crying to his mom the night before).

“No, Harry, and I'm gonna have to go make a scene and tell them but I’m giving you a head start because she's giving you a head start. You don’t have time to waste here. I’m telling them I sent you home. That you’re too distraught to work.”

Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Okay.”

“She didn’t want you to get hurt,” Niall said. “She was...scared.” Harry frowned and nodded even though he thought he was going to be sick. He winced as he thought it over. Put his hands on his knees as he took heaving breaths. “Harry,” Niall said gently. “You don’t have time—”

“Jus’ shut up, Niall,” he croaked. Niall was silent, biting the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t imagine the heartache and anguish his friend was feeling.

“At least...at least there was a reason, right?” Niall murmured.

If it meant her harm or kidnapping or...worse. No. It wasn’t worth it. It didn’t matter the reason. “Yeah...” he mumbled.

*

Since Harry was no longer on her detail, he assumed he wouldn’t be allowed into her apartment building—at least not through the main entrance.

Even if he was allowed in the main entrance, he had to work under the assumption that whatever compromised agents would be waiting out front for him. So he would need an alternate route.

He hurried up her fire escape and opened her bedroom window just as he knew she did the very first day he met her. He was suddenly grateful for her never listening to Harry about protocol. He was glad the window was unlocked. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

More than anything he wanted her to be there. Sitting on her bed reading or sleeping as she always was. He imagined her smug smile and her lilting voice murmuring “gotcha,” like this was the funniest prank.

Her pretty poinsettia and snowdrop apartment enveloped him like a hug. He wanted to bask in the smell of her pine-scented Christmas tree, the way her perfume made him feel at home, and just be there with her. But instead, he was trying hard to keep focus while he wanted nothing more than to break down and sob into the pillow that smelled like her shampoo.

He listened quietly and heard no one in the rest of the apartment. He searched for clues of any kind but there were none. No sign of a struggle. It was like she went with them willingly. Knowing her, she probably convinced them to let her walk on her own. But part of him believed she would have put up a fight. She had to have, right?

Her phone was on the counter. So there was no way to track her, he saw the tens of messages that came from him before he was blocked, a few from Niall, and several from the professor she would be working with next semester.

But it was Harry’s phone vibrating in his pocket was the one that pulled him from his thoughts.

Unknown: Video Attachment.

She was there. He could see her in the preview. Seeing her was like breathing again after being stuck under water for a hair too long. She was alive. She had memorized Harry’s number.

Harry thought memorizing his number was...

If it were possible to fall more in love with her, he did. It couldn't be possible because there simply wasn't room. He was already so in love with her. And it was just his phone number, after all. But he did. He fell so much harder. It felt like the marrow in his bones were aching for her touch.

Harry swallowed and sat on her sofa as he played it.

“Hi Dad...um...” she swallowed hard, like there was a lump in her throat. She looked okay. Her hair was in a braid, strands of it coming out and there was a redness to only one of her cheeks...like she had been slapped. Harry gripped his phone tightly to keep from throwing it. Her eyelashes, those pretty fluttery things that drove him nuts with desire for her, looked wet. His heart pounded. “You know,” she took a deep, shaky breath and she sucked her lip into her mouth.

“Hurry up,” he heard in the background. Wherever she was was nondescript. A construction site by the look of it. Nothing in the video sounded or looked like anything of use to finding her location. She shook her head quickly and tried again. Swallowed again.

“When Mom died, I thought the people that murdered her should have just...ended my life too. I know you know someone murdered her. No one believed me. Not one person. And I thought...I was the only person left in your life. You were supposed to love me and take care of me the way she always did. It killed me every single day that you didn’t—that you don't. It hurts so much that you hate me. Please. Just do what he asks; give him whatever...I don't want to die," she was being so brave. It was the way she held herself. How she seemed to stand straighter in the video. But Harry could hear the nervousness. Who wouldn't be nervous? It broke his heart that she was fighting and being so incredibly brave. "I’ll never bother you ever again. I’ll...go....I'll leave the country...I’ll just go."

“You have two hours,” and then he received a message from the same unknown number, the location of the park he went to when she twisted her ankle.

Harry only had a little under an hour because he knew DSS was going to be on their way soon—especially after Niall sent them on their way. If they received this message too, they would go through some inane plan that would decidedly not work--especially knowing that they were compromised. He was going to send the messages to Niall’s email from an rerouted IP address as soon as he watched the videos a few more times because if they were going to terrify her, Harry was going to help ruin their plan. They would wait for the park. It was what they did. It was the surest way. Protocol.

Harry would have given anything to see her roll her eyes at the word.

He watched the video again. And again. On the third time he was looking at the screen so closely, his eyes looking for some secret message hidden in the pixels. She looked okay, cozy. She was wearing the sweatshirt that Harry wore when he was soaked with rain—when the worst thing that happened to her was that stupid guy leaving her injured in a park. She didn’t look injured now, at least. His heart was aching. It had to be something. She wouldn’t have sent this to him for no reason--it was intended for her dad. It had to be a sign. Moreover, she said something about leaving the country--that had to be for Harry.

Harry felt like he would die if he didn’t figure it out on the next play through. It couldn’t be too hard. She may be a biochemist, but she couldn't have made it something ridiculous for him to solve. He wasn't a biochemist after all. That concert seemed like a lifetime ago. His agitation for losing her phone seemed stupid in comparison. He would tell her such as soon as he found her.

Now he was thinking about everything, every interaction they had as he stared at his phone, trying to will the hidden message to appear. It felt like it was a miracle she lost her phone at that concert. At least he told her she needed a failsafe at that point in time. Although he thought it would be for a guy that was too forward.

It was her hands.

They fidgeted throughout the entire video. He didn’t notice at first. She was nervous, her hands were tied together. Her fingers had to be going numb. He wished he had taught her how to break out of zip ties, maybe she could have escaped all on her own.

But that was when he noticed it. If it weren’t for him knowing the basics enough to know his own name when he saw it, he might not have paid any mind to the shape of her fist. Her fingers were shaking near the middle of her stomach. Her left hand was fidgeting wildly. But her right hand had a pattern, a fist, her pinky, her index and middle finger, another fist, her index finger.

Harry was glad her backpack was untouched. He grabbed one of her index cards and searched on his phone for the American Sign Language alphabet. He knew the first one was A because of his own name. Her pinky meant I. An R. Harry got it...it was her failsafe.

“Good girl,” he murmured to no one. Air. It took him four extra seconds to discern between S, M, N, E, A before he finally moved to the last two. He settled on T because the next letters were another A and G.

AirTag.

What would have an AirTag on her? He didn't have time to question it. He slid her computer out of her bag next, an index card falling from it.

His heart broke.

Harry— I Am SO sorry. I am so, so, so sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you. I know you’re going to find me because...you’re you and you make me feel safe. And because...well... I adore you. So much. I tried so hard not to, and I tried so hard to push you away and... Please TRY to forgive me. I promise I did it with reason. I’m so sorry, Harry. SO sorry.

He didn’t have time to cry but he shoved the note in his pocket, wishing he told her he loved her at least once. Ever. He couldn’t pore over her words. Couldn’t guess what she was thinking or doing. There wasn’t time for him to guess how she knew he would find this note. Of course, she couldn’t just put all the answers on this index card because if she did, anyone could find it. Someone at DSS would have found it if she hadn’t perfectly planned for Niall to send him here beforehand. He had to find her faster and before that stupid, corrupt building got there.

Now he was tasked with her password.

Please be easy.

He clicked on the “forgot password" link. A helpful little reminder was there: Flower!number. It seemed daunting immediately. Especially because he was so distraught and worried. There were so many flowers she could have put. He tried Sunflower!14. Snowdrop!14. Peonies!14. How many times could he try? He was terrified it would lock him out. He took a deep breath and he only had moments to figure it out because he was certain people would be hurrying to her apartment from DSS soon.

Tilting his head back at the ceiling he almost felt embarrassed at how easy it seemed now.

Wildflower!14 did the trick.

With a sigh of relief, he searched AirTag on her computer. He opened the application.

She had no less than 50 AirTags. Forty-nine of which were in her apartment with Harry. All labeled with various names for her shoes.

Good girl. He thought. It was in her shoe. When would she be without shoes?

The only shoes that weren’t in her apartment were in a warehouse across the city. He scribbled the address on another index card and shoved it in his pocket alongside her perfect note telling him she loved him.

Harry could hear a commotion starting in the lobby. Sirens were ringing outside. They were coming up the stairs. He closed her laptop, slid it back into her backpack and hurried to her bedroom hoping everything look untouched. He quietly closed the window behind him as they entered her apartment. He descended the fire escape before they made it to her room.

If she could see him breaking protocol, he imagined she would laugh.

*

Harry parked a block away from the address. As soon as he entered the building, he hurried up two flights of stairs to where he heard talking. “It was a risk I had to take!” It was a man’s voice. Harry felt sick. “It was suspicious!” He shouted. “She said she would get more money. How was I supposed to know that?!”

“Get up,” he snapped.

She yelped and Harry thought he might die before he made it to her if he heard her getting hurt even slightly. If he pulled her hair or caused her to stub her toe, Harry would genuinely contemplate murdering him.

Harry pulled the gun from the holster around his ankle. He pointed it down toward the ground and waited by the entrance to the floor and peered so very briefly around the corner of the wall. He caught a glimpse of her beautiful being walking on her own. A gun pressed to her back. Harry swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

If something happened to her, Harry would never forgive himself.

"Listen," she said almost gently. Like she was going to reason with someone with a gun. She was going to get herself murdered and Harry couldn't stop her right now. "I know...I know you want money. I get that, honestly I do. Who doesn't, right?"

God Harry envied her serenity in a moment like this.

He wasn't actively putting bullets in her so she continued. "You're a smart guy. They wouldn't have picked you to do this if you weren't, but you...you have to realize you're their fall guy. This is a national security matter. The first sign of trouble they're going to say you kidnapped me, you hurt me. They will come out clean because they have to," she explained so rationally it would have been obvious to anyone with a pulse. "You don't have to take me there," she finally whimpered the true emotion she was feeling. Harry winced as if her pain was in his own body--he certainly felt like it was. "I can just go...I have a plan. I...or we can fake my death. It doesn't have to be this way," she promised. Like they were going to be a team.

But Harry knew what it was: all her rambling. It was a distraction, it was stalling.

Because she had no way of knowing if Harry made it in time to save her--but the one thing she did know? If she was brought to the park...it was all over.

Harry took a deep silent breath trying very hard to keep as calm as possible because he could not afford one second of hesitation or any kind of slip up. He turned the corner aiming his weapon toward the man holding her at gunpoint. “Harry!” She gasped and made three bold steps toward him; hands still bound up in front of her. The man behind her fired off a round right toward the concrete wall just feet away. Harry didn’t waver, holding his own gun steady in front of him as she yelped again, pausing her steps. It was long enough that he snagged her back before she got any closer to Harry.

The person behind her had his arm around the front of her shoulders. He pressed the cold metal to her temple. She wanted to scream or cry or something. Her hands clutched to the man’s forearm trying desperately to wriggle free. He was using her as a shield—the coward. Harry wanted to scream too. He held his gun aimed directly at his head from several meters away. But it was way too close of a shot for him to even think about taking it. Not with her right there. Not with a weapon held to her beautiful, perfect face.

It felt like all those times he watched guys lean too close to her at the bar amplified by ten thousand. It felt like the realization that stupid prick slipped something in her drink multiplied by a million. His lips were near her ear. Harry was so grateful she was alive and awake.

And maybe, most importantly to Harry, she looked pissed.

“He’s going to kill you,” she hissed at him, tears in her eyes. Bless her angry little heart.

That’s my girl. Harry thought. Harry was going to kill him. Especially if he harmed her in any capacity. He pressed the gun harder against her skin and she winced. Harry faltered for half a second.

“Are you okay?” He asked, sounding so much braver than he felt. He was a mess internally. It was a wonder his hands didn’t shake holding his weapon. He wanted to surrender himself—him for her, he would have taken her spot in a heartbeat. He would do anything to get her out of here.

“Right as rain,” the man said. Harry wondered if he should just take his shot right now. Damn it all because he wanted to kill him for thinking this was funny.

She nodded, just barely. Harry felt the most minor amount of relief.

She could try to run for him again. She was certain she could make it—she almost did. Harry would stop him before he even realized she managed to get away from him. A kick to the shin—or worse. The only thing that stopped her was the metal against her head. She was terrified that one wrong movement would set off a reflexive action that would take her life. Harry inched closer. Six measly feet away from her. She could nearly smell his fresh cologne probably applied habitually before he headed to work.

But six feet may as well have been six thousand miles.

“I can kill her, now,” he said. “Makes no difference to me. I get paid either way,” she inhaled sharply. She thought there would be a bruise from the circular barrel pressing to her skull.

She swallowed, staring at Harry. Perfect, wonderful Harry. If this was the last time her eyes were opened, at least he would be the last thing she saw. Harry had to focus on staying as calm as humanly possible. Even though the thrum of his pulse was like thunder in every inch of his body. She looked unharmed and said she was okay...other than her wrists tied together. “If you kill me, you’ll never get to my dad,” she reminded him. Harry was surprised to hear her talk about her dad. There had to be something more. But he didn’t have time to think about it. He had to get her out of here.

He eyed Harry as he inched even closer. “Keep moving, I’ll kill her,” he promised with a shrug. Harry stopped in his tracks, and she tried to pull her head from the gun. She was so brave, not even the tears in her eyes were stopping her from trying to get away.

Harry was going to give her anything she wanted. A thousand coffees, a million movies, a new set of pens and a fresh batch of index cards, or a hundred fake bouquets to decorate her place. Whatever she wanted.

“Harry,” she whispered breathlessly. He wanted to cry at the sound of worry in her voice.

“I know, love,” he murmured, trying to feign this wasn’t killing him.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked.

He wanted to wince, but he couldn’t blink. It felt like if he dropped his gaze for even a second it would be over. He would lose. He could not lose her. He didn’t respond to her. “Shut up,” the man snapped. She dropped her hands from his arm and Harry wondered how he didn’t drop his gun at the sight. It looked like she was giving up. It felt like they had to give up. What were they supposed to do? It was so quiet; even the cars outside the building seemed to be silent.

Harry and the unknown man stared at each other unmoving from their positions. It was almost like he was watching her in his peripheral vision he saw her fingers fidgeting just like they had in the video. A repetitive movement. Except this wasn’t quite sign language.

This was her thumb and index finger forming the shape of a gun and then her thumb pointing back toward herself shifting ever so slightly so her movement wouldn’t alert the man holding her hostage. Harry shook his head imperceptibly.

“Please,” she begged.

“I said, ‘shut up’,” he gripped her tighter, shaking her and Harry allowed himself to wince. He shook his head more obviously.

“Harry,” she whimpered.

“I’m going to put a bullet right in your mouth, shut. Up,” he pulled on the safety which clicked so loudly in her ear she thought it was the trigger on its own.

She released a horrific, terrified sob. “Harry, please,” she croaked.

Harry thought his heart was going to break. He nearly closed his eyes as he pulled his trigger right when she sobbed.

The sound of her cry marginally covered the ear-piercing ring of the weapon. She tore herself from the man’s grip impulsively. It was primal, the need to tend to her new wound. The sound and sight of Harry shooting at her had clearly done exactly as she wanted: completely distracted him. Trying to grab at the burning pain in her thigh with her wrists held together. She screamed so violently, so loud, Harry swore it was louder than the sound of the bullet.

As she dropped to the ground; Harry had a clear shot of the man and took it. It pierced directly through his forearm, so he dropped the gun. Harry placed another precise shot to the opposite shoulder rendering both his arms useless.

She was writhing in agony but somehow managed to reach for his weapon with her tied arms, and awkwardly shoved it out of his reach. Harry thought she was his hero. He was going to give her anything she wanted for as long as she lived.

Blood was pooling from both parties and Harry grabbed the man by his injured arm, nearly digging his thumb into the wound to make it worse. He groaned and yelled. He sounded worse than she did. He tried not to think about his beautiful angel bleeding with a wound he caused. All of the wounds he inflicted were well out of harm's way. They would repair eventually.

But Harry didn't need to be shot with a bullet to know it hurt. There was a reason people used the expression I need it like I need a hole in the head when they talked about something they definitely didn't want.

Harry thought honestly about snapping his neck. Instead, he shoved him behind the pole facing away from them, blood dripping in his path and wrapped his arms around the pole, handcuffed them together so he couldn’t escape with a set of zip ties he brought with himself--because Harry was not taking any risks when he found her. He had to be dealt with quickly, but he wasn’t important in the grand scheme of things.

With the few seconds it took Harry to rid himself of the nuisance now stuck behind the pole, moaning in agony until he could get DSS and the cops, (and everyone under the sun) here. It took a moment for Harry to realize he hadn’t heard her screams of pain as he did. She was lying on the ground, eyes closed, face paling, blood pooling around her lower half.

Oh fuck.

“Love?” He whispered brokenly. Harry dropped to his knees beside her. She was bleeding so much. Too much. The training he had from his EMT days was kicking in reflexively thank God. His movements were quick: yanking his belt off, violently pulling himself out of his coat and ripping the bottom part of his shirt off. Her jeans were soaked with her blood, seeping its way up her sweatshirt. He yanked her wrists free of the zip ties finally. I have to get her a new sweatshirt he thought uselessly.

Harry wasn’t nauseous about blood. But the thought of her dying because of blood loss made him feel so sick. Why did he listen to her? Why would he shoot her? Why, why, why!?

He was trying to do too many things at once. His right hand was holding pressure with the piece of his shirt against her wound. He pressed so hard; an insane amount of pressure—he thought he might break her already fragile leg, but it would be worth it if she would wake up. He nicked something. Something bad. Or she had a clotting problem. Something was amiss. This...this was one of the safest places he could have aimed. It had one of the highest recovery rates. All he had to do was follow her stupid fucking plan.

But it wasn't stupid. It was exactly what she wanted. It was what she expected. Harry just had no idea she had prepared for that.

If she could talk Harry down she would have. It wasn't his fault. He followed her plan even though she never explicitly told him. Even though he had no idea she didn't know her own anatomy all that well and accidentally lined up one of the arteries (but fortunately did miss her femoral artery--just barely).

His left hand dialed 911. He didn’t let the operator talk, he was spewing out the address, who he was, what the issue was, barely getting the details out in a messy rush. Harry barely waited a moment before he hung up and called Niall. He didn’t listen to anything he had to say at the other end of the line and repeated the same summary again, this time losing it the longer he talked, his voice coming out in a strangled cry and if it was anyone but Niall he would worry more about professionalism.

“Baby,” he croaked leaving the phone on, shaking her by the shoulder, he lifted her head out of the puddle of blood, her face and hair sticky with the substance. He slipped his jacket beneath her head, a cushion something to get her off the cold, bloody floor. “You gotta let me see those beautiful eyes...” he shook her head. “Love, please,” he begged giving her a squeeze. She moaned and her eyes fluttered behind the lids a bit. The slight relief he felt seemed like hope. “That’s good. Hey, hi, angel,” he cooed. Her eyes turned to little slits as she opened them so very barely. “Good job,” he praised. “Y’jus' gotta stay awake for like 10 more minutes, sweetheart. Okay? Ambulance is coming,” he promised. He continued working on her leg. He was wrapping his belt around her thigh, high around the top. He pulled it into a tight knot. She moaned at the feeling.

“Stop,” she whimpered reaching with her freed hand uselessly for his ministrations.

“I know, love, m’sorry,” he felt his voice dying in his throat. This was bad. So horrifically, bad. “Y’got a bit of a gash here, Miss Wildflower, jus’ like when y’were cooking,” he reminded her. “Remember?”

She didn’t respond and Harry found a piece of metal, like something from the construction that was left lying around, to slip in the knot he made. He twisted it causing an involuntary scream to rip from her throat. He winced at the sound of her agony.

“Harry please,” she begged, eyes dripping with tears. Her hands reached again for him to stop. “It hurts!”

“I know, m'love. M’sorry. Jus’ gotta...” he kept twisting and holding pressure on the wound. Her hands reached for it again, he grabbed both, she was too weak to do anything anyway, but he held them both against her side. “There,” he felt a pinch more relief seeing the gushing had stopped.

“S’cold,” she whispered after a moment of stillness. The burning seemed to stop. It was overshadowed by how cold she was.

Harry thought he might die if she died right in front of him. His heart was racing, the adrenaline was violently coursing through him. “I know beautiful, I know. Goddammit,” he hissed. “Niall, I need back up. Now!”

He pressed harder on her wound and looked at the pool of blood surrounding her. It was too much, too dark. “Ow, Harry! Please, stop! It hurts!” She whimpered.

“I know, honey, I know. I’m so sorry m’angel. I’m so sorry.” He could hear the sirens. “Jus’ another minute.”

She groaned for a few seconds before silence took over again. Harry pressed on her wound again. He was covered in her blood as well. She moaned again at the fiery pain. “M’sleepy,” she managed.

“I know, beautiful. I know; but y’can’t sleep yet. Not yet. I’ll let you sleep soon, I promise.”

More silence. “S’really cold.”

Harry wanted to cry. He sniffled and realized he already was. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

“M’sorry I ran away,” she mumbled. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want her to know how mad he was even though she seemed close to dying. “I had...had to...get you away...they’d kill you. And then... I’d have no one…at least this way...” she trailed off.

“Kitten,” he said firmly, he swallowed back the tears. Squeezed her hands. “You are going t’get in an ambulance in thirty seconds and you are going t’live a long, beautiful life. Please jus’ stay awake for jus’ a few more minutes.”

Harry swore she smiled faintly. “...With you?”

“God, if s’what y’want. I'll stay forever, love. Jus’ stay awake, please,” he begged. She didn't respond and Harry began to panic. Where was the fucking ambulance? “Angel, Tell me the functional groups.”

“Hmm?”

“Please, love. Tell them t’me again.”

“Ketone. Carbonyl. Acyl…” she sighed.

“Describe aldehyde,” he croaked. “Niall! Where is it?! Please, baby,” she could feel his hand on her face, but she realized she couldn’t see him anymore. “Kitten, honey, please open your eyes.”

Was he crying?

She wanted to say she loved him out loud. Wanted to say she was sorry for everything one more time but unfortunately her tongue was suddenly too heavy to speak. She swore she heard Harry crying, shouting, and whispering he loved her right in her ear as she drifted off to sleep.

--

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @youdontcaredoyou @tiredinwinter @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach @straightontilmornin @freedomfireflies @littlenatilda @kathb59 @babegoals @angel-upon @lilfreakjez @mleestiles @ameliaalvarez06 @canyonmoondreams @summertime-pills @daphnesutton @l4rrysh0use @perfectywrong @foreverxholland

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I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist for more of my writing.

[longeyelashedtragedy]

taking a risk and posting the very first section of the threesome (which STILL has no title? very odd for me). it is an xxxtreme first draft so some of the language is rough/worded weirdly (i do this so i can just get an idea out onto the page without getting stuck on the wording and then forgetting what it was). that first paragraph has too many tenses in it on purpose--i'm trying to figure out which sounds best! sorry that it starts with a sort of disembodied handjob!

There are so many things Frank won’t think about as he walks up to the carefully placed ball.

For one, the nails painted a bright electric blue.  Cute, thoughtful, flattering.  Thoughtful.  Flattering.  Flattering.  The gaffer said: nothing strenuous.  Not even my hands!  Can’t even use my hands!  Can’t touch you tonight!  Uh-uh, call Roberto up now if you don’t believe me!  Here, take my phone, call him up!

Looking down and watching the nails that decorate the long fingers wrapped around his cock.  It was not a lazy hand; she stroked him firmly.  But lovingly.  Teasing the tip making him moan and say her name out loud despite the sudden embarrassment of this.  The chin digging into his neck and the soft hair draping over his shoulders and the nipples pressing against his bare back through the thin shirt she wears to sleep.  If he closes his eyes there’s a moment of safety.  Everything is alright.

He thinks of sucking the Chelsea-blue fingertips clean with his eyes closed so she can admire his eyelashes.  He knows well what he tastes like on her fingers, thighs, stomach.

With his eyes closed his mind tells him it’s the taste of John.

He won’t look into the bursting blue and white stands to meet her eyes.  Then he’ll have to think about this: how there’s no girlfriend with his name on her back—never has been, she doesn’t do that, has never done.  She’s not like the others.  When he sees her in the stands she stands out.  She’s different.  And it worries him sometimes.  If someone thinks—If she’s different than maybe so is he—

He thinks about John—John is there too, John in his kit.  John trapped in a stadium seat because of being what she’d called a bit of an idiot over dinner or because of what he’d thought of as passion but in private, in the depths of his heart, he has to agree with her.

It’s why she makes a better fiancée than he’d thought life would bring him after he’d made a mistake the first time.  They’re often of the same mind about the day-to-day things.  If they got deeper, there’s a lot she surely wouldn’t agree with about how he feels about John Terry.  So Frank spends the time poised, tense, making sure they don’t get deeper.

 Stop thinking!  John should be doing this with him.  He can’t bear to not have John when he’s supposed to have John.  Stop thinking!

Then he’s back to himself, Super Frank, the captain today, not a leader, maybe a legend, and captain all the same. He sets the example and he works hard enough to tune out the distractions. He’s strong, focused, a good example of a man for others.  His footsteps vibrate though him.  He hears them thump in his ears.  The adrenaline flows, and his view of the world narrows to nothing but the pitch ahead of him and Manuel Neuer.  He doesn’t hear anything.  This is one of the moments he’s been training for all his life.  He doesn’t think of how Dad was the one who first prepared him.  These moments are the ones he lives for.  When it all leaves his mind.

His foot meets the ball with that calm, steady, controlled force.  Up and over Neuer’s arms, cleanly into the top of the net.

*

The team the staff the entourage soaked in champagne and sweat and screams. 

*

The families are loaded onto a different coach.  The first team hanging out of the seats, hooting and spilling things and faking grinding on each other in the aisles, soaking in more champagne and sweat and screams.  It wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary for Frank and John to share a victory kiss.  Shouldn’t have been, anyway.  What kind of world is this, that’s designed things so that they can’t?  It’s Dad’s tired 70s, 80s, 90s holding the 21st century hostage.  Frank is tired of Dad’s world.  He was captain.  He should get a victory kiss.

John takes a break from swigging the Dom Pérignon to do what he always does.  To be on the same wavelength as Frank and yet crushingly not.  “You’re such a fucking star, Lamps,” he yells over the horrible music someone is playing.  “I’m so fucking proud of this lad,” he says to Petr, who’s fully aware.  And then back to Frank.  “Too bad you’re not some pretty girl.  I’d give you a kiss, wouldn’t I?”

*

They don’t get to the Mandarin Oriental until three in the morning.  They’re already playing what one of the younger lads identifies as Justin Timberlake in the hotel ballroom.  Nobody will sleep tonight.

[cookie-kisses]

Hi! Welcome to the cookie writer community here there are a lot of nice anons and many amazing writers! I noticed your post about taking requests when I was looking at most recent cookie run × reader stuff and saw you and thought I'd send in a request and welcome you! Also it's cool you're a yandere writer too! Not many writers are a fan of writing yandere so it's nice to see another yandere writer to add some spice to the mix! Oh and you do male reader writings? Neat! I like gender neutral since it involves everyone but...despite being a female...seeing so many x females well...it's like only having one meal over and over again. You just end up wanting something different and new, yaknow?

Anyway sorry for that ramble! Just already excited to see some of your more romantic writing!

Now...may I request an affogato x a sweet, cuddly reader hcs? If you wanna do a one shot instead, that would be fine! Like maybe the reader found affogato after he was forced to flee from the dark cacao kingdom and decided to take him under their wing and nurse them back to health and let him live with them? Maybe the reader also treats them sweetly and never falls for their manipulation because they are so sweet, it just flies over their head and they just think affogato is being nice and always offers him hugs and welcomes any hugs! Bonus if the reader secretly knew the whole time about who he was and what he had done...buuut had heard his story about his sad life (the whole asking to sit in a chair with no comfort thing) and wanted to give them a happy life to turn them good...aaaaand possibly hope affogato chooses to stay even after he recovered because the reader loves their cuddles and actually has a crush on them...and affogato finds out by either overhearing a convo where the reader's friend calls them insane because of what they were doing or affogato finds their diary!

(Scroll down to banner cut to skip authors notes if desired.)

Oh my sweet, sweet anon. My sweet, precious anon, thank you. You don’t understand how infatuated I am with Affogato Cookie. He’s one of the reasons I started writing!

My account is actually about a year old, but due to massive writing block I never posted any content. I also agree on the same repetitive content! It’s quite disappointing reading a piece of content that’s really well written, but Y/N is automatically female. (Especially without any prior notice.) I use my blog to give an opening to male readers but otherwise make it gender neutral to be inclusive.

And yes! I write yandere content (within reason.) The stories tend to be more bitter, but the bitterness and conflict is what makes it interesting. I wish for my content to provide something new!

When I saw Affogato Cookie’s name pop up I nearly jumped out of my seat, I will surely have fun with this.

Warmth&Love

Cw: Minor swearing

The frigid snow of the Dark Cacao Kingdom beats down on the land, temperatures reaching below zero. A blizzard hurdles from north, The Black Citadels doors locked up tight, villagers barricading their house windows, cake hounds and cream wolves huddling against each other. Even the beasts of the lands couldn’t stand the cold.

The freezing land of the kingdom was no place for a cookie to stray out alone, yet Affogato cookie found himself trudging away from it. Exiled for treason with no one to turn to, he wandered the frigid hills. Affogato cookie cursed himself. He was close to having everything! He almost had it all, but now he had nothing. Again

Affogato cookie didn’t know where he was going or where he was. His sight was blinded by pure white fluttering around him, the frigid cold clung onto his body. Snow hugging onto his eyelashes and finger tips. Every step took more energy than the last, the cold finally taking its toll.

Unable to support himself any long his knees collapsed with his body. His vision blurred, head filled with cotton. He failed to see the approaching figure before passing out from the cold.

Laid in the corner, Affogato cookie slept unconscious atop of a wooden bed. His body was blanketed with a fluffy, wool cover. It was a humble cabin, limited space, but it was a home nonetheless.

Clinking could be heard from the kitchen. There you were, working in the kitchen before fixing a bowl of soup, your eyes fixating on Affogato cookie.

You found Affogato cookie passed out in the cold while wandering for lumber. It wasn’t the smartest move because of the blizzard, but your idiocy saved a man. You know who he was, your friend warned you about him before you moved away from your home village. They always suspected something wasn’t right, but you couldn’t have cared less. You were head over heals for that man. You knew everything. This was your chance to treat him ever so sweetly and maybe even do something more.

Your mind retraced the events once more, thinking of different scenarios before being interrupted by the squeak of the bed frame. Affogato Cookie sat against the bed, dazed, before gathering his composure and haughty demeanor in an instant when he spotted you. Even when exiled, he couldn’t let his sweet facade slip again, no?

Placing the bowl of broth onto a serving tray you placed the board along his lap with a spoon alongside it.

Affogato Cookie slowly felt a smile curl his lips. What a lovely opportunity this was. Oh, how he thanked you for saving him. Sweet praises slipped from his mouth, putting on a sultry voice.

“What do we have here? Oh how strong and brave you must’ve been to save me from such a strong storm! Aren’t you something?”

He laced his words with the sweetest sugar, complimenting your strength, kindness, generosity, anything he could think of to get you to fall under.

But to his dismay, you stood unfazed by his sweet remarks, instead thanking him before questioning about his condition.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Do you need anymore blankets?”

“Are you comfortable?”

“Is there anything else you need?”

His facade wavered slightly, partly irritated his smooth talk didn’t work, partly because he didn’t expect such warmth. He surely didn’t expect you to offer him a place either.

“Stay as long as needed but please, spend the night at least.”

Knowing he had no other option, he accepted. Where else would he go?

Despite his exile, it didn’t stop Affogato cookie’s desire for control and admiration. Often he’d coil around you as he crooned compliments. He spoke with constant sugar coated praises and faux sincerity, grazing your body with gentle touches. He’d cradle your cheek, leaning in, whispering sweet things. All attempts to make you melt, waver, and bend.

“Aren’t you a lovely, thing? Heh heh.”

“What have we here? Oh aren’t you adorable…”

“Hm hm hm- why, aren’t you a dear.”

“Can I ask you a favor? You’re quite the strong one..”

But despite all his efforts, your demeanor never faltered. You’d smile at him with the genuine, sweet smile he always seen you wear. You’d return the affection leaning into his touch, but never quite bending the way he wanted you to. Your demeanor soon started affecting him. (Oh, the sweet irony.) He couldn’t help but find his face flaring up whenever you smiled with such kindness at him.

The more time Affogato Cookie spent around you the more conflicted he was. Constantly you pampered him, always making sure he was comfortable and happy. You were quite physical with your affection too, reciprocating his touches. When Affogato brushed up against you it was empty sweetness, nothing more than a deceitful attempt, but your touches were filled with mesmerizing warmth. He could feel his composure melt bit by bit and he had no idea what to do about it.

Slowly he started to consider the idea of just settling in. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to pull strings for admiration after all. You were so sweet, he might’ve even caught something for you.

His arrogant facade finally slipped off one day when you cuddle alongside him by the fireplace. He melted into your side and basked in the warmth. Yes. This was a life worth living. He finally had someone by his side, a loving companion, maybe something even more. His eyes fluttered closed in content, leaning against you warm body.

You sat still as he slept on your shoulder, a small smile crept on your face. Sighing contently you cradled him in your arms once more and carried him up to your bedroom, tucking him in. You smile gently and pecked his forehead. You couldn’t help but stare at him with adoration, he’s so beautiful to you, and now you finally had him with you. You wish you could get closer.

However, a knock from downstairs pulled you out from your daydream. Gently you treaded down the stairs, reluctant to make any noise.

Opening the door you were met with a familiar face. A former friend from your home village stared at you, a concerned expression on their face.

Your heart sank to your stomach. If you wanted to see their face again you wouldn’t have moved away from the village.

“Hey-”

You interupted.

“What do you want?”

“Erm- have you possibly seen, you know- euhm Affogato Cookie around recently?”

The cookie treaded cautiously with their words, their voice not above a whisper. Your eyes narrowed, you knew what this was about, but you feigned ignorance.

“Why?”

You craned your head sideways.

“Well- I just wouldn’t want you to get hurt or anything. You know what he’s done…”

Your face contorted into one of irritation.

“Don’t start with this again.”

In an instant their tone rose, their anger fluctuating as they spoke.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not like you love the man who tried to overthrow the kingdom and start a cult!? I’m so sorry that you’re fucking insane!”

Choking out an irritable laugh the two of you bickered at the front door, spitting out meaningless insults.

Meanwhile, upstairs the string of voices woke up Affogato Cookie, miffed he was woken from his sleep. But Affogato being a nosy man, his interest piqued from the commotion downstairs. Walking half way down he peeked his head over the wall, listening in. Your argument nearly became a screaming match.

“Are you drunk?? You love a fucking psychopath! He’s a power hungry mooch!”

“Oh, I wonder who caused him to be this way? You and the village did! This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t abuse a goddamn child. All he needed was love! And that’s what I’m giving him now. How about you fuck off and let me live my life?!”

“You’re dense! You can’t jus-“

The door slammed in their face.

Your hand rested on the doorknob, barely able process anything. Your other hand shook violently. You turned your head looking behind you, your eyes met Affogato’s. Your face as pale as the snow. Neither of you blinked as you stared at each other, not a word slipping out.

Affogato cookie slowly crept down the stares, standing just a few inches from you.

This was not how you planned things to be! They weren’t supposed to know yet- what if he didn’t even feel the same? You should’ve just closed the door. Thoughts of rejection ran through your head, failing to see a smile spread across his lips and his advances. Finally, you were snapped out of your head when a pair of lips pressed against yours.

“How amusing. I am blessed to be yours.”

Your face flushed as you returned the kiss, a shaky breath of relief leaving your body. You couldn’t be happier, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes.

“I love you.”

“I love you too darling.”

💋

~Cookie-Kisses

[merryfortune]

The Previous School Idol is a Mean Girl?!

August 12th: Dreams | Dancing | Idol

Title: The Previous School Idol is a Mean Girl?!

Ship: Rio/Sanagi

Series: Yu-Gi-Oh! ZeXal

Rating: T

Word Count: 4,521

Tags: Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Jealousy, Humour

  “Hey, have you heard? A celebrity is transferring to OUR school! Isn’t that so cool?”

   Left, right, and centre, Rio was hearing these rumours everywhere. Inside of class, outside of class, literally everywhere. And it didn’t bother her at all. Why should it? She wasn’t one to get caught up in a social media frenzy or the like but the fact even her closest friends couldn’t shut up about it, ok, that was beginning to get on her nerves.

   But just who was this new celebrity student that had everyone bar Rio in a tizzy?

   Well, it was the one and only starlet, Chono Sanagi. She was practically Japan’s sweetheart in this day and age. She had hit single after hit single but her music wasn’t really Rio’s taste. She preferred songs that told stories, had depth or meaning. Sanagi’s songs were…. Trite to say the least. To Rio anyway. She only heard shallow and sugary things in Sanagi’s lyrics and they were being played everywhere.

   Out of phones, out of computers, even on the school’s public services announcement system. It was totally inescapable and it was building up bit by bit for Rio. She was sick of it but she wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t going to be a wet blanket but like. C’mon. 

   There were sooooo many topics of conversation they could be having over lunch. Like…. The economy or something, the weather? Duel Monsters was always a classic with them. Surely there was something but all around her from Kotori to Yuma and to even her brother - everyone - they all wanted to talk about the new student.

   The buzz surrounding this announcement and consequent gossip, of course, came to a head when Sanagi finally had her first day at public school debut. How exciting! (Not.)

   “Welcome to Class 3-C, Chouno-san.”

   Rio’s jaw dropped. She legitimately could not believe that her class, of the three classes, they would be the ones who would have to assimilate to Sanagi’s new presence amongst them. This was so unfair. Rio wasn’t even in a class with Kotori or Yuma, or their other friends, it was just her and her brother.

   “Thank you, ma’am, it's a pleasure to work with you.” Sanagi chirped. She had her hands in front of her and she bowed towards the class. “May we all get along.”

   Rio had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Yeah, right. The cute and sweet act had to be just that. An act. Showbiz got to everyone’s minds like an infection, she was certain.

   “Hm… Where is there a spare seat,” the teacher mused aloud and Rio’s blood ran cold, the teacher made pleasant eye contact with her, “ah, there’s one next to Kamishiro-san.”

   Rio felt her back stiffen and obeyed the indirect instruct. She raised her hand slightly and forced a polite smile. Sanagi’s eyes lit up when she saw Rio after scanning the faces of the sea of strangers in front of her. 

   Sanagi all but skipped down the aisle. Her skirt flounced, her hands flicked to and fro as she joyfully sat down in the window-side desk next to Rio. She leaned closer and fluttered her eyelashes at Rio, all whilst smiling so bright that it was blinding.

   “Hiya, my name is Chouno Sanagi, I hope we get along.” she introduced herself. As if she needed to. Literally.

   Rio grit her teeth, “Likewise.”

   Oh boy, Rio could already feel a storm swirl but that’s fine. She was cool and mature, usually level-headed, she could handle being very minorly irked by the new girl. She was sure. Yes, well, that conviction lasted for all of, what? Five minutes?

  Roll call swiftly concluded once the biggest announcement was out of the way and the teacher at the head of the classroom exchanged roles with their mathematics professor. Though the atmosphere in the classroom remained unsettled, however. There was an electric buzz that was haywire and far more interesting than integers.

   But Rio was plenty interested in integers. She wasn’t interested at all in Sanagi who was getting glance after glance, snicker and gawk after snicker and gawk. It was distracting but Rio did her best to focus with a neutral expression as she took notes and did her practise questions in the textbook per the teacher’s instructions. Just picking off where they had left off.

   Which was a problem for Sanagi since she hadn’t been here when they had last covered these math questions.

   “Er, excuse me, Kamishiro-san…?” Sanagi whispered, leaning in from across the aisle.

   She got Rio’s attention and she huffed. Hard. She pushed her hair behind her hair and turned her head slightly.

   “What?” she asked flatly.

   Sanagi seemed put off by Rio’s attitude. Not that Rio thought she was projecting attitude but she was.

   “I, um,” Sanagi murmured. “I missed the, uh, teacher saying what page to open to in the textbook, which page are you on?” She stumbled slightly - and did it so cutely, too. What a princess.

   “Oh, uh, it's page one-hundred-and-twelve.” Rio replied.

   “Thanks.” Sanagi chirped.

   She got to work and Rio continued her own at her own pace. A pace which she thought was pretty good. She was a real whiz kid, after all. Academics, sports, duelling: Rio did it all and with style. In fact, prior to Chouno Sanagi’s arrival at school, Rio likely would have been the one crowned school idol. Not that she cared for titles like that. They were dumb and fanciful, nothing she could put on a resume, so it's not like she felt threatened by Sanagi who had the good graces of her pre-existing celebrity status behind her.

   Nope. Not threatened at all.

   Not even when Rio realised something.

   Sanagi was doing the practice questions in the textbook way, way quicker than Rio was.

   Sanagi was speeding through them. Her hand, dainty and pale, and her pen, pink and fluffy, was a blur over the pages of the textbook. Her brow was slightly furrowed as her eyes scanned over and apparently, her brain spitting out the answers at impossibly fast lightning speeds.

   There was no way in the world that she was getting them all correct, right?

   Rio was genuinely freaked out by how monstrous Sanagi seemed next to her. It wasn’t a competition, of course. Rio tried to mind her own business but every question bogged her down slightly more than the one before. It took some effort but Rio did her best. 

   Even if it was difficult, Sanagi already finished beside her. Her back was straight as an arrow as her hand shot up.

   “Yes, Chouno-san?”

   “How do I check my answers?” she asked. “My previous teachers used a different book.”

   “Oh, it’s in the back somewhere, just look for the chapter title but don’t cheat.” the teacher laughed good-naturedly.

   The students, however, bristled. Rio in particular found herself malding. No way, right? They had only been left to their own devices with the textbook for twenty minutes tops by now so there was no way that Sanagi had finished the entire exercise just yet. Rio was barely halfway there but she watched as Sanagi switched to a red pen and flipped to the back of the book.

   She flicked between her exercise book and the answers in the back of the book, mumbling to herself underneath her breath. Tick, tick, tick: all correct. She understood the material immaculately and smiled ever so proud of her work. Rio discretely checked as well and she had to hold her tongue.

   No way. She really had one-hundred percent per-cented their workbook. In fact, from her notes, Rio could tell, she could already knock back at perfect percentage, too, as her answers differed in two different instances. Rio turned robotically, fuming, and began to go through the motions of finding out where she had gone wrong - and came up with cope, too.

   Maybe Sanagi had already covered similar material in her previous curriculum. That made sense. That seemed believable, Rio coped all the way through to the rest of their mathematics class to morning tea.

   During the mid-morning break, not much happened. They sat around the classroom, people flocked to Sanagi for a chat so Rio swung the other way and read a book with her back to her. She wasn’t too fussed, even if it was difficult to concentrate with everyone so close to her. She barely got through a couple paragraphs of the YA that the librarian had recommended her.

   Hopefully, come lunchtime, everyone would be too exhausted by all the dazzling celebrity charisma - and the strenuous exertion of physical education - to care that much. That was Rio’s hope anyway as she closed her book and grabbed her bag by the time the teacher informed them they had to mosey on down to the gymnasium and get changed into their sports clothes.

   Rio slipped in and out of the girls locker room as quick as she could. That place stank of cheap perfume and was noisier than usual with the gossip. Other girls were very intent on befriending Sanagi and catching her up with the lore. She seemed pleasantly uncomfortable as she just wanted to get changed into her t-shirt and shorts like everyone else.

   The gym teacher, who was incredibly perceptive to the ruckus, had everyone do drills immediately. He had people running laps of the basketball court over and over again, the second they exited the locker rooms but made sure that stragglers did about the same as the not so lucky ones. That was half kind of him and then, once everyone was sweaty and tired already, it was time for the actual class to begin.

   “Alright, as you know, the annual physical examinations are coming up. Today, we will practise those drills. We can already tick off the running, so we’ll resume with rope climbing and vaulting.”

   Rio smiled to herself. She was still panting but she enjoyed those sorts of drills and was hoping to out-do her score from last year. She had been top of the class consistently for the drills and of course the final outcome of the indoors examination.

   “Start by warming yourselves up, remember what I taught you last week with the push-ups.” the Gym Teacher continued to lecture.

   Again, easy-peasy, Rio thought as she, like all the others, got up and claimed a foam mat from the pile.

   Everyone clustered in friend groups to do these warm-ups. Rio made quick work of it, enjoying the rush of endorphins and focused on her own time. She was able to make quick work of it with perfect form, unlike others who were slower and struggled, or crunched even harder than her. There was a wide range of ability in the classroom. Everyone was different, yup, everyone… was… different… And someone caught her eye.

   And yes. That someone was Sanagi.

   Rio couldn’t help but stop and stare, losing concentration on her own pace as she tried to count how many push-ups that Sanagi was doing. Though her frame was thin and waifish, her energy output was brutal.

   She was flying through the warm-up drill. She looked gorgeous, she practically sparkled instead of sweated. Her pink hair bounced adorable as she made cute faces of exhaustion. Her technique differed from what they had been taught and Rio would have loved to see the teacher pull her up on that but… Nothing happened. It was clear this was what she had been taught from her idol dance activities and such.

   Her flawless prowess at athletics only became more apparent now that the rest of the gymnasium had been set-up for the other courses that they were practising.

   The vaults had been moved into place and the teacher rounded them up into one long line. He stood with a clipboard and called out names as he went down the list. There didn’t seem to be rhyme nor reason to how the kids had been listed but Chouno Sanagi was, naturally, close to the top for whatever reason.

   “I used to do gymnastics,” she said cheerfully as she took position at the top of the runway, “so let’s see if I still have it in me.”

   She took a deep breath and began her sprint. She looked ever so fey and dainty as she ran up, seemingly poised to not go that far before oomph! She cleared it with elegance, her form was immaculate with her legs in the level split position as she soared over the vault and with quite the gap between her bottom and the top of the vault.

   Their classmates whooped and hollered. The teacher mumbled something akin to “Not bad” under his breath and Rio fumed. She clapped - to be polite, to not be the odd one out - but she was swearing up and down. She would do better and it was just her luck, as Sanagi looped around to join the end of the line, her name would be called out next.

   “Here’s to beating last year’s personal best, teehee.” Rio said through gritted teeth as she lined herself up to the vault.

   “When you're ready.”

   Rio nodded. One, two, three… Then take off. She ran down the line and launched herself. Suddenly, she was the only person in the gym, no, in the world. It felt good to have the air on her face to have so much lift-off. She landed gracefully and turned around.

    The teacher looked up and down, “Missed your PB by 2cm, Rio.”

   “Huh?” Rio couldn’t believe her ears.

   That couldn’t be right but she wasn’t about to argue with the teacher. Especially not in front of the whole class but it was tempting. They snickered and sniggered about how Rio had big-noted herself only to fail to meet her proclamation. How embarrassing.

   Rio blushed, and sulked, as she joined the end of the line. Right next to Sanagi. She offered her a small smile and condolence.

   “Better luck next time.” Sanagi whispered.

   Rio rolled her eyes.

   Sanagi flinched, not expecting the cold shoulder but was quickly absorbed by more accommodating people on her right as opposed to her left. Rio couldn’t care less. Or so she was trying to convince herself because right now, it seemed she cared a whole lot - and for all the wrong reasons.

   Being a class of twenty-odd and the vaulting only taking a minute or two tops, they shuffled along at a reasonable pace. The gym teacher had the second to last student fiddle with the ropes so they would be free of the rigging. Getting the three thick ropes come down from the ceiling gave everyone enough time for a breather after all the running, jumping, and push-upping. 

   It also was more than enough time for Rio to start speculating about the performance of a certain someone in this last gym activity. Surely, Rio reasoned, Sanagi couldn’t be perfect at everything. Jumping and leaping, that made sense. She was a dancer and a gymnast before that but climbing and grasping her different skill sets entirely. Rio hoped that Sanagi’s teensy-weensy delicate self would prove bad at the rope climbing. 

   She couldn’t wait to relish in Sanagi’s misfortune as she proved the limitations of her charisma, intelligence, and physical prowess.  Rio practically bit her tongue in anticipation of all the sinister giggling and chuckling that she was looking forward to doing.

   Only for none of that to happen.

   The gym teacher used the same list as before and so, after two or three previous students, Sanagi was up next and Rio watched with much interest. Sanagi um’d and ah’d as she looked up the length of the rope, tested how it felt on her hands and Rio could already detect weakness to salivate over.

   Up until Sanagi put her big girl panties on and proved she was capable at this, too. She climbed with passion, going all but all the way to the top and in record time. Rio’s jaw dropped and she knew her personal best for this particular activity’s record had been shattered.

   “Your turn, Kamishiro.” the Gym Teacher piped up.

   Rio nodded and what happened next didn’t matter much. She put her all in and despite being filled with spite towards Sanagi, that didn’t put too much fuel into the fire unfortunately. She did her best, shimmying up the rope, holding tight and staring directly at the ceiling that she wanted to high five. That wasn’t the outcome that she got - and, she was slower, too, compared to Sanagi but on par with her previous personal best.

   That literally no one but her cared about.

   When class ended, and they were all told to hit the showers, Rio could already overhear that her crown was in danger. She was no longer the school’s princess, the school’s idol, that honour was now going to the girl who was pretty in pink. Rio fumed as she stood underneath the showers, listening into all the gossip going on around her.

   Gossip that only worsened when she finally linked up with her friends in the other class. Word spread fast. And apparently, Yuma’s ability to befriend anyone worked just as fast, too.

   Rio was looking forward to some peace and quiet as she ate, enjoying the serenity of the greenspace of the school, chatting with Kotori and Cathy, and such but nope. It was suspicious that Yuma hadn’t planted himself down with them but the reason was revealed soon enough.

   “Today’s been so weird and annoying.” Rio complained as she munched on a chicken and salad sandwich. “I just seem to be completely off my game, too, with everything.”

   “Poor thing.” Cathy sympathised. 

   “It's all because of that transfer student!” Rio announced.

   Her sudden increase in volume caused Cathy and Kotori to flinch. Rio, however, was entirely oblivious.

   “She’s so… perfect, it’s so fake. “Oh look at me, I’m so cute and sweet and innocent, I couldn’t hurt a fly, I’m good at everything!”, like, buzz off. No one is that perfect. It’s all an act.” Rio began to rant.

   Cathy and Kotori exchanged a look. Rio even began to make hand gestures now as she droned on and on with all her complaints stockpiled from this morning.

   “She’s been here, what? Five minutes and already thinks she owns the place. The other students here might fall for her wiles but I’m glad you guys are with me. ‘Cause I’m seeing right through tricks: if it weren’t for this stupid stunt by her talent agency, no one would even know who she is. Her music sucks, her attitude is so sugary, it makes me sick!” Rio complained loudly. “Ugh, what a spoiled, stuck-up princess.”

   “Uh… Rio?” Kotori, with a very frightened expression on her face, piped up.

   “Yes?” Rio asked, blinking owlishly, entirely oblivious.

   “H…How could you?!”

   Rio’s blood ran cold and her eyes went wide. She hated that voice, there was no way she could ever mistake it for anyone else.

   Rio turned around slightly and sure enough, clinging to a very panicked Yuma, was the one and only Chouno Sanagi.

   Sanagi held herself defensively, she looked terrified. Her eyes were wide and shiny as they welled up with tears. Her heart clearly trembled as her whole chest quaked.

   “Yu…Yuma, I thought you said your friends were fun and kind.” she started to warble, her voice high and frayed.

   “Th-They are.” Yuma said, trying to placate her but shooting Rio a dirty look in confusion.

   “I, um, didn’t mean it like that.” Rio said as she scrambled to her feet.

   “You said you think I’m a fake, self-absorbed princess.” Sanagi whimpered. “And that you think my music sucks.”

   Rio cringed. She had, indeed, said all of those and meant them. There wasn’t really an alternative explanation for all of that but now it was hitting her - hard - just how thoughtlessly cruel she was being.

   The tension now hung thick in the air. Yuma, Kotori, and Cathy were all gobsmacked by the turn of events and in this palpable pause, Sanagi took heart and found courage.

   She uncoiled herself from around Yuma’s stiff arms. She stood her ground, feet shoulder’s width apart as her expression steeled. Rio swallowed thickly as she felt like the avaricious maiden before a Solemn Judgement.

   “You… You are a mean girl, Kamishiro Rio!” Sanagi announced blubbering.

   It took all her calm and collection to say such a definitive thing and then she broke down. Her chin turned a strawberry as her cheeks reddened. She took three, heavy breaths that made her chest quake as the new silence settled like the aftermath of a bomb. Pure silence. All shock. No survivors. Time stood still until it didn’t.

   Sanagi swallowed hard, studying how Rio gasped like a fish, trying to extend her hand in apology and fled.

   Rio remained behind, hand outstretched and wallowing in regret as all eyes turned on her.

   “Oh my God, Rio, how could you?” Kotori sneered, aghast, hand on her chest.

   “No, wait, I-I can explain.” Rio panickedly sputtered.

   “I’ve seen some catty behaviour in my time but that takes the cake, Rio.” Cathy negged.

   “Yeah, Rio, what did Sanagi ever do to you to deserve that?” Yuma said.

   “I know we all need to uncork sometimes but that was too much even from the beginning, you were so wrapped up in yourself, you didn’t even notice Cathy or I trying to warn you.” Kotori pointed out, cross.

   Rio squirmed. She felt like the bad guy and for good reason. They were… right, that was a bit much. Even if she hadn’t wanted nor intended for Sanagi to overhear, having it all laid out like this made Rio realise how unfair and juvenile she was being. That was way more embarrassing than getting, well, jealous of the new girl stealing all her clout.

   “I’m gonna. I’m going to go and fix this.” Rio said.

   Maybe that was a good idea. Maybe it was a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad idea. Either way, Rio wasn’t going to let anyone stop her from running after Sanagi. 

   She sprinted off, letting her hair fly back as she jetted forward. She heard Yuma and Kotori call for her behind but she tuned them out, uncertain if encouragement or discouragement. Her movements, ever swift and precise, turned heads as she gave chase to the popstar. She surely couldn't have gone that far. She must have been hot on Sanagi’s heels because out of the corner of Rio’s eyes, she could see the expressions behind her. All around her. Kids left, right, and centre were giving her dirty looks, putting two and two together.

   It made Rio’s stomach knot. She gritted her teeth as she looked for clues before going with Occam’s Razor. If she was upset, she would want to cry in the nearest girls’ toilets. So, she changed course and figured out where that was.

   Rio sped down to a jog, swung around the column outside the toilet block and peered inside. She saw Sanagi in front of the sinks and mirrors. She was a distraught vision in pink amid the endless powder blue tiles and off-white grout. She was trying to fix her makeup but sobbing her eyes out at the same time was a bit counterintuitive.

   “You…” Sanagi glared. “What do you want?”

   “To say I’m sorry.” Rio said.

   She took a breath and stepped closer, into the tiling. Sanagi warily stared her down, looking like a cornered animal, but she didn’t tell her to go away, didn’t bare her teeth. She let it happen.

   “You believe me?” Rio asked.

   “I like to look for the best in people.” Sanagi replied, uppity.

   She reared back from over the sinks. Let go and faced Rio but she boarded up: she folded her arms in front of her. Tapped her foot impatiently. Rio realised she needed to get this right or there might be consequences.

   “That’s very kind of you.” Rio murmured. “I could learn a thing or two from you about that.”

   Sanagi flinched, not expecting that.

   Rio awkwardly bowed her head, “I’m pretty… I’m pretty stubborn. I like what I like and hate what I hate but it was, um, unfair of me to pre-judge you but, uh, how do I say this… You, like, threaten me? Like, I’m jealous of you. There. I said it. I… I, uh, don’t like that.”

   Sanagi batted her eyelashes at Rio. Again, pleasantly surprised by Rio’s admissions.

   “You’re, like, smart and athletic and good at stuff I’m bad at, like singing for example. It annoyed me and I took it out on you when I shouldn’t.” Rio said. “Sure, I didn’t mean to but hey, don’t say anything in public you wouldn’t want your worst enemy to hear or something like that.”

   “Not all of us can have PR agents to tell us that in advance, I guess.” Sanagi giggled.

   “Yeah, exactly.” Rio agreed, maybe a little too desperately but her heart was in the right place. “So, um, there you have it. I’m sorry. And you're right. I am a mean girl but I promise I’m other things, too. I want us to get along since we will be classmates so I hope you will stick around and realise that I’m not just a mean girl.”

   “It takes a big person to admit when they’re at fault.” Sanagi said and she began to fidget with her fingers. “I accept your apology, Rio. I - I know you didn’t want me to hear that but I can tell you mean it when you say you're sorry. I want us to get along too, classmate! It’s been so long since I’ve had friends my own age or the traditional school student experience, so you will have to bear with me until I adjust. Until then, we’ll both have growing pains.”

   Sanagi flounced forward and attached herself to Rio. Hands intertwined, arms coiled and Sanagi cuddled closer. Rio stiffened and felt her face go red. That was… That was not what she was expecting. 

   She thought they would be amicably distant at best. Not adoringly close. Literally. Her heart jumped out of her chest and she felt her palms sweat. That was unusual. Not one of her previous symptoms of jealousy.

   “Let’s go and enjoy our lunch break together, bestie.” Sanagi said and flicked her large, sparkling gaze up to Rio.

   “Yes, of course. Whatever you say, Chouno-san!” Rio chirped.

   “Please,” Sanagi said, cuddling closer, if that was even possible, her hands getting way too handsy up and down Rio’s arm, “call me Sana. Only my closest friends can do that.”

   “S-Sounds good.” Rio replied.

   She swallowed her stutter as Sanagi walked her out of the toilets. She jabbered all the way back to the spot where the others were waiting and they were just as surprised as Rio to see things patched up better than new. Rio had her ear talked off by Sanagi as she contended with a whole new host of confusing feelings caused by the celebrity in their midst.

[silvertherogue715]

Hey. It's been a hot minute since i've posted any art. I really just post for myself, but i felt especially proud of the progress ive made over the course of (many) months designing the Sunstar of my BrainrotAU. Feel free to disregard! I'm just gonna ramble. Art will be included in the 'keep reading' section though.

I didn't want to deal with uploading the actual art files, and just used snippet to capture pieces of my art instead. The pictures could be irregularly large or small as a result--I don't have a good way to control then when using snippet. Sorry! Some old art of Sunstar.exe (not in order):

So, as you can see above, a lot of blue. It's kind of overpowering, honestly, and it took me a while to figure out I needed to start making changes to his color palette.

This was his first half body reference sheet. A ton of blue. Also my only REF of him with his back showing. I haven't updated his back design yet, but the final product will be much different.

Eventually, I decided to make his shoulder-braiser things orange instead of blue, as well as the sun-like gem on his helmet. I also started working out any built-in flaws I wanted to force his character to work around--like his hands being constantly on fire, or extremely hot. This just means he has to be extremely careful touching anything or anyone. It's not something he can just "turn off". Also, I think this was my first attempt at a proper full body design for him. It's fine for a second first attempt, and I was happy with it for a few months, but eventually I started thinking it shared the bulky OG robot master traits, rather than the 'netnavi' look I was wanting.

I started tinkering with his colors again, but only made minor changes. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what was 'off' to me without a proper full body to experiment on, but I very rarely have the willpower to make one. Some of these expression snippets were more helpful for me to use to at least get a read on exactly how expressive he can be in the AU, if he wanted to. Another big thing this helped me realize was how limited his expressions felt with the current colors (like his eyelashes), especially with how dark his face was. It made his nose/mouth harder to see. I end up making it a lighter shade in future doodles. Oh, and I wanted to start integrating pieces of Duo.exe's design into him as well--like the flat nose.

Woe, Sunterra doodle be upon ye. I need to finish this some day, but a big thing this helped me identify were: 1.) I desperately need to work on poses. 2.) I needed to figure out how to give Sunstar a "soft" look. In the expressions practice above, this was one of his faces i really struggled to get down. Still working on that. 3.) Another reminder he was too clunky to match a normal Navi design. Terra looks much more 'navi'-like. I needed to do a whole ass reboot for Sunstar from top-down. Anyway! The most recent stuff will be below. A few (bad) attempts:

And then I basically went "screw it" and went goblin mode at a full body attempt. Here's what I finally ended up with :")

For now I've decided to stick with a (mostly) cool/silver base with some warm orange and yellows mixed in in (hopefully) unobtrusive ways. Maybe this will change in the future, but for now I'm happy with his design :)

The orange on the bottom of his cape is meant to be a fire-y design, but I'm too tired to refine it (or anything else) further. Hopefully I'll have more art to update. eventually.

If you made it this far, thanks for sticking around, lol.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Romantic Snippet Tag

taking an open tag from @oh-no-another-idea! I need as many distractions as I can get and I think this'll be a good one

I'll be tagging @ashen-crest, @zmwrites, @drippingmoon, @drabbleitout, @pertinax--loculos, @sleepy-night-child, @druidx, and literally everyone and anyone else who sees this 👍🏽

I've posted so many romantic moments between Warren and Thrive...and here's another one lmao. and I've posted parts of this before but never the whole scene so voilà

From Thriving: Meridian—

"I don't know how I feel about all the strangers on my ship."

The Setae'togun had been assigned to Warren when he was working for the Consortium; a relic from the days when he still fought a war that ended when ———. He used it more often than not to get from place to place, but there was a time it harbored a whole crew under his command.

Thrive sighed, standing in the door separating the commander's quarters from the bathroom. "They're not strangers, Warren, they've been my security detail for the past fifteen years."

Warren swiveled in his chair at the desk by the main door, steepling his fingers under his chin. "You understand why I'm unhappy they're here, right? With them here, there will be even less space to keep refugees. The fewer the refugees, the less likely we'll be able to smuggle everyone to Tournaltis' moons."

Thrive arched an eyebrow. "You're explaining my own concerns to me?"

"I'm not saying we ditch them on Efthim, but we can't bring them back with us."

"They're incredibly hard to lose."

"How many times have you tried?"

"How much time do you have?"

"Ooh." Warren pushed himself to standing and sidled up to Thrive, rubbing his palms together. "This is the plan...we pack as many of Efthim's people as we can onto this ship, say 'oops, looks like there's just not enough room, sorry,' then toss your sentries onto a passing cargo ship getting the hell outta dodge, provided they don't all succumb to the supernova first."

Thrive regarded him with surprise and amusement. "Dark. Even for you."

Warren shrugged. "How many times have they actually done something you weren't fully capable of doing nor had you not actually done yourself? Tell me this—who would win a round of hand-to-hand combat? The lady who'd mastered five different types of martial arts and spent thirteen years in the Marines, or fuckin' you?"

"There was a time her accolades would've impressed you," Thrive said, a smile threatening to break through an otherwise well-maintained air of concern.

"And how would you know that? I haven't been impressed with literally anything else since I met you."

"Qrihk."

Warren blinked. "Gesundheit."

Thrive shook his head, leaning into the door frame. "The people of Efthim are called the qrihk."

"Ah-ha…" Warren angled his head to the side and eyed him up and down before fluttering his eyelashes at him. "You wanna tell me about 'em?"

"I see through your scheme."

"My dearest love. Whatever do you mean?"

"I know what happens when I start prattling on about a subject." Thrive reached over to grip Warren's chin in the cup of his hand, fingers squeezing to force his lips into a pucker. "To be more precise, I know what happens to you."

A laugh nearly exploded out of Warren, but he fought the giggles bubbling up his throat. "I am disgusted and offended at the implication," he said as well as he could with half of his face squished together.

"You're also a deviant," said Thrive, exhausted voice lowered and much smokier than usual, which did not help matters in the least. "Vacate the room."

"It's my ship." Warren cleared his throat. "But marriage is about sharing, after all. You know what, I'm kinda hungry anyway, I might bother the cook for a couple hours—"

Thrive tipped Warren's face downward to plant a kiss on his forehead. "Goodnight, Warren," he murmured before releasing him and pushing him gently in the direction of the door.

[pigswithwings]

ok so. my version of angels is really complicated and possibly contradictory. this is really long im not posting all that w/out a readmore

i think angels can eat, but it's not really "human" eating because they don't have mouths and they're not really supposed to ingest things since thats a mortal thing. i think in my angel post i outright stated that any food the angel tries to eat will just burn up before they get to the "mouth", and that still stands true for most of my angels.

to me angels are these very incandescent beings. just pure energy, pure light. they have unclear forms because they are so bright (the eye cannot really stand to look at them for very long). i think angels can have specific body parts if they need it (hence why they can hold things, why they can cry and such) but it takes a great deal of emotional/mental energy to force ones form into having stuff like human hands for a long period of time.

the angels natural state is uncontained and constantly transient, like that one post about the nature of life. as an angel, giving yourself human hands for an hour = easy, not much sweat. giving yourself a full human form with very detailed things (eyelashes, freckles, wrinkles, fingernails) for anywhere over a few hours is hard and very straining in comparison. though im sure some angels are more experienced with needing to look like humans if their role requires it (e.g. visiting someone in a dream).

i should probably state here that my angels arent necessarily religious. obviously they come from religious sources but nothing i write about them has ever or will ever be about a deity or higher power. to me angels are just angels. pure concept. my angels are abstractions.

anyways this is the fun part. i think part of the thing that gives my angels haecceity (shoutout to my friend deme for the new word) is knowledge. unlimited knowledge, my angels are angels because they know too many things. it's really that they are limited in their experience of those things.

i think that an angel can look at a soda can and instantly tell the chemical structure of both the can and the soda, what nutrients the soda has, where the soda can and soda itself were manufactured, how far the soda has traveled from its place of creation, the people who handled the soda before it got here, etc. it is too much at times. it can be very overwhelming even for an angel, and even more so when you apply this concept to humans. an angel can identify a person's name, birthday, place of birth, parent's names, relative's names, place of residence, any tiny detail that could possibly be relevant in understanding who this person is. and it all happens are the same time too, an angel looks at a person and is simply hit by this wave of information. too much understanding - it's probably very easy to get lost in.

so to be an angel speaking to a human on earth, you have to be able to handle all these sensory inputs of 1. gaining all this information about the human in a short amount of time 2. hearing all these sounds from the environment, all the smells and colors and such 3. actually keeping up the damn conversation. so all of this is why in my angel post i wrote the angel just. panicking at in a store aisle. going to a new place, seeing so many people at the same time, having to maintain a humanoid form = way too fucking much. so you have to calm down somehow etc etc.

but yeah my thoughts on angels are long and very weird. i think they are cool

also i should elaborate on my angel thoughts but rn i have to work lolll

[ceruleanchillin]

When You're At The Function F***in It UP And Your Man Walks In (Mayans)

Warnings: Implied sexual content, language, fighting

Characters: Angel, Coco, & EZ

A:

You’re on thin ice as it is sis. The little forest-green dress with the the deep plunge front and slit sides, the one that ended up purchased after your friends hyped you into it. That’s supposed to be in the trash according to one Angel Reyes. That, or reserved for private nights in.

Currently, it was wrapped around your form, helping you grab envious/admiring glances from around the room.

Your hips twisted to the layered bass, using the random behind you for stability. Your friend next to you cheered you on, her inner hype man on full display. There’s a breakdown in the song, and you lose yourself in the rhythm. Suddenly, you hear a familiar voice telling you “Superstar mama, say hi for the gram!”.

Your eyes zone in on Gilly, eyes wide. Everyone knew the Mayans rolled deep when they went anywhere. Where there was one, there was the rest. Especially when it came to the three musketeers and their wrangler, EZ.

Like you were busted sneaking back into your room as a teen, you froze. You narrowed your eyes at your friend who shrugged and mouthed sorry before disappearing.

“Gilly fuck off!” You hissed, moving away from the random. Your eyes scanning the crowded den.

Gilly laughed, tucking his phone into his kutte. “Ayy, don’t get mad at me,” he fluttered his eyelashes and fake coughed into his hand. “I don’t feel so good baby, I’m just gonna stay in tonight.”

You narrowed your eyes at his high-pitched mimicry of your last conversation with Angel.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there. Your friend swore she nixed all Mayan related invites, just for that night, on your behalf. All you wanted was to be able to turn up like you did pre-relationship. Normally you could at clubhouse parties since Angel trusted everyone there with his life. Any party outside of that was a gamble, and Angel could referee like he got a check for it.

Your eyes finally met said man’s across the party and a chill and went down your spine. Angel was propped against the wall across the way, eyes on you.

The rest of party fell away as you made your way over to him, schooling your features into your ‘what did I do daddy?’ pout.

“Nah, don’t come over with that lip poking now.” He shook his head, speaking when you were in range of him.

“And what are you doing wearing this fucking pillowcase out here? What did we talk about?” He pinched the thin strings of your dress.

“Nooo, don’t be mad. I was walking through my closet and it fell on me. Besides, you liked it when I modeled it for you.”

Angel scoffed, refusing to even entertain your comments. Coco chuckled from his spot next to his friend as he lit a cigarette.

“I thought you had club shit, I didn’t even know you’d be here.” You cringed as soon as the words left your lips, the shots you’d taken earlier still putting in work.

“I didn’t know you’d be here either. I thought you were sick. There’s some soup in the car that thought it was getting dropped off. Apparently wrong thoughts is the theme of the night.”

Petty by Angel Reyes.

“Soup? Baby, that’s so sweet.” You tried to pet his cheeks, but he was keeping you at bay.

“You aren’t even sick! Imma give that shit to Gilly.”

“Nooo.” You whined again, still trying to get him to let you touch him in some way.

“Get that bitch you were dancing with to buy you soup.” It was his turn to pout, but there was fire in his eyes as he tracked the guy you’d been dancing with. “It’s all he’s gonna be able to fucking eat in a minute anyways.”

“Sorry I blew up your spot ma, I just wanted to see my plug and get out.” Coco opened the palm of his hand not holding the cigarette and revealed a small bag of weed.

Angel snapped his head towards him, expression incredulous. “Don’t apologize to her, she lied to her man! She gave some puto hope! Get on code!”

“I love you hermano, but this is your guard dog-ass fault.” He pointedly ignored his friend’s heated glare as a girl in the doorway caught his interest, slipping away when she positively returned his gaze.

Angel’s attention was claimed by you once again when you pulled his head down towards you. You smothered his cheeks in kisses, to which he was physically unresponsive.

“I don’t know if I want you kissing on me querida.”

You rolled your eyes. Petty or not, everyone knew Angel’s life force depleted the longer he went without touching you. Even in your tipsy state you could see his fingers literally twitched with the need to take their rightful place on your hips.

“I just wanted to dance like I used to, and you don’t dance. Then you beat down guys who want to. You left me no choice, so let me have kisses.” You locked your arms around his waist, successfully avoiding his half-hearted attempts to push you away.

He scrunched up his face. “How the fuck am I catching strays in this situation? I’m the victim!”

“I’ll make it up to you later if you stop being a hatin’ wallflower and let me grind on you.” Your hips found the rhythm of the slow wind song thumping through the room.

His hands encircled your throat, drawing you closer to his person. Your pupils blew at his darkened expression, your lower half squirming with interest. He pressed his lips to yours, and the party faded to nothing again. His fingers flexed around your throat before closing just enough for him to draw the subtlest gasp from you. He felt it more than heard it over the noise, but it was enough.

He pulled away, licking his lips as you tried to remember where you were and if sin always tasted so good.

“You’ll make it up to me right now in the traitor’s car.” he held up keys you recognized to be Coco’s.

You started to protest on principle, but your body was going through withdrawals from a lite touch (for Angel). He could see the wheels turning, but you were letting him lead you out of the room, palm openly covering your ass.

“Who are you texting?” You asked, more annoyed with how his hands were no longer possessively roaming your body than a real answer.

He quickly pocketed his phone and returned his hands to you. “No one baby.” definitely not telling his boys via group chat to handle the random for him. “Stop worrying about anything other than how you’re gonna get around at work tomorrow.”

--------

C:

It was bad enough you couldn’t make it to New Orleans due to work, and Old Lady “responsibilities”, but this petty fight you were in with Coco was the kicker. You couldn’t even remember how it started, but it escalated back and forth until you weren’t speaking and were back staying at your apartment.

Poor Letty had been reduced to messenger girl, especially now that she had a car. A tug of war with your point being “she was my girl first, that’s how we met” and his point being “she’s my kid, blood first ma” had broken out. You didn’t know what was going to wear through its welcome first, your lack of Coco, or Letty’s patience, but they were competing. It wasn’t like Coco was doing any better if your daily updates from Letty were any indication. He was impatient, tense, chain smoking, and was getting closer and closer to going through with the apology call he was openly fighting.

It wouldn’t be long before you were back to getting your back arched out of shape if that was anything to go by. Not a moment too soon if your own miserable habits were anything to go by. You wanted to use the party to distract yourself, hoping Coco would break first the following day. If not, it was sure to be you.

You spent the whole day throwing your frustrations into decorating your best friend’s backyard. It looked like the French Quarter threw up its best years, but it was the perfect backdrop to lose yourself to some bounce music.

Normally, you could goad Coco into being your twerking post, and that resistance (plus his turned on bi-lingual hypeman compliments in your ear) was everything missing at the moment.

You pouted and weaved your way out of the crowd to your friend who was busy playing good hostess.

“Ah ah, no whining. If you wanna really make it Mardi Gras, shake your ass on a dude.”

You narrowed your eyes, annoyed she shut down and solved your problem before you could whine about it. “Coco hates that shit! Plus he’s spoiled me, it won’t even be the same.”

“Coco isn’t here, and it doesn’t have to be the same, it just has to do.” She turned away from where she’d filled two shot glasses for the two of you. “Besides, we both know your ass is gonna be all in his neck crying about how you miss him tomorrow. Do your thing before you go out sad.”

She clinked shot glasses with you, pleased at her accurate assessment and your sourpuss face.

“Fuck you.” You laughed, voice rough from the burn of the shot.

“Save that for Coco.” She smacked your ass, draped one of the many beaded necklaces hanging off her shoulder around your neck, and sent you on your way back to the crowd of writhing bodies.

It was nothing to find dudes to grind on, and you fell into the synergy. You couldn’t count how many fast paced songs you’d thrown it back to, or how many guys you’d danced with. The stack of beads you’d acquired gave some idea though.

Meanwhile, Coco’s skin was alive with the kind of anger he felt. He’d been seriously contemplating coming to your place and forcing out admissions of how his life wasn’t right without you in it. He couldn’t remember who or what started it, but it didn’t even matter when your scent was starting to fade from his pillow, and his touch starvation was acting up.

All of that went careening out the window when he stumbled upon a pouty Letty, huffing and sucking her teeth at her phone. Turns out you, and “everyone in the goddamn world but me” according to Letty, were at your friend’s blowout Mardi Gras party. Coco knew it was your favorite holiday, but it was news to him that you had any plans since you couldn’t officially go this year. News he didn’t welcome at all, since all of the videos he saw you in you were throwing (his) your ass on multiple dudes. Did you think he wouldn’t fight everyone???

He was already on his bike before he’d even registered leaving the house. He sent a quick summoning call in his boy’s group chat, your friend’s address the destination.

The party was louder and wilder than the videos let on. He’d already spotted his boys by their kuttes, mingling in their respective ways, but didn’t seek them out. They’d find him if he needed them to. Coco on the other hand, needed to find you.

His eagle eyes picked apart the crowd until he spotted you twisting yourself to the rhythm. Coco didn’t know whether to shoot the asshole behind you, or take you away to deal with the feelings you were bringing out of him.

You knew he loved when you brought the South to the West Coast with your hips and ass.

He charged into your space, his hands immediately going for the guy’s arm and snatching him towards him.

“Make a choice cabrón. Get the fuck out, or be an expensive bill and sad memory for your moms by morning.” He pressed his kutte to his person, emphasizing that he was strapped.

The guy raised his palms and quickly exited the scene. Unwilling to test what clearly was a warning that Coco would happily make good on.

You tugged on him, trying to get him to move away from the crowd. Scanning those around you to see who saw or heard, you noticed more than you would’ve liked. They wouldn’t make a fuss, noting his kutte, but still.

“Stop it. What are you even doing here?” You hissed, tugging his arm harshly for his attention.

He turned his gaze, wild with adrenaline and arrogance at his victory, on you. “You should’ve stopped yourself before throwing it back on random fuckers for the internet. This is on you.”

“No, this is on you. If you hadn’t done what you did or said what you said…”. You trailed off remembering that you couldn’t recall what had happened, just the frustration.

“What did I say or do (y/n)?” He noted your visible annoyance that he’d chosen to use your real name instead of a pet name, and with a smirk, he walked you backwards until your back gently hit the fence.

Between not recalling what started the fight, and your man looking amazing, you settled on a pathetic. “You remember.”

“No I don’t, and neither do you.” that familiar prickle of intensity sparked between the two of you.

Everything between you and Coco felt like a live wire dancing back and forth. High energy moments usually ended in either great sex, or separation (sometimes by the force of your friends) to let things cool down.

“I know you’re gonna catch a case if you keep moving like that Johnny. Is that what you want?”

“Nah mujer, that ain’t what I want. I want you home where you belong, but you’re out here playing me instead.” Slender fingers tugged sharply at a few of the beaded necklaces in your stack.

You sucked your teeth and turned your head, ignoring the warm cheeks and butterflies in your stomach at his on-brand admission of missing you.

He placed a hand on the fence next to your head, grasping your chin to turn your attention back to him.

“You’re being a drama queen. I thought I was talking to Angel for a second.”

He threw his head back as laughed, and you got an almost overwhelming urge to kiss him. Or at least bury your fingers in his soft curls, they were begging for it at this po-

“Fuck that, he’s still got me beat. Wait til you see the tantrum he’s saving for you for not getting invited tonight.”

“He was, I just told her to can it because of you. He should be mad at you.” You pouted, but your tone was teasing.

“I could put in a good word for you…you know, if you’re done being petty.” He leaned in, running his lips over the shell of your ear.

“Or I could just offer to throw it back on him to make him forget.”

It was your turn to laugh when Coco tensed, and pulled back from where he’d been teasing you with light touches. You didn’t love him no longer touching you, but faltering him made it almost worth it.

“Or you could take me home and we could both forget…” you clutched at his kutte, leaning into him.

He pulled your hands away by your wrists, his thumbs rubbing over your pulse points.

“Nah, if dancing is this fucking important to you, come on then.” He pulled you after him.

“Cocooo,” you whined, more interested in getting him to touch you again. “Take me home already.”

“My lady wants to dance.” He sat on the outdoor wicker couch and patted his lap. “So dance.”

You stood there in confusion for a second, before what he meant became clear. “I’m not doing that here!”

“You didn’t have an issue earlier, move those hips ma.” He looked between you and his lap again.

Could’ve been the way he was biting his lip, or the laid back way he rested against the couch, but that coupled with lack of access to him, had affirmative words running through your mind.

You playfully rolled your eyes, faking like his request was that expensive. “Only because I want to get you home, and I know you’ll never quit whining if I don’t.”

You slipped onto his lap, the action already drawing attention from partygoers just for the potential of what was to come.

He grasped your hips to still you before you started to move, his palm pressing you back to him by your throat. “And don’t half-ass it yeah…or I might do the same when I get you home.”

--------

E:

It wasn’t until Creeper hit his shoulder and informed him of how hard he was smiling that EZ realized his cheeks ached. He couldn’t help it, he loved watching you dance more than anything.

As soon as you heard a melody you liked, you came alive to it, and stole everyone’s attention. You could find the beat on anything.

That wasn’t his sole reason for cheesing so hard though. Tonight had been the first night you brought your closest friends around the club, and he knew it took great trust in him, his brothers, and your relationship to do that. Your family was on the East Coast, so your friends filled that role for you. Coupled with EZ, they were your world and he thanked you everyday for letting him in.

“Gonna stop calling you boy scout if you keep enjoying the show this much.” Creeper took the seat across from him, half blocking his view.

“Oh you didn’t know how EZ gets down?” Angel’s lips formed that mischievous grin, his eyes taking on the same glint. “You should’ve seen him begging me for tales from Angel’s crib.”

“She and her girls look good out there. Might be too much for you junior.”

EZ rolled his eyes at the ribbing from his brothers, his grin still intact. “At some point I’m gonna be patched, I’m happy to make a cage date for that day. Pretty sure I can take both of you.

Creeper and Angel exchanged exaggerated incredulous expressions.

“See what happens when you go easy on the help?” Angel scoffed. “You sound like you’re hurtin’ for work prospect.”

“Could use some more water.” Creeper shook his water bottle at him, just barely missing splashing him.

EZ rose from his seat, empty beer bottle in hand. “Just remember that day is coming.”

Angel and Creeper laughed raucously at that.

“Don’t get your ass beat in front of your woman lil bro!”

EZ shook his head, choosing to ignore his dumbass older brother. and tossed his bottle in the trash. Slipping through the moving bodies until he was near you, he gently patted your friend who nodded and stepped from behind you.

You jumped, surprised at his sudden appearance, but settled back against him.

“Hey baby.” You gently encouraged him to follow the sway of your hips as he placed his head on your shoulder.

“Hey. I’m back on the slave clock, you want anything?”

You turned to him, his arms instinctively encircling your waist. “Hard tea please.”

“I gotta go to the trailer for that, and get the variety hour table over there a drink. I’ll try to be quick.”

“Don’t rush, but remember, you owe me a dance.” You cupped his cheeks and pressed a kiss to his lips.

He grinned goofily, his attention solely yours until he felt your girls draping themselves over him.

“Can you get us some too Zeke? Thanks.” “Preciate it Z.”

You giggled pushing them off him, but you knew he didn’t mind. You guys were a package deal and he’d take whatever you came with. At least their requests came with pleasantries.

“Sure ladies, not a problem. Don’t let anyone take her while I’m gone.”

They laughed, giving affirmative replies while you rolled your eyes pushed him towards the side door.

Once he began his drink fulfillment quest, it was like every brother wanted something from him. It was a full house that night and he should’ve known once he was no longer under Angel’s break protection, he was back to errand boy status.

Every task he completed was met with teasing about how his rushed pace clearly pointed to him wanting to get back to you. He didn’t argue the fact, just moved faster every time you were mentioned.

Finally, he was able to to focus on your request when he stopped being flagged down.

He was heading to the trailer when one of your friends stopped him.

“One of the other charter’s guys is annoying our girl. She doesn’t wanna make a fuss cause’..you know.” She gestured to his vest to signify his prospect status. “But I know she’s not feeling it.”

He could feel the the muscles in his jaw flex in anger, feet carrying him across the crowded yard. People moved before he could plow through them, which was just as well, because he wasn’t fully in control at that point, and didn’t think he could slow down enough to sidestep them.

The clubhouse had filled considerably since his absence. He scanned the room for you, finding you in a crowd of moving bodies. Your friend was right, you had a good poker face, but your man knew you.

He didn’t waste time physically separating you from the Yuma patch member. He gently put you behind his person, feeling your small hands press against his back through his vest.

“I’m good baby. He agreed this was the last dance.” Your voice belied your annoyance despite your words.

“I’m guessing he said that more than once.”

“I don’t mind, I know clu-“

Yuma interrupted you. “See, she doesn’t mind. Go find something to do with yourself prospect.”

“I’ve got a project in mind.” EZ pushed you back a little more to give himself room to work with.

“Be smart bare vest.” Yuma smirked, his eyes saying how much he’d love for EZ to make the mistake he was thinking about.

In the span of the next few seconds, Yuma’s vest and shirt was covered in beer and Coco had appeared at the same time. If the obvious way he was holding the bottle didn’t give away he did it on purpose, his dry “my bad” and shrug did.

Yuma swung on Coco who anticipated it and dodged it, before firing back with a successful punch of his own. A sea of Mayans of mixed charter filled the space and EZ quickly pushed you behind the bar before he lost you in the shuffle.

Understanding what Coco had done, he got in the middle to give the Yuma patch what he’d been asking for while he was covered by the chaos.

It didn’t last long before the presidents stepped in, but it didn’t have to. He was happy to take the few licks he’d received, because he was pretty sure he’d broken Yuma patch’s nose, and would get away with it.

His brother’s words against theirs, and the presidents didn’t feel the need to make it a drawn out issue. He pretended to have played bouncer instead of active participant, and it all ended with a basic chewing out.

His only thoughts were of you once his rage had subsided, and he could think clearly again. Had he scared off you and your friends? Embarrassed you?

He was happy to find that hadn’t. Your friends couldn’t help but fawn over him and how “perfect for you” he was. He especially enjoyed reveling in the jealousy of Coco, Angel, Gilly, and Creeper. Coco slightly less salty when he got praise for his efforts.

He got his admiration from you later when you patched him up in the trailer, soft voice telling him how sexy he looked to you, and how you appreciated him thinking of you in his position. You held his face and gently went over everything you could find, while he said on his makeshift bed content to let you.

He couldn’t stop grinning, the one that always got him mercilessly mocked because it was now associated with him thinking of you.

“Seriously EZ,” you dabbed at the final cut you hadn’t attended to. “Thank you.”

“I want you to feel safe with me, it’s only fair if you can accept all this shit.”

You grinned down at him, hair framing your face, and he had to remind himself to breathe at the sight. “I do, all the time.”

He cupped the side of your face, unwilling to fight the urge to kiss you any longer.

You laughed speaking between kisses. “I’m not done.”

“It’s ok, I’m good.” He chased your lips, unashamed to want you so badly.

“Ok,” you returned his kisses, your fingers dancing down the nape of his neck. “But I’d like to cash in that dance you owe me…you know, before we get too busy.”

He rose to full height, hands finding both of yours. “I can do that.”

AN:

I don’t speak Spanish, so if I made a mistake feel free to hop in my messages and let me know and how to fix it please. You’re more than welcome to.

1.) I remember seeing a meme vid about this years ago, and finding it hilarious. I could see this happening with these dudes and their personalities. That, and I just really wanted a lil southern culture in a Mayans drabble. 🤷🏾‍♀️

2.) I did a rewatch of the whole series (including the original), and I’m back on the obsession train. Just tryna to be happy before S4 kicks my shit in.

3.) I kept telling myself I wouldn’t end up writing for these fools and here I am in my Ringling Bros. best🤡.

[inkykeiji]

i have the warmth of the sun within me tonight

characters: takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut n fluff

notes: this piece was written with someone specific in mind, but i wanted to share it here, too!! this is, by far, the healthiest and most wholesome piece i’ve ever posted on my blog ehehe | title cred: the warmth of the sun by the beach boys

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is extremely scared of thunderstorms, v romantic, shower sex, minimal prep, slight size difference/size kink

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

It’s dark. It’s so dark it almost looks like night despite the fact that it’s only late afternoon, heavy bloated clouds—charcoal and fluffy and overstuffed with raindrops—obscuring the safety of comforting golden rays from the entire city.

The torrential downpour feels endless, and for a brief second you’re terrified it truly may never stop, streets below having flooded with the rain, cars slowly wading through them, tires spraying out streams of water as they do.

Magnificent strikes of lightning crack through the dreary sky like thick roots snaking through the foggy canopy of smoke and steel, momentarily tainting them in shades of periwinkle and lavender and casting flashes of brilliant silver light across the skyscrapers and condominiums.

Their sudden presence makes you jolt, a rapid shudder working its way through your entire body, skin pebbling with chills in its wake.

But it isn’t the lightning that bothers you—not really, anyway.

It’s what comes after.

Rumbles of thunder so loud, so violent they cause the glass windows of Keigo’s apartment to quiver and the hardwood beneath your feet to tremble, roll through the sky, and you swear you can see the clouds ripple from the force.

Arms squeezing tighter around your body, your fingers curl in the material of your—his—hoodie, desperately attempting to resist the urge to grab your phone, to frantically scroll through social media as worried eyes scan for any mention of his name, for shreds of dreadful news, for things you never want to hear.

You hate it when he has to work in storms such as these. And you know, you know you shouldn’t be watching the sky, shouldn’t be searching the splotches of gunmetal adorning the atmosphere for a glimmer of scarlet and gold, shouldn’t be standing so close to the pristine glass windows that your uneven puffs of nervous breath cloud them, tiny blankets of condensation left by the hot air you exhale fleetingly staining the surface, evaporating into nothing just as quickly as they appear.

But you can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, almost—like some sort of sick obsession, some sort of twisted addiction you can’t control. Because—Because you have to know, unable to stand that feeling of uncertainty that gnaws away at your insides, incapable of handling the ambiguity and vagueness that comes packaged with the not knowing. You have to at least try—try to do everything in your power to stay informed, and if that means facing a vicious thunderstorm head on, with your cheek pressed against the cold glass as your gaze searches the tumultuous sky, then so be it.

You can brave it for him. You swear you can.

“Baby,” he scolds gently, his sudden presence surprising you, causing you to throw a quick glance over your shoulder. Topaz eyes observe you, overflowing with concern, pretty bowed lips turning down, soaked strands of gold hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks and neck. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” And although he’s reprimanding you, his voice is sweet, smooth and syrupy like the finest honey. “You know how much thunder freaks you out,”

You scoff, stiffening almost defensively as you turn your nose up a little, still avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t freak me out,”

“Oh?” he laughs a little as he kicks off his boots, tension easing from his shoulders with every step towards you, every step further into the warm sanctuary of your shared home, wet sock-clad feet slapping against the hardwood and leaving gleaming footprints.

“Kei,” you whine a little, gesturing his dripping body. “You’re getting water everywhere,”

“Hey now,” a playful smirk spreads across his lips, and a sudden, sharp whoosh slices through the air as his wings spread, spanning nearly half the living room. He gives them one good, thorough shake, crimson feathers trembling and sending tiny droplets of water flying. “I wasn’t done,” he speaks over your squeal of his name, smirk growing into that trademark mischievous grin. “You shouldn’t just stand at the window and stare up at the sky—it only scares you more,”

“I’m not scared,”

Vicious growls of thunder roil through the sky before you’re even finished speaking, almost as if it’s laughing at you, mocking you, your body flinching as the sounds crash over you, curling in on yourself a little, face puckered up in a wince as your words stutter, catching on a gasp in your throat.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Keigo holds his arms open wide, wings still stretched to span them. “Yeah, right. C’mere,” When you don’t begin moving immediately, he sighs again, strong hands gently pulling you towards him.

Your body melts into his touch—an automatic and involuntary reaction, almost instinctual at this point—and you slump against his damp chest, nuzzling your cheek against the firm muscles.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, arms wrapping around your body as he holds you tightly to his, voice reverberating against your ear. “The Big Bad Scary Thunder can’t get you here,”

Eyes rolling, you scoff at his playful teasing, a tiny smile materializing on your face as you pull away a little to look up at him, greeted with the sight of brilliant eyes—made of sunshine and liquid gold, you’re absolutely sure of it—gazing down at you, lips quirked in a cute little smirk.

His beauty never fails to knock the breath from your chest—it seems you can never be prepared for it; no matter how many times you’ve seen him, how many times you’ve been close enough to count the individual eyelashes lining those orbs, how many times you’ve been close enough to feel the inviting tickle of the short golden hairs decorating his chin—and you’re not sure you’ll never get used to it, either.

A peculiar mix of adoration and concern swirl in his honey irises, though you can see the mirth and amusement dancing just beyond that, thinly veiled by the love and worry.

“Oh, shut up—” another bang of thunder fissures through the sky, so raucous it makes the thick clouds waver and swell, your words morphing into a fearful little squeak, quickly burying your head back against the safety of his chest.

Fingers curl in the wet suede and you hug yourself closer to him, tugging him closer to you, body beginning to shudder.

He’s hushing you now, arms and wings curled around you in a defensive embrace as words of comfort pry past his lips, tender voice sheathing the armor of crimson surrounding you.

“At least they aren’t as bad as the ones back home, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you mumble, unconvinced, eyebrows knitted and mouth sculpted into a deep pout. “I still don’t like them, though,”

“I know, I know,” a warm hand rubs soothing circles into your back, voice only marginally louder than the next bout of thunder as it vibrates against your face, another quiet yelp clawing its way up your throat. “Shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,”

“Kei,”

The nickname escapes in a mangled little whimper, and you can feel it—fright, terror, dread—building in your chest, a strangling type of panic that weaves and winds itself around your windpipe and crushes; because they’re getting worse, they’re getting closer, growls and grumbles following the flashes of lightning almost immediately, roaring loud enough to quake buildings, your heart thudding so violently it’s almost painful. Tears sting your eyes, and you shake your head against him, as if trying to burrow into his chest, to carve out a little space in his ribcage, right next to his steadily beating heart, and live there.

“I-I take it back, they are as bad as the ones back home,”

Or, at least, this one is

Keigo doesn’t argue, all traces of amusement evaporated from his face, replaced by trepidation that mixes with his worry and pinches his features, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he cradles you against him. Ferocious tremors course through your form, chest beginning to hitch with swallowed sobs, and he squeezes you.

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

“Okay, alright,” he’s saying as he rocks you gently, crimson wings wrapped entirely around you both, shielding you from the storm. The scent of freshly mown grass and sticky vanilla ice cream is nearly overwhelming as it washes over your senses, invading your lungs and smothering you in its embrace. It’s a welcomed feeling, the beautiful suffocation it affords you with, vibrant bursts of heat rushing through your veins, whole body flooded and thrumming with a deep-seated comfort—a special type of solace, of reassurance, of contentment unique to him, unfathomable and mystifying on all accounts, that soothes your frayed nerves and calms your irregular heart—because he smells like home; not your home halfway across the world, your real home, your forever home.

“Come,” he instructs a moment later, stern yet tender, keeping an arm draped firmly around your shoulders, one of his wings curving around the limb as he leads you away from the window, scarlet feathers obstructing your vision.

—

The bathroom—comprised of gleaming marble and shining chrome—is enormous, housing a mammoth glass shower that spans the length of the furthest wall, large enough to more-than-comfortably accommodate his wings, and then some.

Steam fogs the glass, and a soft hiss slips from between your teeth as he cages you between his chiseled body and the freezing marble, cold rock stinging your already heated skin, his wings spreading to mimic his arms, providing another layer of protection and entirely immersing you in him.

It’s your favourite when he does this, when he engulfs you in his grasp and creates a tiny universe where it’s just the two of you, whole world having fallen away outside of the barricade his thick wings offer—and you’ve never felt safer.

And it’s amazing, you’re thinking to yourself—or maybe you’re murmuring it, lips moving in a daze—it’s amazing how even after all of the rainwater pouring from the sky, all of the zipping through those dense clouds, all of the vicious wind that whips against him as he soars; none of it could ever manage to wash away, to ever dull, his intoxicating scent, not even for a second.

You’re completely overcome by him, vanquished by his enamoring eyes and his saccharine smile—drunk and high off of it all, addicted to him in the sweetest way—and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

But you’re leaning into him, closer and closer and closer, lips parted as you inhale deeply, filling your lungs, your chest, your heart and veins and blood with his aura, his essence, him. He conquers you, intoxicates you, poisons you in such a beautiful way, and you’re enchanted by it, yearning for more, a greedy and insatiable craving that will never be fulfilled.

And he knows it. He knows the effect he has on you by merely existing near you—his cocky smirk and dazzling gaze tell you so.

But then his eyes soften, glazing over with something else, lidded as they slowly travel across your body bared to him, and his mouth falls open only for his tongue to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, and his fingers reach to trace your features, the curve of your cheek and line of your jaw, the most gentle caress.

“You…Are breathtaking,”

And he really does sound out of breath, as if he’s in awe from your beauty, as if this is his first time seeing you, as if you’re some sort of goddess, having descended right in front of him, and it forces chills to erupt across your bare skin—damp and splattered with tiny droplets of water that gleam like morning dew clinging to grass—despite how boiling it is between him and the steam from the shower.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling you’ve never really been able to find the appropriate words for, something that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and weak, a swirling concoction of contradictions that invade your bloodstream and travel straight to your brain, infusing the tissues with the potent mix and sending tiny sparks buzzing through your veins, collecting to flutter together in the pit of your stomach.

He kisses you slowly, tonight. He kisses you like it’s his last day to live, kisses you like it’s his first time, unhurried tongue deliberately exploring the concavities of your mouth—every nook and ridge and crevice—as if committing them to memory, as if attempting to leave his stamp, his mark, his claim, on the real estate there.

He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, lungs shriveling as your chests heave, exhaling into each other’s mouths only to suck breath from each other’s mouths a moment later. He kisses you until you’re dizzy from the lack of air and he’s burning and hard and pressed up against your thigh, leaking head rubbing against the supple skin, leaving the prettiest gleaming trails of cream. He kisses you until you’ve gone stupid from his spit alone, fervent in the way you swallow it greedily, in the way you attempt to suck, slurp, steal more from him as it surges to your brain, tissues and nerves vaporizing into nothing more than a dazed mist, spiked with him.

The kiss breaks with a sharp whoosh of air, his lids lifting to reveal glassy pupils outlined with the thinnest ring of amber. Your tongue darts out from your mouth to lick and lap at the stringy, viscous remnants coating your chin; starved, ravenous, and forever unsated.

The chuckle huffed out from between swollen, saliva-soaked lips is nothing short of sinful, makes your vision blur and your stomach swoop, a murmured tease following it.

“Eager, aren’t you,”

And you want to point out that you weren’t the one practically humping someone’s hip, but the words tangle in your throat, catching on a gasp as nimble fingers slip between the apex of your thighs, an involuntary groan spilling from his throat.

“Fuck,” his head falls forward, face buried in your neck, and sucks an inhale through his teeth. “How are you already this wet?”

He’s nearly whining as he dips two fingers into you, soft little sounds that fall from his lips and sop into your skin, his breath scorching—sizzling more than the steam in the shower—against your neck.

And those fingers, now plunging into you, knuckles curling the moment they’re deep enough to press moans from your chest and cries from your throat, feel so familiar as they stretch you open—the same fingers that pet your hair and brush away your tears and feed you pieces of fried chicken; they feel like home.

Yet as comforting as that is, as much as it has your chest swelling with something so large, so dense you’re terrified your ribs may shatter and splinter under the strain, they aren’t enough. Not right now, not today.

Because even with the water hitting the tiles and the exquisite symphony of his pants and your mewls, you can still hear it, menacing blasts encroaching on you, deep and heavy and threatening to split the little world Keigo has created, the small haven his wings and arms provide.

“Please, please, Kei,” you’re nearly wailing out, forcing bleary eyes to open, belated in the way they find his gaze. “I-I want you, I need you,”

“Sweetheart,” he starts—and you know that tone, stitched together with hesitation and concern and embellished with thin ribbons of patronization. “You know you can’t take me without being opened up at least a lil’ first,”

Another clap of thunder rattles the apartment, sounding as if it’s just outside the bathroom door, ranting and raging to get in, and both of your hands claw at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away as words bubble past your lips, high and terrified and desperate.

“No, Kei, not tonight. Please, baby, please, I need you now, right now, Kei, right now, pl-please,” and you’re nearly choking on the pleads as they barrel up your throat and out your mouth, all garbled together and stuffed with spit. “I can handle it, promise,”

A hoarse whine hitches in his throat, the worried knitting of his eyebrows carving creases into his forehead. With pinched features and a scrunched face, it looks almost as if he’s in pain; like it’s pure agony to deny you. And you can see it, can see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, stare wrought with the tug and pull between desire and care. But that need is growing, spreading, curling around your organs in a tight embrace, suffocating you with its urgency.

A final please, Keigo, croaked out in a broken whimper and thick with the threat of tears, is what breaks him, shatters his resolve to a fine dust and whisks it away in one breath.

“Alright,” he’s murmuring, though his voice is strained, tense and gruff under the combined paradoxical weight of lust and apprehension. “Alright, hush now, I’ve got you,”

Then he’s hoisting you up, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, one hand clutching the top of the glass door, the other digging bruises into his neck as he buries his cock inside of you in one swift movement, a set of relieved gasps escaping you both.

It stings a little, sharp pinpricks shooting through your gut as his thick cock stretches you open, but they’re chased promptly by thorns of pleasure that dissipate the pain.

Because he feels so good, and you feel so full, and everything feels so perfect like this—everything feels right again.

But a boom of thunder explodes through this moment, blowing it to bits and pieces, and you reflexively jump, whole body flinching in his arms.

“Shh,” he’s whispering to you as he pulls you closer, chest pressed flush against yours. “Don’t worry, songbird, I’m gonna make it better, alright? Just focus on me,”

And so you do, eyes slipping shut as his hips begin to pump—slow at first, almost languid in the way they roll forward, each thrust thorough, cock nearly entirely unsheathed before it plunges back in, the head nudging your cervix, and you revel in the delicious cracks rasps—of your name, of curses, and praises—that fall from his lips with each rut.

“S’deep,” you mumble, words already jumbled from the carnal bliss, from the hedonistic decadence that surrounds you, emanating off him and percolating into you, instantly diffusing the tension and panic knotted like thick vines in your chest—even though he’s barely fucking done anything. “S’deep, Kei,”

“Yeah?” the word fans across your face, sweet and fragrant, hazy eyes opening to be met with glittering gold, strands of honeysuckle hair stuck to his forehead and temples, framing the dark gaze watching you, pupils almost voracious in the way they soak up your expressions, almost greedy in the way they scan your face as his hips move, looking for more. His forehead knocks against yours, penetrating stare boring into your face. “Good? My baby like it?”

“So good,” your head nods in small movements with the whimpered affirmation, bumping against his. It’s already beginning to build, smoldering deep in the pit of your stomach, the spark that had been dulled when you had begged him to stop, begged him to give you more—to stretch and fill and form you like your insides were made for him—reigniting, bright and scalding.

“More, please,”

It just slips from your lips, brain already beginning to melt as you allow yourself to be submerged, swallowed and consumed by him; an innate desire that swamps your mind and floods your senses, and you want it all.

But he complies without complaint this time, void of the usual teasing remarks and requests that you beg for it, because he can see how depleted, how drained you are, utterly exhausted from the terror of the storm, his understanding evident in a gentle confirmation tumbling from his lips.

And his groans and grunts are so beautiful, vibrating deep in the recesses of his chest, louder than any thunder as they rumble in your ears. You find solace in them, gulping them in as he pushes them out, letting them vibrate down the column of your throat and collect deep in your belly, kindling with the flickering embers that burn and glow and multiply with each thrust, furling together in a tense ball of churning heat.

The canting of his hips increases, faster and faster and faster with each rock forward, the escalating force resulting in your body to rubbing against the marble and glass, tightly curled fingers readjusting themselves, slipping a little from the foggy condensation coating the surface.

You don’t even realize that your sensitive skin’s been rubbed raw from the action, too tangled up in his noises, his pleasure, his cock, to notice, too tangled up in him to care at all.

“Here,” Keigo pants out, hips suddenly stilling. A low whine catches in your throat, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, a breathless snicker escaping his parted lips. “I know, baby, I know,” he’s telling you as strong arms readjust you, folded wings suddenly spanning, a gentle gust of air bathing your slick body in little goosebumps, before they wrap around him—around you—sheltering you from the glass and marble as they swoop under your ass and thighs, aiding Keigo in supporting your weight. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, I promise,”

And it’s so much hotter like this, so much more intimate like this, uneven puffs of breath mingling as his forehead rests against yours, florescent lights reflecting off of his thick feathers and tinting everything—his skin, his eyes, his hair—scarlet.

The sudden snap of his hips startles a moan out of you, and he laughs again, carmine-tinged topaz eyes positively glowing. And he looks so gorgeous like this, looks like a fucking god like this, those fine gold hairs that cover his body catching in the soft light and shimmering.

He’s kissing, licking, nipping anywhere he can reach, stamping your flesh with physical manifestations of his love, pace never faltering as skilled, powerful hips continue to pound into you, cockhead dragging against that spot with every buck.

Your legs flex around his waist, muscles coiling as the sphere roiling in your stomach blazes, curled into a concentrated ball of fire. The heat it exudes is nearly unbearable now, heavy as it sinks into your gut, glowing orb spiraling as it coils, tighter and tighter and tighter until—

“Want you to cum for me, baby,” Keigo nearly keens, almost as if he’s begging you instead of commanding, voice cutting through the dense haze your brain has evaporated into. “Can y’do that for me? Be good and cum all over my cock?”

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, emitting affirmatives in the form of high little mewls with each jerk. And it only takes two more sharp pistons of his hips before the fire-filled ball bursts, half of his name escaping your throat in a fractured cry as your entire body stiffens, cunt clenching so vigorously it’s almost painful.

Words start to spill from his mouth, an endless stream of praises, sandwiched between dark groans and broken whines and hitched curses; Y’so good for me, y’know that? Ah, f-fuck—So gorgeous when you gush all over my—my cock, baby, y’feel so good, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hot, thick cum fills you suddenly, coinciding with his last choked out declaration of love, cock throbbing as it spurts rope after rope, taut stuttering hips pressed flush against your skin.

—

Everything aches as you unwind your limbs from around him, muscles sore and legs trembling as Keigo forces you to stand, propping you up against the shower wall and returning with the fluffiest towel only a moment later. Large hands pull you towards him, dragging you from under the shower head and into his arms, swaddling your shivering body in Egyptian cotton and strong arms and soft feathers.

He leaves the shower running on purpose, steady flow of water hitting the tiled floor and marbled wall, efficiently drowning out any roars or claps of thunder.

And you’re so tired, so pliant and boneless in his arms, barely able to keep your weighted eyelids from fluttering shut. He keeps you in his lap as he sits on the closed toilet, cradling you to his chest as best he can as he gently rocks you back and forth, whispering out praises—you did so well, you always look so gorgeous taking my cock—and avowals of his love, constant words oozing from his lips, sentiments cascading over your body like a stream of thick syrup.

Unconsciousness has you in its clutches, nearly slipping into the familiar embrace that promises the numbing ecstasy that comes with such an intense orgasm, until your tummy growls, and Keigo laughs.

“No, sweetheart,” he chides softly as you nuzzle into his chest, an indignant noise sounding at the back of your throat. “You have to eat at least a little before you can fall asleep,”

“Don’wanna,”

“I know,” he’s saying sympathetically as he stands, placing your feet on the floor a moment later. You wobble a little, eyes still shut, and he chuckles again, murmuring to himself about how fucking cute you are as he begins to dress you, tugging soft fleece that reeks of him over your head.

—

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time you’ve been clothed and fed, constant and leaking from the clouds overhead as you snuggle against Keigo in the plush sanctuary of your shared bed, tummy full and happy with roasted chicken and sauteed veggies. A deep contentment settles itself in your bones, weaving itself around the ivory in a protective glaze and imbuing you with a sense of calm, a sense of relaxation, a sense of relief, and you hum, Keigo’s lithe fingers trailing up your spine absentmindedly.

If you’re being honest, you’re not quite sure how he did it, how he slipped, slithered, seeped through the few cracks in your defence without being violent, without being forceful—how he tore down all of the barricades and shields you had built around yourself, hardened and firm from several years of paranoia and distrust, from the perpetual fear of being hurt again. It should scare you, really, how quickly he did it, how easily and inconspicuously he did it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he did it with love; stripping those protective walls with genuity and sincerity, dismantling every brick and stone with gentle touches and soft kisses and tender words. He did it with respect, with patience, with passion and affection and devotion.

So it doesn’t, because there’s nothing to fear—because you’ve never felt more safe in your life, here enveloped by his strong arms and cozy wings, resting on his chest, legs tangled in knots together.

And as you drift off to the gentle pat-pat-pat of the raindrops against the windowpane and the steady thumping of Keigo’s heart echoing in your ears, you realize he’s your very own ray of sunshine, forever present to keep those menacing clouds and malicious thunder away, even in the strongest, the harshest, and the scariest of storms.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

A/N: If there’s anything I learned from doing this, it’s that vampirerry is an utter WHORE. Good for him!!!! As for myself, I’m done with the semester and my term projects and finals left my singular brain cell fried, so this was a nice way to get back into writing again. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you to the anon that suggested it, this was super fun to do! :D

read you’re someone i just want around here

word count: 6k

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Harry is very attentive when it comes to aftercare with Y/N. The sex they have is often rough and includes toys, degradation, and multiple rounds, so he believes aftercare is non-negotiable. Rough sex can be fun, but if it’s not followed by a lot of communication and post-performance support, it can take a hard emotional toll on a person. Even when intimacy isn’t meant to be inherently sentimental, there has to be a certain level of connection and etiquette surrounding it, or it could end badly for both parties involved. He always checks on her immediately after they finish, simply to gauge her headspace and how her body is responding, and after he’s made sure she’s alright, he goes into his usual routine of skin-to-skin contact and gentle coddling. Reassurance and praise is just as important afterwards as it is during, because it’s good to let a partner know that your appreciation runs deeper than just the physical need felt in the heat of the moment; everyone deserves to feel valued beyond their body. 

Harry proceeds to clean Y/N up after every session, because it’s the least he can do since she’s usually the one getting the brunt of the work. He’ll fetch a clean towel dampened under warm water to wipe her clean, or he’ll offer to help give her a bath or a shower— whichever route she prefers. Harry dresses her, and changes the sheets if need be, and tucks her into bed to ensure she’s nice and comfortable. If it’s been a particularly intense session, he’ll go the kitchen and bring back a snack and a drink— a granola bar and a Gatorade, or some chips and her favorite juice, or if she’s feeling especially hungry, he’ll happily go out of his way to prepare her an actual meal— and he insists on feeding it to her bit by bit until she’s come to enough to handle it on her own. If she’s not hungry, he at least brings her a glass of water and urges her to drink it; better to be safe than sorry. After that, more cuddling is the status quo, which normally ends in Y/N falling asleep in his arms, and Harry has absolutely no problem with that at all.  

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Harry’s favorite body part of Y/N’s is probably her chest. Yes, he likes it for sexual reasons— obviously— but there are innocent reasons for his fascination, as well. He likes how responsive she gets when he touches her there— how he can get her going just by groping her the way she likes it, or by using his mouth to tongue across her nipples until she’s writhing in pleasure and whining for more. He loves leaving hickies all over her tits, probably more than she likes receiving them. It’s just so fucking hot seeing himself marked all over her, especially when she’s putting on a bra and he can see all of the dark bruises scattered across the cleavage spilling from the undergarment. Filth aside, he also enjoys loving all over her chest. Absentmindedly cupping them while they’re snuggling, nuzzling his head between them while they’re watching television, massaging them under her shirt with his large palms as she sits back against his chest, sipping a glass of wine and chatting away, unwinding after a long day. It’s a form of intimacy; it provides a type of closeness nothing else can. 

As for his own favorite body part, it’s a tie between two different areas. He loves his thighs— they’re one of his most prominent features. They’re thick and meaty and sensitive, so they’re the perfect sweet spot to touch when he wants to get riled up. Given his previous response, it can be easily deduced that he likes to get hickies there, as well. The marks look great peeking out from under his briefs (for the short amount of time they last, anyways) and they make a great accessory to the large tigerhead tattoo along his left thigh. It’s artwork, really; a proper Picasso. 

His other favorite body part...well, take a lucky guess. It’s likely not that far off— literally, considering it hangs right between his thighs. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Harry’s personal preference is cumming inside. He adores feeling the way Y/N tightens around him when he finally orgasms (she’s just so warm and soft and unbelievably tight; it’s like she was made for him), almost as much as he loves seeing her reaction. Her body will immediately start to wriggle and her back will arch as she releases broken little whimpers, clinging to his shoulders with her nails and begging him to fill her until he’s milked his worth. Hearing her ragged breathing and feeling her sweaty chest stutter against his is enough to do him in, but when she goes as far as to gnaw on his ear and whine a soft little, “Want it all, baby. Want you dripping out of me when we’re done.” Well, that’s enough to kill him all over again. 

Of course, there are times when Harry likes seeing himself all over her, too. On her outstretched tongue, or smeared across her pretty face and plush lips (she looks particularly cute when it ends up all over her eyelashes), or streaked over the valley of her tits, or pooled at the center of her tummy. If he’d been taking her from behind, then he likes seeing it run down the backs of her thighs, or splattered across the dip of her spine. And if she’d been giving him a handjob, then seeing himself dribbling down her fingers is just as good. Why? Because those fingers usually end up in her mouth, which means he ends up all over her tongue, and so the cycle comes full circle. How poetic. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Did Harry suggest wearing a matching set of a vibrating cock ring and buzzing bullet to do grocery shopping once? Yes. Did he drop three glass jars of peach preserves by accident as a result, causing them to have to book it out of the bread aisle while trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, which failed horribly because they were literally hobbling like a crippled elderly couple? Also yes. Did they end up fucking in a Target fitting room? Definitely. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

A lot of experience. Tons. Immense amounts. Insane amounts. Two hundred years of the same seven continents just means two hundred years worth of sex across every single one. And it gives you plenty of time to find the clitoris, as well as giving you a chance to learn the female anatomy like the back of your hand. That being said, Harry doesn’t doubt he could make Y/N cum with his wrists tied behind his back and a blindfold strapped to his face. In fact, he’s made her cum just by using his thigh, so that in itself is enough credibility to last him several more lifetimes. The toy chest in his closet and the fact that he’s well-endowed are bonuses— he knows more than enough tricks to keep her satisfied with just his tongue. Not to mention his fingers— they’re long for a reason.

F = Favorite position  

Funny enough, Harry doesn’t have one. He’s spent so many decades cycling through every possible position in existence, it’s gotten to where he can’t pin-point a preference; all positions are unique, and they each have their own appeal. Reverse cowgirl is nice because he likes watching the way he stretches Y/N open with every plunge of her hips, and it also gives him the luxury of marking his rings across her ass in the process. Regular cowgirl is nice, too— having her chest bouncing in his face is nothing short of a divine miracle, in his opinion. Doggy style is a staple, and there’s always different add-ons he can apply to spice it up; for example, taking her from behind with her wrists tied to her ankles, or bending her over the kitchen counter with her face pressed into the marble, or fucking her against his glass wall with her hands and chest flushed to the cool surface as their breaths fog the floor-to-ceiling window. 

Missionary is a tried and true option, and just like it’s prior counterpart, it can be enhanced with a variety of extra tricks. Bondage is a good condiment, against the wall is always a nice touch, spread-eagle never goes wrong, and just having her legs wrapped around his lower back is more than enough. However, he does have two favorite variations of the position. The first is when he mounts her legs onto his shoulders or along the inside of his elbows to open her up more, and then just ramming his hips down at a very specific angle that hits her g-spot just right, pounding her into the bed so hard she tears the sheets off the mattress. The second is a cowgirl-missionary hybrid: he sits back on his heels and uses the steep downward slope created by his thighs as elevation, pulling her ass onto his tilted lap and swinging her legs over either side of his hips. He gropes her waist with his palms and yanks her forward, bouncing her against his cock and watching her completely dismantle as he nudges all the right places with as much speed and force as she deems fit. 

And then there’s fucking from the side, but that’s a whole other extensive conversation he doesn’t have time for. 

Actually, maybe Harry will entertain it for a minute or so. He usually throws one of Y/N’s legs over his neck to get a deeper range, manhandling her roughly onto her side and yanking her closer to his body by her waist, grasping it with stern vigor and holding her down against the mattress, grunting out a gravelly, strict command along the lines of, “Stay fucking still.” He’ll drill into her at a brutal, consistent pace, staining his fingerprints along the curves of her torso and sponging damp kisses onto her ankle, smirking into her skin as he watches her fist at the duvet in a futile attempt at maintaining her bearings. It’s pretty evident that she can’t, though; the way her eyes lull around their sockets from his harsh stride does a terrible job at hiding her lack of self-control, alongside the fragmented curses she gasps out whenever he nudges her g-spot with the head of his cock. 

“Oh, that was such a pretty noise. Did I hit that little spot you like?”

Her response will be begrudging, as always, which he thinks is ridiculously useless considering he can see her burying her face into the pillow to hide how her jaw drops open in sheer rapture. “No.”

“No?” The vampire leans forward, stretching her leg towards the headboard and preening at the garbled squeak that escapes her gritted teeth, plunging deeper as he lowers himself to her level. He knots her hair around his knuckles, tugging sharply until her face is tilted back enough to meet his fiery gaze. “Then why are you starting to shake?

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It depends on the mood, honestly. There are definitely serious moments, but Harry enjoys the humorous ones just as much. He already adores making Y/N laugh and smile on a regular basis, and that desire only grows when he’s buried between her thighs, simply because she just looks so fucking cute laughing with her hair splayed around the pillows in a messy halo, her sounds of glee stuttering due to how sharply she’s jolting against the bed. He loves feeling her giggle into his mouth as he cracks sarcastic jokes and makes stupid witty comments that break the intensity in the air, especially because she’s usually clever enough to return them with some of her own. Then they both end up snickering like idiots as he tries to keep a solid pace, which eventually tapers to a messy, haphazard stride as their laughter drowns out their goal to the point where he has to take a genuine break to collect himself. There’s tons of examples— how could there not be? Sex is hardly ever perfect, so awkward moments are not only expected, but guaranteed. What better way to handle them than with a bit of humor?

There was an incident once where Harry accidentally knocked their foreheads together so hard, they both bruised (which he responded to with, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Cosmopolitan meant when they suggested matching couples tattoos.”). Another time, he got so into the moment he didn’t realize he was jack-hammering the top of her head into the backboard until she brought it to his attention (and made a comment saying it sounded like a sped up version of the beat to We Will Rock You). A bad case of the hiccups. Y/N burping right in his face halfway through his orgasm. A random leg cramp that made him think he was going to need amputation to survive. Accidentally rolling off the bed or couch onto the ground and nearly dislocating both of their spines in the process, getting his cross earring tangled in her hair and nearly ripping off his ear trying to get it out, and the unfortunate collapse of a pillow fort he’d spent over an hour building. He even sneezed in her face once, and when she instinctively went to shove him back, she wound up slamming her palm into his nose so hard he nearly passed out. Nose bleeds aren’t necessarily sexy, per se, but he just dug blindly through her nightstand until he found two new tampons somewhere in that black hole she calls a drawer, shoved them in his nostrils, and kept going. No one can ever accuse him of being unresourceful. 

Queefing. Lots and lots of queefing, which he usually starts mimicking with his mouth, and then she responds to that by whining and telling him to cut it out, and then he takes to mocking her whining instead. It normally finishes with them laughing so hard that Harry’s cheeks hurt from smiling so big, but it’s a good type of pain. The best type of pain. 

H = Hair (how do they groom?)

Harry likes keeping himself neat and orderly, but he doesn’t enjoy going bare, so trimming is his grooming preference. There’s just something so unappealing about a completely smooth dick— it looks like raw chicken and it’s fucking disgusting. He doesn’t have anything against a good bush, but it tends to get unruly and he’d rather not have to overcomplicate his shower routine. And honestly, he can’t trust himself because last time he had a full front yard going, he got shitfaced and tried to braid it on a dare. Keeping the hedges trimmed is the ideal landscaping option, and it just looks way hotter— a uniform dusting of hair is a good accessory and it just makes everything look more cohesive, given that he also fancies keeping his happy trail thick. It’s all about aesthetics, isn’t it? 

I = Intimacy (the romantic aspect)

It’s no secret that Harry’s been somewhat detached from intimacy for the last two hundred years or so. Intimacy is reserved for genuine romance, and that’s something he hadn’t entertained since before the lightbulb was invented. But now that he has Y/N, intimacy has crawled its way back out from the deepest recesses of his subconscious, where it had been shoved into a bottomless pit with the rest of his trauma. He likes it— he likes opening up to her in any way he can, because sharing those obsolete parts of himself with someone again is more fulfilling than he ever imagined. He likes kissing her randomly when she’s halfway through a sentence, just to feel her words die off abruptly in her throat as she gives into his gentle gesture, a delicate smile spreading across her satin lips. He likes whispering sweet phrases of encouragement into her hair when they’re tangled amidst sweaty limbs and rumpled sheets, reminding her of how much he cares for her and how beautiful she looks when she’s so far gone and how she makes him feel like his entire body has been set alight. He likes sponging soft pecks across the stretch marks along her thighs and across the dimples on her belly, her skin candy and velvet on his tongue as she releases a watery sigh that lets him know he’s doing all the right things in all the right places. He just likes letting her know she's special to him, in any and every way he can. 

Intimacy forges timeless bonds, and he reckons that assumption is unarguable, considering he knows a thing or two about eternity. 

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Harry likes to jack off, obviously. Who doesn’t? It’s why he has an entire section of his toy chest dedicated to self-pleasuring tools. Vibrating cock rings, an array of lubes that range from temperature-changing to sensation sensitivity, and a few pocket vags that get the job done whenever Y/N is out of commission (usually because of work). His favorite one is an electronic sleek black model that is made of a premium silicone material and has a variety of massage settings, suction strengths, and internal textures. It’s designed to make the session feel more real, and yes, it was expensive, but self-love is always worth the splurge. 

The beauty of living on his own is that he can get off wherever and whenever he wants, without having to stress about someone interrupting an important step in his pampering routine. He usually does it in his room and on his bed, simply because Y/N’s pillow is close by and the experience is heightened when her scent is swimming around his hazy, bliss-drunken mind. If Harry is feeling particularly needy, he’ll ditch the toy all together and just hump one out against the mattress or cushion. If it’s a particularly restless day, he’ll take a toy downstairs and lazily play within himself on the couch while browsing through Netflix. Those instances usually average a few tamer orgasms rather than a single large one, but he’s not complaining; his stamina comes in unapologetic waves that stem from a never-ending supply, and he certainly has the time to kill. If Harry gets the sudden urge in the shower or while he’s relaxing in his jacuzzi, he won’t bother fetching a trinket; he’ll just stroke one out with his hand, using the cool metal of his trusty lionhead ring to tease the tip until he brings himself to orgasm. It turns out daylight crystals have more than one use. 

There is one common factor amongst all these different choices, though: Y/N is present in every fantasy. And if the vampire is feeling especially bold, he’ll grab his phone and take a video of whatever he’s doing to himself, and then she’ll have a nice little gift waiting for her once she gets out of the café for the day. That usually leads to him receiving a present in return later that evening, and then he’s dialing her contact before the clip is even done playing, and then what he does during his alone time doesn’t require him being so alone anymore. 

K = Kinks 

Harry has tons— in fact, he has so many, he can’t really keep track. And he also has the sneaking suspicion that if he were to ever jot all of them down, he’d end up locked in some type of sex addict rehabilitation center. Bondage is a big one, so he’ll start there. He’s great with ropes, given that he learned his way around them ages ago. Chains are nice, but they can be a pain to set up without the right equipment; he’s thinking of getting a reinforced metal hook installed into his ceiling, like the one in his storage closet, which he uses to keep his punching bag secure. Handcuffs, obviously— velvet-lined, straight metal, fuzzy coverings, he’s got it all. Dominance, degradation, Daddy, Sir, choking, brat-taming, spanking, flogging, slapping— impact play in general, to be honest— spitting, wax, praise, begging, masochism, branding (mild stuff, no molten metal shit), collaring, discipline, dirty talk, edging, exhibitionism, face-fucking, face-sitting (with him on the receiving end), giving oral (is that a kink? It is now.) gagging (both the action and using the actual object itself), breeding (he hates that term but that’s the official name, unfortunately), teasing, voyeurism, role play, and… he thinks that’s it. Oh, and blood, but that doesn’t really count for apparent reasons. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Y/N’s couch is sacred, at this point. Their entire relationship started on that lumpy, worn excuse of a sofa, and it’s seen them through their progression from strangers to friends with benefits to lovers to more. It’s comfortable enough, the dark color hides any explicit stains, and the cushions always smell of her signature mixture of honey and lavender combined with Snuggle fabric softener. It’s finicky, but irreplaceable. His kitchen counter is a close second. It’s provided a lot, taken a lot, been through a lot— through a lot of Lysol wipes, to be specific. If it wasn’t marble, it likely would have been reduced to chunks and rubble by now, courtesy of his enhanced strength gripping the edges as he slams her against the smooth surface. The backseat of his Cadillac is consecrated, as well; there’s just so much erotic appeal to fucking in a car with rock music blaring in the background, muffling the obscene sounds of bodies connecting and a mixture of fever-pitch moans. The couch, the counter, and the Cadillac— the Unholy Trinity. 

The jacuzzi is nice, too, but for the sake of his clever little “c” alliteration, he’ll leave that one as an implied token. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

As much as Harry claims he likes full submission in bed, he can’t deny that he loves being challenged. Delivering punishment and coaxing out an orgasm is so much more satisfying when he has to fight for it; it’s so fucking hot watching his girlfriend try to best him in a power struggle, especially when she finally— and undeniably, since he always wins— caves under his will and winds up begging him for what he otherwise would have gifted her freely. That’s where the brat-taming kink comes into play. He likes it when she mouths off and makes snarky digs, and he enjoys it even more when he tries to set her in place and she amps her disobedience as a result. There’s nothing more attractive than a battle of wits with someone who is a perfect match in every way. And when she channels her attitude into physical gestures, it riles him up beyond compare. For example, when she smirks and rolls her eyes, despite the fact that there’s trails of tears staining her cheeks and mascara smeared all over her waterline? Christ, he could go feral. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

No feet, no feces, no beastiality. There’s probably more, but those are the ones off the top of his head.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Receiving oral is great— he highly recommends it, solid ten out of ten— but giving it is so much better. Harry’s always been a giver, even when he was young and barely knew his way around a woman’s undergarments. The stereotypical expectation for a person who is beginning to explore their sexuality is that everything they do, they do for their own gain. It’s a selfish realization, yes, but it’s a primal type of selfishness that no one can truly be blamed for. It’s a simple concept: when you start having sex, you want as much personal benefit as possible. It’s only natural. But from the second Harry became sexually active, he came to find that providing release to his partner outweighed the bliss he could get from letting them pleasure him instead. It’s not direct pleasure, but rather cognitive, which more often than not translates itself physically. And when it comes to Y/N, that euphoria manifests tenfold. 

Nothing compares to having his face buried between her legs as she tugs and yanks at his hair desperately, her chest heaving and jaw falling open as he uses his tongue to unravel her from the inside out. Spitting sloppily onto her folds and hearing the raw gasp of aroused shock that escapes her sore throat, which causes his swollen lips to spread into a dirty grin as he latches onto the sensitive bud at the thick of her core, fiddling with it until her legs are trembling uncontrollably around his sturdy shoulders. Watching her features go slack as he bobs his neck fervently between her thighs, swiping the bridge of his nose across her clit over and over until the entire bottom half of his face is drenched in her excitement. Fucking his tongue into her and feeling her buck against his jaw as she holds him in place with her fingers tangled in his curls, whimpering his name repeatedly in a voice so shattered, he could probably build a mosaic with the fractures. Feeling her drip down his chin and into the collar of his shirt, savoring how sweet she tastes as he pins her hips down against the bed and groans feverishly into her cunt, his ego idolizing the image of her so disheveled under his influence. 

A measly blowjob is hardly any competition to that. Harry could very well cum just from eating Y/N out. In fact, he has, and that in itself is all the proof he needs. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

This is one of those other factors that depends on the mood. If Harry has been waiting all day for it, his impatience bleeds into his rhythm, which means he settles for fast and hard. It means he settles for bending her over the back of his couch with one palm around her throat and his other fingers in her mouth, pounding into her with so much force, the sofa starts shifting across the ground. If Y/N has been teasing him endlessly for a decent amount of time, it’ll be rough and deep, but not fast; he’ll drag it out for as long as possible, just to make her regret acting like such a spoiled brat. That’s when he brings out the paddle, or the crop, or just manhandles her across his lap and spanks her until she’s apologizing profusely through her whines. If he’s in a soft, romantic headspace, it’ll be slow and sensual, with lots of gentle caresses, giggly kisses dusted across eager lips and droopy eyelids, and penetrating strokes that make his toes curl and tummy clench. 

Pace is relative, but the message behind it is all the same: I want you more than anything, and I’m going to show you just how deeply I mean it. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are fun, Harry will admit. They’re filthy and messy, and they show just how far gone two people are for each other to the point where they can’t wait to feel one another at a later time; that they need to be together now, or they’ll go absolutely insane. Quickies are saved for when the urge strikes at random times. For when he’s out with Y/N at a park, sitting under the shade with his head in her lap as she combs his curls out of his eyes and thumbs over his chin affectionately, and the sun filters through the tree canopy just right to where it illuminates her lashes and the suppleness of her cheeks in a manner he deems ethereal. For when they’re at the mall, walking hand in hand and licking at ice cream cones as they survey the shops, and she reaches over to wipe a bit of Rocky Road off the corner of his mouth, replacing the stain with a soft stipple of her lips instead. For when they’re out eating dinner and playing footsie under the table like immature teenagers, and she’s trying to steal a French fry from his plate but he keeps fighting her off with his fork because, “I told you to order your own, but you wanted those disgusting potato skins instead!” And she’s laughing so brightly and unapologetically, giving him a look that so obviously tells him she can’t wait to get him alone, and nothing seems quite as flawless as that fraction in time, then and there and nowhere else.

These simple but memorable moments cause him to get love boners, which he jokingly refers to as “sniffy stiffies,” where “sniffy” has to do with being sentimental, and “stiffy”...well, that one is pretty self-explanatory, no? It always ends with them shagging in the car, or in the family bathroom of a diner, and in the case of the park, in an obscure area of the forest that lines the jogging trail. 

Quickies are just that— fast, but meaningful nonetheless, because they come from a place of genuine emotion. They’re fleeting, but unforgettable. Sniffy stiffy quickies, if you will. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Taking risks is the norm in Harry’s life, especially when it comes to his sex habits. He’s proven time and time again that he has no problem riding along the seams of a dare and just barely making it out unscathed, so experimenting outside of the bedroom is just another day in the life. Fingering Y/N in a music room in an antique shop, getting road head during a two hour drive back to Los Angeles, ripping his girlfriend’s panties out from beneath her dress at one of California’s most prestigious restaurants— the list is endless, really. Harry likes to think he has a gift for coming up with inspirational quotes on the spot, so he’ll lend his expertise here and now: “A life without risks is a life that isn’t worth shit.” It even rhymes, so he knows sorority pledges will have a ball putting it in their Instagram bios. A bit of charity work for the bird-brained. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Endless stamina. Literally. Vampires don’t stay tired for long, so he could be ready to go again within seconds. And he can last long, as well; his stubbornness and pride depend on it, and he likes making his partner cum first as an ego boost. He can go as many rounds as Y/N can and more, though he won’t push it. He doesn’t want her to end up in the ER with a bruised cervix. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Harry could run a sex shop from his closet; Y/N doesn’t take the piss by calling him “Fifty Shades” for no reason. He uses them on himself, he uses them on her, and he got high once and tried to sword fight Y/N with a dildo, so it’s safe to say he definitely uses them quite a bit. If his Lovesense Lush 3 vibrator could talk, he’d be drawn and quartered for excessive debauchery. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Harry loves teasing, that’s no mystery. Winding people up is one of his most practiced skills, so of course that would channel into his intimate life. He’s mastered it, though it’s not like it’s hard. A drawn out blink here, or a feathery touch there. An inch of space between his and Y/N’s lips to establish some tension, or squeezing her inner thigh with his palm hard enough to draw a tiny squeak from her chest. Touching her through her clothes, or leaving a trail of wet kisses down her throat and stopping right at her cleavage. Biting the sensitive skin along the inside of her knee, or dragging the tip of his cold nose down the center of her twitching tummy. Lapping slowly at her nipples until they perk up, or sinking a single long digit inside her and keeping it there just to feel her clench around it needily. And once he gets a pattern going, teasing molds into edging, edging molds into begging, begging molds into praise, and before he knows it, he’s hit four of his kinks with one roll of the dice. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Harry is very vocal in bed, and he’s not ashamed of it. He knows for a fact that Y/N loves it, and if him being loud gets her worked up, then he’ll let his throat go out in the process. He’s noticed that in different situations, he has an arsenal of sounds for each. If he’s being rough and dominant, he tends to groan, grunt, and growl. If he’s being desperate and needy, he turns to whines and whimpers to communicate how he feels. If he’s too zoned into the moment to distinguish all his emotions, broken moans and stuttered mewls are his default. No matter the circumstance, they all take the same route: they start low and soft, and escalate in volume proportional to the intensity of the moment. So what if half the building is hearing him orgasm for the third time as he mocks his girlfriends sobbing pleads and calls her his “dirty fucking whore”? Let’s be honest, it’s probably the highlight of their week. He has a great voice— a sultry, deep baritone that compliments his English accent nicely— and anyone would be lucky to hear it spew the filth it does. He’s yet to get many complaints, so he doesn’t intend on stopping. 

W = Wildcard (random headcanon)

An honesty hour moment seems interesting, so he’ll confess a few tales from his past. The first time Harry ever went down on a girl, it was against a tree in a garden and he nearly asphyxiated under all the layers of her gown. A couple of years later, he ended up getting oral from a reverend’s daughter against a tree, too, for the morbid irony and associated religious revenge. And to drive the point home, oral was only the beginning of what she gave him. His first decade as a vampire was definitely his pettiest. 

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

It’s not uncommon knowledge that Harry’s well-endowed. He remembers how insecure he was the first time he had sex— a shocker, he knows; he was insecure?— and how he knew barely anything regarding sizing and how to use his assets accordingly. But it’s been ages since then, and now he definitely knows his way around his own body (let alone his partner’s), and he most certainly knows that he’s above average not only as a person in general, but when it comes to what’s in his trousers, as well. Harry won’t specify inches— he loves how speculation drives others mad— but it was big enough to give Y/N a decent pause the first time she pulled down his pants, and it’s big enough to leave her absolutely fucked every single time, without a single miss. If that’s not credibility at its finest, then he doesn’t know what is.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Harry’s sex drive is insatiable, to say the least. His vampirism combined with his narcissistic tendencies makes the ideal cocktail— cocktail— for the constant fuse that’s always burning under his skin. He’s ready to go at all times; Y/N just has to say the word and he’s pulling on a pair of sweatpants as he grabs his keys, hopping down his complex’s corridor toward the elevator on one foot as he tries to get his last shoe on the other. Lazy morning sex is probably his favorite; he’s come to find it’s when he’s most pent up, usually after a sleepless night of feeling Y/N’s body heat radiating through all of his cold limbs. It also sets a great tone for the rest of the day, and he just loves seeing Y/N wake up to him lying on his side with his temple resting on his fist, his elbow propped against the mattress as he poses the other on his hip in a theatrical diva stance. He’ll smile at her giddily with all his pearly teeth, dimples twitching as his lashes flutter dramatically, dirty intentions written clear all over his face (“Good morning, hon—” “Wanna have sex?” “Harry, it’s ten in the morning.” “Is that a yes? Because it’s not a no.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth!” “That’s fine, I’m gonna stick my dick in there anyways.”) 

All in all, his libido is insane, and he’s lucky that Y/N’s is up to par or else he would have worked her into an exhaustion-induced coma by now. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Harry just...doesn't. Maybe once every few weeks, but definitely more often now than before he had his girlfriend. Sleeping just comes way easier when he has someone he cares about resting beside him, their inherent warmth thawing the stiffness from his muscles and putting his racing mind at ease. He feels safe enough around Y/N to let his guard down— both literally and metaphorically— and that seems to help with his supernatural insomnia; it sedates that nocturnal hyper-instinct in his brain that demands he be aware at all times, muffling the animalistic part of him that has been manning the reins for the better half of the last two hundred years. He doesn’t need to be so on edge anymore when everything he needs is just an arm-length away. Especially when she’s usually willing to lend her chest as a pillow, and who is he to neglect her wishes.   

[happytroopers]

crosshairs fic idea: reader is gossiping with coworkers (maybe medics idk) about who the most attractive clone is and reader mentions crosshair and he somehow finds out and teases her

Teasing // Crosshair x reader

“It’s definitely Captain Rex. ” Tula, a Rodian nurse from the 212th, stated decidedly. You giggled into the shitty GAR rationed caf.

“That’s just cause your into blondes.” You teased, content with the rounds of chuckles at the mess hall table as Tula’s teal cheeks blushed blue.

“I still don’t know why we’re having this conversation, they’re clones, they all look the same! Thats like the whole thing.” Rys groaned uncomfortably, the only man at the table of civilian enlistments. It was rare for some many of your friends to be in the same place at the same time- but medical staff and engineering alike, every six months after your first deployment civilian enlistments were shipped back to Coruscant for a week long training refresher.

“You can’t say that, it’s rude!” Tula slapped his arm, eyebrow ridges furrowing over her galaxy eyes. He held his hands up in surrender.

“Yeah Rys, we won’t assume you’re any less straight if you admit that Wolffe is clearly the most attractive.” Raina grinned, her peach colored lekku twitching at the thought of the commander. You considered the idea but shook your head as other names got thrown around.

Kix, Fives, Bly, Keeli, Cody, and a couple other names you didn’t quite recognize the names of were tossed around the table. Haircuts, scars, tattoos, personality all became deciding factors as you at your dinner, occasionally chiming in to tease your friends.

“Ok then, who do you think the hottest soldier is?” An engineer from some outer moon data post asked after you teased her for her choice- Tup, a younger soldier in the 501st that you hadn’t met since your transfer to Clone Force 99.

You held your hands up, ready to evade the question. But Raina interjected, a challenging look on her face. You’d gone through academy with the peachy colored twi-lek and her sharp tongue was almost faster than her flying. You knew that look, and it didn’t bode well.

“If you don’t answer, I’ll tell every trooper I see all week that you said it was them.” She threatened with a smirk that said she already knew she had won. The smirk grew to a grin when you let out a defeated sigh.

“Well, in my own personal opinion, that Crosshair is the most attractive man we work with.” You admitted quietly. An honest answer on your part, you did think he was attractive even if you’d never say it to his face. Immediately, several pairs of disbelieving eyes landed on you.

“What? He doesn’t even count!” Rys pointed an finger at you to emphasize his point, “he doesn’t even look like the other clones!”

You shrugged as Tula slapped the back of his head again, her voice scolding as she hissed, “You can’t say that either!”

Then she looked at you, “Really though? He’s meaner than a burned gundark.”

“He’s scary.” Raina nodded.

“He’s an ass.” Another one of the 212th enlistments echoed from down the table. You’d forgotten that a few of the units they were assigned to probably had worked with Clone Force 99 at some point. Nevertheless, suddenly, you felt a need to defend the sniper who had finally become what you’d consider a friend.

“Ok, so it takes a while to get to know him, but...” you started, thinking of all the amazing qualities no one else saw because they weren’t with him all the time, “he’s loyal to a fault, really funny, always pulls me out of sticky situations and usually manages to keep me out of them to begin with, once you get to know him and how he is, you see how much he cares about his-“

“Ok, sure,” Raina cut you off, clearly not believing the cold eyed sniper could care about anything or anyone. She paused to pitch her voice up, flutter her eyelashes, and clasp her hands beside her face like a cartoon princess, “we don’t know him like you do~”

She interrupted herself with a snicker before she continued in her normal voice, “and all that bantha crap, but this is about attractiveness. What makes him hot? And don’t give me any of this, personality is all I look at shit.”

“And if I tell you, you’ll leave me alone?” You asked, though it was more of a demand. Tula nodded, she had always been a little boy crazy, and was dying to hear the scoop. You sighed again, hoping your cheeks weren’t too flushed, “fine, He’s very unique looking, in all the best ways. He’s very tall and lean, but crazy built. I’m into the silver hair, and believe it or not, under the armor that man has the best ass you’ll ever see.”

Tula was leaning on the table, giggling wildly at the juicier bits of you description. Raina had leaned back in her seat, and rolled her eyes, “To each their own, I suppose.”

Fortunately for you, the conversation switched to complaining about to the soldiers that were in charge of your training. There was a rumor the Fox used “civilian training” as punishment for his men when they earned a reprimand. It made sense, all the Coruscant guardsmen that were tasked with running drills with you weren’t exactly thrilled to be there. As if any of you were either.

“Yeah, I definitely don’t understand that attitude. We get it, you don’t want to be here, neither do we, but we are so let’s just get it over with- with out the..... are you even listening?” You were in the middle of your tangent when it was clear none of your group was listening to you. Instead there were all staring over your head with varying looks of slight fear, curiosity, and overall disdain. Tula was the one who attempted to subtly point behind you. At first you feared it was one of the troopers in charge of your training, so you quickly turned around with a forced apologetic look on your face.

To your surprise, you found Crosshair. Helmet free, as usual he had a toothpick between his teeth as he gave your group an appraising sweep. He had the same look on his face that he did when he was sizing up ‘the regs’- until he got to you. It took a year for him to stop looking at you that way, but his slight sneer eased out to neutral-which when it came to the sniper, it might as well have been an ear to ear grin.

“Crosshair! What are you doing here?” You asked, turning around in your seat. In addition to his sudden appearance, just his president was slightly confusing. Typically, Hunter would come himself, or send Tech- all to avoid a potential fight. Your training mates looked slightly bewildered at the amicable exchange.

“Springing you. We’ve got an assignment.” He shrugged after plucking the toothpick from between his lips. Like a true creature of habit, he started twirling the stick between his fingers. You quirked an eyebrow motioning to the other civilians.

“You can’t ‘spring me’, it’s GAR regulation for me to do this training refresher.” You reminded him, he rolled his eyes- but you weren’t sure if his disdain was for your use of air quotes or just disdain for GAR regulation in general. With any member of the Bad Batch, it was usually general disrespect for the rules. You gave him a look before continuing, “I still have three more days.”

“Is it really training? You could run circles around anyone here, especially them.” He drawled as he nodded his head over his shoulders at the table of red painted troopers who were eyeing him in distrust. Your eyes went a little wide, was that a compliment? And then you ducked your head at the offended glares of your table. In an effort to prevent a fight, you stood quickly before letting him lead you off.

“They’re aren’t gonna let me leave, Crosshair.” You reminded him, looking up to meet his eyes. He smirked a bit, setting his eyes forward.

“How are they gonna stop us?” He challenged, dropping his smile to glare at a passing trooper.

“Well, ion cannons come to mind.” You mused before clearing your throat, “You guys could always go with me, you went on plenty of missions before you got stuck with me. It be like the good ole days.”

He didn’t laugh at your joking tone, but shook his head, “You’re one of us, you stay with us”

You were stunned to silence for a second, despite your friendship he’s never referred you you as ‘one of them’. Heat rose to your cheeks as you exited the corridor into a lift, so Crosshair diffused the tension.

“Mission takes precedence over regulations. When have we been know to follow the rules, anyways.” He mused, swiping his ID card so the lift would let you out in the hangar. He relaxed a bit when you snorted a laugh before he continued on, “Besides, how can pull you out of sticky situation if you’re on a different planet?”

You froze in your spot, stomach dropping and cheeks flaring with red hot embarrassment; you had forgotten the cardinal rule of working with Crosshair.

If you didn’t have eyes on Crosshair, Crosshair definitely had eyes on you. And in this case, apparently ears as well.

“Ok, look-“ you started, hoping to ease your embarrassment, but all of the excuses you could come up with fell flat before they made it out of your mouth. Fortunately, the lift door slid open, allowing you to escape before you could further your embarrassment.

Crosshair actually chuckled out loud, long legs easily traipsing past you as he headed towards the Havoc Marauder. Momentarily, he twisted around to walk backwards, pointing his toothpick towards you, “Don’t worry, your ass is almost as good as mine.”

[buckyownsmylife]

Give your heart a break - Chris Evans smut

The one where Chris is a biker and decided he wants to start your forever.

Warnings: I’m gonna tag this as dubcon just to be safe, Chris definitely crosses a line without proper consent, breeding kink, biker!Chris AU, bondage, (belt used to restrain hands), dirty talk

A/N:  this is for my own birthday celebration challenge! Like I explained here, I’m going to try to fill every single AU I listed with the characters I picked for the challenge, and since the deadline if May 27, these fics will be posted randomly, as I finish them. Hope you guys like it!

Chris’ P.O.V.

“Hey, baby!” The smile she opened up when she turned around to see it was truly me who had just arrived at her coffee shop made my heart beat faster than it ever did while I was away from her.

I guess the adrenaline the bike used to give me was nothing compared to her effect on me.

“What are you doing here?” She exclaimed, jumping on my waiting arms so I could twirl her around, like I always did after we spent some time apart. She looked just the same, which comforted my heart somewhat.

I hated leaving her, but this nomadic lifestyle I’d chosen for myself long before we ever met would never work for her. It’s why she always resisted accepting any kind of labels to what we shared.

That was all about to change, though. Even if she still didn’t realize it.

“What? Can’t I stop by to visit my best girl?” Her smile became even bigger at the pet name. It was the indication I needed of her true feelings. She wanted to be mine, she really just couldn’t handle the biker lifestyle.

“Of course, you can. I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. Sit down, I’ll bring your usual order!” I watched as she fixed me a black coffee and picked a muffin with great care before bringing it to me. I had no doubt it was the warmest one on the tray. “Will you be sticking around for tonight?”

I could see the glint of hope and desire in her eyes. I knew that even though she didn’t want to be tied down to me, she hadn’t looked for pleasure in anyone else ever since I first kissed her. And even though I was sure she thought differently, neither had I.

She owned my heart ever since we met. There was no one else I’d rather have underneath my body. “I think you’ll soon realize I’ll be sticking around for a lot longer.”

Her eyes lit up at that, excitement clear in her features. “A whole week?” She’d been asking me for that for as long as I’ve known her, and I’d never been able to stick through the whole seven days. There was always some shipment to assess, brothers to help.

This time, nothing would force me away from her.

“You’ll see.” She rolled her eyes at my attempt at keeping a mystery, and I know what was going on through her pretty little head. I was already too secretive as it was, there was no need for more hiding. But I had a plan, and I was going to stick to it.

“I’ll be right here until it’s time to lock up. I’ll walk you home, how does that sound?” The way the corner of her eyes crinkled as she smiled at me was enough of a response, yet she gave me one anyway.

“Perfect.”

Y/N’s P.O.V.

“Stop that.” The order startled me, too lost in the haze of lust to realize that he’d stripped down to his boxers, finally noticing that I’d climbed on the bed and had been playing with myself while I waited for him to join me.

Usually, I’d immediately follow his directions - almost instinctively, actually. It was probably some remaining fear that used to exist inside of me when I saw him on his bike just outside my shop, before I decided to give him a chance and began this little adventure between us…

I never wanted to see his anger directed at me. But tonight, I was feeling brave for whatever reason. Maybe it was because of how much I had missed him this time we spent apart and how I unconsciously resented him for always leaving. We’d never have an actual relationship, and it was all because of him.

So maybe that awoke the brat in me, because all I gave him was a smirk, keeping the movements on my clit as I watched him watch me. “I don’t think you deserve that,” I taunted, taking notice of the way he seemed transfixed by the wetness gathered on my lower lips, until I stopped my movements and raised my hand to slather it on my lips.

“You’ve left me all alone so many nights, with only these fingers as company…” I returned them to the apex of my thighs, pushing them inside of me this time, making sure to exaggerate my moan at the relieving sensation of being filled. “I think you deserve to suffer for a while longer.”

He looked so beautiful with his eyebrows furrowed, the length of his eyelashes and the pinkness of his lips almost making me overlook how threatening he still looked, all tatted up, clearly disappointed in me.

“Stop it,” he warned once more, but I wasn’t in a submissive mood. Not tonight.

“Why should I?” I argued, fucking myself faster. “I’m not yours. You can’t boss me around.” That was the wrong thing to say, I realized the second his eyes darkened, jaw clenching at my defiance. He was on me in a second, easily gathering my wrists in one of his hands as he pulled them up in the direction of the headboard, and it was only when I felt the leather around them that I realized he’d picked up his belt to tie me to bed.

“Yes, you are,” he breathed out against my face, eyes looking directly in mine to show me just how serious he was. “And you should know better than to disobey me.” The authoritative tone in his voice had me shivering, especially after he pulled away and stopped covering my body with his, taking advantage of how I was bound to the bed to drink in my naked figure.

“I promise I’ll behave,” I tried to argue, legs flailing around his figure until he grabbed them. “I-I just missed you, that’s all.” The way his huge, rough hand felt on the inside of my thighs should be illegal. And he knew just how much it affected me, as he smirked and looked up at me from under his eyelashes with a knowing glint in his gaze.

“Don’t you trust me?” He questioned, head tilted as his thumb slipped and found place right over my nub. “I just want to make you feel good, sugar.” I hesitated for a moment - I hadn’t really experimented with any sort of kinky sex before, even though I expected him to try something unusual ever since the first time we were together. Guess this was starting small. I could take it.

Besides, I needed him too fucking badly.

“Yeah?” He confirmed after I nodded, tone almost patronizing as he kept rubbing me and playing with himself. “Got yourself wet and ready for me, won’t need to prepare you, huh? Guess your disobedience has it’s advantages.”

All I could do was whimper, especially when he finally leaned over me again, resting his hard cock over my navel. “Feel this?” He asked, and I nodded once more. “It’s about to be inside of you, pretty girl.”

And so he grasped my hips and adjusted himself to start pushing in, spearing me open. Having him for the first time after a while was always a challenge, and although he always took it slow to get me used to him again, he was never one to give me time to accept the intrusion. He just took his time, thrusting in and out, taking note of every little moan that I released as his hips pressed against mine.

“Oh, fuck…” I groaned, wanting to wrap my arms around him but unable to do so, due to my restraints. “T-that f-feels s-so good!” I was positively trembling as he started to pick up his pace, cocky smile only adding to my arousal.

“Oh, yeah?” He panted, drops of sweat starting to form on his naked body from the frantic activity. “Then fucking scream it, sweetheart. Tell your entire neighborhood how good it feels to have my cock inside of you.”

I must have obeyed him, from the way my throat felt hoarse when I finally came back from my orgasm, but I couldn’t remember it. I was too far gone. All I knew, all I could focus on was the way it felt to have his cock rhythmically dragging in and out of me, the sounds of my juices reverberating off the walls.

“Pretty little pussy,” he complimented, eyes focused on the part of me he was so obsessed with. “Can’t wait to fill it up with my cum.” Well, that jolted me back into reality, suddenly pulling on his belt again.

“W-what?” Only when he heard my question and the hesitation in my voice did he raise his gaze to meet my eyes, a patient smile defining his expression.

“C’mon, pretty girl… You know you want it too. Don’t you want an ‘us’?” He urged while I could only stare back, mouth agape. “You know I want more, I’ve always wanted more. Now I’m ready to give it to you. And I know you want me too.”

His voice was soothing against my ear as he kept fucking me, “You want to be round with my baby, don’t you? You want me to keep you filled all day long, until your breasts are heavy and your belly starts growing, so everyone will know you’re now undeniably mine.”

And to be his is all I’d ever wanted, but I never expected it to happen like this. I could only watch, frozen in place as he came deep inside of me, moaning right by my ear before kissing my temple.

“I love you, sweetheart.” He’d never said those words to me before. I don’t think he’d ever said them to anyone. “I know it’s fucked up that I’m only now telling you this, but I do. And I wanna fall asleep next to you every day from now on.”

And so he kept me plugged, full of his cum even as he released my wrists and lulled me to sleep, and for the next seven days, when I woke up in the morning, he was really still there.

“You’re really here to stay,” I whispered on the eight night, cradling his face in amazement as he smiled before kissing my palm.

“Forever.”

[frosted-night]

Toothiana Concept Design Review

As promised, I tried to hunt down every single design of her and I think i got them all. (Or at least most.) It’s the Queen’s turn lets go, starting with her book designs!

According to Joyce, this is one of the earliest designs for Tooth. She started out as a suited human and not as a human-bird hybrid. If you squint you can see a widow’s peak/hairline on her head. She gives me more super hero-like vibes in this one and the peacock feathers are interesting! I can’t say I’m a fan of it. Below is another book design I found that is VERY similar to this one, so I grouped them together.

Rating: 4/10 Glad he made her more bird like.

As a bonus, here is the design for Tooth as a child. Her toy there looks almost like a tooth but I have no idea what it actually is. I like how u can see a tiny curl of her hair under the hat. Otherwise I don’t have a lot of thoughts on this one.

Rating: 4/10 Not a fan but this exists I guess. BUT SHE ALSO HAS A SWORD.

A tooth that appears in the Man In The Moon Picture book. (Heh it almost looks like shes hanging onto Aster’s sleeve here.) I just noticed shes got an F symbol on her bag that she has on the belt of her childhood outfit. She looks kinda angelic here ngl. Very wintery colors. Rating: 6/10 Wish she was more colorful just a little bit

THERE SHE IS. THE FINAL BOOK TOOTH. Her feathers are absolutely stunning and the feather-puffy pants combo is  A LOOK(A good one). The only things I got that bother me is how round her head is at the top. If it had longer feathers that stuck out it’d look a little less weird. And one other thing

Ear Feathers?????? Don’t know why but this AINT A VIBE. Rating: 7/10 looks like a queen and the swords are badass

I cannot stress enough how many movie Tooth designs exist so buckle up.

Starting with a mysterious human looking Tooth, this design surfaced from this post 8 years ago. The original poster claimed it wasn’t from the movie credits and I couldn’t find any other trace of this design so it’s dubious at best. However I included it just in case it was in the movies/plans at some point of production. (I’m a little skeptical but oh well.) I do like how her outfit does look similar to real life outfits of her home region and she just looks gorgeous here.

Rating: Dubiously Canon/10

This one feels more stylistic but damb I gotta appreciate how intricate her feathers look. Looks like she’s right out of a storybook and it’s very appealing.

Rating: 6/10 Not many thoughts just love her

A fascinating one I found in my search. This was one of three designs that had Tooth in a mask but if you squint you can see she has a knife/dagger. So she would have had that blade wielding quirk like her book counterpart. She looks a bit more human in this one(At least in my opinion) The little flared collar is a nice touch that I oddly like. She looks like a fairy queen here for sure. She almost reminds me of a fencer Rating: 5/10 Good but too human

The other masked Tooth! There are, a lot of thoughts I have about this one. The colors are GREAT and so are her wings. Her body however reminds me of the suited Tooth design Joyce had drawn up. It looks almost like shes wearing a shirt with holes in it over a pink one and I just don’t know how to feel about it. Something is just off about this one.

Rating: 3/10 Wings r great throw the rest away

Another rare Tooth. She looks very similar to the one above and still has that mask. Or it could just be her actual head and not a mask this whole time! What a twist. Anyway, given the lighting it’s hard to tell what her base colors were but I’ll work with what we got. She’s a little less colorful looking than the other Tooths so it’s a little disappointing. Her wings are still quite impressive in my opinion.

Rating: 5/10 It’s nice but very one note in this concept image color wise

Now this Tooth is an interesting one. She ditched the bird theming all together and is more butterfly themed. She’s more humanoid here but something about this design just hits a sweet spot for me. It’s very simple but I can’t explain it. Also I’m weak for her head covering/hood(?)

Rating: 8/10 Ignore the very blue white haired Sasuke lookin guy in her arms

Excuse the very poor image quality here. I could only find it in this resolution so we gotta squint on this one. This one.. Call me weak but its one of my favorites. Her puffy pants make a return and they look like actual clothes! Her feather-cloak is a nice touch. I *think* this Tooth has hair if you look close but it’s hard to tell. It works in this design oddly works! Rating: 8/10 No complaints! Just that its so JPEGY AAAAA

Oh man Y’all I

Her energy itself is powerful. This Tooth feels older than the final design and has a very seasoned look to her. Call me a simp I DONT CARE. She’s such a queen here and I can’t get over it

She lives in my head rent free and I will never ask her to pay rent. I’ll PAY HER. If I was forced to pick a favorite Tooth, it’s this one. She has fantasy elements and traits that remind me of an Indian Queen.

Rating: 10/10 Y’all already know i simp for this one I dont need to put anything else here.

The final Tooth having gold feathers to imitate jewelry is just as good so I have no complaints about her. Her eyes are absolutely stunning

They sort of remind me of a mosaic with light shining on it or gemstones even. That and her eyelashes are so on point. I fuckin ADORE THEM. No lash glue needed those are all natural baby. Additionally, she’s very humming bird themed(which is excellent) but her wings actually look more like dragon fly wings

Curious since they are one of(if not the) fastest flying insect. It makes sense when you see how fast Tooth can zip around. It never occurred to me until dragonflies came around this season and I watched them closely. Overall I adore this version of her all the same.

Rating: Macabre Queen of Teeth/10

[seijorhi]

Hi, I saw ur post about requests closing soon so I figured I’d give ya another, but it’s okay if ya don’t get to it anytime soon since you have so many!! Can I request Yandere Suga and Daichi with a fem! darling who’s oblivious to them, and they both maintain the image of friends in front of others but they’re actually fighting each other for your love, but then you start dating someone else and they both team up? I 💕 your writing so much, I’m excited to see what you do 😌

Yes of course bby! Hope you like it 💕

Daichi Sawamura x female reader, Sugawara Koushi x female reader

TW implied non-con, slight nsfw, manipulation, abuse of power (kinda), minor violence, mentions of grief

Tug O’ War

You meet Daichi first, on the outskirts of Miyagi thanks to a blown tyre and a dead phone battery. It’s just after nine pm and you’re ready to resign yourself to abandoning your car and hiking the rest of the way when the police cruiser pulls up, and sitting behind the wheel is Officer Daichi. 

Sawamura, he tells you on the drive into town.

“So I take it you’re not from around here?” he asks, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

There’s a small smile adorning his face, but you know he’s just being polite, trying to break the somewhat awkward silence between the two of you. Truth be told you don’t mind the quiet. With his radio playing quietly in the background, you’re still trying to sort through your thoughts, prepare yourself for what’s waiting for you when you arrive. 

But that’s not his problem, and you don’t want to be rude, so you shake your head with a faint smile of your own. “I am actually… or I was, I guess. I moved away after high school.”

A lone eyebrow quirks, “Oh yeah? So what brings you back to Miyagi then? Family?”

Fingers twist in your lap.

“… Something like that.” 

Maybe it’s because of the nerves eating away at your stomach, or maybe it’s just been a while since you’ve been back, but the drive to your sister’s house feels like it takes longer than it should. Daichi makes easy conversation the whole drive, and by the time you pull up out front of your old childhood home you find yourself glad of the temporary reprieve. 

“Thank you. For the lift, I mean,” you tell him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he lifts your suitcase out of the trunk and passes it over to you. “I would have been up for one hell of a walk if you hadn’t come along.” 

He grins down at you, laughing not unkindly, “It is kind of my job, but you’re welcome. I could hardly leave you stranded, now could I?”

You open your mouth to reply, but before you can speak a word the front door of the house is thrown open and a tiny figure barrels out onto the front lawn. You have a split second to brace yourself before impact, tiny arms wrapping around your middle, “Auntie!!!” 

A bewildered Daichi watches as you smile (genuinely, perhaps for the first time that night), ruffling the boy’s hair. “Hey buddy, how’s my favourite little man?” 

Glancing up, you spy your sister standing in the open doorway and your smile fades a touch. Your nephew’s already excitedly chattering, blissfully oblivious to the situation - a minor miracle in and of itself - as he eagerly tugs you back up towards the house. 

It’s only when you’re halfway up the driveway that you remember Daichi.

A glance back over your shoulder confirms your suspicion - he’s still standing there, watching the odd display with a slightly confused expression, though to his credit he manages to quickly school his features back into something a touch more befitting an officer of the law when he realises he’s been caught.

“Thank you again, really. I appreciate it. You’re kinda my hero tonight.”

He nods, and it might be a trick of the dim light, but you swear you see his cheeks flush pink, “Anytime.”

Just as he promised, your car is picked up by a local towing company the very next morning before you’re even out of bed. The tyre is replaced without too much fuss, but when you go to pay, the mechanic simply shakes his head and tells you it’s all been taken care of.

You make a mental note to swing by the station and thank Daichi (again) in person.

***

It’s only fitting, you suppose, that you meet Suga a few days later. 

Thursday’s your sister works late, which leaves you to pick your nephew up from school. You’re thankful that they’re already aware of the situation, nobody questions why a veritable stranger is passing through the gates - at least, not after your nephew perks up at the sight of you, shouting your name as he hastily tries to shove his arms through his backpack. In his excitement he almost trips - would have tripped - if not for the silver haired man who catches him before he can stumble, setting him right with a shake of his head.

“Please slow down, Daisuke. You’ll hurt yourself,” he chastises gently. 

Your nephew pouts, and you can’t help but chuckle a little as he ducks his head in shame as you approach. “Hey bud, did you have a good day?”

Hazel eyes regard you curiously as your nephew clings to your legs, nodding before burying his face into your side. 

“You must be Y/N,” the man - Daisuke’s teacher you can only assume - says as he straightens up. 

Considering your nephew had all but screamed it across the courtyard, there’s not really a need to confirm it, but you nod anyway, accepting his hand when he offers it. 

He’s tall and handsome - though maybe handsome’s the wrong word. Pretty, maybe - his features are soft and delicate, with long eyelashes and eyes you could quite easily lose yourself in, truth be told.

“His mother told us you’d be coming by every now and then to pick him up. It’s nice to finally meet you, I’m Sugawara, Daisuke’s teacher.” He pauses, biting his lip for a moment before exhaling quietly. “I’m sorry, by the way, about…”

You’re quick to wave him off, ignoring the painful tug in your chest, “Please, it’s- I-I’m not… It’s fine.” 

It’s very much not. 

Even as you say the words your hand finds its way to Daisuke’s hair, stroking it gently as his grip tightens. You’ve never been good at dealing with grief, your own or anybody else’s, but you can’t stand the platitudes - even those with the best of intentions. 

Sugawara frowns faintly but he doesn’t push you and desperate to change the subject you force a smile on your face, “So, you’re the famous Suga I’ve heard so much about! He absolutely adores you, you know? You’re almost all he talks about at home.”

He laughs, and just like that you feel the tension in the air dissipate. “Oh, is that so? I guess I could say the same about you. I’ve heard nothing but ‘auntie Y/N’ all week.”

Your cheeks heat, and you gaze fondly down at the boy still clinging to your side. “He’s a good kid.”

Daisuke chooses that moment to pipe up, launching into a detailed recount of his day, much to your and Suga’s mutual amusement. 

And neither you nor Daisuke notice that while you’re engrossed in his retelling, Sugawara’s pretty hazel eyes are focused on you, a soft smile playing across his lips. 

Thursday afternoon pick ups quickly morph into Tuesday, Thursday and Friday afternoon pick ups as well as Monday morning drop offs, and you don’t mind one bit. For one, you know that your sister appreciates it more than she lets on and you would do anything to make this even the slightest bit easier for her, and it gives you a bit more time to spend with Daisuke, which you’ve missed more than you care to admit. 

Also because whenever you do stop by to pick him up, Suga - Koushi, as he keeps insisting you call him - makes it his personal mission to strike up a conversation, whether he’s out there supervising the kids or not.

He’s friendly and warm and has a surprising habit of making you laugh at the most unexpected things, and you can’t help but find yourself being reeled in by the silver haired man. It doesn’t hurt that Daisuke thinks he hangs the moon in the sky, but there’s just something about Suga that’s… easy.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t poke or pry. You still have a few friends in Miyagi, but the conversations inevitably end up circling back to what happened and how you’re holding up. You don’t blame them, you know they’re only worried about you, but it’s exhausting. Suga’s a breath of fresh air, and you hadn’t realised how desperate you were for a friend who didn’t know all the grizzly details.

Though being Daisuke’s teacher, he undoubtedly does.

But Suga seems content to pretend, until the day you arrive sniffling, eyes rimmed in red and unable to muster your usual smile.

That’s when the facade breaks, and he takes you back inside the classroom away from all the prying eyes of the other parents and lets you fall apart on his shoulder. You should be mortified, but you suppose that Suga’s probably uniquely equipped at dealing with emotional outbursts, considering he spends his days surrounded by six year olds.

“He was like my big brother,” you whisper after a while, your voice shattered and raw. “I miss him so much.”

He doesn’t say a word but his grip tightens and he hums quietly, and that’s enough.

***

A week after you get settled, you swing by the local police station with two coffees in hand and timidly ask the uniformed officer sitting at the front desk if Daichi’s around. The man looks at you, looks at the two drinks in your hands and grins a little too widely. 

“Good ol’ Daichi, eh?” he winks, “Yeah, he won’t be back for a while. Can I help you with anything, ma’am?”

Your cheeks burn. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering he’s a police officer and all, but it does and you feel like an absolute idiot. Of course you should have checked before coming, but even if you’d had the foresight to do that, it wasn’t like you had his number.

Thankfully the other officer takes pity on you after you explain why you’re actually there, promising to let Daichi know you stopped by, diligently taking down your number to pass along as well. 

True to his word, it’s hours later - well into the afternoon - when your phone lights up with a notification. Several, in fact.

Hey Y/N.

It’s Daichi.

Sawamura.

Srgt. Mokoto said you came to see me today?

Is everything okay??

The corner of your lips quirked up, and you get the sense that Mokoto had likely neglected to tell Daichi the real reason you’d dropped in, probably to make him sweat. 

Hey :)

Yeah everything’s fine.

I brought you coffee as a thank you for the other day! Which I maaay have drank myself when you weren’t there…

But let me make it up to you! I can drop by the station if you’re around on wednesday at all?

The reply comes quickly. 

Absolutely. 10:30 work?

You shoot back a quick reply confirming and toss your phone on the couch with a sigh. 

It buzzes again a moment later, but the text message waiting for you isn’t from Daichi.

So a little birdie tells me you’re back in town. 

***

“You know, you really didn’t have to bring me coffee. I meant what I said, it’s part of my job. My boss would have had my ass if I’d just left you stranded there like that.”

You glance over at him with a wry smile. “Yeah? And paying for my new tyre and the towing, is that part of your job too?”

Daichi’s cheeks flush pink and he almost chokes on his sip of coffee. “Ah.”

‘Ah’ indeed. “So considering I doubt you’re going to let me pay you back-”

He lifts a hand to stop you, shaking his head adamantly, “Not a chance. I know the guy who runs the garage, he owes me a favour. It was nothing, really-”

“Then coffee is the least I can do,” you say with an easy shrug. “But I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to keep you too long-”

Daichi’s hand - warm and rough - reaches out to close around your wrist, stopping you before you can stand.

“Stay,” he says, dark eyes glimmering.

***

You’ve forgotten, having spent the last few years living in the heart of Tokyo, just how small a town this really is. 

You’re standing out by the school gates watching Daisuke run around with his friends when Suga decides to broach the subject. 

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Hmm?” You glance up to find him watching you with that same fond if not mildly exasperated expression on his face. It’s not his fault, not really - you’ve just been a little out of it the past few days. 

Thankfully, Suga doesn’t hold it against you, chuckling. “Tomorrow night - are you free?” he repeats.

Your eyes widen a little, cheeks warming. “Um… well I kinda have a… thing earlier, but I should be free by then. Why?”

A silver eyebrow lifts. “A thing?” he prods.

“Just a thing. Why are you being so nosy all of a sudden?”

Suga laughs again, “Well if you’re not still tied up with your thing, I’m having some friends over for drinks for my birthday. You should come.”

Which is how you find yourself standing nervously out the front of Suga’s apartment, a bottle of wine in hand. 

When you knock, however, the person who opens the door is not the one you’re expecting. Tall, broad shouldered and handsome, out of uniform for the first time since you’d met him-

“D-Daichi?”

The brunette stares, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.

“I, uh… I’m- is Suga… Is Sugawara here?” you manage to stutter out, fighting the urge to fidget under his gaze.

His brows furrow, an odd look passing over his eyes, and for one awful moment you think you’ve somehow managed to screw up the address. But before you can embarrass yourself further, a familiar head of silver hair appears behind his shoulder, slapping him on the back.

Relief washes over you. “Suga! Happy birthday!” 

Pushing a still somewhat bewildered Daichi out of the way, Suga’s quick to wrap you up in a warm embrace - which takes you by surprise - with a grin. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Your eyes flicker back to Daichi for a split second, and Suga’s follow. He’s more observant than most give him credit for, but even the most oblivious would have a hard time not noticing the blank expression on the brunette’s face - or the way he was still staring at you. “You two… know each other?” he asks, ignoring the teasing and impatient shouts coming from inside the apartment.

Finally, Daichi snaps out of his stupor. “Yeah. We met the night she moved back into town.”

“Which is a polite way of saying that my car basically imploded and he saved me from having to hike all the way back to my sister’s,” you correct, and Daichi huffs in amusement, though he doesn’t disagree. “Suga teaches my nephew,” you tell him, answering the unspoken question written across his face. “I didn’t realise the two of you were friends, though!”

The two share a glance over your shoulder.

“Yep.”

“Small world, I guess.”

You laugh, passing Suga the bottle of wine, allowing Daichi to lead you inside with an innocent hand on your lower back.

There’s a decent few people squashed into Suga’s modest apartment, but somehow you manage to find yourself sitting around his coffee table, Daichi’s arm slung over the back of your seat, Suga sitting opposite you both, discussing - of all things - high school sports.

“Volleyball, huh?”

You can kind of see it. They’re both tall and in great shape - you’re pretty damn certain the muscles Daichi sports aren’t just for show - but it’s more than that. You tilt your head, chewing on your bottom lip. “What school did you say you played for?”

“Karasuno,” Suga says.

It takes a moment for it to click - though you blame that on the drink in your hand that Suga’s dutifully kept topped up - Karasuno… the flightless crows. Ah yes. 

A slow smile creeps across your face. 

“I saw you play once.”

Both men’s eyes widen, “You did?” Suga asks.

“Yep. The guy I was dating at the time, he played too.” You almost laugh when you glance up to find Daichi frowning at your side, an unexpected tightness in Suga’s usually easy going smile, “It’s okay,” you reassure them, ignoring the traitorous flutter in your stomach, “you guys won. It damn near broke his poor heart.” Not that he’d ever admitted as much out loud.

There’s a short silence, then-

“What team?” 

You do laugh at that, “Don’t you think you guys are a little past high school rivalries?”

The ex-captain and setter meet each other’s eyes. Neither speak a word, but something utterly indecipherable passes between them, and when Daichi finally breaks it to glance back at you, there’s a sharp grin plastered across his face.

“Nope.”

You shake your head, feeling like you’ve missed something. 

***

Hours later, fresh from a steamy shower, you stumble into bed and grab your phone from the nightstand. Sure enough, two unread messages are waiting for you.

You looked so damned pretty today. 

Are you gonna let me take you out to dinner now or am I gonna have to get on my hands and knees and beg?

You smile into your pillow, quickly typing out a reply.

I don’t know, you used to be pretty good on your knees.

Your phone lights up a moment later, a familiar ringtone playing out.

***

Life gets busy after that. 

Suga mentions that Daisuke is struggling in class, so you decide to join some of the other parents and volunteer as a ‘class helper’ one afternoon a week. Dai beams whenever you show up, and Suga seems eternally grateful for the extra set of hands - even if it’s just for craft time. 

And just when you think you’ve managed to patch one hole, another appears. Miyagi might be a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, it’s not immune to the low life creeps that used to hang around your old apartment block in the city - you’re mugged walking back from the store, a bag of groceries for dinner in arm. The guy only hits you once, a blow to the cheek that sends you sprawling to the ground, grabs your bag - the one with your phone and wallet - and runs. 

Your sister almost bursts into tears when she sees the cut on your lip, and it’s guilt more than anything else that swells through you when she spends the next twenty minutes berating you for not being careful enough.

You know she doesn’t mean it, you know she’s just scared. The promise falls from your lips before you can stop it, but it’s worth it you think, when her face relaxes and she pulls you into a tight hug.

But when you drop by the station the next morning, Daichi takes one look at you, and you watch in perfect slow motion as that warm smile freezes and falls. You expect the police report he makes you file, though you don’t really hold that much hope that they’re going to get your phone or wallet back, but not the words that come out of his mouth next.

“Self defence classes? Daichi, I...” you exhale with a huff, “don’t you think that’s a little excessive?”

The dark look in Daichi’s eyes as they flicker across your face tells you otherwise. “What if they had a knife, or a gun?” 

You would have just thrown your bag and run, you weren’t stupid - your purse wasn’t worth your life, but Daichi doesn’t want to hear a word of it. 

“What if your wallet wasn’t all he wanted?” he presses, and you stiffen at the implication. Gentle hands reach across the table to grab yours, the rough pad of his thumb brushing against the back of your palm, “Just you and me, two hours a week, that’s all I’m asking.”

… What now?

“You’re going to teach me?”

“You got somebody better in mind, sweetheart?” he asks with a cocked eyebrow and a wry grin.

It makes sense, you suppose - what with him being a police officer and all. 

And between your one on one sessions with him, volunteering at the school with Suga, making sure that Daisuke got to school on time, that the house was cleaned, there was food in the pantry and your sister wasn’t falling apart, you were running on fumes.

Yet when you come home exhausted and aching from Daichi’s place and catch sight of him, casually leaning against your doorway with a bag of takeout and that damned smirk you’d fallen head over heels in love with all those years ago, you can’t help but grin.

“Hey, baby. You hungry?”

Thank goodness for small mercies.

***

They’re more observant than you give them credit for.

Suga notices the way you gingerly stretch to put away the paint supplies one afternoon.

Daichi catches an eyeful of a bruise on your neck as he hovers over you - the makeup you’d used to hide it having rubbed off with the last manoeuvre.

Suga catches you checking your phone more often, smiling softly to yourself.

Where Daichi used to be able to coax you into staying back for a drink, you were quick to finish up and head home, claiming to be tired and hungry. You don’t take him up on his offer for dinner either. 

But the final nail in the coffin came in the form of a drawing.

“Dai, who’s that?” 

Suga’s crouched by his desk, gazing oddly at the picture your nephew had drawn. The task was simple - draw your family. Daisuke had dutifully done just that; him, his mom, you, and-

“Auntie’s new boyfriend.”

Suga’s eyes snap to yours and you curse your heart for skipping a beat. “I didn’t know you were dating anybody.”

***

Daichi’s fingers tap restlessly on the leather of the steering wheel. 

He was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago but when the call came in, he didn’t really have a choice but to answer it. She’d asked specifically for him after all, and even if she hadn’t, the Sergeant would have tossed the case his way regardless.

Mokoto knew how he felt about you.

Spending an hour and a half sitting in your living room while your sister sobbed wasn’t exactly how he’d planned on spending his afternoon, but he supposed it came with the territory. He knows how to do his job properly, though. Listening, asking the right questions, offering sympathy without promising results - it’s nothing he hasn’t had to do before. 

“Please Daichi, she- she’s all we have left, I… I can’t-”

It didn’t mean he wasn’t aching to leave with every second that passed. 

Of course, it wasn’t a complete waste of time. Through her tears, your sister did manage to give up the name of the guy you were fucking. 

A name he certainly recognised from way back in high school. He knows he’s going to enjoy pursuing that particular lead, but as he pulls his car into the driveway and switches the motor off, Daichi shoves the thought aside.

He has other, far more pressing matters to deal with.

His heart thrums like hummingbird’s as he walks up the pathway, nodding politely at his elderly neighbour as he passes. 

The sight that greets him inside his living room makes the wait worthwhile.

You, on your knees, stripped down to your pretty, lace underwear, arms cuffed behind your back and your plush lips wrapped around his best friend’s cock.

With his long fingers carefully carding through your hair, Suga coos at you between breathless moans, praising you for being such a good girl for him with every roll of his hips. You’re shaking, trembling as silvery tears spill down your cheeks and when he drops his wallet, phone and keys on the bench and kicks off his shoes, your wide, pleading eyes turn to greet him.

Daichi’s cock stirs in his pants, a rush of excitement and something much, much darker and more primal flooding his veins. 

Noticing that he no longer has your full attention, Suga’s eyes follow yours. “You’re late,” he says with a lazy smirk.

Loosening his tie, Daichi huffs out a laugh, “And I see you didn’t bother waiting.”

[smuggsy]

Remember this post about how Riddler dug up Elijah's body and we just... collectively chose to ignore it along with Oswald? 😂

Well. I un-ignored it. With a sad angsty fic.

(You can read it down here as well.) Word count: 2040. Tags: #emotional comfort #established relationship #hence: canon divergence #nightmares

Oswald's used to having nightmares. He's no stranger to sleepless nights, 5-am coffees have become a bit of a recurrent habit to make up for the drowsiness clouding his mind after a particularly difficult dream chimes in without permission and throws his sleeping schedule off — so much that he often finds himself power-napping through the day when Ed isn't around to tell him off for it.

Yes, he's almost grown too accustomed to Hugo Strange's voice narrating all sorts of gruesome scenarios that he ends up carrying out of his own volition, propelled forward by an unknown and invisible force deep inside. He never really sees the Doctor, but he hears him all the time, he's just there all the time. He tells Oswald what to do and Oswald does it without a pinch of remorse. Shoot him. Stab her. Blow them all to pieces, they deserve it.

It's the kind of hell he's used to. He's almost learnt to accept it's never going away. That it's a part of his psyche now, a part of him that will never really go away — because how do you fix a tattered mind? He wouldn't let anyone try, anyway. Not after Arkham.

This night is different. This night he's assaulted by a new kind of terror, almost perfectly calibrated and specially curated for him. Blossoming from the deepest part of his mind where he'd stocked it, never to be revisited.

And it's most cruel for one reason: when he wakes up with a startle he can't bear the thought of those arms wrapping around him and providing comfort like they've done so many times before. In fact, the first thing he does when he opens his eyes is untangle himself from Ed's sleeping embrace like it burns him.

Which means he's got no-one but himself to count on, again. No-one to hush him through the aftermath and speak softly in his ear and hum a long-dead melody until he calms down or, if he's lucky, falls back asleep.

"Oswald?"

He sits on the edge of the bed, hunched over to catch his breath, and feels Ed shifting position behind him. His partner's voice is clouded with sleep and Oswald can't bring himself to even turn around and reassure him — lie to him. He fears if he turns around he won't see Ed but Riddler. Not Ed's gentle eyes but Riddler's mocking glare. Not a warm comforting smile but a disdainful sneer.

His father, standing on the other side of the bed with a disappointed frown. My boy, how could you steep so low? Do you know where I am? Do you know where he left me?

When Ed's warm fingers brush over his right shoulder Oswald bolts upright with a whine.

"Osw—?"

And he runs to the bathroom and slams the door close behind him, feeling his one-piece nightgown sticking to his chest with sweat.

"Oswald, what's wrong?" Edward's voice is immediately on the other side, he tries turning the doorknob but Oswald is pinning it closed with his own weight, still unable to brush away the gut-wrenching feeling of betrayal that's so suddenly taken hold of him, "Oswald, get off the door."

It's a gentle request.

Oswald might have done it, perhaps, might have considered it, if he hadn't looked right into the mirror hanging on the opposite wall and seen Elijah's pale and sickness-stricken face. A dead man's face that makes him shiver.

He shall never have peace, so long as you're with him, Oswald thinks. Some other Oswald. Some other voice that sounds like his but isn't. Can't be.

"Oswald," Ed tries again, and this time he pushes against the door with more conviction, Oswald leans off and turns around to face him when he comes in, to keep him away, Riddler, he's still in there, he's— "oh dear," Ed coos, having one look at him and taking pity instantly. He takes a step forward and Oswald takes a step back.

"No!" he blurts out with a raspy voice. Edward stops dead in his tracks, lost expression for a moment before his shoulders relax again.

"It's okay, Oswald. It was just a nightmare," he adds, softly like so many times before.

"No, it isn't! It wasn't!" Oswald lashes out, hating that he looks at Ed's dishevelled face and concerned caramel eyes and wants him to just get away, his voice comes out just barely, "you did that to him! You— How could you?!"

Ed opens his mouth and doesn't move, clearly taken aback by the accusation even if he fails to comprehend, thrown off by the way Oswald looks at him, stands like that, like a wounded animal, like he might flee if Edward takes another step forward.

He still takes a step forward, though, because he never was really good with physical cues.

"Os, I don't understand wha—"

"Don't touch me!"

Oswald jerks away and hits the wall behind, still shivering despite his burning skin. Edward shows him his palms, a gesture of surrender.

"Okay. Okay, I'm not," he takes a steadying breath in, "I'm staying right here."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's not him, I swear! I didn't—"

"Oswald?"

"He's different now! He's not like that anymore!"

Oswald gestures towards Ed, clever, supportive, thoughtful, with his checked blue pyjamas and plaid shirt and lack of glasses and puffy eyes from sleep. Then he looks back at his father now standing by the door and projects the thought: Ed. Not Riddler!

But Elijah shakes his head and purses his lips, looking him up and down like he doesn't approve and Oswald just needs him to understand.

"It's not hiiiiim!"

"Oswald, this is starting to become very unsettling."

Edward looks around, to his right, there. To where Oswald's looking, to nothing. He knows that deranged gaze, he's seen it countless times before, he's stood in front of the mirror a lot of times and seen it on himself.

"Os, it's just those new painkillers making you groggy, okay? It's a much heavier dose than the one you're used to. Whatever you're seeing," Edward chances a slow step forward and Oswald finally turns his head back to him, with glassy eyes and tears on his eyelashes and still looking like he'll run away, "it's not there, Oswald. I am here."

Oswald stares at him for a few more silent moments with a lost expression, mouth open and still bracing himself with one hand on the cold tiles behind and the other on the sink.

"You're not... you're not him, I try to— I tell him you're not," he babbles, looking feverish and lost.

That's when the penny drops for Edward. It feels like a stab to the heart, that broken voice, the trembling hands, the quivering lips, the whole sight of an Oswald so distressed he won't even let him get close enough to soothe him.

"No," Ed says softly, his own voice failing him for a moment, shaking his head and taking yet another step closer, "no," he repeats breathless, "I'm not. Please. Come here."

He reaches an offering hand and Oswald slowly looks down as if weighing his options. As if making sure this isn't a trick — which, well. If he's thinking of Riddler, he can hardly be blamed for exercising caution, Ed admits. It hurts him to admit it. To know he's caused this, one way or another. Painkillers or not. This raw incoherent fear is coming from somewhere, however small the flame that ignited it might be, and he can't fix it because Oswald won't stop trembling like a leaf and recoiling.

"Oswald, please," he begs, voice finally breaking and eloquence escaping him, retrieving his outstretched hand and rubbing fingers over his burning eyelids because if he breaks down too... "please, it's me, Ed, just Ed."

He doesn't know what to do. He's on the verge of blurting out apologies when he opens his eyes to Oswald latching onto him with one of those desperate hugs. Ed wraps his arms around him instantly, a reflex, feeling like he's just come back to life.

"Go away," Oswald says, sobs with his face buried in the crook of his neck and starts crying. Edward tightens his hold and hides his own tears in the other man's raven locks, understands he's not the one being spoken to, "go, please. I won't leave him!"

Edward can barely understand the string of pleas when Oswald's clutching onto him so firmly his words come out muffled and nearly intelligible. Either way, he's not about to ask who's there — better not add salt to the wound. Not feed the horror, lest it become a recurrent thing. He needs him to understand this is a figment of his imagination if he's not aware already.

"Shhhh, it's all good," he keeps Oswald in place with an arm around his waist and brings the other one to gently pet his hair, "it's o-kay, Oswald. I'm here, it's just you and me."

Oswald nods against his chest but he can't seem to bring himself to stop crying. Edward rubs circles on his back.

"Just you and me," he repeats, striving for a soothing voice and feeling it waver ever so slightly.

They stay like that for a whole five minutes until Oswald finally leans back, sniffs and looks up with red eyes and a self-deprecating comment on his lips that Ed doesn't let him voice out.

"Come on, it's freezing out here."

Ed guides him back under the covers and tucks him in, Oswald watches his every move like an overcurious child. That cloudy expression is gone, though, and Ed can't help but let out a sigh of relief at having him back. He looks drained but sober.

Mostly sober.

His eyes still dart around with a nervous air but he doesn't seem to find his demon anywhere. When Ed climbs back up on the bed Oswald immediately shifts closer and hides his face in his shirt again.

"I'm sorry, that—"

"No-uh-uh," Ed cuts in, brushing a strand of hair off his green doe eyes and feeling an almost compulsive need to plant a kiss on the now-red tip of his nose, "say no more."

Oswald purses his lips and shuffles even closer, pressing his flush body so firmly against Ed's that they can't exactly see each other's faces anymore.

"Can you...?"

"Yes I can."

And that's that. He settles his chin on top of Oswald's head and starts humming; content to sidestep the issue just for now but unable to brush aside the sour taste of guilt filling almost every corner of his mind.

He starts rubbing circles on Oswald's back and doesn't stop the melody until he feels the other man's hold loosen up and his breath change into a normal and peaceful pace. Only then does Edward slowly extract himself from the embrace, far enough that he can look at Oswald's face.

Red and wet and troubled, still. He reaches over and soothes the lines on his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Os," he breathes out.

He's used to Oswald having nightmares. He wakes up all heaving breaths and uncertain hands latching onto anything that's near for comfort, for safety or reassurance. Ed is always there to provide either one, wrap his arms around his shaking form and listen to him if he wants to talk. Make him a cup of tea or play soft tunes on the piano if sleep doesn't return.

Oswald's always been needy like that.

Having him wake up and frantically keep himself away, recoil from his touch and excuse himself to a third party only he can see... that's a first.

And it's terrifying.

Because He made that happen. Because Oswald's grown to be too dependant and Ed's grown to be his anchor in moments like these and if he can't even be that... then what can he be? What's left for him to be, besides the clear instigator?

Ed closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, focusing on the sound of Oswald's breathing and on the touch of his cold feet and the smell of cherry-scented hair conditioner. He relishes in the familiarity of the hold and shakes the darker thoughts away.

Perhaps he's become a bit dependant himself.