#as those who know me can attest when I say ‘tender’ I mean this is the softest shit

[dainesanddaffodils]

Good day my friends on this Halloween I offer you all some tender wol/estinien smut

Post-EW, minor reference to Pandaemonium | Rated E | 2,985 words

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60209821

[wandagcre]

What do you think abt Sam (non g!p) has the first time with her gf and she cums first (and gets very embarrassed afterwards, cuz she didn't even need to be touched for that!)

first time | sam carpenter 🔞

(Sam Carpenter x Fem!Reader)

Sam never understood the clichés of firsts, until you – the only one that mattered.

WARNING: make out session, fingering, first time - set in Scream universe | 18+ men & minors dni. Words: 1.1k Note: the softest smut i have written yet ahh enjoy! <3

"Fuck," Sam gasped, breathless as you were. "You feel- it's blowing my mind..." she tilts her head and slips in her tongue.

A small smile escaped your lips, knowing how the woman couldn't compose her words properly at your intense make out sessions as this. you let her in, finding her eagerness adorable. The soft rubs of your thumb on her nape only reeled Sam further to your touch. She takes off your top and the hunger in her motion made you arch your neck.

You slow down a little and Sam is tad confused but it doesn't stop her. Her own lips chased yours as you pull away and it didn't faze Sam, who continued caressing her hands onto your bare torso.

You and Sam had barely left one another enough for your lips to become numbed with the well-known dance that has been going on for minutes now. Her eyelids fluttering as she's wrapped in a dazed sensation – the rustling of your limbs against each other and touching and seeing you – has left the entirety of Sam scorching hot.

"Baby, baby," you moan in muted tone. The pit of fire in Sam’s stomach continues to burn, although she finally looks at you in concern.

"Are you okay? we can stop anytime,"

The tenderness is palpable on her doe eyes. You can't resist but run a finger softly on those hooded eyelids.

"Funny how i was going to ask you the same thing. You beat me to it," you say with a crooked smile. Your hands loosely wrapped around her waist and somehow, Sam’s body reacted too enthusiastically, and it made her hips buck onto your front. "Someone's excited."

"I can't help it, you know that too well, querida..."

"And I can definitely attest to that." An inevitable grin breaks out of Sam’s pretty face. It's so easy with you. "I’m all in, baby."

"I am, too. all in. I love you," Sam murmured as if she was in a daydream, stroking your cheek.

Sam drinks the appearance that beholds her. Your skin so soft and delectable, that she failed to keep her hands off you. The creases in your face with your gentle smile. Your soul that welcomed her without a hint of prejudice; paired with your eyes that relayed nothing but acceptance and love.

How Sam got lucky with you is lost on her.

Sam pulled you in once again, the softness gritting into a deplore of conviction; wanting to express how much you mean to her – cheesily enough, you are her world now.

Unfortunately, it also meant she had grown ridiculously damp. a stretch of her lower limb would make it seep much worse. She feels the electric coursing through her veins, prickling soundly onto her sensitive areas. She feels bare and vulnerable in all forms, you didn't even have to touch her that much for her to come undone.

It was mind blowing how Sam haven't thirsted this much to her previous partners before. Even with your limbs intertwined and skins grazing upon another, it simply wasn't enough. Sam is constantly chasing for more.

"I want to have you first," you breathed softly on Sam’s ears to her surprise, making her temperature rise even more. "Please, let go for me, Sammy. I promise to take care of you."

You look at her with glossy eyes, filled with devotion. How can Sam ever say no to you?

She nods with no reluctance to your glee. Oh god, this is happening. Sam feels your fingertips along her abdomen, touch so incandescent, that it made her muscles contract, as it makes its way further down to your goal.

When the heel of your palm laid on her lower stomach, fingers stretching in to go underneath her underwear, Sam felt herself vividly ooze a palpable amount of wetness that made her heave out of breath – thigh muscles spasming that she can barely move.

She rasped a moan as she laid her forehead on your shoulder.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" your eyes went wide in concern.

She weakly laughed. "Yeah, yes. Shit i think– this is unreal. I just came. I surely just felt it," she retracts her hold around you to cover her face in embarrassment. "Now I feel ridiculous. that- that wasn't supposed to happen,"

You looked at Sam bewildered at the news she had dropped.

"Baby, no, no. look at me," you shook her by the shoulder gently and cradled her face. "That's nothing to be shy of. If anything, I’m happy to make something as sex not only pleasurable by means of aggressive throes of lust, but comfortably mind-blowing to you."

It took a while for your words to sink in for Sam. She bit her lip, nodding in agreement. Sam looks at you straight in the eye. All she saw was comfort. Safety. Love. All of which resounded strongly when it comes to you. Slowly, the feel of embarrassment ebb out of her system.

This wasn’t a quick fuck, nor a casual thing. You weren’t cheeky and condescending as the other men she had encountered.

Sam felt like she mattered for once – as though she wasn’t a meat or a conquest.

The thought wasn’t lost on you as Sam looked at you in wonder and it breaks your heart. You decide to grasp her hand and place gentle kisses on her knuckles. The same hands that have gone through unimaginable violence, yet it’s gentle and slightly trembling in your hold.

"Thank you, mi querida."

The kissing resumed as your fingers also continued making its way to the depths of Sam’s crevice. The pad of your fingers that she ushered for you to rub harder had sent her on the edge. The soft gasps of excitement and pleasure, Sam couldn't take it.

Every touch had her entirety reeling, as though you had her absolved all her sins. Nothing else mattered.

"Listen to me, you're doing great. You look... beautiful."

Albeit it came rarely, Sam was somewhat desensitized to praises. But yours were raw and innocent. Sam feels her heart thumping louder than ever.

"Always a charmer,"

From there, she cants her pelvis closer to you, rocking her hips to the newfound rhythm – riding your fingers. All Sam can think about was your name. She met your thrusts and each time, you never failed to give her praise. I love you, I love you, I love you -- you confess, akin to worshipping a deity. The open mouthed kisses on her sternum and chest that you spread all over her, has made Sam's head spin. You simply understood how vulnerable and hard it was for the woman to let go. Sam swore she felt heaven – it made her surrender all her strength completely under your touch. She has never known a safer place as yours.

Wet enough she was, and this time both of you couldn't hold back your smiles, complemented by neediness, as you make love for the first time.

do not repost/translate on other sites. © wandagcre

[qu-film-history-to-1968]

A Look at the Past: Soaring Dragons, Intense Battles, and One Gangly Viking (Rewritten)

As anyone who loves and studies film can attest, one of the most frequent and difficult questions I’m ever asked is “what’s your favorite movie?” For many, their favorite changes day-to-day. For others, they may love some obscure foreign film that will leave them sounding pretentious to the average person. For me? I have long gotten over the embarrassment of proclaiming that How to Train Your Dragon is my absolute favorite movie of all time.

I’ve adored this film since I was young. The bond between Toothless and Hiccup was heartwarming. The side characters, namely Ruffnut, Tuffnut, and Gobber never fail to make me laugh. And Astrid was the first female romantic lead I’d ever seen who was brave, confident, competent, ambitious, and just an overall badass. However, this movie wasn’t just my favorite movie. It was my favorite childhood movie. Memories can be very easily warped, and sure, I’d seen HTTYD semi-recently, but it had been a decent amount of time. I got into my head, and decided to delve into the past to try and surmise for myself if this film was still deserving of the title of “my favorite movie.”

Looking up reviews from 2010, when the movie first came out, I immediately came upon one from respected critic Roger Ebert. Suddenly, my fears were reality. He described How to Train Your Dragon as “more like a game born to inspire a movie,” and said it didn’t have much in the way of “character or story development.” Maybe my fond memories were pure nostalgia. After all, my memory of that time period is hazy at best. Looking at historic events, like news of the conflict in the Middle East, the U.S. Defense Department hiring killers to try and assassinate militants in Pakistan and Afghanistan, I have no recollection of these things that only occurred 13 years ago. I remembered some entertainment-based news, like the fact that Shrek Forever After had come out around the same time, but anything that may be in a history textbook? Nothing.

But then, I watched How to Train Your Dragon again.

This movie is a genuine masterpiece. The stakes feel high, the connections between characters are compelling, the film is littered with poignant symbolism and parallels, it’s cinematic, moving, well-constructed, and thoroughly entertaining. I’m definitely not the only one who feels this way, as shown by the fact that it has a 99% on Rotten Tomatoes, and as The Independent Critic wrote back in March of 2010, it uses its “surprising intelligence and tenderness” to teach “wonderful lessons about the healthy use of strength, friendship and…accepting those who are different than yourself.”

But I would be kidding myself if I thought that I felt that same way after watching this movie for the first time 13 years ago. I’m sure I just stared mindlessly at the screen, wowed by the magical world of Berk wishing I could have a dragon of my own. I think that’s what I really took away from this journey into the past. I could look back on my love of this film in 2010, and say that my opinion hasn’t changed. But that wouldn’t be accurate. There’s a frame of mind I was in during 2010 that I can’t replicate now, and I have knowledge and experience today that I didn’t have back then. I mean, maybe I did know about the conflict in the Middle East when I was 7, but I didn’t understand it. And that’s the whole point. It’s important to look back on memories, thoughts, and feelings of the past with a grain of salt, because not only can time completely change your perceptions, but the way you viewed the world around you 10 years ago is completely different from how you would view it now. It’s important to try and look at these situations with a fresh eye, rather than taking your snap judgment from a decade ago for granted.

- Haley Ruccio

Ebert, Roger. “How to Train Your Dragon Movie Review (2010): Roger Ebert.” How to Train Your Dragon movie review (2010) | Roger Ebert, 2010. https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/how-to-train-your-dragon-2010. 

“Historical Events in April 2010.” OnThisDay.com, April 2, 1970. https://www.onthisday.com/events/date/2010/april. 

[recitedemise]

Gale could exercise someone's death as easily as the winds may sway. All the same, with a similar absence of effort, he is capable of tenderness as gentle as a morning--and, perhaps, is a bulwark amidst a storm.

I am, beyond all question and doubt, here for you. You shall never doubt that. No. Carefully, Eivor's memories begin to flow. Dithering like a river and slow with old terror, they encroach on the cradle of the wizard's waiting thoughts. Gale shuts his eyes, breathes, and falls, falls, falls.

Gale lives it. He sees himself in Eivor's eyes, but a few scant feet taller than the sprawling grass beneath them. He feels young with life, spirit bright and honeyed in the bell of their laughter, sunshine ripe in the air with the smell of dessert. It feels so freeing. It feels so merry. And with one blink of his eyes, the smell of sugar fades to fire...and the birdsong to yowling. With the swinging of blades. Gale--Eivor peers now into the dark. Fire springs into the yawning penumbra, so scalding as to threaten him from yards away. He watches his home erupt in flames, crying women bolting with babes in their arms, and there lays mother and father bleeding before him. He feels his heart shatter, and then brother at her side. No. Turn back! We have to help them! But they can't. Then, there lays the woods. Then, there prowls a wolf. And as its teeth tear his throat brother fades away, his bones burst open, his mortal flesh fissuring. He wakes to the moonrise. And he's tied in chains.

The memories fade, rippling with the shiver of a wintry terror. Gale collects himself, wondering, before Eivor's voice returns.

He peers back over. They are older now. There throbs wisdom in their eyes, one that belies years of consistent hardship, and--ah--a vulnerability that comes with trust like theirs. Gale is not one to waste it. He places his hand down, there beside their own. "And there is no part of you that I would not like to know. Heavy as they may be, I will share in those burdens you've carried for so long alone. As I can attest, nothing feels so impossible when you've company to dare it with. Grand company at that."

With a beat of silence, the warmth off his hand bleeding into their own, Gale waits. He is there to hold to, anchor to, if they so need it. "That memory...something came to me as rather familiar: the smell of the arcane. Those fires were not started through traditional means. Whoever had wronged you was steeped in magic--and that's to say nothing of the curse you bear." What a shame. For Eivor, magic has only hurt. Gale breathes, his own orb throbbing. "This may surprise you, but I may understand the scars the Weave may leave. Though there is beauty, too. Those from that night...have you any recollection who they may be?"

His hands were capable of felling many enemies of theirs, and yet Gale had a calmness and steadiness to him. Someone the wolf-kissed felt safe with. It felt... Intimate in the way their worms wiggled to connect - oddly so, but they were glad such a memory didn't have to be recounted by their words alone. Showing felt much better, and with a small grimace on Eivor's face they finally allowed him to have access to those long buried memories. Start from the beginning, they feel - it'd explain it better. All of this started when they were just six years old - he would see them as a child walking around the long house trying to find their father, and all seemed to be pleasant - the smell of mead, treats, and food roasting on the fire - and within a quick second it all changed into a scene with fire and death. It was the night of their parents death, the way their heart sunk, the way their fury built and the blood that filled the air. The burning of buildings and the screams of their people until it all died down eerily. One of the bastards tried to capture them, but their brother swept them up in time on a horse and rode off into a clearing. They couldn't remember how it happened, but they were separated from their brother - all alone in the middle of the woods. Heart racing as they caught eyes with a wolf stalking in the distance - but it seemed much bigger than a normal wolf. It lunges and captures their throat in its maw - its large claw pinning their head down - digging into their skin - death seemed to have its grasp on them until a flock of ravens cut in and saved them. That was the night they had been marked by a wolf- a werewolf, and soon he would have to delve deeper with the help of their worm - 6 years after of turning into a beast. Having to be chained up and muzzled. The night of when one of their clan mates thought to be rid of the curse, but only seemed to make it worse and brought them near death the second time. It was then the clanmate had been banished, and their adopted father made sure that everyone remembered that night so that it may not happen again. After a moment they finally break the connection between their worms. Eivor did not like recounting those nights, but they trust Gale more than words, or even worms could express. ❝... It's not easy thinking about that night, but now you know.❞ The endless trauma they endured since after, and the claws and teeth of the wolf that gave them this condition they seemed to have no cure, and they did not wish to seek for one after. This was now a part of them - a part of them they couldn't take away.

[dairy-farmer]

ok we all know that tim is usually portrayed as hairless as a babe B U T have you consider tim with a nice dark trail of hair on his pussy?? Something like this: (WARNING +18)

https://69.media.tumblr.com/e619e8ba8e97f01b27ae15d6f659ef1a/tumblr_n1vvmsFp8m1rb8tmvo2_500.gif

And Bruce absolutely loves it because Tim's wet hairy pussy along with his wide hips and pretty little titties remind him that Tim is an adult already & 100% fertile

YOU GUYS SEND ME THE BEST STUFF!!!!!😍😍😍😍😍

(for anyone who can't highlight the link from the ask here you go)

YES YES YES! ABSOLUTELY1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! it's always been a kind of quiet headcanon of mine that bruce is a massive fan of some bush!!

why??

because he grew up in the 80s and that was IT when he was a teenager. every titty mag, every porno featured girls with nice dark bushes that really highlighted the cum dripping off of them. in the modern age no one really goes for that look anymore. at least not american women (talia can attest to that). but bruce isn't about to fly out of the country every time he wants pussy. so he deals with the Hollywood waxes everyone has because apparently the new thing that's in is being as bare and smooth as a 12-year-old girl and sure okay, bruce isn't about to complain about it. pussy is pussy after all and he's grateful to have it 🙏. BUT that doesn't mean he doesn't wish for a nice thick bush every once in a while. it makes pussy feel like opening a christmas presant. spreading open lips to reveal the deeply pink and sweet insides just waiting for bruce to tongue fuck.

tim not shaving is a pleasant surprise. for some reason bruce had assumed he'd be the same as everyone with a cunt. but of course not! tim had already proved to bruce how special he was hadn't he?

"it's weird being...bare," tim says wrinkling his nose slightly, "i like it like this it makes me feel...grittier, ya know?"

tim's a little weird about his pussy. for one, he doesn't call it a pussy. it's his cunt. he likes the word cunt more. it's 'dirtier' he says.

well bruce can get behind that. in fact he'll get behind anything if it means tim will let bruce bury his entire face into that sweetly dripping cunt that's practically oozing honey. bruce wants to grip those widened hips of tim, use them to pin tim down to the mattress so he can't squirm away when bruce laps up the length of that split cunt. bruce using the tip of his tongue to gently nudge tim's little clit that'll make him let out those gutted little gasps as he bends his knees and curls his toes on each side of bruce's head.

tim smells so sweet and ready when bruce crouches down between his legs, like peach picked off the branch. tim is propped up on his elbows to watch him, blue eyes staring into him as bruce inches closer, already on his stomach and curling his arms under tim's spread thighs. bruce's breathing is almost shaky as he presses out a shaky tongue and tastes the nice thickness of tim. it's so perfect bruce almost wants to break down in tears and make out with tim's pretty little cunt.

instead, bruce contents himself with eating to his hearts content. froth and eager saliva, like he's a dog salivating at a big juicy steak, fills bruce's mouth and smears onto tim's cunt. bruce uses both thumbs to part tim's lips and hold him open so his tongue can quickly dart into his hole and lick up to his clit where bruce swirls his tongue with every bit of tenderness he can. tim jolts under him. bruce feels his saliva and spit get spread around, watching through half-lidded eyes as strings of it stick to and break as bruce pulls away.

bruce almost moans at the sight, tim's cunt is so wet and trembling it's like bruce has already fucked the living daylights out of it. but that won't be for a while, bruce is going to take his time with this.

bruce presses his lips together to press a deep kiss to tim's clit, suckling on it and hiding a smile into the thick hair of his cunt as tim jolts under him and lets out a soft whine. bruce presses closer, burying his nose into the soft hair and nuzzling in until he's sure he's soaked his face from tip of his chin to tip of his nose.

bruce spreads his fingers over on tim's sweet stomach, stroking the trembling skin as he hummed and lapped at tim's honeyed cunt.

god. it was perfect.

so fucking perfect.

tim really was made for him.

[punkgrogg]

Doorway Duo pt.4

Pairing: Hybrid!Taehyung x Reader, Hybrid!Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Hybrid!BTS, Non idol AU, fluff

Warnings: Pregnancy

Summary: Y/n was abandoned by her long time boyfriend and moves back home to help prepare for the baby. She’s surprised to find two unfamiliar hybrids at her house.

Length: 2,884

Notes: Okay I got a new laptop :) and I started a new job so I've been a bit busy but I should have a new chapter out sometime next week

Date Posted: 9/13/2021

“Come on, we don’t have all night. Let’s talk this out, communication is key.” That only caused them to meander their way in, softly shutting the door behind them with an audible click in this silence. Jungkook settled in at the foot of my bed but Taehyung stood next to him, his form rigid. The room had a tense air about it, the two refusing to speak. “Okay, fine, You don’t want to start then I will. Taehyung, how long have you been scenting me without me knowing ?”

“We both have,” Jungkook interjected. His face was resigned into one that expected only the worst outcome.

Well, that didn’t answer my question. “How long?”

“The second week after I met you. I’ve been scenting you since then, Jungkook has only scented you since we ran into that asshole at the grocery store.” Tae spoke up finally but kept his eyes trained on the floor. 

That did make sense but I was confused why Hobi never noticed.“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew since Hoseok scents you constantly so after a few days I joined in and started to scent you too. I didn’t know you were oblivious until about a month ago when Hoseok noticed I was on you and you laughed him off. I realized I should probably talk to you about it since you’re dense when it comes to hybrids. But I didn't stop, I kept the pheromones low so I could keep you claimed in between then and now.”His body language was stiff, his eyes trained on the hardwood floors while he clenched his hands at his sides. He looked both defiant and scared, a combination that I would never have expected from the snow leopard.

The possessiveness that permeated the word ‘claimed’ ruffled a few of my feathers and I couldn’t help exclaiming: “You claimed me? What the fuck Tae?”

Taehyung finally looked up, his eyes much softer than I expected, he reached out for me and gently held my hand. “No, it's not what you think. It helps me know you’re okay. I knew something was wrong earlier because the pheromones soured all of a sudden so I ran down to you. Jungkook can attest! With both of our scents entwined with yours, it's easy to know when you’re not okay.”

“It’s why I noticed your pheromones changed with the babies.” Jungkook chimed in once again, he was letting Taehung do all the talking, typical Kookie.

I pulled my hands away to rub my forehead, frustrated a bit at how it just wasn’t clicking for me. A lot of useful information that means jack-shit to me when beating around the bush. “But what does this all mean? You mentioned pack earlier, what does that mean?”

“Well, a pack is a group of individuals who care for each other. It was more common among our grandparents but hybrids our age are bringing the idea back since the laws are changing for us to have more freedoms. By the time the babies are born, I think we’ll be fully independent and we were going to wait until then to tell you about our pack.” Jungkook explained, his hands knotting together under the stress of explaining it to me. I appreciated that he was trying and I knew somehow he was only speaking because of how stressed I looked.

I nodded, that could make sense. “So, we’re all in a pack? Then why did Hobi look so angry when you said that?”

“No, just You, Kook, and I. We are a pack, we claimed you together.” Taehyung finally sat down on the bed with us, his body coiling on the edge as if he was prepared to run at any second.

“Claiming you means we love you Y/n. We want every other hybrid to know that you are loved by us both- so we scent you. It took me a while to do it too but it’s this burning itch under my skin that won't go away until I can smell myself on you. Like Tae said before, when we scent you it helps us keep track of your pheromones so we’re more attuned to if something happens to you.” Jungkook stared deeply into my eyes, his sincere expression willed me to finally understand what they were saying.

Only one thing caught my attention. “It hurts you when you don’t scent me?”

“It drives me crazy, I hate when you don’t smell like me, it’s all I can think about,” Tae explained, his face contrite as he once again reached for my wrist. I let him this time and he lightly rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb. Something he’s done a million times but this felt different.

I swallowed hard at the other major point in Kook’s explanation. “And you think you love me?”

Tae scoffed at that. “We don’t think, We know. You don’t have to love us back but you should at least know how we feel before you send us off.”

“Who said you’re being sent off? So what I reek of you two? It’s not hurting me but we’ll have to set some boundaries if you guys are going to keep doing this.” Both men perked up at that, both coming in closer as if we were huddling on my queen-sized mattress. The change in their moods was soothing to the tension that has bubbled up in my chest. ”First of all, we’ll have to talk about this loving me thing. Then we’ll have to figure out what's going to happen when the shelter is fixed because I'm not too sure when the government is going to get its shit together. Then  we’ll have to discuss this whole pack thing a little more- why can’t hobi be a part of it?”

“Whatever you want. We’ll do whatever, but can I scent you now? Since you know, I can do it now  right?” I’ve never seen Taehyung so excited, his eyes animated like he was a kid at Christmas. He leaned forward while bracing himself lightly against my shoulders while I nodded apprehensively. “I can do it fully right? No light scents?

At my second nod, Jungkook appeared to my left as he too broached my bubble. “Dammit Tae, you’re stinking up the whole room.”

Jungkook took to rubbing his head and neck against my own while Taehyung was butting me with his head seemingly everywhere- my shoulder, forehead, and a hand held my own close to his chest. Tae dragged his forehead from the right side of my neck down my shoulder and arm to my inner wrist. Once there he delicately kissed my pulse point. Jungkook had my right side occupied, pinning me into place, his shoulders crowding most of my frame. Our necks were pressed firmly together as he started to run his lips along the skin behind my ear before firmly pressing a kiss there.

The feeling of Jungkook kissing behind my ear made me shiver at the sudden affection. Taehyung groaned. “She smells so good now, smell her Kookie, she smells like us both. Like she’s finally part of our pack.”

Jungkook merely grunted in response as he pressed his face into my shoulder while taking in a deep breath. Tae reversed his process and traced his way back up to my neck where he decided to rest his head against my clavicle. I took a steadying breath to calm the tingles erupting across my body.

“Okay, that’s what you guys have been holding back? I’m alright with this happening more regularly, but not in front of others since Joonie looked so offended and  I assume it’s a more private thing.” They finally pulled away after what seemed like forever and I could feel the raging blush covering both my cheeks as I tried to calm down at the intimacy. “ Now, onto the love part.”

“I don’t have much else to say, it’s a simple fact for me.” Jungkook shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. He stayed glued to my right side and pulled my arm into his embrace as he played with my fingers idly.

“It’s been three months, you barely know me.” playing with my hand was distracting and there was barely any strength in my argument. It was nice to feel loved but I felt somewhat guilty over this- they deserved much more than I could give them.

“You were meant for us both but if you want us to wait then I’ll hold off on saying it until you’re ready to hear it.” Taehyung raised on his knees and kissed my forehead gingerly.

“You guys can’t be serious.” I shook my head at them both but a quick look at them both showed they had earnest expressions. “Guys what about the shel-”

“Adopt us, as tough as it is right now they’ll allow it especially because you’re living with certified fosters. Then we can’t be separated.” Taehyung spoke matter-of-factly, he reached out and traced lazy patterns on my knee while I stared at him in disbelief.

“I’m not going to adopt you if you guys want to be with me, it’d be a weird dynamic if we went to the doctors and I’d have to sign as your owner .” The thought of them being my property made an acrid taste form in the back of my throat.

“But that’s exactly why you should, we know you’d never see us as lesser and we’ll take good care of not only you but the babies as well.” Jungkook reasoned as he rubbed his cheek against the palm of my hand that he stole.

Another wave of guilty unease at this evolving relationship hit. I was okay with the affection and care that they’ve been supplying but was I okay with the relationship? Those cuddle sessions and tender moments that we’ve had so far now felt much more real and intimate than before. How had I convinced myself that it was platonic? “That’s another reason you guys should reconsider this whole ordeal, it’d be easier for me than you two. Do you want to commit to babies that aren’t even yours.”

A low growl sounded from Kookie’s chest- something I had never heard before. He usually kept his more animalistic traits under a tight leash. He sat up abruptly and reached for my face to make sure my eyes were trained on him while he spoke with a soft gruffness. “They are ours, don’t you even think about saying that again. We are the ones who’ve been supporting you throughout this pregnancy- not that asshole from the store. We tell them stories at night and bring you the food you’re craving. Hell, I rub your feet because of the swelling every time your feet are near me, and Taehyung rubs out the knots in your back when you’ve stood too long. We’ve been here for you the whole time and I know I love them as my babies. I am their dad, more than he would ever be.”

“I guess if you’re dad then I’ll be papa. It has a nice ring to it.” Tae butted in with a smile as Jungkook released me. His smile was so warm it ebbed away any lingering dregs of guilt.

“You guys can’t be serious,” I repeated once again but they were unaffected by whatever I had thrown at them. They were serious.

“Y/n, I’ve been planning this out since I’ve met you, it was love at first sight.” Tae took to holding my face this time, his hands were warm as he stroked my cheek lightly. The love was tangible in how he stared down at me, something I couldn’t ignore any longer.

“Okay, I get it, but what does this mean for us now?” I could hear the fearful hesitation in my voice.

“Nothing has to change sweetheart. We can act just how we always have and the only difference is that you know we love you.” Jungkook nodded along to the ashy-haired man’s assurances.

“Would you be happy with that though? To pretend that nothing has changed even though something has.” My heated tone kept them silent as I collected my thoughts. “Since you’ve claimed me- does that mean you see me as your girlfriend?”

“Well, to be honest, it’s a bit more than that. Girlfriend is a bit fleeting. It's more like you are ours and we are yours- for forever ideally but we don’t want to force that onto you.” Taehyung smiled bashfully as he stuttered through the clarification.

“If it’s more than a girlfriend- do you mean you see me as your wife?” Wow, with just a question I think I broke Taehyung. While he looked like he was blue-screening, Jungkook tried to hide a chuckle.

“For the sake of Taehyung’s face let’s just leave it as girlfriend for now. We can expand on that more later.” Jungkook explained, his smile evident through his words.

“So I'm a girlfriend to both of you and you guys are my boyfriends?” they nodded eagerly at my questioning tone. “Are you also each other’s boyfriends?”

“Uh, while Jungkook is gorgeous, that’s a no. we’re each other's packmates and there is a certain level of love and trust that goes into it but in the end, it's just enough for us to trust each other with you. If that makes sense?” Taehyung trailed off, his face twisted into one of confusion at the word vomit he just spewed.

“I think what Taehyung is trying to say is that we aren’t dating each other. Not that it is impossible for packmates to also get romantically involved with each other - we just haven’t.  we’d prefer to share your love and protect each other.” Jungkook tried to salvage the half-baked clarification.

“I am not protecting you Kookie, you are the one with a police background- you’re supposed to protect me while I protect her.” Taehyung suddenly pointed out.

“First of all, how rude. You’re my Packmate, you’re supposed to protect me too asshole.`` Jungkook playfully glared and by the twitching around his chin, I could tell he was fighting back a smile.

“I can’t protect someone who doesn’t need protecting. You are a one-man army, especially when it comes to the pack.”

Jungkook smiled at that and retorted with a: “You tried to fight Hoseok when he tried to separate our rooms at the shelter.”

“He was putting you with that bitch that growled at you when you first joined the group. How else was I supposed to react?” Taehyung had a beautiful blush rush across his face. He was so affectionate usually; so why was he arguing that he wouldn’t protect him?

“He was moving me because you complained about sharing a room with me for two weeks straight.'' Jungkook's exasperation was tangible; maybe they have this argument often?

“You get up before the sun to work out. How else was I supposed to get my beauty rest?” Tae’s argument was a paper-thin excuse. He was absolutely glowing red with his growing blush.

“Admit it in the end, you protect me just as much as I protect you.” Jungkook smiled at him with no mirth, he was done teasing him about it I guess.

That didn’t stop the flat-out refusal of: “I do not.”

“Y/n, wouldn’t you say Taehyung is just as protective of me as I am of him?” asked as he kissed the back of my hand, drawing all my attention to him.

“Tae, honey, you make his plate every night at dinner.” I sheepishly pointed out, a little unsure of how I'd place in this so-called argument. It was more flirting than anything if I was being asked but I guess I'm not the best person to ask since I did not comprehend them coming onto me in the first place.

Pseudo-shock flashed across his face at my statement.“That's because this idiot will only eat carbs and meat if we let him! I make your plate too.”

“That’s only proving my point. You are protective over your packmates.” Jungkook pushed at his shoulder playfully. A way they only ever acted when it was just us three, damn, maybe I should have noticed it sooner. There were definite lines drawn early on when it came to how our dynamic worked and they often showed me sides of themselves that my parents or brothers had never seen.

“That’s it, I'm going downstairs and giving myself over to Namjoon. His torture would be a mercy compared to this.” The drama queen stalked his way to my door and opened it with a flourish while Kookie and I both giggled.

“Tae are you not going to tell the baby a bedtime story?” My question stopped him in his tracks. He froze for just a second before gently swinging the door shut and marching his way back over to the bed with a smile that eclipsed the rest of his face.

“Babies. And of course, I am, tonight we’ll tell them the story of Hansel and Gretel.” He climbed back onto the bed and sprawled across the bottom of the bed and my extended legs. He settled in with his head resting slightly on my left hip before starting on his fairytale. Jungkook was curled up on my right side, still holding my hand captive, and he traced swirls across my forearm with a content smile. There was a warmth in my chest that I had been ignoring for a while, a warmth they only seemed to bring out and I realized I would be devastated if this warmth was to ever disappear.

Sorry, I forgot about my taglist last chapter! here's it as of right now and if you want to be added or taken off let me know!

@jelly-fishy-babie @nomimits7 @littlewolfieposts @fangirl125reader @xeirisarax @ghostkat23 @gayitachiuchiha @forever1313 @nellaphine @kooky-mysterious @rainbow-realm @xanny91 @demonslover @inumorph @uraveragefangirlsposts@alex--awesome--22 @akacamiworld @fangirling-all-the-way-tbh

[thisnoodlewritesao3]

The Girl With Stars In Her Eyes | Sawamura Daichi/Reader

Characters: Sawamura Daichi, Reader (Angel), Sugawara Koushi mentioned, Previous!Reader (Moonlight)

Pairings: Sawamura Daichi/Reader

Warnings: Angst, cheating, swearing

Word count: 4768

Summary: Falling in love was easy. Staying in love was harder. Falling out of love could be devastating or relieving. But with Daichi, everything is easy. Everything.

A/N: Make sure to check out part one of the series here and let me know what you think because oh boy did I hurt people. I’d also like to thank @pies-writes-and-more and @satan-ruler-of-hells for being my Beta-Readers

Previous | Series Masterlist | Next

----

Falling in love is always the easiest part; staying in love takes more work, but the end result is what makes it all worth it; falling out of love can be so difficult and devastating all at once - or it could be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

You met Daichi halfway through your first year in college. He, quite literally, fell for you - well, on top of you, but they were semantics. With the wind knocked from your lungs and a vicious aching in the back of your head, you force yourself to stand up, “I am so sorry, are you okay? Do you have a concussion?” He asked fretting over you, reaching a gentle hand around to the back of your head, looking for any signs of injury.

That was an issue, because you didn’t even know the symptoms of a concussion, and now you might have one? If God could have mercy on you, then that would be highly appreciated. “I think I’m fine.” You moan, rubbing the bump that has already formed.

“I can take you to the doctor’s, just in case.” That would be the smart move, but you didn’t know who he was. Hadn’t ever seen him before, certainly hadn’t heard of him, so you were not about to follow him to some unknown location - even if he did radiate such kindness and authority. You think that he’d probably make a good police officer. Maybe he was.

“I’m good. Mostly.” You laugh and hold out an arm to steady yourself. “Besides, how bad can a concussion really be?” He almost looked shocked, so you could only assume that a concussion could be really bad. “Okay, okay, I’ll go to the doctor. Although at this rate, it’ll probably be because my lungs hurt.” You rub your chest, trying to soothe the pain in your lungs.

“I guess you could say,” he flashed a winning smile and chuckled, “I really took your breath away.” You laugh, ignoring your pain.

“Oh wow- that was… sad?” He chuckles again - how could a chuckle sound so sweet, like his voice was dipped in honey. “But I guess you did.” Of course, you meant it literally, but he clearly thought you were flirting back with him, because he smirked.

“And I fell for you harder than I’ve ever fallen for anyone,” his smirk grew wide when heat rose to your cheeks.

“I can attest to that, I mean, how are you so heavy?” You tease, momentarily forgetting the amount of pain you were actually in.

“I’m not heavy,” he pouts, though it’s obvious that he would definitely be heavy compared to you, “I just used to play volleyball in high school.” He shrugs and you roll your eyes.

Daichi leaves little room to escape in your conversation - not that you’re complaining, he’s definitely attractive and charming - the way he talked about volleyball with such a passion in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. And you knew the feeling, you loved watching it with your dad so many years ago - one of the few happy memories you have with him. For a while you thought that it would bring a bitter taste into your mouth to hear about it again, but it didn’t. You were glad.

----

Falling in love with Daichi was the easiest part. Almost too easy.

He wore his heart on his sleeve, even when you told him how dangerous that really was; there didn’t seem to be anything he couldn’t do. That wasn’t exactly true, even though he had won your heart, you refused to date a man you barely knew. Especially not one so especially charming as Daichi.

Still he’d always ask at the end of every month, “I already fell for you, if you fall too, I’ll be sure to catch you,” with the laziest wink. Like he knew exactly what was going on in your heart.

And yet the closer you got to Daichi, the further away he seemed. He had friends back home, an hour away, and, at first, he’d call them once a day. Then it slipped into every few days. Then once a week. There’s a tenderness in his voice that you can’t quite place. Something that made you question him ever so slowly. But - at this point - you were just his friend. Who were you to question how he talked to his friends?

One day, you asked if he had any exes, a tension filled the air and he looked away from you out of the window, “I guess one girl,” he shrugged, but you knew there was more than what he was telling you. You could feel it, “not much to say about her, but the first thing I noticed about her was how she reminded me of the moon. She reflects the warmth you give to her, but all in all, nothing too special.” Empty. That was how he spoke of this girl. Like there weren’t any real emotions with how he felt about her. There’s something in his eyes that changed and he frowned. “She made friends a little too easily, if you know what I mean.” Your stomach dropped at the suggestion, she hadn’t cheated on him, had she? “But you,” he turned around, smiling softly, “it’s like you have stars in your eyes.”

You laugh and roll your eyes at him - as if you hadn’t heard that a thousand times already. It was true. People called you hopeful, filled with life and joy. You hated it. So much.

Like they were taunting you somehow.

You could never seem to explain it, the distaste you had for something so seemingly sweet.

Maybe he knew how you felt when your face twisted, because he reached out and grabbed your hand so softly, rubbing his thumb along the back of it. There was that tenderness again.

You’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat.

----

After six months of non-stop pursuing you, Daichi asks to take you on a date, and you finally agree, because you really love him so much.

And Daichi doesn’t disappoint.

He whisks you off around the city to each and every little location you held near and dear to your heart, paying for everything without any hesitation, because, “an angel like you should never have to pay for a thing.” You can’t help but hesitate.

“You must have been quite the player,” you tease, hand over your heart, feigning protection, “am I going to need to prepare myself for a heartbreak?” Something in his eyes twist - maybe guilt or shame - but you don’t have a chance to really see what it means before he squeezes them shut and smiles brightly.

“The only thing I play is volleyball.” And with that, all your worries are silenced. You find something so comforting about his company on late nights when you’re both completing so much work that it’s overwhelming. He always knows exactly the right way to relieve your stress.

Your friend's remarks about the marks that littered your body meant nothing to you, not when you found yourself in his arms later that evening, dancing under the pale moonlight. His hands running through your hair, over your body, lips on yours with such a passion and love that you’re afraid you might melt.

Daichi truly is perfect in every single way. Maybe he doesn’t see it, there’s always those underlying insecurities in everything that he does, especially when he asks whether you trust him.

You try to ask him about why he’s so worried about that, and he reminds you about the girl of the moon - the one who made friends just a little too easily. You listen as he talks about her, how she befriended his best friend just a little too quickly, how she was ignorant to what he could see, the way she’d confide in the other boy with such ease. He talked about how he’d always known their future wouldn’t be together. Not now, at least. Still, even with all the ways he described what she’d done, the way she treated him (because you don’t even need to hear the details to know that this girl had cheated on him), he still speaks about her with such a tenderness in his eyes.

So you ask more. “What was she like before?” His face twists, lost in the thought, seeking the words to describe her.

“She was just a normal girl.” He shrugged before ending the conversation quickly.

You couldn’t help but think there was something he wasn’t telling you, but you weren’t going to push him because everybody has their secrets. Even you have your own.

----

From that day forward, you could only look at the moon with a bitterness in your mouth; how silly is it to think you can despise somebody you’d never met before. Even with that bitterness, you keep seeking out the sweetness, because a girl who reminds you of the moon surely can’t be all that bad.

Yet Daichi refuses to give you more than he already had. There was something off in the way he acted, but each backtrack was covered expertly with his whispers of sweet nothings and, before you know it, he’s whisking you off your feet all over again.

Some nights you wonder whether he still speaks to the girl of the moon; with the way he spoke about her, you couldn’t assume so. If he could still talk about her so tenderly, then there had to be more about her. You wanted to know about her life beyond what Daichi had told you. Although it didn’t seem like it would do any good, so you didn’t bother trying to look for her. You walked along a path beside him, leaving stones unturned.

Other days, Daichi would ask about your childhood. And you’d tell him the truth because there was no point in trying to avoid it, “my parents would cheat on each other for revenge.” You put it plain and simple, venom soaked words seemed to be never-ending, “you’d think that at some point they’d realise that I could still hear them fight, but they didn’t.” Thinking about it hurts, but he deserves to know, because you love him. “I spent a long time watching my mom become a husk of herself. I fucking hate people who cheat. There isn't even any point to it.”

Your shaking, you didn’t realise it until just now, but the anger was bubbling over so much that you physically couldn’t contain it. Tears in your eyes burn so much and now you can’t even see clearly.

This feeling of weakness used to fill you so much, and you hated how it had been the one thing to stick around - that and the twisted idea you had stars in your eyes. You felt about ready to break down until Daichi rested his hand on your back, leaning his head down onto your shoulder; you couldn’t see the look on his face, but you were sure it was one of pity.

----

It didn’t take much longer after that before more of your things were at Daichi’s dorm rather than at your own. That was only because you had a roommate, and he didn’t, so it made more sense for you to be there.

Little pieces of you were integrated around, like his place was made for you. Your favourite candles were lit around - the smell of black cherry filled the air and made it feel like home. You were far too used to leaving textbooks and notes at his that when you were at yours, you had no choice but to do nothing all day.

There are still so many things you learn about Daichi every day; the one that surprises you the most is his brief era in watching anime. How he could now name all the characters on a random show a friend had made him watch, and that he was still watching Attack on Titan because he just wants to know what happens, he doesn’t really like it.

You were so close to Daichi, so much that you hated the few times he went to visit friends and family back home - he said that you should wait to meet his family and friends, and while you find it strange, he assures you that he’s told them all about you.

When he visits for his moms birthday, you consider sneaking with him, but decide against it. Because you love Daichi, and you will respect him. You’ll meet his family when he’s ready. That’s what you told yourself.

That’s what you had to keep telling yourself.

That day he came back with a new shirt - said his friend had insisted that he take it because he’d bought it specifically for him. He told you, “but it would look so much better on you.” And you can’t help the rush of excitement as he basically strips you right there. His hands and mouth are on you. Your mind is filled with only thoughts of him.

----

Of course nice things can never last. For all the good things, there are an equal amount of bad things. You just didn’t think one would come so soon.

You’re curled up by his side, trailing your hands over his chest. Over the little marks that you had left. Because Daichi was yours, yours and nobody else’s. For a second, you’re ready to sleep right here; you let out a soft sigh as a knock echoed throughout the dorm.

Standing up and sauntering over, you watch him as he starts to slowly get clothes on. It’s a shame, really, because he is absolutely gorgeous. Your hand hovers over the handle a minute, debating whether or not to actually open the door. But you are an angel, after all, so you open it.

In front of you stands a woman, a smile so wide and reflective that it makes you want to smile, too. She looks maybe a little older than her age, slightly tired. You note the way she’s breathing just a little too quickly. Like she’s nervous. But what exactly did she have to be nervous for? Had she gotten the wrong dorm? That seemed like the only reasonable answer. Her eyes flutter open and she opens her mouth to speak, but something makes her stop. Inside her eyes, you watch the light die and shatter.

Her eyes trail over you, taking in every little detail. It’s like she’s faced the ultimate betrayal and you aren’t sure why. She was the one who’d come to Daichi’s dorm, did she not know that the two of you were dating? For a second - a second you regret immediately - you think that Daichi might have cheated on you. The thought makes your blood boil but you brush it off, because Daichi isn’t like that. Daichi would never do anything like that.

But why does she look so destroyed?

Like her entire world was crumbling around her?

She raised a shaking hand up to her mouth - you know Daichi would never cheat, so why is your heart racing so fast? Why do you recognise the look inside of this girl's eyes?

Your grip on the door tightens as she squeezes her eyes shut - like she just can’t believe what she’s seen. But what has she seen? Sure, she’d seen you, but that was a completely normal sight around campus. Maybe she just didn’t know. Maybe she came here to confess her undying love for him? That wouldn’t have surprised you.

She meets your eyes. You can see the tears brimming but refusing to fall. Why? So many questions and not enough answers. You glance back into the dorm, taking in Daichi now wearing pants. He calls out, “who is it, angel?”

In the corner of your eye, you watch her lift her other hand to her heart before pulling it away slightly, glancing down. What was she expecting to see?

You keep your eyes focused on Daichi’s face as he stands behind you in the door frame, a hand snaking around your waist before he turns to look at the girl. Something happens. Something that you couldn’t understand. Not until his face falls entirely too quickly and something in his eyes breaks. You look back at the girl as she shakes, the saddest little smile upturning her lips, “surprise…” her attempt at a sing-song tone shatters your heart.

He calls out her name, speaking far too quickly, “sh-shit, okay. Look. I can- I can explain. Okay? Just… come inside.” He’s stuttering and fumbling as he grabs onto her wrist. A hope fills her eyes and she allows herself to be pulled inside.

----

You didn't need to be a genius to put the pieces together. If this had been a story, they were the main characters. You sit on the couch while Daichi pours some water into a mug for her. There’s something in this story that you can’t work out, and that’s where you come into play. The girl so obviously wants to do anything but be sat here, so what did Daichi need to explain to her?

“How’re the boys?” He asks, passing her the mug, you quirk a brow. He barely even glances at you as he sits down, the space between you kept growing wider. She just nods slowly, like she’s in a daze. “What about Suga? Or even the first years, do they still come-”

“Just get it over with, Daichi.” Her voice was void of any emotion as she looked up at him.

She hadn’t even cried. If she was really hurt, wouldn’t she be crying? Everything about her seemed so vacant, like she was shrouded in complete darkness.

“Right.” He clears his throat, clasping his hands together as he searches for the right words. Silence with Daichi had always been comfortable before, but this had such a tension in it that it was hard to breathe. “I just- I was alone. You left me alone… I thought you hated me. I-I… I made a mistake,” he glances at you and your heart breaks all over again. Was that all you were to him? “I didn’t think it would be a big deal.” He laughs nervously. “Y-You always had Suga. I just needed someone.” The girls grip tightens on the mug, knuckles turning white.

As you listen to him explain, you finally understand what part you play and it makes you sick. Because Daichi hadn’t just cheated on you - worse than that - he had used you to cheat on someone else. You wanted to be sick. Guilt and shame radiated off of you and you just knew she could see that.

At some point during his rambling, she looks at you again. There’s a small spark in her eyes as she speaks, “nice shirt.” You look down, of course it was nice, it was Daichi’s. But now it just makes you want to tear it apart.

“Thank you,” you mutter, “it’s Daichi’s.”

“I know.” There’s a worrying confidence in her voice as she turns to glare at him. “I bought it.”

Another twisting in your stomach and you watch him sink in on himself. How hasn’t he apologised already? He is destroying two worlds at once and he isn’t even sorry; sure, he’s coming up with excuses, but he’s just trying to defend himself.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I-I… I thought maybe if we kept trying, then maybe we could-” she cuts him off, placing the mug onto the coffee table. She hadn’t even drank it, just stared at her own reflection like it was a curse and you knew exactly what was happening in her mind. Why wasn’t I enough? She cringes at the sight of your textbooks, your candles, everything.

“I think what you mean,” she sits up straighter and faces him directly, “is that you didn’t mean for me to find out.” You watch Daichi open his mouth and you just know it’s true. What was his plan when he dared to speak to you? To pursue you? He knew he had a girlfriend and he hunted you anyway. She lets out a breath - almost sounding more like a laugh - as she claps her hands together, “well, when you told me to go out and live my life, I never thought this is what it would be like.” She seems to know the right words to say to hurt him. How long had they been together?

Something about Daichi changed, like his defences shot up, “it isn't like you ever needed me, you always had Suga clinging to your side. You never even trusted me anyway.” You couldn’t figure out what he was playing at, why was he suddenly trying to attack her? It didn’t work. Nothing about her demeanour changed. If anything, she just looked angrier. How is she ever going to be able to trust you now? You want to say.

She has a sly way of attacking, very subtle and something to admire, especially as her even tone states, “maybe that’s true, but if you really think that, then you never knew me at all.” Guilt floods his eyes and you know that it has worked; those few words were enough to make this man with an aura of authority shrink like a child.

“I spent a lot of time thinking,” she sighs. You watch as she rubs slow circles on her sides - so she really is anxious? How close is she to breaking down? If it were you, you would have been long gone by now, “that when you slowly stopped calling-” you shrink into yourself, because you were the reason he’d slowly stopped calling “-that you were really busy; you were out here doing what I should have. You were living your life.” She glanced at you and you instinctively tug the hem of the shirt. Her eyes don’t linger, not long enough to read your mind. “And I can see I was right.” Her tone was so indifferent that it was somehow more threatening.

She gets up to leave and you’re almost thankful until his hand shoots out and grabs her wrist, desperation deep set in his voice, “we can still try, I- I want you to still love me. And I will love you, because I do love you.” It breaks your heart. You don’t want to hear it. You look at her and know she feels exactly the same way.

This was the time you’d expected her to break, but she doesn’t - God, this girl is filled with surprises - she smiles sweetly down at him, carefully untangling his fingers from around her wrist. “I never said I didn’t love you, but I don’t think I like you anymore, Daichi.” And with that, she broke him.

She slips out of the room, leaving you to soak in the tension.

----

“Are you going to leave me now, too?” Daichi cries out as you start getting dressed, rummaging around his dorm for the other shoe. You can’t just leave her alone. It’s your fault, you should have seen the signs all along. “Come on, angel, don’t be like this.” He reached out and put a hand on your shoulder.

It felt like he’d burnt you, “don’t you touch me.” You hissed, shoving him off and running towards the door the moment your shoe was on. He didn’t chase after you - of course he didn’t, he hadn’t even chased after her - why would you be special? That was the thing. You weren’t. Not to Daichi, at least. You were just something he could use. It was a horrible feeling, to fall out of love so quickly and suddenly. Like the wind had been knocked from your lungs and a tear in your heart.

You ran across the campus, searching wildly for the girl. You could only assume she was just as strong as you saw her a moment ago; it didn’t take long to find her, her steps were slow, like she was hoping he’d come back to her. That he’d love her and whisk her away. That he’d say this was some sort of sick joke.

But it wasn’t.

You reached out and tapped her shoulder, closing your eyes as you talked, “I am so sorry. I- I never would have done anything like that if I knew,” your heart hurts because you had been a part of this girl's destruction. “I didn’t know. And I-” you slowly open your eyes. Soft tears are falling from her eyes, and yet she holds her composure, “you really loved him, didn’t you?” Your voice is so soft that you’re worried she hasn't heard it.

But she did, telling someone that she’d call them back before hanging up. She looked around hopelessly before spotting a bench and beckoning you to follow, which you do - she seems so wise beyond her years, like she never really had the chance to be young.

Something about her reminds you of the girl Daichi told you about - the girl of the moon - how she still seems bright even in the darkness. Because this had to have been her darknest point.

“I do-” she hesitates, and you know that she still does, no matter what she says next, “- I did. Did he ever tell you how we met?” You shake your head, but it’s only a half truth. You had only heard the few things that he had said, and those words didn’t seem like much of a truth now. Because this girl doesn’t seem like she could hurt anyone; maybe only herself.

You listen intently as she tells you the story of how they met. How they’d been put in the same class, next to each other. How she was jealous of the window and how he blocked it; how he never really stopped blocking the window (that you could attest to, because he’d done the same thing). She tells you about Suga - his best friend - and how she just never wanted to hurt Daichi. She told you that she’d stayed back for her siblings, and that she didn’t really know what to do. Her confusion and sadness when he stopped calling. How that became normal.

Then she talks about him more. Her first impressions; how he had an unwillingness to give up (you knew that much) and an aura of authority and you agree, because who wouldn’t. She talks about this side of him with such a tenderness and you just know she loves him. She tells you that he could bring the first years to their knees, and you can’t help but laugh.

There’s so much more you want to talk to her about, but she just grabs your hand and sighs. “I- I don’t blame you.” It must be bitter to admit, but it eases the tension in your heart. “Daichi made his choice, and if that choice was you, then I can see why.” You want to hold her. To tell her how sorry you are. But the words refuse to leave your lips. Instead, you squeeze her hand and she smiles softly before standing up, wishing you a good life.

Would you ever have a good life after this?

----

It takes you an hour to pack up your things from Daichi’s dorm - with the help of your friends. A week to cry out any feelings you had for him. A month until Daichi finally understands you aren’t coming back to him. A year until you finish college and move in with a friend.

Sometimes the thought of Daichi still lingers, but then you look at the moon, and any thoughts are washed away.

You think kindly back on the girl wise beyond her years. Some days you wish you’d gotten to be her friend, but then you figure she wouldn’t want to be.

Falling in love is the easy part - but that’s why you hesitate when falling in love with the next boy - Matsukawa Issei. 

Staying in love with him is the hard part, but you learn how to work together, and things become just a little easier. He doesn’t make things hard, doesn’t beat around the bush. And (the girl would be happy about this) he doesn’t block the windows. He pulls you close so you can stand together. 

Falling out of love isn’t something you need to worry about. Not when he looks at you with stars in his eyes.

----

Taglist:

@dekuspet @pies-writes-and-more @satan-ruler-of-hells @realcube

If you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a DM.

[forgottenvalentina]

Sighing at Cassimir's reply, Valentina gave him a decidedly indulgent expression. "How tender your heart is, my boy, but you do not know what it is to be a young woman, hm?" Her expression was knowing and gently she patted his shoulder in a gesture at once affectionate and dismissive.

"In truth I am over-gentle and that is why they perform so ill. If I were stricter, we would all be much better off -- happier, too -- but I fear you have your sentimental nature from me. But don't fret, Cassimir. I will try harder. A firm hand will sure them up in no time, have no doubt. It is why our wise emperor says that every woman needs a husband to rule her. Fortunately for you, my dear boy, your mother has already had two, and thus learned already everything I needed to. Now," she continued. "I need only watch over my son. And guard against unworthy women who would prey on your dear heart. Every woman knows a man is vulnerable to her charms."

Briefly, her glance darted in the direction Eithne had just gone. Quickly, she looked back to Cassimir. "Fortunately, you are too well loved to fall into such traps, and little as they can resist you, you are too good to settle for anything less than an imperial princess: the only woman worthy of your nobility of spirit and royal birth."

When it was Sonya behaving in this manner, Valentina was want to complain that her sentimentality was all down to her father, but then this was how it was: in Valentina's mind, Sonya was her father's child, and Cassimir was Valentina's, even when displaying identical traits. There were, of course, exceptions in both cases, as any time either was particularly vexing to her, their actions were owing almost entirely to their unfortunate link to their father.

Arching a disapproving brow as Cassimir said he could attest to Eithne's work, Valentina drew her gaze over him. She laughed, a touch nervously. "Cassimir! You mustn't say it so! At the risk of being indelicate, I will tell you straight off that one might almost think from what you say that you mean to imply she rose from your own bed! Attest nothing to her behavior! As her stepmother, I must insist on this point, for her good as much as for your own. You must not seek to defend her, so! You know how vicious a thing gossip is, and a lady's reputation once tarnished can never again be wiped clean, and then she will not make a fit bride for the meanest tanner on the street. No. I will hear no more of this."

Smiling with pride as Cassimir praised her skills of persuasion, Valentina chuckled in a self-congratulatory way. "Oh, my dear son, you flatter me so, but I think we must both acknowledge the truth that her acquiescence is all down to your charms. It is in our very blood, you see: royalty knows royalty. We are," she inhaled deeply. "Drawn to one another. You see how her brothers flock here! Oh, they might make excuses about your stepsisters, but the truth is that is they cannot stay away. Their blood calls out to ours. When you speak, she will listen, even if she doesn't at first appear to. Your suit cannot fail."

How much Valentina actually believed this was, in fact, something that shifted with the time of day, but what she did believe was Cassimir was a touch too distracted by Eithne and needed some reminding about the true identity of his future bride, as well as perhaps a boost in confidence when it came to wooing her. For her part, Valentina knew that nothing made her feel so confident as the thought of her royal blood and, she assumed, the same must be true of her children.

What she did believe was that those of royal blood were inherently better than those who lacked it: case in point, it was suitable and not, in fact, shameful, that she put her stepdaughters to work: they were only noble and she and her children were, in fact, royal. It was fitting, really, when one properly considered it all.

"I know you will, my boy, and how could she fail to remember an evening passed with you for her companion? I am certain nothing so wonderful happens to her otherwise. The only man of her acquaintance who might compare is His Imperial Majesty, himself, and an emperor cannot spare the attention that you, at present, can. She will be transported: I am certain of it."

Hearing his comment about Roisin and Brigit, his mother's expression soured, lips thinning to a fine line of disapprobation. "Those wretched girls! Ruining your chances! If I did not know better, I might think it an intentional move meant to be cruel and spiteful! Fortunately," she added, pride suffusing her voice as she spoke. "Your merits far outweigh their detractions, as we have seen! This bodes well, Cassimir, for you are right: she must care for you a very great deal, indeed, to triumph over such profound detriments. I'm half tempted to have your wicked stepsisters thrashed!"

Prince & Princess | Valentina & Cassimir

"Whatever are you doing in here!" cried Valentina, enterting the kitchen. Her gaze had at first fallen upon her son, standing a touch too close to Eithne for his mother's absolute comfort, but she quickly directed her words towards the girl, as if the poor lady had not been dispatched to the kitchens by none other than Valentina, herself.

The place was really quite pleasant -- the whole estate had been, once, if Valentina were honest with herself -- but this particular pleasantness Lady Malconaire found she resented as it was due largely to the little touches added by her stepdaughters -- bouquets brimming with wildflowers all around, aromatic herbs suspended from the ceiling to dry: doubling as cooking stock and perfume both (she supposed she couldn't reasonably object to that), light streaming from the windows due to their unmatched clean (Valentina would have sworn no one took such care with the windows Valentina looked out of!), a portrait of their mother gathered with the unfinished sketches their father had commissioned of the girls, themselves, and had been so fond of before his demise, all of which Valentina had ordered stopped and taken down in order to place her own image beside that of their father upstairs. She was displeased to see that they had taken the portraits from the attic where Valentina had abandoned them, but she said nothing.

"What an unfathomable mess this place is," she sniffed, glaring at the portrait. She ultimately knew little and less of the mother, but Valentina resented her all the same. "Windows cleaner than any in the rest of the house, portraiture hanging above a greasy kitchen fire, and a proliferation of flowers enough to make even the hardiest farmer sneeze. What if that falls into our food? Are you trying to poison the princess, Eithne? Now, go do something useful! Go..." she waved a dismissive hand. "Catch a chicken. We've no time at all till the princess, herself, arrives...and her brothers, and I ought to have you and your sisters thoroughly lashed for the dreadful state of this place. Honestly, did your mother teach you nothing? This is no fit state for a kitchen."

This was all a wild exaggeration but, then, Valentina was given to those when making a point. Finally, her gaze fell in disapproval upon her son, yet it gentled into an indulgent expression as his gaze fell upon her and she sighed. "Whatever will I do with you, my boy? So good hearted you can't resist helping the staff, even when you've a princess to entertain in mere moments." The princess was not due for hours, yet.

Touching his face, she sighed. "Whatever will I do with you?"

Taking his hand, the lady led him back up the stairs. "You know, you do that foolish girl no favors when you distract her. She's got quite a lot to do, and how on earth is she meant to focus on those tasks when you're there distracting her, hm?" She paused, patting his arm, before sinking into the velvet sofa by the fire.

Here, the portraits hung of her late husband and of herself, strangely mismatched, for his was done to celebrate his marriage to his first wife, and was a match to hers, but Valentina's had been taken when she had first become betrothed to her own first husband, a visual aid to help him decide whether he wished to commit to the arrangement.

Where Lord Malconaire's was simple and happy, his second lady's was lavish and overdone and severe and utterly massive, dwarfing her husband's. His showcased both his beauties and his genuine blemishes: hers was her face reimagined into something utterly without flaw, (thus stripping it of most of its genuine beauty). But Valentina was vain and she thought of it, always, as a true likeness: what flaws could she have? (And, yes, it did bother Valentina that, detractions and all, the first wife had been more beautiful than Valentina even in her most idealized form had ever been.)

"Now, Cassimir, I've been thinking, with the princess coming, you ought to wear the colors of Malconaire, just to remind her that all of this is yours. The last Lord Malconaire did adopt you both, after all, did he not? So remind her. That you have a place for her away from the stresses and strains of court where she may retire -- permanently, if she wishes. She does seem to be a shy little thing, after all. Her brothers instantly accepted my invitation, but it was pulling teeth to get a response from her, even after the princes were coming, I swear."

Valentina sighed, considering. "I do so wish her brothers weren't coming with her, but I suppose I shall attend to the younger one, so that your sister may entertain Prince Arthur and you, of course, my dear boy, will see to Princess Guinevere, won't you? You know, I think she must be half in love with you, already, just to accept this invitation. She is, after all, quite retiring, isn't she?"

Valentina smiled, gazing at her boy. "You know, had I been born a man, I think I would look much as you do, my handsome boy. I am so glad of it. Your poor sister -- oh her beauty is all mine -- but so much of her," she sighed, arched a disapproving brow. "So much of her comes from your father. God rest his soul, poor man."

[imagine-darksiders]

Just like. Head canons. For our lovely Dad Guys. Whoever you want. Whatever you want. I don’t care. Just. The Fluff Beast. 😫 Getting too strong...! Help! (I’m sorry 😂 Seriously, just do whatever you want. It’ll be beautiful and I’ll love it regardless)

Well, I’ve had this little Eidad fic on the back burner for a while now, sitting in my drafts and not doing a while lot. This seems like a good time to post it <3 <3 <3 

It’s a sick fic. Nothing too drastic, just an old maker getting worried about his human friend. 

---

Eideard has always been an especially unflappable maker, a trait that tends to come with the territory of being the village elder.

He never gets flustered, and he always maintains the poise and composure expected of him.

Unless, of course, one of his fellow makers is under threat. Only then, by his own admission, does decorum fly out of the proverbial window and little else but worry takes over him, mind, body and soul.

Recently, he's come to discover that the same rule applies to a very specific, little human.

----

“I'm cold.”

That ought to have been their first clue.

You're sitting in the maker's forge, seemingly content to remain still and quiet beside the roaring fire whilst Alya and her brother, Valus, are hard at work at their anvil.

“Cold?” the former twin laughs incredulously, glancing up from the sword she's forging to turn and fix you with a raised brow, “You're sittin' close enough to that fire!”

Her brother though, always the more perceptive of the siblings, ambles around her and makes his way towards you, tugging at the green cowl that sits around his neck. You may be vastly smaller than him, but even behind that visor, he can see the shivers you're trying to suppress. Blinking, you watch him as he bends onto one knee in front of you and holds his treasured garment out, uttering a low, almost undetectable whine.

“I'm okay, big guy,” you murmur, sounding far from it, “Think I've just got a bit of a chill.”

At that, Valus doesn't wait for you to reach up and take the cowl from his grasp and instead, with a huff, he leans forward to drape it around your shoulders, his thick fingers tucking it up underneath you as carefully as he can. Once he's finished, he sits back on his haunches to inspect you, satisfied when you snuggle further into the fabric and give him a shy smile.

“Thanks.”

Pacified, the burly maker returns your smile with a nod and pushes himself onto his feet, turning back to his sister and the anvil.

With their attention elsewhere, you allow your smile to fade, burying your face into Valus's scarf. 

You're loathe to tell them the whole truth, that accompanying your chills is a raw throat that feels as though it's been rubbed tender by sandpaper, and an ache in your limbs that only grows worse and worse by the hour.

There's no denying it.

You've come down with something.

At the very least, the makers don't know a lot about human biology, so you're relatively hopeful that you'll be able to pass this off as a mundane occurrence – definitely not anything they should be worrying about.

There is an unspoken rule amongst the giants, one that came about the moment they first laid eyes on you – a small, cowering little thing whose world had been destroyed only a few days prior.

The rule, never spoken aloud, yet understood by all, is that you are a youngling – despite your insistence to the contrary – and younglings are to be protected, especially those who have yet to reach their first century of life. 

It also doesn't help that you're a human, and consequently only stand about as high as the makers' knees.

But for as endeared to you as they all are, there are none who are quite so taken as Eideard.

The village Shaman, Muria, speculates that their elder has seen more younglings and friends die off over the centuries than any of them, and thusly, that's where his protective tendencies stem from.

Thane, on the other hand, attests that Eideard has always been enormously tender-hearted, long before grief softened his edges. 

If he were to find out that you're sick, you can't imagine he'd take it well.

Bottom line? You'd hate to worry him.

Unfortunately for you, there are some things that can't be kept from a group of watchful makers.

It's impossible to hide glassy eyes, tremors that rattle your whole body and a sudden, explosive sneeze that causes both Alya and Valus to jump out their skin, tools clattering to the stony ground.

“Stone's blood! Bit of warnin' before you go makin' noises like that, please!” Alya exclaims, resting a hand over her heart whilst Valus hurries over to you again.

“It was just a sneeze,” you try to protest, but the forge brother isn't buying it. Without a word, which isn't unusual, he clenches his fists and heaves himself about on a heel, marching purposefully towards the forge's entrance, deaf to his sister calling after him.

“Oi, Valus? Where are you off to?”

It's hardly a surprise that she doesn't get a response.

He disappears through the doors and you share a look with his sister, who hesitantly asks, “You.. sure you're okay?”

The fake smile you plaster on your face is apparently as unconvincing as it feels, judging by the flat look you receive from Alya in response. 

A few moments later, the doors swing open once again and your ears pick up two pairs of resounding footsteps thumping through the forge.

Valus appears first, lumbering up the short flight of steps onto the raised dais where he's soon followed by the second maker, a particularly concerned-looking Eideard.

As soon as the elder's pale, grey eyes lock onto you, you slump forwards in defeat, any hope of riding this illness out in privacy now dashed. Of all the makers in Tri Stone, Eideard is the most well-versed in anthropology.

Shooting Valus a glare for his betrayal, you swallow your cough and groan, “Valus, I told you, I’m okay. You didn't need to bother Eideard.”

“I for one, am very glad he did.” From underneath his bushy, furrowed brows, the old maker studies you closely until you duck your head, weighed down by the heaviness of his stare, the whole while, your throat burns with the need to cough. Then, in a blink, his eyes widen again and the fingers clutched around his golden staff turn white as he breathes, “You're sick...”

At once, Alya shoots upright from where she'd been leaning casually against the anvil. “Sick!?” she blurts, her gaze snapping between you and her elder, “Why didn't you say somethin'?!”

“Because!” you argue, hating that Eideard’s face now appears almost twice its age thanks to the worry lines permeating his forehead, “It's not a big de-” As fate would have it, the raw spot at the back of your throat finally chooses its moment, and before you can stop yourself, you're lurching forwards into a vicious cough that burns at the tenderness like acid, bringing tears to your eyes and shame onto your clammy cheeks.

You become vaguely aware of a vast hand coming to rest on your back and fingers that pat you gently until you can catch your breath. Even after you've hacked yourself silly, you push Eideard's silken, blue sleeve away and try to get to your feet, hoping that if they see you standing, they'll be less inclined to fret. But the moment you begin to move, the same hand is cupping around your trembling body and you find yourself being lifted up and nestled against a broad chest by a maker who is wholly undeterred by your feeble resistance. 

“I'm not a baby, Eideard!” you complain, trying to wriggle free as the maker presses delicately on your chest, forcing you to lay across his forearm, “Put me down! I can walk just fine.”

“Easy, now. You'll only hurt yourself further if you keep that up,” he rumbles in a tone that's far too gentle for your pride to withstand.

Embarrassed, you wilt down behind his fingers when you hear Alya's stifled giggles, but the old maker doesn't pay her any mind, simply turns away from the anvil and begins to shuffle down the steps, heading for the entrance. Almost immediately, you miss the fire's warmth and Eideard feels your shivers turn violent, his heart seizing at the sound of your teeth chattering together like rapid gunfire.

“You – you're not going outside, are you?” you croak, pulling Valus's cowl up to your neck, “It's freezing!”

“The weather is perfectly mild. You, on the other hand, are burning hotter than forge-fire.”

You open your mouth to protest but find yourself cut off when he continues, “I’ll not have this sickness turning into something worse. We may belong to separate species, but I wasn't born yesterday. A little fresh air will do you some good.”

“Ugh. You sound like my mum.”

His reply comes in the form of an affectionate, rumbling chuckle that you can feel travelling up through his palm and into your bones. Letting out a final huff, you flop backwards and turn limp in his hand.

It isn’t as though you can fight your way out of the Old One's grip, after all. For such an ancient maker, Eideard is powerful, and his age does little to detract from that strength. The meagre resistance you put up is also proven ineffective by the silken softness of the fur trim on his sleeves that you run between your fingers.

Perhaps if you'd been looking at Eideard's expression instead of the doors as he pushes them open, you'd take notice of the disquiet lingering at the edge of his eyes.

He plans on taking you to see Muria in the hopes that she might have a remedy that can alleviate the fever spreading through your delicate body, and, failing that, he will sit with you in the peace of the night air and keep you still and safe until your tremors cease and his old heart stops trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.

You're more than welcome to resent him for this, he muses quietly, but after seeing so many of his people lost to corruption, it isn't such an easy feat to quell the pervasive anxiety that writhes like an impatient, snarling beast in his stomach, and he would much rather endure your resentment if it means keeping you out of harm’s way.

The village elder is supposed to protect his own, and glancing down at you and seeing that you've buried your face into the fabric of his robe to escape the cold, Eideard realises with a sudden surge of paternal drive, that you fall under the scope of those he considers 'his.'

The old maker clutches you possessively against his chest and hurries as well as his tired legs can carry him up towards the Shaman's gazebo, knowing that his soul will never know peace until you’re well once again. 

[theaspers]

you feel like home | satan x reader

a/n: i’m too lazy to finish this but i got lazy towards the end so here, you can have it. college au so everyone’s human here but u will find i rarely ever write satan’s name and that’s only bc it’s so weird to write it and think about how in this au a set of parents thought naming their child satan is ok lol. this will be the only time u see me use a post divider bc it’s that messy.

here is how it usually is:

satan wakes up with a start. his breathing is heavy, every gasp sounding terribly like it might be his last, and his eyes are wild. this isn’t fear because he is not afraid. he is never afraid. rather, it is anger. anger at himself, at his brothers, at anyone and everyone who has ever wronged him before. fiery red and burnt orange, anger in all possible forms and shapes and sizes, rolling off of him in waves.

there is not many places in which he finds respite from the barrage of emotions he constantly feels. but when you wake up, bleary-eyed and groggy, and say nothing, waiting with the utmost patience for him to return. when you wrap an arm around his shoulders, careful and cautious. when you tug him down and hum a little tune under your breath that lulls him back to sleep. it’s as close to one as he’ll ever get, he thinks.

for a fleeting second, he thinks about telling you of his feelings. vomit it all out so he doesn’t have to sit any longer with the uncomfortable feelings that’s been bubbling at the pit of his stomach for far too long. but your fingers are too gentle as they press against his still-pounding heart, and your eyes are too tender as they meet his own. there’s an unusually bright beam of moonlight spilling across your features from the gap between the curtains and it makes you look as dazzling as ever. it wouldn’t be right to ruin such a beautiful moment, he thinks, to ruin such a beautiful person with all of whatever he is. so he doesn’t.

repeat and recycle.

you are kind. with him, you’ve managed to practice this weird balance of confident indifference and empathy that just works for him. it’s never been like that before. not when he’d lost his parents but had felt relieved instead of the expected grief. not when his sister had died and had taken along with her a good portion of everyone’s soul. not when he’d finally just upped and left because the tension in the house was getting too much for him to bear.

he has no parents, he told you once, a long time ago. a green haze of disgust had curled around him and eyes steaming, rolling and boiling. the grip he had on the stack of papers he’d been flicking through caused ripples across the filled pages. you know this fact, clever enough to have gathered as much from how much he soured whenever parents were mentioned, but he had never outright admitted it.

“you’re ruining my notes,” you’d said to him instead of the pity he is all too familiar with. there had been a deep furrow between your eyebrows, displeasure in your frown, “i worked extremely hard on that.”

it had been relief, looking back now, that had filled him up to the brim. his heart had felt full, but not in the bad way - always in the good way with you - and he’d felt unburdened for once. he looked at you then, eyebrows raised. where he thought there would be anger, there was only amusement. he’d only known you for a handful of months but somehow he’d expected as much from you. and it’s comfortable.

“the world’s full of awful, terrible people who shouldn’t be parents,” you’d pointed at him with an opened highlighter pen, waving the neon tip in his direction, “doesn’t mean you’re awful or terrible too.”

huh.

“and it certainly doesn’t mean i want to spend my whole afternoon talking about them,” your frown turned into a scowl as you reached over the tabletop filled with textbooks and worn notebooks and loose papers, “give those here if you’re not gonna treat them right.”

light laughter spilled out of his lips as he pulled the notes away. you were kind. too kind. looking back, that must have been the start of it all.

you’re curled up in a hoodie, crumpled up on the sofa in a way he’s sure is not good at all for your posture but he’s long given up trying to chastise you over it. face smooshed against the arm of the chair, a textbook draped open over your chest in a way that makes him wince, you looked positively ridiculous. ignoring the pang of fondness, he nudges you with his knee.

“come on,” he says, closing the textbook and putting it aside, “let’s get you to bed.”

you groan but are otherwise easily coaxed into bed, curling into his side as he lead you to your room. the fondness magnifies immensely. that you’d spent the better half of yesterday revisiting old topics and making notes which is why you’re so tired right now is somehow endearing to him. he brushes his lips against your forehead as he watches you settle into bed. if he spends a bit more time lingering at the door, no one would know.

he doesn’t want to say it’s because of you but you did play a big part in it. he talks more to his brothers now and it’s, well, good. it’s the distance and the fresh air too, maybe.

he doesn’t have parents but he does have 6 brothers, he’d admitted one quiet night. the two of you had been lying on your backs, the clear night sky spread out over your figures, gorgeous swirls of different shades of blacks and dark blues with specks of bright diamond jewels. 6 brothers and a sister who had passed and had taken a piece of all of them with her.

“oh.” you’d said but you already knew about his brothers because he’d told you. not so much in stories, of course, but through bits and pieces he’d mentioned here and there. beel likes that snack, he would tell you and so you’d tell him to send some to him. asmo’s been talking to him about a brand new make up collection that’ll be released soon and so you’d tell him that you’ll keep an eye out. but the thing about his sister - that’s new.

the hurt is still there even though it’s been a long time now. raw pain as if his chest is dangerously exposed and someone’s gone ahead and ripped his still-beating heart out of him. he has yet to find that heart, it seems. it still hurts but ever since he’d left, he’s been able to breathe a bit better. see past the green and grey cloud that hovered over him and his brothers when he’d been at home.

“that one’s orion,” you’d murmured, and he knows it’s just you trying to digest his words, trying to figure out a good response, “people use that one to find other stars too, did you know that?”

he did, in fact. but still, he’d watched, quiet as you pointed out a few others. your eyes are wonder-filled, the twinkle brighter than anything else in the sky, and it had left him breathless. the tightness around his throat had loosened. southeastward and there is sirius, you’d said, in awe and in love. from rigel to betelgeuse, there is gemini - the stars castor and pollux.

“it must be stuffy to be immortalised like that, huh?” you’d turned him then, meeting his eyes, smile gentle, “always expected to be same. unchanging. must be suffocating.”

a stray chuckle leaves him, weak.

“just let it happen,” you told him afterwards and he’d wanted to laugh even more because it shouldn’t be that easy to absolve him of everything he’s been feeling but it had been. “all i’m saying is that you don’t need to feel guilty anymore.”

“talk to them,” you suggested, no hesitation, letting him lean against you, “they lost a sister too, you know?”

there’s a lecture that he has to attend in about an hour but you’re still snoring away on your side of his bed and it’s so tempting to join you in sweet slumber. you don’t have classes until later on so you’re good but he’ll be late if he dallies for any longer.

but he can’t seem to pull himself away from you. so he takes this in, the absolute mess in the morning. listens to your steady breathing. savours the moment and keeps it close. a beautiful solace that he’ll allow himself for when he needs the reprieve.

“ha,” there’s a smug curl to your lips, eyelids fluttering open as if knowing that he’d been starting, “nerd. go to class.”

he rolls his eyes. he could always count on you to ruin a tender moment.

“you should get one for lucifer,” the words barely leave your mouth before you’re laughing, from a tiny little snicker to full blown laughter, “for- for cerberus.”

the hand that’s holding out your phone for him to see the page full of ugly little suit for dogs shakes wildly. he scowls at the mention of his eldest brother and you laugh even more, setting down your utensils in favour of rubbing the tears that have sprung up in the corner of your eyes from laughing too hard.

“are you going back for the break?” you ask once you’ve calmed down, reaching over to pull his plate of pie closer to yourself. you pick up your fork once more, digging into the soft pastry.

he curls his nose at the prospect of going back home, “unfortunately.”

“unfortunately,” you parrot playfully, rolling your eyes. “yeah, okay.” 

“it’s been a long time coming anyways,” you grin around the mouthful of pie, “they miss you, i think. and don’t tell me you don’t miss them too.”

he sighs, shakes his head as he tugs his plate back over to his side. he knew he shouldn’t have given asmo your phone number. he would never attest to the happiness that blooms in chest. no one would be able to prove it, anyways.

here’s how it is now:

he reels you into a hug as he’s about to leave for back home. he feels as light as a feather, and he has to admit, he’s a bit...excited. when the two of you break apart, he says thank you and gives you an earnest smile. he has to suppress his laughter when feels the way you shudder in his arms.

something’s changing. and change is, well, good. in most cases. and this is one of those cases. it’s good. he’s not afraid, he tells you, he’s never afraid. there is no fear. no anger. just adoration and fondness. for you.

and so he decides in that moment - when he gets back, he’ll let you know.

[nextwarden]

I want you to date me.

"I want you to date me," Blake Belladonna says, her eyes playful but her gaze steady despite the buzz that has taken them both.

"Pardon?", Yang replies, almost dropping her glass on the wooden floor, almost not caring for the hell Weiss and Pyrrha would put her through if she did.

"I want you to date me."

The voice is steady, assured, perhaps a little too assured, and so, so sultry. As beautifully dangerous as the flower that is her name. If the rest of the party had not already faded in the background, as literally as it did figuratively when their eyes met ages earlier now - they're on the east-side balcony on the second floor, alone, in the relative quiet of the night -, it would have now, as quickly as her heart is bombing into her chest. She realizes she's both struggling to breathe and not to breathe. Both trying to stay alive and live in this moment for all she can, and to let all concepts of time slip away and let it never end.

She glances around, trying to get a grip on what changed in this reality, trying to find the seams that will allow her to unravel the great conspiracy that had woven events to bring them to this exact moment. She waits for cameras to drop, a crew to burst out of the room and shout "Surprise! This is NTV and you've been Prank'd!", as they dance around her and circus music begins to play. She tries to find the faults and the cracks as the continents begin to drift apart, revealing brimstone and fire as the Devil laughs in her face, bursting her hopes with his painful fork. But none of that happens and then she feels the gaze steady on her, on her eyes, on her lips, on her freckles and her hands, on her. Her. Blake Belladonna is looking at her as she asks that, she's looking at her and despite all the bravado that she has draped herself in, there's something in the liquid gold of those orbs, something very akin to fragility, to hesitation, to openness. As if she'd start running the second Yang breathed in again, as if she'd start running and never stop, to the edge of the world and beyond, nevermind having to jump into the endless unknown. Nothing would ever be as scary as being in the face of this moment.

And Yang knows. Oh boy, does she know. The goosebumps on her arms can attest to that, the cold sweat dripping all along her spine can attest to that, the instantaneous expansion of her eyes can attest to that, the tightening of her grip on her glass, verging on destructive, can attest to that, the flush ruby of her skin can attest to that. Ruby. She somehow manages to spot the brunette somewhere in the corner of her eye, a red streak mingling into white. She doesn't see her face but she can see the knowing smile, the proud and playful grin that she would put on display to light the night if she could. She crashes back to the hard and cold ground, somehow more welcoming than anything the lush world has to offer, when Blake shifts her weight. She realizes her breath is still hitched, she's still frozen in place, eyes wide. And then she realizes the moment has stretched on slightly too long. In slow yet absolutely clear motion, like an action scene on a movie screen, the confidence slips. She sees the furrow of the brows deepen ever so slightly, the slight trembling of the lip, synchronous with that of the hand, the gilded sea somehow melts even more to give a misty shine to the window that gives view within, and Yang swears she can almost hear it crack. The sight before her is so mesmerizing - it's always mesmerizing, has been since they first laid eyes on each others - that she almost doesn't react, so still it is almost too late. She sees the blink, the movement of the lips, and the turn of the shoulders as the meaning of the sounds finally reach her muddled mind.

"S- sorry, this… this was a mistake."

It's the first catch of the breath, willed to be concealed but escaping in between words that finally wakes her up from this slumber she finds herself to have fallen. Her throat tightens, it's on fire. So is her hand as she catches the fleeing wrist, firm but ever so gentle, like one would use to keep a bird from flying away. She can feel the heat in her own palm and she's sure Blake can too, she sees her flinch. And for a beat she thinks the beautiful, wonderful being that stands before her, that just shattered her world by answering every and all prayers she's had since this pocket universe of theirs exploded into existence, is going to jerk her arm away in pain. But another beat passes and she doesn't move anything but her eyes, straight to Yang's, scared, scarred, but somehow, despite it all, hopeful. That's what break her too, that's what emboldens her too. The heat is there, blazing under her skin and on top of Blake's. Neither of them seem to mind.

"Sorry."

It's all she says as she lets go. All she can say. She means so much more; the breach of personal space, the knowledge that having been allowed such proximity does not entitle her to it, the fact that she's slow on the uptake, not having had the courage herself, and so much more. But her eyes tell another story, a story that she hopes Blake can read. She extends her hand again, not taking, this time, but offering. Their gazes are linked, unable to detach, unwilling. Finally, slowly, with a smile widening impossibly and a voice as steady as she can manage, with all the care and the tenderness she can muster, she too shatters Blake Belladonna's world.

"Yes."

She feels cool skin upon her palm, hesitant at first but determined then.

"Yes?"

She's unsure, Yang feels it as she feels the wind in her hair. The girl is unsure. Blake Belladonna, goddess among men - among women too -, she who can get the world to bend its knee weakly with a curl of her finger and a bat of her smokey eye, she who made a world only to break it and make it anew. She's unsure. And Yang can't get enough of it. It's not sadistic, it's not for the fun of it, she's not trying to make her doubt or crumble on herself. But knowing Blake can at a single word of hers, at a single gesture, seeing the open and real, raw hope, the emotion behind it all, she almost crumbles herself. If it was anyone else, any other soul on the planet, perhaps they would have under so much pressure, or perhaps they'd have made the brunette vanish into dust with a single, awkward wrong move. But she's not anyone, she's not just anyone, she's Yang Fucking Xiao Long, she's the girl the girl of her dreams just asked out despite all odds and all her fears. She's the Chosen One's Chosen One and that, that's worth an apocalypse.

"Yes," she repeats, unable to contain her smile, threatening to explode under the conflicting gravitas.

It gets even wider, if that's possible, brighter and toothier. It gets… everything. And Blake devours that everything. Their fingers interlace. A step is taken, hesitant. A second one, more assured. And finally the Pandorica opens again and then nothing happens. Nothing happens for a while. Nothing happens for so long, actually, that when Space seems to crash back aground them and Time starts to turn its gears again it's so overwhelming they almost fall. But they can't fall, 'cause they're already falling, they've been falling for so long now that they're not even sure when they started or if there's actually a bottom anymore. They're not even sure they're even falling. Is that what flying feels like? God, they'd make millions by just selling the recipe to Red Bull, Yang manages to think as their physical manifests separate long enough for them to look into each other's eyes. Blake keeps her arms tight around Yang's waist, Yang keeps their bodies pressed against each other, melting in the warmth. Only their faces are apart, eyes in eyes, soul in soul. That doesn't last long, though.

"Yes…", Blake repeats the word, breathy and marvelled.

The soft brush of her breath on Yang's lips falls on the scale as light as a feather, tipping it. Lilac eyes search golden ones, asking for a permission that has long been given, and flutter shut as their lips collide, magnetic. Surprisingly, this time, nothing changes. The world doesn't vanish, Yang's mind doesn't break, even Time only seems to seep into the background a little. It's the opposite, actually. Everything is here, now, right here, right now. It happens. Not all at once, just, now, and here. She's rubbing her mouth against Blake Belladonna's, and Blake Belladonna is rubbing her mouth back with her own mouth, Yang only thinks. Okay, maybe she lied, maybe her mind did break a little bit. But it's good, because it's happening, and it's happening here and now. They kiss, tenderly, unendingly, through breaths and giggles, through smile and salt, through past and present, exploring each other's hair and jaws and face and hips and backs and hands and hearts.

When it ends is actually when it begins. The party is all around their quiet little escape and they know they have to go back, they have to leave their own private limbo in order to return to the mortal world. It's a little bit scary, but they aren't really worried. The Underworld has already had its Orpheus and its Eurydice. It takes a while but they eventually do. It doesn't feel like going back, though, it feels like entering a new world, brighter and livelier. Yang is smiling as bright as the Sun, holding Blake's hand as she guides her to the crowd, and Blake is smiling back, more subdued but a Moon of her own. And when their bubble blows and the water rushes in, Yang almost expects them to lose their footing, to sink into the depths, but it's shallow and they waddle in the cool waves without a care in the world. It's the opposite, even. Perhaps the realization that Yang Xiao Long and Blake Belladonna love each other has emboldened Blake Belladonna and Yang Xiao Long, or perhaps, as their names seem to give away, Yang Xiao Long and Blake Belladonna have always been bold. Because the second they begin, it flows as naturally as if they had traced the river themselves.

"So, you two, huh?", Pyrrha and Sun, the surprisingly unlikely yet unchallenged winning team of the night's Interdorm Grand Beer Pong Cup stare at them as they enter the large room.

"Yep.", Yang smiles broadly, popping a cocky 'p'.

"Us," Blake nods, her arm loose on Yang's shoulder.

-----

It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere. (College AU - Part II)

Sunset (College AU - Part III)

Sun-kissed

[rwmhunt]

Leviticus, Chapter 20

1. Are likely bullet holes; When his foot slipped, he sank, Said “but, it is easier To be sublimely unintelle- than It is to be compreha- atleast, Through this runcible ordure”. The which, in real time, Being commuted to scripture, Was the while in no wise elucidated, Except for the retort with which he rejoinded- “Explain yourself!”

2. Stiffed, moreover, by a soft Drink in the impact Lounge, eye shuddered sojourns So that the ball might flop into the sinus Of the brooding ground As stone stones fall at my back; Don’t break, weak fools.

3. For reasons personal As unto myself, I shall set my face against he Who grunts his seed to Molok, And shall cut him right off Dare he offer up excuses, As they pertain unto my holy name Along inabilities to reliably distinguish True memories from the digital Thence, rejigger their theories By a biometric magneto-debathification.

4. Here, the perceived Level of personal threat Needst be of increase Against a complacence, And by use of a hard-hitting Form of emotional messaging; So let clemency be a no-no. Kill; kill and provide not Comfort nor aide To the enemy thereunto.

5. Face set cut a hole off All who followed my pillow and me. Some, turning to the camera, Pulled masks over; Most didn’t bother. Me, me, my sunglasses Who made for a false invisibility cloak- An allowance for the human Of burning flesh To set beneath the sun; The house will be in order.

6. By Molok, by dybbuk,   Turneth to ghosts,   Tearing through familiar spirits- I am the way an element will jump up, Unread, from the line below, like Tungsten, parallax, the zeitgeist. These shall be your familiars, And you be stuck with them.

7. Keep me thy sanctity; This is uncertain on a really intense scale. Where staple news hath held the civil veneer, And it’s a long way to Trimorphic Protennoia, Yet god loves his cowboys So betimes, doth make employ of them   As to other things unto himself; See sedition and insurrection, which are Tossed insults across the upper midwest, Turning further, Unthinkably left; The house will come to order.

8.There are many gods unto themselves But you can’t sustain; I was once this other thing, And I’m doubting that is going to happen, Yet keep ye my statutes, And to the west be the property of Marduk.

9. Then afflict my people Through specific vulnerabilities   Of their own creation As they would have unto their elders By means of relations And with the environment, With foreign species,   And with each other. Curses, curses, Skyrocket downward, Defeated victoriously- If we are not prepared to fight, Then a fear-epidemic can.

10. Strick, tryst, Everyone dies Entropy-loss, From effort to heat, Heat-chaos, Chaos-destruction, Destruction-peace.

11. Uncover eyes of thy father as if You uncover my wife- By persuasion, see I A perceived threat, where A substantial number Feel quite sufficiently reassured By levels of concern, Having a good heave-ho about them And an understanding of risque; Death swipe the both of you.

12. Take not the wife You left your son to; O, Wait, what’ve you done? Behold; an exerted control- To do what you cannot, Seek elements of a naiveté Or credulity; but Your blood is upon you.

13. Abomination, so death, Lover of mankind, The blood is always mine. The impact is experienced Throughout the body, says she, because   When my people perceive a threat,   Abstract or actual, They activate cortisol, So let be the biological stress response Whence glucose is mobilized And the immune system triggered; Levels of inflammation are increasing Which is affecting the function of the brain,   Mark; - you are more sensitive to threats, Less receptive to reward.

14. Bring along your mother Go up through fire- Wickedness Whence comes from the Latin For “with” and “touch”;   While the street was burning i chanted An Argument from Silence

15. Of a beast lain on the alter   You shall not Know- Hearsay doth serve you as a first hand   For evidence of a belief,   But shall not attest proof   Unto that which Such beliefs portaineth to.

16. Nor her- The replaced reporter   With a mental instability who hallucinates; The apple of the eyewitness testimony Rests in the unreliability of human memory So make sacrifice of high standards; Lo, but hang;   For I neglect that I am not that interested in truth-telling.

17. Keep not your familiar spirits   In naked perpetuity, O You, incorrigible witness.   Let the train gaineth traction   O'er such a horrid body of evidence; The old “social dances”;   See, Terpsichore Maras-Lindeman,   It’s not good and you know it-  

18. If you go menstrual   Then there hath opened forth to you   A fountain of shame,   And the blood shall be cut from the people,   Lo, but hearsay, here goes Gambling against pornography’s outcomes-   So, humans are expressions,   But woman is form. Hm.  

19. Your aunts are agony, And recounteth   How old Miriam hath called, saying Her nephews had unto her a-visiting come, Usurping her of all such meats and monies As belongeth unto her personage, So that she had not had since Monday, Whence we delivered unto her a parcel And from her eyes there felleth tears, But you, incredible witness, How in the world can facts be obtained   From such non-clusive evidence? You needst bear an earthen iniquity.

20. Concubines are porcupines For others- be barren with you, Kenosha- Who was unready; For the worst hearsayer of all Is of a kind which comes corroborating   Out from delusion, And should you be accused of that which you have not done, Then just laugh at it and inculcate yourself further. For the world is a dowery toward your least resistance.

21. Go filial it’s all too much; Anything companied to the bowels In support of an assertion counts as evidence, As such, tender mercies, Your line is ceased.

22. Whence the land shall vomit you forth, Cannon fodder, And shouldst thou cross my rubicons; Your blood be cheaper than the water Which slips below it, And sacrifices for justice and accountability   Prove merely a nuisance.

23. And give a fuck For your colonialist appropriation- Once implanted, imagination Can become inflated, Creating false arbitrage. Those displaced were up to all kinds, I hate them.

24. And milk and honey Shall flow from their land As you shall see no good in them, For as with a supremacy have I blinded you.

25. And the ground which ye shall own, As teameth with unclean things Of a higher level of certainty   (i.e., as probables),   Shouldst remain, if credulous (only possibles, or),   On the bases of an otherwise Convincing argument   Against such teaming origins, Be downgraded (to impossible) As a lesser degree of certainty (than improbable), And in falsity, all shall be unclean.

26. And you shall be mine; Cede to me,  shouldst you be logically Compelled to withhold belief From nine-tenths of so-called Historetical facts about which You have really no doubt at all, But on the contrarie, cede, and,

27. Did I tell you the one about the wizard? Hearsay, you, the more unreliable spy Than my eyewitness’s can account for, Because you at least doubleth The reassurance of testimony, So to see yourself at the centre of it; A huge ego, Loving to create stories; You think you yourself very unique. False allegations have you committed, Casting the fallacy of the excluded middle fallacy By taking a psychologist hostage. Mutually, you aid selfish   And de rigueur people As are those which often take power,   Because I have created   Systems of reward that Exemplify how, sometimes,   A culture might falter, fail; Pick out the wrong hero.   If you can see yourself as very unique,   Then you are.

[kmomof4]

Ch9 Time and Again

I’m sorry this is so late y'all! The day got away from me again. But here we are! I hope you enjoy the new chapter! 

Ao3 link

All the love and thanks to @hollyethecurious and @winterbaby89 for all their love and support, besides beta services! I couldn’t have done this without y'all!

Also a huge shoutout and internet hug to the CSSNS discord ladies for all their encouragement and love as I worked on this all summer!

And thank you to all of you who are reading! Your messages thrill me to no end!!! They make all the work, all the blood, sweat, and tears worth it!!! Thank you from the bottom of my heart!!!

Tagging my peeps: @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @snowbellewells @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @jennjenn615 @kingofmyheart14 @profdanglaisstuff @branlovestowrite @thisonesatellite @ultraluckycatnd @flslp87 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @let-it-raines @shireness-says @kymbersmith-90 @darkcolinodonorgasm @bethacaciakay @searchingwardrobes @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @aprilqueen84 @qualitycoffeethings @superchocovian @artistic-writer @donteattheappleshook @doodlelolly0910 @seriouslyhooked @tiganasummertree

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

Under the cut unless Tumblr ate it.

The month since they’d gotten back from their trip had been the happiest month of her life. She could see why it was called the honeymoon phase. Sultry looks and secret smiles, stolen kisses in offices and sometimes more, nights spent at one of their places. If she thought that working together would be awkward, she was very pleasantly surprised to find that Killian, mostly, maintained his professionalism when there was work to be done, but as soon as it was, he was her tender and affectionate lover.

Word of their relationship had spread through the office like wildfire when they returned. It was too coincidental for them both to take a weeks vacation time. At the same time. With no contact during the week. Or advance notice. Killian had to tell Liam, and with Liam came Belle. Granny of course already knew. But it was arriving at work on Monday with a still visible hickey on her neck, even covered with makeup, that she faced the full scrutiny, interrogation, and subsequent delight of Ruby and Mary Margaret. She kept trying to tell them that it wasn’t serious at this point, but she couldn’t avoid the knowing looks thrown her way when she came out of Killian’s office with mussed hair and flushed cheeks. She was just thankful that M’s never gave her an ‘I told you so.’

The week after they got back, the meeting with Tiger Lily happened and the firm was hired to handle her advertising. With the new client and Killian being somewhat distracted with the planned opening of the LA office after the new year, she had nearly forgotten about being in the running for the Vice President of Marketing position there. Almost. She was starting to worry a little bit, seeing as they were now well into October and she still hadn’t heard anything. She didn’t want to mention her anxiety to Killian, because it would make her feel like she was taking advantage of their relationship. She simply told herself that if she hadn’t heard anything, then the other candidates probably hadn’t either, and she was simply going to have to wait just like them. Plus, and this was a pretty silly thought, with the complication of the new relationship, she didn’t want to remind him that she may soon be leaving him.

But that begged the question. Would she be leaving him? She had told herself that she was in this for the long haul. She loved him. But she also wanted the promotion. She wanted the paycheck and the recognition that came from her hard work. In LA, she’d essentially be in Killian’s position here. She’d have the freedom to take on new clients and she’d have people working under her. But did she really want that? She had people working under her here too. And Killian was here. She had to admit, staying here with him was the biggest draw to actually turning down the promotion if it was offered to her. She knew she loved him, wanted to stay with him, wanted a future with him, wanted forever with him. He all but said he loved her and wanted a future with her on their trip, but without those three little words, she didn’t want to lay out plans with any certainty one way or the other.

With the busyness at work and these kind of thoughts swirling through her mind, it was no wonder that she was susceptible to the illness that was making its way through the office. Aches and pains and digestive issues at all hours of the day and night were really starting to take their toll on her. After three nights in a row of strange, but normal strange, dreams that woke her up with such nausea, that she’d need to vomit before she could sleep again, Killian insisted she take today off, since they had the long holiday weekend ahead of them. She couldn’t argue too much given how truly rotten she felt, and when Killian kissed her goodbye and left for the office, she gratefully fell right back asleep.

~*~*~

“LA,” Liam Jones announced walking in to his office. Killian turned away from his computer and waved a hand at the conference table as he rose to greet his brother. Sitting down at the table, Liam continued. “It’s time we made a decision, little brother.”

“Younger brother,” he muttered under his breath, rifling through his desk. He pulled out the files of the final three candidates for the position. “Emma Swan, August Booth, and Greg Mendel,” he said, coming over to the table. “All qualified candidates, all with management experience.” He settled himself down in one of the chairs. “I have to say brother, I think Emma is the one we need out there. I have first hand knowledge and experience working with her, and I can personally attest to her work ethic and the quality of the work she puts out. She would be a tremendous asset in that market.”

Liam leveled an assessing look at him. “What about you? What about your relationship?” he asked.

Damn, he thought, I should have known he wouldn’t just take my spill without questioning my motives. Killian scratched behind his ear and wouldn’t meet his brother’s eyes. “Well, uh, truthfully brother…”

“Yes,” Liam prompted, without taking his eyes off his sibling.

“Truthfully,” he continued, looking down at his shoes, “I love her Liam,” he vowed with a sigh, finally looking in his brother’s face.

“Then why are you trying to convince me that she’d be of more use in southern California?” Liam’s voice was confused, but with an edge to it that he didn’t often see in him.

“I don’t know how she feels about me,” he nearly whispered. “I mean, not for sure.” He swallowed hard and looked away again. “I know I love her, and I want to be with her. Forever. But she’s never given me any indication that she feels the same way. I’m sure she cares about me, but I don’t know if what she feels for me is enough for her to stay here. I guess I’d just like to see what she’d do. If presented with the choice…” he trailed away.

“Oh, Killian,” Liam sighed, “You just want to know if you’re enough, don’t you?” Killian nodded, shamefaced at his cowardly action. “Have you talked to her about it? At all?” Liam implored him. “No, I don’t expect you have, have you? Killian, a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets. You have to fight for her. If you want her, you have to fight for her; for your relationship. Let her know exactly what you feel. Exactly what you want. Would you follow her there?” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture with a shake of his head. “Never mind. We can work out the details of the promotion later. Is she worth it?”

Pure, unadulterated shock bloomed over his face. “How can you even ask that, brother?” he thundered, “Of course she is!”

“Well then what are you still sitting there for, boy?” A new voice pierced the tension in the room. “I gave you that ring for a reason! Now go get her!” Granny stood at the door of his office, hands on her hips. Just like when he was growing up and she was about to give him a tongue lashing. His response was automatic.

“Yes, ma’am,” he yelped, nearly jumping out of his seat. “She’s at the house. She hasn’t been sleeping well and feeling pretty crummy. I think she may have the flu. We’ll see you on Tuesday,” he threw over his shoulder as he passed Granny in the doorway.

Granny turned to Liam with an amused smile on her face. “Well, that’s one way to get him moving,” she affectionately groused, “And what about you, young man? Your mother’s ring shouldn’t be gathering dust anymore. It’s high time for it to have a new home.”

Liam jumped up almost as fast as Killian had done, face as red as a tomato, stammering out all his reasons why he hadn’t made that leap for himself. Trying to dart by her, she reached up and cuffed him on the ear before chuckling, she turned to follow him out of the office.

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

“Emma?” he whispered, “Emma? Are you here?” Killian entered the bedroom, hoping to find his love still asleep. His forehead furrowed in confusion when all he found was an empty bed. He turned and headed to the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t find her in there still sick. When he found the bathroom deserted, he moved back to the front of the house wondering if he had missed her somehow. When he came in the garage door, he’d gone straight to his office to get the ring that Granny had given him about a year after Milah had died to give to his intended. Her words, not his. She didn’t want him to lose hope that he might find love again. But after her statement back at the office, he wondered if perhaps she might have seen something even then.

When he didn’t find Emma on the couch, he pulled out his phone to call her when he saw a note on the bar.

Hey Babe,

I remembered that I needed to go pick something up. Then I’m heading home afterward to hopefully get some more sleep. I’ll call you tonight.

E

Killian was no fool and the note he held in his hand was quite disconcerting. The subtle hint that he wouldn’t be seeing her tonight left him feeling bereft and wondering why she felt the need to go back to her home instead of back here whenever she procured whatever she forgot. And did that mean that she was feeling better? Why didn’t she just call him and ask him to pick up whatever it was on his way home? He decided to call her anyway, just to see if she was feeling better and if she needed anything else. When his call went to voicemail, his mild worry over her location and well being turned into concern and even fear that threatened to eat a hole in his heart until he could see and hold her for himself.

Stuffing the ring in his pocket, he left his house and headed for Swan’s apartment. Praying the entire way that she was okay.

~*~*~

Emma sat on the sofa stunned. Pregnant. She was pregnant. She looked down again at the wand in her hand, just to make sure that there was no trace of a Not in the window of the test. Why didn’t she see it sooner? Why didn’t she even consider the possible consequences of the nights, and days, of passion she shared with Killian on their getaway? Why didn’t she notice before now that her period was late?

Waking up after falling back asleep after Killian left for work, she noticed the date on her phone. October 10. Going back through her calendar, she saw that her period should have arrived around the first of the month. She put her face in her hands. How did I miss this? She was usually so methodical and particular about things. Honeymoon phase, indeed. She was so busy at work and so busy being in love that the usual discipline that characterized her life was completely absent. She should have noticed… hell, she shook her head, she should have thought about birth control. How was she going to tell him?

And she would definitely have to tell him. She needed to go back to his place, she thought with dismay. The note she left him would probably leave him in a tizzy over where she was and if she was okay. He wouldn’t be back home for a few more hours, so she could sit here for a little while longer and try to come to terms with the knowledge herself.

She was jerked out of her thoughts when she heard a key in the lock. Looking around, she quickly shoved the pregnancy test under a throw pillow and lay down on it just as the door opened. Killian came in calling her name. “Emma?”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, maybe a little more harsh than she needed to.

“I came to check on you,” he replied. “Your note left me a little concerned with how you’d been feeling lately.” He sat down on the sofa and pulled her feet into his lap.

“But, why are you home early?” she questioned. “I realized that the way I worded that note, probably wasn’t the best and I was planning on coming back before you’d get home.”

“Oh, well,” he replied, scratching behind his ear, “Yes, that. Uh, we need to talk, Emma.” He looked away from her and she saw his cheeks and the tips of his ears bloom a bright red.

“I find that when someone says that,” she nearly whispered, “I’m rarely in for a pleasant conversation.”

He turned his face back towards her with a jerk. “What?” he asked, alarmed. “Oh, no, no, no Swan. No. I mean,” he continued, looking away from her again, sheepishly, “I hope, no. But that’s really up to you…” he trailed away, looking at her feet in his lap. He started rubbing nonsense into the arch of her foot that threatened to send her thoughts into totally inappropriate territory given the preface he’d just given her.

“What is it, Killian?” she breathed, before she totally lost herself to his ministrations.

“Uhm, us… and the promotion.” He looked back at her with his heart as well as trepidation in his eyes.

“Yes?”

“Liam, and Granny too for that matter,” he began, shrugging his shoulders and looking down, “made me see something. They made me realize that while I know how I feel about you, and I thought I’d made it pretty clear over the last few weeks, I never told you explicitly.” Emma’s heart thundered in her ears. “And with the decision of the promotion looming, we needed to be on the same page, one way or the other.” Emma nodded, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. Was it possible?

“Liam always says that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets. So I am here today to fight for you, Emma. Fight for us.” He got up off the sofa and sank down on his knees before her. His blazing blue eyes delved deep into hers. “I love you, Emma. I have for a long time. And there is nothing I want more than for you to stay right here. With me, with your family and friends. If your heart is set on this promotion, then I hope that you would allow me to come with you. Because if there is one thing I want you to know Emma,” he took her hand in his, “it’s that I’ll always, always be by your side. If you’ll have me. Emma Swan,” he reached in his pocket and pulled out a very familiar ring. Emma let out a gasping sob. “Will you make me the happiest and most blessed man alive and consent to be my wife?”

She was nodding and laughing through her tears before he even finished asking. Leaning over to him, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him as if there was no tomorrow. Drawing him up to the sofa with her, he hovered over her, never releasing her lips. Finally parting, he wedged himself between her and the back of the sofa, drawing her into his arms. Lifting her left hand to his lips, he placed a gentle kiss to the knuckles before he opened his other hand that held the ring. She couldn’t hold back her gasp.

“That’s the same ring from the dream, isn’t it?” she wondered, stunned.

“Yes,” he affirmed, “it is. If I remember correctly, in the dream I had it commissioned?” It was more of a question than a statement, as evidenced by the shrug of his shoulders. “I think so anyway. But in truth, this ring was Granny’s. Her wedding ring. When my parents passed, she took it off. My mother’s wedding ring had survived the crash, and so she eventually planned to give it to Liam for his bride and she planned to give me hers. I obviously didn’t know about it when I proposed to and married Milah. About a year or so after I lost her, Granny gave it to me telling me not to lose hope that I’d find love again. But something she said today makes me wonder if she didn’t know something even then. You hadn’t been working here long, but it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she knew that you’d caught my eye. She’s a sly one for sure.”

She smiled gently at him. “What did she say?” she asked.

“She said, ‘I gave you that ring for a reason. Now go get her!’” He chuckled and raised her hand to put the ring on her finger. But before he could, she drew her hand away.

He looked at her in confusion. “What is it, Swan?” he inquired.

Now it was her turn to be nervous. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and couldn’t look at him. What if this changed things? What if he decided he didn’t want the baby? Didn’t want her? But he just asked her to marry him. That usually results in children, right? So he can’t be entirely opposed to the idea, right? Maybe just not quite this soon. She took a deep breath and looked at him. Reaching under the pillow she was laying on, she pulled out the positive pregnancy test. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at what she held in her hand. After a moment or two, those same eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline as he looked back at her, a look of hopeful joy in his eyes. “Emma?” he questioned, “Truly?” The excited shock on his face was comical, but she was able to hold back her laughter with the smile that broke over her face. A laugh burst from his throat as he took her face in his hands and crushed his mouth to hers. Her laugh broke free as he peppered kisses to her cheeks, eyelids, and nose.

“I take it that means you’re excited?” she asked.

“Oh Emma,” he breathed, “Shall I spell it out for you? Yes, I’m excited. You glorious, wondrous woman. What have I done to deserve you? Deserve this happiness?” His voice and tone lowered as he looked into her eyes again. “You’ve agreed to marry me, we’re having a baby, what more could I ask for?” He lowered his lips to hers again, kissing her thoroughly. When they broke apart, he asked, his eyes twinkling, “Now may I put the ring on your finger?”

She laughed again. “I had to be sure you’d still want to after my news,” she replied, holding her hand out to him. He pushed the ring onto her finger where it gleamed in the afternoon sun. “I love you too Killian,” she avowed, arresting him with her gaze, “And there is nothing I want more than to stay here, with you, with my family and friends. You’re everything I could ever want. Everything I could ever need.”

“As are you, my love,” he agreed, lowering his mouth to hers.

After that there were only sighs of happiness and moans of pleasure as they whispered words of love and longing and promise before their passion swept them away and deposited them on the shores of heaven on earth.

“Always and forever, Swan,” he murmured into her ear before sleep claimed them. “Always and forever.”

[killforyouliveforme]

Mistaken Identity Ch 4-6 (Epilogue included) : A Penguin/Reader Imagine (there's Smut in this one, so enjoy)

Chapter Four: The Confession

Your bedroom became storage after a time. Without a body to warm the mattress or a soul to graze its presence, the room just became yet another space for Olga to gussy up, to dust, to vacuum. After she finished, the door was closed; not a single person in Oswald’s employ would have been able to tell that at some point or another, it might’ve been a place for you to sleep. At the same time, every staff member could attest to that.

While your bedroom became ‘just another room’, Oswald’s became a home for two.

Every night, in fact.

Since the day you’d crawled into his bed to calm his ever-so-torturous resting demons, his sleep had become more than restful; naturally, he wanted it to continue. Three weeks later, when the day was over and yet another day was happily spent in his abode, you eagerly locked the front door then retired to bed.

As you lied there, you slowly fell asleep. After a time, you felt the bed shift with the weight of a second human as Oswald dressed down to pajamas. A pang of pity stung your heart; he always came to bed seemingly exhausted; a soft sigh left his lips just as he lied on his back, directly beside you. Very little space ever remained between your bodies, especially when he made himself comfortable.

The first couple of nights he spent sleeping beside you—you’d seen him at his most vulnerable, and some of the most adorable interactions you’d ever witnessed. For someone like Penguin who was so self-assured more than 99% of the time, always affluent in all things political, business, or any subject matter regarding manipulation and the other, Oswald was out of his depth when it came to any type of physical interaction—especially when it concerned yourself.

He’d made progress though over the past few weeks. Substantial progress. There’d been a time where he wouldn’t have trusted you near his head; yet, now, you felt his arm wrap itself around your waist, tightening, and pulling you back; you felt his body warm up against your back, and the smile that was inevitable every night reached your lips.

You heard him talking. Quietly.

To himself?

Or to you? You were never sure. He did this occasionally. Of this, you were aware.

He’d spend the next ten or twenty minutes telling you about his frustrations, whether or not you were asleep. It was an outlet for him—a way to expel the aggravation of having to deal with the irreputable all day, having the relief of coming home and not having to worry about having a gun put to his head.

Normally, he’d fall asleep after ten or twenty minutes after lying down. This time…

This time was different. Something else was stirring in this man’s mind.

How did you know this? Well, the evidence was piling.

One of his hands slowly moved between the locks of your hair; his fingers entangled in them. The other rested on your stomach; the thin material of your nightie didn’t disguise the gentle strokes which were administered to your skin in soft, concentric circles.

Soft, but calculating.

Testing a boundary. Your boundaries.

His circular feather-like touches started on your stomach, then slowly moved to your hip. The hem of your nightie just as delicately was pulled up, so you felt the same amount of contact on your bare skin.

You involuntarily shuddered. Not with disgust, but with anticipation.

“Oh, so you are awake.”

You grin mischievously when you hear his voice, although naturally light, utter lowly in your ear. His lips touched the shell of it, and he purposefully exhaled a quiet sigh of raw contentment. This sound alone tactically drew not only another pleasant shiver, but an involuntary hitched moan.

Caught red-handed.

You began to turn on your back to admit your fealty; however, the hand on your hip squeezed as he commanded quietly, “Don’t move. Stay where you are.”

So, you obey. Almost too readily—you feel Oswald’s smile crease his lips along the side of your neck.

“What now?” You manage to whisper; the shakiness to your voice betrays your eagerness.

“That really depends.”

“On what?”

“Your answer.”

You’re not sure what he means. But his meaning becomes known when he lowers his hand from your hip; when it rests on the outside of the thigh closest to him…The rest of his fingers are still, except for his thumb which caresses your skin in small movements, the tip of it grazing the outer elastic band of your panties.

“What’s the question, then?” You ask.

Oswald lets out a quiet laugh; it sounds so genuinely amused. He is genuinely entertained by your sudden phase of modesty. Wasn’t it only a couple weeks ago that it had been your idea to share his bed? And here you were…Asking for the question when you already knew the answer to it.

But even as your body craves him to dominate you in the same way he uses his power to solidify any quarrels with the mob or the GCPD, there’s still a part of you that longs to know the answer to a question that has been burning inside of you for a such a short time…but only if one accounted for that time in human hours.

While he may lack the social perception for physical interaction, Oswald can read people. And it becomes known that you are not an exception. As you hesitate to answer him directly or even nonverbally, Oswald’s face betrays him. You see his confusion almost immediately.

“Are you having second thoughts?” He asks.

You’re quick to assure him. No, you’re not having second thoughts. No doubts of any kind.

“Then what is it?”

The hand in your hair releases it and instead caresses your face within the palm of his hand. Unlike your own, his hands are warm. Almost hot, but so comforting. You’d become lost in his touch if it was humanly possible…And you’d be so happy to never be found again.

“Do you love me?”

The question leaves your lips before you could allow your brain to contemplate the absurdity of it all. What kind of a question is that, after all? This person lying beside you had imprisoned you in his own home, arguably he was your warden, your captor…and while all of that was inherently correct, accurate to a ‘T’, there was still a part of you that recognized Oswald for what he always wanted people to perceive him as being.

He was still a man. A man with a soul, with a heart. A powerful man, but a man none the less. And you…a person who had never been treated as beautifully and with such gentleness in your entire life.

And while your lust could devour your soul for all that it was worth in both value and trade, your heart could not be deceived. As much as it loved him, you needed to know if his reciprocated the same.

Oswald looks at you, startled. It is not often that he’s asked this question; in fact, it’s not often that he’s had as much interaction with another human without having a knife being shoved to his throat than he’s had with you—a kind gentle soul who had never done a single thing to anyone or anything, for that matter.

Did he love you?

The time he didn’t spend at the meetings for his casino or with the volatile variables of his occupation, he spent it with you. What energy he had left when he was finished with Gotham’s ill-repute, he used to lavish you with gifts and sincerity.

“Of course, I do.” Oswald returned.

The answer isn’t what you expected, but it is one that you are more than happy to hear. With your confession in the air and his reciprocation having been tossed in the same, you smile at him.

And this time when he kisses you, you feel more than just lust. Love radiates between you both. You can feel it in your heart, and he, in his.

Chapter Five: The First Time Together

His admission of love is almost a declaration so strong that it could have knocked the breath out of your windpipe. Breathless as you were, there wasn’t a single thing you could say that could express the dire longing that had become fulfilled by his words.

Then again, why were words necessary?

The thought occurred to you, and instead of trying to express your gratitude vocally, you did so with another kiss. This exchange is not so tender; your intentions are made clear when your lips crash against his, pressing against them so hard and so quickly that your teeth clicked.

Oswald isn’t naïve. Something more than just your hard, deep kisses has made it known to him how badly you need to consummate your wanton desires. Your nightie is not thick enough to disguise your radiating heat from between your legs. While you’re enjoying the make-out taking place between you two, this is the place where you need him most.

Steadily during the fierce progression of those kisses, you’re gradually lowered on your back; staring up at him from the bed while he lies on his side, looking down at you. Where the bright irises of ever-changing hues of blue would normally reside, in their place is something darker…something you’ve been longing to see but have been fearful for which to ask.

Any other man might act upon his own desires, like a barbarian having been masked with a human’s face and skin, but no such man is he. Oswald Cobblepot, you realize, is something far more dangerous than any other man. He’s not a beast, a Neanderthal, whimsically groping and fondling away like a mad schoolboy undergoing a hormonal fiasco.

Oswald isn’t anything like that.

He’s patient. He’s cool, calm, and collected.

Like a lion.

Waiting.

So very patiently, too, he allows your desire to climb.

His hand, which has caressed your face to observe your repressive frenzy, now lowers to your neck. The inside of his thumb just barely grazes the lining of your throat; the other digits form a ‘C’ around the side of your neck, with a soft but firm hold.

He hasn’t spoken much except to exhale a quiet sigh of contentment when your hands leave your side to hold onto him—any part of him. His arms, his shoulders, his hair. Seeing your submission eek out of what he’d quickly discovered was a calm but quaking, strong soul…it’s a power you hadn’t known until you felt what affect it had on him.

In your squeamishness, your legs have moved; fidgeting, your thighs move and you feel an extension of him nudge against the right one.

Oh, you think with subtle surprise and flattery.

You realize what your actions and moans have been doing to him.

And something else has probed your mind. It’s a thought that registered from time to time…

How big is he?

The thought alone, even now, heats your face and you see a ghost of a smirk tug on Oswald’s lips.

As though he read your mind.

Steadily, his hand on your neck moves down, grazing his fingertips along the V-neck of your nightie. His eyes flicker down to the straps on your shoulders and without saying much, he looks into your eyes one more time---when you don’t object, the straps are pulled down with a gentleness that feels almost out of place but only because you’re wanting something more.

You open your mouth to implore him to get on with it—patience is a virtue but it’s something you certainly don’t have. At least, not as much patience as the man who has made you come undone and your clothes haven’t even come off yet!

In spite of your silent protest, you are silenced.

More kisses. Soft again. Tender. Pecks turn into open-mouthed invitations, and you can feel his tongue sliding against yours. It distracts you from the fact that your night slip is completely down to your stomach: straps and all, a puddle around your mid-section.

His hand that had been languidly undressing you now rests in the valley of your breasts. He makes not a verbal comment, but you can hear him try to stifle what you can only assume is an anticipated moan.

He doesn’t move to either breast. His hand on your valley just holds you in place for what is about to happen.

His leg separates yours, wrapping itself around the one closest to him. Like an anchor.

Last chance, he seems to say. Last chance to stop this before he finally loses his composure. Last chance before he finally gives into his baser instincts, the type of instincts that with control and discipline have set humans apart from the animals who walk on all fours or slither through the dirt of the underground.

As an answer, your hand that has been interlaced through his hair drops to the bulge pressed against your thigh through his pajama bottoms. He’s substantially hard, thick in girth, and the size of him, you can’t fathom to imagine…although you could certainly try as you massage your palm over his cock. He sharply exhales, as though he’d been holding in a breath but now you stole it from him in that simple gesture.

“You’re not so timid anymore, are you.” Oswald whispers.

Your voice accompanies your smirk: “I never was.”

The answer you provide darkens his eyes to nothing as they become dilated completely. There was a darkness to you all along, hidden from society, hidden from the villains of Gotham…waiting to appear when the big bad of them all realized you’d been playing everyone for a fool. The greatest form of manipulation was an apparent subservience, one of which you felt Oswald could completely understand.

Underestimation was a cruel but successful tactic.

Oswald’s hand on your valley moves down, his fingertips grazing over the nightie that is pooled at your waist, and then slides underneath it. You feel it before you see it. His hand on your underwear, not just on the waistline anymore. His palm presses against them, the heat from your pussy so hot and wet, he can feel it through the material.

A small squeak escapes your lips as he rolls the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit. The material of your underwear generates a certain amount of friction that you alone couldn’t have, and the shock of contact sends jittery, but overwhelming waves of pleasure through every extremity. Another whimper is pulled out of you when you feel him fingering you through your underwear—just enough to tease, not enough to fully please.

His lips press against your ear, then below it. Your skin is sensitive; you can feel every peck of his lips, and his tongue along the shell of your ear as he moans contentedly while you quietly suffer.

“Don’t give me that whine,” Oswald utters softly as you let out a helpless moan.

Just as he expected, you’re trying to move your legs, trying to push them together so you could assuage the growing sensation in the pit of your belly. A throbbing that is so pleasantly uncomfortable.

But he’s stronger than he looks.

He’s able to hold you down; the other hand that hasn’t been occupied with your body has found its way behind your head, coiled in your hair which he’s wrapped around his fist. He pulls and your head cranes back, looking up at him whereas your eyes had been drawn below.

“You are wriggling an awful lot,” Oswald cared to observe aloud with a sly smile. “Perhaps you’d prefer manual restraints?”

Your eyes grow big as saucer plates.

Bondage?

You’ve never experienced such a thing, but there’s a darker part of you aching to give it a try, especially if it’s Oswald doing the tying. However, it’s too soon, and the reality of such a suggestion causes your legs to forcefully lie still.

Oswald scolds with a smile: “That’s what I thought.”

The hand between your legs, though…God, he’s driving you insane. Your underwear is completely soaked by the time he takes pity on you. Just as he’s done through every step of the way, he slowly draws your underwear down your legs, to your knees, and stops. He takes into account that while you’re basically fully undressed, for save the night slip resting aimlessly around your waist that he’s still fully clothed in his pajamas.

He pointedly says, “Don’t move.”

You nod.

You’ve done everything he’s ever asked—why would this be any different?

He removes himself from you only to pull his shirt over his head (a sight that you hadn’t realized you wanted to see until now) and then unintentionally humorously wiggles out of his bottoms. You hide your amused smile.

For such a dangerous man that he’s perceived to be (and you are aware that he really is), there’s a sense of humor about him that you deem is quirky and playful. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, but it’s a funny thing when you do.

He joins you swiftly, taking this measure to command that you lie down on your back; you do as you’ve been told whereupon he takes both your night slip and underwear and slips them off your ankles in a few tugs.

Where they fall, you don’t care in the slightest.

Eagerly, he returns and he’s settled between your legs. Already, you feel his cock against your swollen pink petals…he’s girthy, alright. Big, too.

‘I’ll make it fit’, your thought processes are so determined.

“Last chance,” Oswald warns.

You sit up with him between your knees and kiss him. Hard.

“Enough with the warnings—just fuck me already, please.”

Oswald cracks a grin—mischievous, and yet, pleasantly impressed by your command. He returns your kiss, and you’re lying on your back again as he braces himself on top of you, most of his weight supported by his elbows. Once he’s inside of you, however, that type of commanding support is lost but you welcome his weight—it’s a safe feeling you’ve craved. Now that you have it, you doubt you’ll ever be able to let it go.

His thrusts start out slow, giving you time to adjust. It doesn’t take long; in a matter of a few, you’re already pleading for a harder, rougher pace. And he’s all too inclined to indulge.

The force that compels him to give you what you want is what really puts you over the top. The fire in your belly churns into an unstable flame and as it grows, so does the volume of your moans. As the exalting tidal wave of an intense release crashes over you, you know Oswald isn’t too far behind.

His thrusts are getting sloppy; his otherwise quiet moans have become an unyielding series of grunts and panting. When your climax reaches its peak, the sex becomes rougher, almost animalistic.

Your hands reach out to him, but he pins your wrists against on either side of your head. The control he has over you, the same power he has over Gotham…it shows, oh it definitely does, and you feel almost entitled to see it and what follows is his sudden submission as his own orgasm peaks.

He pulls out of you, almost immediately; when he does, you take the opportunity as you’ve been freed from your restraints to sit up and push him on his back. He’s disarmed by the sudden response but his moan of gratitude comes out when you wrap your mouth around his cock as you stroke him with your hand, bringing him to his full orgasm.

You feel him come inside your mouth, and you take every ounce that you can until he’s completely depleted.

You smile when you watch him lie on his back, spent. He glances at you, smiling back. At first there are no words to describe what has happened between the two of you—no words exist to describe such a beautiful thing.

He looks you up and down and he asks softly, “No second thoughts?”

You say happily with the blush on your cheeks: “None what so ever.”

Chapter Six: Epilogue

Ten years.

Seems like a such a kick in the fucking face if you thought about it. And hell, how could you not think about it. The sentence was uncalled for, especially since you, Oswald, and Ed Nygma had taken back Gotham alongside Jim Gordon and the rest of the GCPD.

Hell, even Barbara fucking Kean didn’t even go to prison. And yet…

Here you all were.

Well, you and Oswald.

Poor Ed…He ended up going to Arkham.

Still, there was a sense of entitlement you felt was owed. How did Jim Gordon…Why did he…Who did he think he was—none of that mattered. The judge threw down the gavel, sentencing you to five years; Oswald, ten.

The five-year span was easy compared to the other treacherous tasks that you had to go through back in the day. Still…

You sit in this small confinement of a room. Supposedly, it’s for the prisoners to visit their families but for such a tight confinement, you doubt that any prisoner with a family would bear to have their family come here.

Children…Mothers…. Fathers…maybe even pets.

Come here? One could hope not.

For years, it was you in the prisoner’s spot while you watched some rehabilitated friends visit, ones who hadn’t come looking for you when you were first imprisoned by what was ironically the person who knew you best. The friends didn’t stay long, only talking about how great life was outside of Gotham…Typical dirtbags, you’d think. But hey, they gave you money for cigarettes and it was the cliché of trading cigarettes for letter writing materials, of which you could exchange with other prisoners in other cellblocks.

Now…

Here you were. Five years had passed, not much had changed, except for the fact that you were the visitor, here to see someone close to you.

As expected, you were ten minutes early. Not much looked different about you: new hair, new makeup, new clothes, but the rest of you was the same. As the officer escorted the object of your affection out to the room, you gave that particular one a cold glare; he recognized you from the day and quickly left to continue his shift.

Oswald Cobblepot took a seat in the metal chair; his hands, by your request, had been unrestrained. Not that he needed you to protect or provide for him in this prison. He’d had influence from the outside for so long that his reputation followed him even to Black Gate, where the other prisoners revered, respected, or feared him enough to stay out of his way and not mess with the provincial life he’d set up for himself.

As a result, his clothes, an edition of prisoner attire, were more steam pressed with crisp sleeves and suit-like creases in the pant legs. His hair was in that familiar style, pulled out of his face and stacked atop of his head; he wore makeup from time to time, a subtle look if the day accounted for it at all.

And here he was, handsome as ever.

You smile when he greets you in such a way that isn’t representative of prison life. He simply leans over the table, kisses your cheek, and says, “How was your day, Dear?”

His greeting alone makes you want to cry, but for his benefit, you say softly, “Uneventful. Until now.”

“Really? ‘Uneventful’? I have a hard time believing that. What did you do today?”

“Nothing much.”

“Did you rob anything?”

“No.”

“Mug anyone?”

“No.”

“Ah…Perhaps you pickpocketed a sad civilian?”

“Of course not!” You exclaim, smiling. “Like I said when we first met. I never did anything to anybody.”

----

Thanks for reading :) and thank you to @kpopgirlbtssvt for encouraging me to write more. One of my best imagines in my opinion. ♥️❤️ @edward-nygma-is-my-addiction @ceruleanrainblues @oswald-cobblepot-imagines @penguinsweetest @penguinssupersecretsafehouse @cobblepotkingpenguin

Full story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18554929

😊

[tardis-sapphics]

Ooh you said you were open to Thasmin prompts so may I suggest Thasmin + ice cream?

you guys seem to like your ice cream prompts don’t you

‘I can’t believe you got an ice cream van.’

The three of them are standing outside of Graham’s house, in various states of disbelief. Parked on the curb sits the Doctor’s new… acquisition, a monstrosity on the eyes, the gaudiest type of van to ever roam the streets of Britain.

‘I can,’ Yaz responds to Ryan’s open-mouthed utterance.

The Doctor, it seems, has bought an ice cream van that has intensified its own nature. Gone are the pretty pinks and the calm orange pastels of years before; this van boasts of at least seven different colours, all bold and bright and beautiful, splashed all over its exterior. On its front and rear twirl different cartoons, from iconic Looney Tunes characters to cartoon aliens that Yaz has never seen before in her life. She thinks she glimpsed a Scooby-Doo on the other side, too, but none of the rest of the gang. On the serving side of the van, the ubiquitous ‘Mr. Whippy’ logo takes up most of the room, a typeface copied on the front of the van. On the roof, two ginormous painted metal ice creams spin on an axis in tandem.

Yaz doesn’t even want to consider how obnoxiously loud the ice cream van’s jingle will be.

The Doctor has never looked prouder, of course. Her arms are wider than the sun as she shows off her newest hobby; her grin deep-set and all-encompassing. Her eyes crinkle with delight. She can barely contain herself.

It makes sense, Yaz thinks, that she would take this mission to the next level. Her exasperation is quickly dissipating: it’s easy to forgive the Doctor for her wild plans when they make her smile like that.

‘I…’ Graham stutters. ‘Doc, you’ve genuinely made me speechless. Proper speechless.’

‘Ey, and that don’t happen too much, does it?’ Ryan grins to Yaz.

‘It’s just…’ They wait, curious, as Graham tries in earnest to find the words appropriate for this moment. He constantly has to adjust his crossed arms, his eyebrows getting more and more furrowed. The Doctor has started lowering her arms by the time he reaches the right response. ‘H…How?’

Yaz shrugs. That’s fair.

The Doctor has endeavoured to inspect every inch of her new van, checking, no doubt, for any improvements she could make. ‘If you must know, I have a mate up in Leeds who sells them.’ She disappears behind the back of the van, though her voice still carries. ‘I say mate. I mean acquaintance.’ A pause. ‘I say acquaintance. I mean someone I met.’

Yaz hums. ‘You found it on the internet, didn’t you?’

The Doctor’s head pops up to the side, and she points a finger at Yaz. ‘But she were very lovely, I’ll have you know! She were dead pleased, said she don’t really get customers anymore. Unless, of course, they’re from—’

‘The United Federation of Ice-Cream Creators,’ the three humans echo in unison.

‘See; you’re learning!’ the Doctor crows, and appears only to disappear again, into the van to inspect its contents.

Buying an ice cream from the ice cream van in summer was a highlight of their repeated childhood memories, no matter which generation they belong to. Graham swears up and down that the vans haven’t changed much since he was young, though the ice cream van could park anywhere back then, unlike now with all these cars clogging up the streets. For Ryan, ice cream vans always indicated refreshment after playing out with his mates – he of all of them would appreciate the cool refreshment after all the hard work. Yaz’s prevailing memory is of her local ice cream van man: a walking Italian stereotype who refused to call any of the girls by a name other than Rebecca or Jessica. At several points throughout her childhood, Yaz was called both Rebecca and Jessica during one single purchase.

It’s with these memories in mind that they follow her into the van – not only because they tend to follow, but because, they, too, are curious. Stepping closer to peer inside feels like a betrayal of the childhood mystery, but they’re pulled to it regardless.

It simply looks off-white; functional, extremely claustrophobic, and a little underwhelming. But if the expression on her face is anything to go by, it’s the Doctor’s idea of paradise.

Yaz is the first to step inside. She’s the first to follow; she always has been. In the cramped line the space inside the van allows, Yaz becomes situated against the Doctor, pressed up close and comfy. It’s a happy coincidence that the Doctor’s arm has to reach over her shoulder to point at the whippy dispenser and the empty cardboard boxes waiting to be filled with 99 Flakes.

The Doctor choosing to rest her arm on Yaz’s shoulder afterwards is not such a coincidence. Ryan and Graham are taking the time to do their own preliminary investigations, passing comments to each other in the light tone they’ve both grown to depend on from one another. (This isn’t without difficulty, though. Graham is desperately trying to decode Ryan’s rhetorical question of whether screwball ice creams ‘deserve rights’.) Knowing the other two are distracted, Yaz takes the time to sink into the feeling of the Doctor around her, letting her head rest on the Doctor’s. She smells like honey, and engine oil, and peppermint. They breathe in together and revel in the feeling: the both of them free to display affection like this. Finally, finally.

It evolved slowly, intensifying, like taking a deep breath. First it was the handholding, electrifying when sparse and comforting when established; long looks and good-natured teasing were followed by hugs, and longer hugs, and holding on. Then came the peak, lungs filled with anticipation – clandestine kisses shared in the dark and in the quick moments. Settling into rhythms and understanding each other in ways they wouldn’t have otherwise.

Yaz knows what the Doctor’s lips taste like in the morning, and the exact way she likes her tea. She knows that the Doctor is ticklish on the insides of her elbows and the undersides of her feet. The Doctor has read and reread Yaz’s favourite childhood books, Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, just so she can match Yaz’s pace and fervour whenever it is somehow brought up in conversation. Almost every time the Doctor holds Yaz’s hand, and especially when they’re alone, she’ll make the effort to flip her hand over and kiss Yaz’s palm with a tenderness that makes the other woman tremble.

In other words, Yaz is absolutely head over heels for the Doctor. And she’s pretty sure it’s being reciprocated, too.

Not that they’ve really verbalised what this is. Hand holding and kissing and genuine comfort is one thing; giving the dynamic foundational support is another. It’s the question that’s kept her awake almost every night since, but Yaz doesn’t want to break this. The Doctor tends to be slow on social cues, and Yaz doesn’t want to rush her.

The Doctor might just not be into labels.

‘What d’you think?’ the Doctor murmurs.

Being pulled out of one’s deliberations gets no less jolting – it does, in fact, take Yaz by surprise to a higher degree thanks to the Doctor’s proximity. Her lips are close enough to Yaz’s ears that she’d hear the Doctor whisper even over the din of the van’s engine. It does wonders for a part of her she’s not at all prepared to dwell on in an ice cream van. It’s this reminder – that the Doctor’s talking about a flipping ice cream van – that brings her to her senses.

‘I think you’re an idiot,’ she replies, bring up a hand to hold the Doctor’s hand so leisurely draped over Yaz’s body. The Doctor’s hands are cool, reassuring, where her own burn hot. ‘What happens if we’re still monitoring the Federation for longer than a week? Won’t you have to take it back and lose your cover?’

The Doctor frowns, an expression that moulds her lips into what Yaz and Ryan fondly call a “scronch”. ‘Why would I be taking this back if I bought it?’

Yaz sighs.

‘Doctor, I swear to—’

Quite a lot of Yaz’s life sounds like something out of a conspiracy theorist’s overactive imagination. Thankfully, the Moon landing was not faked; and the world, she can confirm, is overwhelmingly round – but she can personally attest to aliens walking amongst humans on Earth. And more besides.

Sometimes it’s so crazy that she can’t quite believe it herself.

If you told her two years ago that the ice cream van industry was being targeted by an alien species determined to steal the original Mr. Whippy recipe from Earth and claim ownership of the delicacy throughout the known universe – she would’ve laughed you out of the room.

But, well, here she is. Trying to stop ice cream thieves.

Ryan and Graham were assigned the roles of faithful customers, parading the scorching streets of Sheffield in order to build a rapport with the city’s ice cream sellers. All those pound coins being spent (mostly Graham’s) have, eventually, paid off: they’ve compiled an effective list of who they believe to be local Federation colleagues, aliens the four of them should attempt to befriend in order to get inside information.

It’s up to the Doctor and Yaz, then, to sell the alibi – and plenty of ice creams in the meantime. While it’s the Doctor who mans the van first and foremost, Yaz joins her when police work isn’t demanding her attendance. The ice cream selling is much more preferable to patrolling the county in a roasting police uniform.

Summer 2019 has been swinging, temperature-wise, from the boring to the truly worrying. In a week where the weather has alternated between torrential rain and record-breaking heat, the two women have had a wildly varying record of success. Sometimes they’ve sat with the serving window up to see no passers-by in sight. Not that they would be able to glimpse them, anyway, behind the incessant raindrops splattering the serving window. Other times, they’ve had impatient queues consisting of the entire park they’ve visited: harassed and harangued parents struggling to keep their kids happy in the sweltering heat; groups of kids in vital need of sustenance after all their playing; older residents cashing in on the opportunity to indulge in nostalgia. Such is British weather.

The Doctor has taken to selling ice cream like a duck to water. She may not be socially tactful, but her enthusiasm around people more than makes up for it. She makes the process of making ‘Mr. Whippy’ ice creams into a show for the kids to enjoy. She juggles the ice lollies before presenting them to her amused customers, despite the little space the ice cream van provides. She can be heard whistling the ice cream van’s jingle, ‘Greensleeves’, even after her work for the day is done. There’s a knack to ice cream selling, Yaz believes, and the Doctor has it in spades.

Sometimes they even forget they’re meant to be keeping a lookout for the Federation. It’s so easy to slip into this routine, switching between serving the public as a police officer and serving the public their much-needed ice cream. Spending her time with the Doctor, floating around each other in the van guided more by the touch of fingertips on familiar clothes than by sight; it feels like something they could get settled into.

Apparently it shows.

They get looks, the Doctor and Yaz. Very specific looks. Yaz is not often in the back of the ice cream van whilst the Doctor is serving, but whenever she makes her way down, hands on the Doctor’s back as she moves, she’ll sometimes catch a glimpse of recognition from the customers. The ice cream van is a two-way mirror through which society can look at itself – the Doctor and Yaz get a feel for the surrounding community, and the customers, too, get a feel for them.

Sometimes they’re parents, surprised to see such tenderness between two women. (Sometimes their acknowledgement is one of distaste. Not always, but sometimes; Yaz does her best to stare back, to make them uncomfortable.) Sometimes, they are gay couples, and the look passed between them is one of solidarity more than anything else.

Sometimes they’re just curious kids, learning more and more about the world each day.

‘Are you two girlfriends?’

Wearing a football shirt drenched with sweat, the girl stands and waits patiently with her mother for a well-earned 99 Flake.

‘Idha!’ the mother scolds her.

Amongst the recognition of her own mini heart attack, Yaz estimates that the kid must be about 9, no older. There’s no sort of disdain coming from her. She’s just a curious little girl.

Still, that doesn’t make answering her question any easier. Honestly, Yaz was just in the back to pinch a 99 flake. That mission has backfired massively. Her heartbeat picks up.

She knows what she’d like to say. She knows that whatever answer is given now will determine the answer to that question for a while yet.

Yaz presumed the Doctor was too busy concentrating on perfecting the twirl of the ice cream to pay attention.

But the Doctor takes her by surprise. One perfect ice cream is presented, Flake squished in, with an equally made-up smile. As Yaz opens her mouth to speak – to say what, she doesn’t know – the Doctor jumps in.

‘Me and Yaz? We’re partners in crime, we are,’ she responds, with a wink. ‘Not literally. She’s a police officer, you know.’

Partners in crime. Right.

(She can’t help but notice the disappointment fizzling in her body.)

This seems to placate both child and mother long enough for the significance of the question to be forgotten. They pay for the treat – the girl utters a very polite, ‘Thank you, miss!’ – and leave.

Yaz is returning to the driver’s seat to eat her Flake in peace, but the Doctor catches her eye for just a second as they manoeuvre around the small space. The Doctor’s gaze is acquiescent; filled with a longing Yaz can’t quite place.

‘Was that—?’

The Doctor’s words are cut off by the thump of a small child managing to catapult themselves straight into the ice cream van.

 Alone time, when the great British public have not deigned the two women with their presence, is preferable for interests other than sugary cold treats. Especially when the clouds are dumping a month’s worth of rain in about three hours.

She’s been trying her hardest not to be distracted these past few days, but it’s easier said than done when it’s just been the two of them in this van. Their duty to the public comes first, of course, but in the midst of many an explicit look, Yaz has never been happier to forget her promise to serve the public their ice cream.

Besides, making out with the Doctor is so much more fun.

It’s a very middling Friday; after the ridiculous heat of Thursday, the temperatures have comparatively plummeted to around 21 degrees. The clouds overhead have sent kids running indoors, nervous about the deluge to come. A few brave souls have wandered on parched pavements, though; a couple of them have even wanted a cool treat.

Yaz’s shift doesn’t start until 7pm, so she’s free to assist the Doctor in her ice cream escapades for three more hours or so. On this slow day, she’s been the one doing the driving whilst the Doctor busies herself with stock-checking or fiddling with this strange handheld invention the Doctor has brought on board.

She can’t really understand it. There are at least three levers, and a winding gear. It has what Yaz can only conclude is a dog cone fixed hastily onto one of its ends. Whenever she has tried to ask what on Earth the entire contraption may be, the Doctor has been far too preoccupied to answer.

‘What are we even gonna do when we uncover the Federation ice cream sellers?’ she wonders. She has to make her voice loud over the sound of the engine, kept on even when they’re stationary in order to keep the ice creams cool. Getting out of the driver’s seat, she steps into the serving area to find the Doctor bent down, inspecting her rapidly depleted supply of strawberry syrup. The dog coned invention languishes at her feet, bleeping infrequently.

‘I dunno, really,’ is the Doctor’s reply, her voice stretched by her movement as she stands back up. Leaning with one hand on the van’s windowsill, she continues, ‘I’m definitely reporting them to the Shadow Proclamation, though. There are about 300 different laws on the issue of original content being stolen from species who haven’t developed enough to defend their planetary property – the Federation are breaking every single one of them.’

Coatless, with sleeves rolled back, she looks just a little more unkempt than usual, frazzled in the best way by a new hobby keeping her busy. She’s positively glowing – not from the regeneration energy, this time – and Yaz is a little more than attracted to the sight.

Yaz has to swallow it down. ‘But what about in the meantime? Surely the threat of the Shadow Proclamation won’t stop them from continuing their business right now?’

‘You’d think that, wouldn’t you?’ the Doctor muses. It’s hard, in a small space such as this, getting somewhere with so much energy, but Yaz can only describe her movement as floating – getting closer and closer to Yaz. ‘But no. The Redeto know just how little power they have in the universe. Stealing a soon-to-be popular recipe will pay off big time if successful, but the repercussions are huge. They know the stakes here.’ The Doctor shrugs. ‘Maybe if I promise I won’t rat them out.’

‘That’s if they give you an audience,’ Yaz points out. It’s a strong point, but it peters off into nothingness now the Doctor has moved so close. Their noses are almost touching. Yaz can see hazel green; wide pupils.

Her heartbeat is off the charts.

The Doctor doesn’t bother to attempt a corny line. There’s no need now she knows Yaz is unofficially, but totally, hers. Instead, her indication of intent comes in the form of nervous hands, swooping up to caress Yaz’s face. Everything is still new; with warm touch, Yaz’s skin is set on fire.

She is the one to push forward and press their lips together. It’s such a relief, every time, like breathing out after holding her breath for too long. They gasp for each other in between kisses and Yaz can feel it, that mutuality, that simplest of desires, to hold and be held. Her hands slip down the Doctor’s mustard suspenders, and she thanks her lucky stars that this feeling – this experience – is something she gets to indulge in. She’d be thankful for an only time. She’s lost count of how many times they’ve kissed now, and she grows every day in her gratitude.

She’s lost all sense of the outside world – just pressing herself further into the joy of it, the relief that comes with knowing the Doctor still wants to kiss. She’s quite forgotten that they’re stood at the serving area, kissing slow then fast, hard and tender, with open mouths and roaming hands.

She wishes she could do this all the time.

There comes a point where attention must be paid, however, to something else other than the Doctor. At a slow moment within the kiss, the Doctor stills and stalls in her previously successful endeavour of pushing her hands underneath Yaz’s jacket. Yaz immediately pulls away, regretting the absence of warm hands and confusion starting to crease her brow – until she hears it too.

Another engine. She tries to calm her heartbeat.

‘Is that…?’

‘Probably.’ The Doctor swallows, attempting to compose herself. ‘We’ve got company.’

Peeking through the serving area’s closed window, they can see an idling ice cream van. The décor is much duller than the Doctor’s – practical, toned down and perfect. It’s a perfectly respectable paint job for a perfectly respectable person – and that would be fine, of course, if it weren’t for the fact that the person in the van is very much not a person. Not a human person, anyway.

Yaz recognises the van right away – one of the people on the list. Ryan and Graham have known about this Redeto for a while, and they tasked Yaz and the Doctor to keep an eye on him. Apparently, they weren’t subtle. The stern, dangerous look on his face is indication enough. To his left, another person bends forward and makes himself known.

Two of them.

Knowing your cover might be blown is different to actually having your cover blown. Yaz keeps eye contact with the Doctor as their expressions slacken with dread. Was it their discussion? Was it Ryan and Graham? It doesn’t particularly matter.

The Redeto are not known for being considerate.

‘You alright to start driving the van?’ the Doctor asks politely, a light confidence in her voice that would be reassuring were it not for its total falsity.

Yaz gets to it. Their moment of being together is over, very over. With no small feeling of reluctance, she disentangles herself from the warmth of the Doctor’s body and makes her way to the driver’s seat, nearly tripping over the Doctor’s contraption as she does.

Almost three years of driving has prepared her enough for the small feat of piloting the ice cream van. Thereabouts, anyway. The van lurches into motion as soon as she eases her foot off the clutch and she grimaces, embarrassed. But they’re on their way.

The other ice cream van immediately follows.

Yaz swallows. They’re definitely within the realms of being chased now. This is new to her; she’s usually the one pursuing, checking for escape routes to block and ways to guide the target into stopping. On the flipside, the mounting pressure is starting to get to her.

She would not want to be in the shoes of a criminal, Yaz thinks. It’s bad enough being pursued by an ice cream van.

She takes a deep breath and presses down on the accelerator, hard. The van groans in response but reacts as best it can. It unsettles the Doctor’s balance in the back of the van.

‘Keep going, Yaz!’ she shouts, the bleeping from her invention almost a second rallying cry. ‘We can try to evade him!’

She’s on the flipside – but, Yaz realises, she can use that to her advantage. Her knowledge of Sheffield’s roads is bone-deep; better, she imagines, than an alien following the popular routes where customers would most likely be. She finds an opening and makes a sharp turn, the tyres screeching and the ice cream machines rattling raucously. Terraced houses whizz by; Yaz catches a glimpse of a mother in pyjamas putting out the bins; her eyes wide, her mouth open at the sight before – and then after – her.

This sort of scene would usually be accompanied by a dramatic film score; a heart-raising drumbeat, maybe a few electric guitars. Instead, the street is treated to the shriek of ‘Greensleeves’ as the ice cream van thunders past.

‘Yasmin Khan, you are my hero!’ the Doctor praises. ‘Nice job. Time to head for the TARDIS, don’t you th—’

‘Doctor, he’s back,’ Yaz interrupts, catching sight of him in her wing mirror. Just because she turned so quickly, it didn’t mean he couldn’t catch up. He must have found a shortcut too, she thinks. Damn. She switches gears to accommodate for the upcoming hill. A red light flashes into existence at the top of it, and a three-car-long queue has built up.

‘You’re kidding,’ she whispers. She has to stop. She is, after all, a law-abiding citizen – and a police officer. She’s the last person to defy a red light.

Waiting for the amber light gives the Federation ice cream van enough time to catch up. As they line up in adjacent lanes, the Redeto in the driver’s seat turns to look at Yaz. Yaz looks back, a disapproving frown planted very firmly on her face. And his smile widens into a smug. Weirdo, she thinks.

The green light returns, finally, and they are restricted by the cars in front for a little while. But, once more, as soon as Yaz sees an opening away from the queue, she takes it – tyres screech and the Doctor is thrown into the 99 Flakes box. The Federation van follows suit, and gains steadily as they run through a green, an amber, another green. Their van has more horsepower, the two women come to realise; once again the two ice cream vans line up. Yaz goes into another gear and speeds up, pushing past the speed limit, but it’s not enough to lose them.

The driver smiles at her again as he winds down his window. Yaz grumbles under her breath. Then the passenger leans forward again, this time having procured with a rather gun-like weapon.

She gasps – ducks her head. Just in time. The shot goes over her head, singing a couple of her hairs – and breaking both windows of the van’s driving compartment. It shatters with a high-pitched sound, and Yaz yelps.

The van veers to the left but she rights it. ‘Doctor, do something!’ she shouts over the noise of the engine. ‘He’s shooting at me!’

‘Yes, I saw!’ the Doctor shouts back. Yaz swerves the van onto another street ��� another residential area. Mercifully, there are no kids playing. The turn upsets the Doctor’s journey to the driving compartment, but with her free hand she holds onto the passenger seat.

The Redeto’s weapon, it seems, needs to power up again. Yaz takes the moment to glimpse at the Doctor – sleeves rolled up past her elbows, blonde hair flyaway, a few strands falling down past her forehead onto her face. There’s an intensity in the way she’s set her jaw. As she winds up the invention tucked under her arm, her right arm’s muscles tense and relax.

Yaz finds it amazing how, in the middle of being shot at, she still finds time to be wholly distracted by how impressive the Doctor looks.

Then they’re shot at again – the Doctor jumps back, Yaz compressing herself into a crouch – and she focuses on the task at hand. Namely, driving. They soar over a speed bump and the shock of the landing is particularly hard. Something in the back of the van breaks open. They return to a wider road. Still, the Federation van keeps up.

‘Now, Doctor!’ Yaz yells.

The buzzing of the Doctor’s contraption gets more and more frequent until it blends into one sound. A whirring starts up, like a whistling kettle, and the Doctor’s grin gets wide.

‘Show time,’ she breathes.

With a couple of steps, the Doctor places her body in the way of Yaz, so neither Redeto can destabilise the womens’ van. Hoisting the contraption onto her shoulder, she points the cone-end forward at the Redeto drivers and yanks down a lever. White hot light surrounds the machinery.

‘Oi!’ the Doctor shouts. ‘Stop shooting at my girlfriend!’ She presses a button, and a stream of white light gets propelled towards the Federation van.

Yaz and the Doctor speed away, but in the wing mirror, Yaz can witness what the contraption has done to their pursuers. The white light envelopes the surfaces of the ice cream van; with the two men stuck inside, they are caught in the consequences. The van completely freezes – momentum dissipating in the afternoon air – and nothing escapes. Not a sound, not a single movement. Hair does not sway. Arms do not collapse. The steering wheel does not turn.

They are simply suspended.

The sight of them in her mirror gets smaller and smaller, until they become inconsequential. Nothingness has never seemed so explicitly still. Yaz turns another corner and eases the van into a more residential-friendly speed. At this pace, the incessant ‘Greensleeves’ blaring through the ice cream van’s speakers feels less frantic.

Yaz huffs out a relieved breath.

‘Aw, mate,’ the Doctor beams from beside her. ‘I was hoping that would work.’

Yaz doesn’t want to entertain the alternative. ‘Wh-what was that?’ she asks. Her eyes are still on the road; even though the Federation van has been… apprehended, she still wants to get them as far away as possible.

The Doctor jumps into the passenger seat, already investigating the state of her contraption. The whirring has stopped, the light disappeared; the beeping, at least, is much more regular now. ‘That was a makeshift Time Stop,’ she explains. ‘Does what it says on the tin. I need this to reverse the effects, so they continue to be exactly how they were in the moment they got stopped, but by that time we’ll be much better prepared for them.’ She winds it up, and it bleeps at her. ‘I know, I know! Look, we’ll charge you when we get inside the TARDIS, alright?’ With that thought, she looks up at Yaz. ‘Can you head there now?’

Yaz nods, and changes direction.

It takes a minute or so of relative quietness – ‘Greensleeves’ is still playing, the twee high pitch fuelling Yaz’s irritation – when her brain catches up fully with the afternoon’s events. The tension of being pursued has melted away to reveal perfect memory.

She jolts in her seat.

‘Doctor,’ she says.

The Doctor jumps. ‘Yeah?’

‘You called me your girlfriend,’ Yaz states, her voice carefully devoid of anything emotional.

‘Yeah,’ the Doctor repeats, and the guilt seeps through. ‘Sorry; wasn’t thinking.’

Yaz keeps quiet, expecting the Doctor to elaborate.

It’s one of the hardest feats she’s ever achieved.

‘Sorry if that made you uncomfortable. Was just caught up in the moment, see. And when they shot at you like that – twice! – it just riled me up. Didn’t think.’ She pauses. ‘Should’ve had the conversation first, shouldn’t we?’

Yaz can’t keep the smile hidden any longer. A quick look to her left secures their eye contact. ‘I liked it,’ she shrugs, and in real time she sees the Doctor swell with delight. ‘You can keep calling me that, if you like.’

‘I will,’ the Doctor beams. She jumps up to attend to the serving area – but not before pressing a kiss to Yaz’s cheek.

The sheer joy of this revelation comes off the both of them in waves. Yaz thinks she may just appreciate ice cream vans a bit more now.

Sometimes her life is so crazy that she can’t quite believe it herself.

[et-in-cinerem-reverteris]

Class of 1953 - Chapter 1 - Hatful of Hollow (3.7k)

“Will you be... here, next Thursday? Same time, same place?”

“Oh, er, yes, we meet here every week,” Phil stutters, “the photography club, that is. We meet here on Thursdays. Weekly.”

“Alright,” the boy laughs softly, “I’ll see you then”.

I am proud proud proud to announce that the first chapter of my DNP Oxford Au is finally here! It is my baby, my child - I have been working on it for weeks!

Read on AO3 here!!

Or, on Tumblr down below :)

Chapter 1

"Philip! Glad you could make it old chap." 

Bright lights flood into Phil’s vision as he adjusts to the blinding white glare of the overhead lamps. Every Thursday, the 5 members of Oxford University’s photography club meet in a small, dusty room in Keble College, where they spend many hours developing prints, sharing successful shots, but mostly just fooling around together as they take a break from the stresses of Oxford’s intense academic atmosphere. Currently inside the room are the founders of the club; John, a stocky blond maths student with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, stands a metre or two away from Bill, a lean, gangly physics student whose pale hands are currently adjusting the dials on what appears to be a shiny new camera. Phil puts his leather satchel on the table, and rummages inside it for a roll of film that’s in there...somewhere. 

Bill clears his throat.

“As you may have guessed by now, we can only assume that Mary and Beth are engaged in more exciting activities once again this week” he sneers, raised eyebrows betraying a mocking, yet joking intent.

The three boys chuckle in unison. Phil glances over the table, studying Bill more closely.

“Blimey, is that the new Zeiss-Ikon Contessa?”

A smirk twinges on Bill’s lips as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his reddening nose, carefully conceiving his growing embarrassment. 

“It was a gift from John. I tried to tell him that he didn’t have to, but he absolutely insisted,” he replies, swiveling round to face the boy behind him. “You shouldn’t have, honestly John. You do spoil me.”

The blond turns round and smiles, giving Bill a tender punch to the shoulder. “Oh William, it was really nothing” he attests, before twisting away to turn his attention back to fixing a small lamp.

‘William’? Phil had never heard anyone call Bill by his full name before! As he glances back at over, he notices a blush spread over Bill’s previously pallid cheeks. The relationship between the modest, restrained physics geek and the confident, amiable mathematics whizz was an enduring mystery. Making a mental note to keep an eye on the pair (purely to make sure that nothing out of the ordinary was happening, of course...), Phil turns once more to his satchel and pulls out a roll of film he’s planning to develop in today’s session. Before he manages to do this however, giggling erupts from a nearby corridor.

“Alas! The latecomers arrive at last” declares the bespectacled brunette, still poring over his camera. As the sound gets nearer, the laughing hushes to a stifled whisper as two figures appear at the open doorway.

“Having fun are we ladies?” 

“Oh, put a sock in it you old fart” quips the taller of the two, ignoring Bill’s steely eyes as she strides towards the table and sets a heavy black bag onto the floor with a clunk. 

“Evening everyone! Sorry we’re late” Beth says with a warm grin as she shrugs off a grey duffle coat, hangs it up on the dark, wooden door and turns towards the table, rubbing her hands together to defrost them. 

“What were you up to?” Phil asks nonchalantly, rising from his seat to search some cupboards for trays to develop his film in.

“Beth and I were... in the library, writing an essay. You know, the err, one that’s due soon” answers Mary.

“You mean the draft on Early Medieval Literature? Wasn’t that only set yesterday?”

Mary shoots a glance at Beth.

“Draft, essay - what difference does it make? Anyway, these things take time, and I’ve always thought that it’s good to get on top of something like an essay” she replies, hand on hip as her grey eyes squint dubiously. 

Bill shifts in his seat. “I can think of someone you were getting on top of.”

“Cheeky git! I’m keeping an eye on you” Mary retorts, striding to the other side of the room to bury her blushing face in a sea of dusty wooden cupboards. “And you John, for that matter.”

This night sure has opened his eyes! Smirking to himself, Phil turns his attention to his own set of cupboards. Aha! The empty trays have been found.

“Hey John, Mary - I’ve got the trays for the stop baths” he announces, handing them over to the former. 

As he does this, the two girls have already reunited, huddled in a corner of the room as they whisper and snigger to themselves about something or other. At 5’10” Mary towers over Beth, who is a good 6 inches shorter. As they exchange a glance, Phil contemplates how different the pair look despite existing hand in glove. A flash of red lipstick spreads over Mary’s wide smile as she sweeps a strand of long, dark hair away from her angular face, looking fondly at Beth who beams up at her with brown eyes twinkling under a long auburn fringe. Phil has known Mary since secondary school; she has always been pale - ghostlike, even - taller than most of the boys and more intelligent than them too. Her quick wit proved to be essential in fending off unwanted comments from overeager private school twits, which she was often the unfortunate recipient of. Known for her harsh tongue when it came to the male sex, Phil was apprehensive when first approached by her in an English class many years ago, only to be quickly reassured by the fondness she gave to those she took a shine to.  “We’re the same, me and you,” she announced almost uncomfortably soon after they had broken the ice, “I can sense it.” Phil had never figured out what exactly she had meant by this, but he had the feeling that here was a girl who truly had his back for years to come. 

“God damn this tap! The water’s bloody well cut off again. One would assume that Oxford University would have a better plumbing system than this” John bemoans, wrinkling his blonde brows in frustration. “Phil, would you be a dear and fetch a jug for us?”

“Yeah s-”

“We’ll go!” exclaim the girls with a questionable amount of excitement, barely waiting for a reply before dashing out of the room arm in arm. 

John frowns for the second time. “O-kay. Guess that one’s sorted then.”

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

Half an hour passes, and there is still no sign of either the water, or the girls who volunteered to retrieve it. Slightly exasperated, Phil offers to be the second party to set out in search of the all-important liquid as he’s fairly certain he knows of a working tap in some room or other from across the Liddon Quad. Putting on his woolen coat and grabbing the largest water-vessel in sight, he frantically tries to rack his brains for the room in question as he prepares to brave the winter cold. 

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

Scurrying across the Quad, Phil plunges his hands into silk-lined pockets as the icy wind nips at his pale face. As he drinks in his crepuscular surroundings, his eyes fix upon the red brick checkerboard of Keble College’s Victorian chapel, the beauty of which is enough to reduce his previous flight to a mere stroll. He gazes at the building in awe - stained glass windows emit a warm, inviting glow as metal crosses glisten like stars against the black night, and the scene is straight out of the decadent Gothic novellas he loves to pore over in his spare time. Although he’s been at Oxford for a couple of weeks now, there are still times where Phil is struck by the romance of the place, creating pools of emotion inside his chest that well up and threaten to bubble over. Tonight is one such night. He sighs to himself, content and calm.

After reeling around the quad’s fountain for a minute or two, he belatedly approaches the open chapel door. As he does so, his ears catch the sound of people speaking - not only are they speaking, but if Phil’s knowledge of Shakespeare is correct, they are acting. Without giving a single thought to his aquatic assignment, he climbs up the steps, treading softly to conceal the sound of his presence, and steals around the doorway to the entrance of the chapel where he comes across a dozen or so students stood close to the altar, scripts in hand, eyes on page. Their voices echo around the stone walls, dancing from floor to ceiling. He listens in.

“...see your son:

Towards him I made, but he was ware of me

And stole into the covert of the wood:

I, measuring his affections by my own,

That most are busied when they're most alone,

Pursued my humour not pursuing his,

And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me”

So it was Shakespeare! A tender nostalgia washes over him as he reminisces upon his own memories of studying Romeo and Juliet many years ago. And what splendid surroundings to rehearse in! Lofty ceilings bounce words from pew to pulpit, as low lamps give golden mosaics a magic sparkle. Leaning against the old wooden door, Phil focuses on the students, with one in particular catching his eye.

“My noble uncle, do you know the cause?”

The boy playing Benvolio is... a handsome devil, to put it plainly. Phil notices the way he speaks with such fervour, such infectious vigour, and a passion which tugs at the heartstrings and fills one’s soul with a pathetic sense of hope. His tie is pulled awry on a shirt unbuttoned, green jumper sitting loosely around his neck. Phil’s heart flutters ever so slightly to see someone who is evidently as fond of Shakespeare as he is, and for a reason unbeknownst to him, becomes fixed in a kind of trance, observing the boy as he delivers his lines.

Phil had known that he was “queer” from a relatively young age. He had heard the word uttered under hushed tones between his parents as they discussed relatives, family friends, celebrities, or indeed anyone whose campiness stuck out sorer than the lacquered nails on an East-End boy down in the dole-house. But Phil didn’t wear makeup, and he didn’t sound like a woman, and he didn’t spend his time discussing boys with his female classmates. What he did have however, was one fateful family holiday at a beach in Corfu.

It was a torrid, languid, lethargic day, and another year spent back at the old house in Greece. The sun beat down in waves, burning Phil’s pasty skin as brother Martyn shoveled sand onto his feet. The summer reading he had brought with him wasn’t tickling his fancy right now, and Martyn’s japery was beginning to get tiresome. He sighed, staring out towards the vast expanse of clear azure water. As he pondered over ways to alleviate his boredom, a delicious, impulsive desire to indulge in mischievousness began to trickle into his veins, filling him with all sorts of ideas. He rises from his spot on the towel.

“I’m going for a walk. I shouldn’t be too long.”

His mum looks up from her book and squints, shielding her eyes from the sun while simultaneously expressing amazement that her youngest son is actually choosing to do physical exercise.

“Okay, stay safe poppet. Oh - and be back before three o’clock!”

After an hour or so of traipsing across rocks and traversing through trees, he eventually arrives at a secluded alcove on top of a steep stretch of warm rocks, away from tourists, facing a small bay with not a soul in sight.

Laying down on the smooth stone he places his head under the shade of a tree branch, feeling the caress of the sun on his bare chest as a slight breeze tickles the prepubescent hairs on his abdomen. He closes his eyes, wind tracing the surface of his skin. 

Finally, peace at last. 

A brief slumber is interrupted by talking coming from below the rock face. Sluggish after basking in the lazy heat, he takes a moment to opens his eyes and crawl over to the side of the rock, peering gingerly over the edge to investigate.

A man has wandered into the bay, with a woman by his side.

As they talk together, Phil’s eye meanders over the man’s body. He is blond, he is tall, his stance is confident, and the muscles on his back ripple as he stretches his golden hands towards the sky before landing on his toned waist. Peeping Tom is mesmerised. The man checks his watch, and the couple turn their heads as if looking out for someone before coming together for an embrace as they stand watching the waves crash on the bay. 

Phil stares on.

There’s something about the way the man’s body presses against the woman’s back. There’s something about the way his hands wind around her waist, smooth over her chest, and briefly wrap around her neck. There’s something about it, conjuring up a feeling that Phil has never experienced before, something that feels heavy in his ribcage. 

The woman turns her head and taps her partner on the shoulder, pointing at the rocks just beyond Phil. Damn! Heart racing in fear, he ducks behind a bush, blushing furiously and wincing as his feet land on a sharp stone. Through the leaves he sees an olive-skinned man with dark, curly hair appear from the side of the colossal boulder, stepping towards the couple as the woman pries herself from the embrace and runs towards the newcomer, landing into a hug that sweeps her off her feet and swings her in the air as she laughs. The hug endswith a hand around the waist, a brief peck on the lips.

Phil adjusts his glasses. Was he mistaken, or did he just see this lady go from fondly embracing one man to sharing a kiss with another? The pair links arms and stroll towards the first man, who fiddles with the hem of his tight navy swimming trunks as he beams back at them. The dark haired fellow opens his arms, and shouts a few words in Greek to the blond man.

“Είσαι τόσο όμορφος, χρυσέ μου!”

A slap on the back, a playful punch - and then they too lean in for a kiss.

Not a peck on the cheek. Not a swift gracing of the lips. Phil is fairly certain that this is the act that the boys back at boarding school have described using the word “French”. But two men…? Phil takes in a deep breath. Shuffling out from under the shrub, he brushes some leaves off from his trunks, only to freeze in confusion when he feels something hard underneath.

He looks at the trio below him, then back down at his shorts, before looking back to double check that he’s alone.

It would be terribly, terribly awkward if someone caught him m-

“Splendid job everyone, I could really feel the intensity tonight. Let’s call it here. Oh, and remember - we haven’t got long now until the real thing!”

Snapping back to reality, Phil adjusts his eyes to see actors and actresses put down their scripts and begin talking to each other, evidently weary, but animated nonetheless. He searches once more for the boy playing Benvlio, immediately managing to locate him. 

They lock eyes. 

The boy is staring directly at him! 

In a flash, the lad looks away and resumes his conversation with the girl next to him, who hoists a long brown coat over her shoulders, preparing for the winter cold that Phil has just emerged from. Cripes! Turning away rapidly as his heart thumps in his chest, he decides that it’d be best to evacuate the chapel before the situation becomes ever so slightly awkward. A hot flush creeps over his cheeks and the flutter in his bosom amplifies. The image of the boy’s brown eyes repeats in Phil’s mind as approaches the ancient wooden door. 

Damnit. 

In an unexpected burst of confidence, he whips his head around before leaving, and sure enough he is met with those same brown eyes that make him feel like melting right then and there. Panicking, fumbling and stumbling, he dashes out of the portico, heart racing and nerves alive as he speeds across the quad. He checks his watch - nearly 8 o’clock. Forget this godforsaken water! 

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

Bill and John appear to be in a cheerful mood when Phil nervously slinks back into the photography room, and as such he is instantly forgiven for being the third person in one night to give up water collection in the name of secret romantic pursuits. Feeling guilty nonetheless, he volunteers to be the one to lock up the room for the night as compensation, enjoying the peaceful silence as he sees to the mess left behind.

He roams around the room, closing cupboards here, pulling in stools there. There’s a spatter of black ink on the table, no doubt left by Bill and his insistence on using a dip pen to write everything from letters, to classwork, to scribbled ideas on dog-eared notebooks. As he gets a cloth to wipe it up, Phil feels a soft sense of contentment as he reflects upon his new life here at Oxford. Secondary school was rotten, absolutely rotten; teased for being smart, teased for being tall, teased for wearing glasses, teased for any reason which made him he different to the brutish, snobbish bastards that ruled his school’s hierarchical roost. Before they can bubble up to the surface, Phill tries to quell those raw, rough memories, reminding himself that it’s in the past and he should be focusing on the present. He’s growing into his authentic self, he’s started dressing however he likes, he’s made genuine friends who he can talk to, he’s academically stimulated without the fear of being called a geek and, in time, maybe he’ll be able to express that part of his personality too. With a sigh, he throws Bill’s inky rag into the sink, puts John’s screwdriver into a drawer, tucks in the stool that Mary dragged out from the desk and picks up a pen that must have fallen out of Beth’s pocket. The peace in his chest leaves him with no doubt that he’s got everything now - no more fear of rejection, no horrible need for awkward explanations. Just friendship, companionship, and unspoken understanding. Blinking slightly more rapidly than usual, he cleans up the last of the mess.

*knock knock*

Mary and Beth? In the split second it takes him to turn around, Phil prepares a quip or two to tease them with.

To his surprise (and his horror), he is met with the sight of 'Benvolio' leaning against the open door, arms folded, ankles crossed, sly smirk plastered onto his mischievous face.

"You could have just come in if you wanted to, you know. We don't bite."

Phil’s heart races and his stomach sinks at the realisation of what’s happening. It was bad enough that he’d been caught staring by the object of his admiration, but multiple times? And now said object is here, standing in the doorway, smirking at him? Phil can’t help but hungrily consume the face opposite him. Tousled chestnut curls flop onto strong brows that sit intentionally indifferent, trying to appear nonchalant, but with such purposeful neutrality that he betrays a sense of impatience - desperation, even. Freckles speckle his cheeks like stars that lie next to petal pink lips.

The handsome devil chuckles at Phil's silence.

"Ah, apologies - quite rude of me not to introduce myself first. I'm Dan," the boy continues, " and um, we're putting on a production of Romeo and Juliet in a few weeks, if you want to come and see it" he offers, patches of his jaw flushing red.  

Phil blinks, unsure of what to say, and the young man’s eyes fall to the ground briefly before thrusting his large hands into trouser pockets.

"Sorry, perhaps I assumed that-"

"No, no, it's alright" Phil finally replies, desperate to stop the potential tragedy of this charming man leaving him forever, never to speak to him again. "That'd be great. I um, I really like Shakespeare."

The boy’s eyes flick upwards to meet Phil’s briefly before he nods, turning his vision towards the ground once again as he bites his lips together to stifle a smile. His eyes dance across the floor as if plucking up the courage to look back up at the blue eyed boy, which he does, thank God, for when their eyes lock together (and Phil swears it’s not his inner English student making him think this), it feels as if two worlds connect, two universes collide, two strings of the soul’s yarn reaching out and tying knots and weaving together, two hands meeting and fingers intertwining and feeling his knuckles and scars and hairs and prints that read like maps of the other person’s existence. It’s breathtaking. It’s almost too much.

The boy unleashes a grin, and Phil is so, so thankful, for when he does his entire face lights up like a candle burning in a dark attic, wide flash of white teeth and crinkled eyes brazen and clumsy like hot wax spilling and dripping down bare skin. They maintain their electrifying gaze. The other one sighs.

“Okay, fantastic. Dates are yet to be confirmed, but so far it’s looking to be some time after Michaelmas ends. I’ll er, I’ll let you know.”

“Great, yeah, I’ll come along!” Phil beams, drumming his fingers on the counter behind him. 

“Mmm.” Another moment of silence. “Will you be... here, next Thursday? Same time, same place?”

“Oh, er, yes, we meet here every week,” Phil stutters, “the photography club, that is. We meet here on Thursdays. Weekly.”

He curses himself for tripping over his words in front of someone who had spoken so confidently and so eloquently in the chapel. He takes in a deep breath, calming himself.

“Alright,” the boy laughs softly, “I’ll see you then”. In one swift movement, he pushes his back off the door frame, grabs the other side and swings himself off down the corridor, heels clacking on the tiles as he goes.

Buckling up his satchel, Phil strides out of the room, managing to catch the sight of ‘Dan’ speeding off down a flight of stairs. As he turns the lights off and shuts the door, he closes his eyes and exhales.

He checks his watch. Only 6 days, 23 hours and 38 minutes until he’ll be here next Thursday, same time, same place. He parades down the corridor, slight skip in his step.

Maybe he’ll get to explore that side of his personality a little sooner than he might have previously thought.