#but i can Promise you the unspoken half of ‘please put your fucking age in your bio’ is ‘so i don’t have to block you from interacting with

[callixton]

really funny seeing a post from a nsfw blog asking people to put their age in their bio (you know. a normal request to minimize interaction with minors as much as knowledge allows) be co-opted into ‘you don’t owe anyone any info stay safe from doxing.’ like um! idk maybe it’s just bc i hang around nsfw spaces but those are separate ideas!

[dilf0bsess0r]

Aged-Up!Peter Parker x Reader Smut

Sub!Peter fic

2.5k words

~~~~~~

When you and Peter first started dating, nothing sexual happened, just a few kisses here and there, and occasional make out sessions. As the weeks go by, you were more and more curious as to why the two of you hadn't slept together, but you never brought it up, you didn't want the poor guy to feel pressured.

Then one night, the two of you were watching Star Wars movies for the 70th time in his room, and let's just say that R2D2 was seeing some things he shouldn't be seeing. In the midst of a heavy make out session, you let your hand travel down to the slight bulge you had noticed in his pajama pants, and moved the palm of your hand over him, giving him a tiny bit of friction.

His hips instantly bucked up, and he removed his lips from yours. "Y/N?" He said, meekly as you moved to kiss and lick up the column of his throat, while continuing to palm his now, fully hard cock. You pulled back to admire your work, seeing the red marks scattered across his neck, "Yes sweetie?" You finally respond to the poor boy, who's gone completely red in the face. "Umm, I don't- I cant, umm" he stutters out, his eyes not meeting yours. You use your hand to lift his head so that he finally makes eye contact with you, "Use your words baby", and his eyes close as he lets out a strangled half sigh, half moan.

"Umm, we ca- can't do this" Peter says quietly, almost as if he was ashamed. You scoot away from him a little, so he doesn't feel overwhelmed, "And that's completely fine love, may I ask why?" You ask him softly. "I've never..." he starts, gesturing wildly with his hands and you immediately understand.

"Oh!" You say with wide eyes, and that gives Peter the wrong idea.

He jumps off the bed quickly, grabbing a pillow to cover his lower half, words coming out jumbled, "I knew it! You think I'm a weirdo! This is why I can't be with you! You- you need someone with more, experience and, and who knows what they're doing and that's not-" , he finally quiets down when your lips meet his in a slower, softer kiss than the ones you shared earlier.

You feel his tense shoulders relax and his lips melt against yours, and you finally disconnect from him only to say, "Pete, I promise I don't care that you're a virgin". The boy's face lights up, "Really? You don't?"

You shake your head and laugh a little, "I promise love, it's okay." He grins. "In fact, I find it kinda hot", you whisper the last word with a goofy smirk. The smirk grows into a smile when the younger boy blushes and says, "How is that?"

Before answering the question, you push him down into a sitting position on the bed, you let your hand travel across the expanse of his chest, and say "Baby, is it ok if I touch you?" Peter visibly gulps then responds, "Yes ma'am" before slapping his hand over his face.

"I'm sorry oh my god, I- I don't know where that came fr-" you silence him with your pointer finger over his lips. "Peter, it's okay." His eyes widen even more, at the display of dominance. "Baby, do you want to call me ma'am?" You ask him. He slowly shakes his head yes and you grin, "Perfect."

Y/N loved how easily he was falling into the submissive role. You hadn't had many partners before, but you learned very quickly that you didn't like being told what to do, and the dominant role came easy to you. You were going to tear this poor boy into pieces.

You kiss him again and move to straddle him, your legs enclosing his, and he lets out a light whimper at the pressure on his aching cock. "Don't worry baby boy, I'm gonna take care of you, ok?", he nods his head but that isn't good enough for you.

You grab his chin between two of your fingers and look straight into his eyes and say with a stern voice, "Peter, if anything is going to happen tonight, I need verbal confirmation every step of the way. Understand?"

"Yes ma'am" is squeaked out from the brown eyed boy, his eyes glazing over.

You grind your heated core against the tent in his pajama pants, the thin material giving him the friction he so desperately craved. He lets out a soft moan, his head falling back.

"Baby," you say and grab his attention, and he struggles to focus because of the way you're moving against him, "I'm going to ask you a question or two okay? I just want you to focus on not coming until I allow you" you tell him.

"Yes ma'am" he whimpers.

"I know you said you're virgin, but have you ever done anything?" you ask.

"No ma'am. I mean, I- fuck- I jerk off sometimes but that- that's it" he stutters out, trying his best to answer you.

"Oh, naughty boy", you playfully chastise as you stand up, hearing a whine from Peter.

That noise is turned into a moan as you quickly drop to your knees and mouth at his clothed cock.

"Y/N!" Peter exclaims, gripping at the bed covers.

After there's a nice, big wet spot on his pants, you move to pull them down. You're met with a nice surprise when there's no underwear underneath.

You look up at Peter, with a raised eyebrow and he blushes, "Well I figured that I would be watching movies here, then going straight back to my room to sleep", he answers the unspoken question.

Deciding to tease him a little you say, "Nah, I think you did it for easy access. Anyone who wanted a piece of you could just ask and I bet you'd say yes. Wouldn't you? Cause that's what whores do.", putting emphasis on the "dirty" word.

"What- no no no, I'm not a... that" Peter splutters out.

You grab his cock in your hand, the head flushed red, and you use your thumb to rub the precum around that has gathered at the tip, resulting in a high pitched moan from the boy. You slowly start to stroke him before saying, "I'm sorry, were you disagreeing with me?"

You pick up your pace, flicking your wrist when you come back to the head of his cock, watching in delight as his face scrunches up in pleasure. He shakes his head no, and you remind him "Words, Peter." with a harsh tone.

"No ma'am, I'm not disagreeing" he nearly sobs.

"Good. Glad you remembered who's in charge tonight."

Simply because you can't resist anymore, you lean forward and lick right up the underside of his leaking dick, over the prominent vein, and you end it by swirling your tongue over the tip.

Peter moans embarrassingly loud and looks down at you with wide, glassy eyes and says, "Y/N...", in a whiny voice.

You go back to just stroking him and say, "What is it? What do you want baby, talk to me." He huffs in frustration of not being able to formulate his words.

" I want- I want your mouth." He finally says, but you stay quiet, waiting. "Please" he says meekly and you give in. You finally take him fully into your mouth, moaning at the taste. You focus on going as deep as you can, then coming back up and paying attention to the head.

Minutes pass and you're surprised at how long he's lasting, so you pull off of his cock with loud pop, and say "You know for a virgin, you're lasting way longer than I thought."

"Yeah, I edge myself sometimes, work on stamina" he rushes out, in hopes of getting your mouth back on him.

However, his statement intrigues you. "Edging hm? I wonder how long you can go... wanna find out?" You tease as you leisurely stroke him.

"Nonono! Please no" He begs, "Just wanna- wanna cum" he finishes, hiccuping while trying to plead his case.

"Alright baby, maybe next time" you surrender. His face perks up at the mention of a "next time"

"Where do you want to cum? My mouth, my face, my tits?" You ask him and he doesn't even have to verbally answer. You know which one he wants by the way his eyes light up at the mention of possibly coming on your boobs.

You quickly stand up to take off your shirt and bra, and when you meet the eyes of the submissive boy, you're met with a look of awe. He stares at you as though you are a goddess and he is a mere mortal. It boosts your confidence and your ego, as you go to regain your position in front of him.

"Ok so this is how this works," you start and he's like a little puppy, the way his ears seem to perk up at your instructions. "You're going to jerk yourself off, until you cum all over my tits okay?", you finish, using your elbows to slightly push your tits up and together. His eyes flutter shut and he says "Yes ma'am" before he grabs his cock and starts to tug.

It's not long before he's moaning unabashedly and he's begging for release. "Ple- please ma'am, can I cum?"

"Hmm, I dunno, I think you can wait a little longer", you say with a cruel smile. He whimpers at your mean words and continues to stroke himself.

"Not gonna be able to hold on much longer" he whines out, voice strained.

Deciding to take pity on him, you finally tell him, "Fine you can cum. But, you make sure to keep your eyes on me or you won't cum for a week." you state in a harsh tone.

"Ok ok! I will I promise" he rushes out, starting to stroke himself faster and faster, approaching his climax.

You push your tits up even higher, and you even go as far as to sticking your tongue, just for the erotic visual.

"Fuckfuckfuc- Y/N!" Peter practically shouts as he shoots cum all over your chest, some of it going on your chin and tongue. Not even giving him time to recover, you jump up to his lap to give him a messy, wet kiss. He moans into your mouth, tasting himself and you. You finally break apart, running your hands through his messy curls, "How was that baby?".

He clears his throat before speaking but his voice still comes out a bit shaky, "It was amazing".

"I'm glad it was, now let's get you in the bath while I put your pajama pants in the wash, you can sleep over here tonight okay?" You say in a soothing, quiet tone. "Y-yeah, that sounds good.", the younger boy responds.

You stand up and you start to use your tossed away shirt to wipe of his cum, but Peter stops you, "Can- can I?"

Your eyes widen but you nod your head yes. You barely nod once before Peters tongue is on your breasts, licking up his release. And if that isn't the hottest thing you've ever seen, you don't know what is.

He finishes with a groan before dropping to his knees. "Peter, what are you doing?"

"Wanna take care of you too" he states as he starts to mouth and lick at your mound through your shorts. You moan before gently pushing him back by his shoulders, "As tempting as that is, tonight was and is about you, we'll worry about me another day." He opens his mouth to protest but you cut him off, "End of discussion.", you lean down to his ear to whisper, "Trust me baby boy, I have plenty of ways you can make it up to me. Just not tonight".

He whimpers merely at the thought of pleasuring you, and if that doesn't make you want to just eat him alive. Resisting temptation, you extend your hand to him so he can stand up, and you pull him along as you make your way to the master bathroom.

Perks of living in a multi million dollar compound.

You go straight to the large, jacuzzi like tub, turning on the faucet and letting it fill up. You pour some bath salts into it and hand Peter some body wash, "When it's hot enough, go ahead and get in and wash yourself. I'll be putting your pajamas in the wash and I'll be right back to get in with you, okay?"

He looks at you with a soft smile, "Yeah, okay.""Great", you go back into your room to grab his pants, leaving him alone before heading to the wash.

Soon enough, you make your way back in there, seeing Peter relaxed with his head back against the edge of the tub, his eyes closed. They open at the sound of your footsteps and he smiles fondly at you, before you fully undress yourself, and step in. You cuddle up to him and rest your head on his shoulder.

The two of you stay like that until you hear soft snores from Peter. You step out of the bath and grab a towel to wrap around you, and you go over to wake him up. "Pete, baby, gotta wake up so we can get you to bed."

His eyes flutter open, and he reluctantly steps out of the bath. You hand him a towel, then you go to drain the tub. You tell him to dry off, then go ahead to the bed while you grab his pants.

After returning with his pants, you see him sitting on the edge of the bed, fighting sleep, lazily rubbing one of his eyes with the back of his hand. You try not to aww out loud, because he is just so cute. You finally walk in, handing him his pajamas, then going to your dresser to grab an oversized band t-shirt to sleep in. You put your hair in your head wrap, and you walk to the bed that Peter has already gotten comfortable in.

"You wanna be big spoon or little spoon?" You ask him. You don't mind being big spoon, you actually kind of preferred it. Which is why you let a small smile creep on your face when he says "Little spoon" in a small, hushed voice. You crawl into the bed and let him cuddle into your chest as you wrap your arms around him.

"Goodnight Y/N." "Goodnight Peter."

Peter falls asleep to the sound of Y/N's heartbeat, and Y/N falls asleep to the sound of Peters shallow breathing.

~~~~~

Hope you liked this! This is my first smut so it’s a little rough, and kinda anticlimactic but I enjoyed writing it.

[sylvies-chen]

You Make Me Feel So Young

Summary: Tim shows up at Lucy's apartment after struggling with some guilt, and finally gets that dance she'd saved for him.

Warnings: none

Words: 2.6K

A/N: For day 1 of the Chenford Fanfic Week 2021 organized by @therookiebook!! I'm so excited to participate, I hope you guys like this oneshot <3

AO3 link

++++++++

He feels guilty.

Lucy knows he does, even before he tells her. After everything at Angela’s wedding went down, after she and Jackson had been taken and nearly died, after the dust had settled from that entire stressful day, Lucy can feel the guilt oozing out of him.

Only Tim Bradford shows up at her door to talk about it, and it’s about the last thing she expects to happen.

Like, ever.

“Hey,” he blurts out as soon as she opens the door.

“Hi.” Lucy doesn’t know what to say but she knows the hand that’s holding onto the edge of her door feels numb all of a sudden and her breath gets caught in her throat.

“Can I come in?” Tim asks, trying to seem nonchalant. Lucy sees right through it, knows that him coming here alone, out of the blue, must mean something’s wrong. But she doesn’t say anything because she knows Tim takes a while sometimes to be able to open up. So instead, she nods.

“Yeah, of course.” Jackson’s out, so she lets Tim in without hesitation. Not that it’d matter if he were here, really, but she sees that broken, guilt-ridden look in Tim’s eyes and knows it’s best that they’re alone.

He plays it cool at first— out of self-preservation, she thinks— and looks around the apartment as she lets him in.

“This place looks a lot nicer than the last time I saw it,” he starts out.

“Yeah, well Cujo’s not around to tear up pillows anymore so I’d say it’s a big improvement,” she jokes meekly.

His hands are shoved in his pockets stiffly as he walks around her living room, glancing over to Jackson’s bedroom.

“Jackson’s not here?”

“No, he went to check up on Angela. I’m surprised you aren’t there too,” she adds.

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s where you’ve been for the past week,” Lucy explains simply, glancing at him expectantly and waiting for him to talk. Not this kind of talk, not small talk or dancing around what he really needs to get off his chest, but for him to actually, really talk.

All does is stand by her couch, less than ten feet away from her, and avoid her gaze. She swears she can see his fists tensing up in the pockets of his jeans. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”

“I wasn’t.” She was . “I just know how worried you were about her when she was taken. I don’t blame you for not wanting to leave her side.”

“Just making up for what I didn’t do the first time, I guess,” he grumbles under his breath.

Lucy sighs, cutting their small talk short and getting to the point. “Why are you really here, Tim?”

Her bluntness surprises him, she thinks, because he blinks at her. “What?”

“Why are you here?” She repeats. “You’ve never shown up at my place randomly while off shift. Hell, I didn’t even think you’d remembered I live here. I know this past week has been intense but clearly you need something or else you wouldn’t have come here. So would you just tell me whatever it is you want to say so that I can help you?”

He exhales quietly, his chest shaking as it falls. “It’s my fault. Angela and Jackson nearly died, she nearly lost her baby, they were put in danger at her own damn wedding, and it’s… it’s my fault.”

“No, no,” she replies sympathetically, shaking her head. “It’s not. What happened to them happened because of La Fiera, not you.”

“I was her man of honour,” he explains with a dry and slightly sarcastic chuckle. “Where’s the honour in failing to protect the bride?”

“If you really felt that, you wouldn’t have come here. You knew,” she tells him, her voice determined and fierce. “You knew I wouldn’t let you sit here and feel sorry for yourself. If you wanted to sit around feeling sorry for yourself you would have gone to a bar, alone. But you came here, which means somewhere deep down you know you couldn’t have done anything to stop it.”

For one of the only times since Lucy’s known him, Tim Bradford is speechless. He looks for words but finds none, huffs, and sits down on her couch, fiddling nervously with his thumbs. Her heart sinks at the sight of it. This guilt of his isn’t going away with anything she says, she knows that now. Healing takes time, so all she can really do is just be there for him.

She sits down next to him on the couch, leaving only an inch of space. “You don’t have to carry the weight of everything, you know,” she continues gently. “You take on so much, you don’t always have to feel so responsible for every bad thing that happens. That’s no way to live.”

“I’m a cop,” he shrugs painfully. “I became a cop because I wanted to keep helping people, protecting them. So sure, it might make me a more serious person, but I do it because it’s supposed to be what I do best.”

“I get that. But no one’s perfect. I’m not perfect, even with all of your Tim tests,” she teases meekly. “That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. You fought hard to get both of them back and you did. You did that. Angela’s home now, she and the baby are safe and alright. That’s what matters.”

He looks at her, stunned but greatly appreciative. “Thanks,” he offers, slightly begrudgingly, after a moment. “I just... thanks .”

“I think I have something of yours,” she tells him gently, changing the subject to lighten the mood. Because if she can’t assuage his guilt then at the very least, she can make him feel better; feel happy again.

Tim’s brows scrunch up, sending a confused look her way. Lucy wordlessly moves to pull out her phone, connecting it to the small wireless speaker on the coffee table. The buttons crisply click as she turns up the volume, pressing play on the first ballad she finds in her list of varied songs. (But her taste in music isn’t actually as diverse as she’d like and is really just filled with K-pop tracks).

The music streams through the speaker and throughout the apartment, audible but still quiet so as not to disturb the other tenants. Tim stays seated as Lucy stands up, still confused but shifting to the edge of his seat as if being drawn to her by an unnamed force.

Lucy finally extends her open palm, giving him a shy but cheeky grin. “Your dance, Officer Bradford?”

Realization hits and Tim’s shoulders relax a little. “I don’t know, I’m not in the mood for dancing right now.”

“Come on,” she pleads. “It’ll make you feel better, I promise. Or, at the very least, it’ll give you something to tease me about at work.”

Tim gives a hearty chuckle, smiling widely as he accepts her hand. It makes Lucy smile too. Why shouldn’t it? He’s always so surly and serious, making him laugh would make anyone proud and giddy. Right?

“Alright. After you, Officer Chen,” he replies as she pulls him off the couch and onto the rug in her living room. His hand is warm. They’re calloused, and bigger than hers to the point where her fingers get swallowed up in his as he gives her hand a squeeze. But god, they’re so warm and safe . Her mind can’t stop coming back to that observation, no matter how much she knows she shouldn’t.

Tim’s other hand finds her waist, his grip gentle. Her hand flies to his chest, pulling him in until her chin is inches away from resting on his shoulder.

Up until now, space hasn’t really been an issue for them. The only time there’d been this much physical contact between them was last year when Caleb had buried her alive. Even then, the situation had allowed for a special exception. She’d needed all the physical and emotional support she could get at that moment, and Tim had provided it for her.

Now though, there's no exception, no special circumstance, no excuse. They’re dancing while wrapped up in each other solely because they want to be, and that change is enough to terrify Lucy. She doesn’t move though, only keeps swaying to the music and letting out small, shaky breaths.

What can she say? She never was one to back down from something that scared her.

“You’re a good dancer,” Lucy points out quietly.

“You’re not half bad yourself,” he replies, his breath catching onto her neck and sending a delightful shiver down her spine.

“Is it safe to say you’re enjoying yourself? You feel more relaxed, I daresay you’re having fun,” she tries teasing.

“I’m just surprised,” he counters. “I was prepared for my toes to endure some serious stomping.”

“Oh please, like my tiny toes could ever harm you.” Her nose scrunches playfully as she feigns a threatening look, which makes Tim smile again. What is it with that smile of his killing her softly?

“I don’t know, you’re a lot tougher than you look.”

“Was that a compliment?” She asks teasingly.

“Don’t tell Nova, she’ll get jealous,” he jokes back, continuing to sway to the music.

“Yeah but I bet she’d love this,” Lucy remarks. In her head, she adds that the line between herself and Nova is getting blurred but it goes unspoken and, eventually, ignored.

“Nova’s not the only one,” he risks replying. “You’re right. This is… nice .”

Tim leans back a little to meet her eye, the swaying decelerating until they’re standing in her living room. Alone. With an intense and inviting gaze piercing into her eyes.

“It is,” Lucy agrees. Her voice is barely audible and before she can think twice, she blurts out probably the worst thing she could ever think of: the thing she means with every fiber of her being. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

She really does mean it. She wants to stay there forever, where everything feels good and safe and right . Only she hadn’t meant to say that out loud, per se. To her surprise though, he doesn’t react poorly to it. Instead, he flashes the smallest smile and nods in agreement, swallowing hard. "Me too."

He looks so young like that, something juvenile and exciting radiating off of him like a breath of fresh air. For a second, she almost thinks he’s the same age as her.

And oh fuck , something just clicks after that.

His lips part only slightly, his eyes glimmering with something intense and hopeful. Her skin is on fire, her heart is racing, and every neuron in her brain is telling her to look away but she can’t. She can’t escape his eyes. Lucy doesn’t know what this thing between them is, only that one minute, they’re dancing and the next, they’re… doing something else. The swaying stops and everything comes to a glaring halt as the song starts to come to a gradual end. They’re left with nothing to do but stand there and look at each other. It’s almost like he’s listened to her and that somehow, he’s made them become completely frozen in time so that maybe, just maybe, they really could stay here forever.

Admittedly, terrifyingly, Lucy would have no complaints about that.

They’re holding each other too— god , she almost forgot about his hands on her wait, on her back. They’re strong and massive and yet so gentle. And before she knows it, they’re pulling her in closer and closer.

His face is inches apart from her, their lips so close. She shouldn’t be thinking about his lips, about any of the things she’s feeling right now, but she can feel his breath and it makes it impossible to think of anything else. Her chest is almost pressed against his and she wonders if Tim can feel the shaky rise and fall of her chest against his.

They get closer again, and closer, and closer…

Then, the door clicks and swings open, sending her and Tim jumping apart.

The moment ends before it ever has a chance to start.

“Hey, I’m back,” Jackson calls out as he walks in, checking his phone. “So fire up the next episode of Love Island and put in the popcorn because I am ready to g—”

Jackson stops mid-sentence once he looks up from his phone and finds Lucy, standing next to Tim as they both look away from each other with flushed cheeks and awkward coughs from their throats. The music on her phone has stopped now, thankfully, but the light from the speaker still flashes to indicate it’s on and Jackson soaks in the whole scene. He meets it with confusion though, his brows furrowing.

“Uhh… What’s going on here?”

“I was just about to leave,” Tim announces, looking down at the floor as he makes a beeline for his coat.

“Right, yeah,” Lucy nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, I guess?”

“Yeah, of course. Uh, bye,” he replies awkwardly, his eyes meeting Lucy’s one last time with something that she daresay looks like disappointment— like yearning. Jackson’s still there though, and so the moment is short-lived. Tim’s hands fly back into his pockets, just as stiff as they were when he first came over, and he leaves. The door shuts behind him abruptly.

Lucy stares at the door where Tim used to be, her shoulders sagging in a disappointment of her own, but she turns to see Jackson staring at her and knows she has no way to explain… well, to explain whatever the hell just happened.

“You want to tell me why Tim was here?”

“He felt guilty about what happened with you and Angela,” she explains, a little defensively. “I was just talking it out with him.”

“Sure, yeah,” Jackson nods with an unconvinced laugh, “that’s why you two jumped apart like frogs as soon as I came in.”

“We did not jump apart ,” she protests.

“Ok, if you say so,” he concedes, his hands up in surrender. “Besides, whatever you two were doing here, I just—… don’t want to know.” He lets out a small chuckle after that, shaking his head as he moves to grab a pack of unpopped popcorn out of the cupboard and put it in the microwave.

“It was nothing,” she mumbles quietly. “Nothing happened.”

It’s the first real lie she’s told that night. Jackson drops it after that though, and she sighs to herself as she sits back down on the couch.

She closes her eyes as the microwave buzzes and Jackson starts to ramble about his visit with Angela, slowly transporting herself back to that dance with Tim.

Maybe she’s wrong for this, maybe she’s completely insane and unprofessional. But as she plays it over in her head, her own words ring through her head and she realizes that maybe she really did want to stay like that with Tim forever.

Oh, screw it . She knows she did. It’s not a fact she can necessarily scream out to the world, but she did.

To Lucy, there are much worse things to want to be.

[bitchassbucky]

.eps (explicit)

Word Count: 2k

Warning/s: dark!bucky x dark!reader, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood mention, gore and dismemberment/beheading, murder, toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, sedation/drugging/use of sedative, stockholm syndrome-ish, one very special character reveal

A/N: i told y'all there's more <3 the special character treat is for @sarge-barnes-sir mwah!

this is queued shdhhsh gonna fix the links in the mornin’

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS ABOVE, IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ THIS VERSION, GO AND CHECK OUT THE NON-EXPLICIT VERSION.

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

iv - .png

v - .zip

CTRL playlist CTRL moodboard

Safeness, comfortability, warmth are all but a false sense of reality.

When a prey takes down its walls, the predator moves in. Camouflaged in familiar colors, in words that you’re used to hearing, in praises, in lies. Most predators use the mask of the night to move in darkness—unyielding and calculated. Come morning, there will be only one left alive, tainted with victory and bloodshed.

You and Bucky have been engaging in a dance for two—a battle of who’s willing to take the leap of faith and unleash hell upon the other.

Stifled smiles and pursed lips.

The air is filled with unsaid irritants, little things that ticked away like bombs.

There was no time for pleading, no time for mercy, no rest for the wicked.

Did you still love each other?

How far are you willing to go to keep up with his… complacency?

Bucky’s mundane life already taking a toll on you. The endless nightmares of him feeling you. The swirling vision of Bucky being with you every waking—and sleeping—moment: it grates your soul to shreds.

“We’ll be together forever, right?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about the day after forever?”

“That too, honey.”

Where was the man you loved so deeply? The man that broke his morals just to be with you?

Was he under this hull of a Yes Man? A poor little thing that says ‘yes’ to everything like a puppy.

The man you held so dearly now slipping away, chipping his humanity, shedding the once-human.

“Would you marry me tomorrow if I asked you?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you kill for me?”

“I’m meant to do the same for you.”

It’s irritating how Bucky gave up too quickly. Too fast, moving too fast. The gazelle let the lion tear its neck as it lay there, unmoving, letting the blood seep into its hide.

When you first met Bucky, it was your own fairytale unfolding before your eyes. Kismet, reality, forgiveness from above. He was soft and shy, passionate, lively.

Far from what you expected from a man his age—you blame Steve for forcing you into his narrative before. That all men are out to get you. They will hurt you. They will use you and leave you for good. But Bucky? Bucky came in like a knight. He saved you from the carcass of your past. He saved you from the sins that you prayed and knelt for.

Bucky taught you how to love.

Bucky taught you how to live for yourself.

Bucky taught you that being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely.

“It was an unspoken little thing, wasn’t it?”

“What thing, baby?”

“Our love.”

“Yes, honey, it was.”

He worships you.

He worships you like a fucking God and you hate it.

Suffocating, too suffocating. You dove straight for the water and now you’re drowning.

Do you still love each other? The question hangs in the air, heavy with its weight, light as a feather.

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

So you stand there with a syringe half-filled with a horse sedative. It’s a concern how easy it is to waltz into a pet store and pick up a general anesthetic. You make a mental note to look at it later.

Bucky’s body slumps forward, his forehead meeting the edge of the table with a dull thud. If the overdose doesn’t kill him, the weeping crack in his head will.

Holy fuck, humans bleed a lot. And fast. Good thing you already have that clear tarp taped down. Even with the hush money stuffed down your throat, it would take a good nick to regrout the kitchen.

“What is that for, honey?”

“I’m painting the cabinets.”

“Okay, darling.”

So you let him bleed, surprised that the liquid is redder than what you thought it would be. A soft gurgling noise came from Bucky, the last of air escaping his dead body. You stood there, syringe in hand, as you thought how to dispose of a six-foot-tall man without arousing suspicion.

Not that he’ll be missed anyway: the local news and the internet already branded him as a psycho and you as a victim. You were both victims in this fairytale. They reported his case as “skipped the town like the sicko he is.” So, no—no one’s going to look for him.

The sun was high up in the sky and there was a dead body in your kitchen.

A butcher and a surgeon walks into a bar for a drink. “What do you do for a living?” Said the butcher, “I save lives! What about you?” The doctor answers. “I save animals from dying slowly. We’re basically the same. You’re just very clean.” You see, the butcher comes into the bar covered in blood, reeking of death. The surgeon, on the other hand, wears his white coat with pride even though he’s surrounded by death every passing second.

Today was the day you learned that you have the tools of a butcher and the precision of a surgeon. Unlike before.

You carefully take Bucky’s fingers off of his left hand, leaving a skin flap on the edge of the last knuckle for you to stitch close later. Four promises. Four goddamn promises and he broke all of them.

It was his fault that he’s dead. He made you do this.

Starting with his left shoulder, you jab the knife between the bone and the soft flesh of his armpit, bringing the blade downwards. The sickening smell of blood swirled along with the image of muscle and fat being sliced made you gag.

Does the brain know that it’s seeing something it shouldn’t?

A rational part of you wanted to look away but the time is ticking, it’ll be much harder once rigor mortis sets in an hour.

You swing the knife down, cracking the bone once, and then again, and again, and again until the shoulder bone splinters and dislocates itself from the rest of Bucky’s torso. You had to switch knives and blades and a fucking bone saw to get through the rest of his limbs, leaving only his chest, head, and stomach untouched. After taping up and packing the arms and the legs, you work on putting the rest of Bucky into a nondescript suitcase.

The only problem being his head getting into the way of things.

Wanting to preserve even a shred of his dignity, you left his face untouched. Well, save from the crack in his skull.

You begrudgingly take a hefty chef’s knife and start cutting through the jugular vein, only stopping when the blade hits the spinal cord by his nape. The serrated blade of the bone saw sits on your blood-soaked gloves, scrape-scrape-scraping until it snaps into two.

The human head weighs around 10 pounds, kinda like a bowling ball.

An opaque black garbage bag containing Bucky’s head looks nothing suspicious as you put it inside a backpack—into a firepit you go.

His limbs—arms and legs alike—are going deep into the ocean, forgotten and to be used as fish food.

The limbless torso will be finding its home in a deep hole in the middle of a densely wooded area, far from the city.

But you’re not quite sure what to do with the mason jar of teeth though; the clinking noises of it remind you of the seashells you used to collect when you were a kid. Maybe you’ll stash it away with the torso.

Placing the bags into the trunk of a rental, you begin your journey to the end of your fairytale.

The drive to and from the places was tiring, to say the least. The internet connection of the diners was spotty at best. Locals were overly friendly with the city folks who came passing through their towns. The roads reek of roadkill and manure from the farm animals that were left to roam for fresh grass.

At least you get to come home in a spotless apartment, alone once again.

But not lonely.

Your space is yours again. No trace of anyone anywhere. Immaculately yours.

—

Humans are social creatures.

No one can truly be alone, especially in today’s world where we’re connected to everyone—whether we liked it or not.

Leaving your wretched job behind was an easy feat to do. No one can say no to the victim of such a vile crime. That’s all they saw you: a helpless little thing. So off you went; saying half-assed goodbyes and sending emails of courage and hope and fucking resilience.

Your resignation meant that the company’s free of any dirt from you, Bucky’s disappearance quickly becoming a joke and a rumor blending in one.

They let you leave: in your bank account a fat check ensuring that you’d shut up about the scandal for months until you can’t feed yourself no more. So you packed your bags and jet off without looking back. You never liked that apartment anyway.

Nevertheless, you found yourself looking into another dead-end job in one of the towns you stopped over before. It’s a charming place like time froze in their plaza while the rest of the world went on. You found a small studio apartment in a street tuckered away from the main avenue, you settled there as days became nights and nights turned into days.

You woke up one morning craving a healthy serving of coffee and pancakes, luckily the town’s local diner wasn’t far from your new home.

The coffee was too hot, the pancakes were amazing, fluffy, and just right. You’re sitting in a sunny booth, the warmth doing its wonders.

“Hi, can I get today’s paper, please?” Your voice is sweet as you call your server, giving her a quick smile.

A pair of Raybans adorn your face, unconsciously hiding behind its darkened glasses. The waitress gives you a thick stack of newspapers, refilling your cup with black coffee.

Upon opening the paper, you ignore the town’s headlines and went straight for the job postings. The door jingled open as patrons come in and go, waving to familiar faces.

Job Vacancy Announcements

Secretary to the Town Sheriff

You skimmed over the rest of the details, only noting the address of the office. The job looks quite lucrative for someone who would only take messages and organize files for the sheriff.

Looking over the job posting again, you read over the words walk-ins only. That shouldn’t be hard enough.

The diner looked deserted save from the man sitting behind your booth. Leaning over and tapping his shoulder, you put on a polite smile, “Hi, sorry, do you know how to get to the sheriff’s office from here?”

“Hello, darling.” The man croons in an accent, he looks over to you, “join me in my booth, will ‘ya?”

You’re in no position to reject his proposal, you’re the one who needed an answer.

Taking your coffee cup, you slide into his booth, “hi.”

“Just the face I wanted to see.” Clean-shaven, a hint of mint and smoke, and something woody; a worn leather jacket and white button-up shirt hugging his soft frame. “Some folks over on the apartment complex were talkin’ about a city girl wanting to rent a studio all by herself. That happen to be you?”

You look over to him, trying to understand how that small of news spread like a wildfire, “yeah. I moved in a week ago.”

He leans over, smiling sweetly as he unabashedly lets his eyes roam your features, “What’s a city girl like you doin’ in a place like this? I hope we ain’t too boring for you, gal.”

Chatty—he’s way too chatty.

“Just wanted a change of pace, really. Away from the bustle of the city.” You rustle the paper, clearing your throat to get back on the matter on hand, “so the sheriff’s office? Is it too far from here?”

“What business are ‘ya bringing into the office?”

“A job, actually. Says here that they’re looking for a secretary.” You might as well tell him everything, he seems too chatty to be dismissed over and over again.

“Well, darlin’, today’s your lucky day. No need to drive down the old road.” He reaches down to his seat, pulling up a brown hat, “Hi, I’m Sheriff Bodecker. Now, to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

You bite back a giggle, you’ve always wanted to be involved with the law.

[nanaminokanojo]

Play the Game | Nanami Kento X You | Part 3/8

CHARACTERS: Nanami Kento X You (fem!reader | PLEASE READ THE NOTES BELOW*) | Gojo Satoru | Geto Suguru | Shoko Ieiri | Utahime Iori | other JJK Characters CHAPTER COUNT: 3/8 WORD COUNT: 4,000+ GENRE: romance | fluff | slight angst | eventual smut | ooc depictions | female reader with described appearance* | modern au | rich people au | aged up characters CHAPTER TRIGGER WARNING: profanity | age gap | strong/mature/suggestive language | mentions of murder/crime/dying | mentions and use of drugs SPOILERS: n/a

collection masterlist

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight

"Play the Game" Masterlist

"Do you remember the last time I was in your car?"

The hitch immediately started with that one question. It seemed innocent enough with the way you said it in nonchalance while you let your eyes roam the ivory interior of the Lexus. The two of you were only halfway out of the highway when you asked out of the blue, ultimately pissing Nanami off.

At the reminder, his knuckles immediately turned bone white on the steering wheel, his expressions turning dark as he glanced at you, mouth set in a thin line.

He couldn't remember a darker time in his life than watching you almost die from the rear view mirror of his car as you lay shivering on the backseat, unresponsive even if he struggled to both drive, not to crash and keep you conscious. The glassy look about your blue eyes and the way your pupils had blown up to more than twice their size making him shiver. It was safe to say it scarred him for life.

It was a day like any other. He had just gotten off work after a long day at the court, a mix of sadness and elation coursing through him after winning the case for a teenage girl who was brutally murdered. He finally put the man responsible for it in jail for good. It felt good to see the relief on the faces of the grieving parents; to finally put an end to the daily misery they have to go through, having to be reminded of what has become of their daughter.

But as he was resting in his study, a damp towel draped over his tired eyes and throbbing head, his phone suddenly rang. It wasn't yet 10 o'clock in the evening so he opted to answer it, surprised when he saw your name on the screen. You never really called, and the last time you did, it didn't bode well.

"Hello?"

"Suguru..." came your hoarse voice from the other end of the line, your shallow breaths and wheezes evident in each syllable followed by the sound of faintly splashing water.

"You've reached the wrong person, sweetheart," he muttered, reminding him just how Geto was your favorite among Gojo's friends. He did not resent that, but to say he wasn't the tiniest bit jealous was a lie.

Nanami called your name several times but there was no response, just loud rustling and what seemed to be the device falling on the floor with an echo.

"I fucked up big time," you managed to choke out when you spoke again, your tone slurred, and you seemed to be having a difficult time speaking.

"Where are you?"

"I n-need you... p-please..."

"What's going on?" Nanami was already on his feet, dashing out of the study and picking up his keys, still coaxing you to respond when he heard a ding on his phone. You managed to send your location but you weren't speaking anymore.

He was not religious, probably did not believe in a higher being, but as he drove towards your location, thankfully only half a mile away to the suburbs, he found himself fervently praying for your safety.

When he finally got to the address, he found a modernistic structure, a house, and there seemed to be a party going on. He saw some familiar faces, the gallery manager from the previous exhibit of your recent collection and some art connoisseurs he recognized from the same event.

He barged into the house, being handed a champagne flute the moment he entered, everyone welcoming him but he didn't see your face among the people. He refused, asking instead where you were, sprinting up the stairs in large strides when he was told you went upstairs with some people.

Nanami pretty much kicked every door open until he finally found you in one of the upstairs bathroom. He thought his knees would give out as his heart literally stopped at the sight before him.

There, on the half-filled bathtub was you, soaked to your chest. Your white hair was matted over your forehead while the tips floated on the water. You turned your head when you heard him enter, revealing bloodshot eyes, your lips blue and you looked like you didn't have any blood left with your almost greyish pallor.

Hurriedly, he took you out of the tub, carrying you downstairs much to the curiosity of the guests. "You will be okay. Stay with me," he kept telling you.

Despite your state, you managed to smile, tears springing from your eyes. "Nanamin..." you said weakly, making his heart swell that you were at least happy to see him.

He seriously thought you were going to die, but apparently, you did not necessarily overdose on the cocaine you had taken in as he would later find out from the doctors themselves. You had a bad trip and had to be weaned off the substance for the next twenty four hours.

"Are you drug dependent?" he asked when he picked you up from the hospital, opting not to tell Gojo about the matter until he got his answers.

"You won't tell Satoru, will you?" you asked.

"That depends on your answer and whether you're telling the truth," he told you gruffly, fighting hard not to be angry seeing as how fragile you looked. He hadn't slept and he felt as if his nerves were frayed.

You shook your head. "That's the first time. I promise you it won't happen again. I know it's stupid, but I was just curious."

"Your devil-may-care attitude will kill you."

"I know."

He didn't say anything more no matter how much he wanted to scold you and beat some sense into you. He never brought it up and neither did you. That was an unspoken agreement between the two of you. It was your secret which he will carry to his grave and for the last three years since then, nothing like it happened again. You voluntarily cut your ties with the people who were in that party and since then, you had been well.

"Don't remind me," he snapped at you, keeping his eyes on the road.

You’ve reached the shop that Utahime had instructed you to go to for your fitting, but before he could kill the engine, you spoke again.

"Come to think of it, I've never properly apologized for it, and I haven't said thank you enough for saving me that day."

Nanami shot you a sharp look. "I don't want to talk about it."

You sighed and held his hand as he was taking off his seatbelt. "I don't mean to make you angry, but I am sincerely apologizing for it. I am sorry because I put you through that."

Nanami held you by the wrist instead, meeting your gaze with a cold stare. "If you are, then I hope you also realized what a selfish person you are. You're right. You put me through hell. What could I have said to your brother if you died on me that night?"

You didn't say anything, appearing contrite for the first time.

"Gojo would have lost you. Your friends would have lost you." He sighed heavily, holding your hand properly, his expressions softening at how tiny yours looked in his. "I would have lost you."

At his last statement, you nodded and chuckled quietly. "I wouldn't refute that if it saves me. Still, I wanted you to know that it was a big deal for me." You smiled at him. "But that's not all. I could have lost you, but you're still here. So, thanks." And in a surprising turn of events which left him dumbstruck, you lifted both your hands and brushed your lips on his knuckles before disembarking from the car and skipping to the couturier's shop.

His mind wandered throughout the time he was being assisted into the suit that the bride- and groom-to-be had chosen for him to wear on their wedding. He had to give Gojo props for choosing well and suiting the ensemble’s piece to his preference. But he couldn’t quite concentrate on the task at hand when the scene in the car kept playing in his mind. The back of his hand still tingled where you kissed it.

All he wanted to do was see you, but you were a room away, also being pricked and pinned. He wanted nothing but for the fitting to be over so he can be with you again, regardless if it was just for the short drive going back to Gojo manor. Your course of action and words fueled something in him he thought never existed, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to see you, hear you, smell you, touch you. He wanted you, wanted to have you for himself come Gojo or high water. He already knew that, but he never felt as strongly as he did for you than at present because he also knew, that for the first time, you were being yourself and not playing games with him.

Nanami vaguely heard the tailor say something to him, but he didn’t quite catch it, but his image on the mirror suddenly became clearer as he was interrupted from his daydream. His brows furrowed together as he assessed what the man said, but before it could drag on for too long, his cluelessness, he said, “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

“Is the fit just right, Mr. Nanami?” the man asked again, expert eyes scanning over his figure.

“It’s perfect. Thank you,” Nanami stated hurriedly. He couldn’t care less about the suit, but it was already great. He didn’t see any reason to prolong the appointment. “Can I get changed now?”

“Certainly, sir,” the tailor said. “I will leave you to get dressed.”

He just nodded and carefully shed the suit off before changing back into his clothes, meticulously folding the sleeves of his shirt before he set out in search of you. He knocked on the door he was directed to, hearing music playing on the other side of the door along with some voices, one of which was yours.

The door opened and his eyes immediately met those cool blue ones through the mirror. You had your arms spread out to the sides as three women worked around you. “Done already?”

Nanami felt heat creeping up his neck as he averted his gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were far from finished.”

“Oh, shush. I need your opinion.”

He snorted. “Yeah. Like I know anything about this.” At odds to his words, he sat down.

“Your boyfriend is handsome,” the couturier commented with a flirtatious giggle as he sized Nanami up.

“I –”

He was about to protest when you cut him short and said, “Isn’t he?”

“That coming from the person who said she didn’t feel like drawing my face,” he said, feigning annoyance.

“Oh, baby. I can’t draw your face if its saves me.” You flashed him a seductive smile. “You’re too perfect.” You winked at him through the mirror while he just sat down and shook his head in amusement, picking up a magazine but not really reading through it. He just watched as you were directed like a doll to pose whichever way the stylist wanted and he could have sworn he has seen nothing more beautiful.

“Just another pin right here,” the couturier said flamboyantly, fastening this and that around your sides, “…and we’re done!” He clapped his hands, standing back as he admired his handiwork. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s fine,” you said, tilting your head to the side.

“Hmm,” Nanami butted in, closing the distance between him and you. He came closer behind you, silently ordering everyone else out of the room with a succinct jerk of his head before he stood there, eyes on your bare back. He placed both hands on either of your shoulders, towering over you.

You quietly observed what he was doing from the mirror, your expressions unchanging even when he traced your spine with his finger. His lips curled at the corners ever so slightly when you slightly jerked forward when he reached the small of your back, relishing the smoothness of your skin against his calloused digit. He lingered there, drawing circles as he met your gaze on your reflection.

“Isn’t this too low?” he asked, his breath hitting the shell of your right ear. “You’re attending a wedding anyway.”

“Oh?” You twirled around so that your back was to the mirror, while you looked over your shoulder to check what he was saying. The plunging style of the dusty rose gown dipped all the way to your waist. “You think so?” You looked up at him, noticing how his face was just inches away from you. “I think it’s okay.”

“Okay for everyone to see?”

At that, you smiled smugly at him. “And you don’t like that, do you, Nanamin?” you asked sultrily.

“I am your boyfriend after all,” he teased. “While I’d like to brag about you, it wouldn’t sit right with me to know everyone’s seeing what’s supposedly only for my eyes, now would it?”

“I never took you for the jealous – whoa!”

Without preamble, he wrapped a strong arm around you, pulling you close so that you were flush against his chest, a devious smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t even concealing his enjoyment anymore. He liked having you close like that, your intoxicating scent dominating his senses.

“Why did you say that to the stylist?” he asked, leaning closer and reveling at the fact that you were caught off guard, eyes wide in surprise.

“It’s easier to just say so than explain, isn’t it?” You leveled your bearing with his. “You didn’t do anything to disagree either.”

“First, you kiss me in front of your brother, flirt with me like it’s normal and say things like that. What are you playing at?”

“Is this one of your games?” you asked, returning his question to you the previous day. You reached up and cupped the side of his face, eyes lingering on his mouth. “Cause I’ll play, Kento.”

He has never quite thought of his name before, whether he liked it or not. It was given to him and he couldn't imagine being called anything else. But he has never liked the sound of it as much as he did when it was rolling out of your tongue. It brought out a strange feeling, spurring him on to give in to his desires instead of holding them back like he usually does with you.

It was all the encouragement he needed. Fuck everything, he thought, dipping his head lower to close the distance between the two of you until he was touching your lips. A quiet gasp left your mouth when he pressed his lips onto yours in an experimental touch, gentle as a zephyr. Your ocean eyes stared at him, taken aback when he pulled away but the dazed look you had was the same one that drew him back to you, landing pecks several times, each one lingering longer than the last.

"Are you teasing me, Nanamin?" you breathed out softly, the laughter in your voice dying out when he captured your lips, this time shutting you up for a good while, coaxing you to respond to his ministrations. He knew he won over you when he felt your fingers grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer, your chest rising and falling against his in shallow breaths, making his heart thrum wildly.

His senses were already heightened whenever you were in the same breathing space as he was, but it was always a different story when you were touching him. Hyper aware. There wasn't a better word that would describe how he felt at that moment. He seemed to see everything he wouldn't usually notice; hear his heart thrumming over every other thought in his brain; almost touch the tension in the air and feel that intense heat blooming from his chest outwards.

But at the same time, nothing mattered but the person in front of him, kissing him and making him feel all sorts of ways. He was a gonner and he knew it but he didn't want to fight it either.

You moaned into the kiss when he gently darted his tongue into your mouth, seducing yours in a fiery dance that united your breaths. His hands made their way up your shoulders, the feel of your soft skin awakening carnal thoughts, making him think of nothing but ways to own you, mark you until he was satisfied. He cupped your face in his large hands, holding you in place, unable to get enough of your taste and the sensations you gave him. They made him crave like a man starved and deprived and he wants to take, take, take.

By the time he pulled away, he was a panting mess, eyes closed as he leaned his forehead against yours, willing himself to calm down. He couldn't help the smile that graced his lips the moment he opened his eyes to find you flushed, lips swollen from his kisses. But that was short-lived when he heard a clinking sound on the side of his head and a wicked grin stretched over your mouth. When he followed the sound, he saw the keys to his car dangling on your fingers.

"What –"

You took a step back when he tried to reach for it, effectively holding it away from him. "Prestidigitation," you declared, sounding victorious. "I'm driving. No arguments."

Nanami sighed, his senses still fuzzy from your kiss and the sight of you whirling around in chiffon and taffeta. He just gave in to his affections for you in hopes of coming out the victor, but you still played him in his own game. "Fine. You win."

You stood on your toes and pecked him on the cheek, stepping off to the side to ring the bell for the shop staff. "I promise not to crash your car."

**

Nanami sat on the passenger side of the car, glancing at the fair-haired villain who stole his car keys, currently driving him to some surprise place of your choosing. He had protested when he noticed how you were going to the opposite way from the manor, taking the highway that led well away from the town. Thrice, he told you to turn back and for every reason he cited, you had a counterattack, not necessarily valid but enough grounds for you to get your way.

"I need to read through the case file and take down notes to make up for the time I'm missing at the firm," came his first excuse but you effectively shot that down by pointing at his briefcase neatly tucked at the backseat.

"Yeah, cause as anal as you are about your job, you don't keep spare copies in your car in cases of emergency."

He jerked on his seat at your comment. "Hey, I'm not anal about my job! I'm just being prudent."

You laughed at the way his voice was raised than usual. "No need to get defensive. Besides, Your initial hearing isn't going to be in two months and by the looks of it, you have everything almost done."

"How did you –"

"I saw them the first day you arrived." Shrugging, it was your turn to shoot him with an annoyed gaze. "You keep forgetting that I have photographic memory. I'm cursed to remember everything."

Truth was, he seemed to be forgetting whose sister you were, letting his guard down and kissing you the way he did. He knew he could have done more if he completely let go of his reins. You were just too tempting, too beautiful and brimming life and infinite galaxies in your eyes which devoured him and made him lose of all sense of time, space and just sense in general.

"Satoru will be looking for you," Nanami attempted for the second time which only earned him an imperious look from you. You said everything in that single action: one, that you didn't care and two, that he was behaving ludicrously.

For the final time, he tried to appeal with something which you would actually give a damn about. "Don't you want to spend time with your friends?"

"Seriously, Nanamin, they're the least of your problems. We're going camping tonight. Besides, they know –" You deliberately stopped talking, your ears turning red, evidently flustered.

"They know what?" he prompted, leaning forward to have a better look at your face to assess your mood.

But then you said, "You're distracting me."

"And you're being evasive."

"If you don't want to spend time with me, just say so." In an abrupt swerve which made his life flash before his eyes, you pulled over to the side of the road, letting go of the steering wheel after you killed the engine. "Drive us home then."

You motioned to remove your seat belt, but Nanami stopped you, shaking his head. Why anything never went right when he was dealing with you was beyond him. "That's not it at all."

"Then what?" you snapped.

Damn, he thought. If the two of you were already fighting the way you are at present, he couldn't imagine how things would be once you were in an actual relationship. Then again, maybe it was the confusion as to what was happening that was causing the unwarranted tension between you two.

He sighed. "You're just too erratic. I can't keep up."

"And you're too fucking vanilla!" you growled.

Nanami was appalled that you would say that same comment in such a way. Leveling his ire with yours, he spat, "That's rich coming from you. Didn't you date that Kamo kid?"

You were stunned at his citation of your former relationship, even more so at his childish attempt at spiting you. It was so atypical of him. "You..." You jabbed a finger at him, about to spit fire when you realized that he cared enough to notice. Your brows knit together. "How did you know about that?"

"You think I wouldn't notice that he's been following you around like a lovestruck puppy during last year's autumn festival?" Nanami scoffed, sneering. "A person like you with someone more boring than the vanilla you claim that I am?"

He was being petty, he knew it, too. The look on your face as you just ogled him in stunned silence says it all. It was as if you never expected him to ever retort the way he did. It was really unusual if he would say so himself since he never really indulged you enough to actually argue with you the way the two of you were doing at the moment.

Out of the blue, you burst out in a fit of giggles, the corners of your eyes watering. "Come to think of it, he acts more like an old man than you do..."

"You dare call me an old man?" He knew your argument was over, but he couldn't help but say it. There was an out of place sense of satisfaction that engaging you in a word joust gave him no matter how unintelligent and shallow it was about.

When you finally calmed down, you said, "I want you to have fun and have a sense of adventure for once. I swear I won't throw your dead body to the ocean."

His left eye twitched at your sentiment. "Well, if you put it that way..."

"Just say yes to me for once."

"I always say yes to you if you haven't noticed by now."

You snickered, starting the engine. "I want you to say yes to me now."

Nanami felt something tug at his chest. "Yes."

"Good." You leaned over and poked him on the cheek.

Nanami sat there, rolling down the window as you drove, letting lose and enjoying the scenery the car passed by on the way to the sea. For the first time in a long time, his face ached from smiling too much, unable to help it.

He knew it and he didn't care if he was doomed. He was in love with you, always have been and always will.

-end of part 3-

*I used “you” here, but since my character is Gojo’s little sister who is established to be his female clone for reasons essential to the plot, she possesses the same blue eyes and white hair. I did not exactly want to create an OC (although technically, I did by describing Y/N), but I opted for the best of both worlds in this fic, leaning more towards the literary aspect of it as opposed to it just being reader/you-oriented. I hope this isn’t iffy to anyone, and yeah, i’m not being exclusive or whatever.

Thank you so much for reading. Likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it.

© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI'S “JUJUTSU KAISEN.” [20210716]

PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

[rosiethots]

the count of monte cristo inspired reddie !! please just imagine:

young richie with the rest of the losers, living happily with his friends, cracking jokes. sure he’d get an eye roll or a punch on the arm for some of them but that just made it funnier.

even if no one generally took him seriously, that was okay. he didn’t care for serious.

which is why it got harder for him to be around bill. bill who was way too old for his age. they clashed often, and who could ever forget the summer fight of ‘89?

the rest of the losers had sort of an unspoken agreement to keep bill and richie as far apart as possible ever since then. but sometimes it wasn’t enough.

sometimes richie joked too much. he was too immature. he didn’t know anything about the real world and it’s cruelties.

bill had glared at richie as he was tugged away by mike and bev. richie could hear ben saying to bill,

“don’t be so mean, he’s a nice enough guy.”

nice enough guy, richie scoffed as he stormed away.

he’s alright

an okay kid

kinda annoying

probably won’t make it far

he’s heard it all. from his parents, to his teachers.

he hadn’t realized someone had followed him out of bill’s basement until there came a flick to his arm. the glare he sent to his attacker had no effect at all seeing as it was eddie and all the smaller did was laugh.

“i come in peace.” eddie threw his hands up in surrender.

richie wanted to soften. he was mad at bill, not eddie. but for some reason the line on his forehead wouldn’t disappear.

the world was moving and before he could process the blurred images, he found himself sitting in the grass in bill’s backyard. eddie’s small hands still wrapped around his arm from where he pulled him.

“bill didn’t me-“

“yes he did.” richie was fucking tired. he didn’t meant this, she didn’t mean that.

if they didn’t mean it why’d they fucking say it?

“okay yeah he did. but he wasn’t right.”

richie spared a glance at eddie’s face only to be greeted with wide brown eyes shining with determination and.. something else. richie took note that eddie’s hands still rested on his bicep.

“look, i’m probably the last person you wanna hear this from but, i think you’re great.” eddie admitted softly. “sometimes your jokes are lame, but i’d deal with a day of bad jokes if it meant hanging out with you.”

richie felt his bottom lip wobble but he swallowed the feeling down.

“edward kaspbrak, are you in love with me?”

eddie burned a bright red, snatching his hands from richie’s arm before delivering a tiny punch.

“i’m trying to have a nice moment, jackass.”

richie cackled and threw his hands up in mock surrender before gathering eddie’s squirming form into his arms.

“listen if you wanna go on a date with me all you have to do is ask.”

“in your dreams” eddie grumbled, breaking free from richie’s hug before straightening out his now crumpled shirt. richie chuckled softly as he watched the smaller’s face.

“thank you, eddie. sorry for being a dick. bill just makes me so fucking mad sometimes. like yeah i get it, georgie’s gone, it’s sad. i’m not happy it happened, no one is. but that doesn’t mean the people around you can’t try to move on? enjoy their pathetic lives? make the most out of nothing?”

eddie was quiet for a moment and richie worried it meant he was upset with his confession. he wouldn’t take what he said back, because he knows he’s right. bill has every right to mourn and grieve. but lashing out of people for no fucking reason wont get you far.

a small warm hand rested on richie’s shoulder. richie turned his attention to the owner of said hand.

“for what it’s worth, ever since i’ve met you, i’ve enjoyed life a lot more.”

richie nearly choked on his own breath.

“it’s so fucking sappy i know but i mean it. and you know something? i believe, out of all of us, you’re going to go the farthest. really make something of yourself. i just know it. you’re too amazing not to.”

richie felt his eyes burning but honestly he didn’t care. he was too busy throwing his arms around eddie to care.

more importantly, he was too focused on eddie hugging him back to care.

richie sniffled softly from where his face was buried in eddie’s shoulder.

“i promise you i’ll make something of myself. i’ll get all the way to the top of the world. i’ll even make Bill my servant.”

eddie giggled, albeit muffled since he was pressed against richie’s chest.

“promise you’ll remember me when you’re at the top?”

richie pulled away from the hug, both hands holding onto eddie’s shoulders as he looked the smaller in the eye.

“i’m going to take you to the top with me. you’ll never leave my side. like my lil pocket companion.”

eddie swatted at richie playfully, a bashful smile on his face.

“you promise?”

“fuck yes i promise!” richie exclaimed before digging his hands through his pockets. eddie watched him with a single quirked eyebrow in curiosity. richie huffed as he pulled his hands out empty before zoning in on the frayed part of his shirt. there were several loose strings but there was one particular thread that was longer than the others.

without hesitation, richie reached down and yanked the thread. he ignored eddie’s cries of “be careful richie don’t tear your shirt!” to grab eddie’s left hand and rest it on his knee.

with careful movements, richie tied the thread around eddie’s ring finger before holding his hand up to show eddie his work.

“here. my promise to you, that i’ll take you with me. wherever i go.”

eddie smiled richie’s favorite kind of smile. that one smile where his eyes disappear and his cheeks bunch up.

“i’ll never take it off.”

in that moment, richie feels an urge but he can’t quite put a name to it. but he knows it gets stronger when he looks down at eddie’s lips.

but of course life is cruel.

fast forward a few weeks and richie is coming home to police cars in his drive way. immediately thinking the worse, someone has died, he darts into the house.

his mother is crying as the sheriff squares his shoulders and approaches her son.

“mr. tozier, is it true you attacked bill denbrough?”

richie has no fucking idea where this is coming from. he hasn’t seen bill all day. not to mention, he hadn’t seen the fucker all week.

“no it’s not true. why would i?”

“there’s been reports of you two having previous altercations.”

“well yeah, he’s a dick-“

“richard!” richie flinched at the harsh sharp tone of his father.

“if you don’t mind, i’d like to take you down to the station. for just a few more questions.”

that’s only the beginning. word travels fast in a small toxic town like derry. everyone heard of the tozier boy with a violent nature. even if richie screams it isn’t true.

he sees bill one day, just passing by in school. and richie is honestly surprised by the condition bill’s face is in. someone sure went to town on him. richie normally would be concerned, except for the fact that everyone thinks it’s his fault.

the scrutiny gets so bad that the toziers are practically forced out of town. but at that point richie couldn’t bring himself to care. all he can think about was the last time he would lay eyes on eddie.

the small boy would lock eyes with him in the hallway and make a bee line for him. richie wants to cry because it’s the first time someone isn’t looking at him like he’s a monster.

they’ve almost reached each other when stan plows his way through and crowd to drag a protesting eddie away. richie has half a mind to chase them down but he feels prying eyes on him everywhere.

every move he makes is examined thoroughly out of “the safety of others”. or whatever bullshit. so he watches as eddie is hauled away from richie. and that would be the last image he would have of the small boy.

fast forward 25 years and richie finds himself standing in front of the restaurant.

he isn’t the same richie the rest knew all those years ago.

he made a name for himself.

trashmouth.

it was nearly a household name at this point. he had a faithful fan base following him, a full bank account, and even a solid show on a mainstream channel in the works.

but even with all of that, there were still some loose ends keeping him up at nights.

quickly he found out that he remembered a lot more about the past than the others did, besides mike.

even bill didn’t remember him.

but richie sure as hell remembered. he never let himself forget.

he almost loses himself when he sees eddie, however. even moreso when it’s announced that eddie has since gotten married.

richie finds out why he was falsely accused of bill’s attack. turns out victor, as revenge for henry, planned on seeking out each loser. bill had been the first. victor had broken bill’s nose, collarbone, and one of his ribs. while victor had done his damage, bill manage to wrestle him to the edge of the quarry’s cliff, shoving him off. unfortunately, during winter time in derry, it was cold enough for the lake to freeze over multiple times.

bill had panicked. what would he tell everyone?

richie simply nodded, a calm smile over his lips as bill recalled the story. he’ll take care of that later.

fast forward a bit more, pennywise is successfully laid to rest. eddie narrowly avoids being impales due to richie shoving him out of the way.

a celebration is had down by the quarry and that’s where richie sees it. a piece of thread peeking out from under eddie’s wedding band.

richie corners eddie and forces the ring off of his finger so he could see. eddie lets him.

“i forgot why i had it on, but part of me knew to never take it off. so i never did. but now i know.” eddie cups richie’s face with his free hand.

anyways eddie divorces myra and marries richie. richie gets him a new ring, which eddie wears, but he keeps the thread on as well.

[iron--spider]

sharp corners (whumptober - secret injury)

Tony keeps watching as newly minted one year-old Morgan toddles around her own party, gazing up at all the adults that are here, chronicling her every move. Pepper invited a few Stark employees with children around the same age, and it’s like watching a herd of baby deer muddle around, with no real intentions of going anywhere in particular. They’re just walking because they can. 

 But they have one very formidable foe in their paths. Sharp corners. Tony didn’t realize how many they had in this room, one of the living rooms with a kitchen and dining space—there are all kinds of coffee tables, side tables, weirdly shaped chairs. Danger at every turn. Or corner. 

 Peter swoops in so Morgan doesn’t run into the table beside the couch again. They’ve already got one crying baby being comforted on the couch, and every other second there’s another close call. Everybody’s on high alert. No baby is safe. 

 It’s getting under Tony’s skin.

 It’s becoming an unspoken thing, like everybody is afraid to say Tony Stark throws a shitty birthday party for kids, but they’re all standing in front of the corners and pretending they’re not. Peter is the only one being genuine, as always. And Tony can see everything May is thinking on her face. 

 Morgan stumbles into Peter’s arms, shrieking happily when he settles her in his lap. Since she started walking she usually doesn’t wanna stop for anybody, not even him or Pepper, but she’s had a special soft spot for Peter from moment one. Which doesn’t surprise Tony in the slightest. 

 He kneels down next to the two of them just as Peter is blowing raspberries into Morgan’s chubby little cheek. 

 “Can you hold court for a minute or two here?” Tony whispers, so Pepper can’t hear. 

 “Uh, yeah,” Peter says, giving Tony a look. “What are you gonna go do? Because more Barbies could really, like, liven this thing up. You don’t have the submarine Barbie down here and that’s her favorite one.”

 “I’m not gonna go get more toys,” Tony scoffs, shaking his head at him. “I’m gonna go deal with our little situation here.”

 “Situation?” Peter asks. Morgan is grabbing at the collar on his shirt, holding onto one of his fingers.

 Tony taps the corner directly behind Peter’s head. 

 Peter narrows his eyes. “What are you gonna do? File them down?”

 Tony glares at him. “Just trust me, please. Stay your interesting and endearing self and entertain the masses.” He taps Peter’s nose, ruffles Morgan’s untamed curls.

 “Uh, okay,” Peter says, and Tony glances back to see him watching him worriedly, craning his neck.

 Tony finds the tennis balls in a broom closet. He bought a lot of random shit when Morgan was born, a lot of shit they didn’t need, or didn’t need at least for another couple of years. He remembers Pepper’s face when he and Peter came back with the ten pack of tennis balls, among other unnecessary things. Tennis balls? Is someone making a career change? Are we getting a dog? Then Peter talked about a dog for twenty minutes, and appropriately distracted her from the roller skates and VR headset in the basket.

 Tony gets overzealous, he knows this, everybody knows this. He’ll probably never even use any of the shit he bought in his baby-induced stupor, because he can usually get something better or invent it himself. But he’s glad he got the tennis balls.

 He sneaks out of the closet, sliding along the wall like he’s on a covert mission, and that other baby is still crying. Jesus, he knew a one year old’s birthday party might be a miss, but these guys are gonna go away thinking Tony can’t babyproof his place. He marches deep into the kitchen, and thankfully, nobody’s gonna be in here for another half hour or so because that’s when the lunch is gonna arrive. He briefly wonders if everybody is judging their appetizers too, and shakes his head, getting back to the task at hand.

 Pepper babyproofed the set of knives, of all things, like Morgan was gonna climb up on this counter three times her height and choose a knife as her new toy. Tony unlocks Fort Knox, and takes out the sharpest one, glancing down at his feet to make sure one of the babies isn’t down there searching for something sharp. He’s alone, thankfully, and he pops open the tennis ball container like a can of cat food, and pulls the first one out. He puts it down on the counter, holds it with two fingers as he lines up the knife, and as soon as steel touches down on nylon, the ball pops away from his grasp and bounces across the kitchen.

 “Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters, knowing if Morgan hears that she’ll come zooming in here like an out of control mini-bus, and Peter definitely will, considering the enhanced hearing. He puts the knife down—scoots it closer to the wall just in case—and walks over to the offending tennis ball.

 “I am Iron Man,” he mutters, snatching the tennis ball off the ground, popping it from hand to hand. “I can, and will, conquer this foe. No more baby heads bumping into hard corners, oh no, not today.”

 He puts the ball back down on the counter again and tries to saw through it.

 “This shouldn’t be this fucking hard,” he groans, gritting his teeth. 

 The ball threatens to jump out and roll away again, and Tony’s getting a little too recklessly angry, the small voice in the back of his mind telling him to settle down.

 But that kid is still crying in the other room.

 Tony holds the ball in his hand and cuts away at it with his other hand, and it absolutely shouldn’t be this goddamn hard, and he reminds himself to pull his hand away when he gets all the way through the ball—

 But it falls apart like a newly cut apple a lot quicker than Tony expected, and he slices right through his palm like it’s what he’d been aiming for all along.

 “Shit,” he hisses, white hot pain shooting through him, the blood bright and horrifying red, not something he’d ever wanna see in the middle of his daughter’s first birthday party.

 “Oh, goddamnit,” Tony says, grimacing. He glares down at both halves of the ball, and moves over to the sink, quickly running the water over his injured hand.

 He knows immediately that this isn’t the kind of wound he can just wash off and walk away from, and he’s seen a lot of shit in his life. He knows he needs to take care of it, and that means Pepper will notice his absence. Then Pepper will find out the dumbass thing he did, and Pepper will be pissed. Nobody ever wants Pepper to be pissed.

 Tony watches the blood flood down the drain and chews on his lower lip.

 “Hey,” Peter’s voice says, as he comes around the corner. “What are you oh my God.”

 It’s like Tony’s heart is sucked directly into his throat and he whips his hand out from under the water, flinging droplets and blood fucking everywhere. And yet, he still hides his hand behind his back. 

 Peter stares at him. Looks down at the ball, cut in half, the drops of blood surrounding it like some half-assed modern art, and then back at Tony, the guiltiest man in the world. Peter narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”

 Tony scoffs, shaking his head. “What did I—nothing. I didn’t do anything. That’s always been there.”

 Peter stares down at the tennis ball. He looks up at the bloody knife on the counter. Jesus Christ. “You tried to cut the tennis ball in half to put on the table corners and you cut yourself.”

 Tony sighs, holding out his hand. It stings and the cut is still dripping. “Yeah, Pep is gonna be pissed if she finds out I did some dumb shit today of all days. Usually I get a pass—she gets irritated, yeah, but today is not a pass giving day.”

 Peter sucks in a breath and nods, moving into a mode that Tony has seen him in on more than one occasion. He opens up the second cabinet, takes out a glove—no, three gloves—and puts one on, depositing the other two on the counter. He grabs both pieces of the ball and tosses them in the trash, giving Tony a withering look. Then he grabs the Windex and starts cleaning up the blood.

 “Tony, like, do something, stop just standing there—”

 “Right, right,” Tony says, even though his brain is drawing complete blanks, because they’re still too close to the party itself and he’s fucking something else up for Pepper, as fucking usual, because that’s who he is and who he always will be.

 “Keep running your hand under the water,” Peter says, a little softer now. 

 Tony nods, rushes back over, and sticks his hand under the still-running water. Peter cleans the blood up best as he can, ignores the water that was sprayed with Tony’s sad attempt to hide his hand. 

 “Okay,” Peter says, throwing away the paper towels and the glove he was using. “Okay, okay, we’re gonna make a little compress, then we’re gonna put the gloves on your hands—”

 “Explanation for that?” Tony asks. 

 Peter shrugs. “I mean. You’re the one that can think on your feet. Remember the time I threw the bag of money out of the window?”

 Tony narrows his eyes. “How could I possibly forget?”

 Peter shrugs again, more dramatically. 

 Tony blows out a breath. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll think of something.” He’ll think of something stupid, that’s for sure, but Pepper is pretty used to that, so he might be able to pull it off.

 “Okay, I’m gonna go to the upstairs bathroom and grab the bactine—” He stares at Tony’s hand anxiously, and looks up at him. “I think we might need stitches.”

 “We?” Tony asks. “Can you feel it too?”

 Peter narrows his eyes at him. 

 “No time,” Tony says, waving around his free hand. He turns off the water, gesturing dramatically for a paper towel. Peter hands it to him with a big sigh. “You go get the bactine and the better bandages, I’ll do the compress for the time being—”

 Peter keeps looking anxiously at his hand. “Okay, okay, but Tony—”

 “Stitches tonight, promise, cross my heart, I’ll let her be pissed at me later, not now.”

 “Okay, okay, back in a flash.” Tony watches as he speeds through the hallway, and once he’s out of the danger zone he immediately crawls up to the ceiling and disappears towards the loft. Tony quickly makes a thin strip with a couple paper towels, and presses it on top of the cut. The blood still seeps through, and Tony rolls his eyes. Why in the hell did something like this have to happen today? He should be able to cut a tennis ball in half. It should have been too easy. He should have been able to cut them all in half.

 “Tony?” Pepper calls.

 His heart shrivels up in a panic. “Yeah, hun, I’m, uh, getting some more of the little—the little vegetables, and the, uh, the peas Mo likes! Yeah!” He doesn’t know why he added the last yeah in there, like a moron, and he definitely didn’t say any of it like a normal human being. 

 “Bring the carrots she likes too!” Pepper calls back, and Tony wilts in relief.

 “Yeah, gimme—couple minutes, I got this, I got this.” He shakes his head at himself, how he made bringing in vegetables sound like some immense task. He holds the paper towels to the cut, his fingers soaking with blood, and he thinks his body is being fucking overdramatic right now, he’s been cut worse without this much blood, it’s just gotta be bleeding like this—

 “TONY.”

 Peter’s voice, hushed but loud enough for Tony to hear. He turns around, inches from the fridge, and sees the kid standing there at the top of the stairs. In a flash, alright, but how, with the amount of shit he’s holding, Tony doesn’t know. Peter has bandages, bactine, Neosporin, rubbing alcohol, gauze, three of Morgan’s Barbies, including the newly purchased Black Widow one, and...the Hulk Smash hands. 

 Tony sees where this is going. Peter grins happily when Tony shakes his head at him, and he starts down the stairs when Morgan herself waddles into the hallway.

 Both of them freeze. 

 She stands there, keeping an unsteady hold on her stance, and she looks back and forth between the two of them, letting out a small, nearly silent squeal. They don’t have the baby guard over the stairs today, which is another negligence, but Peter shifts all of his loot into one arm, and rushes down, scooping Morgan up with the other. She grins, babbles something quietly to Peter as he moves fast into the kitchen.

 “What are you doing, little monkey?” Tony asks, bending down to look at her. She paws at his nose.

 “Tony, you got her?” Pepper yells. “She got away from Diane—”

 “Got her, got her, no help needed here, we’re good!” Tony yells back.

 “You keep sounding like someone is holding a gun to your head,” Peter says, putting all his supplies down on the counter. Morgan notices the Barbies, and looks at Peter in delight.

 “Yeah, I’m—I don’t hold up well under Pepper pressure,” Tony says, tossing away the blood-soaked paper towel and starting the work with the real first aid.

 “You got this?” Peter asks, swinging Morgan back and forth, making her laugh.

 “Yeah, kids,” Tony says. “Enjoy yourselves. Dad’s just bleeding.” He pushes everything down towards the sink, like on a conveyor belt, and the Surf Instructor Barbie tries to come along for the ride. “I assume I’m wearing the Hulk hands.”

 “Yeah, I thought that would be good, better than stupid cleaning gloves,” Peter says, holding Morgan against his hip. “You know like, none of her toys are age appropriate.”

 “I know,” Tony says, wincing at the Neosporin. “I go a little crazy with shopping for kid shit. I’ve got you to supervise.”

 “And no one’s taking Barbies away from little princess,” Peter says, kissing Morgan’s cheek. She loves that, and she laughs joyfully. Tony’s still got a gaping wound, but he peers over his shoulder to admire them, anyway.

 ~

 Peter cuts up the tennis balls and puts them on all the corners. Tony entertains as the Hulk for almost half an hour, and only slips up about his injury once, which he turns into a dilapidated roar. Everyone has fun, Morgan receives some toys that are more age appropriate, they eat, no more babies run into hard corners.

 Peter and May are showing Morgan her new dog guitar when Pepper peels the Hulk hand off Tony’s injured one. She raises her eyebrows at the wrapping which, thankfully, isn’t covered in blood.

 The dog guitar plays one long, mangled note, and Morgan claps.

 “I knew you’d done something to yourself,” Pepper says, raising her eyebrow at him. “I didn’t know what, but I knew you’d done something.”

 Tony grins, and absolutely does not look at Peter.

 “And this one helped,” May says, touching Peter’s knee with her foot.

 “How do you know?” Peter asks, accusingly. 

 “I just know,” May says, giving them both the same look.

 “Yeah, they work as a team,” Pepper says.

 Tony clears his throat. Well, it’s true. “I’m totally fine,” he says. “Just. Dandy. Just a scratch.”

 “You need stitches, don’t you?” Pepper asks.

 “Yeah,” Tony says, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I think I’ll probably lose the whole hand if I don’t get them within the next half hour.” He shrugs with his remaining Hulk fist. “Thor got these for her, right? Or was it us? I know it wasn’t Bruce.”

 “Yeah, it was Thor,” Pepper says. She leans in, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re a moron and I love you.”

 “I love you too,” Tony says, a little wary of her tone. “You’re gonna make Peter contact Helen, aren’t you?”

 “Oh, absolutely,” Pepper says, looking down at Peter. 

 “Got it,” Peter says, pressing a long kiss to Morgan’s forehead as she grasps at his chin. “Totally fair. Totally.”

 Peter and Tony walk towards the main door, shoulder to shoulder. 

 “I think we got off easy,” Tony says. 

 “Yeah, I was thinking she’d make me stitch it up myself,” Peter says. “Then we’d both be in trouble.”

 “I love you and I trust you, but yeah, no,” Tony says, patting him on the shoulder with the Hulk fist. He hopes the whole process goes quick. The five of them have a date with Barbie in Swan Lake tonight to cap off Morgan’s birthday. Hand or no hand. 

[blouisparadise]

There were so many amazing bottom Louis fics posted or completed during the month of July. We really hope you enjoy this list. Happy reading!

1) Bound (To Falling in Love) | Mature | 958 words

Note: The sequel to this fic is #2 on this list. 

Harry and Louis innocently cuddle on the couch until things get heated.

2) Nuh Uh, Honey | Mature | 1170 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic, which is #1 on this list.

So this is the ending of Bound (to falling in love) but with more detail. Long story short, Louis and Harry fuck.

3) 100ft Away | Explicit | 2479 words

Harry opens Grindr for a hookup and ends up with more than he bargained for. It all works out in the end.

4) I'm Looking for Closure | Not Rated | 2503 words

Note: This fic is the third part of a series. You can read the previous parts here.

“Say you can read my mind.” Harry said to Louis as he pushed Louis down onto the mattress. Louis squirmed as the covers rubbed against his skin.

“I can’t read your mind.” He said simply to Harry as he reached up to put his hands against Harry’s chest, trailing them down to Harry’s narrow hips.

“My mind is saying that I should just… just fucking go back in time. Go back so I could be your first.” Harry said, leaning down to lick into Louis’ hot mouth.

Or They finally fuck, sorry, I mean, make love.

5) The IT Fic | Mature | 3112 words

A fic where Harry is Pennywise & Louis is Georgie... Louis goes down to the sewers & Harry fucks him with a balloon as a condom.

aka a pwp that i wrote for shits and giggles. & yes, louis is of age

6) Souls | Mature | 3890 words

The first time Harry showed Louis two ghosts.

7) The Unfinished Fic (With an Ending) | Not Rated | 4013 words

Note: There is no smut in this fic, but it contains omega Louis, so we’ve included it in this monthly roundup.

Louis greatly regretted all of his life decisions up to this point. Okay fine, maybe not all of them, but definitely a vast majority. After all, if he’d not told one little white lie about loving cricket just to impress a fit guy at the pub, maybe he wouldn’t be stuck at what was, one hundred percent, the most boring “sporting” event of his entire life.

8) Save You Tonight | Mature | 4841 words

Note: There is no smut in this fic, but it contains omega Louis, so we’ve included it in this monthly roundup.

Louis is a headstrong Omega in charge of his own life. But he's more than grateful when an Alpha comes along when he needs it the most.

9) Whisk Me Off My Feet | Explicit | 5054 words

When Louis locks himself out of his apartment in just a pair of novelty underwear, he hopes his new neighbor can come to his rescue.

10) Can You Feel the Fever | Explicit | 5113 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic.

Tour has Harry exhausted. Luckily exactly what he needs is waiting for him in his Sacramento dressing room.

11) Gotta Catch 'em All | Not Rated | 5186 words

Louis loves Pokémon GO, he gets a little crazy and ends up ramming into a guy. Harry gets mad, calls him a brat and treats him like one. Oh, and they're in central park.

12) I Just Can't Get Enough Of You | Not Rated | 5466 words

Or the one were Harry got inspired from watching Louis on The Late Late Show.

13) Why Don't We Go There? | Explicit | 5654 words

Louis is a perfect model for Abercrombie & Fitch. Harry is a grungy, tattooed model for Hot Topic. When Louis walks in on Harry changing for his photo shoot, things only grow from there... including their dicks.

14) Act Out | Explicit | 6721 words

Harry and Louis try to spice it up a little for their 10th year marriage anniversary. Cliché role play ensues.

15) Life Imitating Art | Explicit | 6881 words

Note: This fic is the fourth part of a series. You can read the previous parts here.

Louis is taken on a very real journey through his fic back catalogue - life has never imitated art so salaciously.

16) You Can Show Me Your Heart | Explicit | 6935 words

Everyone knows about the unsinkable Titanic, which tragically did just that in April of 1912. However, not many people know the story of the Carpathia - the ship that raced to rescue and aid the survivors of the Titanic when the distress call came through. This is the story of the events leading up to the luxury liner crashing into an iceberg on that fateful spring night. More than that, this is the story of how two of Carpathia’s passengers - Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson - met, fell in love and helped over 700 people in the cold Atlantic water.

17) Kisses and Coffee Breaks | Explicit | 9350 words

Midterm season was finally here and all Harry wanted to do was study, however his boyfriend, Louis, seems to have a better idea.

or the one where Harry just wants to study and Louis needs Harry's cock.

18) Swallow The Knife (Outtake) | Explicit | 11186 words

Note: This is an alternative scene to fic #25 on this fic rec.

Alternate sex scene from Swallow The Knife.

19) We've Been Here Before | Mature | 11536 words

Harry goes to Louis in the wake of his sister Felicite's death, and Louis asks Harry to help him clean up a family cabin he is ready to get rid of. Along the way, they attempt to heal many things, even those that they thought were long past.

20) With Words Unspoken | Explicit | 18341 words

The one where Louis is lost, Harry is an excellent tour guide, and age is no barrier to finding the love of your life.

21) The Aurora Zone | Explicit | 19633 words

The one where Harry is busy crossing off his bucket list while Louis is busy falling for the guy he's supposed to hate.

22) Be Mine, Dear | Not Rated | 20104 words

The one where Louis just wants to meet his mate, and all it takes is for him to get a new neighbor.

23) Deflower Me | Explicit | 20154 words

Everyone is 19 and horny, and Louis just really wants to get fucked by Harry.

24) You Are Half Of Me (And I Am All For You) | Explicit | 24731 words

Note: This fic has a mention of BH.

One Direction, an obscure indie rock band, is about to embark on their first cross-country tour, living out of Louis' beloved van named Patricia.

Harry is in love, and Louis is oblivious. Or is he?

Featuring skinny-dipping in Texas waterfalls, getting lost in the desert, stargazing under the New Mexico sky, performing in front of crowds that grow in size each night, and falling in love on the road during the greatest summer of their lives.

25) You Are In My Bed, But Your Heart Isn't | Not Rated | 25595 words

Rock Band AU. Louis is an omega who fucks around, doesn't know the meaning of "feelings" until he starts crawling into Harry's bed at night. Harry gets jealous easily and they all write a lot of songs about each other.

26) Play Me A Memory | Explicit | 26932 words

Louis lives with his nine-year-old son Jake in a peaceful beachside community on the east coast of Australia, working as an entertainment coordinator at the local five-star resort. Harry is a recluse who lives on millionaires row and writes musical scores for blockbuster movies. When the roots of a wayward willow tree create havoc at his home, Harry is forced to stay at the resort while repairs are carried out.

27) Book Worm | Explicit | 37018 words

Note: This fic has mentions of BH.

“Dad said this is his very favourite place to go,” Leon divulged, much to Louis' embarrassment. 

“Did he?” Harry's olive eyes flicked to Louis, lips quirking in a way that didn’t match his beige cardigan.

“Yeah and he said you have the best books. May I look?” He asked, smiling winningly.

Leon had inherited Louis' blue eyes and his mother's dark hair, his smile quickly becoming a replica of his father's.

“You may,” Harry permitted and Louis set Leon down.

“Don’t destroy anything,” he instructed. “And if you so much as crease a page then bring it to the till because I’m going to have to pay for it...”

Leon raced straight to the back of the shop and threw himself onto the beanbag seat front first.

“I put the Kama Sutra back on the top shelf, by the way,” Harry told him with a dimpled smile. “You left it by the Hungry Caterpillar.”

28) Waiting for the Tides to Meet | Explicit | 59637 words

Soulmate AU. Everyone is born with heterochromia — one eye is their own eye colour, while the other is the colour of their soulmate's. It's only when they meet their soulmate for the first time that their own eyes match properly. After a hazy night at a frat party, Louis wakes up to blue eyes and the shocking realization that he had met his soulmate, without any sober recollection. Seven years pass where Louis comes to terms with the fact that he'll never know who his soulmate is. Then one fated summer, a beautiful green-eyed photographer arrives at Louis' workplace, with promises of endless laughter and a familiar feeling in Louis' heart.

29) Swallow The Knife | Explicit | 76168 words

“You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight.

“Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.”

Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up.

Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”

30) There You Are | Explicit | 82237 words

Note: This fic has a mention of BH.

Harry’s entire life has fallen apart - in one night, his carefully planned future is suddenly uncertain.

Then he meets Louis.

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[wistfulcynic]

Words Unspoken 1 / 2

Part, um... *counts on fingers* ... part seven of Secret Things. This one featuring roommates and a metric fuck-ton of mutual pining, and problems that wouldn’t even exist if these two would just say what’s in their hearts. But OF COURSE THEY WON’T. Not while sober, anyway.

Summary: Emma and Killian have been best friends for five years, roommates for three, and in love with each other since the moment they met. Their timing is awful and their communication even worse, until Killian takes a drastic step that finally forces them to talk about their feelings. 

Words: 4.6k

Rating: T (for now)

On AO3

(This is a WIP from a while ago that I kinda didn’t plan to post, so not tagging anyone. But there will be a chapter two, so give me a shout if you’d like a tag for that.) 

Chapter One: 

Emma stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen, heading half-blindly in the direction of the coffeemaker. She grunted when she collided with a tall figure who was already there, pouring herself a cup. Emma winced as she spat long, curly hair out of her mouth and tried to focus her sleepy eyes. 

“Ugh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to be here.” 

Milah gave her a tight smile. “Killian and I were at Antonio’s last night, and we had a bit too much to drink. Here is closer than my place.” 

“Makes sense.” Emma scooted around the taller woman to get to the cupboard, pulling out her coffee cup and filling it as Milah watched. Wordlessly, she handed Emma the milk. 

“Um. Thanks.” 

“No problem.” Milah stepped back and gave her an assessing once-over. Emma tried not to squirm, tried not to think about the tangled mess of her hair or what her face must look like. She hadn’t bothered to wash her makeup off last night, had barely even got her contacts out before she fell asleep. Raccoon eyes surrounded by thick-rimmed glasses was probably not a great look. Milah on the other hand looked fantastic, cool and elegant, her curly hair perfectly tamed despite the early hour. Emma wondered snarkily if she’d be able to pull that off by the time she was Milah’s age. 

“Late night?” Milah asked. 

“Just work.” Emma sipped her coffee, wishing the woman would just go back to Killian’s room and leave her in peace. 

Or as much peace as she could hope for when she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about what Milah and Killian were doing behind his door. At least when they went to Milah’s she could put it out of her mind. 

Well, almost out. 

“Mmm,” said Milah as the kitchen door opened and Killian appeared. He also had messy hair and tired eyes but on him they looked good, rumpled and sexy. He was so goddamn unfair, thought Emma, determinedly looking away from him, missing the way Killian leaned in to kiss his girlfriend before spotting his roommate, the way his lips deviated at the last minute to land on Milah’s cheek instead of her lips. Missed the flash of irritation in Milah’s eyes. 

“Morning, Swan.” Killian sauntered across the small room and leaned past her to get his coffee mug. His smile was soft and his eyes warm but Emma saw neither, keeping her gaze firmly on her coffee. “Late night?” 

“Et tu, Jones?” Emma muttered. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’m gonna go drink this in my room.” 

“Wait, Swan,” he stopped her with a hand on her arm. Emma forced herself to breathe normally. “Don’t you want any breakfast?” 

“No.” 

“You need to eat something, love.” His voice was so soft, so affectionate. 

She hated affectionate. 

“I’ll have a Pop-Tart later.” 

“Something with some actual nutritional value,” he teased, his fingers moving gently on her arm. 

“Killian, leave her alone,” Milah snapped. “She’s a grown woman, she can eat what she likes.” 

This really should be a supportive, stand-up-for-the-sisterhood kind of moment, thought Emma, but instead she just felt judged. Let her eat what she likes, she’s a lost cause. Milah’s face was blank, her pale eyes hard. No sisterhood there.

Emma forced a smile. “I’m fine, really. Not hungry. I’ll have some lunch later, and I promise it’ll include something green,” she said, before Killian could interrupt. 

“All right, then,” he said with a grin, removing his hand so she could make her escape. 

--

An hour later Emma was functionally caffeinated and her face washed clean, and she was definitely not standing with her ear pressed to her bedroom door listening for the sound of Killian and Milah leaving the apartment. 

Okay, she was. But she’d had a hell of a rough night; her skip had been hard to locate and even harder to take down, and all she wanted was to spend the day vegging on the sofa and watching soothing television. Something she absolutely could not do with Milah in the apartment being put-together and disdainful all over the place. Emma knew she was a bit of a mess and had no problem with that aspect of herself, but she hated being judged for it. Especially by Killian’s wealthy-divorcée girlfriend who’d never had to work to make ends meet. 

She heard the sound of their voices, heard the front door open and close, then silence. She gave it another minute then ventured tentatively into the living room, surprised to find Killian there on the sofa wearing his pajamas and a brooding expression. He looked up when he heard her approach and a bright smile broke across his face.

“Hey, Swan.” 

“Hey. Did Milah leave?”

“Yeah, she had a pedicure or something. You want to watch some Bake-Off?”

“Very much.” 

Killian patted the cushion beside him. “Come on, then. Let’s waste the day away with mindless television.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“Maybe a little. Though definitely not for green things.” 

He smirked. “Go get yourself a bloody Pop-Tart, I’ll get the show ready.” 

When she returned from the kitchen he had the show queued up and a blanket ready to tuck around her feet when she curled them under herself and snuggled against his side. He slung his arm along the top of the sofa, his fingertips brushing the sleeve of her shirt as she let her head fall against his shoulder, nibbling her Pop-Tart and relaxing into contentment. 

As they watched mild drama unfold within the pastel tent Emma let herself pretend, just for a moment, that they were together —really together— and that this was their life. Spending a lazy Saturday afternoon watching TV, after which she would allow him to cook her something healthy and they would eat it at the kitchen table like real adults and then they would go to bed. Together. She sighed. She wanted all of that, so damned much. 

Killian turned his head, his lips just brushing her hair. “All right, love?” he murmured. 

“Yeah,��� she replied, pretending. “I’m fine.” 

They watched three episodes, then Killian hit ‘pause.’ 

“I should probably go get ready,” he said. “I’m meeting Milah for dinner.” 

“Okay.” Emma tried to keep her voice neutral as his words punctured her lovely fantasy bubble. It never did last long, that bubble.  

He frowned at her, something odd and sharply assessing in his eyes. “I can cancel,” he offered. “Stay here—” 

“No! You have a date! Go! I’ll probably call Mary Margaret and Ruby, see what they’re up to tonight.” 

“Okay, well if you’re sure.” 

“Definitely.” She gave him a bright smile. “Go.” 

She put on Four Weddings and a Funeral and refused to feel sorry for herself, even when Killian left the apartment an hour later looking heartbreakingly gorgeous. She’d take her cue from Kristin Scott Thomas’s Fiona, thought Emma firmly. If Fiona could spend years in unrequited love with her best friend and still be fabulous, then so could she. 

So could she.

--

“So how was your day?” Milah asked as they sat down at a cosy table in her favourite restaurant. A waiter poured them champagne without being asked; Milah was well known here. 

“Oh, fine. Nothing special, I just spent the afternoon with Emma. We watched some TV, talked a bit.” Killian smiled as he recalled it, the pure peace and comfort of sitting on the sofa with Emma pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder. Her hair tickling his chin. 

Milah set her glass down with deliberate control and laid her hands flat on the crisp white tablecloth. Her lips pressed into a firm line. Her nostrils flared. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said. 

Killian frowned. “Can’t do what, love?”

“This.” She gestured between them. “I can’t keep dating a man who is so fucking obviously in love with someone else.” 

“What? Who?” What had he done, Killian wondered. Milah never swore unless she was truly furious. What had he done, or said, to set her off?

She gave him a look so dirty he immediately wanted a shower. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He racked his brains. “Do you mean Emma?”

“Who the bloody hell else would I mean?”

“But Emma and I are just—” 

“Don’t you fucking dare say ‘just friends,’” she hissed. “I’m not an idiot, Killian, and I’m not blind, though apparently you are both those things if you’re really unaware how you feel about her.” 

Guilt stabbed at Killian. He’d tried so hard with Milah. “I—” 

“No, don’t say anything,” she interrupted, making a sharp gesture with her hand. “I should never have let things go on this long, but I really liked you and I hoped if I tried hard enough to be what you needed you might forget her. But you never will. And I can’t keep being the second choice for my own boyfriend.” 

“Milah, please.” Killian took her hand. “You know how much I care for you—” 

“Yes I do. Exactly how much.”

“—and there’s nothing between Emma and me. Surely you know that as well.” 

“I do. I know you would never cheat. But you want to, and that might be worse. Killian, you should see the way you act when she’s around. You want her so much you can’t even hide it. You take every opportunity to touch her and the way you look at her…”

“Does she know?” He winced the moment he spoke the words, but it was too late to take them back. 

Milah looked stricken, just for a moment, then she closed her eyes on a sigh. “Well, that’s pretty definitive,” she said quietly. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

She shook her head. “You can’t choose who you love. None of us can.” She threw her napkin on the table and stood. “Goodbye, Killian.” She moved to go, then stopped, turning back. “Oh, to answer your question, no. She doesn’t know. She’s as much of a blind idiot as you are. You two fucking deserve each other.” 

When Killian got home Emma was still curled on the sofa, a pastel tent on the television screen and an empty carton of ice cream on the coffee table. He kicked off his boots and sat down next to her. 

“Are you watching Bake-Off without me?” he asked. 

“We’ve seen this one already.” 

“Oh yeah.” 

She frowned at him. “What are you doing home, anyway? I figured you’d stay at Milah’s.” 

He looked at her, at her eyes obscured behind thick-rimmed glasses, her hair in a messy ponytail. He could count the freckles on her nose and she had a trace of chocolate from her ice cream on the corners of her mouth. 

She was so beautiful, he thought helplessly. And Milah was right. He was in love with her. 

He knew he was, of course, he’d known it for years. But knowing was not the same as admitting. Admitting he loved Emma meant admitting that he’d spent years pining for things he could never have. It meant admitting that he’d fucked everything up, that he’d missed his chance when she finally broke up with Neal. Not wishing to be her rebound guy he’d waited… too long, as it turned out, and Emma had found her rebound guy in Graham instead. A rebound that had lasted more than a year, while Killian drowned his regret and jealousy in rum and a series of relationships that burned with intensity then fizzled once the initial attraction had passed. None of the women he dated could stand up to Emma, something he always knew and they soon discovered. 

Worst of all, admitting he loved her meant admitting that if he ever hoped to have something real —marriage, kids, a lifetime with someone who loved him back— he was going to have to let her go. 

He couldn’t have Emma and he couldn’t commit to anyone else while she was still in his heart. And that was the true root of his denial, the awful, heartbreaking choice that admitting his feelings would force him to face: accept that he’d always be alone or somehow get over the woman he’d loved for years. 

Her frown deepened, and he realised he was staring. 

“Are you all right, Killian?” she asked. 

He forced a smile. “Fine, Swan.” 

He could tell her Milah had broken up with him. She would be sympathetic, would curl supportively against his side and try to comfort him. He would put his arm around her, and she wouldn’t pull away. They would stay that way the rest of the evening, curled around each other watching soothing television then maybe a movie, and he would have to pretend he didn’t feel every brush of her skin against his in his very core. Pretend he didn’t spend every minute in her presence wanting to bury his hands in her hair and kiss her with every ounce of the passion he’d been suppressing for the past five years. Pretend.

And he couldn’t. Not tonight. 

“I think I’ll go to bed,” he said, standing. She caught his hand, the simple touch sending a jolt of feeling straight through him. He gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing to remain steady. 

“Are you sure everything’s all right?” she asked. Her expression was concerned, fond. He hated fond. But she was his best friend, and his feelings weren’t her fault. The last thing he wanted was for her to worry. 

He smiled, as reassuringly as he could, and squeezed her hand. “Milah and I had a bit of a disagreement,” he said. “But it’ll be okay. I’m just tired. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” 

She nodded. “Okay.” 

“Don’t watch any episodes I haven’t seen,” he warned her. 

She grinned. “Would I?” 

He wanted to kiss that grin right off her face. Instead he smirked at her as he knew she wanted him to, and gave her hand a final squeeze before heading to his bedroom. 

He pulled off his clothes and left them on the floor, uncharacteristically for him, but he couldn’t be bothered to hang them up, or to put on pajamas. He fell into his bed, pressed his face deep into his pillow and tried to imagine his life without Emma. Without the cereal bowls she left in the sink and the empty packets of hot chocolate mix on the counter. Her long hair clogged all the drains and she never put the DVDs back in their proper cases. She was always putting her feet on his coffee table and he knew she used his shampoo when she ran out of her own. She should annoy the fuck out of him; instead his chest squeezed painfully at the thought of never being annoyed by her again. 

He pulled the pillow to his chest and wrapped his arms around it. The thought of leaving her was almost more than he could bear, but he knew there wasn’t really any other choice. He had to give himself a chance. They could still be friends, he could still be there when she needed him, but he knew that for his own sake he couldn’t live with her any longer. 

--

It took a surprisingly short time to find a new place to live. The week after Killian made his decision Belle announced that she was going on sabbatical, back to Australia and do some research for her book and spend time with her family. She would be gone at least six months and needed to sublet her apartment, she said, and did he happen to know anyone who might be interested? She looked surprised when he quickly volunteered to take it himself but didn’t question him, not even when she handed him the keys and he had to press his fingers against his eyes to stop the tears.  

--

Emma had just slid some pizzas in the oven when Killian came home, looking tired and preoccupied as he had all week. Something was very obviously bothering him, but what worried her was that he wasn’t talking to her about it. He always told her everything, all the gory details of his life. Even things she’d rather not know. Like what was going on with his girlfriends. 

He’d always had girlfriends, for as long as she’d known him. A serial monogamist, she thought, that’s what he was. A soft-hearted romantic —though he’d never admit it— always looking for ‘the one.’ His relationships never lasted long, a few weeks, maybe a month or two before the breakup. But it was never serious, and Killian never truly got hurt. He would come home and collapse dramatically on the sofa, pour his heart out to her, mope for a day or two, and then move on. 

He’d been with Milah for six months, almost seven now. Far longer than any of the others, and the jealousy that clawed at Emma’s belly whenever she thought about the women Killian dated was beginning to get vicious. He seemed to be putting actual effort into making things work this time. What if Milah really was the one? What if Killian fell in love for real, and she lost him forever? Her chest tightened at the thought.  

“Hey,” she said. “I just put some pizzas in, if you’re hungry.” 

He didn’t smile. “Thanks, love, perhaps later. Can we talk?” 

Emma’s heart lodged in her throat as she nodded. “Sure.” 

Killian looked at a spot just over her left shoulder. “I don’t really know how to say this,” he muttered. 

Fear was curling in her gut now, drowning the jealousy. “Say what?” she whispered. 

Killian took a deep breath. “I’m moving out,” he said. 

The fear slashed at her and turned to despair. This was it, then. He was moving in with Milah. He was leaving. They all left. 

She nodded, concentrating on staying upright, on not collapsing to the floor and sobbing out her broken heart. “When?”

“Next week. I’ll keep paying the rent here until you can find a new roommate, but that shouldn’t take long. It’s a nice apartment.” 

“Yeah.” 

The oven timer began to buzz and Emma blindly opened the door, forgetting to put on an oven glove before she grabbed the pizza tray. 

“Fuck!” she yelled, yanking her hand back. 

Killian was at her side in an instant, taking her hand gently in his. He grabbed a paper towel and ran it under cold water before wrapping it around her burn, tucking the edges in to secure it. 

“All right, love?” he asked, his voice low and rough. 

She swallowed past the ache in her chest. “Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about her hand. 

“Don’t be. It’s fine. Like you said, it won’t take long to find a new roommate. Actually I think Ruby might be looking for a new place.”

“That’s good, then. Shall I get these pizzas out?” 

Emma shook her head. She couldn’t bear the thought of food. All she wanted was escape, solitude. “I’m not hungry.” 

“Nor I. I’ll wrap them up, shall I, and maybe we can eat them later.” 

“Yeah, maybe. I— I think I’ll go to bed.” 

“Aye, love. Sleep well.” 

“Goodnight, Killian.” 

Goodbye.  

 --

The weeks after Killian moved out were a blur to Emma. Ruby eagerly accepted his room, glad for a change after her ugly breakup with Victor, but Emma barely saw her. She spent every minute she could manage at work, volunteering to take the toughest skips, spending hours on stakeouts or days chasing them across state lines, driving herself to exhaustion until she could sleep dreamlessly through the night. Anything to keep her out of the apartment that felt empty and wrong without Killian in it. Anything to keep images of him living happily with Milah out of her mind. 

He texted her, of course, and she replied, pretending everything was all right. She’d gotten good at pretending. He asked if he could see her and she told him truthfully that she was busy. 

Weeks turned to months and still she drove herself relentlessly, waiting for the numbness to set in, for the heartbreak to begin to heal. As it had after Neal. After Graham. When it didn’t she couldn’t help wondering why, wondering if it could be possible that her heart had only been cracked before. If after everything she’d been through, in the end only Killian actually had the power to break her. 

Then one night David finally refused to accept her weak excuses any longer and strong-armed her into coming to the bar with him. To celebrate, he said, after she’d dragged in a skip they’d been after for more than a year. 

“Come on, Emma, I’ve barely seen you lately,” he pleaded. “Between you and Killian I feel like I’ve lost both my best friends.” 

“You haven’t seen Killian either?” Her voice sounded unnaturally high to her ears. 

“Nope. Since he moved out of your place he’s pretty much been MIA.” 

“Nesting.” Emma squeezed her eyes shut to drive the images from her brain.

“What?”

“He’s—” she cleared her throat. “He’s probably nesting. With Milah.” 

David’s frown was confused. “With Milah?” 

“Yeah, you know.” She attempted a casual shrug. “When people first move in together they tend to stay in. Nesting.” 

“Emma, you do know Killian and Milah broke up, right?”

“Wha— no, I didn’t know that!”

“Yeah.” David nodded, still frowning. “Months ago, right around the time he moved. He really didn’t tell you? I thought he told you everything.” 

“So did I.”

David pushed open the door to the bar and his frown darkened. “Speak of the devil,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of a familiar dark-haired figure, slumped at the bar with a half-empty bottle of rum at his elbow, misery in every line of his body.

Emma felt her heart clench. He must still be mourning his breakup, she thought, even months after it happened. Milah must have been really important to him. David went to talk to Killian but she hung back, watching as the two men had a fierce, hissed argument ending with Killian elbowing David aside and staggering out the door. 

As much as Emma really didn’t want to hear about his heartbreak over Milah, she couldn’t bear to see him in so much pain. Couldn’t bear to think how he must have been suffering all these months, alone while she worked herself into the ground to avoid him for her own selfish reasons. Guilt and worry churned in her gut as she turned and ran out the door, hoping to catch Killian before he found a cab. 

She found him outside, leaning against the wall of the bar, but before she could think of what to say he pushed himself away from it and took a stumbling step down the sidewalk. She darted forward and caught him before he could fall. He caught his breath sharply and looked down at her, trying to focus his hazy attention. 

“Swan,” he murmured. “Are you real this time?”

“I— what?”

He shook his head. “Just another dream. Must be.” His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her hard against him. “Good dream,” he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him, tucking his face into her neck and breathing deeply. 

“Killian, what— what are you doing?”

“You smell so bloody good,” he whispered. “Have I ever told you that?”

Having him so close after so long was making her lightheaded. “N— no.” 

“I should have. I should have told you that, and so much else. Gods, love, I— I—” 

“You what?”

“I miss you.” He breathed the words into her hair, his hand a tight fist in the back of her jacket. “I miss the way you smell and your hair in the sink and those bloody rank Pop Tarts you insist on eating. I miss it all so goddamned much.” 

“Then why did you leave?” She choked. “David said you broke up with Milah months ago, so why—” 

“I had to.” 

“Why?”

“I had to give myself a chance to get over you.” 

“Get over me?” When were you under me? she wanted to say, but now didn’t seem like the best time to quote Friends. Killian was leaning heavily on her, his eyelids drooping, and she could see he was close to passing out. 

“Come on,” she said, wrapping her arm around his waist. “Let’s go ho— Let’s go to my place.” 

“Mmmmm,” he agreed, and let her steer him down the block and up the steps and through the door of their old apartment, holding him steady as they removed their shoes. Ruby’s bedroom door was tightly shut, her laundry piled high on the sofa. Emma figured she should just push it off and let Killian sleep there, but sometime during the walk home his hand had found its way beneath the hem of her sweater and the drag of his rough fingertips against her skin was making her shiver and ache, and he was murmuring into her hair again, words that sounded like gods so bloody soft and all she wanted was to fall asleep in his arms just once. Just for one night. Then tomorrow she would wake up early, nurse his hangover and send him home none the wiser. And she would hold the memories of that night close and secret in her heart and never yearn again. 

She hated yearning. 

She guided him through the living room and past the sofa, into her bedroom where he stood patiently, watching her with bleary eyes as she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off him together with his jacket. Her hands hovered at the waistband of his jeans for a moment, then quickly unbuttoned them and slid down the zipper, pushing them down until they pooled around his feet. 

Go for broke, Emma. 

She pulled off her jacket and sweater and shimmied out of her own jeans as he clumsily stepped out of his and kicked them away. Emma pulled her bra out from under her tank top then turned to look at him, swaying on his feet and fighting to keep his eyes open, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs enhanced by a sizeable bulge she knew he was too drunk to use. 

“Emma,” he slurred, swaying towards her. She braced just in time to catch him and guide his fall onto the bed but he grabbed her waist as he went down, dragging her along with him, groaning a bit when she landed on his chest but quickly wrapping both arms around her. “Don’t go.” 

“I won’t,” she said, “But the blankets—” 

“Don’t. Miss you.” 

“You said that already.” He wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes open much longer, she thought. He’d soon be asleep and she could—”

“Love you.” 

“What? Killian, what did you say?”

But his only response was a soft snore. Emma stared at him, her mind and heart racing. He’s drunk, she reminded herself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. She tried to wriggle away from him to grab the blanket but he made an incoherent noise of protest and tightened his hold, pressing his face into her hair. Sighing, she stretched out her leg and caught the blanket with her foot, slowly easing it up and over them. Then she snuggled against him, rubbed her cheek against his chest and let herself pretend that this was real. 

Fuck it, she thought. It’s just a one-time thing. 

[poguesofthebau]

“just once.”

summary: the twins bring you, their best friend from la, back to new jersey to show you where they come from. you and ethan drag grayson to a party full of the people that made their childhoods horrible, thinking it’ll be interesting. grayson is not amused, and things only intensify when his ex shows up.

grayson knew it was a bad idea to begin with. there was an unspoken routine when the boys went home— spend time with family, with each other, and do the crazy shit they’d loved as kids. this idea? it fit no where into that routine.

when ethan darted into grayson’s room on friday morning, you immediately and involuntarily let out a choked laugh at the expression on his face. always easily excited, ethan was grinning and wide eyed, phone in hand as he tried to catch his breath to speak. “just—“ pant. pant. “got a—“ cough. “text—“ deep breath. “from la famiglia!” grayson looked at ethan judgementally as you giggled again from your spot on his bed. “party tonight. and we’re all going!”

immediately, grayson was shaking his head. “i’m not going to a party, dumbass. everyone here hates us.”

“seriously bro! we never do anything crazy when we’re home! nobody our age has seen us out here for years. plus, we have y/n!” ethan motioned to your spot on gray’s bed, where you were still smirking, making grayson glance over at you. you two locked eyes for a minute, and you almost laughed again at the look of aggravation in gray’s eye. “even if things do go downhill, then she’ll have firsthand experience on how bad everyone from here sucks!”

“she doesn’t need firsthand experience, idiot, she knows how bad they all suck!”

“i dunno, gray,” you taunted. “as you guys’ best friend, i think i might be obligated to witness the shittiness for myself. ya know, for the sake of shit talking.”

and just like that— even though grayson still attacked you in a tickle fight for siding with ethan— the party was set in stone.

—

within twenty minutes of being at the party, you understood why grayson hated these people more than ever before. everything that was taking place, every bottle passed, every song blared through the backyard speakers, every low hoot made from a random guy in your direction. it was all the things grayson could ever be annoyed by in one yard. he refused to leave your side, his face silently assuring you that if you got too far, he would end up fist fighting some kid that had bullied the twins in whatever ways during middle school. so you stayed with him, hands brushing against his back every few minutes to reassure him that you weren’t going anywhere without him.

ethan, on the other hand, was thriving. he’d connected with the few guys that had never given them bullshit by the bonfire, slapping them each on the back while they all made obnoxious ‘teenage boys reuniting’ noises. from where you sat with gray on the porch, you were secretly supervising the older twin as well, memorizing the people he spoke to and what they looked like just in case something especially dramatic began to happen.

gray was uncharacteristically quiet for the most part, only speaking to you when he wanted to complain about the most recent bully that had walked into the backyard through the screen door that led to the host’s kitchen.

“i fucking hate that guy.”

“that guy’s mom kicked us out of his house during a sleepover in the third grade.”

“oof. her brother is a dick.”

each time he spoke, you looked at him blankly, trying to pinpoint exactly how he really felt about whatever jersey kid he was referring to in that moment. it was weird for you, having to put in so much effort to see where grayson was coming from. your friendship had always been effortless— that was what gave it so much meaning. he knew you and you knew him, and that’s just how it was. but being in jersey for the first time with the boys had put a twist on that. grayson was different here. sometimes he was completely himself, in the most authentic way possible, and sometimes he was like this— bitter and uncomfortable.

“gray,” you muttered into his ear a few moments after his last recollection of a bad memory. “do you wanna leave?” he looked at you, the displeasure on his face not going anywhere. the water bottle he’d pulled out of a cooler thirty minutes ago on your way into the function was still in his hand, half empty now. the wrapper around its middle was wrinkled and slightly ripped from when he’d zoned out and begun playing with it to keep himself busy. the whole party had been a storm of emotions for him, and you were just trying to keep up. when you’d agreed with ethan about the party, it was as a joke-- you thought it would be funny, not torture for your best friend. finally, the regret in your voice shined through. “i mean, i knew it was gonna be bad, but i didn’t think it would be this bad.”

his eyes softened at your change in tone, and he opened his mouth to respond. he would love to leave with you and let ethan be as stupid as he wanted on his own. but before he could get out any words, the group of guys behind you started literally howling, and his heart drops to his ass, and he chokes on air. his eyes are suddenly bulging out of his head, and you can see the panic on his face right away. you whip your head around to see what’s causing all the commotion, and your sight is met with the prettiest girl you’ve seen since you landed in new jersey. “who the hell is that?”

“my-- my ex.” grayson sounds just as confused as you are, but his face is telling a completely different story. right on cue, grayson’s unnamed ex catches a glimpse of you both from the door, grinning at him and making her way right over.

he grabs your chin, swiveling your face back around to look at him, and even you, his best friend, are afraid to hear what he says next.

“y/n, i need to kiss you.” then it’s you who has your eyes bulging out of your head in panic. “i don’t have time to explain, but y/n, please, she’s coming, just once, i promise. please.”

and then you’re nodding, not really knowing what’s happening. you can barely hear the people at the party over the slamming of your heart against your chest, and you’re terrified that grayson will notice how uneven your breath had suddenly gotten. before you have a chance to change your mind or ask for as short of an explanation as possible or even lick your lips, he’s there. his mouth is urging itself onto yours, and his hands are reaching for your face, and your eyes are closing, and your cheeks are burning under his fingertips.

at first the feeling is unreadable, and stiff, and awkward. you’re best friends-- you’re not supposed to be kissing. but a few seconds in, it’s like grayson realizes something. all of a sudden, his brow is furrowed in concentration, and he’s forgetting why he kissed you in the first place. his mouth seems to melt into yours, thumbs gently brushing against your face without him even knowing. your grip loosens on the water bottle he’d handed you earlier, moving up to hold either of his forearms. so much is happening, and it feels like everything but somehow nothing. like this was something you’d done before, kissing grayson in front of all these people like you were.

when you finally come up for air, you’re not sure how many seconds it’s been, but you notice it was enough to scare away his ex and attract everyone else’s attention. ethan is screaming from in front of the bonfire, hooting and hollering about how long he’d been waiting for that to happen. la famiglia is laughing and grinning, happy for their friend. a couple of the guys that had been making eyes at you are now grimacing. but most importantly, grayson is looking at you.

you two had had moments before. ones that made you nervous to see him the next day, and ones that made him hide in his room for hours while ethan pounded on the door asking what was up with the two of you. he’d looked at you as more than a best friend before, but it was never this. right there on that couch in that random new jersey backyard, grayson was really seeing you for the first time. everything about you suddenly came together for him, and he was terrified over what he’d just done, but he couldn’t get that stupid look off his face.

and just before he could open his mouth to try to cover his own tracks, to put your friendship back into its glass case and somehow, somehow make that kiss seem like it could’ve been fake, you’re smiling. your smile is the y/n version of grayson’s stupid look, and he knows it right away. the worry sinks out of his body, and suddenly he’s giddy, but nowhere near as giddy as you. a part of him is still scared, but when you put your hand on the side of his neck and twist four fingers into the base of his hairline so sweetly, speaking words to prove that you were feeling the same thing he was, he knows he shouldn’t be.

“you’re really only going to do that once?”

[darkcivet]

Daddy’s Little Girl

A KakaSaku Fanfic

Alternate Links: FF.net & AO3. Pairing: Sakura/Kakashi. Genre: Romance/Family Summary: A drunken attempt to get Kizashi’s permission to marry Sakura doesn’t go as smoothly as Kakashi had hoped. KakaSaku.

“Wedding? I love weddings. Drinks all around!”

The first few rounds seemed like such a good idea at the time. Kakashi toasted the happy couple; three times to their health, three times to their happiness, and three times to their future children. There was singing, there was dancing, there was merriment, and somewhere along the way he lost the ability to discern one alcoholic beverage from another.

And he didn’t even know the couple in question!

They seemed happy, though, wrapped up in each other and turning this once family friendly exhibit of theirs into an adult only orientated show. Definitely not an establishment the Hokage should be seen getting drunk in.

So, with a heavy heart, Kakashi paid for the rest of his beverages – and there were so many – before stumbling off of his stool and into the open air of the streets of Konoha to find an establishment he could be seen getting drunk in.

The night was still young, and he had a lot to commemorate.

He wasn’t unhappy with his life, per se, just frustrated with certain aspects of it. He wasn’t single or hard up for cash or anything, really. He had good friends, a great partner, and an amazing sex life to boot. His career had hit its high note, though, as Kage was the highest title a shinobi could hold in any nation.

Tsunade had stepped down from the pedestal of Hokage after the clean-up post-war and, since Naruto was still a knucklehead, the spotlight was once again shined on Kakashi to fulfil the role. He was as despondent about getting the position as he’d been the first time around, but this time there was no-one to spontaneously awaken from a coma to save him from it.

Kakashi was counting down the years until Naruto was ready. The NaruHina wedding hadn’t taken this long to plan. Still, he had his friends to distract him – by making jokes and pretending to not respect his authority, but friends nonetheless.

But none of that was his real problem.

Kakashi sighed, looking around as he finally ambled his way to his new destination; he’d sobered up a smidgen, walking from The Shinobi Sandbox to La Cherry Blossom. This needed rectifying.

The sounds and lights hit him immediately as he opened the door and Kakashi inwardly congratulated himself on not grimacing; this was a family establishment that doubled as a PG rated disco hall. Weird, but he wouldn’t get any flak from Shikamaru later about being seen here. For being such a lazy man himself, Shika-kun was adamant when it came to the diligence and credulity of others. If he’d known he was just hiring a male version of Shizune he might’ve reconsidered someone else.

‘Maybe I can still fire him.’

Ten minutes into his inner musings and second mojito, he noticed the imposing man with the sideburns and angular moustache as he approached the bar.

“Fuck.”

Kakashi sat up straighter in an attempt to look like he wasn’t intimidated.

“Kakashi.”

The silver haired Hokage turned, pretending to not have noticed him, smiled good-naturedly, and nodded to the older man as he took the stool next to him. “Kizashi-san. When was the last time you called me Lord Hokage?”

Kizashi pretended to think about that. “Before you started dating my daughter.”

“Ah.”

He supposed it would be hard to respect the man who was, not only fourteen years older than his daughter, but also having regular sex with the woman in question. Kakashi didn’t like to brag, though...

He cleared his throat. “Uh, can I buy you a drink?”

“Beer.”

Kakashi nodded again and indicated to the bartender it was on his tab.

Awkwardness descended upon them and continued to darken the mood until Kizashi got a few shots under his belt, having moved on from the beer half an hour ago. The older man started talking about the unspoken code where a man wasn’t a man until he’d settled down and had a few kids.

Kakashi struggled not to roll his eyes at that one. Kizashi might be a retired shinobi but he’d lived most of his life as a civilian, so his attempt to coax his Hokage into doing who-knows-what while maintaining his aloof disgruntled attitude toward the copy ninja’s involvement with his daughter, sailed right over Kakashi’s head.

Maybe if he was a civilian, or had a clan that wasn’t in shambles, he might listen and obey to this nonsense.

Before he knew it, Kakashi was on his fourth, fifth, and then eighth mojito; his voice slurred as he drunkenly agreed with Kizashi and pounded the bar for “more liquor!”.

Feeling suddenly dignified, Kakashi sat up straight and smoothed over his slightly rumpled clothing, before clearing his throat and raising a glass to the man that had raised Sakura; the wonderful, wily, temperamental, sexy, has-legs-that-go-on-forever, beautiful woman he was in love with.

“Kizashi-san, may I have your permission to marry your daughter?”

Kizashi side eyed him. “You’re drunk.”

“True. But it’s still a question that I asked you.” Kakashi was slurring his words, but hit him with his best puppy dog expression, regardless.

The older man scoffed into his drink. “Maybe.”

Kakashi frowned. That was a puppy dog face that always worked on his hounds. Something wasn’t right here.

Kizashi sighed. “You want me to give my permission, so you can make an honest woman of my daughter? If I’d known all that would take is getting you drunk I’d have done this years ago.”

The last thing Kakashi heard before he passed out was, “you already did, you baka.”

 .:.

 “Dad?”

Dressed in a nightie and wrap-around gown, Sakura opened the door before Kizashi could knock, an unconscious Kakashi haphazardly draped over his shoulders.

“Did you ply my husband with alcohol for a reason?”

“He asked me for permission to marry you.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that. “Here.”

Sakura pulled Kakashi’s left arm up and over her shoulder and helped her father carry him to the living room couch. She placed him gently and pulled a folded blanket from her recent laundry pile over her sleeping husband. Her fingers lingered over his masked face as she appraised him. Even drunk, he looked amazing. She’d never get tired of just looking at him. She sat down next to him and checked his vitals, making sure he wasn’t going to suffer from anything more than a hangover in the morning.

Sakura almost forgot that her father was standing next to her, watching her watching Kakashi. She jumped when he started talking suddenly.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a bit hard on him all these years.”

Sakura sighed, now brushing hair out of Kakashi’s eyes. “Yes, you have.”

“He loves you.”

“I know.”

“If your mother was still here–”

“She’d slap you upside the head.”

Kizashi chuckled. “Yes, she would.” He sighed. “You have to understand, Saks. When she died, you were all I had left. I’m not apologising for how aggressive I got in my protectiveness of you.” She scoffed at that. “But it came from fear of losing you too. Then you started dating that Uchiha brat. He was polite, don’t get me wrong, but also so wrong for you.”

“Dad–”

“Hear me out, please.”

Sakura folded Kakashi’s arms over his chest to keep them from falling off the couch and stood, motioning for her father to follow her into the kitchen while she made them some tea. He didn’t settle into the stool at the bench but watched his daughter as she busied herself.

“When you two broke up and you started dating your teacher of all things, well, I almost had an aneurysm.”

“And the wedding...”

“The engagement happened so fast; you married so quickly. It was terrifying. You don’t have to forgive me for the way I acted. It’s just, you had such a wonderful future ahead of you and for what – a man twice your age?”

“He was twice my age at fourteen, daddy, but not now. Not even then.”

“It felt that way, sometimes. There was this huge gap between your ages and people talk.”

Sakura huffed. “I don’t care what the old biddies down at the markets told you: we waited until our wedding night.”

Kizashi cringed at that mental image, then shook himself. “Just remember that I loved you first.”

She smiled indulgently at him. “Yes. But I can’t put you first anymore, you know that.”

He sighed, and they stood in silence while Sakura finished making the tea.

“Chamomile?” Her father looked at her, confused, when she handed his over. She’d never drunk this before, as far as he knew.

“Yeah...” She resisted the temptation to gently rub her stomach. She didn’t want to tell her father, since it was Kakashi’s right to know first. Like the rest of Konoha, he could wait. “Kakashi likes it and I’ve gotten a taste for it.”

They’d been trying for several years now, but only because she’d insisted; Kakashi still balked at the idea of having kids at his age. But she was now finally and happily pregnant. She kept having to remind him that older men could still conceive, and that he was in no way over the hill, as he often claimed. Sure, the idea that men didn’t have a biological clock that was ticking away the years in which they could have children was a gigantic, fat lie, but they could and would still conceive.

Because I said so, she always told him when he doubted it. Which one of us is the doctor, I forget.

When he woke up – and sobered up – they had a lot to talk about.

Sakura smiled at her father, feeling light-hearted. “I really am happy, daddy.”

Not wanting to rehash things at two in the morning, and promising to talk later, her father made a hasty retreat.

Sakura returned to Kakashi and, since she was told by her shishou not to put unnecessary strain on her body this early in the pregnancy, forewent carrying him to their bedroom. She snuggled up against her husband and closed her eyes.

The morning, and the rest of their lives, could not come fast enough.

[gyoomie]

divided we stand (please don’t fall) —len, implied mikurin; vocaloid drabble • drama/friendship • 889 words

.

‘I like her,’ Rin admits. She runs her tongue over the swell of her upper lip, a careless thing she does when she’s lost in thought. ‘I like her a lot.’

Len searches his mind for something, anything to say, but ultimately – bitterly – draws a blank. He’s spent the better part of the year busy with university, busy with family, busy with life, and the more he thinks about it the more he realises he hasn’t talked to Rin in ages. This is the probably the first time they’ve had a proper conversation in over half a year.

He doesn’t know Rin anymore. Perhaps he did, once, back when they used to talk every single day, back when everything was bright and happy and nothing hurt. But they’ve drawn that line between them for a reason, a stark black against the colour of their hearts, and now he can’t get too close.

He’s revoked the right to.

‘Yeah?’ Len manages a small smile. It feels like flaking paint on a wall, but Rin doesn’t notice; a mere year ago she would’ve seen right through it. ‘What’s she like?’

Rin’s eyes soften with a glow he hasn’t seen in a long time. ‘Lovely,’ she says, her voice lowering to a whisper. ‘She’s just – Miku, you know? She’s so cool, she – she’s such a talented singer, she’s got all these people surrounding her, and they all love her, she’s so popular, and I don’t even know how we became friends, but we did. We are. Friends, that is. Maybe even close friends, I don’t know.’

She takes in a breath, an inhale so sharp that even Len’s bones rattle. ‘I don’t know what she sees in me. I’m just – I’m stupid, and insecure, and scared, and I feel like I’m going to fuck it all up somehow. I feel like I’m waiting for her to realise I’m not worth the effort. To lose all interest.’ A laugh escapes her, tinny and humourless. ‘To stop talking to me entirely.’

Len frowns, a familiar prickle of irritation stirring at his chest. He remembers now: it was this same self-doubt, ink-dark and cruel and all-encompassing, that coloured the stark line between them, that dyed the insides of her soul and blotted away at his patience. ‘You can’t know that for sure.’

‘But there’s a possibility, isn’t there.’

‘A possibility is far from a definitive conclusion,’ Len reasons. He doesn’t know this Miku character – hell, Rin might as well be a stranger at this point, too – but he does know one thing: ‘If you both give your all to this relationship, I don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t work.’

‘Relationship? What relationship?’ Rin’s expression, previously morose and riddled with insecurities, suddenly twists with the derisive curl of her lip. It runs over the line between them, bolds it, makes it all the more obvious that they’re worlds apart now. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Wrong. Len can’t help tensing. He’s said the wrong thing again.

‘This is probably just temporary, until Miku finds new, better friends. I mean – what do I have to offer?’ Rin sneers at her own expense; she’s her own harshest critic. ‘I’m boring, I suck at small talk, my jokes are shitty as hell, and no matter how hard I try it’s just – it’s like it doesn’t even matter. It doesn’t matter what I do, it’s useless. Everyone leaves eventually.’ Almost scathingly, she adds, ‘Everyone does.’

Even you.

The words go unspoken, but Len hears them, loud and clear. And in spite of the hurt, in spite of everything they’ve put each other through, he wants nothing more than to shake her by the shoulders, to shake some sense into her. To tell her: I’m still here. I’d leap over there in a heartbeat, if you wanted me to. You only have to ask.

But that would defeat the purpose of drawing the line in the first place, so he stares at his shoes and keeps this to himself, even as it burns at the back of his throat.

‘If you say so,’ Len murmurs. There’s nothing more he can say without coming off as impersonal or patronising, and he’s always putting his foot in his mouth but damn if he doesn’t try anyway: ‘For what it’s worth, Rin, all these things – relationships, ties, whatever you want to call them – they don’t define you. These failures don’t make you any less of a person, even if you think otherwise.

‘I just...’ he exhales, feeling drained all of a sudden. ‘...hope it works out. Between you and Miku, I mean. Maybe it sounds stupid to you, maybe it sounds like I don’t understand what you’re going through, but – yeah. Yeah.’

That’s all he can do: look on from afar, and hope for the best.

Rin doesn’t say anything for the longest time, just looks down at her feet, and Len wonders if she sees it too, this line between them, the way it holds their friendship together as much as it keeps them apart, leaving so many things unsaid for the sake of growing up.

But it’s for the best, isn’t it.

‘Yeah,’ Rin says finally. The defeat in her voice is like hammered glass, a breath away from breaking, but the smile she gives him is a promise. ‘I hope so too.’

.

[ohmypreciousgirl]

Otayuri Rec List

CANON

Come Alive by Ren [1,006]

"Can I sleep with you?" Yuri asks, and Otabek's heart skips a beat.

Something More Intimate by Val_Creative [1,294]

Dating usually brings up personal stuff Yuri dreads to let anyone know. It's probably why he avoided it all together. Without trying, Otabek sees Yuri for who he is. He accepts what Yuri tells him without question or taunting.

Hamster in Kazakh is Still Hamster by mousapelli [1,498] {Part 1 of This is Otabek's Hamster}

Otabek has a hamster. Yuri regrets teaching him how to use instagram.

A Roe By Any Other Name by mousapelli [1,848]

The only thing keeping Yuri on his feet is pure spite and the promise of the 4AM Tsukiji Market trip that the first morning in Tokyo definitely necessitates.

on the verge of running into your arms by RennieOnIceCream (Hitsugi_Zirkus)   [1,876]    

“Yurio is a good boy -- uh, when he wants to be,” Yuuri said with a smile. “But in all I think he’s not very used to friends and not very...affectionate.”

“Not cute at all!” Viktor agreed, though he was grinning through the insult.

“Just be patient with him and don’t be surprised when he shows his spikes,” Yuuri said, attempting to smooth Viktor’s words over. “Either way, we’re glad you both can get along with each other and be friends.”

Otabek wasn’t quite sure what the two of them meant -- Yuri had yet to reject Otabek in any way. In fact, with everything Otabek asked, Yuri always accepted him inside his heart without question.

Unexpected by henriqua [1,902]

“Your hair,” is his simple response that definitely doesn't give any answers to the questions in Yuri's mind.

Feet first (Don't Fall) by gunboots [2,361]

Otabek wishes that he could unstick the words from his throat, that he could just explain to Yuri why he matters. The proximity of someone he's been looking at for so long, this close—makes it almost impossible.

The hotel pool by womanroaring [2,525]

“Mila was flirting with you,” Yuri burst out, flicking his eyes up to a spot on Otabek’s shoulder.

“Was she?” Otabek asked, and Yuri lifted his eyes up to his face again. Otabek’s face had relaxed a little but his eyes were even more intense than usual, like he wanted to read Yuri’s mind through his facial expression. Yuri scowled again and looked down at his shoes.

“She’s not really my type,” Otabek added lightly after a second or two.

come over here & overwhelm me by xintong [3,348]

In the summer Yuri turns 16, he grows 6 inches, drowns Viktor in his own tears, and falls in love.

Hands On Education by BewareTheIdes15 [3,945]

Sometimes Yuri forgets that Otabek is older than him. And not just in the "has four years of seniors on him" way or the "his old-ass body is going to crap out of competition before Yuri’s does" way or the "doesn’t have to go to fucking tutoring everyday because he graduated, the lucky bastard" way. Because, like, yeah, all of that’s true, but on any given day it doesn’t particularly matter. They mostly do all of the same stuff, and know all of the same people, and have the same job, so, like, what’s the big deal, right?

Tongues.

Tongues are the big deal.

💖 every time I try, every time I win bythissupposedcrime [4,715]

At least no one’s brought up couples costumes. Yuri isn’t sure how Otabek would react to a live recording of him leaping over a table to fight a reporter, a symbolic stand in for the death of Yuri’s sanity and Victor’s cutesy legacy. He guesses not well, and that is enough to hold his tongue.

Or, Otabek is naturally romantic, Yuri is naturally clueless, and somehow they work it out.

Back and Forth by kiyala [4,840]

Yuri convinces Otabek to get snapchat, just to send selfies of himself making faces at Victor and Yuuri. He gets more than he expected.

 💖 Two Make a Pair by mousapelli [5,009]

It started out as a joke, socked feet on hardwood flooring, but somehow the pair skate became something much more for Yuri and Otabek in the end.

Sequel: Come When Invited by mousapelli [4,458] Companion piece:  Good as Gold by Beltenebra [1,719]

Have not. Will not. by mongoose_bite [5,583]

Yuri knew perfectly well that Victor hadn't always been a moron; he'd looked up to him for years. As far as he was concerned all of Victor's problems stemmed from a single source.

Determined to learn from Victor's mistakes as well as his successes, Yuri took the simple vow not to follow in his footsteps.

No matter what happened, he wouldn't fall in love.

One for the Road by Lumieres [6,129]

“Please, take me away —“ Yuri’s text had been so abrupt that Otabek had to glance at his phone once more to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

(Or: Yuri is so focused on his career, he doesn’t notice Otabek slowly falling in love with him.)

I Won't Put This One on Instagram by teslatempest [6,132]

“Oh. Shit.”

Otabek sat up, a little concerned by the tone of Yuri’s voice. “Is everything alright?”

“Remember how we agreed we weren’t going to tell anyone we were dating until after this season?”

“...yes?”

Darts Made of Hummingbirds by LiviKate [6,881]

Yuri is struggling with his body as it changes. Otabek is struggling with his feelings about it.

Otabek is struggling with the fact that he even has feelings about it.

down for the count, and I’m drownin’ in ‘em byunhookingstarswithoutpermission [7,180]

“Why didn't you reply to my texts?” Yuri feels himself ask, and he immediately cringes. He almost expects Otabek to laugh at him, but what he gets is a dead-serious boy who replies, “I've forgotten my charger in Kazakhstan”, and he feels like he's going to burst either into tears or into hysterical laughter. 

“You- you are so stupid.” Yuri's voice breaks on the last syllable. “I told you, it didn't matter if you couldn't make it to my birthday.” 

Otabek lies against the door frame and raises an eyebrow at him. “You don't want me here, then?”

Sonata in A Major by Lumieres [8,035]

Yuri is like a meteorite, caught in his atmosphere. If he doesn’t take care of him, he’ll completely burn up, and there won’t be anything left for him to salvage.

(Or: Three times, Yuri and Otabek kiss, only to never speak about it again.)

5 firsts + 1 time it all made sense by aphhun [8,726]

Yuri pressed his forehead against Otabek’s and closed his eyes, nuzzling in contently. The words were unspoken, but by the way, Otabek’s arms around him tightened and drew him into the embrace further? They both knew what hung in the air between them. It didn’t need to be said; maybe it was better if it wasn’t. The easy realization they shared was more than enough.

💖 who can sing both high & low by infiniteandsmall [8,848] {Part 2 of a shore, a tide (no clock, no end, transmit: transcend!)}

Yuri likes how people guess his age right after he shaves his head. He likes how it feels when Otabek rubs his hands over the stubble on the back of Yuri’s neck.

He’d liked the feeling of Katsuki’s hands, firm but gentle, wrapped around his skull as he’d passed the clippers over Yuri’s head in smooth, practiced strokes.

It’s not until a few months after he shaves his head, when he shoots up to one-hundred-eighty-five centimeters, that he realizes he misses the quiet thrill he hadn’t even noticed he’d felt when waitresses in restaurants had called him “ma’am.”

💖 Endurance and Peach Tea by chapstickaddict [11,447]

It takes three years for Yuri to figure himself out and get his head on right. He drags everyone along for the ride. Otabek is the only one to go willingly.

💖 My soul is an empty carousel at sunset. by dawnstruck [13,857] {Part 1 of Demi!Yuri}

Yuri grows up and grows older and grows into himself. Otabek helps. It just takes a while to get there.

💖  i walk my days on a wire by idrilka [14,526] {Part 1 of in medias res}

Asia sucked without you,” Yuri admits eventually after a moment, as he falls backwards onto the bed, his t-shirt riding up. It must be still hot in Saint Petersburg, if the forecast is to be believed, but Yuri has the hood up, obscuring his face at this angle. “But we all went back to the hot spring run by Katsuki’s family after the Fukuoka show, so I guess it wasn’t that bad.”

Somebody to Love by aphhun [16,654]

They've been best friends for four years, since Barcelona. Yuri Plisetsky is positive that he's thrown it all away in one miscalculated half-drunk instant.

CANON DIVERGENCE

But I’m Not There Yet by sarahyyy [4,535] {Part 1 of songs about love}

“Are you not going to read the article?” she asks, flopping onto his bed. “Look who ranked second, just after Phichit Chulanont.”

Otabek reluctantly scrolls down, and oh.

#2 - Yuri Plisetsky

In the embedded Instagram photo just under that subheading, a very grumpy Yuri is cuddling a very grumpy-looking cat. The caption reads: I found the cat version of me at the shelter today. #iknowisaidnomorecats #canyoublameme

AU

this speed's too much to stop by sarahyyy [1,496]

“Do you…” the man trails off, frowning. “Do you dislike Prince Otabek?” he asks quietly.

Yuri arches his eyebrows. “I’ve never met Prince Otabek,” he says truthfully. “But if he has to go to all this trouble to find someone to marry him, then logically, there must be something wrong with him.”

2843 miles by henriqua [2,124]

Yuri bites his lip and glances out of the window, feeling like even the very gloomy Saint Petersburg is laughing at him and his miserable crush on Otabek, even though Yuri grimaces when he thinks of the word crush.

admiration in falling asleep by viscrael [4,000]

Rooming with Otabek is fine. It really is—they’re best friends, Otabek is the perfect roommate, and there’s nothing about each other that they don’t already know to make it weird.

💖 science of the social by aphhun [8,862]

Otabek, young CEO and darkhorse of the wildly famous Altin family, isn't exactly on top of his social media and engagement with fans and business opportunities alike. Enter Yuri Plisetsky, social media expert and his new personal advisor. Beware the comments section of Instagram.

💖 infinitesimal being by sarahyyy [9,816]

Yuri snorts, and pushes his glass of ice tea away. “Alright, it’s been fun listening to your story, but I actually do have other more important things to do than to listen to you telling me that I’m destined to be your bride.”

He stands, and Otabek follows suit. “If it’s the terminology you have an issue with-”

“It’s not,” Yuri assures him. “It’s more of the fact that everything you’ve told me so far sounds like a goddamn fairytale that only children believe in.”

💖 hood & glove by Fahye [12,473]

"I don't mess with the fae," Otabek says.

"I'm not asking you to mess with them," JJ flat-out lies.

💖 Gravity by Fahye [15,902] {Part 2 of Yuri!!! in Space}

His Grace the Archduke Yuri Plisetsky wins the Ballistic Grand Tournament in his debut year, at the age of fifteen.

Things go downhill from there.

[bitchassbucky]

.eps (cut)

Word Count: 1.7k

Warning/s: dark!bucky x dark!reader, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood mention, gore and dismemberment, murder, toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, sedation/drugging/use of sedative, stockholm syndrome-ish, one very special character reveal

A/N: this version of the epilogue is the 'clean cut' - there's a good chunk of it missing but it's not particularly important to the story. if you want to read the EXPLICIT version, there should be another one uploaded at the same time. (sorry, this is scheduled so i don't have the link yet lol)

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

iv - .png

v - .zip

CTRL playlist CTRL moodboard

Safeness, comfortability, warmth are all but a false sense of reality.

When a prey takes down its walls, the predator moves in. Camouflaged in familiar colors, in words that you’re used to hearing, in praises, in lies. Most predators use the mask of the night to move in darkness—unyielding and calculated. Come morning, there will be only one left alive, tainted with victory and bloodshed.

You and Bucky have been engaging in a dance for two—a battle of who’s willing to take the leap of faith and unleash hell upon the other.

Stifled smiles and pursed lips.

The air is filled with unsaid irritants, little things that ticked away like bombs.

There was no time for pleading, no time for mercy, no rest for the wicked.

Did you still love each other?

How far are you willing to go to keep up with his… complacency?

Bucky’s mundane life already taking a toll on you. The endless nightmares of him feeling you. The swirling vision of Bucky being with you every waking—and sleeping—moment: it grates your soul to shreds.

“We’ll be together forever, right?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What about the day after forever?”

“That too, honey.”

Where was the man you loved so deeply? The man that broke his morals just to be with you?

Was he under this hull of a Yes Man? A poor little thing that says ‘yes’ to everything like a puppy.

The man you held so dearly now slipping away, chipping his humanity, shedding the once-human.

“Would you marry me tomorrow if I asked you?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you kill for me?”

“I’m meant to do the same for you.”

It’s irritating how Bucky gave up too quickly. Too fast, moving too fast. The gazelle let the lion tear its neck as it lay there, unmoving, letting the blood seep into its hide.

When you first met Bucky, it was your own fairytale unfolding before your eyes. Kismet, reality, forgiveness from above. He was soft and shy, passionate, lively.

Far from what you expected from a man his age—you blame Steve for forcing you into his narrative before. That all men are out to get you. They will hurt you. They will use you and leave you for good. But Bucky? Bucky came in like a knight. He saved you from the carcass of your past. He saved you from the sins that you prayed and knelt for.

Bucky taught you how to love.

Bucky taught you how to live for yourself.

Bucky taught you that being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely.

“It was an unspoken little thing, wasn’t it?”

“What thing, baby?”

“Our love.”

“Yes, honey, it was.”

He worships you.

He worships you like a fucking God and you hate it.

Suffocating, too suffocating. You dove straight for the water and now you’re drowning.

Do you still love each other? The question hangs in the air, heavy with its weight, light as a feather.

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

You stand there with a syringe half-filled with a horse sedative. It’s a concern how easy it is to waltz into a pet store and pick up a general anesthetic. You make a mental note to look at it later.

Bucky’s body slumps forward, his forehead meeting the edge of the table with a dull thud. If the overdose doesn’t kill him, the weeping crack in his head will.

Holy fuck, humans bleed a lot. And fast. Good thing you already have that clear tarp taped down. Even with the hush money stuffed down your throat, it would take a good nick to regrout the kitchen.

“What is that for, honey?”

“I’m painting the cabinets.”

“Okay, darling.”

So you let him bleed, surprised that the liquid is redder than what you thought it would be. A soft gurgling noise came from Bucky, the last of air escaping his dead body. You stood there, syringe in hand, as you thought how to dispose of a six-foot-tall man without arousing suspicion.

Not that he’ll be missed anyway: the local news and the internet already branded him as a psycho and you as a victim. You were both victims in this fairytale. They reported his case as “skipped the town like the sicko he is.” So, no—no one’s going to look for him.

The sun was high up in the sky and there was a dead body in your kitchen.

A butcher and a surgeon walk into a bar for a drink. “What do you do for a living?��� Said the butcher, “I save lives! What about you?” The doctor answers. “I save animals from dying slowly. We’re basically the same. You’re just very clean.” You see, the butcher comes into the bar covered in blood, reeking of death. The surgeon, on the other hand, wears his white coat with pride even though he’s surrounded by death every passing second.

Today was the day you learned that you have the tools of a butcher and the precision of a surgeon. Unlike before.

You carefully take Bucky’s fingers off of his left hand, leaving a skin flap on the edge of the last knuckle for you to stitch close later. Four promises. Four goddamn promises and he broke all of them.

It was his fault that he’s dead. He made you do this.

Placing the body into the trunk of a rental, you begin your journey to the end of your fairytale. Off to the woods, where you buried your first love. In a town where not everyone who dies leaves.

The drive to and from the place was tiring, to say the least. The internet connection of the diners was spotty at best. Locals were overly friendly with the city folks who came passing through their towns. The roads reek of roadkill and manure from the farm animals that were left to roam for fresh grass.

At least you get to come home in a spotless apartment, alone once again.

But not lonely.

Your space is yours again. No trace of anyone anywhere. Immaculately yours.

—

Humans are social creatures.

No one can truly be alone, especially in today’s world where we’re connected to everyone—whether we liked it or not.

Leaving your wretched job behind was an easy feat to do. No one can say no to the victim of such a vile crime. That’s all they saw you: a helpless little thing. So off you went; saying half-assed goodbyes and sending emails of courage and hope and fucking resilience.

Your resignation meant that the company’s free of any dirt from you, Bucky’s disappearance quickly becoming a joke and a rumor blending in one.

They let you leave: in your bank account a fat check ensuring that you’d shut up about the scandal for months until you can’t feed yourself no more. So you packed your bags and jet off without looking back. You never liked that apartment anyway.

Nevertheless, you found yourself looking into another dead-end job in one of the towns you stopped over before. It’s a charming place like time froze in their plaza while the rest of the world went on. You found a small studio apartment in a street tuckered away from the main avenue, you settled there as days became nights and nights turned into days.

You woke up one morning craving a healthy serving of coffee and pancakes, luckily the town’s local diner wasn’t far from your new home.

The coffee was too hot, the pancakes were amazing, fluffy, and just right. You’re sitting in a sunny booth, the warmth doing its wonders.

“Hi, can I get today’s paper, please?” Your voice is sweet as you call your server, giving her a quick smile.

A pair of Raybans adorn your face, unconsciously hiding behind its darkened glasses. The waitress gives you a thick stack of newspapers, refilling your cup with black coffee.

Upon opening the paper, you ignore the town’s headlines and go straight for the job postings. The door jingled open as patrons come in and go, waving to familiar faces.

Job Vacancy Announcements

Secretary to the Town Sheriff

You skimmed over the rest of the details, only noting the address of the office. The job looks quite lucrative for someone who would only take messages and organize files for the sheriff.

Looking over the job posting again, you read over the words walk-ins only. That shouldn’t be hard enough.

The diner looked deserted save from the man sitting behind your booth. Leaning over and tapping his shoulder, you put on a polite smile, “Hi, sorry, do you know how to get to the sheriff’s office from here?”

“Hello, darling.” The man croons in an accent, he looks over to you, “join me in my booth, will ‘ya?”

You’re in no position to reject his proposal, you’re the one who needed an answer.

Taking your coffee cup, you slide into his booth, “hi.”

“Just the face I wanted to see.” Clean-shaven, a hint of mint and smoke, and something woody; a worn leather jacket and white button-up shirt hugging his soft frame. “Some folks over on the apartment complex were talkin’ about a city girl wanting to rent a studio all by herself. That happen to be you?”

You look over to him, trying to understand how that small of news spread like a wildfire, “yeah. I moved in a week ago.”

He leans over, smiling sweetly as he unabashedly lets his eyes roam your features, “What’s a city girl like you doin’ in a place like this? I hope we ain’t too boring for you, gal.”

Chatty—he’s way too chatty.

“Just wanted a change of pace, really. Away from the bustle of the city.” You rustle the paper, clearing your throat to get back on the matter on hand, “so the sheriff’s office? Is it too far from here?”

“What business are ‘ya bringing into the office?”

“A job, actually. Says here that they’re looking for a secretary.” You might as well tell him everything, he seems too chatty to be dismissed over and over again.

“Well, darlin’, today’s your lucky day. No need to drive down the old road.” He reaches down to his seat, pulling up a brown hat, “Hi, I’m Sheriff Bodecker. Now, to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

You bite back a giggle, you’ve always wanted to be involved with the law.

[drakekalashnyk]

Fabian Drake Kalashnyk

“Give me thirty seconds and a butterfly, I’ll get your result,”

NAME: Fabian Drake Kalashnyk GOES BY: Drake (Fabi to close acquaintances.) AGE: Forty-Three BIRTHDAY: April, 11th. GENDER: Male || Cis ORIENTATION: Hetero. ROLE: Formerly a Terran Surgeon | Outlander | Sawbone

[TRIGGERS: SERIAL KILLER, MURDER, DEATH, GORE/SURGICAL, CHILD DEATH, CHILD THEFT/CHILD KIDNAPPING.]

Sometimes, names carry weight and often, those heavy burdens come with life sentences that end those same lives in a pool of red. Watch for the ones with the friendly smile, tempting presence and promising futures – they’re usually hiding something… and it’s not always the weighted name.

You can’t always see behind a man’s eyes to see what desires crawl to surface at night.

Nobody’s looking deep into the hues of a surgeon when they’re blade deep in a heart – because there’s more pressing issues when in the operating theatre. Not that beneath the surgical mask they wear there’s a wicked grin and an undiagnosed heart issue… just look at the post-op paperwork, everything else checks out…

Kalashnyk, in Tera carries a ball and chain that drags the word skilled surgeons with it. A name known for the medical trades, unchallenged in their area for what they are far too good at – and unbeknownst to everyone else, it’s not always with good intentions. To Kalashnyk himself, he considers it a powerful deterrent that’s known for being the reaper; harvester of lives and that’s more than enough for civilians to want to detach from any affiliation to that name. The front is; Drake Kalashnyk, husband to Delilah Kalashnyk; the best in their fields, heroes and saviours of lives.

The catch comes when they both know: They get to pick who lives and who doesn’t.

Most children don’t pick up switchblades as one of their first toys, don’t end up covered in red when they get clumsy and puncture skin and leave grotesque scars in their early years. To realise that it hurts and that pain is partially nerves and somewhat psychologically before even entering the teens, something’s gotta sit a little wonky in the mind for that. And with a father whose entire job revolves around being at the medical facility as an on-call; he’d never been there to supervise.

He learnt that at sixteen when that switchblade punctured his then best friend’s chest; watched them bleed out whilst he remained powerless to help, never considered such damage that the blade that merely left scars could do. Remains to be the first time he cried without physical injury; the breaking point that paved the road of medical school and surgery. Even as years progressed, trained relentlessly in the walls of Tera’s infirmaries to help people and be the best at what he did; as some kind of twisted apology to his teenage best friend.

He also couldn’t let it go; his morbid and murderous mind.

Whilst everything else had been easy for him where he pushed to succeed, nothing was easy about the call that covered the slaughter of his father in a rebellion that separated the people from Tera. Nothing as poorly timed as the triple bypass surgery he was supposed to be entering into with a level head about three minutes later. Still an entry level surgeon back then, a couple years before thirty and Nazar can still remember the feeling of a hand that crushed his own heart with an iron vice that threatened to unravel everything he’d worked for.

Yet he still went into that operating theatre, call him a madman for doing so.

Time of death: 03:23am. Paper reads: Cause of death, atrial fibrillation.

Should read: Reaction to excess anaesthesia; misdiagnosed.

After that, Tera wasn’t the same. A strange constant that had to continue despite it all, but a tension that unsettled even the greatest and hard-shelled of individuals for what seemed endless. Though, meeting Delilah then, in the same haunting walls of surgery; same bizarre fascination with the things he shouldn’t have brought something a little light in the darkness of Drake’s soul; if that’s ever a thing. A team to be reckoned with, surgeons without fear of death; become the monsters that everyone else fears. Paint a smile on those same features; they only see an angel who can do no wrong with a scalpel, that accidents don’t simply happen.

Two years later, Delilah put Kalashnyk onto her name; a year after that, they had a boy, Damian. And the murderous surgeons built a perfect little family, kept the documents up to date; refused to let the reapers be known as picking those who lived and died like gods.

At seven years old, Damian Kalashnyk was killed by the Emerson as result of the Kalashnyk’s sick tampering with medical protocol.

Unpublicised, kept quiet as to not incite panic amongst the ranks at the hospitals, Drake knew that there’s no coincidence – a man like him is aware what coincidence really looks like, watches his wife fall apart at the seams as the news is delivered. You’ve never heard a scream so loud; so broken. And yet, if anyone who takes pity on them knew what they did to deserve it, they’d know too that Damian was an innocent in his parents insane desires. Fabian’s rage, deep seated for the loss almost costs them their own lives, to go against Emerson in any form is a mistake; cuts sharper than his blade against a throat and had Delilah not stopped him, he might have died that day too. 

Nobody knows the real reason the renowned surgeons fled but the death of their child severed all interest in being the ’ prized doctors; the name Kalashnyk, carried like ghosts that simple vanished into the night; risked the Blood Wood in order to find a place where Drake doesn’t have to stare the killers of his child in the eye and resist digging that blade into those same hues as punishment.

He knows loss; experienced it from childhood, his best friend; his father and his own child. The madman within him almost seems justified; almost. But amongst the ranks of the Outlanders; finding a purpose as a Sawbone; he knows there’s forever going to be a craving underneath his skin that encourages blood and where he still finds power in picking who deserves to live; he’ll make sure Emerson never even gets that choice.

That scalpel will cut deep; through their black souls and he’ll make sure it hurts; screams like his wife did when they beg.

And even then, Drake’s not even sure they deserve it so easy, but it’ll always end soaked in blood; remind them who they antagonised; what kind of mistake they made. 

Dr. Kalashnyk being one half of the psychotic duo; and he’s not the kind one.  

Positive Traits: Intellectual, Humorous, Quick-witted and Personable.  Negative Traits: Morbid, Detached, Cold and Demented. 

Connections || Family 

Nazar Kalashnyk | Father Delilah Kalashnyk | Wife  Damian Kalashnyk | Son [Deceased age seven] Daisy Kalashnyk | Adopted Daughter [Stolen & Deceased]

Connections || Misc. 

TBC.

Further Depth

Former Surgeon in Tera, below his father.

Doesn’t much go by Fabian; it’s always been Drake.

Sawbone for the Outlanders. 

Essentially an unspoken serial killer that’s no longer in Tera; it’s without provocation and often if not from patients he’s working on. Will participate in freelance killing if he doesn’t click with someone; lowkey.

Will probably try to murder anyone who mentions Emerson in good light; known to be affiliated with them or anyone who speaks ill of his family and son. For your sake, please don’t. 

If he doesn’t plan to later gouge your eyeballs out, R E A L  N I C E  G U Y.

Crude. Will probably throw surgical jokes and be hideously inappropriate because his humour is fucked, but it’s generally without further intention. 

TBA.

[pannazsinihkvetak]

aph belarus week day 2: folklore 

The beings in this drabble are the damavik, the rusalka and the kikimora.

In the eighth week after Easter around a minute after five Belarus was dozing and felt a tickling at her feet. 

She snorted but didn’t get up, and so it continued for about a few more seconds awakening her with a bolt out of bed. It was still dark out, but the sun was coming soon and she heard something scamper away from her room. She knew who and what it was. She rubbed her eyes and got out of bed, shuffling along the cold floor in bare feet to the kitchen in her nightgown. It was empty, but she heard a chuckling from under the stove. “Old trickster,” she said affectionately. “I never forget grandfather, you know that. I’m not an fucking idiot.”

As she spoke she got out some flour and began making fresh rye bread for herself and for the damavik as well. He had been with her all these centuries though out the ages, her companion and friend. It would be stupid and ungrateful not to give him his daily reward for taking care of her home and therefore angering him. “Tell grandmother not to give me shit again today, and she can have all the domain of the basement to herself for another day.” There was a horse whispering in response, but the damavik remained unseen. 

Grandmother was the kikimora, who sometimes gave her grief by stealing her things and sitting on her chest but sometimes didn’t. Mostly she listened to the damavik. Once she was done, she put the bread in the oven and as it cooked the smell of fresh bread filled the room, making both being hungry. There was no time to rest however as Belarus soon set out making porridge for the damavik while she waited for the bread. “Share this with grandmother, it’s for her too. Did she spin last night? I found a flax thread near the basement door. Either you forgot or she needs to be more neat and not a goddamn slob.” There was more whispering in response. “I see, she can do as she wills and as she’s always done for hundreds of years.” 

They both fell silent for a moment, but as Belarus continued to stir the porridge she began to hum. Then to her great pleasure the damavik hummed with her as well, his raspy hollow voice mingling with her sweet yet cold one as delicious smells contained to fill the air and the porridge began to bubble and grow thick. 

Eventually all was done, and Belarus set everything on the table, heaping porridge into three bowls,  breaking the bread in half, and sprinkling the damavik’s half with salt, meanwhile she put strawberry preserves on her own. Finally she poured out a glass of milk and set it, the two porridge bowls, and the sated bread on a small stool near the stove. The damavik whispered once more, acknowledging her offering. “You’re welcome grandfather. Now eat your shit.”  Then she left the kitchen with her food in order to give him and the kikmora some privacy as they ate. 

The day continued uneventfully and due to errands she had to be away from the house for most of the day. However on her way home sunset was falling, and she remembered a promise she had made a week beforehand in the woods. It was time to enter them, as foolish as some considered it during that specific time of the year. However Belarus had done so many times before, she had no fear but instead simply respect. Before going into the woods however, she made sure to take off her shoes and hid them behind a tree. She also checked to see if the berries, honey, and bread she had brought with her were still in the knapsack she carried, thankfully they were. 

The woods were silent as the sun continued to set, not even the animals living in it could be heard on that night. Even so Belarus continued to walk. Suddenly she heard a laugh above her head, and looking up Belarus found what she was looking for; a rusalka with long pale blonde hair filled with weeds and a sheer white dress clinging to her pallid clammy skin. “You showed up,” the rusalka said, with a voice that was as light as the twinkling of silver bells and as hard as steel. “I did, you should know me better by now and that I’m not a fucking idiot with how many years you’ve been as you are. I never break my promises to the beings in my land.” 

The rusalka climbed down from the tree like a cat. When she reached the ground she leaned close to the nation and sniffed her, a playful smile on her face. “I smell gifts!” Belarus didn’t budge, “Tch! Yes, gifts for you but also for the other rusalka, don’t be fucking greedy. It’s for everyone so you get your share when we reach the shallows where I presume the others are. Lead me there.” The rusalka pouted, her long blonde hair falling into her face. “You’re too fair, but alright. That I guess, is part of the challenge this year too. You haven’t forgotten the others.” 

She took Belarus’s hand in her own and the two continued walking silently in the woods.  It was a charming and beautiful, yet eerie image. Two pale maidens, neither of them human, walking in the woods together, their thin frames gliding though the trees and their long pale blond hair trailing behind them. The only visible difference was that one looked more bedraggled then the other, and was less clothed. Belarus was unsure how long they walked, but the moon gradually changed positions as they did and she knew it must of been hours. Still, she didn’t mind since she always had time for those who were a part of her, the beings that helped give her some life. 

Slowly the ground became soft and marshy and their bare feet left marks in the soft loamy dirt. Then they stopped in front of a body of water, it was unclear how deep it was but it was lying hidden in the heart of the woods. No mortal could come by it easily unless allowed to for some reason or the other, and not necessarily a benevolent one. A river flowed away from it, but that was not where their journey lay, for they were already here. Belarus looked around, none of the rusalka were in the lake. Instead some were up in the trees, speaking amidst one another. Several others were sitting in the ground, combing their long hair and weaving flower crowns for one another as they sang or hummed. Finally, a small group was dancing in a circle, also singing softy and beautifully. Some of them  looked at Belarus but then quickly went back to what they were doing before, seemingly undisturbed. 

The rusalka standing next to Belarus looked around sighed and said, “It looks like you passed the dare. You dared come out here during the time when we can walk the land and drag all mortals down to join us. You’re still not so much like those humans that you’re separated from us.” The rusalka pouted, clearly not feeling sure if she should be pleased or not. On the one hand she loved mischief and causing trouble, on the other hand it pleased her Belarus was still in a way, one of them too.

Belarus rubbed the ribbon on top of her head as it interested her more and felt nice and soft. “You’ve done this shit time and time again and it’s always the same. I’ve been alive for thousands of years so why the hell should I of all people fear this time of year? The humans may be unable to tread these grounds and waters at this time, but I go wherever the fuck I will as long as I pay my respects,” she said calmly. “Remember, I’m not human however much I may be connected to them. I never was human and I never will be human, and that’s that. I watch them as something separate yet belonging, I feel them inside me and they’re part of my soul, but I will never truly understand them. I will never live their short and foolish lives, this I know too fucking well.”

 She stopped rubbing the ribbon and  took out the bread and berries, along with a jar of honey. The rusalka licked her lips, “Are you sad?” Belarus shook her head, “Why the hell would I be? There’s not a damn thing to be sad about. This is my fate, I accept it. I’m the spirit of Belarus incarnate, sharing my soul with the people and the woods and all of you here. I don’t know anything else. Besides, all of our stupid lives are filled with sorrow and tragedy. A human’s in it’s own way, and mine in my own. Now all of you sluts get to eat, and me too.” The rusalka snorted, “Are you a slut?” She was used to Belarus’s harsh language and knew she meant no harm, she used it herself too sometimes. “No, I’m a bitch,” Belarus said dully and passed the food to all of them. 

Then they all resumed their previous activities as they began to eat. Belarus for her part sat down and so did the rusalka next to her. She slathered some of the golden honey on the hunk of rough dry rye bread and shoved it into her mouth. “I’m going to brush your hair,” said the rusalka, fingers an inch away from Belarus’s waist in an unspoken threat to tickle her if she refused. Belarus merely nodded and allowed her to do so, and as she began the rusalka started humming which Belarus joined a few minutes afterwards. 

Belarus’s hair was soft, sleek, long, and glowed pale in the summer moonlight, meanwhile the rusalka flashed another wicked grin. “Your hair is so like ours, and you’re like us too. I can feel the secrets in your heart and those who inhabit it, those you hold dear in a secret place within you. A human with the heartbreak and love your old heart holds would be one of us now.” A shadow passed over Belarus’s face, but only for a moment. “I’ve been a rusalka from the beginning, besides I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” The rusalka merely laughed harshly and continued brushing and humming, weaving flowers into the nation’s hair as she did so.