#but painting made my hangover way better than just studying

[fleshwizard]

wish me luck for my presentation /exam

[barricadebops]

A combination of 2, 5, 7 and 11. For my loves E and R.

Prompts:

"Is there a reason why you're blushing like that?"/"OH you're jealous!"/"Please just kiss me already." /"I think I'm in love with you."

The creak of the door opened wide enough to spill streams of light into the dark room as Grantaire turned away and groaned, an arm draped across his eyes. 

See, it wasn't that he was sick or had a headache that he needed to stay in bed and rest, and that the light was currently unbearable. None of that was true.

The matter at hand was that the day prior, Grantaire had broken his leg attempting to help Musichetta move into her new apartment with Joly and Bossuet, and it seemed Bossuet's bad luck was spreading to infect others with the way Grantaire had tripped and fallen down the stairs, breaking his leg in a rather painful manner. 

Now that he thought of it, Bossuet was near him when the accident occurred. Yes, it seemed Bossuet was definitely spreading his bad luck onto the others, starting with him.

And the thing is, it was just a broken leg. It wasn't as if he had caught the plague and was going to die. But Joly ordered him strict bed rest for the rest of that day continuing into tomorrow, and as much of a jolly man Joly could be, he could also muster quite the threatening smile when it came to medical matters. 

So Grantaire wasn't taking chances. Besides, even if he wanted to, it's not like Enjolras would let him. His boyfriend was taking this whole role of "personal-carer" (he said he refused to call himself a "doctor" on accounts that doing so would erase the years of hard work people like Combeferre and Joly go through to become one--Grantaire personally thought it didn't matter because none of this was necessary anyways, but hey, what does he know) a bit too seriously if you asked Grantaire. 

His boyfriend. God what a sentence. Grantaire could probably heal himself with those words only if this were some magic-kids cartoon or something.

So no, he wasn't physically sick; he was sick of having to lie in bed all day. He didn't feel sick. He wasn't sick. Hell, he didn't even have a hangover. As long as he used his crutches, he could move along. 

But alas. Joly. If he was here, he knows Joly would make some sort of a jollity out of being confined to the bed.

His attention was drawn out of his head and back to the present as the bed dipped by his side and he pitched his eyes up to Enjolras' familiar blue pair. 

Well, there wasn't much positive about his predicament, but the extra time with Enjolras? That was likely the one good thing that came out of this. 

Not that he didn't get enough time with him. But any extra time he got to spend with him was all the better. 

By his side above him, Enjolras laid a hand on his chest. "Are you feeling alright?" he murmured, mindful of the silence that preceded his entry into the room. 

Grantaire grinned up at him. "I broke my leg, Enjolras, I didn't have a stroke." All the same, he raised his own hand to curl around Enjolras', brushing a thumb over his soft skin. 

"It was worth asking," was all he replied softly. 

He rubbed another circle on Enjolras' hand before raising it up to his lips and pressing a light kiss on it. Enjolras' smile grew more brilliant even in the dim of the room. He chalked it up to the brightness of his, as Jehan once put it in a poem, exquisite teeth.

At the red that bloomed on Enjolras' cheeks, he smiled and teased, "Is there a reason why you're blushing like that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." 

"Why yes," he grinned harder at the way his blush grew darker, and he paused a moment to press another lingering kiss on his knuckles, "I would like to know." 

Enjolras carded a hand through his curls, prompting a satisfied hum from Grantaire. "Live in suspense." 

He reached up his hand not already occupied with holding Enjolras' own and twirled a finger around a stray curl on the side of Enjolras' face.

"I thought lecture ended at three? It's--" he glanced briefly at the clock-- "five now. I'm not trying to keep you trapped at home, I can tell from personal experience it's not fun, but you've gotta understand my curiosity here."

Enjolras hummed. "Well, one of your classmates--I think he said his name was Sadiq--he said you left your newest project in Dr. Alvarez' classroom, but that her room was still open. And I would have passed the building on my way back here anyways, so I thought I could bring it home so you could still work on it. If you're up for it, that is." 

Grantaire's eyebrows knit in concern. "Enj that canvas is by far one of the heaviest things I've painted on before. You walked all the way home carrying that thing?"

With a teasing smile, Enjolras said, "It's my secret superpower." 

He quirked an eyebrow. 

Enjolras chuckled. "Alright, no I didn't walk home. The canvas does have some considerable weight to it. But I did bring it home; Maxence was driving me home, and he said he wasn't in any rush. And don't worry, I'm the one who loaded the project into the car, I know it's important. And I made sure he drove extra slow and careful too. So… here I am." 

Quite on the contrary, the idea of Enjolras on an extra slow car-ride with Maxence didn't exactly please Grantaire. Really the thought of Maxence anywhere near Enjolras didn't please him. 

He knew these were his insecurities at play. He knew he should probably address them before his behaviour turned toxic. But really, there had to be some merit to his dislike and suspicion of the man. He saw the way he would look at Enjolras, the way his touches would always linger just the slightest bit too long. And of course, Enjolras, who himself was quite the tactile person with his friends, never thought anything wrong of it. 

But everytime he was there with Enjolras, offering "companionship" by walking out of class with him, or walking him to his next lecture, or offering to help study a concept at the coffeeshop a sizeable distance away from the Cafe Musain--Grantaire couldn't help it; he seethed. 

Some of that displeasure must have shown on his face, or must have made itself heard in the beat of silence he allowed to stretch on for just a moment too long for it to not have been charged, but not with any sort of buzzing of joy. 

Enjolras' face immediately faltered. "Is something wrong?" He hesitated. "Should I have left it?" 

And despite the fact that his mind was clouded over in a haze of resentment at the mention of Maxence, he still had enough of it in him that he couldn't stand the way Enjolras' lips pulled down at the corners. He forced a smile on his lips as he strained to say, "No, why would you ever think that? Your mind, Enjolras, I swear I don't know where you get your ideas from sometimes, it's unreal--"

"Grantaire," Enjolras interrupted. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question. 

But Grantaire himself had never been one for answering what had been asked of him, so instead he smirked a little this time and lightly squeezed Enjolras' hand still held in his own. 

Sighing, he could tell Enjolras knew there was no point in pursuing a topic he knew he wouldn't get answers to, so instead he shifted and moved Grantaire head up off his pillow so he could instead lie his head in Enjolras' lap. He let out a contented sigh and burrowed closer as he felt his boyfriend's hand slip into his curls, stroking softly.

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac really need to sort things out," Enjolras murmured quietly. "I swear I'm going to lose it with the pining in that house. It's thick enough to--"

"To cut with a knife?" he finished lazily. Enjolras hummed an affirmative.

"Exactly. I mean, how any two fools can be this oblivious I have no clue. Courfeyrac keeps going out of his way to do all these things for Combeferre, and while I generally don't like using this phrase because of the way it tends to imply that romantic relationships are somehow superior to platonic ones even though that's not true at all, it's clear to anyone that Courfeyrac's trying to show he thinks of Combeferre as maybe more than a friend, and I don't know how Combeferre--who himself is clearly in love with Courfeyrac!--can miss them, I mean the gestures are clear enough--"

He hummed distractedly, too taken with the way Enjolras' hand felt in his hair. "Like the way Maxence drives you around all the time?" 

The hand in his hair stopped stroking abruptly. "What?" 

Grantaire peaked his eyes open in confusion before shutting them closed again, wondering why Enjolras stopped before the memory of the last few seconds struck him hard enough to make his eyes fly open once more as he realized what he said. 

"Wait, no, I--"

"Why does that matter?" 

He glanced away nervously, only to find once he looked back at his boyfriend, that Enjolras didn't look angry or even miffed. If anything, there seemed to be a hint of a smile playing at his lips. 

His throat dried; he wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to react. "I…" 

Enjolras tilted his head, peering into his eyes with a sort of intensity it seemed only he possessed, though offset just the slightest bit by the way he seemed to be biting back a smile. "What's wrong with that? In fact, it's better when considering carpooling is a good choice to reduce emissions--though not the best way, mind you--and it saves time too. I don't see what's wrong. Maybe it's his vehicle?"

"Enjolras--"

"Or maybe--wait!" Enjolras' grin broke out in full this time. "OH you're jealous!"

Grantaire let out a long-suffering groan. "You're going to tease me about it?" 

Enjolras made a dramatic show of thinking. "Well," he started, "if I did tease you, you would kind of deserve it for being stupid enough to be jealous of someone I clearly see as a friend." 

"Well he clearly sees you as much more than that," he muttered darkly in reply. 

Enjolras pulled a hand through his hair, though this time was more to call attention to his eyes once more. "I know that, Grantaire. And I've been meaning to talk to him about it, too," he said softly.

His eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "Wait, you--?" 

"I'm not entirely oblivious, you know," he continued with a hint of amusement. "I know that he's been… trying to get past the territory of friendship. But of course, I'm not exactly looking for that with him. And I'm going to talk to him about it soon." He paused for a second before continuing on, "You, however, should comfort yourself with the trust that I hope you have in me, enough to know I wouldn't be dishonest to you in that kind of way ever."

He sighed. "I know. I don't doubt you, I just…" he trailed off, unsure of how to finish the sentence, even if he could recognize the emotions swirling around in his head. 

Enjolras cupped his cheek, and he gazed above into his face, an expression so gentle it almost made one wonder how it could turn severe, though it did happen on occasion. "We'll talk about this later, but we will talk about it," is all he said. 

"I'm sorry." 

Enjolras leaned forward, his curls reaching low enough to tickle Grantaire's forehead. "You are forgiven," he whispered before pressing a soft kiss to his skin.  

Grantaire closed his eyes took a moment to revel in the feeling of Enjolras' lips on his skin, humming in content for the while they lingered, and attempting to stifle his disappointment when he drew back. Of course, his attempts were no good and Enjolras laughed.

"Too quick?" he asked, teasing. Grantaire opened his eyes once more and grinned. 

"Always too quick. Would it be too fast to ask for another?" 

"That depends." Enjolras scratched softly at his head. "What's the magic word?" 

Grantaire's grin grew. "Magic words, you mean. All hail Feuilly our saviour."

Enjolras let out a surprised laugh. "While that is true, it wasn't what I was looking for." He shrugged his shoulders and smiled down at him mischievously. "Looks like no kiss for you--"

"No!" he interrupted. Enjolras' laughs grew more vibrant, making Grantaire soften at the sight of it. "Please?" 

"Hm. Please what?" Enjolras continued to tease. 

"Please just kiss me already."

This time, when Enjolras' lips kissed his own, he could feel the way they stretched into a smile, prompting Grantaire to smile into the kiss too. 

When Enjolras drew back, Grantaire had thought he had never seen quite so lovely a sight in so long. If Enjolras at his most fiery was like the radiance of the bright sun, then at his gentleness he had to be the soft colours of the morning's dawn. 

And for Grantaire, who had for so long seen only dark night, it was surely a most beautiful sight. One that ought not to be corrupted with a toxicity such as jealousy.

"I think I'm in love with you," he muttered in amazement. 

At that, Enjolras' smile simply grew even more dazzling.

"I'd sure hope so, or this engagement ring you bought me really would have been a bit of a waste," his fiance said, joy evident in his speech. "But know that I love you too."

[toovirgins]

March, 1964

Summary: John and Paul (but mostly John) find studying their lines for A Hard Day's Night a drag. John finds other (PG?) ways to pass the time.

The air was still inside the cozy dressing room. A faint scent of cigarette smoke clung to the thick atmosphere, but not enough to ring unpleasant. John gazed at the cigarette as it dangled loosely from his fingers, and deciding against taking another drag, put it out in the ashtray beside him. He tugged at the neck of his black sweater—despite the chill of the winter air persisting outside the window, the room was quite warm. Without much thought, John lazily traced a finger along the window sill, feeling chills spread up his arm at the temperature shock.

It really looked more like an upscale office than a dressing room. Sure, there were four distinct mirrors and hairdresser chairs, as well as a rod near the doorway with an array of suits, sweaters, and trousers for the boys to rotate in and out of. But the room itself was decorated quite elegantly. A soft glow from the floor lamp mingled with the diminishing brightness of outside to coat the room in a honey-like aura. Deep red curtains framed the enormous window, grazing the velvety paisley-patterned rug that covered most area of the room. The rest of the floor was a deep hardwood, without the slightest trace of dust—an unfamiliar concept, John mused. This was much nicer than what they were used to. Immediately upon entering, he had thrown himself onto a long, floral-patterned couch by the window. Paul knew he fancied observing nature while they studied.

Paul was seated a few feet away from him, his long legs draped over the armrest as he slouched sideways over the enormous armchair. His body was facing John’s, and he could see his eyebrows knitting together in concentration as he studied his script. His lips moved wordlessly, repeating his lines to himself without speaking at all. He reached up mindlessly and tousled his hair, and John watched as the dark locks fell directly back into place. They had been sitting like this for over an hour now, and John was beginning to feel restless. He had turned his gaze to his friend once he figured he could not possibly watch the nothing going on outside the window for a second longer. Going over his script one more time was always an option, but the thought simply did not interest him. Despite being constantly begged not to do so, John figured he could improvise some lines if they fell blank on his mind. He had a quick wit, and knew that some of his lines would come off better (read: more authentic) than the portrait that the writers had painted of him. He didn’t know how Paul could concentrate for so long, especially seeing as the man had relatively few lines in the upcoming scene.

Almost as if hearing his name appear in John’s thoughts, Paul’s eyes jumped up to meet John’s. He swung his legs over the arm of the chair until he was sitting in an upright (albeit, poorly postured) position and set his script down on the quaint table between them. John pulled the ashtray a bit closer to himself, fearing the disaster that would ensue if he and Paul accidentally burned down the dressing room. They had had their fair share of slightly arsonist run-ins in their youth, and John was too tired to deal with the legal ramifications of an incident like that again.

Paul sighed loudly, bringing John back to present. He hoped this was a sign of his friend’s boredom and restlessness, so he could stop pretending like he was studying his own script. The younger man leaned forward and put his head in his hands, letting out a strained groan as he rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t think I can take any more of this studying, mate,” Paul muttered. “I close my eyes and all I see is ‘No, actually, we’re just good friends’. Why do I have to say that, like, a dozen times? It’s only hardly clever.”

“Quite the realistic portrait, then,” John replied lazily, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips when Paul shot him an irritated glance. “I’m bored. Let’s do something.”

Paul checked his wristwatch. “When do you think they’ll be back? I thought Ringo was just going to wander about the town. How long could that filming possibly take? It’s not even scripted. Plus, he’s got that massive hangover. I figured they’d be back around by now.”

John shrugged. George had gone along with Ringo to provide some moral support for the dreaded scene (every scene was dreaded for Ringo today, as Paul was right—he was sporting a massive hangover), leaving Paul and John behind to study for their next appearance. For Paul, it was out of necessity; the poor lad struggled with keeping up with his lines, a fact that made him irritated and anxious. Paul typically wasn’t poor at things. For John, the desertion was more punishment for disappearing on set the day before to explore the city a bit. He didn’t mind, though. It could be worse; Paul could have left him as well. At least he had some company.

“We could go to the pub we passed yesterday,” John observed. “I could use a quick drink. Or two.”

Paul frowned, but John could see him shake his head in slight amusement at his friend’s remarks. “No, we won’t be doing that. Could you imagine how much trouble you’d be in with Brian if you disappeared again? To drink, no less? Sometimes I don’t know what goes on in your daft mind.”

John chuckled at that. He quite enjoyed teasing his friend, pushing forth this Teddy-boy persona that he sported when they first met seven years prior. Though he had no intention of actually going to get drunk in the middle of a work day, he knew that the boy wouldn’t tell the difference. He was aware that his behavior gave Paul a bit of a superiority complex, the feeling of being “the good one”, and the thought of that amused him. The public had yet to see how mischievous Paul McCartney actually was, his puppy dog eyes betraying him at every turn.

Of course, John was one of the few people that saw past Paul’s angelic front. The times they’d shared together had proved that even Brian and George Martin were fooled, as John often fell victim to blame for things that Paul had done. He didn’t quite mind the dynamic, though. He was hardly in real trouble, and it felt nice to have a part of Paul that the others didn’t. He was so hard to read at first, so hard to get close to. The intimacy was welcome to John, in a comforting, familial way.

“What shall we do then?” John mused. He huffed as he struggled to pull himself into an upright position, his joints popping at the sudden movement after being a puddle of nothing for so long. “Go for a smoke? Go for a stroll? Go fetch a bird?” He winked at the last suggestion as heat rose into Paul’s cheeks. Last night, John had also unintentionally taken the blame for a girl that Paul had snuck into the dressing room. Paul had been mortified and profusely thanked him, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t have a little fun with the knowledge.

“Actually,” Paul replied, rubbing his temples, “I’m quite exhausted. Might have a go at a nap.”

“Paul,” John whined, feigned desperation in his voice, “You can’t. I’m so bored. If you leave, I’ll have nothing.”

“Oh, all right,” the boy sighed. “Then you think of something to do. My mind is strained. And,” he jumped, as John opened his mouth to say something, “we’re not going out. I feel like I’m responsible for you right now. Don’t make me put you in time out.” Paul slouched back as the chair engulfed his figure and closed his eyes, humming softly to himself as he let fatigue overtake him.

John’s stomach flipped Paul’s words, though he almost cocked an eyebrow at the absurdity of the feeling. He quickly shook it off, feeling sure it was nothing more than the delight of knowing he could pester Paul endlessly, now that he was aware how Paul felt of the situation. If he was John’s babysitter, then John would act… well, like a child.

John stretched his legs just far enough as to where he could kick the other man’s foot. Paul half-lidded eyes looked up at him with a slightly annoyed expression, but he was met only with the amusement that twinkled in John’s. This seemed to irritate him further, not feeling at all in the mood for physical banter. So John kicked him again.

Paul’s eyes flew open. “Christ, lad, would you knock it off? I’m not in the mood. If you won’t let me leave, at least let me rest here.”

“But I’m bored,” John whined again. “I want to do something.”

“Look over your script,” Paul muttered as he turned his back on him, shifting to curl up into the armchair. “I don’t want to have to deal with you going on about fish and finger pies again next take. I have enough to worry about with my own lines.”

“You don’t own me, Paul,” John shot back. “You’re not in charge.”

“I bloody might as well be,” came the muffled voice that now felt far away.

John fell back on the couch himself, defeated. He gazed out the window again, eyes following an adorable little bird that hopped from tree limb to tree limb. He felt for that bird, or rather, he felt the need to be that bird, happily hopping on without a care in the world. It was so simple and innocent. He wanted to reach his hand through the glass and stroke the little bird, with its enchantingly dark feathers. To John, it looked like midnight, when the sky was still and the world was quiet and there was nothing but yourself and the atmosphere, high above you. Was it a blackbird? A crow, maybe? Its tiny black eyes were empty, devoid of emotion, but not threatening or eerie. Just… there. Being. Existing. It lived only to live, not to please, or love, or conquer. Oh, to be the little bird.

John continued to marvel at it for a few more moments before it fluttered out of sight. He was left with nothing again, his mind grasping at something else to attend to. The script fell out of his hands onto the floor with a thick thud, making Paul twitch in his barely-there state of consciousness.

Paul! A wonderful thing to capture his attention. John nudged his foot against the chair, hoping to shift it just slightly. When that didn’t work, he pushed a bit harder, sending a croaking sound through the room as the chair leg slipped off the rug and onto the hardwood.

“Piss off, Lennon,” Paul growled, his voice thick with the beginnings of sleep. But John couldn’t let him drift asleep. He would be so dreadfully bored.

John got to his knees on the couch, facing Paul’s chair. He gently pushed the stand with the ashtray and Paul’s script out of the way, and leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the arm of the couch and resting his chin atop them. He could see Paul’s side rising and falling rhythmically, the stiff fabric of his dress shirt crinkling with every inhale. He hadn’t changed out from earlier, and was still wearing the pressed white button down, black tie, and black trousers. The only thing he had removed was his suit jacket, which lay draped across the back of the chair. John assumed Paul had noticed the warm thickness of the air in the room as well.

Paul’s side stared back at him, open and inviting. He knew exactly what to do, to piss Paul off to the perfect degree while also keeping up the good spirits. He removed a hand from under his chin and stretched ever so slightly before jamming two fingers—hard—into Paul’s soft side.

Paul yelped in surprise and jerked awake and alert, trying to comprehend what had just happened. John watched him smugly as his brow furrowed in confusion, then annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, John, is it so hard to keep your hands to yourself? You’re a child.”

John said nothing, just watched in anticipation as Paul turned away again, muttering something under his breath. He was cranky now, and John wanted to push his limits. He had nothing better to do, anyway. He tentatively reached back over and, in one swift movement, pinched Paul’s side again and retreated into the far side of the couch.

Paul swung blindly, nearly missing contact with John’s extended forearm as he jumped back. John suppressed a giddy grin, knowing that he had succeeded in his mission. Paul was now wide awake and visibly frustrated, taking a moment to rub his tender side while muttering a string of unflattering curses.

“You wanker,” he shot at John, his eyes burning as he massaged his sore spot. Paul knew that John knew that’s where his weak spot was, his ticklish spot. He was only lucky that John had poked and pinched instead of lightly grazing and prodding. They shared a look, both of them well aware of that fact. John couldn’t help but cock a knowing eyebrow at him, as if to say, I could if I wanted to.

Suddenly, Paul’s eyes darkened. John’s breath caught in his throat as he watched a mischievous glint overtake Paul’s gaze. He watched Paul’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, running his tongue between his lips in anticipation. John wasn’t sure what the transformation was, but it couldn’t be good. He felt in a moment that he had lost control of the situation. He opened his mouth to speak, willing himself to come up with something spectacularly witty, until—

Paul had lurched on top of him in a matter of seconds, digging his fingers into John’s sides. John initially gasped as ticklish tremors ran through his body, the sounds of pure, unfiltered laughter soon filling the air. John twisted under Paul’s iron grip as tears began to spring to his eyes from the hysteria, gasping for breath and unable to keep himself from breaking into a fit of giggles every few seconds. He weakly attempted to reach up and grasp at Paul’s weak spots, trying to give himself the edge again, but Paul caught his wrist with one hand, pinning the other down with his knee. “Uh uh uh,” he chastised, pushing John’s wrist into the couch and underneath his other knee. He was straddling him on the couch, his knees trapping John’s hands at his sides while Paul’s hands were free to mercilessly attack John’s sides, stomach, and neck.

“P-please,” he wheezed, as Paul chuckled lightheartedly above him. “Please stop, I- I can’t breathe—”

“You asked for this,” Paul retorted, not ceasing the torturous movements. His tone was light and amused, sounding as though he found himself greatly enamored with the visual of John writhing helplessly beneath him. “Next time, keep your bloody hands to yourself.”

“I will, I will,” John gasped, a tear rolling down his cheek. Slowly, Paul ceased his assault, and rocked back on his heels, letting John’s hands free. He watched as the man caught his breath beneath him, reaching up to wipe away a tear that had fallen in the hysteria. “That was not funny,” John asserted in a mock-serious tone, secretly hoping that Paul would go at it again.

The thought pulled a frown to his face as he contemplated what had just popped into his head. He was “secretly hoping Paul would do that again”? Why? Why did he feel the need to keep it a secret? Why had Paul’s devilish fingers made John’s skin feel so… electric, and tingly? And most importantly, why was he now acutely aware that the man was sitting on John’s lap?

Paul let out an airy laugh and raised himself up off the sofa. John breathed a sigh of relief, concerned over the thoughts that spilled into his head. What the fuck was going on? This was Paul. He enjoyed spending time with him, teasing him, messing with him, pissing him off and making him laugh. Paul, his bandmate. His best friend. His suddenly strangely entrancing best—

Shut up, John begged his mind. He didn’t want to follow himself down a rabbit hole of that sort.

Paul was making his way back to the armchair. He plopped into it, looking as though he was the one who had just been tickled to death. He looked at John with a grin of satisfaction and power, and John knew that the man was about to go for a nap again knowing that John wouldn’t mess with him in that way again.

He liked to prove Paul wrong.

As soon as Paul’s eyes fluttered closed once more, and his breathing became steadier and deeper, John formulated another plan. One that, this time, he would surely be in control of. He watched Paul’s chest rise and fall for a few minutes, waiting for his eyelashes to stop twitching, willing the man to fall just enough asleep to where he would be slightly delirious upon a quick awakening. That way, he couldn’t catch John with surprise force as he executed the first step of his plan.

John waited the tiniest bit longer, until he was sure that his friend wasn’t just pretending, and went for it. In a quick movement, John jumped up and pulled at Paul’s wrists, thrusting him onto the floor forcefully but not painfully. The man blinked wildly as John held both his wrists over his head with one hand and began to aggressively tickle Paul’s exposed armpits. He jerked away from John’s touch, still in a faint haze about what was happening, before he began to come to his senses and bite back a cry of laughter. John knew that Paul was far more ticklish than he, and that the quick prodding and nudging wouldn’t drive him nearly as crazy as light, barely-there touches.

He began to cry out on the floor beside John, who was lying on his side, holding Paul’s hands with one arm and attacking him with the other. “Jesus, John, you bastard,” he wheezed, trying to force himself up but unable to do so. His wrists strained against John’s grip.

This struggle continued for a few more minutes, before John’s own stomach hurt from laughing so much. He released his friend and collapsed on the rug beside him, both of their laughter dying out softly as they caught their breath. A silence of about five minutes ensued, neither speaking but both acknowledging the comforting warmth of their shoulders pressed against one other.

After a long recovery, Paul tentatively lifted a leg and crossed it over, placing it in between John’s. Shooting his friend an inquisitive glance—not that this intertwining or personal touch was a strange posture for them, as they had had countless sleepovers in John’s far-too-tiny bed in his Mimi’s home growing up—John nudged Paul’s foot with his own to encourage him to speak what was on his mind.

“Thank you,” Paul said, the tint of laughter still coloring his voice.

“For what?” John replied noncommittedly. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, which was a rather putrid tile, almost like the ceilings in grade school—something that was jarring against the rather royal layout of the rest of the room. He trained his gaze on a particular patch of water damage shaped a bit like the bird he had watched earlier, through the window.

“I know you could have done worse in that little fight,” Paul mused. “I think I would have peed me self. Or died. Whichever came first.”

John hummed in response, now aware that the little leg movement was almost a thank you in and of itself. That simple search for physical contact, a gesture of appreciation, made John’s heart swell. He liked feeling appreciated. It was almost as if John was a girl, and Paul had reached down to interlace their fingers together and offer a quick squeeze, but John wasn’t a girl and instead Paul had thoughtlessly interlaced their legs. It was a nice feeling, one that spread warmth across John’s chest. As much as he wore Paul down, he was so thankful for him. It was a genuine admiration and appreciation (that he hoped was mutual), an experience that was rather foreign to him throughout life so far. He supposed much of that was brought on by himself—if he hadn’t been such a naughty child in school, if he’d been a bit better behaved for his parents, if he hadn’t been such a dick to the girlfriends he’d had. But with Paul, things were different. There were no expectations of being a son, a pupil, a lover. They could just be. Just like the bird.

John smiled to himself at the thought.

[daisybeewrites]

You Made Me Soup??

word count: 2.5k

warnings: lots of fluff, daisy gets a cold, daniel takes care of her :)

requested? yes

ship: dousy/daniel sousa x daisy johnson

Soooo this is the first writing that i’m posting on tumblr, let me know how I did in the comments! I’m a sucker for Daisy fluff, lets hope you are too b/c this is very fluffy. I appreciate any feedback and I hope you enjoy!

p.s. drop a request in my inbox if you have a fic idea!

Daisy felt like crap. She just got back home from a long, long mission that seemed as if it had dragged on for weeks (it hadn’t). More importantly, she felt like she hadn’t seen Daniel for weeks (she had, in fact, seen him just six days ago). The night air was chilly as she trudged up the stairs to one of her safe-houses. She frequently crashed here after missions, so she wasn’t surprised when Daniel opened the door and bear hugged her. 

“Umph.” Daisy was sore, and her head hurt like a hangover made of bees, but Daniel’s soothing presence relaxed her. He lifted her chin and gave her a deep kiss on the lips. Sousa would love nothing more than to hold her like this for a couple hours minimum, he knew that Daisy needed time to decompress by herself after missions. He helped her inside and shut the door behind them. Daisy's stomach growled. She peered inside the fridge and settled for a tomato and cheese sandwich. Daisy sat at the kitchen island and munched tiredly. Daniel sat on the couch and silently studied her. Something, he thought, is off. 

“Sweetheart?” he called. 

“Yea?” she replied, around a mouthful of bread.

“Are you, uh, feeling okay?” The genuine concern in his voice caused Daisy to sit up some and look over herself. 

“Do I look that bad?” she wasn’t offended, just surprised. There were a couple tears in the legs and one on the side of her suit from the brambles she had had to run through, and she wore dirt all over her face from the dust that had kicked up after she quaked the enemy assailants back about fifty feet. She honestly didn’t think she looked that bad. A tiny frown appeared on her face before Daniel quickly shut down her train of thought. 

“No, no, you look amazing as always,” Daniel got up quickly and stepped across the dark wood paneled floor into the old tiles that covered the ground in the kitchen. “No, Dais, that isn’t what I’m saying.”

As he reached her, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and brushed her hair out of her face. Daniel had to admit, she looked very cute when she was tired. However, he was too worried about how out of it she looked that he couldn't fully appreciate her adorable state. 

“Then what? Do I have leaves in my hair or something? I could’ve sworn I got them all out!” she began to comb her hair out with her fingers. Daniel just grinned. When she was satisfied that there weren’t any leaves in her hair, she glanced back up at him. His hands were on his hips, and he was using his new prosthetic leg that Jemma and Fitz had designed for him. She returned his grin and hopped off the counter so that she could wrap her arms around his gorgeous shoulders. Suddenly, her vision swam with little black dots and she couldn’t quite get her balance. Daniel reached out to steady her with a little more than worry in his eyes this time. 

“Look at that,” Daisy grinned wider, “I’m actually falling for you.” Daniel let out a low sort of chuckle and sighed. “Daisy, I think you need some sleep.”

Daisy patted his chest and nodded. “Probably.” As she said it, she let out an involuntary yawn, “Okay, so definitely. I need sleep.” 

Daisy began to walk back to her bedroom. It was cozy, and the colors reminded her of her bunk on the zephyr. There was a large bed with an old, wooden nightstand to match in the corner, and a few bean bag chairs and a short floor desk so that she could work at night. The bed was covered in comfy quilts and a soft, lavender duvet. No one would have guessed that a superhero lived here except for the hexagonal panels lining the walls, ceiling, and floor. Simmons and Daisy agreed to install them after Daisy almost leveled the house during a nightmare. It had been Daniel who suggested painting them, so that she wouldn’t feel as enclosed, like a caged animal. Daisy had been all for protecting those around her, insisted on it even. That doesn’t mean she didn’t feel weird having her bedroom look like the containment module. So, with Daniel, Coulson, and May's help, she painted the walls a homey grey and covered the floor in colourful mix-matched rugs. She left the ceiling white. 

Daisy trudged over to her bed and slowly started taking her gear off, but got stuck with the zips and hidden ties. 

“Hey, uh, Sou-” she coughed, “I need some help!” Her voice was muffled by the fabric of her suit. Daniel came to lean on the door frame. He smirked at the sight before him. Daisy’s arms were twisted behind her trying to undo a zipper, but had gotten caught while trying to pull it down. Subsequently, the material she had already loosened in the front rose up to reveal her tan, toned stomach. He walked over slowly and put his hands on her waist. 

“Mmmhm, Danny-boy, if you want me to sleep you need to just help me out of this damn suit!” she heard a chuckle and a soft ‘okay’ in response. He reached around her and undid the zipper, freeing her hands of the black fabric. She pulled the top over her head and went to get a sleep shirt. 

Daniel stopped her. “I’ll get it. You just relax.” 

Daisy was too tired to argue. She undressed from the rest of the suit and took the over-sized, comfy clothes he gathered. She pecked his cheek before going to the bathroom to wash her face and put the clothes on. Daniel watched her walk into the bathroom, a bright pink blush on his cheeks when she turned around and noticed him staring. At least he didn't cover his eyes when she changed anymore.

Daisy closed the door and turned the lights on in the bathroom. This was the first time she was able to good look at herself after the mission. She really did look like hell. The scars on her stomach and legs were a tad irritated from wearing her tac gear for so long, and her eyes also looked red. She ignored it and made a mental note to use the healing ointment Jemma had packed in her duffel bag on the red, raised tissue. She leaned forward to get a better look at herself. Her nose itched. Daisy quickly forgot about it as she finished getting ready for bed and slipped into the shirt and shorts that Daniel had handed her. 

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Daniel wasn’t there, but she could hear him in the living room down the hall. She still felt horrible, but the warm, coffee-and-vanilla scent that was just Daniel lulled her into a deep sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

When Daisy woke up the next morning, she felt absolutely disgusting. She grumbled as she tried to sit up. Her head was pounding, the pressure centered right between her eyebrows. She noticed the bottle of water and pills sitting on her bedside table, and promptly took them. Her nose hurt now, and her body was achier than it had been last night. She could probably sleep for another hour. Instead, she forced herself onto wobbly legs to take a scalding hot shower. The steam felt good on her muscles, and cleared her senses enough that she could properly breathe. She dressed in a clean t-shirt that she recognized as one of Sousa's and a pair of grey sweatpants (also Sousa's, Daisy stole them). Daisy trekked down the hall towards the warm, inviting couch. 

Daniel felt more than heard Daisy arrive in the living room, but only turned around when he heard a large crash!

“Daisy! Are you okay? What happened?” Daisy was currently laying on the floor next to a fallen lamp. 

“Ow…” she . “I turned the corner and this lamp was here.” 

Daniel crutched over to her, then gracefully sat down beside her. “Sorry Dais, didn’t know the lamp was an enemy combatant.” 

She gave a tired laugh. “I should’ve looked. I don’t feel great right now. I was practically sleepwalking down the hall.” 

Daniel looked over Daisy. He noticed she was wearing his clothes, and tried not to show exactly how that affected him. Daisy snapped him out of his reverie with a small sneeze. Without missing a beat, he handed her his handkerchief. Daisy still thought it odd that he had one, but felt extremely glad he did. Daniel thought he heard a low mumble of ‘cute square’, but couldn’t be sure. Daisy was definitely cute, even when sick.

Daisy groaned as she clutched her head. Daniel swung himself up, and she noticed his leg was... not a leg. Daisy smiled. Knowing that he felt safe enough in her house to relax and not wear his prosthetic made a little bubble of warmth blossom in her chest. Daniel reached a hand down to help her up, and with expert balance, helped her up to her feet. He pressed the cool back of his hand to her forehead. Daisy leaned into the touch. 

“That feels good. Like, really good.” 

Daniel gave her a quizzical stare. “Has anyone ever taken care of you while you were sick?”

Daisy was incredulous. “I’m not sick!” 

Daniel replied with a raised eyebrow and took his hand away from her head. She leaned forward slightly, chasing his hand before stopping herself. It dawned on Daniel that she hadn’t had parents to take care of her when she was a kid, and there was no way she would have let the team nurse her if she came down with something. 

“C’mere,” Daniel led her over to the couch and handed her a thick blanket. She took it and tried to spread it over her legs. Daniel laughed a little as she failed miserably. Daisy pouted and sighed, frustrated. Daniel took the blanket and flourished it, then laid it gently over her. 

“Square,” she teased. An adorable square.

“Your square, though.” Daniel grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, then her knuckles and wrist. Daisy didn’t want to admit how good it made her feel. Daniel got up as he directed her to stay there. “I’ll get some stuff to help.” 

Daisy dozed in and out while Sousa gathered what he needed. She could smell something delicious in the kitchen, and heard Sousa walking around. When he was finished, he woke Daisy up with a shake of her shoulder. He carefully helped her sit up. 

“Let’s go,” he stated, with a mischievous smile. 

“Go... where?” she questioned. The look in Sousa’s eye was making her slightly nervous. No, not nervous... just jittery with anticipation. Huh. Daniel started to walk away, checking over his shoulder to see if she was coming. She quickly shook her head and got up. She followed him down the hall to the bathroom, where a warm bath was waiting. 

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?” Daniel was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, and staring at 

Daisy as if she was the only light in the universe. His gaze made her feel all mushy inside, and she pushed down the tears that almost welled up. Daisy told herself it was because she was sick (but we all know it wasn't). Daniel broke eye contact and pushed himself off the counter. 

“I’ll be in the kitchen," Daniel winked and gave her kiss on the cheek, then left Daisy standing dumbfounded next to the tub. "Holler if you need me.”

She touched where he kissed and promptly undressed. The bath felt like heaven. If only she could keep her eyes open... 

She was woken around fifteen minutes later by the smell of something she could only describe as mouthwatering coming from the kitchen. She toweled off and put on a t-shirt and the shorts she wore the night before. She tip-toed to the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Daniel. Daisy rested her head in between his shoulder blades. She lifted her head and he turned around to place his hands on her waist, slowly pulling her in.

“I don’t think this is safe next to a stove.” Daisy quipped. Daniel murmured something incoherent in her hair. She peered over his shoulder to see what he was cooking.

“Soup?” Daisy questioned, “You... made me soup?” Daniel suddenly seemed shy. He looked away, unsure if he was stepping too far, or if she even liked soup. Even groggy and sick, Daisy picked up on this. She threw her arms around him and whispered into his shoulder. “Thank you, Daniel. No one's ever done this kind of thing for me.” 

His face warmed at hearing her call him Daniel. It wasn't often that she did that, usually she stuck to a silly nickname or called him ‘Sousa’ out of habit. 

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” Daniel leaned in for a kiss, but Daisy quickly leaned away. Daniel sent her a confused, pouty, adorable glare. 

“I-I don’t want you to get sick,” she stuttered by way of explanation, “You should probably stay away until I’m feeling better.” In spite of her words, when Sousa slowly leaned in, she mirrored his movements. 

“So, you do admit you’re sick.” Daniel whispered with a triumphant smile. Daisy wanted to argue, but realized there was no way out of this. She pushed him away and shuffled over to the living room, flopping dramatically on the couch.

“Yes, fine! I’m sick.” Daisy closed her eyes to go back to sleep, then remembered the soup that Daniel was currently pouring into bowls, and sat up. He brought it over and carefully handed it to her. She tried a spoonful and burnt her tongue the first time. When she tried again, she looked up through her lashes at Daniel sitting beside her, intently waiting for her verdict.

“Oh my god, this is amazing!” she half-moaned with delight. “You need to cook more often.”

Daniel watched her eat the soup quietly, and took her bowl to the sink when she was finished. When he got back, Daisy had turned on the TV and was watching Singing in the Rain. He smiled at the familiar picture. They spent the next couple hours watching old movies and cuddling. Daisy had protested at first, but gave in when Daniel threatened to tell Jemma she was sick. Daisy happily drifted to sleep with her head on Daniel's chest and the rest of her wrapped around him like a koala. 

She woke up early the next morning, and somehow got up without waking Daniel. She padded over to the fridge to pour a cup of orange juice, swallowing a couple pills to help get rid of the last dregs of her cold. She felt really good. Better than good, actually. She felt warm and loved and she had a soft smile on her face as she watched Daniel snooze. 

Little did Daisy know, Daniel had absolutely caught her cold. Daisy also didn't know exactly how needy Daniel is when he’s sick. 

A/N: how are you feeling? warm, fuzzy? good. that was my evil plan all along. have a great day and don’t forget to drink water!

[orphic-osamu]

Moon [01]; Dazai Osamu

wc: 1.6K

warnings: angst

synopsis: Dazai saw you as the moon.

prologue

lmk if i should do a part two 😗✌️

The summer night had a breeze that brushed against Dazai’s neck, cooling his wounded skin, and causing the pinpricks of goosebumps to trail up his skin. His head was craned upwards as his chocolate orbs studied the specks of stars against the black of the sky.

His heart grasped the last glimpses of the setting moon eagerly, in search for reassurance and space to fill the empty void in his heart. His eyes looked over the dips and darks of the moon, a habit of his when his brain worked for solutions.

Unfortunately, it only brought more questions to the distressed executive.

The moon was his only companion. Something he could spill the bottle of his thoughts to, without having to mutter a word. The white light washed over his heart, a sense of cold comfort filling him to the brim. However, his mind worked differently now.

The moon was quick to provide anyone with security, no exceptions. But who was there to listen to the moon’s troubles? Dazai imagined the celestial body to be the loneliest in the universe, unable to speak and open the valve to the endless stream of words it had.

It has only been an hour after Dazai received your confession, and remorse wrapped itself around his throat, leaving him gasping for freedom from the constricting feeling.

And yet he couldn’t help his heart drumming against his chest excitedly, crooning at the idea of a date with you.

I wonder how long she’s thought of this.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for Dazai to feel this way. There wasn’t going to be a happy ending for the both of you, and the faster he understood that, the better.

But he couldn’t help dreaming of a future with you. Going on little dates, celebrating anniversaries and escaping the screaming world together for a while. He couldn’t help his mind wandering to the moments he shared with you, the loud ones when you felt silly, and the quiet ones where he could sit and tell you about his troubles, wordlessly.

Just like how he could with the moon.

Soon, day turned to night and he found himself with his vision spotted a reddish orange from the tiny lanterns hanging in each stall. How you both ended up there was a mystery to him. Your hand, smaller than his, clasped around to pull him along the booths containing food, games and trinkets.

He wondered if it was happiness, or the moonlight that made your eyes twinkle when you looked at him. Despite the sky not having a single star, your orbs were littered in them, irises as the moon in the galaxy of your eyes. With each smile you showed, the hole of despair in his heart only hurt more and more.

He was going to lose you. He could tell from his body being buzzed with joy. Nothing was ever this happy without a price.

But Dazai was selfish, he wanted to savor every last second with you before you slipped from his grasp, even if it meant ugly tears and numb hearts.

He was fixated on every little move you made, immediately noticing when you took interest in a stall nearby. The said stall had a table littered in jewelry. You were magnetized as you tugged him towards the stall. Your hand let go of his, aiming to pick up some of the gems, carefully selecting some that suited your taste.

After a kind smile and a teasing remark from the man working, he handed over the items to you, throwing a sneaky wink at Dazai when you weren’t looking. Your hand reached for his again, but not to intertwine it with yours. Instead, you pushed his hands open and dropped a turquoise pendant in his hands, beaming in excitement.

“For you!”

Innocence surrounded your figure, proving your intentions to be good. Dazai returned the smile and kept the gift in his pocket, deciding to admire it later on.

A dull ache settled in the bones of his legs, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for a break. You were shining as bright as the moon was, he knew you put your entire heart into planning the night, in hopes of changing his mind.

A pang of guilt nipped at his heart. You were hopeful, however his heart was already set on his answer. He wasn’t going to change that, for his sake.

And for yours.

This was the last night he could ever spend with you. The last night before you’d have to stop and force yourself to stop loving him.

Dazai told himself he was going to try.

If he wasn’t going to experience this again with you, he was going to at least show you he loved you too.

Too absorbed in his thoughts, he failed to notice drops of water falling on head.

You pinched the edge of his sleeve, “It’s raining, Dazai.”

He hummed and pulled you under a tree, a small smile creeping on his face, at the sight of the pout on your face.

“My plans are ruined.”

His hand inched towards yours, enough to brush your knuckles against his. You tensed up as you pretended to not be affected by the gesture. He found it amusing, you’ve been grasping his hand the entire night, but when he’s initiating it, you become increasingly flustered. Nonetheless, he intertwined his pinky with yours before giving a squeeze.

“Mm, how ‘bout I take you somewhere?” Your face lit up in excitement, evoking a smitten chuckle from Dazai.

The place he spoke about was foreign to you, tucked behind a small alley and a rustic feeling radiating as you read the words on the blazing sign.

“Lupin, huh?”

The clouded eyes and nostalgic smile was enough to tell you that this place meant a lot to Dazai.

No words are exchanged, comfortable silence hugging your shoulders as he pulled you to a bar stool, sitting right next to you. The bartender showed a polite smile, with hints of surprise, seeing Dazai with someone who wasn’t Odasaku or Ango.

Dazai ordered a drink for you, completely unaware that once you started, it was hard to stop.

He learned that you were quite the lightweight. Your lips were pursed in effort to stay sober, but alas you were far too deep. An adoring look on his face was fixed for the rest of the night as your drunk habits surfaced. And every single word, every single breath was imprinted in his mind.

And with another glass downed, your hands came up to cup his cheeks. You looked dazed and in love.

“Zaizai.” You mumbled, caressing thumbs feeling like hot fire pressing against his skin.

He tilted his head to the side as his eyes met yours. His lips puckered in a soft kiss to your palm, smiling gently.

It was all he could have, memories of your hopeful eyes and dazzling grin. The way you held his hand, and the little gift you had bought for him.

Soon, the clock hit 11, and while it was considered early for the both of you, Dazai did not want you to wake up with a strong hangover the next day. His arm wrapped around your waist in a firm hold, waving the bartender goodbye.

Going to your place was quite the challenge. It was farther than his, and exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders. However your well being was all that mattered to him at that moment.

“Did you enjoy our date?”

Your words weren’t slurred, and for a moment Dazai had to check if you really were drunk. The red cheeks and hazy eyes confirmed that you were still intoxicated.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do everything I planned.” You mumbled, kicking a pebble on the sidewalk.

‘It was perfect.’ He wanted to say.

Looking at you with soft eyes, he wished you’d hear the words that were lodged in his throat. How he had fun today, and adored all your drunk habits. Everything that made you the imperfect human being.

He wished you’d see how much he loved you.

Before he knew it, he was dropping you off and putting you to bed. You didn’t allow him to leave, clutching his clothes in a silent plea.

“Stay for the night, please.”

Who was he to resist?

He slid under the covers with you and held you close, pressing you against his chest. His heart soared wildly, he could’ve sworn you could hear it.

His hand rested on your hip, drawing hearts and tracing words over and over again, almost as if he wanted to burn them into your skin.

I love you.

Sleep lured you in, your breathing slowed at your embrace around him softened. You were ethereal in his eyes. Eyelashes caressing your cheeks, lips slightly parted to release quiet huffs of air.

His fingers absentmindedly traced over your flaws, love flowing from the tips. He wished for you to never change any part of you, even the ones you thought were ugly.

Because Dazai Osamu fell in love with all of you.

And yet, as the light painted your angel like body, his heart twisted in guilt. He drank in the sight of your figure desperately, while pain built up in his chocolate orbs.

Dazai thought you were like the moon. Warm but chilly at the same time, for your eyes lit up his world, and your love leaving an impending sense of doom inside of him.

Dazai saw you as the moon, caring and aware of what he needed to say, yet no one bothered to listen to you.

And Dazai knew he left you like how the moon was that night, alone and cold with no one by your side.

[96harmony96]

Chapter 5

I had a vicious hangover on Saturday morning and figured it was no less than I deserved. As much as I’d resented Lauren’s insistence on negotiating sex with as much passion as she would a merger, in the end I’d negotiated in kind. Because I wanted her enough to take a calculated risk and break my own rules.

I took comfort in knowing she was breaking some of her own, too.

After a long, hot shower, I made my way into the living room and found Cary on the couch with his netbook, looking fresh and alert. Smelling coffee in the kitchen, I headed there and filled the biggest mug I could find.

“Morning, sunshine,” Cary called out.

With my much-needed dose of caffeine wrapped between both palms, I joined him on the couch.

He pointed at a box on the end table. “That came for you while you were in the shower.”

I set my mug on the coffee table and picked up the box. It was wrapped with brown paper and twine, and had my name handwritten diagonally across the top with a decorative calligraphic flourish. Inside was an amber glass bottle with Hangover Cure painted on it in a white old-fashioned font and a note tied with raffia to the bottle’s neck that said, “Drink me.” Lauren’s business card was nestled in the cushioning tissue paper.

As I studied the gift, I found it very apt. Since meeting Lauren I’d felt like I’d fallen down the rabbit hole into a fascinating and seductive world where few of the known rules applied. I was in uncharted territory that was both exciting and scary.

I glanced at Cary, who eyed the bottle dubiously.

“Cheers.” I pried the cork out and drank the contents without thinking twice about it. It tasted like sickly sweet cough syrup. My stomach quivered in distaste for a moment, and then heated. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and shoved the cork back into the empty bottle.

“What was that?” Cary asked.

“From the burn, it’s hair of the dog.”

His nose wrinkled. “Effective but unpleasant.”

And it was working. I already felt a little steadier.

Cary picked up the box and dug out Lauren’s card. He flipped it over; then held it out to me. On the back Lauren had written, “Call me” in bold slashing penmanship and jotted down a number.

I took the card, curling my hand around it. Her gift was proof that she was thinking about me. Her tenacity and focus was seductive. And flattering.

There was no denying I was in trouble where Lauren was concerned. I craved the way I felt when she touched me, and I loved the way she responded when I touched her back. When I tried to think of what I wouldn’t agree to do to have her hands on me again, I couldn’t come up with much.

When Cary tried to hand me the phone, I shook my head. “Not yet. I need a clear head when dealing with her and I’m still fuzzy.”

“You two seemed cozy last night. She’s definitely into you.”

“I’m definitely into her.” Curling into the corner of the couch, I pressed my cheek into the cushion and hugged my legs to my chest. “We’re going to hang out, get to know each other, have casual-but-physically-intense sex, and be otherwise completely independent. No strings, no expectations, no responsibilities.”

Cary hit a button on his netbook and the printer on the other side of the room started spitting out pages. Then he snapped the computer closed, set it on the coffee table, and gave me all his attention. “Maybe it’ll turn into something serious.”

“Maybe not,” I scoffed.

“Cynic.”

“I’m not looking for happily-ever-after, Cary, especially not with a mega-mogul like Jauregui. I’ve seen what it’s like for my mom being connected to powerful men. It’s a full-time job with a part-time companion. Money keeps Mom happy, but it wouldn’t be enough for me.”

My dad had loved my mom. He’d asked her to marry him and share his life. She’d turned him down because he didn’t have the hefty portfolio and sizeable bank account she required in a husband. Love wasn’t a requisite for marriage in Sinuhe Stanton’s opinion and since her sultry-eyed, breathy-voiced beauty was irresistible to most men, she’d never had to settle for less than whatever she wanted. Unfortunately she hadn’t wanted my dad for the long haul.

Glancing at the clock, I saw it was ten thirty. “I guess I should get ready.”

“I love spa day with your mom.” Cary smiled and it chased the lingering shadows on my mood away. “I feel like a god when we’re done.”

“Me, too. Of the goddess persuasion.”

We were so eager to be off that we went downstairs to meet the car rather than wait for the front desk to call up.

The doorman smiled as we stepped outside—me in heeled sandals and a maxi dress, and Cary in hip-hugging jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Good morning, Miss Cabello. Mr. Taylor. Will you need a cab today?”

“No thanks, Paul. We’re expecting a car.” Cary grinned. “It’s spa day at Perrini’s!”

“Ah, Perrini’s Day Spa.” Paul gave a sage nod. “I bought my wife a gift certificate for our anniversary. She enjoyed it so much I plan to make it a tradition.”

“You did good, Paul,” I said. “Pampering a woman never goes out of style.”

A black town car pulled up with Clancy at the wheel. Paul opened the rear door for us and we climbed in, squealing when we found a box of Knipschildt’s Chocopologie on the seat. Waving at Paul, we settled back and dug in, taking tiny nibbles of the truffles that were worth savoring slowly.

Clancy drove us straight to Perrini’s, where the relaxation began from the moment one walked in the door. Crossing the entrance threshold was like taking a vacation on the far side of the world. Every arched doorway was framed by lushly vibrant striped silks, while jeweled pillows decorated elegant chaises and oversized armchairs.

Birds chirped from suspended gilded cages and potted plants filled every corner with lush fronds. Small decorative fountains added the sounds of running water, while stringed instrumental music was piped into the room via cleverly hidden speakers. The air was redolent with a mix of exotic spices and fragrances, making me feel like I’d stepped into Arabian Nights.

It was this-close to being too much, but it didn’t cross the line. Instead, Perrini’s was exotic and luxurious, an indulgent treat for those who could afford it. Like my mother, who’d just finished a milk-and-honey bath when we arrived.

I studied the menu of treatments available, deciding to skip my usual “warrior woman” in favor of the “passionate pampering.” I’d been waxed the week before, but the rest of the treatment—“designed to make you sexually irresistible”—sounded like exactly what I needed.

I’d finally managed to get my mind back into the safe zone of work when Cary spoke up from the pedicure chair beside mine.

“Mrs. Stanton, have you met Lauren Jauregui?”

I gaped at him. He knew damn well my mom went nuts over any news about my romantic—and not-so-romantic, as the case may be—relationships.

My mother, who sat in the chair on the other side of me, leaned forward with her usual girlish excitement over a rich, handsome man. “Of course. She’s one of the wealthiest women in the world. Number twenty-five or so on Forbes’s list, if I’m remembering correctly. A very driven young woman, obviously, and a generous benefactor to many of the children’s charities I champion. Extremely eligible, of course, but I don’t believe she's straight , Cary. She’s got a reputation as a ladies’ pleaser.”

“My loss.” Cary grinned and ignored my violent headshaking. “But it’d be a hopeless crush anyway, since she’s digging on Camila.”

“Camila! I can’t believe you didn’t say anything. How could you not tell me something like that?”

I looked at my mom, whose scrubbed face appeared young, unlined, and very much like mine. I was very clearly my mother’s daughter, right down to my surname. The one concession she’d made to my father had been to name me after his mother.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I insisted. “We’re just…friends.”

“We can do better than that,” Sinuhe said, with a look of calculation that struck fear in my heart. “I don’t know how it escaped me that you work in the same building she does. I’m certain she was smitten the moment she saw you. Although she’s known to prefer blondes…Hmm…Anyway. sHe’s also known for her excellent taste. Clearly the latter won out with you.”

“It’s not like that. Please don’t start meddling. You’ll embarrass me.”

“Nonsense. If anyone knows what to do with men, it’s me.”

I cringed, my shoulders creeping up to my ears. By the time my massage appointment came around, I was in desperate need of one. I stretched out on the table and closed my eyes, preparing to take a catnap to get through the long night ahead.

I loved dressing up and looking pretty as much as the next girl, but charity functions were a lot of work. Making small talk was exhausting, smiling nonstop was a pain, and conversations about businesses and people I didn’t know were boring. If it wasn’t for Cary benefitting from the exposure, I’d put up a bigger fight about going.

I sighed. Who was I fooling? I’d end up going anyway. My mom and Stanton supported abused children’s charities because they were significant to me. Going to the occasional stuffy event was a small price to pay for the return.

Taking a deep breath, I consciously relaxed. I made a mental note to call my dad when I got home and thought about how to send a thank-you note to Lauren for the hangover cure. I supposed I could e-mail her using the contact info on her business card, but that lacked class. Besides, I didn’t know who read her inbox.

I’d just call her when I got home. Why not? She’d asked—no, told—me to; she’d written the demand on her business card. And I’d get to hear her luscious voice again.

The door opened and the masseuse came in. “Hello, Camila. You ready?”

Not quite. But I was getting there.

___

After many lovely hours at the spa, my mom and Cary dropped me off at the apartment; then they headed out to hunt for new cuff links for Stanton. I used the time alone to call Lauren. Even with the much-needed privacy, I punched most of her phone number into the keypad a half-dozen times before I finally put the call through.

She answered on the first ring. “Camila.”

W that she’d known who was calling, my mind scrambled for a moment. How did she have my name and number in her contact list? “Uh…hi, Lauren.”

“I’m a block away. Let the front desk know I’m coming.”

“What?” I felt like I’d missed part of the conversation. “Coming where?”

“To your place. I’m rounding the corner now. Call the desk, Camila.”

she hung up and I stared at the phone, trying to absorb the fact that Lauren was moments away from being with me again. Somewhat dazed, I went to the intercom and talked to the front desk, letting them know I was expecting her and while I was talking, she walked into the lobby. A few moments after that, she was at my door.

It was then that I remembered I was dressed in only a thigh-length silk robe, and my face and hair were styled for the dinner. What kind of impression would she get from my appearance?

I tightened the belt of my robe before I let her in. It wasn’t like I’d invited her over for a seduction or anything.

Lauren stood in the hallway for a long moment, her gaze raking me from my head down to my French manicured toes. I was equally stunned by her appearance. The way she looked in worn jeans and a T-shirt made me want to undress her with my teeth.

“Worth the trip to find you like this, Camila.” sHe stepped inside and locked the door behind her. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Thanks to you. Thank you.” My stomach quivered because she was here, with me, which made me feel almost…giddy. “That can’t be why you came over.”

“I’m here because it took you too long to call me.”

“I didn’t realize I had a deadline.”

“I have to ask you something time-sensitive, but more than that, I wanted to know if you were feeling all right after last night.” Her eyes were dark as they swept over me, her breathtaking face framed by that luxurious curtain of inky hair. “God. You look beautiful, Camila. I can’t remember ever wanting anything this much.”

With just those few simple words I became hot and needy. Way too vulnerable. “What’s so urgent?”

“Go with me to the advocacy center dinner tonight.”

I pulled back, surprised and excited by the request. “You’re going?”

“So are you. I checked, knowing your mother would be there. Let’s go together.”

My hand went to my throat, my mind torn between the weirdness of how much she knew about me and concern over what she was asking me to do. “That’s not what I meant when I said we should spend time together.”

“Why not?” The simple question was laced with challenge. “What’s the problem with going together to an event we’d already planned on attending separately?”

“It’s not very discreet. It’s a high-profile event.”

“So?” Lauren stepped closer and fingered a curl of my hair.

There was a dangerous purr to her voice that sent a shiver through me. I could feel the warmth of her big, hard body and smell the richly musky scent of her skin. I was falling under her spell, deeper with every minute that passed.

“People will make assumptions, my mother in particular. She’s already scenting your bachelor blood in the water.”

Lowering her head, Lauren pressed her lips into the crook of my neck. “I don’t care what people think. We know what we’re doing. And I’ll deal with your mother.”

“If you think you can,” I said breathlessly, “you don’t know her very well.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.” Her tongue traced the wildly throbbing vein in my throat and I melted into her, my body going lax as she pulled me close.

Still, I managed to say, “I haven’t said yes.”

“But you won’t say no.” sHe caught my earlobe between her teeth. “I won’t let you.”

I opened my mouth to protest and she sealed her lips over mine, shutting me up with a lush wet kiss. Her tongue did that slow, savoring licking that made me long to feel her doing the same between my legs. My hands went to her hair, sliding through it, tugging. When she wrapped her arms around me, I arched, curving into her hands.

Just as she had in her office, she had me on my back on the couch before I realized she was moving me, her mouth swallowing my surprised gasp. The robe gave way to her dexterous fingers; then she was cupping my breasts, kneading them with soft, rhythmic squeezes.

“Lauren—”

“Shh.” sHe sucked on my lower lip, her fingers rolling and tugging my tender nipples. “It was driving me crazy knowing you were naked beneath your robe.”

“You came over without—Oh! Oh, God…”

Her mouth surrounded the tip of my breast, the wash of heat bringing a mist of perspiration to my skin.

My gaze darted frantically to the clock on the cable box. “Lauren, no.”

Her head lifted and she looked at me with stormy green eyes. “It’s insane, I know. I don’t—I can’t explain it, Camila, but I have to make you come. I’ve been thinking about it constantly for days now.”

One of her hands pushed between my legs. They fell open shamelessly, my body so aroused I was flushed and almost feverish. Her other hand continued to plump my breasts, making them heavy and unbearably sensitive.

“You’re wet for me,” she murmured, her gaze sliding down my body to where she was parting me with her fingers. “You’re beautiful here, too. Plush and pink. So soft. You didn’t wax today, did you?”

I shook my head.

“Thank God. I don’t think I would’ve made it ten minutes without touching you, let alone ten hours.” She slid one finger carefully into me.

My eyes closed against the unbearable vulnerability of being spread out naked and fingered by a woman whose familiarity with the rules of Brazilian waxing betrayed an intimate knowledge of women. A woman who was still fully clothed and kneeling on the floor beside me.

“You’re so snug.” Lauren pulled out and thrust gently back into me. My back bowed as I clenched eagerly around her. “And so greedy. How long has it been since the last time you were fucked?”

I swallowed hard. “I’ve been busy. My thesis, job-hunting, moving…”

“A while, then.” sHe pulled out and pushed back into me with two fingers. I couldn’t hold back a moan of delight. The woman had talented hands, confident and skilled, and she took what he wanted with them.

“Are you on birth control, Camila?”

“Yes.” My hands gripped the edges of the cushions. “Of course.”

“I’ll prove I’m clean and you’ll do the same, then you’re going to let me come in you.”

“Jesus, Lauren.” I was panting for her, my hips circling shamelessly onto her thrusting fingers. I felt like I’d spontaneously combust if she didn’t get me off.

I’d never been so turned on in my life. I was near mindless with the need for an orgasm. If Cary walked in right then and found me writhing in our living room while Lauren finger-fucked me, I didn’t think I’d care.

Lauren was breathing hard, too. Her face was flushed with lust. For me. When I’d done nothing more than respond helplessly to her.

Her hand at my breast moved to my cheek and brushed over it. “You’re blushing. I’ve scandalized you.”

“Yes.”

Her smile was both wicked and delighted, and it made my chest tight. “I want to feel my cum in you when I fuck you with my fingers. I want you to feel my cum in you, so you think about how I looked and the sounds I made when I pumped it into you. And while you’re thinking about that, you’re going to look forward to me doing it again and again.”

My sex rippled around her stroking fingers, the rawness of her words pushing me to the brink of orgasm.

“I’m going to tell you all the ways I want you to please me, Camila, and you’re going to do it all…take it all, and we’re going to have explosive, primal, no-holds-barred sex. You know that, don’t you? You can feel how it’ll be between us.”

“Yes,” I breathed, clutching my breasts to ease the deep ache of my hardened nipples. “Please, Lauren.”

“Shh…I’ve got you.” The pad of her thumb rubbed my clitoris in gentle circles. “Look into my eyes when you come for me.”

Everything tightened in my core, the tension building as she massaged my clit and pushed her fingers in and out in a steady, unhurried rhythm.

“Give it up to me, Camila,” she ordered. “Now.”

I climaxed with a thready cry, my grip white-knuckled on the sides of the cushions as my hips pumped onto her hand, my mind far beyond shame or shyness. My gaze was locked to her, unable to look away, riveted by the fierce masculine triumph that flared in her eyes. In that moment she owned me. I’d do anything she wanted. And she knew it.

Searing pleasure pulsed through me. Through the roaring of blood in my ears, I thought I heard her speak hoarsely, but I lost the words when she hooked one of my legs over the back of the couch and covered my cleft with her mouth.

“No—” I pushed at her head with my hands. “I can’t.”

I was too swollen, too sensitive. But when her tongue touched my clit, fluttering over it, the hunger built again. More intense than the first time. she rimmed my trembling slit, teasing me, taunting me with the promise of another orgasm when I knew I couldn’t have one again so quickly.

Then her tongue speared into me and I bit my lip to bite back a scream. I came a second time, my body quaking violently, tender muscles tightening desperately around her decadent licking. Her growl vibrated through me. I didn’t have the strength to push her away when she returned to my clit and sucked softly…tirelessly…until I climaxed again, gasping her name.

I was boneless as she straightened my leg and still breathless when she pressed kisses up my belly to my breasts. she licked each of my nipples, and then hauled me up with her arms banded around my back. I hung lax and pliable in her grip while she took my mouth with suppressed violence, bruising my lips and betraying how close to the edge she was.

she closed my robe; then stood, staring down at me.

“Lauren…?”

“Seven o’clock, Camila.” sHe reached down and touched my ankle, her fingertips caressing the diamond anklet I’d put on in preparation for the evening. “And keep this on. I want to fuck you while you’re wearing nothing else.”

[half-bakedboy]

Life Begins at Night (read on ao3)

Pairing: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood Rated: General Summary: “Wanna walk with me?” Magnus asked, holding his hand out to Alec again. Alec hesitated, glancing toward the front of the house as the red and blue lights flashed. He could go back inside and see if Andrew needed him, but there was something exciting about taking Magnus’ hand and seeing where the night brought him.

So he pressed his palm to Magnus’ and pulled him down the alley, both of them laughing and gasping for breath as they ran.

A gift to the incredible @bidnezz​ for her support and general amazingness ♥️

Alec paced back and forth to the beat of the excessive bass thumping from the frat house beside him and groaned. He stared down at the crumpled paper in his hands and read through the words he had thought were perfect only a few hours before he had arrived at the house that now seemed to laugh at him as he spoke. 

“Ever since I first saw you, I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life gazing into your ocean blue eyes,” he sighed and cleared his throat before continuing, “I have wanted to run my fingers through your curls and hold your strong jaw in my palm since before you said your first words to me-- God, no. That’s so stalkerish.” Alec threw his head back in defeat when a small chuckle shocked him into turning around. 

“Who are you talking to?” The man said with his hands on his hips. Alec had seen him around before - Magnus Bane, abstract art protégé - when he wandered the halls of the arts building at his college. 

“I’m not talking to anyone,” Alec retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m-- practicing?” He sighed in defeat and held up the torn paper so that Magnus could see he wasn’t crazy. He still looked at Alec as if he was, taking a few steps forward to grab the paper from Alec’s hands. He studied it for a few moments before raising his eyes at Alec. 

“‘I want to brush my fingers through your curled hair until you fall asleep’?” Magnus read with clear judgment in his tone. Alec blushed and ran a hand over his hair, resisting the urge to tug it from his skull. “You can’t be serious about this?” 

“Oh, like you could do better? I’m sure you’ve never even had to worry about pining after someone, looking like,” Alec gestured over the impeccable outfit Magnus had on, the way his hair was perfectly quaffed, and his flawless face of makeup that Alec found himself surprisingly jealous of, “that.” 

Magnus laughed before he said, “It’s not all about looks, darling, but thank you for noticing.” He winked at Alec who, in turn, blushed an even deeper shade of red. He wasn’t used to such forwardness from men. The ones he hung around with were usually Jace’s friends, frat boys who were so obsessed with their heterosexuality, they made sure not to seem even a little gay in front of their homosexual brother. 

“Well, then what would you suggest?” Alec asked because he figured he couldn’t dig himself into a deeper hole than he had already. Either Magnus would laugh at him again or he would give him advice and Alec was really ready for either option. 

“Andrew doesn’t want to hear about how handsome he is,” Magnus said, waving a hand at the house beside them. “He’s a frat boy and frat boys already know, Alexander.” Before Alec could fight the stereotype, Magnus raised his eyebrows at him, a clear challenge that Alec wasn’t ready to face, and Magnus’ words echoed through his head again. 

“How do you know my name?” Alec asked, tilting his head. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Magnus responded easily before glancing down at the letter again. “As I said, Andrew doesn’t need the reminder that his hair is curly or that his eyes are blue. How does he make you feel?” 

And wasn’t that the question. Whenever Andrew walked into a room, Alec felt his heart stop beating and all of the air in his lungs seemed to push from his chest. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think whenever Andrew was around. They would have late-night talks when Andrew was too drunk to remember the next morning and Alec felt a need to take care of him. He would tuck Andrew into bed and leave him water and headache medicine for his impending hangover. Sometimes, Andrew would peer at him with narrowed eyes and tell Alec that he was the best friend he’d ever had and Alec would feel his stomach flutter in happiness. 

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Alec trailed off as he hung his head down in disappointment. If he couldn’t even explain it to a practical stranger, how was he supposed to let Andrew really know how he made Alec feel? Magnus sighed and held his hand out, urging Alec to grab it with a soft, friendly smile. Alec did as he was asked and Magnus pulled him closer until they were chest to chest, face to face, and Magnus looked at him as if he was the world. Alec had to look away. 

“I’d want to hear about what I do to your heart, how it flutters with only a gentle caress,” Magnus whispered, resting his palm on Alec’s chest delicately. He swayed them back and forth to a beat that didn’t even remotely match the steady one pounding from inside the house, but Alec was too lost to really care.  “I’d want to hear about what I do to your brain, how you can’t think straight with even just a glance, how I make you think about the future and how bright it could be with me in it.” Magnus held Alec’s chin softly in his fingers and ducked so that Alec could look into his eyes before he said, “I’d want to hear about what I do to your…” He slid his hand down to the belt of Alec’s jeans but before he could move forward, Alec catapulted himself back with wide eyes. 

“That’s-- No, I-- This isn’t--” Alec sputtered, pulling at the collar of his shirt because he wasn’t sure when it had gotten so warm outside. His heart was pounding, and his skin felt as if it was on fire, and his mind reeled with thoughts of kittens and mangled bodies as he tried to push back the arousal that had settled low in his stomach. 

Before he could chastise Magnus for his actions, Jace came running out through the fence yelling, “Someone invited jailbait, we’ve gotta go!” Alec stared up at the sky and cursed his luck as he saw all of his fraternity escaping the house through windows and doors alike. When he glanced back at Magnus, he looked almost pleased and Alec really couldn’t figure out why. 

“Wanna walk with me?” Magnus asked, holding his hand out to Alec again. Alec hesitated, glancing toward the front of the house as the red and blue lights flashed. He could go back inside and see if Andrew needed him, but there was something exciting about taking Magnus’ hand and seeing where the night brought him. 

So he pressed his palm to Magnus’ and pulled him down the alley, both of them laughing and gasping for breath as they ran. 

“So, what are you doing at a frat party? I didn’t really think that was your thing,” Alec said once they were far enough away to slow their stride and catch their breath. 

Magnus laughed and said, “My roommate, Clary, just started seeing--” 

“Izzy,” Alec interrupted with a laugh. “She’s my sister,” Alec clarified when Magnus tilted his head in confusion. 

“Ahh, that makes so much sense,” Magnus noted with a small chuckle. Alec glanced over at him only slightly offended as to what that meant. Magnus patted his shoulder and said, “I’ve heard about you twice. Once from Izzy who referred to you as Alec and once from a classmate who said you were Alexander and that you sometimes wandered the halls of the arts building and no one knew why.” 

Alec blushed and explained, “It’s a lot less stressful than walking around the law building.” Magnus nodded in agreement. “I didn’t realize that anyone had noticed me,” Alec said after a few moments of silence. He was honestly surprised that anyone knew his name, but he thought that was bound to happen when he hung around with his group of frat brothers. He wasn’t used to attention but when he entered college, there was more on him than he ever expected. 

“You stick out like a sore thumb among us artistic type,” Magnus noted as he gestured to the outfit Alec was wearing. 

“What do you mean?” He didn’t think it was too noticeable; his button-down light blue shirt was tucked in at the waist and covered by a grey jacket that Alec considered casual. He had dark jeans covering his legs with a black belt holding them up and his shoes were simple sneakers. 

“I mean,” Magnus laughed, tugging at the hem of the jacket, “you’re always so put together while the rest of us are splattered with paint or charcoal and our clothes are usually mismatched or covered in a smock.” He had a point. Magnus’ outfit was brightly colored and sparkling with glitter and what Alec had assumed was a leftover assignment. The pattern that covered his shirt didn’t even remotely match the cardigan that kept him warm and his jeans were spotted with bleach and torn along the thighs. Somehow it matched what little Alec knew about Magnus, though. 

“Yeah, you artists are definitely eccentric,” Alec said, hoping the whisper of jealousy in his voice was firmly hidden by the subtle insult. Before Magnus could be too offended, Alec added, “There’s something homey about the arts building and the unique personalities I encounter there.” Magnus laughed, nodding his head enthusiastically and the sound took Alec by surprise. It wasn’t his usual suave chuckle, it was more a burst of sunlight that lit up the darkness. 

“Eccentric and unique are definitely two ways to describe the art majors. We’ve all just stopped conforming to the way society has wanted us to be, you know? Makes us able to represent ourselves whichever way we please and just say ‘fuck it’ to all the normalized bullshit that high school forces on us,” Magnus rambled, rolling his eyes dramatically. “College was an escape for me,” Magnus admitted, staring down at his feet as if contemplating how much he could tell Alec. 

“College is a prison for me.” Alec was surprised that was the bit of information he decided to divulge with Magnus and he wasn’t quite sure where it came from. Izzy had been the only one let in on Alec’s miniature crisis regarding his education and even then it was after a few too many drinks. “How was it an escape?” Alec asked in his best attempt at changing the subject. 

Magnus shot him a narrow-eyed glance, but said, “It was a new start. My brother, Raphael, and I moved to New York from the middle of nowhere, got a one-bedroom apartment that we can barely afford, and are both pursuing our new lives in one of the biggest and best cities in the world. We couldn’t have asked for a better beginning.” 

It seemed so simple to Alec. They left behind whatever world they were living in as if it didn’t matter and Alec couldn’t help the jealousy that seemed to tease at the back of his neck. He had wanted that for himself and his siblings but while Jace and Izzy were both on their own journeys to success, Alec was the one that had to keep their parents happy. That meant studying in the law building while pining after the happiness he felt when he entered the arts building and he had learned to be okay with that. 

“Prison isn’t exactly the ideal place to be during such formative years, Alexander,” Magnus said, nudging his shoulder against Alec’s to gain his attention. Alec huffed out a laugh and nudged back, biting on his lip as he contemplated what to say to Magnus. He knew the words held a question and was grateful Magnus was letting him decide if he was ready to share. He glanced around at the empty street, the quiet of the park beside them, and closed his eyes as the cold night air whipped across his cheeks. He decided that if he only had one night to be himself, he would let Magnus in as much as he could. 

“I started last year in pre-law, waiting for my siblings to join so that I could finally find the nerve to do what I really wanted to do. I figured one year in a major that I wasn’t exactly excited for was worth it because it was just that - one year. But my parents,” Alec sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “they finally started talking about me. They tell their friends all about my schooling and my ‘career aspirations’ and I-- I’ve disappointed my parents enough, you know?” Alec admitted. Magnus stopped walking and eyed Alec curiously, like he had said something Magnus couldn’t quite figure out. “What?” Alec asked with a nervous laugh. 

“You never really struck me as the type to be into anything other than law,” Magnus said before he shrugged and kept walking. Alec was stunned for a moment and jogged to catch up, slowing once he met Magnus’ stride. “So, what is it that you really want to do?” Magnus asked and there was a small part of Alec that had hoped he wouldn’t. 

He took a deep breath and whispered, “Photography.” He waited for laughter, even a shocked gasp to leave Magnus’ lips and a dramatic roll of his eyes, but none of that came. Magnus just kept walking and Alec had to shuffle to keep up. 

“Photography,” Magnus repeated, nodding his head. “You’re not very personable so I feel like portraits aren’t quite your thing. Landscapes?” Magnus guessed. Alec tried not to be offended by his very insulting - yet very true - statement. 

“Ruins, mostly. Abandoned buildings, urban decay, that sort of thing,” Alec explained with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. “There’s so much history in the world, New York City even, that  everyone just leaves alone and it makes me want to portray it in a different light, you know?” 

That time, Magnus stopped and stared at Alec silently. Alec could tell there were words just on the tip of his tongue, but he was calculating them carefully in his head before he spoke. Alec wondered briefly if Magnus knew how much he appreciated that. 

“Got any photos?” Magnus asked, holding out his hand. Alec reached for his pocket on instinct before shaking his head. Magnus rested his other hand on his hip and cocked an eyebrow at Alec, calling his bluff almost immediately. “You’re talking to another artist, my darling. We always keep our work on hand,” Magnus noted. It was the first time Alec had ever been referred to as such and the word made his face heat even through the brisk wind on his cheeks. 

He sighed and pulled out his phone before finding the perfect picture to show Magnus. He chose the one that first pushed him to want to work on his hobby; an abandoned subway track with rusted over rails, graffiti on the walls, and just a bit of light shining in through the entryway that hadn’t been boarded up securely. Alec had snuck his way in when he saw the signs covered in trash bags, knowing that something worth seeing must exist behind the loosely placed boards. 

He was alone - he often was when he had his camera in his hands - but that wasn’t enough to deter him from what could have been beautiful. And it was exactly that. He sat in the subway tunnel for hours until he remembered that his cell would not have service underground and, upon leaving, was met with multiple texts from family and friends worried about where he had been. He wasn’t nervous, though. There was something so serene about being away from the noise of New York City in an abandoned place that was all his own. 

Magnus cleared his throat and said, “This is… really good, Alexander.” Alec gaped at him for a moment before smiling nervously. 

“It’s not,” he said on instinct. Izzy had always told him he wasn’t the best at accepting compliments and he realized that was even more true when they were coming from someone as beautiful as Magnus. He was staring up at Alec like he couldn’t believe the photo was actually his so he scrolled to the next set, tucking himself a little closer to Magnus so he could explain the photos better. 

“Is this--?” Magnus began but Alec interrupted him with an enthusiastic nod. 

“Loew's 46th Street Theater in Brooklyn!” Alec said excitedly. He remembered that day  vividly. He had just been accepted into college and was torn between the joy of heading to a prestigious university and catering to his parent’s chosen career path. He wanted to be as happy as everyone else was, but something inside was telling him to grab his camera and go. So he did. 

“How did you even get these?” Magnus asked, clearly stunned. Alec wasn’t quite sure how to explain. He had always heard about the theater and how it was almost impossible to see the back rooms because it had been turned into a furniture store after it closed down. It was the challenge Alec had been looking for and he chanced a midnight adventure to get the best pictures. 

Alec explained, “I just turned on the lights and all of a sudden, I witnessed some of the most beautiful architecture I had ever seen. To this day, I still have no idea how I made it out of there without being caught, but--” Alec paused as Magnus glanced up at him. He realized suddenly how close he was to Magnus and took a small step back before finishing, “That night was what had me pushing through my first year of pre-law so that I could eventually do what I wanted. It was… magical.” Alec didn’t think it was a strong enough word. 

“I had a moment like that, too,” Magnus offered as he handed the phone back to Alec who pocketed it quickly glad for the spotlight to get off of him. “Right after I graduated, I took Raphael out to get some dinner at this seedy barbeque joint a few blocks from our foster parent’s house. Across the street, there was an artist building this impeccable structure in an alley between two tall buildings. I couldn’t understand why any artist would want such incredible work hidden from the public. So, naturally, I grabbed Raphael’s hand and went up to ask.” 

“Naturally,” Alec agreed with a laugh. He didn’t know much about Magnus, but he seemed like a man who did exactly as he pleased. He could picture a younger Magnus walking up to a seemingly professional artist and questioning all of their life choices just because he had wanted answers; the image alone made Alec smile wider as he urged Magnus to continue. 

“The artist told me his name was Ragnor Fell and that if he was going to be known for his art, he didn’t have to publicize it or make it known to the world it was there. Someone would find it and decide on their own if it was worth sharing with others,” Magnus explained with a soft, reminiscent smile on his face. “Raphael was 12 at the time and told Ragnor that he would tell everyone at school about it. Ragnor seemed pretty chuffed and gave us this makeshift card that was splattered in clay and burned around the edges. I still have it,” Magnus said as he reached for his wallet. 

“Ragnor Fell? Why does that sound familiar?” Alec said as he glanced down at the card. It definitely wasn’t mass-produced like the ones he had in his back pocket that his parents forced him to carry for ‘networking purposes’. It was an artist’s card, that much was clear. 

“He’s a professor now. Spent thirty years creating sculptures and gained enough fame to teach New York City’s up and coming art students,” Magnus said, his face scrunching with joy. Alec thought it looked wonderful on him. “He’s also my mentor, though he would never admit to that if you asked,” Magnus added with a wave of his hand. 

“Seems like a great guy,” Alec said as he handed the card back to Magnus delicately. It seemed important to him and Alec hadn’t wanted the light sprinkle of rain to ruin it. 

“Oh, he’s an absolute grump and one of the surliest people I’ve ever met,” Magnus laughed, “but he has taught me everything I know and pushed me to follow my dream when no one else did. I owe a lot to him.” There was a fondness in Magnus’ tone that had Alec’s heart clenching in his chest. He had a mentor, a law professor who really only helped him write his resume and cover letter, but he had never felt a real connection to her. She was a friend of his mother’s and wrote him recommendations based on his intelligence and his last name, and that was really all she was. 

“Lightwood!” The voice and the rumble of a car pulling up next to the pair knocked him from his thoughts. When he leaned to glance in the window, he saw Andrew in the passenger’s seat. His heart soared for a moment but was crushed by the weight of a thousand tons when he saw Lorenzo Rey in the driver’s seat, their hands intertwined tightly. 

“Hey, uh, Andrew, what’s up?” Alec asked, as he stepped up the car.

“We’re headed over to Raj’s place for a new party since the other one was busted up. You in?” Andrew asked, gesturing to the back seat. On any other night, Alec would have launched himself into the car, eager at a chance to spend time with Andrew. Alec glanced over his shoulder and saw Magnus shuffling a few steps away, and decided he didn’t want that night to end just yet. 

“Nah, I think, uh, Magnus and I are gonna keep walking,” Alec said softly, patting where the window had rolled down. 

“In the rain?” Lorenzo said with clear judgment in his tone. It was barely a sprinkle and after the day of exams and night of rehearsing a speech he wasn’t sure he would ever admit to, Alec was ready for the quiet and calm Magnus had brought him. 

“We can’t control the weather, Rey,” Magnus said teasingly as he rested a hand on Alec’s shoulder, leaning down so the two could see him. 

“You sure?” Andrew asked and a sliver of hope smoothed up Alec’s spine, quickly stopped by the way Magnus’ hand felt on his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Alec nodded with a smile, “I’ll catch the next one.” 

As they drove off, Magnus said, “Underhill is the Andrew you wrote that ridiculous love letter to?” Alec was momentarily offended but the smirk on Magnus’ face had Alec shoving his shoulder gently with his own. 

“What about it?” Alec asked as Magnus shoved him back. He lost his balance and almost tripped over the edge of the sidewalk, but Magnus grabbed his hand and pulled him back. He was surprised by just how much he didn’t want Magnus to let go when he finally did. 

“He doesn’t seem like… your type?” Magnus noted with a noncommittal wave of his hands. Alec eyed him suspiciously for a moment. 

“And what exactly do you think is my type?” Alec asked, narrowing his eyes at Magnus who considered the question with a hum. 

“I pictured more tall, dark, and handsome - like yourself - with an air of mystery around him. You don’t seem like the type of person who goes after someone so ‘what you see is what you get’,” Magnus said surely. Alec couldn’t help but laugh because that was exactly what Andrew was. There wasn’t any mystery about him. He was a physical therapy major who wanted to go into sports medicine and if that didn’t work out, had backup plans to do security at one Yankees Stadium. He was exactly what you thought he was and left nothing hidden. Alec thought that might have been what first attracted him to Andrew so much. 

“He’s… nice,” Alec supplied. Magnus scoffed as Alec added, “He’s a good friend, very reliable and energetic, not afraid of who he is.” 

“If you wanted a golden retriever, I could always take you to one of those dreadful puppy mills they always bust in the city,” Magnus said with a tone of seriousness that had Alec hunching over in laughter. When he finally composed himself, Magnus was grinning with him, a light blush on his cheeks that seemed to highlight the perfect structure of his face. 

“What’s wrong with wanting no surprises?” Alec asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. 

Magnus seemed to consider his question before skipping over to one of the stone benches at the edge of the park. Alec sat beside him, closer than he thought was necessary, and they both watched the small fountain bubble as it came to life. 

“An artist hates predictability, don’t you agree? You go into those abandoned buildings and forgotten about places because you don’t know what you’re going to find, if I had to guess.” Alec nodded, but stayed silent. “And that’s exciting. It makes your heart beat a little faster and makes your skin tingle with excitement for the unknown.” Magnus punctuated his point by dancing his fingers up Alec’s arm until they tickled the back of his neck. Alec laughed and shoved his hand away, letting his own rest on Magnus’ thigh comfortably as Magnus played with his fingers. 

“You sure know quite a lot about me, huh?” Alec muttered as he stared down at their hands. Magnus hummed softly and flipped Alec’s hand over to draw an unfamiliar pattern onto his palm. 

Magnus shook his head and said, “I like knowing people; what makes them who they are and why they are what they are. The more you know about people, the less they can lie to you.” There was a pain in Magnus’ voice that Alec wanted to sooth. He wanted to wrap Magnus in his arms and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but he reminded himself that wasn’t his place. 

“Getting to know people is such a pain,” Alec said with a huff of humorless laughter. “What’s to stop them from lying about who they are in order to be who you want them to be?” It was a question Alec had often asked and one that he even often found attributing to himself. His entire life felt like a lie. Sitting there with Magnus was the truest he had felt in, well, years. 

“Does anyone really know who they are?” Magnus asked with a sigh. 

“You seem to,” Alec noted with a gentle nudge against Magnus’ shoulder. Magnus let out a burst of laughter that seemed to explode through the night air like a firework. 

“Oh, do I?” Magnus said, but Alec saw the question for what it was. He was trying to skew the conversation away from himself and Alec was shocked by the revelation that Magnus might have something he wasn’t confident about. 

“I mean, yeah,” Alec began, “that was my impression of you the first time I saw you. You’re like, this out and proud gay man--” 

“Bisexual,” Magnus interrupted, holding up a finger. “That distinction is very important to me,” he added with a strict nod. 

Alec laughed and said, “You’re just proving my point, Magnus! You know exactly who you are and aren’t afraid to let everyone around you know that. You just exude this confidence in every single thing you do. The way you dress just yells at people to look and admire, your work stands out above almost everything I’ve seen in the arts building, hell, even your makeup tells your story and that’s plastered all over your face.” Once Alec had started, he found himself unable to stop, but Magnus stayed silent so he assumed he didn’t care. “From what you’ve told me about your brother, you’re close with him despite the age difference and you’d do anything to protect him and you’re just so unafraid of anything, it’s frankly annoying,” Alec finished with a deep breath, wincing as he realized everything he had just admitted. “I’m sorry, I--”

“Do you wanna come back to my place?” Magnus asked quickly and Alec gaped at him embarrassingly. 

“I-- what?” 

Magnus stood up and offered his hand before continuing, “By the look of those clouds over there, it’s about to start pouring and I don’t think I’m quite finished learning what I need to know about you. So?” he paused and raised an eyebrow at Alec, reaching his hand a little further until Alec had no choice but to take it. 

“Y-Yeah. Yes. Lead the way,” Alec decided as he shot onto his feet. Magnus squeezed his hand and took off running down the street, dragging Alec behind him. The rain started cascading from the sky as if it had opened up just to make their night more fun and Magnus’ laughter echoing through the air was like music to Alec’s ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled so much, been so carefree, and he didn’t want that feeling to ever go away. 

By the time Magnus pulled him up a set of stone steps, he was soaked from head to toe. He should’ve been annoyed or uncomfortable with the way his socks seemed to squish between his toes or how his jacket was too heavy on his shoulders, but Magnus glanced back at him with the brightest grin he had ever seen and he couldn’t bring himself to be anything but happy. 

“I can’t get my keys,” Magnus complained as he tried to reach into the pocket of his drenched jeans. Alec laughed and pried his jacket down his arms before holding it over Magnus’ head to try and shield him from the falling rain. Finally, Magnus grabbed his keys and unlocked the door and the two tumbled in, a fit of giggling echoing through the entryway. 

Magnus shushed him through a smile and Alec whispered, “What?” Magnus gestured toward one of the rooms down the hall that had a dark sign noting ‘Raphael’ with an angry face drawn beside the name. 

“He’s a great kid, just not exactly warm and fuzzy,” Magnus whispered, shrugging as he slipped off his shoes and cardigan. Alec thought they must have looked like wet dogs that just came in from playing with the way they were soaked to the bone, bright grins on their faces. “I can throw your clothes in the drier and you can borrow something, if you want,” Magnus offered as he started tiptoeing toward an area blocked off by an intricate tapestry. Alec ran his fingers along it as he took in his surroundings. 

The apartment was just as Alec would have expected. Magnus had mentioned it was one bedroom and stupidly, Alec thought Magnus would be the one with the bedroom. Of course, Magnus was too kind or selfless to not let the little brother he had spoken so highly of sleep in anything but the best conditions. When Alec pulled back the tapestry, he saw a mattress on the floor with silk sheets and a wardrobe with eccentric clothing hanging from the bar. Alec glanced back at Magnus with his eyebrows raised. 

“We can’t afford much, but we make the most of the money we do get,” Magnus explained with a shrug. 

“Silk sheets are for sure making the most,” Alec teased. He gulped when he saw Magnus strip off his shirt and pants, tossing them into the dryer before holding a hand out to Alec. Alec tensed and ran a hand through his hair, sighing when it came back covered in rainwater. 

Magnus laughed and said, “If I wanted you naked, I would find a way to get you that way, Alexander. I just don’t want you to catch a cold.” Alec narrowed his eyes at Magnus’ blatant flirtation and looked around for clothes he could possibly wear next. Magnus sighed and dug into his wardrobe, pulling out a t-shirt and sweatpants that were covered in dried paint spots and seemed a size too small. 

“No boyfriend’s clothes that might fit me better than these?” Alec asked. It was a blatant way of asking if Magnus was single and if he caught on, Alec was none the wiser. Magnus just shook his head and tossed the clothes at him forcefully. 

“You’re lucky I’m not making you walk around in wet clothes or naked, really. It’s very selfless of me to even offer you my most prized comfy clothes,” Magnus decided, crossing his arms over his bare chest. 

“Are you gonna put clothes on?” Alec asked because trying not to stare at Magnus’ bare torso and long legs was getting impossibly harder by the second. 

“They always told me law students were no fun,” Magnus huffed, grabbing for a tank top and black yoga pants before sliding them on. Alec hoped his disappointment at losing the beautiful sight wasn’t too obvious on his face. “Will you  get changed so I can start the drier!” Magnus yelled with a laugh as Alec hesitated again. He turned away from Magnus and pulled off his jacket, shirt, and pants before quickly pulling on the clothes Magnus had offered to him. He didn’t realize how cold he was until a chill raced through his body. 

“Do you, uh, have heat?” Alec asked, glancing around the apartment. He felt ridiculous for even considering, but Magnus hadn’t been too open about his financial situation and Alec didn’t want to offend him. 

A laugh burst from Magnus’ lips before he said, “We might be poor, Alexander, but we can afford the basic essentials of living.” Alec went to open his mouth to apologize, but Magnus slammed the drier shut and held up his hand. “You don’t have to apologize. I appreciate you not being judgmental of those a bit less fortunate than you,” Magnus said with a soft smile on his face. He walked toward the kitchen area and started a teapot before asking, “I’ve got tea and hot chocolate. What would you like?” Alec considered him for a moment, tilting his head as he let the long silence between them linger. 

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” he decided as he sat down on the edge of the mattress. It was comfortable, maybe more so than the one the college provided him, but his knees were at an awkward angle since it was so close to the ground and Alec struggled to get comfortable. 

“I’m not here much. Usually, I stay at the arts building until late or we have dinner over at Ragnor’s house. Raphael tends to hang out with his friends until curfew and when they are here, they’re usually locked in his room playing video games so there wasn’t much use for a couch or anything,” Magnus said, as if Alec cared how he decided to furnish his home. 

“You don’t have to explain,” Alec said quickly, “I think it’s nice how big and open this room is without all the unneeded furniture. My parents always had a huge sectional and decorative chairs the kids weren’t even allowed to sit on and it seemed like such a waste of space, honestly.” He hoped it didn’t sound like a brag and when laughter sounded from Magnus’ lips, he was grateful for it. 

“I was with a family like that once; the Penhallows. Some of New York’s finest politicians who were foster parents solely for the public image. Their home was fit for royalty so I can’t complain about them too much,” Magnus said with a shrug as he made his way back to Alec with two cups of tea. Alec smiled at him in thanks and moved over enough for Magnus to sit, which proved to be unneeded as Magnus sat crossed-legged on the floor in front of the mattress. He leaned his head back against the bed and smiled up at Alec softly. 

“Hi,” Alec said lamely, feeling momentarily stunned once again by how vibrantly amazing Magnus looked even when he was still slightly damp. 

“So, Alexander Lightwood, sibling of Jace and Isabelle Lightwood, a pre-law student with a passion for photography, and gay?” Magnus guessed and he snapped when Alec nodded in response. “Out?” Magnus asked as he stirred his tea. 

Alec nodded and then shook his head. “Yes and no? I mean, I’ve told everyone that matters like my siblings, people I care about, and I don’t really hide it,” Alec hesitated and then sighed, deciding to trust Magnus, “but my family is of the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ mindset and their perfectly crafted image would be impacted if they were to have a son with untoward preferences.” He wondered if the sentence sounded as rehearsed as he thought it did and Magnus’ small smirk into his teacup confirmed that it absolutely did. 

“You care about their image?” Magnus asked but it was clear he knew the answer. Alec took a large gulp of his tea, ignoring the burn on his tongue as he thought of how to respond. 

“Family is everything, right?” Alec said with a noncommittal shrug. Magnus hummed for a moment and then leaned his head back against the bed to stare up at the ceiling. 

“I’ve always been of the ‘family is what you make it’ mindset. I had birth parents who should never have had children, same with Raphael, so we’ve always had to make our own families,” Magnus corrected. Alec nodded and tapped the edge of his cup with a nervous finger. 

“You and Raphael aren’t real-- I mean, aren’t broth-- aren’t related?” Alec stuttered before wincing at how stupid he sounded. He wondered where all of his cool went. He had it at the beginning of the night but at some point,  his view of Magnus had changed and he was too enthralled in getting to know him to analyze it. 

“Relax, Alexander, it takes a bit to get the vernacular down. Raphael is my brother in every way but blood. We crossed paths in a few foster homes when he was a toddler, and when I aged out of the system, Raphael was just shy of 8-years-old. I worked hard and kept in contact with his foster family until I was able to obtain guardianship of him,” Magnus recalled, smiling at the memory. “He wasn’t eligible for adoption until he was fourteen and by that point, he didn’t want to have another set of parents. We figured it out with social workers and court and here we ended up.” 

Alec gaped at Magnus and let out an unsuspecting huff of laughter before he said, “You are so much more than I thought you were, Magnus Bane.” 

“I could say the same about you, Alexander Lightwood. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by this evening,” Magnus admitted as he finished the rest of his tea. Alec followed suit as Magnus stood up and offered to bring his cup back to the kitchen. When Magnus wasn’t facing him anymore, Alec let his eyes search the apartment. He had been so drawn to the tapestry that hung from the ceiling, he didn’t see the beautiful structures that lined almost every window. 

“Did you make all of these?” Alec asked as he moved toward the first piece that had caught his eye. It was a band of flat metal that seemed to flow off of the base in gentle waves. There were three thin cylindrical pieces that struck through the band as if cutting off the life it could have. Alec didn’t consider himself an art critic, but he knew immediately that there must have been a story behind it. 

“I made that when I was going through the court battle with Raph,” Magnus said as he wandered up next to Alec. He was close enough that Alec could feel the heat radiating off of him and he wanted to hold Magnus in his arms until they shared the warmth between them. He shook the thought away when Magnus continued, “I felt like Raph and I were just going with the flow, wanting the freedom that came with each other,” he stroked a finger over the band, “but there were always people that wanted to cut us down and inhibit our future.”

Alec took the chance to rest his hand against Magnus’ as it fell back to his side, hoping the touch was as comforting to Magnus as it was to him. Magnus glanced up at him, his lips slightly parted and his makeup smudged from the rain. Alec couldn’t stop himself from swiping his thumb underneath Magnus’ eye to brush away some fallen mascara. Magnus’ eyes widened and Alec went to move away, but gentle fingers laced with his and he was powerless to tear his hand away. 

“Why metal?” Alec said to break the silence that started weighing on his mind. Magnus’ lips turned up into a small smile and he peered back at the sculpture behind him. 

“Metal stands the test of time - much like photography in this day and age,” Magnus noted, “and it’s something I always had access to. Most other forms of art require materials that are hard to find; clay, paint, brushes. Metal can be found in the city streets and for the most part, that’s where I started to find my interest in sculptures.” 

Alec tilted his head and asked, “The streets?” He had hoped that didn’t mean what he thought it might, but Magnus’ face fell and Alec held onto his hand a little tighter. 

“I was a dumb kid, really. I thought that living on my own on the streets of New York City was better than living with a foster family who was using me as a paycheck. I know now that wasn’t remotely true for most of the families that took me in, but when you’re unloved by those who were supposed to love you most, it takes a toll,” Magnus explained. Alec nodded slowly and shuffled closer to Magnus as he continued, “I would find pieces of metal on the street - broken fire escapes, rusted dumpsters, fender benders, even silverware the fancy restaurants deemed too flawed for their esteemed guests to use - and then I would create something beautiful to look at when I was surrounded by things that scared me.” 

“You made your own distraction,” Alec said in agreement. It was similar to how he got into photography and Magnus seemed to guess at the connection as he looked expectantly at Alec. “Izzy got this digital camera one Christmas when she went through this egotistical modeling phase but she quickly forgot about it. That was the year I came out and my parents decided to get me the straightest and cheapest gifts they could think of,” Alec recalled and Magnus chuckled next to him. 

“I hope you kept some of those. I would love to see what they came up with,” Magnus interrupted with a snort. Alec shook his head and rolled his eyes, but there was only fondness in them. 

Alec relaxed a little as he continued, “I was so jealous that my parents regarded Izzy as this star child that I stole her camera and left to wander the streets as if either of them would’ve cared. I hopped on the subway, stayed on until the second to last stop, and found myself at this abandoned warehouse. It had these flood lights that cast the most incredible shadows like this building that everyone had forgotten about was finally in the spotlight only to be covered by darkness it couldn’t control. It was--” Alec sighed and resisted the urge to fidget with his fingers because that would have meant pulling his hands away from Magnus’ grasp, “everything I felt. I felt so ridiculous comparing myself to some decrepit building, but I took a few pictures and fell in love with capturing emotions in one little photograph.” 

“That’s beautiful, Alexander,” Magnus whispered, stroking his thumb along the back of Alec’s hand. He thought it should have been uncomfortable to be standing in the middle of Magnus’ apartment in the middle of the night still holding hands as if it was impossible for them to let go, but something about it just felt right. Alec wasn’t about to ignore that. “You should just use your passion for photography to get Andrew’s attention, it sure as hell is working for me.”

The sentence knocked Alec out of his thoughts that revolved around Magnus. Andrew didn’t seem nearly as important as he had at the beginning of the night and Alec wondered if that was how it felt to meet someone who changed every aspect of a person’s life. Alec didn’t know much about Magnus but he thought he had known enough; enough to know that there wasn’t even a possibility he would look at Andrew tomorrow and want to wax poetic about his blonde hair and blue eyes. All he could think about was the way Magnus’ hair was stacked so neatly on the top of his head and the way the charcoal around his eyes made the deep brown color pop with flecks of gold. 

“So, it’s always been ruins then?” Magnus asked, seemingly to fill the silence of Alec staring at him. Alec blushed and nodded slowly, struggling with what to say next. “What else do you like to photograph?” Magnus asked. 

“The stars,” Alec blurted before he could stop himself. Magnus’ eyes brightened as he looked up at Alec, raising his eyebrows for him to continue. “I, uh, like the predictability of them. When I point my camera up at the sky, I’m gonna see practically the same thing I saw the night before. It’s… calming,” Alec decided. Magnus pulled his hand away and Alec had to stop himself from holding on tighter. 

“I wanna show you something,” Magnus said excitedly as he skipped toward the kitchen. He turned off the kitchen lights before moving toward the front door, checking the lock before glancing back at Alec. “Go lie down on the bed,” Magnus ordered and Alec’s cheeks reddened noticeably. Magnus rolled his eyes and explained, “I’m not trying to take advantage of you, Alexander, I just want you to lie down.” Alec was briefly saddened that Magnus wasn’t planning on taking advantage of him, but did as he was told, anyway, propping himself onto his elbows to look back at Magnus. 

“Now what?” Alec asked and Magnus just grinned and flicked the main light switch. Alec expected complete darkness, but his eyes darted to the glow-in-the-dark constellations that lit up Magnus’ ceiling. He let his arms fall to his sides and his head rest on the pillow as Magnus slid into the bed beside him. “This is--” 

“Out of this world?” Magnus interrupted and Alec nudged him with this shoulder as best as he could from the awkward horizontal angle. Their arms brushed lightly and the backs of their hands slid together, just resting as if neither of them wanted to make the first move. It was like they both sensed the change in the atmosphere where holding hands while in bed, staring at the fake sky, would be a line crossed irreversibly. At the moment, Alec didn’t care. He flipped his hand over and stroked his thumb along Magnus’ skin before curling it under Magnus’ pinky so he could lace their fingers together. 

“Yeah,” Alec agreed softly, squeezing Magnus’ hand when it settled in his own. Something about the feeling of Magnus’ skin against his was like the stars aligning, like he was exactly where he was meant to be, and Alec was grateful for whatever had their paths crossing at the party. 

“You like photographing ruins because they’re often forgotten about and you like photographing the stars because they rarely change,” Magnus said consideringly as he turned his head toward Alec. Alec glanced back at him and nodded, gulping when he realized how close their faces were. He could feel Magnus’ breath ghosting across his face and was instantly warmed by his body being so close. 

“That’s right,” Alec agreed, nuzzling his cheek into the softness of Magnus’ pillowcase. 

“That says a lot about you, really,” Magnus noted with a raise of his eyebrow. 

“Oh, yeah? And what do you know about me?” Alec asked which seemed to be a ridiculous question because Magnus had learned more about him in the last few hours than most anyone he had known his entire life. 

“That you take the time to appreciate the forgotten and seemingly unappreciated and that you find comfort in predictability.” Alec let out a small huff of laughter because Magnus was very right. “This night was anything but predictable, Alexander, at least to me,” Magnus admitted after a few moments of silence. Alec nodded and a small smile found its way to his lips for what felt like the millionth time that night. 

“I like knowing what’s going to happen,” Alec began, turning his entire body to face Magnus while still gripping his hand tightly, “but the reason I like my abandoned buildings and forgotten about places is because I like being surprised by beautiful things. And you, Magnus Bane, are one of the most beautiful surprises I’ve ever seen.” 

He heard the small intake of breath as his words seemed to register in Magnus’ mind and hoped that he didn’t overstep. He had thought that Magnus was as interested as he was, but he had also thought he was in love with Andrew a few hours ago, so his judgment wasn’t always sound. 

Before he could retract his statement, Magnus leaned forward and Alec was caught in the most perfect kiss he had ever been a part of. Their lips moved together slowly and tentatively, testing that the other was enthusiastically consenting. Alec hesitantly pushed himself closer, breathing in the way Magnus tasted on his lips and the way Magnus’ hand squeezed his, seemingly urging him to kiss back. Alec ran his tongue along Magnus’ bottom lip softly and the small hum that seemed to flow up from Magnus’ throat had a shiver cascading through Alec’s entire body. He let go of Magnus’ hand, only to trail his fingers up Magnus’ arm until they cupped his face gently, his thumb stroking the warm skin of Magnus’ cheek. Magnus leaned into the touch and let his tongue brush against Alec’s for a moment before he pulled away to rest their foreheads together. 

“That was--” Alec paused because he wasn’t sure there was an adjective that could describe how perfect the kiss had been. 

“Out of this world?” Magnus whispered and Alec could hear the smile on his lips as he repeated his previous joke. 

“Yeah,” Alec breathed as he moved his hand back down to hold onto Magnus’. There were a few moments of comfortable silence, both of them relishing the new memory they had just made, and Alec’s heart was racing faster than he could count the beats. “I’m really happy you decided to go to that party,” Alec said and Magnus let out a too-loud laugh that broke their peaceful silence. 

“You know, it’s a funny story,” Magnus began and when Alec tilted his head, he sighed. “I wasn’t supposed to go tonight. One of my classmates and I were cleaning up our studios and her girlfriend came in to take her to dinner before the party. We chatted a bit while she finished putting away her materials and this beautiful girl who I had never seen before told me that I had to come tonight because, and I quote, ‘her idiotic brother was pining after the wrong guy’ and she wasn’t about to let him make this ginormous mistake.” He paused and Alec didn’t need to ask to know exactly who he was talking about. 

“Izzy always thinks she knows what’s best,” Alec said slowly. Leave it to his sister to intervene in his life. “So, you only talked to me because my sister told you to?” Alec asked, feeling a bit deflated from where he lay. 

Magnus shook his head quickly and said, “She invited me to the party and then refused to point out who you were. It wasn’t until you told me Izzy was your sister that I made the connection. I left that party with you because you looked like you needed someone to talk to and, apparently, I wanted to be that someone.” Alec nodded and considered Izzy’s words to Magnus.

“I think maybe,” Alec took a deep breath, “Izzy might have been right.” Magnus stared at Alec for a few moments and waited for him to continue, hopefulness bright in his eyes. “Andrew is safe, predictable even. He’s a friend of the family who I’ve known for a while and is… convenient. But,” Alec took a deep breath, “I was surprised by you, Magnus. I’m surprised with how comfortable I am with you, how much I want to get to know you, how I can’t really guess what you might say next to make me want to learn every in and out of your life.” 

“Alexander,” Magnus began but Alec connected their lips passionately, making sure Magnus felt all of the potential that Alec knew they had. 

“I don’t want to keep living my life the way someone else wants me to, in the path that’s expected of me. I want to throw myself into photography because it’s terrifying, I want to tell my family that I don’t need their money and fame because it’s reckless, and I want to get to know you because you’re the first person who has ever made me feel like this,” Alec said breathlessly. He couldn’t describe exactly what ‘this’ was, but his heart was beating loudly in his chest, his skin tingled with anticipation, and his stomach seemed to bubble with the butterflies he had only heard about in movies. If that wasn’t something worth risking predictability for, Alec didn’t know what was. 

“Will you start by staying the night? Just… laying with me until morning?” Magnus asked as he pulled their connected hands to his lips to lay a gentle kiss on the back of Alec’s. Alec sighed and nodded, feeling for the first time in his life like everything was falling into place. 

“Yeah,” Alec whispered as he closed his eyes, unsure if sleep would even be a possibility through his excitement of what the night had meant to him. “Then we can talk in the morning?” Alec asked tentatively, hoping that they were on the same page. 

“Absolutely,” Magnus agreed sleepily. Alec smiled as Magnus cuddled a bit closer to him, his breath slowing to a steady rhythm that indicated he had already fallen asleep. Alec found comfort in it just as much as he had found ease in every moment he had spent with Magnus. 

Alec wasn’t sure what the future had in store for him, but he was sure of one thing; that night with Magnus had changed everything, and something told him it was just the beginning. 

[voidcat]

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Characters: Matsukawa Issei/Reader

requested by anon, prompt 9

Warnings: reckless drinking, dont drink the amount you cant handle kids, esp if you’re not supervised by someone you trust

Word Count: 2.3k , this was supposed to bE SHORT, seijoh brainrot........

It’s loud, too loud. If they weren’t in your head, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to hear your thoughts. Is that what people listen to as music nowadays?

The flashy lights all around and people keep bumping into you, you remember once again why you’re not the party type. Which brings the question: what are you doing at one?

See, the answer to it is quite simple, really. Maybe a little sad too, even pathetic. You’re beyond caring for the night. You’ve gone to a party, can it get any lower than that? What a waste of night, is the only thing you can say to yourself.

Placing the untouched cup in your hand to the counter, you look around to find the bathroom. Exiting the kitchen is a nice first step. The blur of bodies only make your task more difficult. Getting tired of people bumping into you, you start shouldering the ones not moving, crashing into people if they refuse to make way, expecting you to go through the five centimeter long gap.

And at long last, you find what you were looking for. Checking to see no one else is in, you lock the door behind you and turn on the tap. Splashing some cold water to your cheeks, careful not to mess with your make up, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. Why did you let him drag you into this in the first place?

Or better yet, why do you keep following wherever Matsukawa Issei takes you, never saying no, never refusing the puppy looks, always right by his side... why do you keep doing this to yourself? Since when have you gotten so weak towards him, for him?

Exiting the bathroom and spotting him in the distance, you recall earlier today. It was just a usual hangout, nothing special. Typical grabbing a lunch together and procrastinating when the reason you met in the first place was studying. Thirty minutes of silence, finally finding your focus fully on your text book and you jolt up suddenly at the contact you feel by your waist. Looking to your right and seeing his pen hanging by your waist, ready to poke again if necessary, you just rub your side.

“What, Issei?”

“There’s a party tonight, starting around 8. Would you like to go with me?” Oh, this again. Another hopeless party invitation. He never seems to give up, though knowing how much you dislike the parties. One party couldn’t hurt, right? You can’t help but admit to yourself how curious you are to see him at one. So you just shrug. “Sure, pick me up by 7 if we want grab dinner beforehand.”

“Look I know you don’t like the- Wait, really? Are you sure?” The caught off-guard look suits him.

“Yeah, I mean I kept saying no but it’s time I expand my… extra curriculum activities.” He grabs you by the shoulders.

“Who are you and what have you done to (Lastname)? They would never accept an offer from me that easily.” You can’t help but laugh at his dramatic antic. Pushing his hands off you, holding the said hand while you can, you roll your eyes again.

“I am fine. Can’t I be the supportive friend for once?”

“Oh but please! You always are the supportive one.” He says as he wraps you in a big hug. It’s moments like these when you feel your breathe hitched, heart racing and brain imagining a scenario you’ll never get to live.

As you eagerly make your way to him, the figures in your way make way and you see he’s not alone. Some girl talking to him, if eyeing someone like that and touching their muscles nonstop can be count as talking, not to mention leaning over him on a constant. What’s worse is he doesn’t look bothered slightest bit. Can you blame him, though? You’re sure it’s not the first time she has approached him, she hangs around the gym sometimes, walks up to him after their shared classes, she’s clearly interested and makes no effort in hiding it.

She is beautiful, no straight man, or lesbian or bisexual, in their right mind would ignore someone such as her. And yet you can’t help but feel jealous. Jealous that you have no chance of competition, no chance of winning, no such luck in being seen as “‘more than just a friend”. Changing your direction suddenly, you walk back up to the kitchen and grab the first untouched cup you see. Searching for a bottle of alcohol next, you don’t care what it is as long as it is alcohol, you pour it down until your cup is filled to the brim.

Looking outside, you can see them again. Issei smiling and looking as breathtaking as ever, it hurts that the smile is for her. You down the whole cup before you can register what you’re doing. The party is just getting started, you better get into the mood.

After a while it gets fuzzy. You lost count of the drinks you’ve had, the shots you’ve taken too. You’re glad to have eaten before the party at least, the alcohol won’t hit as hard.

Maybe it’s already hit? You’re not sure, you feel warm and bubbly but you still walk just fine. Walking up to people and joining the conversations randomly, leaving as quickly once you’re bored, you walk around and around and around...

It must be late, is it late? You try checking your watch but you can’t make sense of the little circle plastered on your wrist, it seems too tiny.

At some point, you’re singing along to a song you know. And making the most absurd dance moves to it. It doesn’t matter, everyone else around is drunk as hell, looking more ridiculous than you are, moves not even making any sense. It makes all the crashing more understandable, it’s good to just move around and not apologize once. To let some steam off, get loose and do whatever the hell you like.

Except it isn’t as good because one thing you truly want in that moment and you don’t even know the room he is in. Maybe you should have another drink just in case and decide to cross the line from tipsy to drunk. It’d be good to forget about tonight once you wake up.

Making a 180 to go back to the kitchen for another drink, you crash into something warm, someone. Probably a chest. Feeling warm hands on your shoulders adjusting you, to keep your balance, you don’t even look up. Waving your hand in the air, you shout out an apology.

“(Name)? Is that you? I’ve been looking all over for you!” Hearing your name come out of someone’s lips is unexpected, but recognizing the voice makes all the fuzziness go away in a second. You make a mental note to name it the “Issei effect” if you ever come up with a hangover elixir of sorts.

“Hiiii Mattsun.” Hearing yourself speak feels weird, especially if you have no idea if your lips are actually moving. “I’ve been here this whole time! Was about to go get a drink, want some?” You can imagine the worried look on him, so you keep your gaze focused on his tshirt. What was that color called anyway?

“Are you sure you’re alright? We can leave if you wa-“ he stops mid-sentence to examine you from head to toes. “Have you been drinking?”

The tone in his voice indicates, it’s wiser not to answer him. Your mouth decides otherwise. “Maybeee.”

“But you hate alcohol! And you’re a lightweight!”

“Nope!” You pop the ‘p’ as you reply. “Had a change of heart! I like new stuff now! Maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought.” Crossing your arms, you look to your left. “Hah, lightweight!” You mumble.

“I mean it. If you want to leave, we can. When I asked you to come, I didn’t do it so we could get separated. I just wanted to spend some time with my friend.”

Ouch. That word sure hurts. More than the movies and books can even tell. You suddenly feel sick, stomach empty and deadweight.

“M’kay, let’s leave.” You say softly.  Seeing the smile rise like the sun on his face, you can feel butterflies in your stomach. Truly feel it. The term no longer sounds ridiculous when it becomes real for you.

“Okay. Let me just grab by jacket and we’ll be out in a minute. Wait by the door if you want, it’s whiter there.” He says and leaves in a hurry.

Making your way to the door in slow steps, you reach it in no time. When you look back at the apartment, all the people partying seem so irritating to you. It’s hard to believe you were just like them a while ago. Eyes trailing the crowd, you see Issei again, a smile making way to your lips, almost on instinct now.

It dies out before it can bloom.

Because there she is, again, and he is still smiling at her and nodding and talking and suddenly all the hurry he made to find his jacket seems like it was not to make you not wait, but to get to her quickly.

Looking to the hall, you spot a tall boy holding a bottle of what you hope is booze. Grabbing it with a “Sorry, emergency.” You take a big gulp of the bottle. To hell with staying tipsy.

God, is that how plain vodka tastes? The Russians must be out of their minds. And yet, you keep taking gulp after gulp, sip after sip and open the door to escape the suffocating party air.

If Issei wants to find you so badly, he must know how to do it.

Walking a bit and sitting in the pavement, your head drops to your knees, bottle still in one hand. You’re not sure how long it has been since you arrived.

Hearing footsteps coming closer to you and coming to a stop right by your side, you look up to find an angry Issei. Arms crossed, he’s looking down at you, trying to look as mad as he can but worry painted in his eyes. It hurts how well you know him sometimes.

“So?” You make no noise.

“Care to explain?” He’s tapping his foot this time, probably to get your attention. You grunt in response.

“Do Not grunt at me young lady. I am only asking because I am worried, can’t you see!” Voice raised, you realize you’ve never heard him raise his voice, not at you.

“Maybe I don’t want you to worry about me! Or maybe I do but not like this! Have you thought about it?” You snap.

“What’s that supposed to mean?-“ not waiting for him to finish his words, you stand up fast, stumble for a mini second in the process, the bottle gripped tighter, and you start walking away.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” He calls our behind you, walking after you.

“Away from you! Leave me alone Mattsun.” You yell back, quickening your steps. Damn his height and tall legs because he catches up to you in no time and grabs your wrist, trying to stop you from going any further.

You expect a “fine.” And a “no.” And maybe a “stop being so childish and talk to me.” But not a “Why are you calling me that?”

The softness in his voice catches you off guard. You stop and turn to look at him, your wrist already free of his grasp. “Calling you what?”

“You never call me Mattsun. It’s always Issei. Did I do something wrong?” You don’t meet his gaze.

Maybe it’s the hurt in his words, the sadness in his eyes or the alcohol in your blood. When you look up to meet his gaze, you’re certain you see something die. “I don’t want to talk about it.” You gather enough energy to say the words.

“Why now? We’ve never hold back anything from one another.” You turn your head at his words again. This is exactly why you don’t want to talk. Hearing a sigh behind you, he clears his throat. Probably one last try, you’re determined to keep your stance.

“Look, whatever it is, please tell me. Maybe you’re drunk and happen to be the unfiltered honest kind. You may as well not be drunk at all and honestly this is a lot of better. But please give me a reason, an explanation and if it’s so bad or awkward, we won’t talk about it in the morning and pretend we were both drunk. How does that sound?” The offer itself sounds ideal and he, hopeful. You nod your head as you sit down on the pavement, the bottle now in your lap. Following your cue, he sits next to you.

The words are a mumble of incoherent sounds. You can sense him leaning towards you, considering to say your next words loudly, just to irritate him, you decide against it.

“I don’t want you to worry about me as a friend.” You say. He looks confused. Silencing him with your finger before he can say anything, you continue. “I want you to see me in a different light for once. I am sick of the back and forth dance we keep having.”

He stares at you for what feels like forever. Followed by laughter. It only gets louder.

“Stop- Stop that! Are you… laughing at my feelings?” You make no effort in hiding the disappointment in your tone.

“No! It’s just- I- I’ve been thinking of the same thing for too long. I can’t believe we were both so blind.” Words interrupted by occasional chuckles, he seems happy, glowing even. You throw yourself at him, arms around his neck.

He speaks to your head next: “If you hadn’t been drinking, I’d even kiss you right now b-“

“Do it then. I am not drunk.” You whisper to his chest.

He kisses the top of your head. “Tomorrow, I promise. For now, let’s get you home.”

[sprnklersplashes]

driver’s license

post-canon, angst ahoy

She gets her driver’s licence on Saturday.

On Sunday morning, she takes her first drive alone, and it’s to the last place she should go.

The roads are empty, the rest of Sherwood sensibly asleep in their beds. Last night was another sleepless one, bolting up in her bed with her hands clamped over her mouth and her whole body trembling violently, not stopping until she had paced the length and breadth of her bedroom about fifty times. She was wide awake by that point, too shaken by her nightmares to even try to go back to sleep. She sat against the window, head against the wall, watching her breath fogging up the glass, obscuring the perfect picture on the other side.

He was there, of course. He’s always here in the morning, especially when she wakes up like this. She didn’t turn around, didn’t see him, but felt the weight of his gaze on her anyway. Pleading, lonely, begging her to turn around and come back to him. To slip into his arms and get lost in his words again, to let him strip her away with his touch. And the worst part is that she wanted to. She wanted to do it; there’s some magnetic force that still sits in her and it keeps pulling her towards JD even though she knows he’s gone. It becomes a game two of them play and she loses every single time; if she resists, it hurts, and if she gives in… she doesn’t know, she never has, but it can’t end up good.

Her keys were in her hand before she even knew what she was doing, and she was pulling out of the driveway as the sun rises.

She’s not dressed for a drive; a pair of black pyjama bottoms and an old, old blue sweater. It’s one of the things from before she was a Heather and most importantly-something JD had never seen her in. That’s one of the worst things about this, about him. His fingerprints aren’t just over her body, but all over her clothes too. Invisible to everyone except her. Lines run up and down her blazers where he caressed her, the outline of his hand on her skirt where he ripped it off her body. When she first saw him, she thought ‘now there’s a person I’m never going to forget’. Now she’d give anything for that to be wrong.

She doesn’t think she knows where she’s going, not until she turns right at one junction and feels her blood run cold. It’s funny, she thinks. She hasn’t been here in months and yet it still looks exactly the same. She avoided this place like the plague afterwards. She still could. There’s no-one here and no-one checks the traffic cameras here, not in a street like this. She could turn around and head in the other direction, and she should. But the wheels keep turning, slow but still forwards, and her hands stay locked where they are. The steering wheel barely budges.

She must have been on this street before him. She’s lived in this town her whole life and could draw out a map from memory. It’s not that big after all. She has vague recollections of a birthday party happening somewhere around here, and another of a family barbeque on this street. She trick or treated a few times here as well, first with her parents and then with Martha. But all those are irrelevant now. From here on out this will be known as JD’s street and JD’s street only.

She pulls the car into a sloppy park, thankful for the cautious residents keeping their cars in garages, and leans back in her seat. She doesn’t need to turn that much to see the house beside her.

There’s a new family that lives there now. A mom and dad and two elementary school kids. Both girls. One with dark curly hair in pigtails and the other with a black ponytail, secured with a ribbon. She had watched them the first day they moved in, laughing together, the dad tugging on the girls’ pigtails, the mom organising the move in. What must it be like inside now, with boxes unpacked and furniture sitting proudly. A home, not just a house. A place big enough for all of them. It must have been excited, to have so many of its rooms used.

That’s what struck Veronica when she first went over with him. How big it was, for a family of two. She shakes her head. You could hardly call JD and his father a “family”. Not because of their size, but because of them. They were barely even acquaintances. They merely lived under the same roof and shared the same blood; that was the beginning and end of their relationship. Veronica had wondered why Big Bud Dean had chosen this house, how much it must have cost him, and it was only a week or so ago she had realised; he didn’t care. Why would he, when he’d just leave in the next three months anyway? He picked the first available place, and it just so happened to be a family home.

She had watched him leaving. She swears to herself she isn’t a stalker, but she’s finding that harder and harder to believe. What would you call someone who goes through hoops to find out the day and hour a man is moving out of his house and then skips school just to stand on the street and watch him? What must he think of her, that is, if he even noticed her at all. Too busy wrapped up in himself to notice other people, that’s what JD always said about his father. There’s not a lot she agrees with JD on, but she has to give him that.

She pulls her sweater tighter around herself and blinks, her eyes suddenly stinging and blurry. The last time she went over there, really went over there, rather than hovering on the other side of the street, was the day it happened. She had walked up to that door with ash in her hair and blood on her face, and knocked three times before he had answered. He regarded her with this cool, confused glance, as though he was trying to remember when he had seen her before, and she had bitten her tongue and watched as realisation dawned on his face.

“You’re Jason’s girl, aren’t you?” he had asked. That was the first time she had heard him say his son’s name, she realised. Their little game must end whenever JD wasn’t around. He took a long drink of his beer then and shrugged at her. “Whaddya want?”

Her nails had dug into her palms, leaving burning red marks, and she just about manged to say “your son’s dead” through her tight throat, tears plink-plonking down her face.

He blinked at her, a moment passed, and then another, before he let out an unimpressed-sounding “really?”.

She does wonder what would have happened if Heather Duke hadn’t stumbled upon her at that moment and dragged her away from him, kicking and screaming and swearing all the way down. She pulls her sweater tighter around her. Her throat hurts at the memory. The entire street had come out to see the commotion and what little good standing she still had blew away like dust. Good, straight-A, Harvard bound Veronica had screamed “go fuck yourself” at a seemingly innocent man who just lost his son.

She doesn’t regret it though.

The first hues of blue appear around the edges of the sky now, but according to her clock it’s still far too early for her parents to be up. Her body goes limp in the seat, her head falling to the side, and her eyes flicker up to the window on the second-floor window. On the day they moved in, she saw the light go on in that bedroom and the pink paint going up on the walls. One of the young girls is using it as her room now, and she almost laughs. She plays with her dolls, no idea what two stupid kids did in there, oblivious to how he had pinned her against that wall and she had stripped him down, shivering as he whispered “you’re mine” in her ear.

Or about the soft, stolen kisses they shared on his bed at night, the two of them lying on his bed, their eyes on the ceiling, and talking about the future. Their future, he had said. Where she would go to college and where he would go. Where they should move to, because Veronica was adamant she wasn’t staying in Sherwood forever. And when they’d get their driver’s licences.

“I want mine as soon as I can,” she had told him. “I’ve been dreaming about it since forever. I’ve practiced in my dad’s car.”

“I was wondering how that dent got there,” he had said. She elbowed him in the ribs for that comment. “Suppose I don’t need to. I have my bike.”

“You have a licence for that thing, right?” She turned to him then, studying his profile and feeling a lingering sense of doubt in the back of her mind. That feeling always accompanied them wherever they went, like the hangover to the ecstasy his touch brought. “JD?”

“Course I do, Ronnie,” he had told her, and he pulled her against his chest. “You think I’d take my favourite girl on a bike if I didn’t have a licence for it?”

His favourite girl. He didn’t call her that a lot, maybe once or twice in their entire short-lived relationship, but damn did she love it. He was like that. Good at making her feel special. Like she was made of something precious. Diamonds in her eyes, gold in her veins. To him, she was better than every other girl around and she’s so, so ashamed of the fact that she liked that.

But how much did he really value her in the end?    

She slams her hand on the dashboard, hard, and cries out as the dull pain pulses beneath her skin. Tears run down her face, replacing those from earlier this morning. Those haven’t yet dried. She tucks her knees up against her chest, burying her face in them so that the sound of her cries is muffled. She doesn’t know why; not like anyone is awake at this point to be disturbed by a stupid girl like her crying in her car.

He swore he loved her. Over and over again and you’d think that the words would wear themselves out but they never did. They just kept getting bigger and he kept burning hotter and brighter until he scorched her hands when she tried to touch him. He had whispered it reverently into her hair as she slept and murmured it against her lips and even in that house, with the barrel of a gun pointed directly at her, he said it. That was the moment she realised it wasn’t true. Somewhere amongst the pain and the confusion and the splitting headache she looked at him, and she looked at the gun, and asked herself, how could his lips say he loves her while his hand is ready to kill her? Not that he needed a gun to kill her. Maybe he knew that, and so the gun was just to play with her.

He had promised her. That’s the part that hurts more than anything else. The promise he broke, and how he used those jagged edges to cut her open. He promised her he was going to change, swore to her on the love he claimed was God. JD was nothing if not passionate, and for all she knew he meant that at the time. Or maybe he didn’t, and it was all just a game to him. It’s been so long now and it’s still so hard to tell.

She sobs again, a heavy pain tugging on her torn-apart heart. She’s an idiot, and a fool, and a fucking moron and every other damn thing Heather Chandler has called her these past months. Not that she had much of a backbone before but now she can’t even bring herself to be annoyed at her. Because it’s true. Because what kind of person lives through all that, lives through JD and all manipulation and all his lies, and watches as he points a gun at her with nothing but coldness in his eyes, and is still in love with him after that? How does she spring awake from nightmares in the morning and spend the afternoon missing the feeling of his lips against hers? If she loves JD, despite everything he was, then what kind of person does that make her? What gives her the right to lie awake at night and mourn the future she would never have, when three people are cold in their graves because of him?

Her hand finds its way to the glove compartment and suddenly the little plastic card is in her hand, her eyes staring up at her. No-one has commented on it but surely everyone sees it; the look in her eyes that’s hung around ever since that day. She flinches sometimes, when she sees herself in the mirror. What’s become of her; thin, hollow cheeks and shadows beneath her dull, dead eyes, clothes hanging off her shoulders. JD didn’t just end his life when he took that bomb. She might still be breathing, but most days it feels like that’s all she’s doing.

She slams her hand on the dashboard again, and then it happens again, and again and again until she’s banging against it in a fierce, fast rhythm, her mouth open and a burning, broken scream pouring out of it. It tears out of her throt and fills the car, shaking the glass in the windows and ringing in her ears. This isn’t how it was supposed to have happened. She was supposed to run out of the DMV and into his waiting arms, have her feet swept off the ground as he tells her how proud he is of her. She was supposed to drive through the streets with him in the passenger’s seat, sneaking sideways glances at him as the wind tousled his hair. They were supposed to drive up to the hill together and sit over the town, her head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her, making more stupid plans for the future. She was meant to tease him about getting her licence first and he was meant to roll his eyes and kiss her to shut up her up. He should have been something else, and she should be waking up with butterflies in her stomach rather than lead in her lungs.

She sits back and shakes her head at herself. Her hand is red and pulsing with pain from where she smacked it. She’s ridiculous. Since when does she have the right to decide what was ‘meant’ to happen? JD thought that. He declared it on the other side of her closet door- “I was meant to be yours, we were meant to be one”. As far as he was concerned, the universe is, was, theirs, and they were the masters over what happened in it. And she’s not that person, she’s dragging herself away from being that person every day, even if it means her nails are caked with blood and dirt. She doesn’t get to choose what happens, not or herself or anyone, and she doesn’t get to sit here and claim what that he should have been something different.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.  

Her mom told her she’d love someone again, a few weeks after the pep rally when she was in a particularly bad state of mind. She had sat on the edge of her bed and run her fingers through her hair and told her that he might have been the first, but he wouldn’t be the last. Her heart won’t be broken forever. She had nodded and murmured something in agreement, and waited until her mom smiled and patted her head before she left. What her mom doesn’t know is that JD didn’t break her heart-he put a bomb in it and blew it up. And whatever she felt for him, there’ll be no feeling it for anyone ever again.

She looks back over at the house. There’s a light on in the kitchen and she slides lower in the seat, despite being safe from view already. Who could it be? The dad maybe, or the mom, getting ready for the day ahead, or maybe one of the kids catching the morning cartoons or treating themselves to cookies for breakfast. It doesn’t really matter, what matters is they’re in that house now and neither Jason nor Big Bud Dean are. For better or worse, there’s no trace of him left in Sherwood, Ohio, not except her memories and one page in the yearbook. One day she’ll make peace with that fact.

She turns the key in the ignition and the car rumbles into life again, annoyed after being neglected for so long. She lets out a long, steady breath, the last of her tears running down her face like rain down her windshield. She turns the wheel, peels away from the kerb, and hopes she’ll never come back to this street for as long as she lives. She doesn’t know if her heart can take it again.

[be11atrixthestrange]

Waking Up In Vegas: Chapter 3

After a night of debauchery, Ron and Hermione wake up in Vegas... married.

Muggle!AU. Romcom!Romione. Slow burning, smutty, angst-fest.

Rated M for reasons.

Ao3 | FFN 

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More Chapters

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Chapter 3

[Ron]

The door slams behind Hermione just as Ron calls her name, and he's left gaping after her and clutching his marriage certificate. Their marriage certificate.

He should have told her. It would have been easy just to hand it over, but he couldn't. She was horrified to wake up next to him and angry when he tried to apologize. If that was her reaction to sleeping together, how would she have reacted if she knew they had gotten married?

With a groan, Ron stumbles to the kitchen counter, collapses onto a barstool, and drops his head into his hands. He thought that getting to know each other better might repair the damage of their first impression. It would have been nice to become friends during this trip, but unfortunately, the morning's events have made that unlikely. Even if they can get back on track after a one-night stand, the moment she finds out they're married, it'll all be ruined.

Ron's head is throbbing — a pain that only worsens when he glances around at his hotel suite. The color scheme reminds him of an orange creamsicle, and the harsh contrasting lines of neon orange and white wall paint don't do much to calm his hangover. Neither do the jagged edges of the kitchenette's quartz countertops, the lingering smell of champagne in the air, or the rock-hard barstool that might leave a bruise on his backside if he sits here too long. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his king-sized bed — it has far too many pillows, and its blankets are all ruffled up. He knows he should straighten it out and hide the evidence of a hook-up, but his heart sinks when he thinks about doing it. Unlike Hermione, he doesn't want to forget it happened. He wants to remember it, but he can't, and what a waste it is.

Although not intentionally, he's pictured her in his bed before. His mind conjures up the image with any appropriately aged, attractive, single woman, but for some reason, throughout this trip, it's been an image of Hermione more than anyone else. Something about their dynamic intrigues him. They really haven't spent much time alone since their first meeting back in London, but their brief conversations are always riddled with tension. Not sexual tension, just tension. Awkwardness. They affect each other, and Ron is simply curious what that would translate to in the bedroom. As anyone would be.

Now he's experienced it, but he doesn't remember, and fixing the bed would make it feel like it wasn't real.

Overcome with frustration, he nearly gives in to the temptation to tear the marriage certificate in two, as if that would change anything, but he's interrupted by a knock on the door. His stomach lurches — could it be Hermione again? If so, this could be a chance to tell her and make it right. Ron folds up the certificate and shoves it into his pocket before opening the door.

"Morning!"

It's just Harry. "What are you doing here?"

Harry looks offended. "I'm checking on you. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

Ron opens the door wider in invitation. "You could say that. Why are you checking on me?"

Harry laughs. "Well, for one, I was worried. You disappeared last night."

"Did I?" says Ron sarcastically. "Can't remember."

"Too much to drink?"

Ron's grunt seems to be a sufficient answer for Harry.

"So there's no point in asking what you got up to, then?"

"Nope," says Ron, as the door slams closed behind them. "Can't recall a thing."

Harry pauses when he catches sight of the still-disheveled bed. "Ron, why does your bed look like someone else slept here?"

When Ron doesn't immediately answer, Harry whips around to face him, eyebrows raised. "Did you bring a woman back here last night?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Ron says, shifting uncomfortably as he eyes the bottle of whipped cream and empty champagne flutes that he didn't think to hide. Unfortunately, he's not subtle at all. Harry follows his gaze and smirks.

"Sounds like a lie. It looks like one too."

Taking a precarious seat on the kitchenette's barstool, Ron dumps his head back in his hands to rub his temples. His headache is getting worse every second as the adrenaline of the morning wears off, and he barely manages a muffled apology to Harry. "Sorry for disappearing."

"Ah, it's fine. I'd be more annoyed if I didn't also have a good shag last night."

"Oi, mate. That's my sister you're talking about." Even though they're best friends, Ron still hasn't gotten used to the idea of Harry and Ginny together, and he definitely doesn't want to think about them in bed.

"Sorry, forgot we can't talk about that kind of thing."

"Definitely not," says Ron. "If you were marrying anyone else, then we could."

"Still worth it,' says Harry shrugging, and begrudgingly, Ron has to admit that there really is no better person for his sister. "You can still tell me, though. Who was she?"

As tempted as he is to change the subject, his compulsion to confide in Harry is stronger. "Apparently not a stranger." He can't tell him about the marriage, not until Hermione knows.

"What do you mean?"

"There was a girl last night, and it was someone I already knew."

"That's impossible...the only people we know are in the wedding party." Ron gives Harry a significant look, and his jaw drops. "It was one of Ginny's bridesmaids, wasn't it?"

Ron nods, and Harry's face slowly melts into a grin. "What?"

"If it were Lavender, you wouldn't be skirting around it."

He's right. Even though they've broken up, Ron and Lavender still enjoy the occasional shag, and Ron has never been secretive about it. "True. It wasn't Lavender," he confirms.

"So," asks Harry. "Who was it?"

Ron rubs at his temples again, his head still pounding.

"It was Hermione, wasn't it?"

When Ron doesn't answer right away, Harry beams, and his smugness compounds his headache. "How did you guess that?"

"I don't know," shrugs Harry. "Demelza has a boyfriend. Luna's Luna. It was a lucky guess."

"Bollocks, isn't it?"

Harry shrugs.

"What?" Ron scowls.

"Well, it's not exactly surprising."

"It's not?"

"Well… some things are surprising. Like that," Harry nods towards the whipped cream. "But not you and Hermione shagging."

"Sure it is," says Ron incredulously. "We don't exactly get on particularly well."

"So?"

"We hate each other."

Harry laughs. "No, you don't."

"What are you talking about? We fight constantly."

"You flirt constantly."

Ron shakes his head. He can't imagine any of his interactions with Hermione being misinterpreted for flirting. Their limited conversations usually involve pointless arguments about itineraries, travel arrangements, or plastic straws.

"She was horrified when she woke up here this morning."

"She was probably just embarrassed."

"To be seen with me?"

"That's not what I meant," says Harry exasperatedly. "She's… proper. Casual shagging is likely new for her, and she might have needed a moment to process it all."

"Proper?"

Harry nodded.

"You talk like you know her."

"Well, I do," he says. "I've gotten to know her quite well through Gin. She's a good one." There's a familiar tone in Harry's voice, similar to Ron's when he defends Ginny.

"Can I ask you a favor?" asks Ron suddenly.

"Of course."

"Don't mention this to Ginny."

"I won't." Harry smiles smugly. "But she'll probably ask Hermione at brunch."

"Brunch?"

"Yep. The girls have brunch reservations today."

Ron groans, shuddering at the thought of Hermione and Lavender sitting together over bottomless mimosas, talking about whatever it is women talk about. For her sake, he hopes the girls aren't as curious about her whereabouts last night as Harry was about Ron's.

"Anyway, the rest of us are going to the pool," continues Harry. "Care to join us?"

"Yeah," says Ron. "I'll be down in a bit."

"Great," says Harry, making his way toward the door. "See you soon."

Ron waits for Harry to leave before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the marriage certificate. Even though he didn't tell Harry the entire truth, their conversation did help to clear his head, and he no longer has the urge to rip the certificate in two.

He studies the piece of paper and then spots it — scribbled on the certificate, under his and Hermione's signatures, is the officiant's name and the venue's address. Ron types the address into his phone, and his search result turns up a website.

Erised Elopements Follow your heart's desire!

Maybe he can make it all disappear, and he wouldn't have to tell Hermione anything. He saves the address and pockets his phone.

"There he is! The man of the hour!" Seamus calls as soon as Ron arrives on the pool deck — which he now realizes isn't an appropriate descriptor at all. Seamus' body is draped in a hammock hanging between two palm trees, growing from the landscaped beach that meets the pool's edge. The natural yet dusty odor of the sand mixes with the stronger smell of chlorine into an aromatic blend that Ron's brain can't process at the moment. Ron squints when he approaches Seamus, the sunlight reflecting off the glittery white sand and blinding him.

"I think Harry's the man of the hour," he says, reaching for his sunglasses.

"Yeah, well. We were talking about you. Specifically about where you ran off to last night."

Ron shoots a quick glare at Harry, who shrugs innocently. "Last night?"

"Yeah, you disappeared. We thought you might have brought a bird back to your room, but Harry says no one was with you when he checked this morning."

"Well, no birds last night," says Ron, eyeing Harry thankfully. "Just went to bed early, that's all."

"Then why do you look so rough?" asks Dean. "Looks like the sun is melting you."

That's because it is. "Blessed to be a ginge, I guess."

"Really?" presses Dean..

"Fine, I went to bed early last night because I was drunk as hell, okay? Didn't want to make any bad decisions. Now the hangover is killing me."

"Yeah, that checks out," says Seamus, and the boys all laugh. Ron doesn't even mind them laughing at his expense; he's just relieved they don't seem to need more details.

"Since you're the last to arrive, the next round of drinks is on you," says Neville.

"Alright, fine," says Ron, feigning grumpiness, although he's more than okay with the subject changing. He rises to his feet and mucks off to the bar.

The manufactured beach turns abruptly to a boardwalk, then to a loud and ostentatious eatery where brunch is in full swing. Every corner of the room is packed with tropical trees, and he can smell the moisture in the air — probably false humidity in a feeble attempt to keep the flora alive. The humidity pools on his skin like sweat, and he wonders if his shower was even worth the waste of water. He's never been very into green living, but he's suddenly curious what the sea turtles would think if they were to see how flippantly humans use clean water. And plastic straws, of course.

He scans the room for the source of his sudden environmental distress — Hermione Granger. He scours the bamboo tables, the forest-green walls adorned by portraits of safari animals playing blackjack, and the giant decorative goblet standing in the middle of the restaurant, advertising its signature cocktail, the Goblet of Fire. Eventually, amidst the chaos of the hotel's theme-indecision, he spots Ginny's flaming red hair at a round table, along with Luna, Demelza, and Lavender. Notably, Hermione is absent, a realization that elicits a sigh from Ron. Whether it's from relief or disappointment, he doesn't know.

He can't help but imagine her back in her hotel room, unable to face his sister in case she serves as a reminder of last night. Is she really that regretful?

Ron dejectedly turns toward the bar but freezes when he spots a bushy brown head of hair at the counter. It's undeniably Hermione, and she's talking animatedly to a blonde-haired woman who, for some reason, looks vaguely familiar.

Where have I seen her? In her dark green jumpsuit, long neon-pink fingernails, and gold spectacles, the woman appears as eclectic in her fashion choices as the hotel does in its decor. He probably met her when he was smashed last night — he would have remembered had he been sober.

Instead of bothering himself with the mystery woman, he takes in Hermione's appearance. She's wearing a sky-colored dress, the same one she wore the day they arrived in Vegas. It's just short enough to make Ron wonder what's hiding under the hem, and the fabric in the front crumples together in a way that draws Ron's gaze right to her chest. Thanks to that damn dress, it took a lot of effort to keep his eyes away from her breasts that day, so he chose not to look at her at all. Especially because he could feel Lavender watching him, scanning for any sign of his wandering eye as if she had any claim to his attention.

Ron backs away from the bar and slips into a doorway, obscuring himself behind a cascade of glass beads that hang from the ceiling like a waterfall. He feels utterly ridiculous hiding from women in a bar, but he brought it upon himself. He watches Hermione and the stranger pass a phone between one another, and his curiosity piques again. Who is she, and what are they talking about?

They soon part ways with a hug, and Hermione's left alone at the bar. She spends a few moments intently staring at her phone before the bartender places five mimosas in front of her. She pockets her phone, pays, and grabs the tray of drinks to carry it back to the table, expertly swerving between ferns and palms like she's on a mission.

Ron waits for a few moments, just to assure that the girls are distracted by conversation before he approaches the bar, wishing his hair was a little less conspicuous.

x

"Hey, handsome."

Lavender's crooning voice shudders Ron awake; he didn't realize he fell asleep. If only he hadn't jolted awake, or he might have been able to pretend to still be sleeping.

"Hey," he reluctantly greets her. "What time is it?"

"Two."

Okay, so he has only been sleeping for an hour. He's hanging in a hammock by the pool, luckily hidden from the sun by a cabana, and Lavender is stretched out on a towel below, staring at him through oversized, ridiculous-looking sunglasses. "How was brunch?"

"It was fine. Still happening, actually."

What does she want? "Then why are you here?"

"I have questions about what you did last night," she asks, running her fingers through a mound of sand.

Ron lifts his sunglasses from his face to look her in the eye. "I went to bed early."

Lavender eyes him suspiciously. "That's not what Hermione Granger said."

His heart rate stutters at her accusation. There's no way Hermione told the girls about last night. She wouldn't. "What… what did Hermione Granger say?" he asks tentatively.

"Oh, not much. She just said she spotted you with a girl," shrugs Lavender. "And that she was quite pretty."

Ron tries to resist the urge to laugh but can't and instead lets out a soft chuckle. "She did?"

"I know she's probably just saying that to piss me off. She doesn't like me."

Ron puts his sunglasses back on, mostly so Lavender doesn't see him rolling his eyes. "Don't take it personally; she doesn't like anyone."

Lavender scoffs, and Ron can't resist smirking. Sometimes, he enjoys dodging her attempts to fish compliments from him. "Well, were you?"

"Was I what?"

"With a girl?"

"Honestly, Lav? I don't remember much of last night. There was no girl in my bed this morning if that's what you're getting at." She looks relieved at his lie. "Did Hermione say anything else?"

"No, she just changed the subject. A little too quickly, if you ask me."

"Oh, well. I guess it's a mystery, then," he says, settling back into his hammock.

But Lavender isn't finished. "She kind of sounded jealous at the thought of you with a girl."

Ron chuckles again. "Doubt that."

"Oh, come on, Ron. She has a thing for you. That's why she doesn't like me."

"Nah."

"Why else wouldn't she like me?"

So many reasons. "I don't know, but she definitely doesn't have a thing for me." He knows that by the way she nearly cried then stormed out of his room this morning.

"I think she does."

Lavender's insistence reminds him of Harry earlier that day, insisting that he and Hermione are always flirting. Maybe they're onto something. There may be a little bit of flirting, but if so, it's clearly one-sided. "You're just paranoid that everyone has a thing for me."

Lavender shrugs. "I can just sense it."

"Lavender, if you really need to know if Hermione fancies me, just ask her."

"I wanted to, but she disappeared. She said she wasn't feeling well and went back to her room."

Ron leans back on his pool chair, his heart suddenly beating faster. If Hermione's tucked away in her room, it's a good opportunity for Ron to escape to the venue location and figure out how to undo the damage of last night. If he leaves now, he won't draw suspicion from her. "Well, sorry that I can't answer your questions," he says, hoping the finality of his tone will end the conversation.

She continues to look expectantly at him, but he has nothing else to say. "I guess I'll just go back to the brunch table, then,' she grumbles, after a few moments of awkward silence.

She rises to her feet and gathers her towel, leaving behind two sandy motes as she drags herself from the beach to the boardwalk. He hears the snapping of her sandals once she reaches solid ground, and waits until it grows quiet in the distance, muffled by the bustle of the restaurant. Ron then opens his eyes to see that the boys are either napping in hammocks or floating aimlessly in the pool, never too far from the swim-up bar. He flings his legs over the edge of the hammock and slips his feet back into his shoes. Shoving his hand into his pocket to assure he still has the folded-up wedding certificate, he figures the best time to try and fix this mess is either now, or never.

[mrs-takami-keigo]

Baked Lovin’

Parings Hawks X Quinn (OC) 

Rating: EXPLICT! 18+

Warnings: Recriational drug use, fingering, oral sex

Description: Quinn never thought that Hawks meeting her old college friends would end up with him being as high as a fucking kite off of a few bites of an edible. Quirkless AU

Word count: 4.6K 

Taglist: @katsukikitten​, @honeytama​, @prismaroyal​, @hawks-senseis​, @tui-lah​

Notes: This is my fourth tile off of my BINGO sheet for the @bnhabookclub​ event! The tile prompt for this was High Sex and honestly this was freaking fun to write and use my OC Quinn for more than my SERIES she’s in. 

At first, she was hesitant, her friends were on the wild side when they all got together. It was like they were all twenty or twenty one again, partying before an exam, and never getting a hangover.

“I don’t know Hawks. I’m not sure they are your kind of crowd.” Quinn said to him two weeks before the gathering. They were at home in their shared apartment, her and Hawks just having finished a hard day of work. Their schedules were perfect, Quinn worked as an executive for her uncle’s clothing brand called Todoroki Threads. While Hawks was the model and co-owner for Hotwing's, an alternative clothing brand made by her cousin and him.

When her uncle found out she was dating the ‘enemy’ he was livid but Quinn knew how to handle her uncle. Over time he gave up trying to break them up, seeing how she wasn’t letting go of her beloved boyfriend.

“I want to know the people that were around you during your roaring twenties.” Hawks crept up behind her as she prepared their dinner. His large hands ran down her sides, stopping when he reached her hips.

“Hmmm if you were to meet that Quinn, she would eat you alive little dove.” She pushed her plump ass against his sweatpants clad lower half, feeling his semi-hard cock brush against her.

Hawks let out a low groan as he nuzzled his face into the side of her neck, tentatively giving it a lick.

“I’m sure she would, firebird.” His grip on her hips tightened as he ground himself against her. “Why don’t you show me, baby?” He growled against her ear. And just like that dinner was put on hold while she had to show him just what she was capable of.

After continuous begging and just being plain out annoying, Quinn gave in and allowed Hawks to come with her and she was slowly regretting it. Having him in the states let alone in New York City was a mistake. He wanted to go to every tourist attraction, eat at every food cart he could find and on more than one occasion he got lost when he decided to venture off on his own.

“Hey, are you sure you still want to do this?” Quinn asked from the bathroom as she finished putting the last touches of her makeup on. Fluffing up her curly hair, she took a good look in the mirror.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Well hello there beautiful.” Hawks walked into the large penthouse bathroom, leaning against the sink as he eyed his girlfriend. No matter how many times he saw her dressed up, she looked like a fucking goddess in his eyes.

The way her tight high waisted jeans hugged her thick thighs, showing off every curve perfectly. Her hot pink bustier pushed her full breasts up, the color emphasized how beautiful her golden sun-kissed skin looked. She wore her hot pink wedges that matched her top, her manicured toes peeked out from the tip of the shoe. A simple look of a winged liner and glossed lips only enhanced her natural beauty.

“What? You’ve been staring at me for like five minutes and it's creeping me out.” Quinn walked up to him. She was only about two inches shorter than him, but whenever she wore heels of any kind Quinn would end up being an inch or so taller than him.

“Just thinking about how fucking perfect you are.” Hawks lazily wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in. “How the hell did I get a woman like yourself to fall for a bastard like me?”

Quinn let her hands run up his chest to the back of his neck, where she played with the soft short hairs on the nape of it. “Because I have a thing for arrogant bastards who are gorgeous and have some good dick.”

“You do love it when I dick you down don’t you?” Hawks brought his face closer to the woman in his arms, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. His breath was mingling with hers as he spoke, those golden eyes she fell in love with were filled with desire. “Maybe we have time for a little demonstration.”

“I don’t think so dove, not when I’ve spent so long to get ready.” She gave him a quick peck on the lips, stepping out of his embrace and into the bedroom. “We have to leave now and get a cab. Everyone should be at Chris’ place soon.” Looking back at the bathroom door, Quinn got a full look at her boyfriend.

People would think that Hawks was a fashion-forward kind of man, seeing as how he was a model and had a clothing brand. But in fact, it was the exact opposite, Hawks was a simple dresser. Like tonight he wore a white slim fit v-neck t-shirt, a silver pillar chain hung from his neck. Black jeans with frayed holes on his knees and black vans that had red wings painted on the sides of them. Thick silver rings were on some of his long fingers, and a red braided yarn bracelet that was accompanied by some random black metal bracelets. It may have been simple but god was he sexy.

Hawks walked up behind her as she put on her golden hooped earrings in the mirror of the bedroom. Moving her thick burgundy and black curly hair to one side he kissed her shoulder.

“We’ll just have to have a full-on ride test when we get back.” Hawks locked eyes with her through the reflective object, her hazel ones were just as dark and full of lust as his.

“You better remember that promise baby boy.” Her voice was low, sending shivers down his spine. Hawks opened his mouth slightly on the junction of her neck and shoulder, biting it. That was his way of letting her know she was gonna get fucked tonight.

When the two finally made it to Quinn’s friend Chris’ house everyone was already there. Music was pumping through the large apartment, drinks in everyone's hands, and friends catching up with each other.

Quinn and Hawks were at the bar getting their drinks when she felt her body be lifted from the ground and spun around.

“If it isn’t Q!” Just hearing the voice Quinn knew exactly who it was.

“Mocha! Still as loud as ever!!” She giggled as he kept spinning her around while her confused and amused boyfriend watched.

Gently putting Quinn down Mocha pulled her in for a bear hug. “It’s been too long.”

“It really has, Mocha, it really has.” She heard Hawks cough behind her. “Oh Mocha, this is my boyfriend Keigo, but he goes by Hawks. Hawks this is Mocha, one of the best people to ever grace this earth.”

Hawks shook his hand, glad to meet such a good friend of Quinn’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You did good Q, he fine as hell.” Mocha winked at Hawks, causing the shorter male to laugh.

“Hearing that coming from someone as beautiful as you are a blessing in its own.” Hawks wanted to make a good impression on Quinn’s friends, he knew how much they meant to her.

“Now that’s a man! Come y’all let's go to the balcony, the rest of the dance team is over there.” Mocha grabbed Hawks’ hand, leaving Quinn to grab the drinks as she ran after her friend and her giggling boyfriend.

“Wait so you're telling me, Quinn, like MY Quinn, used to dance?!” Hawks was sitting on the edge of his seat, Quinn had a hand over her face as her friends decided to tell him every little detail about her college life.

“Yeah, and she had a stage name.” One of her female friends said digging Quinn even further down the rabbit hole.

“Wasn’t it a bird of some sort. Oh, wait I got it, wasn’t it Phoenix?!”

“Shoot me now please.” Quinn sunk lower into the chair, trying to just disappear as Hawks looked at her.

“Yup! Everyone called her Phoenix, she even had a Fanclub on campus.” Mocha was enjoying seeing his friend like this. “Broke a lot of hearts too.”

“Oh really?” Hawks raised an eyebrow at Mocha’s statement, glancing over at Quinn. “You were breaking hearts instead of doing your studies huh?”

“Fuck off, I will not be slandered like this.” Quinn got up from her seat, grabbing her drink. “I’ll be inside talking to my real friends.” She heard the group chuckle as she stormed into the living room.

Quinn had been hanging out with some of her other friends when Chris came up to her.

“Well well, if it isn’t Ms. Phoenix.”

“Hello, Chris.” Her voice was monotonous as she took a sip of her second drink that night.

“Still the ice queen I see.”

They both stared at each other before bursting out laughing. “Ice queen, how original.” Quinn pushed him on the shoulder, the tall dark-haired man rubbed the spot she pushed.

“Damn Quinn, what do you do for a living fight crime? Why are you so strong?”

“I hate you.” Chris was her best friend in the entire world. She would kill for that man, and he would do the same for her.

“Would you really hate the man that brought you a present?” Chris reached into the backpack he had, pulling out a neatly wrapped lucky charms cereal bar.

“Is that what I think it is?” A wide grin spread across Quinn’s face as she reached for it.

“It sure is, all two hundred milligrams of it.” If there was a guilty pleasure of Quinn’s it would be weed. Back in her college days, she was what the media and police would call a pothead.

“And you brought it for me?!” She pretended to have tears in her eyes as she took the cereal bar from his hands.

“Anything for my favorite girl.” Chris smiled at his best friend while she ate half of the illegal treat. Wrapping it back up in the plastic, Quinn put it in her small purse, continuing her conversation with Chris.

The night had passed on, Hawks was introduced to more of Quinn’s friends and before she knew it people started to leave. That’s when Quinn noticed she hadn’t seen Hawks for about an hour now.

Walking up to Mocha who was helping Chris clean up she asked, “Have you guys seen Hawks? Last I saw him was when I asked for him to hold my purse while I used the bathroom.”

“I saw him sitting outside.” Mocha nodded to the balcony. Turning over her shoulder she saw Hawks lying on the lounge chair staring at the sky.

Stepping through the sliding glass doors, Quinn squatted down next to her boyfriend. “Come on baby let’s go back to the room.” She was already feeling the edible she ate from before, it was finally kicking into her system.

“Have you ever been able to feel every nerve ending in your body?” Hawks kept staring at the sky, his body still, except for his chest moving up and down.

“Huh, what are you talking about?” Quinn moved his legs over so she could share the chair with him.

“I can feel every nerve in my body, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.” That’s when he looked at her, his golden eyes were glossed over, with a slight tint of red where the white was.

“Oh fuck!” She grabbed her purse, ripping it open. Digging around her purse she couldn’t find the other half of her edible. “Keigo, baby did you eat the cereal bar in my bag?” Her hands were pressed against the sides of his face, making him focus on her.

“I was hungry, speaking of hunger can we get something you eat? I’m starving.” He had a goofy grin on his face as he spoke to her. Quinn could only hang her head as she realized, she had gotten her boyfriend high for the first time.

“What do you think this sauce is made of? It's amazing!” Hawks shouted through the hallway of the hotel.

“Shhh! What did I tell you about being quiet?” Getting Hawks back to the room deserved to be an Olympic sport. He wanted to talk to every person he came in contact with, kept asking Quinn for kisses, and when she did he would scream “I won! I won!” to the sky. She had finally got him to quiet down when she bought him some Halal from the cart down the block.

“Oh yeah, we have to be like ninja’s.” With his white container full food in his hands, Hawks pressed himself against the wall, tiptoeing as he walked.

The two finally made it to the room, where Hawks plopped on the couch and rubbed his belly.

“That was amazing!” He kicked off his shoes, sending them flying across the room.

“Good, now I’m going to go take a shower, so behave.” She didn’t want to leave him alone to his own devices but she had to. “Keigo promise me you’ll behave.”

“You got it, baby, anything for you.” He sent her a wink before he threw his head over the back of the couch.

Sighing Quinn walked over to the bathroom, not shutting the door all the way just in case. She peeled the tight clothing off of her body unaware a pair of dark golden eyes were watching her every move.

The shower was quick, seeing as Quinn opted to not wash her hair. Walking out of the steaming bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel, Quinn had expected to see Hawks laid out on the bed or on the small couch passed out. But he was nowhere to be seen.

Panic started to run through her body as she thought the worst.

“Did he walk out for more food?’ Oh god, please just don’t get arrested!”

Quinn was about to go for her purse to grab her phone when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her towards a hard chest.

“Where are you going firebird?” Hawk’s growled in her ear, his tongue coming out giving the shell of her ear a soft lick. She could feel his rock hard dick pressing against her.

“Hawks what are you doing?”

Hawks didn’t answer her right away, he let his hands travel down her stomach, to where the small slit of the towel was, slipping his fingers inside. He grazed his fingers against her sunkissed golden skin, shivers ran up her spine. Hawks nuzzled his nose into her neck, exhaling gently against it.

“God you feel so good, just let me feel you.” Hawks opened the towel, letting it fall to the floor, pooling around their feet. “It’s like I can feel every single nerve in my fingertips. It’s like electricity shooting through my body.”

Quinn let her head fall back against his shoulder, the effects of the edible were still coursing through her body. She could feel every nerve as well and right now with just his touch she was ready to cum for him.

“Wait until you feel this.” She grabbed his hand, bringing it down to her wet pussy. Hawks' fingers immediately started to play with her slick folds.

“Oh fuck, your so fucking wet for me.” She could feel his lips kiss along her shoulder, his hips involuntarily bucking against her.

She reached up to cup the back of Hawks neck, her delicate fingers played with his hair. Hawks continued his slow torture on her pussy, his fingers would just slide against her, going between grazing her hardened clit and her pulsating entrance.

“Get on the bed for me, on all fours baby.” Quinn was so lost in his touch that she hadn’t heard him speak to her. Getting frustrated Hawks used his other hand to grip her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His lips brushed against hers as he growled.

“On the bed now!” Quinn could only moan in response, with the way he was making her feel right now, words failed her.

Doing as he asked Quinn climbed on the bed, hands and knees pressed against the soft white bedding, back arched and ass up and in full view for Hawks. She could hear the rustling of clothes behind her, glancing back she watched as Hawks pulled his shirt over his head. His arm muscles flexed as he started to undo his belt.

Quinn bit her bottom lip as she watched him, she always knew he was sexy and so goddamn good looking but right now, he looked like some kind of god. His messy blonde hair was sticking up everywhere, those golden eyes that kept looking over at her were still glossed over. She couldn’t help herself, reaching one of her hands under her, she started to play with herself.

“Keigo.” She moaned out his name when she slid two fingers into her wet pussy. Hawks was down to his boxers about to take them off when she called out his name, stopping his movements. His eyes darkened as he watched her slide those fingers in and out, pleasuring herself in front of him.

“AH!” Quinn looked behind her to see Hawks down on his knees, his teeth digging into her ass. Releasing his teeth, Hawks looked her in the eyes as he licked the wounded area.

“I couldn’t resist, your ass just looks good enough to eat.” He peppered kisses along her cheeks. He had each hand full of her ass, eyes closed. He was enjoying feeling her against his lips. That edible made him feel like he was on top of the fucking world, with the love of his life face down and ass up of him, he felt unstoppable.

“You better get to eatin’, baby boy.” Quinn pulled her fingers out of her soaking wet cunt, pressing the side of her face against the bed. Her hands reached around, spreading her cheeks to present herself to him.

Hawks felt his mouth water as he eyed her glistening sex. He’s eaten her out more times than he could count but never like this. Running his hands over her ass, up her back, his pink tongue came out, swiping it across her pussy. He moaned against her, her juices hitting every taste bud on his tongue.

“Fuck!” wrapping his arms around her thighs, Hawks brought his lips back to hers, lapping up all of her juices. He made work of his tongue, between flicking it over her clit and then gently sucking on it.

Quinn’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, her mouth open as soft whimpers came out of her. If there was one thing Hawks knew, it was how to use that sinful mouth of his. The way his tongue felt on her, the slurping sounds he made when he sucked on her clit. His grunts and moans against her were nothing but vibrations that made her toes curl and her thighs shake.

“Do that again Keigo.” her words came out as a moan when he stuck his tongue inside of her. Hawks loved to please her, he had a pleasure kink. He wanted to make sure she knew it was him doing this to her, making her scream his name in pure ecstasy. So if Quinn said to do it again, he was going to.

“Yes just like that, don’t fucking stop.” Her arms were stretched out across the bed, gripping at the comforter. She could feel the tightening in her lower abdomen, knowing if he kept that up she wouldn’t last much longer.

Just as she felt it building, Hawks pulled away from her. Lifting up her torso from the bed she looked under her to see Hawks turn himself over, the back of his head rested on the bed, his face directly under her pussy. Using his legs he propped up his lower half, a large hand jerking off his hard cock, his other hand playing with her folds.

“Arch that back for me.” lowering herself back to the bed like before, Quinn felt Hawks slip a finger into her entrance. “So fucking tight.” After a few pumps in and out of the wet entrance, Hawks added another finger, stretching her out.

“Bring me that pussy, baby girl.” Spreading her legs further apart, Quinn lowered her bottom half, her pussy was back on his lips. He went back to what he was doing before, sucking on her now extra sensitive clit while he fingered her.

“Oh my god please don’t stop! I’m so close.” Quinn planted her face against the soft material, biting it. Hawks stopped moving his hand that was around his cock, instead he wrapped it around her waist, holding her against him.

With two fingers inside of her, Hawks curled them up, hitting her bundle of nerves. Quinn was positive it was because of the edible she ate that it made her extra sensitive. She felt that tight bundle in her lower abdomen release itself as she came on Hawks fingers.

“Holy fuck Keigo.” Her body convulsed ever so slightly as he kept licking her clean, making sure to get every drop of her essence.

“I’m not done with you yet.” He bit her inner thigh, making sure to leave a mark in his wake. Sliding out from under her, Hawks walked over to his luggage to grab a condom. Quinn took this moment to try and catch her breath. Moving to the middle of the bed, she laid on her back with her hazel eyes closed, legs slightly spread apart. She was too fucking high for this, between the edible and the way Hawks made her see cloud nine she wasn’t sure if she could keep up.

She felt her body slipping into sleep mode when she felt hands wrapping around her ankles, pulling her to the edge of the bed.

“Don’t you dare sleep firebird, I’ve got a raging hard cock just for you.” He was kneeling on the bed, her legs over his hands while his arms locked them in place, her ass slightly off the bed. Her thick thighs were touching but she could see Hawks’ cock resting in between her slick folds, his hips rocking gently, brushing against her sensitive clit.

“The way you have me feeling right now is fucking insane.” He continued to move against her, as he watched her squirm. Soft plump lips were slightly agape as she purred for him. Her beautiful curls were fanned out around her, her baby hairs sticking to her sweaty forehead. Those breasts he loved so much moved with each grind he did against her. Hazel colored eyes staring right at him as he looked over her body.

“Fuck Quinn you look so beautiful right now.” Pulling back Hawks aligned himself with her entrance. Slowly he eased inside of her, watching as she took every inch of him.

Hawks let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, once he was fully inside of her. Her walls were constricting around him. Her small hand reached out to cup his face, her thumb brushing against his swollen lips. Closing his eyes Hawks leaned into Quinn’s touch, kissing her thumb.

“You have no idea how much I love you.” It was a whisper but Quinn heard it and she felt her heart quicken its pace.

“Move Keigo, please I need it, I need you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, slightly pulling back he thrust his hips forward, back into her.  Quinn’s eyes rolled back into her head, as a moan slipped past her lips. Hawks thrust were slow and deep, making sure she felt all of him. But he was slowly losing and uphill battle.

Quinn knew he was sensitive because of the drug and she wanted him to cum just like she had.

“Come here.” She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, bringing him down to her. Letting go of her legs, he put them over his shoulders, bending her in half. His nose brushed against her rounded one, breaths mingling with each other, his hips never stopped moving.

“No one has made me ever feel the way you do Keigo. The feeling of your dick inside of me, my walls stretching around you is the best feeling in the world baby.” Their eyes were locked, his hips moving faster. Yes, he had a pleasure kink, but he also had a praise kink.

“That’s right baby fuck me. Make me scream out your name while I cum for you and only you!” The grip she had on his neck tightened and he moved faster and faster. The position had him going so deep inside of her, pushing against her soft bundle of nerves.

She could feel his hips stutter in their movements, he was about to cum. “That’s right Keigo Cum. I want to feel it, I’ll cum with you, just don’t fucking stop.” Moving her face to the side her lips met his in a kiss that was messy and full of tongue.

“Fuck Quinn!” Hawks broke the kiss, closing his eyes and his forehead rested against hers. The sound of skin slapping against each other and their moans filled the room. Hawks felt like he was flying through the sky, the stars were right in his reach.

Quinn felt it too as if she was flying along with him, not caring about anything but the man on top of her as he brought her to a new kind of high.

Hawks opened his eyes and he felt his heart stop. She was looking right at him, her eyes full of love and lust for him. He was sure his own mirrored hers. Mouths were opened, only shuddering breaths were coming out with each deep thrust. Quinn’s hands traveled to his back, raking her nails across his skin, leaving red marks behind. She was so close and so was Hawks, with one final thrust, they both felt that white-hot flash run through their body.

“FUCK!” They both screamed as their release hit them at the same time. Slowly they rode out their orgasm, Hawks moving slowly and Quinn’s body going limp. Pulling out of her, Hawks took off the condom, knotting the top and tossing it in the trash can.

Slowly he let down her legs, moving next to her, he placed one arm under her shoulders and another under her knees. Gently he moved her further up the bed to where the pillows were, moving the comforter so he could wrap her in it.

Once Quinn was snuggled into the bed he walked over to the light switch, turning it off. Climbing onto the mattress next to his beloved, Hawks placed an arm over her waist, his head resting on her chest. Quinn moved her free arm to rub her finger through his soft hair. Lulling him into a deep sleep. The love between them didn’t need words, they knew that they had something different, something real.

Quinn opened her eyes to the sound of a water bottle being crushed. Her mouth was dry as if full of cotton and her lower half was sore. Sitting up she saw the white containers of what looked like Halal food and Hawks clothes thrown around the room. Flashes of last night flooded her mind.

“Baby why am I so thirsty?! What was in that cereal bar?” Hawks was sitting in front of the minibar, opening his fourth bottle of water.

Quinn couldn’t help but laugh at him. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

[yokelish]

Heart of a dog.

An OC for BSD no one asked for? It’s more likely than you think. A day in life of an original character by Yokelish no one asked for? Absolutely. I don’t have to, I know, but Misha has been on my mind recently, which worries me. Mostly, worries me about me. Anyway.....Here he comes. I just want to make sure for myself that I can tweak my writing style a bit. I am very humorous.You can read it, of course, and you can take it as an example of how not to write an original character. 

Anyone, here’s a thing I made for my kouhai, check that if you are more interested in canon characters. 

✏ Universe: Bungou Stray Dogs  ✏ Characters: Mikhail Bulgakov OC ✏ Word count: 3,094 (too many tbh) ✏ Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, drugs, smoking, and a dead animal.

Heart of a dog.

If there was a god above, then he must know how awful it felt to wake up in the morning. There was nothing as worthy of collective loathing as mornings. Extra sprinkles of revulsion get the mornings involving work. Mikhail covered his eyes when picking up the ringing phone. The light hurt him just as much as the idea of getting up from the bed. The ringing was tenfold louder and more annoying in his head, hitting the walls in his skulls like a smith’s hammer. Every sensation felt like an assault on his already shaky sanity.

“You have a patient in an hour,” said familiar voice on the line. Misha groaned. It wasn’t her voice that grinding on his nerves, it was the idea of having to do work today. The woman on the phone sighed with deliberate loudness just to let him know all about her frustration. She was the only person who could stand having him. Mostly because he payed her a pretty sum but that wasn’t the only reason.

“You have no option,” Nadejda reprimanded. There was a sound of typing on the other side, but it ceased quickly. “It’s Olga Danilovna.”

He took a deep breath. There was no mental exercise to prepare for that. “Dear, I don’t pay you for ruining my day the moment it begun.”

“Right, you pay me to do my job,” she spoke sternly. “And if my job ruins your day the moment it begins, I’m sorry, get a better life.”

“Understood, the blame is mine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You better be here in an hour.” Nadya hang up the phone first. The annoying sound of a call ending assaulted his hearing. The sensations of the outside were coming on too strong, they were attacking, they were frustrating. Everything was too sharp, too bright, too loud. His head was pounding with the reminders of how Misha had spent the last three days. It was nothing close to productive.

Mikhail got up from the bed with a groan of a man who was drinking for days straight. He wasn’t dry for an hour, as the saying was. He sighed, and groaned, and regretted the drinking. He would do it again. The clothes on the floor didn’t bother him. There was never anyone to pass judgement. There was never anyone to tell him to get his life together either. There was simply no one. Barefoot he walked across the room, picking up and collecting articles of clothing that would go in the wash now. There was an hour for him to get to the office, which wasn’t impossible, but it meant he had to move around his small apartment faster. And he doubted his mind and body could comprehend moving faster without sending the surroundings spinning. Everything was too overwhelming now. It wouldn’t get better for a while.

The cold water splashing against his face brought some sanity back. It felt good to be reminded the drinking had yet to kill him. It was nice to be reminded he had a job only he could do. It felt good that he was alive and capable of doing something. It was all a comforting lie to get over himself and his hangover.

The cold air of the outside smelled like that of a big and polluted city. The sounds were loud but distant, multiple but common. Nothing new was added to the picture he witnessed day after day. It’s an old painting he studied for hours, every stroke, every shade, every perspective too familiar. Nothing about it was new or surprising or remotely pleasant. It simply was and it was only ever changing in ways that didn’t matter. The city he got too familiar living in. The air, the sounds, the broken pavement underneath. The sun was hiding or finding comfort in the heavy grey clouds foretelling rain. The sun, too, didn’t want to see the city. This weather was for the better. The bright and shiny would sulk the mood. That would go against his already ruined day. Bulgakov stopped walking only to get the cigarettes out and start one. The smoke felt good in his lungs. It smelled better than the city too.

Fortunately, it didn’t start to rain while he was trying to get to his office on time. Doctor Bulgakov appeared in a somewhat acceptable state in. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it within the given time frame. And, unfortunately, there were no excuse for him available either.

“Late.” A stern, annoyed, but factual statement. The voice belonging to the woman of the hour. Mikhail shook of his coat and carelessly hung it. Nadejda was sitting at the receptionist table looking very annoyed herself, staring daggers at the other woman. Such were the days featuring Olga Danilovna.

“Hey there, Dan. It’s been a while,” Mikhail shifted his attention to the child in a wheelchair. He was a blonde boy, aged eleven, with a pet cage on his lap. The cage covered up with a blanket. By the size of it, Misha would guess it was fit for a rabbit.

“Hello, Doctor Misha,” the boy replied slowly, patting the blanket-covered cage as if the animal could feel it.

“I guess it’s your leg this time.”

“It hurts.” As honest as a child could be. Nothing wrong in admitting being in pain. Danila was staring at the wall mindlessly, repeating the same motions with his hand.

“Just hold on a little longer,” the doctor assured. “It will be over soon.”

Bulgakov unlocked the door to the examination office. It smelled the same as always: sickeningly familiar smell of disinfectant that turns sweet to senses over time. It smelled more like home that anything else. Nadya was always a good keeper. She kept his office as pristine as she kept his dirty secret. Well, the secret wasn’t awfully dirty but, as all secrets are, problematic to keep in check. It had to be controlled who knew and who didn’t. If too many people knew about it, life would become very uncomfortable very quick. And Mikhail was a person of comfort.

For the sake of formality, he put on white medical coat over his sweater. He took the cage off the boy’s lap and placed it on the table. Danila barely reacted to the change, dropping his hand on his lap the moment the cage was gone. Bulgakov peeked inside. Inside was, indeed, a rabbit.

“You really like animals, Doctor Misha. Where do you keep them all?” Danila asked. It was a gift of being a child to be so oblivious to the obvious.

“Me? No. I have a friend who lives on a farm. He adores them,” Bulgakov lied and did so naturally. At some point, he even thought of a name for said friend, how big the farm was and what animals lived there now. A well-repeated lie was a believable lie. The more it’s told, the more it turned into the truth of things. It wasn’t a stretch of intellectual thought to count all the pets that came into his office along with the patients and conclude a remarkably simple outcome: those pets never went home with him. But he wouldn’t break a child’s heart so cruelly. In six weeks, Dan’s leg would be perfectly healed. And the rabbit would be six weeks older. But six weeks is too long for his mother to wait. A broken bone is a note in the medical history of an upcoming sports star. Mikhail never bothered to remember what exactly Danila played.

Mikhail came to inspect the boy’s leg. The safest bet in his line of work is to assume the worst possible injury: broken. But on the plus size, it seemed to be broken only in one place.

“Put your arms around my neck and hold on as tight as you can,” he said to the boy. Tiny hand grabbed around his neck without much force behind it. “On a count of three. One.” He carefully hooked his arms under Dan’s legs. “Two.” The doctor mentally braced himself. “Three.”

It wasn’t terribly difficult. It was only the weight of a child, after all. But Misha was having a terrible hangover and, thus, everything seemed more difficult than it should have been. Danila was now sitting on the exam table. Not that there was anything else to examine. And even if there was some injury unseen to the naked eye, he hardly had the equipment for it. Taking care of the child was a job for the mother. Bulgakov offered the headphones to the child. A useful thing to protect the child from a conversation that a child should not be privy to.

“Well, you know the drill, Dan,” Mikhail said, helping the boy to lie down comfortably on the table. “Headphones on, eyes closed, full relaxation.” The patient nodded, putting on the noise cancelling headphones on without questions. Danila was a good child just not equally blessed with good parents.

After making sure that Dan couldn’t hear a thing, Bulgakov returned to the rabbit in a cage. Lovely animal: calm, big, with a shiny fur. Misha took the rabbit in his arms and started to gently stroke the animal to calm it. It was warm, and alive, and completely defenseless.

“You look like you’ve been drinking for two days straight,” Olga Danilovna observed. Misha couldn’t tell if she was judging or simply stating. Not that he cared for either of those things, it was mere curiosity. He rarely could decipher any emotion within her unless it was anger and irritation.

After a quick mental math exercise, he forced a smile on his face. “Actually, it was three. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“You think you are funny,” she mocked him. “Nothing worse than a man thinking himself funny.”

“I thought there was nothing better than a man acting like a clown,” Misha replied, grinning. “And nothing worse than a man thinking himself awfully charming.”

Olga shook her head, fake blonde hair perfectly styled with too much spray, and rolled her eyes. And that was the end of that conversation. However, there was something else on Bulgakov’s mind, something he doubted was worth mentioning. After all, it wasn’t any of his business. The last thing he needed to do is to pass any judgment on people who paid him. It was an excellent advice, most importantly, it was an instruction he gave himself. He couldn’t be wrong about that. And so, he didn’t listen.

“You drugged him,” he stated simply. There was barely any judgement in his voice. There was no point in judging a client, least of all, a client that wouldn’t listen. But a warning wasn’t something Olga Danilovna would accept either. A challenge, however, she could listen to.

“I gave him painkillers, yes,” replied Olga.

“No, I expected painkillers, that’s why he wasn’t crying by the time I showed up. I am saying you drugged him. I noticed the slowness in his reaction time. I saw his eyes up close.”

“What did you expect me to do? He is still a boy and can’t handle pain very well.”

Bulgakov sighed. What was he expecting to get by starting this conversation, anyway? Danila was his patient and nothing more. And the only reason the kid even was a patient was because his mother could afford to pay. It really wasn’t any of his business. He should forget about it. Mikhail continued to stroke the animal in his arms, offering whatever little comfort he could. And taking in all the comfort the rabbit could provide. It was alive, and warm, and with a soft fur. It felt lovely to hold a rabbit in his arms.

“I have to ask, though,” Olda Danilovna started to speak again, “would you be able to treat a concussion?”

“A concussion? Are you serious, Ol’?” he could even tell why he was getting riled up. “He’s eleven. Get him into swimming or some other Olympic sport.” Never mind, after some quick digging, he remembered that he had a personal dislike towards Olga Danilovna. Money can buy a service; it cannot buy positive personal bias unless for testifying in court.

“And what of it? Even if he wins the Olympics and brings home gold, he will peak before he’s twenty-five and then what?” Olga crossed her arms on her chest. Cold-blue flame flickering in her eyes dangerously — a warning. “Be a PE teacher? A swimming coach? No, thank you. And answer my question, damn you.”

“Sure, I can,” Mikhail answered, giving up. Arguing with a woman such as herself would only bring headache. Her voice was as sharp as her glare. And he was still recovering after a hangover.

“Would a rabbit suffice?” she continued to question.

“Depends on the severity,” the man shrugged. The rabbit in his arms was acting like a perfect companion. Perhaps, whatever little comfort he could offer was just enough to keep it calm. “If there is an open wound gushing out blood from his head, then no, you’ll have to find something bigger.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there are plenty of stray dogs on the streets.”

“Screw you.”

“Understandable.”

Cutting the conversation short, Bulgakov took his seat behind the table. The rabbit still cradled in his arms. He knew the pain that would follow render him useless, he’d collapse on the floor and then live with the embarrassment of such memory. Not that he cared for it, but for the sake of formality. The pain intensified and was only made worse by the remains of the hangover. If it made his head pound and body feel weak, now he could safely say he knew exactly what getting hit by a car felt like. It was a pain to the tips of his fingers, clouding his mind, rendering him mute and weak. The only positive about this state was that he was familiar with this. It was a pain that never got better; it never got worse. It was stagnant and familiar, which means he got used to it over time, with each use. He learned to live with it. Today just happened to be a little worse due to careless hangover. His hand rested on the still warm rabbit’s fur.

“You can take him, Ol’,” Bulgakov rasped as if dying from thirst. “Nadejda Andreevna will process the payment.”

Olga Danilovna didn’t waste a second more, running up to her son and getting him up from the table. In a hurry she could pass for a warn and loving mother, she even examined the previously broken leg. She asked if anything hurt. Olga could pass for a caring mother and not a woman who wanted to live out her ambitions through her son. With his leg perfectly healed, Danila wheeled the chair himself.

“Thank you, Doctor Misha,” the boy said with a smile before leaving the room. His reactions were a little faster this time around.

Mikhail, however, barely had the mental capacity left free from the pain to comprehend the words and offer a reply. Nonetheless, he managed. “Be careful next time, Dan.” He offered a feeble wave of his hand before the boy left. When the door closed, Misha slouched on the table, resting his forehead against the cold wood. It was offering no relief whatsoever, but it felt grounding. A sensation to tether him to reality, otherwise, he would allow himself to drift away from it. The rabbit’s fur felt less warm. That was even less of a comfort. It stopped mattering the moment he picked his phone this morning.

It was all a little useless. Nothing but a play of a repentant man. One actor theatre: he is on stage and is the audience. He didn’t count seconds, cared not for minutes it took for Nadya to come in through the door with a glass of water. He heard the door opening, her light steps, but didn’t want to raise his head just yet.

“You’ll survive, right?” Nadejda asked with amusement in her voice. He was rendered useless, true, but not helpless.

“Bastards live a long life.” A glass was placed on his table. Mikhail chuckled, amused by the thought that rushed through his pounding head. “Careful, dear, I’ll start to think you are a warm and caring human being.”

“That will be your grave mistake,” she replied.

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Take your pills and, please, with water. It’s not in my interest for you to choke on them.”

“I shall.”

“You want me to take care of that?” she asked coldly, uncaring. That was why their arrangement was most perfect. That was why he hired her and why she remained by his side. There were few reasons why she could stand to work for such a horrible, irresponsible boss. Not only because he could pay her a pretty number. Not only because they were legally bound by a contract, preventing Nadejda from getting her hefty paycheck in case of Bulgakov’s strange death. It wasn’t only because she could keep her pretty mouth perfectly shut. But because Nadejda was aware of her self-serving nature and did not care. Nadejda Andreevna did not, in fact, care for anything but herself.

Mikhail placed the rabbit on the table and took out a cigarette from inside his pocket. He put one in his mouth. Nadya wordlessly offered a lighter. The smoke felt good inside his lungs: warm, calming, and perfectly harmful.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll take care of it,” Mikhail replied, evenly breathing out cigarette smoke. He reached in the drawer to get the pills out. Something to dull the pain, something to bring more senses back to life. Nadya was leaving the room in her usual catlike steps.

“You’ll lock up, right?” she asked, stopping in the doorway.

“Sure,” Misha nodded.

“See you when I see you.”

“Right back at ya.”

The door closed behind her. Soon, the office would be completely empty. He would leave, locking up for the day. Soon, the pain from his body would disappear completely, gone without a trace. His state would return to what it was when he woke up. Soon, there would be nothing bothering him but the hangover. The pounding would get less intense as time passed. By the end of the day, he should fell relatively fine. Soon, he would be heading home where he’d get to be as miserable as he felt like to be. Soon. Right after he would bury this obviously very dead rabbit on the table.

[capricornus-rex]

Playing Pretend (3)

Requested by @calkesttiss​ | Prompt:

Hi! I just watched isi & ossi (rich girl and poor boxer boy AH) on netflix and now i cant stop thinking about cal and fake dating. Do with that what you will 😂

Cal Kestis x Reader

1 | 2 | Next: Part 4 | Masterlist

3 of ?

The next morning, you’ve slept in. The first thing your puffy eyes see was Tazha sitting by your dresser stool and touching every single bottle on the table. You sat up but that still didn’t get her attention.

“Since when have you been here?”

Tazha turned her head to you, she exclaimed as if she was surprised to see you awake.

“Well, good morning, sunshine!”

You lay back to your bed but Tazha prompt stood up, marched towards you and pulled away the blanket from your body.

“Ohhh no, you’ve been asleep for far too long!”

Your eyelids shot up and flicked to Tazha.

“What time is it?”

Tazha snatched up the clock on your nightstand and showed the time right in front of you. You groaned and rubbed the bridge of your nose.

“What’d you do last night?”

She wasn’t expecting you to smile and scoff through your nostrils. Tazha tilted her head in confusion as she studied your expression.

“Crazy night, I’ll tell you more in a bit,”

You stood up to go to the bathroom and wash your face. By the time you came back out to rejoin Tazha, you narrated everything that happened right after your conversation via the holotable ended. She is the only person who knows your nightly escapades. You mentioned your run-in with your new friend.

“Well, it sounds like you two had fun kicking the asses out of those muggers,”

“He was probably judging my fighting techniques. I was still sloppy,”

Tazha stands up from your bedside.

“Come on. Our dads are downstairs, they’re probably working on the party that you told me about. Get dressed.”

The conversation was indistinct but audible from your bedroom in the second floor, both you and Tazha arrived in the living room where her father and yours were discovering over business matters. You didn’t last long in the living room, you dragged Tazha away to the smaller dining hall where you usually make your own food. She sat by the barstool on the center island, watching you rummage and fix up something to eat.

“Why don’t you call one of your cooks to do it for you?”

“No, it’s fine. Not everything I need has to be done by someone else,”

When you settled down on a seat opposite Tazha, she immediately saw the firm expression painted all over your face.

“What have they talked about so far, Tazha?”

“I’ve only heard much,”

“Like what? Start from the very beginning,”

Tazha started off with the part that obviously her family is invited to your father’s party, she got to the better and relevant parts—one of which is that she had picked up a name from their conversation earlier while you were asleep.

“They’ve invited the Ithrels. Your dad said something like sponsor or something,”

“He’s made the Ithrel family his sponsors,” you deduced.

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,”

“Just a feeling. Thanks for covering for me, Tazha,”

Today was a busy day for your parents. You were left alone in the dark as you watch them confer with one another and with different people via the living room holotable. As a child, it was something you never understood, it was also the reason why you felt estranged from them—despite giving you what you could ever want and need or both.

Why did they always choose to speak with projections of people through a machine over their own daughter in the flesh who is always watching them from the door?

There was very little interaction between you and your parents. Perhaps the only interaction you’ve had so far from either of them was your mother calling for you to go to the atelier room. When you got there, five people who introduced themselves as designers lined up in front of you. Beside them was a mannequin wearing a dress of their making.

“I had them called here because I want you to pick out a dress for your father’s banquet.”

None of the dresses seemed to impress you. You approached every single one, each designer either smiled at you or stiffened from nervousness—probably because your approval was their prize, a ridiculous competition.

Your fingers felt the fabric of each dress, your hand slid down to the skirts’ lengths, and then you move on to the next dress. They were beautiful indeed. But you’ve no need of them, other girls could’ve felt like royalty for a night in dresses like those. To spite your mother, you twirled to face her and give your verdict.

“Sorry, but I believe I have more than enough dresses for a party like this,”

You crossed your arms. Wrinkles appeared on Yasina’s forehead upon hearing your answer. The designers were just as confused themselves.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mom, there’s so much dresses in my wardrobe that I practically need a warehouse! I think I have enough to choose from in my closet instead of this. Send them back. Have them make a dress for you if that makes you feel any better,”

It all happened so fast for your mother, you walked out and headed for your room, realizing that there isn’t much to do in your own house.

“They’re probably too busy to even care that I’m gone,” you muttered it to yourself with great scorn, lousily tying your hair in a messy ponytail and then proceeded to march out of the house.

You were on your way to downtown again. You put on the hood of your poncho and suddenly you were one of the common faces in the crowd. The destination was your favorite pub, back in the Tipsy Taun-Taun.

The Balosar barkeeper greeted you as soon as you entered.

“You’re early,”

“Whatever, I’m a paying customer.”

“Just sayin’.”

He said he’ll be whipping up a glass of Merenzane Gold for you, but you stopped him there and ordered a glass of Meiloorun Juice instead.

“Aww, so the little princess got a hangover?” the Balosar jeered.

“No, I didn’t!”

The keeper proceeded to make your drink, you searched for a seat; the place is so much quieter in the day than in the night. Nonetheless, you enjoyed it either time of the day. When the drink was ready, Balosar called your name and you stood up from your table. As you were about to reach for the drink, another patron—a Devaronian—snatched it and finished it in a single gulp. It all happened in a flash that you still took a minute to process what he just did.

“That was my drink!”

“Tab’s on you, missy,”

You whipped out your blaster from the flap of your poncho, you clicked the safety and pointed the barrel at his nape. His chuckle sounded more like a grumble.

“Ooh, I’m scared. What’s the little princess gonna do with a big boy’s gun?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, ass-wipe?”

That struck a chord on the hulking Devaronian, he swung his arm and flicked away the blaster from your hand. He raised his arms in a charging attack at you, you dodged soon enough that his clenched fists landed on a table, partially shattering it in the middle; you got your blaster back and attempted to aim the blaster at him, but your hands were trembling so much that the shot merely grazed his waist. He howled in pain but immediately shrugged it off.

You were doing well in dodging the enemy’s blows, swinging his left and right arm alternately which you cleanly ducked from.

“Stay still and let me claw that pretty little face!” he roared.

A large glass bottle shattered on the back of the Devaronian’s head. The impact wasn’t hard enough to render him unconscious, although it stunned him enough to lower his defenses. When he turned around, much to your surprise, it was Cal.

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” he casually said despite the mood of the predicament.

“I strongly agree,”

Once again, you two were a tag team. It was now two against one. Normally, a Devaronian thug could take two humans no problem. But apparently that urban belief betrays the Devaronian. He was bombarded with your kicks, using anything around you as a weapon against him, Cal wasn’t using his lightsaber but his fists and he threw them so hard that you could hear the impact land on the enemy’s cheek.

Cal was the one to deliver the last blow. The Devaronian fell to the floor, the barkeeper leaned over the bar to check the knocked-out patron.

“Yep, he’s out cold, alright!”

“Thanks… again,”

“You’re welcome… again.”

A brief pause between the two of you, and the Balosar is just there standing awkwardly.

“Let me buy you a drink,” you gently tapped Cal on the chest with the back of your hand, then you turned to the Balosar. “The last one isn’t on me, understood?”

You ordered the same drink for the two of you. Like last night, both of you talked over anything that you could think of.

“Where did you learn to fight?” he asked after taking a sip.

You stammered, “Oh, uh… I had a trainer but only for a short while. Then I picked up some more moves by myself—it’s been like that ever since,”

“Hey, there’s room for improvement,”

“Was I sloppy?”

Cal shrugged and avoided the question by chugging all of what’s left of his drink. Your lips pursed a smile. You finished yours as well, you tossed a credit to the barkeeper.

“Follow me,”

“What?”

“Come on!”

Both of you left the bar and Cal followed you to the backstreets one block away from the pub. You scaled the buildings and ended up in the rooftop.

“What are we doing here?”

“I was hoping you’d teach me, since you fight better than I do.”

“It’s gonna take some time,”

“I don’t care,”

Cal saw that there is no other way in getting around with you. You were your own brand of stubborn, but he felt that you got spirit. The rest of the day was spent with Cal training you basic combat moves in case of street fights and cantina brawls like yesterday and today.

“So, where you from around these parts?”

Your fighting stance softened when he asked that question, you knew you had to make up the vaguest possible answer quick.

“Oh… a little far from here,”

“Do you hang around here more often?”

“Yeah,”

He stopped asking questions and continued giving you pointers on how to dodge, take the upper hand, and exploit an enemy’s weakness. The session lasted until dusk, you didn’t even notice the time pass. You hurried to leave the rooftop, leaving a confused Cal watching you run away from his vantage point.

“And there you go again,” he muttered under his breath.

“Boo-woop!”

“Yeah... I guess she’s kinda cute,”

A small smirk curled at the corner of his lip.

[ostcntatious]

          ––– ‘ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖉𝖎𝖊𝖗𝖘 , 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊 𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 ’

𝖙𝖜: 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑 𝖓𝖊𝖌𝖑𝖊𝖈𝖙 , 𝖆𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖍𝖔𝖑 , 𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉

         𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 .  the  memories  of  this  day  are  the  first  ones  she'll  remember  ,  years  later  .  the  song  family  has  been  cordially  invited  to  an  elegant  lunch  to  welcome  them  into  japanese  high  society  ,  and  ophelia's  been  forced  into  a  dress  she  doesn't  like  ,  black  hair  pinned  back  and  curled  ,  with  golden  clips  pulling  it  back  from  soft  ,  rounded  features  .  she  doesn't  understand  any  of  this  yet  ––  the  act  her  family  puts  on  ,  the  one  she  must  continue  even  though  she'll  never  be  praised  for  her  compliance  .  still  a  child  ,  a  maid  whose  name  ophelia  never  made  an  effort  to  learn  smiles  at  the  girl  ,  tells  her  she  looks  lovely  as  a  gentle  hand  wipes  away  the  stray  tears  from  the  tantrum  she's  still  recovering  from  .  i  want  my  mother  to  dress  me  ,  she'd  cried  at  the  top  of  her  lungs  ,  tiny  hands  throwing  clothes  onto  the  floor  and  shoes  at  the  walls  because  maybe  scandal  would  force  her  mother  to  check  on  her  ––  your  mother  isn't  home  ,  she  was  told  .  she's  gone  out  with  your  brother  .  they  didn't  ask  her  to  come  with  them  ,  and  her  father  is  locked  inside  his  office  ,  working  as  always  .  it's  only  her  and  a  stranger  with  angelic  patience  ,  who  tidied  up  her  mess  and  spoke  gentle  ,  hushed  words  at  the  child  she  was  tasked  to  look  after  until  she  settled  down  in  her  own  childish  version  of  resignation  .  father  wasn't  coming  .  neither  was  mother  ,  least  of  all  brother  .  five  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  begins  to  learn  what  it  feels  like  to  be  forgotten  .

        𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 .  switzerland  is  home  ,  and  as  she  steps  into  the  mansion  that  the  song  family  has  gracefully  settled  into  ,  employees  rush  past  her  to  get  her  bags  from  the  car  .  welcome  home  ,  miss  song  . outside  ,  the  clouds  are  painted  hues  of  orange  as  the  calm  atmosphere  of  sunday  afternoon  drags  on  ,  only  interrupted  by  the  chatter  of  pedestrian  or  the  occasional  honk  of  a  car  .  it's  mundane  ,  and  by  now  ,  ophelia  has  learned  to  look  down  on  all  things  ordinary  .  she  surrounds  herself  by  people  with  golden  surnames  ,  because  she  knows  her  father  will  frown  whenever  her  polite  demeanor  is  extended  to  someone  unworthy  of  it  .  he  won't  scold  her  ––  he  cares  too  little  ,  doesn't  spend  enough  time  around  his  daughter  to  fully  understand  the  child  or  her  habits  .  but  he’ll  frown  .  he’ll  have  another  reason  to  disapprove  of  her  .  black  hair  tumbles  free  from  the  ponytail  that  had  previously  pulled  it  away  from  her  face  ,  falls  onto  her  shoulders  as  a  hand  combs  through  the  strands  .  the  words  thank  you  die  on  ophelia's  tongue  as  a  maid  informs  her  that  her  favorite  tea  has  been  brought  into  her  room  ––  father  never  says  thank  you  when  someone  pours  him  coffee  .  instead  ,  she  nods  at  the  maid  ––  and  gives  her  a  small  ,  private  smile  .  twelve  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  hopes  that  if  her  father  doesn't  love  her  for  herself  ,  maybe  she  can  mold  herself  after  him  in  hopes  that  his  own  vanity  will  make  him  regard  her  as  highly  as  he  does  with  her  brother  .

        𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 .  the  smell  of  chemicals  cuts  through  the  room  as  a  hairdresser  runs  a  brush  through  silky  strands  of  hair  ,  and  ophelia  sits  in  a  way  that  has  become  natural  to  her  .  the  picture  of  poise  .  back  straight  ,  hands  folded  on  her  lap  ––  right  over  left  ,  gold  ring  gleams  in  the  light  .  the  same  one  her  father  wears  .  the  same  one  all  the  songs  wear  ,  as  a  visible  symbol  of  their  status  .  they  don't  bleed  red  like  the  rest  of  the  world  ,  nor  do  they  bleed  blue  .  the  songs  bleed  ichor  .  they  are  gods  above  mortals  ,  every  smile  sharp  as  their  frigid  features  ––  they’re  made  of  marble  ,  and  like  statues  ,  they  are  as  beautiful  as  they  are  cold  .  a  mother  who  has  turned  a  blind  eye  to  a  little  girl  who  refuses  to  accept  the  destiny  she  once  gracefully  received  ,  wearing  inferiority  proudly  .  mother  calls  it  tradition  ,  daughter  calls  it  a  curse  .  father  called  her  rebellious  when  ophelia  insisted  she  was  meant  for  greatness  .  she'd  stormed  into  her  father's  study  after  returning  from  an  awards  ceremony  ,  slammed  a  glittering  trophy  onto  his  desk  .  '  i  was  the  best  in  class  again  ,  father  ,  i  did  so  much  better  than  tybalt  ,  '  she'd  cried  out  ––  she  had  risked  everything  for  this  ,  planting  drugs  on  someone  else  to  secure  her  position  .  for  what  ?  he  didn’t  even  care  ,  his  dismissive  hand  and  underhanded  compliments  infuriating  .  too  many  years  of  this  .  ophelia  had  been  driven  to  a  point  of  no  return  .  i  am  more  than  capable  ,  she'd  said  .  you  are  theatrical  and  insubordinate  ,  came  the  reply  .  i  have  never  failed  ,  ophelia  had  insisted  ,  openly  crying  in  front  of  a  father  that  only  stood  up  from  his  chair  to  shout  at  her  in  his  native  language  .  her  refusal  to  accept  her  position  was  the  biggest  failure  of  them  all  .  sixteen  years  old  ,  and  the  day  after  moving  into  an  apartment  in  portland  all  by  herself  ,  her  hair  has  gone  from  song  black  to  ophelia  blonde  .  sixteen  years  old  ,  and  she's  chosen  excellence  over  a  hope  of  ever  being  loved  by  a  family  that  bid  her  a  stoic  goodbye  as  she  packed  up  her  belongings  and  moved  into  the  luxury  apartment  her  parents  reluctantly  paid  for  ––  her  last  name  is  still  song  ,  after  all  .  sixteen  years  old  ,  and  she's  accepted  that  the  world  wants  her  to  be  her  own  person  ––  though  ,  as  a  hairdresser  hands  her  a  mirror  and  leaves  ,  switching  her  parents'  expectations  for  her  own  feels  the  same  as  being  alone  .  sixteen  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  has  stopped  holding  onto  hopes  and  daydreams  of  an  accepting  family  .

        𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃  .  she’s  happy  .  the  realization  comes  when  a  boy  holds  her  close  and  the  two  of  them  sing  along  to  a  band  she  never  thought  she’d  like  ––  ophelia  has  always  been  a  fan  of  classical  music  ,  even  when  others  call  her  pretentious  and  she  fires  back  with  refined  .  and  yet  ,  fleetwood  mac  has  made  its  way  into  her  spotify  playlist  ,  her  boyfriend  laughing  whenever  she  messes  up  the  words  ,  her  threatening  to  poison  his  coffee  if  he  laughs  at  her  again .  she  spent  the  night  with  him  ,  and  although  ophelia  had  claimed  she’d  make  breakfast  ,  it  turned  out  that  her  version  of  cooking  was  uber  eats  ––  but  she  insisted  that  her  coffee  was  great  ,  and  of  course  he’d  said  it  was  the  best  drink  he’d  ever  had  .  twenty  years  old  ,  and  a  gentle  hand  brushes  blonde  hair  away  ––  tangled  ,  but  neither  of  them  care  ––  to  kiss  her  .  twenty  years  old  ,  and  when  he  says  he  loves  her  ,  ophelia  panics  because  it’s  too  soon  and  she  didn’t  see  it  coming  –– she  kisses  him  again  instead  of  saying  anything  ,  her  initial  panic  slowly  subsiding  every  time   he  repeats  the  words  over  the  months  they’re  together  ––  twenty  years  old  ,  and  she’s  tempted  to  believe  him  .  

        𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 - 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 .  it's  been  hours  ,  and  ophelia  still  can't  decide  if  the  bed  sheets  tucked  tightly  around  her  frame  feel  like  comfort  or  prison  .  the  tears  flow  freely  ,  her  phone's  battery  died  long  ago  ,  and  she's  made  no  move  to  get  out  of  bed  since  the  last  time  she  pried  the  sheets  away  to  go  to  the  bathroom  ,  eat  something  and  down  a  glass  of  water  in  hopes  that  it  would  heal  her  headache  ––  partly  from  her  hangover  ,  partly  from  the  dehydration  that  comes  as  the  inevitable  consequence  of  crying  harder  than  she  has  in  years  .  grabbing  a  bottle  of  wine  when  the  water  didn't  make  her  feel  better  ––  numb  is  better  than  sad  ,  anything  is  better  than  sad  ,  she  doesn't  know  how  to  be  sad  .  and  yet  there  was  no  confusion  when  a  pillow  pressed  against  her  face  did  nothing  to  stop  the  emotions  pouring  out  of  her  ––  this  is  sadness  ,  ophelia  had  realized  .  this  is  weakness  .  it  is  unfamiliar  ,  it  is  confusing  ,  and  she  needs  it  to  stop  because  it  is  all  -  consuming  and  ophelia  doesn't  know  how  she  could  ever  feel  better  when  the  loneliness  is  followed  by  insecurity  ,  followed  by  the  pain  of  feeling  like  she  is  nothing  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  ,  and  the  memory  of  her  lashing  out  at  neels  makes  her  finally  take  the  nickname  satan  as  the  insult  it  was  always  meant  to  be  rather  than  what  her  warped  mind  turned  into  praise  .  it is  always  better  to  be  feared  than  loved  ,  father  always  said  ––  for  a  tyrant  like  him  ,  the  advice  came  easily  .  it  was  so  easy  to  welcome  fear  as  power  when  people  like  him  had  no  idea  what  love  felt  like  .  she'd  wanted  to  be  him  ,  first  so  he  would  love  her  ,  then  so  the  rest  of  the  world  would  think  of  her  as  powerful  and  unreachable  ,  too  .  it  felt  so  much  like  success  .  it's  left  her  wrapped  in  bedsheets  ,  a  bottle  of  wine  next  to  crumpled  up  tissues  on  her  nightstand  ,  and  so  much  hurt  coursing  through  her  that  ophelia  understands  why  someone  would  choose  substances  over  her  with  no  need  to  be  questioned  .  what  an  obvious  ,  easy  choice  ––  why  would  he  have  chosen  her  ,  or  even  the  memory  of  her  ?  a  broken  girl  ,  making  empty  promises  .  too  hurt  to  feel  anything  properly  without  her  own  pent  up  anger  turning  it  poisonous  ,  tinting  everything  with  the  darkness  what  seeps  out  of  her  so  easily  ––  she's  settled  into  her  role  as  villain  so  well  ,  it's  no  longer  an  act  .  it  never  has  been  ––  she  never  got  the  chance  to  be  anything  but  the  enemy  .  too  proud  to  want  to  fix  herself  ,  too  caught  up  in  the  thrill  of  power  to  think  there  is  anything  that  has  to  be  fixed  at  all  .  or  aching  too  badly  to  think  that  she's  still  worth  trying  to  fix  ––  she's  no  goddess  ,  she's  a  demon  .  maybe  meant  to  be  alone  ,  to  drown  in  her  loneliness  as  repentance  for  all  the  sins  she's  committed  with  a  wicked  smile  on  painted  lips  .  as  she  rises  from  her  bed  ,  bare  feet  lead  her  into  the  bathroom  where  she  stares  at  her  reflection  ––  she  can't  even  recognize  herself  like  this  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  has  just  realized  that  she's  broken  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  fucking  song  is  weak  .  no  one  can  see  her  like  this  ,  is  her  first  impulse  as  she  drags  herself  into  the  shower  .  no  one  can  know  ––  it  would  ruin  her  ,  people  seeing  her  as  human  rather  than  the  divine  entity  she  masquerades  as  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  ,  and  she's  still  the  same  girl  who  looks  out  for  herself  (  and  herself  only  )  because  she's  convinced  that  no  one  else  will  .

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Coffee and a Wedding (Chapter 6)

Hey, it’s Tuesday! And this week you get a Coffee update. Be excited since this is the last one for three weeks while I’ve got oneshots slated to post. Hopefully this chapter is going to make up for missing it last week and the next three weeks. Just remember I love you all! 

Clint x ofc, rating M for sexual themes

Chapter Six

I didn’t even know this island had a proper club but Clint managed to find us one. There was no time to process what was happening when Clint ditched his tee for a royal purple button up shirt, again uncaring that he was dressing in front of me. Before I could even process the sight of his naked back and side, he was covered and dragging me out of the room all while trying to button up the shirt with one hand.  

It felt like my brain was still back in the hotel room as we made our way through the doors. It was packed inside and the music was loud, thumping in the air. People moved, swayed and bounced to the music as if powered by the thud of the bass. It was intoxicating all on it’s own.  

“Come on!” Clint shouted over the noise, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the bar. It was quieter at the bar but not by much. I couldn’t even make out what he had ordered for us before he was shoving a pink shot in my hand, complete with a thin slice of apple on the rim.  

“What’s this?” I had to lean so close to him to make myself heard that I could smell his cologne.

“Washington Apple. Good.” He yelled as if it answered anything and I downed the shot.

“Lexis?” A voice called out, hardly heard over the thump of the music. The source of the voice found me before I could find them. I was wrapped up in a hug from Lauren, one of Sarah’s oldest friends.

“Lauren!” I had to shout but the shot mixed with the wine from earlier to make me care a little less. “I didn’t see you at the party earlier.”

“Sip n’ paint isn’t really my jam.” Lauren laughed in the too loud way that was so unique to her. “Honestly, that group isn’t much my scene anyway.”

“I feel you. It was surreal, all the expensive clothes and shoes and hair!” It felt so good to be around someone who wasn’t a part of what appeared to be the wealthy life Sarah was joining. “This is my boyfriend, Clint Barton.” I patted his chest with warm affection that I wasn’t sure was fake. “Clint, this is Lauren- Sarah and I grew up with her.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Clint shook Lauren’s hand and pulled her to him for a quick hug.

With Lauren here, I had no reason to resist the urges I had to touch Clint and he seemed to accept the attention eagerly. His hand was always at my side, on my back or pushing my hair behind my ear.  

The second drink was soon replaced by the third and Marci somehow joined the dance floor. It became a personal attack that I’m rather sure no one else was aware of when she raised an eyebrow at Clint and I.  

In response, I pulled him on the dance floor and we bounced and rocked together to the beat of the music. It was impulsive and I wasn’t thinking. If I was, I could blame it on wanting to make sure there was no doubt of our relationship in Marci’s eyes.  

In truth however, when I leaned in and pressed my lips to his, it was for no reason beyond because that was what I wanted to do. There was a moment when he hesitated, stiffened up and I was scared that he would push me away. We hadn’t talked about how far this act would go, affection wise.  

There was a moment when it all changed. Clint let a sigh slip and relaxed into the kiss. It was sweet and chaste. Unfortunately, it was over before I wanted.   

“Another drink?” His voice was rough. He swallowed twice before nodding to himself and walking off before I could even pull myself into answering. For the record, yes- I did indeed want another drink. Or ten.  

I really, really needed a drink. I mean, I knew why I kissed him but still, the act of doing it left me light headed and begging for more. What hurt was that I knew why he kissed me back.  

And it wasn’t for the same reason I kissed him. Not even a little bit, I’m sure. And that fucking stung. It felt like a knife to my heart knowing it.  

He kissed me back because we’re playing a game of pretend. He kissed me back because we were being watched. He kissed me back to sell the story. And that was all. Nothing more.

What does one do when they are forced to pretend that they are totally faking the ‘fake’ dating part of the relationship? They take another shot. Then another. And eventually, you stop giving two shits what’s real and what’s fake. I know I did.  

I lost sight of Lauren or Marci but it didn’t matter at that point. This was a once in a lifetime chance to live my daydreams so I was going to do exactly that. The music thumped and we danced, wrapped up into each other. Each drink brought us closer. Each drink made me braver.  

At one point I didn’t care and I was grinding against him. His hands were heavy on my hips and I could feel how he reacted to my movements. He was stiff in what had to be uncomfortably tight jeans. I didn’t shy away from imagining what was hidden away from me. Sometimes, when I moved against him just right, a moan would slip out from his lips and knowing that I was the cause was the most powerful feeling in the world.  

I hooked my arms up around his neck. Still, when he spun me around to face him, I went willingly enough. I could smell the whiskey we had begun drinking on his breath and it made me want to taste his lips again all the more.  

So I did. It was sloppy and drunk but he responded. As we danced, he backed me into a table sending unmanned drinks spilling. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything at the moment other than his lips on me and the way he rocked his hips into me.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, babe.” He growled in my ear and somewhere, in the back of my mind I was reminded that it indeed was a game to him. Only a show. It was an unwelcome realization that washed over me like a bucket of ice water.  

“We should get back to the hotel.” The hint of invitation was missing from my voice. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

“Right.” I hated how his back stiffened. Had I misjudged? No, not likely. I was so sure that he was returning to his natural state, putting the act away. The game was coming to an end for the night.  

~~~~~<3 I didn’t remember getting back to the hotel, come morning. Or I suppose it was rather more accurate to say come mid afternoon. We’d made it back from the club in one piece and but changing hadn’t been high on our agenda, judging from the state of our clothes.  

I’d managed to shimmy out of my jeans at some point and Clint had tossed his shirt and belt but overall, no real attempts to change into pajamas had been made.  

Waking up next to a shirtless Clint while I myself was wearing only my blouse and panties would have been jarring if not for the constant pounding in my head. I needed to get up, drink an ocean’s worth of water and brush that foul taste out of my mouth but none of that sounded like something worth getting up to do.

“You awake?” Clint’s voice was full of gravel and heavy with sleep. I don’t think he’d ever sounded sexier and I was honestly rather amazed my brain could even go there at this point.  

“Something like that.” I grumbled, hardly above a whisper.  

“Sounds like you feel like shit.” He laughed halfheartedly and I wanted to smack him for it but couldn’t get up the strength. “Glad it’s not just me.”

“What time is it?”  

“Something like noon.” There was shifting and Clint sat up slowly, carefully cradling his head in the process. “Guess that was last time I woke up. Clock says two thirty.”  

“Jesus.”  

“I don’t think Jesus has any mercy for us today. But room service will. I’m ordering the whole fucking breakfast menu.”

“How can you think of food? The idea is nauseating.”  

“Trust me, when it gets here you’ll want the greasy goodness.” He hesitated for a moment. “And I’m always thinking about food. At least, when I’m not thinking about coffee.”

“Coffee.” I moaned.  

“Water first. Coffee second. You’ll feel better that way, trust me.”

“Wish it was your coffee.” I rolled pathetically toward the edge of the bed as Clint slowly stood. We were moving like we were fifty years older and to be fair, we both felt like that was the case. “Yours is better.”

“Keep whispering sweet nothings, babe.” I didn’t have it in me to worry about why he called me ‘babe’.

~~~~~<3  

It took water, Aspirin, greasy food that would kill a weaker heart and long showers but by dinner the both of us were resembling human. That was good news for Clint. The bachelor party due to start in thirty minutes with the group of gentleman meeting in the hotel lobby.

“What are they planning, anyway?” I asked, spread out on the bed and surrounded by piles of text books, papers, notebooks, pens and highlighters. Clint was in the bathroom, finishing shaving after his second shower of the day. Something about trying to wash away the hangover.  

“A tour of a brewery followed by a whiskey tasting and board games.” There was the sound of running water before a fresh faced Clint emerged from the bathroom without a shirt. I was getting oddly used to seeing his naked upper body.  That's not to say it wasn't still hard to avoid drooling every time, at least the shock was starting to wear off. “Did a university classroom explode on our bed?”  

“First- it’s part of being a student. Second- that sounds almost as boring as a sip ‘n paint.”

“Yep. Good thing we had all the excitement last night. I could use a boring night, being the old man I am.” I snorted at his comment. From what I could at least remember of last night, he didn’t dance like an old man at all.  

“How’s this shirt?” Clint slipped on a smooth black button up and made quick work of the buttons. It fit him nicely, hugging muscles tightly enough to hint at them.  

“Looks hot.” Good god, did I say that? “It’s a shame there won’t be any strippers for you to tempt.” Wow, with my brain on my studies for a change I was finding it easy to sass him. It was a hint of what we had when working together in the cafe. It was so much more intimate, being behind the closed doors of a hotel room and with blatant sexual undertones. It would have killed me before.  

“Hey, can’t be tempting strippers when I’ve got a lovely girlfriend waiting for me back here?”  

“Fake Girlfriend.” It almost looked like he deflated at my clarification. But that couldn’t be right. It’s not like that would matter. It’s not like he would ever actually date me. It’s not like he would ever actually care in that way.  

“Right. Fake.” He nodded and it was like a switch flipped and that thing I thought I had saw was gone. Perhaps it was a figment of my imagination all along. “I’ve got to get going. Don’t worry about waiting up.”

~~~~~<3

I really, really didn’t want to go to this party. Back in the day, Stark had more exciting events in honor of surviving the work day. Regardless, it would do me some good to get some space, to get away from Alexis for a bit.  

She made my mind go haywire. She’d always had that ability, in truth but I had spent so long trying to ignore it. I had tried to ignore how I’d looked forward to opening the shop a bit more on the mornings I had scheduled her to work. I tried to ignore the way it made me feel when she smiled at me.  

And now I had to ignore how damn hard it was to pretend that I was just pretending.  

“Son of a-” My foot slipped out from under me, thumping down three stairs before catching on the fourth. It should have been enough to let me get my feet under me again but my other foot caught on a stair and gravity did the rest. Near the bottom I was able to catch the railing. Somehow, once again, I had managed to avoid breaking any bones.  

Now, you may be asking yourself why I’m going down the stairs. It would be a valid question. You see, there was a this toddler in line for the elevator and I’m honestly not sure what he was covered in. It was sticky and smelled sour.  

I didn’t want that on my good jeans or my shirt.

You also could be asking yourself why I’m talking to myself as if there are other people listening. For that, I’ve got no valid excuses. Sorry.

Regardless of how I got there, I managed to not be the last one in the lobby. This is a point of pride for me. Don’t ask why but I can get up and open shop at the ass crack of dawn but being on time to pretty much anything else was asking a lot. Like, a lot, a lot.  Hands were shaken and names exchanged in the airy lobby with too much tropical decoration. I resisted the urge to point out that I wasn't the last one to arrive. 

“Gentlemen.” Matt stood tall and proud in a pressed suit that likely matched the price tag on some of Stark’s cheaper ones. It would be far outside of my typical budget, if not for the side work I still did at Stark’s request but I'm sure Matt thought he was showing everyone up. Such a child. “Let’s get some beers.”

Turns out the tour of the brewery was about as exciting as I had expected it to be. The highlight was the beer. If not for the lack of caffeine, I could very much see myself running a brewery rather than a cafe.  

I wondered if I could do both? Or a caffeinated beer? I’m pretty sure I’d read at some point it was bad to mix caffeine and alcohol but also it was something I’d been doing my whole life. How bad could it be?

“So, Barton- that watch, Rolex?” Ugh, why can’t I be left to my beers in peace? Though I guess it made sense, we’d be moving out to the whiskey room soon and board games. I swear to god.

“Yeah. A few years old but it’s a trusty time piece.” Go away. Go away. Go away. It’s not like you don’t have a newer one on your wrist mister Rich-Name-I-Couldn’t-Bother-To-Remember.

“How do you manage to afford that on a barista salary?” Matt joined us as he motioned for the group of men to move on to the whiskey room. Yay.  

“I own the cafe- that’s hardly a ‘barista salary’.” Bitterness may have slipped into my voice that time. “And I used to work for Stark Industries in Tech Security, if you must know.”

“Ohhh.” I didn’t like the sound of that. “So, is that why Alexis gives you time of day? She’s hot and trying to secure herself a sugar daddy after all.”  

Is homicide still illegal on this island? Does Stark have any lawyers on retainer that would be big enough to get me off on one or two murder charges? Could I afford to break out of jail and move to a island without a extradition treaty?

“That’s not what our relationship is about. I’ve never once talked to Stark about her or given her money beyond her earned wages. I am not nor have I ever been her or anyone else’ sugar daddy. As far as I’m aware, she’s never been anyone else’ sugar baby.” The only thing that kept me from hauling off and decking his ass was the fact that Alexis would probably not like that. But god would I like to.  

The trip from the brewery to the whiskey room was short and that was the only thing that kept me from hauling off and punching someone. Before we were let inside, Matt felt the need to stand in front of the group, arms spread wide and I really, really wanted to knock him down. It was so fucking tempting, you have no idea. He thought he was some grand shit with all his daddy’s money and investment income.  

Wonder what he would think if I told him my bank account was bigger than his?

“Gentlemen.” Here we go again. I hadn’t had enough beers for this. “I billed this night as tame, as a classy event for gentlemen. And many of us know how those events go. Now, in the true tradition of gentleman's clubs, those of you who choose to move forward for the rest of this night will be doing so under sworn secrecy. Our wives, our girlfriends, our family shall not know of the events that shall transpire today.”

Who the hell did he think he was? Did no one ever tell him the reason we know so much about the underground gentleman's clubs was because people in general, suck at keeping secrets? 

“On that note, let the real party begin.”

~~~~~<3

Tag List (Coffee): @winterisakiller, @theheartofpenelope, @ruebx, @hufflepuff25, @0-0-0-0-0-0-0-7, @theoneanna, @bradfordbantams, @toozmanykids, @alexakeyloveloki, @j-u-s-t-4, @missaphrodite23, @bambamwolf87, @nonsensicalobsessions, @tinchentitri, @xoxabs88xox, @queenoftheunderdark, @myoxisbroken, @wegingerangelica

[lovelyfictional-imagines]

How to Disappear

So I’m painfully aware of how long it’s been, but I’m back with a new Doctor fic finally.

Song: How to Disappear - Lana del Rey

Word Count: 3142

John met me down on the boulevard Cry on his shoulder 'cause life is hard The waves came in over my head What you been up to, my baby? I haven't seen you 'round here lately All of the guys tell me lies, but you don't You just crack another beer And pretend that you're still here

             Heat emanated from the asphalt beneath her well-worn wedges, wrinkled dress fluttering about her legs as she strolled along a sidewalk bustling with every walk of life. Dozens of people that seemed to be straight out of magazines, performing and spectating, selling and advertising. A wry smile made its way across her dull, tired face. Vibrantly painting shops and other miscellaneous buildings passed on her other side, watching the world pass them by outside as others were constantly streaming inward and out. Everything she’d ever heard about California was true. Above her a lapis sky reflecting back, cotton ball clouds puffing along like steam engines above the crashing sea of humanity gathered near the ocean.

           (Y/N) swept her wavy (h/c) hair behind her, slipping through the crowd. Beautiful people met her face-to-face, brushing by her as if she belonged there. Thrumming with energy despite her complete state of utter exhaustion, her hand went to the bag dangling at her hip. Breaking from the crowd was almost difficult. There was something almost magical, the magnetism of being surrounded by so many eccentrics again. In the neon green light of the sign overhead, however, she felt the pull of something stronger: a cold beer after a weary day.

            Seating herself at the bar, she folded her legs neatly and searched in her purse. She took her compact out, reapplied her deep red lipstick, and ordered a cheap beer. The bartender almost smiled at her as she took her order, and offered her a lighter when the (h/c) pulled a cigarette from its pack. (Y/N) met the older woman’s gentle, watery blue eyes as she lit it, puffing out a cloud and murmuring a word of thanks. In return an ash tray was pushed her way, and she was alone with her thoughts again.

           It had been a long day. Or a week of long days, really. A long couple of months, would be a better descriptor.

           Six months ago she was climbing onto a plane with a breathtaking woman she’d only known for weeks, luggage stuffed haphazardly with clothes and other personal belongings. In the cold December air, she jetted for the New World alongside a goddess with a voice like honey and storms in her eyes, no sunlight on the horizon. Leaving London and a set of hazel puppy dog eyes in her wake. The pain flashed through them like lightning, her own (e/c) eyes watching it crackle across flecks of gold and green.

           Life was good for the first two or three months. They landed in the Big Apple, New York City, with a purse full of American currency and stars in her red, soggy eyes. From there they were unstoppable.

           Nights spent against each other, inhaling the sweet adrenaline of not knowing where they’d go next, heavy smoke, and the glitter her girl would dab onto her willowy cheekbones. Bus seats were their home when they couldn’t find somewhere to stay, shuttling off from town to town with no true destination in mind, just anywhere to run to. Anywhere they felt free. Until money started running low, and their dream crashed headfirst into an iceberg and sank, down and down until forgotten like ships from fairytales or dramatic novels or movies. And, they just so happened to bring their own Titanic down in the middle of Nevada.

           In the tiny house they’d managed to swing rent for, she felt every mile she’d traveled weighing on her shoulders. Even with the job she’d found, hunger pangs were still a reality. No longer salivating at the idea of escaping further into the American Dream, (Y/N) and the angel dripped and dripped until they were pools of tears that became oceans, rolling and thrashing, lashing out at each other. Gone were the featherlight kisses she’d pressed to her pillow-like lips, the intimate secrets and late nights spent lost in their own sultry twilight. Debauchery, it seemed, wasn’t a lifestyle she could realistically manage.

           Sticky, sweaty mornings spent groggy until hangovers set in were lost in time, dissolved like medicine in a glass of water. Biting kisses became biting remarks, and biting remarks grew into discussions that grew into (Y/N) moving out with all her savings. A bus ticket was her ticket to salvation, and she shipped off for California, the land of the freaks and free, apparently.

           Thick steps brought her onto the bus once again, and her thoughts were finally forced back to those eyes, loving her and hating her in equal measure as she ran from their affection. (Y/N) remembered how regret was a boulder sitting in her stomach, fear was the blood in her veins, He’d still come with hope things could’ve been different, and the last thing she remembered as she stared into their abyss is that she never deserved him.

           And in the midst of her misty-eyed reverie, an all-too-familiar touch ghosted her waist. Dabbing the wetness away with the napkin that had come around her almost empty drink, she turned to the love of her life with the same tenderness she’d always had.

           “Allow me to buy your next one, and the proceeding one, if I may.”

           The sound of his voice hummed through her like hot chocolate hitting a cold stomach. Flooded with remorse and the only true sense of comfort she’d ever known in her short life, she studied his sharp face. Thick, chestnut colored locks of hair flopped down over his forehead as he settled into the stool next to hers. Even in the middle of summer on the western coast, he wore his signature tweed coat over his brilliantly crimson bow tie. The bartender nodded at them from her spot behind the bar, sliding two more beers their way.

           All of a sudden it was their first meeting again, the one where she fell in love instantly.

           “Hello, Doctor.”

           “Hello (Y/N).”

 This is how to disappear This is how to disappear

             They danced on the floor after one two many rounds, (Y/N) thrown around the Doctor’s lithe frame as she cried for the fourth time that evening. One spent catching up, laughing like old times, and even talking of the future. Their future.

           “I’m sick, Doctor,” she whispered, voice slightly slurred as her damp cheek pressed into his chest. “I never wanted to leave you.”

           The Doctor stilled his swaying for a moment, but continued almost as if he hadn’t stopped. Raking his fingers clumsily through her long, dirty (h/c) hair, he pressed the thin line of his mouth to her forehead.

           “I know.”

 Joe met me down at the training yard Cuts on his face 'cause he fought too hard I know he's in over his head But I love that man like nobody can He moves mountains and pounds them to ground again I watched the guys getting high as they fight For the things that they hold dear To forget the things they fear

             The year was 1939, years before America joined the war. Word was coming from overseas, and it felt bleaker than the textbooks describe. (Y/N)’s stomach dropped when she heard of Germany’s attack against Poland, as if she didn’t know what came next. It was all worlds away, however, as she leaned against the concrete wall of the military base. Her curls were falling int he sticky southern heat of Louisiana, and she lifted her lit cigarette to her painted mouth. Across the yard, he sparred with a stocky man covered in tattoos.

           Travelling felt so good, for the first time in what felt like forever. The luxury of a confirmed bed to sleep in every time she chose, food being available almost instantly, but the true pleasure came in the company she kept while doing so. The Doctor, her sweet boy, the eternal man, took her in without a question. Her impending doom was a topic for another day whenever he wrapped her in his wiry but sturdy arms, eyes finding hers in confirmation she isn’t leaving again.

           Her mind is elsewhere as her own wandering eyes are focused on his back. In a baggy, soiled white tank top and hefty olive pants, dark boots that added two inches to his height, with shaggy hair that was already growing back, he seemed as if he almost belonged there. Landing solid punches left and right, he pulled back as his opponent countered. Dodging swiftly, he moved in again for a quick onslaught on the man’s side. Hunching over, the man seemed spent, and the Doctor turned his back on him. A mistake, however, when the man stood and lurched forward with a hairy-knuckled fist. She cried out, causing him to turn a few seconds too late as it collided with his sharp jaw.

           Hands covered her mouth as she watched him reel, spinning back with furious punches that came from some sort of inward strength. Sometimes she forgot he wasn’t human. Or, in actuality, she forgot he was so damn resilient. Two hearts pumping liquid gold through him, all the knowledge in the universe stacked carefully in his enormous mind, and thousands upon thousands of years of experience on his shoulders.

           Before she could process it, the match was over, and the Doctor was sauntering towards her. Sweat poured and clung to his unevenly tanned skin, dark eyes watching her with hunger. He grimaced at her as she took another drag, but it wasn’t the same disappointment as it once was. Now it was bitter resign, and he slid his shirt from around him and draped it across his shoulders before spitting blood and taking the cancer stick to hit it himself.

           “Where to next? Had your fill of propaganda and bigotry yet?”

           A dry chuckle left her throat as he smiled at her, causing her to roll her eyes. He puffed on as if he had his entire life. Carefully her eyes slid over his physique, taking in his muscles and dirt and grime, the bruises on his knuckles and face.

           “Or are you just trying to get off from watching me battle the entire army?”

           A sly smirk and light blush instantly bloomed across her face, and she dabbed at her brow with the handkerchief he’d made a show of giving to her in front of the other ladies she’d been working alongside.

           “Guilty as charged, hm? No, I believe we’ll be leaving tonight. Is that alright?”

           The Doctor merely watched the sun setting behind the other buildings, the sweet screams of cicadas loud in their ears as he reached for her. Throwing the butt down, his arm drew her to his chest and he dipped her, kissing her deeply. His mouth lately had become so sweet, it tasted of cherry pie and ashes and bittersweet unspoken words she knew were bursting in his chest like bubbles against the ground. Across the training grounds, other men whooped and whistled, and they simply remained wrapped up in one another, as always.

 This is how to disappear This is how to disappear

             Only having a year or two (approximately, give or take a few months) wasn’t as scary as movies or television shows made it out to be, or so (Y/N) thought.

           Given her diagnosis, she expected to feel her world crumble around her, or maybe for the sky to fall in the minute she stepped foot outside of her physician’s clinic. Instead, she felt numb. Not unhappy, but she simply did not feel. As she walked to the nearest gas station, she had a basic plan mapped out. Leave the Doctor on some sort of sour note so maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t try to follow her. Go somewhere to sit and decompose like all things do, maybe become fertilizer for wildflowers.

           Meeting Jacqueline was her self-described “sign” that she was in the right. Not like in television dramas where the main character was doing the wrong thing, but one reality show that made perfect sense, where she would leave both of the Doctor’s aged hearts broken and bitter, where he would be driven to scream her name out in frustration atop some building somewhere.

           Singing in a run-down pub was her only means on income, but she was still stunning in chipped heels and hand-me-down leopard print dresses. Deep mahogany hair that surrounded a porcelain portrait of perfection with slate blue eyes, false eyelashes, and a rose-kissed pout that (Y/N) never tired of meeting with her own until things went south. They fell into something that could’ve been more than infatuation if she hadn’t been so toxic and if (Y/N) hadn’t been hopelessly in love with someone else.

           In her head there was no other way of erasing herself, her existence entirely, without the Doctor’s help. So she went the human way out: selfishly, and without warning.

 Now it's been years since I left New York And I've got a kid and two cats in the yard The California sun and the movie stars And I watched the skies getting light as I write As I think about those years As I whisper in your ear

 A blissfully historic year and a half passed, and (Y/N) was surprisingly still kicking. Feeling weaker every day, it was almost as if she could feel the cancer spreading from her bones outward. Like a tree covered in vines or moss, feeling the tendrils rise and extend and envelop her. Sometimes she thinks the Doctor can tell she’ll pass soon, but she’s always prided herself on her acting. Or maybe he simply doesn’t want to believe it, only he knows but won’t tell.

Now it’s 1984, and she’s reclining on the front porch in a dusty town in Nebraska, feet propped against the chair’s arms. Corn surrounds them as far she can see, wind whistling through and shaking it. The open windows and breeze carry sounds of the Cheers theme and the Doctor rummaging through the kitchen, tinkering with something. On the horizon, the sun is setting and their friends are sprawled on a blanket on the front yard.

Amy and Rory laugh at the sky and whisper like lovestruck children, taking photographs and promising they’ll remember today forever, and (Y/N) can feel the warmth pooling in her chest at the immense amount of love she carries for them. As he wraps his arm around her and their lips lock, the clearing of one’s throat breaks her trance. Jumping at the sound, she playfully glares at her Doctor before realizing he was offering her a glass of iced tea, something he was surprisingly fond of after spending time in the southern United States.

“I never thought this would be where I’d want to be.”

The Doctor hummed in agreement as he sat in the vacant chair next to her, one hand cradling his own drink and the other instinctively falling over hers. As she gazed at the Doctor now, jacket abandoned and suspenders down around his waist, bowtie forgotten in their bedroom somewhere, she felt as if they’d been together for years. His socks were slouched around her ankles, brown with pastel spots, her fingers warm beneath his as the ice in her tea cooled her others, and she knew this was it. This was where she wanted to die. If an afterlife should exist, this would be the exact moment she’d choose for her own personal heaven. To live through every day with the ones she held dear, with not a care in the universe, forever.

That would be just fine.

Amy called to them, crawling up from Rory’s embrace, camera in hand. The pair approached them with the same warmth from her chest in their faces and cheeks, and it was so beautiful she could have wept.

“You look like those old married couples in paintings!”

And she took their picture.

(Y/N) wouldn’t have called them an old couple, but as she looked at her baggy jeans and heavy green sweater, she might have been swayed. They laughed regardless if they agreed, and the Doctor looked indignant as (Y/N) began to crawl into his lap.

“Just because I am an old man doesn’t mean I look it.” He huffed at the pair as they giggled and ran inside.

“Just like children.” She hummed, leaning her head against his as his arm slithered across her waist, accommodating her lighter than ever frame.

“I don’t look it, do I?” The Doctor asked, earning a chuckle in response.

“I dunno, I’ve always had a thing for older men. Maybe that explains why I’m so bloody attracted to you.

“Are you sure it isn’t my devilishly cunning mind or my incredibly chiseled jawline?” He smirked, turning to her with a wink.

“Oh yeah.” She finished, covering his mouth with hers.

Falling into the groove of the kiss, the Doctor dropped his glass as he lifted his hands to her hair. (Y/N) allowed hers to slide from hers as she reached for his face, neither minding the mess at the moment. Because at the moment, it was an alien and a human, completely intertwined with one another, burning their skin into each other’s, as if they could meld together into one and never be without.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” the Doctor pulled away and began mouthing the words against the sickly skin of her neck, and she felt the words reverberate through her as if they were gospel, as if she were a holy vessel with divine intervention being delivered through her.

“Until every blade of grass falls away, until the winds cease, until all color fades from every star, I love you.”

“Mm, poetic for my gangly, awkward man, hmm?”

The Doctor breathed against her neck, no humor found tonight.

“No funnies tonight? Let me put my notecards away then.”

Pulling back, she pouted like a child in its parent’s lap. The Doctor was as serious as the grave, with pounds of suffering weighing his sad eyes down. (Y/N) turned and leaned into his chest, slouching down his torso before feeling his head lay on hers.

“Don’t be so blue, my great American novel is about to end spectacularly.”

           Her voice was a hoarse whisper. His response was silence.

           Until she felt his tears drip down into her hair, and (Y/N) simply rubbed his hands as the sun fell far from their sight. Laying in his lap, she felt him cling to her as he sobbed, all in silence.

 I'm always going to be right here No one's going anywhere