#but why would you ever think I could fall on it? that’s silly. I’m affronted right now

[dr-lizortecho]

you’ve heard of internalized homophobia get ready for internalized queerphobia

[frenchfrysplash]

fic: between heaven, the sky, the earth

The Haunting of Bly Manor

Dani/Jamie

Chapter 2/10

Read on AO3 Here! Or you can continue into the Read More.

Summary: Jamie goes between one moment, and the next. Falling around her like rain, like snow.

She’s here for a reason. Here to help.

She just needs to remember.

————————————–

Chapter Two: the pitiless wave

And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave?

- Edgar Allen Poe, A Dream Within a Dream

December 1996

"Jamie?"

"Hm?" Jamie turned away from the window, where she had been gazing out at the way the Christmas lights lit up the newly fallen snow. Henry Wingrave always went all out with Christmas lights, decorating not only his big Massachusetts house, but the trees and hedges of the ridiculously large property as well. It was as though his determination to make up that lost year to his niece and nephew had been channelled into twinkling reds and greens, yellows and blues, and at least one blow up snowman, which Flora still loved, even at 17 years of age.

Said 17-year-old was looking at her now, holding two mugs of hot chocolate, eyebrows raised. Jamie didn't think she would ever stop seeing the little girl she had first met, even as Flora looked more and more like Charlotte Wingrave with every passing day.

"Sorry, Flora," Jamie said, taking the proffered hot chocolate. "Just lost in thought, I guess."

"Uncle Henry's lights have been known to hypnotize many a fool who wanders this way at night," Flora said, sounding older than she was, just as her brother had, once upon a time. "We find them in the spring, wandering in the forest."

Jamie snorted. "You went from strange little girl to strange teenager, you know that?"

Flora shrugged, sitting down on the couch in front of the fireplace. "Normal is overrated."

Jamie had heard Flora and Miles' accents change over the course of the past nine years, between phone calls and visits and VHS tapes sent in the mail of dance recitals and school plays. Dani had almost let the little family drop out of touch, but in the end, hadn't been able to resist when Flora called on her ninth birthday asking why Dani hadn't answered her invitation. Still, the change was jarring sometimes, especially when she had been so lost in the past a moment before.

Or had she? She was certain she had been thinking back on some memory, but what it was exactly escaped her.

"Am I going to have to look for you in the woods come Spring?" Flora asked, an amused expression on her face. "Where do you keep going?"

"Just remembering when you were little," Jamie said. "And Dani made you do all the weeding for the day, and I got to sit and drink gin and tonic. Christ, I should have told her I'd marry her right then and there."

"I could tell you liked her, you know," Flora said, eyes dancing in the firelight. "From the moment you first saw her."

"Flora, you were eight," Jamie said. "How could you possibly tell?"

"You're not denying it!"

"Denying it?" Jamie laughed. "Dani and I have been together for nine years, I think we're well past denying it." The glint of her ring caught both of their eyes, and Jamie felt a stupid grin spread across her face at the sight. "You didn't answer the question, little miss trouble."

Flora giggled, for a moment looking like that little girl Jamie saw in her mind's eye. "Well, maybe it wasn't the moment you first saw her. You were pretty rude to her, actually."

Jamie gasped, affronted. "I didn't even say anything to her!"

"Exactly!" Flora pointed at her triumphantly. "You were terribly rude."

A trace of the British accent she had left behind long ago was in her words. Jamie couldn't help but smile as she sipped her hot chocolate.

"Alright then," she said. "How and when could you tell I liked your dear au pair?"

"You stayed the night because she was scared," Flora said simply. "You'd never stayed the night at the manor before."

Jamie frowned, thinking back to that night. The thought that Peter Fucking Quint might be lurking around the grounds had made her blood boil, and really, there had been no question of her and Owen sticking around. It hadn't really been because of Dani, though Jamie remembered the way Dani's eyes had looked, shining in the darkness as they walked the grounds together, wide and scared and determined all at once. Remembered the relieved expression they took on when Owen suggested staying. Remembered how she hadn't even hesitated to stay when she saw the way Dani's shoulders relaxed.

And Jamie had been convinced Dani was straight, then. Who the hell knew?

"I used to think it was because of the ghosts," Flora was saying, bringing Jamie slamming back into the present and making her choke on her hot chocolate.

"S-sorry," she coughed. "I'm sorry. Did you say ghosts?"

"Yep," Flora looked towards the fire, thoughtful. "I know that's silly now, because there's no such thing as ghosts, right? But I remember thinking 'ah, Jamie must be scared of the ghosts. That's why she never stays for dinner.'"

Jamie blinked. Flora and Miles, she was certain, did not remember the events at Bly. Whatever happened in children's minds to protect them from trauma had taken hold, and all of the fear and strangeness of that summer had faded away. But could Flora possibly remember, somewhere, in the back of her mind?

"I used to have an imaginary friend there, you know," Flora said. "A little boy. I thought he was a ghost, because he didn't have a face-" Jamie's sharp inhale went unnoticed. "- and he scared me so badly I went running to Mum. Uncle Henry was there too, I remember." An odd expression passed over her, but she shook her head, as if to rid herself of it. "Anyway, I showed them where I'd seen him, and I told them I was scared, and Uncle Henry, well, he did his Uncle Henry thing and made me feel better."

"Oh?" Jamie asked, hardly breathing.

"Yeah," Flora laughed. "He told me to give the little boy a story, and a name, and maybe then he wouldn't seem so scary." She looked at Jamie, grinning. "He's always full of little pearls of wisdom like that, you know."

"Yeah," Jamie said, voice faint. Her heart was thundering in her ears, but not because Flora was talking about ghosts.

No, it was because standing behind Flora, silent and looming, was The Lady in the Lake.

"Is that what you want?" Jamie asked. "Is that why I'm here?"

The Lady in the Lake said nothing. Jamie leaned over and set her mug down on the coffee table. It disappeared as she did, along with Flora, lost to whatever new memory was coming. The living room was falling apart around her, lights going out one by one, walls crumbling, floor cracking and disintegrating into darkness.

"Your name," Jamie said, struggling to pull herself up straight on the couch. Her limbs suddenly felt heavy, bogged down by a life time of memories crashing about her all at once, fighting to be the next to play out. "I know your name."

The Lady of the Lake loomed ever closer, closer, closer, and Jamie-

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

June 1987

Sleeping on a couch wasn't fun at the best of times, and sleeping on an antique couch in overalls was downright traumatic. There was an ache at the back of Jamie's neck as she opened her eyes, woken up by what she thought were footsteps receding behind her. She lifted her head, glancing over the back of the couch, into the empty foyer.

Must be the ghost.

She chuckled at the thought, and levered herself up, stretching her arms and shoulders. Massaging at the crick in her neck, she headed towards the bathroom just off the kitchen, taking the time to splash a little water on her face before heading back out.

The kitchen wasn't empty. Dani stood at the centre island, back to the stove, frowning down at a teapot and teacup. Jamie felt her breath catch in her throat, taking in Dani's long blonde hair and the way it fell partially in front of her face; the way her nose scrunched up in frustration; the way her fingers tapped against the counter-top.

Dani was beautiful, and Jamie would be lying if she said she hadn't noticed it. She had seen it on that very first day, when she'd walked into the kitchen and felt any introduction she was about to make stop short in her chest. Ah, there you are, were the words that had floated across her mind, and the feeling had only strengthened since. Like Dani was meant to be there, in her life, and Jamie had just been patiently waiting until she arrived. Even as she tried to keep some distance, sure Dani was as straight as they come, her every heart beat seemed to repeat those words she had first felt when she had seen Dani.

Ah, there you are.

"Something the matter with the tea?" Jamie asked, settling herself into the bar stool closest to the au pair.

"Jamie!" Dani looked up, eyes widening in surprise. "Hi, uh, I was-" she glanced down at the pot of tea. "I was making you tea."

Her last words came out in a murmur, and were accompanied by a light blush on her cheeks. Jamie tried to suppress a grin.

"You were making me tea?" She asked, feeling inordinately pleased at the thought. "Just me? Not Owen or Hannah? Or the kids?"

"They're sleeping," Dani pointed out.

"So was I, until a few minutes ago." The grin couldn't be suppressed.

Dani ducked her head. "You said once you're an early riser, and I saw you on the couch and thought - you know what, whatever, if you don't want any-"

"I didn't say that!" Jamie held up her hands. "I'd love some tea."

Dani narrowed her eyes at her, but a small smile broke through, and she pushed the teacup in Jamie's direction.

"Not even gonna ask how I take it?" Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Such confidence."

"Um," said Dani, smile fading as Jamie took a sip.

And immediately spat it back out.

"Poppins," she said, voice deadly serious, setting the teacup down. "Are you trying to poison me?"

"I'm sorry," Dani rushed out, covering her eyes with her hand. "I'm shit at tea. Miles tried to give me pointers, but I can't seem to get it right. I just - it was so nice of you to stay last night, and I wanted to do something to thank you, and British people like tea! So I thought I would make you tea, but I'm so bad at it, I knew it was a terrible idea."

Jamie waited for the end of the word tsunami, desperately trying to keep a straight face. Finally, though, Dani peeked at her through her fingers, and she couldn't stop herself, dissolving into laughter.

"Well, that's just mean," Dani said, dropping her hand from her face. Her indignant expression caused Jamie to laugh harder.

"Sorry," she said, calming herself down. "I'm sorry. It's not even that funny."

"I just wanted to do something nice," Dani muttered, looking back down at the tea and pouting.

Jamie took a deep breath, and ran her fingers through her curls. She closed her eyes, centring herself, and so missed Dani looking up at her, eyes widening and mouth parting slightly in an inaudible gasp. By the time she opened them again, Dani's gaze had averted, and she was none the wiser.

"Ok, how about I give you a lesson, then?" Jamie asked. She stood up, picking up the pot and the cup, making her way to the sink where she dumped out both.

Dani watched her, perplexed. "A lesson?"

"On the proper way to make tea." Jamie searched out the second teapot, not trusting the first not to retain the contamination of Dani's disastrous attempt, as well as two teacups. "Per Jamie Taylor, tea-making prodigy."

"A prodigy?" Dani turned, leaning her hip against the counter, arms crossed. "I didn't realize I was in the presence of such genius."

"I keep it to myself, mostly," Jamie said, shrugging. She filled up the kettle and set it on the stove to boil. "Now first, we boil water."

"And then what?" Dani asked, amusement lighting up her face in a way that made Jamie want to swoon.

"One thing at a time," Jamie said. "That's your problem, you Americans, always rushing about. Tea takes time."

"I see." Dani glanced at the kettle, then back at Jamie. She seemed to be struggling with the silence that had fallen between them, though Jamie found it quite comfortable. She tilted her head. "So, no change of clothes, huh?"

"Nah," Jamie looked down at herself. "I rushed out of my flat pretty quick last night when Hannah phoned. Hated the thought of Pete wandering the grounds, probably flattening all my flowers. On purpose, knowing him."

"Yeah, that would be the worst thing he could do," Dani said drily. She was quiet for a moment, opening her mouth to talk, but startling at the whistle of the kettle.

Jamie quickly removed it from the burner, setting it aside. She turned to her teapot, and added teabags.

"Two teabags, huh?" Dani asked.

"More or less depending on how strong you like it." Jamie grabbed the kettle and poured the boiling water in. "Two to a pot is pretty reasonable though." She set the kettle aside, and placed the lid on the teapot. "Now, we let it steep."

"Steep?"

"So it'll actually taste like something," Jamie said. "And not just milky water with a bit of sugar."

"Ah," Dani peered at the teapot. "That makes sense." She smiled a somewhat embarrassed smile. "I didn't realize you had to do that."

"Which resulted in you almost killing me," Jamie said.

"I didn't almost kill you-"

"I saw me life flash before me eyes, I did."

Dani snorted, and looked away. Silence fell again, and Jamie took the moment to just look at Dani. She studied her profile, traced the contours of her eyebrows, her nose, her cheeks, her lips, down her neck, along her collarbones. Something tugged at her, insistently. A feeling that she had forgotten something, nagging in the back of her mind, like when you're not sure you locked the door before leaving in the morning.

"Where do you live, anyway?"

Jamie blinked, surprised at the question. It must have shown on her face, because Dani blushed and looked away.

"Sorry," she said. "I mean, I know you live in Bly, obviously. But where in Bly? Not that it'll mean much to me, since I've never been into town. But I was just curious, I guess."

"S'alright," Jamie said, smiling at her. "I live near the centre of the village, actually. In a flat above the local pub. Takes me about twenty minutes to drive here."

"Oh!" Dani considered this. "What's it like living above a pub?"

Jamie thought for a moment. "Not terrible," she said finally. "Not ideal either. I can pop down and get a drink whenever I want, but then I can hear everything going on down there all night. It's not exactly busy, but some nights they have live music, or it's a Saturday and things are getting rowdy." She shrugged. "It was almost a blessing staying here last night, with the silence." She rubbed the back of her neck again. "The couch was torture though."

"Well," said Dani. "Next time you stay over, we'll make sure you get a bed."

"You offering, Poppins?" Jamie asked, delighted at the way Dani's ears turned bright red. "Nah, I'm sure you'd rather our resident chef."

She made her way over to the fridge, pulling out milk and setting it on the counter, goosebumps prickling her arms as she felt Dani's eyes on her. Distance, she thought, was best.

"No," said Dani, voice so low Jamie almost didn't hear her. "I don't think I would."

Jamie turned to her a little too fast, almost dropping the sugar bowl. Dani was watching her, arms still crossed, expression soft. Jamie felt a surge of…something towards this woman. Something deep and all-consuming, something that was impossible for her to be feeling, given how short a time she had known her. But it was there, an ache in her chest, painful and wonderful and too much.

The sugar bowl fell to the ground, shattering.

"Jamie?" Dani asked, pushing herself off the counter, concern colouring her features. "Jamie, what's wrong?"

It was only now Jamie felt the tears tracking down her cheeks, blurring her vision as she stared at Dani, whose eyes were wide with shock, her mouth moving as she asked Jamie what was going on, what was wrong, what could she do?

Jamie heard none of it, only gazed steadily at her dead wife.

"God, I miss you," she said.

Dani's face was stricken. Jamie took a few stumbling steps forward, cupping Dani's blurred face.

"I wish you were real," she whispered. "I wish this wasn't just a memory. I wish-"

She stopped when she saw Dani's eye-line shift.

Over her shoulder.

Slowly, she turned around. And gasped, stepping back involuntarily, into the space Dani had just now vanished from.

The Lady in the Lake stepped with her, eyeless face filling Jamie's vision. She raised her hands towards Jamie's neck, and Jamie shut her own eyes, readying herself for those cold, clammy fingers to wrap around her neck.

Instead, she felt them wipe at her cheeks.

Jamie opened her eyes again, heart pounding, as the Lady in the Lake wiped her tears. It didn't really help, since her hands were damp from their watery home, but there was a certain clumsy gentleness there. Like this was something the Lady had done before, but not for a very, very long time.

As she stood there, utterly terrified, Jamie became aware of another noise beyond her own shuddering breaths. There was a sound coming out of the Lady's throat, guttural, animalistic. She seemed to be trying to say something.

All at once, Jamie remembered.

Carefully, she raised her own hand to cover the Lady's at her face, curling her fingers around it and bringing it down, squeezing. She swallowed, fighting past her fear, and brought her other hand up, trembling, to touch the Lady's waxlike face.

"Viola," she said quietly. "Your name is Viola Lloyd. Do you remember?"

The noise from the Lady's throat changed, slightly. Jamie dropped her hand to the one holding the Lady's, and squeezed, almost encouragingly.

And finally, finally, the noise that came out of the Lady's throat wasn't just a meaningless sound anymore.

"Vi…ola…"

[singeramg]

Finding Forever: Chapter 4

Pairing: Henry Cavill/ OFC

Rating: E OR M however you want to say it 

Warnings (: Dom! Henry, Sub OFC, Smut, Some Angst, Oral, female receiving, Unprotected sex, (Don’t be silly, wrap your willies people) 

A/n: Sooooo it wasn’t that slow of a burn. I think four chapters is good enough to start the smut lol

Catch up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 

In honor of Henry being a cheeky boy this morning, here is this gif and the story...

The ride back to the hotel was quiet as I regretted my hasty words. I knew I had effectively ensured Henry would dislike me if not right out hate me. Not to mention Mia would always feel some type of way about me if she and Henry decided to give it a go. I knew she wouldn’t outright cut me out for him because we had been through too much together for that to happen, but that didn’t mean I wanted my friend to look at me differently because of this. All because of my stupid inability to keep my mouth shut and my emotions down. 

I trudged up to my hotel room, flinging my shoes off and adding the chain to my room door. I headed to my bathroom, shuddering at the reflection in the mirror. Her ponytail was loose, her eyes red, eye shadow smudged and  looking downright tired. In short I looked a mess. 

I turned on my shower, grateful for the warmth of it falling on my skin. I stayed in far too long contemplating on how I would face the two of them tomorrow. I could fain a hangover but that wouldn’t save me from Mia and honestly she would figure it out that I was faking it. Frustrated, I cut off the shower and got out, pulling on a pair of grey spandex type shorts that had outgrown being appropriate to be worn in public and comfortable enough to sleep in, along with a thin black cami that had the words “killin’ it” written on the front in white. Pulling a black almost floor length on, I had made the decision to deal with everything  head-on tomorrow. As much as it would kill me, I was going to have to apologize to Henry. I told or at the very best implied something that he asked me about in confidence. I knew how that felt, as I had former friends other than Mia that I thought I could trust and they turned to use those secrets against me. I was a shitty person to do that to him. I cut on the TV in my bedroom for more background noise than anything and went out to the front of my suite to grab a bottle of water. 

I hadn’t bothered to cut on any lights as this was a quick trip over to the desk where I had been leaving my bottled drinks.

 “You know this hotel should really invest in better chains for their doors. I was able to slide that out of its place with a comb.”

 Is familiar accented voice said and I yelped, jumping a foot in the air, before trying to find a weapon in the darkness. The lamp near a red and gold accent chair cut on to reveal Henry sitting there looking as calm as ever, however I was the one freaking out. 

 “Holy shit Henry, you almost gave me a damn heart attack! What in the fuck? How did you get in here?”

 He gave a small smirk, holding up a rattail comb with the metal end. 

 “I told you with a comb. More specifically Mia brought me this comb and her copy of your room key, when I called to tell her I couldn’t reach you.”

 My eyes narrowed at the mention of Mia and while I winced on the inside, the outside showed no change. I crossed my arms across my chest, jutting a hip out.

 “You do realize there is thing called knocking. How it works is you tap from the outside, I hear it on the inside and decide if I want to let you in.”

He chuckled.

 “I knocked. You didn’t answer so I got to thinking maybe I could wait for you to come back to your room. I realized you were in the shower so I waited. I thought I was going to have to rescue you considering how long you were in there.”

 “It’s my room I can stay in the shower as long as I want. Now what I want is for you to leave.”

 I pointed a thumb toward the door. His response was to lean forward, elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together in front of him. I noticed the worry lines across his forehead.

 “You make everything so hard.” 

 “The only thing hard about this is you still sitting here.”

 He stood abruptly crossing the room quickly with his long legs. He was in front of me before I could retreat away. 

 “No. What is hard is that you are so fucking hard headed. I came to talk to you, sort this whole thing out like rational adults.”

 “Look Henry. I apologize for outing you to Mia like I did. I know that was messed up...”

 “Stop. Where did you get this idea that I was interested in Mia?”

 I stepped backwards again trying to put more distance from being able to smell his cologne. He wouldn’t allow it as he stepped forward again.

“What are you talking about? Henry you literally asked me if she was single.”

He began to laugh, affronted,  I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.

“What is so funny?”

 “Aura darling, there has been a major misunderstanding. I am not interested in Mia, not now, not ever.”

 I somehow let a breath of relief that I didn’t know I was holding. Embarrassed, I didn't want to deal with this right now.

“Whaa... But... I can’t do this with you tonight. Get out.”

I shook my head and moving backwards. Henry looked at me, incredulous  then his eyes narrowed slightly and seemingly got darker. 

 “No I don’t think I will.”

 “It wasn’t a request Henry...”

 “Not a request... Do you want to know the true reason I asked that question about Mia?”

 He moved closer and this time I didn’t move. Something about his gaze kept me pinned in place. I didn’t say anything either which also wasn’t like me when I was pissed, as evidenced by my little club outburst earlier. I nodded my head, noticing that my throat was now dry.

Close enough to me now, Henry reaches up brushing some of the wayward hair away from my face pushing it back behind my ear. The action screamed gentle and soft, but his eyes said otherwise. 

“I prefer if you use your words when you address me.” He prompted. Intimated by the tone he spoke in coupled with his actions I looked at him and spoke.

 “Yes go ahead and tell me.” Fake bravado won out in the end.

 “I asked about Mia because Jay, who is one of cameramen for the movie really wants to get to know her. While Mia is certainly pretty, she is not who I am interested in.”

 “So you are interested in someone just not here. Oh my bad, hopefully I didn’t mess anything with whoever you actually like.” 

 I couldn’t tamper down on the attitude, trying to keep a wall up between us to help save face. I began to walk away, but Henry only let me get but so far, then he ended up catching me by the waist. His grip was sure, but not painful. 

 “I am interested in someone who is currently acting like a brat because she can’t take a hint. I tried the subtle thing with you Aura because I didn’t want to scare you off. You however are stubborn.”

 His right hand came up to my face, grasping my chin to make me stare him directly in the eyes. My hazel crossing with his blue and I couldn’t look away.

  “Let me be clear, the only one I have an interest in is you.”

 White noise rang out in my ears as I felt my breath hitch in my throat again. As the tension in the room was about to boil over.

“Me?”

 “Yes you Aura.” 

 Slowly I moved in and he moved in until our lips met, the kiss ignited a fire in me as I pressed myself flush against him and both of his hands drifted down the side of my body landing on my hips and making sure I could feel how he had hardened against my stomach. I slid my hands up his torso, linking around his neck. I was breathless by the time he pulled back, a smug look on his face, lips redder than normal from our kissing. 

 “I have been wanting to do that since I met you. It was not a disappointment.”

 “Is that all you have been wanting to do since you met me?”

 I questioned with a mischievous grin. I’m response he raised an eyebrow.

 “Oh no actually I have been thinking about just how good you are going to look after you’ve cum 5 times...”

 That was it. I felt a rush of wetness leave my body as I tried to clench my thighs together. Henry noticed and his gaze was intense as he didn’t break eye contact, which could be unnerving but it wasn’t as much as it should have been for me. I untied the black robe in the front and let it fall to the floor, well aware of my lack of bra and tight shorts that clung to me. 

 “You talk a good game, but can you back it up Cavill?”

 I turned and walked toward the bedroom. I didn’t even check to make sure he was following because I knew he would be. I walked in turning the dimmer on in the room so it was a soft glow, but not pitch black like hotel rooms could be. I guess my stop to mess with the dimmer was all the time Henry needed to catch up to me because he was in the door quicker than I had only taken 4 steps, grabbing my hips again, stopping my forward motion. 

 “It’s sir to you Aura and where do you think you are you going?” He questions.

 “Umm to the bed?”

 “Did I tell you to get in the bed yet?” He questioned his hands grazing under the edge of my shirt, drawing small circles with his fingers. His breath warm against my right ear. 

 “No but I’d imagine if we are going to do this, we need to be in the bed.”  I snarked to him. All that earned me was a sharp slap on my ass. I yelped in surprise as I heard Henry give a chuckle.

 “Ouch. That hurt.” 

 “ You’ve earned a lot more than that one, but if you’re a good girl for me. I’ll suspend your punishment.”

 I bit my bottom lip in anticipation.

 “What if want to be bad?”

He laughed again.

 “Trust me baby girl. You will want to be a good girl for me.” 

 With those words, I turned around to face him again, and instead of standing there so I could kiss him as planned he walked over to the bed. Sitting on the edge of it, he looked at me and beckoned me closer. I smirked.

 “You just want to be in control so bad don’t you.”

 “And you want to give it up so bad. I sensed it in you from the moment we met. So why don’t you let me Aura?” I find myself nodding.

 “Give me a safe word.”

 “Raggamuffin?”

 I say with a smirk. He returns it back then agrees. 

Henry reaches up, gasping my neck lightly again, then down into a kiss. His hands slid down until the reach the hem of my shirt, then breaking the kiss, pulling it over my head. Bare from the waist up, Henry makes my face feel warm, as my body is under his direct gaze. He strips my shorts and panties off in one smooth pull. He breathes in deeply, as I  try to anticipate what he will do next, my legs still trembling slightly as his hands run from the back of my knees to my ass. 

 “You smell absolutely delicious.”

 I began unbuttoning his shirt, wanting nothing more than to see it on the floor. He helped me get it off then began kissing my stomach, his lips drifting lower and lower around my bikini lines, but never where I wanted his lips to go.

 “Your legs are shaking darling. I think you should sit on the best seat in the house.” 

 He slaps my ass again, but this time not as hard. I moved backward, as Henry moves backward resting his head on the pillow, then beckoning me up there to him. I did as he asked, crawling up his body, feeling his jeans brush against my bare skin, then the thick, dark chest hair.The sensation dynamic played a role in the power imbalance, and I was loving it. I was headed for the button on his jeans, when he spoke.

 “The seat I want you on is up here.”

 I had to be dripping by now, he kisses me one more time and I pulled myself to hover above his full lips. His hands glide up my thighs, then  he kisses both of them stupidly close to my sex but doesn’t touch it. I could feel his breath against me and it frustrated me further, but his strength kept me held up. 

“Please Henry”

 I whispered. He squeezes my thighs just enough to sting and make me whimper. 

“ What did I tell you to call me?” 

 My fuzzy mind struggled to come up with the answer but I soon found it.

 “Sir please. Please touch me.”

 Finally his tongue sticks out and touches me. I lower slightly and he actually allowed me to move. I gripped the grey hotel headboard as best as I could. He started drawing what seemed to be random patterns. I wanted to grind down against his face and take my pleasure but he was having none of that. He stopped for a second.

 “Let’s play a game. Let’s see if you can guess the letters I am spelling out. You get them right, I’ll keep going. Get them wrong and I’ll stop.”

 I whimpered not wanting him to stop. He chuckled, the vibrations traveling directly into my core. Then he went back but this time it took every ounce of my collective concentration to even guess at the first letter.

 “Umm...shit.... it’s a H.”

 He didn’t respond but kept moving. When he swirled his tongue around my clit in an unrecognizable letter my mind went blank until he suddenly stopped. 

 “What is the letter baby?”

 “I..I  don’t know.”

 “ You ready for the game to be over already?” He asked me with a chuckle, which sent the vibration directly into my center. I bit my lips and then whispering quickly,

 “No please don’t stop.”

 He does the pattern again.

“W!”

 “Good girl”

 He moves on me getting the remaining letters of D, and C. His initials. He thought I wouldn’t notice but I did... somehow. He moved on with me guessing the spelling for Daddy and Sir correctly.

He finally took mercy and sucked the bud he had been torturing for the better part of 20 minutes. Crying and convulsing I came, head tossed backward. 

Sensitive, I tried to pull away, but actually wrapped his hands around the outside of my thighs, pulling me fully seated, forcing me to accept his tongue inside of my body until sensitivity became pleasure again.

 “Fuck Fuck Fuck!”

 He let go of one thigh to move his hand up where he rubbed my clit again combined with licking and sucking until I came again.

Coming down from the high, I gasped for my breath, finally being allowed to move off of his face, I dropped to the bed next to him, feeling my eyes begin to drop closed after a few moments but Henry was not with that. He climbs over me, pulling me into a kiss, waiting until I was engaged again before pulling off to get out of the bed. Just as I was about to ask him where he was going but he only took two steps back, sliding his jeans down, finally revealing himself to me. The pictures online of him in tailored trousers had done him no justice and that was saying something. 

 “See something you like?”

 “I’m waiting to find out if I like it or not.”

 I couldn’t turn the snark off if I wanted to. I think I was testing him on purpose. At the look he shot me I knew he was going to make me regret that.

 “Keep testing my patience and you won’t. Turn over.”

 I tried to comply but the second Henry thought I was too slow he moved me quicker, positioning me on my hands and knees. 

 “Do you remember what I told you at the beginning of this?” He asked caressing the soft flesh of my ass.

 “Umm...”

“About you being a good girl.”

 “You would suspend my punishment.” His fingers grazed the strip between my legs, lustful again already. 

 “Now do you think you’ve been good?” 

 I shook my head, my bold nature leaving just as quickly as it had come. Then I felt his large hand come down on my ass again. I yelped.

 “Henry!” He did it again.

 “You keep adding to your punishment and we haven’t even started it yet.”

 “What was that for?”

 “You keep breaking my rules.”

 “What rules?”

 I was confused slightly, he rubbed my ass.

 “You should be using your voice to answer my questions AND you address me as Sir.”

 “What if I don’t want to call you sir?”

 “You don’t have a choice. Either you do it or you safeword out and not to be a shitty person love but if you can’t handle calling me sir, you certainly can’t handle what else I have in mind. You may want to tap out now.”

 I turned around, looking over my shoulder.

 “You think I’m a quitter...sir.”

I raised my eyebrow as I looked at Henry whose arms were crossed over his chest. He looked at me for a moment, resolved he motioned with his finger for me to face the opposite wall again.

 “Alright little miss “I’m not a quitter”, just don’t forget your safeword. Now I’ll be nice tonight, you get 10 total. 5 for not coming to talk to me when you have a problem and 5 for being a brat. Count them. You mess up, I start over.”

 And with that he hand came down across one cheek, the force matched the others he had given me.

 “One.”

 *SLAP*

 “Two”

 *SMACK*

He moved to an opposite cheek for three and also increased the force a little, but this time he rubbed the spot, kneading the flesh of my cheeks.

 “Four, Five”

They were in quick succession and harder. I thought this would be a turn off but he was proving me wrong. 

 “Six!”

 I yelped, the sting leading to wetness gathering between my legs even more. 

 “Seven!” 

 Henry noticed when my arousal starts to run on my legs, and I thought I heard him groan before sliding his fingers through it. I can feel myself struggling to stay in the position he put me in. 

 “Eight!” I cry, the pain having gave way to pleasure somewhere around smack 6.

 “N...nine.” 

*Smack*

 “Ten!!!”

I say as he gives me the hardest spank of the night followed by an immediate plunging of a finger into my core. 

 “You are so wet baby. I think you might have enjoyed your punishment too much.”

 His fingers moved in and out of me for a moment, but pulling away, leaving me whimpering. Henry immediately moves me onto my back, and yanks me to the edge of the bed, pulling my legs apart like a pair of pliers, they fan to either side of his hips. 

 “You took your punishment so well. I think it time for a reward.”

 He rubs his hardened cock in my folds collecting some of the wetness that gathered there, then slid into me. Henry was surprisingly gentle in this, taking his time, letting me adjust. His own eyes closed. From the angle we were in with him still standing I couldn’t reach him to touch him. 

“Damn Aura. You are tight been waiting for me all this time have you.”

 “Mmm...yes” I moan out, distracted the pulsating of his cock inside of me. He was thick and long, I could feel myself flutter around him. He held still for a moment and I got impatient, moving myself against him slightly as a signal to move.Henry seemed to have gotten the hint, because he began to rock, moving himself in and out slowly. Torturing me with his deliberate strokes. I tightened my legs around his hips, trying to move into him. He took this as a challenge or at the very least motivation, tilting his chest down to mine, changing his angle just enough that he deepened, hitting a new spot that had not been reached before. 

Henry leans down, strong arms on either side of my face pressing his lips to my body, peppering small kisses across my chest and neck, my nails to his back. 

“Fuck, harder.”

 “Oh darling where are your manners?”

 He said teasingly,slowing down, drawing back until he was almost all the way out, leaving only the tip in then froze. I wiggled my hips, but Henry just moved one of his hands to my hips, stopping the movement. Frustrated, I groaned, looking down at where we were connected, but no movement. 

 “Please sir, please fuck me harder.”

 Not much warning before he slammed back in, taking my breath away when he did. A polar opposite to how this began, his strokes deep enough that I could feel them in my stomach. Me making whimpering sounds, my breasts moving with the force of him, and honestly it had moved me up the bed some from where I had been on the edge. I truly couldn’t tell if I was running from him or not, but it all for damn anyway because  It seemed the word sir activated the primal part of him, as he leaned back, sliding out, and having made just enough room for his knees to be on the bed, grabbed the back of my knees, folded me up like a pretzel and went back inside. 

I knew I had to be yelling, but I couldn’t tell you what I was saying, it was all hazy jibberish to me, all I could really feel was the pleasure rising inside of me, my walls clenching around him, building. He was giving me those deep strokes, you know the ones that made your eyes roll into the back of your head, your stomach tighten, and you feel the full weight of your partner body pressed against yours, his pelvic bone rubbing against your clit sinfully. I was damn close and I could feel it, Henry had been making noises of his own, manly grunts and hisses that added to my pleasure, knowing he was being satisfied by my body. 

At the feeling of my clenching, Henry, already close to my ear says

 “You hold it, you don’t get to cum until I tell you to.” 

 As one of his hands moves up the side of my body, until it latches onto my neck, tightening, adding just enough pressure that my orgasm doesn’t come, but instead keeps building and building as his hand tightens some more to the point of black spots invading my vision. I could tell he was close and I was about to cum regardless of any commands. 

 “Cum for me baby. Cum all over my hard cock.”

 He said, his words snapping and invisible tether inside of me that caused a shout and a physical body shaking as I came all over us my wetness covering his thighs. My orgasm lasting longer than it ever had, especially as Henry let’s go of my neck and his thrusts become faltered, his hips stutter and freeze as I feel him coat my insides with his seed. 

 “Aura!”

 Both of us breathe heavy as he stays inside of me for a moment, the with a groan, he slowly rolls out of me. Then after a beat of silence he gets up from the bed, my body too exhausted to move much. Henry comes back in a few moments with a small washcloth and  bottles of water. To which he hands me the water but not the towel, instead using it to wipe my center clean of his essence, tossing it aside and then demolished his water bottle. 

 “Thank You for taking care of me...sir.”

 I said attempting not to stumble of calling him sir when he wasn’t blowing my back out. Then  somehow I found the energy to move, moving from my position from laying sideways to lay the correct direction on the bed and get under the covers, sliding over once under to make room for Henry. He follows suit, getting into bed next to me, and in a surprising move pulls me into his arms. 

I hadn’t pegged him for an after-sex cuddl-er especially after the type of sex we just had where he seemed to be all hard edges and tough words. I half expected him to redress and leave, so when he didn’t I kept my surprise quiet and relaxed at his side, tossing a leg over his and my arm over his abs, head on chest, with his arm drawing random swirl patterns on my skin. Yawning, as my adrenaline came down, I snuggled into his warmth, content to lay with him for however long he would lay here. We didn’t talk, we didn’t need to, my breathing begins to even out as I fall asleep 

 “You know Aura, I could take care of you forever if you let me...”

 Henry says trailing off, I was too close to sleep to respond, letting his words send me into the land of satisfied and content sleep....

A/N:

Alright y'all tell me what you think! I had loads of fun writing this, maybe i’ll do some Headcannons....

[freddiesaysalright]

Soft in Love Part 6

A Gwilym Lee x Student!Reader

Summary: Y/N is an acting student in her last semester of college. When a professor unexpectedly can’t make it for the senior capstone class, a very famous (and handsome) substitute is called in. When they connect, they face a few challenges.

Word Count: 3.1k

Tag List: @psychosupernatural​, @someone-get-a-medic​, @bensrhapsody​, @deakyclicks​, @crazylittlethingcalledobsession​, @minigranger​, @crazyweirdocalledfriday​, @benders-diamond-earring​, @im-an-adult-ish​, @anincurablefangirl​, @kiainspace​, @lookuptotheskiesandsee​, @god-save-the-deaks​, @assembledherethevolunteers​, @misslolasworld​, @not-john-watsons-blog​, @spacedustmazzello​, @theindiealto​, @riddikuluslypotter​, @depressedbitchxox​, @tenement-funstah​, @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls​, @sarablog10​, @johndeaconshands​, @coincidence-ithinknots-blog​, @simonedk​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: Hope y’all enjoy this update! Our boy Joe makes an appearance so that’s exciting!

Warning(s): Lizzie and Darcy level pining. Shit is serious.

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5

Part 6 here we go!!!

Several emotions hit Gwilym all at once. Shock at seeing Andrew kiss you. Relief at you pushing him away. Hurt that such an opportunity had presented itself to Andrew. And a fierce desire to protect you from something you didn’t want. He pushed all of it down and tried to collect himself because the most prevalent feeling that was standing over all the others was jealousy. Extreme jealousy that Andrew had taken you in his arms and embraced you like that.

Your mouth hung open in horror as you looked between Gwilym and Andrew. You couldn’t read the former’s face. Was he angry at you? Should it matter if he was?

“I’m sorry,” Gwilym said, clearing his throat. “It appears I’ve interrupted something.”

“You haven’t,” you said, while at the same time, Andrew said, “You did.”

You shot your friend a glare before looking back at Gwilym.

“You didn’t,” you said firmly. “That was nothing.”

“Nothing, huh?” Andrew challenged. “Seriously, Y/N?”

“You didn’t even give me time to answer you before you kissed me!” you cried, facing Andrew again. “If you had, this very awkward situation wouldn’t be happening because I would have told you it’s not like that!”

“I’ll excuse you,” Gwilym said.

He opened the door and went through it before you could stop him. You glowered at Andrew, who rolled his eyes.

“What?” he snapped. “Afraid I ruined your chances?”

“No!” you shouted. “I’m angry because you kissed me before you even bothered to hear me! Do you think your feelings are all that matter? That I’d just fall into your arms after you confessed how you felt?”

He opened his mouth and closed it again, searching for an answer.

“Here’s a tip for the next girl,” you said. “Make sure she wants to kiss you before just going in.”

“Why don’t you feel that way?” he asked. “Because of Gwilym?”

“No!” you said, wanting to scream with frustration. “It’s never been that way between us, even before Dan or anyone else came into the picture! I have only ever wanted to be your friend! Is that not enough for you?!”

He hesitated, and it appeared guilt came over him at your words. His silence worried you.

“Is that not enough for you, Andrew?” you pressed. “Or do you really only see me as a potential girlfriend?”

Still, he didn’t answer. Fear tugged at your heart.

“Andrew, please!”

“I...I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said. “But while I feel this way about you, it’s probably better if we don’t hang out.”

“What?” you gasped. “That’s it? Are you ser-”

“Not forever,” he said, cutting you off. “I just...I’m gonna need some time. It’s gonna be hard enough with the show and loving you on stage.”

“I’m sorry, Andrew,” you said. “I’m really sorry I can’t get there.”

“It’s fine,” he replied with a heavy sigh that told you the opposite. “I’m gonna...I’m gonna head home for break early. I think Gwilym will understand.”

You nodded, feeling a lump in your throat. 

“Yeah, I think he will,” you choked out.

Andrew shared one last look at you and then left without another word, exiting near the stage. You took a deep, shuddering breath. So much was going through you. Anger at Andrew, sadness that your friendship was affected, and worry about what Gwilym was thinking.

“Gwilym!” you gasped, and ran back up the aisle to where he had left.

A thousand things were running through Gwilym’s mind. He was relieved to hear you reject Andrew, but he realized that he shouldn’t be. It was perfectly normal for you to date the guys in your class. Sensible, even. But why did it kill him to imagine it? His visceral reaction to seeing Andrew’s hands and mouth on you concerned him.

“Get a grip,” he scolded himself. “She’s not yours. Nor should she be.”

Then you burst through the door and he forgot everything but you.

You came through the door and saw him pacing, forefinger to his chin, and eyes narrowed. His head whipped around when he heard the door open and you locked eyes. He released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and strode quickly over to you. Then, he gathered you up in his arms.

You let out a soft gasp, but quickly relaxed into him, burying your face in his chest. His hand came to rest on the back of your head. That familiar warm smell overwhelmed you. Being in his arms was like nothing you’d ever felt before. You were stronger there than anywhere else. Your arms slid around his waist and you held on tighter.

“Alright?” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded.

“I’m perfect right here,” you whispered.

You stood there, in that beautiful hug, for minutes that felt like years. Just you and Gwilym and no one else. There was nothing suggestive about the hug. It was just true, genuine comfort. A display of caring affection.

“Nothing happened, I promise,” you said, bringing you both back to the present moment.

He pulled back only slightly and met your eyes again.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Y/N,” he said. 

“I know, but I want you to understand,” you said. “I meant what I said yesterday, there’s nothing between me and Andrew.”

Andrew was right. Silly as it was, you had feared for a moment that your chances with Gwilym were ruined. You thought he would assume you preferred someone in your class, especially your good friend. But your heart belonged to Gwilym. Nothing made it clearer than this moment.

“We should go in,” he said. “The rest of the class will be here soon.”

“Andrew went home,” you told him. 

“I understand,” he replied. “We’ll do scenes without him today.”

You nodded. Then, taking his hand, you followed him into the auditorium.

Rehearsal went smoothly, and you were at ease again. Things with Andrew would mend. In the meantime, you and Gwilym could continue on just as you had been.

That night, Sloan called you as she was driving home to New Jersey for the break. She was affronted that you hadn’t told her about Andrew’s confession during class. Apparently, she had only found out at all from Andrew.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t want to gossip about him if he didn’t want you to know. He was really vulnerable.”

“I’m both of you guys’ best friend!” she insisted. “I should know all things.”

You chuckled. 

“That’s fair.”

“Okay, now tell me your side of the story,” she said.

You launched into it, holding nothing back. What Andrew said, what you said, how you felt about it, everything.

“And then Gwilym walked in as he kissed me!” you finished.

“Oh, weird!” she gasped. “Was it awkward?”

“Awkward as fuck,” you confirmed. “But, it didn’t last long.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

You were kicking yourself. You couldn’t tell her about the moment afterward because it felt too personal. Also, you were certain she would think it was stupid. But you had felt what Gwilym felt for you through his arms. You were sure of it.

“Well, he left, then Andrew and I finished up,” you said.

You explained that he wanted a break from you.

“I’m sorry if that puts you in an awkward position,” you said.

“It’ll be fine,” she returned. “I can see you at school and him at home. And we’ll all be together in rehearsal anyway.”

“That’s true,” you said.

“Anything else?” she asked. “Did Gwilym ask you about what happened?”

You froze, unsure how to answer her. You didn’t want to lie, but for you and Gwilym’s protection, you would have to.

“No,” you said. “It’s not like it was his business, y’know?”

“True,” she agreed. “Well, traffic is literal ass and I’ve almost been hit like four times during just this phone call.”

You giggled. “Understood. You focus and text me when you get home.”

“Roger,” she said. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you returned.

You hung up. Gazing at the phone, you wondered if you should have just told her. She was your best friend after all. You could trust her. But, there was the fear of anyone finding out. Not that there was anything to really find out. You and Gwilym were not in a relationship. But you felt strongly for each other. You could not have imagined that.

Gwilym got a call from Joe that night, inviting him out for dinner. He agreed, and they met at a spot that was a favorite of Joe’s. They hugged excitedly upon their reunion before going inside and getting a table.

“It’s wonderful to see you, mate,” Gwilym said as they ordered some beers.

“You too!” Joe returned. “I can’t believe you’ve been in New York this long and we haven’t gotten together.”

“I know, it’s ridiculous,” Gwilym agreed. “How are you?”

Joe started talking about a new project he was doing that was filming here in New York for a while. It worked out because he got to be home with his family.

“I mean, the schedule is still crazy, of course, but it’s more time than I usually get with the kiddos,” he finished. “How are you? What’s it like teaching?”

Gwilym hesitated before answering.

“It’s, uh...it’s pretty great,” he said. “We’re doing Meet Me in St. Louis for the capstone class I have, and that’s exciting.”

“Sweet,” said Joe. “Got any hot students?”

Gwilym choked on the sip of beer he was taking. He coughed as Joe raised an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, I was just kidding, but now I’m worried,” he said, clapping Gwilym on the back.

“Why should you be worried?” Gwilym wheezed, clearing his throat some more as he recovered.

“Don’t lie to me, dude,” Joe said. “Are you seriously fucking one of your students?”

“No!” Gwilym said loudly, his voice back. He lowered his volume. “And keep it down.”

“Shouldn’t have to if you’ve got nothing to hide,” Joe returned.

“Okay,” Gwilym conceded with a sigh. “There is a student I am close to.”

Joe opened his mouth but Gwilym silenced him with a sharp look.

“Nothing has happened, nor will it,” he went on. “But the feelings...are there. She’s incredibly smart and talented and funny.”

“Pretty?” Joe asked.

“Beautiful,” Gwilym said. “I know it’s wrong, but we’ve really connected, and I dunno...I…”

“You in love with her?” Joe wondered.

Gwilym’s cheeks went pink. “God, I don’t know! I only met her a few weeks ago!”

“Tell me what has happened between you.” 

Gwilym went into the story. He told Joe everything, from your first meeting, to the party, to the minutes before class, all the way through that afternoon when he’d hugged you and felt like the world had suddenly fallen into place.

“Sounds like love to me,” Joe said. “Or damn close to it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re encouraging this,” Gwilym said.

“Oh, fuck no, not even a little bit,” Joe returned. “It’s a terrible idea to pursue a student. But I think it’s not just sex you want from her, so that’s good. And when you’re not her teacher anymore, maybe it could work.”

“I don’t know,” Gwilym argued. “She’s still so much younger than me and our lives are in different places. She wants to go to LA, I’m going back to London...”

“Gwil, if you care about this girl, those things won’t matter,” Joe said. “What matters right now is setting a firm boundary until the opportunity is right. And you can tell her it’s mostly for her. She stands to lose a lot more than you.”

That was true. It was why Gwilym was so worried about the whole thing. He finished dinner with Joe, and as he went to bed, his mind wandered to you and what steps he should take next.

The break went by agonizingly slowly in your opinion. The school week would resume on Tuesday, and you couldn’t wait to see Gwilym again. Just the prospect, the idea of being in the same room as him made your heart flutter.

Tuesday morning, you got an email from Gwilym. It was sent to all the class and said that he was giving them extra time to get back, and only wanted you and Andrew for rehearsal, so you two could focus on your scenes. You thought it might be a bit awkward to just be with the two of them again, but there was no getting out of it for you.

Then you got a text from Andrew. Pushing down your shock, you opened it.

Hey, not feeling great. Just have Gwilym read for me today.

You hated to admit it, but a whole class period of just you and Gwilym was everything you could hope for. You thought about how to answer Andrew.

Still drunk? Lol

You sent it. He replied just as quickly.

I’ve got a fever asshole lmao

You smiled. Okay. Things could get back on track. You texted back a thumbs up emoji and then got ready for class. Your heart thundered with excitement with each step.

Gwilym, on the other hand, was mulling over what Joe said. He’d spent the break wondering if he should talk to you and firmly put an end to...whatever it was between you. Fond as he was of you, this wasn’t right. He could not let you risk your college career. And he didn’t want to lead you on, either. It was going to be difficult. He didn’t want to hurt you. But he would if it meant protecting you.

He waited in the auditorium, drumming his fingers against his clipboard. You arrived early, just as you did every day. And you looked stunning, just as you did every day. His chest tightened.

“Morning!” you said brightly. “Andrew’s sick, so it’s just me. Can you take his place?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure. Let’s get started.”

Your brow furrowed. Something was off about him. He was hardly looking at you and seemed closed off.

“I thought we’d focus on Over the Bannister,” he said. “Luckily for Andrew, that’s mostly your scene anyway.”

That was more like the Gwilym you knew. Still, something was bothering him.

“Okay,” you agreed. “Where should we start from?”

“Right after Rose goes upstairs,” he said.

You got into position on stage and waited for him to join you.

“Let’s begin,” he said.

Clearing his throat again, he got into character.

“Well, I guess I better get going,” he started, shaking your hand.

“You haven’t very far to go,” you replied softly, as Esther.

“No, I haven’t at that,” he returned. “Well, good night.”

He turned to go and you followed him.

“We’ll be seeing more of you won’t we?” you asked desperately, taking his hand again. 

“You bet,” he answered.

“You’ll be joining the crowd Friday when we go to the fairgrounds, won’t you?”

You went  back and forth with him this way until he had fully walked off stage.

“Mr. Truitt?” you called.

He stepped back. 

“Yes, Miss Esther?”

“This is an untoward request, but would you mind accompanying me through the house while I turn out the lights?” you said.

“Well, I -”

“It’s just that I - I’m afraid of mice,” you said timidly

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, well, sure. Uh, that’s the least a man can do for his charming hostess.”

You giggled and looked at the floor with humility. 

“I have to turn them out everywhere - in the dining room, in the living room, and everywhere.”

You turned and looked at him and then he followed you around the stage as you started turning down the “lights.” He had his arm around you to reach up and turn one off and you bit your lip. The contact was so welcome. You wanted to hug him again. Now, you were grateful that this was very in character at the moment.

“It certainly is dark in here with the lights off,” you said with a shrug.

“It is,” he returned. “Shall we do the dining room next?”

“Yes,” you said.

Together you moved to the next part of the stage to do the same thing. You started to hum “The Boy Next Door,” and he looked so fondly at you, you stopped breathing. You cleared your throat and moved on with the scene. Finally, you made it back to the staircase, much more red in the face than you had begun.

You were halfway up the stairs, looking down at Gwilym warmly. He gazed back with a soft smile.

“Gosh, Miss Esther,” he said. “I - I hope I’m not too presumptuous. You don’t need any beauty sleep.”

He rested his arm on the banister railing and you beamed.

“What a nice compliment,” you replied. 

“How does it go?” he said.

“How does what go?” you wondered.

“Over the banister, leans a face,” he said. “Tenderly sweet, and...and…” 

You began to sing. Gwilym had decided you should do this song acapella, to reflect the vulnerability of the moment.

“Beguiling

While below her with tender grace

He watches the picture, smiling”

Gwilym could hardly stand it as he watched you. Your voice, your face, your heart. They were all so beautiful. He had you here, all to himself too.

“A light burns dim in the hall below

Nobody sees them standing”

Against the script, Gwilym started climbing the stairs, a strange, determined look on his face. He reached you as you as you sang. 

“Saying goodnight again 

Soft in love”

The last note faltered. You were so close now. The air between you was charged, electric. Your eyes were fixed on his, which burned as they consumed you. He leaned in. He was going to kiss you, you were sure of it. 

“Y/N,” he said lowly. “The lyric is ‘soft and low.’”

“Is it?” you breathed back. “My mistake.”

His face was inches from yours. He was finally going to kiss you. The distance was closing. Your eyes began to fall shut. You felt his lips barely a centimeter from yours. Just a bit further, more contact, and then -

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, backing away.

You opened your eyes and looked at him.

“W-what?” you wondered, heart rate picking up.

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t do this to you, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

You watched, frozen with shock, as he jogged down the stairs, grabbed his things from the stage, and walked out of the auditorium. You sat down on the fake stairs, numb and alone.

[fangirlxwritesx67]

Deeper Than Deep Conditioner

I picked up this prompt from @awesomesusiebstuff over at @cabin-fever-bang“ Prompt: The two Sam’s (our Sam and AU Sam) maintaining their hair care routines while quarantined.” All the thanks to @boondoctorwho @itmighthavebeenintentional and @there-must-be-a-lock for the beta. @there-must-be-a-lock gets credit for the title and the ending all at once. Thank you my dears.  ... Honestly after everything, the last thing the Winchesters were expecting was having to deal with more of themselves. They knew that Chuck, in his petty fit of rage, was destroying all the universes he had created. They knew in theory that there would be other Winchesters, other sets of Sam and Dean. They just never considered actually meeting any.  The Sam and Dean that came blurring through their bunker walls seemed specifically intended to cause them peak annoyance. The only reason they ever left them there alone was a need to trick Chuck, to beat him at his own game.  After that mission was over, the Winchester brothers dismissed their alternate selves. They sent them to Rio, to beaches, to a place of sun and sand far from their current battle to save their world. The minute they left, Sam turned to Dean. “Rio? Really? That was our happily ever after, the sand between our toes.” Dean shrugged, looking so sad and resigned that it broke Sam's heart. “Hey, at least somewhere some version of us gets our happy ending.”  Sam shook his head, long hair brushing his cheeks. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Finally he said,  “Dean, as long as we're together, I'm good." Dean threw an arm over his shoulder. “Me too; just don’t start wearing a manbun. Come on, let’s have a beer.” 

That night settled into the familiar bunker routine and each brother went to sleep in his bedroom. Dean dreamed of driving away, of bikini beauties on the beaches of Rio. Sam dreamed of scarves and what it would be like to have no bigger worries in the world than his hair.

The Winchesters woke up to voices in their kitchen and rushed in, weapons drawn. There was the alternate pair of them, suddenly returned.

“Sorry, sweethearts,” alt!Dean said, “Flights are all cancelled. A virus or something.”

Alt!Sam nodded with a little pout. “And I had already booked a full weekend of spa treatments in Rio!” 

The original Winchesters sighed. 

“Sit down,” Dean commanded, in a voice that brooked no argument. Even his alternate self obeyed. He returned to the table in the kitchen with four coffee mugs and a big bottle of Jameson. Each man took a mug.

“Is there cream?” asked alt!Sam. The look Dean gave him would’ve curdled milk, if there was any, which there wasn’t, because Dean took his coffee black, like a man. 

Sam and Dean gave one another a long hard look. Sam nodded, deferring to Dean. He turned to their other world selves. 

“You can stay here,” he began. “This is a safe place, but it’s safe for a reason. You have to abide by the rules.” 

The alt!WInchesters nodded earnestly.

“And here’s the thing,” Sam added. “I’m Sam, he’s Dean. It's too confusing to have two of each. You have to pick something else.” 

The other pair of brothers spoke in whispers for a long moment before turning to face their other selves. “I’m okay with Deano. And he - he’s-” “Sami!” he said with a smirk. Sam rolled his eyes. 

Dean and Sam took Deano and Sami on a short tour of the bunker, showing them to a set of adjoining rooms across the hall from theirs. 

Dinner that night was a fractured affair. Cas prepared sandwiches. He knew how keenly humans loved them. Something told him that a meal where everyone could choose would be the best thing for the very different and divided Winchester brothers that were suddenly doubled in the bunker. 

Dean and Deano seemed to be in a competition for who could pack the most meat and tomatoes and bread together, but eventually they each picked up a carefully layered sandwich. Dean swiped a six pack of beer and they headed down the hall. 

“We’ll be in the Dean cave,” one of them called over his shoulder. Once they were gone, the two Sams looked at one another. 

“I like a good sandwich, but honestly,” Sam shook his head.

“A salad is better after all.” said Sami. 

Sam wanted to disagree, but he couldn’t. The two of them dug into the fridge for vegetables and dressings. Finally they both settled on opposite sides of the kitchen table. 

“Is this really how you live?” said Sami, with a dismissive glance at his paper napkin. “Look,” Sam answered. “I’ve done my best. It’s taken a lot to get us this far.”

They both retreated to the comfortable solitude of their phones while they ate. Before too long, they were showing one another new stories, pages, and memes. They began to laugh and relax together. 

It was later, much later, after falling into more than one internet rabbit hole, that Sam and Sami parted, with a promise to go running together tomorrow. 

They met before sunrise at the door of the bunker. Side by side both Sams strode out into the predawn fog. They settled easily into a matching pace. They were one another, after all. As the sun rose, they returned to the bunker.

“Meet me in the shower,” Sam tossed out. 

Sami edged into the shower room soon after. “We didn’t get to bring much when we came from our world to here.” 

“That’s fine, come on,” Sam gestured from under a steamy shower. 

“But, but,” Sami hesitated, “What about our hair?” 

“Our hair?” Sam half turned and held out a bottle of Suave 3 in 1 body wash, shampoo and conditioner. 

Sami cringed, noticeably. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Why?” asked Sam, “It works just fine.” He shook his head like a puppy, spraying water everywhere in the shower room.

“Ugh,” Sami responded. He rinsed his hair with, notably, just water. 

The two of them made their way to the kitchen. Sam was making a smoothie when Sami appeared. He quickly added his own ideas and suggestions. Most of the fruits and vegetables in the bunker kitchen ended up in the blender before they both enjoyed a post-run drink. 

“So,” said Sam eventually. “I think I’ll go to the library.”

“Or,” Sami rejoined,” We could go to Ulta. Your hair care regimen is positively barbaric. It’s honestly an affront to us all that you manage to look as good as you do.”

Sam shrugged. “Ulta is closed.”

Sami pounced on that. “So you know-?”

“Look, I’m no haircare expert. But basically all that’s open now is Walmart.” 

It took some convincing, but eventually Sam and Sami rolled up to Walmart in the Impala. Sami scoffed before they went in, but Sam silenced him with a hard look. 

The hair care aisle was long, and well stocked. Not all the salon brands Sami was used to, but plenty of good stuff. He kept pointing to bottles that cost $15 or more, while Sam shook his head. 

Finally he broke down in exasperation. “Why, what do you use to make your hair so perfect?”

“I just wash it and then-” Sam tossed his head and his hair settled back in perfect waves around his face. 

“Ugh,” Sami scoffed. “How? That’s so unfair.” 

Sam shrugged. "It’s not like it ever seemed to matter. We were always busy with more urgent things. Like, saving the world."

Sami protested. "But, but, my hair is sacred. It's worth the time and effort."

Eventually the two of them moved on from the shampoo aisle -- basket full -- to the produce section. 

That night for dinner they enjoyed a cold quinoa salad with tomato, cucumber and avocado. Their brothers were off somewhere else, probably trying to find the best takeout cheeseburgers and extra crispy fries in the state. It was oddly peaceful, just the two of them.

After eating, Sami stood up. “We have plenty of time for a hair treatment, now."

Sam looked at him, baffled.

Sami pulled some things out of the Walmart bag. “I know it’s generic, but these deep conditioners are better than nothing.” 

Sam scoffed but finally gave in and combed deep conditioner into his hair before wrapping it in a bag. The final touch was knotting a towel around his head. He laughed, before he looked at Sami. 

His alternate self was taking this so very seriously. Apparently, somewhere out there, was a universe where he pampered himself. Maybe there, everything wasn’t life or death. Maybe there was a place where he could enjoy something as simple as a deep condition. 

Sami pulled up a BBC show on the laptop, something Sam had wanted to watch but never had time for.  It was a little silly and very nerdy. But for the first time in a long time, he caught himself laughing while he watched it. When the first episode was over, Sami nodded towards the showers. 

Sam rinsed and combed and dried his hair. It had never felt more soft, more perfect. More importantly, though, he felt relaxed. He felt like it was okay to take the time on something as frivolous as a hair treatment. Call it “self care,” he thought to himself. 

Sam Winchester woke up with his own fingers pulling his hair. Had it all been a dream? He sat up slowly, a hollow feeling of loss settling in his chest. He shook his head as reality began to sink in.

His last faint trace of hope disappeared the moment he wandered to the kitchen. There was no pile of fresh produce waiting for smoothies, no leftover quinoa salad. None of it had happened. 

The alternate version of Sam and Dean were gone, and with them the sort of life that had time for hair treatments and self care. His universe had no space for indulgences like that. Toes in the sand in Rio was a fantasy, nothing more. 

Sam stumbled into the bunker shower, his thoughts heavy. He should've known it was too good to be true. There wasn't a happy ending for him and Dean, not in this universe. He sighed as he picked up the 3 in 1 body wash, shampoo and conditioner.

He smiled sadly and shook his head. His sense of disappointment went deeper than deep conditioner. He sighed and watched the soapy water swirl down the drain. ...

SPN First Last and Always: @boondoctorwho @dawnie1988 @deanwanddamons @divadinag @flamencodiva @fookinghelljensensthighs @idreamofplaid @kalesrebellion @maddiepants @magssteenkamp @onethirstyunicorn   @the-chocolate-moose  @there-must-be-a-lock @tloveswriting

Sam Girl For Life: @awesomesusiebstuff @lilsylvia @winchesterxfamilybusiness

Dean Curious: @adoptdontshoppets @awesomesusiebstuff @deangirl7695 @deans-baby-momma  @mrsjenniferwinchester @stoneyggirl @supersassyprobablysad @wayward-gypsy @winchesterxfamilybusiness

[omgviolette12]

After Hours - A Professor Loki fanfic

Summary: Evelyn Monroe has been a TA for professor Laufeyson’s Calculus course for four months now. He was known to be quite strict, but that never deterred her from applying for the position in order to be close to the man she had been secretly pining for. One evening, she returns to his office after opening hours… and with her bountiful luck, she walks in on something not meant to be seen.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Eventual Romance/Smut

Pairing: Loki / Original female character

Chapters: 1/?

Words: 1681

A/N: The professor Loki fanfic you never asked for  ;.; I was gonna wait till I had like… six chapters written in advance till I posted this, but fuck it. I’m fairly consistent, so you don’t have to worry about ‘when the fuck is this gonna update!?’ Anyway, let me know if it’s good so far.

Come check this out, babes!: @milkymaidme @dangertoozmanykids101

                                        _________________

“Excuse me! Sorry, please move! I said move!”

Evelyn spoke as she weaved her way through the busy hallway, bee-lining straight towards Professor Laufeyson’s office.

She had been absent not once, but three times the past two weeks for each one of their meetings, and she could feel that his patience had long vanished.

Until now, being a TA for his calculus course had been smooth sailing - contrary to what herself, and everyone else who had taken his class thought.

When Evelyn opted to take calculus the previous semester, she had already braced herself for failure. Math had never been her strong suit, barely passing even the most basic of classes despite her studious nature.

But under his tutelage, Evelyn had unexpectedly grown a deep love for the subject - and the professor himself.

In class, while professor Laufeyson could be unbearably strict most times, he never failed to find innovative ways to make each lecture fun and engaging. Not only that, he was extremely patient with her when she came for extra help during his office hours. She had even breached his lunchtime on multiple occasions, and not once did he turn her away.

That was why after passing his course with flying colors, Evelyn decided to apply for the TA position as soon as it opened. Admittedly, she had grown attached to the man; not only was he knowledgeable in mathematics, but with subjects ranging from history, literature - anything she could possibly think of.

But now, as she raced towards his office, she steeled herself for a harsh tongue-lashing from her scary professor. One thing that professor Laufeyson hated the most, was tardiness. He had been lenient with her thus far, and Evelyn feared he would think she was taking advantage of his good-will.

Reaching the door to his office, she swung it open in haste.

And there he sat, his mere presence exuding authority. One long elegant leg crossed over the other as he flipped idly through a book, not sparing a glance in her direction. He was even more intimidating with his sharp way of dressing; White dress shirt pressed to perfection, covered by a dark, slim- fit suit vest. Evelyn was a sucker for men in suits, and her professor wore them like no other.

She scuffled inside, closing the door behind her. Evelyn made sure to check if it was closed correctly - perhaps due to its age, the door refused to click most times.

After doing so, she walked to stand in front of his desk, shuffling awkwardly on her feet as she waited for him to speak.

It took several beats of silence before she finally heard his cold voice, “ Enlighten me…what day is it, Miss Monroe?”

Shit…what was today?  “Uhm…Taco Tuesday..?”

He looked up from his book to give her a sharp look, “Is this a joking matter to you?”

“N..No..Nope! Uhm..I don’t- what… what was today suppose to be again?”  Really Evelyn? Taco Tuesday? That’s the first thing that came to mind?

Sighing, her professor pinched the bridge of his nose before lifting a sheet of paper into view with two fingers.

Teaching Assistant Evaluation Form: Midterm Progress

“I am highly disappointed in the effort being displayed thus far, Miss Monroe. Out of all my other TA’s, I expected much more from you.”

Evelyn gaped stupidly at the paper in his fingers, and then began to panic internally. She had no idea TA’s had midterm evaluations, so she did plan on slacking a tiny bit until finals rolled around.

As an art major, taking three studio classes began to take its toll - so much that even professor Laufeyson became an afterthought. But now faced with the danger of failing, she would have to re-organize her priorities.

“I understand that you have a lot on your plate this semester. However, I would advise that you treat all responsibilities with equal priority.”

“Yes…I’m sorry professor, I promise to make up for all the lost time…”

The look he gave her after she said those words made her extremely uncomfortable. Sharp, and burning with intensity. Uh…did I say something wrong?

Having noticed that he must’ve looked off, he turned his head abruptly back to his book.

“Actions speak more than words, Miss Monroe. Now sit. You have much to make up for.”

And so, for the next three hours, Evelyn worked hard in the suffocating silence of his office grading one too many papers. Her professor never talked much, granted. But he wasn’t usually this quiet with her.

Over the past four months as his TA, they had developed a sort of… companionship. If you could call it that.

She was intimidated at first- and still is, but he was surprisingly easy to converse with. After she assisted him with whatever he had on his plate, they would usually fall into casual conversation, and talked about all manner of things that inevitably drew them closer.

But now…she could sense that he just was watching her, and she could barely concentrate on grading due to nerves.

Evelyn raised her head from the papers to chance a glance at her professor - and sure enough, he was staring at her with furrowed brows, and narrowed blue-green eyes.

What.. what’s his deal? He’s acting so weird…

Evelyn cleared her throat stiffly to breach the silence, “Uh… is everything okay?”

He shot her the unfriendliest look she had ever seen on his face, but spoke in a calm voice that did not match it, “You pull three no-shows, show up late, and then have the audacity to ask if everything’s okay?”

Welp…guess I shouldn’t have asked…

He closed the lid to his book a bit too harshly, causing Evelyn to jump slightly in her seat at the sudden sound.

“You’ve done enough, you may take your leave.”

Evelyn glanced down at the pile of papers she barely managed to make a dent in, “ Oh..but-”

“It is lunchtime, and I’d like to eat in peace. Now please leave.”

At his stern command, Evelyn gathered her things quickly before walking to the door. She glanced over her shoulder to look at her professor one more time, guilt weighing down her heart as she watched him gather the large pile of ungraded exams in front of him.

While she was a student in his class, professor Laufeyson always went above and beyond to make sure she knew the material and spared no effort in tutoring her when she asked for help. He was a busy man, so he rarely showed any other students the same courtesy.

But her lack of effort and laziness not only gave her a poor grade, but unnecessary stress to the person she admired the most.

No wonder he was so affronted with her.  She was a terrible student, in addition to being a terrible friend.

Evelyn walked a little around campus aimlessly with a heavy heart, until she went inside a cafe across the street.  

She loved the place - it had a cute little reading corner at the back, and she would always order a huge slice of lemon cake to eat while she studied.

And at the thought of cake… Evelyn was suddenly struck with an idea. She recalled, during one of their many casual conversations, that he mentioned having a bit of a sweet tooth.

Even if she couldn’t make up entirely for her poor work ethic, she could at least treat him to a nice, big slice of cake as a start.

After studying for a few hours, she went up to the counter to order the biggest slice of lemon cake they carried.

It was around six in the evening by the time she left the cafe, the skies now a dark purple hue as she scurried across campus with a large cake box.

The cake’s size was a bit overkill -  but like her mama always said, go big or go home.

She just hoped he was still there around this time. More than likely he is, with the amount of work she left behind.

Evelyn entered the now empty building where his office was situated, taking care to walk as slowly as possible. She could be a bit clumsy when she was nervous, and at the moment her heart was beating a mile an hour.

Just give him the cake, apologize again, then head on home. No biggie.

He was really pissed with her earlier on though, and she hoped he cooled down considerably since then to accept her gift graciously.

As she slowly approached the office door, Evelyn paused.

Eh… the heck is that sound?

She walked closer to the door, and the sounds grew louder as she did.

Whack! Whack!

Slap!

Slap!

Evelyn was beyond perplexed. What in the world was he doing in there to make that sound?

She was about to knock when the sound of her professor’s velvety voice through the door caused her to go stock still.

“I am highly disappointed in you, Miss Monroe. Who told you to come?”

Evelyn shivered at the tone of his voice, her eyes growing wide.

How…how did he know I was here? And why’s he talking like that? 

She plagued herself with so many questions that she felt herself turning silly.

’‘But… I suppose you’ve been a diligent, good girl. You may come now, Evelyn. Come for me.”

What the…I guess he wants me to come in then?

Without further confirmation, Evelyn twisted the knob to swing the door open.

“Uhm… I’m sorry for -  Holy SHIT!”

Little did she know… it wasn’t the ’come in, have some tea!’  type of come, but the sexy, kinky kind.

Evelyn all but threw the cake inside the room with a surprised yelp, shocked at the sight that now tainted her poor virgin eyes.

Her beautiful professor… whom she secretly admired… was currently balls deep within a fortunate female victim - paddle in hand as he fucked her mercilessly against the obviously sturdy surface of his mahogany desk.

                   Good? Bad? Worth pursuing? Let me know~

[captainsuke]

relating to the home (domestic s4 fluff)

Adrian’s not prepared.

At first he figures he’ll be fine, he’s more worried that the house will turn into some sort filthy frat house than anything else.

Living with Deran shouldn’t be too much of a shock to the system.

And he’s right. For the most part.

But.

Well.

There’s a few things.

Maybe he was a bit naive, thinking of the weeks in Belize as a guide, sure he remembers Deran not sleeping much, but none of them had slept much. It’d been five weeks of playing hard, crashing fast and being up before dawn to catch the waves.

But it takes Adrian less than a week to realize that Deran might go to bed with Adrian, go to sleep with him, but by the early hours of morning, sometimes two am, sometimes three, he’d be staring at the ceiling.

It takes him another couple of days to work out how to broach the subject.

“You can get up, you know.” he mumbles sleepily into Deran’s shoulder, and Deran stiffened further like he hadn’t expected Adrian to notice his human pillow had gotten tense as fuck. “Hey, hey.”

Deran’s shifting now like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now he’s been caught out, but Adrian’s ready to nip that shit in the bud.

“Hey, come on, talk to me man.”

“I’m not,” when Deran speaks he doesn’t seem to know what to say, just that he needs to say something. “I don’t need to, I just, I don’t sleep much.”

It’s dark in their room but there’s enough filtered light from outside to make out the lines of each other’s faces, there’s enough light for Deran to see Adrian’s sleepy smile.

“If you need to get up and do something, then get up.” He presses his lips against the smooth skin of Deran’s shoulder, reveling in the way Deran leans towards him when he does. “Just come back.”

Deran rolls towards him head ducking down to burrow into Adrian’s chest, his fingers slip down along his stomach to tuck into the waistband of his pants, Just sitting there like he needs something to hold onto.

Adrian doesn’t know all of Deran’s secrets, stuff he doesn’t ask about, things that Deran can’t talk about even if he wanted to. Maybe Deran just doesn’t sleep much for mundane reasons, it doesn’t matter, Adrian decides as he rearranges himself to wrap his arms around Deran, to press his face into his hair.

“Just don’t leave without letting me know.”

So they figure out the sleep thing, Deran wanders the house, smokes outside staring at the waves, stress cleans worse than Adrian which somehow surprises them both when the night before Adrian’s due to fly out they end up arguing over who’s doing the dishes. Dishwater ends up all over the kitchen, a plate gets smashed in an impromptu tug of war and after they stop laughing they christen the kitchen table. Adrian stares at the water dripping from the sink as he lays on his back on the table, feeling sated and the right type of sore.

“I have to sit for ten hours on an airplane, you asshole.”

Deran looks up, unsticking his face from the sweat on Adrian’s chest, eyes hooded and unreadable.

“You can fuck me if you want.”

And Adrian’s brain short circuits for a moment, they haven’t swapped it around for what seems like forever, sense memory and Deran’s current naked proximity gives Adrian some pretty vivid images.

But Deran’s relationship with sex was a complicated beast and Adrian never wants to fall into the trap of sex as an apology again.

Deran’s hairs getting long enough for him to wind it around his fingers, so he does. Uses it to gently drag Deran’s face to his.

“I need a shower,” he tells him between kisses. “Why don’t you blow me while I do that?”

Deran smiles but his eyes flicker across to the mess they’ve made and that won’t do.

“That is,”Adrian tugs at Deran’s hair, gently, just enough to get his full attention back. “if you think you won’t drown.”

Adrian hopes at some time he’ll stop feeling like his hearts going to stop - like he’s been winded in the best way - every time Deran blushes and smiles that soft smile at him. He’s not going to survive this relationship otherwise.

And he’s really not because then Deran’s soft smile turns into the sharp toothed grin that destroyed all Adrian’s defenses at seventeen.

“I think I can hold my breath long enough.” He says into Adrian’s skin as he leans further down and then suddenly he’s picking Adrian up and that’s only going to end in disaster. They’re both sweaty and slippery, exhausted and Adrian weighs a tonne no matter how nice Deran’s arms look when they flex.

It does predictably end with Adrian knocking an ankle on one of the kitchen cabinets, and then Deran clips his elbow on the doorway which sends them both down into a giggling mess of limbs on the floor.

Maybe, Adrian thinks as he doesn’t even bother trying to untangle himself before launching himself at Deran’s face, maybe disaster isn’t so bad if it results in them making out on the floor at 3am.

They do eventually end up in bed. Deran’s hair is damp against the back of Adrian’s neck as he clings to Adrian’s back. He’d dropped off to sleep almost immediately, but Adrian’s found himself suddenly not tired, staring into the darkness, face smooshed up against the tangle of arms wrapped around him. They haven’t quite worked it all out yet. But they will. Adrian’ll take a crick in the neck every morning if this is how he goes to sleep each night.

He can have this. He’ll make this work out. He can do this.

In the morning the dishes sat cleaned and left to dry on the sink and Adrian would pick his battles and let Deran have the win this time, lets himself just be pleased that at least whatever time Deran got up, he was back in bed early enough to be asleep next to him in the morning.

He drops Adrian off at the Airport - Deran picks him up sometimes when he’s not too busy and it’s so normal that Adrian shouldn’t feel the thrill he does when he sees the scout is parked out in the arrivals area - Deran kisses him goodbye in the car before Adrian gets out.

“You should come in and make out with me in front of the TSA,” he’d laughed and Deran with pink cheeks joked back about that getting Adrian a full body search. That had hit a little too close to home and against Adrian’s best attempts Deran seems to notice the mood shifting. It’s Adrian’s fault this time though Deran doesn’t know it and Adrian doesn’t know how to tell him, can’t think of a lie that won’t make it all worse.

So he let’s it go, let’s Deran stare down at his lap with a shamefaced sort of look on his face, Adrian will make it up to him. When this is all over, when he’s free and clear and the DEA’s eyes are far from him, far from where they might accidentally cast across to Deran, Adrian swears to himself that he’ll make it up to him.

The last thing. (and it’s not the last thing because Adrian’s never going to tire of coming home – home - and finding Deran in the middle of doing something mundane, silly or serious, or a weird mix of all of the above, where he gets to learn something new about the man he shares - a youth, over a decade of stupid shit – a house with.)

But one last thing is Deran’s obsession with buying things for the house. Usually on his phone. In the middle of the night. When he definitely supposed to be sleeping. Adrian doesn’t know how many times he’s woken up to the soft glow of Deran’s phone, the slight movements in his arms as he swiped around the screen.

Are you on grindr? he’d asked once, more than half asleep, but the full body jerk and affronted look had woken him up enough to laugh at Deran’s discomfort. Eventually Deran had just flipped his phone screen to face Adrian and after the light had finished blinding him, he could see a set of wooden stools that’d look nice at their counter, and then swiping left to see the same seats but in steel.

He thinks he maybe makes a comment, says something to appease Deran’s very serious face before ducking his head down to hide from the light, and drift back to sleep but it’s not until the wooden seats are delivered to their door that he knows what the decision was.

After that Deran shows his phone’s screen slightly more often, he’s still a secretive little shit – no amount of time is ever going to stop him from keeping his phone face down when it’s on the table – but Adrian can handle that, it’s not directed at him, and until he sorts out his shit he doesn’t want to see whatever messages get passed between Cody’s.  He does like Deran asking for his input though, makes his stomach feel twisted in maybe a good way that a lot of his opinions seem to be the ones Deran chooses, like maybe he’s not dreaming too big when he thinks about where he is – where they are – and it lasting longer than he ever could have hoped when he was seventeen.

He’s tried to explain it to Jess, but she had her own complicated relationships and the two of them never could fully understand the other’s stance. So they both sat at the impasse of I am behind you one hundred percent but when it crashes and burns my surprise will be completely faked and only for your benefit.

It’s hard to explain that some of the things Deran does feels like a memory so old Adrian’s half convince he made it up. The new things he’s learning are like the first expressions of a man’s first steps into the light. Sides of Deran he’s not sure anyone else has ever been allowed to see, things Deran’s doing now that Adrian thinks he maybe kind of remembers from when Deran was a bright eyed cocky kids, who smiled more like he meant it, who’d be the first one to show Adrian something he’d decided was cool, who’d talk shit for hours just so he’d have Adrian’s attention.

The mature version of that kid makes Adrian feel things; his undivided attention, sharing a bed, Deran making breakfast, hell even the way Deran would just walk up to him sometimes and drop his forehead into the middle of Adrian’s back and just stand there, like the contact was the only thing keeping him standing.

All these little memories and moments Adrian wants to keep to himself. And he wants to make more.

[prettylittlebrownskingyal]

Cakes for Every Occasion 💫

{Gen. Batfamily Fic.}

Happy Birthday, Sep!! @nxxttime I've only been your mom for a month but if anything ever happened to you, I would kill everyone on this site and then myself 💗💗💗 Here's some silly bat-people baking a cake for Tim since I can't bake one for you!!

“What exactly are you doing?”

Damian leans over the once pristine granite countertop to watch Stephanie fiddle with a measuring cup and a bag of baking flour. The entire area surrounding her is akin to a baking war zone; flour and egg shells combine in a mixture of white powder and yellow clumps across the counter, leaking onto the floor and escaping across the room in a trail of footsteps that lead to the fridge and back. As this is her third attempt at….whatever she’s been trying to accomplish, Damian takes pity on her. She’s going to have to face the wrath of Pennyworth for destroying his kitchen.

“We— ” Brown says, wholly confident in her words. “ — are baking Tim a cake.”

“Right.” Damian nods, catches himself and stops. He cocks his head to the side. “Why are we doing that? What did he do to deserve cake?”

Steph pauses in her struggle to get a whisk through the lumpy mixture in the bowl she holds, swearing crudely under her breath. “It’s a “congrats you lived cake,” because he almost died yesterday and we’re glad he didn’t”

“Well, I don’t know about you but I could—”

“No, you can’t. Don’t spew that shit to me, babybat. You were the first one at his side when he went down.”

“No. I wasn’t-”

She remains irritatingly sure, hands at her hips and lips pulled into a smirk. “Yes. You were. You yelled at me to get out of the way. And then you yelled at Alfred for not letting you see him. And then at Bruce for telling you to calm yourself.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Damian watches her crack an egg into the bowl, cringing as she lets a few more bits of shell fall in.

“It means somewhere deep, deep down inside that demon body. Real deep. You have a heart,” she points her whisk at him. “And in that heart, you love and care for your big brothers. Enough to never want to see harm come to them.”

“If I did, would I be letting you bake something that could potentially give Drake salmonella poisoning?”

She snorts. “Oh, you aren’t actually going to let me cook this. I was just waiting for you to get annoyed enough to do it for me.”

He fixes her with a scowl, a perfect imitation of his father’s clenched jaw and cold, shark eyes. Still, she’s unfazed, remaining jubilant with a wicked grin attached to her features. He slides across granite into the kitchen, scooping a handful of her dreadful flour/eggs mixture and lobbing it into her face before she can protest.

“Clear this up. Get me fresh ingredients and do it quickly.” He snaps his fingers, “Oh and Brown….you have something on your face. Right….there.”

He leaves her fuming amidst her culinary disasters and wanders off to his room. Damian doesn’t flounder in the face of Brown's irresponsibility and neither is he about to let her make assumptions about him and win. He conjures up his plan quickly, one that’s subtle enough for Drake’s liking and still bougie enough to fulfil Stephanie’s celebratory inclination.

Luckily for him, Jason answers on the second ring.

“Demon.”

“Death-breath.”

Jason’s voice is thick with sleep, but it brims with more concern than annoyance. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re baking a cake for Timothy. Brown—”

“Wait, Steph’s baking?"

"....yes."

"Don’t even let her near the oven, I’ll be there in fifteen!”

Todd makes good on his word and arrives quickly, apron in hand and a stern gait ready for Stephanie's pleading pout.

They decide on a black tea cake with honey buttercream icing because Jason remembers Tim cramming down a tray of cupcakes in those flavours at a gala a few weeks back. Preparation is relatively easy with him around to delegate and Damian makes his best effort to not pick fights with either of them.

Or at least start as little fights as possible.

He just tries his best not to commit murder, how about that?

Jason carries most of the heavy work while Damian is given the smaller, intricate tasks. Steph gets to mix things, which brings her immense satisfaction for some reason.

They're just about ready to place two separate cake pans into the oven when Alfred waltzes in. He stops in the doorway, walks out and then back in again.

"I was quite sure my eyes were deceiving me for a moment." He intones, "How astonishing to find the three of you in one room doing something productive rather than choking the daylights out of each other."

"We can be nice when we want to, Al."

"Yes, Master Jason, it appears you can. Shall I bother to offer my assistance or can I trust that you have this under control?"

Steph drops a handful of dishes into the sink with a startling clatter that draws a glare from Jason. She waves a hand in Pennyworth's direction, "We've got this."

"Considering that you're involved, Miss Brown, I think it would be wise to place Master Damian in charge of this venture."

Which is to say, he's making it Damian's responsibility to ensure that Brown doesn't blow up the kitchen. Again.

Damian huffs. "Funny you assume that I wasn't already spearheading this."

Alfred clucks his tongue and leaves them be after he watches Jason place the cakes into the oven with careful concern.

The buttercream proves easier work than the cake. While Todd and Brown argue over measurements, Damian rolls out bits of fondant to make a miniature version of Red Robin. It's tacky and sticky at first, but eventually he gets the hang of it. Cutting and shaping to his liking until he has a refined figure of his brother's subset Robin costume laid out before him.

"Hold the bag still."

Brown tuts, shaking the piping bag a bit to prove her point as Jason scoops in the smooth frosting mixture. "I am holding the bag still."  

"You know," Jason begins, a tiny smile pulling up at the corners of his mouth. "The icing is my favourite thing."

"Really?......I'd have to say pyjamas for mine."

Damian snorts violently. He's joined shortly after by Jason's barking laughter.

"What?" Steph cries, affronted. "What's so funny?"

"I meant icing is my favourite thing about baking. Not my favourite thing in the whole world."

"You really are a spectacle when you're running on little sleep, Brown."

"Fu— "

"What are you guys doing?"

Tim captures their attention from the staircase. He's groggy eyed and limping. The bruises across his face are still so fresh that it makes anger burn in Damian's stomach.

Stephanie reaches him first, takes him by the arm and gently helps him down the last few stairs. She's wearing her best grin, all dimples and sugary sweetness.

"We're making you a cake!" She informs him.

Jason sets the full piping bag into a large cup before surveying Tim. He's wearing just a hint of amusement as he adds, "A 'congrats you didn't die cake,' to be specific."

Tim's face does something funny. He gapes his mouth open and closed like a goldfish for a solid minute, enough time for Brown to cycle through all seven stages of grief with her eyebrows.

When he speaks again, his voice is a broken whisper. "You guys….you didn't….I can't believe you. I don't know what to say."

"Where are your manners, Drake? Say 'thank you' at least."

"Thanks, Dames." He grins, winces at the pain that comes from jostling his bruises. "Oh, hey. Is that me?"

Damian steps back from his tray to let Tim survey his handiwork. A surge of pride sparks in his chest at his brother's clear surprise, it almost makes him feel a little closer to normal. As though they were a regular family, as though they weren't waging war against the world's darkness in their spare hours.

Trapped in his thoughts, he finds himself being shaken to consciousness by crushing hug. Tim's all knobbly bones and awkward hands that make him feel impossibly small. But it's nice, even though he would never admit it.

"Get off me you big lug!"

"I actually can't believe you guys did this. For me. I really can't."

"It was Brown's idea."

"Yeah but, Jason and Damian did all the heavy lifting. I'm just here to take credit and wreak havoc."

Jason laughs, throwing an arm around her. "So basically what you're always here to do."

"Exactly."

They end up eating the cake warm out of the pans, using spoons to scrap the icing out the piping bag. Bruce finds them a cake and half in, offers them a distracted grunt before stealing a tablespoon of sugary buttercream before slinking away.

"I'm never eating this," Tim promises Damian as he pulls his fondant figure towards him, snapping a few quick pictures. "I'm going to save it forever and everytime you're mean to me, I'll remember this and be ok."

"See, this is why I rarely do anything nice for you."

[ineffably-good]

Have a Little Faith in Me (2/3)

Read Chapter One

If there’s one thing guaranteed to make a demon who’s feeling unworthy feel worse, it’s being reassured by his loved one that the thing he secretly wants isn’t actually on the table to begin with.

Crowley noticed at breakfast that the angel appeared to have something on his mind. He was a little distracted, not as absorbed in the lovely morning rituals he enjoyed of making tea and breakfast. He carried breakfast over to the table and laid out two plates of blueberry pancakes and then all but fiddled with his fork, not appearing even remotely interested in eating.

Crowley looked up from stuffing at least half of the top pancake into his mouth, to find Aziraphale watching him, with an cautious expression in his eyes he couldn’t read.

“Wha?” he mumbled around the huge mouthful of food.

Aziraphale smiled a little at that. “Please,” he said, making a gesture, “feel free to swallow first.”

Crowley mock-smiled at the angel but did manage to chew and swallow the food before he tried again. “Why are you staring at me like that?” he said.

Aziraphale sighed. “I just – I just wanted to tell you. In case you were wondering – “ He paused, clearly trying to choose his words carefully.

“C’mon, angel, out with it. I can’t read your mind.”

“It’s just that – well, I love you, for one.” Aziraphale said, putting a hand over Crowley’s on the breakfast table. “And if you’re at all concerned about it, I’m absolutely fine with what we have. I don’t need anything more than this.”

Crowley knew he should be patient and understanding, but his morning musings about why anyone would love a demon enough to marry had left him feeling raw before Aziraphale even said anything. This – this disavowal certainly didn’t help.

He put his fork down decisively. “What in the blazes are you on about, angel?” he snapped.

Aziraphale looked taken aback at the unexpected level of aggravation he’d encountered. “Why – just, I see how it bothers you when people make assumptions about our relationship, and I wanted to reassure you that –”

“Assumptions?” Crowley said. “Why would I mind people making the assumption that we’re together? It’s you who’s bothered by it.”

Aziraphale sat back, eyes wide. “I most certainly am not!”

“Oh, yes you are,” Crowley said, pointing a finger at him accusingly. “I saw how you reacted last night when that waitress said the m-word in front of us. You pounded down your port and gave her one of those brittle smiles that are all strained around the edges and looked like you’d like to discorporate.”

“I did that because you were completely frozen in shock!” Aziraphale retorted. “Couldn’t even swallow your drink for horror at the thought of us being married!” He heard his voice rising and somehow couldn’t seem to control himself at all. “And then you shouted at her! Made it quite clear how you felt about it!”

Crowley balled his napkin up and threw it onto his plate. “Oh for Go—Oh for Sata—Oh for fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, I wasn’t horrified! I was just afraid you’d take it badly! You’ve pretty much shut down every time it’s come up.” He took a deep breath and tried to rein the shout back down to a speaking tone, but he knew he didn’t quite succeed. What came out instead was more venomous than he intended. “Didn’t want you to decide it was all going too fast for you again!”

Crowley watched in angry, agonized desperation as that unfortunate comment lofted its way across the table and detonated on impact. Aziraphale looked like he had had the air knocked out of him.

“Oh,” he said finally, his voice oddly breathless. “Oh. That.”

Crowley, unable to bear the tension and a rising sense of guilt, got up and paced over to the counter, where he stood with his back to the table and ran his finger over the various bottles in their spice rack, not really seeing any of them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice very small. “That was a long time ago, and I assure you I don’t feel that way any longer about us. I thought it had been rather obvious, actually, that I’m up to your speed, now. We’ve been living together for almost a year!”

Crowley felt a tightness in his chest that defied all rational sense. “I know we are. But I don’t know, do I, what you feel about the rest of it? If this is as much as you ever want us to have, or if you want to move to the country someday or if you want to have a big ridiculous wedding or if you’re still – still thinking it over on some level.”

Aziraphale’s heart ached. He stood and walked over to Crowley and hugged him from behind, laying his head against his shoulder blade. “My dear, I had no idea you were still doubting my commitment to you!” He swallowed the hurt he felt at the concept and tried to continue. “I love you. I adore you. I’m not going anywhere, not ever again. Not without you, that is. How could you doubt that?”

Crowley relaxed and tried to discreetly wipe his eyes. “’m sorry, angel,” he said, “I’m being ridiculous.”

Aziraphale reached up and turned the demon around to face him, reaching up to lay a kiss on his forehead. “You’re being a little more human than demon right now, that’s all,” he said. It was natural to be scared sometimes when you love someone as much as this, he thought. Love makes you so, so much more vulnerable to loss.

“It’s fucking unbearable,” Crowley muttered, as if he’d somehow heard the angel’s thoughts. “how much it would hurt to lose you.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley even tighter, and just held him. “You won’t. I promise you won’t. Just... have a little faith. In me, I mean.”

They stood that way for a few minutes, pressed up against the sink with Crowley’s head cradled on Aziraphale’s shoulder, just feeling the rise and fall of each other’s breathing. Aziraphale ran his fingers through the back of Crowley’s hair and felt the demon’s heart beat slow from a frantic, racing pace to a more comfortable thrum, and bit by bit some of the tension left his shoulders.

“I’d love to get married,” Crowley said, finally, his face buried in Aziraphale’s chest. “I just figured – you know, ‘m a demon and all. Makes sense, really. Can’t exactly be a feather in your cap to marry a demon.”

Aziraphale pushed back, affronted, and maneuvered Crowley until he was looking him right in the eye. “Anthony J. Crowley, don’t you dare say things like that about yourself. You are perfectly -- well, perfect for me. I don’t need a feather in my cap from Above. I need you. And if we ever did get married, I’d be delighted.”

Crowley searched the angel’s eyes and found only sincerity and an intense, mortifying level of love. “Ngk,” he said, his tongue suddenly several sizes too large for his mouth.

Aziraphale’s affronted look fell away and he laid another kiss on the demon’s forehead. “You’re a silly serpent, Crowley.” He kissed him again. “To be honest, the only reason I don’t care about whether we get married is because I essentially already think of you as my husband,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t see how we could possibly be more wedded to each other – do you?”

“Well no,” Crowley said. “You’re right, mostly. But, er, it could be kind of nice, couldn’t it? To make it official and all that. Have a big bloody party.”

Aziraphale smiled delightedly. “And rings?”

“Yes please,” Crowley said. God yes. “I’d love to wear a ring, for you. And for you to wear one! Be super handy for flashing in the face of all the hopeless, romantic twinks that come in the bookstore and make eyes at you, for one thing. The bigger the better. Maybe we could even get one that lights up, to really attract their attention.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I really don’t think that happens anywhere near as frequently as you think it does, love.”

“It does, actually. You just don’t notice.” Crowley felt a lightness in his chest that he hadn’t experienced for weeks. “All right, then,” he said. “I’m not asking today, like this -- not after an argument. When I ask you, it will be a much nicer experience than this. I promise.”

Aziraphale smiled a little mischeviously. “Or perhaps I’ll ask you,” he said.

Crowley grinned. “Not if I ask you first.”

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale said, his smile almost painfully bright. “Just what we need, another competition.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley said, leaning in to nip at the angel’s lower lip. “You need a distraction.” He bent down to kiss his neck in a particularly sensitive spot.

“Fine,” Aziraphale sighed dramatically, nearly bubbling over with sudden happiness. “Have your way with me, dear. Do your worst.”

Crowley did his best to comply.

[cloudbattrolls]

Senseless

Etuuya Vannyn | Present Night | OLSC Headquarters

It’s rude to sit with one’s feet on a desk, especially if it’s someone else’s, but at least you’re not getting any dirt on it. There are lines.

Even with your snit of a boss.

Does Karina think she can drop this on you and everything’s just fine? Does she think yelling at you is acceptable when you told her to run? To save herself and the other trolls on the ship?

How long has she known Firebird would do this? Was that the only reason OLSC accepted you, because the wretched harpy decided you were going to be her new best friend whether you liked it or not?

The teal is lucky you haven’t left worms on everything, but that’s beneath you. Barely. 

Her chair isn’t as comfortable as you’d expect. Shouldn’t she have something nice and plush? You spin around in it a few times, unimpressed. It’s a gray one that moves well, but you could use more back support. You’ve still got bones, after all.

When she walks in through the sliding glass doors to her office, there isn’t the look of affronted shock you were hoping for. She seems more...resigned. Her long hair looks disheveled, and she’s blinking more often than usual.

“You didn’t hurt the guards, did you?”

“I persuaded them it’d be in their best interests to let me pass. Glad they at least bothered interrogating me, though. We do so need better security.”

If Karina registers the barb as a dig at the two assassin incidents, she doesn’t show it. 

“What do you want, Vannyn?”

You smooth back a few loose strands of wavy hair that hang between your horns and eye her, bright green pupils staring into teal slits. 

“What don’t I want, miss Tulais? You’ve been dodging most of my questions like a bad girl, and I feel I’m entitled to a little information after what I went through.”

“I stopped you from getting burned to death.” She snaps, but then sighs. “I don’t have time for this. Please leave.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely...”

She perks up slightly, her lowered ears lifting a bit.

“No. I’m staying put. Don’t even think of pulling your laser on me. I’m wearing armor underneath these clothes modeled after the piece of yours I borrowed.”

You toss the breastplate you tore off at her. She catches it, barely, leaning to the side and nearly falling as she does. 

“Here. Happy wriggling day.”

You give her a moment to put it back in her sylladex. Her hand slips the first time.

Extending one leg and then the other, you get up from her chair in an exaggerated motion and then stand by it, waving a hand as you offer it to her.

“I think you need it more than I do. Go on.”

She gives you a look, then scans the chair. With slow steps she goes and sits down as you go around to the other side of the desk and pull up one of the other, sadly non-spinny chairs.

“You don’t make any sense sometimes.” She accuses you, leaning back in it. “You’re a complete pain, then a perfect gentletroll, then obnoxious again.”

Lips twitching up in a slight smile, you tap one foot against the ground.

“I could say the same for you. You try to shove romanticized nonsense in my ears while knowing very well you need to arm yourself around me.”

Your voice hardens as you continue.

“You claim to want to make a better society for trolls, that this company has been working toward that very goal for sweeps, and yet I find out you’ve been in the pocket of your crazy ancestor all this time. Is this the truth of the Outer Limits Settlement Company, miss Tulais? Providing more sparky minions for dear, sweet Firebird?”

She opens her mouth, but you wave a finger and plow onward, cutting her off.

“And I never asked you to save me. If you had any sense you would’ve left me to bur - ”

“Stop it.”

Her voice is so harsh, yet cracks on those two words. She looks close to tears, her shoulders hunched up by her chin as she wraps her arms around herself. 

Gracious. You knew she was tired, but this level of stress? Why is she still in the office?

“I don’t want to hear about how I should’ve left you to die. You’re so stupid.”

Okay, that’s really not the response you were expecting.

You pause, trying to figure out how to address this particular brand of malarkey.

“I doubt Firebird would have actually killed me. She clearly wants me on her side for something. Don’t you think those ship trolls deserved a shot at not being forcibly turned into lava people?”

“Vannyn, she’s been doing it for over six hundred sweeps. Maybe longer, I don’t know.” The teal retorts, exhausted and exasperated as she flings her open palms up. “There’s so much I don’t know about her. All she ever gave me until I was nine were basic commands, and when she finally took me to space, she just expected me to accept everything I saw. Yes, she probably intends to convert some of the company trolls, but does it matter? Isn’t that a small price to pay for living free of the Empire? It’s not like they’re dead, or forced to serve in Fleet.”

You study her face, keeping your own expression neutral. Karina notices, and stares back, though her ears flick back and forth with discomfort.

“You actually believe what you’re saying, or you really want to.” You muse. “I guess you didn’t know she sent the assassins after me.”

The tealblood laughs.

She laughs for such a long time it’s a little disturbing.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Sorry?”

“She’s sent twenty-eight assassins after me. The ones I could confirm were sent by her, anyway. Jarron probably was. I didn’t know she’d sent that pair after you, but it doesn’t surprise me.”

Your eyes narrow.

“If she really wanted you culled - ”

“Idiot. She’s testing me. The other Tulaises died because they weren’t good enough, and I won’t let that happen. I’m better than they are.”

You blink once, twice, three times.

Isn’t that interesting.

“Did they all lead OLSC too?” You ask, neutral and casual as if inquiring after the weather.

“Some of them tried.” She says scornfully, and doesn’t this just explain so much. 

“So Firebird’s agreed to let you lead the new colony then?”

She sniffs in some sort of offense, though heaven only knows where it comes from.

“Obviously.”

“Lovely. So what does she want, then? What’s her goal?”

“Who cares? She’s not going to tell me. Maybe she just wants enough spark trolls to have as her own colony, and that’s it. She’s never talked about anything else.”

Your lip curls.

“You refuse to worry about it because you refuse to bother to find out, is that it?”

She makes an offended squawking noise, and for a moment reminds you of her ancestor.

“I’m not worrying about it because it’s pointless. Who’s going to stop her? You? That went so well.”

Sarcasm drips from her voice and you examine your claws, wiggling your fingers in the office’s dim light.

“I nearly killed her.”

A mild note of petulance can be found in your tone.

“Don’t try it again. We’re both dead if you do, and even if you’re stupid enough to want to die, don’t drag me down with you.” 

You roll your eyes, drumming both feet against the floor now.

“I don’t want to die.” 

Most of the time.

“But my life isn’t as important as that of most trolls. If I died, it’d do the world a favor.”

“Would it really?” says the teal in a voice that’s both bored and annoyed. “I felt bad for you at first, but then I realized you’re just kind of stupid. So what if you’re a monster? You’re controllable enough. You could’ve ripped my throat out that time at the party, and you didn’t.”

You hiss. Again, always this, the thing you like the least about Karina Tulais.

“I still nearly ate two trolls, and now one’s also a drinker because you wouldn’t let me cull them!”

“Wester’s doing a lot better now. They want to talk to you.”

The office is so quiet, and you’re so still, that you can hear Karina’s breathing. 

“To what? Yell at me?” You manage. “I suppose they’re entitled.”

She snorts.

“You’re not their favorite person.” She admits, to which you make exaggerated gasping noises of shock, hand clutched at imaginary pearls. “Actually, they want to ask about what it’s been like for you as a drinker. We explained to them you’re not a cavern jade and won’t cull them for being a mutant, and that the drinker thing was an accident. It took a while, but they believe us now. They’re adjusting pretty well.”

You have no pusher, no speedy beat of activity, but there’s a strange trembling in your body, something that feels like adrenaline, or the power rush from drinking blood, except it makes you want to run, not fight.

“What do they want to know?”

Though your voice is oddly hoarse, you at least manage to get the words out. 

“How to have relationships with people again. They’ve been messaging their kismesis and friends by text, but they’re worried about meeting them in person.”

Cynical laughter rolls out of you and you lean back, pressing your fingertips together.

“And they think I can help them with that? I don’t have relationships, Uunive aside. I have people who tolerate me because I’m useful. Either because they don’t know the truth, or...”

You think of a face with psiionic scars, a face that crosses your mind so much more than it ought to.

“...or because they’re too well intentioned for their own good.” You finish. “I can’t help this troll.”

Karina’s ears flick in what you think is irritation as her lips pull back, yet her voice is more curious than annoyed.

“I’m not going to make Tierel’s mistake. I’m just going to ask you: is that really how they feel? You broke into my office before with that obnoxious note and then left to go see that woman. Obviously you care about her a lot, and if she wanted you over, she cares about you.”

“Claire.” You say in a determinedly neutral voice. “Only cares about me because she thinks she should. She has me around because she’s desperate, and because I’m useful for sparring. She’s seen me ripped apart and put myself back together in front of her - could she be friends with that? No! It makes no sense, and it’s not true. It cannot be true. You are just as silly as Tierel.”

Your claws dig into the chair and there are irregular beats from the rapid tapping of your shoes against the floor, as your ears press against your skull. Stupid trembling. Where is that even coming from? You don’t have a pusher. You don’t have blood, and you barely have nerves except in your skin. Isn’t the only good thing about not having a fleshy body is that it doesn’t do inconvenient things?

She studies you, your boss with her glowing flower tattoos shining softly on her neck and shoulders, and you have no idea what you’re supposed to say.

“At least consider it, Vannyn. Don’t you owe them that?”

You get up and turn to walk out, then stop.

“I think I owe them not ruining their life further.”

You walk out down the halls, hands in your pockets, past the guards you talked (with the support of some helpful visual aids) into letting you pass. They eye you with suspicion.

Good. 

Karina. Tierel. Even Rivali, the night Wester was turned. What’s gotten into all of them, all this stupid sentimentality about you?

You’re not a troll with some mildly embarrassing and difficult condition. You’re a full-fledged bloodsucking undead who’s only kept in check by constant self-restraint and weaponry. 

Trolls do not care for things that disgust and disturb them. It’s against nature and common sense. 

Flicking your phone out, you check the chat, wondering what everyone’s been up to. Hopefully less dreary conversation topics than this. 

It’s a fun place, and nothing like this will ever come up, and it will be great. Hurrah. 

You ignore the slight, remaining shaking in your body. 

END

[seniichi]

Flower Bouquet

Summary: Green doesn’t often feel loved. Red and Gold want him to be. (Or how in a handful of months, Red and Gold learn that they want nothing more than to make Green feel like diamond.) Duo Nameless and Inspiship for one (1) @murdeirin for the gift week conga.

Note: If you like my work, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi account - Seniichi.

“He likes flowers,“ Gold tells Red one day over lunch. Ever since Red had come down from the top of the mountain, Green had been in a decidedly worse mood, though the reason why was anyone’s guess. Red looks mystified, gesturing with one hand in a question of why that would be significant. “Because he just got back from doing work in Pallet Town, and he could really use someone who cares right about now.” Gold says flatly. “I mean, unless you don’t.” Red flinches at the accusatory tone, glares at how Gold frames it. Of course he cared! The man stands up, now thoroughly affronted, and disappears. Gold continues eating lunch, a smirk on his face.

To say Green is bewildered when Red arrives, a soft bouquet of lilies in hand would be to understate his confusion. But he accepts the flowers, skeptically eyes the roots while Red hides behind his hat, cheeks red. He’s thoroughly surprised when Green’s face breaks into a genuine, if confused smile.

“That’s sweet Red,” Green smiles up at the man, ducking a little to see under his hat. He stretches up to lay a kiss against his cheek, expression soft and smile warm. Green takes the flowers off to a flowerpot, and Red slowly unfreezes from the embarrassed - but oddly pleased - statue he’d turned into. The next time Red visits, he can see his flowers growing in a pot. He curiously signs a question, and Green’s smile spreads. “They still had roots silly,” Green laughs at him, tugs on his hat playfully. “They took root pretty well, I’d say.” Green leans over to kiss the top of Red’s head. “Thanks for them - They really made a bad day better.“ Red gives a flustered response that amuses Green, and he escapes while he still has the chance.

The next time he sees Gold, the boy is running around with a basket of eggs. The boy waves at him, and he waves back carefully.

“... Green loves Eevee.” He says at last, when Gold stops by him, panting for air. The boy frowns.

“Yeah, he’s mentioned it.” The boy points out. Red shakes his head, frustrated at the lack of understanding. He doesn’t like talking out loud, and he has to emphasize it, using his signing to punctuate his meanings.

He loves Eevee. Red knew how Green adored the fluffy things, always cooing over his Eevee’s ruff and spoiling the darn thing rotten. Gold’s eyes widen.

“Ooooh. I see.” The boy gives a grin, salutes him. “I gotcha captain.“ The boy speeds off, and Red resigns himself to an annoyed chewing out from Green later.

“So, what’s so special about this batch?” Green asks Gold when the excitable boy takes his hand and leads him into his daycare. In response, Gold whistles. Green’s eyes widen at the sound of a lot of little voices of a familiar pokemon preceding the veritable flood of twenty extremely fluffy coats as the Eevees purr on him, clambering over his shoulders and licking his face. Green’s laughing, but this is cute, they’re really damn fluffy, and Green can’t help but fall in love. He barely looks up when Gold guides him into the living room, leaving him to enjoy his afternoon.

“I kind of ignored you...” Green’s embarrassed, hand rubbing against the back of his neck. Gold smiles at him warmly, bumps his fist against a shoulder.

“Honestly, I needed someone to distract the Eevees for me,” Gold grins openly. “I haven’t been able to cook undisturbed for weeks. Feel free to visit anytime you like - I could use a chance to make Pokemon food without them climbing up my legs and trying to get at them.” Green laughs, a faint flush on his cheeks.

“I’ll remember that.” Green says his polite goodbyes, waving slightly as the gym leader leaves to focus on other things for the evening.

The next time Gold sees Red, the man gives him a faint smile and thumbs up. It starts this way, so simply. Green does a hideous amount of work for an atrocious amount of pay, and it’s in their interests to see to it that he’s happier - the rest of the league doesn’t need him to be so stressed out.

But spending time with Green, just the two of them - or all three, depending on what they’re doing - brings far more into play, feelings growing deeper every time they saw the delighted expression on his face, the rapturous joy they had helped bring about.

“I think it’s pretty safe to say we like him,” Gold greets Red with that statement after one of their practice battles. Red looks a little offended at first, but Gold raises a challenging brow and the man wilts a little. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not acting on those feelings.” He says easily, misses Red’s doubletake. “I really like him. I like him a lot. But we both make him happy, and he’d be pretty heartbroken if he had to choose.” Red looks torn, but shuffles his feet in agreement.

“I don’t think he’ll ever pick,” Red says the words quietly. Gold looks at Red, tilts his head up to match the taller man’s gaze.

“And can you live with that?” He asks. Red seems to waver at first, before a faint, determined expression crosses his face. He nods firmly.

“Yeah. I can live with that.” Gold grins.

“Great. Listen, I’ve got a plan for Friday - there’s a movie opening up, and I was planning on taking Green - but if you’d like to come, I can spare an extra ticket.” Red looks at him in interested suspicion, before taking his word as genuine and smiling slightly.

Sounds great. He returns to signing now that the important part was over. He was kind of sad, but after Gold leaves, Red can’t help but smile a little. He was making Green happy. And someone else was too. That alone was worth it.

[smugzayn]

From London and Back

He’s a pop star wet dream - all confidence and charm and jaw carved from marble. Too bad you don’t like celebrities.

I.

Before you got into PR, you had never had strong opinions about pop stars. You just figured they were slightly more arrogant than the normal person and with a few more zeros in their savings account. Also, they tended to have better hair - which seemed unfair. But then you actually met celebrities and it would be unfair to say they are all rotten, but you wouldn’t ever want to marry one. They are sickeningly disillusioned about the life of the un-famous lot, and waving their money around, and tricking people with a wink and a flip of their - admittedly - luxurious hair.

Then you meet him - Harry Styles. And you’re not easily phased. Really, you’re not. It would take meeting the Beyonce or The Queen to really throw you off your cool-as-a-cucumber celebrity game. After all, your occupation is in public relations, so famous is your business. But he kind of flips everything you know on its head.

So, really, it had all started ten minutes ago, when the keys to a shiny, black, SUV had just been dropped into your anxiously awaiting hands. After all of the flights had been canceled, you were lucky to get one of the last hire cars that would manage to get you back to London before the oncoming winter storm left you stranded in Edinburgh. Not that you didn’t like Edinburgh, but you had been there for work for the last week and were itching to get out of a hotel, back to your home, and back to Reginald - your cat.

So, when your hands closed around the literal key to your one-way ticket back home, you weren’t keen to entertain any idea that would keep that from you. Especially ones from entitled pop stars.

And especially when that pop star tries to convince you by saying, “But I need this car, m’Harry Styles.”

And especially when he says that and then acts like the world is going to stop. As if you’re just going to hand him the key, roll over, and die. Like that was the argument you were waiting to hear. Like you were just playing some silly little game and now that he’s presented that argument, well what is there left to say? 

“Oh, well then,” you love how quickly his eyebrows pull together at your sarcastic tone. “Why didn’t you say so? Of course you can have the key to my vehicle that I just queued for three hours on. Because, after all, you are Harry Styles.”

“S’not what I meant -,” he runs his hands through his hair in frustration. With a deep breath and a tight smile, he tries again. “I need to get back to London fo’ business. S’important. Can I - please -” his jaw clenches hard around that word, “have the keys to that car?”

It’s not that you’re cold or stone-hearted, but you’ve met celebrities before that think their lives and whims and schedules are somehow more important than yours. And while you’re not sure Harry, per say, is like that, he’s not exactly sold you on the fact that he’s not the run of the mill and I’m the center of the universe type of lad.

Especially, the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s never been told ‘no’ a day in his life. You’d be doing him a favour, really. Building character and all...

So, with that in mind, you give him a biting smile and mention that you may have passed a sign about a bus earlier.

You could play the affronted noise that slips past his lips on a loop. 

“You want me to take a bus?” He glares at you, unamused. Like jaw tight, eyebrows knitted together, flared nostrils kind of unamused, and it makes you bite back a deepening smirk.

“Mingle with the commoners, pop star.” You resist the urge to smugly pat away the scowl wrinkling his face.

With flair, you snap up your luggage handle and promptly turn on your heel and stroll away. It feels good to know that you have a pop star’s eyes on you as you’re walking away, even if it’s only because he wants what you’re holding. You manage to take ten steps with that head held high, full chest, warm pride feeling before it drops right out of your stomach, lands on the floor, and crawls away to some dark corner at the words you hear him call to you gruffly.

“I’ll pay you.”

You stop dead in your tracks; your rolling luggage bites into the back of your ankle slightly.

As a rule, you’ve always considered yourself to be a woman of a decent amount of pride, but the abrupt stop at his words would say otherwise - you’re shameless. It’s not even that you’re that desperate for money because you’re not. You’ve got a decent job and a possible promotion coming up. But - Christ - you’re not so well off that you’re just going to let an opportunity like this pass by.  

You clear your throat before crisply asking, “Excuse me?”

Harry doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you hear his footsteps sauntering up slowly behind you. The light step of his Chelsea boots clicking against the marble floor and echoing throughout the empty airport terminal. When he speaks again, his mouth is pressed up tight against your left ear, his hand sneaking in front of your chest to await the dropping of your keys into his open palm.

“I said I will pay you. I need to get back to London and I need that car.” His breath is hot against your ear. “How does £800 sound?”

You turn to face him. He’s close enough that you have to take a step back to even look up and see the smug smirk on his face because he knows he’s found a crack. Money means nothing to him and is a factor to you. He’s rolled back on his heels, his jaw angled slightly so he’s looking down his nose at you.

You flicker your eyes away nervously before regaining your composure and leveling him with an even stare, your jaw tilted up challengingly.

“Make it £1200- ” you pause while he snorts “- and you have to take me with you.”

“£1200? That car could not have cost y’more than £300. You’re joking -”

“I’m not.”

He runs his hand through his hair, his lips drawn tight in irritation, and you can’t help but be satisfied that all traces of pop star smugness have disappeared.

You dangle the keys in front of him tauntingly. “Look around you, pop star. This airport is empty, people are bunkering down. I’m your last hope out of here. Or, like I said, there’s the bus...”

He rubs at his jaw, just the faintest stubble shadowing his skin, and stares down at you with a hard glare. It takes everything within in you to not break eye contact, to glare right back, and to let him know you don’t falter at a challenge. Especially challenges from the likes of smug pop stars.

“£1200?” He pauses and you nod confidently. “Fine.” 

He reaches up to snag the keys out of your hand before snarling, “But I’m driving.” He turns and storms ahead to leave you hurrying to trail his long strides. 

II.

You quickly discover that apparently everyone is trying to get home before the storm hits. So, an hour after Harry drove you out of the car park, you’re still eight miles from the airport and stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Luckily, the first snowflakes are only just beginning to fall.

“This is terrible,” you repeat for what must be the sixth time and Harry ignores you - again.

He had grumbled something about not wanting to hear a peep from you even before he had begrudgingly took your luggage from your hand and shoved it into the boot. 

You had quickly retorted that you had little desire to converse with him, but now you’re bored, your mobile is nearly dead, and damned if you weren’t going to find entertainment wherever you could.

Pretty soon you decide he’s not quite as charismatic in real life as you were led to believe from his sensationalised media headlines and articles. He’s a bit moodier and dangerous seeming - like he’s on edge. Perhaps, your coercion had something to do with it.

“Let’s make the most of this situation,” you suggest democratically. “Let’s get to know each -”

“No.”

“Please? I’m terribly bored and it will be fun -”

“M’driving.”

You look pointedly at the cars inching by around you and roll your eyes. 

He sighs heavily, which you interpret as a yes. Or, at least, you interpret as not a no; you take the bait quickly.

“So, let’s start with something easy, yeah? What’s your favourite film?”

You turn eagerly in your seat, legs tucked up so your heels are pressed into your bum and knees into your chest. For a second, he acts like he isn’t going to answer, but you wait patiently. Eventually, he gives.

“What’s m’favourite film?” he contemplates slowly, one wrist thrown casually over the steering wheel and the other resting against the window. His thumb and forefinger pinch the side of his lip in contemplation. “Probably, The Notebook - I’ve watched it a dozen times.”

You can’t help but squish up your nose and cringe. It took you reading one Nicholas Spark novel to determine he’s the absolute worst. It’s not that you’re not a romance person, but it’s all so sappy, and angsty, and always with the terrible one-liners.

“What?” He’s snaps, the offense clear on his face. “S’wrong with The Notebook?”

“It’s more like what’s right with it. It’s horrible.”

He looked less outraged when you demanded £1200.

“It’s a romantic classic,” he argues, turning in his seat slightly so he can more easily glance at you. His his free hand flaps at you in emphasis. “Ryan Gosling is a charming, blue-collar, every-man. I mean, basically, that film launched his career and Rachel McAdams was just -”

“Ugh,” you groan, interrupting his defense. “What’s your number two? Second favourite film, please?”

He eases back in his seat slightly, shooting you an irritated glance. He mutters something under his breath that sounds vaguely like a remark about poor behavior.

“S’nothing wrong with The Notebook…” he grumbles moodily and then offers after a minute. “Second favourite film is probably - probably, Pretty Woman.”

You raise your eyebrows and squish your face distastefully.

“S’pose there’s somethin’ wrong with the one fo’ you, too?”

“No,” you fumble with the heat instead of looking at him, “I suppose if that’s the kind of film you like -”

“What do y’mean kind of film I like”?

You shrug your shoulders. “Just predictable for a pop star, really...big powerful man, beautiful, submissive woman -”

He snorts, interrupting your criticism. “You don’t like powerful men?” 

You feel a slight blush heat your cheeks, but you will it away as you shake your head. “Don’t like the submissive woman,” you retort and watch as Harry’s throat bobs slightly, and he runs his tongue over his teeth.

"Interesting,” he notes simple, and then taps you on the leg so you will look back at him. “What’s yours then? If you’re such a film critic, then what’s your favourite?”

You dismiss his question with a wave of your hand. “I don’t really have one. I like too many of them.”

He laughs dryly, his face just barely splitting into a grin. “Is that how y’play then? Criticise everythin’ but don’t give any of y’own. Y’really just a brat? Huh?”

Your cheeks burn at the accusation, and you’re not sure how long you hesitate in your response. You're glad when a car honks from behind you, and Harry curses, and his attention turns back to the road ahead. 

“Whatever,” you mutter after a minute, crossing your hands over your chest, and turning in your seat. “I’m bored of that game anyway.”

He takes a minute to slow as the traffic clogs up once again. “Well, then let m’guess…,” he taps you on the leg again and it sends sparks to your chest. “Turn and look at me fo’ a second”

You do as he says and watch his eyes scan up and down your body - his green orbs moving slowly behind his heavy black lashes. It’s the first time you feel like you’re noticing each other - like really noticing each other.

And you can see why he’s a celebrity. He’s conventionally attractive in a way that you suppose might appeal to some people. Like his jaw is defined and sharp, even when it’s not tensed with irritation and his eyes have these flakes of golden colour wrapped around his dark pupils. You even notice that the short stubble poking around his lips help to add depth to his plump mouth. When his lips twitch with just the slightest smirk, your eyes flutter close and you have to ignore the stutter in your chest. Unfortunately, he demands your attention right away when he suddenly reaches on to your lap to clasp his hand around yours.  

“You have to promise you won’t fall in love with me,” he smirks and his eyes flash with something dangerous and menacing.

You feel your mouth go dry, and you try to pull your hands from his grip but he doesn’t let go. “What? I wouldn’t -”

You watch as the white of his teeth peek out to bite at his grinning lip and dimple his cheek. “A Walk to Remember,” he adds, turning his attention back to the road.

“That’s a terrible guess,” you grimace and his smile only deepens as he lets go of your hands and swipes a thumb over the bottom fat of his lip. His jaw seems more set, more determined, more confident about something you’ve yet to figure out.

You swallow the lump in your throat and discretely wipe your sweaty palms along your lap. Suddenly, this car doesn’t feel big enough for the two of you.

III.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep, but it’s all the sudden very dark out and you’re no longer moving. 

“Traffic, again?” you ask groggily, rubbing at your tired eyes.

You look over to see Harry’s profile. The glow of the traffic light reflects off his face, creating deep shadows along his jaw and nose.

He shakes his head, just barely glancing over at you before accelerating as the light turns green  “Roads are too slick. M’finding a hotel fo’ the night.”

You sit up in your seat, shaking your head and suddenly feeling wide awake. “No, no, no - I have a meeting tomorrow. We can’t stop.” The flood of panic in your chest seeps out to colour your voice. ‘You can just drive slow. We might get back late but it’s better than -”

“Sorry, doll,” Harry interrupts without sounding really very sorry at all. “Call in sick.” He says it so easily, just a slip off the tongue, that it immediately reminds you of why celebrities are a different breed of people and just how easily they lose touch with the reality of commoners. 

As if the matter is settled, he shifts the car into park in front of an expensive looking high-rise hotel.  

“Listen, here, Mr. Pop Star,” you clip, turning so you can glare at him. “I can’t just call in sick. I have to be there. My boss -”

“Will be happy if you come in alive and in one piece.”

You slam your hands on the lock button as Harry turns off the ignition and reaches for the handle.

“No, this is my car and you’re taking me to London,” your hand stays sealed to the lock, keeping you both in the car.

Harry looks at you in amusement and - regrettably - like he’s completely unmoved by your argument. A weight builds in your chest as your mind flashes back to the fateful moment you dropped your keys into his slimy, manipulative hand. 

You’re a git.

You hold out your free hand to him when he seems determined to wait you out. “Fine, the deal’s off. I’ll take my keys back. Forget the money-”

“Not a chance, doll,” he stuffs the keys into his front pocket, pokes you lightly in the ribs, and takes advantage of your reaction to pop the lock, swing his door open, and step out. With one hand on the roof, he ducks back down to look at you. “Deal’s still on. Now, are y’comin’ in or are y’sleepin’ out here?”

He looks infuriatingly patient, and reasonable, and like there’s nothing on his face that says he is willing to be convinced, but you can’t bring yourself to concede. You glare at him, chest puffing slightly, and tension in your jaw as you clench your teeth.

“Like I said, a brat. When y’done with this lil’ tantrum, come inside and grab the key to your room.” He sighs, shutting his door and walking through the front entry and disappearing out of sight.

Christ. You’re known for being impulsive and not always thinking things through, but this whole ordeal might just take the cake. 

You sit there, stewing in your frustration, and considering your options. It takes you a minute before you come to the terms with the fact that you don’t have any. Angrily, you pull out your mobile and, with the last bit of your battery, shoot off an apologetic, if not groveling, email to your boss explaining the situation.

It’s beyond irritating to storm into the lobby to an insufferably satisfied Harry waving you over from the front desk. You take a small bit of pleasure in brushing the slight snow accumulation off your body and on to him.

“Knew you’d come to y’senses.”

“Piss off,” you curse.

He chortles, but it’s dry and humorless. If there was even a chance that you could snatch your keys out of his pocket and make it to the car before he caught you, you would. He doesn’t look terribly coordinated, but neither are you, so you wouldn’t stand a chance. You lean your back against the desk and grump as you watch the giant telly broadcast all the crashes and accidents on the motorways.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Styles, but we’re booked out due to the storm. All we have available is your second option. Is that alright?”

You whip your head around to ask about what second option at the same time Harry says, “Yes, that’ll be fine.”

“It’s a suite, so more space than the regular room. Although, I’m sure smaller than you’re used to,” the lady hands a single room key into the waiting hands of a tight-smiling Harry. For the second time that day, Harry has something in his hands that you desperately want for yourself.

“I’m not sharing a room with you,” you whisper furiously as the woman points in the direction of the lift. “I don’t even know you. You could very well be a murderer or some kind of pervert. Celebrities all have secrets.”

Harry rolls his eyes at the suggestion and stares down at you in boredom. 

“You could get your kicks by strangling me or something. I don’t know how you get your jollies -”

“Just sign here, Mr. Styles,” the woman interrupts, placing a receipt on the counter and Harry scribbles in a few places before giving her a small thanks. 

“Are you listening to me?” you ask, as Harry adjusts the bag on his shoulder and reaches down to snap up your luggage by your feet. He begins to walk away, leaving you to scurry after him.

“No,” Harry barely spares you a glance as he pressing the button to the lift. 

“What?” 

You try to grab your luggage from Harry’s grip but he just shakes you off.

“No, I’m not listening to you.” 

There’s a ding and the doors slide open.

You make an offended noise, watching him step into the lift with your key, your room, and all your belongs. You’ve got no leverage.

 After one last lingering glance of the lobby, you step into the lift behind him. It’s irritating to watch the small, satisfied smile that pulls Harry’s lips as the doors close in front of you.

“We can’t share a room. We don’t even know each other. What if I steal your wallet? Or your phone? Or your pants or something? I could steal something off you and sell it for money!”

He ignores you, leaning forward to press the button to floor 18. 

“I mean it! I might steal the keys in the middle of the night-”

“I can tie you up,” Harry warns, glancing down at you threateningly. 

You gasp and start rambling even more to hide the burn running up your neck and painting your ears. “Well, like I said, for all I know, you could very well be a murderer. I know what you Hollywood types get away with. Cannibalism and the like. You could easily be a some kind of pervert -”

He corners you abruptly, dropping the luggage, and surprising you enough that it forces your back against the wall as he stands toe-to-toe with you in the moving lift. “That’s enough” he growls, caging you in with a hand resting on the wall behind your head. “Apologize.”

You stutter, feeling a heat flush your face at his close proximity.

He leans in closer and you find yourself stuttering to respond. 

“I didn’t mean to say that. I’m not saying you are a pervert just that-” Harry snarls, leaving in even closer, and you’re forced put your hands up to his chest to hold him back. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes flutter close and you look at the ground as his intense gaze studies you. He leans down, his head dipping so that his forehead is barely brushing against yours. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw and drag your eyes back to his. Your breath hitches in your throat as you feel his fingers wrap lightly around your throat and you burn as he squeezes just enough to plump your cheeks.

There’s that same dangerous glower in his eyes and a confidence, too. His lips are tight with venom and arrogance. It makes something in you explode with need and desire.

“You said we’ve all got secrets, right? Us celebrity type?” you don’t move and after a pause he guides your head up and down with his fingers still wrapped around your jaw. He smirks when your breath hitches. “Well, this is mine,” he eyes you up and down, making a show of it, and keeping your jaw still firmly locked in place. “It looks like it might be yours, too.”

He chuckles and he must be able to feel the racing of your pulse from where he’s wrapped around your neck. He taps you lightly on the cheek and then let’s go of you entirely before stepping away. After picking your luggage back up, he turns to you and there’s nothing but geniality, and patience, and good-natured concern coating his features. 

You’re so shocked by his change in demeanour that you’re surprised your brain is working well enough to be indignant at all. You can feel your heart in your stomach, your pulse in your fingers and behind your ears, even your mouth has gone dry.

“I don’t have a secret. I didn’t -”

“Do you trust me?”

The warmth of his gaze radiates toward you and the intensity is blocked slightly as a stray bit of his fringe falls down to brush against the top of his eyebrow.

“Not at all,” you whisper, still reeling from his proximity.

He smiles, a crinkly-eyed one, with dimples, and teeth, and a bit of tongue poking out from between his bite. If he hadn’t just had you pressed up against the wall, his hand gripping your jaw, and his fingers ghosting over your throat, then it would look cute. Right now, it looks absolutely devilish.

“Good,” he laughs, dryly. “Cause we’re not sharing a room.”

You stare at him, perplexed. What in the world was that all about then? The leaning in close and the threat of tying you up and the touch and the ‘do you trust me’ garbage? He just wanted to rile you up? Put your heart in your throat and send your stomach to the floor. Christ, what an insufferable, little - 

Ding.

The doors slide open and Harry takes one big step forward, walking off the lift, and turning his head slightly to reveal a small smirk.

“We’re sharing a bed.”

Fuck.

[pt. 2/2]

[masterpost]

[floralseokjin]

Selling your soul for some dick isn’t how you imagined your halloween to go…

pairing | kim seokjin x reader  genre/warnings | devil! Seokjin, smut, dirty talk, dom! Seokjin words | 6,145 

Read the rest of The Devil Wears Armani series here. 

“I would honesty sell my soul for dick right about now.”

That’s what it all started with. A fed up and desperate whine as you’d rolled into your apartment after a shitty Halloween party your friend had thrown. You’d thought tonight had been the night. A perfect opportunity to get laid. It was coming up to a year since your boyfriend had broken up with you and you still had unsuccessfully managed to do the naked tango with anyone since.

At first it has been because you were still getting over the heartbreak of the man you’d been with for three years, and then once you had, you were horrified to learn that hook ups were really hard to go through with. All you wanted was good sex. It wasn’t that deep. You just wanted some dick. At this point, the person attached to the damn thing didn’t even have to be good looking, he just needed to be able to use the damn thing. You were sick of all your conquests ending in a sloppy kiss or a vigorous and quite frankly, over enthusiastic fingering session that left you too sore for anything else.  

Tonight you were sure was the night, but you had taken one look at the various couple costumes that filled your friends lounge and realised that you were the only single one around. How sad. You’d bolted as soon as you could, back at home now and miserable. You faintly remembered your plea as you crashed out in bed—hopefully to dream of the non-existent dick you were in deep need for— before you’re awake again.

It’s still night. You can tell that by the way it’s pitch black outside, the moonlight peering into your room through the blinds. You’re groggy, unsure why you’ve woken with such a start. It isn’t like you. Turning to look at your alarm clock, you groan loudly. 3am. Why are you awake at silly o’clock in the morning? You’re just about to bury your head under the covers when something happens that turns your blood cold. A voice sounding in the dark.

“Good. You’re awake.”

You freeze. You must’ve imagined it. It must be the wind. There’s silence for a few moments and you build the courage to inch the covers down, revealing your eyes. You blink repeatedly, eyes adjusting to the darkness as the figure stood at the end of your bed finally comes into focus. Your stomach drops up your toes, dread sending tiny hairs on your body on end, but for some reason, even though your mouth opens no scream of terror comes out. Your body has betrayed you; fight or flight both not working as you’re just glued to your bed, gripping the sheets in horror.

“Yes, don’t scream. You are the one who summoned me after all.”

The stranger is speaking again. It’s a male, although you can’t see his face, but his large figure fills the window behind him. He sounds almost fed up and now you’re confused as well. Summoned? What the hell does that mean? You can’t summon a burglar…unless…he’s a ghost…Can you summon ghosts? Do ghosts even exist?! You’re a sceptic at heart but right now nothing is making sense. Who is this man? If he was here to attack you, he’d have done it by now…

“S-summoned?” You manage to stutter, surprised your voice is even working but curiosity outweighs the fear, if not just for a moment.

“Yes, with a very unconventional request too…” the stranger replies, tone uninterested.

You begin to rack your brains for what he could mean. Request? What had you requested? This couldn’t be about that pay rise you’d hinted at to your boss the other day, could it? It didn’t make sense—but then… It came to you.

I would honesty sell my soul for dick right about now.

That’s what you’d said before falling asleep. How did that equate to a man appearing in your bedroom at 3am…? What did this all mean? Unless…but no—selling souls wasn’t a thing, surely? It was that of urban legend, make believe… But if not…who was this man?

“What are you?” You whisper, afraid that you weren’t going to like the answer.

“The devil, of course,” he replied as if it was nothing.

“I’m dreaming,” you despair to yourself, head falling back to the pillow as you attempt to pull the covers over your face. Maybe if you shut your eyes tight enough you’ll fall back asleep. This would all be over and you’ll laugh about it in the morning…

However you can’t hide your face because he has his fist on the end of the bed, tugging the covers back, unrelenting until you have no choice but to shuffle back up and peak at him once more.

“I can assure you you’re not,” he tells you.

“I really am,” you insist. There’s no way this is real. I must have drunk more I thought last night…”

“No,” he presses, “you were stone cold sober when you asked to sell your soul for some…hm, how did you put it…?” He hums, one eyebrow cocking up as he looks at you and carries on. “Dick.”

Your cheeks heat up. This is mortifying. You’ve been exposed by a crazy guy. He is not the devil. There’s no such thing. But for some reason you find arguing the details more important than trying to call the cops.

“I said ‘would’. Nothing about wanting to right this minute.”

“It means the same thing,” he shrugs.

Now that your eyes have adjusted to the darkness slightly, you can see his face. He’s…handsome and this is just too unfair. You’re so desperate for a banging your body isn’t reacting the correct way towards intruders. You’ve been betrayed by your own hormones. You scowl and cross your arms over your chest. He smirks when he notices and your belly does a somersault. You now despise yourself.

“You should probably think before you speak,” he continues.

“I didn’t even know this was a thing,” you argue back. If this was in fact true.

“Well, it is,” is all he replies and you narrow your eyes. “If you’re the devil why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” He grins, showing a straight row of pearly whites. They must have really good dental care down in hell, that was for sure… “Handsome, right?”

You scoff loudly, although it’s more because you’re embarrassed by the fluttering of your heart. You try not to, but you feel the blush rise up to your cheeks and then you’re busying yourself with looking anywhere but his face, even though you can feel his eyes on yours.

“I must say, you’re a very pretty girl to be making such a plea,” he puzzles.

Your heart stops, affected by such a stupid word. “What?”

“Have you really thought this through?”

“Well, no,” you roll your eyes. Is he stupid? “Like I said, I didn’t even know I was contacting some sort of…devil, when I said that tonight.” Even the word devil was hard to say because really? You were actually talking to one right now? You’re too cynical for this.

“I hear and feel desperation and you reek it.” He deadpans, adding a clipped “no offence,” when he sees your affronted expression.  “But really, you have a hard time finding this dick you speak of? How come?”

You dip your head in embarrassment, not wanting to speak about it. It’s bad enough you’ve been exposed like this, let alone having to talk about how no man wants to stick his dick in you.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, knowing he’s going to wait for answer. “The situations haven’t presented themselves lately, and when they do it goes…wrong.”

“Humans,” he sighs with a roll of his eyes, “—or should I specify—the male kind. They really have no idea.”

“What do you know?”

The question is out before you can stop it and if this man is the devil like he says he is, probably judging him is not the best thing to do.

“I may be the devil but I know how to pleasure a woman,” he retorts smugly.

You gulp. You can’t help it. For some reason, hearing him say that shoots straight between your legs. You shut them tight under the sheets. He notices. You know he does. His eyes dropping their gaze for a moment before sliding back to your face.

“So you’re really going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Sell your soul to me because of men,” he scoffs. “You want to lose part of yourself just to feel a part of them?”

Well…when you put it like that…

“Not really, no.”

“So you’ve wasted my time here then.” He doesn’t seem annoyed but it’s hard to tell when he’s so monotone.

“I’m sorry,” you apologise with a whine. “I didn’t even know I was contacting you.”

“It just seems unfair that you’ve wasted my time and you’re still without what you want…” He trails off, eyes falling to your thighs under the sheets again. “How about we make a compromise?”

“What kind?” You ponder out loud. Although in the back of your mind you know what he means, you just can’t believe you’re this crazy—and desperate.

“Come here for me, let me see you properly,” he requests, voice firm as he beckons you with his hand.

You scurry forward as if your life depends on it, out the sheets and on your hands and knees until you’re before him. He pulls you by the shoulder, lowering his head so you’re practically level and you take the time to observe his face. He’s stunning. Breathtaking. There’s no other words for him. Black hair tousled against his forehead, large eyes, perfect skin, the plumpest lips you’ve ever seen. He almost hurts to look at.

And he’s touching you. Hands that are cupping the side of your face as he turns it this way and that, inspecting you it seems, but for some reason, you don’t feel nervous at all. Only excitement flows through your veins.

“Hm, yes,” he concludes suddenly and you meet eyes for the first time. Your blood runs cold. They’re black and soulless, like stating into the pits of hell and now there is no doubt in your mind. Despite defying logic, he’s a devil. The Devil. And he’s in front of you.

“I really can’t take your soul, you have too much worth…much more than the men you share this earth with. It wouldn’t sit well with my conscience.”

You raise your eyebrows. The devil has a conscience? Please.

“Don’t believe me if you don’t want to,” he shoots. “But hell wouldn’t suit you.”  

“Hell exists?”

“Oh, it exists,” he smiles and your breath hitches when he runs a finger down the side of your jaw, “and it’s a beautiful place.”

His touch leaves a ripple of goosebumps in its wake and suddenly the room is stuffy. What is he doing right now? Your heart is pounding against your rib cage and your knees are shaking slightly.

“You’re turned on right now,” he quips, dropping his hand.

“I-I, no-no—

“The sexual energy in this room is tangible. Can’t you feel it too?” He interrupts and this time you can’t hide the blush that heats up your face. It’s scorching and you can’t think straight. Humiliated but yes, turned on too.

“Also, your pupils are blown out to double their size,” he adds, straightening his back—his shoulders are broad you note, despite fumbling over your words again.

“I-I—

“So how about that compromise?” He stops you when he realises you’re only speaking gibberish.  “For wasting my time—

“—but you turned me down,” you cut him. He’s the one who said he wasn’t going to take your soul.

“True,” he pulls a face. “Okay then, as an apology for the rejection, let me make it up to you.”

You stop breathing again because there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before; it flickers like a burning flame. “Let me end your drought.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, although you know very well what he means. He knows it too.

“You know exactly what I mean,” and with that his eyes turn darker than before if that’s possible. “Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Time stands still, all you can hear is the thudding of your own heart, blood rushing through your ears, his crude words flying around your brain as you try to make sense of what’s happening. This can’t be happening, but yet…it is.

“I don’t have all night,” he sighs. “I have other soul binding agreements to attend to. I’m taking pity on you here—I could just leave you desperate and horny.”

His words should knock some sense into you. You should tell him no. Whatever evil entity he is, he can go back to where he came from. To never be seen again. But instead they evoke something in you. This is your chance. You’re seconds away from what you so desperately crave and he’s handing it to you without a catch…you hope…

“Uh, yes,” you reply before you can think anymore.

“Yes, what?” He orders. “Say it out loud.”

“I want you to,” is all you can think to say. This is awkward and you don’t know how to express what you want. He already knows anyway, right?

“That won’t do,” he shakes his head. “Straighten your back and project like a good girl.”

And with that his hands are on your shoulders, tugging you upright. His affirmation set a fire between your legs, his firm attitude only turning you on more. At that moment, you’d do anything he asked of you.

“Say it. ‘I want you to fuck me.’” He enunciates slowly. “If you don’t make it clear I can’t do anything.”  

“I want you to fuck me.”

The words feel foreign on your tongue. You don’t think you’ve ever been this outright before, but they also feel invigorating, and confidence washes over your body as you kneel in front of him. This stranger. This…Devil…

“Surprising,” he comments. “I didn’t think you had it in you. But I am the devil after all—I can break you if I wanted to,” he says with a smirk and you exhale quietly, in awe.

It’s all very well staring at him but you’re so frozen by his presence you can’t possibly move. What’s next? You can’t think for yourself.

“By god woman, do I have to spoon feed you all the way?” He sighs after a moment. “You summoned me because you want dick so show me how much.”

Luckily for you, he takes your hands and places them on his thighs. He’s wearing black pants, the fabric crisp and expensive under your fingertips and you try to pluck up the courage to work your way to his belt.

“Wait,” he stops you and you look up at him, startled. “What will you address me as?”

“Address you…?” You repeat, confused.

“Mhm, I can’t fuck you if you don’t respect me correctly,” he replies simply and ponders for a moment. “If I really took your soul tonight I’d be your Master—how about that?”

“Master?” You question feebly, worry swirling around in the pit of your stomach.

“Problem?”

“N-no, it’s just I’ve never had to call anyone things like that before.”

“That’s why you’ve never experienced a good time,” he informs you, as if it all makes perfect sense. “All those men, so unworthy of you. You need someone worthier. Me.”

He says it so simply you almost believe it yourself.

“Now, show your Master how much you want to be fucked.”

His command takes you by surprise again and your mouth hangs open until he’s shaking you a little, bringing you back to your senses. “Take initiative and unbuckle me.”

With shaky hands you unclasp his belt, the sound of clinking metal causing your stomach to jump around in excitement. You leave it hanging from the loops as you unzip his pants. He’s already solid, you can feel it against your hand as it glides down. More confidence washes through you and when he’s loose, you take your hand and pull his length out of the hole in his black Armani underwear.

You gulp immediately, unable to look away as you drop your hand on instinct. The flesh had been hot and solid. Ridges and veins run along his large member, tip angry and red. It’s kind of intimidating, but it only turns you on even more imagining him inside you. You’re sure you’re wet at the thought, the ache in your vagina tenfold now as you stare at the beautiful creature in front of you.

“You’re drooling,” he says, using a thumb to smush the dribble against your parted mouth. You shy away at the realisation as he carries on. “You haven’t seen a dick this good before, it’s understandable.”

Drooling over dick is not something you’ve found yourself doing before but then again, maybe it really has been that long since you saw one in real life. His thumb leaves and then two of his fingers are parting your mouth wider. “Open up,” he commands. “Suck.”

You do so willingly, loving the feeling of having something in your mouth. He presses the digits flat to your tongue and you suck loudly.

“Look at me.” He orders and you lock your eyes on his, the inferno between your legs growing immediately. You suck harder, making sure to get his fingers as wet as possible, moist slopping noises leaving you every so often.

“Is this how you’d suck my cock?” He asks curiously and you nod. “Vocalise.” He adds sternly, eyes flashing with annoyance, and he loosens the pressure against your tongue so you can stumble out a messy “Ye-yes.”

“Yes what?” He cocks an eyebrow, now pulling his fingers out of your mouth completely.

“Yes, Master,” you partially grumble when he begins to rub his sticky fingers against your cheek.

“Good,” he praises, now rubbing the excess on his pants. “Now show me—show me how much you want me inside you.”

You let out a shaky breath, watching him stand before you, hands open to showcase his cock, still as solid as ever, still beautiful and now waiting for you. You know what he wants, you do too, and you crave it. Wanting to know what he tastes like and how he feels inside your mouth. You timidly take his dick in your fist, shuffling closer and part your wet lips. It’s staring you right in the face and your body trembles with want.

The first lick is tentative, right against the slit as you lean closer, the second is braver, telling yourself it’s okay, you can do this… The third is done with a confidence as you look up and catch his eye. He’s smiling at you, encouraging you and in that moment, you know you can do this. You want to show him how much you need him and you won’t stop until you have.

“Don’t be shy, open up, invite me in,” he coaxes and you take him fully in your mouth, letting your wet cavern engulf him as you begin to bob your head up and down.

He doesn’t make a noise, nor does he move but instead of discouraging you, it only makes you work harder. He’s a man of self-control and collect and that is the biggest turn on possible. His eyes say pleased anyway and that’s all you need as he watches you.

You’re a mess by now, slobbering all over his hard length as you try to get it as wet as possible, using your fist to pleasure parts of him you can’t reach but want to desperately.

“You suck dick like you’re from hell itself,” he tells you, a smirk on his face as he cups your jaw and a burst of pleasure washes over you. Just feeling him touch you like this is oddly enough and you moan. It’s wanton and deep, a carnal urge that’s been locked deep inside you for months now.

“So desperate to pleasure me. It’s kind of endearing,” he smiles and you moan again. It’s true, and you want him to know it.

He uses his thumb to drop your chin, pulling your jaw wider and you feel him push his cock further inside your mouth. It’s a stretch and you panic at the thought of taking him deeper but your panties tell you otherwise… As you frantically try to fit him as far as he can go, you get wetter and wetter. You can feel it collecting against the cotton as your thighs burn, desperate for a pressure that can cease the need.

“That’s it,” he tells you, inhuman noises tearing at your throat as you try to force him deeper, strings of salvia dropping onto the bed as they slide from the corners of your mouth. “Worship me. Worship my cock like you want it to worship your cunt.”

You go to moan again, his dirty words igniting flesh waves of desire through your body, but you only choke, the head of his dick hitting the back of your throat as you push him to your limit. You pull back immediately, gasping for breath, strings of salvia connecting from your mouth to his cock breaking and trickling down your fingers as you jerk your hand over his hot flesh, sticky slick noises filling the room and they only turning you on even more.

“What a mess,” he comments, tilting your chin to get a good look at you. Your face is dripping, lips wet and swollen and when you blink you realise tears have pricked at the corners. There’s an ache in your jaw but you hardly notice it—in fact, it only adds to the desire. You squeeze your legs together, desperate to relieve the tension.

“Look at you rubbing your thighs together, desperate for my cock,” he observes, deeply amused and instead of feeling shame, you nod, gripping his hips in desperation.

“M-Master,” you beg, “please.”

He holds your hands for a moment, his skin warm and comforting, peering down at you. “I told you I could break you. I like needy. Well done.”

You go to speak again but he silences you, holding your hands out to push you back a little.

“Strip for me—slowly,” he instructs. “Shirt first.”

You eagerly obey, fingers gripping the hem of your nightshirt to pull it over your head. You’re not wearing a bra and you’re glad because that means less time wasted. You throw the garment off the side of the bed and look over at him. His eyes graze over your stomach and breasts, a grin spreading on his face.

“Are you sure you didn’t know I was coming?” He asks. “Maybe your plan was to seduce me all along.”

“No,” you answer immediately, watching the way he raises as eyebrow at your informal addressing. You quickly correct your mistake, a teasing smirk itching its way onto your face. “No, Master. I didn’t know you were coming, but I’m so glad you did.”

“I bet you are,” he purrs, his eyes falling to between your legs. “Look at you, pussy dribbling for attention already and I haven’t so much as touched you.”

He’s right. As you look down you see that your panties are soaked through, a damp patch right in the centre where your core hides, swollen and pulsing, only craving one thing.

“Sucking my cock really made you hungry, didn’t it?” He questions and you nod. “Lay back on the bed and peel your panties off.”

You do as he instructs, pressing your head into the pillows as you hook your thumbs through the waistband of the cotton. They’re stuck to you and you pull a little harder, slick suction filling your ears before you’re freeing yourself and sliding them down your thighs. Once they hit your knees he takes control, tugging them completely off.

“I’ll take these—My souvenir,” he grins, scrunching the delicate in his fist and shoving them in his back pocket.

Your eyes fall to his crotch. He’s still dressed; black shirt, black pants, his length still hard and wet with your saliva, hanging out his underwear. It looks like everything you’ve ever wanted and more. Biting down on your lip you try to halt your desire. Not long left now, you tell yourself.

He makes no motion to discard his clothing too and you realise he’s going to fuck you this—fully dressed. Something like this has never happened to you before but just imagining it maddens your want beyond belief. You’re fully bare for him, at his hand, at his disposable, and you’ve never been more turned on. He’s the one in control. You are his for tonight.

“Spread them,” he orders, jutting his chin in the direction of your legs and you do so immediately, cold air hitting your soaking core. You gasp at the sensation and do so again when he hooks his hands behind your knees and pulls harder.

“Let me see you,” he hums. “Beautiful.”

You’re fully exposed to his eye, heat spread apart and drenched. He can see how much you want him, need him and his eyes glimmer with something that sends a shiver running up your spine. Hunger.

“The most fuckable cunt I’ve ever seen.” He awes, face so close to your core you can feel his hot breath against your folds. He teases you, blowing cold air against your swollen clit and you shudder, squirming around the bed as he holds you tight, large hands still locked behind your knees.

“If only you’d wanted to sell your soul to get eaten out. I would’ve had fun with that,” he tells you, teasing colouring his tone as he looks up at you and before you can cry out, beg for him to do just that—touch you, lick you, feast on you…devour you…he’s dropping your legs to the bed and moving away. You want to whine, your whole body aching for him, but then he speaks once more and your stomach drops.

“Turn around. On all fours,” he commands. “If i’m going to fuck you, I’m doing it right.”

You’re moving before your brain can fathom his request, scurrying to your hands and knees, legs spread apart, cold air whooshing between them. You feel him behind you. Not touching, but close enough that your whole body vibrates with anticipation. You can hear his belt buckle clinking as he kneels directly in front of your ass and you hold your breath, all you can do to keep sane and wait patiently.

“Oh princess, so wet for your Master,” he praises, a hand grazing down one of your ass cheeks. He’s correct, of course. It’s running down the inside of your thighs, you can feel it. Even if you can hold your breath to calm yourself, you can’t curb the arousal that leaks profusely for him.

“Have you been this wet for me all along? Thinking about my dick this entire time?”

You groan out an agreement, now tugging on your bottom lip, your whole body in pain until you’re forced to gasp. His hand reaching for your hair as he tugs a little. “Answer me.”

“Y-yes, Master,” you stutter.

He lets go and you fall forward, breathing loudly, waiting his next move. He starts to run his hand back over your ass, pulling apart the cheeks playfully, absentmindedly as he begins conversation.

“I bet you can’t look at a man without wondering what his dick would feel like rammed inside you… Well now it’s about to change. Every time until forever, when you get fucked by another man, you’ll wish it was me.” He informs you. “I will be the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to you,” and you groan in understanding. “You will crave me for eternity—Do you want that?”

“Yes,” you cry out, beyond desperate now. He’s still behind you, the little hairs on your body can feel him. He’s so close to where you want him. So close to being inside of you.

“Are you sure? I assure you it will drive you mad.” He tinkers, amused by your reaction.

“I want it. Please. I want it, please just give it to me. Fuck me—make me crave you. Please, Master.”

He wants to break you and you’ll gladly give him the satisfaction. The need you feel isn’t because you haven’t gotten laid in months, it’s because of him. You know it. In this moment in time you need him; need him like you’ve never needed anything in your whole entire life. Your whole body’s shaking and you just want him to fuck you.

“Your wish is my command.”

He pushes inside of you in one movement, a throaty groan leaving him as your vagina sucks him inside and hugs him tight. You cry out, whole body on fire as your walls pulsate around him. There’s no pain, only a stretch that feels blissful. You can feel him everywhere and right now, if you died, you would be happy.

When he begins fucking into you, at a merciless pace indeed, you can’t help but groan and growl out. You feel inhuman at this point, your body not attached to your mind, your mind not a part of your body. You’ve never felt pleasure like it and you relish in the slick, wet noises that fill your ears. He stays silent apart from his heavy breathing, but he’s still smooth and collected. A man of severe self-control and power.  

“Tight—wet—hot,” he grunts between hard thrusts. “You’ve missed this, right?”

“Yeah,” you gasp, burying your head in the pillows. “Fuck, yes.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he quips. “No man will ever be able to fuck you like this,” he tells you and you hear him place one foot flat to the bed, gaining more power and leverage over your naked body. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. You’ve been blessed,” he laughs, almost manically.

“Blessed by the devil. You lucky thing.”

You don’t have the ability to speak, to agree—to think even. All you can do is concentrate on the way he feels inside you, each motion that drives you further and further into the bed. He’s fucking you with so much vigour that you’re collapsing and it’s not until he slaps your ass do you squeal and try to hold still.

“No, up!” He barks, wrapping his arm under your stomach as he pulls you and you straighten your back, arms shaking like a leaf as you hold yourself up. Placing his palm on the small of your back, he continuous to bury himself as deep as he can go.

He continues this pattern, spanking you every time you collapse until you can’t think straight. Your legs ache and you know you’ll have bruises come tomorrow—the only thing to remember him by. The pleasure is enough to explode your mind and even though he’s fucking you harder than any man has ever done before, you still beg more for. You still beg for harder.

You don’t know how long it continues, he could have been drilling you all night. Every time you think you’re close to coming, he slows down, his strokes turning languid as he pulls all the way out just to rut all the way back in. You’re dangling on a string, limbs worn out, body tired, but you still crave more. It’s like he’s a machine. He could go on forever. Time is a foreign concept, all you can think, feel and smell is him. This stranger. The Devil. Your Devil your mind tells you, but you know you’re being stupid. He doesn’t care about you, you’re just a bit of fun to fill up his nights. A stupid human who’s played right into his hands.

Your orgasm has ebbed away for what feels like tenth time when he tugs at your shoulder, body jerking up before he’s wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you flush to his clothed chest. You’re damp from sweat, red in the face, hair wild and stuck to your forehead. You can feel his leather belt digging into your ass, feel the chafe of his pants but it only adds to the euphoria that’s pulsing through every vein in your body. He moulds your breasts in his hand, tugging at the nipples. His breathing sounds heavier now, uncontrollable and you guess, even the devil hits his limit after a while.

“Such a good girl,” he praises. “My princess,” and you grin with glee, feeling almost crazed as you lean your head back against his chest to look at him.

He’s affected too, hair curling at the ends, sweat dripping from his nose as he bears his teeth, throwing his head down. It’s when you feel his mouth against your neck you begin to moan louder than anything tonight. He’s still pounding into you, wet noises filling the room every time he drives back inside your body and you’re gasping, orgasm near again. Only this time it feels like he’s going to let you reach it.

“On second thoughts,” he grits into your ear, “—maybe I should take your soul. My humanity doesn’t want to ruin such a pretty little thing as you, but the monster inside of me wants to drag you down to hell myself.”

His confession makes you groan loudly, stomach tightening as you feel the build up to your release and then he’s sucking on your earlobe, hot tongue snaking inside the cavity as you moan through gritted teeth, hot pleasure bursting through your veins.

“Take me, take me,” you gasp madly, not even knowing what you were agreeing to.

Luckily for you he just chuckles, wrapping his arm tighter around you as he holds your hip with his free hand. You’re close, teetering on the edge and you clench your eyes closed, holding your breath as he fucks you harder now, knowing there isn’t long left. His next command’s the push you need and then you’re coming.

“You’ve done well. Now cum all over my dick like I know you want to.”

You moan loudly, the sound tearing in your throat as your orgasm obliterates through your body, spotting your vision and weakening your body. Your walls spasm uncontrollably around his dick, the flesh burning you as you tighten like a vice. He lets you go, catching you off guard and you fall face first into the bed, scampering for breath as your limbs shake. He moves with you, fucking you faster but not as severe, pushing your ass up with his hands so he can get as deep as possible. He’s chasing his high now, moving with expertise and when you’re sure you can’t take it anymore, he’s grunting loudly.

“Amazing,” he gasps. “The greatest cunt I’ve ever had.”

His praise has you moaning jubilantly, head falling back once you feel him pull out, desperate to see him as an animalistic roar leaves him and he splatters his come all over your ass. It paints the raw flesh with white. There’s so much of it, coming out with such a force that it shoots up your back too.

You feel cold air when he leaves your body. You don’t know if he’s disappeared back into the night or if he’s still in your room but you’re too tired to look around, face buried in the pillows as you try to cool down, body still sticky with seat and spoiled with his seed.

You’re confused when you feel something wet at your back, a cloth cleaning you up and you mumble out in curiosity, half asleep. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he chuckles, voice deeper than before, as if he’s still affected. “The devil is and always will be a gentleman.”

You want to reply but you’re in a daze, letting him clean you up before the bed shifts and you feel him run his fingers through your hair. He bends his head and with a kiss to your temple he whispers, “sweet dreams.”

You can’t remember if you fall asleep before he leaves or not, waking up in the morning to murky memories of last night. You almost don’t believe it. You must be dreaming, but then you go to stretch and end up wincing in pain. Your thighs are sore, but your whole body and being feels sated to the fullest.

It’s true.

You were visited by the devil…

The handsomest creature you’ve ever seen... and…your dick drought has passed.

[ang3leyes]

Rebel Rebel

Notes: Hey! I wrote something?? Okay, this one goes out to @elf-scones-research for being there and listening to me rant about this for like months. Love ya bby! Without further ado, the Radio Rebel AU I’ve been planning for months.

Summary: Small, gay, well-mannered Eddie Kaspbrak has a secret. More specifically, a secret identity. By day, he stays quiet and hangs out with the self-proclaimed Losers Club, but by night, he's the smooth talking anonymous DJ 'Radio Rebel'. The genius part of it all? No one would ever suspect it. Only now, Eddie's long time crush Richie Tozier is in the picture, and there's more at stake than just his podcasted radio show.

Pairings: Reddie, Stanlon, possible Benverly

Chapter: One/Six

Word Count: 3883

Warnings: Sonia Kaspbrak. Just,,,, Sonia Kaspbrak. 

Eddie flipped on his earmuffs. He checked the voice modifier. He took a deep breath. Here we go again he thought as he hit ‘Record’.

He supposed it was stupid. A bunch of idealistic bullshit, which it kind of was. But… there was just something so tempting about sounding like a bit of a smartass anonymously.

“This is Radio Rebel coming at you live from the underground,” Eddie felt something warm slide over him. He smiled as he felt it sink into his skin, felt himself becoming comfortable, for once, hidden inside his own skin. “You don’t know who I am, but I know who you are. Because I’m one of you,” this part always felt the best to Eddie. Hiding in plain sight, the thrill of it was intoxicating. He could speak his mind, he could play music and talk to people and be himself, without anyone actually knowing it was him. It felt as good as telling a secret, and it didn’t sting nearly as much.

“Before we get to a Bowie mix I made when I was bored off my ass in English, I just wanted to tell you how bullshit the report cards that came out today at Lincoln Bay are. So what if I don’t want to dress like I’m from the 1950’s? A low participation grade for short shorts, that sucks ass.” Eddie smiled. He was angry, yeah, but that's where his best stuff tended to come from. “But it’s not just the teachers, is it? Guys, we all talk shit about the school staff for putting us into boxes and shutting us down, but I thought, since grades were being handed out, I’d let you all know that it’s not just the teachers who fuck us over by judging us.” Delicate, ran a tangent thought through Eddie’s head. Fairy boy in the short shorts. “Jocks, outcasts, dorks, the pops, the gays,” Eddie took a sharp breathe from between his teeth. “We’re all so quick to judge. And, obviously, people get hurt by that. You’re you. You’re not some perfect mix of qualities that make you one thing, neither are your best friends, neither are you classmates, neither am I.” Eddie spun in his chair and sighed. “I do it too guys, sorry this turned into a tangent, I promise I’m not trying to lecture. We all have a power to change things, that’s all I wanted to remind you.” Eddie rolled his chair around in lazy circles. “Talk to the kid with the remote control car. Invite him to soccer tryouts. Ask the stoners for help on your math homework. Actively change the status quo,” he spun once more before stopping and planting his feet determinedly. “I dare you.” Eddie paused. “And I get it. Not everyone can do that right away. But this next song is what inspires me to try a little bit every day. Hope you guys like it.” With that, Eddie lowered the headset mic and spun once more to his computer, selecting the song. The opening riff to ‘Rebel Rebel’ filled his bedroom. He smirked at his own joke.

He loved this. This was his life, and for the first time in a while, he really, really loved it. This was his music, his advice, his show. Here, he could be himself.

Admittedly, at first he had been unsure. His music taste wasn’t eclectic or cool or obscure or anything people really tended to enjoy in a radio program. He listened to a strange mix of classic rock, even classic-er rock, and ‘80s pop. He didn’t know much about music either. He could clumsily play a few notes on the piano, (the remnants of lessons his mother had scheduled in his heavily drowsed childhood that he resented and shuddered at the thought of), but that was it.

All of this, he had thought, would lead to a flop of a podcast, so he had let the idea sit on the backburner. That had, however, been before the first day of Junior year, when Eddie had returned from the summer after coming out the last day of Sophomore year.

It wasn’t that he had gotten pushed into a locker or been beat up behind the school like the movies might have suggested. Instead, people treated him like he was breakable, timid and quiet. He was just so done with the soft stares and even softer words, spoken to him as if people thought that if their straightness was even a smidge louder, he would shatter. What was worse, his new sense of retrospect had given him an almost superhuman ability to see those around him struggling.

He couldn't help but see that even within friend groups, stereotypes prevailed. Ditzy blondes and rude jocks filled his thoughts for months, and it was little things that caused him to throw caution (and his fears of his music taste being inadequate) to the wind. He would give his advice and try to make a difference, even if no one would listen. What came to surprise Eddie was that it actually worked. His podcasted radio show, Radio Rebel, had caught on and, though Eddie wasn’t sure how, a significantly large portion of his school (and other schools in the area? What the hell?) listened to him every Tuesday and Thursday night.

He danced around with silly kicks and shimmying shoulders to the music playing from his computer, another show successfully recorded and broadcasted live, and began to gather his homework, set out his clothes, and get ready for school the next morning.

Though he had started this whole show because of the bitter taste school had put in his mouth, it was heartwarming to hear people listen to his advice, or to at least try to. He felt (in the moments he was walking through the school, seeing his words rippling back and forth between friends old and new and hearing his clueless band of loser friends debate the illustrious Radio Rebel’s identity) like a spy in the old films he and Ben had watched over the summer when the rest of their friends had been busy. So yeah, he was excited for school, excited to see that from behind an unknown persona, he was making a difference, and excited to spend time with his friends, who he loved with everything he had.

This excitement for school, Eddie found once more hours later as he stood by his locker with Mike and Bill at his sides.

“Ruh-Radio Rebel was a-awesome last night,” Bill said, leaning against the locker and sighing.

“I know! Bowie’s my absolute favorite,” Mike was smiling now too, the curve of his lips around his words giving him the appearance of sunshine and of sunflowers. (Eddie, of course, knew that his best friend loved David Bowie-it was one of the reasons why the man’s music had become a regular part of Eddie’s rotation).

“I don’t know,” Eddie said, hiding a smirk, “Wasn’t their advice a bit... idealistic? ‘Change the status quo’ is harder than it sounds.” Eddie was constantly undercover to find what he could do in order to make Radio Rebel universal and unbiased and, most of all, true.

Mike gasped. Bill’s eyes bulged.

“What? Of cuh-course not!” Bill declared, puffing his chest out and looking personally affronted

“Maybe they aren’t realistic, but they’re  inspirational. So what if it’s hard? Rebel’s doing a good thing.” Mike, instead of defending the school’s favorite radio DJ as he had done in the past, smiled down at Eddie with a spark lit up in the corner of his eye. His smile was playful, but it almost made Eddie wonder… no, Mike didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. Nobody would ever suspect the cool, relatable Radio Rebel to be the small Gay Kid who didn’t seem to fit anywhere. Most people actually thought Rebel was a girl, much to Eddie’s chagrin and pleasure. The voice modifier worked miracles. So no. Mike wasn’t acting any out of the ordinary. Everything was perfectly normal, and Eddie was projecting.

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed distractedly. “Wish I could be more like them.”

Bill and Mike shared a look.

“W-well,” Bill said, kicking up fear within Eddie’s chest. He couldn’t know anything, none of them could.

“Bill and I have been talking,” Mike’s voice was soft as he laid a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, but instead of sounding condescending, his voice was comforting in an understanding way. “We think you should talk to your aunt.”

“My aunt?” Eddie questioned, looking from one of his best friends to the other.

“Eh-ever since you’ve been living with her, yuh-you’ve suh-seemed more confident.” Bill explained, looking a bit uncomfortable and glancing at Mike, who was the best out of all of them at giving advice without making a person feel small.

“We thought it might help you to get a job at Slam. The two of you could spend time there together.” Eddie couldn’t deny that every interaction he had with his aunt (and the owner of Slam FM Radio) Joyce made him feel just the slightest bit more solid, the slightest bit more real. But a job at Slam, one of the biggest radio stations in Seattle? He was already so busy with his own show.

(A small voice whispering, delicate, you’re my delicate boy, the slick slide of honey down his throat, something in the middle of it all, the recognizable bump of a pill in its sugar coating, bird bones enclosed in human skin-)

“I don’t know,” Eddie said instead, “It’s pretty hard to get a job there.”

“But yuh-you’re pretty talented.” Bill said, bumping his shoulder against Eddie’s with a reassuring smile that had made their whole group fall in love with him at one point in their lives.

“Just think about it,” Mike said, his forehead creasing. “Your aunt is really good for you.”

And she was. Eddie knew this, he wasn’t stupid. Ever since his aunt and her sons (one of whom he only saw occasionally due to his status of being away at college) had moved into town, they had taken him in. They had taken him from sticky half swallowed medicine and a drugged dredging summer that had seeped its way into Eddie’s pores like sap to a tree, (so slowly and so entirely that he could think of nothing else), and had given him a strength he’d never known was possible. The immense gratitude he felt, as well as his unsureness, well, that only created a thicker barrier from them. In this reverence there was hesitance, and in all hesitance there is fear.

“I’ll think it over,” Eddie said finally, looking around at the people who could care about him without making him feel breakable, letting a smile flit across his face, small and genuine as he reached up to bring his two towering friends down for a hug.

“How can you even think in a time like this?” Beverly’s voice broke through their touching moment as she and Ben walked up, completing the group of five best friends.

“We’re so close!” Ben said, and Eddie bit back an inappropriate joke. That wasn’t supposed to be him. He wasn’t funny, at least, he never had been to anybody else but himself and his cousins.

“Radio Rebel revealed the biggest clue about their identity yet!” Bev squealed, taking Eddie’s hand and spinning him in a circle.

“Stop it Beverly,” he said through stern laughter, “What do you mean?”

“In last night’s show! Did you even listen? Minute 0:27, Radio Rebel goes to our school!” Ben was positively glowing and it made Eddie feel warm all over to know his small mishap had caused that happiness. “They could be anyone all around us!”

“It could be,” Eddie put a hand to his chin and tilted his head, “Mr. Dennis. Or, no! I bet it’s Principle Marino!” Mike laughed at his sarcastic tone and slung his arm around his best friend.

“I-if you kuh-keep that up Ben’s gonna get an aneurysm,” Bill said, linking his arm with Ben’s unoccupied one.

“This is serious guys!” Ben huffed as they began to walk to Bev's locker, located farther down the hallway in a different clump. “What if I like, spill my drink on them at lunch or something? I don’t want the whole school to hate me,” he bit his lip as if he considered that to be a very real possibility.

“Benny, it’s literally impossible for anyone to hate you,” Bev said fiercely.

“You’re so sweet Ben, nobody'd do that to you.” Eddie really hoped Rebel didn’t come across as a person who’d rat someone out to the rest of the school for something so small.

“Ugh, wuh-would you look at that?” The friends were diverted from Ben’s plight as Bill pointed across the hallway where Greta Bowie was standing with her lackeys, chatting and batting her eyelashes in a way that just screamed fake as she kicked Josh Halkin’s book from where it had fallen from his hands, like the book was nothing and Josh was even less. If there was something Eddie absolutely could not stand, it was a sense of hierarchy. And, okay, as much as he preached open mindedness, he was loyal most of all, and Greta had been so horrible to each one of his friends in so many ways that Eddie found it inexcusable. This was just a sick reminder of it, and Eddie felt a fire high up in his chest that pushed him to walk in her direction at the same time Bev did.

Eddie could feel the other three following at a slower pace and looked over to Beverly, seeing the same fire on her face as he felt within himself.

“What’re you doing?” Ben called, causing Bev to turn around and Eddie to turn his head over his shoulder.

“What Radio Rebel told us to do,” she responded, taking Eddie’s arm and squeezing.

“Let’s see how far ‘idealistic’ will get us,” Eddie said, feeling less and less sure about himself by the ticking seconds, but soon he and Bev were standing right in front of Greta and her friends, who giggled meanly behind their hands as if they knew something Eddie and Bev didn’t.

“Well, well, well,” Greta said, her voice pinched as if she was talking through her nose, “What do we have here?” She raked her eyes up and down Eddie and Bev.

“We saw what you just did to Josh,” Bev said, and Eddie bit back a bit of fond annoyance at his ability to cut straight to the chase, no preamble necessary. “It was kinda rude, don’t you think?” Bev’s voice was sickeningly sweet, her eyes glinting dangerously.

“Oh, wanna fuck him too, do you Marsh? The other four aren’t enough for you?” Eddie gritted his teeth, breathless fury boiling at the base of his throat.

“Excuse me?” he bit out, causing the heads of everyone in the opposing groups to turn to him. He wiped his palms on his shorts. Why was he nervous now? He wasn’t anxious with his friends when he went to make a sassy remark, and he wasn’t when he was in his bedroom speaking into a microphone. “W-what did you just, what did you just say to her?” Greta looked a smallest bit surprised. Eddie doubted they’d spoken to one another since seventh grade. “You can’t just,” he whipped his head from side to side nervously, “Just say that! Jesus, what the hell is wrong with everyone at this school?”

"Hm," Greta hummed, tilting her head to the side. "This Rebel Rabble," Bev mumbled 'Radio Rebel' in correction under her breath as she looked at Eddie in gratefulness and awe, "Is making sickly nobodies think they can talk to us."

"Hey!" Mike stepped forward, his brave, broad chest high and his kind demeanor twisting into something angry. "Don't talk about by friends like that!" Eddie's teeth ground together once more as Ben and Bill stepped forward as well to defend him, and Bev reached out to grab his hand, because despite the fact that his friends never made him feel delicate, their protective nature sometimes made it hard for him to appear strong to others.

That didn't stop him from being grateful to all of them, but especially Mike in that moment, who, as the school's star quarterback, held the most respect among their friend group with the rest of the school and caused Greta to back off with a small 'whatever'.

"Let's go girls," she said, whipping around and flipping her hair like she was the mean girl in a silly movie as she walked away from the school's resident losers.

"Fuck off asshole," Eddie said as he glared daggers into Greta Keene's retreating form, though Greta was a bit too far away to be within earshot. Beverly snorted, and with a sad smile, Eddie realized that once more, his friends had come to his rescue. When, he wondered, would it be the other way around?

“What is up my dudes, this is Trashmouth Tozier of The 69ers,” Richie’s loud voice rang out as he focused his video camera (large and vintage from the late ‘80s because Richie was Edgy like that) on Stan, who was standing at his locker, getting his books out.

“That’s not our name,” Stan deadpanned as he turned around.

“Yeah, I know Mr. Lead Singer Big Shot, but I thought it might be time for an upgrade,” Richie said as he balanced the bulky camera and went to throw an arm over Stan’s shoulders.

“An upgrade in a lead guitarist, maybe,” Stan grumbled, causing Richie to turn the camera clumsily around to capture his face within the frame as he threw his head back in a bout of raucous laughter.

“Oh, Stan the Man gets off a good one!” Richie’s glasses dangled a bit crookedly from his face, and his hair was mused into wild curls, and these two things matched with the disgruntled and slightly windblown looking nature of his shirt (which was brightly patterned and buttoned wrong) gave him the distinct appearance of always looking breathless. Perhaps this was what gave him the feeling of always being on the edge, and maybe it was what made him feel as if he was at the precipice of a personality.

“Shut up Richie,” Stan mumbled, shrugging Richie’s arm from off of his shoulders.

“What’d we talk about, Staniel,” Richie said, wrapping his body lankily around the camera to show off a self satisfied grin, the glint in his eyes refracting in his coke bottle lenses. Stan only heaved out an exasperated sigh, his face taking on a sour pinch. “Go on, say it!”

“Hi, we’re Fight or Flight, and we’re gonna tear up prom,” Stan began and tapered off, wincing and shaking his head, as if wondering why he had become friends with Richie in the first place, “Just like Richie tore up your mom last night.” Richie let out large guffawing laughs.

“Would’ya look at that! Stanny’s really got it in him!” Stan put his head in his hands, and removed it a second later to turn to the camera.

“I lost my dignity for twenty dollars.” Richie laughed nonetheless.

“Twenty dollars well spent!” he hollered, and before Stan could release the cutting remark that sat on his tongue, Greta was strutting up to them.

“Hiya Richie,” she giggled, a fake little thing that was too high in pitch to sit right with Richie, “Hi Richie’s camera,” Stan cleared his throat, and Greta turned, her face flashing disdain before molding back up into positivity. “Uris.”

Richie rolled his eyes. Greta, he knew, was a certified bitch. He wasn’t stupid. He knew about how she bullied Stan in middle school. He knew she’d trashed the yearbook club’s classroom because the student editor had had the guts to tell her to shove it. He saw how she treated everyone in school, and Richie hated it. What made his blood boil nearly more than anything else, though, was the particular fixation she had on a specific band of students, a group of self proclaimed Losers. It wasn’t like Richie would ever admit it, but for the past year and a half, he’d been getting closer to the, again self proclaimed, Losers Club, and he liked to consider at least some of them to be his friends.

And then there was the case of Eddie Kaspbrak, but Richie tried his very hardest not to think about that. Greta had been a bitch to him for years upon years, though Richie didn’t know how anyone could do anything other than respect the guy.

“What do you want Greta?” he asked, his voice flat.

“Just to say hi,” she giggled, twisting her hair around her finger with something dangerous glinting in her eyes. “Come on girls.”

With that, she crooked her finger and had her friends trailing behind her. Richie shut off the camera.

“I don’t know what the fuck her problem is,” he muttered as he walked over to Stan. He looped his arm casually around Stan’s shoulders, because while Stan pulled away mockingly and made a face as if to tell Richie he was disgusted by him, Richie knew his best friend appreciated the contact every once in a while.

“Yeah, yeah, you have a massive friend crush on the Losers Club,” Stan said, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. Richie scoffed, affronted.

“They gave themselves an iconic name, they take no shit, and they’re just as obsessed with Radio Rebel as we are!” he gushed.

“As you are,” Stan muttered. Richie went on, ignoring him.

“And don’t act like you aren’t head over heels for Mike Hanlon,” Richie said, smacking his lips together to making over exaggerated kissing noises.

“Beep beep, Tozier.” Stan said as they walked to the pre-calc class they shared first period, his cheeks tinted pink. Richie laughed at the familiar phrase and nudged his best friend fondly. Stan had English with Mike Hanlon, the school quarterback and founder of the art club. The boy was one of the sweetest people in the school, and Stan tended to talk about him non-stop on days when he had English class.

The two boys continued on their way, joking with each other and feigning annoyance. They had been best friends for years, and while they got on each others' nerves often, they had each others’ backs.

As they passed by the losers, Richie’s eyes were drawn to the figure of Eddie Kaspbrak, whose arms were moving all around in a way that spoke of a passionate conversation. Richie smiled a bit, and tore his gaze away.

With lingering thoughts of Eddie in his head, he turned back to Stan, who was pulling up last night’s Radio Rebel broadcast. Stan offered his an earbud, which he readily took, searching for a distraction.

As the distinctive filtered voice of Rebel drifted into one ear and the precalculus classroom loomed at the end of the hall, Richie glanced over at his best friend, the comforting weight of normalcy settling down on him.

Just a normal day, Richie thought to himself, smiling at Rebel’s words.

Little did he know just how much could change in one day.

[kitandkanoodle]

one night will remind you

A Guardians of the Galaxy AU where everything is basically the same, except Gamora was rescued and raised by Ravagers, and Peter Quill was captured by Thanos and raised as a weapon.

Basically, part two of a role reversal AU that no one asked for and literally no one but me wanted.

read it here on AO3!

“What a load of bullshit,” Gamora hisses, stomping over dried twigs and dead leaves. They snap and crunch satisfyingly under her boots, but frustration still simmers low in her gut. “Can you believe the nerve of him? Trying to traipse back into your life, trying to be your father? I don’t trust it for a second.”

Peter lets out a noncommittal sound as he follows behind her, and Gamora whirls around to face him, hands braced against her hips. She waits as he ducks beneath a low hanging branch, his movements graceful and almost entirely silent.

“This has all the hallmarks of a trap, you know.” She gestures sharply to the distant glow of their campfire, the warm light a beacon in the dark forest. There, the rest of the team sits with that strange, silent girl and that bizarre man, with his easy smiles and infuriating swagger – different from Peter as night from day.

If the man calling himself Ego hadn’t known so much about Terra, if he hadn’t dropped the name, “Meredith Quill,” like a live grenade, none of the Guardians would have ever believed he and Peter could possibly be related.

(“I hired a Ravager to collect you from Earth,” Ego had told them as they gathered around the fire. Gamora had bristled, recognition rankling at the back of her mind. Ego hardly noticed, focused as he was on Peter, who stared wordlessly into the fire. “I barely remember his name now, but whoever it was, Thanos beat him there. I never imagined you could have survived.”

Peter had only hummed in response.)

Gamora finds Ego familiar and slimy in a way that makes her skin crawl; he seems so much like the type of person she would run into at clubs and bars, smarmy charm and barbed praise. A “pick-up artist,” as Peter once put it. She wishes her ship hadn’t been wrecked so they could coat the bastard in their cosmic dust. Here and now, she says, “The Ravagers, the Kree Purists, and now, the Sovereign. Hell, any one of our old enemies. How can we know he’s not working with them?”

Peter breathes out a sigh, glancing off toward their camp. He looks strangely small, for once, slightly hunched in his favorite dark red coat. (In two months’ time as a Guardian of the Galaxy, the coat had been the first of Peter’s few indulgent purchase – and even then, it had taken Gamora nearly an hour to convince Peter that the universe wouldn’t end if he allowed himself to buy one frivolous thing.)

He murmurs, “I know, but...”

And Gamora freezes.

She creeps forward, ducking down to catch his eye. The moonlight falling through the canopy catches on the silver lines cutting across his brow and the bridge of his nose. Beneath those scars, she sees uncertainty and reluctance on his face, but she spots something else in the dark, too; something too complicated to name.

“You can’t be serious,” she says dully. When he stays silent, Gamora lets out a slightly affronted noise, rocking back. “You want to go with him?”

He pulls a hand down his face, turning to wander a few steps away as he thinks. Gamora scoffs in disbelief, crossing her arms as she waits. In the quiet, the whisper of a breeze rustles the leaves and branches around them, and the noise is near thunderous. The distant cooing of some woodland creature almost makes her jump out of her skin. She thinks she hears the echo of Drax’s booming laughter, but it tapers off before she can be sure.

Something writhes and snaps in her chest – irritation, anger, panic, she isn’t sure what. Today has been awful, with Rocket stealing those damn batteries and the Sovereign nearly shooting them out of the sky, but this? This, on top of it all? This arrogant, condescending old man, who bragged about his accomplishments and victories as if they were hardly worth the breath to tell the tale, trying to take Peter from them and their stupid little family?

The thought strikes her like a slap across the face, and she’s grateful that Peter’s back is to her. He doesn’t see the way her expression twists with hurt before she can compose herself.

The Ravagers had never been family for Gamora – not in the way the Guardians have been. They had provided her shelter after the destruction of her world, had taken her in when no one else would, but they were a far cry from what she had enjoyed as a child. The Ravagers had trained her, had honed her skills, had taught her how to lie and steal and negotiate, occasionally utilizing the business end of a blaster, but they were never close. They were brutal and reckless, if effective, but Gamora had always maintained a morality that the Ravagers could never destroy.

Gamora had always wanted to do the right thing. The Ravagers, on the other hand, did not.

(She thinks briefly of Nebula, a fellow Ravager in Aleta’s faction, only a year or two her junior, and her stomach twists with guilt. They were close as children, but after a few years, Gamora outshone her, started earning the higher-paying jobs and more of Aleta’s favor.

It almost feels silly to wonder what Nebula must think of her, now that Gamora has left her behind.)

Peter turns to face her, eyebrows knitting together, jaw set. “Do you remember the stories I told you? About that famous actor from Earth on the show with the talking car.”

Gamora frowns, taking a second to remember which actor he means. Peter has mentioned the few he could recall, and the foreign names blurred together in her mind. They sat together often in the belly of her M-ship, whenever the others were asleep or ashore, passing a bottle of liquor between them. He would patiently sit with her as she needled him for stories of his home world.

Peter had been older than Gamora had been when Thanos slaughtered their people, and Peter remembered far more of his home than Gamora did of hers. She found something cathartic in Peter’s stories and retellings – a reminder that Thanos didn’t take everything from both of them – and she guarded his childhood memories with the same ferocity she used to guard her own. On those nights alone, she would wait him out until he would sigh and ask, “What do you want to know?”

She would grin with triumph, settling in and leaning forward with an overblown eagerness that sometimes made Peter reluctantly smile. She would ask about the famous figures on Terra – the women he found attractive as a child, like the woman named Milano, or the men he admired for their bravery and skill, like the one called Kevin Bacon.

And sometimes, should would ask him to sing for her, whatever he could remember, which often resulted in little snippets of songs, or half-remembered choruses and tunes. He would make her swear never to tell the others if she valued keeping all of her limbs, and sometimes, if he were feeling generous, he would take requests.

“Sing me the one about the woman and the sailor,” was Gamora’s most frequent demand. It was clearly his favorite and the one he remembered best.

Given this context, though, she thinks she has an idea, and slowly, she asks, “Zardu Hasselfrau?”

Peter takes a breath to speak, but then he stops and blinks at her. Then, his face pinches in a way that Gamora would never tell him is endearing. “Wait. Who?”

“Zardu Hasselfrau?” she repeats impatiently. “The one who fought crime?”

It takes a few seconds, but at last, Peter’s eyebrows rise in recognition. “David Hasselhoff,” he corrects.

Gamora nods slowly, accepting the correction but not entirely understanding the point of this digression. She frowns, and her lips part to ask, Why did the car talk again? but Peter raises a hand to interrupt her, offering an apologetic look alongside it.

“What I’m trying to say is...” Peter’s brow furrows after he trails off, and Gamora can see the way he carefully selects his words. Patience has never been her strong suit, but she dredges it up well enough where Peter’s involved. “What I didn’t tell you was— when I was young, I... used to pretend David Hasselhoff was my father.”

Gamora blinks, this time, arms dropping to her side. Then, with a slightly disbelieving laugh, she asks, “You what?”

“I pretended David Hasselhoff was my father,” Peter repeats, far more sheepishly. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, head bowed, and even in the dim light, Gamora thinks she sees the faint hint of a color rising in his cheeks. He takes a moment to collect himself before he continues, “Whenever there were school outings or father-son events, I always felt... ashamed. My mother would try to involve herself where she could, but I was young and foolish and felt—different. Secluded. I never wanted to seem odd, so I would try to convince the other children that my father was out of town, filming or touring with his band.”

The thought of it is charming, Gamora has to admit, and a small, unbidden smile curls her lips. These days, Peter rarely lies, from what she’s seen. She’s watched him adopt roles for the sake of a job – she witnessed it firsthand on Xandar, in fact, as he charmed her into dropping her guard outside of the Broker’s shop – but aside from that, he was always honest with her. Guarded, of course, but candid and sincere when he allowed himself to be.

“Did they ever believe you?”

It’s not often that Peter laughs, but he does so now – quiet and barely there. Gamora relaxes slightly with it.

“No,” he says, his expression softening, turning slightly sad and pensive, “never, but it didn’t stop me from trying. My teacher would send me home with notes for my mother. ‘I’m concerned about Peter’s frequent fibbing. Please discuss with him the consequences of persistent lying.’ I even had this little magazine clipping of him, too. I would keep it in my backpack and show it off like it was some department store portrait, and sometimes, I would— I would imagine what it would be like, if he were my father.”

He laughs again, rueful this time, and he draws a hand down his face. Gamora can only watch for a few long moments, speechless, before he finally lifts his head to catch her gaze. “It’s pitiful, I know, but I just... For the longest time, I... I wanted that, Gamora. Someone to play catch with. Someone to go fishing with. Someone who would teach me how to tie a necktie or how to use a hammer or how to fix a leaking sink. I wanted... I just wanted a dad.”

Gamora can’t remember the last time he’s spoken like this, aside from when she was half-drunk at a bar or on the ship. Sometimes, in those moments, he would sigh with far too much patience and tell her stories about his mother. Sometimes, he would recite the plot of a half-remembered film he had seen. Sometimes, he would hum her parts of songs, voice hesitant and careful, imperfect and lovely. And sometimes, he would offer little snippets like these, vulnerable and soft, when he thought she was too far gone to remember.

And she thinks of her own father, what little she can remember of him, who had loved her with his entire being. He was so proud of her, in all things she did, like the clumsy way she would wield a practice sword or mimic his forms and exercises. He would marvel over how quickly she was growing, would tell her how much he was looking forward to seeing the beautiful young woman and formidable warrior she would soon become.

She would give anything to have that again.

She takes a deep breath and releases it between her lips. She tries to dredge up a sense of calm, even if something bristles and snaps in her, reminds her that trust must be earned, not freely given. “And you think this man might be him? Your Hasselhoff?”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, and he shrugs with one shoulder. “I won’t know until I give it a shot, right?”

She sees again that odd, complicated emotion flit across his face, only this time, she recognizes it for what it is. Hope flickers in his eyes, something brittle and faint but there, nonetheless. It looks so foreign on Peter’s face, when usually he’s so grim, so impassive, and worry starts to percolate in Gamora’s gut.

“Peter...”

Before she can finish her warning, Peter closes the distance so quickly and silently that she hardly realizes he’s moved. He reaches across what little space remains between them, grasping her hand with both of his. “I’m not saying we go into this blind,” he says. Gamora hears a wistful note in his voice, tentative and hesitant, and her stomach twists with it. “I don’t trust this man any more than you do. I’m just saying, I would like to... try. Just for a few days.”

Gamora still hates the idea, and hates even more the idea of Peter setting himself up for what’s sure to be disappointment. She’s dealt with Ego’s type before – cocksure and self-aggrandizing and selfish – but she grudgingly admits that even she could see something sincere in his gaze, some quiet note of affection and awe whenever he set his eyes on Peter.

Apparently, Gamora is silent for too long, because Peter starts to pull away. “I can go alone. You all can stay and repair the ship while I—”

“Absolutely not,” Gamora says, and her voice is far more severe than she intends. Both of her hands wrap securely around his to keep him in place. “If you’re going, we’re going.” She pauses thoughtfully, and amends, “Actually, Rocket should stay and fix the ship, seeing as how it’s entirely his fault it’s broken.”

Peter exhales sharply with familiar exasperation, though his annoyance is belied when another rare smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, earnest and grateful. And as it does every time she witnesses one of those smiles, Gamora’s chest tightens, the breath rushing out of her lungs. She likes that smile, she’s come to realize over the weeks the team has been together; it’s become a personal mission to coax more of them from him, and she knows it’s not her imagination that he allows himself to smile more, these days.

At last, she feels herself relenting, shoulders dropping a little as she lets out another breath. His hands are warm against hers, solid and calloused. “And if it doesn’t work? If it turns out he’s trying to trick us?”

Peter shrugs again. “We’ll kill him.”

Like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Gamora presses her lips together, swallowing down a laugh, and she slowly glances down at their joined hands. Apparently, Peter only seems to realize what he’s done once she draws attention to it. This time, Gamora is more comfortable about letting him slowly pull back, even if he does so self-consciously, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Fine,” Gamora says after a few breaths, and she rubs at her brow, pretending not to notice the way his expression brightens with relief. “Fine, but I want it on record that I don’t like this.”

[childofsolace-write-ups]

Scenario dialogues 3

Scenario: Trestan had received his star placement, and got categorized as a soul destined for a historical prodigy, should he be able to maintain or even nurture it. Since it was a very rare placement, the institution immediately organized a celebration in honor of his name, and anyone is free to give up offerings in hopes of getting in his good graces, or simply for the basking of his grand placement, hoping it would affect them as well.

Prior to this, Trestan and Damon were on amicable terms, with the Zero-starred soul ensuring that no one was around to persecute him for his attempts of simply befriending Trestan. He didn't want to use Trestan, he was just so happy and enjoying the fact that at least one person didn't look down on him anymore. For him, that was enough. He felt pretty satisfied, he didn't know why he hadn't actualized yet. But he was content, in maintaining whatever benevolent relationship he had with Trestan. And while he knew it was a bad idea, after much inner debate, he finally decided to attend the celebration, even if just to give his friend a gift to honor his accomplishment.

Damon hesitated, looking down at his regular uniform, the only attire he possess that was decent enough never mind fancy, his plain gift, and comparing both to the fancy attire of the rest of the souls, and the mountain of grand presents for Trestan. He didn't want to make a spectacle, if his friend would only chance upon near the door so he could beckon to him for a moment, he'd be satisfied to give his gift and leave.

But with the mob of people clammoring for his attention, there was a small chance of that happening. Finally, he sighed and took small steps into the gathering. As he expected, they all sense his low regarded presence and a deafening silence followed as they stared at him.

Trestan, as oblivious and full of positivity as ever, simply beamed and rushed towards Damon. "Hey Dame! I thought you were never going to show up." he gave him a meaningful hug, and it encourage Damon to forget about the awkwardness for the moment. Trestan pulled back, "what took you so long?"

"Uhm, no reasons, just..." Damon managed out, seeing the eyes of everyone on them, their disdain bleeding out from their gaze, and that's when he decided he couldn't stay for long. "I, uh, actually... Yeah, I actually don't feel all that well. Just, you know, wanna drop this off..." he held up his package a bit, and hope the rest can't see how simple it is. "uh, congratulations, I don't think I've offered them yet and... Well, it's actually just a scarf. I, oops, uh, well the surprise is ruined now. But yeah, ahem, I made it myself, so it's not very good but it's the thought...."

A voice rang out, from someone who couldn't simply take the display anymore.

"A silly piece of clothe? That's what you got for a soul, legendary-starred?" Hubert snorted in disbelief, and Damon instantly stiffened. "are you trying to mock his greatness?"

Damon cowered, and Trestan frowned, confused with the outburst but affronted as well. "Like he was going to say, it's the thought that counts." He looked back towards Hubert, "and besides, I'm the recipient. Your opinion of the its quality matters less."

"Actually," Both Trestan and Damon start as Elder Elio appeared behind them. "it does matter quite a lot. For instance, gifts presented to you that you actively accept can hold weight of matters such as high standards and complacency; if you accept less, you settle for less." He plucks out the package from Damon's hands.

Damon could do nothing but stare as the elder held his gift out of reach. Trestan frowned, waiting for the Elder to continue. He had a feeling he wasn't finished yet.

"Damon," Elder Elio intoned disapprovingly, "you are aware, just as every soul present are, that any offered gift must be that of quality."

Damon felt himself trembling, but he forced himself to answer. "Y, yes, o, of course, Elder Elio. I," he swallowed thickly, "I made sure the scarf was. It was made from material that meant a lot to me, and... Sleepless nights, I... I worked hard on making it, I did my very best...."

"Your best falls short to sir Trestan's great presence," Elder Elio interrupts sharply, and while he didn't strike him, Damon felt as if it was so. "Your mere presence falls short for permission to be within proximity that of sir Trestan. That said, you are not allowed free will to be within it, unless to offer obedient servitude to him. So long as you remain starless, your bond with him cannot be anything beyond silent respect."

At that note of finality, the Elder conjured up a consuming flame that devoured the package until it was reduced to nothing, as if it never existed.

Damon felt broken down to the core, barely managing to nod his head in respectful acknowledgement before fleeing from the hall. Mouth agape, Trestan could hardly register what just happened. It was the sight of his dear friend's broken expression that snapped him out of his shock.

"Great Elder," Trestan started, his tone almost pleading, "don't I get a say on this? He's a dear friend, and surely, I'd consider anything he offers me as meaningful."

Elder Elio didn't pay heed to the celebrated soul's sentiments, "Enjoy the rest of the evening," he simply said. "if you wish to discuss the matter regarding Damon, you may come into my office."

───────

"You are at risk of forming an unbreakable bond with Damon."

Trestan widened his eyes. He let the information sink in. The talk of soul bond, leading to becoming soul mates forever after actualization, was something of a myth. He smiled, strangely pleased that he would be able to share it with Damon.

But then, he realized the exact wording of the elder. "Wait, risk?" Trestan frowned, "why are you implying that it's something unwanted?"

"The status of your current destinies are polar opposites to each other," Elder Elio explained, "meaning one of your destinies would be swayed to become compatible with the other, only determined when the souls reached their actualization, and once bonded, at the same time. Regretful to say, there is no deciding which destiny will be achieved at actualization. Were it anyone else, the resulting ramification's level of concern would be just one of the infinity of others. But as your current destiny hold potential, one that may in fact alter history... Well, the elders decided it was something that we must interfere in."

For the first time ever, Trestan openly scowls at the elder. Had it been anyone else, they'd be rightfully punished. But as had been already established, Trestan was a special case.

"What are you trying to say?" He demanded, "I am no longer to have any dealings with Damon?"

"Unless it's that of a servant, yes."

Trestan couldn't believe this. He clenched his fist and shook his head, "I'm sorry," he said. "But I just can't accept that."