#crown is tripped out of his goddamn mind

[crowrave]

Odd Confessions

Crown ‘accidentally’ ingests some cursed mushrooms, trips balls, and blabs about something he wasn’t supposed to see.

Ngl this is just a crackfic I made for fun. It’s not properly written or well thought through so try to ignore any errors I made while doing this

(Or do, whichever makes reading it more fun)

⚠️ (Drugs and Swearing warning)⚠️

For someone so powerful, Crown was really stupid.

The brig had docked at Port Mistral after rescuing as many civilians and soldiers as possible. The place was in ruins; yet the fire was finally put out.

It wasn’t as hot as Sameria, but the remaining ashes kept the temperature of the island high. The torn-open trash and burnt bodies definitely didn’t help with its smell, either.

The ‘mercenary group’ was ordered to help clean up the mess, and to assist in rebuilding the broken-down town.

The mage had separated from the others to go wander around or something. No one knew how they had lost him on such a small chunk of land; but next thing anyone knew, the silver-haired maniac had disappeared for about an hour.

Eventually, one of the crewmates spoke up.

“Where’s th’ Cap’n? He’d nev’r leave a man behind!”

It was only then that the lot had realized how king Crown had been missing.

The masked deckhand, Wells, tried to reason with the panicking members of the captain’s ship.

“I’m sure he’s simply wandering around again. Although, they don’t usually stay gone for this long…”

Morden, somehow still standing tall despite the sweltering heat and wearing all black, demanded from everyone to split up and search for the missing captain.

“Edward, Enizor, come with me. You can track him down best. Let’s just hope he hasn’t gotten himself in too much trouble.”

And so they searched. And searched. And searched.

It went on for about 3 hours until one of the other teams, consisting of Iris, Wells, and another deckhand, had discovered a small cavern that seemed to have been made via breaking things with magic.

Suspiciously like Crystal Magic.

Morden rushed to the cave, pleading with whatever gods that would hear him in his mind that his friend would be alive.

It was difficult to see within, but light could still reach the end of the tunnel. Crystals seemed to be growing out of every surface, and a strange smell filled the air.

The dark-clothed mercenary crashed into its dark walls, shouting as loud as he could so the man would hear him.

Upon closer inspection, Crown was laying on his back, seemingly unresponsive.

Morden’s heart dropped.

Is he dead? Did he lose another friend? After all this, was this the end for him—?

“Ugh… I… Can hearrr youuu…”

Crown drawled out a responses, his eyelids heavy and his pupils blown wide.

…He’s alive. High as fuck, but definitely alive.

The thief sighed with relief; and then annoyance.

They were fine for just an hour, somehow managed to find a way to get himself higher than Cirrus.

Morden then begun to look around, as if some kind of culprit was to blame for his ally’s strange behavior.

As it turns out, there was.

The dumbass Navy Marine had gotten hungry, and then proceeded to eat some cursed mushrooms the had found.

How the bell did he even get those? They don’t grow in the Nimbus Sea.

Unless…

The now irritated criminal turns to his drugged-out companion.

“Why the fuck did you bring cursed mushrooms from Akursius Keep? And of all the food you brought, why choose that thing? The hell?”

Crown hardly said anything of importance, but he did manage to mutter some small tidbits of… something. He can’t tell if it’s true or not.

“The ghosts… spirits… notebook search… found food… hahaha… yummy…”

“…Youuu are funny lookin’ y’know that, Morty?”

“…It’s Morden. Remember?”

“Hahahahaha! Ha…. Oh, riiiighht…”

The bandit turns to the others, and shoos them away from the hole.

“He’s fine. Just a little dazed. I’ll help him to the ship. Tell the Empress that we had to cut short early cause someone got injured. Just make up that a building fell on him or something.”

The others quickly run over to the brig, and begin preparations for their ‘injured’ captain.

As he picked up his friend, the other began to writhe in his arms. Doesn’t look like he’s gonna make it easy to carry them back to Sameria.

“Noooo… don’t wanna get up… :(“

How the fuck did he just say a face? How high is he? What????

“Cmon, Cain. We gotta get back with the others. You can come back again tomorrow.”

“Ugh… Big Bossman Kai would let me stayyy… I’d get to blow up some more Assassin buildings.”

…Wait, what?

“What do you mean by that? What buildings?”

“Haha… there were some of those red guys walking around. They got those little silly lookin’ symbols…”

A cold chill goes up his back. They weren’t here alone.

“Cain, I need you to be serious with me. Where did you see them?”

“Theyyy’reee… underground??? …I thiiiinkkkk…”

The man’s eyes widen, before he grips onto the marine as tightly as he can, tucks him under his arm, and rushes back to the docks.

He begins to yell at the others.

“GUYS! GET OUT, NOW! We’re not alone on this island, we need to leave!”

Iris turns her head towards them first, immediately seeing the sorry state that both of her teammates were in, and forces everyone on the boat before taking hold of the brig herself.

“Set off for Sameria! Sails down!”

As they quickly make their escape, some Assassin Acolytes are seen to have begun swimming after them.

They are stopped in their tracks, however, as the crew quickly aims their cannonballs and fires.

So much happened in just a few seconds, and everyone is already exhausted.

“Morden! What the hell happened to Cain, and what was with the Assassins? Did they follow us here or something?”

The two men laid on the floor of the deck; one catching their breath from exhaustion, and other from simply forgetting to breathe.

“This dumbass found some cursed mushrooms from that fucked fortress back in the Bronze Sea, and decided now was a good time to eat them. Then, it turns out that the Assassin Syndicate had a base underneath Port Mistral, and they caught us sneaking around.”

“Shit. We’ll have to report that to Empress Nilah. Hopefully she can do something about it.”

Morden does not reply. He simply keeps staring at his currently high friend, and worries for his health.

“Will he be okay?”

The freckled redhead looks down at Crown, and starts poking and prodding at him.

“Mmmm… leave me alone… too bright…”

“…They’ll be fine. Though, might be another couple hours before they recover.”

That’s fine. He can take another few hours. As long as he’s still breathing.

The idiot he’s holding then proceeds to start wiggling out of his grasp and crawls towards the nearest chest full of gems.

Morden sighs, and opens it.

He watches as the man starts dumping it onto himself, maybe bruising or scratching himself in the process. He then proceeds to lay in the center of it and falls asleep.

The black-haired looter crosses his arms and lays beside him; trying to make sure his comrade doesn’t accidentally fall off the ship while rolling over.

This is gonna be a long trip.

[2demondogs]

Dutch x Reader. just pure heartbreaking, soul crushing, stomach aching angst you can write where Reader gets killed by Colm , making them yet another lover of Dutch’s fall victim to him.

We never see Dutch have a breakdown, and not a "Oh my God, we need money or else we all die" breakdown, but a "Oh my God, my whole world just got taken away from me and there's nothing I can do to save them" break down (maybe with Hosea but I need this man to UGLY CRY)

Doesn't matter how you get reader in Colms hands. That's completely up to you! They could be kidnapped and killed, caught in a shootout between Dutch and Colm, perhaps a ransom situation gone wrong! I'm just throwing ideas out there, but I'll say it again it up to you!

I love your writing so much, thank you :))

Thank you! This one got the Evil Gears working. You guys never fail to complete my villainous whump urges. I be like "cut his arm off with a boulder" and y'all are like "he will never love again."

Hosea's there and so's some others... it takes a village. Thank you to my platonic husband once again for some ideas because the block on this one was tuff. I'm sorry if the execution is not that good T-T.

Words: 3.7k Tags: canon typical violence, grief/mourning, trigger warning Micah (and I guess the rest of it)

The muscle memory kicks in before his consciousness does: the boom of a rifle — Charles' bolt-action, Dutch knows in his veins, can usually tell each of his men's guns apart by report — and then instantaneous sit up, find his gun, rub his face into some semblance of wakefulness as he storms half-dressed out of the tent, canvas flapping. Chilly midnight air is hitting his skin before the echo of the shot has faded into the treeline surrounding camp.

The stillness wakes him up the rest of the way. At least, the stillness of the woodlands, eerie-quiet as they always fall after fire. For the camp's part, men are stumbling out and tripping over themselves, tents rustling, and the women are getting up, Abigail shushing a too-loud Jack. Susan nearly beats Arthur to meeting his stride, her kerosene lantern roving light over the dying grass on the ground.

Micah is always first, a dark shadow already standing at the perimeter where Charles is looming over two shapes heaped on the ground. He doesn't think that man ever sleeps.

"Charles!" He calls, and the two turn from talking hushedly. "What's goin' on?"

Charles tenses up, and Micah speaks before he does, face clearing as Dutch squints the blurriness from his eyes. "Your, ah," — throwing a hand up at Charles, starting towards Dutch with his hands out to grab his elbows — "You oughta be warned, sir."

His brows furrow. Micah of all people is not one to beat around bushes, let alone with him. It gnaws at him, some, a vague sense of dread. It passes his mind where you are, but you had a habit of staying nights over in town if it got too dark to ride comfortably.

"What the Hell are you talkin' about?" He repeats. He shrugs his hands off, pushes past him, hears his gunbelt clinking as he stumbles a step. "Charles, what—?"

"Ain't no one else," Charles starts, not stepping from where he stands in front of the tree they'd assigned as an unofficial camp outpost. That's odd, too, and he has a feeling the man doesn't believe there's no one else, not with his gun clenched in his hands like that. No one else? "But there was an O'Driscoll with—"

And then Susan's lantern swings once across the start of the brush, throws light against hair and a fallen hat, laying on its crown. His fingers ready at his trigger, eyes hardening. "How did they find us this goddamn time?" Dutch asks the air.

Unlike usual, Charles does not keep talking once he's put his two-cents in the pot. He has that tension about him that he always does when there's something he would prefer not to say aloud, a habit that scratches Dutch raw in the wrong ways. He's about to spout off some aggressive twist to avoid the one in his gut, something about I'm the fucking man, Thomas, why are you not explaining this to me? until Susan steps the few paces ahead of him to meet the tree, and the warm glow of her lantern lands on familiarity.

His finger slips from the trigger, all curling bone-white around the grip instead.

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, and he waves at the heap with his gun, throat clicking loud enough he thinks he may have cocked it on accident. When he turns to him instead of the ground, he can't make out his son's face in the shadow cast by his own head, only sees glints off his eyes in the darkness.

"You... you take care of this, Arthur," Dutch is saying, feels a hand on his elbow, curling into the inner of it to hold him back, and brushes Micah off once more. Micah, or someone else— the fingers were thinner, but his ears are starting to ring. His throat feels clogged, sticky.

"Dutch," a voice says, and he isn't sure who it is through the roar of blood.

Sanguine is seeping into the ground that Susan's lantern reveals, sliding over the dirt from a gaping hole in the skull of an O'Driscoll. Always goes for the instant kill, Charles does. Green bandana, green vest, dressed like a big green clown by his standards — an imitation of uniform, all of them wannabe munton-shunting clowns wear green, munton-shunter wannabes is all those men are at the end of the day: swine united under one God, hollow be His name — and flailed onto the dirt by the rifle blow. Not from this close, no, he'd be gone from the shoulders up, which means the bastard had almost made it past the perimeter, unnoticed. Dutch can't find it in himself to tear Charles a new asshole for that.

You lay there, too. Unbleeding, but shot all the same.

"Dutch," comes again. He listens this time, because it's Hosea's sleep-ridden nasal and his cool fingers on his burning wrist, pulling him away as his mind grows louder. "Let Arthur handle this."

And he listens to the words this time, because it's Hosea.

He won't think of why Charles is good at fashioning these wooden crosses. Perhaps it's selfish to think that, and to neglect most anything besides the blackness eating at himself— but you are gone.

If he were a different sort of crier, maybe he'd turn to him now and tell Hosea he's lucky to have lived through two. That Arthur and John are, too, and especially Susan— but you are gone, and Dutch only finds one thing funny, in the sour way men laugh over spilled blood and ashes and misfires.

It's own his negligence that must've led to this. Letting you do as you wished, wanting you to be happy instead of entirely safe. If he had only listened to that little voice in his head, surely, you would have come back from town alive and well and pressing some little jewelry piece you'd stolen into his hands like some of promise, the way you always did.

But no, that's not right. The regret is talking now that something has happened, trying to paint over the simple fact that Dutch trusted you enough there were no nagging inclinations when you went out on your lonesome. He wouldn't have liked you this much if there weren't that ability to hold your own, how you offered him some semblance of safety in every regard that he hasn't felt in a long, long while. Give and take.

There is, too, the wish that he had been with you in your last moments. If he were, they wouldn't have been your last; but even if things went the way things always do — which is the end, eventually — he would've liked to have been there, holding you, the way lovers die.

Susan did her best to clean you off and freshen you up. Charles' crosses, and her mortuary sciences. They're both skills that shouldn't be held. Dutch kneeled by your side and gripped the stiffened hand as if the warmth of his skin could've made the flesh tender and rosy once more.

The work is done by the time the sun reveals itself over the treeline. A patch of clearing near camp holds you now, in the grave Charles and Arthur have dug. The two strongest, as reluctant as he was to ask anything of them knowing they were his first choices for scouting a new campsite. He was reluctant to even consider the fact that as soon as you were buried, he might have only a few minutes with that sorry, scored cross that now claims to be you.

Dutch wasn't sure what to do with himself when the work began, and he isn't sure what he spent the hours since midnight doing now that they've passed. He doesn't think he's moved from the spot he stepped into, and Hosea's arm linked through his is so burning hot in the crook of his elbow that he believes maybe he hasn't even breathed.

A respectable distance, in front of the boys. Arthur offers him the last shovel's-worth of dirt, and it means something that Dutch will probably soon regret shaking his head to. His brain skitters at the hard casing of his skull when he does, eyes backed up and stinging. That pain started sometime while he knelt beside you, which seems so long ago now.

Once Charles and Arthur leave, he crumbles onto Hosea, and it all feels very far away. Enclosed in it, locked outside of it; his nostrils burn as if he's snorted capsaicin, mucus coming to his throat without any tears.

"I know, Dutch," Hosea says, voice so weary that Dutch feels his fingers grow stiff and numb with it.

Here he is, and there goes his knees, Hosea stepping back once under his weight but holding him up, in the end, arms tight around his ribs. He realizes it hurts because he's talking, that Hosea has spoken in response to him.

"I should've—" He's starting, but now that he's listening to himself he does not know what he was going to say, and grows frustrated enough that he only groans, inhales a mouthful of the half-dirty collar of Hosea's fur-lined coat.

Here he is, and how he has forgotten what the shards of a broken heart feel like stabbing into a man's lungs.

Dutch has crumbled two sets of tobacco leaves in his fingers, blinking the sun out of his eyes where it crawls up and beneath the overhang of shading the folding chair beside his tent. He sighs sharply, hanging his hands and head between his knees. At this rate, he'll crush every last leaf in his rolling tin and still be out the soothe of nicotine.

Months have passed, but still he struggles to grasp himself again. The idea that you were gone for a job was a lie so clear to him by the end of that first week, Dutch could no longer fool himself on why his cot didn't smell like you anymore. He packed your things alongside his own, but they stay in the crates they were placed into — not stuffed, not like his possessions were — since the gang moved from Blackwater, to Colter, to here.

God, you're all the way back there.

Why did life not cross the border with us? He wonders, at times. He then remembers that it's little use to think that way, before he continues to do it.

There was no use toting a — as impersonal as it sounds, he has no other words for it — corpse around. If he could have, he would've buried you where he believed they might stay for a while. That place hasn't come to him yet, either, as quiet as the overlook seems to be, and so who knows how long he would've been playing that sick game. A proper graveyard was out of the question, if it even could've been done; the only usefulness in such a burial is a relatively sure landmarker by which to find you. Dutch has never been one to go back to the past.

But it's you. He did not go to his mother's grave, and he wouldn't go to hers now. You're more than the past, though. He wishes he could have buried you somewhere beautiful, at least; he wants to go back and sit with you. He doesn't think you will ever be so little as the past.

Dutch doesn't realize he's been mumbling these things to himself until Arthur's voice breaks through the drone of his own, rumbling murmurs and brings them to light amongst the ambiance of camp that he had tuned out.

"You okay, Dutch?" Familiar, gritty like his own voice. Lighter, and concerned.

Dutch looks up at him and sighs, seeing the draw of his brow. His hand raises to gesture before he can think of what he should say— what he even can say, or if there's anything that needs saying to begin with. Finally, the struggle exhausts his mind too much to do anything beyond summarizing his thoughts.

"How many more people I love?" He muses, flicks his wrist and lets it fall back to limply resting on his knee. The sentence cracks and falls between them, Arthur shifting on his feet uncomfortably.

Everyone has been uncomfortable around him, as of late, and that's getting on Dutch's nerves more than it is depressing him. He supposes it does its fair share of that, too. He believes that he does a fine job of swallowing himself and giving them what they need: a leader, strong and shiny and well-groomed, who knows what he's doing, what they're all doing. A man to be proud of, and to make proud.

A man who feels very unlike the way Dutch feels behind that blank expression he lets them paint something better onto in their heads.

Arthur is nodding, looking both ways as if clearing the camp of witnesses before he lays a hand on his shoulder. Lord, Dutch remembers when his hands weren't so meaty and rough. Near dainty, spindly fingers on some teenaged mutt that could barely lift an arm long enough to wave, hands that always seemed too-cold and clammy. That— now, that is the past.

"I know, man," he starts, and says something else he does not hear. All he can think of is when Arthur used to call him Dad, every now and then. "—have to move on," he's saying.

Dutch assumes what needs brushed past, and he has never been a man to agree with the truth, so he asks of Arthur the least he can imagine asking of him. "I know, son," he interjects, gently moves his hand from his shoulder to raise. Arthur steps back, sighs. "Can you...?" Dutch aches, he does; aches for something here that he cannot put a name to, unsure what would soothe any part of him that's currently stirring. He doesn't find the answer as his eyes search the collar of his red workshirt, the treeline past his shoulder where the horses are grazing on the sloping ground. "I need to be alone. Please."

Arthur's jaw clicks as he moves it, then nods and steps away. He pauses before he obeys.

"I..." — that pregnant, lingering thing comes between them again, keeping Arthur's chin raised as he hesitates — "Sure, Dutch," he says, and leaves him to picking up the larger crumbs of tobacco that fell to the ground.

Bitter brown and orange scattered through green grass and patches of raw dirt. In the soil, he figures out that, foolishly, he wanted to be embraced.

Not much more can be done about you. Not now.

It's been burning his skin, this need to be held. It's less than that, Dutch thinks, maybe just a desire for a vague thing like the right kind of comfort.

What can fill a hole this vast?

What can mend a man?

"What's wrong?" Hosea asks, and it's the only what Dutch knows the answer to.

He must know, too. In the lantern light inside Dutch's tent, his face is sliding away from even into one akin to the expression men turn on kicked dogs. They've grating on one another since abandoning the Overlook, and it's been too long since he's seen that much warmth in his eyes.

If only the kinship didn't come from something so terrible. Dutch hasn't pulled him aside this late into the evening since Annabelle's death sent him to nightmares. How strange it feels to taste her name in his thoughts again. Slowly, you've come to stand beside her, to be dead just like her. Nor with as much haste, with hands that shook so hard gripping Hosea's shoulder that he followed without a question.

"I just," — wringing his hands, pacing around the sprawling bear rug thrown over the ground, seems so gaudy now, all of it seems gaudy — "I don't know what to do with myself."

"Ah, Dutch," Hosea says, voice soft. His face grows hot with the sting of oncoming tears. "I know."

His hands are shaking before the words have fully left his mouth. It comes to him that he hasn't cried in the months since you've passed, and suddenly the wave of it hits him at once. He didn't cry for Annabelle until a year had gone by and Arthur had asked, unknowing, if he'd felt the same way with her as he was feeling with that Linton girl.

He had, was the worst part.

He had felt it with you, too. That youthfulness, the carelessness, let them all know; the way his eyes would soften and give him away before he could ever hope to hide it; the burning of loneliness without you, your hand on his arms or how right your skin felt under his palms; how he liked the way you laughed and smiled, so much that it left him bristling with an energy he didn't know how to waste. Dutch was always bad at hiding himself away, in anger or love. His breath never steadied, 'round you. Nothing was even, nothing was ever as clean-cut as he wished it to be. He realizes he's thinking as if he is dead, and stops himself.

It's almost more than you, now. The weight of it takes him to his knees, all the while ashamed in the back of his mind of what he's come to. Hosea follows. Grunting when his knee joint pops, but follows instantly all the same. For some reason, Dutch's face scrunches up harder at that, and he lets it happen when arms link around his shoulders. He remembers the cold of the air the morning you were buried, and lets out a whinging, broken noise.

Time lapses fast and slow. He's unsure how long he spends crying, or how pitiful it must sound. He's unsure when the last time he even cried was. There's not much to mourn in a life spent living amongst the dead, not really— and not much else warrants tears, not out of a man like him.

They come hard, and then dry up enough his head throbs with the strain to find more with which to release himself. His heart races alongside, pounding hard in his wrists where they are both pressed between their stomachs, fingers clenching and unclenching, rings making divets in the webbing that ache. Nose pressed to the breast pocket of Hosea's shirt, gasping breath in between sobs, Dutch comes to a semblance of his senses, to consciousness. It's still difficult to think through the migraine threatening to take out his vision entirely when he attempts to crack his eyelids. It's almost like a first hangover.

Whiskey would do me much better than bawling, he hears himself pondering.

There's nothing more to think of, not about that evening nor the ride you took. There's nothing he has not thought of on the matters of what those groveling weasels may have done to you before they took your life, and there's nothing he has ever doubted on what information they tried to extort from you.

It was personal, it was. No point would have been had in ratting Dutch out to the law, no safety in sending one of his sniffling newsies to the cops only for that one to be extorted and take everyone down with them. Nothing is fair in love nor war, and this feud has always been made of both.

Your death was a chess piece to Colm. If he really meant it, really wanted Dutch to do anything but get pissed off and show his soft belly while struggling to retaliate— Colm would have brought himself and his best men, and he would have dumped your body before him. Personally, like a real bastard. At least, this is the fantasy Dutch imagines in a world where revenge is feasible, and smart.

There's nothing he hasn't done for you in this world besides cry, and if he doesn't stop this heaving, he'll suffocate. His temple is scorching, burns worse when he tries to pull his head away and he cringes, fumbling for his handkerchief to get rid of the mucus sticking his nose to Hosea in thick strands.

"God, I'm sorry, this is— I'm disgusting," he groans, throat clogged. He's on the brink of tears again just from using his voice. It's thick, and he squeezes his eyes shut trying to fix the mess he's sobbed onto him.

Hosea's hand smooths over his shoulder blade. "No, you're grievin'," he says. "You're lovin'."

Curse him and how— how open he is in being kind. Dutch's feverish forehead falls onto his shoulder, but at least these new tears well up right into the handkerchief instead of all over the already soaked patch on his friend's shirt.

Friend. Brother, really. Hosea must be a brother to hold him this quietly as his organs try to squeeze out his body, to give him this thing he never could have asked for in a silence so much more tolerable than lies of how things will be better soon and reminders that men do not show their pulse points like this.

He is getting old, and Dutch doesn't know what he will do. He thinks the last piece of his soul will die with the man.

His mind thrashes so violently inside his head, he thinks it may come out in bloody chunks as he blows his nose. The skin is screaming and raw by the time he can wrangle a bit of air through his nostrils again. Once hot and writhing, he feels his body going numb, painfully empty. His fingers lock up where they cling to each other at Hosea's chest, and it grows hard to breathe; he slumps against him, rakes in air until his stomach feels connected to himself again, and lets out a shuddering sigh that sinks his shoulders back towards the ground.

Wherever he had been, it was very far away. Maybe it was closer to you.

"When does it stop?" Dutch asks, moving to lay his mouth hard against Hosea's collarbone through the shoulder-seam of his shirt. It's sharp and he leans hard enough to feel as though the bone is grinding on his teeth.

He opens his eyes, though it feels more like prying with the drying tears on his lashes, and— looks at the tent, he supposes, but doesn't see much. A crate of your things stares back at him.

Hosea sighs. "It doesn't," he says, pats his shoulder once. "You'll hurt until you join them."

Dutch hates that he's right.

[wyn-n-tonic]

That's A Real Fucking Legacy: The Lips I Used to Call Home

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/former Tommy Miller x f!reader Word Count: 1392 Warnings: I don't think there are any (let me know if I'm wrong). Author's Note: Title longer than a Fall Out Boy song.

That's A Real Fucking Legacy Masterlist

Calling Boston to Wyoming a quick shot straight through would be laughable. It would’ve been laughable in the before but it is definitely laughable now.

But to do this with a baby?

It’s not just laughable, it’s a goddamn death wish. 

The only way she’s calmest is wrapped up against her daddy’s chest, his large arms folded over her small body. It leaves him unable to do much else but it’s also the only way his own fear leaves his eyes.

There’s luck in the Fireflies, though.

Safe house to safe house, vehicle to vehicle. There’s no thick, rotten scent of the infected near until somewhere in Kansas City. 

He feels useless, like he’s unable to protect the baby or you or anybody else. But despite stewing about sitting in the safe house with you and the baby, he does express happiness over the first alone time you’ve shared in about three weeks. 

“You should be sleeping, sweetheart,” he says, his voice laced through with a tone that says it’s not a suggestion. “You need your strength.” 

The season is giving over from late summer to early fall, every day changing hour by hour with the walking and the driving. It was easy in the QZ, year by year. You knew what to expect, how to rest your body—you could seek rest for your body when you needed. 

You need it so much more every day with the way the weather and the travel is going after your body followed by the stress of it all; the complex emotions this entire ordeal is brought on.

This was never a hope in your mind; leaving, going. Your eyes rolled every time Tommy talked about leaving the QZ, it was the subject of so many fights. He believed there was better and you only believed there was death beyond the walls of FEDRA protection. The longer time stretched on after he left, the more steadfast that belief came to the point that you shook with sobs and fear every time Joel made his trips across to trade.

“I'm fine, really.” 

The bed beneath you isn’t what you’d call comfortable, not in the before times at least and definitely not in comparison to the worn in lump you were used to back in Boston. You’ve been laying together since the moment you settled into the safe house, everybody else going out to clear paths for the trucks to get through.

Baby babbles through sleep in her father’s arms beside you, not once have you called her by the name you ended up giving her. Not since he showed up. And the belief that beyond the walls means death is so hardwired into your body and brain that you can’t find it in you to sleep. That’s why he’s talking about your strength, sneaks you bits of his own rations. 

You’re still breastfeeding, as well. When you can, anyway. It’s been harder on the road and the lack of any real privacy isn’t helping. No matter how he tries to shield your body, the awareness that there’s not just eyes but Tommy’s eyes is enough to run every part of you dry and cold even if it’s getting hotter and more humid with every day you pass into the south.

“You look like shit, sweetheart,” he whispers across the small space between your bodies. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re afraid to sleep.” 

“Yeah,” you tell him, eyes darting down to your daughter between you. “I am.” 

“I’m right here,” he says, hand smoothing down the hair at the crown of your head. “It’s okay, please rest.” 

They’re gone when you wake.

It's just you in a cold and empty bed, a threadbare excuse for a blanket draped over your sleeping body along with his jacket. Alarm bells go off in your brain and then you hear the voices in the next room.

Joel’s.

Baby’s.

Tommy’s. 

Nobody else, just them.

“She has your dimples.” Tommy.

There’s a small laugh and then Joel says he’s glad she got them on both sides, not just the one. 

Tommy’s voice is tired, weather worn and rough from strain. Not how he sounded this morning when he left.

There’s a hunger in your stomach, growing and aching loud but it stops with every word spoken between the men you love that filters through the thin walls and half cracked door.

“How is she really?” Tommy asks. “Joel, I still love her—“

“How? How can you still love her when you left her alone for so long?” 

“How could I ask either of you to come with me if I didn’t?”

There’s an annoyed kind of grumble that could only belong to Joel and then silence that stretches on just long enough to make you think there’s space to move forward into the conversation but then it breaks. 

“I wouldn’t say that she’s good, Tommy.” You can hear the way his leg bounces to entertain the baby. “None of us are good anymore but, my God, she’s fucking amazing.”

“Yeah?”

Joel clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Do you love her?” The younger man asks. 

A beat.

Another. 

Two more.

“I feel a whole lot more for that woman than just love, Tommy,” he finally says. “I know you’re hurting but you have to understand that I—we thought that you were dead. She hurt for a long time and I watched her do that and I did my best to be there for her but—“ Baby babbles to interrupt him and you can practically see the smile in the laughter that follows. 

Those feelings, the existence of them, aren’t new to you. Still, every time he insinuates their existence your head gets light—fuzzy and warm.

“But what, Joel?” Tommy prompts him. “I’m trying to understand this, because I want to not hurt and I want to look at this little girl and not want to cry.”

“Yeah.” A chair creaks and you assume somebody sat forward or back. “I want to look at her and not want to cry, too, but I felt that with Sarah—I feel that with you, Tommy, you might as well have been my first kid sometimes. It wasn’t just me that was there for her through all that hurt over those years, she was there for me and refused to let me pull away. Being with her is the closest I feel to who I was before, I need you to understand that.” 

“That's how she made me feel, too,” Tommy responds. “But I don’t know if I’ll ever really understand.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Joel concedes. “Hell, that’s more than fair, you’re probably really sick of us asking you to understand. Can I have Baby back now?”

Confusion floods through you, you were certain the calm, happy babbles were because she was tucked into her daddy’s arm; bouncing on her daddy’s leg.

“Does she have a name?” Tommy asks. “Or have you just been calling her Baby this whole time? I know you’re afraid to get attached, Joel, but—“

“We named her Thomasin,” Joel says, that stern, warning shot in his tone again. Begging his brother to understand this, that this was the honor you could give his memory—that you named what was born out of grief and love for him after him. “We call her Thomi for short but we’ve been thinking about changing it. We figured it would make you uncomfortable.” 

“No,” Tommy answers. “No, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.” 

Hunger grows loud again but so, too, does the blood rush of his words up your neck, into your cheeks and between your ears. For all the tears and all the yelling and the hurt of fresh cuts on closed wounds his arrival brought back into your life, those are the words of the man you once loved. It has been weeks and he is holding her, speaking about her—about you—so gently. Despite saying he doesn’t understand, it’s there in his voice and lacing through every one of his words and it grows stronger each day closer to Jackson.

“I promised her that I’d come back for her, give her a safer and happier life that she deserves,” Tommy starts again. “I’m heartbroken that it won’t be with me, Joel, but I am glad it’s with you.” 

[theres-a-bea]

I'm drunk, it's barbie time.

ft. Delancy Devin's place in the line of succession to the Gardanian Throne

sigh i can't believe my first ever post of 2024 is a dissertation on the line of succession of a fictional barbie kingdom...

I am currently kinda drunk and I've thought of this for a long while now because I've been scrolling through PCS tiktok and everyone keeps insisting that Delancy Devin is Blair's cousin through Reginald

Anyways Delancy is related to Blair/Sophia through Isabella and I can PROVE IT give me like five minutes to sober up

1.) How would you even explain their resemblance?

Like look at them: they have a pretty clear resemblance to each other, which is why it's pretty fucking crazy because Blair looks exactly like Isabella¹︎. And while Delancy may have her resemblance to her mother, ironically, Devin is not related to the royal family by blood.

Which could only lead to one explanation: Delancy's father is Isabella's brother. (Isabella's side has strong ass fucking genes, I'm pretty sure that brother looked almost identical to her too)

I mean look at poor old reggie, his daughter bears absolutely no fucking resemblance to him at all. If Delancy's dad had been his brother instead, then why is there a very clear resemblance between Delancy and Sophia-Blair? (Like their overall profiles are so goddamn similar, I'm actually gagged that nobody had clocked it before, or even at least pointed it out.)

(Look me in the eye and tell me there was not a single incident where Hadley had tried to scare the shit out of Delancy in the semi-darkened shower rooms at like 8 pm only to find that it was actually Blair, or even Portia tripping out of her mind at 3 am in some dark hallway thinking she was talking to Delancy in the dark when it was actually Blair taking her back to her dorm)

All jokes aside, let's get into the serious shit:

2.) If Reginald was "King"²︎, then why the fuck was Isabella coronated as the true heir of Gardania during graduation?

This actually means she went to Charm School AS the princess representing Gardania, because how the fuck else could she be coronated AS PRINCESS of Gardania if she wasn't?

If some Blair Coronation Shit happened to Isabella too when she was crowned, that would be BIG TALK amongst the courts, the nobles, and ALL THE PRINCESSES PRESENT DURING THE CORONATION.

Keep in mind that Princess Charm School's Graduation Ceremony is a MAJOR diplomatic event that literally has all those countries' leaders in ONE ROOM. Given that Blair's two other besties are princesses whose fathers or mothers might have been possibly present during the graduation ceremony/coronation of Gardania, wouldn't they have at least fucking mentioned it to her? I mean they literally gave her the entire tea on the car crash why the hell wouldn't they tell her if they knew anything juicier? Such as a PCS student being coincidentally the true heir of Gardania when the magic tiara somehow hit her head and lit up³︎?

(I'm aware that it's possibly a Princess Diana allegory given the Spencers' lineage but STILL, kinda fucking embarrassing being next in line to the throne and finding out your fiancée is actually the true heir of your kingdom??? I would actually never show my face before society ever again tbh.)

According to Dame Devin's accidental tell-all slip⁴︎, it is implied that Isabella was in fact, Queen Regnant, and not Reginald. (Because, why would you specifically admit to eliminating Isabella and NOT Reginald? Let's be honest, bro was just a bonus kill.)

This means that Reginald is simply a consort, and we can assume, that Gardania's succession line is matriarchal, and that Queen is actually a higher position than King, which is the reason why Isabella probably got the throne first and not her possible brother, who is most definitely Delancy's father.

i mean, let these charts just speak for themselves:

(yes I made these)

If Isabella is queen, and Delancy is related to Blair via Reginald, then there would have been no way for her to inherit the throne, since she'll only be royal by marriage.

This renders Dame Devin's (admittedly successful) coup absolutely fucking useless, unless of course she killed several other clans with a claim to the throne until she got to Reginald's family, (assuming he was a part of Gardanian nobility) which is highly unlikely considering she would've been caught earlier ??? Cos girl that's literally regicide and treason.

But if Delancy is related to Blair via Isabella herself, then she would have a legitimate claim to the throne, and she has the chance to ascend if Isabella and all her heirs somehow die in a freak accident (which, oh no, is exactly what fucking happened).

so no I will NOT be hearing anyone else out.

Dame Devin's baby daddy mystery solved. *mic drop*

References & Direct Quotations:

¹︎ "No way, Blair, it's a picture of Blair!" (Princess Isla, Princess Charm School, 44:29)

²︎ "Queen Isabella, King Reginald, The Princess Sophia, and their loyal dog, Prince." (Princess Isla, Princess Charm School, 45:00)

³︎ "It lit up on Queen Isabella's head at her coronation." (Princess Hadley, Princess Charm School, 40:36)

⁴︎ "I eliminated Queen Isabella so you could be princess one day!" (Dame Devin, Princess Charm School, 1:11:13)

Source:

Barbie Princess Charm School (2011), dir. Ezekiel Norton

[raven-6-10]

As promised, tagging @hamelin-born and @ertrunkenerwassergeist

So, when thinking about writing Regis, especially during the last years of his reign I try to keep one thing in mind:

Regis is, at his core, somebody who has given up.

Yeah, I know, how could I say something so controversial.

Well, let's not keep you in the dark.

Prince Regis and his support circle

(Or rather, the lack of thereof.)

We know very, very little about Regis' childhood so I have to extrapolate based on what canon info we have about Noctis.

And none of this is promising. Because it looks like for most of his childhood, his friends consisted of Clarus and Weskham. There is the one mention of knowing Aulea back then, but not much detail of how they met or how their relationship looked like. While he presumably met other noble children, there would always be that undercurrent of politics to any interactions, which isn't exactly conductive to healthy relationships. Not with the chasm between their respective social ranks.

(It exists even in his interactions with his Retinue, too, for all that they manage to forget it most of the time)

Then comes the Road Trip, with Cor dragged along and Cid who joins to keep eye on those goddamn rich city kids. Honestly, that might be the happiest time in Regis' life. He has minimal responsibilities, he's not under constant scrutiny from everyone and he has people who genuinely like him for him around himself. Life looks good, even with the war on the horizon.

And then comes Accordo and Altissia, and the failed treaty negotiations.

And then Weskham leaves.

A lot of people headcanon that Wesk stayed in Accordo to funnel information to Insomnia and act as a Lucian representative to Accordo's government. Whether that's true or not, the fact is that he was unlikely to consistently keep in touch with Regis. Not with how closely all communication channels would be monitored as the war heated up. By necessity, their friendship becomes a distant one at best.

So that's one of Regis' people gone from his life. Cid is the second one to leave him, this time entirely of his own choice.

While there are no actual specifics, the timing makes it clear that Cid was not happy with Mors pulling back the Wall and the Royal Family's policy on the refugees thereafter. Which is a polite way of saying "they left people to fend for themselves". What we don't know is how Regis reacted to it. Did he think his father had to have good reasons? Did he disagreed with him but couldn't think of anything he could do to improve things? Did he agree with Mors wholeheartedly? Either way, Cid storms out of the Citadel and Insomnia, eventually settles down in Hammerhead and, as far as we know, does not see Regis ever again.

(And there is that one hint from Cor how Cid was still angry that Regis kept secrets and refused to confide in his friends. But that's for later.)

Post-coronation and his marriage

(Or, his social circle still isn't great)

So here they are in the year 729 of Modern Era, with one friend on the other side of the world and another currently very pissed off at them, when Mors dies and leaves Regis running Lucis.

Regis is all of 23.

I don't know about you but I wouldn't leave a 23-years-old charge of a local retail shop. Nevermind the entire fucking country. Unfortunately, Regis does not have the luxury of leaving the job to somebody else, so he puts on his big boy boots and the fancy crown, and gets to work.

And there's a lot of work.

We have next to nothing about Mors and his reign, but what we do have points to a person more interested in the results than the means used to achieve them, which is never good attitude in somebody who has absolute authority over other people. It's bound to piss off people in all social strata and create some short-term "solutions" in exchange for a lot of long-term problems. I suspect Regis spent a lot of his early years as a king placating nobles and unfucking his father's various messes with Clarus and Cor's help.

Not that Cor would have been much of a help, being freshly 18 himself - ageism is very firmly alive in politics, even fictional ones - and still a reckless little shit at his heart. For Regis, Cor is firmly a little brother figure - somebody to guide and teach and protect, and to entrust important missions to once he's a little older, but not somebody Regis can rely on to support him.

(Regis never loses this mindset. Not even after Cor has been his Marshall for years. In the end, Cor is never told about the real prophecy, is sent away before the Invasion begins.)

With Clarus busy with work and Cor not suitable, Regis would have to look to somebody else for emotional support. Enter Aulea. Around this time, their relationship shifts from friends to actual courtship and then to a marriage in 732 ME. Finally, Regis has someone who isn't his subordinate and doesn't need to be kept at arms length, who is actually his equal, who he can confide in and rely on, and be happy with. His best friend's also gotten married recently and had a little boy. Life is looking great!

And then Noctis is born and Aulea dies.

(There's a lot of IRL research about how men rely almost entirely on their wives for emotional support, and how badly they cope once it's gone.)

Noctis as the Chosen One

And then we come to this cluster fuck of a prophecy.

Because Regis learns his son is going to die.

Because there's nothing he can do to change it.

Because how do you defy a god?

(You don't. Not on your own)

But there's more!

Not only is his son going to die very painfully, first the world has to be plunged into complete darkness for who knows how long. Demons will run everywhere and people will struggle to survive. In the end, Eos will be devastated and Lucis is not guaranteed to survive.

That's bound to influence his decisions, and not always consciously.

Like, we know Noctis had an unprecedented amount of freedom for a Crown Prince, going to a normal high school, having commoner friend and living outside of the Citadel. Going by his complete unfamiliarity with life outside of Insomnia (he didn't know what a gil was) and not recognising Ardyn (a high ranking member of foreign court), I would say he also didn't receive much of a training that would be expected of a prince.

(It's not like he's going to rule anything, ever)

Then there's how that knowledge would affect Regis and his policies.

Oh, I don't think he actually realised that but. Why would he try to improve anything if it's all going to be destroyed anyway? Why bother to fix the system, it's not like it's broken, it works correctly?

(It's not working correctly. It's very much broken and rotting under his feet. He just can't see that from his place at the top.)

What does it have to do with Galahdians?

Freaking everything.

Starting with Mors' shitty refugee policies that likely never were repelled in full, through the fact that Regis likely had to make a lot of concessions to nobles to secure his reign, to his negligence of and ignorance about the issues arising among the lowest classes.

After all, corrupt officials will not suddenly decide to stop on their own. They can and will only get worse, because they feel more and more untouchable with every stolen yen and every bribe taken.

And resentment builds up.

[tiny-wooden-robot-fics]

Against the Tide - Eleven

Rating: Explicit Pairing(s): Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Original Female Character, Silvio Ricci x Original Female Character Characters: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez (Bleach), Silvio Ricci (Ikemen Prince), Olivia DuBois (Original Female Character of Color) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergent, Pirates and Princes, Slow Burn, Action/Adventure, Worldbuilding, Angst, Some Subtle Racism, Sexual Tension, Political Subplot

Previous Chapter: Ten | Next Chapter: Twelve

Summary:

She thinks of Silvio again, and words that he's said to her. "Even so, why would you want that? War is hell. And Vora going to war means using up the resources that you deem so precious. Lives would be lost - the lives of your friends, maybe your family, people you cherish. If you claim to love Vora so much, why would you want to put it through that kind of hell again?"

"I don't," Barnes answers. "Ideally we'd get what we want without ever having to take up arms. But if war is the only way to gain our independence, then it's a necessary sacrifice."

Read on AO3

Silvio stands there for a long time after they’ve left, staring at the ugly, scarred wood of the inn room door. He feels hollow and numb, like a fruit that’s been scooped of all its meat and is just an empty skin. 

That isn’t what this is and you know it. Neither of us were thinking clearly. And maybe… Maybe this was the interruption we needed to cool down. 

The words keep running through his mind over and over again. The sound of her voice permeates his ears, jams his head full of emotion like the stuffing in a chair. He tries to shut it out, but even covering his ears and closing his eyes doesn’t work. 

He doesn’t want to think about the way she left his room the previous evening. The way she’d refused to look at him but he’d seen them anyway - her brown eyes hurt and glossy with tears. 

You wanna leave… leave. 

He’d driven her away. 

And not just into the arms of another man - a man he despised - but possibly into something or someone dangerous… something that might have hurt her. 

Or worse. 

He kicks at the table in the room hard enough to knock it over with a crash. 

--

“What do we do now?” Daisy asks, when the two of them are back inside the tavern. 

“We can start by askin’ around,” Grimmjow answers. “See if anybody saw her after we did last night.” He looks down at her. “Sorry for scarin’ ya back there,” he adds quietly. “Don’t know what came over me.” 

“You don’t have to apologize on my account,” Daisy expresses. She takes a deep breath. “I think you both… are upset. I think I understand why you would be,” she adds, with a shaky smile. “I’m only happy I was there to try to intervene before things got worse.” 

“I woulda killed him if you hadn’t been there,” Grimmjow mutters. “Felt like I wanted to, anyway.”

Daisy looks back at him, prepared to laugh. When she realizes there is no mirth whatsoever in his expression, her laughter dies in her throat. “Why do you hate him so much, Captain?” 

Her question seems to take him by surprise. “Why?” He repeats it. “Because he walks around thinkin’ he’s better’n the rest of us. He talks bad about men like me for makin’ a livin’ the best way we know how just because he was born with a goddamned silver spoon in his mouth.” Grimmjow kicks the tip of his boot at the floorboard, aggravated. “Uses his money to get whatever the hell he wants, like he can just pay the whole world to do his biddin’. Like to see how well he’d do without his daddy’s money.” 

She absorbs his words. “I don’t know Prince Silvio very well,” she confesses. “I was only newly brought to the palace before this trip. You see, I was training to be the Queen’s lady’s maid to take over for my mother.” 

“I dunno what any of that means,” Grimmjow laughs. 

This time, she laughs too. “It just means I spent more time with the Queen than the Crown Prince,” she explains. “So I don’t know if everything you’ve said about him is true. I do know that Lady Olivia wouldn’t want the two of you to fight,” she continues. “She’d probably be very angry with you both if she knew you wanted to do each other harm.” 

He mulls over this for a moment. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, you’re right. She would.” 

--

“What can I get you?” The girl is as cheerful as ever when she asks. 

“Sit down,” Silvio says. 

Confusion fills her features. “Apologies, my lord, but---”

“Sit down,” he says again, a hard edge in his voice. He looks up at her, his blue eyes icy. “Don’t make me say it again.” 

The barmaid does as she’s told, looking around only once before settling herself across the table from him. One glance at his face and she understands exactly why he’s told her to sit. 

“Where is Jarron Barnes?” Silvio asks. 

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Silvio peers closely at her. He leans forward. “Do you want to do this the easy way, or do you want to find out what the hard way is?” 

Her gaze shifts away from him, her mouth turned down in a frown. “By now my lord, I’m sure he must be nearly a day’s journey away.” 

“Going where?” 

“I don’t know,” she answers quickly. 

He wants to grab her by her shoulders and shake her until the information she’s withholding falls out of her head. Instead, he reaches into his cloak and pulls out a pouch. Her gaze follows his hands as he sets the pouch on the table with a heavy metallic clink. 

The girl’s eyes widen. She’s almost drooling. 

“So you are a greedy little rat,” Silvio hisses angrily. “How much did you sell her for, huh?” 

“My lord, I swear I didn’t---”

“Cut the shit,” he snaps. He hasn’t raised his voice, but the dangerous edge to it shuts her up immediately. “How much?” 

“A week’s wages,” she admits guiltily. 

Incredulously, he stares at her. “I should break your fucking jaw for that,” he mutters. “You trade information to a man who spends his time robbing some of the wealthiest merchant ships in the Yarmouth waters and all you ask for is a week’s wages?” 

The girl looks to be on the verge of tears. 

“What’s in this pouch could easily cover a month’s wages for you,” Silvio goes on. She reaches for the aforementioned pouch, and he rudely slaps her hand away. “You’re going to tell me exactly where Jarron Barnes is heading and what he plans to do with Olivia once he gets there. Do you understand me?” 

“My lord---”

“What I asked you,” he cuts her off, “doesn’t involve any answer other than you nodding your head. You can even say, ‘yes, my lord.’ Do you. Understand. Me?” 

She nods. “Yes, my lord.” 

“Good.” He sits back in his chair. “Now start talking.”

--

His ship is fast. 

As fast as the Hellcat, she would reckon - if not faster. She wonders if he’s stolen it from someone else. If it is merely a spoil of his endeavors. 

She would ask him, but the fabric that’s been jammed between her teeth is still there. It keeps her from talking at all. 

“What’s it like to have two very different men lusting after you?” 

She glares up at him. 

“Oh, that look is scary,” he laughs. “I wonder what you would be saying right now if you could talk.” 

Why don’t you undo this gag and find out? Olivia wishes she could telegraph that thought to him. Her arms and legs are still bound as well, and she’s been tossed into an ungraceful heap in one corner of the deck. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll both be coming after you soon,” Jarron Barnes offers. “That is,” he adds thoughtfully, “if they don’t kill each other first.” He kneels down so that he’s at eye level with her. “If I undo this gag, are you gonna be nice?” 

Olivia simply stares at him. 

“I don’t think you will, but I’m gonna undo it anyway.” He reaches behind her head, untying the knot and pulling the fabric away from her mouth. 

Her mouth is dry. She swallows and opens it to speak. “Why is it that I’m the one tied up like a criminal, when we both know who the real criminal here is?” 

He looks back at her shrewdly. “One of my guys has a broken nose because of you. And I suspect you would have done much worse if the freedom to use your arms and legs  hadn’t been taken away from you fairly quickly.” 

“That’s what happens when I get attacked,” Olivia spits. “I will fight back.” 

“So I’ve noticed.” He leans back, studying her. “I can see why the pirate would like you - you’re scrappy. The Prince, I’m not so sure about. What have you got on him that makes him so taken with you?” 

She ignores his question. “Why am I here? What could you possibly want with me?” 

“You’re a lure, of course,” he replies. “I don’t care about the pirate - I have no quarrel with him - but I heard from some very reliable sources that the Prince has been asking around, looking for me. It seems like his plan once he finds me isn’t one I’d like very much. You’re my assurance that he won’t do anything unnecessarily foolish until I’ve had a chance to speak with him properly.”

His words make Olivia laugh bitterly. “If you think I mean that much to him, you’re sorely mistaken.” She shakes her head. “And what’s your plan once he catches up to you?” 

“You assume he’s going to catch up to me at all.”

Olivia shrugs, as best she can with her arms still tied behind her back. “You assume he’s not able to.” 

“Alright, I’ll give you that,” he concedes. “After all, the Hellcat has a reputation for being one of the fastest ships in the world. So let’s say those two continue to work together with the goal of getting you back. In the event that they catch up to me, I get what I want.” 

“And what is it that you want?” 

“Simple,” Barnes shrugs. “Vora’s independence. Our own government, ruled by leaders we choose. Clario stays the hell out of our business and relinquishes its control over our taxes, our trade, our resources… everything.” 

Olivia muses over his words. “Do the people really hate living under Clarion rule that much?” 

Her question seems to catch him off-guard. “Right,” he says slowly after a moment. “You wouldn’t know anything about life in Vora, because you and the rest of the traitors in your family turned tail and ran from it.” He sneers at her. “Didn’t stick around to watch the fallout and went to live like good little diplomats in Clario.”

“I’m going to forgive the blatant ignorance in your statement,” Olivia starts, “because I’m asking you seriously - does everyone in Vora feel the way you do? Has it really been as bad as you make it sound?” 

“Like I said before, what we want is independence. We want to regulate our own trade and taxes and resources.” 

“Vora isn’t languishing,” she points out. “I may not have set foot on its soil in twenty years, but it doesn’t mean I don’t keep up with what’s going on there.” 

“Has living in Clario dulled your senses?” He asks angrily. “Do you really think it’s fine that your father just rolled over and showed his belly to those… those invaders?”

His words slam into her stomach like a gut punch. “That isn’t fair and you know it,” she protests. “When my father relinquished his position as Prime Minister of Vora, it was because he was trying to put a peaceful end to a war that had been going on for nearly a decade.” She takes a deep breath in an attempt to cool the blood in her veins and keep her emotions from getting the best of her. “You may choose to conveniently leave that part of it out, but I won’t.” 

Barnes scoffs. “I remember hearing that the Prime Minister and his family agreed to pick up and leave us all here,” he counters. “And that their oldest daughter was practically being sold off to the Crown Prince of Clario.”

“And yet here I am,” Olivia interjects sarcastically, “noticeably not owned as property of the Crown Prince of Clario.”

He laughs rudely. “Still doesn’t mean you’re forgiven for turning your back on your home.”

“I was a child,” she snaps. “What was I supposed to do? Run away on my own? Hope no one would notice me stowing away on a ship to Vora?” 

“You haven’t set foot on the island in twenty years,” he points out with a shrug. “You’re telling me that in all that time, you couldn’t have found your way back?”

His words hurt, more than she’d like to admit. “I made a promise to my father that I wouldn’t,” she says. Even as the words come out of her mouth, she realizes how it must sound to the man in front of her. “My parents are diplomats. If I were to leave Clario and return to Vora, it would look like I wasn’t in support of the arrangement that they gave up so much to make.” 

“We can stand here and debate the merits of that all day, and you still won’t change my mind about what you are,” Barnes retorts stubbornly. “And the bottom line is that we wanna rule ourselves. Either you support that, or you don’t.”

“Suppose I don’t. What then?” 

He shakes his head. “Then you find yourself on the wrong side of a war.”  

“Do all the citizens of Vora feel that way?” Olivia asks. 

His hesitation gives him away. 

“They don’t,” she surmises. She peers closely at him. “And I can take a pretty good guess as to who you think should step into place as the new leader of Vora.” 

He doesn’t answer her, but she doesn’t really need him to. He isn’t very good at masking his emotions… or maybe he doesn’t care to. Either way, Olivia can tell that she’s guessed correctly.  

“Let me ask you something,” she starts, shifting to look him in the eye. “What happens to those citizens of Vora who are fine with things the way they’ve been for the past twenty years? What happens to those people who don’t necessarily want you appointed to speak for them?” 

“They’ll come around,” he assures her confidently. 

“What if they don’t?” 

“They will,” he insists. “They’ll see that I’d never turn my back on my home.” 

“I’m asking you not to do this,” she implores him. Silvio’s words echo in her head, and she says them aloud. “If Vora goes to war with Clario again, Vora will lose… again .”

“You don’t know that. We’re more prepared than we were last time. I’ve been gathering resources for a long time now. We won’t lose.” 

She thinks of Silvio again, and words that he’s said to her. “Even so, why would you want that? War is hell. And Vora going to war means using up the resources that you deem so precious. Lives would be lost - the lives of your friends, maybe your family, people you cherish. If you claim to love Vora so much, why would you want to put it through that kind of hell again?” 

“I don’t,” Barnes answers. “Ideally we’d get what we want without ever having to take up arms. But if war is the only way to gain our independence, then it’s a necessary sacrifice.” 

Olivia looks back at him dubiously. “I don’t think it’s going to work the way you’re envisioning it.”  

“You don’t believe me,” he concludes. “And that’s fine - you don’t have to. Vora isn’t your home anymore, so you don’t have any stake in this fight.” 

“That isn’t true, either,” Olivia sighs. “And I’ll say it again: if your plan is to use me as a bargaining chip to get what you want, you may be very disappointed.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he laughs. “I’d wager your prince and the rest of the calvary are making haste after us as we speak.” He stands. “You’re not very good at playing the damsel in distress.” 

“Are you disappointed?” 

“No,” he admits honestly. “And quite frankly, I wouldn’t have expected any less.” 

--

Daisy is starting to understand why Olivia always looks so put out whenever the Captain and the Prince interact around her. 

“We found out the name of the ship Jarron Barnes is sailing in,” she starts, hoping the words will diffuse the tension and keep either man from drawing the steel at their hips. “It’s called the Sea Queen.” She glances up at Grimmjow and he nods. “They say it’s fast.” 

“I know that ship,” the Captain adds. “And I sure would like to know what happened to her Captain. He was a tough old bastard.” 

“Barnes was waiting for us to arrive so he could take Olivia to Vora with him,” Silvio sighs angrily. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who spread the rumor that he was already back on Vora.” 

“So what do we do?” Daisy asks, anxiously wringing her hands. 

“We go after him,” Grimmjow replies simply. 

“The barmaid says he’s almost a full day’s journey ahead of us.” Silvio looks skeptical. “If his ship is as fast as she’s said, we may not be able to catch up to him.” 

“You sellin’ the Hellcat short? Did you forget how fast she can cut up the sea?” 

“You have faith in your ship, and that’s wonderful,” Silvio grumbles. “But forgive me if I lack the same confidence in it. Even with a ship as fast as yours, a day’s distance is a hell of a gap to close.” 

“So what?” The pirate shrugs. “Even if the Hellcat can’t catch up to him - and that’s a big ‘if’, we know he’s headin’ to Vora. We’ll catch him when he gets there either way.”

“And walk right into an ambush of his choosing?” Silvio actually laughs. “Are you stupid?” 

Sky-blue eyes flash with anger. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, pretty boy.” 

“This is me watching my fucking mouth, pirate,” the Prince retorts. “We don’t know what he plans to do with Olivia. He could mean her harm. He may have already hurt her.” 

“Listen here.” Grimmjow’s voice is low and dangerous. “Don’t stand here and talk about her like only you care. We all got a personal stake in this.”

“Maybe if you’d acted like you cared about her last night, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.” 

“Bring it up one more time,” Grimmjow hisses, “and I’ll cut that tongue of yours out.” 

Daisy’s headache is quickly intensifying. “I have something to say.” she murmurs. Her voice is quiet but serious, and both men turn to look at her. “We all have the same goal… to help Lady Olivia out of whatever trouble she’s in.” She inhales deeply. “And I don’t think she would want the two of you to fight. She’d want us all to work together and help her. If you two really want to kill each other,” she adds tiredly, “I cannot stop you. But I also cannot save her on my own. I need your help - both of you. So can we please just… call a truce? A temporary peace treaty?” 

Silvio rolls his eyes. “How about we agree to stay out of each other’s way?” 

Frustrated, Daisy shakes her head. “But we have to work together,” she protests. “We can’t work together if we’re avoiding each other.” She looks up at Grimmjow pleadingly. “Please.” 

He frowns. “Most I can do is promise not to kill him,” he mumbles. “Least not before we find Livvy.” 

She looks over at Silvio. He shrugs. “Please shake hands to seal the agreement,” she proposes. Her voice is trembling slightly, but her gaze does not waver as she looks first at one man, and then the other. “On your honor as men.” 

Grudgingly they humor her. 

It’s Grimmjow who turns away first. “We leave at dawn,” he announces. “Anybody who ain’t on the Hellcat at first light either spends the next two months in Baiz or finds their own way to the next destination.” Without waiting for a response, he stalks out of the tavern. 

“Well, that asshole was right about one thing, at least,” Silvio utters under his breath. 

Surprised, Daisy turns to look at him. “Right about what?” 

“She must’ve rubbed off on you,” is the answer he gives. When she opens her mouth to respond, he beats her to it. “It’s a good thing.” And with that, he turns away too, leaving her alone with her thoughts. 

--

At dawn, she is exactly where she needs to be: on the deck of the Hellcat, watching Grimmjow’s crew file onto it in various stages of fatigue. Daisy feels a little bad for them - what was meant to be a semi-leisurely trek to Vora has turned into an urgent mission. Unaware of their early departure time until late in the evening, many had been forced to cut their merrymaking short. 

The Captain himself is as fresh-faced as ever when he comes over to greet her. “Top o’ the mornin’ to you.”

“Good morning,” she smiles up at him. She glances around. “I don’t see Prince Silvio,” she says worriedly. “I hope he doesn’t miss us.” 

“Bastard’s already here,” Grimmjow mutters. “In his cabin… he slept on the Hellcat last night.”

“Oh.” His words have surprised her. She giggles a little. “Well I guess he was more ready to go than all of us.” 

Grimmjow shrugs. “Wouldn’t’ve known it from the way he chased us outta his room yesterday.”

“I just wish I knew whether or not Lady Olivia is okay,” she sighs, sobering up. “It’s nerve-wracking not to know what’s happening to her.” 

“She’ll be fine,” Grimmjow smiles down at her reassuringly. “We’ll get to her soon, and in the meantime, she’s good at holdin’ her own.” His gaze grows steely. “And if he touches a hair on her head, he’ll have hell to pay. I won’t hold back.”

“Captain, are you in love with her?” 

He sputters in a rare moment of being completely caught off-guard. “Well shit,” he chuckles. “Guess Livvy’s way of askin’ honest questions is startin’ to rub off on ya too, huh?” 

“I’m sorry,” she says, her face flushing. “I know it’s impolite and probably highly inappropriate for me to ask.” 

“That mean you don’t wanna know the answer?” 

She hesitates. “I only want to know if you want to tell me.”

“Then I’ll keep it to myself. A man’s entitled to his secrets just like a woman is, don’t you think?” 

It makes her laugh. “I guess you’re right.” She looks around to make sure no one else is within earshot. “And for what it’s worth, I know she wouldn’t blame you for what happened to her.”

Grimmjow frowns. “And what makes you so sure about that?” 

“I don’t know if I can explain it the right way, but I’ll try,” she starts thoughtfully. “Lady Olivia isn’t like that, you know? She wouldn’t blame you for something bad that someone else did to her.” 

His blue eyes are on the horizon. “Even if she never woulda been there if she hadn’t been lookin’ after me?” 

“Well, it might have happened anywhere,” Daisy points out. “Especially if those men had been watching us the whole time.” 

He shrugs. “Dunno if that’s supposed to make me feel better.” 

“I’m sure it will when we find her and she tells you herself,” Daisy smiles. 

--

When the knock on her door sounds, Olivia is already awake. “I’m surprised you even bothered to knock,” she mumbles when he opens the door without waiting for an answer. “I didn’t think hostages warranted the privilege of privacy.”

“If that’s the way you want me to treat you,” he shrugs, “that can be arranged.” 

“You abducted me, bound my hands and feet and gagged my mouth, then tossed me onto the corner of the ship’s deck all day yesterday so I could suffer from sun and windburn. Forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy at the prospect of being here, bed or not.” 

“You’ll get used to life at sea eventually,” he jokes. 

“You know good and goddamned well I’m already accustomed to life at sea,” Olivia sighs witheringly. “What I’m not accustomed to is being treated like cargo instead of like a human being.” 

“I’d say you’ve been treated at least slightly better than cargo.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “So let’s say your plan goes exactly as you’ve envisioned it - or at least as close as it can get. What will you do then? How will you make Vora better than it already is?” 

“Why are you asking? You don’t care.” He looks skeptically at her. 

“Of course I do,” she affirms. “Your passion for this is obviously rooted in something you feel very strongly about. And though I’m no true diplomat, I would be casting aside everything I’ve learned from my father if I didn’t ask.” 

“Huh,” he says slowly. “You really mean that.” When she nods, he speaks again. “Alright then. Come with me and I’ll tell you.” 

“Where are we going?” 

The smile he flashes her this time seems to be a genuine one. “I’m hungry, and you must be, too. I’ll tell you my plan over breakfast.” 

Previous Chapter: Ten | Next Chapter: Twelve

[floradorn]

@johnnyssexytimes / the lil' kissie prompt <3

there's a twinkle in his eye. the warm breeze of texas air that surrounds them, the rustling of grass, flowers, & the leaves of trees overhead. their spot, they've unspokenly declared, coming back to this spot time & time again. our spot, where a lot of peace lies. there was no fear. there were no worries. they could simply be, from now until the crack of dusk as they watch the sunset. here, there were many memories that were shared. he remembers the first time they came here -- a sign of trust, a sign of freedom, they chatted a bit. his head leaned against her, then. how time has passed since. how it feels like a distant dream -- because MEMORY, it was not distant, it was not something far off. no. it was still vivid as now. maybe it was the time where they knew they wouldn't get caught. where seeds were planted & kisses yearned to be shared, each & every time. it never fails. they always ended up with their hands on one another within the hour. he craved her. maybe it was love. he always acted on his craving. always giving her an eye up & down, seeing if she wants it too. a lean in, his calloused hand that finds itself drawing to the back of her neck to draw her in, encourage her closer & closer until their lips meet, dancing a familiar tango. they know how this will end. it always starts with these heated kisses. it felt right. it felt like it was right where they needed to be, not just where they wanted to be. johnny shifts to move himself to face her more, feeling her move too. his other hand reaches around her, touching at the crook of her back, lowering -- his hand did always wander -- grabbing tenderly at her ass. come here, comes a soft growl laced within the kiss. he feels her shift, feels her rise, feels her presence encompass him, his hands guiding her to sit on his lap, shifting to lean against the tree, lips that part to allow her to catch her breath. his brown eyes look between her hazel ones, a soft smile that rises to his face. his hand brushes from the back of her neck forward to cup her cheek, a thumb that caresses rounded cheek. funny how the wolf becomes a poor, lovesick puppy. ❛ so goddamn beautiful, babygirl. ❜

tops and stems of flowers were left strewn across blanket, fallen petals and leaves picking up by the wind, frolicking about across blanket-top, snaking between blades of grass. her handiwork set off at arms length away — crown of flowerheads half-weaved together, forgotten about, now, when maria climbed atop his lap, settling thighs on either side of his.

in recent trips out here, under the shade of the tree overhead, she knew the moment the route they drove along started to become familiar all over again — the turn down the backroad, shrouded by trees, overgrowth, tucked safely out of sight from prying eyes.

their spot, nestled someplace quiet and secluded, with fields of flowers blooming around them. someplace peaceful, someplace they call their own — the sight of that hidden little turn off the main road, stirred a warmth in her every time. made her heart go a few beats faster.

the shack itself wasn't left out, at least not entirely. its wood-paneled walls got to bear witness to some moments shared between them. hungry kisses, roaming hands—

never much further than that, however. not the right place, he'd say. cut things short. she'd never minded, truly, being there — he insisted on someplace better, though.

it was always in the eyes though, wasn't it? unspoken hints. gaze that passed one another over — whether shack, or out here, under the tree. someplace else on the property. maria was shyer than johnny was — about when that certain type of frustration began to be too much to ignore. but she's started picking up on his more subtle hints . . . at least, she thinks so. when she feels his eyes fall on her, while shes out picking at flowers to bring back to the blanket laid out for them both, follow her around. how she notices, in peripherals, the up and down glances. she was becoming less of a stranger to them; less flustered into timidness. when she now meets his eyes with her own, and a set away of the flowers in her hands says perfectly fine that her attentions' turned to him.

inevitable, really, with their track record so far. she couldn't recall the last visit out here where she hadn't turned herself further towards him as his hand came to meet her, in some manner — where she hadn't closed that space between them to meet his lips. melt into them at the feel of roughened fingertips grazing along her skin. it never took much for those kisses to deepen. tastes the bitterness of beer lingering on his lips, sometimes the smokiness of his cigarettes. the bite of mint. she found herself growing used to the taste — supposed she simply enjoyed his lips against her own too much to care.

the low rumble seeped into his voice always dizzied her thoughts, and there she's found herself once again — with his hands grasping at her, pulling her, somehow, closer against himself when she'd settled on his lap. hands that trailed along thighs, up hips — dragging along fabric of her dress, riding thin layers higher off bare skin.

—broken kiss made her brows furrow, only brief, easing when she met his eyes, when they lower to his lips, and her own slowly beam at the sight of little smile across his face.

he was always pretty when he smiled.

smile grows as his voice fills what little space there was between them both — poses back at him, voice an ever-soft hum as she feels a shiver run through her, as roughened hand moves along to press against her cheek, " am i . . ? " cheek is rested further into his palm with a slight tilt of her head, dimple partly hidden behind his hand. a turn of her head and her lips brush along his palm, pressing a soft kiss against him.

curious, she poses another as a hand draws up between them, resting against back of his. " i'm not sure i believe you . . . " laying another kiss against his thumb, and another to his palm again — hazels meet back to dark, dark browns. her hips roll, rocking down against his. not breaking that contact. her voice softer, airy, " think you could show me, baby . . ? "

[b0ther]

tags : drabble/one-shot idk. feminine pronouns, afab reader / royalty or kingdom au, inspired by kill the villainess, eating out, semi-public and clothed though they don’t have sex yet lol we’re gonna have to wait for part two, this was supposed to be short but i got carried away bye.

i’ve been reading a lot of reincarnation manhwas, and i can’t stop thinking about knight yuuta.

knight yuuta with tough, veiny, calloused hands, his fingers are long and pretty and knuckles are chipped with dried blood; a boy that spends his days practicing his swordsmanship against a dull dummy until the sun sets. knight yuuta who is then knighted by a duke’s daughter, whose lips are zipped with obvious intention to display her disinclination to be in the ceremony. knight yuuta who follows the lady home that night, three steps behind her at all times, and recognizes that the vicinity around her isn’t the one that he is welcomed in; knight yuuta who doesn’t speak of it or point it out either way.

“i don’t need a knight,” the lady then says one afternoon, eyes closed as she sips on her most favored flavor of tea under the bright sunlight. knight yuuta is sitting across her, eyes vigilantly watching her every move and ears perked up as if someone is going to ambush her in her own garden — he insisted that the lady enjoy her afternoon tea alone, you see, that he isn’t fit to be sitting on the same table as a lady. but she looked up at him with disinterest that struck his chest, questioning his loyalty to her. he immediately took the only empty seat on the round table.

the duke’s daughter, knight yuuta quickly learns, has a cute side to herself. she keeps him close to her, in the mansion and in the castle, even when she told him that she has no need of him to be around. she takes him to the market, and inside extravagant boutiques that he had never thought that he could enter. and though she has her own lady-in-waiting, she prefers discerning his opinion over hers. knight yuuta does not think of dresses often, and so he carelessly picks ones that he thinks would look best on his lady, and waits just outside the changing room.

but she drags him in, her touch delicate and unforgettable, it’s the first time he’s been touched by those soft hands — she smells of lemon cakes and roses; his lady closes the door and tells him to sit on a chair on the very back of the room. one servant argues — it would be improper for him to see you change, my lady — and she indifferently waves their reasoning away, “he is the only person in this room who has sworn his life to me, wouldn’t it be audacious of me to place my faith on all of you but not him?” as more complaints flows out of the servant’s mouth, his lady raises one hand to silence them and commands another to undo the laces of her dress. that day, knight yuuta learns of the boundaries the lady placed between them — he also learns that the lady has smooth, silky skin, and though his expression is unmoving as he watches her undress to her corset, both hands on his knees forms a fist.

neither knight yuuta nor his lady likes the crown prince very much. he came to learn that the person he is serving is second only to the crown prince, his lady’s inimical fiancé, and that she holds power and influent that most people would not be able to even imagine. knight yuuta knows his lady as one who is loved by all in the duke’s household — and how can one not? his lady, despite her frigid appearance, has the heart of gold that many claims to have, and he is convinced that no one in the kingdom is able to rival neither her elegance nor beauty. and so he wonders, day and night, how is her fate so ill that she is set to marry the wretched prince.

knight yuuta has not ever comment on the countless times his lady hides behind the palace pavilions, shielding herself from leering eyes as she continues to sob and wail quietly into her fragile palms. he has never seen her cry, at all times, he is on the lookout for people that are walking towards them — his gaze is enough to send them away — so that his lady’s dignity would not be tarnished any more than what that bastard prince has commit. he’d kill him, knight yuuta swears, if he isn’t the goddamned crown prince, he’d slit his throat wide open for making his lady cry.

why would anyone choose another woman than his lady? why would anyone openly flaunt their choice in picking arrogant and crude ladies to be their partner? doing so is one thing, but letting his lady catch them in the middle of coition is another. she is trying her best to fit in the mold of the perfect king’s wife, and the crown prince insists lazing around with no inch of grace in his body, even knight yuuta, who comes from a lowly origin, knows better than to exhibit infidelity even in a political driven engagement.

his lady asks him to accompany her to a nighttime tea one evening, and who is knight yuuta to refuse? the underlying sparks in her eyes isn’t present, her voice is low under flickering candlelight as she brings her cup to her lips. “you’re the only one i can trust, sir yuuta,” she says without precipitating movements, “you are my only friend.” that night, yuuta stabs his blade through the chest of a man who tried to bring a knife up to his lady’s face in her own garden. though his lady is unmoving, she lifts her gaze to the sky as the assassin breathes his last breath, “the crown prince has trivialized my knight.” as yuuta peers up at his lady, his eyes widen in overwhelming exalt — she looks magnificent.

trips to town has become a weekly occurrences for yuuta and his lady; her favorite hobby is to dress in regular clothings and prance down the marketplace, making him carry all her luggages. the downtown theater is her best loved place — a new short play every week is to be presented, with new songs and new tricks. his lady loves stories, and yuuta loves watching her eyes light up at every twist the play would offer. though that evening, his lady’s melancholic frown seeps pass her defenses, and he immediately recognizes the presence of the crown prince three rows under where they are sitting — in his arm is another lover yuuta does not recognize.

as his hand creeps to the hilt of his sword, his lady stood up. she is silent, as always, trying her best to not be the center of attention, as she makes her way out the exit. all thoughts of harming the crown prince escapes his mind — his lady is all that matters, after all. he follows her to the empty night streets, hand flying out to catch her wrist; yuuta disobeys his lady for the first time and did not let go even when she tries to pry him off. she refuses to look at him, and he understands, so he tugs her frail body towards his larger one, hand pressing her forehead against his chest.

“i don’t even love him,” as soon as he feels his lady’s sobbings, yuuta pulls them into an alleyway — he will not see her crying face, so no one else can do so. her fingers grip his tunic, tears sopping the material and yuuta can only rock them back and forth as a vain attempt in calming her down. “yuuta, i’m a-always doing my best, i-is that not enough?”

yuuta grits his teeth at the question — he’d kill the crown prince, he swears it. he pulls her from his chest, for the first time, he takes in the sight of her piteous face — her tear-stained cheeks are flushed, eyes swollen, and chest heaving. his heart clenches at the sight, and so, he closes his eyes and brings his large hand to cup her jaws, leaning down to catch her quivering lips with his.

at first, yuuta expects a harsh shove. he expects a slap on his face, or perhaps even a punch. he does not expect for his lady to be melting into the contact; all the tension on his shoulders fades away as he falls in deeper to the kiss, one hand wrapping around her small waist to hold her body closer to his. he can feel her hiccups as she raises her arms to snake around his neck, pulling him down towards her. yuuta knows that he should be careful when it comes to his delicate lady, that he should hold himself back as he is much stronger than she is; and he might have committed a sin when he thrusts her onto the wall.

he silently reprimands his excitement, and while he keeps each hand on her jaw and waist, his dark eyes peered down to his lady, waiting for her to rebuke his actions. but she does not comment on the cold wall or his daring decision — instead, she looks down to her feet, still trying to manage her hiccups, and quietly asks, “are you not going to kiss me again?”

splutters of apologies fly out his lips — he has kissed the crown prince’s fiancé, and while the fear of his own life is not present, yuuta fears for his lady’s. she turns away for a moment, her then erratic breath is now calm and slow, muttering something yuuta does not quite catch. she unhooks her arms from his neck, her soft touch traveling from his neck to the curves of his hard jaws. turning to look at him, shy and timid, his lady grips the base of the hand on her jaw with her smaller ones, tugging it off his face and placing it very carefully on the mound of her breast.

yuuta holds his breath.

the resilient lady keeps her eye contact — he doesn’t know how she does it — and presses her fingers on top of his, making him dig into the fabric and feel his digits drowning in the soft flesh underneath. yuuta does not say a word, he merely does what his lady tells him to do. “you can move,” her pliable voice whispers, and so he does. he takes the initiative to fondle her chest, stepping in closer as he admires how she fits perfectly in his wide palm. the fingers on his hand loosens; his lady takes one thumb to nibble between her teeth as yuuta continues to knead her mound, his breath hot against her face. he was so engrossed in her breast, that when his lady lets out a low sigh, he immediately pulls away.

at an instant, his eyes goes to her face — has he hurt her? he is greeted, however, by his lady’s flushed face (now for an entirely different reason) and her drool pooling on her thumb and on the corner of her pretty lips, threatening to spill out. has her lips always been this plump? yuuta feels his cock hardening against the restraining fabric of his pants as he thinks about how his kiss may be the one making her look so. . . amorous.

“sir yuuta,” his lady whimpers, and he almost flinched at how sultry the complaint sounds. she is so different from the lady he usually serves — so different from the usual bold and prideful woman that she is. yuuta raises his hand back to her chest and she lets out a sigh of relief; his lady looks so small as he towers her, so supple and pliant. is he allowed to do this? is he allowed to see her in such state?

she must have noticed his hesitation. her teeth let go of the thumb in her mouth and she slowly tugs the material of her long skirt to her chest. yuuta let go of her body completely and allows her to exhibit her smooth skin, the fat of her thighs making his head go dizzy even when he’s seen her change so many times. the reveal of her undergarments is slow, but yuuta doesn’t mind, not when his lady is revealing so much of herself to him — her laced underwear cups the shape of her pussy so well, that he almost convinces himself that it’s a sin to be staring for so long.

yuuta swallows the lump in his throat and squats before his lady, the case of his blade clashing against the ground. his face is just inches from her core, breath blowing against her warmth when his lady breaks his trance, “y-you can touch it. if you want.”

he may as well faints. yuuta looks up at his lady who’s intently staring back at him, tense from all that is happening. something tells him that she wants him to touch her, and so he raises one finger — just one, he tries not to be greedy — and presses that finger flat against the length of her slit.

“ngh—“

the responses are all so new for him. he keeps his eyes on his lady as her face rumples into an expression he has never seen her worn — it stirs something inside of him. he wants nothing more but to take his cock out and beat it to the expression she is showing him, but he doesn’t do it. instead, he waits for her cues while occasionally pressing harder on her mound.

“you—“ his lady takes his hand and directs him to a specific spot of her groin; yuuta can feel a bud nestling right there under her underwear, “—you can touch me there.”

yuuta follows her command, and he finds his heart drumming against his chest when his lady’s fingers immediately grips his hair. he places his free hand on her thigh — one he has been longing to hold — and continues pressing her down on the spot she had shown him while occasionally running his finger up and down her slit.

his eyes never leaves his beautiful lady’s face, only glancing to what is in front of him for a moment to see her undergarments getting darker in color when he feels his finger getting wet. yuuta swallows the lump of his throat again — she looks so ravishing, he must say, so inviting. it takes every fiber of his being to not do anything too rash, he wouldn’t want his lady to be uncomfortable around him, but he is only getting more and more close to her pulsating core. her little pants are music to his ears, her little moans of his name — and just his name. they both don’t know what to say in times like this, and yuuta feels content with his lady calling out to him with her velvety voice.

until, of course, something inside of him decides that it’s a good idea to press his lips against the fabric separating his finger and her folds. “yuuta—!” his lady squeals, fingers digging in his scalp as he continues to place flutters of little kisses on her drenched underwear, tasting the sweet slick of his beloved lady. she’s addicting.

yuuta shifts on his feet, angling his face so that he can kiss her better. he uses one finger to pull the fabric aside and let the cool night air breeze against her wet slit. his lady shivers, and he is sure that she is about to say something but his tongue races her, and takes one long lick in between her folds to let her juice run down his tongue. his lips settle on the bud he had felt earlier and slowly sucks on her glistening clit.

noises that his lady makes after he does that is different. though she was panting before, she didn’t do so in a way that is so. . . exhilarating. he is rock hard now, sucking on her throbbing clit, squelching sounds that fill him with delight entering his ears easily. she is so so wet, sopped in her own slick for him.

“y-yuuta—“

he loves her. he really do. yuuta does not lower the intensity of his sucking, and instead, only grips her hips to support her body against the wall once he feels her knees trembling from either side of his body. she’s muttering all sorts of things now, telling him how he feels so good, how his tongue is making her feel so hot.

“yuuta— i’m gonna, i—“

his sweet lady cannot finish her sentence — she is cut off by her own gushing, juice flowing to make a mess on his chin as he continues eating her out, tongue poking at the sensitive button between her folds. she’s trying so hard to keep her voice down, yuuta can tell, biting the back of her hand as she throws her head on the wall. her hips convulses so hard against his face, grinding down on him.

yuuta does not stop. he keeps on lapping up her cum, obsessed with the taste of her honeyed slick as he tugs on her clit softly with his lips, silently begging her to give him more.

“s’enough—“ his lady’s words fall on deaf ears, yuuta keeps slurping up her juice until she finally pushes his head away. “e-enough, sir yuuta!”

yuuta blinks up at her — drowning in the sight of her post orgasm: sweat drenching down her face and neck, chest heaving with massive draws of breath, her hair disheveled and messy (quite unfitting for a lady), and her face somewhat debauched. he made her look like that, a sense of burning pride flares up in his chest, he’s the only one to see his lady like that.

remnants of her juice dribbles down his chin on his throat, and yuuta unconsciously scoops it up with a finger to put in his mouth, indulging himself in another taste of her sweet slick. his lady sees this and looks away, muttering about how indecent he is being. he cannot help the small smirk slipping on his lips as he wipes his face free of her wetness. he stands up, not making a move though his eyes lingers on her chest — he stares longer, more than he usually would and wonders what would his lady’s tits look like under all these article of clothings, and would she ever let him suck on them.

she drops the skirt from her hand, crossing her arms under her chest — perhaps to tease him, or to coax him even further — as her cool expression returns to her face. she still looks embarrassed, face still flushed with her hair sticking firmly on her forehead with sweat, but yuuta does not point it out.

instead, he simply offers her his hand when she says, “take me back to the mansion.” he does not mention too, of course, the way she stumbles in her steps, slightly limping, as they walk back home.

[kiridarling]

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

request | Can I have royalty au (soon to be king bakugou) (and soon to be queen reader) , katsuki and reader are supposed to be getting married (not to eachother) but they end up sneaking around and doing IT with eachother so top!kats , exhibition , begging , dumbification and spanking THANK YOU💞💞

this lovely request was submitted for the kissing booth event (the rest of the drabbles come out soon, ahem :)) so, if this was your request, um...hAHA whoops.

katsuki bakugou | f!reader, royalty!au, infidelity, nondescript!fiancés, angst (gasp), fingering, exhibitionism, dumbification + more! minors dni!

— 3.7k words

“C'mon, princess...can I make you feel good once last time?

You're getting married.

No more ignorance is bliss, no more I didn't know any better—this is when you put all your childish antics to the side and fucking woman up, now in charge of the safety of your kingdom and its inhabitants and whatnot. So yes, you must snuff all your adolescent tendencies, and that includes sleeping with the Crowned Prince of the neighboring kingdom behind your fiancé's backs.

But, boys are stubborn. And stupid.

Ding ding ding!

"Excuse me, Everyone!" Your fiancé announces to the crowd in your dining room as he stumbles to his feet, spoon clinking against his glass. He nearly trips, but no one sees except yourself. "I would like to make a toast."

You frown. This wasn't a part of the rehearsal dinner.

"First of all, I would like to thank you all for being able to be with us tonight," he says, shoving the glass higher in the air. As red wine splashes over the rim, you think to remind him that isn't a toast, it's the beginning of a speech, but your comments have rarely deterred the man in the past. "As you’re all aware, this marriage is vital. Not only for our kingdom, but for the neighboring kingdom as well."

Your fiancé regards the Bakugou’s with a lift of his chalice. In the coming weeks, two arranged marriages will melt the four most influential kingdoms into two, and your fiancé and his family had the genius to throw a massive Gala to celebrate it. You wouldn’t be surprised if they got off to the idea of stretching themselves so thin their hair falls out at age thirty; they won’t even allow you to choose the type of dress for your wedding.

"I would also like to thank my lovely, lovely wife, for just being so... lovely.” Your fiancé chuckles, accompanied by an uncomfortable massage to your shoulder. The guests find amusement in how whipped he is as he gazes your way expectantly, conceivably wishing to see you swoon at the compliment. All you give him is a blank face. His elation falters.

"You know, when I first met this woman, I knew she was going to be the love of my life," your fiancé shakes your glare off. You purposely block out the rest of his story in favor of folding and unfolding your napkin again, puffing under your breath at the cheesy comment.

"Sap," you grunt to yourself, obviously. You don't expect anyone to hear, but there's a snort to your right. Your eyes lift from your lap—and straight into Katsuki's smug blood red ones. He winks at you from across the table and your eyes roll at that, though there's a small smile playing on your face that's impossible to hide.

"Isn't that right [Y/N]!...[Y/N]?"

You blink yourself back to life, eyes reluctantly leaving Katuski's hypnotic ones for the pair that make you nauseous, "Oh—u-um, yep!"

The place bursts in laughter and there's even a little smile dancing on Katsuki's face. He catches you staring so your eyes divert to your lap, but his remain a physical force against you for the rest of the night.

*selene — the greek goddess of the moon

The balcony is much nicer than the ballroom.

For one, it's the farthest place you could have gone from the commotion, all the way on the opposite side of the castle. It's a solid five-minute walk when you aren't in heels and a heavy petticoat, but it provides a lovely view of your front yard, subjecting you to watch the early-sleepers leave in their carriages to call it a night. Meanwhile, *Selene watches you from her telescope the moon with a sigh and a sad smile, because she's the only one who knows how completely and utterly alone you will be.

You glare at her—the goddess doesn't waver.

Bitch.

It's no secret that Gala’s like these get overwhelming—especially when you're the center of attention. You see Lord Shinsou (Earl) stuff the eager Lord Kaminari (Baron) into his silver-plated carriage before looking around to ensure no one saw, and blanche upon seeing your figure stood on the balcony. You salute so he knows his secret is safe with you, and relief washes over his face before he too hops into the carriage. What a scandal, you giggle.

Plenty of couples resign home after that; it makes you uneasy. You're unsure as to why, but you have the ever-increasing urge to nip at your fingernails until you don't have them anymore, and jamming the sharpest point of your heel into the concrete seems like the only proper way to release enough kinetic energy before you explode.

"He loves me."

He does, embarrassingly so—so what's the issue?

There isn't an issue; there shouldn't be. He reminds you how pretty you are and you compliment his influence. Neither of you are marrying down. You look good together. The kingdom's future power couple if you will, where you two supposedly mold the great future in your peculiarly young hands. There isn't an issue. You're the one for him, and he's the one for you.

The balcony door whines open. You don't turn around, praying whoever it is will see that it's occupied and turn the other cheek. Yet, the stomp of whoever's boots only grow louder until you’re adjacent to a shadow of a being, his chin lifted towards the stars. You catch a glimpse of blond hair, though dyed a pale white by the silver moon, and you two stand in a strangely comfortable silence, watching carriages roll out of your driveway.

The silence doesn’t last for long, though. It never does.

"D’ya always go disappearing like that?"

You frown. "What?"

"I don't fuckin' know," Katsuki grumbles—he has yet to look at you. Seems like Selene captures more than one person's attention tonight. "Blinked and you were gone."

Your frown only deepens, and you return your attention to the courtyard. "I didn't know you were paying attention."

The ash-blond presses his forearms against the railing for support. "I wasn't. He was."

Oh.

"Said he wants you to come back, so," Katsuki clicks his tongue, carmine red eyes finally flicking your way through the darkness. You don’t dare look at him. “You run off often, or what?"

"Tell him I'll come back in a second," you sigh, balancing your face in your hand. Katsuki says nothing, but he doesn't leave, and you hate that you don't mind.

Until he points towards a couple crossing the lawn and says, "Oi, that's the Duke from my fiancé's kingdom. Fucker tried to poison my dad for the throne—straightened him out real quick.”

"Why are you talking to me?" You snap like a cornered animal. Katsuki lifts an eyebrow.

"What? I can't have a goddamn conversation?"

"I—" your chest rises and falls with a reason to why he can't, but you can only come up with one—and you don't want to think about it.

"Listen. I don't like these things either, alright?" He huffs defensively, so defensively that you have to take a step back. "If I have the opportunity to get some fresh air, I'm gonna fuckin' take it."

You shrug, supposing it makes you one and the same. The wind blows, not harsh, but harsh enough to ruffle your gown, and make the gold jewelry decorating Katsuki's tunic jingle.

“So. I guess this is it, ain’t it?”

You sigh, “Katsuki, you know we—“

"Yeah yeah, that's all you fuckin' say," he growls bitterly, and you blink in a poor attempt to find where the animosity came from. His face twists in an ugly way as he sits his hands on his hips, nose scrunched to mockingly pitch his voice that doesn't sound like yours at all. "We can't, we shouldn't—"

"Because we shouldn't!" You nearly shout, and Katsuki jumps from how quickly you raise your voice. "Because—because if we get caught, we're fucked. And I can't go to sleep terrified that I'll wake up to an exposé tomorrow morning and get beheaded by the afternoon. So...please. Just stop."

Katsuki clicks his tongue.

"You don't love that asshole."

Your throat feels tight—much too tight to be comfortable, and your chest rises and falls with disbelief as you search for the words before you can talk again, eyes never dropping from the stars. You've had this conversation, fuck, you have it too often; often enough to know that he would say those exact words, and enough to know precisely what you'll say in response.

"I love him, Katsuki."

"No, no you fuckin' don't," the ash-blond chucks a laugh and it's nothing short of acrid, his words eating away at your skin more than you'd like them to. You sigh, resting your forearms on the railing too.

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Always gotta be so goddamn emotionally unavailable, huh?" He growls, glare set on the mountains presented in front of you. You feel his suit jacket hit your freezing shoulders, unaware of the cool temperatures until you feel the cloth brush against goosebumps. It’s your turn to laugh bitterly.

“Careful. People might think we’re getting married to each other.”

“One day you’ll let me fuckin’ live,” he grunts, and your eyes meet for the first time. His usual red is dyed a deep purple by the moonlight, their usual hardness traded for something much softer. “Can’t even give you a jacket when you’re shivering like a goddamn leaf in the wind.”

You give him a look of utter exhaustion because you’re tired—tired of all this running around and hiding, the secrecy. It eats at your insides like a caterpillar does a leaf, knowing that you go to sleep every night to a man who’ll barely touch you, but at the same time, feeling guilty that you don’t need nor want him to.

“Why are you here?”

Katsuki clicks his tongue. His warm body settles behind yours, close enough to feel the warmth but not close enough to feel him. “You looked lonely.”

“I thought my fiancé told you to get me?” You ask, raising a suspicious eyebrow. Katsuki rolls his eyes, his arms settling on both sides of yours.

“He did. But I didn’t refuse the damn request either.”

“You saw my loneliness all the way from the ballroom. What an eyesight,” you scoff. Katsuki’s eyes narrow, but it’s clear he’s fighting a grin because you’re a little shit who loves giving him a hard time. The ash-blond’s chest rises and falls, and he bites the inside of his cheek.

“You know what I mean.”

You snort, tilting your head to the right. You suppose you do.

“And I’m marrying a bitch,” he adds to his list of grievances, his hands finding yours to gently play with your fingers. You nod in agreement. A bitch she is.

“And...I’m really going to fuckin’ miss you.”

It might as well pass for nothing but a breath, eyes trained on your held hands. His chest suspends like he has more to say, but his teeth tear at the inside of his cheek before he can. “I—fuck, I get it, okay? I’m a selfish asshole—“

“This doesn’t have to do wit—“

“And I really, really need to get my fuckin’ priorities straight. I mean, they are, just not in the way they should be.”

“Hey,” you chastise, shaking his hands for his attention. “You can’t control who you love, okay?"

Katsuki grumbles at that but you refuse, turning around to look him in the eyes.

"And neither can I.”

You let go of his hands in favor of pulling him down via his cheeks and giving him a big fat kiss on the lips. It’s peckish and brief, but it’s sweet and gets your point across. It's comfortable.

“The hell was that for?” Katsuki asks once you pull away. Though you see him struggle to hide a grin, eyes squinting more than they should.

“Easy,” you say, stepping forwards (as if there’s any space for that), “You looked lonely.”

Katsuki snorts, dropping his head, “Bastard.”

“And I’m being married off to an asshole,” you lament, pulling his face so close to the point you’re sure the strain on his back has got to be anything but sexy. He accommodates anyways—Katsuki always has; and night seems to suspend along with his baited breath as he waits for the next line, eyes shining with a painful hope you’re about to confirm.

“And I’m really, really going to miss you,” you say, shaking your head at how utterly true that statement is. Fuck.

The vulnerability slowly fades from his eyes at that, and Katsuki hums, clammy hands finding their rightful place around your hips.

“You shouldn’t call him an asshole, you know,” he says, face inching so close you can smell the champagne on his breath. “He means well.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” you quip back, raising an eyebrow. Katsuki shrugs, and you don’t realize he’s backing you up until your back kisses the cool railing.

“Well. I can’t help but feel a little bad,” he says cheekily as he inches closer, “‘Cause I make you feel so good, don’t I, Princess? Last time I checked, better than he ever could.”

You scoff at his audacity though it’s all good-natured, eyes preferring the moon over his heated gaze as he turns you around to face the courtyard.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, redirecting your attention using a finger on your jaw, “Eyes on me, Princess. You look really fuckin’ pretty under the stars, y’know.”

You snort at the compliment, rolling your eyes.

“‘M serious. A fuckin’ goddess,” he growls, leaving wet kisses up the column of your neck. Your breath hitches as he reaches your sweet spot and sucks, and you’re swatting him away before he can leave a mark.

“I sai—“

“One last time, Princess,” he bargains lowly as his hot hands slide their way from your waist to your breasts, taking their sweet time. Katsuki hooks his chin on your shoulder. “Lemme—Can I make you feel good one last time?”

You’re nodding with a whimper before you can berate yourself for being so fucking easy, the thought of not being able to indulge yourself with this, with him, any longer tosses any and all resistance out the window.

“Good,” Katsuki hums, tweaking your nipples through the bodice. “‘M gonna pay you back for being so good to me, yeah? For puttin' up with all my shit."

You scoff, mouth dropping to tell him you weren't putting up with his shit, but then a warm hand lands on your thigh—somehow, he's found a way under your dress. The hand slides up inner thigh and you feel Katsuki's chest shudder against your back as he finally reaches where you need him most.

"K-Kats—"

"Shhh, you don't want them to hear us, do you?" He grunts, pulling your panties to the side. You shiver from the change in temperature, watching another Duke and Duchess of half-drunkenly stumble into their carriages for the night, before there's a crack of a whip and hooves beat towards the exit. It's only a reminder of how painfully exposed you two are—one glance towards the balcony and any onlooker would know exactly what's happening. You hate it.

You hate that you don't.

"Atta girl," Katsuki purrs, groaning as he inserts a finger. You shiver, the weight of his being practically trapping you against the railing. "Always so fuckin' tight. I swear that asshole never fucks you right."

Katsuki's never been an impatient man and fills you with a second finger awfully fast, chuckling when you bite into the meat of your palm to hold back a whimper. His hips start to grind against the puff of your dress and he groans as quietly as he can, carelessly shoving down the sleeve of his suit jacket to bite into your shoulder.

You let out a broken moan much too loud for this time of night and it prompts Katsuki's free hand to stuff an equal amount of fingers into your mouth. "Y'know, something tells me you wanna get caught. You want the whole world to know how much you fuckin' hate that bastard, huh?"

You choke as Katsuki slides in a third digit next to the second, the slap of his palm against your pussy becoming nothing but obscene as your slick accentuates the sound. His hips speed up against your ass and that's enough friction to have the ash-blond groaning, along with the spit that drips down his forearm.

"So dirty for me, Princess," his hips stutter when you push back, tongue laving over the bite mark you'll probably have to conceal in the morning. Asshole. "You wanna cum like this, don't you? You're gonna cum all over my fingers in front of the entire royal court. Dumb little girl, can't even keep her mouth shut to keep us from gettin' caught."

You jam your heel into the balcony concrete so hard you positive it cracks before you're coming all over Katsuki's fingers, nearly choking on the ones in your mouth as you release the loudest broken moan you have that night. Katsuki's hips stutter against you and you're positive he's filling his boxers from the airy moan that follows, and his hand goes limp in your mouth before it slides out completely.

Your chests balloon in unison, his body draped over yours, and as you two catch your breath under the moonlight, you can’t help but think how much you’re going to miss this.

"Run away with me."

"I—" he does this. He always does this. He makes you feel on top of the world, acting like everything's fine, and then he pulls this shit on you. You look everywhere but him, nearly scoffing in disbelief. "Katsuki—"

"C'mon, Princess," Katsuki scrambles to flip you by the waist until your back is flush against the railing again and he’s cradling both your hands in his semi-damp ones. There’s a look in his eyes you don’t like, and it makes your chest burn. "Across the sea, people are movin’ over there and I—I know someone there, okay? Someone we could stay with, maybe help us get back on our feet an-and I found a fuckin’ ferry guy to take us across, and I can even pay him a little extra, o-or you, or—"

"Katsuki," you give him a sad smile, squeezing his hands tight. There's hope, too much hope in his eyes and it's fucking blinding. "Running away? I—this is—we have an obligation, we can't jus—"

"It'll be fine," he insists, stepping forwards and squeezing you back twice as hard. You sigh."I—the two kingdoms can merge or whatever the fuck they wanna do and then we'll be—"

"Katsuki."

"I—fuck Princess, I don't beg but goddammit, I'll do whatever you fuckin' want, get on my knees, I ca—"

"You really want to know what I want?"

Katsuki freezes. It's the first time you've ever seen some semblance of emotion in him that isn't anger or lust, with carmine red irises swimming in unshed tears—and fuck, you hate the sight. You want to shoot yourself in the fucking foot for what you’re about to do, but it’s for the best. It always is.

"Love her."

Katsuki looks at you, and his face drops, chest shuddering.

"I can't."

You drop his hands in favor of holding his face, thumbing at the hot tears running as they fall. God, Katsuki’s pretty—too pretty for his own good and he doesn’t even know it. His unsteady hands find themselves massaging your ribs and your foreheads knock together. "You need to try. Love her as much as you love me, yeah?"

"'S fuckin' impossible," Katsuki says with a wet snort, shaking his head with eyebrows raised. You giggle, throat impossibly tight.

"Almost, then? For me."

Katsuki’s red eyes stare at you through the darkness. You have half a mind to look the other way, but you figure you owe him this if nothing else, and as he lovingly absorbs your being under the moonlight for the last time, you really wish you could take your words back.

"I'll...fuck. Fine. I'll try." Katsuki resigns with a shrug, shaking his head. You two sniffle in unison and you suppress the strange urge to pinch him. "'M not gonna try to get over you, though. Sorry, not sorry."

You roll your eyes at that but it's all good-natured, followed by a choke you struggle to hide as his arms coil around your waist, "Then I won't either."

A genuine grin spreads across his face, and it’s borderline giddy—and a stark contrast against the waterworks. "She finally fuckin' admits it."

"Figured it was about time," you give him a wobbly smile before your eyes flicker to his, red blurring from being so close. Selene looks upon both of you with a reminiscent sigh.

"I love you, Katsuki Bakugou."

Katsuki sniffs before he laughs; it's wet, and near bitter, and he pulls you so close your face nearly shoves into his chest. "Fuck. Fuck, you're an asshole, you know that?"

"This is when you say it back," you bargain, squishing his cheeks. Katsuki presses his forehead deeper into yours.

"I love you too, Asshole."

He speaks with a softness you've never heard and it's like a gunshot to the heart, and as his lips inch closer to yours as your hands slide to thumb at his ears. One last kiss wouldn't hurt, would it?

Until there's a whistle and the click of footsteps. You and Katsuki jump a mile apart.

"Oh, [Y/N]! You're still out here in the cold?" Your fiancé asks with a raised eyebrow, but it seems like that's only an afterthought as he turns to Katsuki to say, "Your wife’s found the alcohol."

"Great," the ash-blond groans, understanding the translation—your fiancé is piss drunk in the ballroom.

"I do recommend you take her home. She's making quite a mess of the eclairs. And her face."

Katsuki heads inside without giving you a second glance, and your fiancé gives him a solid pat on the way in before turning to you halfway through the doorway, "Are you coming inside, Darling?"

"In a moment," you say with a smile. Your hand never leaves the railing. "Just getting some fresh air."

"Alrighty, then. I'll be in the bedroom. Waiting~" he winks, and with that, he's spinning on his heel, and you're alone with the moon again.

You watch Katsuki guide his inebriated fiancé into the carriage lovingly, with a smile on his face that isn't quite the one he wears with you but close enough, whispering whatever pleases her at the time with a chaste kiss on the cheek. You feel comfort in knowing that he has someone to love and someone to be loved by. He doesn't look your way—not once.

It's not until they drive away that you realize you still have his suit jacket draped over your shoulders. You don't doubt he did that on purpose, either.

Asshole.

[constant-creative-chaos]

Dancing with mha characters

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

kiri would ask you out of the blue, you two would probably be hanging out in his dorm one night and he’d just ask

like “baby, dance with me? 🥺”

he’d have his arms around you’re waist ofc, and he’d lay your head against his chest so you can hear his heart beat

he isn’t a good dancer but it’s all good, as long as you’re happy then he’s happy to dance with you

he wouldn’t do much other than sway, considering his poor skills

but he’d definetly him along to the songs

speaking of the songs, he’d probably play really cheesy love songs because he’s like that

laughs everytime either he or you messes up, he finds it amusing

ends up goofing off more towards the end

rating: 100/10, in conclusion, i love kirishima

you sat on kirishima’s bed, stretched out comfortably. your back against his headboard and his head in your lap, your fingers scratching gently against his scalp. he hummed along to the music playing, some song made a few years ago.

the song changed and he looked up at you, excitement flickering in his eyes, “baby, wanna dance with me?”

you stopped scratching his scalp for a moment, thinking about it. you smiled and nodded.

“yeah, i do, kiri,”

you’d have to ask him, like a lot

be persistent!!

it’s not that he doesn’t want to dance with you

it’s just that he has no fucking clue how to dance and doesn’t want to embarrass himself

he’s just s u c h a great dancer and doesn’t want to make you feel bad about your skills

no but he’s struggling,, he has no idea what he’s doing

“katsuki, just put your hands on-” “tch, i know what i’m doing dumbass”

he figures it out eventually, he had one had on your hip and the other holding yours

he buried his head in your neck so you don’t see his blush

he’s practically silent, only speaking to make a remark when you trip

he actually finds it really endearing

rating: katsuki, marry me

“katsuki, you gotta take a break. it isn’t good for you to keep at it like this,” you said rubbing his shoulder.

“yeah and what else would i do?” he grumbled, pushing his hand further down the pencil.

bakugou had been working non-stop on homework since he’d returned to the dorms that day. he had yet to take a break and he needed it, and you were about to force him into relaxing for a bit if he spent another second writing.

a small sigh left him before reaching up and grabbing your hand on his shoulder. He rubbed small shapes with his thumb and apologized.

“if you dance with me then we’ll be even,”

“alright shitty-(feature),” he paused before looking up at you through his eyelashes, “you and dancing.”

boy oh boy, sero and you dance so often

he loves dancing with you and DAMN is he good at it

he’ll dance with you at any point in time, for any reason

he spins you a lot, he’ll even lift you a little if he’s feeling it

it’s super playful

he dips you all the time

baby has the moves and loves teaching you

he’ll dance to any song, especially if you’re with him

he’s always laughing either you or talking to you while you dance together

rating: 10000/10, dancing king, only seventeen 🎶

“Mi sol, when did you get so good at this?”

sero spun you wildly in the spot, twirling you under his hand. you laughed and tumbled into his chest, still seeing the room spin around you. sero pulled back slightly to see you and your unfocused eyes.

“beginners bad luck finally wore off, i guess!”

he smiled down at you, waiting for you to lose the dizzy feeling of turning like that. he enjoyed your smile while you watched the room. but the second you’re eyes focused again he was moving around the room with you again.

“you’d best not drop me, hanta-”

he’d take you out dancing

endeavour payed for dance lessons when he was a kid - he couldn’t have his prodigy dancing like an idiot

this is an endeavour hate page

he took formal dancing lessons and would 100% take a while to loosen up with you

but he holds you very delicately, with one hand on the small of you’re back and the other holding yours

as he loosens up and relaxes he holds you closer to him

and i mean this is shouto todoroki we’re talking about, he’s quiet the whole time

he just watches you with a small smile on his face, cute as fuck-

would teach you to ballroom dance at some point, if you didn’t know

rating: 15/10, he’s a rich boy, he knows his moves

“sho, this is wonderful,” you grinned at him, “really, i appreciate this.”

he returned the smile, taking your hand in his and pulling you forward on to the dance floor. you straightened your clothes out and took his lead. the two of you began moving around the room together, following the rhythme of the song playing.

“you know how to dance formally?” he asked, watching you move with grace.

“i have no clue what i’m doing, i’m just following you,”

you’d ask and he’d: “y-you want to- i mean i’m not a good dancer- are you sure?? why??”

he’s so nervous, just give him some reassurance and he’ll be fine

he is always making sure he isn’t making you uncomfortable

he’d let you pick the music or chose from your playlist

he’d hold you by the hips after asking a few times if that was okay

he isn’t the best but he picks it up pretty quickly

he probably asked iida for dance lessons after this

n e ways, he’d probably be red the whole time

rating: 12/10, his nervousness is actually really endearing

he put his hands on your hips and pulled you toward him, glancing up to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable. you wrapped your arms around his neck loosely, moving closer to him. you started swaying to the song playing and he followed your lead. the two of you starting to step around.

“are you sure you’re okay with this,” he tapped his fingers against your hip.

you hummed and rested your head on his shoulder, finding dancing with him comforting, “ ‘s okay, izuku. i promise.”

he kissed you on the crown of your head and continued moving to the music. he started relaxing and fully taking in the moment.

tenya iida, my main man,, he also got dance lessons when he was younger

fuckin rich boy

he short circuited when you asked, just give him a moment

he was probably super excited but kept it under control

he almost certainly played some sort of ballroom music (does that make sense??)

mans full on waltzed with you-

but he’d also do a more casual dance if you wanted

he held you small of your back and waist, he’s very careful not to make you uncomfortable

he’d only be goofy if you guys are just fooling around and making jokes while dancing

other than that he’s pretty quiet

rating: 20/10, tenya please wear some goddamn contacts during training

“y/n, i’m so sorry,” iida flushed deeply, stopping his movements.

despite his time practicing dance and his thought out movements, he’s stepped on your foot. he was apologizing profusely while you just stood and laughed lightly, watching his arm chop down.

“i’m sorry, i should have watched my step and- wait are you laughing?”

“iida, it’s okay. you have nothing to worry about.”

he’d probably just randomly start dancing with you

like you could be dancing around while cleaning and he’d just join you

baby can’t dance, he just can’t

but he acts like he can

would twirl you constantly and he’d try to dip you but fail miserably 😭

electric slide lookin ass

probably just starts his playlist and dances to random songs

he’s so goofy omg-

doesnt stop laughing or teasing you

rating: 30/30, sounds like a vibe

“you’ve been hit by, you’ve been struck by, a smooth criminal!”

denki stood on his toes, head tipped downward, and his hand positioned like he was dipping a fedora. at this point he had crashed into the table and knocked a chair over. this man was to never be trusted near anything fragile.

he took your hand and spun you around him, trying to keep you from the chair on the floor. after he spun you he spun himself, this time tripping over the chair and tumbling into the fridge.

“denki are you okay? are you okay, denki?” you sang along with the song playing.

sunshine man, he would 100% dance with you

but you’d have to ask, the thought just wouldn’t come to his mind

and he is worse than denki

but he has so much fun with it that it doesn’t matter

he spins you and lifts you, it’s so fun

he’s so goofy and playful, not a serious moment

he accidentally activated his quirk while dipping you, that hurt

but he loves dancing with you

and he pokes fun at his own dancing, he finds it really amusing

and he hyped you up so much

rating: 1000000/10, overall a perfect experience

a squeal left your mouth as your feet left the ground, mirio’s hands clutching your waist tightly. you grabbed on to his shoulders to keep yourself steady. he put you back on the ground and continued dancing along to the music. he shimmed his shoulders and bopped his head to the beat. or at least tried.

“i know that you can’t help but watch my horrible dancing but you gotta dance with me, can’t be the only bad dancer here!”

you shook your head and took his hands, shimmying along with him. man was mirio was a bad dancer but he made it so much fun

you’d ask him and he would just not get why you’d wanna dance with him

he wouldn’t object to it, it’s just that he’s sure that he’s a bad dancer and that others are so much better and

would hide his face in your neck and hold you really tightly to him

and he’s so nervous

if he stepped on you he’d let go of you and just stand in a corner for hours

but honestly, he’s actually a really good dancer

if you guys dance more he’ll start goofing off and doing stuff like spinning you

probably doesn’t put on music and if he did it would be off of his chill playlist

rating: 80/10, might be my ideal situation

you and amajiki had barely moved from where you guys started, not that it mattered. you two had been swaying more than dancing, but it was peaceful and relaxing. that’s what mattered. he had he’s arms wrapped tightly around your torso and his head was hidden in your neck. you felt his smile and uneven breathes brushing against your skin.

some old slow song played from your phone, one he chose. both of you were happy with the closeness and intimacy of the moment, but tamaki was happy he just hadn’t stepped on you. god that would have killed him. but he had yet to, and he was thankful.

“thank you, tama,” you smiled gently, “this is nice.”

[dulcetash]

9-1-1 Newbie Binge: Thoughts and THOTs

Preamble Ramble: Why is it so hard to jump on mutuals' fan-wagons even as I'm pining for them to jump on mine? I know I'm not the only one who experiences this phenomenon. What is this Imp of the Perverse, and why is he such a recalcitrant little shit? I DON'T KNOW. HE THINKS HE'S FUNNY, BUT HE'S A COCKBLOCKER.

Anyway! After 2 years of skimming gifs and keyboard smashes about Station 118, I found myself some time this weekend to dive in. I had some vague expectations of pretty firefighters who eye-fuck each other, Angela Bassett being Queen of Everything (naturally), Casey from Sports Night having time-warped into a dorky DILF, and apparently JLoHew is being allowed to age like a normal human woman? How goddamn refreshing. Okay, let's check it out.

I'm 8 episodes in so far, and holy shit:

Stream of consciousness impressions so far:

Oh, this is Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuck, I had no idea! I have watched so much American Horror Story. Oh, that's the Angela Bassett connection, and - sonofabitch - there's Connie Britton, OF COURSE. And then Frances Conroy is an AHS regular, and she starred in Six Feet Under with Peter Krause, OOOooo-kay, I see the shape this is taking.

Reader, I did not see the shape this was taking. Murphy and Falchuck were also the show runners for Pose, which while fabulous and fun, also displayed heartfelt dignity and thoughtful sensitivity to various social issues, with a gritty touch of realism amongst the madcap adventures and pageantry. I figured this might be the same.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" "I hear crying in the walls."

Normal Show: Oh dear, a kitten got trapped in a vent somewhere.

9-1-1: Clearly, someone flushed a premature baby down the toilet.

NO, REALLY. I thought this was a batshit theory for questionable comedic effect that would be scoffed at as the kitten was dug out of the insulation. They tried to tell me with a straight face that the bones would be soft enough to slither through the u-bend, the baby would have survived the flush, and it would have enough lung capacity for a stoner to hear it though iron pipe and purple haze. And nobody in the entire apartment building has tried to flush in the last hour. I was not buying this for a second.

And MORE FOOL ME, because next thing I know, they're crouched around a length of pipe that's crowning like a steampunk industrial vagina from the land of nightmares, breathlessly delivering something straight out of the American Horror Story prop department's S4 leftovers, using the lube from the defibrillator kit (why that last detail sent me so hard I could not say, but my gawd). And "she" LIVED. Of course. Yep, uh-huh. And then absolutely no follow-up on what would happen to the traumatized teen mother and the... dad who raped her? I'm inferring? NOPE, this ain't Criminal Minds, this ain't Law & Order, all plot threads are snipped at the sliding doors to the ER.

(Oh yeah, JLoHew was also in Criminal Minds for awhile, hey girl hey!)

Okay, it's gonna be THAT kind of show. All righty then. I'm oriented. I'm prepared now.

(I was not prepared.)

I thought I was. I was taking nothing seriously. I went with it when Buck chopped the head off a 12 foot python, then comforted its owner with his own trouser snake. I lol'd when his therapist tripped and landed on his dick. I was still cackling over the bouncy house full of rich brats flying off over a cliff in the high Santa Anna winds, when suddenly, this happened RIGHT ON MY TV SCREEN:

THIS. HAPPENED. And the funniest part is, this is the ONLY thing that the character didn't whine about for the entire episode. Is his name... Chimney? Really? Like, that was his name before his skull was vented? LOLLLLLL More AHS props were dug out for the close-up brain surgery, the squelchy sound effects when they pulled the rebar out were DELIGHTFUL, truly, even better than when the fetus was schlorped out of the toilet pipe, well done FX crew, A+++ all around. In a lovely bit of hand-waving, Chimney (*snerrrk*) suffered no pain, no evident psychological trauma, the rebar seems to have reamed out his self-pity, and in a few episodes he returns from his hospital vacay into the welcoming arms of his co-workers, and - just in case we forgot why he'd been gone - there was cake.

KEEP IT CLASSY, Y'ALL

Oh god, what else. The insane plane crash rescue sequences were *chef's kiss*. Athena getting her Fast & Furious on to deliver a kidney transplant was super fun, all Queen Athena assumptions are being fulfilled as expected. The attempted date between Abby and Buck was OHMYGODREALLY lolforever with the tracheostomy, A+ reversal of expectations as to who would be penetrating whom, bitch, you thought. And again, he pops up next episode without even a scar on his throat, and you know what, after cleaning my mother's tracheostomy twice a day for 7 months in 2008? I'LL ALLOW IT. ESCAPIST FANTASY FOR ALL, NO CONSEQUENCES, GIVE IT TO ME, AMEN. Who was the hottie in the wheelchair who talked Abby through it on speakerphone, though? I hope we get more of her.

During the toilet-pipe birth scene in the first episode (no, I'm still not over it), it occurred to me that maybe they wanted to do an Oh My God the Baby's Coming trope, but they didn't want to have to bother with actual vaginas with women attached to them? Episode 1.7 says, louder for those in the back: BITCH, YOU THOUGHT, LULZ. But the best, the absolute crowning achievement of everything I've seen so far (pun definitely intended) was THIS:

YES. MINE EYES DIDST NOT DECEIVE ME. That is Evan Himbeau Buckley cheerfully pulling a 3-foot tapeworm out of a groaning twink's ass. Y'all. I filter MPreg out of my fic searches for a reason.

NO, BUCK, DON'T LICK IT. Although props to how delighted you were to get in there and root around, this bodes well for later. I love that he took an axe to a giant constrictor but is treating this Horror from the Deep with tender loving care.

I'm sorry, y'all, if I had to see it, you have to see it.

*whew* Okay, that's enough for now. I'm all in, though. I'm ready to find out how in the Goddess Athena's name Hen is going to make her fuckery up to Karen (whom I also recognize from a brief stint on Criminal Minds, hey girl, what's up). I think I'm only 2 eps away from the first season finale. I'm braced ready.

(probably not)

[confused-as-all-hell]

oh i know.

cym as things that happened in rwrb

i love you, yknow that?

you as the scene where the six go out until three in the morning, and there's spraying champagne and smudged glitter and henry on his knees on the makeshift stage and alex losing his goddamn mind and bea with the rose between her teeth and pez helping june on top of the table that they both instantly fall off laughing and nora sprawled over everyone and drunk in the backseat of a car and they're all so very intoxicated and it's just intoxicating // because you're it, okay? i'm never gonna love anyone in the world like i love you. so i promise you one day we'll be able to to just be and fuck everyone else // that's the choice. i love him with all that, because of all that, on purpose.

@saltyfortunes as the scene where henry and alex are by the lake in the house making breakfast, early, before anyone else is even up, and they're trying to make pancakes and laughing and stumbling over their own feet, and it's just so inconsolably happy and flushed with summer and safe. it's somewhere you want to stay forever // henry kisses his mouth over again over again and says quietly, "you are good"

@investmentofmyheart as the scene where it's raining and alex storms into henry's apartments and yells for him to let him in, and it's slick and raining outside because it always is in london, screams, your royal fucking highness at henry's door and refuses to leave until he shows up. and when henry finally lets him in, he and alex are both shouting at each other in the palace where henry says a hundred heirs of history would hate what they've done, and just alex says, i fucking love you, okay? as if it's the only thing he was ever sure of, and if loving henry's the only thing history will ever remember him for, he'll be happy, even if history hates them, as long as they knew that alex existed and he loved henry, and i have strong feelings about this, forgive me // i want to fight everyone who’s ever hurt you, but it was me too, wasn’t it? all that time. i’m so sorry // "what do you want?" "i want you--" "then fucking have me"

@twelve-kinds-of-trouble as the scene where the president finds out her son is bisexual, and comes up with a powerpoint that basically says, i support you, i love you, i'm so happy you're with someone but how about anyone but the prince of england? or as the scene where alex admits he loves henry, and ellen goes, do you feel forever about him? and alex, so slowly, nods because of course this is the boy he loves, but will the world be okay with it? can he trust the world with his heart? and the world says, yes, yes, yes. // it’s a mural of himself and henry, facing each other, haloed by a bright yellow sun, depicted as han and leia. henry in all white, starlight in his hair. alex dressed as a scruffy smuggler, a blaster at his hip. a royal and a rebel, arms around each other. he snaps a photo on his phone, and fingers shaking, types out a tweet: never tell me the odds.

@the-sky-is-full-of-stars as the scene where henry and alex are arguing, bickering over some stupid slight or another, and it escalates and one's lip is bleeding and an ankle trips a leg and they both tip into the Crown Prince's wedding cake and accidently start a war over the pettiest fight ever // someone else's choice doesn't change who you are

@wafflesandschemingfaces as the implied scenes where alex and nora, iconic best friends, get drunk in hotel rooms together, watch a fuckton of movies in secret, and pretend at having sex so the papers think they're having an affair, just so alex can win the bet he schemingly made with june // i was young and full of hope, and you let me embody the american dream: that a boy who grew up speaking two languages, whose family was blended and beautiful and enduring, could make a home for himself in the White House. you pinned the flag to my lapel and said, “we’re rooting for you.”

@thebonecarver as the love letters alex and henry wrote to each other -- letters of love so inherently indomitable. letters written about the curve of a spine and the nomenclature of saints and the swell of hips and the forbidden romance of a laugh and confusion and youth and a stumbling first love. you love a little like that. fiercely. you love your friends like it's the only thing you ever want to be remembered for // have i told you lately that you're brave?

[yikesharringrove]

Billy closed the front door behind him, the pine wreath jiggling as the door swung shut.

He took of his boots, leaving them next to Steve’s wet snow boots, smiling down and rolling his eyes fondly at the fancy fur-lined things.

He could hear Steve in the kitchen, no doubt on the phone. .

“Yeah, no, it’s okay. No, I don’t mind. Yeah. Mom, seriously, it’s alright. Just, uh, enjoy the trip. I’ll-yes. Yeah. I’m good! Yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah. Yep. Alright, love you too. Yep. Bye now. Of course. Yeah. Okay. Talk soon.”

He was leaned against the wall next to the mounted phone, his back to the entry way.

He was twisting the chord around his wrist.

Billy liked to imagine Steve doing that whenever they spoke on the phone. Liked to imagine him twirling the chord around and blushing and getting all gooey.

Mostly because Steve was always so damn rigid when he spoke with his parents. So anxious and stiff.

He shook his hand free, placing the phone back on the hook and sighing deeply.

And then he sniffed.

Billy wrapped his arms around him from behind, and Steve didn’t waste a moment before leaning back against him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“What was your mom talking about?”

“It’s nothing.” Steve took a deep breath, turning in his arms to wrap his own arms around Billy’s shoulders, giving him his best attempt at a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey back.”

Steve leaned forward, ready to press his lips to Billy’s, only to have Billy lean back, avoiding him completely. He pouted at Billy.

“Tell me what’s up. Then you get a kiss.”

Steve’s pout just went deeper. Billy liked to pretend he was immune to those goddamn doe eyes. He absolutely was not.

“It’s nothing. Really.”

“Nah, your parents are being shitty again, and I wanna know about it so I can make you feel better.”

And Steve melted, just a little bit at that.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

Billy gasped dramatically.

“I would never.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

“It’s just, my mom and I have this tradition. Around Christmastime. We, you know. We go to the city, and do dinner, just the two of us. And we. God, it sounds so lame.” Billy pinched his side. Steve pulled his hair in retaliation. “And, wegototheballet.” Steve let his head flop onto Billy’s shoulder.

“Stevie, you got mush mouth there at the end.”

“We go to the freakin’ ballet, okay? We go to the ballet!” And Steve was pulling away, his face beet red, his arms wrapped around himself. “We do it every year, and have since I could sit through the fucking thing, and she’s not coming this year. And she said why don’t you take your girlfriend, Nancy? And I don’t know how many times I’ve told her that Nancy and I broke up, but she still just-” he cut himself off shaking his head. “It’s like, I know it’s fucking lame, but it’s my favorite part of Christmas. I look forward to it all damn year and we’re not going.”

And the thing on the tip of Billy’s tongue was Jesus, the fucking ballet, Harrington? Could you be anymore of a princess?

But this is, like, effecting Steve. This is actually taking a fucking toll on him.

And, well, Billy said he’d try to make him feel better.

“So, when is it?”

“When’s what?”

“The fucking ballet.”

And Steve stared at him.

“Never, apparently. Because she’s having too much fun in Saint-Tropez, and anyway aren’t you getting a little old for it, Steven?” He put on a breathy voice when he imitated his mother, sticking his nose in the air.

“I mean when is it running, numb nuts.”

“All this month. It’s like, Christmas themed. They do it every year.”

“Then you’re in charge of getting tickets.”

And Steve was giving him a look, his eyes narrowed.

“Are you, suggesting, that you, Billy ‘I’m rough and tough and dangerous’ Hargrove, are going to take me to the ballet?”

“I’m not suggesting it, shithead. I’m telling you to get fucking tickets, and let me know the date so I can get a nice fucking shirt.”

“You’re serious? You’re going to drive with me to the city, and sit there for nearly three hours, and watch the ballet with me.”

“Jesus fuck-three hours? God, the shit I do for you.” He scrubbed a hand down his face as Steve, Steve’s face split into a wide smile, the one that makes his nose scrunch up, and he began hopping from foot to foot, bobbing his head.

“Okay. Okay! I’m gonna, I think I can buy them over the phone. I’ll, I’m gonna do it before you have a chance to back out.” He took a step closer to Billy, grabbing his face in one hand, making his cheeks pout, planting a kiss to his lips before zooming off to dig the phone book out of the hall closet.

He was humming away to himself, probably the music from the fucking ballet Billy had resigned himself to seeing, while he pawed through the heavy book, searching for the number of the theater in Indianapolis.

Billy rolled his eyes at Steve’s little outbursts of excitement, tossing himself into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

“You fucking owe me. Just, like, by the way. I’m talking blowjobs every day. I’m talking cigarettes. I’m talking homemade dinners.”

“Oh, you mean the shit that I already do because I l-love you, or whatever.” Steve’s face went bright red, and he turned away from Billy, standing in a stunned silence, jamming the phone up to his ear. “Yeah, hi, I’d like to purchase some tickets please.” His voice sounded strained, and he reached up to tug on a lock of hair near the crown of his head.

Billy was stuck fucking dumb.

He’s never, fucking never had someone tell him that they love him. He thinks maybe his mom did back in the day, but it’s been a long fucking time since he’s felt the slow spread of warmth down his spine that comes with hearing it.

Steve loves him.

Steve was rambling away on the phone, tugging on the phone cord, and tapping his foot maniacally.

Billy doesn’t think he could move.

And eventually he hear the person on the other end of the line hang up. He registered Steve placing the phone quietly on the hook once again. 

He stayed with his back towards Billy.

“Steve.”

He took a deep breath, turning around to face Billy with a big fake smile.

“I got tickets! We’re going on Saturday. So, uh, yeah. If you need to borrow some clothes, it’s, it’s pretty fancy. So, like, uh, yes.” Steve was babbling, his eyes darting between Billy’s left ear and the wall behind him.

“Steve.”

“I got mezzanine seats. That’s where I like to sit, uh, you can see the stage better that way, and they’re usually cheaper. I mean, not that that’s, like, the thing, but, it’s a bonus.”

“Steve.”

Steve rolled his lips into his mouth, his leg shaking.

“Can we, like, not talk about it?”

“I feel like we should, though.”

“I don’t, wanna.”

Billy fought the urge to roll his eyes. He should be, like, sweet for this conversation. Or something. Adjacent to it.

“At least, did you mean it? What you said?”

Steve bit his bottom lip.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I mean. I liked, liked hearing it. And, uh, me too. You know. Uno reverse.” Billy gestured like he was putting a card down between them. Steve gave him a blank stare.

“Did you just, Uno reverse my confession of love? Is that seriously what just happened?”

“Well, like-” the thing is, it’s a big fucking word. And he doesn’t think he can actually, like, say it to Steve. But, he feels it. He definitely feels it. Like, fuck, he’s going to the goddamn ballet for this fucker. Obviously, there’s some big fucking feelings there. “What you feel. Is also. What I feel.”

“Oh. Good, then. Yeah. Good.” Steve looked around the room. “Should we, like, shake on it?”

“Shake on it? Steve, fucking Hell. Just come here.” He reached out, looping his fingers through Steve’s belt loops, tugging him into his arms. And Steve stumbled forward, crashing with very little grace into Billy.

He sighed as Billy kissed him, a sloppy, desperate kiss. A kiss that Billy tried to shove every word he couldn’t say into Steve’s brain the same way he shoved his tongue into Steve’s mouth. 

And when they broke apart, Steve began humming, grinning wildly.

And Billy figured the song was from the fucking ballet he had agreed to see with Steve. Which he can’t stress enough, the fact that he is going to see a goddamn, motherfucking ballet just to make his favorite person happy, that’s as close as Billy can possibly come to a declaration of devotion at this point in his life.

But Steve pulled out a brightly decorated record from his family’s collection, explaining that the ballet had many different iterations, but all choreographed to the same compilation of music, and apparently, this was enough for him.

To have Billy hold him while he talked for hours about the story of the ballet, the history of it, the music the costumes he likes, everything, maybe it was okay that Billy couldn’t say the words. Maybe it was okay that he was there, that he did the things Steve liked just to see him smile.

Billy’s never been enough for anyone.

But then again, neither has Steve.

(And when they finally see the show, it’s the most beautiful thing Billy’s ever seen in his life. They go once more before the run is closed and establish a new tradition together.)

[roger-that-cap]

all the flowers will bloom

summary: you would have never tried to leave your mother if you knew that bringing that pomegranate tree back to life was your ticket to the underworld. or, maybe you would have, because it turned out that hades was quite the opposite of the evil goddess that you had been drilled to know.

warnings: nothing much!! some fluff, some bonding, near death experience, dog petting

word count: 3.2k

this is part three!

It was late at night, and the only way you knew was because it was utterly silent. The dead didn’t sleep, but the night was their quiet time. It was their time to reflect and be alone, and it was almost sacred to them. You knew that no one would be around to watch you in the garden, whether you failed or succeeded. 

You woke up one morning starving. Your stomach was rumbling in a way it never had before, and you groaned at the feeling. Had you really not eaten anything the whole time? 

You rolled out of your bed and opened the door to your room, walking blindly down the hall and trying to find something, anything. The urge to eat was strong, and it was calling you. You vaguely remembered Natasha telling you about a kitchen, and how the humans who used to cook in their past lives took residency there and cooked for everyone who wanted to eat, even though feeding wasn’t necessary to the dead.  

You weren’t dead just yet. 

Your feet were taking you somewhere, past souls who couldn’t care less about your presence and then past others who stared at you like you were from a famous myth. Either way, none of them spoke to you, and you didn’t speak to either of them. You were just hungry. 

“Are you looking to eat something, darling?” A voice crooned, head peeking out of some double doors. 

  “Yes.” You cleared your throat. “I know it’s early, but, are these the kitchens?” 

 “They are,” the woman said, and you noticed how her form was slightly more wispy than all of the others you had seen. “We haven’t started yet, but we have some things left over from yesterday, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please.” 

“Come in, child.” And so you did. Your steps took you further while something in the back of your mind was urging you to go the other way. Your stomach called for the exact opposite, and it won. Your steps got faster despite the bells going off in your head, and then you were standing over a table of pastries. 

  “Wow, these look beautiful,” you murmured, eyes catching on multiple different dishes. The bells got louder, but you ignored them as you finally reached for the one on the far right. You smiled at the woman, who was watching you with hawk eyes, poorly hidden anticipation on her face as she waited for you to eat. “Thank you for allowing me to have one, miss.” 

  “Wait, don’t let her eat that, she’s not dead!” 

The pastry was slapped from your hand just as it was about to go into your open mouth. You gasped as you were turned by your shoulders to meet an unfamiliar face, yet another woman. She was more solid than the other one behind you, who you discovered had faded away at the sight of the new arrival. 

 The woman had brown hair and light green eyes, bordering on blue. She was breathing heavily, like she ran miles just to get to her spot. Her eyes were wild and worried all the same as she shook you twice. “Why the hell were you about to eat that?” 

“What?” 

“You’re alive, what are you doing?” You matched her worry, hands shaking and eyes wide as you stared at her in silence. “Do you not want to go home?” 

A strong presence seeped into the room slowly at first, and then it was suffocating everything and everyone else. And just like that, the woman who saved you stepped back from and faced the doors, doing the same as everyone else and kneeling with her head bowed. You looked towards the door and saw Natasha walking in, her aura dark as she commanded the room without any effort.

“What’s going on here?” 

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then the woman closest to you was speaking, head still hung low in respect. “A nymph tried to feed her, Your Majesty.” 

You watched Natasha stiffen, and then her eyes turned to you. She stalked forward quickly, steps so intimidating that you almost retreated. “Open your mouth.” 

  Your fear melted into confusion. “What?” 

Natasha’s eyes were ablaze as she gripped your chin, her initial hold harsh and even edging towards desperate, but in the quickest of seconds she loosened her hold on your slacked jaw. “Did she eat any?” 

“I got to her before she could put it in her mouth, Your Grace.” Natasha’s eyes lingered on you, blank and observing everything about your face at the moment before taking a step back, but if anything, the intensity only doubled. 

  “You are never to eat a thing here, do you understand?” Her voice was hard, harder than you had ever heard it. When you failed to answer, she narrowed her eyes even further at you. “What you did could have killed you, Persephone. Don’t eat down here, ever.” 

You opened your mouth and almost shut it because of the smoldering look she was giving you. Yiu grappled for words for a second, slightly embarrassed that all you could get out was a pitiful, whiney statement. “B-but, I was hungry.” 

Her expression of seriousness cracked just a little. “I forgot that you would be. I apologize.” There was a gasp from over in the kitchens, and you retreated into yourself after knowing that everyone else was listening. They were gasping because she apologized. “But if you ever get hungry, come to me, and I’ll fix it. Never eat anything here.” 

You were still shaken by how angry she seemed, and by the way the skin on your hand still slightly stung with the force of the woman’s slap. But you were still curious. “Why?” 

“If you eat something here, you’re consenting to be a full time resident.” You sucked in a breath. “If you were dead, it wouldn’t matter. But you need to go see that horrible mother of yours, and eating won’t let you do that.” 

  Your heart was racing. You could have been trapped there, in the Underworld. For longer than you were even supposed to be. You looked down at the woman and how quick she was to recognize what was wrong with you eating, and then you realized that it was a known fact. That meant only one thing. 

 “That lady was trying to set me up!” You gasped informally, and Natasha gritted her teeth.

  “And she will be dealt with.” She turned to look at the woman who saved you. “Thank you, Maria. You will be rewarded for your behavior.” 

  “It was my pleasure, Your Grace.” She stood up and bowed again before walking away. 

Everyone else cleared out while you and Natasha looked at each other, eyes seemingly gravitating towards each other’s. “When you’re hungry, come to me.” She repeated, and you frowned. 

  “How can you fix it if I can’t eat?”

“The same way I fix the feeling of death every morning,” Natasha sighed. “It’s mostly all in your head. The hunger, the darkness, they’re side effects of being here. I just take it out for you.” 

You took a slight second to marvel at the idea of her being able to do something like that. “So you can make me feel full?” 

There was something that flashed behind her eyes, passing too quickly for you to identify. Her gorgeous mouth attracted your attention as her lips pulled up slightly, just enough for you to notice. “If I tried hard enough, I could make you feel nearly anything.” 

Why did her words feel like she meant something entirely different than what it was supposed to? 

§§

The earth was dry. Not a thing was growing, and everything that managed to slip by and grow died within days. Demeter was on a rampage, angry beyond belief. Nothing good ever happened when a god was angry. 

“The humans are suffering,” Steve pointed out to her, aware that he needed to say his piece gently, or risk Demeter losing her temper again at the expense of mankind. 

“I don’t care,” the goddess hissed, even though it wasn’t necessarily true. “I will let them all starve if my daughter isn’t found and brought back to me.”

“What do you want me to do, Demeter?” He asked, shifting on his throne and giving her a mildly annoyed look. “I don’t have her, and I don’t know anyone who is stupid enough to take her.” 

“I want you to call Hecate.” She ground out, and Steve gave her a disappointed look. “She looks up to you. You’re the only one who can bring her out of hiding, and she’s the only one with the magic that can track down my Persephone.”

He looked down on her from his throne, and she picked her chin up as he gave her an even more disapproving look. “It’s not right to pull Wanda back into this, and you know it.”

“It’s been ages since the fight against the Titans. They’re all dead or locked away, now. She’s fine.” If it was anyone else at stake, anyone other than her Persephone, maybe Demeter would have agreed with Steve. Wanda was traumatized after the wars with the Titans, and everyone knew that after what she had done, she deserved to live however she wanted in peace. But she could rest after Persephone was found. “Call her.”

“I can’t just-”

“You are the king of us all, there’s not a goddamn thing that you can’t do! You’re going to call Hecate here right now, or I will let every single human down there rot and wither away, do you understand me? Not a soul will be alive to offer you anything, and then they’ll all take a trip to see that bitch of the Underworld.”

Steve watched her with an unamused glare, equally annoyed with her as he was wary. “Demeter, calm down.” 

She looked like she was getting fired up all over again, but she scoffed and shook her head, taking a second to find the right words through her fury. “Fine. For now, I’ll be calm. But you have to swear to me that whoever has taken Persephone, I get to destroy them. Without question.” 

Steve’s words came quick, but he meant them. “I promise.” 

“Good.” She straightened out the crown of flowers that had tilted on her head, and then crossed her arms. “Call Hecate.”

                                          ****

The days passed by the same. Every morning, you would wake up and feel like you were inches from death, and then Hades— Natasha—would come in and put her strangely warm hands on your throat and chest, and then you could breathe again. You would be escorted by her to the second level, where you would exert yourself so much that your knees trembled only to get no results. She would put her hand right on your stomach and make the hunger in your stomach reduce to nothing, and sometimes she would even eradicate the pain in your knees from kneeling through the day. And then, hours later, you would trudge back to your room and cry. It was the same old song every day. 

You missed your mother. You missed the way that the outside world could bring you freedom, even though you were trapped by your mother’s hold. You missed the nymphs, and even their worrying. You missed dipping your toes into the ponds and swimming and singing without a care in the world. Now, you were fighting for the nearly impossible to happen, working your hardest to see your own world again. 

  “You’re going to die before you fix it if you keep going like this.” 

  You had mixed feelings about Natasha. The rational part of your brain knew that she didn’t want you there either, and that she would rather not have you in her space and presence. You had touched something that didn’t belong to you, and now you were paying for it. But the part of your mind that made you want to scream and cry was angry and almost constantly blaming her. 

The rational part of your mind won. “I don’t know how else to do it.” 

“What do you do when you’re above ground?” She asked, taking a few steps closer to the place where you were kneeling down, knees in the dirt and dress pulled up so that it wouldn’t have two big brown spots on it. “Because I know this isn’t it.” 

    She was right. You were pushing yourself, and your mind wasn’t in the same spot as it would have been if you were in your natural habitat. Usually, you could just look at a spot in the ground and it would grow. In particularly harsh lands, you would touch the soul, but it never got harder than that. This felt nearly impossible. 

  “How would you know?” 

“I know all about you creator gods and your gifts,” she said, her tone almost bored. “It comes easy to you. Creating life is your safe space, isn’t it?” You didn’t need to answer. “There’s no way that something that you were born for makes you react like you’re reacting now.” 

  “Well, you want me to grow an entire garden in a world where nothing lives,” you said, running a hand over your face as you tried your hardest not to cry. “And whether or not I see everyone again is based on that. So forgive me if I’m not being efficient.” She was silent after that, so you turned and out your hands in the dirt again, breathing in and out. 

 “Have you heard of that one idea by that one human?” You had almost forgotten that she was still there, speaking too vaguely for you to even try to understand. “You can’t produce anything good if you don’t feel good. I think the same may apply for the gods.” 

  Your fingers dig deeper into the dirt as you cast a look at her over your shoulder, a small and sarcastic smile on your face. “There are many ways this conversation could go, would you mind elaborating?” 

There were a few heart beats worth of silence. “Would you like to see Cerberus now, Persephone?”

“It’s Y/N,” you corrected immediately even though your heart jumped, and you had to work to keep your frown going. “What makes you think that seeing your dog would make me happy?” 

  “I never said happy,” the older goddess corrected, and then she sighed. “But it could be a start.” 

  “You can’t be serious,” you said, taking your hand from the dirt and turning around to stand, giving Natasha an incredulous look, even though you meant it to be more curious. “Why do you care?” 

 “I told you, I don’t want you here for any longer than necessary. I don’t need the Mother of Corn Stalks attempting to wage war on me.” She turned around and took a step forward, and you knew that she was walking to the elevator and expected you to follow. 

  You did. 

You watched the doors open and watched her form as she let herself in first, and then looked at you expectantly. “And, besides, I hate to watch flowers wilt. That’s the whole reason you’re even here, you know.” 

She hated to watch flowers die? That seemed uncharacteristic of the woman that your mother had warned you about, but you were quickly learning that most of the things your mother had told you about her just weren’t true. No person who liked death and destruction didn’t like to watch death and destruction. Your mother was wrong about her, and you thought about that the entire way to the elevator. 

You waited in the elevator, not sparing a look at the Queen of the Dead for fear that she would already be looking at you. You didn’t want to admit it, but she intimidated you. 

You were on the opposite sides of your own large spectrum. She was in charge of everything dead, the very part of life that you worked tirelessly against. If it wasn’t the air of death and decay that surrounded her, it was the look in her eyes. Half haunted, half… alive. Hades hid so much with her eyes that it was impossible for you to ignore and dig into, just like you used to dig in dirt. And you discovered that the woman truly felt as much as anyone above, maybe even as much as the humans. And that terrified you. It terrified you that the woman that your mother demonized actually had emotions in her heart, had a weakness and a strength. 

Hades became so much more than a story far too quickly for you to grasp. 

  “Cerberus,” she started, and her commanding voice nearly made you jump out of your own godly skin. She continued with barely any pause. “He’s a good dog. He’s just… he will be very overwhelming to see at first.” 

You assumed so. He was the creature that guarded the entrance of the Underworld, which meant that he must have been more horrifying than anything that walked the greens of the earths. You knew he was as dark as midnight and that he had three heads simply from the stories that everyone was told when they were young enough to listen. 

  Natasha strutted out of the elevator, red hair swaying in the wind with her sure steps. You were steps behind, still wincing at the feeling of unfamiliar stone on your bare feet instead of tickling grass. She took you to an iron door, one that looked heavy and sounded even more heavy when she pulled it open after having a handful of keys appear in her hands. She unlocked the door with two of them, and then other locks that you hadn’t even seen turned. 

  “Why did I agree to this, again?” You breathed out as she led you in without a word, and then you were nearly screaming. 

  The creature was huge. He was so tall that he straight up took your breath out of your chest, and your hands shook. He had three heads, indeed, all three with dark red eyes that stirred like storms. Though there were three heads and they were all three scary, you couldn’t take your eyes off of the middle head. He had bared his teeth automatically at the sight of visitors, and he showed off his killer incisors to make it painfully obvious that he was the most vicious of the three. You tried not to take a step back or startle either of them in the silent room. 

  “Stand down,” Natasha commanded, and just like that, all three of the heads were subdued, and the conjoined body laid down on the floor, the middle head resting on the front paws. “You’re going to let my visitor see you.” 

You nodded warily,your wide eyes fixated on the huge thing and your hands shook. “Oh, I’ve seen him, I’ll be alright from here.” 

And you were. For a few weighted moments, you just stared at the thing but looked so out of the ordinary egg that for a moment, you doubted that something like him could be a thing. You watched the thing for minutes, analyzing movements and mannerisms. 

  “Is he alive?” 

The question came from nowhere, and surprisingly, from behind you. You jumped and turned your head to see Natasha leaning on the wall of the very generous cage. Her slender arms were crossed as her eyes were questioning as she waited for your answer, like she had all the time in the world and no intention of repeating herself. 

   “Cerberus?” You squeaked out, and then cleared your throat quietly. No. That was your immediate response, or what you wanted it to be. But before you could say anything, you second guessed yourself. “I… I don’t know.” 

  Natasha’s arm extended as she gestured towards her well known guardian animal. “Feel.” 

  He felt… different. He felt gray, right in between the white light of life and the plain darkness of death. At first glance, he seemed to be floating right in between, placidly and without a care. But, when you dug harder, you realized that he was actually much more in the white than he was in the dark. 

  He was more alive than dead.  

“He’s… alive.” 

“And if he’s alive after hundreds and thousands of years, then anything you can plant can stay that way.” She leaned off of the wall, and you swallowed when she turned her gaze towards you, and like she and her pet were on the same page, all four pairs of eyes in the room were set on you, waiting patiently for your gift to bless their home. “Don’t you agree?”

****

i hope you guys liked this one!! we’re getting into stuff now, so that’s exciting. it came early because i’m kind of in a mood, and i wanted to get a little bit of feedback today! this is gonna be so much fun to write going from here even though i’m already having a blast, and i think you guys might have fun reading it! if you guys liked it, please remember to like and reblog 💕💕💕

taglist:

@teenwonder @saamwilscn @messuhp @username23345 @dontmindmejustreading @bitchuwish @blackxwidowsxwife @anxiousgoldengirl @russianredassassin @dailyavengering @blackluthxr @coxmicbabygirl @alytavzla @deathofmissjackson @1-800-gaygentsofshield @msmarvelsmain

sorry if i forgot to add anyone!!

[thatharringrovehoe]

Some more Mob AU stuff cuZ I love it.

- Nancy and Steve never dated, but they have had sex. Once. Nancy wanted her first time to be with someone she trusted and Steve is her BEST FRIEND. She trusts Steve more than anyone. And it's. Not great. Because look. Steve and Nancy have alot in common. To much. They each like to be in control. They're both 100% Tops with a capital T. So when they have sex, even though Nancy is nervous, it ends up being almost a fight. Constantly trying to flip the other over, lots of biting and teeth and frustration because neither of them will submit. Afterwards they put on mud masks and get high and agree that while they love each other there is no way they're ever going to be like that.

- Steve notices the way Jonathan goes all glassy eyed when Nancy walks into the room. How his breath hitches whenever she gets mean. Cuz she is. She's not a bad person, but she's definitely a spoiled brat in a different way than Steve. Because while Steve is starved of love and affection, Nancy has been drowning in it since birth. She's haughty and petulant and will not stop for anything to get what she wants. And Steve is worried at first. Jonathan is a good spymaster and an even better friend so he's reluctant to feed him to the lioness that is Nancy Wheeler.

- He doesn't worry later when he watches Nancy go absolutely gooey with affection the first time Jonathan kisses her in the hallway. How she leads him around like a lost puppy by his camera strap to do what Steve suspects is fucking filthy things to him in the photo development room. Because he knows what Nancy likes. Knows that while Steve kills with kindness Nancy Wheeler is all bite and no bark. Likes to make the pleasure sting. And judging by the way Jonathan practically drools when she rakes her manicured nails down his chest over his shirt while they make out leaning against Jonathan's car after school, he 100% is down to be destroyed by Nancy *the princess* Wheeler.

- Jonathan is still a creep. The only difference here is that he's NEVER crossed Steve. Because when the Harrington kid came up to him in 8th grade and asked if he'd heard any interesting rumors Jonathan thought it was a joke. Just another shot at that weird Byers kid. Had half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself. But right as Tommy curled the beginnings of a mean smirk, Steve shut him down without even looking at him. Just held up his hand. Down boy. And Jonathan thought "You know what? Fuck it." Because if he was lying then he was just like everyone else anyway. But if he was telling the truth. Well. He wasn't above bribery. Told Steve everything he knew. Earned himself a seat in King Steve's court. Used the shadows that always used to swallow him up as a cloak. Held himself with a little more confidence because the monarch of Hawkins may have everyone's secrets. But Jonathan spun the web.

- Billy and Jonathan actually get along really well. They get high and talk about music whenever they're not otherwise occupied getting fucking wrecked by their spoiled rich kid Tops. Billy is low key concerned for Jonathan because damn. Wheeler is fucking savage. Like they'll be passing the joint back and forth and Jonathan will start getting almost to detailed the longer they smoke. Billy did not need to know Nancy Wheeler pegs her boyfriend with a dildo that big okay?

- Carole and Tommy are actually married. Like legally. As soon as Carole turned sixteen Tommy BEGGED Steve to pull some strings. To forge some documents. Cuz Tommy LOVED Carole. She was it. And Tommy could be one nasty piece of work but he would die for this girl no hesitation. And Steve is a sucker for that romantic shit. Set them up with a trip to Italy where a lot of Steve's mother's family lives. Because his grandfather respects a man who's ready to commit to his woman like that. And Steve is his grandmother's favorite. They have a ceremony in a little Church at the heart of the village. Tommy did not fucking cry when he saw Carole in her dress okay? It was just dusty in that old church, shut up.

- Nancy and Carole HATE each other. But in a very wasp-ish kinda way. Will hang out and have 'spa days, just us girls' but would choke each other out given the slightest opportunity. Tommy thinks it's hot. He will never tell Carole this.

- Dustin is obsessed with the fact that Nancy and Steve are kind of mirrored? Just two dominant rich kids that fell in love with emotionally stunted boys that were abused by their fathers? They both have dark brunet hair and big brown eyes? Their boyfriends are blonde? Steve are you listening? Steve!

- Steve gets really bad nightmares. Like wake up mid panic attack bad. And he's usually really good at hiding it from Billy. Is careful not to sleep to deeply around him. But one night after some fucking incredible sex Steve just passes the fuck out cuddling. The next thing he knows he's being shaken awake by a terrified Billy Hargrove. Because Steve had been screamin and shakin and cryin out and Billy was ready to burn down this hick town looking for whoever hurt Steve like this. Was gunna bury them in the Hawkins woods and piss on their grave. And that's when Steve tells him everything about the upside down. Introduces him to El to prove it.

- Speaking of, El doesn't spend a year all alone in a fucking cabin. Because Steve knows everyone's secrets and he likes having people in his pocket. And as much as Hopper dislikes Steve Harrington he can't say no when the king of Hawkins offers Jim perfectly forged paperwork for his 'daughter' El. So El goes to school and spends time learning how to be an actual child while Steve Harrington yanks on the leash of the chief of police whenever he wants.

- Billy is SOFT okay? He's just never been allowed to show it. Had been painted with bruises for just existing so God forbid his father let him show a human emotion. But after a year in Hawkins with Steve he lets his shoulders drop just a little. Will twine his fingers with his boyfriend's during movie night at the Byers. Brings Steve breakfast in bed. The first time he weaves a daisy crown for him Steve almost fucking weeps he's so touched.

- Steve is fucking possessive. Like. Intensely jealous. And at first this was a problem because Billy could not understand why all the girls in Hawkins treated him with kid gloves? They didn't just disregard any playful flirting, they full on didn't acknowledge it. He didn't really get longing stares as he walked through the halls anymore. No more tittering teenage girls blushing over him when he had gym outside. And he's not interested in women but it's nice to be noticed okay? Especially when he puts in so much effort. It starts to make him self conscious. Like, is he just unattractive? Second guesses himself to the point that he stops wearing his shirts unbuttoned and starts to get a little obsessive over working out. It's when Billy starts skipping meals that Steve notices. Sees Billy's lip wobble a little when he asks Steve if he's actually attracted to him or if he's just being nice. And Steve has to explain that he just... Doesn't share well. At all. That when Andrew Brady showed up to school last month with a fat lip and a limp it was because Steve had heard him talking with his buddies behind the general store about how he wanted to bend Billy over his Camaro and make him scream.

- And Billy is just. Shook. Gets all warm and fuzzy because no one hase ever loved him this much. Never wanted Billy this much. Wanted Billy to stay. Can feel tears willing up behind his lashes because the most amazing boy he's ever met is so over the moon for Billy that he's willing to draw blood on his behalf. Kisses Steve so hard they both forget to breath. Feels safe and loved, because he belongs to Steve Harrington. However he still flirts with people on the daily though cuz he's a little shit. And hey if it means his jealous boyfriend rails him so good he forgets his own goddamn name then that's just a bonus.

[august-bleeds-red]

Carnival Lights

(Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader)

Bo makes a stranger’s ride on the Ferris wheel more than an average trip to the carnival.

WARNINGS: Non-con, forced orgasm (NSFW below the line).

~

It was your first blind date since you were sixteen. The guy was twenty-three and already a junior partner in a prestigious law firm, and dull as paint. But, even discounting his handsome face and impeccable manners, your mom would never forgive you if you messed up on the first date. He’d opted out of riding the wheel with you, confessing a fear of heights that prevented him scaling anything higher than a stepladder, and had stepped away to pick up snacks for when you descended.

 The Ferris wheel had always been your favourite ride as a kid, back when your dad used to take you to the carnival, and you really wanted at least one ride before the night ended – for old time’s sake. You didn’t care if it made you look weird to ride alone.

 The wheel is an old-fashioned one with round, metal-roofed cars, with seats sitting opposite each other. Thankfully, it doesn’t tilt too far with just your weight to balance it.

 “Just you?” the attendant asks. You nod.

 He’s just about to close the door and secure it when someone speaks up:

 “Excuse me, y’all mind if I ride with you?”

 He’s a handsome, dark-haired man in his thirties, with a lazy Louisiana drawl, dressed comfortably in work pants and a navy button-down shirt, an old red-and-white trucker cap sticking out of his back pocket. His face is friendly, eyebrows raised in hope as he awaits your response.

 “Oh . . . I, uh . . .”

 You’re not sure your date would appreciate you sitting in such a confined space with a strange guy you just met, but the attendant is looking at you impatiently, so you panic and shrug in consent. The guy smiles and takes the seat opposite you, the car bouncing a little at the change in weight. His legs are long, his knees almost brushing yours, but he keeps his hands at a respectable distance in his lap. The attendant fastens the door shut and the car trundles a few feet along to allow the next passengers. You know it’s gonna take a while – they need to fill up every car before setting the wheel to spin freely. Which means you’re sitting with this guy for at least the next ten minutes.

 “Name’s Bo,” he says, holding out a hand to you.

 “Um . . . Y/N,” you reply, accepting the handshake politely. His hand is big, his palm warm against yours.

 “Figured we might as well get acquainted if we’re stuck in this tuna can together,” he reasons.

 “Yeah,” you grin nervously, not wanting to point out that you’re only “stuck” because it was his idea to join you.

 “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m a creature of impulse – my ma used to take me and my brothers on this wheel when we were little kids, an’ I saw you sittin’ alone and, I dunno, you just looked like a nice girl, so I took a shot.”

 “No, it – it’s okay,” your smile grows more genuine. “My dad used to take me on this wheel too, every time the carnival came into town.”

 He smiles, his eyes fixed on your face. He has an intense, dark stare, his brown eyes barely blinking. “So you here by yourself?”

 “No, my date’s around here somewhere.”

 “Well, that’s a little weird,” Bo says. “Leavin’ you to ride alone?”

 “Heh, yeah,” you shrug. “Doesn’t like heights.”

 Bo snorts and mutters something that sounds like, “Pussy.” You can’t help but giggle.

 The car has now elevated far enough from the ground as to make disembarking impossible. You gaze down at the sprawling carnival lights, illuminating the stalls, food carts and rides in a soft, golden glow.

 You don’t speak up when Bo shifts in his seat, edging closer to you so your knees touch. The car is small – there’s no reason to make a fuss for what could just be an honest mistake. Until his fingertips brush against the crown of your kneecap.

 “Kinda irresponsible, really,” he says, his voice lowering. “Leavin’ a little lady as cute as you unaccompanied.”

 Would it be rude to ask him to stop talking? Or at least to move his hand? His fingers are definitely rubbing the inside of your knee now, his gaze hot in a way that proves he knows exactly what he’s doing.

 You’re just about to say something, when he ‘casually’ shifts in his seat, lifting his trouser leg high enough for you to see the handle of a knife tucked into his heavy boot. Your blood runs cold and you press your lips together. His hand slides further up your leg until his whole palm is resting on your thigh.

 “I know if it were me,” he purrs, “I wouldn’t let you outta my sight for a moment.”

 Your fingers are shaking, your skin beginning to prickle.

 “Please . . .” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

 He grins. “Please what, princess?”

 “I . . .” you swallow around the lump rising in your throat. “Please don’t hurt me.”

 He laughs. “Then you’ll do what I say, won’t cha?”

 He eases the knife from his boot and pockets the guard protecting the blade, tracing the dull edge down the soft skin of your thigh. One false move, one flick of his wrist, and you’d be bleeding out all over the car floor. He leans across and uses the blade to dislodge the straps of your dress.

 “Let’s see them gorgeous tits,” he says. Reaching across, he pulls at your neckline, revealing the strapless bra you’re wearing underneath. “Oh, honey – d’you wear that just for me?” Slipping his fingers inside the blue lace cup, he releases one of your breasts and squeezes roughly. You whimper, clapping a hand over your mouth when the knife twitches in his hand.

 “Look at these pretty little nipples,” he flicks his thumb over one, smiling when it hardens at his touch. “Why, they’re already pleased to see me, aren’t they?”

 Cursing your treacherous body, you shut your eyes and wince as he scoops your other breast free, jiggling the soft flesh.

 “God damn, these puppies look sweet enough to eat,” he moans, leaning in and lapping at one nipple with his tongue. You cringe away from him, gasping when he takes a firm grip on the back of your head.

 “Now,” he murmurs, “you’re gonna come sit on my lap, right? We’re gonna have a little fun. Easy, nice and slow – don’t wanna draw too much attention now, do we?

 Hating your own cowardice, you shift from your seat and turn, letting Bo settle you against his clothed erection. You can feel it through the fabric, digging into your ass. The car stays at an inconspicuous angle, the cars below, above or opposite you none the wiser as to what’s going on.

 Bo keeps one hand on your breast, squeezing and pinching, the other strays further downwards. The knife is stowed away back into his boot, but you already know better than to make a grab for it.

 “Let’s see just how much of a good girl y’really are,” he whispers in your ear, teeth biting at the side of your neck. A shiver runs through you, and you can tell he feels it by the way his lips curl against your skin. The tips of his fingers brush your panties and you close your eyes in shame at how damp they are. You’ve always had sensitive breasts, and the way he’s sucking and teething at your skin is only making it worse. Nudging aside the silky fabric, you gasp when his thick, calloused fingers trace the outline of your pussy.

 “Ahh, there we go,” he shifts a little, spreading your thighs further apart with his knees. “Just look how wet y’are for me. You’re just a little slut, ain’t cha?”

 His fingers push past your folds, rubbing at your clit and making your legs tremble. He slips in up to the first knuckles of his index and middle fingers, his thumb circling your clit with a practiced movement.

 “Y’like the way my fingers feel in you, you little whore?” he growls in your ear. “Fuck, you’re soakin’ wet. Bet you wish you could take my hard fuckin’ cock in that sweet little cunt, huh? Ride me ‘til I fill you up with cum, you dirty fuckin’ slut.”

 He forces another finger inside you, tilting his wrist to allow them to sink in right to the hilt. You stretch around his digits, your slick walls inviting him in further. Why is this happening? Why are you so turned on? Your heart flutters in the cage of your chest and you bite your lip to keep from moaning.

 “Thaaaat’s it,” Bo croons, quickening pace. “You love it, don’t you, you little whore? You love havin’ my fingers all up in your cunt.”

 You shake your head and the hand molesting your breast takes a firm hold of your jaw. He turns your head to face him and your lips are assaulted – his tongue staining your mouth with the faint taste of tobacco. Your pussy is liquid in his hands, the warm whispers of pleasure building steadily in your lower stomach.

 “You’re gonna fuckin’ cum for me,” he growls. “Y’hear that, bitch? You’re gonna cum on my fingers like a slut. C’mon, gimme that goddamn cunt. Show how much you love bein’ fingered like a cheap whore.”

 Bitch. Slut. Whore. The poisonous words hang in the air around you.

 “Tell me you wanna cum,” he demands. “Beg me to make you cum.”

 “I— I can’t . . .” you whimper. You don’t think you could live with yourself if you stooped to that level of indignity. Then he stops and the sky comes crashing down around your ears. “F-fuck—!”

 “Tell me what I wanna hear, baby.” He moves his fingers again at a brutal pace, the friction against both your clit and G-spot almost too much to bear. It’s growing, reaching such a pitch as to make your ears ring.

 “Fuck, please . . .” you screw your eyes shut against what you feel is the judgment of the world. “Please . . . make me cum—”

 “Say my name, bitch,” he growls. “Tell me who this fuckin’ cunt belongs to.”

 “Bo! Y-you . . . my . . . it belongs to you . . . oh God, Bo, please, please—”

 At the last moment, as you feel your walls contracting, he shoves two fingers in your mouth, grunting with satisfaction as you bite down to prevent yourself crying out from the most intense orgasm you’ve ever experienced. He chuckles darkly in your ear, his fingers making an obscenely wet sound as they withdraw from you.

 He allows you to reassemble yourself before the wheel has completed its final loop. You run a hand through your tangled hair and wipe away the smears of mascara beneath your eyes, while he sucks the shining fluid from his fingers with apparent relish. The last few drops, however, he spares for you. You gag around the fingers he forces into your mouth, tasting the tangy flavour of your own juices.

 When the attendant lets you out, Bo gestures for you to go first, like the Southern gentleman one might presume him to be at first glance. You can see your date waiting for you, a stick of cotton candy in one hand. As you reach him, he watches Bo leave the car behind you.

 “Who was that?” he asks, handing you the pink cloud of spun sugar.

 “No-one,” you shrug as casually as you can manage. You could tell him, now you’re free from the cage. But you don’t. And you never will.

 Grinning like a cat in a dairy barn, Bo secures his cap atop his head. Catching your eye one last time, he winks, nods, and disappears into the crowd.   

~

Inspired by a soundgasm piece by @gentlemanswitch.