#dear mr fantasy just fucks me up sometimes man

[imwritesometimes]

please don't be sad if it was a straight mind you had we wouldn't have known you all these years

like goddamn, ok

[confiscatedpeaches]

William Afton Finds the Reader's Dirty Diary, and it's full of fantasies about him.

Minors DNI, Reader is assumed to be 18+. I tried to keep the reader gender neutral, but honestly I assumed them to be afab.

TW: Use of word "daddy" in a sexual context, breeding, smut, power imbalance, humiliation.

Life can be stressful sometimes. We all need some kind of escape, whether it be videogames, tv, or even knitting. Your escape just so happens to be a filthy little diary you keep in your bag at all times. And lately, that little guy has been full of dirty, nasty, no good fantasies about your latest crush (and boss) William Afton.

Honestly, you've always had a thing for older men. Once you stepped into his office for an interview you were hooked. You couldn't help but stare as his hands fiddled and played with his pens while he talked. You made a joke about the rainy weather you were having, and he actually laughed. God, what a laugh this man had. Infectious and giggly for someone his age. When he spoke you about melted on the spot. His accent wrapping itself around your name like a comfy sweater or delicate lingerie, taunting you with it's flourishes.

Poor thing, you were so nervous and flushed. You actually looked shocked when he offered you the job. Mouth hanging open (an invitation, really), eyes wide; you looked like a frightened little prey animal. A rabbit, even.

It started out small, just little urges and thoughts hastily written down. What it'd be like to kiss him, hold his hands, touch his hair, etc. Eventually these thoughts became much more... intimate.

--------

Monday: God, every time I step into his office for a chat I imagine him bending me over that desk of his and breeding me. I want to feel his cock balls deep inside of me. I want him to hold me down and break my back. Like, fuck me already Daddy please! Ugghhh! --------

Tuesday: Fuck, he's so hot. I heard him swear in frustration under his breath while fixing foxy. The thought of milking him dry with my tongue is intoxicating. I touched myself in the bathroom while thinking of him. Damn it, I'm so wet now. I want to swallow his cum so bad. He's so. fucking. hot. --------

Wednesday: Mr. Afton, if only you knew how bad I want you. Touching myself to you late at night, cumming while crying out your name. I want you to devour me. Let me be your little slut. I'd be so good for you Daddy if only you'd let me. Please like me back. I want him. I want him so bad.

--------

On and on, filling pages upon pages full of smut. Mentally letting him cuddle, kiss, fuck, and squeeze you endlessly. Of course, you knew he would never feel the same way about you. You were just a young little wage worker. You were nothing more than a typical employee. He was polite and kind to you, but never overly so. Sometimes it seemed like he was flirting, but honestly you chalked that up to you projecting your feelings onto him.

Earlier this morning for example, he called you into his office. He assured you that you weren't in any trouble, he just wanted to check up on you. You seemed a little of out it lately and he wanted to make sure you were okay. He even poured you a cup of coffee. He was such a nice older man, acting almost like a caring father figure. (So what, you have daddy issues, don't we all.) You wished he could be more than that, but you accepted this would have to do for now.

Before letting you return to work, he placed his hand on your shoulder and looked down into your eyes.

"I really like you, y/n. You're a good, loyal worker, and I deeply respect that."

You beamed up at him with a stupid smile on your face. Mr. Afton? Liking and respecting you? Dear god, you must have died and gone to heaven. The heat from his hand sunk down into your core. You imagined his fingers digging deep into your skin, holding you down. You imagined his tongue caressing your neck, lips sucking hungrily at your flesh, his chest pressed against you. Hot blood rushed to your cheeks engulfing your face. He hummed slightly at this before lifting his hand. The spot on your shoulder feeling empty and void at his absence.

"I should really be getting back to work." You stammer, before quickly grabbing your things and fleeing the suddenly humid and intimate office.

-----

About twenty minutes pass before you regain composure. The morning crowd passes by and things begin to slow into their regular routine. Still wet and horny from the crumb of attention he fed you, you rummaged through your bag for your diary, desperate to write down your latest fantasy. Strangely, it's not in it's usual pocket. It's not in the bigger pocket either. In fact, it doesn't appear to be in your bag at all.

No. No, no, no. There is no way you lost that diary. The filthy, disgusting, and embarrassing diary has managed to escape the confines of your bag and is now roaming about the pizzeria.

Panicked, you check the floor behind the counter. Nothing. You check the backrooms. Also, nothing. The kitchen: nothing. The bathrooms: nothing. After systematically checking every room in the entire god damn building you realize you left one room unchecked: Mr. Afton's office.

This cannot be happening.

Even if it is in his office, you made sure to put in bold letters "PROPERTY OF Y/N. PLEASE DO NOT READ" on the front. Everything is going to be okay, it's probably just sitting on his desk waiting for you to come looking for it.

With your heart in your throat, you knock on his office door.

"Who is it?" He asks from inside.

"Y/N." You respond.

"Oh, come in then."

Ah good, so he hasn't read it yet. You open the door.

Sitting with his feet up and crossed on his desk, with one hand rubbing at his croch, he sat. With his other hand, he held up your dirty little diary; holding it wide open. His face was obscured by the book, but he appeared to be deep into it's pages.

"Nice little diary you have here doll."

He tilts his head, revealing a wide and wicked grin.

"Aren't you curious about the real thing?"

You freeze. Unsure if you should respond, or run away and never come back. The room suddenly becomes hot and oppressive. Your chest tightens.

"Mr. Afton! It's not what you think! Please, give it back!"

He laughs.

"I think it is exactly what I think it is love. Got the hots for your boss, have you?"

"I... please... Please don't be angry."

"Oh I'm the opposite of angry love. Be a dear and shut the door behind you. We need to have a little 'chat'."

Swallowing hard, you click the door shut behind you. You find yourself alone with your boss and your filthy diary. He beckons you over. You obey without hesitation, mentally preparing yourself for the worst firing you'll ever experience. He pulls his legs from his desk before standing up from his chair. He completely towers over you. You realize you've never been this close to him before.

"Explain yourself. How exactly, is this not what I think it is?" He teases.

You look away, unable to meet his gaze. Looking down at the floor, you speak in a voice not much louder than a whisper.

"I... I... it's not... it's fiction... I didn't mean anything by it. I... don't mean what is written in there... it's not-"

"Well, it says here" He lifts up the journal and flips back a couple pages.

With absolute glee, he continues: "Ah yes, 'He is so attractive. Mr. Afton, please rail me and pound my tight little hole until I beg to cum. Fill me up and make me yours. Please Daddy, I need this. Let me be your little whore.'"

Shame fills your veins. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. He actually read it. Every thought, every fantasy you've ever had about him was written in that diary. Now he knew them all.

"...please... let me go..."

He leans in close, his hot breath and lips grazing against your ear.

"No, I think it's too late for that dear."

One of his hands trails up your side and around your waist. The other teases your collar and travels down to your stomach.

"You know... I would love to fulfil each and every one of those filthy little fantasies." He says as his hand tugs the button free from your jeans.

"You just have to let me... you will let me, won't you?"

He kisses at your neck.

"Yes... please.." You coo into his ear.

In a flash, he lifts you up and sets you on his desk. His hand guiding you to lay back on the dark oak wood. Papers, pens, and trinkets fall to the floor. You look up at him and watch as he strips off your bottoms. He carelessly tosses them aside, his hands returning to part your legs. He looks down at your wet sex and bites his bottom lip. His eyes are full of desire, he looks like a starving man who has just found his next meal. A meal that has been perfectly dressed and prepared for him and him alone.

He pulls down his pants to reveal his fully erect cock. The tip red and glistening with precum. His veiny hands wrap around his shaft. He teases your opening with his tip, before giving it a good few pumps.

"Already so wet for me, but not wet enough."

His masculine hand reaches down as he slides in a finger. Curling up inside of you, he begins pumping your sweet spot. You moan and writhe under him. Just when you though it couldn't get anymore intense, he slips in another finger. He greedily tugs and pulls inside of you. Realizing how loud you're becoming, you cover your mouth. His free hand pulls your arm away.

"No, no no bunny. Let me hear you. Say my name"

"Will.. William Afton.. mmmphhhh..."

"Good bunny. Keep crying for me, begging for me."

Your body begins to shake. Your moans becoming louder and harder to understand as a mounting pressure builds within you.

"Williammm... Aft..ahhh..."

Hot sticky fluids gush out of you, covering his hand and dripping down your thighs. His hand pulls away, only to be replaced by the head of his cock. Slowly, he pushes himself into you. A guttural sound escapes him. He fills you up all the way until you feel his sack pressing against your hips hard.

Rhythmically, he thrusts into you. Soon his office is full of the wet sound of him slapping against you. His hands grab and dig into the fleshy sides of your hips. Leaning over you, he finds an angle to reach even further inside. His lips find yours, tongue welcoming itself into your mouth.

He moves faster and faster, like an animal desperate to reproduce. Desperate to breed you. You gasp for air.

"Mmm... cum inside of me please.... Daddy... ah..." You beg.

"Mgh... oh... don't worry angel.. I will..."

Your insides twist and coil, becoming hotter and tighter with each thrust. You arch your back, cumming on his cock. Unable to contain himself any longer, he shoots thick ropes deep into your guts.

You both lay there, panting and exhausted. Wrapped up in each other's embrace.

"Bloody hell... if only you knew how long I wanted this... bet you're glad I found that journal eh?" He laughs.

This was so much better than those fantasies. Much better.

[kkodzvken]

take the dive - sugawara koushi x milf!reader

tags/warnings: smut, 18+ ONLY! slight dubcon, infidelity, post timeskip (suga teaches reader’s kids). overstimulation and slight dumbification, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, semi-public (in an empty classroom)

a/n: this is my piece for @ultimate-astridwriting’s milf fuckers collab, which you can find here!! thank you for hosting this astrid, and thank u to everyone in the server for ur love and support as i worked on this <33. title cred: take the dive by jonghyun

wc: 3.9k

Amidst a faculty full of stuffy old dinosaurs and suits, Sugawara Koushi is a breath of fresh air. He’s a welcome distraction, a pretty face to focus on at dull PTA meetings and assemblies. And you knew that you weren’t the only one making heart eyes at him. Everywhere that he went, heads turned, and moms whispered. At the bus stop, on the sidelines of sports matches, in the waiting rooms outside dance classes.

It was just that, though -- just whispers. Little knowing glances and nudged shoulders, dreamy sighs and brief sinful indulgences. Nothing more than a brief escape from the monotony of your everyday lives. You’d lose yourselves in the fantasy for a few seconds, and then pull your heads down from the clouds and plant your feet on solid ground. You enjoyed your gossip with the other moms, and then you returned home, to your husband and children. To your family.

You love them, of course. Your children are your world, and your husband is a good man. He’s a good man, and that’s what made it so hard. He treats you well, keeps his words soft and never once put his hands on you. 

He may be good, but, God, was he boring. You can’t remember the last time that he’d even kissed you, let alone fucked you. He came home later and later each night, too tired from work to do anything but silently scarf down his dinner and plant himself on the couch in front of the television. He dragged himself into bed hours after you did. He tried to be quiet, he really did, but he woke you up every single night with his stomping and shuffling. When you snuggled closer to him, he pushed you off. My back hurts too bad, he’d say, voice tinged with regret. Remind me to book another appointment with the chiropractor. 

It was always some excuse or another. 

So, really, you couldn’t blame yourself for your wandering eye. You weren’t going to act on it, of course -- you weren’t a cheater -- but the young teacher was something to occupy yourself with. A pretty face to fill your thoughts as you wrangled your horde of screaming kids from swim lessons to dance practice to art classes. A pretty, pretty body to imagine as you fucked yourself with your fingers, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to muffle your moans. You couldn’t help but imagine that it was him, lithe body leaning over yours. No complaints of aching backs and sore muscles, none of the complications that came with age. 

You’d leave your husband catatonic on the couch, put the kids to sleep, and then go dream of their hot teacher. You should’ve been more ashamed, but there was a part of you that loved the thrill of it. You flushed whenever you saw Mr. Sugawara the next morning, memories of your illicit thoughts filling your mind, but it also made your body feel electric. 

Of course there was a part of you that longed to throw caution to the wind and jump the young man, but your conscience was much stronger than your weak, lustful thoughts. You were happy with the way things were now. As dull as your husband was, and as insufferable as the children could sometimes be, you were happy. 

This was all you had ever wanted. A house in the suburbs, a husband with a well-paying job, three kids and a dog. You’re living the fucking dream. You’re happy, you tell yourself.

So why the fuck are you so unsatisfied?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

With a deep breath, you stare down the heavy glass doors at the school’s entrance. You want nothing more than to find the idiot architect who designed this building, and strangle him for installing pull doors. Your arms are already sore from carrying the giant tray of brownies from your car to the front of the school, and you worry that if you put the treats down to open the door, you wouldn’t be able to lift them up again. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you have two minutes left to reach the gym where the bake sale is being held. The PTA president is notorious for hating latecomers, and you weren’t in the mood to get your head bit off.

You’re debating doing some gymnastics and using your foot to grab the handle, when you notice footsteps approaching from behind you. You open your mouth to ask for help, but they beat you to it. “Let me get the door,” says their syrupy, melodic voice.

Their familiar voice.

Your body practically freezes as a strong arm reaches over your shoulder. Long fingers – fingers that you’ve fantasized about too many times to count – twist the handle and push it open easily. You don’t know how you didn’t notice him approaching sooner, but now that he’s here, your senses are in overdrive. The sweet scent of his cologne, the sound of his breath, the warmth of his body – it’s all too much, and it makes your knees feel weak.

“Mr. Sugawara,” you say, voice coming out much breathier than you intended. This must be some kind of Pavlovian response from all your fantasizing, because there is no reason for your stomach to be twisting right now. “Thank you.”

He grins sheepishly and steps away, and you hate the way that your body screams at you to lean into him. “It’s no problem. Is that for the bake sale? Here, let me carry it for you.”

You try to protest, but there’s really no point. His long fingers are already pushing yours to the sides, and you swear you’ve been electrified as he pulls the tray out of your hands. It’s a shame, really, that he’s wearing a button-down. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, at least, but you would’ve loved to see his biceps flex as he carried that tray…

What am I doing? You dig your nails into your palm to snap yourself out of your thoughts, but it’s hard to stay lucid when he’s so beautiful. He carries the brownies with ease, using just one arm to support their weight as the other holds the door open for you. It should make you upset, that you’re so weak in comparison to him, but the thought just makes you feel even more breathless. He’s so strong, so young, and so unlike your husband.

“Thank you,” you say again as he steps into the building behind you. You reach for the tray, but he waves you off.

“Nonsense. I’ll walk you to the gym.”

“Oh, really, you don’t have to—”

“I insist. Anything for my favorite mom.”

His…favorite? His words leave you too stupefied to protest any further, and he takes your silence as compliance. Your body automatically follows in his footsteps as he paces down the hallways.

He looks over at you and smiles comfortingly. It lights up his entire face, but does little to ease your turbulent thoughts.

Your mind is still fixated on his words as you step onto the squeaky wood flooring of the gymnasium. Sugawara calmly walks over to the PTA president, who looks like she’s about to rip her hair out. She’s surrounded by a gaggle of other moms, all jabbering away with concern painted across their faces.

“Is something wrong, ladies?” he asks. His voice snaps them all out of their conversation, and their eyes widen as they take him in.

“Yes,” says the PTA president scornfully. “We were supposed to have the brownies here already! The sale starts in ten minutes, and if this keeps up, I won’t have enough time to inventory everything and make it presentable, and –”

“I have the brownies,” you cut in, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

She blanches, and looks from you to the tray in Sugawara’s arms. An oh is all she can muster before grabbing the brownies and rushing off.

“Is everything okay?” one of the other moms asks, her voice laced with fake sweetness. “Oh, and you look so tired, dear. If you couldn’t manage your part, you should’ve just said so!”

“It would’ve been no trouble,” another woman says. “I’d have had no trouble whipping up a tray for you! Everyone always does love my baking.”

You grit your teeth and resist the urge to snap at them. It’s always like this – the other moms seem so in tune with their lives of domestic bliss, playing games of politics and constantly competing to be the best. Try as you might, you just can’t satisfy yourself with a life like theirs.

The material of Sugawara’s shirt brushes against you, and you start. He doesn’t pull away as you flinch, instead gently resting his hand on the small of your back. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I steal her away? Mrs. (L/N), I have your son’s science fair project sitting in my classroom. He keeps forgetting to bring it home. Would you like to go collect it now?”

You nod, relieved at the excuse to escape these women and their sickening artificial sweetness. Sugawara gently guides you with the hand on your back. You can’t help but internally smirk at the thinly-veiled jealousy on the faces of the other mothers.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.  

“This is why you’re my favorite,” Sugawara says, once you’re safely out of earshot. “All these PTA moms are so fake. But you’re not like that, are you?”

You nod, still a bit convinced that this is all a dream. He doesn’t remove his hand from your back as you walk down the hallways, and only pulls away when you reach the door to his classroom. He fishes through his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys, before insert one into the knob and pushing the door open. He gestures for you to enter first, and so you do, blinking at the harsh sudden brightness of the automatic lights.

You awkwardly glance around the room. You’ve been here plenty of times before, but that was all during the daytime, when it was packed full of energetic children. It feels…strange, to be alone in a classroom as an adult. Or, well, alone, except for the stupidly attractive teacher that you’ve been lusting over.

“Where’s the project?” you ask, trying to diffuse some of the tension building in your stomach. “I should head home soon.”

Sugawara leans his back against the door and cocks his head. “You know, I know what you say about me.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” His eyes rove across your body, lingering on your chest for far longer than they should. “I’m not deaf, you know. I hear all the things you say about me. You’re just like all the other moms.” He pushes off the door, stalking closer to you. You instinctively take a step back. “Only difference is, you might actually have the guts to do something about it.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, so hard that you think your ribs might bruise. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Sugawara. I-”

You take another step back, and another, and suddenly your back collides with concrete. Your body jolts, and you yelp at the sudden pain.

Sugawara leans closer. One of his hands braces against the board behind your head, and the other one comes up to cradle your face. His long fingers hook under your chin and press, forcing you to tilt your head up and meet his gaze. His thumb brushes against your lip, and you can’t deny how the sensation makes your body feel like jelly.

Every rational thought in your mind is screaming at you to run, to leave, to get away from him and go back to your husband, but God, it’s been so long since you’ve felt like this. It’s been so long since someone’s made your heart race and your breaths quicken, since someone’s made you blush like a schoolgirl over a simple touch.

“What was that you said?” he asks, his voice dripping with honey. “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

You swallow and bite the inside of your cheek. The pain does nothing to clear the fog inside your mind. “I-I don’t, I-”

“You do,” he interrupts, his thumb still toying with your lip. “You’re so fucking obvious. I bet you’re wet already, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Sugawara!” His lewd words make you gasp, but more than anything, you hate the fact that he’s right. Your body has a mind of its own, and it wants nothing more than to wrap your lips around his thumb and pull him closer. It wants to feel his arms wrapped around you, feel his body towering over you.

But you can’t. As much as you want to, you can’t, because you have a husband at home who’s waiting for you. Sure, he isn’t home right now, because he’s putting in extra hours at the office. And sure, he hasn’t touched you or made you feel desired in weeks. Hell, you haven’t had a genuine conversation in weeks. But he’s still your husband! You try and remind yourself of that. You roll the thought around in your head, hoping that it’ll push your thoughts of Sugawara away.

But the young teacher is persistent, and there’s a glimmer in his eye that makes your chest tighten. “Call me Koushi, princess.”

“Don’t call me princess –”

“What, you’re going to pretend that it didn’t make you wetter? Going to pretend that you aren’t clenching your thighs together right now?” He leans in even closer, so that his breath brushes against your ear as he whispers. “Your body doesn’t lie, baby.”

A whine slips past your lips at his words, and then you gasp, mortified with yourself. But the grin that covers his face makes your transgression worth it, because God, he’s handsome. His hand squeezes your chin even tighter, and then trails down to your neck. Your breath catches in your chest. You’re hyperaware of his every movement, of his fingers trailing across your skin, his touch feather-light. It leaves you aching for more.

You instinctively whine again, and he lets out a noise of surprised delight. “Whining like this, and you’re still denying that you want me? What’s got you so embarrassed?”

“I have a husband,” you hiss – or, at least, you try to hiss. It comes out more like a whimper than anything else.

Sugawara looks at you for a beat – and then throws his head back and laughs. It catches you off guard, and you furrow your brow. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”

He collects himself, but his eyes are still gleaming when he looks back at you. “Sure, you have a husband. But that doesn’t stop you from thinking about me, does it? Tell me, when’s the last time that your husband took care of you? When’s the last time that he touched you, or fucked you, or made you feel good?”

“Mr. Sugawara, this is inappropriate–”

“Stop lying to yourself.” His voice suddenly drops, his stare forceful and deadly serious. “Say the word, and I’ll go. We can pretend this never happened. But anyone with eyes can tell that you’re unsatisfied.”

“I…I don’t…” Your thoughts feel like a wave, building higher and higher. They bounce around your head, reverberating against your skull, so loud that you can’t even think.

“Why are you settling?”

“Mr. Sugawara, please, I–”

“Why are you settling, when you know you want more?”

The wave crests.

You don’t know who moves first, but somehow, your fingers are tangled in his hair, and his lips are slotted against yours. It’s not soft, or sweet – it’s a mess of teeth and tongues and feverish breaths. His hands are everywhere. They trail over your skin, explore the curves of your chest and your stomach, grip tightly at your waist to pull you closer.

“Mr. Sugawara,” you pant against his lips. Your lungs scream for oxygen, but you can’t bear to drag yourself away from him for even a second. He kisses so well. It may be rushed, and messy, but there’s so much hunger behind his actions that it makes your head spin. It’s like his lips are a live wire, and every second that they touch yours, they send a thousand volts of electricity arcing through your body.

“Koushi,” he breathes. “Call me Koushi, please.” You nod, and then hurriedly undo the buttons of his shirt, popping a few off in the process. Neither of you care. His hands finally dip beneath the hem of your dress, and he wastes no time in unceremoniously tugging it off your body.

Your hands instinctively go to cover yourself. Age and childbirth have changed your body, and you know that Mr. Sugawara – no, Koushi – is probably used to beautiful young women. You still don’t understand why his eye landed on you. He surely has dozens of girls his age fawning over him, with flat stomachs and perky tits. Why you?

He grips your wrists and pries your hands away from your body. “Don’t do that,” he says, so gentle in contrast to the fire from just moments ago. “Don’t cover yourself up. You’re beautiful.”

Oh.

You can’t remember the last time that someone called you beautiful. You can’t remember the last time that you felt beautiful.

But right now, with Koushi staring at you, eyes blown out with lust… you feel it.

He sinks onto his knees, lips already pressing little kisses against your hips and upper thighs. You try and protest – really, Koushi, you don’t have to – but he shushes you instantly. He hooks one of your thighs over his shoulder and dives in without hesitation. Even through the fabric of your panties, you’re in fucking heaven. His tongue laves against your clit, focusing so much attention onto the swollen bead that you can’t help but let out a moan.

You slap your hand over your mouth to silence yourself. You’re in an elementary school, for God’s sake. The bake sale is at the other side of the large building, but you’re terrified of someone walking past and catching you. Guilt swirls around your heart, but it’s quick to dissipate when Koushi tugs your panties off and throws them over his shoulder. He buries himself into your cunt again, and it’s even better without the barrier. The coil in your stomach is tightening embarrassingly fast, but you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care. His tongue laps at your folds, slurping lewdly.

The pleasure is overwhelming. Your body moves of its own accord. Your hips grind against Koushi’s face, and he moans right into your cunt. His lips move up to your clit again, alternating between licking and sucking. You’re so focused on his mouth that you barely notice his fingers, so long and pretty, collecting your wetness.

You do notice when he fucks two of those pretty fingers into you. He immediately starts scissoring his fingers to stretch you out, before hooking them against that spot inside of you that makes your head spin. Your entire body is shaking with euphoria, so much that you can’t handle it.

“Close,” you cry out, trying to keep yourself upright. “Close, close, please, don’t stop!”

He moans into you again when you tug at his hair. It’s the push that you need to finally fall over the edge. You bite into your palm to keep from screaming as you gush all over him, chest heaving and eyes tearing up.

He keeps curling his fingers, keeps lapping at your clit, until you tug on his hair and cry that the overstimulation is too much. As he lets your leg down and stands up, he makes a show of licking your cum off his fingers, slurping on them loudly. It would make you embarrassed, but you’re too focused on his other hand as it dips down to his belt. The muscles of his stomach flex as he undoes the buckle. You take the opportunity to rake your eyes over his toned torso. He seems so slender when he’s dressed, but his shoulders are surprisingly broad.

He looks up at you with a little smirk. “Caught you staring,” he teases. You blush as he pulls his pants and boxers down in one go, freeing his cock. It’s already hard, and so pretty, just like him. His tip is red and dripping with precum. You want so badly to get a taste, but Koushi has other plans. He spins you by your shoulders, and then presses at the small of your back to make you lay across his desk.

You groan when you feel him slap his cock against your ass a few times, before running it through your folds to collect your wetness. “Please,” you gasp. “No teasing, please.”

“Just came, and you’re already needy?” he chuckles. “That husband of yours must really not be satisfying you.”

You’re spared from having to think of a retort by him sinking into you. A cry leaves your lips, but it’s too good for you to even care about the sound. He feels like heaven as he sinks into you. His cock stretches you out deliciously.

You’re already feeling delirious as he starts to shallowly thrust and work his way in. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. “So – fuck…”

You can’t do anything but moan and scratch at the table as he starts to fuck into you in earnest. His cock is perfectly curved to hit your spot every time, and soon you’re reduced to a mess underneath him. His balls slap against your ass with every thrust. It hurts, it’s all too much, but it’s so fucking good. You don’t think you’ve ever felt pleasure like this – mind numbing and all consuming, so powerful that it makes your eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he groans again, bending down so that he can loom over you and leave little bites all over your back and shoulders. “Not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that, shit!”

“Faster, please,” you beg, and he obliges. He sets an absolutely brutal pace, somehow managing to fuck you hard, fast, and at the perfect angle all at once. Moans and cries spill freely out of your open mouth. When he reaches forward to toy with your clit, it’s all too much, and it sends you over the edge again. Your body practically spasms as he fucks you through your second orgasm. He shows you no mercy, gives you no time to come down. You don’t know if you’re coming again, or if you just never stopped. Your mind is hazy with pleasure and overstimulation.

You’re a twitching mess by the time that he pulls out, but you still whine at the loss. You’re far too fucked out to turn around and look at him, but in the corner of your consciousness, you can hear him panting and stroking himself furiously. His moans are so beautiful. Within a few short seconds, he’s coming all over your ass, painting your pretty skin white with his seed.

You don’t know how long you’re laying there before he taps your cheek to get your attention. “C’mon now,” he says, a tired smile on his face. “Let’s get you cleaned up. We wouldn’t want your husband finding out, would we?”

[deepdonutkid]

Kismet

Requested: No

Paring: Shelby!Sister Reader x Isaiah

Words: 5624

Summary: For a year now, you had a secret relationship with Isaiah and even when he is still in the same room with you, you can’t stop feeling lonely. It’s not that you don’t love him anymore, it more about the weight of the secret you have to carry. But with Tommy as you big brother you can’t risk, telling the truth or your man might get shot.

Note:

I was in the mood for a Shelby!Sister reader x Isaiah and it turned out to be way longer than I expected it... and I even cut out dialog... So here it is!

It’s also flavored with Junior Peaky Boys fun at the beginning. And I was inspired by my homegirl’s one shot called star and my story is an addition to hers, it’s the same night, but Bonnie has some other adventures than the reader and Isaiah.

Somehow I feel like everybody is a little ooc, but I couldn’t correct it.

Requests and tag list are still open, feel free to dm me or send me an ask.

tagging: @bonniesgoldengirl​ @justalonelyslytherin​ @theshelbyclan​ 

Warning: swear words, drinking, binge drinking, gambling, a hinted smut and a sweet ending

It was one of those nights, nothing special, just the usual fellows around the same table in the Garrison.  You had fun nevertheless. All your friends were right there, you had enough to drink and you had a luck hand today. The cards seemed to work in your fortune.

Deviously smiling you revealed your hand. You just had won this round and it gave you unholy amounts of satisfactions. “Ha”, you cheered: “Suck it up.”

Your friend shrugged and shoved his coins in your direction. All he said was a very grumpy “There you go”, but it pleased you.

You took the money and peaked around the corner. Where was Michael with the drinks? He was like a brother to you, but he was just your cousin. Maybe it was because you were born just two months before his older sister, Anna. Even though, she was gone Michael came back to his real family and now you were closer than ever. You cared for him, more than your siblings did.

But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t hit him, if he just left the bar to fuck with some random girl. It was not about him having sex, more about leaving without telling anybody. Especially when he was supposed to get drinks for the table. You moaned and said: “Where is Michael?”

“Probably doing somebody”, Isaiah joked and lit a cigarette. Then he offered you one and you took it gladly. Actually, you bit your lip and gave him the side-eye, but you had to hide your smile in front of the others. Bonnie and Finny weren’t the smartest boys in Small Heath, but you wouldn’t risk it.

You had so much fun with Isaiah that you didn’t even know when it started. Months passed by, while you were completely caught up in your little game with him. Nobody knew it. That was mainly Isaiah’s fault. At first it amused you to keep your relationship with him secret, but now you were ready to tell your family about it. Your boyfriend didn’t like the idea.

Somehow you thought Michael started to notice. He gave you the glace, which said: “I know, dear”, but maybe you were just getting crazy. You just had to be more careful around others now and everything was fine.

The night was still young and you were keen to make Bonnie lose all his money today. He had won the boxing match earlier and the bruises were still visible, but unfortunately for him, he couldn’t win against you. It was just a card game, but it filled you with gleeful joy. This and the fact that Isaiah was sitting next to you. Sometimes he would brush your thigh with his fingers, which made you giggle even more.

“There he is”, yelled Finny while being so fucking drunk, like you never had seen him before. Michael arrived with messy hair and his tie was undone, but he had your drink and that was all that you care for. “Finally”, you fluted and ripped the glass of his hand: “Thank you, babe.”

And the whiskey was still cold, which meant he fucked the girl first and ordered the drinks afterwards. “How was she? Good?” you asked before you took a sip from your whiskey. You weren’t a lightweight when it came to drinking, maybe not as well as Arthur and John, but you could tolerate much more than Ada and Finny. Your little brother was so drunk, he looked like his head was all empty and yet filled with bullshit.

Michael sat down next to you and answered: “Mhh, she was okay, but she talked too much.” Then you felt the weight of a hand on your thigh again. A shiver rushed down your spine, but it was the wrong side. Your cousin had put his hand on your knee. “Everything alright, Y/N?”

You nodded. “Yeah, everything is perfect”, you blabbered hoping he wouldn’t keep asking questions, but he did. “Don’t be so worried, every time I’m with a girl. I know you’re still a virgin, but you can get some too. Tommy wouldn’t be against it.”

How wonderfully wrong he was. Neither were you a virgin nor would Tommy be okay with this. After all, you were his little sister and he wouldn’t accept the guy, you were sleeping with. Of course, Isaiah was a friend of the family, but after the whole thing with Ada and Freddie you had something to worry about.

The best snarky comeback was right on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t say it without letting something slip. ‘What gives you the idea I’m still a virgin?’ And yet you were silent as the guy who fucked you, sat right next to you. You felt trapped and decided to go straight forward. “Yes, he would. You know it and everybody in Small Heath knows it.”

“Oh whatever”, Michael mumbled: “Just drink enough and you eventually forget about it.”

You grinned and emptied your drink. “Fuck it, let’s play some cards. I’m not done with Mr. Gold over here.”  Then you took the cards and dealt them to start the next round.

Much later that night when you brought Finn back home and went straight back to the pub, in front of the entrance, you stumbled into Bonnie. “Is there a reason why you’re smirking?” you asked him. He was gleaming red and smiling like an idiot.

Then you remembered. “The singer, right?” Bonnie nodded and his grin got even wider. “You talked to her?” Again he gave you a silent answer. You grabbed his arm and pulled him back inside. He was a lot heavier than you thought, but then again, you were just a girl and he was a boxer.

Sometime it was weird to only have male friends, it just happened. Maybe it was because of your brothers. Maybe that’s why you never acted like a proper girl. Of course you felt like a woman and you liked your body, but in your eyes it was so much easier to talk to guys.

“Eyy, where did you found him?” Michael slurred and helped you to put your friend on a chair again. With your hands finally free you had the chance to explain. “Found him outside. I don’t know what he did there, but he talked to the singer.”

Both, Isiah and Michael nodded. It was only logical for Bonnie to freak out after it talking to her. He was there every Friday night looking for the singer and now his brain seemed to melt, just because she said something to him. But neither of you knew, what she said exactly. Maybe this was a problem for another night. It didn’t look like Bonnie was able to answer.

So you ordered some more drinks and sat back down again. In this separate room, which was reserved for your family, it was almost too tempting to get close to your boyfriend again. Isiah looked so good that night and it hurt to be unable to touch him… or to kiss him. But you would be satisfied with just holding his hand now.

It was a curse; you knew it soon after you realized that you loved him. He was handsome, charming and a loyal friend. There was no better man for you, even though you wished you could be together in public. And again you bit your lip and moved your chair away from him.

But you couldn’t think about this anymore, it was too frustrating and luckily somebody else caught your attention. It was Bonnie who mumbled very quietly: “I think she kissed me, but it could be a dream as well. It felt so surreal.”  You padded his shoulder and nodded to underline your compassion.

It was just the same with Isaiah. Whenever you two were alone, it was amazing and beautiful. He was so soft and romantic and he just made you happy. But every time you woke up and he was gone, the sweet scenery shattered. And out in public it was getting annoying to find excuses to be with him or getting away, so you could spend some time alone with him and you had to lie to your whole family about your whereabouts. Slowly it became exhausting.

There was nothing you could do about it, so you just drank your whiskey and talked with the boys about Bonnie’s singer and the girl Michael had. It was so easy for them to display their relationship in the public, but of course you didn’t have this privilege as a girl. Apparently, you needed to be protected. Or so it has been explained to you. You wasn’t concerned for your safety but for your freedom. Tommy said it was his job as your big brother to care for you, even if it felt like he was controlling you. You have always been the wild one among your siblings and everything was fine, until your mum died and your dad left. Then Tommy was in charge and sometimes his opinions would vary from yours, which led to fights. And yet you feared what he might do, if he found out about your secret.

All the sudden Bonnie fell from his chair and you groaned. Now somebody had to bring him home as well. First Finn and now him… but why they couldn’t take the whiskey today? You weren’t nearly as drunk as them, but still.

Isaiah stood up and picked his friend up. “I’m taking him home. I’ll be right back”, he said, before leaving.

Now Michael and you were alone. It wasn’t what you wanted. The only thing you could think of was smooching the sweet lips of your boyfriend. You were caught up in your little fantasy, when your cousin woke you up again. “Isaiah is acting weird lately.”

“Oh… really? I didn’t notice”, you replied: “He seemed normal to me.” Your hand grabbed the fringe of your dress. Talking about him made you nervous.

Michael moaned and fumbled for his cigarettes. He put them out, you took one and he turned his between his fingers, when he added: “I don’t know, maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I think he is hiding something from us.” Then he lit his cigarette and took a drag from it.

You inhaled sharply and stared into the void for a second, before answering: “Don’t be silly, he is just as loyal as ever.” Then you laughed and Michael joined in. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I just needed to get this off my chest.”

The rest of the conversation went just like usual. You chatted, you bickered and you had fun. While the bell already announced the new day, Isaiah came back.

In this tiny glimpse of a moment you couldn’t hide your smile and he reciprocated. Actually, you were just waiting for Michael to leave now. It was your plan all along, but patience has never been your strong suit.

It took three more rounds for Michael to say goodnight. “Take care of her, will you?” Isaiah nodded. When Michael finally grabbed his jacket and headed to the door, you felt unbelievably excited. Your fingertips slapped a melody on the table, while you watched him leaving. The door shut and now you had what you longed for all night.

You turned around and looked at him. Gosh, waiting felt like an eternity. Now you were the one smiling like an idiot. Slowly Isaiah came closer and his hand pulled you to him for a kiss. “Finally”, you whispered against his lips, before giving him what he wanted.

After you two parted you rested your head on his shoulder. Now you were getting tired as well, but you didn’t want to go to your bed. “I was waiting the whole evening for this”, he moaned and stroked your hair.

The smell of his perfume made you realized how much you missed him too, even though he was with you since you went to Garrison tonight. You moved closer to him and wrapped your arms around him to give him a tight squeeze. Then you signed: “I wish we didn’t have to hide” and buried your face in his shirt.

“Babe”, he replied: “We already had this conversation. It wouldn’t end well. Let’s just enjoy what we have as long as we can.” It hurt, but Isaiah was right. There was no chance Tommy was getting you off the hook, once he knew about it. And no matter how you explained it to him, he would still be against it. You were too young for stuff like that, as if he didn’t fucked Greta, when he was the same age.

You leaned back to see his beautiful face again. There was something in his eyes, a twinkle or something like that, but it always made you feel comfortable. A lick of your lip was enough to purpose the idea of doing something nasty. He knew you since you were children and it was like he could read your thoughts, especially the dirty ones.

Isaiah started giggling and asked: “Hey, babe, I still can cheer you up, right?”

Maybe it was time for some fun, different to the fun you had before with your friends. The word pleasure would describe it well and with his knowing look he gave you so many ideas. You laughed and nodded. “I think it might help when you do the thing with your tongue.”

“Oh”, he responded amused: “Like this?” And then grabbed you for a kiss and god, what a kiss it was. His tongue brushed your upper lip just to enter your mouth and explore it as if it was your first kiss. He even bit your lip playfully and kept going until you couldn’t breathe no more. Your knees started shaking and it was needless to say, he was the best kisser you ever had.

It took you a while to catch a breath again, but then you answered: “Yeah, just like this… But maybe we could go to your place and do a little more?”

He didn’t seem to be so sure about this suggestion. His thumb stroked your shoulder as he held you in his arm. Because he was so quiet for a second, you knew, he thought about this backwards and forwards. “But right when the sun comes up, you have to go back home”, he argued.

Again, Isaiah was right. You should take too many risks. Otherwise you might get caught and neither of you wanted that. All you could do was to shrug and agree: “Just don’t shoo me after we fucked.” There was bitterness in your voice. What wouldn’t you give to wake up next to him every morning?

The pub was almost empty, when you left. You couldn’t hold his hand on the way out. Everybody in Small Heath was Tommy’s spy. Back on the streets a cold wind blew. Now you had an excuse to go near him and he shared his coat with you. Isaiah was always so sweet and caring. You knew you wanted to spend your future with him. There was no other man and you wouldn’t get over him, not now and not in five years.

You even took off your shoes before entering the Jesus household and followed him on your tiptoes to his room. It was completely dark in the house and the silence was haunting, but good for you, you knew the way by now. The excitement made your fingers tremble.

Finally you arrived where you wanted to be the whole day, in his room. Isaiah closed the door as quietly as possible and started smiling. You walked up to him and started to unbutton his shirt. Now you didn’t want to waste any time.

And neither did Isaiah. He was ripping down your dress, which only worked because the straps were so thin. His hands were all over your body and you couldn’t stop kissing every inch of his skin. It felt like magic whenever he touched you. You moaned, when he played with your bare breasts. To silence you he put his thumb on your lips, which you took as an invitation to suck it. Maybe it was mean to tease him like that, but you were desperate for his affection.

An hour later you laid next to him, your head on his chest as he stroked your hair. “You should leave, before we both fall asleep, babe”, he whispered, which caused you to sign. Leaving now was draining, even exhausting. After this wonderful sex, you were too tired to move anywhere, not to the bathroom and certainly not back to your cold bed.

You pouted your lips and tilted your head, so you could give him your puppy eyes and a pretty please with cream and a cherry on top. “Just ten more minutes. Your bed is way comfier than mine.”

He laughed and kissed your forehead. “That’s just because I’m in this bed and you like to use me as your personal giant pillow.” Your fingers hovered about his belly. Even though his muscles weren’t tense now, you could still feel the strength lying beneath his skin.

While your index finger drew circles around his bellybutton, you whined: “Maybe… just maybe that is true, but I still want to lay here for a bit. Otherwise I start to feel like a whore, who only comes for sex and leaves silently afterwards.”  It wasn’t a knock against Lizzie or her job, but you didn’t like the feeling, when you got home and had to find sleep in your own bed. Even though you had a relationship with him, you still felt lonely. Especially when the sun was rising and nobody was by your side.

“You’re not a whore and you know that”, he argued looking a little concerned.

Then you turned on your back and stared at the ceiling. “No, I’m a Shelby and that is probably worse”, you scoffed.

Now Isaiah was silent and had no witty comeback for that. Maybe, because it was true. If you weren’t part of the family, you could be with anyone, whoever you wanted. Carrying the name Shelby was the only reason, why you had to hide your relationship with Isaiah.

After a while he mumbled: “Okay, stay for a while, but you should be back before they open the shop.” By that time you were already half asleep and yet his words made you smile. He wrapped his arms around you, the little spoon and purred like a cat. Just in this position the both of you fell asleep.

Loud steps were coming near the door, but they wouldn’t wake you up. The screaming of Isaiah’s name did. It was a familiar voice and it took you a couple of minutes to notice, it was your brother Finn who shouted and ran down the hall. Suddenly you were wide awake. You startled up and looked around the room. The sun was already up and shining through the window. Then you saw Isaiah, who was just as frightened as you were.

If Finn came rushing through that door, your secret relationship was no longer secret. “I locked the door last night”, he whispered, which was relieving to you, but still no perfect solution for this problem.

Now Finn arrived at the other side of the door and was knocking on it like crazy. “Isaiah, wake up! Y/N is gone. Nobody can find her and Michael said you were the last one with her in the bar”, your brother yelled. You could hear the panic in his voice, but you couldn’t get caught. Not now.

You stumbled out of the bed and collected your clothes, when you heard Isaiah ask: “What are you going to do? You can’t go out there. He will find out.” And you knew your boyfriend wasn’t concerned about Finn, more about Tommy.

The tension in the room was immense. You had to come up with a plan or your brothers would shoot your lover in front of your eyes.

Suddenly you knew what to do. You pushed the pile of clothing to your chest and squeeze it thigh, when you explained in a lower tone: “I’m gonna hide in the wardrobe and then you open the door and go with Finn away. Afterwards I can come out and then I go to the betting shop and tell the others I have fallen asleep on a bench or something.” It was not the best plan, but yet your only option.

Isaiah nodded and you climbed into the cabinet where he stored his shirt and jackets. The second you entered the small wooden space, you knew it was all going down. Call it intuition, call it divination, call it whatever power Polly owned, but you felt it rushing through your body. He closed the door behind you and then you could hear him stumble into his pants.

Only half clothed he unlocked the door to let Finn in. Isaiah was still sleepy. He wasn’t the morning type of person and before he hadn’t had his breakfast he wasn’t really available. Finn strode up and down. You heard is nervous steps. “Everybody is freaking out right now. Polly thinks somebody kidnapped her or worse. I mean, she has always been unratable in her doings, but this time my sister is really going of the edge. It’s already past lunch and nobody has seen her”, Finn explained: “This morning her bed was empty and I thought I shouldn’t worry, but now I’m afraid I should have said something sooner.”

The cabinet was very uncomfortable and yet you tried not to move or to make a noise, which would cause Finn’s attention. However, being in Isaiah’s position didn’t seem to be pleasant as well. He had to lie to his best friend about the whereabouts of his missing sister, knowing she was sitting right here. Isaiah patted his friends shoulder and said nothing.

Finn didn’t calm down and seemed to be upset, Isaiah wasn’t panicking like him. “C’mon, get dressed. We have to look for her. She might be lying somewhere in the dirt. We shouldn’t waste even more time, standing around.” Then he walked to the closet and opened just the door where you had been hiding.

Butt-naked you fell down to the floor and looked up to your younger brother, who had the same face expression as the one time you told him where the babies were coming from. Some when later you would look back at this moment and would have a good laugh about this, but right now it felt like your world was collapsing.

He should have seen you like this and it took you a whole minute to gather the mental energy to get back up at your feet and greet him like it was the normal thing to do in a situation like this. “Hey, Finny, there I am.”

Your brother froze mid movement and stared at you as if you were the first pink elephant the world has seen or a bear riding a bike. Then he broke the silence. “What?”, he winced. There was no anger in his voice, just total confusion.

Finn looked to Isaiah and then back to you. “You screwed my sister?!”

There was no answer to this question.

“How long?” Finn asked: “How long did you hide that from me?”

You glared over to you boyfriend as if you were asking him for permission to say something. Isaiah signed and nodded. There was no point in denying this anymore. It was over.

Now you had to tell the truth. “A couple of months, maybe a year or so”, you croaked and your voice sounded strange. Like it was not your own and even though you dreamt about finally opening up, it shouldn’t have been like this.

Your brother yelled: “A year?! A whole fucking year? Damn, I should be proud because apparently you two are excellent liars with no moral issues… you two deserve each other.” You heard the disgust and disappointment, when he spoke and it broke your heart. Back then, when the whole thing started you though he might be the only one of your brothers to understand you. How wonderfully wrong you were.

“No”, you said under your breath: “Don’t fucking do this to me. I would have told you, if you wouldn’t have run straight to Tommy after you knew. Everybody knows you can’t keep a secret. So don’t act like it was my fault or my mistake, because it’s not. I would have gladly told everybody, I’m like him very much, but you and Tommy and Arthur and John made it impossible for me to even talk with a guy who is not part of the gang. You can’t turn this around and act like you are the victim in all this.”

It was time for you to stand up for yourself and your decisions… and time for you to get dressed. You didn’t seem as responsible as you were when you were still naked and in front of the closed you have been hiding in. Now you knew how wrong it was to lie and hide your relationship, because it wasn’t their concern. It was your life, your body and your choice. Nobody could take that from you and certainly not your brothers. You weren’t afraid of them. All your life you saw how your brothers treated women and you said nothing about it, but this should change right now.

So you stood there, furious and filled with rage, put on your dress and your shoes and said one last thing, before leaving: “This madness has to end.”

You stormed out of the room- not caring for Isaiah or Finn- and heading for the King of Small Heath to throw him out of his high throne. Your hair was a nest and you smelled like a bar after a dirty old night, when you entered the betting shop. Nobody was there, just the regular family members.

Everybody seemed to be relieved to see you again and then came close to hug you. Ada was right next to the door and the first to greet you. “Oh my god, you’re back, sweetie”, she muttered.

Next was Polly who examined your appearance for cuts and other injuries. Of course you had none, besides the hickeys Isaiah gave you. She tried to take a closer look of your neck, but you pulled away, which caused her to ask: “What happened? Where were you all night?”

Now Tommy was coming up to you. His steps were slow, but fierce and the glare in his eyes was pinching. “Just from the smell I would guess, she was with a guy this night”, he scoffed: “She probably had a lot of fun, but now she should say, who that guy was, so we can take actions.” You knew he was addressing you, even though he didn’t phrase it like that.

“I don’t think, this is your business”, you replied with a grin on your face. You wouldn’t back down. Not this time. “But yes, I was with a guy tonight. So you don’t need to worry. I’m completely fine.”

Your older brother led out a little laugh, pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Well, well, well, I don’t care what you think. I’m your brother and it’s my job to make sure you’re safe”, he explained: “And now you tell me who he was.” Ah, past tense, a hint of what was going to happen.

You crossed your arms and tiled your head to give him a dismissive look. “Who said it was your job?” was your comeback, but your brother wasn’t remotely impressed. Neither of you would let the other win. You were too stubborn for this gesture of insight.

Others, including Arthur and John, were somehow intimidated by Tommy’s behavior, but not you. Actually, you learned too much from him to take his shit.  He taught you to help your head up high and how to outsmart your enemies.  Now you could use the same strategies against him.

“Ever since our father left and mom died, you act like you are in charge, but you’re not. We are your siblings, not your pawn, waiting for your command”, you hissed: “I have my own life and I make my own decisions and who I meet shouldn’t concern you.” Slowly your anger grew. It was a boiling feeling in your gut, like you were fueled with fire.

Tommy was getting gleaming red. You had hit the right spot and you knew you would hurt him with your words, but otherwise he wouldn’t understand. The words were stuck in his throat as he killed you with his looks.

Patiently, you waited for his answer. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, but silencing your brother was the best thing ever, since he was the reason why you felt miserable lately. “No comeback? No arguments, dear?” You loved to poke his wounds and you did it with a huge smile on your face.

“As if you would listen to me… You even said it yourself. You wouldn’t take my advice”, he responded and bid his lip. “But I don’t need to talk to you to teach you a lesson. You’re too young to fuck around town and I’m going to find the bastard who did this and kill him.”

The door was opened behind you and soon Finn entered the room. You gave your little brother the death glare you were known for. He shouldn’t get the idea he was allowed to talk about what he found out.

You should be raging right now, but all you could do was laugh. His empty threats weren’t as daunting as he thought. With nothing but spite you whistled: “I would love to see you try. I kept this a secret for over a year now and you noticed nothing. And now I can wait another year for you to find him… or I could run away… whatever you prefer.”

Now you’re pushing your luck. Finn could ruin everything, if he just said one wrong word. The palms of your hands were sweaty. It was a dangerous game you played there, but it was not like you could back out of it now. This was road of no return.

Tommy seemed to be more surprised than fuming, when he asked: “You slept with some geezers for a year now?” He respected your talent to keep it under the radar. Everybody who could shirk his rules deserved acknowledgement for putting up with this risk. Maybe he was finally realizing how much you had grown. You weren’t his little kitten anymore.

“No, not geezers, just one guy”, you corrected him: “But yes, that is true.”

You watched Tommy as he walked around the table, heading for the whiskey, while he nodded understandingly. “Mh, so you would say it’s love?”

A sign came from your lips. You already knew the answer, but you weren’t so sure, if you should say this out loud. After all, you didn’t even have a proper talk about this with Isaiah. Silence was filling the room, while you calculated your risks. If you said, you loved him and Isaiah wasn’t as serious about the relationship, you would look like an idiot. Good for you, he didn’t come to the betting shop to witness the fight between you and your brother. Finally you decided to tell everybody: “Yes, I do.”

“Good”, Tommy mumbled while he poured his whiskey: “Then you should have my blessing. Just give us the name now.” He took a sip and seemed to be amused by your embarrassment.

Talking about Isaiah, while he wasn’t present, was weird, but you knew why he stayed in the comfort of his own room. You weren’t mad at him for not running after you. This was your fight and not his. And after all your brothers were a little scary, when it comes to stuff like this.

But you had Tommy’s word now and nothing should happen to your man. You shrugged and rolled with your eyes. The fuss they made about this was still annoying.

Ada patted your shoulder and encouraged you to speak. “Do we know him?” The answer was yes, but it was also the reason, why you struggled to say it out loud.

Even John chimed in and kept pushing: “Yeah, what’s up with this fella?” He was smiling to let you know the mood had changed. Nobody was against you anymore.

“It’s…”, you started and fumbled for the seam of your dress: “It’s Isaiah.”

At first it was dead silence, while the others processed the information, then Arthur and John burst out in laughter. Finn seemed to be relieved, because he would have hated it to keep a secret like this. Your older sister was hugging you a little too tight and even Polly was smiling.

Tommy had a smug on his face when he muttered: “If that’s the case, then you should have your happiness.”

“Isaiah is a fine fella. You will be alright”, hummed Arthur. Apparently everybody was happy with your choice. You just had to stand up for yourself.

It felt like a huge weight was lifted off your shoulders and then you could laugh about it too. But suddenly you remember that Isaiah was still waiting for his death in his room. “I should go and let him of the hook”, you fluted and already went to the door when you heard Tommy said: “Don’t get pregnant or he has to marry you.”

[fangirlwriting-stories]

A Kind Of Understanding

Summary: Remus' decision to babysit a kid for a couple nights to earn some extra cash ends up getting him in over his head when the kid tells him something the parents didn't mention.

In all fairness, Roman had told him he was probably getting in over his head.  Remus was the idiot who didn’t believe him.

He just needed money.  If he was actually going to be able to afford all the spray paints he wanted for his new art project by the roller rink, he was going to need a lot more money than he had.  Curse him and his ambitious ideas.

Remus considered himself lucky when he quickly found a family willing to pay 60 bucks a night to watch their eight year old kid.  Roman took one look at the offer and said he was definitely going to be dealing with a brat.

“Why else would they pay so much?” he asked, giving the flyer a suspicious look.

“So?  I need, like, two hundred bucks to get the kind and amount of spray paint I need.  I’d only have to watch the bratty kid for four nights and I’d be good.  I can set her up in front of a movie she really likes, make her some mac and cheese for dinner, and it’ll be all good.”

“I think you’re underestimating kids, Re.  You have met Patton and Logan, right?”

Patton and Logan were Virgil’s little brothers, and Remus honestly wasn’t sure why he was bringing them up, because they were both absolute sweethearts.  Sure, Logan could sometimes get a chip on his shoulder about being too old for a babysitter, and Patton could be a bit of a crybaby sometimes, but otherwise Remus never minded when Virgil brought his friends along for a hangout.  Especially when Patton teased Roman about liking Virgil, and Remus got to watch him go bright red with embarrassment.

Well okay, granted, Logan had been much more insufferable when he was Patton’s age.  But Patton was still a sweetheart.

“I’m telling you, I’ve got this,” he said, waving Roman’s concerns off.  “It’s just one little girl, anyway.  How hard could it be?”

This was the attitude Remus took with him when going to the Ekans house the following night.  The parents sent him the address, and the mom was waiting outside.

“Hi, Mrs. Ekans,” Remus said, putting on his ‘I am talking to an adult that I respect’ voice.  “I’m Remus.”

“Yes, hello dear,” she said.  “I was so happy to get your call.  It can be rather hard to find a babysitter to deal with Janice, what with how she can get with all her silly fantasies.”

Remus tipped his head in confusion.  “Silly fantasies?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it.  You don’t need to indulge her, dear, we’ve told her many times that no one who watches her will be doing so.  But anyway, here’s ten dollars for a tip, we ordered a pizza, the delivery man should be here any minute, so you won’t have to worry about dinner.”

“Thanks,” Remus said, taking the money and putting it in his pocket to grab when the delivery person showed up.

The door opened behind the two of them and a man came out, adjusting a tie.  Behind him, a girl in a sparkly pink dress stood in the doorway, who could only be Janice.

“Oh, good,” the man said when he noticed Remus.  “Janice, your babysitter’s here, be good for him, okay?”  He turned to Remus.  “Bedtime is at 8, pizza’s on the way, otherwise you should be good to go.”

“Thanks,” Remus said again, heading past him and into the house.  They both waved at Janice as they left, who notably did not wave back.

As soon as the car drove off, Remus shut the door and turned to face Janice.  “Well, sweetheart—” he started.

“First of all,” Janice snapped, sounding so furious that it took Remus aback.  He had barely even said anything yet.  “I have rules.”

Remus raised an eyebrow.  “Isn’t that kind of my job?”

“No!” Janice screamed, stamping her foot.  “You are here for me, that means I’m the boss!  First of all, don’t ever call me sweetheart.  And I am going into my room to change into my real clothes, and you aren’t going to stop me!”

Remus’ brow furrowed.  “What’s wrong with the clothes you have on now?” he asked.

“Dresses are for girls,” Janice snapped, voice filled with way more vitriol than Remus expected.  “I’m a boy.  And you are not going to take away the only chance I get to wear my real clothes!”  And, like that decided that, he turned and stormed away towards the back of the house and where his room no doubt was.

Remus looked after the kid, blinking for a second as he tried to process everything that had just happened.  So that’s what Mrs. Ekans meant by silly fantasies.

Well, fuck, he was way out of his depth with shit like this.

The kid came out of the hallway a couple minutes later wearing a t-shirt and shorts.  And while the t-shirt was still bright pink, he at least looked a little more comfortable than he had in a dress.

“Okay, J— kid,” Remus said.  “So let me see if I’ve got this right.  You say you’re a boy?”

“Yes,” the kid snapped.  “And you don’t get to say otherwise, you got it?”

“Hey, understood,” Remus said, holding his hands up.  “Can I just ask a question?”

The kid narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.  “What?”

“Do you want me to still use the name your parents gave me, or do you want me to call you something else?”

The kid seemed to grow even more suspicious at that question.  “Mom didn’t tell you not to indulge my silly fantasies?”

“Doesn’t seem to me like there’s anything silly about it,” Remus said with a shrug.  “I was just wondering if you had a different name picked out.”

The kid’s eyes widened slightly, though not enough to stop looking suspicious.  “You can do that?”

“Of course you can,” Remus said, taking a couple steps forward and kneeling down in front of the kid.  “I have a friend named Virgil who changed his name.  He used to be called Jacob, but he hated that name.  He thought it was boring.”

“He was right,” the kid said instantly.  Remus laughed.

The kid seemed to think for a minute.  “I don’t know,” he said finally.  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Do you want me to use the name your parents gave me, then?”

“No,” the kid snapped instantly, looking angry again.

“Okay.  Got it.  For now, I’ll just call you kid.  How’s that?”

The kid seemed to consider that for a minute, then nodded.  “Okay.”

Remus smiled.  “Okay.  So your parents said that a pizza delivery person should be here soon.  Do you want to watch a movie while we eat?”

“No,” the kid snapped.  “Movies are stupid.”

Remus blinked.  “Okay.  What do you want to do while we eat?”

“I want to sit in silence and do nothing!” the kid snapped.

Remus blinked again.  “Uh, I’m not so sure that would be very fun.”

“You’re not fun anyway!” the kid screamed.

Remus was honestly a little offended.  How dare this child say he wasn’t fun?  He could be super fun!  Before he could reply to correct this wildly false statement, the doorbell rang.

Remus stood up and headed over to the door, and opened it to see, as expected, the pizza delivery person.

“Thanks,” Remus said, taking the pizza and pulling out the ten dollar bill Mrs. Ekans had left him.  He handed it to the delivery person, who thanked him and headed back towards the car parked out front.  Remus shut the door and carried the pizza over to the table, and the kid came over after him and grabbed one of the plates that had been left out on the counter.

“Give me two pieces,” he said, holding the plate out to Remus.

“Let’s start with one,” Remus said, taking the plate.

“No!” the kid snapped.  “I want two!”

“Kid, I’m gonna start you with one,” Remus said, taking a piece of pizza and putting it on the plate.

“No!” the kid snapped again.  “I want two pieces!  I’m hungry, are you trying to tell me I shouldn’t eat until I’m full?  That can have harmful consequences!”

Remus took a deep breath.  “I am going to start you with one.  If you want another piece after you finish that one, I will happily give you one.”

“I want two right now!” the kid screamed, stamping his foot.

Remus squeezed his eyes shut.  “Nope,” he said, handing the kid the plate.

The kid narrowed his eyes, and Remus had a second to wonder if eight year olds still threw temper tantrums, when instead the kid shot Remus a glare that could kill and stomped into the other room and sat down on the couch.

Remus took a piece of pizza and put it on the plate.  This was about as bad as it was going to get, right?

…

“Kid, you need to go to bed,” Remus said, leaning against the door frame, looking at the kid who was sitting resolutely and reading through a book.

“Why should I?  Bedtime is a social construct.”

“Oh my god,” Remus groaned, looking up at the ceiling.  This had been a recurring theme for most of the night.  The kid’s father was apparently a philosophy nerd, and the kid listened in on a lot of his conversations about the subject with his wife, and had turned that into a belief that all of society was a construct and he could do whatever he wanted.  He was brilliant for an eight year old.  And it was as annoying as all fuck.

“Look,” Remus said.  “If you go to bed now, next time I come, I’ll bring you a surprise.”

“What kind of surprise?” the kid asked, narrowing his eyes.  “How could any surprise you give me be worth it?”

“Well, if you don’t go to bed now, you’ll never know,” Remus pointed out.

The kid seemed to know exactly what Remus was doing with that, but he also finally put the book aside and laid his head down on his pillow.  Remus flicked off the lights and shut the door, and finally let out a breath.

He made his way back out to the living room, put the remaining pizza in the fridge, and then collapsed on the couch.

“Children are exhausting,” he said to no one.

By the time the kid’s parents got back Remus was ready to go home and sleep for a week and a half.  But that was a feeling that faded as soon as Mr. Ekans walked through the door and opened his mouth.

“How was she?” he asked, putting the car keys on a hook by the wall.  “She didn’t give you too much trouble, did she?”

Remus had to fight to keep from grinding his teeth.  “Fine,” he said, keeping his voice as pleasant as he could.  “The flyer said I should come back Saturday next, right?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Ekans said, pulling out her wallet and thumbing out the sixty dollars in cash.  She handed it over, and Remus took it.  “I’m glad things went well.  Janice has been known to drive away a few sitters in the past.”

I can’t imagine why.

Remus got out of the house as quickly as he could.  He had some thinking to do, and he wasn’t going to do it in front of a couple of transphobic pieces of shit.

…

By the time Saturday arrived Remus had a battle plan.  Roman had been amused when Remus had described the first night as “frustrating,” but had been surprised when Remus had been determined to go back.  Remus left out most of the details that weren’t his to share, though he imagined Roman must have figured something was up when he spent most of the week researching boy names and hairstyles.

When he got to the Ekans house next time, the kid looked surprised to see him, and Remus couldn’t say he blamed him.  He tried to smile and nod whenever possible, as hopefully it would get the kid’s parents out the door faster.  The second they left Remus took off the backpack he’d brought and moved over to sit on the couch.  “Hey, kid, c’mere.”

“No.  Why?”

“I’ve got something for ya.  I promised you a surprise if you went to bed, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I turned the lamp on again as soon as you left the room.”

Remus sighed.  “Of course you did.  Come here anyway.”

The kid looked curious, and given that it was one of the few times he hadn’t been glaring at him, Remus would take it as a good sign.

“So I did some research these past couple days,” Remus said, starting with the notebook.  “And I found some names you might like.”

“Wait, what?” the kid sat on the couch and took the notebook from him.  “What do you mean you looked at names for me?”

“Well, you said you didn’t know what you wanted your name to be.  I don’t really want to call you ‘kid’ forever.  If you don’t like any of these we can keep looking, though.”

The kid turned and stared at him.  “But I was mean to you.”

“You’re the kid I’m babysitting,” Remus said, smirking at him.  “I think I can take it.  Besides, what does that have to do with your name?”

“Why are you being nice to me if I was mean to you?”

“Being nice and basic human decency are two different things.  You can be the snottiest kid in the world, that doesn’t mean I’m going to start treating you like a girl.”

The kid’s eyes widened.  “Really?”

“Really.  You say you’re a boy, I believe you, and I’ll treat you as such, okay?”

To Remus’ surprise, the kid’s eyes welled up with tears.

“Oh shit, don’t cry.  Hang on—”

The kid threw himself at Remus’ and buried his head in his side.  Remus awkwardly patted him on the back and waited until the kid stopped crying, after which he pulled back and wiped at his eyes, still sniffling.  “Mommy always says I shouldn’t make people indulge me,” he whispered.

“I’m not indulging anything,” Remus said.  “This is what you said you want, and it should be respected.  If you change your mind later, that’s fine too.  But even if you do, I’m not going to treat you in any way that makes you miserable in the meantime.”

The kid sniffed again and wiped at his eyes.  He looked like he didn’t know what to say, which was fair.

After a moment, he picked up the notebook and started looking at the names, sometimes pointing at one he didn’t know and asking Remus to read it.  He stopped at one on page three.

“You just wrote Janice,” he said.  “I thought you said I didn’t have to use that name.”

“J-a-n-u-s is a masculine spelling,” Remus said.  “I just figured if you liked the way your name sounded but didn’t like that it was associated with being a girl, that was an option.”

The kid looked at it for a while longer.  “You could use this one around my parents,” he said.

“Technically, yes,” Remus said.

The kid turned and looked at him.  “Where does Janus come from?”

“It’s the name of a Roman god,” Remus said.  “He’s the god of doors, gates, and beginnings.  He has two faces.”

The kid started to grin.  “I could be named after a god?”

“If that’s what you want.”

He started nodding.  “I like that.  I like that a lot.  And it could be like lying to my parents.  They’re forcing me to lie to everyone else, but this way I get to lie to them.”

Remus started to smile too.  “Yeah?  You think that’s the one?”

“Definitely.  And besides, if I don’t like later it I can change it again, right?”

“Of course you can.”

Janus beamed at him.  “Yeah.  That’s the one.”

“Awesome,” Remus said, leaning over and ruffling his hair.  “Now, onto the second manner of business.”

“There’s more?”

“Yep.” Remus reached into his bag and pulled out a hairbrush and ponytail holders.  “So I’m not going to cut your hair without your parent’s permission or I’d get fired.  But I have a couple ways I can deal with your hair as it is right now if you want to.”

Janus nodded quickly, and turned around so Remus could get to his hair more easily,  “So we could put it up in a bun so it’s out of your face, or I could move the curls further behind your head so it looks more like a style than just you having longer curly hair.”

“What would a style look like?” Janus asked.

“Alright, give me a sec,” Remus said.  He grabbed the bobby pins he’d borrowed from his mother and used them to tuck Janus’ curls further behind his head.  He turned Janus around after a moment and brushed some of the curls across his forehead so they looked more like bangs.

“Alright,” he said, sitting back.  “Here, check that out.”  He pulled out the mirror he brought with him, and handed it to Janus.

His eyes widened as he looked in it.  “Woah.  You did this with my hair?”

“Mm-hmm,” Remus said.  “You like it?”

Janus grinned at him again and nodded.  Then his gaze turned curious.  “Why are you doing all this?”

“I already told you—”

“No, I mean… Mommy says boys and girls can’t change who they are.  She says I’m a girl no matter what I do.”

“Bah,” Remus said, waving the concept away.  “Gender is a social construct.”

Janus snorted.

“You laugh, but it’s true.  Have you ever heard the term ‘transgender’ before?”

Janus shook his head.

“It’s a term people can use to describe themselves when their gender doesn’t match the one they were born as.  Plenty of people describe themselves that way.  I’m friends with a couple on the internet.”

Janus looked fascinated, and almost painfully hopeful.  “Not just me?”

“Definitely not just you.”

Janus sat back, seeming to take a minute to process that.  “Can you show me?” he asked, looking back up at Remus.

And so they spent most of the day on Remus’ phone looking at transgender people and stories and definitions.  Remus made sure to steer clear of any discourse or transphobia.  Janus had enough to deal with already without having to learn about that on a broad scale yet.

By the time Janus’ parents texted Remus saying they were on their way back, they’d been there for hours.

“Okay,” Remus said, setting the phone aside.  “I should probably take your hair down now.”

Janus sighed, even though he seemed to have expected that.  “Okay,” he mumbled.

“We can put it back up next time I come, okay?” Remus said.

Janus nodded.  “Yeah, we fucking better.”

Remus coughed in surprise.  “Wha— where did you learn that word?”

Janus grinned at him.  “You’ll never fucking know.”

Remus laughed despite himself.  Okay, so maybe this kid wasn’t so terrible.

…

Things went smoother for the last two times Remus had signed up to babysit him.  Janus had so obviously needed some kind of positive role model, because the second Remus reassured him that he believed him and would treat him as a boy, Janus got loads easier to handle.  At the end of the third time Remus babysat for him, Janus looking at him very seriously and told him that he was clearly one of those rare smart adults.

“Well, technically I’m a teenager,” Remus admitted.

Janus nodded.  “Oh.  That explains it.”

Remus blinked at him.  Well, this kid was definitely going to turn into even more of a nightmare as he got older.

Roman seemed more than a little surprised that Remus hit it off with the kid so well, and when Remus eventually mentioned it to Virgil, he got the same result.  But Remus would just shrug and say something generic along the lines of “We just clicked, I guess.”

He found himself actually looking forward to the last time he was supposed to babysit, which unfortunately came with a realization that this would be the last time he babysat for Janus.  The time passed much too quickly, and Remus, at the end of the night, was not looking forward to leaving.

So for once, an interaction from Janus’ parents brought a positive consequence.

“You just make Janice so happy,” Mrs. Ekans said.  “And that’s not really something that happens with her very often.”

I can’t imagine why.

“I know this wasn’t supposed to be a long term thing, but if you would be willing to become her regular babysitter, we’ll pay you eighty a night instead of sixty.”

Well, Remus probably would have agreed even without the pay raise, especially after he noticed Janus watching hopefully from the hallway, but the extra twenty a night didn’t hurt either.  In the end, after what was basically the opposite of a long and hard decision, Remus agreed, and was now going to spend his Saturdays (and many week nights) watching a kid that he was quickly growing to care for.

Janus plopped himself down on the couch next to Remus a second after he showed up next time, with his lip wobbling and sniffling in a way that immediately made Remus nervous.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Do you only like me because my parents pay you?” Janus asked.

“What?  Of course not, I love hanging out with you,” Remus said, relieved he was actually telling the truth.

Janus brightened immediately.  “Cool!  So if we’re actually friends does that mean you can take me out for ice cream?”

Remus blinked at him for a couple seconds, trying to figure out how in the hell he just got played by an eight year old.  Regardless, they ended up at an ice cream parlor that day.

There came times Virgil had to watch his little brothers too, and Virgil must have told them about Janus, because one day Virgil texted him asking if they could maybe set up a playdate with the little girl he babysat.  Remus winced, but said he’d bring it up next time he was there.

“Their names are Patton and Logan,” he said to Janus, who was looking up at him over the the drawing he was making.  He’d become insistent on drawing better than Remus ever since he’d shown him one of his pieces.  “They’re Virgil’s little brothers.  They want to meet you.”

Janus bit his lip.  “Do I have to pretend to be a girl around them?”

“Kid, that is entirely up to you,” Remus said.  “I haven’t told them yet because you haven’t given me permission.  I can tell you they won’t mind, if you’re worried about that.”

Janus gave that a moment of thought.  “Okay.  You can tell them I’m a boy.  If you’re really sure they won’t mind.”

“I’m sure.”

Janus nodded.  “Okay.  Can they not come here though?”

“I don’t think we picked a place to go yet.  But we could go to a park, or possibly Virgil's house.  We’d have to run it by everyone’s parents.”

“Ugh.  Well that’s not gonna work out then,” Janus said, turning back to his drawing.  “My parents never want me to do anything that makes me happy.”

Remus felt his heart crack at that.  He didn’t know how to explain to the kid the difference between his parents being transphobic and his parents never wanting him to be happy.  He supposed the end result was the same either way.  But Remus couldn’t imagine them having an issue with Janus meeting some other kids.  He was apparently pretty lonely.

“Give it a chance,” he said eventually.  “They could surprise you.”

Janus gave him a look of such doubt that Remus considered, not for the first time, murdering Janus’ parents and hiding their transphobic asses out in the shed.

Luckily, Remus was at least right in Janus’ parents wanting him to meet new kids.  And he was of course also right about none of his friends having a problem with Janus being trans, although they seemed sad for the kid when they learned what his parents were like.  Good.  Remus would have lost respect for them if they didn’t.

They ended up meeting over at Virgil’s house, which was good, because Remus had a sneaking suspicion Janus’ parents would not have approved of Patton, and his love for all things pink and/or sparkly.  They walked through the front door and saw Virgil and Roman sitting on the couch chatting as Logan was doing a puzzle nearby.  Patton was sitting next to him, coloring in a coloring book and wearing a bright pink sparkly dress similar to the one Remus had met Janus in.  Janus’ eyes got really big when he saw Patton, and he hid behind Remus’ leg.

“I thought you said Patton was a boy,” he whispered.

“He is,” Remus replied.  “Patton likes wearing pink sparkly dresses, but that doesn’t make him any less of a boy.”

Virgil glanced up and waved.  “Hey, Remus.  Guys, Remus and Janus are here.”

Patton and Logan both glanced up, and then Patton hopped up and ran across the room.  “Hi!” he said, sticking out his hand.  “I’m Patton!  Virgil says you’re eight just like me!”

Janus slowly stepped out from behind Remus’ leg and shook Patton’s hand.  “Hi,” he said.  “I’m Janus.  J-a-n-u-s.  It’s the boy spelling.  Because I’m a boy.”

Patton grinned at him.  “Yeah, Remus told us!  I think that’s really cool!  Do you want to come color with me?”

It was clear Janus didn’t know quite what to do with that, but he nodded anyway, and Patton took his hand and dragged him over to where he’d been coloring.  Remus noted Logan saying hi as he did so, and including a note about how he was ten and too old for a babysitter.  Remus walked over to sit on the couch next to Virgil and Roman.

“That went about like I’d expected,” he said, nodding at Patton.

Virgil snorted.  “Yeah, pretty much,” he agreed, leaning back and ending up partly against Roman.  Remus would have to tease him about how bright red his face got later.

Overall, the afternoon was a success.  Janus and Patton got along very well, and they made a deal that next time, Janus would bring a sparkly dress and trade it for some of Patton’s more boyish clothes.  Janus talked the whole drive home about how much he liked Patton.

“Even though he could be a little less bouncy,” Janus said.  “He’s kind of a lot.”

“I get that,” Remus said.  “Patton is a really excitable kid.  He’ll mellow out the longer you know him.”

Janus nodded.  “Good,” he said, and Remus laughed.

Just like Remus had expected, Janus’ parents were glad to see him happy from hanging out with other kids.  Which unfortunately also meant they likely had no idea what had actually been happening at the playdate.  It was definitely worth it, though.  Janus gave Remus a hug, a beaming smile, and said he would see him on Saturday, before running off to his room still smiling.

Remus texted Virgil that they would have to do so again sometime soon.

…

Remus arrived on time Saturday, but Mr. and Mrs. Ekans were already rushing out the door, barely having time to hand Remus money for dinner, and saying something about getting something to cheer Janus up before they ran out their car and drove off.

Remus blinked as he watched them drive off, before processing the fact that they’d said something about cheering Janus up.  He headed inside, looking around and hoping to find him.

“Janus?” he called, but no one responded.  He started looking around the living room and found no one, there wasn’t anyone in the kitchen, not even the cabinets, and Remus checked in all their usual hide and seek places, but didn’t find anything.

“Janus?” he called, sticking his head into his room.  There still wasn’t anyone obviously in there, but just as Remus was about to leave he heard sniffing that sounded like it was coming from under the bed.

He shut the door quietly behind him and pulled up the blankets, and there was Janus, curled into a ball.

“Kiddo?” he asked quietly.

“Adults are stupid,” Janus said.  “They don’t understand anything.”

“As a seventeen year old I wholeheartedly agree,” Remus said, trying to get a chuckle or a smile, but not succeeding.  “Are we talking about something specific?”

“They just don’t understand,” Janus said, tucking his head into his knees.  “No matter how many times I explain it to them they don’t get it.  I don’t want to be a girl, Remus.  I mean, am I just explaining it wrong?  If I explain it enough times they have to understand, right?”  He sniffed.  “I just have to explain it a few more times, right?”

“Oh, kiddo,” Remus murmured, reaching a hand under the bed.  Janus grabbed it and let Remus help him out before burying his head in his chest.

“I thought they were supposed to love me,” Janus whispered.  “Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?”

“They do love you,” Remus tried to reassure, because he’d seen some proof of that.  He’d seen the way they smiled when they saw Janus happy.  They’d thanked him so many times, saying they were unsure of how he did it.

“No.  They love J-a-n-i-c-e.  They love the little girl they think they have.  But that’s not who I am.”  Janus looked up at him, tears pouring down his face.  “Remus, why do they hate who I am?”

Remus didn’t have any good reply to that.  He just gently pulled Janus back to his chest and rubbed his back.  He wasn’t surprised when that just made Janus cry harder, but he didn’t know what else to do.

Janus pulled back and looked up at him after a second.  “Remus?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you still like me if I was a girl?”

Remus had no idea what that question entailed.  He nodded.

“And you like me even though I’m not?”

“Of course I do.”

“What if—” Janus sniffed.  “What if I end up liking boys too or something?  That would be even harder to explain.”

“I like boys,” Remus said instantly.

Janus sniffed again.  “You do?”

Remus nodded.  “Kid, you know what my mom said when I asked her about this stuff?”

“What?”

��She said love should never be conditional.”

“What does conditional mean?”

“It means, Janus,” Remus said, shifting so Janus could sit more comfortably on his lap.  “That you could be trans, cis, gay, straight, a weird half snake man who wears a really stupid hat—”

Janus finally laughed a little at that.

“And if you ask me that question, the answer will always be ‘I love you,’ over and over.”

Janus blinked a couple times.  “You mean you like me?”

“Nope.  I mean I love you, kid.  No matter what.”

Janus’ eyes got big, and tears welled up in them again.  “Over and over?”

“Over and over,” Remus agreed.

Janus sniffed again, and leaned his head into Remus’ chest again.  Remus wrapped his arms around him.  “I am so sorry your parents can’t see what an amazing kid you are just as you are,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Janus said.  “They just don’t understand.  They’re stupid adults.  Adults don’t understand anything.”

Remus held Janus tighter.  “Yeah,” he agreed.  “Adults don’t understand anything.”

…

Over the next couple months, Janus and Patton ended up trading half their wardrobe.  Janus often had a monster truck or dinosaur shirt on within ten minutes of Remus coming over, though he would admit to Remus that those weren’t really his favorite.  He said he liked the one with the cartoon snake on it.  Remus spent the day going over shirts with more realistic snakes on them that Janus liked.  In the end they purchased a couple that Remus said he would keep at his house for days that Janus came over there.

They also spent quite a few days at the park with Patton and Logan, sometimes with Virgil, sometimes with Virgil’s mom or dad.  They felt bad about Janus’ situation too, and Remus could tell they wished they could be doing more.  But Janus wasn’t being abused or neglected, and transphobic parents weren’t a legal reason that someone could be removed from a home.  Remus was really doing about all he could for him.  At least it seemed to be making Janus happier than he was.  Sometimes, Janus told Remus everything he would do once he was too old for his parents to stop him.  Fifteen, he said.  When he was fifteen he would get a haircut.  And Remus would come, right?

Remus would consider for a moment that he’d probably be in college at that point, but he couldn’t imagine leaving this kid to deal with his parents alone, no matter how old they both got, so the conversation always ended with Remus promising that he’d be there when Janus got his first real haircut at fifteen.

There were, of course, things to teach Janus about how to rebel against all of society, though the kid already had an excellent head start with all the philosophy he knew.  Remus took him spray painting one time, and Janus sprayed all of curse words he knew on the wall.  Remus couldn’t be prouder.  They’d shoplifted together a couple times too.  Remus made sure Janus understood that you couldn’t shoplift from a small business that would actually get hurt by it.  Only big chains like Walmart.  And no stealing in a way that would hurt the employees.  Janus seemed to accept all of this easily.  “It’s about eating the rich,” he said, nodding firmly.  “Not hurting people who are already struggling.”

“You’ve got it,” Remus said with a proud smile.

But one of his favorite parts of being with Janus, after he spent one time at the park with Roman and Virgil, was how easily the kid picked up on how in love the two were.

“We have to do something about it,” Janus insisted.  “They’re wasting time!  They don’t have mean parents to worry about, why are they wasting time being scared?”

“I ask them that question all the damn time,” Remus said with a smirk.

“Okay,” Janus said, biting his lip as he started thinking.  “We’re gonna come up with a plan.”

“Oh, are we?  What are we doing?”

“I don’t know yet.  Come help me.”

They spent the rest of that afternoon coming up with their plan, and planned to enact it that Saturday.  They ended up at the ice cream parlor along with Patton and Logan, who were also in on the plan.  Janus was there with Roman and Remus, and Patton and Logan were there with Virgil.  The two in question were not aware that the other group was there.  So, after a couple minutes, Janus loudly remarked to Roman that Patton was there, and could they go say hi.

“You know,” Janus said before Roman could reply.  “I’m going to marry Patton one day.”

Roman smiled, his heart no doubt melting in the same way that Remus’ had when Janus had first told him this.  “Are you?” Roman asked, taking a bite of his ice cream.

Janus nodded.  “And he can wear a wedding dress, because he likes wearing dresses, and I can wear the tuxedo because I don’t like dresses, and you and Virgil can be the best men because it would be cool to have another married couple as the best men.”

Roman started coughing, and Remus patted him casually on the back as he struggled to stop turning bright red.  “What— Virgil and I aren’t married!” Roman exclaimed.

Janus gasped.  “What?  Why not?  When are you going to propose?”

“I— Janus, we’re not dating,” Roman said, turning more into a tomato by the second.

“What?” Janus said, sounding for all the life of him like he was heartbroken.  “You have to ask him out then!”

“Janus—”

“Roman, it could mess up Patton and I’s whole wedding!  You’re gonna mess up our wedding?”  His lip wobbled in a way Remus could tell was fake three months ago, but Roman was clearly not there yet.

“I— look, kiddo, I do like Virgil, but—”

“Then go on!  Time’s ticking, you have to get married before Patton and I do!” Janus called, jumping up and pulling Roman up out of his chair.  “Go on, go on, go on!”

Roman was left with not much of a choice at that point, and he headed over towards the booth across the parlor, where an equally red-faced Virgil had appeared to have been having a similar conversation.  Remus and Janus both followed him over.  There was no way they were missing this.

Virgil stood up quickly when Roman got there, and they both started stammering something that was barely coherent, but in the end, Roman managed to get out something about dinner on Friday, and Virgil managed to nod.

All of the kids, and Remus cause what the hell, started to cheer.

“Look at that, we finally got your heads out of your asses!” Remus called, slapping Roman on the back, who smacked him on the arm right back.

“You all planned this, didn’t you?” Virgil asked, looking too embarrassed to be angry, though Remus had no doubt that would come later.

“Maybe,” Remus said, sliding into the booth after Janus, who was now sitting next to Patton.

“We correctly deduced you would never do anything yourselves,” Logan said with a smile from Patton's other side.

“Janus and I are still getting married one day though,” Patton said, completely seriously.

“Yes,” Janus said, nodding along.  “And you two will be our best men.”

“Okay, slow down,” Roman said.  “That’s taking things a little fast.”

“I think they figured they’d make up for all the time you two wasted,” Remus said with a grin.

“I’m going to kill you later,” Roman said.

“No, please, think of my children,” Remus said.

“What children?”

“Me!” Janus exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.  Remus laughed and pulled him to his side, giving him a noogie.

As the conversation started to head back into a normal direction, Janus nudged Remus in the side.  Remus glanced over.

“Sorry I made the children joke,” Janus said quietly.

“Oh, don’t be sorry.  It’s true is what it is,” Remus said, ruffling his hair again.  “I have adopted you.  You can never get rid of me.”

Janus started smiling.  “Promise?”

“Promise,” Remus said.  “You know why?”

“‘Cause you love me over and over?”

“Because I love you over and over,” Remus said, giving Janus a quick side hug.  “You nailed it, my little man.”

“Little man,” Janus said quietly, though he was still smiling really big, and Remus smiled back.  “Little man.  Yeah.”

[tahitianmangoes]

Pairing(s): F!Reader x Micah Bell

Summary:  You had always liked rougher men. Bad men. The wrong men.

Tags/triggers: NSFW Word Count: 1750

We All Like a Bad Boy, Don’t We? (Not A Fucking Outlaw Though, Chris)

After a lucrative morning in Valentine, you returned triumphant to the camp, your pockets heavy with money and items swiped from unsuspecting townsfolk. You made a show of putting what you’d earned into the camp’s donations box.

Dutch of course didn’t let it go unnoticed, always with one eye on the box he came over when he saw you filling in the ledger. 

“Three pocket watches, two wedding rings and $68! That’s my girl. Everyone needs to take a leaf out of your book, my dear.” He said loudly so that everyone took notice. 

Arthur was standing by the campfire and turned to Dutch’s booming voice. You’d been running with the Van Der Linde gang for the best part of a year now and you’d be lying if you didn’t say that you didn’t think that Arthur was probably the most handsome man you had ever met. He was gruff but kind, rugged and handsome but damn, did he not have a clue. He didn’t notice how women and men alike would stop to gawk at him - he was statuesque in his beauty.

“That’s a lotta money for a little lady,” he said teasingly, “where’d you get all that?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” you replied with a wry smile. 

“Were you followed?” Arthur asked, he still smiled but he looked at you in earnest.

You rolled your eyes at him, “what do you take me for?”

“Good girl.”

You left Dutch and Arthur, heading to the treeline at the edge of the camp for some peace and quiet for a little while, maybe you could even take a nap before someone came to find you to ask something else of you…

You sat down initially, looking out over the Dakota River. The camp boasted some of the best vistas you had ever seen. It was then that you heard a rustling in the bushes behind you and you jumped back to your feet. 

It was Micah Bell. He leaned against a large oak tree just behind you. You hadn’t noticed him but it didn’t surprise you to see him there, he often spent a lot of his downtime on the outskirts of the camp. 

Micah’s ice blue eyes peered out at you beneath the brim of his off white hat, his face framed by this dirty blond hair.

Micah hadn’t caught your attention at first when you had joined the gang. Not even second but he grew on you, slowly and steadily like moss on a rock.

You understood exactly why everyone else resented him - he was past gruff, he was rude and often chauvinistic and sometimes downright repugnant. 

Why in the hell did that get you so hot?

There was something about the way Micah Bell sneered and smirked so smugly. There was something about the way he leered at you when you leant forwards sometimes to reach something to get a better look down your blouse - it sickened you but simultaneously, it was exciting.

You had always liked rougher men. Bad men. The wrong men. You weren’t one for romance; you liked to see and feel it for yourself. Raw passion meant more than followers or empty words. 

Even the notorious Dutch Van der Linde was too tame for you. Micah on the other hand… He sure was untameable. 

“Is that what you like?” He scoffed, “the likes of Morgan pattin’ you on the head like a little dog an’ callin’ you a good girl?”

You squared up to him, not missing that his eyes were sparkling as he held you in his gaze.

“Surely you know me better than that, Mr Bell. I ain’t no one’s pet.”

“What a shame…” Micah breathed and you shivered. 

Maybe he saw that and saw how your cheeks were flushed now because his smirk only darkened. “I don’t think we’d be missed for a short bit, would we?” You found yourself shaking your head. “Why don’t you come here and tell me what you do like?”

You went to him as if possessed by him, bewitched by his suggestion. Before you knew it you stood before him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him on this warm, spring afternoon. 

You couldn’t deny that you had thought about this more than maybe you should have. Sure, you’d imagined what most of the people in camp would be like to lie with - Arthur would be tender, Javier intense and Charles… well let’s just say you’d seen him bathing once before and wouldn’t mind trying out what he was hiding under those clothes...

But you always returned to thinking about Micah; you knew he’d fuck fast and reckless. He’d talk dirty and have you in positions that would make a whore blush. 

And god did you want to live that fantasy…

“Cat got your tongue?” Micah asked you, voice low and borderline seductive, “come tell me what you want.”

As soon as you inched closer to him, the pair of you were kissing hard. You wondered whether Micah had thought about you was much as much as you had him. 

His kiss was rough and left you breathless, his beard scratched against your soft skin and he wasted no time in pawing at you through your blouse, fingers deceptively swift at undoing the fastenings so that he could free your breasts and  knead them. You trembled into his touch, the hardened skin of his fingers dragged over your already erect nipples and you had to stifle a whimper. 

He chuckled into your mouth. He was enjoying this.

Bastard.

You felt him shift, pushing his thigh between your legs and your whimper turned into a groan, your eyes fluttering shut at that delicious pressure he had introduced.

“You like it, huh?” He said breathlessly letting you ride his thigh while he stooped to let his tongue swirl your nipple and bite playfully at your breasts.

The material from your skirt and drawers was preventing you from feeling everything as you rutted against him. You let out a sound of frustration and pulled away, panting, sweat starting to pool at the base of your neck. Swiftly you removed your drawers, letting them fall into the mud at your feet. Micah clicked his tongue at the sight of your naked pussy. You would have been embarrassed had you not been so wet and uncomfortable - you could see where your juices had left trails on his beige pants. He didn’t seem to care. 

He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back to him with ease and with one hand, he reached down and let his fingers dip inside your slick folds.

You gasped at the feel and he growled, fingers knowing exactly what to do- circling your clit so you bucked in his grip and whimpered his name.

“Tell me what you want, little miss,” Micah whispered, his hands on your were hot but his breath was hotter as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck, “You know what you want, you just don’t know how to ask for it. Don’t be shy.”

“F-fuck me, Micah.”

“I thought you’d never ask, darlin’.” 

He flipped you around so that you faced the tree he had been leaning against and hitched your skirt up. You heard a rumble from his chest, his fingers traced the slit of your pussy and circled your asshole making you squeak. You could hear the material of his pants being undone. “So pretty and wet, just for me...”

He pushed into you without warning, eliciting a low groan from you at the sensation of being filled. You rocked back against him instinctively, needed the motion and the friction but Micah thrust slowly, almost lazily until you whined at him

“Micah… Please…” It wasn't fast enough to to relieve you; you needed it faster, needed him to ram into you and fuck you senseless.

Micah chuckled again. That damn laugh of his. You could imagine the look on his face now, vainglorious. 

“What would Morgan say about his good girl now?” Micah cooed,  “Takin’ cock so nicely and beggin’ for more… If someone were to look over they'd see you and what you really are…”

You cared not one bit if Morgan or the whole camp saw you. The pit of your stomach was coiled and you needed him to move, needed to feel that release.

You pushed back again harder and he growled, hands reaching around to cup your breasts. You pushed back once more desperately, you could feel his breath on your skin. 

“Mmm, that’s right sweetheart. Why don’t you do the hard work for me?”

You pushed back then brought yourself forward in his cock repeatedly, slow at first so you could feel the length of him. You picked up the pace once comfortable, could feel his cock brush up against your sweet spot but knew you couldn't come like this so your hand dipped between your legs to give you some relief as you rubbed your clit.

Micah's chest rumbled at the sight and he placed his hands back on your hips so he could continue to plough into you.

Your breaths filled the clearing: your stifled moans and Micah panting.  You clung to the tree, the bark under your nails and your head foggy with lust. 

Micah wrenched your head back, one hand on the tree trunk to anchor him and the other around your throat. He squeezed ever so slightly but that was enough to make your eyes roll back, your tongue go slack in your mouth and your legs tremble as you came. You could feel yourself soaking him but couldn’t stop. Micah didn’t stop either, pounding into you at a faster pace now, the sound of squelching and skin slapping against each other seemed louder than gunshots but you were spent, leaning into him and moaning at each new thrust, pushing you ever the edge  until he cussed and grunted.

You felt warmth seeping down between your thighs as Micah let your skirt back down. The pair of you caught your breath, Micah tucked himself back into his pants and you buttoned your blouse back up. 

Micah offered a cigarette to you and lit it for you. 

“Don’t worry,” he said to you, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, “I won’t tell Morgan.”

[tempestaurora]

FANDOMS: Marvel, Voltron: Legendary Defender, The 100, Harry Potter, The Raven Cycle, Community, Avatar: The Last Airbender, The Umbrella Academy

NOTES:

i tagged every tumblr i could reasonably find. if you have more than one fic on this list, i have tagged you more than once. some people may be tagged like five times. i’m not sorry.

where relevant, fandoms have been split into general (platonic) centric fics, and romantic/slash fics. this is just because it’s easier than splitting it up into specific relationships.

at the end of every fic title/author line is a list of core relationships; fics are split between gen and romance depending on what relationship is considered centric. otherwise, fics are in no particular order. All fics are completed unless otherwise specified.

i added a read more because there’s over 100 fics listed here.

anyway, enjoy, thanks for the 3k followers

M A R V E L

gen centric fics

SHORT (0 - 5K)

K.I.D. by blondsak @blondsak | Tony&Peter

summary: “Hi K.I.D. Glad you’re awake. Do you know your primary objective?”

“To always look for ways to remind Mister Stark - that’s you! - that Kindness Isn’t Dead.”

“That’s right, K.I.D. Good job.” 

forty miles by peter_stank @peter-stank

summary:  the one where Morgan is sick and Tony is in way over his head, so he calls his spiderson for a little bit of help. Tony&Peter

from now on by peterparkr @peterparkrr |  Tony&Peter

summary: Peter’s sure that Tony and Pepper’s wedding will change everything. 

Machine Wash Hot; Tumble Dry Low by alice_in_ink | Tony&Peter

summary: Do you ever fall into sewers and then need your billionaire mentor to wash your super-suit? Peter Parker does too. 

Captain That by maddo | Tony&Peter

summary: Just a bunch of little anecdotes regarding our favourite spider and his Instagram account, feat. a meme-tastic Tony Stark.

Here's to all the new beginnings by Gruoch @groo-ock | Tony&Peter

summary: Peter gets a job. Tony is less than pleased. 

to know, to protecc, and to fuck with by peterstank and floweryfran @peter-stank @floweryfran | Tony&Peter, Natasha&Peter, Sam/May

summary: peter parker convinces the responsible adults in his life to join him on the world’s stupidest stake-out. 

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

i used to have nothing and then by dirgewithoutmusic @ink-splotch | Clint&Natasha

summary: “Clint,” Natasha said. “You’ve got to let me go.”

“Clint,” she said, and he let her go. 

the hearth by sagemb |  Tony&Peter

summary: What to Do When Your Wife Is Out of the Country: A Guide by Tony Stark

1) Gain partial custody of a child 2) Sleep on the couch 3) Have the child gain partial custody of you.

Love in Ones and Zeroes by forensicleaf @forensicleaf | Tony&Peter

summary: a boy, a bot, and a bond through the years. Tony&DUM-E

call you home SERIES by Madelinedear | May&Tony, Tony&Peter

summary: sometimes family is who you're born with. and sometimes family is a spider boy, a rich not-dad, and a kickass aunt. (or; tony, may, and peter find a place in each other's lives) 

Not-Uncle Tony by Jen27ny @jen27ny | Tony&Peter, Happy&Peter

summary: Happy is Peter's biological father, and Tony is there for the entire ride. 

Between how it is and how it should be by frostysunflowers @frostysunflowers | Peter&Bucky, Tony&Peter, Steve&Bucky

summary: ''Doesn’t Captain Rogers ever…wonder,'' Peter winced as he fumbled for the right word, ''where you are?''

Bucky smirked. ''Steve’s a regular mother hen. Used to be me that worried about him.'' He gave Peter a pointed look. ''Better question is, isn’t Stark wondering where you are?''

The Unfortune Teller by peterparkr @peterparkrr | Tony&Peter

summary: A woman in a carnival booth predicts Peter's death. 

all the things yet to come (are the things that have passed) by peterparkr @peterparkrr | Peter&Morgan, Tony&Peter

summary: The first time Peter sees Morgan is at the funeral. 

tony and peggy’s big day out! by floweryfran @floweryfran | Tony&Peggy

summary: “What’s happened this time?”

“Just a bombing,” says Peggy.

“At three in the afternoon?” says Jarvis. “Frankly, how rude.”

Blips on the Record by ambivalentangst @ambivalentmarvel | Flash&Peter, Tony&Peter

summary: Flash Thompson’s story is not simple, Peter Parker can always use someone else in his corner, and secrets are had and protected by all. 

aiding and abetting: a peter parker saga by floweryfran and peterstank @floweryfran @peter-stank | Peter&Avengers

summary: 5 times peter parker runs into the rogues separately + the 1 time they work together as a team. 

Tennessee Outreach for Spider-Man (and friends) by ciaconnaa @ciaconnaa | Harley&Peter, Harley&Tony

summary: in an attempt to help Harley beef up his college apps, Tony offers Harley a remote Stark Industries internship to help Spider-Man. It easily becomes his worst nightmare. 

Allston Christmas by Gruoch @groo-ock | Tony&Peter, Tony&Peter&Rhodey

summary: “You guys didn’t have to do this,” Peter says from where he sits squeezed into the middle seat of the U-Haul, sweat running down his back. The air-conditioning in the truck they’ve rented is broken, and even with the windows rolled down it’s hellishly hot inside.

“We wanted to,” Tony replies as he blasts the horn at a minivan with a “Harvard Mom” bumper sticker that is attempting to cut into his lane.

so happy together by floweryfran @floweryfran | Tony&Ben

summary: ben parker calling tony stark a twink for 13k words

LONG (20K+)

An Unofficial Introduction to the Avengers SERIES by Isnt_it_pretty_to_think_so @isnt-it-pretty-to-think-so-tr | Tony&Peter

summary: The Avengers meet Spiderman via the online world, and then meet Peter Parker in Stark's living room. It takes them longer than it should to put two-and-two together. 

what is and will be (is you and me) by momentofmemory @momentofmemory | May&Peter

summary: 5 times May was there for Peter, +1 time he was there for her. 

dear mr. fantasy by iron_spider @iron--spider | Tony&Peter

summary: He grits his teeth and turns around, and before he can even begin to trudge over towards Peter’s room, he’s stopped in his tracks. By a door. In the middle. Of the living room.

“Well that’s new,” he says, still rooted to the spot.

timshel SERIES by justanotherblond @blondieewritess | Bucky&Peter, Steve/Bucky

summary: The soldier doesn’t remember his son’s birth or how he came to be. He doesn’t remember bedding a woman and watching her belly swell, but they said the boy was his. He does know that he will protect and teach the boy within the confines of their cell walls. Even when the handlers berate him. Even when the good guys take him away. 

odd couple buddies SERIES by bysine | Peter&Bucky, Sam&Thor, Tony&Peter

summary: "You know you're not supposed to call him the Winter Soldier any more, right?" Peter says, while they handcuff him to a pipe. A pipe. "Also this whole thing is kind of messing up my schedule. My two overdue papers won't exactly write themselves."

i understand (i’m a liability) by floweryfran @floweryfran | Harley&Tony, Harley&Peter

summary: “I… am not being challenged in the right ways here,” Harley says slowly, carefully.

“Then move here,” Tony says, and Harley’s heart drops straight into his feet. 

Roundabout by Gruoch @groo-ock | Tony&Peter

summary: In which Peter attempts to survive long enough to graduate, Tony moonlights as a semi-professional party planner, and absolutely nothing goes according to plan. 

Uncle Steve's Fix-it Freelance Gig (and friends) SERIES by whowhotellsyourstory | Steve&Morgan, Tony&Steve, Bucky&Peter

summary: "You ever need help, and I'm not there-""Why wouldn't you be there?""You call Uncle Steve."

notes: probably my favourite post endgame fix it fic/series in existence

Dumpster Fires Verse SERIES by deniigiq @deniigi | Peter&Wade&Matt

summary: A collection of Team Red stories because they are all hot messes. Except Peter. Two-Thirds of them are hot messes.

Impression, Sunrise by ciaconnaa @ciaconnaa | Peter&Morgan

summary: In Peter Parker's eyes, Morgan Stark is a lot of things: a terrible pancake chef, a top notch negotiator, the world's cutest six-year old. But above all, she is his family. He hopes he's enough. 

The Room Where It Happens by notapartytrick @notaparty-trick | Tony&Peter

summary: At 7:36 pm on the 12th of May 2016, Tony Stark is put in the Room.

A twelve-by-twelve-foot shed, soundproofed, double locked. It becomes his home. It has to be, because there’s nowhere else.

At 4:22 pm on the 15th of June 2017, Peter Parker is put in the Room.

They make a living under duress, fearing at every moment the entry of their captor. Confinement halts their lives in their tracks, changes them both for good: breaks them and brings them together simultaneously.

“If someone has everything they need, but nobody, do they have everything? Or nothing?”

romance centric fics

SHORT (0 - 5K)

written in the star(war)s by ciaconnaa @ciaconnaa | Peter/Michelle

summary: Michelle looks at the nurse one more time, and despite the evidence, asks, “Are you sure it’s twins?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the nurse points them out again. “One boy, and one girl. Due...May 4th.”

It only takes Michelle 2.3 seconds to realize the horror of that sentence. 

Steve Rogers is (Not) A Good Influence by stevergrsno @stevergrsno |  Steve/Bucky, Steve&Peter

summary: Steve Rogers' American Tour Of Waiting For His Brainwashed Boyfriend To Come Back And Blowing Up Hydra is interrupted when Tony Stark dumps Peter Parker into his lap.

Captain ‘Socialist Rage Muffin’ America by mybrotherharry @baffledkingcomposinghallelujah | Steve/Tony, Steve/Tony/Bucky

summary: It takes three months of dating Steve Rogers for Tony to understand why Aunt Peggy once shot at him in sheer frustration.Alternately titled, Honey, I committed treason again. 

Soft Spot for the Hell Raisin' Boy by ifeelbetter @ifeelbetterer | Steve/Bucky

summary: The Winter Soldier takes an interest in Sam Wilson. Bucky Barnes wants to tell him how to be Steve Rogers's best friend.

Cat’s Cradle by Traincat @traincat | Peter/Felicia

summary: The test was positive.

Felicia tilted it idly this way and that, sitting on the bathroom floor with her back against the cupboard. The floors and the counter tops were marble, and the shower door was glass. Every one of Felicia’s moves seemed to echo in the large room, even though she knew that she was making no sound.

The test was positive. She didn’t bother to check the box to make sure she’d gotten the little symbols right. She’d known before she took it.

“Well,” she breathed out, tilting her head back to inspect the ceiling. “Damn, Spider.”

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

cross this river to the other side by defcontwo | Steve/Bucky

summary: In 1943, the Howling Commandos wrote goodbye letters to be given to their loved ones in the event of their deaths.In 2014, Sharon Carter finds those letters in a tin can in an abandoned HYDRA base. 

Tony Stark Googled The Thing by mybrotherharry @baffledkingcomposinghallelujah | Tony/Pepper, Tony&Peter

summary: When Morgan is six months old, Pepper goes back to work and Tony takes over as stay-at-home dad. Discovering the mommyblogosphere is the inevitable next step.

Winter Soldier Program by NocturneByChopin | Steve/Bucky

summary: Here’s the thing: he’s got a bit of a secret. It involves a boy that went and became famous when Steve wasn’t looking. 

i was found and now i don't roam these streets by hipsterchrist | Steve/Bucky

summary: Bucky relearns himself and how to be on a team, the rest of the Avengers try to get answers, and everyone watches too much Criminal Minds. 

Between a Rock and a Hard Place by ciaconnaa @ciaconnaa | Michelle/Peter, Michelle&Happy, Tony&Peter

summary: Ever since her mother died a few years back, Michelle's relationship with her father became strained in their grief. One night, after she's forced to show up at Peter's covered in bruises and in need of stitches, she remembers that even the most unsuspecting dormant volcanoes can erupt.

Brooklyn by togina @toli-a | Steve/Bucky

summary: "Captain America, what's your stance on gay marriage?"

Everyone knows that, by now. Everyone but Bucky.

Steve Rogers at 100: Celebrating Captain America on Film by eleveninches, febricant, hellotailor, M_Leigh, neenya, tigrrmilk | Steve/Bucky

summary: Steve and Bucky find out Hollywood has been busy since they went away. A historical survey, including but not limited to: one set of exploded genitals, a brief interlude in France, Mel Gibson and other masterworks of casting, eight Academy awards, several dinosaurs, and something Tony Stark has ominously dubbed “the masterpiece.” Art included.

Project: Get Bucky Barnes a Dog by ruxian | Steve/Bucky

summary: Bucky Barnes does not have a dog. Bucky Barnes does not want a dog. Sam thinks that should change. Bucky does not agree. 

On My Radar by sprinkle_of_cinnamon | Steve/Bucky

summary: The Winter Soldier first noticed it when he was on the helicarrier.

The blonde’s shoulders were broad, incredibly broad.

They stretched the blue uniform in a wide span, drawing down to a narrow waist. It was a distinctly triangular silhouette. It was entirely improbable. And somehow it was strangely familiar.

The Winter Soldier raised his gun and fired. He didn’t have time for distractions, or Steve Rogers’ shoulders. 

LONG (20k+)

despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) by praximeter @praximeter | Steve/Bucky

summary: “Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.” 

notes: may i say a massive fucking HOLY SHIT??????????? incredible. iconic. life-changing.

United States v. Barnes, 617 F. Supp. 2d 143 (D.D.C. 2015) by fallingvoices and radialarch | Steve/Bucky

summary: The Associated Press @AP Winter Soldier set to stand trial for Washington D.C. massacre and treason apne.ws/1og6SWE 

Bucky Barnes: Former Disney Channel Star SERIES by mambo @whtaft | Steve/Bucky

summary: "The question the entertainment world is asking themselves today is... Who is Steve? Hollywood superstar Bucky Barnes was spotted at a wrap-party last night, serenading someone named Steve onstage.” 

Not Easy Conquered SERIES by dropdeaddream and WhatAre Fears | Steve/Bucky

summary: In 1945, Steve Rogers jumps from a nosediving plane and swims through miles of Arctic Ocean to a frozen shore.

In 1947, Steve Rogers marries Peggy Carter.

In 1966, the New York Times finds the lost letters of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

notes: if you’ve read stucky, you’ve read this series. i know this. just like i know that its the most GODDAMN BEAUTIFUL series ever written. no topping it. it’s number 1.

Strays by snarklyboojum @snarklyboojum | Steve/Bucky

summary: After finding himself alone for the first time in decades, the Winter Soldier learns how to be a person again. Mostly through caring for an orphaned kitten, countless rounds of YouTube roulette, and stalking Captain America. 

hold me until we crumble by queenklu @queenklu | Steve/Bucky

summary: “Sam told me you were watching Antiques Roadshow,” Natasha says, shaking out her hair. “I assumed it was a national emergency.”

notes: one of my favourite standalone fics i’ve ever read

half awake in a fake empire SERIES by idrilka | Steve/Bucky

summary: In the aftermath of Steve's return to the world of the living and the battle of New York, the academia and the Internet react.

by the river potomac i sat down and wept by peterstank @peter-stank | Steve/Bucky

summary: bucky barnes atones.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell SERIES by AnnaFugazzi | Steve/Bucky

summary: Captain America and Bucky Barnes were like brothers. Everyone knew that. 

Out of the Dead Land by orphaned account | Steve/Bucky

summary: Someone is building machines that look and act like people.

Meanwhile, the Winter Soldier tries to be Bucky Barnes.

V O L T R O N:  L E G E N D A R Y  D E F E N D E R

romance centric fics

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

called out your name (but it was too late) by arahir @arahir | James/Keith, Shiro/Keith

summary:  An old classmate watches Keith fall in love with someone else. 

so much for the after party by arahir @arahir | Shiro/Keith

summary: Shiro gets his groove back.

i breathe disaster by arahir @arahir | Shiro/Keith

summary: After the wedding, Keith leaves Earth in search of something he can keep. 

notes: what doES THIS M E AN?!!!??!!?!?! i cried over this ending. i cr i e d. actual real tears. it was so upsetting somehow. and i am so confused. and i went and found the author’s imagined ending in the comments to help understand the open one and it just made me SADDER. i think this is one of those fics that tries to teach me to read the tags and back away at the word “angst”. anyway, excellent, everything i’ve read from this author was incredible

LONG (20K+)

Alien Sex Fiend by Glossolalia | Shiro/Keith | WIP

summary: It started at a drive-in in the 1980s. Unfortunately, this is a love story; a love story about the frontman of Quantum Queef, a punk band, and a boy who rides a red motorcycle. Also, they fight aliens. 

notes: i’m OBSESSED with this fic. i have read it many times. shiro as a punk singer of a band called Quantum Queef????????? and the fact that it’s the only fic on this account???? absolute POWER MOVE.

T H E  1 0 0

romance centric fics

SHORT (0 - 5K)

golden gunned girls by littlearrows | Bellamy/Clarke

summary:  They’re not good girls. They have no reason to be. 

notes: i think about this fic approximately twice a week despite reading it five years ago. there’s a song called gold gun girls by metric that makes me absolutely feral and would be the dream theme song for the intro sequence of the girl gang tv show of my dreams

and then my soul saw you by synchronicities | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: Lexa tells Clarke that love within the cluster is the worst kind of narcissism. Bellamy begs to differ. Sense8 AU.

givers prove unkind by emullz | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: a modern au in which bellamy is in a band, he writes an album about clarke, and she is his ophelia. also, marriage.

she sounds like sex on the radio by lecornergirl | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: “Wait, hold on,” Clarke says. “Are you suggesting I—in the booth?” But her tone is a lot sterner than she feels. Against her better judgement, she’s into it. 

notes: idk what to tell you. i have only bookmarked like three smut fics in my life. it deserves it ok.

the kids aren’t alright by opensummer | Multiple Relationships

summary: The Pacific Rim fusion seven ways. 

notes: probably???? my favourite? pacific rim au? i’ve ever read??? does so much with so little

Haven’t You Heard? The World is Coming To An End by Jenye @likcoln-blog | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: So where would you rather die? Here or in Jaeger? Pacific Rim AU. 

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

three points (where two lines meet) SERIES by PinkCanary | Bellamy/Clarke/Raven

summary: Clarke wears the two names on her skin like a badge of honour. 

Icarus Lives by karusarchive @cluelesskaru | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: No one could ever have predicted the kaiju were coming.  Clarke Griffin was in need of a new Co-Pilot. Bellamy Blake had just graduated. You can guess how that goes.

notes: if anyone knows me at all, they know i’m a MASSIVE pacific rim fan. like, own all the books and graphic novels and have multiple pacrim t-shirts kind of fan. THIS FIC was my first experience with that franchise. my first ever. i watched the movie BECAUSE of this fic.

Pony Regrets SERIES by Chash @ponyregrets | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: Octavia drags Bellamy to a My Little Pony tournament. Bellamy is deeply upset about the whole thing, but then the girl running the tournament is really cute.

The Internet Is Forever SERIES by Chash @ponyregrets | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: Apparently, the internet has been shipping Bellamy Blake (of Team Arkade) and Clarke Griffin (of Craven Cosplay). No one told Bellamy about it. 

Nothing Like Old Times by LayALioness @filmnoirsbian | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: “Clarke killed some guy and stuffed him in the trunk,” Jasper says delightedly. “Your cousin’s dark, dude.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy nods, trying to backtrack. Sometimes he wishes she was actually better at making things up. “She’s a…closeted Goth.” Terminator AU. 

the feel-good hit of the summer by disco_vendetta @errorofyourways | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake are sleeping together. (aka ROCK BAND AU) 

notes: i think about this fic an OBSCENE amount. it’s been five years since i first read it.

LONG (20K+)

Your Mess Is Mine by monroeslittle @argyledpenguin | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: modern AU, Clarke grows up with Octavia, and Octavia's brother. 

notes: the fic that got me into fan fic in the first place. top tier. 42k.

Love Will Come Through by monroeslittle @argyledpenguin | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: AU. Clarke winds up in an arranged marriage with Bellamy. 

Neeeeeeeeeerds by Chash @ponyregrets | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: Clarke joins the Junior Classical League for two reasons: to appease her mother and to annoy Bellamy Blake.

Our Time Now SERIES by TazmainianDevil | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: The Ark may have been short on all resources vital to sustaining life but one thing they never ran out of was guns.On an Ark that has always been defined by violence, Jake Griffin manages to save his daughter's life and Clarke joins a gang to change the world.

Disney Channel You by Chash @ponyregrets | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: Bellamy only goes to the open casting for Clarke Griffin's new Disney Channel show because Octavia begs him. He never thought he'd actually get the stupid part. 

And You Understand Now Why They Lost Their Minds and Fought the Wars by marauders_groupie @marauders-groupie | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: Clarke doesn’t understand why they say that soulmates are one soul in two bodies. Her soul has five other bodies and she would give her life for any of them. Sense8 AU. 

notes: probably my favourite sense8 AU i’ve ever read?? and i have read Many

build this fire higher, higher toward the sky SERIES by adelicatepeach | Bellamy/Clarke

summary: Clarke's jaeger goes down on a Thursday. Pacific Rim AU. 

H A R R Y  P O T T E R

gen centric fic

LONG (20K+)

yer a wizard, dudley by dirgewithoutmusic @ink-splotch | Dudley&A Lot of People

summary: Minerva fished in her pocket without looking, because the only things allowed in her pockets were only ever exactly what she needed. “I've come to deliver this,” she said, “because Hogwarts by-laws require a professor to hand-deliver acceptance letters to Muggleborn families for their explanation and comfort." 

notes: i have only ever cared about two harry potter fics in my life. this is one of them.

the family evans by dirgewithoutmusic @ink-splotch | Petunia&A Lot of People

summary: What if, when Petunia Dursley found a little boy on her front doorstep, she took him in? Not into the cupboard under the stairs, not into a twisted childhood of tarnished worth and neglect—what if she took him in? 

notes: this is the other one

T H E  R A V E N  C Y C L E

gen centric fic

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

Helter Skelter by Anonymous | Ronan&Blue

summary: In hindsight, a road trip with your step-brother and his best friends in Gansey's dying Pig is not an ideal way to start summer break. Sargent-Lynch siblings AU.

meet hennessy by izzylizardborn @gaybluesargent | Hennessy&Jordan

summary: Hennessy had seen movies. She knew how this went. When it came to clones, there was always a good one and an evil one. She didn’t need to wonder which was which.

life is not a movie, maybe by coyotesuspect | Ronan&Blue

summary: Ronan gets kicked out of Aglionby and enrolls at Mountain View High for his senior year. The only problem is, no one remembers to tell Blue. 

Honeymoon by vexmybones | Ronan&Blue

summary: Blue and Ronan living together, no buffers, no bullshit, this is how they cope. 

the bugs and alphabet by Pi @rhea314 | Ronan&Blue

summary: In which Blue babysits Chainsaw, Ronan & Blue make angry art projects, and some conversations are almost had. 

romance centric fic

SHORT (0 - 5K)

Pretty Good, Right? by suddensingularity | Ronan/Blue

summary: Blue wants to have sex before her true love dies. Ronan helps out. Ronan/Blue

notes: yeah ok this is one of the three smut fics i’ve bookmarked its fun ok

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

It Had To Be You by shinealightonme @toast-the-unknowing | Ronan/Adam

summary: Ronan hates basically everything about their business, or that's what he tells Blue, but the worst part is that he's constantly meeting cute guys and none of them are single. 

darling, don’t make such a drama by shinealightonme @toast-the-unknowing | Ronan/Adam, Ronan&Henry, Ronan&Declan

summary: "Straight answers are boring," Cheng says, "and yes I do mean that for all values of straight. I do not need Ronan to share his tragic backstory, I would much rather deduce it on my own."

"Who says I have a tragic backstory?"

"With your fearsome glower and troubled good looks? If you did not have a tragic backstory it would be a waste."

 C O M M U N I T Y

romance centric fic

LONG (20k+)

Playing House by itsactuallycorrine @itsactuallycorrine | Jeff&Annie

summary: Six years ago, Jeff let Annie go. She never returned to Greendale, and he moved on. Now, he's a single dad to a one-year-old and he needs her help.

A V A T A R:  T H E  L A S T  A I R B E N D E R

gen centric fic

SHORT (0 - 5K)

call it dreaming by ciaconnaa @ciaconnaa | Toph&Gaang

After the war, Toph has nightmares. The screeching of metal, Sokka and Suki's screams, the snap of Sokka's leg as it broke from their fall. It's usually his confession that they aren't going to make it that makes her wake up in a cold sweat. She's anxious all the time now, unable to find peaceful sleep.

The cure is apparently to try and hold all of her friends hands for all hours of the days and hope that they're cool with it. 

what’s in a name by ciaconnaa @ciaconnaa | Toph&Sokka

summary: At her request, Sokka teaches Toph to write her name.

He learns a thing or two about the weight his own name holds in the process.

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

the beginning of a new and brighter birth by aloneintherain @captainkirkk | Zuko&Gaang

summary: “I’m so proud of you, my nephew.” Uncle cups Zuko’s face in his lined hand. The gesture is so tender, his palm so warm, that Zuko has to take a fortifying breath against the sudden swell of emotion in his chest.

“I want to be a good leader, Uncle,” Zuko says. “I want to look after my people.”

“You will,” Uncle says. “You are, nephew.”

In a new era of peace, Zuko works to be a very different Fire Lord than his forefathers.

the scope of blindness series by littlelionlady @thelittlelionlady | Toph&Gaang

summary: There are just some things that Toph's feet can't see.

Her hands can though.

Or, Toph learns what her friends look like by tracing their faces. 

notes: geniunely how goddamn beautiful is this. like. i cried. this is so soft and so cute and it made me feel SO MANY things

All The Gentle Creatures by Haircrescendo @sword-and-stars | Iroh&Zuko

It’s said that you can tell a lot about a person by how they treat animals. Zuko may be loud and stubborn and sharp but all the woodland creatures love him. 

LONG (20K+)

The Family You Choose by TunaFishChris | Zuko&Gaang

summary: Some people are born with soulmarks. Zuko has them, but his grandfather burned them off because they "make you weak."

Team Avatar has a few things to say about that. 

such selfish prayers by andromeda3116 @andromeda3116 | Katara&The Fire Nation, Katara/Zuko

Katara's ambition, so long set aside for the good of others, breaks free and sets fire to her soul. Or, Katara has a vision of her canon future, casts it aside, and becomes a world-changing politician instead. 

and love will be your teacher SERIES by Ford_Ye_Fiji @ford-ye-fiji | Iroh&Zuko

summary: "And you will know the pain of losing a firstborn son." Ozai loses Zuko. Iroh gains a son. And the future changes.

notes: excellent excellent excellent excellent makes me very happy indeed

romance centric fic

SHORT (0 - 5K)

on commitment by jdphoenix | Zuko/Katara

summary: “Just explain it to me again.”

“There is no way you can pass as my brother and we are way too conspicuous as two unrelated people, from different nations, traveling together. So we’re pretending to be married.”

we hold our hearts in silence by psychedelic_aya | Zuko/Katara

summary: Seventy years later, Korra tries to figure out Zuko and Katara. 

oracle bones by orphaned account | Zuko/Katara

summary: The foreign, pictorial characters that bracelet Zuko's left wrist have never been covered in any of his lessons. He cannot read them. And then he turns thirteen, and his father burns his wrist along with his face.

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

late nights/early mornings SERIES by shmulia @shmuliawrites | Zuko/Katara

summary: Whoever set off the fire alarm at 2 in the morning is on Katara’s shit list. Even if he is hot and shirtless. 

the thing about dancing by anodymalion | Sokka/Zuko

summary: The first time a attendant spills Zuko’s tea and doesn’t immediately fall to her knees, begging the Fire Lord’s forgiveness, it is not anger but a resounding warmth that fills his chest.

LONG (20K+)

Fate Deferred by catie_writes_things @catie-does-things | Zuko/Katara | WIP

summary: Aang remains in the iceberg ten years longer. He awakens to a very different world. 

The Sparrowkeet SERIES by audreyii_fic | Zuko/Katara

summary: Ba Sing Se has fallen and Katara has been captured by the Fire Nation; a more adult take on the potential progression of S3. AU series of interconnected one-shots. 

notes: i would die for this series, particularly the last instalment. i enjoyed every single fic and it was just such a GOOD STORY.

T H E  U M B R E L L A  A C A D E M Y 

gen centric fic

SHORT (0 - 5K)

you from yesterday by questors (sieges) @softpunks | Five&Siblings

summary:  The difference between who his siblings once were versus who they are now. 

Ghost Math by pinstripedJackalope | Five&Klaus

summary: Number Five needs a new hobby now that the apocalypse is off. He decides to help Klaus--and in turn maybe he'll help himself. 

Then There Was Two by AnneKatherine | Five&Vanya

summary: Reginald Hargeeves finally decides to allow Grace to name the Academy. Unfortunately, he's only willing to let her name the Academy, which Seven is unfortunately not a part of.

[or how Five gave away his name]

(he definitely didn't want one anyway) 

i tiresias (have foresuffered all) by ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes | Five&Siblings, Five/Delores

summary: Five misses sharing his birthday, but Five has missed a lot of things.alternatively; number five, coffee, and the art of taking back. 

MEDIUM (5 - 20K)

The Five Vetting Process by jaz_hop | Five&Siblings

summary: In which Five is incredibly invested in the love lives of his siblings, because they're obviously too stupid to choose anyone worthy enough to be their partner. Otherwise known as Five being stupidly over-protective, and incredibly invasive in the hopes of keeping his siblings safe and happy... even if he is being a stalker and a dick about it. 

LONG (20K+)

You and I Together Forever SERIES by Ace_of_Spades_400 @ace-of-spades-400 | Vanya&Siblings

summary: What if it hadn't only been Five, what if it hadn't been Five at all?

A series of stories about what would have happened if Vanya had chosen a different sibling.

Sometimes the choice isn't hers.

Timeliness 1-2.1 SERIES by dgalerab | Hargreeves Siblings

summary: As the world ends, Five takes his siblings back into their child bodies on the day he originally left. With the knowledge of how the world ends fresh in their minds, the Hargreeves siblings do what they can to leave clues for their past selves on how to grow up a little less fucked up before returning to the present.

A present where they all have different lives they can't remember, there's a fun new apocalypse on the way, and Reginald Hargreeves remembers the day where all his children suddenly and inexplicably lost their minds and all respect for him at once a little too well.

Rare Birds SERIES by Cryptix23 | Hargreeves Siblings

summary: An alternate 2019 brings with it new problems and new dangers.

The two sets of Hargreeves children mix like water on a greasefire. It's hard to tell which group is unhappier about the situation -- the Sparrows, trying to navigate the minefield of their new siblings' many traumas, or the Umbrellas, trying to carve their place back into a world that forgot them.

Plus the whole saving-the-world thing hanging over them all.

Whether they like it or not, they're going to have to learn to work together. 

Partners, Parents, or None of the Above by DarkFairytale | Diego&Klaus

summary:  Kenny's mom assuming that Diego and Klaus were A) a couple and B) Number Five’s parents was both bemusing and amusing at the time. But that was because it was the only time it had ever happened. Now though? Now they just can't understand why these misunderstandings keep happening. 

[anika-ann]

Nothing but the Truth - Pt.5

The Truth and Nothing but the Truth

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader        Word count: 4490

Summary: A fake dating AU. Lies always have consequences; you just never imagined they would look like this. You should have known better… Aka the one where shit hits the fan.

Warnings: a lot of swearing, rudely interrupted fluff, implied stalking, creepiness and sick beliefs leading to violence at its finest, kidnapping

Story Masterlist

Coming back to work was a true life-hazard.

First of all; you didn’t sleep properly. Basically not at all. You couldn’t get Steve out of your head, the feeling of his lips on yours and their taste, his hand on your face, on your hip, the sensation under your hands, the sincerity of his tone when he spoke about you two together— all of that kept you awake, ruminating in your head, lines between reality and fantasy blurring in the restless slumber keeping you company the whole night.

Second of all; there was a pile of paperwork to fill since you had been absent for the past two days.

And the worst of all; your colleague was there. And she was terrible at hiding her curiosity, downright gawking at you, her eyes following your every movement, every nervous shift in your posture, not single one of your sighs escaping her attention.

Hint: you were mostly sighing because you could feel her glare on you and you knew she wanted to ask about everything, but gave you the opportunity to start talking on your own, while being passively aggressive as fuck and driving you insane.

You didn’t have the slightest idea what to tell her, because you sucked at lying, you felt bad about lying to her in the first place, but you also signed an agreement on confidentiality.

So… where did that leave you?

You sighed again, leaning your back onto the backrest of your ergonomic chair and crossed your arms on your chest, spinning the chair to face your friend.

“Yes, Irma? Something on your mind?” you asked slowly and she grinned.

“What the fuck is happening?” she blurted out, using the swirling hair as a means of transport, wheeling to you and despite yourself, you snorted at her ridiculousness.

“Well, you’re staring at me the whole day while I’m working through this big-ass pile of papers, that’s what,” you shrugged light-heartedly, while your heart in fact sped up in your chest.

Why hadn’t you just kept your mouth shut and let her come to her own conclusions only?

“Har, har. Spill it. I leave you alone for two days…” You left her alone, thank you very much, because you hadn’t as much as shown your face in the office. “You’ve been ignoring me.” In that respect, she was correct; she had been blowing your phone and you blatantly ignored her. “You can’t escape me now. So…what the hell?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she huffed, patting her feet on the ground again, her inching closer. “Congrats and all that, glad that the heart-eyes exchange that’s been going on for a while escalated and you finally got together, but what is all that interview and engagement bullshit?”

You groaned, turning back to your table, and let your forehead meet the desk.

Right. Irma was convinced that there was something going on between you and Steve (she very pointedly called it ‘eye-fucking’, god bless her for saying ‘heart-eyes’ just this once) ever since you had started going to lunch with him alone – courtesy of Sam being busy at the moment and hence not being able to join you two and your friendly lunch date.

“Got the sentiment, not the words, hon. Spill it.”

You huffed, your lips barely moving as you were practically kissing the table.  “It’s…” What was the word they always used? “…classified.”

“Oh come on! I’m your friend! And who am I gonna tell?” she exclaimed, half-offended, half-excited. “I’m totally harmless!”

She… had a point, right? Who was she gonna tell? She was your friend and she even covered for you when you messed something up, she was loyal to the company, being there longer than you and—and-

And you still couldn’t spill your guts to her.

Or could you?

Raising your head and meeting her expectant gaze, you kept your mouth shut as you reached for your phone and started typing.

Peripherally, you could see her frown in discontent and confusion.

“I’m sorry, are you ignoring me again, young lady?!”

You held up your index finger, sent the text and then you resumed to ignore her.

She rudely waved her hand in front of your face when you returned to the paperwork.

“It’s classified,” you repeated absently, distractedly reading over the lines of the document, checking for typos.

Irma threw her hands in the air and refused to leave, looking over your shoulder as your heart nearly gave out with the insane pace it was set up in.

Had she always been so nosy?

You almost jumped out of your skin when your phone started vibrating, lighting up with Steve’s face.

You hadn’t spoken or texted ever since the taxi dropped you off at your apartment after the interview. You had spent the rest of the night alone, perfectly content with a take-out and your intrusive thoughts about ridiculously attractive and kind supersoldier keeping you from some quality sleep.

“Your boyfriend’s calling you,” your friend pointed out, grin in her voice as you sarcastically thanked her for her observation and accepted the call.

“Hey- hey, Steve,” you stuttered to the phone nervously, not expecting him to react to your stupid text so soon, with a phone-call no less.

“Hey,” he greeted you courtly and you gulped, avoiding your friend’s gaze. You were dating Steve; whatever he was about to tell you, you shouldn’t look spooked when talking to him in front of anyone who wasn’t involved. “I assume you’re talking about your office-mate?”

“Y-yes.”

Your breath was knocked out of your lungs when he proceeded to tell you her full name, social security number, her marital status and names of siblings and parents.

“Yeah, that’s… eh, that’s her.”

Your colleague raised her eyebrow questioningly.

“Do you trust her?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Her records are clean, but we can’t have her telling tales anywhere.”

“Yes,” you confirmed, trying to sound firm.

The idea of confiding in someone who wasn’t an Avenger and didn’t have a penis was way too tempting and you started to getting giddy on the inside, already feeling the relief at the mere idea of spilling it to someone.

You melted into your seat when Steve spoke up again, his tone much more like the one you were used to, hell, softer even.

“I understand this must be difficult for you. You deserve to talk about it with your friends and I… I understand that maybe you don’t… you don’t want to talk about it with me. Just… you can, you know? You can tell me anything, doll,” Steve coaxed you, voice falling an octave.

Yeah? How about I tell you that I think I love you? What would you say to that? Can I tell you that? Because I really want to, especially when you’re using that stupid, stupid petname-

“…but I understand. It’s your call. If you trust her, you can tell her.”

There were literally no limits to Steve’s kindness, you were sure of it. You truly were doomed, weren’t you? How could you not love him?

“Thank you, Steve. I… really appreciate it. I… I trust you too, you know?” you whispered, momentarily forgetting he wasn’t the only one hearing you.

You could imagine the subtle lift of the corners of his lips – lips that kissed you yesterday, oh dear God, lips you dreamed of –, the gentle light in his eyes, yet with a tiny cocky spark in the irises… you could picture all of that only by hearing the tone of his voice when he answered.

“I hope so. You’re doing alright after yesterday?”

No. “Y-yeah. You?”

He sighed tiredly. “Work is work is work and the PR is sending me e-mails that are basically just streak of curses – I’m learning new words today –, because their phones won’t stop ringing. I’m fine.”

You chuckled, imagining Steve’s eyes widening and his cheeks flushing at every new swearword, probably a new term for a manhood.

“Aww, you poor baby,” you cooed, your lips automatically curving in a smile. “Do you want me to beat them up for you?”

“God, no!” he blurted out, sounding almost as if he panicked at the image of you trying to sock the employees of personal relations in their jaw. Whether his horror was caused by the fear for them or you, you’d never know. He chuckled then. “Thanks for the offer though.”

Someone tugged at your skirt and you realized that you were, in fact, not alone in the room.

“Anytime, Steve. Gotta go back to work now. Stay strong?”

“I’ll try. Same to you. See you for lunch?”

You grinned. “Yep. Sam already told me he will be our bodyguard. Brave man,” you teased Steve and you could practically see him rolling his eyes.

“Brave man,” he mimicked, as if jealous. “He sure is. See you then. Have a nice morning.”

Was it a hobby of his to cause your heart to burst with his insufferably gentle voice or something?

“You too, Steve. Bye.”

“You two are honesty disgusting. If I wasn’t so happy for you, I might puke. And did you just ask your boyfriend for permission to tell me? Really?!” Irma instantly chimed in and you shot her a look to cool her down.

“Yes. I told you: it’s classified,” you deadpanned. “I’ll tell, but not now, not here. Girls’ night?”

She pumped her fists in victory gesture and you sighed, mentally preparing for an interrogation. You had to go somewhere where they had no desk-lamps; she would aim it to your face for dramatic effect, you were sure of it. You couldn’t believe she was almost five years older than you sometimes.

“I thought you’ll never ask, future Mrs. Rogers.”

You grabbed the nearest paper, hoping it wasn’t important, and scrunched it up. With your perfect toss, it hit her square to the middle of her head as she unwisely turned her back to you.

She snorted in laughter, but let you breathe for the rest of the workday.

The evening couldn’t come fast enough.

Contrary to what you thought when learning you’d talk fake relationships with Irma in the evening, the day actually passed in a blur; a very exhausting blur filled with work, with a highlight of the lunch with Steve and Sam. You only attracted a few more glances than usual, people discouraged by the two Avengers glaring at them if they lingered with their eyes for too long. At the same time, Sam served as a mediator for you and Steve, keeping the conversation light and off potentially dangerous topics like kissing, so that was… nice.

Naturally, you thought the night would turn out nice as well. Which… it did? Kinda…? The alcohol helped.

Irma, the amazing friend she was, got you tipsy first, listened patiently and then proceeded to tell you that you were in some deep shit, totally screwed – or not screwed at all, to be precise – and that it would blow up to your face, because you could be terrible at communicating and voicing your feelings, which was why you were in this situation in the first place, because otherwise you and Steve already would have been a couple, you could have, if you just opened your damn mouth and told Steve how you felt weeks ago, after which he would have kissed you and screwed you against a wall or something, because eye-fucking, duh, I keep telling you that.

You had a wonderful girl-friend. Was it too late to call Sam?

But in the end, confiding Irma in felt really good and overall, it was a great night.

You should have known something was going shit all over it.

As tipsy as you were, you and Irma agreed to take a walk rather than call a cab, saving money and reducing the danger of throwing up.

What an idiotic idea since you lived over twenty blocks from each other!

The moment her door clicked shut behind her, you snuggled up into your coat and started walking; at much faster pace than before. Not that it was easy in the heels, because of course you were wearing heels; it was girls’ night and you wanted to feel pretty and you hadn’t anticipated walking a long distance in them.

Silly you.

Feeling the pleasant buzz of alcohol which had been warming you up before vanish, you shivered, looking over your shoulder when a particularly loud guy from a group of drunks by the near-by bar yelled how much he loved America.

You could relate, partly at least, by one half to be precise, because after your heart-to-heart with Irma, you were pretty certain you were at least a tiny bit in love with its infamous Captain, but who cared. You didn’t feel drunk anymore and other drunk people scared you.

Hell, everything seemed frightening to you now for some inexplicable reason, especially since another guy from the group catcalled you as he noticed you turning around to glance at them. You quickly whipped your head back and quickened your pace.

Turning around the corner, you sighed in relief when you heard them start singing, apparently not too upset you disappeared from their view.

It was only about a minute later, when a shiver ran down your spine, a premonition of something dark, shady, chilling. Vaguely remembering that glancing over your shoulder and actually spotting the person whose eyes you felt following you might only encourage them, you kept glaring ahead, yet couldn’t help but add to your tempo. Your feet were starting to hurt, but you didn’t give a crap, feeling your heart jumping to your throat, beating wildly, your chest feeling tight.

You were confident enough that people didn’t recognize you throughout the whole night at the bar, let alone identifying you as Cap’s girl on the night New York street; everyone was much more focused on the fact that their beloved Captain liked it so he put a ring on it, rather than actually giving you a second glance, you were sure. And contrary to the popular belief, people – even of New York – had other things to live than for Avengers’ romance.

Still, you were a woman – a stupid lone woman walking the street at night, in heels no less, and really, just how did you make such a stupid decision at your age? To be fair, you were fake-dating a man you likely loved, so the bar was set very low.

And because despite your poor decision-making you were still a grown-up, so you did the first thing that came to your mind.

No, you didn’t call a cab.

You called Steve.

You were surprised when he answered after two rings only; perhaps you shouldn’t have. Steve Rogers was always at his friends’ disposal.

Steve Rogers was also very sleepy when he spoke.

“Hey,” he greeted you, quietly and you could punch yourself for waking him up. Of course he was asleep! It was like… oh, two a.m. already. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry!” you blurted out instantly, feeling like an idiot.

Not because Steve was always asleep at two a.m. – in fact, you had the privilege to know that there were times when he was desperately trying to fill his sleepless nights with pretty much anything, as nightmares, his restless brain or the serum coursing through his veins kept him awake. You felt like an idiot, because there had been a little chance he actually would be asleep and you just ruined it for him.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I woke you up. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry-“

You would swear that even over your babble, you could still hear someone’s steps approaching and you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to walk faster.

“You’re not an idiot,” Steve’s soothed you, voice still rough with sleep. You could hear some rustle; bedsheets, you assumed. “What’s wrong?”

I’m shitting my pants, because someone is following me. I think.

You gulped, pushing yourself to speed up without breaking into a run and nearly sighed in relief when the person behind you resumed their pace.

“I’m on my way from the bar. It’s stupid but… I feel lonely?” you explained, lowering your voice and judging by the sharp inhale on the other end of the line, Steve understood you felt hella lot more than just lonely. “Could you… could you maybe stay on the phone with me? Please?”

“Of course I will,” he was quick to assure you, but you heard him moving around his room now. Could he be- “But I’ll do you one better. Where are you?”

“Steve, you- you don’t have to do that.” You instantly felt bad, mostly because the idea of him coming to get you sounded like heaven and it caused your gut twist in guilt, because you had no right to ask that from him. “You’re not obliged to—it’s not like– like you are-“

-my boyfriend.

“Hey. You might not be my fiancée, but you’re my friend. When my friend doesn’t feel safe, I’ll go get her so she will.”

You could weep at that, both regret you were nothing more but friend and at the tone he said it, warming you from inside out despite the fear still at your heels. You slowed down just a fraction, tension in your shoulders easing, your chest finally expanding as you inhaled generously, not realizing you had been barely breathing before.

“Thank you, Steve,” you whispered.

“Of course. Anytime,” he threw your earlier remark back at you and you couldn’t help but smile despite feeling shaky on your feet. He could be so damn cheeky sometimes.

“Apparently,” you hummed. “But seriously, thank you.”

“No problem. I might have already checked your tracker so I’m coming to get you, yeah?”

Oh. Right, you forgot about that; the trackers. You had got so used to the weight of the necklace on your chest that it was easy not to think about the fact that it contained a tracking device. You felt even safer now; if anything happened, they’d find you; which it wouldn’t, because Steve was on his way.

“Now talk to me. Did you have a good time?”

You smiled at his inquiry and continued walking, almost at peace.

“I mean, it wasn’t bad at all…”

Waking up from your slumber, your first thought was that your head hurt; the second was that the pain was so immense that you might as well be in hell.

Hell seemed to be very uncomfortable; your head lulled to your side, neck craned in such strange angle that it made the headache worse and something hard was digging into your spine, not to mention you could barely feel you bottom as the surface was as unwelcoming as the flat backrest and overall, hell simply sucked.

Where the heck had you fallen asleep? This was the least comfortably chair ever made.

With a groan, you tried to move your head to a less headache-inducing position, but your body felt so heavy.

What in the fuck had happened? How had you got- where had you-

Blurry images of a dark street, roar of a motorcycle, Steve’s sleepy and yet cheeky grin as he hopped off– ‘You look like the most handsome biker-gang leader, Steve’- “Will you be my stunning biker chick then?’– gentle hands taking your coat and slipping a leather jacket on, the comforting smell— the world swaying off of its place- darkness– pain-

Gasping, you forced your eyes snap open, even the dim light too sharp for your hungover eyes; several blinks that followed did little to sooth the burn.

With a heart in your throat, you took in your surroundings; the very first thing you saw was Steve and you could cry in relief. Whatever was happening, whatever your mind wasn’t ready to supply you with just yet, it would be alright. Steve was right here–

-hunched in a metallic chair, his wrists, shins, ankles strapped to it, thick leather strip over his chest keeping him upright, because he was- he was—your breathing stopped in horror when you noticed the thin wires leading from his body, needles piercing his skin on several places— unconscious, he was unconscious and-

With a cry of his name on your lips, you lunged forward, not expecting the resistance you met with. Your voice died in your throat as you quickly scanned your body, marking that you were very much strapped to a chair as well. God bless, no needles in your body, just some sort of tourniquet reminding you of check-ups at your GP-

Jerking with all strength you could gather, you whined in frustration when your restraints didn’t give, not moving even an inch.

Tears gathered in your eyes, your other senses engaging to build an image of terror – cold was seeping into your bones, the sharp stink of mould, sweat and urine filled your nose and you could hear periodic taps, drops of water falling.

Surging forward once more with zero result, you cried out, a sob breaking from your lips.

Your frantic gaze searched the room, devices you couldn’t even hope to recognize on your left, seemingly endless emptiness on your right. And if front of you-

“Steve!” you sobbed, clearing your throat to speak louder than in a broken whisper. “Steve!”

He was motionless; you squinted in the shadows, focusing on his chest, praying you could see it moving.

Tears spilled from your eyes, this time from relief; the expands of his ribcage were there, barely noticeable, but present.  

Your gaze followed the wires that led from his body to one of the machines and your stomach made an unpleasant somersault as you tasted bile on your tongue.

What the fuck was this nightmare?

The answer came from your right, a heavy metallic sound and creak, door shutting. You winced, not daring to breathe, your heart nearly beating its way out of your chest with the swift footsteps approaching.

Instinctively, you backed into the chair, ignoring how uncomfortable it was; that was the least of your worries now, being comfy.

A man of average height emerged from the dark, black hair the only thing visible from his head as he wore a plastic mask, nearly transparent with black lines in the place of eyes, nose and mouth.

You shrieked in terror when he tilted his head curiously.

“You’re awake. Good,” he stated, sounding pleased as he paced to the machines, ignorant to your paralysing panic.

You felt a tremble running through your body, your throat too tight with dread for you to speak; to demand what this was, how did you get here, how-

“The captain is taking a bit long though,” he mused and your gaze, following him previously as he flipped a switch, bringing another of the machines to life, swiftly moved to Steve’s crumpled figure.

A sting of longing and fear punched your ribcage and you finally found the courage to speak, praying it wouldn’t set the mysterious man off.

“What did—what did you do to him?” you whispered, voice hoarse from crying.

The man looked up, the smile painted on his mask making you want to throw up.

“Combinations of tranquilizers. Perhaps I overdid it.”

You would have doubled over if it wasn’t for the strap on your chest keeping you upright. The edge of your vision darkened, black embracing you soothingly for few seconds.

Perhaps?!

Your eyes swiftly found Steve once more, clinging onto the motions of his ribcage like onto dear life.

Christ, he’s lucky to be even breathing.

Needless to say, you would have been much more assured if Steve was awake and if he hadn’t had… had the—the-

“The… the needles?” you choked out, a sob bubbling in your throat as the image of multiple thin needles in Steve’s body burned itself into your retinas.

You’d never forget this sight in your life.

Fairly enough though, that might not be a very long time. The thought had you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Electric pulses,” he explained as easily as if he was telling you it was raining outside.

Electric- you wanted to cry and puke at the same time and most of all, you wanted to wake up from this fucked up nightmare.

“It should keep him less mobile once he wakes up. It took me quite a while to figure it out. Not an easy task to keep Captain America down.”

He seems down enough now, you thought wryly and shivered, your face twisting as you tried hard not to imagine what was being done to Steve’s body.

When you looked closely – really closely – you could see the tinniest twitches of his fingers.

Before hope could get a hold of you, you noticed the startling periodicity of those motions; he wasn’t waking up. It wasn’t him moving on his own account.

It was the pulses.

Your head spun, the whole world swaying aside, your eyes rolling back; you didn’t feel like your body belonged to you anymore as the wave of revulsion caused your insides to coil violently.

What kind of a sick monster did this to another person?

Tearing your blurry gaze away from Steve’s form, you shot the other man a loathing look, the force of hatred towards him nearly startling you.

“Stop that right now,” you hissed dangerously as if you weren’t strapped to a chair yourself, utterly helpless.

You had a feeling that the maniac smiled behind his mask, but you couldn’t tell for sure.

How did you not throw up just yet?

“You don’t make demands here.”

Electricity crackled in the air with whatever he did with the machines and you winced, your whole body tensing in horrible anticipation.

He was going to the same to you—he was about to-

“Now, I’m sure you’re curious what’s happening here…” Not really, no, Christ, just let us go- “…I brought you here to ensure your future commitment to each other will be proper.”

What in the-

He rose from his own chair, carrying what looked like electrodes towards you.

You balled your hands into fists, trying to break the restraints, but they didn’t even budge as the man leaned forward with a purpose; clasps joined to your cuffs and you felt your teeth clatter at the icy fingers of fear running down your spine.

He just wired you to a source of electricity.

Sick, he was such a sick person, whatever he had said meant–how could anyone just-

“What the hell are you talking about?” you breathed out, not having a clue where the strength to speak up came from.

“I’m simply gonna ask a few questions,” he replied, fastening the same clasps on Steve’s straps – as if the blond didn’t already have electricity coursing through his body making him fucking spasm every now and then – before turning to face you. “And you’re gonna tell me the truth. Nothing but the truth.”

Part 6

Tags: 

@mermaidxatxheart​ @bobertswagert​ @kakakatey​ @ccolz88-blog​ @joeyrumlow​@lovemeterwrites​ @jessyballet​

Dun dun dun.

Oops, this one got away from me a bit and it’s… morbid, I know. But we finally got to the title at least…?

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

2.  Mandatory Monroe Mingling

Grace had been waiting to get off of work ALL DAY. Aside from the fact that the bookstore had been even slower business than usual, she had so much to do whenever she got out. She took a sip of her coffee as she left the doors and noticed Mr. Laurent was staring at her AGAIN. That man was a peculiar one. But, she figured it probably had to do with being an eccentric, successful writer and she suspected a recluse, because other authors came into the bookstore, but he was the only regular and he was always alone. At least he didn’t seem dangerous, which was a lot more than she could say for a lot of people.

But, he was weird. She chuckled a little thinking about how he was following her around the store, probably trying to pump himself up to talk to her, then when she addressed him, he totally froze. It wasn’t the first time they’d even seen each other and she wondered, whenever he read her name tag if he was one of those people who didn’t remember faces, or one of the more typical types that couldn’t tell certain faces apart and therefore didn’t know that he already knew her already… or at least should have. She had been working in this store now for five years, two of which she worked the day shift, which was when he usually came in.

Then again, Mr. Laurent was never actually in the store until today. He was always in the coffee shop and all staff was told to never bother him and only accommodate him if he asked for help. That was actually a part of their orientation! Grace tried to read his work before, but it wasn’t really her thing. She liked fantasy, sure, but it just felt like a knock off of numerous other works, compressed into this fictitious place that was a hodgepodge of other places. Like if Middle Earth and Narnia had a baby and it married Wonderland and they adopted Neverland… or something. She couldn’t keep up with all of the convoluted world building long enough to pin down what she even hated about Esmoroth. But, she hated it. She'd never actually say those words to him, probably.

The kids in her philanthropy program seemed to enjoy the books, so they appealed to someone. She rushed home from the train, washed up, got dressed and drove to her parents' estate. Whenever she came in, she was immediately transported to the first time she'd come back home, after her years away. Every. Time. She thought about that day and trembled as she crossed the threshold, reminding herself that she was safe from that now, that her life was very different today.

"Miss Grace St. Catherine!" She was announced. Her mother sighed and made her way over to greet her and try not to grumble about her last name.

"We've been waiting for you, Dear. Come, come. I'll introduce you to the new chairman of the board at the Infinity Train Foundation…"

"I'm looking forward to that," Grace said. She wasn't, and they both knew it, but the foundation helped her to get home and she worked closely with them in helping other children with various issues. She didn't care for many of their ways, but they helped a lot of people out and as long as Grace had good rapport with them, she could help plenty of the kids in their programs, in her own ways.

For her parents, that meant financial, but Grace was more hands on than that. She headed several incentives, such as dance classes, reading club, safety drills, support groups, and she pushed for others that sometimes didn't get approved, such as martial arts training and self defense, survival techniques, and crisis management.

Those sounded like great ideas to her, but the Foundation was more interested in making children feel safe and getting them in the mindset to trust in those caring for them in their environment. Those suggestions, the Foundation believed, would make their children feel like they were constantly under attack or unsafe. Grace let it go. She had enough resources to implement these things elsewhere, and she did. She felt bad for the kids involved with the Foundation who might never receive the proper training for an emergency situation, though.

She wished someone would have taught her the things that she now knew. She placed her hand over the scar on the back of her neck. An A with a squiggly line, carved into her skin when she was a kid, to not only show her loyalty to the Apex, but as a sign of ownership. No matter what happened the past few years since she'd gotten out, that reminder would forever be with her. Ms. Monroe wanted to have it removed, grafted, covered, ANYTHING to make it easier to forget that her daughter had been missing for 8 years and came back as an older, darker, broken version of the perfect child that she wasn't watching closely enough and never paid proper attention to.

Grace sometimes thought she refused to have it removed to punish her mother for just that. She spent those years convinced that her parents didn't want her back anyway, certain that they were glad that she had wandered off, that they were happier without her there to be weird and lonely and sad. She spent them wondering, "If they loved me, why haven't they come to get me?" Of course, she knew better now, but unpacking and reprogramming herself would take more time that a few years.

Her father was speaking to the white haired man that she was being introduced to, but he quickly hugged her and began boasting on her - how far she had come, how strong she was, how much of a survivor, and how proud… she loved her parents, but they exhausted her. While her mom would have preferred that those 8 years never happened and believed that she could will them away by remaining in denial; her father seemed to believe that they were the only years of Grace's life whatsoever and her coming out on the other end was her victorious claim to greatness.

Sure, his daughter overthrew her traffickers, started a cult as a teenager, and spent years as a criminal mastermind and destructive thug, but she overcame it and was now the poster girl for fucked up kids whose parents can afford rehabilitation without incarceration. Huzzah! 

There was nothing heroic about escaping to her. They never showed up to rescue her. The only hero she had was a crime lord who killed her owner in a business deal gone wrong. A tatted older woman with a British accent and an "A" in the back of her neck. From that moment, Grace knew that if she wanted to survive, she'd have to save herself. She’d have to be tough, ruthless even, and emulate the power she saw in that queen bitch that day.

They didn't go by names when One was in charge. They all had numbers. Hers had been 148. That's what they called her and what she came to see herself as before her "steward" was killed. Whenever she was free, she took other kids and they were going to revolt against One and be like the woman only known on the streets as "The Conductor." Nobody had ever actually seen One. He was, as far as Grace knew either a ghost or a fake name for whatever organization had so many children from all over the world involved in it's trafficking ring. But the kids left behind.. they remembered Grace. "Leader" of the Apex. Future Conductor. Enemy of One…

Getting arrested for assault somehow was the best thing to ever be happen to her. It got her on the track back home. She had forgotten it was a real place. The rules were so much different than on the streets. The people she knew had changed, too… or she had misremembered them. At any rate, being 18 and beating up a gang leader with a bat should have gotten her hard time, but being a Monroe, the long lost daughter of Ambrose and Gethsemane Monroe… she became an inspirational story instead. She hated it, but she hated the thought of going back to the other life more. Hated to have to remember what happened to Hazel... what happened to others.

So, now, she lived her life as a different woman. She did a lot to try to help children. She worked some place that was low-key and enjoyable. She changed her name and kept all events that weren't already known about her time away her secrets. Atoning for things that she did as a child - things she was forced to do, things she thought she needed to do, and things she did because she wanted to included humoring her parents by showing up to events for their various charity endeavors. They sweetened the deal by having a lot of those be targeted towards helping children have better lives and she was introduced to a lot of people in such positions over the years that she had been back.

Grace was in the middle of pretending to listen to the chairman's son list his entire resume of organizations he'd given money to whenever she heard her phone ding. She meant to mute it before, but now that she had it out, she was surprised to see "Simon Laurent wants to follow you" in her alerts. She laughed a little, phasing out Preston or Princeton, or whatever his name was to scroll through Mr. Laurent's feed. It was mostly photos of a white cat, small humanoid figures and dioramas, press promos for work, landscapes, a woman who she was sure HAD to be his mom, and the occasional selfie. Sure. Mr. Laurent could follow her. Maybe if he saw her outside of work look, he'd get the courage to shoot his shot. Of course, she wouldn't seriously date him, but it would be cool to have a nice guy interested in her for a change.

Mr. Laurent seemed nice. He was pretty cute, too. Plus, he had enough money that if she DID go on a date with him, her mother wouldn't give her a lecture about dating in her "little St. Catherine Bubble." It was similar to her lecture about working with poor people and befriending the lower class.. but magnified by the fear of someone coming in, using up her inheritance and her having a substandard baby for a commoner. It was like her mom didn't know what kind of life she would've had to lead in the empty warehouse the Apex brought kids to… like she refused to know.

It was around 10 pm whenever Grace left her parents' home, promising to make plans with them soon. She drove home listening to music and sat in her car for a while, establishing her schedule for the next couple of weeks. Mandatory Monroe Mingling was done for this month and next week: Date Night with X, 1:48 am.

The walk to her apartment building wasn't long, but she always felt a sense of dread whenever she walked alone. She always imagined a white stretch limousine with gold decorum pulling up beside her and a slick fellow in the back rolling the window down to ask, "Say, young thing? You look like you wanna get away for a minute. Let me give a you a ride to some place nice."

When you're 10, nice things seemed like they belonged to nice people and taking a ride to a nice place with a nice man? What a concept! Especially when the last thing you did was something SO silly to get your parents' attention. Maybe if she went someplace nice for a little bit, that would make them miss her, make them see that she was worthy of being noticed… 

She saw headlights and gasped, turning suddenly as a random car passed by, not even paying any attention to her. She laughed at herself and went inside.

Mr. Laurent hadn't liked any of her photos, so maybe she was wrong about him being attracted. He probably just needed some books to try to appease his publisher and sought out the only Black person on staff at the bookstore to help him, then added her page just because people do that sometimes. "Oh well. You don't need a nice guy anyways. Probably would just get in the way…" she looked at the photo of her next date, pinned to the wall, and she stuck a sticky note on the face of the one from her calendar and wrote: Sunday night, Valentine's Day and drew a heart on it. Her phone dinged again. She looked at it 12:45 am.

Simon Laurent liked your photo… she checked on the photo. It was one of her and her pet turtle, reading on the balcony. The caption said: Trying to read The Book of Esmoroth to Hazel. Neither of us are very impressed. "Oh my God!" Grace said, laughing. She had forgotten about that! Now, he'd seen it. She didn't know if he liked it for shade, to let her know that he knew, or if he planned to come back and try to say something nasty about it. She took a little thank you card from her stationary and quickly doodled a drawing of herself and Hazel and wrote, "Sorry we didn't nice to your book." She wrote his name on the front, stuck it in an envelope, tossed it in her bag and figured whenever he was next in the store, she'd hand it to him. He usually came once every couple of weeks, sometimes once a week and ever so often like twice a week, so she's see him soon, she was sure.

She didn't expect to see him the next day, and at one of her displays, at that. "Mr. Laurent. You're here again, two days in a row," she noted, digging through her bag for the little card.

"Yeah… somebody in one of my group chats told me that I needed to get some children's books by Black authors, so.. I'm trying to do that."

"You're in the comics, graphic novels and manga section.. kids' books are by the big gorilla with the tubas on her shoulder." She pointed towards the landmark as she described it and handed him something with her other hand. "Also, here."

He furrowed his eyebrows and took it. "Thanks, and thanks.." he marched towards the gorilla and she went to go clock in.

Simon stopped to look at the card as soon as she was out of his line of eyesight. How. Cute. He felt better about the fact that she didn't like his work, now. Also… she was pretty good at drawing. He was going to have this framed.

Grace stopped at the coffee shop for her floral tea and to shoot the breeze with the morning barista before getting back to the sales floor. Her phone dinged. Ugh. Was her mute option glitching? She smirked and shook her head. ANOTHER Date Night? So soon? She hadn’t even had her Valentines’ Day date yet but okay. She'd check this guy out for herself, later.

For now, she went to go find Mr. Laurent in the kids' books section. Maybe she could kill some time by helping him again… and perhaps flirt. Just because she didn't think they'd ever date didn't mean that she couldn't flirt a little. She was emotionally unavailable, not dead.

He already had an arm full of books when she found him. "So… you need help?"

"I've picked up every book that I saw a Black child on the cover of. I don't know if I can be trusted to do my own shopping in here." She laughed and took some of them off of his hands. He was staring again. She stopped smiling and stared back. "Sorry… it's.. you have a very infectious laugh."

"Then why weren't you infected with laughter?"

"I was laughing where I always do. In here," he said, pointing to his chest. She laughed again, harder this time.

"You're hilarious, Mr. Laurent. If things don't work out with the publisher, you should at least do something with your comedy." He couldn't tell if that was her honest opinion, her being sarcastic, or some other option, but he really enjoyed being able to talk to her. This couldn't continue like this, pretending to need books to get close to her. He had to at least try to be a normal person and get her to hang out with him when nobody was paying her to. That way he would see her outside of her business mode. He’d comprehend her as a person and as a character more..

"What would be hilarious is if I were to ask you out… and you said yes. Wouldn't that?" He bit his lip. What a fucking bizarre way to collect himself an L. She did laugh, though. So… one bright side. She quickly stopped and looked bothered though, so no bright side.

"Ummmmm… I think that would be a train wreck for you, Mr. Laurent. I'm not somebody that you wanna go out with."

"It's okay. I expected you to reject me." He wanted to run out of the store and literally never step foot inside of it again.

"That's not it! I have too much to sort through to go on a date with someone like you. You seem very put together and content. I almost always bring disaster with me. I don't like to make other people's lives messy."

"That's valid. Thank you." He rocked on the balls of his feet.

"You want me to put these books away?"

"No, no, no… I'm gonna buy them. But, you will most likely never see my face in here again," he joked. She looked sad. "Just kidding. I'm very much a creature of routine. There's no way that I'm trying to find a new bookstore at my age."

"You're only 20 something, right?"

"Twenty FIVE. That's practically 30!"

She shook her head, "I'm also 25, but definitely only going on 11." They both laughed as she helped him to the counter to check out his books. Her phone dinged and her coworker asked," Who's blowing up your phone? Another hot date?" Grace threw her coworker a look and Simon frowned and looked at the books on the counter. So.. she does date… but just not somebody like you.

"He's being facetious," Grace offered, sympathetically. Simon wanted to crawl into a hole. He waved a hand like it was nothing, but his entire pained face and damp eyes told everyone that was a lie. He took his books and rushed out as soon as his ticket was paid. "What is wrong with you?" Grace asked her coworker.

"I didn't know that Mr. Laurent was trying to hit!" Grace covered her face with her hand and shook her head. After that, he just MIGHT find another bookstore. Poor Mr. Laurent. He was a really nice guy. 

03. Upon Further Research

[woodrokiro]

Hollowed (fic) Part Five

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: They call her a miracle, but he looks at her as if she’s normal. It scares her. Fantasy/Futuristic/Zombie kinda?AU. Read Parts One, Two, Three, and Four. 

It turns out to be a Hollowed… Because of course it is. 

Luckily it’s only one, and small from what the messenger describes. Still, from the way the messenger’s eyes widen while describing it, Ichigo assumes it really has been a while since these people saw one, and must’ve given the soldiers quite a drill.

But he could care less if the soldiers panicked. What he wants to know is if it’s dead.

“Y-yes sir! I saw if for myself, its eyes had clouded over, and its mouth--”

“I don’t need to hear about it.” And he really didn’t, as he could already imagine it: its yellowed fangs bared into a nasty snarl, the eight legs curled pathetically into its jet black body, its eyes peering from behind a horrific mask, milky with death.

He’s seen enough of them. 

“Were there any casualties?”

“No, not that I’m aware of--”

“Aware of? What does that mean?”

“Well, all soldiers are accounted for…”

“But not civilians here?”

“If you’re worried about your friends,” Rukia calls from behind him, and the messenger straightens as if he’s forgotten she’s there-- “there’s not much to worry about. Very rarely are civilians even let outside the compound. When soldiers go out, they are often flanked and covered by the remaining at the walls. It’s all planned far out in advance. We would know about it.”

That clears a bit of Ichigo’s anxiety, but not enough. 

In truth, he’s worried about his sisters. The last time they all encountered those monsters, they were even more horrifying than all the previous times before. Their village was destroyed, people left dead in the streets, their father fighting with all he had left…

Not that he’s not worried for his friends’ mental well being, but his sisters are just twelve years old: too young for any of this bullshit. 

And yeah, it’s always been a part of their lives… But he’s their big brother. He’s supposed to be their protector, or at the very least comforting them. 

Which is why being cooped up here in the name of a job is driving him insane. 

When the bell first started clanging, a soldier ran through to tell him he was to remain here with Lady Rukia at all costs until somebody gave him further instruction. When Ichigo tried to ask when might he be given further instruction--let alone what happened--the soldier sneered. 

“This is your job now,” he spat. “And an important one at that. You are never to leave Lady Rukia during your shift. As for what’s going on, you’ll be told when the information needs to be relayed to you. I recommend you stop asking questions.”

Fucking hell, he’s tired of hearing that. The guy is lucky he ran out so quickly, as Ichigo could’ve throttled him. Instead, all he could do is pace around his partitioned space like a tiger in a cage, ignoring the girl on the other side of the room who probably wouldn’t speak to him anyway.

And now, apparently, she feels inclined to butt in, all uppity and knowledgeable. He spins to face her. 

“Yes, I’m worried about my friends,” he grits out his teeth. “But I’m also worried about my sisters. I’m all they have, and the last time one of those things were within such a vicinity to us it was a real fucking nightmare. Now,” he turns back to the messenger. “If you have the time, I’d really appreciate if you could go to the kitchens and relay a message to Karin and Yuzu Kuro--”

“Go to them.”

Ichigo turns incredulously back toward her, and is starting to think this twisting back and forth is getting really old. “Huh?”

“I was clear enough, fool. Go find your sisters. Take the rest of the day off.”

He nearly sputters. Is there something he’s missing here? “B-but you heard that other guy--”

“That ‘other guy’ is technically correct, in any other situation you won’t be able to leave me.” She’s got her arms crossed, with a superior look in her eye that Ichigo kind of hates but also he’s feeling hopeful about what she’s saying so he’ll just ignore it for now. “But today is your first day. I believe you’ve received basic training enough--”

“Well, I mean I didn’t really do anything--”

“Don’t be so modest, sir. You’ve done plenty.” She looks at him with raised eyebrows pointedly. 

He shuts his mouth. 

“Some soldiers will probably be here shortly to relieve you in any case. They always take me when this sort of occurrence happens...” she drifts softly, before her eyes suddenly shine (yes, shine) toward the messenger. “Sir there! Would you be willing to chaperone me in Sir Kurosaki’s absence, until then? I would be most appreciative of it.”

The messenger shifts, but Ichigo can see a blush rise on his cheeks. “Oh, w-well I’d be most honored, milady. But I’m afraid I’m not of military calibre to watch you. You see, I might as well be a grunt--”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. So long as you’re a soldier, you can protect me. And don’t worry, if any of the higher ranks or even Lord Yamamoto raise questions about it, I’ll be happy to take the blame.” She smiles sweetly before turning back to Ichigo. “Thank you for your services, sir. You are dismissed.”

He blinks. “So, does that cover for me too or…?”

“What, you believe I would cover for one party in a situation and not the other? Yes, Mr. Kurosaki, you as well. Now, goodbye.” She waves him off dismissively. 

While that kind of pisses him off--and it’s bizarre how fast she changed gears--he’s grateful.

---

He finds the girls perfectly safe and sound when he rushes into the kitchens. In fact, they hadn’t even heard the news of the Hollowed… Which Ichigo finds quite eery how news like that isn’t relayed to the service as quickly as the bell clangs for the military--but at the very least, he’s glad to find they’re safe and not scared. 

He tries to express some sort of a game plan to them: that if he’s not able to go to them in times of danger, find Chad, or even Uryu--well, not Uryu, as he might be on the front lines--

“Relax, Ichigo.” Karin cuts him off with a gentle smirk. “We know how to take care of ourselves for this sort of thing… Or at the very least: how to not get killed. Worst case scenario, I’ve got kitchen knives here I can use.”

“Plus, they’ve got me.” Inoue steps forward from the spot she’s been quietly listening and kneading dough. She claps her floury hands together. “I know that I-I don’t look like much, Ichigo, but you can count on me to protect the girls! All this kneading is giving me some real arm strength! Not to mention when I put in my secret ingredients, that makes it even tougher!!” 

She strikes a pose with her biceps flexed, and while Ichigo’s not quite sure if that’ll be enough to tear apart the creatures responsible for the near extinction of humanity, he still smiles and thanks her. He has to remember that the three in front of him are smart and very much capable of taking care of themselves.

He doesn’t really have a choice, otherwise. 

---

Later that night when everyone else but the boys are asleep, he asks Uryu whether he saw the Hollowed. 

“I did. In fact, one of my arrows got stuck in its putrid ribs.” He pushes his glasses up.

“I saw it as well,” Chad offers. “My boss and I were restocking the weapons on the wall while they burned the body.”

“Chad, you too? So I was the only one to miss out on the action, huh?”

“Not much action, Kurosaki. Truth be told, the military is true to its word. Pretty organized on the killing, once they got past the initial shock. I imagine they’d have a harder time with a horde of them, though.” Uryu opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates.

“What?” Ichigo eyes the look passed between Uryu and Chad. “What was wrong with it?”

“It… Had some… One of its legs was a human arm.” Uryu grinds his teeth. “Recently turned. I think… It might’ve been someone from our village.”

Ichigo prays it wasn’t anybody he knew well, let alone his dad. Trapped in a horrid body like that, slithering miserably up the mountain for fresh blood--it’d be a nightmare he can barely stomach. 

But it wouldn’t matter in any case, he guesses.

A loss is a loss is a loss. 

---

The next morning, he’s informed that he has to report to Yamamoto before his shift. It must be because of what happened yesterday, he realizes. The old man is pissed.

He drags himself into the office, where Yamamoto is (seemingly) calm, reading a book.

The old man smiles. “Ah, Kurosaki! Do sit. Why, you look quite uncomfortable. Are your concerns with the Hollowed yesterday? I hope your sisters were all right.”

Well, shit. 

“Yeah, they were… Thanks.” Ichigo eyes the man across him, waiting for an explosion. “So… Rukia told you…?”

“Lady Rukia told me she dismissed you, yes. Oh dear, you thought I might be upset about that? Well, I suppose on any other occasion I might be quite angry.” 

Ichigo shifts uncomfortably. “So… Why not this time?”

“Well, I suppose I never did properly explain Lady Rukia’s position in this place. Certainly, she is technically ranked above you--ranked above many generals, in fact--and so I cannot blame you for following her orders. How did you like her, by the way?”

“Well… I mean she’s… Quiet. But okay, I guess--”

“She can be quite quiet, you’re right. But I hope you’ll find she’s also very kind. Gentle. Clever, too.” Yamamoto raps his knuckles against his desk. “But she’s also rather frail. The soldiers that took her after you left go to her quarters quite often to escort her to the medical facilities. She runs through quite a number of tests and medicines there for her condition. She’s very smart and capable, yes; but also can suffer some… Sufferings in judgement. Sometimes she doesn’t know what’s the best for her, so a select few including myself make certain decisions for her. Does that make sense?”

Ichigo doesn’t think the girl he saw yesterday looked sick at all, let alone capable of being anything but a smartass brat--but he nods. 

“So next time it happens that my lady gives an order that you’re not quite sure about, request my presence immediately and I’ll sort it out. I trust your judgement. In fact, I’ll be requesting meetings every few days to ask you about updates on her condition and such.”

“... So you’re asking me to spy on her?”

“Not at all! Just that she gets quite tired sometimes… You’ll see. I just want to know how she’s doing after her treatments, so we can get her the help she deserves.” Suddenly, the old man’s focal point shifts to somewhere past Ichigo. “Ah! Well, speak of some sort of devil. Ichigo, this is Lady Rukia’s older brother, Byakuya. He’s a captain within our military.” 

Ichigo turns around to see a man with long black hair standing in the doorway, eyeing him coolly. He clumsily gets up, walking over while reaching out his hand. The guy looks like a complete douchebag, but an older brother deserves to know his sister’s taken care of. “Ichigo Kurosaki, it’s--”

“I know who you are, thank you.” Byakuya drifts past Ichigo’s outstretched hand, toward the seat where Ichigo was previously sitting. 

All right. So he really is an asshole.

“Give Rukia my regards. Lord Yamamoto, I have some reports with you I’d like to discuss.”

“Of course. Kurosaki, you may go now.” And just like that (again!) it seems the Yamamoto forgets his existence. 

Ichigo is just about to shut the door when the old man’s voice calls out. 

“Oh, and Kurosaki?” 

He holds the door, waiting. 

“I understand some--including Lady Rukia--warned you against being in her quarters with her, past the screen. This is one of the occasions I’d like you to ignore her order.”

Ichigo looks back inside at Yamamoto. “Um… I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that. Not if she isn’t.”

“Of course, completely understandable. But if she ever relays a sense of danger in being there… Worry not. There is none.”

Ichigo shuts the door.

He’s not about to go into some girl’s room without her wanting him there.

[utterlyhopeful-fics]

Broken Edges

Get ready for the angst! Part 2 is ready to go because I kinda word vomited and wrote 4k.

Masterlist

Steve Rogers x Reader 

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: language, angst, cheating 

******************************************

The diner was brightly lit aided by the help of signature neon signs and harsh fluorescence. What Y/N loved most was the feeling this hole in the wall provided. Strange security. It took her back to happier times allowing her to disappear into a 1950s daydream, the closest to home she had felt in some time. The tile was chipping, the floral wallpaper showing early signs of decay, but she found peace within its barren walls. 

No one knew who she was, just what she ordered, and that was the way she preferred it. Seen but never detected. Noticed but never approached, until he entered the picture.  Y/N was pulled from her thoughts when the waitress gently tapped her shoulder shaking her from current desolation.

“What will it be tonight, honey?”

Y/N glanced towards the glittering name tag; Dolores, before meeting her calm gaze. If Y/N were a betting woman she would say Dolores was somewhere in her mid-fifties, slim build of a mother’s body, brown hair diminishing to gray tightly spun into a delicate bun, and lastly, a glazed smile that didn’t quite reach her charcoal eyes. Y/N mused while taking in the haggard woman standing in her glory. Her age lines meant one of two things; the first meaning she had lived a life full of smiles or a harsh reality that had shown its fading delicacy over the years. Y/N went with the latter option. 

She was an Avengers for god’s sake and she still couldn’t fathom a rhythm or reason for her importance on this planet nonetheless dear ’o’ Dolores. At least, not anymore. He made her question everything, altered her reality in such a vehement way that she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to the stranger she formerly was.

Y/N mumbled unsure of herself; “Coffee, black. Please.”

A soft sigh slipped through Dolores’s lips as she moved to tuck her ordering pad into her apron; “You can’t survive off caffeine alone darling. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“Thanks for the uh advice, but that’ll be it for now. I’m not.. I’m not feeling very hungry at the moment.”

“Well if you change your mind, just holler my way dear.”

Y/N hesitated before simply nodding as she watched the woman wonder behind the kitchen counter, her attention turning elsewhere.

(Earlier that day)

Tonight, was the night. Excitement electrified throughout her as hopefulness grabbed a hold of Y/N. Her damn cheeks hurt from the inevitable smile that she couldn’t seem to wipe away. Tonight, was the night she was going to tell Steve Rogers she was in love with him. A task easier said than done. 

For the past two years, they trapped themselves in a revolving game of cat-and-mouse. Steve had made himself approachable, caring, and most importantly, interested in what she had to say. At first their friendship grew as any other; spending countless missions by his side, endless inside jokes during movie nights, pouring her cup of coffee every morning. 

It only felt natural when they fell further into each other’s arms. She distinctly also remembered how Steve had lured her into their simple arrangement all while guaranteeing the best of both worlds; friends with benefits. Granted she blindly agreed to be a willing participate if it meant she got to spend those moments with him in hidden whispers and jest. Those times were her absolute favorite, when his Captain America facade faded and he allowed his true colors to blossom. Temporarily suspending his concrete walls and purely living in the moment.  

“Jarvis, what’s the time?”

“Good Evening Y/N. The current time in New York is 6:17pm.”

“Can you tell me, when are Steve and Nat estimated back?”

The computer system came alive and replied; “Mr. Stark arranged Mr. Rogers and Ms. Romanoff to arrive promptly at 6:20pm this evening. Is there anything else I can further assist you with?”

“No, that’ll be it. Thanks Jarv.”

“Have a pleasant evening Ms. Y/N.”

Seven days of radio silence. Seven daunting days without so much a simple hello and Y/N was itching to hear his voice unraveling all impure thoughts in the process. She craved his touch, the press of his body against hers, and finally, to tell him exactly what she had been hiding for so long. 

Minutes ticked away sluggishly turning into hours with no sign of her solider in sight. Strange, she pondered. Y/N hadn’t been completely updated to the delicate details of the mission, but she knew better that Tony would have told her of any last-minute changes. At least she thought as much.

Y/N launched from her comfy spot in bed and made her way to the door. She didn’t bother locking the door behind her knowing full well she would return shortly. Y/N skipped towards the elevator, the red button coming alive as the elevator shifted downwards. The doors closed rapidly behind her as she punched the Quinjet dock lever flying her upwards, further increasing the butterflies in her belly.

As the door opens, Y/N was shocked to see the Quinjet parked and empty. Hmm, maybe Jarvis hadn’t been updated yet. Tony Stark was a man dedicated to two things; Pepper and his work. So much so, the freak designed his lab directly next door so he could be aware of all incoming traffic that left the headquarters. Y/N knew she would find him hunched over his latest obsession and she was never wrong…well most of the time.

Y/N raised her hand to meet the cool steel but Tony startled her already alert of her presence.

“Y/N, come in.”

“How did you--?”

“Tile sensors, I can literally pick up any foot print that steps into this glorious building of mine. Pretty cool, eh?”

“Uh, if you’re into that kinda thing then yeah, yeah I guess.”

He swiveled his chair around meeting her piercing green irises, “But, I don’t think that’s the reason you’ve come. I’m surprised you’re not with Goody Two-Shoes.”

“Whoever do you mean Mr. Stank?”

“Hey now, don’t forget who signs your paychecks and don’t play stupid with me kid. I know about you and Blondie. You’re like an open book kiddo.”

Shock temporarily overcame Y/N wondering just how exactly Tony always knew every secret confined within his walls.

“First- you don’t pay me and second- You are really creepy; you do know that?”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks. State-of-the-art HD cameras all over the joint, and well, you guys are shit about hiding your ‘nightly activities’, if you know what I mean. Wink Wink.”

There was no attempt at hiding the blush that overtook Y/N’s cheeks as she tried to salvage her remaining pride. But with no such luck claimed her.

“Are they home? Did they make it back safely?

“You’re telling me you haven’t seen Cap yet?” Tony’s eyebrows raised slightly seemingly answering his own question.

“No no, not yet.” Her heart accelerated pace as unease slide down her backbone. Something was up and she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Jarvis, buddy. Can you inform me on the whereabouts of Steve and Natasha since arrival?

“Certainly Mr. Stark. Their infrared scans show them in his suite. Shall I alert them of your activity?”

Y/N’s mind was running a mile a minute as she immediately contemplated the worst-case scenario. Steve did always like to finish his report immediately after missions. Maybe she was there to ease the paperwork?

“Nope, that won’t be necessary.” His attention guided back to Y/N as he tried to reaffirm the nervous Avenger in front of him.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That. Overthinking. It’s a dangerous path. Wo-man up and get your man.”

Y/N leaped into his arms hugging him tightly; “Thanks boss man. You really are the best. But, if you ever tell anyone I said that, I will deny it until the day I die. Got it?”

“Anything for you, Y/N.”

With her nerves momentarily in check Y/N found herself instinctively walking towards Steve’s door. Her ears drums pulsated, a slight shake to her fingers as her hand guided into a ball feeling the sooth coldness of metal.

Erogenous moans echoed down the hall just before her knock unhinging her own worst nightmare. Her body switched to auto pilot, simply going through the motions. Before she knew what was fully happening, Y/N pushed his door wide open and blankly stared straight ahead. Nausea churned violently; her throat tightened while the edges of her vision blurred. 

Y/N didn’t realize the tears streaming down her already soaked face.  Her mind riddled with anxiety and numbness. She read many stories of shark attacks and fatal lightning striking, but never in the slightest did she think she would reach such an unfortunate choice of fate. This, this felt similar to drowning, suffocating for air as her inflamed lungs gasped for resolution.

They continued, ignoring their surroundings as Steve slid deeper into Natasha. Her legs tightened around his hips as she dug her manicured nails into his back muscles., pulling him closer to her glistening body.  

“I’m so close. Don’t fucking stop.” Natasha whimpered breathlessly as she clenched around him igniting another groan to escape his lips.

A shock wave zapped Y/N as she stood there unnoticed. She wanted to scream but every sound died on her tongue. This couldn’t be happening. Steve had promised to return to her. And her only. She had a fucking plan. But now, she knew of their repulsive secret. He always made her feel jealous, crazy about being called out for his attraction to Natasha. All to understand, Y/N was rightfully so.

Y/N took two steps back, directly moving out of their line of sight and threw her back against the cool wall. Her hands clamped over her mouth covering her lips. She silently sobbed as she felt her heart crack into sharp, broken edges. All of a sudden, her tears dried up and she felt an emptiness spread inside of her.  

Sometimes you have to accept the fact that there are things that will never go back to how they used to be. We don’t create fantasy worlds to escape reality, we create them to be able to stay. And from that moment on, Steven Grant Rogers was dead to her. And that was her only form of tangible truth.

-------

Requests Open! 

[sockablock]

Widomauk Week 2k19 | Day 2: Urban Fantasy

That afternoon, there came a knock at the door.

It flew open before Caleb could even rise from his chair.

“Coming through, coming through!” hollered Nott the Brave as she strode across the welcome mat like she owned the place. Which, to be fair, was basically true. The faded sofa by the window was her favorite place to sleep, and at this point she even had her own set of keys. 

“You are here today early,” Caleb chuckled, standing and giving his closest friend a smile. Then it faded slightly as more people marched into view.

Two of them he recognized. Two he did not.

“Caleb!” Jester beamed, sprinting across the floor and practically leaping into his arms. “Caleb, how are you? Long time no see!”

“Ah, Jester, what a surprise. You are—oh, my ribs—yes, yes, hello—”     

Beau stepped around a stack of books. This apartment was always cluttered.

“What’s up, Widogast? Still a nerd?”

“Still needlessly cruel, Beauregard?” Then he raised an eyebrow, and glanced at the other two.

“Who are the newcomers?” he asked through the pain. Then he added, “Well, come on in, do not be shy.”

A woman taller than his doorframe ducked inside. A tornado of glitter and jewelry blew in after her.

“Ah, the mysterious Mr. Widogast!” the whirlwind shouted. Caleb had to pray that his neighbors were already awake. “It’s a pleasure, dear, an absolute pleasure!” Then the twister paused, and there was a flicker of hesitation. 

“Well. It, er...yes, well. A pleasure indeed.”

Caleb matched the stranger’s measured expression. Now that he had finally stopped moving, he could see that this force of nature was just a tiefling. Lavender skin and technicolor jacket, dwarfed by the enormous figure standing next to him.

“And you are?” Caleb turned to the woman. He completely missed the way the tiefling suddenly deflated. “I do not think that we have met.”

“That is because we have not.” Her accent was soft, though also a bit rough. Caleb had never heard anything quite like it. “I am Yasha. I am a new client.”

“That’s right!” Jester finally set Caleb down. He took the opportunity to un-ruffle his pajamas. “We’re helping her and her friend with a case.”

“With my case, actually, hello.” The tiefling waved his hands around. “Mollymauk Tealeaf is the name, dear. Since you so rudely forgot to ask.”

“Ah. Apologies,” Caleb absently nodded. Then he turned around and gestured to the kitchen. “Would you any of you like some tea or coffee? Do you have a preference?”

“Tea,” said Beau.

"Same here,” sighed Nott. “I already had four cups today.”

“Here, don’t worry, Caleb, I can make it,” Jester grinned. “That way, you guys can go over the case.” She leaned in towards Caleb and gave him a huge wink. “You’re definitely gonna like it,” she said. “It’s all about magic. Right up your alley.”

Caleb’s eyebrow rose again. “Really? Is that so?” he asked.

She giggled and nudged Nott in the shoulder. “Tell him,” she said. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”

Then she danced off to the kitchenette, leaving the rest of the group to be seated.

“Ja, ja, alright then,” Caleb said, pulling his chair up to face the sofa. “In that case, let’s hear what’s going on. It has been a while since last time,” he added, giving Nott a small smile. “I was wondering if you had replaced me, spatz.”

Her grin was jagged, and could’ve drawn blood. This was a goblin’s cheerful face.

“This is the best one yet,” she promised, flopping down onto the armrest. The others followed her lead and sat down.

“Go ahead, Molly, Yasha, when you’re ready.”

The newcomers briefly exchanged glances. Yasha gave Molly an encouraging nod.

“Well, alright, I suppose it’s like this.” The tiefling leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees. “Some people are trying to fucking kill me, and I hired the detectives to figure out why.”

“So we can find them and kill them,” Yasha added.

“Well, I haven’t fully committed there,” Molly leaned back and crossed his legs. “Their motive is what I’d really like to know. At least, for now. I’m not afraid to get my hands...dirty.”

He made eye contact with Caleb and enunciated the word. Caleb plucked his notebook from the table.

“Okay,” he said flatly, and flipped to the first page. “Do you have any leads, so far?”

“None,” said Nott, when Molly failed to answer. “Nothing really good, anyway. I’m guessing it has to do with this guy—”

“Not a guy, dear.”

“—sorry, with Molly’s past. The people after him are definitely magic-users, which is why I came to you,” Nott finished.

Caleb nodded slowly. “Ja, okay, that is all very good to know.” He turned to Molly. “Did you used to know any wizards? Sorcerers? Any who were angry?”

“Yeah, well, that’s the kicker,” Beau muttered. She had taken the other end of the couch and was sitting on the back with her feet on the cushion. “We’ve kind of hit a dead end, there.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “And that is because...?”

All eyes turned to Molly. He gave a sigh and crossed his arms.

“Gods, I really hate telling this story. Especially when it’s the first time I meet someone,”

“Your life is in danger,” Yasha said sternly. “You will tell the story as much as required.”

He rolled his eyes, but it was more fond than anything. “Very well,” he relented, and nodded at Caleb. “I’m an amnesiac,” he said. “Woke up two years ago without a care in the world. Without a single memory to my name. Actually, I didn’t even have one of those. ‘Mollymauk’ is just what they call me at work.”

Caleb wrote this down. “Work?” he prompted.

“I do stuff at a bar. Nothing untoward, just backstage support.” He waggled his eyebrows, as if that would make it better. “Sometimes I post flyers, and sometimes I juggle swords.”

In the privacy of his notebook, Caleb wrote: unemployed.

“I see,” he said, laying down his pen. “And do you suspect your memory loss is magical? Have you spoken to any other arcanists about this?”

“Ha! No, fuck that,” Molly said. “I never gave a shit about my past. Not until it tried to burn me alive, that is.”

Caleb fell silent for just a beat. He schooled his expression. 

“It tried to burn you?”

Molly noticed nothing. Nott definitely did, but elected not to say anything. For now.

“Metaphorically,” the tiefling explained. “It actually threw these bolts of, like, energy at me, but I managed to run into an alley and up the fire escape and through a window. I lost the attackers, after that, but not without getting a bit singed, first.”

“Do you remember anything about these people? Anything memorable?”

“Other than the blasts of magic?” Molly shrugged. “I dunno, maybe? Yeah, I think...at one point, I think they called me something, a...an insurgent? Oh, and they seemed to think my name was Luke, or Luce, or something. It was a bit hard to hear over the explosions, and all.”

“I see.” Caleb turned to Nott. “Have you already looked into that?”

“We’re working on it,” she confirmed. “My best people are knee-deep in the records.”

“Not currently,” Beau said, “but we will be, when we get back.”

At that moment, Jester returned, bearing mugs. After setting all of them down, she perched atop a stack of books, teetering slightly, but not really caring. 

“Did we talk about the tattoos, yet?” she asked. “Isn’t this exciting, you guys?”

“Tattoos?” Caleb reached for a mug. “What tattoos?”

“I was getting there,” said Nott. “The main reason we came is because we wanted to you to take a look at Molly’s tattoos. It’s the only thing we haven’t fully investigated, yet. We think they might be magic, and we think it might be the key to all this. It was Jester’s idea, actually.”

“Aw, it was nothing,” she beamed and waved a hand. “I just suggested that we let Caleb check it out.”

“I’m personally delighted that you did,” Molly chuckled. “After all, I would never turn down a chance to let a handsome man examine my body. What do you say to that, Mister Caleb?”

There was a beat of silence. 

And then, Caleb’s whole face went red. It was amazing, the way his cheeks suddenly matched his hair.

“I-I...wie bitte?”

“I don’t speak dwarvish,” Molly said cheerfully, elated to finally get a reaction from this man. “But yes, I’m offering a full tour. All for the sake of the case, of course.”

Caleb’s mind was lodged against the word ‘handsome.’ It had been years since someone had called him tha—

Beau coughed. Then she coughed again. Then she gave one final hack and produced a glare that declared: this is awful. 

Yes, Caleb agreed in his head. This had suddenly become very awful. He tried to stand up and knocked over his chair.

“I...ah, er...right. Oh, right. Yes. Tattoo.”

He approached Mollymauk like a man walking to his death. The tiefling’s eyes glittered like rubies.

“Where...” Caleb muttered, dreading the answer, “...where is this marking...”

“Well, since you asked—”

Thankfully, before he could be teased any further, Beau one again spoke up.

“It’s on his left palm,” she said matter-of-factly. “Looks like an eye. It’s fucking creepy.”

Molly shot her a glare, which she returned. Caleb thanked every god he could think of, then gingerly took the tielfling by the hand.

He turned it over.

The electricity of the moment instantly vanished. Caleb’s mind abruptly shifted gears and without hesitation, he sank down on his knees, poured his gaze and his fingers across the lines. This symbol...this eye...he’d seen it before...

And in that second, above him, Molly privately unraveled. Oh, yes, it was always just fun and games, until they took you by the hand, until your palms touched, your fingers brushed; also, this angle was simply unfair. Caleb’s intense, thoughtful blue eyes, unfair—

Molly liked a certain amount of attention. Now that he’d finally gotten it, well.

Unfair.

“Have any of you ever heard of ‘bloodhunters’?” Caleb muttered, tracing the shape of the eye once again. “I believe...ja, I believe I have seen almost this exact pattern before, in a book that briefly touched upon the subject. This is...it was part of a ritual, I think, to unlock a certain kind of magic.”

“Mmhm?” Molly said, which was about all he could manage. 

Beau’s grin had reached astronomical sizes. She leaned her chin into her palm. “Good magic, or bad?” she asked conversationally.

“Many say that there is no such thing as either.” Caleb absently turned the hand again. “It depends on the user, really.”

“Does the tattoo give any hints about his background?” Nott had produced her own notebook and primed her pen. “Any clues about the kind of people that’re after him?”

“Er...unfortunately, I am afraid so.”

He let go, and Molly immediately sank. Behind him, his tail did an unhappy swish, though not because of what Caleb had said.

“Who are they?” Jester asked, leaning in. “Are they bad guys?”

“Are they dangerous?” Yasha narrowed her eyes. “Should we expect more trouble?”

“Well...” Caleb sighed, “I would certainly need to check my books again. I do not want to cause undue concern—”

“A bit late for that,” Molly mumbled. He had finally regained control of his arms, and crossed them pointedly against his chest. “Spit it out, Mister Caleb. What’s coming for me?”

Caleb stood and returned to his chair.

“Danger,” he murmured. “Indescribable danger. Brought on by the kind of people unfraid of dabbling in that which they do not understand. The kind of people who break reality and are willing to take power from anywhere they can.” 

He sat back down. He picked up his mug.

“I said earlier that magic is what you make of it, Mister Mollymauk, and I stand by that statement,” he murmured. “But if your tattoo is anything to go off of, then that means the people coming after you are not people to be trifled with. They are...the magic that they practice walks a very fine line along the border of what we would call madness and abomination. You are very lucky to have escaped them, Mollymauk. Though, I am certain, they will come for you again.”

As Caleb finished speaking, silence filled the room. Everyone quietly watched him drink some tea.

And then, very slowly, their eyes turned to Molly. He was still staring at his hand, though now his dreamy expression was gone.

He turned his palm over. He stared at the center. A dark, inky pupil, matched his shaky gaze.

“Well,” he said eventually. “...well.”

A pause—

“Fuck.”

— — — — — —

(✨Ko-fi link in my bio, if you’re feeling generous!✨)

[dearmrsbitch]

December 27, 2019 - Boomers Need a History lesson apparently.

Dear Moneyist,

I very much enjoy your column, and you are much kinder than I am. It may be my age, but my parents weren’t expected to pay for college when I came of age. I am, yes, a baby boomer. From reading your column it seems like lots of people of varying ages seem to believe that they have rights to an inheritance, often by virtue of being a DNA relative and, sometimes, by virtue of a marriage.

I disagree with this assumption. Please educate me. Are my somewhat scornful reactions a reflection of my own age or ignorance? Or can I or anyone else write a will leaving their estate to whomever they like — say a charity, or the kid next door, or their nurse — instead of their kids and spouse? What is the law and etiquette regarding wills and inheritance?

Disgruntled Boomer

Dear Dumbass Boomer,

Your age group seems just hell bent on fucking everything up, taking no responsibility and then crying about everyone else who is younger or older.  Boomers historically have had everything the easiest.  You had the best college costs, cheapest houses, best economies, cheapest goods, most available jobs, etc.

I know you all hate younger people, but maybe you should remember who fucking raised us.  I am one of the oldest millennial, I am in my mid-30′s. My groups voting block hasn’t had half the time you’ve had to fix stuff, and yet you keeping fucking up. 

I mean, I didn’t see you out there, voting to keep the housing market stable, keeping rents locked in, or hey, even emailing your fucking alma maters to keep tuition at an affordable level.  When all of you defaulted on your loans to become doctors and lawyers, that was when they made those laws that you couldn’t include student loans in bankruptcy.  (I know because my mother was involved in that decision and it pisses me off) That was your generation - not fucking us.  No, instead you bought up stuff, jacked up rents to fill your coffers, allowed tuition to climb by HUNDREDS of percentages, and level a scorched earth approach to education and healthcare that have made the US the laughing stock of the world in those regards.  I have friends who have been living overseas for years because they can’t pay their student loans with all the jobs you allowed to be shipped overseas for cheap slave labor, and yet you complain that your kids want you to help? You selfish ignorant fool.  If you don’t the like you’re living in, you built it!

Entitlement culture...  do you not understand history?  Throughout history, even the entire concept of modern marriage, was dedicated to passing wealth and property down through family lines.  Men literally created the institution of marriage to keep women pumping out their blood kids so they could give things to them.  You are living in a world of entitlement, it’s why white men have all the money and power and women only make 77 on the dollar and black families are kept in cycles of poverty because all their years of slavery and discrimination haven’t given them generational wealth to pass down.  You are the beneficiary of centuries - CENTURIES - of entitlement, and just because you work some office job you don’t really love that pays you more than you are probably worth - doesn’t mean you aren’t getting more than any other generation in history.  You can admit it.  I admit that if myself and a black woman are at the same job, with all the same factors, that I have more just given to me that she does, and that is not my fault, but it is my job to notice it and take steps.

And here you write in to this column, whining and crying about other boomers, those are who those letters are from, btw, that they can’t rip off their spouse’s children of their inheritance as the third spouse, or that they are upset that they “didn’t get enough.”  The kids?  Us kids?  As you would probably say I am, we’re not hoping for inheritance because like, bro, I totes want new airpods!  I am hoping for for the money to pay off student loans, maybe get a house, maybe save for retirement. 

If you have a completely and totally undeserving piece of shit kid or spouse, only then it is okay to just fuck off what you have to someone who doesn’t play into your family. But if you have a shit spouse, then get a divorce.  If you have a bad kid, then you raised them.  We didn’t invent and give ourselves those little participation medals you loathe so much - I mean, we weren’t living out our fantasies through our kids by substituting proper parenting with mindless awards while letting the world the kids were growing into go to shit while wasting money on a “man cave” and a time share in Orlando.

Charity is one thing, and that does not included political causes, btw.  A deserving person is one thing.  But to write your family out of your will because you “dislike this inheritance culture” thing is simply a manifestation of your own ignorance and complete lack of mind and heart.  Your kid is not going to look back on your, still paying off student loans in their 50′s, after you’ve given your money to “Trump’s Let’s Build the Wall of Racism that the next Democrat will tear down,”  and say, “He was a good man.” 

Let’s use an analogy you’ve certainly said, “You’re teaching your kid to fish.”

Well that’s great, except now he has to get a loan that will take at least ten years to pay off to buy the fishing rod.  Then when he gets to the stream, if he can even catch a fish, it’s small, and instead of eating it, he has to sell it to rent a shack to live in just so he can survive to catch another fish to maybe, someday, make a profit.  And an industrial plant has moved in upstream and they’ve lobbied the local government to allow dumping waste in the stream, and the lobby money went to the politician that you voted for because they talked about “America First!”.  Now he’s simply got to pack up and moved before the fish die and he starves, but where is that money going to come from?  Either the money to move or just the money to get a new job? 

Teaching someone to fish does DICK when the stream is empty and they don’t have a fishing rod.

Boomers are and have been the problem for decades, with their blindness and consumption of resources.  The best thing you can do at this point is at least leave your money and resources to people who need it when you die instead of throwing it at randomness to “make a point.” 

History will not remember you fondly anyway, because we get to write it, and we are fucking pissed.

Mrs. Bitch

[galadrieljones]

that he may hold me by the hand: chapter 3

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason  

Rating: Mature (Adult Themes, Violence, and Sexual Content)

Summary: After saving Albert from stumbling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.

Masterpost | AO3 | Epigraph

Chapter 3: Only god knows, dear friend.

Arthur worked hard around camp at Clemens Point. He fished, chopped firewood, helped Kieran with the horses. He rode into town to collect a debt from an imbecilic youth that made for a grave-robber just to save his own hide. Arthur didn’t prefer robbing and killing anymore. He didn’t bother strangers unless they bothered him first. It was just too much of a hassle, a never-ending cycle he had finished with. So he hunted for food and pelts, sometimes with Charles, and he provided in his sturdy fashion. He drove Sadie into town to help her regain her confidence and also simply as a means of escaping his modern day existential boredom. They sometimes shared simple conversation down by the lake now, throwing rocks into the water and cleaning their guns. Dutch had made plans with the local law and together they had gone to take down moonshiners in the bayou, but all of Dutch’s reverie and promise-making sounded like a fantasy to Arthur by now. Far away, sophomoric. He was still living his same monotonous life, trusting as hard as he could, chipping away. Sometimes it felt like the things that Dutch wanted, he wanted as well, but for the most part, he wasn’t twenty-five anymore, and the land no longer felt free.

There were some times he would break up the days to drink some water or a bottle of beer and sit on the lake shore with Mary Beth. They would read together, or she would write while he sketched, and they would talk of their goings on in life and out in the world, and these were some of the most memorable moments he was spending those days in the camp. A couple of times, she took him pickpocketing at the parlor house in Rhodes, and boy was it a sight to see. Arthur counted Mary Beth as perhaps his closest friend in the gang. She could discuss matters of storytelling with him and held an interest in his art.

Arthur could have easily allowed himself to fall in love with a girl like Mary Beth. He could tell she would have liked him to open himself up to the possibility. Once or twice upon drinking too much whiskey late into the night, she had stolen a kiss from him. It was nice. She demanded little of him, and for her laid back disposition, he did like her. She was easy to be around and very pretty, and she asked him questions about his life. But the omniscient truth was, that just like almost everything else, Arthur had done all of this before. He had gone to the edge of happiness with a woman and drunk from its well. But it all ran dry. He was unwilling to do it again, as he had grown accustomed to failure, or at least he thought so. Mary Beth was very young and life was too fucked-up, and that really is all there was to it.

Yet he still had days where he felt free from the past, where he could roam at will and be a master of his own endless domain. He saw Albert several more times over the next couple months after their excursion in West Elizabeth. It was easy finding him, because he wanted to be found. They’d camp or drink in the Rhodes parlor house, making quiet fun of the ingrates who ran that piece of shit town, though Arthur had still never been to see him in St. Denis. During their talks, Arthur learned all about Albert, the modest but not inconsequential wealth from which he derived. But even as he was composed, well-traveled, and educated, he did not seem to hold this above anybody or anything, least of all Arthur. He seemed to count his experience in the world as frivolous and even juvenile in comparison to Arthur’s. He wanted for recklessness, even as Arthur attempted to council him otherwise. He said his mother was a suffragette in Philadelphia. He said he would have killed for half the bravery it must have taken for her to fight for the right to be heard.

Arthur was fascinated by the stories of Albert’s life and how different they were from his own. Albert never made Arthur to feel small and valued his tales of living in Oregon until the death of his mother, and how his father dragged him halfway to Colorado robbing and killing until he, himself, got strung up for dead. Arthur told him about how he had lived back then, on his own as a teenager, a hustler mostly, counting cards in the saloons of northern Wyoming and the vast, rocky stretches of the Tetons. He tamed horses, broke them to his touch, sold them, and worked as a ranch hand for a year. He told Albert about Dutch and about Hosea but without mentioning them by name. In talking to Albert, he realized how little of his life he was proud of. He told him about Mary but he skipped over Eliza, the same way he did whenever he was talking to Mary Beth, or to anybody about his life.

He became withdrawn in camp. Distant. He had begun speaking to John again on okay terms, and John noticed this one day right before Arthur was headed to Braithwaite Manor with Hosea on some sort of matter involving that confiscated moonshine.

“You okay?” he said, about to mount up, going into town on an errand for Dutch.

Arthur was smoking a cigarette, and John’s question surprised him. They were not in earshot of Hosea who sat reading a book on the back of the wagon, full of the moonshine jugs. “I’m fine,” he said. “Why you asking?”

“You just seem…preoccupied,” said John. “Or more bored than usual, maybe. I was wondering if maybe something happened.”

Arthur tossed the cigarette and adjusted his hat. He was flattered that John had thought to ask him about his life but entirely unwilling to share. “Nothing’s going on,” he said, even still. “Worry about your woman, Marston, and your boy. Don’t worry about me.”

“Whatever you say,” said John, though Arthur could tell he still didn’t really believe him. He rode off, leaving Arthur challenged into introspection for several days.

One night, he found himself in a scrape when a stagecoach robbery went south on account of Uncle’s ignorance, and he had to make himself scarce for a couple days. He found his way into the bayou, pretty deep, and there he ran into an outlaw woman named Black Belle. She was in a bind herself, and so he helped her—together they took down a whole crop of bounty hunters with a good deal of bullets and explosives, and truth be told it felt like the old days. Afterward, she left him with a photograph and a few stories from her younger, more rigorous years as a gunslinger. She fed him coffee with a bit of whiskey, too, before she went on her way.

The experience, though random, surprised Arthur. It was out of the ordinary. For this woman was truly golden and admired him for his acumen with a weapon and his rough and tough way of speaking about the world, but she was also warm. She was alive and doing things in the world. She was like him, and she was living, and she was alone, but she was tough and hard and mean, but she had blood pumping through her veins. She was not without smiling, and she was not without humor on the matter of her circumstances. Hanging with her was downright refreshing. It made everything seem simple again, like it should have been. After she was gone, Arthur became emboldened. Toward what he could not say, but he camped south of the train tracks that night, dodging gators, and then the next morning, he rode into St. Denis. He was looking for Albert, to sate the existential cycle of perpetual boredom that John had seemed to point out for him, and that he was more certainly becoming aware of. It seemed to be an old merry-go-round, his life, but he’d begun to realize that he could get off.

The city was new to him, but it was easy enough navigating the manicured cobblestone streets. He asked around until a nice young woman with a heavy French accent directed him to the high saloon. When he got inside, it was lunch time, and he went straight to the bartender and ordered a glass of whiskey.

“You seen a man named Albert?” he said after a minute, nursing his drink. “Been boarding here a few months I think. A little smaller than me with a beard—real nice, talks fancy?”

“You mean Mr. Mason?” said the bartender. He was shining up a glass as they spoke.

“Yeah.”

“He’s right over there.” The bartender directed his glance to a quiet table by the window where Albert was sitting with a book and a cup of coffee. He was writing in the margins of the book furiously. Arthur admired for a moment.

“I hope you ain’t wanting for no trouble,” the bartender went on, setting down his glass and his rag defensively. “Mr. Mason always pays his tab. He’s never once missed his rent either.”

Arthur looked back, realizing how intimidating he must have looked in a town of such well-established civility. “I don’t doubt that,” he said. “And there’s no need to worry. I want no trouble. I’m just a friend.”

“Oh, good,” said the bartender. He smiled, relieved, and went back to his shining. “That man is too often alone if you ask me. He could do with a friend.”

“Makes two of us,” said Arthur. He then took the whiskey down in a single gulp, placed his payment on the bar, and smiled. “Thanks, mister.”

“Any time.”

He walked across the room to Albert’s booth. He slid in across from him casually.

Albert looked up right away, startled at first, but then genuinely and pleasantly surprised. “Arthur,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just in the neighborhood,” he said, leaning back with one leg crossed over the other. “Thought I might pay you a visit.”

Albert was smiling, like he was caught in disbelief. “Well, that is—”

“It’s okay,” said Arthur, nodding his head. “If you’re busy, I don’t need to stay long.”

“No, please do,” said Albert. He closed his book with the pen inside it, tucked it away and leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “I’m never too busy. I’m just—I’m lost for words. I’m thrilled to see you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Arthur, feeling a warm streak across his cheeks, around the back of his neck, looking down at his gloved hands. He spoke almost as if to reassure himself. “That’s good.”

It turned out that Albert was on his way up to Bluewater Marsh to photograph snowy egrets along the banks of the Kamassa that day. He already had his bag and his camera packed. He invited Arthur, expressing relief.

“Up there, I believe it’s little more than beavers and copperheads,” said Albert as they mounted their horses outside, “but to get there one must pass through Lagras. I’m not sure my relationship to the gators there has improved any since our previous excursion in the bayou.”

Arthur laughed at this. “You’re a little bit more adept than you give yourself credit for, Albert,” he said. “I’m not saying you should be wrestling gators any time soon, but try not to sell yourself short.”

Albert steadied his horse, Martha. He smiled down into the reins. “Well, thank you, Arthur.”

They rode out of the city and followed the road north. Little by little, they freed themselves from the constraints of civilization and all of their previous attachments and concerns. As they went, their horses picking up across the muddy expanse of the bayou, Arthur told Albert all about his encounter with Black Belle, because it still stuck so strongly in his mind—her bravado and her explosives and ultimate pyromania. Albert was fascinated, as Arthur knew he would be, especially since he had not heard of many lady gunslingers, but he knew they must have existed. He asked whether it would be possible to get in touch with her again.

“I don’t think so,” said Arthur. “She was pretty much long gone last I saw her. I did get a picture though.”

They slowed down so that Arthur could dig the photo out of his satchel. He handed it over, their horses idling on the mucky pass. Frogs and birds churned all around, filling the world with their pretty, green songs. Albert was very much impressed by the photo. Arthur had sketched her, too. Little by little over the past weeks, he had been working up the courage to show Albert these pages in his journal. He showed him Black Belle. Albert was taken with the lines and the detail and very interested in Arthur’s artistic acumen, and he asked to see more. Arthur curated a few pages he thought Albert might like—wildlife and old abandoned churches and things. Albert returned the journal after he was finished and asked Arthur if he had ever considered painting. “If you had access to a canvas, paints and brushes, perhaps, is that something you would consider?” he said.

Arthur grew bashful. He declined to answer in any meaningful way and just smiled. He put away his journal and urged them forward instead, and they continued on their ride into the marsh. Albert was accustomed to Arthur’s reluctance by now, when it came to discussing certain parts of his life. He knew Arthur would share more when he was ready. He didn’t press him.

They stopped around some deep curve of the river and tied up their horses well away from the water. They tucked their pants tightly into their boots and began to make their way through the marshy brush and down to the river’s edge, mostly in complete silence. Arthur was chewing mint leaves and then he was chewing a reed he had plucked from the earth, and then he was smoking a cigarette. Albert found a good spot for his camera, hidden away beside a tree. There were already several egrets roosting on the opposite bank, picking at their feathers. They were not skittish birds, Arthur had surmised. They liked to sit and sun and did not nurture their disturbances. The snowy egret was a loner. The other egrets liked to travel in little bundles, but not the snowy egret. Albert called it a veritable ghost of the marsh and showed climactic focus as he took its picture again and again and again. Arthur leaned against a heavy rock as he did, proceeding to sketch the summery surroundings. He had forgotten what month it was and did not care to remind himself.

After Albert finished with his camera, he went down a little closer to the river bank to splash some water on his face, brighten up a bit. It was a warm day, and the flies were buzzing, but the Kamassa flowed down from the mountains to the north and as they got closer to the Roanoke Valley, the water got sweeter and cooler. The bank was a grassy drop off, and Albert was caught by surprise when, as he tried to kneel forward, his boot slid, and suddenly he splashed knee-deep into the river. He swore, loudly. Arthur got up to see what was going on, and when he saw Albert standing there, half-stranded in the river with his arms out and his pants soaked, he started laughing.

“What the hell’d you get into?” he said.

“I slipped,” said Albert, looking around. “Is there anything that wants to eat me in here?”

“Not really,” said Arthur. He steadied his stance on the river bank and held out his hand. Albert took it and Arthur hauled him in and slapped him on the back a couple times and straightened his collar and dusted off his shoulders. “The beavers bite, but generally speaking, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

Albert blushed, almost furiously. He sat down in the grass then, and took off his boots to shake the water out. “Well I pity any beaver that’s afraid of this imbecile.”

“You’re not not an imbecile,” said Arthur. “These banks are slippery.”

“I should be more careful.”

“That, Mr. Mason, is the story of your life.”

Albert put his boots back on. The sun was starting to get a little weak, going down past the trees, and the air was getting a chill. He got to his feet and sighed. “I believe I’m finished here,” he said. “Would you prefer to camp, or should we head back to the city? I’d love to get some shots of the orchids around here, but I won’t lie when I say this place makes me itch.”

“Let’s head back,” said Arthur, helping Albert dismantle his camera from the tripod. “I agree with you. I more or less despise camping too often in the marsh. We can come back next week, look for orchids.”

"I believe I got some good shots today,” he said, sighing. He watched Arthur with a sense of pride in his heart. Hands on his hips, he admired. He wished to talk more but was not quite sure what to say, even after all this time. He wanted to say something about the way he felt, anything, but the way he felt was more or less wayward to his ability with language, and the words didn’t make sense. It was all too dispersed, like buckshot caught in mid-air.

Meanwhile, Arthur picked up the tripod and folded it under his arm. Full of action, he exhaled and proceeded to lash it all up to Albert’s horse, Martha. He then put his hands on his hips, hung his head and looked back to Albert. Eventually though, he broke the moment with a small grin. “Let’s follow the river back,” he said. “Instead of taking the road.”

Albert straightened up, surprised by this. “Is that safe?”

Arthur shrugged. “Probably not,” he said as he mounted his white horse. “But I’ll keep you safe. Come on.”

Albert placed his hat on his head. He followed.

They rode along the river a little ways, going slowly. The sun went down, angling behind the trees and the sky became a long combination of fiery oranges and deep cerulean. Eventually, the night grew dark. They came across a rundown pier after about an hour or so, and bobbing there to its anchor was a house boat that neither of them had ever seen before. It seemed inhabited, so out of curiosity, they knocked on the door, and when no one came, they went inside to explore and see what was going on. All the lights were on and there was music playing from a gramophone, but nobody was home.

Arthur and Albert looked at one another. They felt funny being inside the house boat, like they might get caught by the ghost or hillbilly who owned it, so they went back outside and stood on the little boardwalk, surveying the lights and how they glanced off the river as beautiful orbs instead. The music from the house boat made the Bluewater Marsh feel alive with a party, almost haunted. There were gators nearby but they seemed disinterested in the men.

Arthur wanted badly to sketch the boat. It was something he would normally do, but he thought it would be strange to take the time to do so in the moment. It was so lovely in the evening. He made a mental picture, taking note of its angles and the way that the light shining from its insides balanced with the darkness of the marsh in dynamic fashion. He thought about how he felt. He thought about the whimsical beauty and the happenstance of finding such a strange thing so abandoned in the southern wilderness. He looked at Albert then and wondered if he felt the same, only with taking pictures. There was something so special, he though. The randomness, and the romance.

Arthur took a deep breath, suddenly all full of feelings. The feelings came without his permission. That was not a bad thing. Before he could say or do anything, Albert had become dreamy and seemed to breath a little bigger, like he was filling up with the natural wonder of the sky. He was looking at the boat and said, “I must say, Arthur. These days, and our time together—I find myself getting lost. I’m sure I sound like a school boy, but I’ve never had a friend like you. I don’t want the nights to end.” He sort of laughed to himself, like he was not sure of what he was trying to say.

“That means something,” said Arthur, glancing at him. "I get it."

“If anybody actually lives in this boat, I wonder what their life is like.”

Arthur looked back to the boat. “Who knows."

“Yes,” said Albert. “Who knows.”

As they continued to look on at the boat then in its well-lit abandon, they both reveled in the freedom such a clear night in the lonely marsh could afford. The music from the boat went through their blood and into their bones and lived there.

“There really is music playing, correct?” said Albert. “Or have I gone made.”

“No, there’s music,” said Arthur.

He forgot the boredom, forgot the days gone by and all of his inhibitions. Their hands touched briefly. It was not a bother to either of them. But then that brief touch turned extended, like an unexpected exchange of permission, given and received, back and forth, until at some point, their fingers laced together, and they held hands. The moment was charged, as if with a current of electricity, and at once, they both looked down, surprised. Arthur’s hand was rough and warm where Albert’s was softer. With this, they each seemed to get ahold of what they needed from the other. They then looked at each other, and it was vulnerable, and their joint confusion sparked opportunity. Arthur saw it and made the move.

He leaned in, sort of fast, like he thought he might otherwise lose his nerve. Their mouths locked together into a certain kiss. For a moment, what he’d done felt unreal, like a dream. But sooner or later, feeling his hand along the soft of Albert’s throat, and then to the back of his neck, as Albert held onto his wrist just to keep him there, he knew that it was solid. It was true. The blood pumping between them was a million miles per hour even as the earth seemed to turn in slow motion. It deepened. When they parted, their mouths made a sound that reminded them both that their bodies were alive.            

They looked down first, at their muddy boots, then up at each other, still holding hands, almost disbelieving but that gave way quickly to a quiet and communal joy that they both hid well beneath stoic smiles and warm cheeks, and then they looked back out at the water, at the house boat.

When they heard men coming up the path some ways behind them, a stagecoach on a late shipment to the general store in St. Denis, they each dropped their hands into their pockets on instinct, infused with a silent speed and pretended to be just two old friends standing close to one another on the boardwalk. After the stagecoach went past, Arthur took a deep breath.

“Come on,” he said to Albert, still with his hands in his pockets. “Let’s get you home.”

They got back on their horses, rode silently at a gallop for most of the way, but they spoke some as they went, about this or that, as they always had something to share between them. When they got to the saloon, they tied up the old girls. Albert usually boarded Martha in the local stable, but he said she would be okay for the night. Arthur walked with him through the busy saloon and up the stairs and all the way to the door. The piano was going and it was raucous. Nobody noticed them. Albert turned the key and went inside. Arthur leaned in a gentlemanly fashion against the door frame but he did not enter. There was a moment in which they paused to see if anything else might happen, but even as their hearts would have it they were not ready for that yet.

“I’ll come calling next week then,” said Arthur. “Tuesday morning. We’ll go find some orchids.”

Albert was smiling. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

Arthur gave him a quiet grin, glanced down to his boots and then he straightened up off the door frame and slapped it once as if to make a clean break in the moment. “Goodnight, Albert,” he said.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur backed away and turned to recede back down the hallway. Albert watched him go. He stood for a moment, waiting, even when Arthur had gone down the stairs and disappeared, as he feared his knees may buckle if he moved too soon.

Arthur rode all the way back to Clemens Point feeling free and like he’d struck some sort of jackpot. The emotion was widespread all over his body and he couldn’t pin it down. He tied up his girl Amelia and walked to his tent without really speaking to anyone. It was late and most were asleep, but Karen was singing with Javier at the fire, and the drunken Reverend tried asking him to sit, but he declined. He felt sympathy for the old man, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to be alone. It was still like coming awake from a dream, and he wasn’t prepared yet.

Arthur was living two lives, that was for certain. One was better and more awake than the other. He pulled his tent flaps closed, took off his boots, loosened his gun belt and lay down to sleep. There was no time to consider the logic behind all that lie in store for him. He had no idea what the goddam hell he was doing. But whatever this was, this thing he had going, it was his.

[master-sass-blast]

Paint it Red

DEAR GOD THIS TOOK FOREVER. HOLY SHIT.

Summary: You and Piotr celebrate Valentine’s Day together --and because Piotr is Piotr, he knocks it out of the park by spoiling you at every turn.

This is a fluff fic. Not a drop of angst in sight. You’re welcome.

Rating: E for HOLY SHIT HOW DID SO MUCH SMUT END UP IN THIS?

Warnings: Consumption of alcohol, roadhead (drive safe, kids), and graphic (consensual) sex.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Tag list: @marvel-is-perfection

Side note: The lyrics in the beginning portion are from Paramore’s “The Only Exception.”

Special thank you to @starman-thorsus-canos-jock for beta reading this! If you hadn’t, this wouldn’t be getting uploaded tonight because I wouldn’t have had the guts to do it!

“When I was younger/ I saw my daddy cry/ And curse at the wind...”

You hum along with the song playing on your phone, swaying back and forth slightly as you work on applying your makeup for the evening.

You’d never celebrated Valentine’s Day as a child --save for once, when you’d been on your uncle’s farm when the holiday had rolled around, and he’d decided to celebrate with you by fixing both of you massive ice cream sundaes and telling you about all the ridiculous bad dates he’d been on.

Sometimes, you think that man’s the only reason you have any sense of humanity in you.

Wade, technically, had properly introduced you to the holiday once you arrived at Xavier’s. He’d tossed five different bags of red, white, and pink wrappered candy in your lap before putting some sort of classically bland and saccharine rom-com on and watching it with you.

You still have some of the wrappers saved, tucked away in a box in your closet.

Piotr, though, had been the one to introduce you to Valentine’s Day to a whole new level; he’d kept things tame during your first year together, at your request, but the night --an evening picnic in his art studio, complete with candles and flowers--had been completely and utterly perfect.

This year, though, you’d given him free reign to do what he wanted --he’s the planner of the two of you, with legal access to a car and legally earned money in his bank account

--and thus far, you’re completely and utterly swept off your feet by what he’s come up with.

He’d told you to pack an overnight bag last night, with reasonably detailed instructions on what to pack: a nice dress and things to pair with it for an evening out, pajamas, and comfortable clothes for the drive back the next morning.

And toiletries, makeup, etcetera etcetera --not the fucking point.

Because the fucking point is that the next morning he’d surprised you with breakfast in bed before telling you to get dressed and grab your bag. And then  he’d driven you to the fanciest fucking hotel you’ve ever seen and revealed that not only had he booked a room for the night, but he’d made reservations at a restaurant that --when you’d taken a moment to look it up on your phone--was so expensive it nearly made you fall over.

How he could afford it was beyond you, but leave it to Piotr Rasputin to blow every guy on the face of the planet away on Valentine’s day.

A day out of the mansion, away from everyone, just for the two of you.

There’d even been a vase of roses and a box of chocolates waiting in the room, as per instructions your wonderful boyfriend had left with the hotel staff.

Again, leave it to Piotr Rasputin.

He’d taken you out to lunch, then to a nearby art museum and showed you around with the intensity, passion, and mild distractedness that only an artist could have in such a place.

And you’d watched him, entertained and enthralled and endlessly endeared.

And now, now you’re back at the hotel, getting ready for what promises to be a fabulous dinner.

“You are/ the only exception/ You are/ the only exception--”

You sing along with the song, swaying as you continue working on your makeup. You’re almost done and all you’ve got left is to change into your dress --you’d thought it best to leave it off until your makeup was done and put away, thus making spills impossible--and put on your shoes. You grumble as you try to get your eyeliner done --and realize that, perhaps just maybe, swaying isn’t exactly conducive to making even eyeliner wings. “Why. Is. Eye-line-r so damn hard? Why. Is. Eye-line-r so damn hard?”

A loud snort from the bathroom door makes you pause.

Piotr’s wiping at his eyes as he braces himself against the door frame. “Did you mean to sing that with the song?”

You smirk and shrug. “Hey, I think I’m onto something. Just you watch, it’ll be the greatest hit of the year.”

“Are you almost ready, myshka? Our reservation is soon.”

“Yeah, yeah --fuck it.” You cap your eyeliner pen and toss it in your makeup bag. “Who needs wings? They’re just a pain in the ass anyway.” You swipe on some lipstick, do an obligatory lip pop at the mirror, and then change into your dress for the evening.

It’s a relatively modest, lacy, red number that neither clings to you like a second skin or hugs your every curve. It does, however, fit you properly, match Piotr’s tie perfectly, and make you feel like a princess or a superstar when you wear it, and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

(For the record, it is.)

You put on your shoes --a pair of black pumps with enough heel to make you sound fancy without being high enough to risk twisting any ankles--then fluff your hair before doing a little spin. “How do I look?”

He smiles at you, dreamy and almost shy. “Krasivaya. Always.”

Beautiful.

You can’t help but preen a little at his praise, and take the arm he offers to you. “Take me to dinner, Mr. Rasputin.”

He chuckles as he opens the door that leads to the hall for you. “But of course, dorogaya moya.”

The restaurant is located near the Hudson river, and is out of the city enough that you don’t have to worry about getting clipped by a taxi when you get out of the car.

It’s the small things in life, really.

Piotr hands his keys to the valet before opening your door and holds out a hand to you. “Moya lyubov’.”

Some whimsical, inane, distracted part of your brain whisks you away in a bizarre sort of fantasy, where’s he’s actually a Russian crime lord and you’re some kind of waitress or college student or otherwise financially strapped young woman that’s being seduced by the trappings of luxury and crime, and he’s in turn being charmed by your plucky personality and down-to-earth sensibilities.

Granted, it’s not the weirdest thing your mind’s ever come up with, so you just giggle and let him escort you inside.

Given how all out Piotr’s been going for the holiday, you’d half expected to be seated in some sort of private room --and are grateful when you aren’t. You enjoy the background hum of the other diners and the opportunity to people watch; it keeps the lulls in conversation from feeling too stifling.

Besides, it’s not like you needed a private dining experience to make the evening any more memorable. The view of the river is divine, ripples and currents glittering as the lights from the city refract off the water. And the dining room itself is heavenly, all white linens and tea light candles and soft, jazzy piano music being piped through seemingly invisible speakers.

You’re feeling more and more the part of the seduced, ho-hum citizen, almost dizzy from the heady thrill of it all. You can’t help but giggle when he pulls out your chair for you --and pushes it back in, ever the consummate gentleman--and peek at him coyly from beneath your lashes when he sits down across from you. “You’re going all out for tonight.”

He smiles back and takes one of your hands in his --careful to avoid the little tealight candle sitting at the center of the table, ever the consummate worry-wart. “You deserve to be spoiled. Today is good excuse.”

You arch an eyebrow at him, smirking playfully. “You need an excuse?”

He winks at you. “Only to get time off work.”

You open your mouth to say something else--

And then a perfectly coiffed blond man dressed in an chef’s uniform is walking up to your table with a smile. “Piotr. It’s good to see you.”

Piotr stands and shakes the man’s hand with a smile of his own. “Grant. It has been too long.”

“No kidding.” The man --Grant--glances at you with a smile. “Are you going to introduce me to your date?”

You can’t help but preen a little --again--when Piotr does, basking in the glow of his affection the way a cat basks in the glow of a sunbeam.

(They may as well be the same damn things, as far as you’re concerned.)

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you and even lovelier to see that Piotr can, in fact, do something other than pine in the presence of a pretty girl.”

You giggle when Piotr shoots Grant an indignant look. “I mean... how long were you calling me ‘myshka’ for before you told me it was a term of endearment used by couples? A year? A year and a half?”

Grant groans quietly as the tips of Piotr’s ears go red. “Dude. No.”

“I kissed him first, too, if that counts for anything.”

“I think everything ended up fine,” Piotr says emphatically, trying to end the conversation before it gets too out of hand.

“Says the glacier,” Grant teases before refocusing on you. “Piotr’s an old friend of mine; we studied at Xavier’s together, and he encouraged me to pursue my love of the culinary arts when I felt like I couldn’t keep up with the X-Men. Oh, he did the artwork for here, too.”

You twist in your seat to survey the dining room --and sure enough, you recognize Piotr’s style. You make an approving noise in the back of your throat as you smile at your boyfriend. “I’m surprised I didn’t recognize it earlier.”

“It’s not my best work.”

“Pete, if it wasn’t your best work, I wouldn’t have it hanging up. I know what I’m about.” Grant grins and clasps his hands together. “At any rate, when Piotr called me and asked me to help him, quote, ‘give the love of his life the most memorable Valentine’s Day she’s ever had,’ I couldn’t say no.”

You smile bashfully and duck your head, feeling ever drunker off the depths of Piotr’s love for you and the lengths he’ll go to show it.

“So, far be it from me to tell you what to order or how to order it, but I do hope you’ll let me pick your wine for the evening; a personal favorite of mine, pairs well with just about anything.”

It takes a moment to realize that Grant’s waiting for your approval, not Piotr’s --you’re the lady of the evening, and things’ll go however you want them to--and when you put it together you lift your head with a little giggle and nod. “That sounds great.”

The wine is excellent.

Not because it has undertones of oak or berries or whatever the fuck terms wine snobs use when describing wine. It’s just good. Rich.

It tastes like luxury without the ‘Buzzfeed Worth It’-toss-a-bunch-of-gold-leaf-and-fucking-truffles-on-top-to-sell-the-‘luxury’ ridiculousness to deal with.

The food is excellent. For the same reasons as the wine, but also because it’s delicious.

The inane, fantasy spinning part of your brain --which has been significantly boosted thanks to the wine, not that it needed much encouragement to begin with--is on some tangent about how this is the way to do proper seduction. No ridiculous, cheesy, trendy five star restaurant that puts truffle on everything so they can pump up the prices, or encrusts things in diamond because they could. No over the top shopping spree to start off the day or limo ride on the way over.

It’s about quality. About letting the activities serve as an accent, a backdrop, to the affection you feel for the recipient.

And, fuck, Piotr’s good at it. He’s always been good at getting things ‘just so,’ at finessing everything just right so that you feel like the center of the world without being overwhelmed by some sort of ostentatious display.

“Alright, I have to know,” you say as you take another bite of mashed potatoes that are so damn smooth they may as well be made of silk. “How long did you spend planning this?”

“Most of the year,” he admits. “To make sure I could get proper reservations. I did not want to get caught short.”

“Well, this has been completely and utterly spectacular,” you say.

“It’s not over yet,” he says with a glint in his eye that tells you he’s thinking about exactly the same thing as you.

You can’t help but squirm in your seat a little, excited and impatient. “No, it certainly isn’t.” You drink a little more wine --you’re almost done for the night, you’ve learned your limits by now--and smile at him. “You know, last year, when I told you that you could go all out, I almost expected... I don’t know. Everything big and flashy --rose petals on the bed, or something.”

He catches your meaning and arches a thick eyebrow at you. “Is that what you would have wanted?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. It would’ve been too much. But this... this is perfect.”

He smiles, cheeks pinking at your praises, and holds out one of his hands to you. “I like to think I know you well.”

“You were tempted to go that far though, even if just for a moment,” you press, amused and endeared because you know him too, as you place your hand on his. “Admit it.”

“I was,” he confesses without any trace of shame or embarrassment. “Because you are my world and I want to give you everything in it.”

You can feel tears threatening to well up and you bite the inside of your bottom lip to hold them back because you worked hard on your makeup, dammit. “Well, count me as curious, because I really want to know what stopped you.”

“You’re always curious.”

“And if you were actually complaining about that, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

He smiles. “I will never complain about your curiosity. It is one of the things I love most about you.”

“You keep talking like that and my heart’s gonna actually melt.”

“I know some good healers,” he says with a wink.

You can’t help but laugh, soft and drunk on love. “Okay, but how did you figure out this wouldn’t be too much for me?”

“You think I don’t know you?”

“No, I know you know me, I’m curious about the process. C’mon, babe, humor me a little. Show me how the fascinating mind of Mr. Piotr Rasputin works.”

He chuckles and rubs your knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “I know you can be... overwhelmed by affection at times. That gestures too grand make you anxious because you don’t know how to handle them. So I opted for... a quiet glamour, if you will.”

You honestly can’t think of a better way to describe the evening. “Well, you nailed it. I almost feel bad for not having anything for you.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t. I wanted opportunity to spoil you, and you let me have it.”

“That honestly sounds like a load of crap.”

“You do so much for me every day without realizing it.” His face goes unexpectedly serious, and you know it’s because he’s getting emotional. “As much as you think you offer nothing to me, you are wrong. I may not deal with struggles as severe as yours, but--” he pauses to swallow and find the words he wants “--there are many days where I feel lonely. I know that I come off as idealistic, naive, to others. A ‘glorified hall monitor.’ I know that people don’t always respect me.”

You squeeze his hand. “Babe--”

He shakes his head and smiles. “The people who I care about most respect me. I don’t care about others. Point of matter is, you make me feel loved and appreciated. The parts of myself that people make fun off, you make feel... good. Respected.” He looks up at you, and his eyes are shimmering with unshed tears. “You make me feel like I’m enough.”

Dammit, now you’re gonna cry. “You’re enough, Piotr. Just as you are. You’re so much more than enough.”

“Well, you make me feel like it.” He smiles politely when the server clears away your empty plates, nods when they ask if the two of you want dessert menus, then reaches into his pocket as they walk away. “Ah. Before I forget--”

“Babe --what?” Your heat hammers as he places a red velvet box on the table and scoots it towards you.

You know it’s not an engagement ring. You don’t have a diagnosis yet for your episodes, and the last conversation the two you had about marriage, you still wanted to wait for one and he was still fine with that. If that had changed, he would’ve talked to you about first.

That, and the box is a little too big for it to be a ring box --not to mention the fact that if Piotr was proposing, he’d already be down on one knee.

You open the box and gasp as a tasteful, elegant diamond necklace on a dainty silver chain glitters up at you. “Piotr...”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, moya lyubov’.”

You press your hand against your mouth, eyes watery, and smile. “It’s... it’s really fucking beautiful, Piotr. Will you help me put it on?”

“Konechno.”

He stands as you --carefully, you don’t want to break the chain--extract the necklace from the box, then takes it from your hands and moves behind you.

The combination of the cool metal against your skin and his fingers brushing against the nape of your neck makes you shiver.

And then he’s pressing his fingers against the underside of your chin and tilting your head up so he can press his lips against yours.

It takes all your willpower not to moan into the kiss; it’s closed-mouthed, it’s not like the two of you are Frenching each other in the restaurant, but you can still feel the passion and want behind it.

Your toes do curl in your shoes, though, and you do get a few chuckles out of some nearby patrons at the sigh you let out.

And then your sever’s back with the dessert menus, gushing about how cute the two of you are and complimenting Piotr on his taste in jewelry as he heads back to his seat.

Your hand flits to your neck, feeling the gems in their settings, and once you get your head back you ask “How did you even afford all this?”

He glances around the dining room --at his art on the walls--with an amused smirk before opening his dessert menu. “I know better than to work for free.”

You know you have to make the first move.

Now that lunch and the art museum and getting ready and the drive over and dinner and the necklace and dessert are all out of the way, you know that you’ve only got the drive back to the hotel to capitalize on the burning, throbbing sexual tension between the two of you and get your fun in.

Because as soon as the door to your hotel room closes, you know full well that Piotr Rasputin, the world’s most perfect boyfriend and gentleman extraordinare, is going to fuck your brains out.

You’ve seen the way he’s been looking at you all evening; you know damn well that it doesn’t matter that the dress you’re wearing isn’t a skin-hugger or a cleavage trap. To him, you’re still the most beautiful woman in the world, and his desire for you isn’t something that’s solely stoked by how much skin you’re showing at a given moment.

(Which isn’t to say that showing skin doesn’t rev his engine. You’ve spent enough mornings figuring out how to walk again after prancing around in your underwear while he got ready for teaching to know that it does.)

You’ve also spent enough time being horny for and with Piotr Rasputin to know that he’s his own damn textbook. If he’s hungry for you and can’t get a fix right away, he still can’t keep his hands off of you. He’ll play with your hair, rub his thumb against the nape of your neck, splay his hands against the curves of your waist--

--or, if the two of you are in a car, he likes to put his hand on your thigh.

And you know that if his hand hits your thigh before your hand hits his, it’ll all be over. You’ll be too flustered and wound up to do anything that might drive him out of his skull.

And you really want to. He’s spent the whole day lavishing affection and time and gifts on you, and now you want to repay the favor and drive him out of his mind. Just a little.

You wait until he reaches the part of the drive that isn’t too horribly twisty or bendy --making him less likely to outright reject what you’ve got planned--and go for it. You put your hand on his thigh --midway between his knee and his hip, nothing too conspicuous to start--and let your head rest against his shoulder with a happy sigh. “Tonight was... amazing, Piotr. I can’t believe you actually thought of all this.”

He chuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, I think on fairly regular basis.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say with a snort. “But no, really. I don’t think I’m ever gonna forget tonight.”

“That was the idea.”

“Stop brushing everything off and let me thank you, dammit.”

He laughs, full on. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Well, I want to. Seriously, you made me feel like a princess today. Or, I dunno, some sort of waitress that’s being seduced by a Russian crime lord.”

And that’s definitely the wine talking, because you wouldn’t have told him that otherwise, and you have to take a minute to check to make sure you’re not hitting a nerve, with what his mom’s history is like.

He’s still smiling though, amused. “Oh, really?”

You bite your lower lip and slide your hand up his thigh, squeezing the thick muscle there. “Yeah. You’ve pretty well swept me off my feet, babe.”

He shifts a little in his seat, which is how you know that you’ve got his attention with the placement of your hand. “The night is still young, dorogoy.”

“Yeah.” You go in for the kill, sliding your hand up his thigh and over to his crotch. “It is.”

He inhales sharply as you start rubbing at his cock through the fabric of his slacks. “Myshka, what are you doing?”

“Making the most of the night.”

His hips flex a little and his teeth come together with an audible click. “Y/N--”

“Eyes on the road, Piotr. This is what you get for driving me nuts all night.” You rub your palm against his half-hard member --proof that his mind is right alongside yours in the gutter--then bring in your other hand into play to undo his belt buckle and start working at the button and zipper on his pants.

“What--”

“I’m gonna make you lose your damn mind, Piotr.” And, with that, you manage to free his cock from his pants and briefs and lean over to put your mouth around his tip.

You don’t take things slow. You know that roadhead is definitely one of those things that falls into the category of ‘dangerous, do not try’ for Piotr, and that if you want to have any sort of impact on him before he calls you off --because you won’t push it after he asks you to stop, you respect him too much for that--you need to move fast.

So you do just that. You work his cock over with your mouth, using one hand to hold him steady at the base while you lick, kiss, and suck him to full mast--

And he’s not stopping you.

Piotr.

Isn’t.

Stopping.

You.

He’s groaning, panting in his seat, gripping the wheel like he’s trying to strangle it, pressing his foot down harder against the gas pedal--

But he’s not asking you to stop.

Your thighs clench together and you moan around your mouthful of his dick when you realize just how fucked you’re gonna be when you get back to your hotel room.

He moans and reaches down with one hand to grasp at your hair --but he isn’t pulling you off. “Myshka--”

“Both hands on the wheel, Piotr.”

He obliges with a keening noise at the back of his throat.

Piotr Rasputin. The world’s most perfect boyfriend, gentleman extraordinare, and putty in your hands.

Mouth.

Whatever.

You keep going until his hand comes down on your shoulder and he’s saying something, voice so wrecked and accent so thick you can barely understand him--

“We’re almost at hotel.”

You release his cock, more than fully hard now, from your mouth with a pop and set about tucking him back in his briefs and pants and getting everything back in order. You don’t need any extra explanation to know that he doesn’t want to get caught doing this, and you’re happy to oblige him on that.

Give and take. The foundation of any good relationship.

Before you know it, you’re pulling into the parking garage connected to the hotel, and Piotr’s parking the car and turning the engine off--

--and then he’s kissing you, growling as his tongue swipes between your lips and into your mouth.

You moan and arch into the kiss, fingers digging into the edge of your seat. Your heart’s pounding in your chest in time with the desire throbbing between your legs, and you simper when one of his hands slides up your thigh, making the skirt of your dress ruck up around your hips.

Seduced and drunk on love, swept away in a torrent of passion. God, what a way to go.

“Maybe we should head up to our room,” you manage when he breaks the kiss. You shiver as his thumb rubs up and down the length of your neck and smile prettily at him. “As fun as this is, I don’t think I can squeeze into the front seat with you. You kinda take up a lot of space, big guy.”

He kisses you again, mouth hot and wet against yours. “As you wish, moya lyubov’.”

The two of you barely refrain from sprinting through the hotel lobby.

You do power walk, though, and between your excited smile and the fact that there’s no good way to hide the hard on Piotr’s sporting, you’re pretty sure the staff know full well what the two of you’ll be doing for the rest of the night.

The elevator the two of you get on is completely empty, and for a moment you wonder what’ll happen when the doors close--

--and then you don’t have to wonder anymore because the doors do close and Piotr practically yanks you against his chest and kisses you hard.

You cling to him, head spinning with delight. His sudden lack of control or care for keeping up appearances has you reeling the best ways possible.

(Part of you realizes that it’s because the two of you are alone, and there’s no chance of Wade or one of the students catching you, and God what is married life even going to be like if the two of you wind up getting a whole house to yourselves?)

And then your back’s pressed against one of the elevator walls and Piotr’s mouth is on your neck.

You arch into him, run your fingers through his hair as he runs his tongue over the length of your neck, gasp his name when his hands skim down your back to cup your ass--

And then the elevator stops and the door opens to let on a handful of other passengers.

You let out a little yelp and giggle out apologies as you get a mixture of eyerolls and faintly amused smiles and move your hands to Piotr’s chest.

Piotr, for his part, just kisses your hair and moves his hands to your arms. He doesn’t turn away from you or even acknowledge the other people in the elevator --probably to save himself from melting with embarrassment.

You let your head rest against his chest, thrill of the moment ebbing into mildly embarrassed contentment. You let your eyes close as he rubs gentle circles against your shoulder, lightly massaging the muscle there, and just bask in his love for you.

And then the doors open again on your floor, and it’s back on.

The two of you laugh as you dart down the hall to your room. You’re pressed between the door and him, mouthing at his neck as he fumbles with his wallet for the room key. He’s got one of his thighs between your legs, holding you up and pining you in place.

You’re like a couple of teenagers, borderline making out in the hallway because you want each other so bad you can’t wait to get to the bed.

Piotr manages to get the keycard into the slot on his second try, and he picks you up with one arm and carries you into the hotel room.

You giggle as the door schincks shut, grab onto the lapels of his jacket as he sets you down and kiss him as he walks you back towards the bed. You wobble on your heels, low as they are, and break away so you can kick them off properly. “Hang on. These aren’t helping anything.”

When you look back at him, Piotr’s gazing at you like a dying man seeing civilization for the first time in years. His eyes are impossibly soft as he studies your face, full of love and reverence.

You sigh, happy, when he cups the side of your face with one of his massive hands and lean into his touch.

“I love you, Y/N. More than anything.”

“I love you more than anything too, Piotr.”

He presses his lips against yours once more, tender and gentle. He keeps kissing you as he moves his hands to your back, starting just above your ass and sliding them up to the collar of your dress. His fingers fidget with the zipper for a moment before he whispers a husky “May I?” against your lips.

The answer’s yes. The answer’s always yes.

You shiver against him as he slowly unzips your dress, goosebumps spreading across your skin as the dress falls into a pool of fabric around your feet, leaving you in your tights and underwear. You slide his jacket off his shoulders --and occupy yourself with undoing his tie when Piotr takes over so he can lay the jacket out neatly on the desk. You toss it across the room with an impish giggle, then focus on unbuttoning his shirt when he sighs.

“What is it with you and making messes?” he murmurs as he trails kisses down your cheek.

“What is it with you and organizing everything?”

He toes his shoes off --chuckles when you finish unbuttoning his shirt and toss it as far as you can, too--and slowly presses you back against the bed. “I guess we balance each other.”

“I’d say so.”

And you don’t say anything intelligible after that, because Piotr starts kissing your breasts and all coherent thought goes out of your mind.

You let out a soft sigh and arch your back off the bed so he can unclip your bra --and you promptly chuck it across the room.

He laughs. “Stop doing that.”

“Distract me better, then.”

It’s a challenge you know he’s more than capable of rising to.

His hands and mouth go to work, caressing and groping and licking and sucking at your breasts until your hips are rocking against the bed.

You whine as he gently teases one of your nipples with his tongue while tweaking the other between his forefinger and thumb. You thread your fingers through his hair, wriggling lower as you do, and gasp when you grind against his crotch.

He’s hard and straining against his dress pants, and he groans as he rocks his hips back against yours. “Bozhe moi --lyublyu…”

You wrap your legs around his hips as he starts grinding against you in earnest, mouth sucking a scattering of hickeys across your breasts. You clutch at his back, dig your nails in when he rubs against you just right. “Fuck.”

Piotr moves his mouth to your neck, but his hands move downwards until his fingers reach the stretchy waistband of your tights. He hooks his fingers around the elastic material --and then he’s sitting back and rolling the tights down your legs.

You yank your legs out of the tights and wriggle out of your underwear as fast as you can. “Pants off. Underwear, too.”

He chuckles as he shifts off the bed and starts working at his belt. “Impatient.”

“So what?” You crawl towards him and tug at his pants as he slides the belt out of the last loop. “Hurry up.”

He laughs softly and widens his stance a little to keep you from yanking his pants off. “Wait --wait. We need--” he retrieves a condom from one of his pockets “--we’ll be needing this.”

“Don’t care.” You tug at his pants until they’re halfway down his thighs, then straighten up on your knees and start kissing a trail up his chest.

“Y/N--”

“Fucking whatever, Piotr, just get undressed already!” You bite down --not too hard, but enough to prove your point--on the muscle between his neck and shoulder.

He growls --actually growls--and then he’s pushing you back against the mattress, nude, muscular body pressing against yours. “Patience.”

You squirm against him, trying to get any sort of relief for the ache between your legs. “No.”

He nips at your ear as one hand skins down your torso, towards where you both want it most. “You can do it.”

“The fuck I won’t--”

And then he’s sliding two fingers inside you and any complaints you might’ve had evaporate.

You moan as he curls his fingers against your g-spot and rock your hips against his hand. “Piotr!”

He chuckles. “Not complaining now, I see.”

You open your mouth to retort --and whine when he presses the pad of his thumb against your clit. You pant as he rubs circles over your sensitive nub in time with the movements of his fingers against your walls. “Oh --fuck--baby, I’m gonna--”

He shushes you gently, kissing your hairline with a tenderness that belies the utter sinfulness of what his fingers are doing. “Just enjoy it.”

And enjoy it you do, right up until the point --and past the point, to be clear--when your toes curl and your eyes roll into the back of your head and you climax with a groan.

Piotr slows his movements, working you through the aftershocks as you pant and gasp, only sliding his fingers out when you push weakly at his arm.

You open your eyes just in time to see him sucking your juices off his fingers and moan. “Piotr --baby--just fuck me. Please.”

“What if I would rather make love to you?”

“I don’t care! Just get your dick in me ASAP!”

The two of you pause, and then you both start laughing.

You nuzzle your face against Piotr’s neck as he slumps on top of you, body shaking with laughter. “Did I really just say that?”

“Da.” He kisses your cheek. “You are… so ridiculous, myshka. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Piotr.” You arch your back as he presses his lips against yours, relishing the way your chest goes flush against his. Your hands skim up the planes of back, holding him to you as he thoroughly plunders your mouth with his tongue.

God, you love this. You love the way he kisses you, the way his body presses against yours, the way--

“I should probably put this on,” he says with a laugh and a vague gesture with the condom as he breaks the kiss. “Before we get carried away.”

You laugh with him and sit up. “Yeah. Here --let me.” You rip the foil packet open, then pause to wrap your hand around the shaft of his cock.

He’s already completely hard, but going the extra mile never hurt anyone.

You give him a few pumps, relishing the way he groans and jerks into your hand, then push at his chest. “Roll over.” You straddle his thighs when he does and carefully roll the condom over his cock. When you look up halfway through and realize he’s watching you, desire burning in his eyes, you duck your head bashfully. “Like what you see?”

“Always.”

You take the hand he holds out to you once you’re done putting the condom on him and let him help you get positioned. You can feel the head of his cock brushing your folds, prodding at your entrance--

And then you’re sinking onto him, and he’s filling you up, and everything else in the world other than the two of you and what you’re doing right here, right now ceases to be of any importance.

You whimper at the feeling of him, the stretch, the exquisite fullness, and rock your hips against his. “Piotr--”

His hands come up to grasp your hips, holding you tight but not stopping you. “Slow. Go slow.”

“Yeah --sure,” you pant as you plant your hands against his chest and --slowly--start to ride him. You take your time --you’ve got nothing else you need to do, other than him--and savor every inch of him, every shift of your walls against his member, every gasp and groan that leaves his lips.

You’ve got all night, just for the two of you. No obligations, no distractions. Just this room, this bed, and whatever the fuck the two of you feel like doing.

He moans underneath you, hips rolling up to meet yours as you pace quickens ever so slightly, and slides his hands back to grope at your ass. “Khorosho?”

Good?

You can’t help but smile; he always has to make sure you’re alright, that you’re enjoying yourself. You nod. “Yeah. You good?”

By way of answer, he lifts one hand to the back of your head and pulls you down for a kiss.

It’s a little awkward, given your height differences; he slides halfway out of you in the process, and you can’t really get him all the way back in your current position. You giggle a little --because it’s ridiculous and kinda funny, really--and brace one hand against his chest so you can reposition yourself and keep moving, as it were--

Piotr’s hold on the back of your head tightens, his other hand slides to the small of your back, and his hips snap up against yours. Hard.

Oh.

The hand of yours that’s not on his chest grips the pillow next to his head when he does it again, and you moan when he does it a third time--

And then the bed starts shaking as he starts doing it in earnest, pumping in and out of you in deep, even, strokes.

Well, if that’s what he wants to do, you’re not gonna stop him.

You squeeze your eyes shut and rock your hips back against his thrusts as best you can. He’s skimming your g-spot with each movement of his cock inside you; not enough to fully turn on the pleasure, but plenty to wind up you up and drive you completely insane.

His mouth is hot against your jaw and neck, and he’s murmuring --and occasionally groaning--a nonstop string of Russian against your skin. “Ty takaya krasivaya ... kazhdyy raz, kogda ya smotryu na tebya, moye serdtse bolit…”

You grit your teeth together and whine as the shaft of his cock just barely rubs against your g-spot for the umpteenth time. “Piotr --baby, please--”

He lets you up when you push against his chest this time, eyes burning as he watches you, steadies you, helps you get repositioned.

You tip your head back and moan, a mixture of pleasure and relief at finally getting pressure and friction right where you want it, as you start bouncing up and down on his cock. You grab his hands when they grip your hips and relocate them to your chest.

He takes the none-too-subtle hint with zero complaining and starts groping at your breasts, caressing and squeezing them before focusing on your nipples.

You gasp as a soft thrum of pleasure courses through you and nearly fall --not that he’d let you, he’ll always catch you. You brace yourself against his chest even harder, arching against his hands while your hips keep working against his.

You can feel your orgasm starting to build in the slow tightening of your core, in the urgency that’s buzzing underneath the pleasure. You pant as you roll your hips harder, faster, feeling sweat drip down your back.

For all your working out, you don’t quite have your boyfriend’s stamina --at least, not when it comes to doing all the heavy moving.

You barely have to gasp out two words before he’s taking care of you, holding your hips to his as he rolls so that you’re on your back and he’s positioned above you. Before he can start moving though, you swing your legs up so your calves are braced against his shoulders.

You’re flexible enough. You can handle it.

He groans when you say as much, face flushed and expression utterly debauched, and he shifts the two of you down the bed before letting more of his weight bear down on you, pressing your knees against your chest and effectively pinning you against the bed. Then, he adjusts his hips and slides all the way in.

You groan and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You thought you were full before, but clearly you were wrong. You completely stuffed now, filled to the brim and whatever other euphemisms erotica writers use to convey being full past the point of reason and believability. You could float away of the sensation, the satisfaction alone, completely lost to the world save for the feeling of your boyfriend’s cock buried deep inside you--

And, without fail, Piotr brings you back down to earth.

A simple kiss to the forehead is all it takes, and you’re back in the hotel room, back with him, able to hear what he’s saying--

“Khorosho?”

Good?

God help you, you love this man so much.

You nod, still too out of breath to make forming words a feasible goal.

He smiles softly, kisses you gently on the bridge of your nose --and snaps his hips against yours with a lack of hesitation that can only be described as ruthless.

You moan loudly as he starts taking you in earnest, then whine when you realize you can’t arch your back or writhe against him in this position. You’re utterly pinned down, completely at his mercy as he pumps himself in and out of you; even with your hands free, there’s not much you can do or reach, definitely not enough to distract from the feeling of his cock driving in and out of you.

You’re here to do one thing and one thing only: take.

You’re moaning with each thrust now, gasping as he works you towards your climax without hesitation or doubt. All you have to focus on is the pleasure you’re feeling.

It’s completely overwhelming. Too much despite the fact that you haven’t actually come yet. You’re drowning in it, going insane from it, choking on it as you take your boyfriend’s cock over and over and over and over…

What a fucking way to go --pun intended.

You let out a high-pitched mewl as he speeds up. You can tell he’s close from the way he’s swearing in Russian and gripping your hips; he’s quite the picture of focus, actually, mouth open and lips pulled back over his teeth as he tries to reign himself in, tries to get you off first.

Ever the fucking gentleman --pun intended again.

And then one of his thumbs is rubbing against your clit, and it’s all over.

You scream his name as you climax --noise complaints be damned, you can’t be assed to give a shit right now--and clutch at the bedspread as hard as you can. Your orgasm sweeps through you in waves, cresting and ebbing again and again--

And then he’s coming too, albeit quieter than you did. He groans your name and presses his hips flush against yours, rocking against you as he rides out his own orgasm.

The room goes silent, save for the sound of your mutually labored breathing.

And then he’s sliding out of you and collapsing next to you on the bed, seemingly as fucked out as you are.

You stretch with a groan and take a few deep breaths as you come down from it all. Your cunt’s still twitching from your release, but you find it in yourself to push through the haze of the afterglow and roll over to face him.

He’s already reaching for you, arms curling around your body and pulling you in so he can shield you with his warmth and love. He kisses the top of your head and pushes the errant locks of hair away from your face, smoothing them as he goes.

You let out a shaky breath, then sling an arm around his neck and kiss his cheek. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“And I love you, dorogoy.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Pete.”

He huffs a gentle laugh. “It certainly is.”

[angrylizardjacket]

self-same mettle

Summary: "I love my sister more than anything in this life; I will choose her happiness over mine every time."

A/N: BIG WARNING; August Reid, who you may remember from the main story, child groom tw, though nothing comes of it he's still creepy and predatory. Okay so I just wanted to write a little something from Oscar's perspective in the High School AU. Let me know what you think!!

{AYDTD}

----

Oscar's always been a romantic at heart, always wanted to be the star of his own Mills and Boone novel ever since he was sixteen and found his mother's stash while hunting for Christmas presents. It had been painfully straight, right when he'd been discovering the delightful world of loving men, but he was invested enough in the romance that he didn't care.

In 2017, at the tender age of 19, he discovers the author Chuck Tingle, and despite the fact that he's technically now a literature student, this ridiculous, gay erotica makes his heart happy in ways he can't quite articulate.

The point is, he knows August Reid, because he's his dad's drinking buddy and fellow professor, but Oscar doesn't think of him much until he takes the man's class. Ash, who's fifteen and who spends weekends at the local art gallery down the road, has always been far more artistically minded, Oscar's always been more drawn to words, but he takes August's Art History class on a whim.

There's a certain draw to the whole teacher/student fantasy, and August looks kind of like an older Richard Madden, still angular and defined, but greying at the temples, the prelude to an extraordinary silver fox. So Oscar let's himself daydream, and take the follow up class, and look forward to the weekends where his dad's friends would come over to smoke cigars and play cards. August Reid was nothing if not polite, always smiling and kind and happy to see Oscar, answer his questions. Oscar knew he was married, thinks he probably has a kid, and so he was happy to keep his daydreams to himself. He thinks there's something romantic about quietly unrequited love.

However, it takes a year, once Ash has matured more, not a lot, but enough to catch August's interest, for the rose-coloured glasses to be ripped off. August takes an interest in her; when he and the rest of their father's colleagues came over, he would make a point to stop and check in with Ash, encourage her interest in Art, both physical and theoretical, and even suggest research for her, or upcoming exhibits he thought she might like. It's harmless, at first.

Talk of art turns to compliments, her taste in things, her outfits, how she wears her hair, the colour of her eyes. Ash seems to start looking forward to his visits, and something about it doesn't sit right with Oscar.

"He's just, Oz he's so cool," she was smiling, blushing a little; she had a crush, it was plain as the nose on her face, "and he said he could get us tickets to the Renaissance exhibit in Glasgow next month, how awesome is that?"

August starts calling her Miss Ashley, a joke that started since she still had a habit of calling him Mr Reid - because she's a fucking highschooler, it's how she's been taught to address teachers - Ash delights in it, straightens her posture a little when he says it. August makes a habit of petting her head fondly when she does. It makes Oscar's stomach turn just a little. August shouldn't be looking at his little sister like that, she's just a child.

Their father seems blind to it, tells Oscar 'don't be ridiculous, he's just being kind' and when he goes to mum, she just brushes him off, insisting that August is lovely, that he's so in love with his wife, and that Ash is just excited to have someone who understood her.

"A little schoolgirl crush is harmless, Oscar, dear; weren't you singing his praises not too long ago?" It's meant with a wink and a nudge, like perhaps Oscar's jealous, but his mother can be so dense; it's not the same at all. He's an adult, and Ash is a child, and yet he's not the one August is giving leering looks to when he thinks no-one's looking.

It's not that their parents don't love them, it's just that they don't particularly care. They're trapped in a loveless marriage, too self absorbed to care about those that can take care of themselves.

So Oscar takes it upon himself.

Oscar's never understood art like he's understood literature, never been able to make it make sense in the same way, but that doesn't matter. The point is, on Sundays, when his father's colleagues come over for tea and cigars and cards, Oscar's started taking Ash to art galleries across the country.

"But August is-"

"It's the impressionists, Ash," Oscar takes her hand with a grin, practically begging her, "come on they have the Water Lilies," he enthuses, and Ash's expression softens.

"I do love the Water Lilies."

Because he can't tell her what he's really doing, because she's sixteen and thinks she knows everything and the idea of telling her that August has any sort of feelings towards her, even if he explains why that's creepy and wrong, is probably the worst thing he can do to discourage her. So he distracts her, and is careful to never mention him if he can help it, or steer the conversation away if she brings him up.

She's his best friend. She's always been his best friend, but in an abstract, sibling sort of way, but it doesn't take long for the two of them to become legitimate best friends. He listens to all the drama of her highschool career, and her ideas for sculptures, and anything else she wants to talk about, and in turn he tells her about whatever he's reading that week, whatever poetry ideas he's been riffing with lately, and complains about pretty straight boys in his lectures.

Oscar may be a poet, but neither he nor Ash could hold a tune to save their lives, and so of course they sing along to Ash's Spotify playlists at the top of their lungs whenever they're driving. There's three weeks where she plays the Hamilton cast recording on repeat, and Oscar finds himself muttering it under his breath in class.

He works nights, and Saturdays, to afford all these day trips, and his family think he's so diligent, studying and working so hard, and on his day off he spends it with Ash. He keeps local for a few weeks, a few months actually, and surprises her with a trip to the West End for Christmas.

She talks about August less and less as time goes on. Though she does ask about it, in a roundabout way.

"Why're you spending so much time with me?"

They're having lunch in the park across from a gallery somewhere in Ireland. Oscar packed jam sandwiches.

"I don't understand this art shit like you do, but it's good to find inspiration from all mediums, you know?" Oscar smiles, takes a big bite of his sandwich, and watches Ash wrinkle her nose.

"You sound so pretentious," she snorted, shaking her head, "but whatever, I'm not gonna complain, you're the one paying."

"And I like spending time with you, biscuit." His voice turned overly sappy, as did his grin, "I love you." Oscar reached out and ruffled her hair, and Ash squawked, batting his hand away.

"I love you too, ya muppet, but if you wanna hang out we can just do something lowkey, or like, close to home."

She takes him at his word, which is good because he's being honest, but she seems content with their routine. Sometimes they go bowling, or to the library, sometimes they go op shopping, or to the movies, but they never miss a week.

She's his cheerleader at poetry readings, his tour guide at art galleries, and his favourite person at all times. His father's a literature professor who stopped truly engaging with her about her love of art once he stopped understanding her, and his mother was a Type A accountant who was just disappointed she wasn't interested in something employable. So Oscar was her cheerleader at art competitors, her enthusiastic student at art galleries, and ends up being her best friend and quietly, her favourite family member.

August asks about her, according to their father, but Ash's brief infatuation with him seems to have died down.

"Do you have a problem with me, Oscar?" August asks almost a month after Oscar's started spending Sundays with Ash, and maybe their father's told August what's happening, maybe he's noticed Oscar glaring at him whenever he saw the professor, but either way, he's so painfully kind when he asks that it's a dead giveaway; August knows something's wrong.

"Stay the fuck away from my sister," Oscar, kind-faced, bright eyed Oscar, snarls. He's 6'3" and never more thankful for his height as he towers over August.

"I'm simply showing an interest in her, she's an art enthusiast, I'm an art professor, don't worry-"

"I don't give a shit; look like the innocent flower but be the fucking serpent under it, right?"

"I don't understand what you mean? Does your father know you feel this way? Does Ash?" And it doesn't sound like a threat, it sounds like a very genuine question, but Oscar wants nothing more than to punch him in his stupid, angular nose.

"Does your wife know you spend weekends ogling underage girls?" Oscar fires back, and August's expression sours considerably, his mouth closed in a tight, humourless line. "Yeah, dad knows, not that he gives a shit," Oscar sneered, "but if you go near my sixteen year old sister again, you smarmy creepy -" his voice dropped very low, expression dark, his hands balling into fists by his side.

"If your father's not bothered by it I don't see why you should be, I haven't done anything wrong, but you're throwing around some serious implications here," August gives a blithe smile, "Ash is an incredible young woman I'm simply encouraging her passion."

"August Reid, I need you to know that I'm not threatening you," Oscar said calmly, "I'm promising you; I'll fucking kill you."

And maybe he doesn't believe Oscar would legitimately harm him, but he sees it's not a fight he's going to win. August leaves Ash well enough alone after that.

At the start of their Summer break, before Ash is due to start her second last year of high school, their father gets a job in England, their mother gets an excuse to leave her loveless marriage, and Ash and Oscar get a choice. Oscar knows without even having to ask that Ash will stick with him. He also knows that in two years, if she's still here, she'll end up studying under August and his father's other creepily complicit friends. Oscar's playing the long game to keep his sister safe when he announces he'll be going to England with their dad.

He lies, says he doesn't mind transferring courses and maybe retaking some classes at this new university, makes sure he's nothing but positive when he talks about the move, and Ash, add expected, joins him. It hurts to leave the life he's building himself, but he knows it's what's best for Ash.

Adjusting to a new life is difficult, and some weeks they don't end up spending Sunday together. Oscar let's himself relax, takes time for himself, and starts to build new relationships, new connections in this new situation he's found himself in.

Here, he didn't have to worry about Ash so much. She was still his best friend, but now she could just be a teenager without a creepy professor leering at her and grooming her. Though quietly, Oscar was just glad she still wanted to spend time with him; she still goes to his poetry readings, still wants to go on day trips with him, and she's starting to get to know his new friends little by little.

Meeting Freddie is like getting hit by a freight train; they're both taking a Creative Industries subject as an elective, and they get partnered together. Freddie is intense and warm in equal measure, a lover of cats judging by the pins on his bag, he's always drawing or doodling something on his notebook, and he writes songs. Oscar adores him from the moment he meets him. He's always busy, always on the move or at band practice, but he seems to like Oscar well enough, so the two of them start having lunch together a few times a week.

Freddie thinks Oscar's selfless when he learns about everything that had happened back in Scotland.

"Picking up and moving your whole life just to make sure she's safe," Freddie shakes his head, "you're a Saint, you know that?"

"She's my sister, I couldn't not do it," Oscar laughs a little self consciously, but Freddie just seemed endeared.

They're messaging almost every day. Freddie sends draft song lyrics and selfies with his cats and Oscar will send bits of poems and shitty angled selfies or photos taken by Ash. They both live busy lives, but they keep up with each other without even trying.

[I've got a cat named Oscar, you know?]

[I didn't actually. You really like me well enough to name a cat after me 😂😜]

[har har I've known the cat longer. sorry to disappoint. 😘]

He's so caught up in his new life and his new friends, and Ash seems so happy with her new school, especially their art program, that it takes Oscar a while to realise how painfully lonely Ash was. She's always been introverted, always focused more on her projects than on the people around her, but when Oscar realises that person she talks most about is her physics tutor, it hits him that she doesn't actually have any friends her own age here. She likes his friends well enough, one even got her a fake ID if she might ever need it, but she had none of her own.

"How was school?" They've been here for about three months, and finally things have maybe started to look up.

"Fine; we're starting sculpture making in art," Ash said offhandedly, rolling her eyes; she already spent time outside of school making sculptures, the idea of being graded on it now seemed trivial, "this one dumbass spent like twenty minutes negotiating with a teacher about whether he can also make a second sculpture for fun." Ash's voice was flat, unimpressed.

"Sounds like someone you'd get along with-"

"He wants to make a dick."

Dick Sculpture Guy turns to Fucking Roger, and Oscar starts to hear more about him, because Roger's always seemingly causing a scene and Ash is endlessly annoyed with him, though she once let it slip that she thinks he's rather hot, and Oscar, though he's never brought it up, will never forget it.

Until he gets a call on Friday afternoon, from Ash, in tears, asking him to come to the school.

She's surrounded by the pieces of her broken major work when he arrives, and there's a tall, dark haired guy checking up on her. This is Brian, the tutor he's heard so much about. He's thankful, but comforting Ash is his first priority.

Brian leaves, and together the siblings piece together her work. The school gets locked at five, and they're there until the very last minutes. Once the bust is sitting up on one of the desks at the edge of the room, Ash sniffles only a little bit.

"I'll paint the cracks gold."

"Kintsugi," Oscar adds, nodding sagely and Ash actually beams at him, "see, I listen to you, biscuit."

He suggests they go to Freddie's gig to take her mind off of it, though it's also because she's been asking to meet Freddie for a while now, but he's always been busy. However, things don't go as planned when not only is Ash's tutor part of the band, but Fucking Roger is too. Fucking Roger who's sculpture exploding made Ash cry.

Ash is adamant she's going to kill him. Oscar doesn't stop her. She disappears around the end of the bar after Roger, while the rest of the band - Freddie, Brian, and some kid called John - hang back.

Ash decidedly doesn't kill Roger, and actually ends up enjoying her night, which Oscar's glad for. That being said, he's a little bit distracted; he's quickly discovering that Brian might be the loveliest person he'd ever met. Brian's an astrophysics student, a guitarist, a tutor, and he took the time to check up on Ash; Oscar hasn't been seriously romantically interested in anyone since high school, and he's only met Brian today, but damn if there wasn't definitely a crush forming.

They play good music, and Ash seems to have a good time, and he tells himself that that's all that matters.

Days go by, weeks go by, the siblings keep going to Queen's gig's, and Fucking Roger turns to just Roger. Oscar messages Brian and Freddie that Ash might have a crush and Freddie sends back a wheezed voice message saying that Roger probably does too, but that he's stubborn as hell and would never be the first to admit it. Something warms in Oscar's heart at that. Slowly but surely, between Roger and John, Ash is finally making friends her own age.

Ash deserves a normal-ish crush on a normal-ish boy, and Oscar will do anything to encourage that crush. So they go to gigs, and Oscar wiggles his eyebrows at her when Roger's got an arm around her between sets, and Ash turns as red as her hair. But Brian's got a hand on his thigh where they're sitting near the door, and it feels weirdly normal, and kind of the best.

To see Ash smiling and happy, everything was worth it. It's all worked out, though he knows he'll never stop worrying about her, not that he'd want to.