#decidedly NOT thinking about how he learned to keep himself quiet

[gardenerian]

can you write more about baby ian and/or his siblings when they were younger?? do you have any more hcs about him when he was really little??? i need to know

baby....... little baby. little boy 😭 okay. okay 😭😭😭😭 i am thinking about how frank tells ian that he's been a drama queen since the day he was born which is genuinely hilarious to me but it also has me THINKING....

when we meet ian he holds his cards pretty close to his chest, right? he still feels HUGE emotions and they burst out in pretty intense ways, but from day to day he just kinda moves through the world rolling his eyes at people sfkldj

now, we gotta take this with a grain of salt bc i feel like ian or any of the kids just saying "hi" would count as dramatic to frank lol but! let's think about baby drama queen ian.

thinking about ian dropping his popsicle in the grass by that above ground pool and losing his absolute mind over it when fiona tells him there aren't any more..... thinking about him seeing a dog in the neighborhood and pitching a fit in the middle of the sidewalk when he learns that no, he can't have this dog because it does in fact have someone walking him..... thinking about lip always beating him at battleship and ian flipping the little board over every time, stamping his little feet all the way up the stairs asklfd

[detachedfacade]

Saint Valentine

summary: After bumping into each other on a particularly bad valentines day for Steve, he and Eddie find they keep missing each other, until Eddie finally learns to stay still.

You can also read it here on ao3.

For @conversationswithamillennial

Valentine’s Day 1997

Steve is going to get his ears pierced. He’s thinking about doing something drastic with his hair. In fact he’s even started itching for a tattoo. He is decidedly not having a post break-up breakdown thank you very much. He just wanted to do it. He always wanted to see how he’d look. The fact he just got out of a 6 year relationship was only somewhat part of it. In that Derek was never a fan of piercings or tattoos or alternative scenes. And god knows Steve has never been in a relationship that didn’t result in him changing parts of himself at the very least. Self loathing and becoming a ghost of his former self at its worst. But that wasn’t Derek. Derek was a good kind man - he never intended to be controlling it was just that Steve wasn’t self assured enough to be whatever version of himself was the real version. Robin blames Carl for that. The first boyfriend after Steve had figured himself out - the compulsory heterosexuality addressed and the big gay elephant in the room finally acknowledged. Carl must’ve seen it - the nervousness of a man only just coming into the world - the reality of insecurities and neurosis that comes with losing your family and recognising the monsters within.

He was far too easy to manipulate - far too easy to keep small and quiet. And Carl kept him small, because it suited him. He could flit in and out of Steve's life, make him feel special and important and loved and then strip it all away and leave Robin with the crumbling mess of tears and self hatred that Steve would become. Every time Carl came back Robin pleaded with Steve to see sense but he never could. Carl had a power over him. It was ugly.

But that had been over for years, and Robin had actually liked Derek, everyone could see they had a future together.

Until Valentine’s Day 1997, when Steve had proposed over breakfast and Derek had replied “I’m moving to Montreal. I’ve met someone.” The excessive business trips suddenly making sense.

So there Steve found himself, 6 hours later - afraid to go back to the apartment and find Derek packing or have to have some kind of conversation about custody of the cat or how they could still be friends - he went instead to a piercing shop. It was a small place in downtown San Fran that he had gone to a few times with Robin, to hold her hand while she pretended it didn’t hurt. Though his hand was almost broken by the time they would leave so he was pretty sure she was bluffing.

He arrived at the peircing shop knowing only that he wanted as many holes in his body as possible.

“Hey man can I get like 3 helix piercings and a conch and my left lobe and do you think you could do my eyebrow as well?” He stuttered out, the adrenaline that brought him there still pounding around his body.

“Are these your first piercings?” The guy replied, his face filled with ink and metal, his eyes filled with judgement and boredom.

“Yeah?” Steve replied, uncertain where his answer would lead him, concerned that his pent up energy was seeping through his feet and down out of the scratched up floorboards.

“Its probably best not to go all out first time in case your body doesn’t react well.” The guy said, leaning against the desk, inspecting Steve’s face, looking for something, Steve didn’t know what.

“Okay..” Steve sighed. “How about right helix and left lobe?”

“Yeah alright.” The guy nodded, slumping down in his chair and pulling a piece of paper out of his desk drawer. “Fill out this form.”

Hearing the voice of an old friend was always a strange thing to Steve, given that he had moved so far from his hometown. There was nothing in the world that made him want to stay in Hawkins, not after everything. So he and Robin fled to the opposite side of the country and didn’t look back. Neither had any kind of relationship with their parents - and their old friends had all moved on. The only time he had ever gone back there was for Dustin’s 21st birthday. It was the last time too, he had heard the voice of the old friend, who was currently calling his name, while he had a needle through his ear, trying to keep his eyes from watering.

“Steve Harrington ?!”

His eyes flitted open. Sure he hadn’t heard the man’s voice in person in years, but he heard his rough rasps crooning out from the radio a fair few times a day, after the success of his latest single. “Eddie?” He said. The piercer didn’t move, didn’t stop, just jammed another needle right through his cartlidge. An involuntary whine left his mouth. His face flushed red immediately, the feeling of the heat prickling against his skin making him all the more embarrassed. Eddie stayed leant against the doorframe. “I was wondering if you were still living in SF. Thought about giving you a call but…”

The piercer finished up and moved away, her eyes flitting quickly over to Eddie, she did a double take before hastily giving Steve the after care form and letting Steve go. “Yeah, never moved.” Steve said. “I’m basically still living with Robin too, I’m there enough.” He continued though he wasn’t entirely sure if Eddie even knew they had lived together in the first place.

The two boys walked out of the studio stopping just outside, awkwardly assessing whether they were both going to be walking the same way, instead they stayed where they were, leant against the graffiti'd brick wall, took out cigarettes to explain away the fact they were both eager to remain in each others presence for a moment longer than necessary. “So what brings you here?” Steve said.

“To the tattoo studio or to San Fran?”

“Well I guess both.”

“On tour - got a show here tonight. I’ve been wanting to get something done by this artist since forever - you know he tattooed James Hetfield - never really made it out to this side of the country though - every time he had a guest spot in NYC I would be out of town. Frustrating. Anyway finally I get here and figure its a weekday afternoon and I may as well check if they have walk in space.”

“Did they?”

Eddie pulls up his sleeve to show a fresh snake tattoo looping around his right forearm.

“Oh awesome.” Steve says doesn’t really know if they had intended to be having a full blown conversation. How long does one catch up with an old friend? - an old acquaintance really. The silence between them felt heavy, he shifted against the wall, his shoulder edging away from the wall, as if to begin to walk away, he stopped himself instead asked: “Did it hurt?”

Eddie shrugs cigarette between his lips. Then smiles at himself “Like a bitch. But don’t let that get out, I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Quite the reputation too. I can’t get through a day without hearing you on the radio.” Feels weird saying it aloud, makes him feel like a stalker. Decides he needs to restore balance, adds a bitchy comment: “I’ve considered buying ear plugs.”

Eddie nudged him with his elbow, taking the jab lightly, thankfully. “Ouch.” He said. “Well you aren’t my target demographic anyway.” Eddie added. “Though with those new peircing’s maybe you could be.”

“I think I could be uh..” Steve searches for the word. “Punk?”

“Oh no Harrington, major faux pas. Metal and punk is not the same. If we didn’t share trauma and scars I’d have to deck you over that.”

Steve blinked at the threat, knew it was a joke, wondered why Eddie was so comfortable with him. Relative strangers at this point. He laughs a jolt of laughter into the air, smoke jumping from his throat with it.

“You think you’re tough now Munson?”

“Hm not really. But the murder allegations leaked to the press last year. It only increased our following. Metal heads love that shit.”

“I’m sure they do.” Steve said, wondering when the appropriate time was to cut the conversation short. Wondering why he would even want to do that when there was only awkward conversations and heartbreak waiting for him at home.

“You should come to the show tonight. I’ll get you in backstage.”

“Really? You’d do that.”

“Sure we are friends right?”

“I haven’t seen you in 7 years.”

“No pressure.” Eddie said. “ I didn’t mean to be…I don’t know I lost touch with a lot of people. I didn’t intend to.”

Steve nods - doesn’t say it, but the sentiment is clear - the regret of never reaching out.

“If you are free…” Eddie said. “This is the address.” He wrote the name of the venue on Steves hand. “Go to the back door and ask for Angie - she’ll let you in.”

“Um. Yeh. I’ll - thanks I’ll think about it.”

“7pm. By the way.” Eddie calls back as he walks toward the road, signalling for a taxi.

“Uh huh.” Steve nods, treading his cigarette butt into the ground.

-

Brandy mewed and purred trotting over to the door as Robin let Steve in, jumping immediately onto his shoulder to rub against his head.

“She hates me.” Robin said, closing the door behind him, making their way to the kitchen where Robin was making tea. “How are you doing?” She asked, she knew of course about the break up, she was the first person Steve had called that morning. It hadn’t even occurred to her Derek would say no, she had answered by saying “Was he surprised?” To which he replied.

“I was actually more surprised. He’s been cheating on me.”

“Oh shit.”

“Don’t let him pick up Brandy, I will not let her become an EXPAT.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“It’s later.” Robin continued.

“Yeah well.” He sat down at the breakfast bar, taking the herbal tea she had made him.

“Chamomile.” She said. “I figured you’d need it.”

“Huh. Thanks.” He replied. “ Yeah, he’s moving to Canada with this other guy, I guess. He said he was intending to call it off after the first time. Gave me all these details about how he justified it to himself. How he couldn’t help it. That he’s only human. Well fuck that. You know who else is human? Me. Fucking me. And I didn’t cheat not ever, even when he was away for a month, you remember, I didn’t look elsewhere I used my hand and a couple magazines like everyone else but god fucking damn him he was fucking someone else the whole time. And now I have to get tested. He assured me he used condoms with this guy but how can I trust him.”

“Jesus Christ what a piece of work.”

“Tell me about it.” Steve said. “ I don’t know. Maybe it’s a good thing. I mean I haven’t been properly single since I came out. Maybe it’s time for me to figure myself out.”

Robin nodded. “That explains the piercings. Bit late for the teenage rebellion, don’t you think?”

“Or a bit early for a mid-life crisis?” Steve said helping himself to a satsuma from Robin’s fruit bowl. Brandy perked up in his lap as he peeled it. He batted her away as she tried to grab for a segment. “No you’ll die.” He sighed.

“I don’t know.” Robin teases, ignoring his conversation with his cat. “You did just turn thirty.”

“Hmm thanks for reminding me. Though I do hope to live past 60. My great grandma is nearing a hundred and still kicking.”

“So you say.”

“So I say, so my mother says, so my grandfather translates because we are all too lazy to learn Italian and she’s too stubborn to learn English.”

“Macché!” Robin said.

“Yeah… No clue babe.”

“Well they look good. By the way. The piercings.”

“Mm.” Steve hummed, as he swallowed the satsuma. “I forgot to say - guess who I saw in the piercing shop?”

“Uh…Carl?” Robin.

“Oh god no, Jesus can you imagine? No Eddie.”

“Munson?”

Steve nodded.

“Oh shit yeah he has a concert here tonight, right?” Robin asked.

“Yeah and he fucking invited me.”

“That’s so exciting!”.

“You don’t actually think I should go?” Steve asked.

“Of course you should go, its Eddie!”

“I haven’t spoken to him in years though isn’t it awkward? He was probably just being nice.”

“Eddie doesn’t know how to just be nice, he says what he thinks when he thinks it, you know that.”

“Why would I know that?”

“Steve. I know its been years but the connection we had with everyone back then, that doesn’t go away. Plus I know you have a crush on him. You never stop humming those songs of his”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I just got broken up with.”

“All the more reason. So did he.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Because. I talk to him, on the phone, quite frequently.”

“I didn’t know we still talked to people from back home.”

“We don’t. But I do. The past couple years at least.”

“Well..”

“He asks about you.” Robin interjected.

“He does?”

“He does. Probably thinks we still live together. As far as he’s aware you’ve been in touch - by proxy. Go to his fucking concert. Talk to him. You need more friends, I can’t be your sole cat sitter when Derek’s in Canada.”

Steve rolled his eyes, took a sip of his tea and looked down at Brandy who was padding at his thigh.

“What would I even wear?”

Robin grinned at him.

-

Robin delighted in her creation, Steve standing in front of her bathroom mirror in one of her black tank tops applying her pencil eyeliner to his waterline.

“You better not have pink eye.” He said.

“Hey you're the one too pussy to go to your apartment and get your own stuff.”

“Broken up with. 8 hours ago.” Steve said.

Robin threw her hands up in surrender. “Yeah you’re right you’re right, you get a pass.”

“I get a hundred passes. At least.”

By the time Steve was ready to go he was, despite the rolling of Robin’s eyes, desperate for a cigarette.

“Make sure your whole head is out that window, dingus.” She said.

Steve nodded, before a hand was grabbing his arm as it moved to bring the lighter up to the cigarette in his mouth. “Not a chance.”

“Tina!” Steve said, dropping his hand, taking the unlit cigarette from him mouth. “Didn’t Robin tell you, I have a heartbreak pass?!”

“She did, but you don’t. These curtains were expensive and I don’t need them stinking of tobacco.”

“Fine.” He said. “I’ll just smoke outside while I wait for the taxi.” He pulled his shoes on, watching as Robin climbed onto Tina's lap and kissed her on the cheek. “You girls okay looking after Brandy for a bit longer?”

“Mhm.” Tina nodded. “She’s my baby.” She said as Brandy rubbed against her shins.

“She’s my enemy.” Robin added. “She knocked over the mug I made for Tina in that pottery class.”

“She was doing you a favor.” Steve laughed, winking at Tina. “All right I should go.” He said dodging out of the way of the cushion Robin threw at him. He stopped right before he reached the door.

“Hold on, is it cold out? Will I need a jacket?”

Tina rolled her eyes, chucking the leather jacket she had been wearing over at him.

“Don’t get anything gross on it.” She said.

“I just got broken up with.” He retorted.

“Yeah.” Tina sighed. “Exactly.”

-

Steve couldn’t help but feel important, walking past the queue of people lining the street outside, leaning over to the guard by the back door and with only a few words having the door opened for him, and being ushered inside.

But Angie didn’t tell him which door was Eddie’s or which direction he ought to go and the superiority he had felt at being allowed inside diminished into a small scared ball at the pit of his stomach wondering why he was even there in the first place. Luckily, Eddie was walking out of the bathroom as he passed the door. From the leather pants Steve could tell he was already in his stage outfit, but he had pulled on a bottle green sweatshirt over the top that looked uncannily like the Hawkins High apparel.

“Harrington you made it!” He pulled Steve into a hug. “You look lost.”

“Yeah…” Steve chuckled. “Uh yeah. I was I guess. I don’t really know what -“

Eddie looked bemused. “Come with me.” He turned heel and skipped to the end of the corridor, looking back to check Steve was tailing behind, before opening a door. It was plain white painted with a silver handle, the same as every other door in the corridor, bar the bathroom. Not even a sign or anyway to tell where it led. How was he ever supposed to find that?

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Eddie said, bowing as he swung the door open for Steve. God, had Eddie managed to get weirder? “Would you like a drink sir Harrington.” He spoke in a very bad British accent.

Steve chortled. “Sure thing Munson, you freak.”

“Oh hoho the bitch is back.” Eddie laughed as he poured himself and Steve a whisky. “This whisky costs more than your car.” He said.

“I actually don’t have a car.” Steve admitted, taking the glass Eddie offered. “So that’s not hard to beat.”

Eddie frowned. “Seriously? Wasn’t that your USP in high school? Harrington feels up girls in the back of his Beamer?”

“Ha okay, first of all, I didn’t feel them up, that sounds creepy. Secondly, that’s kind of the point, don’t need a car when you aren’t trying to impress girls anymore. Also kinda pointless, when you live a walkable distance from work and your friends and can borrow your boyfriends car when you have to.”

Eddie swallowed, nodding slowly. “So did he drive you here, this boyfriend?”

Steve sat down, huffed slightly, regretted everything he had said thus far that had bought him to the topic of Derek so quickly.

“No. No.” He said. “Got a taxi.” Not yet drunk enough to disclose why.

Eddie nodded, the silence settled between them, he knocked back the whisky. Steve did the same. “So…you nervous?” Steve asked.

“What?”

“Like, for the concert?”

“Oh.” Eddie laughed. “No no. Yeah a bit. I mean normal amount of oh shit don’t fuck up nerves but, I don’t know, just another day in the office these days.”

“Pretty crazy office.”

“Yeah it is.”

A warmth settled in Steve’s stomach with the whisky, he began to relax. “You speak to Dustin much these days?”

Eddie nodded “Yeah, yeah that kids going places man it’s crazy.”

“Say’s you.” Steve laughed.

A warm smile slid across Eddie’s face, a tinge of pink in his cheeks. “Yeah.” He took a sip of his drink. “So…sorry I should know - what do you do for work?”

"Oh um" Steve placed down his glass. “I work with foster kids - sort of mid-way between social worker and carer - I work with the social workers who obviously deal with more of the admin side and the legal stuff - I basically spend time with the kids and see how they are and make sure they’re settling into the care home or their foster home or see if they want to go back with their parents and if it's a good idea.”

“Still a babysitter then?” Eddie smiled.

“Yeah, still the goddamn babysitter,”

“That’s admirable though, sounds like something you’d be good at. You know I was in care for a bit so - would have been nice if someone like you was around. Back then I mean.”

“Yeah? Yeah I like it, feels good. And I help a lot of kids you know?”

“Your boyfriends a lucky man.” Eddie said.

“Is that so?” Steve laughed.

“Yeah jeez, I can’t seem to find a decent guy let alone one who cares about anyone other than himself.”

"Hmm." Steve hummed into his glass. “Robin said you went through a break up recently?”

“Oh she did? Yeah. I mean it was a month ago now but still fresh. I don’t know.” Eddie said, looking up at Steve. There was a look, that doe eyed sparkle in his eyes, the softness of his mouth, the way he never seemed to falter even when he was saying the most poignant things. Almost like it didn’t make a difference to him, words were just words. But they still poured out of him like honey. “Steve, to be honest I-“ They were interrupted by the door swinging open behind Eddie. A stage manager wearing all black and an oversized headset stood impatiently in the doorframe.

“You're on Eddie, let’s go.”

Eddie pulled off his sweater to reveal a long sleeve fishnet shirt and a leather studded vest on top. Steves eyes couldnt help but dance over his torso, at the plethora of new tattoos since he'd seen him last. Or since hed seen his torso at least.

"You're staring, Harrington." Eddie said.

"You look uh..good." Steve replied.

Eddie smiled. "Come on," he reached out his hand for Steve to take. " You can watch from the wings."

God, if Robin wasn't right about his crush on Eddie before, watching him on stage really solidified it. And it felt kind of wrong, because he was, despite himself, in love with Derek. And though he had managed to hold it back all day, perhaps it was because of the music or the thumping bass that vibrated through his body, Steve finally began to cry.

And maybe it was the emotions or maybe it was alcohol he had drank to subdue them, but as soon as Eddie got off stage Steve couldn’t stop himself asking:

"Do you want to fuck?"

Eddie huffed in shock, wiping a towel over his head from the sweat that had gathered there on stage, a grin curling across his lips. "Uh. You have a boyfriend."

Steve shook his head. "We broke up this morning." He stepped back, ran his hand through his hair. " Listen its a bad idea obviously, but you're hot and I want to fuck him out of my system. Plus whats the likelihood of seeing each other again?"

Eddie bit his lip thought for a second, the adrenaline from performing still coursing through his body. "Fuck sake Harrington. Of course I want to fuck you. Why else would I invite you here?"

"Great."

"But you have to host." Eddie said. " You may think getting a number 1 on the rock charts and selling out venues across the country is glamorous but I share a hotel room with my band."

"Right. Yeah I can host." Steve said. If he was more sober he might have worried about seeing Derek. As it goes he was inebriated enough to not give a shit.

-

Steve fumbled with the light switch as Eddie pushed him up against the wall, their mouths smashing together, Steve’s hands reaching into Eddie’s hair, eagerly gripping onto the man to pull him closer.

“Steve.” Derek was standing in the bedroom door frame.

Eddie untangled himself from Steve, leant against the wall beside him, eying the man in front of them.

“Why are you still here?" Steve spat, his voice aggressive, his mannerisms anything but. He seemed to fold into himself, keep his eyes on the ground.

“I was waiting for you to come home - I - I didn’t want to leave without talking to you properly.”

“I don’t want to talk to you Derek. I want to have sex with my friend and forget about you forever.”

“Steve.” Eddie said beside him, his voice soft. “I should leave.”

Steve looked over at Eddie, he wanted to say no don’t go, stay. But he also knew he too wanted to talk to Derek, if he was honest with himself. Because no matter the circumstances, losing someone you loved for 6 years isn’t easy, and goodbye’s are worth having, even if they’re hard.

“Yeah.” Steve sighed. “Keep in touch.”

Eddie nodded and headed out, only lingering by the door long enough to hear Derek say “Was that the singer Eddie Munson?”

-

It was only months before the next time Steve saw Eddie. Eddie had taken heed of the request Steve had made before he left and kept in touch. Not often, but they exchanged phonecalls every few weeks, normally through Robin who was good at keeping in touch with everyone and passed the phone over to Steve when he was at her apartment, which had increased in frequency since Derek’s departure.

“Eddie’s coming over.” Robin said, over coffee. “Tomorrow.”

“To yours?”

She nodded.

“Is he in town for a show?”

She shook her head, putting her coffee down. “He’s finished his tour he just wanted to visit.”

“Oh.” Steve said. “Nice. Nice, it will be good to see him.”

“Mhm.” Robin said, eyeing Steve over her coffee. “You gonna try and fuck him again?”

“Oh shut up.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“Well if you do. Go to your own apartment.” Robin said.

-

Steve didn’t want to admit that he was expecting to pick up where they left off. Not to himself or to anyone. Because he didn’t want to seem desperate. It felt okay to just say ‘let’s fuck’ when you had had a rough day. But that kind of gall definitely didn’t live in him without the right kind of motivation. But it didn’t mean he didn’t prepare to be having sex that evening, just tucked that information away. It was a just in case situation. He wasn’t expecting sex of course, it was nice to just have a friend in Eddie. And if he had started thinking about him more and more since Derek had moved out, if he had bought tapes of all of Eddie’s albums and listened to them on repeat, if he had felt himself get shy and giggly every time he spoke to Eddie on the phone - well that was just details.

Eddie arrived while Robin and Tina were still out at work. Leaving Steve with the responsibility of letting Eddie in.

“Is this Brandy?” Eddie asked, nodding at the cat that was laying in Steve’s arms like a baby.

“Yes she's extremely spoiled.” Steve responded, letting Eddie in.

“You’re so gay.” Eddie replied.

“No way.” Steve exclaimed, shutting the door behind Eddie. “Are you serious? I’m gay? Big news.”

Eddie put his stuff down and started taking his shoes off. “You can be sarcastic all you want but if you told 19 year old me that Steve Harrington ends up gay I’d think I lost my mind.”

“Oh I kept it buried deeeeeep inside.” Steve let Brandy climb up onto his shoulder.

“Not the only thing you kept deep inside.” Eddie joked.

Steve felt his face flush pink, opened his mouth to say something, instead let out a ‘Hmmm aaaahh. You want a drink?”

“Great segue. Yeah can I just get a water actually?”

Steve nodded, put Brandy down and disappeared into the kitchen to get some drinks.

-

“So did you see my SNL performance?” Eddie asked. They were sat out on the balcony, enjoying the first creepings of heat at the end of spring. Eddie smoked, Steve said he was quitting but took a few drags anyway.

“Yeah you were great. Getting introduced by Pamela Anderson too. Holy shit.”

“She’s super nice too.” Eddie said. “Too bad she’s married.”

“Oh yeah because you’d have the guts to hit on her."

“I might. If I hadn’t quit drinking at least.”

“Sure you would.” Steve laughed.

“I had the guts to kiss you didn’t I?"

Steve passed the cigarette back to Eddie, their hands brushing.

“Would you have the guts to kiss me again?”

Eddie grinned. “Finally.”

They were lying on the couch, hands in each other's hair, tongues in eachothers mouths when Robin and Tina came home. Robin’s initial excited ‘Heeeeeellllooooooo” turned quickly into a “No! Steve! Eddie! Get a room!”

Eddie jumped up. “Robin! Tina!” Pulling them into a hug.

“If you guys are going to hook up go over to Steve’s please.” She said.

Eddie tutted. “We just go sidetracked. I’m here to spend time with you all.”

“Hmm. Good. I was thinking we could go to that new Thai place for dinner.” Robin said.

“It’s like crazy hard to get a reservation but my friend works there, can get us in.” Tina added.

“Sounds good.” Steve said.

“Sounds amazing.” Eddie added.

It was amazing. The food was delicious, the ambience was calming but there was enough chatter about the place that it felt comfortable, where they didn't feel the need to awkwardly whisper or suppress their laughter. Eddie got recognised a couple times, asked for an autograph once and Steve couldn’t stop staring at the way he interacted with his fans. Couldn’t believe that the man who used to spend his recess sitting in corridors quoting Lord of the Rings and whispering to himself in class while doodling wizards and orcs all over his textbooks - was now this cool famous guy. Like okay maybe he still wasn’t cool but fame is just international popularity and high school Eddie was anything but. And he handled it so well, better than King Steve had managed his short lived reign of high school. And worst of all, Steve just couldn’t stop thinking about fucking that nerd.

And when the girls were distracted by their own conversation Eddie slid his hand under the table and squeezed Steve's thigh with a wink. Steve almost knocked the table over, the way he jumped. The girls immediately shooting suspicious looks over at them. But the suspicion didn't last, when Eddie said "So where are the best clubs, round here?"

They ended up in a gay club (obviously) - one that was super exclusive and often frequented by celebrities. Robin and Steve had been waiting for an excuse to convince Eddie to go with them, given that he was their only ticket into the club. And it was just as incredible as they had always imagined. It was also almost impossible to keep Robin tethered to her chair to avoid her embarrassing herself in front of Queen Latifah who was trying to innocently get a drink when Robin, beet red and shaking, asked for her autograph. At that point Robin, who said she could die happy, wanted to go home and Tina, who didn’t like the Thai food, was hungry and so they left the club.

“You don’t want to leave yet do you?” Eddie asked.

“Not a chance Eddie. They’re playing ABBA” Steve said, dragging Eddie to the dance floor, admiring the way the lights looked splashed across his face.

Steve hadn’t ever been to a club sober before. In fact he hadn't been to a club in years. Normally he would be in bed by 9pm these days. But there, with Eddie staring into his soul with those big brown eyes there was nothing he wanted more than to just keep dancing. The hands that Eddie ran down Steve waist as they danced only inspiring him to stay awake longer. Eventually, both sweaty and with cracked voices from screaming along to the songs (despite the fact Eddie said the music was the ‘most ridiculous pop trash I’ve ever heard’) they found themselves in the stairwell, Eddie’s hands creeping under Steve’s shirt, tracing the lines of his scars beneath his fingertips.

“Come back to mine.” Steve whispered into Eddie’s skin as he kissed down his neck. As he spoke the lights came on above them, signalling the place was closing.

Eddie looked up at the light above, “What time does this place close?”

“5am? I think.” Steve looked at his watch. “Yeah, jeez that went fast.”

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“My coach is at 5:30 I have to go.” Eddie pulled back.

“What? Nooo.” Steve whined, pulling Eddie back by his belt loops.

“I have to go baby. Don’t worry, I’ll call.” He slinked away.

“I’ll get you in bed some day Munson.” Steve called.

Eddie turned in the doorway, winked and disappeared into the dawn.

-

It was pride, the next time Eddie was in town. It's his first pride since publicly coming out, which meant he could publicly celebrate. It also meant he was invited to perform. Which was a very big deal. I mean generally he wasn't playing to crowds of people in neon outfits, short shorts and leather- well okay maybe not the leather- but the gist of it was what if they hated him? What if he wasn't the type of music they wanted? What if being gay wasn't enough to officially be part of gay culture?

"Eddie." Tina said, her hand on his shoulder as he sat on her kitchen stool. "Being gay is all you have to do to be loved by the gays. Stop fretting."

"But I am fretting."

"The metal scene isn't as straight as you think, you should know that more than anyone."

"Well I also know more than anyone thats it kinda is. You know how many homophobes started burning my tapes and tour merch after i came out."

"They weeded themselves out."

"Doesn't mean I don't have a specifc market."

"Lesbians." Robin interrupted. "Butch leather lesbians."

Eddie sat back for a minute. Took a breath. "Holy shit, you're right."

"Yeah. As per. Now move I need to get the waffle iron out of that cupboard." She shooed him from the kitchen, so he slumped over the back of the sofa, landing ungracefully in Steve's lap, his hair splayed over the armrest. Steve almost unconsciously began stroking it, like a primate picking out lice, the innate urge to groom your loved ones.

"You'll be fine, Eds. I spoke to all the San Fran gays and they promised they won't boo."

"Oh you know all the gays in San Fransisco?"

"Yeah what do you think I've been doing since Derek left? Or who do you think I've been doing?"

Eddie slapped him playfully on the arm, sat up too quickly, had to hold onto Steve's shoulder to ride out the head rush. "Well that gives me absolutely no reassurance. Don't you exclusively date liars?"

Steve shrugged. "I'm trying something new."

Eddie of course had nothing to worry about. The performance went great, and even those in the crowd who had no idea who he was, still seemed incredibly grateful at his outfit choice of tasselled leather chaps (over his jeans, I know what you are thinking) and not much else. Steve was also incredibly thankful, and chose to communicate his gratitude with his mouth, after finally getting Eddie back to his apartment later that evening. He had him pressed against his dresser, mouthing the stubble that lined Eddie’s jaw.

“God I bet all those guy out there wish they had you like this.” Steve groaned into Eddie’s neck.

“I’m all yours baby.” Eddie replied.

Steve nuzzled into Eddie’s ear. “Fucking finally.” He said as he began to sink to his knees. Only he didn’t make it to the ground, his pager beeping in his back pocket shocking him into standing up straight, so quickly his head hit into Eddie’s face with a thunk. Eddie’s hand flung to his face, his nose immediately spurting blood. Steve held the pager in his hand staring at the code displayed - his eyes darting between the pager screen and Eddie’s face.

“I’m so sorry.” He reached out and placed a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. "Are you okay? I really have to- do you need ice? I have to get this its an emergency. Do you need a kleenex? I’ll be just a moment to - I have to call -"

“Steve, calm down, take the call I’m-" He pinched the edge of his nose, hissing at the pain. “I’m fine.”

Steve returned to the bedroom five minutes later with a box of Kleenex and a worried look on his face. Eddie, who had made himself comfortable in Steve’s bedroom, was already holding tissues against his nose. “I found some in your top draw, next to some lotion and a butt plug. I wonder what you use these tissues for.”

“You little snoop.”

“My nose is bleeding because of your fat head so I felt I was entitled to a little snooping.” Eddie sat up straighter, his tone changing. “What’s going on?”

“I have to go.” Steve said.

“It’s bad, huh?”

“One of my kids - one of the kids I look after - she ran away from her foster parents place and …I think I know where she’ll have gone. I’m sorry.”

Eddie nodded. “Don’t apologise it’s - you go. I’ll just annoy Robin and Tina until my flight.”

Steve laughed pulling his shoes on, kissing Eddie on the cheek. “Let yourself out.”

Eddie sighed. “I’ll get you into bed one day, Harrington.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve huffed, waving as he left the apartment.

-

“What are you doing?”

“Hello? Eddie? That is no way to start a phone call.”

“Okay sorry. Hello Steve, it’s Eddie. Munson. How are you?”

“I’m good thank you, I’m actually making soup right now.”

“Wow your life is so exciting.”

“Sorry Mr Rockstar we can’t all spend our evenings snorting cocaine off half naked women.”

“Hey that was one time - I am sober now.”

“Yeah exactly, so maybe you should get into soup.”

“Sigh yeah okay Steve. Anyway I didn’t mean what are you doing now, I meant what are you doing for Christmas?”

“Same as usual, just gonna stay in San Fran.”

“Oh come on Steve. Not the same as usual, I know Robin’s visiting Tina’s family in Mexico. Don’t spend Christmas alone.”

“I won’t be alone, I have Brandy.”

“Goddammit Harrington, you’re depressing me. Come to Wayne’s with me.”

“No, no I couldn’t.”

“Please Steve, I want you to. Wayne has to work til midnight Christmas Eve anyway, so I’ll be bored out of my mind. You can bring Brandy too if you want, Wayne loves cats.”

“Hmm. She hates travelling. My neighbours probably wouldn’t mind taking her.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Yeah…yeah its a yes.”

“Nice.”

“Thank you Eddie, for the invite. Means a lot.”

-

Steve felt 19 years old again, sitting in his car outside that trailer. It wasn't technically the same trailer, the one he had pulled Eddie's lifeless body through an interdimensional hole in the ceiling. That trailer was stripped down to the bones and rebuilt. Wasn't even on the same plot of land, a couple hundred meters east. That land ended up cemented to within an inch of its life. They built a gas station on it. Regardless, the trailer sat in the trailer park, looking eerily identical. This was why he never came back to Hawkins. At least thats what he told himself. His lack of people to come back for only minor details.

There was a thwack on the roof, Steve jumped, crash landed right back into reality. Eddie was leaning against the car, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

"I thought that was you. Why are you just sitting in your car like a creep?"

Steve bristled, pulled himself together, pushed the car door open slowly enough that Eddie had time to get out of the way.

"Just lost in thought."

"Good ones I hope." Eddie held out his hand, an offer to take Steve's bags. Steve shook his head, Eddie shrugged and skipped ahead, held the door open for Steve.

It smelt different. At least than memory served. Perhaps it was that Wayne had quit smoking, that Eddie wasn't ever there long enough to let his own habits sink into the furnishings.

Eddie motioned to the pull out bed. "We'll be out here. The bedrooms Waynes now so…"

"Yeah, yeah of course." Steve put his bags down by the sofa. "Should I take off my shoes?"

"Depends what you wanna do."

"What are the options?"

"We could go for a walk. You know…" He mimed smoking a joint. "Wayne doesn't like me doing it in the house."

"I could use a walk."

They returned to the trailer bleary eyed and shivering slightly from their shared inability to dress for the weather. "I have an excuse." Steve said. "I live in California now I'm not used to it. Whats your excuse East Coast?"

"My excuse is that I have an aesthetic to uphold."

"Slutty emo."

"Something like that."

Steve threw his shoes off and immediately tucked himself under the covers on the pull out bed, shuddering as he held the duvet over him.

"You wanna watch a movie?" Eddie asked puling on an old Hawkins High band hoodie Steve snorted at.

"Yeah sure, band geek." Eddie reached over Steve and slid his hands down the front of Steve's shirt. Steve jolted up pulling Eddie's cold hands off of him. "Horrible boy." He said. Eddie laughed, reaching for a VHS from the shelf above the TV.

"I think you're gonna hate this one." Eddie said.

Steve did hate it. It was a christmas movie, he'd give him that, but Jack Frost was not a feel good movie.

"That's the freakiest snowman I've ever seen I would molotov that guy in a heartbeat." Steve said.

As it turned out it didn't much matter that Steve didn't like the movie, having missed most of it after Eddie innocently brushed a hair out of Steve's face resulting in them aggressively making out on the creaky cot. That wasn’t the intention, that time, to actually try to sleep with one another. They had wanted only to not be alone over the holidays. And it felt rude, both of them technically being guests in Wayne's house. So when Wayne came home early, and Steve practically jumped across the room and out of Eddie’s arms, it wasn’t a disappointment to either of them, that they hadn’t managed to make it past first base.

“Good evening boys. Steve.” Wayne said.

“Hi, thanks for having me Mr Munson.” Steve said, still stood awkwardly at the end of the bed.

“I got let off early.” Wayne said. “Bought Chinese food.” He placed the bags on the side. “I wasn’t sure if you were vegetarian or nothing so I got a mix of everything.”

“I like everything.” Steve said.

“Mmm me too.” Eddie said climbing out of bed and rifling through the bag over Wayne's shoulder. He turned to Steve, shoving a prawn cracker in his mouth. "Shall we move the bed back against the wall so we can eat and watch TV."

Wayne grunted his approval while pulling plates and cutlery out of the cupboard. Steve got to work pushing the bed back, leaving space for the two of them to climb on top of it, but giving Wayne's armchair a clear view of the TV.

"Good?" Steve asked.

"Great." Eddie replied, before jumping onto the bed. "Now can you get me some food. Pleeeaaase."

"What do you want?" Steve asked edging around the bed toward the kitchen.

"Noodles and -"

"Don't humor him boy." Wayne interrupted, patting Steve on the shoulder as he passed him on his way to his armchair. "We can't let the fame get to his head. Get your own damn food." He kicked playfully at Eddie from where he was sitting, just a little too far away to reach him.

Eddie slinked into the kitchen, wrapped his arm around Steve's waist as he plated up, nuzzled into his neck, taking advantage of the fact Wayne was focused on flicking through the TV channels.

Steve couldn't help but lean back into the touch. Couldn't help but imagine a universe where he was Eddie's boyfriend, where they'd be doing the same thing, spending christmas together, stealing kisses behind Wayne's back, watching movies together as a family.

The warmth of the night spent comfortable together was enough to send Steve to sleep. He couldn’t tell you what they had been watching before he drifted off, doesn’t know if he had crawled beneath the bedding himself or if Wayne had gone to bed yet. But he woke up, later that night, eyes blinking slowly open as the TV flashed across the dark room.

“Eddie.” He said, reaching out into the dark.

“I’m here.” Eddie whispered. “Was just going for a piss if you must know.” Steve felt the bed wobble as Eddie climbed on, the mattress dipping and frame creaking as he got comfortable.

“Probably should have turned the TV off while I was up.” He said.

Steve’s arms snaked around Eddie’s waist. He wasn’t entirely sure he was entirely awake. He wasn’t entirely sure what inspired him to say it, as Eddie fidgeted slightly beside him.

“If you could just stay still for five minutes I think I could fall in love with you.” Steve said. Eddie didn’t reply. Steve wasn’t entirely sure he had said it aloud.

-

Eddie decided to stay still. For the next year at least.

Steve had gotten his first tattoo - a butterfly on his wrist - when he came home to see Robin (who always lets herself in) and Eddie (who Robin had let in).

“I didn’t know you were visiting.” Steve said, throwing his arms immediately around Eddie, pulling him into a tight hug.

“I’m not.” Eddie said, pulling back, holding Steve’s wrist gently, grinnning down at the dark ink pooling in the seran wrap. “You always manage to surprise me, Harrington.”

Steve pulled his hand away coyly. “Oh I uh…what do you mean you aren’t visiting?”

“I’m not visiting. I bought a place down the road.”

“Oh?” Steve resented himself for the grin that sat stubbornly on his face.

“Yeah.” Eddie said, reaching out again to look at Steve’s tattoo again. “I figured I ought to stay still for a while.”

Robin shrugged, said “Sorry I’m busy,” when Eddie asked.

“Busy doing what?”

“Anything but helping you unpack.”

“Just you and me then I guess.” Eddie said, thumping Steve gently on the chest in an uncharacteristic display of masculinity.

“Who said I would help?” Steve taunted, though it took only an elbow nudge and a suggestive grin for Steve to relent, crack a smile and nod, following Eddie out the door.

Eddie didn't have a lot of stuff. “Move around too much.” He shrugged. But Steve couldn’t take that “We are going to IKEA tomorrow okay?”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Steve insisted. “Think of how good this place would look with a couple rugs, some plants, some nice fucking lighting.”

“Whatever you say man.” Eddie sighed, lifting a particularly heavy box onto the kitchen counter. “There’s still like three boxes in the van.”

“Yeah and they’re all nerd books.”

“Yeah well, that’s why I need your strong arms helping me.”

“My strong arms can help you.” Steve winked.

“No no stop that.”

Steve moved closer, crowding Eddie against the counter. “We moved the mattress in first though.” Steve whispered against Eddie’s neck.

Eddie threw his head back and sighed. “But we still have stuff to do.”

Steve kissed down Eddie’s neck. “Don’t you think we waited long enough?”

“You’re a bad influence, Harrington.”

Steve gently caressed Eddie’s jaw, pulled him into a passionate kiss, grinding his hip against Eddie. Eddie clinged to his back, eagerly pulling Steve closer, feeling the edge of the counter press into his back he didn’t care he just wanted more of Steve. But, leaving him breathless and eager, Steve stepped away from Eddie.

“No.” Steve said. “No you’re right. We ought to finish unpacking.” He moved halfway across the room before he felt a tug at his wrist, just above his new tattoo, and Eddie pulled him back into his arms. “You fucking tease, Steve.”

They made it, just about, to the mattress that sat in the centre of the bedroom. It was yet to be made, no bedsheet or covers, and the bedframe was still leaning against the wall in an unopened box. But they had waited long enough.

If it weren’t for the growing darkness beyond the curtainless windows, the men would have not noticed the time. Sweaty and half nude, a blanket pulled over them that smelt of dust retrieved from a box in the kitchen post coital, when the chill began to set in, Eddie leant over to reach his watch from the carpet where it lay discarded amongst his jewellery. Eddie laughed, his voice hoarse.

“Goddammit we know how to waste time.” He said. “Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.” He said, showing the watch face to Steve, the minute hand ticking slowly past midnight.

Valentines Day 1999

“Happy one year anniversary baby.” Eddie said, crawling on top of the bed where Steve had just woken up. Eddie pushed the box, wrapped up with a bow, in front of Steve, who sat up and pulled his glasses on.

“I told you, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

"Yes I did.” Eddie inisted. “You would have moped so bad if I didn’t.”

Steve grinned, pulling his hand through his hair, trying to neaten what the night had done to it. “Yeh well I did find you that rare Iron Maiden record that you insisted on opening early.”

“I had to find out if it was genuine or if you’d gotten ripped off!” Eddie retorted. “Anyway, go on, open it.” Eddie nodded toward the box in front of him, rocking slightly in excitement.

“What’s the ru-" Steve stopped. "Did the box just meow?"

Eddie grinned.

"You did not." Steve’s eyes grew wide.

"I did." Eddie nodded, restraining himself from jumping on the bed.

Steve finally opened the box and pulled out a black cat, a bright red bow tied around its neck.

"Watch out, she’s a scratcher." Eddie pulls up his sleeve, showing the scratches up his arm. "I thought about getting you a kitten but I knew you had an affection for strays."

Steve sighed lovingly as the cat curled up at his side.

"She's perfect.” Steve said. “I just hope her and Brandy get on"

“I think it’s Robin we have to worry about.”

[casspurrjoybell-22]

Master - Chapter 32a

*Warning: Adult Content* 

There were some things in this world one learned not to comment on. 

Things that would only invite deeper conversations if verbally approached, things that would require offering or receiving counselling, neither of which being something I was fond of.

Staying silent was a greater tool than many recognised it to be.

I never found any issue in remaining quiet for situations that didn't directly affect me but in this particular case, I found exceedingly difficult not to comment on the piece of jewellery adorning Malcolm's usually naked neck.

There was nothing strange about the silver chain other than it was for more modest than the items Malcolm preferred to pretty his body with when the interest rose. 

He'd always found his way to rich jewels and precious gems that would compliment his deep skin tone and pull already drawn eyes deeper.

A thin silver rope chain did not scream Malcolm, not even in the slightest. 

But beyond that and the fact that it rested a little higher on his neck than any chain should, there was no reason for me to be so aware of the decoration.

And yet I couldn't draw my eyes from it.

"Would you like something to drink?" Kalem offers as he moves around the kitchen, oblivious to my mind's newest distractions while he rushed to serve our friends.

"Water's fine young one," The Elf comments kindly, his smile making Kalem beam brightly as he took a glass from one of the cupboards. 

Without having to be told, Kalem pops over to get Malcolm a blood bag which he shakes a little before he sets it before him.

"Thanks, K," Malcolm replies making Kalem beam happily before he rejoins me at my side, offering me a blood bag I hadn't even realised he'd snatched for me.

"Thank you, love," I say pressing a kiss to Kalem's warming cheek before I take the cold pouch from his fingers.

Kalem all but swoons from all the attention and praises for doing well and I can't help but chuckle as I pop open the cap and take a sip, decidedly choosing to leave the issue of Malcolm's apparent collar alone for now.

Sometimes silence really was the best option.

"How have things been for you?" The Elf asks, being sure to keep his eyes kind even as he refocused all of his attention on Kalem. 

"Any changes since you've returned home?"

"Nuh-uh," Kalem answers as he snuggles into my side, pressing a kiss to the free skin of my arm. 

"I'm being really good and I'm super happy since Master's home."

Aias smiles back at Kalem before he looks at me with golden eyes narrowed to slits while he ran an absent mind over Malcolm's arm, silently questioning if the words were true. 

I give him a discreet nod, allowing him to relax once more before he looks back to a beaming Kalem.

"Do you think we can talk more about our situations today?" He asks with that calming tone he reserved for Kalem, it wasn't annoying but the fact that it came from the pretentious elf annoyed me.

Before Kalem can answer, I cut in with an enquiry of my own which I'd been withholding for long enough. 

"Before we do that, I'd like to have a conversation with you."

Malcolm's slurping on his blood bag turns loud while Kalem tenses in my hold, both their eyes growing wide with surprise as they look between the Elf and I. 

It was no secret that we didn't favour one another's company.

I harboured no hatred for the living stick nor any other particularly strong emotion.

It was more so a constant annoyance that came with the territory of being around a being so proud and confident in everything he graced with a glance.

The Elf in question studies me with a neutral expression, his thin fingers still lazily stroking Malcolm before they stop near his wrist and he nods slowly. 

"Very well."

Without another word, I part from Kalem with a brief kiss to the temple and make my way to my office without bothering to check if the elf was following me. 

Seeing the way he carried himself, I was one hundred per cent sure that the simple act of following would piss him off and I'd be lying if I said that didn't make my lips curve into a smile.

At my office door, I open the door and leave it open for the Elf while I took my seat behind the familiar oak. 

I don't wait long before the Elf walks in, closing the door calmly behind him before he laid himself down in one of the free chairs like a king taking to a throne.

"You seem bothered," Arias states like a known fact no one could ever hope to deny. 

"Is it because of Malcolm's collar or Kalem's lineage?"

Direct. I like direct. 

Sugarcoated platitudes never did anything other than agitating me.

"Neither," I reply honest as I sink back into the welcoming leather. 

"It's because of you."

The Elf doesn't falter, he barely even blinks while he continued to watch me as if I were nothing more than a bug he'd found beneath his shoe. 

But then he smiled, just a little, too small to be anything other than calculated.

"And what is it about me that bothers you?" Arias asks calmly, genuine curiosity riding his tongue.

"What is it that you're not sharing?" I ask pointedly. 

"I know there's a lot but I'm only concerned with the fraction of it that will affect Kalem and Malcolm."

Arias' smile doesn't shift at the mention of Malcolm's name like I'd hope, in fact, nothing in his outwards appearance altered but the look in his fierce golden eyes which studied me just a little closer. 

They bore into my own without cover, calculating and searching for issues I couldn't be bothered to hide behind feeble borders.

I let the Elf analyse me, picking me apart with his gaze while I took in the pieces of him which seemed to burn a little brighter than I knew them to be.

His celestial white hair seemed just a little darker in tint than it had the first time I'd seen him standing on that stage, unashamed and snarling at any who dared to stare for too long. 

His features seem just a little sharper than I knew them to be and though he still resembled a twig in figure, he did look just a little stronger than usual.

"It's hard to maintain a second form for so long in a foreign realm," the Elf says suddenly, drawing my eyes up to his amused ones. 

"Slowly, my natural form is creeping to the surface."

The elf didn't make that sound like a bad thing but rather a good one, a dangerous one.

"That's nice," I reply with a sigh. 

"But that doesn't answer the question I asked you."

Arias' smile turns a little more honest, actual amusement dripping from his gaze and to his lips as they stretched further apart to glimpse me with his sharper teeth. 

"You do realise I'm not obliged to give you any information, yes?" he questions with a raised brow. 

"What I chose for you to know is up to me and only me."

"Yes, yes you're powerful," I say with building frustration. 

"You're an Elf etcetera, etcetera, now answer the question."

This time Arias laughs before he folds his right leg over his left, bobbing it gently while he ran a finger down the side of his cheek.

"My name is Aiasthln Kethlana, first prince to Ythene's throne and protector of her realm. Please do not speak my birthname for you will butcher it. " Arias breathes out while the space around his skin begins to shimmer and shift in a way my mind couldn't comprehend. 

"There is nothing you need to know beyond that title and the weight it holds, should you ever face another of my kind." 

[kmclaude]

Jehan getting married……. ✨

Tiefer taking his sweet godsons perfect little bride and defiling her…… ✨

sweet sweet suffering when he’s fucking her on their wedding night and she whimpers “Emilien,” and his life comes crashing down around him ✨

uh-oh my hand slipped...

--

Tiefer is all smiles and pleasantries when Jehan drops by the church with his fiancée, Connie, to finish the rounds of meeting the family. He's always been nigh perfect at wearing a mask, and he keeps his mask cheerful even as he notices the way Connie's cheeks flushed just a bit or the way she didn't take her eyes off him. When they leave, he embraces her and then Jehan with a soft "swing by later, cher, let's chat, yeah?"

It's not a question.

So Jehan goes, alone, that night -- lets himself in because he still has a key -- and finds Tiefer in the kitchen, pouring two drinks and decidedly less smiles and pleasantries, though he holds out a whiskey all the same to Jehan.

"Mazel tov."

Jehan doesn't take it.

"Boy, take it. 's just whiskey."

"You wanted to chat?"

Tiefer rolls his eyes and drinks from the glass he had been offering--downs it in one gulp--before pulling out a chair from the kitchen table. "Yeah. Let's chat."

"I'll stand."

"Learned where to get a backbone in college there, huh?"

"Something like that."

"That where you found your girl?"

"What's it to you?"

"Just asking. You go off to college three years, barely hang around, then all of a sudden it's 'hey mom, hey parrain, I'm getting married' outta the blue. Ever thought your mama might worry? Ever thought I might worry about you?"

Jehan gives him an odd look. "You...worried?"

Tiefer's eyes widen. "Of course! I know we've had our...disagreements,"--and Jehan winced as he had the scars to prove it--"but that don't mean I don't love you."

It was quiet between them for a moment. And then.

"You...you're taking this better than I thought."

"Shit, boy, I'm taking it."

"I thought you'd be mad."

"What, mad some little girl stole my boy?"

Jehan's face grew hot. He had almost, almost, entertained the thought of staying with Tiefer, of coming back home and being all his, especially after his first semester -- but then he met Connie and, well, she was much sweeter than Tiefer had been.

"Does she know?"

"About us? I...no. No one knows. We haven't...so she hasn't seen..."

"She saving herself?"

Jehan nodded.

"You saving yourself?"

"What's left."

Tiefer laughed--hollow. "It should be nice, then."

--

Agnes doesn't leave Jehan alone about the wedding plans. Connie eventually asks why not get married here? His parrain's a priest. It just makes sense. Agnes agrees.

Jehan takes their lead and tries not to scream.

--

"If you get married in the church, you know you have to do pre-marital counseling, yeah?"

Tiefer sits across from Jehan and Connie in the living room of the rectory.

"That's required?"

"Shit yeah! Ah, sorry Connie."

She waves him off. "Oh I don't mind."

"It's called Pre-Cana. Your mama should've told you all this--I did it with your parents."

"You... right. Yeah."

"Parish by parish, it gets a little different. For you two, we'd have a few one on one sessions but I'd like to first and primarily meet with you as a couple to discuss the normal topics: faith, finances, commitment, communication, sex--"

"Sex?!"

Both men turned to look at Connie.

"Sorry--I was raised Pentacostal. I didn't think Catholics...er..."

"You don't think we fuck?"

"Parrain--"

"--It's a valid question, Jehan--"

"No, I mean, I know Catholics...I know Catholics have sex, I just didn't realize you guys...talked...about it?"

"Oh honey," Tiefer smiled, "just because I wear this collar now doesn't mean I haven't worn other collars in the past."

He winks and Connie's face goes bright red.

"He's joking."

"Mostly. But it is something you should be talking about. How does sex in your marriage fit in? What's its role? What if one of you wants it all the time and the other doesn't? How will you deal with that? Yeah, you're supposed to do it to have kids, but sex is also supposed to bring y'all together. It's supposed to be fun, otherwise shit who'd ever have kids?"

Connie laughs, her cheeks still pink. Jehan bites his tongue.

--

Their premarital counseling sessions were going well. They'd finished all their sessions together as a couple. Besides an initial "tell me now if you have any reservations before we start" one-on-one, Tiefer had saved the one-on-one sessions towards the end.

Jehan had completed all of his. Mostly, he and Tiefer shot the shit, drinking more heavily than needed.

"Is it weird?"

That night, Tiefer hands him another shot of whiskey that evening, which Jehan accepted happily.

"Hm?"

"Being back home," Tiefer continues. "For me, it was. It was weird after seminary when I wound up here. Well, correction -- first I went upstate to some school for wayward girls. You know, girls that get knocked up and their daddies find out?"

"Yeah."

"Depressing shit, p'tit. But then I came here and...not a damn thing had changed, but everything had changed."

"Guess so," Jehan sighs, taking a drink. "Jean's...fourteen now? I know I saw him last summer but it feels like he's growing so fast. Mom's the same. You're the same. Most of the town's the same. But..."

"But you ain't."

"Ain't I?"

"You're 'bout to be a husband."

"And you're takin' it well."

"Well. Couldn't stop you from leavin' here. Almost lost my eye with that."

"Sorry."

"Eh. Maybe I shouldn't've threatened to strangle you if you left me."

"Might've made it more appealing to come home."

Tiefer nudges him, gently. "Didn't stop you from swingin' by here a few times over summer to get your cock sucked, p'tit."

Jehan's ears are bright pink. "I..." He stutters then laughs. "Yeah. Well. You're good at it."

"And Connie's not?"

"I told you. Saving herself."

"Shit. Not even...?" He mimes jacking off.

"Mn-nuh."

"Well fuck. Your mama at least gave your daddy a handjob once before they tied the knot."

"Ew."

"Oh fuck off. Your grown enough to hear that."

"I don't wanna know, parrain."

"Emi."

"Emi."

They were inches from each other -- and Jehan kisses first, as if he's drowning and praying for a way out, but Jehan also pulls away first, as if he's got something to prove.

"Jehan."

"Pa...Emi."

"Is this what you want?"

"Is what--"

"Do you want someone to decide for you?"

"I..."

He doesn't know.

--

The day she met Tiefer, Connie confided in Agnes, "I can't believe that man's a priest!"

To which Agnes had replied, "Oh you'll fit in here, that's at least a monthly talking point among the ladies in town: he's WASTED on the priesthood. In fact, the number of ladies jealous that he was so close with my family..."

It had been a bonding experience and gave the two a chance to know each other.

It didn't bother Jehan and doesn't bother him now even as she comes back from her one-on-one talks with Tiefer late in the evening. After all, Tiefer wasn't just a waste on the ladies in town by virtue of his collar: Jehan knew, first hand, how little interest he had in women.

Tiefer was not a threat.

His marriage would be fine.

--

"Oh fuck--Father--daddy..."

She's spread wide fucking open on the bed and moaning and so fucking willing that it's almost sad to take her.

Almost.

"There you go, that's it," Tiefer growls against her throat, pressing the head of his cock against this mousy doe-eyed little thing's virgin cunt, stretching it, pausing to let the crown catch right on her opening, pulling a low groan from her gut. "Just a little more..."

"Fuck!"

"There. Breathe. Don't wanna disappoint your husband on your wedding night, hmm?"

"N-no, no sir, Emilein..."

"Good girl."

--

Jehan pulls up her white dress and eats her out. It's a little fumbling--they're both nervous--but she's clutching the sheets not long after.

She's wet, his cock's hard, they're soon out of whatever's left of their clothes entirely, bodies pressed together. He slides inside her easily, easier than expected really, and fuck it's so nice, so hot, that he's afraid he might cum too fast (he dimly remembers Tiefer offering, the both of them rather drunk, to let Jehan practice being inside someone for once with him -- "no thanks" he'd choked out but was now reconsidering) but she's so pretty and it's dark and if she feels scars crisscrossed on his back she doesn't say anything, only moans louder and louder (he'll tell her all about it later, in the morning, right now though is perfect, is beautiful, is fun--)

"Oh fuck, Emilein--"

They both freeze and for a minute Jehan thinks he'd said that, he'd called out his abuser's ex-lover's godfather's name, but then Connie's apologizing, face too red, and Jehan's gone soft, his mouth forming the words "it's fine" while his mind screams "what did you do?!" and he's not quite sure who he should be asking.

[jackrrabbit]

Spoiled Rotten /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Request: What if Overhaul fucks spoiled rich reader because her dad owes the yakuza money and in exchange Kai takes the daughter as a form of payment using her as his personal stress doll whenever and wherever he wants making her into his perfect little doll

A/N: While I was writing this my roommate asked if I was okay bc cause I kept stopping to fan myself and blush lmaooooo god I’m such a brat. I did change the concept up a bit, hope that’s fine!

This is dedicated not only to the OG requester but also to everyone who read the excerpt I posted a while back and told me they couldn’t wait to see the finished product!! Love you guys ❤️

Tags/warnings: threats, dubcon/coercion, dom/sub, brat taming, degradation, exhibitionism, restraints, mentions of forced prostitution, verbal & physical harassment, kidnapping, kinda breath play?, long

The first thing you notice when you come to are voices. Multiple people talking to each other, speech overlapping in patterns you can’t make out. They’re quiet—not whispering for your sake, but quiet because you’re still half knocked-out and you can barely hear.

The second thing you notice is the pounding in your head and the lingering smell of something sweet spread over your nose and mouth.

The third thing you notice is the fact that when you try to blink your eyes open, your lashes brush against something soft and dark. You’re blindfolded…and gagged, and your hands feel like they’re cuffed behind your back. From what you can sense around you, it seems like you’re hunched in a kneeling position with your cheek flattened against the floor and your bare feet tucked under your backside.

At least you’re still in your nightgown. You can feel the frilly silk of it, a useless barrier between your skin and the cool air, and it reminds you of how you got here in the first place.

A loud noise in the night. Your father’s voice pleading. A heavy thump. The door to your bedroom banging open and a strange man holding you down to your bed…lifting a sweet-smelling rag to your mouth…telling you to “take a deeeeep breath, princess.”

“Hey, I think she’s waking up.”

An invisible hand fists itself in your hair and you whine in pain as your upper body is lifted off the floor. Once you’re properly upright, you hear squeaking, shoes against concrete, and the heat and breath and presence of someone behind you. Something rustles at the back of your head—you’re too scared to move so you stay still—and then the blindfold is being lifted off your face.

Once it’s gone, you have to blink for a moment even despite the low light of the dingy room where you’ve…apparently…been kidnapped. By the freaking yakuza. And for some reason, they’re all wearing bird-beak masks.

You close your eyes, almost wishing they hadn’t taken the blindfold off. You’d prefer to live in blissful ignorance of how decidedly unclean the floor is. How dare they let your face touch it? What happened to honor among thieves?

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Against your will, your eyes flick up to the speaker. He’s the only one sitting, and somehow that gives him a position of power among the others. The leader?

Unsettling golden eyes rest on yours, and you realize he’s waiting for your answer, so you slowly move your head from side to side.

“Didn’t know about daddy’s bad habits, huh?” This time the person speaking is behind you, the one who untied your blindfold, a thin man with lank, greasy blond hair. He’s the one who drugged me, you remember in a surge of panic, and you try to stand up away from him only for him to step on the chain that connects your handcuffs, jerking you back and pinning you—painfully—to the floor.

“Careful, Setsuno. I told you not to leave marks. Let her talk.”

“Got it, boss.” The blond—Setsuno—fumbles at the back of your head and then he’s pulling the gag out of your mouth.

You open and close your mouth a few times to stretch out the stiff muscles. “Oh. My. God. Was that polyester you just took out of my mouth? Do you have any idea how bad synthetics are for sensitive skin? I’m totally going to break out.”

A hush falls over the little room. You could hear a pin drop.

“…Are you complaining about the quality of the fabric we gagged you with?” the leader asks after a second.

“You may be yakuza, but you don’t have to act like savages,” you reply primly, aligning your knees together and sending a proud look off to the side.

“Ohh…little princess deserves better, does she?” Setsuno coos. He edges closer to rub his cheek against yours and laughs when you cringe away from him. “Boss, you shoulda seen her bedroom. All pink and frilly, looked like royalty lived there. Bet they treat you like a real princess at home, huh? No wonder your daddy’s in debt.”

“Daddy isn’t—“

“Your father…took out loans from my gang. My men came last night to collect,” the leader says, drumming his fingers over the armrest of his chair impatiently.

He’s wearing plastic gloves. Why is he wearing plastic gloves? Immediately your mind is spinning, imagining all the different gruesome possibilities of what they’re going to do to you. “That’s ridiculous. My daddy doesn’t need to borrow money—“

“Clearly he does, because it looks like he pissed it all away on his daughter.” The leader’s eyes are cold enough to make you shiver—although maybe that’s just the icy temperature of the floor soaking through your nightgown.

“He had a couple payments overdue, so we stopped by to ask nicely for him to pay up,” Setsuno says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Didn’t find too many valuables in your house, but then we got our hands on a real treasure.”

“Don’t touch me—“

“You don’t seem to understand the position you’re in,” the leader says. “When I made my contract with your father, he understood that obligations like these are inherited. Since he can’t pay his debt, you’re going to be working it off in his place.”

Working it off? You swallow. Somehow you don’t think he’s talking about your little part-time job as a receptionist at your daddy’s company. “You can’t make me do that.”

“I’m not sure you’re getting the gist, princess,” Setsuno hums. “What we’re gonna do is we’re gonna put you in a room, and then men are gonna give us money, and then we’ll let those men fuck you. All that money’s gonna go toward paying what your daddy borrowed. Sound good?”

For the first time since you can remember, you’re shocked speechless. They’re going to…what? But you’re a quick thinker, and instead of letting these filthy, awful gangters boss you around, you raise your chin haughtily to look directly into the leader’s eyes. “I don’t think so. If Daddy’s the one who got himself in debt, you can make him whore himself out to pay it back. You can’t hold me responsible for something he’s done.”

Another brief silence, and then you hear a whistle echo out from the corner of the room (and you try not to look toward it, reminding yourself that this can only get worse if they know how scared you are). “She’s got a mouth on her, Overhaul,” someone says.

Overhaul. So the leader’s name is Overhaul. How ridiculous; it sounds like a villain’s name.

“Aww, princess,” Setsuno says, and once again his voice is too close for your comfort. “Little spoiled princess doesn’t know how to shut her mouth and suck it up when things don’t go her way? Well…you’ll learn.”

You don’t want to know what he’s talking about, although if you thought about it for more than a second it’d be obvious. You suck in a harsh breath and the cool, damp air stings against your dry throat. “You can’t just make me—“

“Ohh, I think we can. See, if your daddy’s been spending all of the Shie Hassaikai’s money on his precious daughter, don’t you think you owe a little too? Like, this dress—“ you jump as Setsuno’s hand tugs on the thin, floaty silk— “was bought with Overhaul’s money, so it belongs to him, right?”

You keep quiet, not wanting to prompt him to go further, but when his hands stroke up over your waist to grope your breasts in full view of everyone else in the room, you don’t really have to guess.

“And, y’know, your daddy’s been keeping you nice and healthy with Overhaul’s cash, making sure you grow up into such a pretty girl…” Setsuno’s voice is a purr in your ear as his hands squeeze your tits almost lovingly, then pinch your nipples through the fabric. “So hey—if you think about it, this tight little body…belongs to Overhaul too. Isn’t that right, sir?”

You squirm in place as best you can but with the metal cuffs digging into your wrists, there’s nothing you can do to get away from his touch. You’re desperate enough to shoot a terrified glance up at the leader—surely there are rules about treating an innocent girl like this, even for the yakuza—but he looks as unmoved as before. “Get her out of my sight. We’ll give her a rest for the next few days, and then…”

“No!” you yelp, too panicked to keep up the pretense of confidence. “I won’t, I can’t do that, please don’t make me—“

“Shhh. You’ll get used to it, princess. And if you don’t…” Setsuno’s hand combs though your hair and then trails down your neck, tracing the path of your spine between your shoulder blades. “…well, you won’t really have much of a choice, will you?”

And then he’s tugging on your cuffed hands, pulling you to a standing position, but you wriggle away from him and do everything you can to stay planted on the ground so they can’t take you away from here, away from the only man who is capable of stopping this. Overhaul. “Please! I’m— I can work it off another way! I’ll be useful— I’ll—“

Overhaul leans forward a fraction in his chair, and you wonder if you’ve caught his interest. “What, exactly? How do you think you can be useful to me?”

You bite your lip and wrack your brains, not knowing whether the question is rhetorical. What skills do you have that would be valuable to them? Suddenly all the knowledge you’ve gained in your short life seems so meaningless. You’re a decent receptionist (well, decent is a stretch), but if Overhaul wanted someone to answer calls for him you’re pretty sure he would’ve asked.

Why did you spend your life learning such impractical skills? The four-year weekend course you took on horseback riding jumps to mind and you want to hit your head against the wall. Why didn’t you ask your father to sponsor a class in something that would actually matter in the long run? And what would even be useful to these people? Accounting? Bookkeeping? Extortion?

There’s nothing valuable you can offer. You’ve wasted your life, and now you’re going to pay for it. Seriously, the only thing you’re actually good at is keeping your boyfriends (or, rather, the men you cycle through once a month) happy until the novelty wears off and you get bored and move on to the next lovesick target—

—wait. Keeping your boyfriends happy. That’s a skill, isn’t it?

Once, a little bit after you turned eighteen, you’d had a rather illicit conversation with one of your more sexually adventurous friends about being a sugar baby. Your friend had just secured a very generous benefactor, and you’d been so intrigued by all the designer purses and vacations to Cabo that you’d almost considered trying it for yourself. She’d even helped you set up a profile on Seeking Arrangements that listed your physical features and interests, but you’d blanched when it came time to post photos.

“But why do men even like this?” you'd asked your friend after your picture-less profile received its dozenth unsolicited offer. “Rich, successful guys shouldn’t have so much trouble finding girlfriends that they have to resort to paying for sex.”

“It’s a power trip,” she’d replied. “Most men never get the chance to have a woman who’s willing to do and be whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. You’re his ideal girlfriend, his therapist, his wife, and his stress relief all in one.”

At the time, you’d decided against it, deleting your profile and telling your friend you’d rather just keep taking advantage of your real father doting on you than have to fake orgasms for rich men in their 50’s. But back then, you’d had a choice; now that you’ve been kidnapped by a gang who wants you to get fucked by a bevy of strangers to pay off a debt you’ve never even heard of, you no longer have the privilege of a way out. Or, at least, the options are a lot less appealing than before.

You tilt your head back to Overhaul, eyeing him for the first time with real scrutiny instead of prideful disgust. Judging from what you can see of his face under the ornate bird mask (and again, what is with the freaking bird masks?), he’s fairly young, mid-twenties at the oldest. Short, sort of wavy dark hair (you’ve always had a thing for dark hair), a trim suit and tie, and those eyes. Like he can read your mind just looking at you.

He’s…handsome enough, you have to admit to yourself. But it’s not just that. There’s something pristine about him, something untouchable that commands discipline. He’s clean. You and him are probably the only clean things in this hovel of a room.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Overhaul says.

And now that you’ve got the idea in your head, it’s almost too embarrassing to meet his gaze. But you can do this; you have to do this. At least it’ll be your choice, and—you’re hoping—it’ll be better than the alternative.

“I could be yours,” you tell him, taking pride in the fact that your voice isn’t breaking.

His eyes narrow and you think god, his eyelashes are long. It’s not fair. Men never appreciate having long eyelashes. What is he thinking? Is he going to kill you for even suggesting it? But it’s too late now…you have to dig yourself a little deeper if you don’t want to go through with their original plan for debt fulfillment.

You force your muscles to relax, knowing this’ll be impossible to pull off if you’re tense and biting down on the words like they’re going to choke you. If you’re going to make him believe it, you have to make yourself believe it too. “You… This job must be hard. Even for a—a powerful man like you, it has to be stressful, right? Always looking out for the interests of the gang instead of your own…needs.”

Overhaul doesn’t move, but you’re so focused on him it would be impossible for you to miss the way a single muscle in his neck flexes. You’ve hit a nerve.

You take a cautious step toward him, trying to channel the sexually-liberated vixen you consider yourself when you’re not in your nightgown surrounded by men who could murder you with their bare hands and not miss a minute of sleep. “You’re always giving, aren’t you? Looking toward the future of the gang? Doesn’t it get frustrating when—when a pretty thing is in front of you and you don’t even get…a little taste of her?”

Oh god, you can feel the humiliated heat rushing to your cheeks. How can you be saying this? You’ve played the role of seductress plenty of times before, but never in such a risky situation. You just have to keep moving toward him and hope it feels authentic enough to convince him.

“You’ve worked hard. And…like he said, my—my body belongs to you.” Now you’re close enough to Overhaul and he hasn’t stopped you, so you lower yourself onto the floor, knees bumping softly into the cold surface. Kneeling between his legs.

Overhaul stares down at you, gaze as sharp and cold as before—and you’re sick with anxiety, so scared you can feel your hairs raising up on end—but if he wanted you to stop, he would have said something, right? So you shuffle a little closer and nuzzle your cheek over the inside of his clothed thigh like a kitten, then raise your head up to him to give him your best bedroom look, the one that says, I want you. I need you. No one but you. The look no man has ever been able to resist.

“…You deserve something to yourself, sir,” you murmur.

There’s a collective intake of breath as every person in the room simultaneously realizes what you’re offering. Overhaul’s expression doesn’t change, but once again, a tendon jumps out white under the skin of his throat and there’s a creak of latex on leather as his grip on the arm of the chair tightens.

“Damn,” Setsuno says under his breath from behind you. Someone whistles. You’re pretty sure you hear the word ‘slut’ being tossed around, but there’s reverence behind it.

“And what makes you think you’re so valuable?” Overhaul asks.

You close your eyes to ground yourself for a second. He’s interested, you know that much. You’ve never really had to convince someone to want you, but there’s a first time for everything. Besides, you only have to look at him for a second to know he does want you, which isn’t a surprise. Who wouldn’t?

“I’ll do anything you want, be anything you want,” you tell him, echoing your conversation with your friend back then. “Take out your anger on me if that’s what you’re into. When you’re tired of me, you can consider my debt paid and let me go.”

“And?” he prompts.

‘And’? And what? You’re offering yourself to him, your body and your mind—what more can he possibly ask from you? You cast your thoughts around, wondering what else you have to give him. “And…and I’ll do it willingly. You, um—you look like a man who appreciates obedience.”

And that’s it. Your last shred of pride is gone. Not only are you offering yourself up to a man to use as his personal stress doll, you’re saying you’ll be compliant every step of the way. Knowing yourself, you’re pretty sure that’s impossible, but you just need to make him believe it long enough for you to find a way out of here. You can pretend to enjoy getting fucked by a gangster a few times. You’ll live.

But you’re naive. And with the stream of thoughts pushing through your head, you never really consider one thing, one essential thing: how you look pleading up at him in that pale pink nightdress—soft, pure, immaculate against the filth of the underworld, the only clean body that Overhaul’s seen in a long time.

And you’re right. He is a man who appreciates obedience.

“Willingly…so you’d be willing to prove it.”

Your head jerks up and down in response. Yes! He’s taking the bait, now I just have to get him alone and—

“Then demonstrate.”

When a moment passes and you don’t move, Overhaul tips his head to the side, gaze still locked on you, and gestures vaguely at his lap. You blink and then shy back, shrinking under the hungry gazes of the onlookers. “You can’t mean—in front of them?”

“And here I thought you were going to be obedient.” There’s no mercy, no amusement in his voice. No hint of humanity.

So he’s serious. He wants you to give him a blowjob in front of—how many? one, two three, four—four other men!? Your first instinct is to jump back away from him and your next is to slap him for even suggesting it; you can actually hear the jingle of your cuffs as you attempt to raise your hand. You’ve gotten a little kinky before—blindfolds, vibrators, maybe a hand tied to the bedpost with a Hermès scarf once or twice, but this is a whole different level. And the way they’re all looking at you…like they’re itching to see you brought down. How absolutely disgusting.

But Overhaul’s waiting for your answer, and you know full well that you’re not going to deny him.

“O-Of course.” You lean forward over the seat of the chair so your face is just inches from his lap. “Um. My hands...?”

They’re still cuffed behind you, but it seems like they’re going to stay that way when Overhaul gives a curt shake of his head. “Use your mouth.”

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. How are you supposed to—? Without your hands? It doesn’t even seem like he’s going to undo his pants for you. It’s like he wants to humiliate you…oh, wait. As soon as the thought crosses your mind, it’s clear that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

You give him another doe-eyed glance, bidding him to at least undo his belt, but he remains unmoved. Bastard.

After aiming another glare at him (because as obedient as you’re attempting to be, you’ve never been good at concealing your emotions) you lean deeper in and take the stiff leather of his belt between your teeth, gently easing it out of the buckle and trying to ignore the mixture of earthy and metallic tastes it leaves on your tongue. It takes a few tries, but eventually you’ve got the tail of the belt out of the buckle and you pull your head back to guide the metal down until the belt is hanging open from its loops.

A rush of accomplishment surges through you when you get it open, and then you want to slap yourself. Accomplishment? From doing this with your mouth like an animal—like a dog? You can hear laughter and mocking encouragement from the men watching, but you steel yourself and dip back in to get Overhaul’s pants undone. The button is tricky, especially with your face nudging into the hard muscle of his abdomen through his shirt, but somehow you manage to tug the fabric slit over the button and then—delicately, delicately—clamp the zipper between your teeth and peel it downward.

“Oh, she’s good,” someone says from the background. Setsuno. You look up warily, but Overhaul’s eyes haven’t moved from you.

Now that you’ve got his pants open, you’re face to face (literally) with what you’re going to have to deal with. The outline of his cock is bulging the fabric of his boxers outward, and he’s not even half erect. You snatch a look back up at him—and damn it, you have to stop doing that, because every time you look into those golden eyes and that stupid bird mask you feel like a lamb looking at a bird of prey right before it snatches you from your safe little lamb-house in the meadow and—fuck, you just have to get on with it.

So you dip down and mouth over him through the fabric, spreading the flat of your tongue over the length of his thick cock. Your mouth feels like you’ve been eating cotton (probably because they drugged you earlier) but you force yourself to salivate, letting drool spill over your tongue and dampen his boxers. When you duck and spread your lips down on the place you can feel the tip stretching out, you know the friction must feel good, because despite the lack of even so much of a deep breath from the man above you, his cock is getting harder.

You nudge your mouth over the tent between Overhaul’s legs again, letting the heat of your breath wash over him—but when he doesn’t do anything, you pull back and blink up at his face. Does he expect you to get him off through his underwear? You could, but most of your moves depend on skin-to-skin contact. There’s no way you can get his cock out with your mouth like you undid his pants, so…what? “Are—are you going to take it out?”

Overhaul brings a gloved hand to his face to rub absently at one of the straps on his mask. “…Beg,” he tells you.

Your mouth drops open and you reel back from his lap like he asked you to lick the dirt off the floor. What!? He can’t seriously expect you to—to beg him to put his dick in your mouth when you’re clearly disgusted at the whole situation. When he doesn’t give any indication of retracting the statement, you can’t help the mocking sneer that forms over your face. “Please, sir,” you spit, and a deaf man could hear the spite in your voice.

Now, that gets a reaction. Overhaul’s eyes flash and you take a certain degree of pride back at the anger you’ve clearly inspired in him. But it’s extinguished as soon as you see it, and then he’s reaching down to cup your chin, tilting your head back and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip.

“I think you can do better than that, princess,” he says, and you can hear your own mocking tone reflected back in his voice. “Unless you’d like me to give my men a turn?”

This, more than anything, scares you. He must be able to feel the way your spine goes stiff, adrenaline rushing, your fight-or-flight instinct kicking in at the prospect of what he’s threatening.

“Each of them, one by one. Between the four of them, I think they could cure that smart mouth…although they might just break you in the process,” he continues, and then his thumb is pressing into your lip, into your mouth, and you loosen your jaw to let him in. You can taste the rubbery latex of his gloves and the other men mutter agreement, encouraging their leader to turn you over to them, and you want to cry.

But you hold the tears back. “Please, sir! Please, please may I s-suck your cock sir? Please!” Your voice is more terrified than obedient, but that’s probably what he’s into anyway. When he doesn’t say anything, you babble on, unwilling to let yourself get gangbanged by a group of men who could probably wreck your pussy in a single round. “Please, please, Mr.—Mr. Overhaul, um, boss? M-Master?”

“Sir will do just fine,” Overhaul says, apparently satisfied, and he pulls his hand away from your face to free his cock from his boxers.

You let out a hot sigh of relief and angle yourself back toward his lap so you can zero in on his cock (and, hopefully, do a little to block out how sickeningly degrading all of this is: how easy it is for him to threaten you; how he has all the power and you have none; how the men around you are goading you, taunting you and calling you things that should get their mouths washed out with soap). You can focus on this, and this, at least, you’re good at. You’ve always been good with your mouth.

It’s a nice dick, too, you have to admit to yourself as you stare at it. Perfect length, girth, and a thick, cut head that you know just by looking that you’re going to have to stretch your jaw to get around. All his hair is neatly trimmed and groomed, and he even smells good, clean and fresh like soap. You’ve never been in front of a dick that didn’t smell like day-old ball sweat, so this is a first. It’s got a nice upward curve, too, and there’s a bead of pearly precum oozing out of the tip. The kind of cock that’s made for penetrative orgasms—

No. Fuck. You cannot be thinking this. You cannot allow yourself to lust after a gang leader who thinks of you as little more than an interactive sex doll. A tingle of blood rushes to your cheeks as you feel wetness pool in your panties and you adjust your stance, shuffling your thighs apart under the pretense of getting closer and hoping Overhaul doesn’t notice.

If he notices, he does the merciful thing and keeps quiet (which makes you think he has no idea you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, because he’s probably never chosen to do the merciful thing in his life). He does, however, shift one of his knees farther apart to accommodate you as you crawl close enough to him to get your head all the way between his legs.

So now you’re staring up at that unfairly pretty cock and wondering how the fuck this is supposed to start, but—best just get on with it. Pretend it’s not him, pretend it’s…no, wait, pretend it is him, it is Overhaul, the same bastard who’s looking down at you like you’re trash, except pretend you’re in control. Because no matter how many orders he gives, once you’ve got his cock in his mouth he’ll have to be the weak one. Right?

Lightly, slowly, you trace the tip of your tongue in a wet path up the underside of his cock, sliding up from the hilt to caress every bulging vein with all the delicacy and accuracy of a surgeon. When you reach the tip, you flatten your tongue to curve it around that bulbous head and then slip it off, the suction providing a wet smacking sound as your skin leaves his.

The breath of his barely-heavier exhale ruffles your hair and you relish the knowledge that he’s getting impatient. Yes. The bastard can wait.

You kiss the tip of his cock, barely moving your lips around the slit, only enough to let your tongue flick out against the precum and gather the bitter liquid up in your mouth. And then—right when he’s getting annoyed, when you can tell by the tension in his body that he’s five seconds away from shoving your head down to fuck your face—you duck closer, relax your throat, and swallow.

Like a fucking python. Or so you’ve been told.

The exhale that escapes him isn’t light this time. You can almost hear the barest hint of a groan under his breath, but you’re more focused on holding down your gag reflex as you let that heavy cock hit the back of your throat. Once he’s all the way down (or at least as far as you can get him), you rock yourself back an inch and then take him deeper, forcing yourself to hold still so he can feel the walls of your throat convulse around him, sucking him in, dry-gagging on the mass that’s filling you up.

“Fuuuuck,” you hear someone whine, and it’s not even Overhaul. It’s one of the men watching, and you feel a perverse mixture of hatred and arrogance rise up in you.

Overhaul’s cock is too big for you to properly moan around it, but you give it a go anyway so he can feel the vibration of your voice through his skin. You’re rewarded with a tangible twitch with it sitting on your tongue, and—oh—your mouth is watering out of where you’re clenching down on him at the back of your throat.

Spittle slips out over your lower lip and onto your chin, but you ignore it in favor of jerking your head up and down in fractional strokes, trying your absolute best to get yourself down to his base but knowing that he probably doesn’t give a shit anyway, not with how good your throat feels around what you’re capable of stuffing in.

What were you saying about ‘valuable’, sir? you think, and then you pull your head off his cock, so slow it’s almost cruel, sucking your cheeks in and hollowing out so those wet walls are rubbing up on every millimeter of his skin. When you reach the tip, you savor it, letting your tongue do the dirty work and looking up at him through your lash extensions before you release him with a nasty wet pop.

“Holy fuck, can I have her next?” one of the other men says, but you and Overhaul are too focused on each other to even look and see who’s talking.

His gaze is trained firmly down at you, and—no way, damn it—he looks bored, like he could be waiting in line at the DMV instead of getting sucked off by you, a girl who’s been complimented by every man she’s ever been with (including her first) on her bj technique. You know he’s feeling it—he can fake calm, but he can’t fake the way his cock’s throbbing under your tongue as you lick up the shaft. Still, now that you’ve got it in your head that Overhaul’s not going to make a sound, all you can think about is forcing him to moan. Let him look weak in front of all his little lackeys.

With renewed vigor, you lap up the length of Overhaul’s cock in sloppy dabs, leaving strings of saliva dripping off your mouth and his cock only to slurp them up, audibly, wiggling your tongue over the tip when you reach it. And that, that gets him, because you feel more than see the buck of his hips into your face as he hisses out a curse.

And—oh dear, maybe you shouldn’t have done that—because the next thing you feel is Overhaul looming forward over you, hand gripping the back of your head, and is he going to force you down? You hate that—so you take the initiative, tilting forward to take him into your mouth again, head bobbing up and down so quickly that your hair is falling all over your face, but it’s okay, because he’s got you, he’s got you, got his hands combed through your hair holding it out of your face, pulling so lightly it barely even hurts, but it does hurt, and he’s guiding you up and down on his cock and it’s hitting the back of your throat every time, and—and it hurts.

You really shouldn’t have done that.

“Take it deeper,” Overhaul instructs, almost encouraging, although you’re not given the option to pull off because he’s holding you down, pushing you firmly toward the base of his cock. You sputter around it, gagging, and you’re almost fucking choking, and he won’t let you up.

God, you’re not—not breathing, you can feel your throat choking down on him—“breathe through your nose,” he says, and this man, this villain has no idea what he’s fucking talking about, because you’re trying, eyes stinging and then you can feel tears down your cheeks. You try to squirm back on your knees, but somehow the combined force of every muscle in your body is outmatched by his single hand on the back of your head—and—and—you squeeze your eyes shut, relax, open your throat as much as you can and—

Overhaul forces your mouth down to the hilt.

Fuck, is he going to keep you there? You can’t, you can’t—if you could move, you’d be shaking your head and begging him to let you stop and as it is you’re whimpering around his cock. Your throat is making gagging noises and you’re crying, actually crying, actually fucking crying on a man’s dick. So this is what it feels like to be used?

“Good.” There’s something lower and darker in Overhaul’s voice, a husky undertone from the growl he’s trying to suppress. “Hold still…remember, you asked for this.”

You did. You asked for it. Begged for it. Pleaded.

“Want me to forgive your father’s debt…? You’re going to have to earn it.” He pulls out an inch just to ram himself back in. You make a weak attempt to move your tongue around his shaft and you can feel the shudder all the way through him, his cock twitching where it’s locked in your throat. “Mm…good girl. Just a little—little longer—“

His fingers are tightening in your hair, curling around the strands and tugging instead of just applying pressure to your head. He’s close, you think, and then you struggle back, not wanting him to cum down your throat, what if you choke on it? Like, really choke? You don’t want it, don’t want his cum in your stomach, but then he sighs and tells you again that you’re a good girl, and ohfuckohfuck you must be so scared you’re desperate for praise because you feel heat rush into your cheeks and your cunt when he says it and you try to move your tongue like you did earlier and his hips jerk forward and—he cums. In your mouth.

It’s salty, you think. The next thing you think is that you want to gag, because you’ve never had cum in your mouth before. For all your sexual experimentation, you’ve never let a man cum down your throat like this, always telling them it shoot it on your tits or whatever because you are not a person who should have semen in her mouth, much less ingest it.

But right now, with Overhaul lazily dragging your head up and down for a last couple pumps on his softening dick, your choice isn’t spit or swallow. It’s swallow or choke.

Hot. Thick. The texture is slimy, so viscous you can feel it going down your throat in strings. Part of you wants to throw up. It’s repulsive. Filthy. You hate this.

Part of you has to shift your position again so you don’t have to feel your own wetness slicking up the insides of your thighs.

How. Is. This. Possible. You may have just had to swallow your pride (and not just that), but what about your dignity? You’re a good person…okay, well, even if you’re not a ‘good person’ per se, you don’t hurt anyone with your selfishness. You don’t deserve to be kept as a pet by a sadistic bastard who gets off on watching you almost pass out on his cock, and you certainly don’t deserve the humiliation of finding that you’re turned on by it.

And yet. Here you are. Still held securely in place until Overhaul slides you off him. As soon as your mouth is free you suck in a dizzyingly deep breath, but even that is too much for your battered throat and the breath turns into a cough; you instinctively fold down away from Overhaul so the mixed saliva and cum you’re hacking out spatters in cloudy white flecks across the floor instead of on his clothing.

“Stop that,” Overhaul scolds, hauling you back up by your hair and forcing your mouth closed with a hand on your jaw. “If you make a mess, you’ll be cleaning it up.”

Considering what he just made you do to him, there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s implying you’ll have to lick it off the floor. You clench your jaw, holding back the convulsions of your throat as best you can, and hope he doesn’t press the issue.

Now that you’ve got your coughing under control, you can start to sense things that you had been tuning out before: the men hooting and wolf-whistling and applauding your performance, the traitorously persistent throb of your clit pulsing under your panties, and Overhaul’s hand releasing your chin to pet down your neck. “Now. What do you say when someone gives you a meal?”

Just you wait, bastard. I’m going to tie you to your bed and set fire to it. But you’ve got the sense that that answer won’t go over well, so you take a deep breath and look up at him again, meeting those piercing gold eyes with your own. “Thank you, sir,” you say in a soft whisper because it’s all your abused throat can manage.

“That’s right.” His hands feel colder than the concrete under your legs as he spreads his hand down your neck, only to toy with one of the lacy pink straps of your nightdress. “Stand up.”

You stand shakily, too cowed to even consider stepping back from him. Without warning (much less permission), Overhaul lifts the hem of your stupidly short dress up past your thighs, exposing your panties and lower belly to view.

“Hold this in your mouth,” he says, and after only a few seconds of hesitation you open up and bite down on the fabric so you’re effectively holding up the skirt for him. Overhaul skims gloved hands down the sides of your hips and comes to a rest when he reaches your panties—and why did you have to wear these today? Shiny red satin in the front; the back is just flowers worked in crimson lace. You know exactly how good you look in these panties, and judging by the things Overhaul’s men are saying, they’re more than appreciative of the view.

But Overhaul ignores them in favor of hooking his fingers under the elastic and pulling the panties down until they’re resting stretched between your upper thighs. You don’t have to see them to know there’s a string of slick connecting the lips of your cunt to the fabric, betraying in full technicolor detail how turned on you’ve gotten just from sucking him off. He gazes down at your pussy and then up to you as if waiting for you to admit it, but you stay silent.

“Well, well. What a nicely-trained slut I’ve found myself.” He gracelessly pulls the panties the rest of the way down your legs and lets them fall to the ground. “Do you always get this wet when you let your boyfriends fuck that smart mouth?”

It takes you a second to comprehend that he’s expecting an answer. “N-No, sir,” you reply, voice muffled by the fabric you’re still holding between your teeth.

“I suppose I can’t leave you like this, not after you took me so nicely.”

Does he mean he’s going to get you off? No freaking way. You drop the hem of your dress, let it flutter down over your thighs, try to scramble back, but his hand on your waist keeps you from moving. “I— It’s okay, I don’t need—“

“No, I think you do. I think I’m going to reward my pet for a job well done.” He leans back, eyeing you without sympathy. “I’d have you touch yourself, but—“

The mere possibility that he might remove the handcuffs has you straining against them again, and the sound of metal against metal rings out from behind you.

“—but, I think it’s best to keep the cuffs on for a few days…until you’ve settled down.”

Days? He can’t leave you in chains for days, helpless and powerless, so easy to take advantage of. “You can’t,” you whimper, and even though you mean for it to be a decisive statement, with your throat ravaged and hoarse it’s downright pathetic. Overhaul doesn’t even bother reprimanding you for talking back.

“My men have been patient,” he muses, and an enthusiastic wave of agreement wells up from the others. “Any of them would be happy to do it.”

You may have been through a lot in the past hour alone, but there is no way you’re going to let those rowdy criminals have their way with you. You send a nervous glance around the room and as predicted, not a single one of them looks like they have the slightest shred of control over themselves.

None of them…except Overhaul.

Still eased back in his chair, he looks just as relaxed and unaffected as he did when he was explaining your father’s debts to you. But there’s something flickering in his eyes, something he isn’t going to say to you, isn’t going to say out loud. A challenge.

Maybe, once again, he’s waiting for you to ask for it yourself. And if it’s a choice between him and one of the grimy ruffians who’ve been looking at you like dogs look at meat, you know what you’d prefer. Well—really, you’d prefer option C: none of the above (your current state might be uncomfortable, but you’re not so wanton that you’d rather cum in front of strangers than keep your legs together). Unfortunately, you’re starting to come to terms with the fact that ‘no’ is no longer an option.

Overhaul’s stare flicks from you to an unseen figure behind you, and you can tell he’s about to summon one of them over so you force yourself to move, lurching forward and climbing into his lap to straddle one of his thighs with all the grace you’re capable of. You feel the stir in the air when he inhales sharply, surprised, and his masked face is so close to your neck that you wonder if he can smell the lotion you put on before you went to bed last night.

It’s one of your favorite scents: vanilla, lilac, orange blossoms. You bought it because it smelled pure.

“Please, sir, I don’t want them,” you breathe next to his ear, injecting every ounce of sexual frustration you’re feeling into the needy tones of your voice. “I’m yours. I belong to you, just you. No one else—please, sir…Overhaul.”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and you think he’s going to hit you, or maybe even kill you for your disobedience. Push you off his lap at least. But just when you’re teetering on the edge of jumping back from him and begging for forgiveness for talking out of turn, you feel it—a low rumble of laughter from deep in his chest.

Big, cold hands wrap around the sides of your ribcage under your breasts and his fingernails dig into you through the layers of latex and fabric. He tilts forward, forcing you to arch away and all you can think about is how horribly weak you are compared to him. Are you trembling? Will he be angry if you feels how afraid you are?

“You know, I guess I’ll keep you after all,” he hums, stroking his fingers through your hair and down your neck. “How does that sound, princess? I think you’d like that very much, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The response comes all too easily, even if the words taste bitter in your mouth. You’ve never said the word ‘sir’ so much in your life…but as he repositions you on his lap and slides a single hand up the inside of your thigh under your dress, you bite your lip and decide to hold back your protest.

If you’re going to have to learn manners, you’d better do it sooner rather than later. Something tells you Overhaul’s not going to accept any less than your best behavior if you want to pay off your debt.

[tennessoui]

50 but its Obi-Wan tired and stressed going through a messy divorce who mets ray of sunshine Anakin ❤

This is basically the Prologue to the story of how Homeowner Obi-Wan Adopts Two Children and A Husband Without Realizing It

50. Going Through a Divorce (Divorced!Obi-Wan)

Buy a house, they had said. You have a wife. You should have a house, they had said. The market is in your favor right now, they had said. This area is nice. Good for kids if that’s something you’re thinking about. Buy a house.

No one ever told Obi-Wan what to do if your wife divorces you and moves out, but the house is legally in your name and the weight of the mortgage is slowly killing you because while you’re a great English professor, you don’t exactly get paid a commission for how many kids decide to take your class after looking at your chili pepper score on Rate My Professor.

Obi-Wan sits in his study with the windows shut and the door closed. It’s the only room in the house that doesn’t feel like something’s glaringly missing. Every other place held at least a few of Satine’s possessions, and if he leaves the shelter of this one final safe haven, he knows himself well enough to know that he’ll prod at all those little absences the way a tongue ghosts over the pit left by a lost tooth.

But this study has always been his, and it still feels like it now. And while the house is, arguably, also still his and has always been, it feels too big now. Too empty.

He is not enough for the house either, it seems.

Obi-Wan snorts at the thought and pours himself a drink. He’s getting maudlin in his old age. Sentimental. What he should be doing is thinking of the logistics going forward, although he knows few. How To Get Divorced was never something they taught in schools, nor something he had thought to be in his future.

How To Pick Up The Pieces of Your Shattered Heart had been a tough lesson to learn a year ago when his wife--ex-wife now--had broached the topic of separation. Separation, as if that wasn’t simply a long-drawn out end. She hadn’t taken that criticism lightly, nor should she have. Their ensuing fight had only ended when she had gasped wetly through her tears and told him, “See? Who are we anymore? I don’t want to fight anymore, Obi.”

To which Obi-Wan had said, of course, “Don’t call me that.” and Satine had left without another word. Given enough time to reflect upon her argument, he did find the logic in it. They’d married young and then changed in ways that couldn’t click together. Obi-Wan would have been fine with continuing to try to force them to work, but Satine had never been one to hate herself in that way.

The papers had come on a rainy day in October. The love had stayed on, unwelcome and bitter and agonizing in turn, well into April. Now it’s autumn again, and Obi-Wan has a house that’s too big for just him and no wife or partner or lover to fill its gaps.

There’s a loud ping of his phone that brings him out of his thoughts. It’s a message from Quinlan, just a link. Obi-Wan almost doesn’t click it, not in the mood for a funny video or in-depth but frightfully out-of-touch opinion on a recent movie. Then Quinlan texts again. I know you like your blondes fiery is all he says, and now Obi-Wan has to know.

He touches the link and it takes him to a posting on a website dedicated to finding roommates. The text loads slowly, probably because there’s a lot of it.

IN NEED OF ROOMMATE ASAP the title screams. Reflexively, Obi-Wan checks the time-stamp, but this was posted only a day ago. His heart warms at the idea of Quinlan checking this website trying to solve Obi-Wan’s problem of the mortgage for him.

Then he keeps reading.

Hi, I’m Anakin, 26, it reads. Working in tech right now--should make any sort of income required. Recently and unexpectedly kicked out of my place. Parent of two toddlers, but they’re angels (separately)! They are past the point of drawing on walls and they are potty-trained. Would be willing to put down a pet deposit but no pets, just the twins. Being evicted in the next five days so desperately need place. Twins’ mom could take twins while I move out and then move in but she can’t have them longer than a couple of weeks because of her job.

Also full disclosure, I have to move out because I “assaulted” my landlord! He was being a creep about my friend and touched her without her consent. I’m not actually a violent person and will not hit you! Just if you call my landlord for a tenant reference, he won’t be nice. He’ll be very, very biased.

Before twins can move in, I will need to run a background check on you as well just to make sure you’re not a creep (creeps DNI)

Let me know if you’re interested!

(Please give me a chance.)

There’s a couple of pictures at the bottom, just after the man’s phone number and email. One depicts a smiling, attractive man, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans with a young child on each hip. The next is a close-up of the kids in fancy clothing, probably to prove that they’re not messy. The girl is scowling at the camera while the boy is crying though, so the overall effect is ruined. Still, Obi-Wan finds iit endearing. The last picture is Anakin’s mugshot, the man in question looking decidedly which makes Obi-Wan snort. He appreciates the level of honesty and loyalty Anakin’s clearly showing.

But this is a lot.

Obi-Wan hasn’t started to look into the option of finding a roommate to lessen the burden of his mortgage payments. And to jump straight to a man with a violent past and his two small children?

His house would be absolute chaos. He and Satine had always kept an orderly space, one that featured long bouts of quietly enjoying the other’s company from opposite ends of the living room, but there would be no quiet with two children and what he’s positive is a very lively man.

But hadn’t he just been thinking that the house was too silent now? Too empty? It would be--

Well. It wouldn’t feel like his and Satine’s house anymore. It would be unrecognizable.

Somehow he’s jotting down the number before he even realizes what he’s doing. And then he’s putting it into his phone. And then it’s ringing.

“Hello?” A distinctly masculine voice says on the other side. Obi-Wan clears his throat, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Hi, hello yes. I’m calling about the ad you posted online yesterday?”

“What about it?” Anakin asks slowly, sounding suspicious. Obi-Wan has to fight to roll his eyes. If he hadn’t already committed himself to following through on the worst idea he’s had in years, he’d hang up at the other man’s clear distrust. He wants to berate him that this is not how you sell yourself to potential homeowners, but that isn’t his place.

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he says instead. “And I fear I may be your only hope.”

[xaharadesert]

Shifter MC - Headcanon Pt 3

Lucio x MC

A/N: part 3 for @tasteofgummies! Requests are closed, but please feel free to send a message, comment, or question! Also, please let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes :)

💛Lucio💛

First, and most importantly, you have to understand that Lucio is not a patient man when he wants something

Whether it’s a material item, an experience, or even a bit of knowledge, he will not wait

So when he realizes that you’re keeping your past hidden from him, he is not having it

If you want to keep it a secret, you’ll either have to be comfortable with blatantly lying, or you’ll have to become real good at redirecting the conversation to something he would enjoy discussing even more (and the only thing he likes to talk about more than you is himself)

So, honestly, if you’re good at the second one then you probably won’t have any problems for a very long time

Although, truthfully, if you were completely honest and told him point blank that you were uncomfortable with the topic and didn’t want to discuss it, he would probably accept the answer and leave it alone with only minimal bitterness (he is trying to be better, after all)

(And don’t even worry about making references from your original reality, he would be too proud to admit that he didn’t understand them, so he wouldn’t ask)

But of course, the truth will always come to light in one way or another

And an argument is always a good way to get the ball moving

When Lucio is genuinely angry, he chooses his words with the intention to hurt

And, having noticed that the topic of your past was one you avoided at all costs, he would obviously try to use it against you, screaming about how you couldn’t even find it within yourself to trust him with who you used to be

This was the moment that you decidedly revealed the truth, perhaps from spite, perhaps from exhaustion over keeping it hidden, or perhaps because you just couldn’t think of anything else to say: “I came here for you!”

Now, this wouldn’t exactly lead Lucio to the conclusion of magic— instead, he would probably just assume that he was famous enough to attract people from all over the world

Argument forgotten, now it’s time for teasing you

If you wanted this to be a serious conversation, you would have to sit him down and find a way to ask him to be quiet long enough for you to properly explain yourself

However, when you’re done, you will have probably only made it worse for youself

So you’re telling him that you didn’t just travel across the world to meet him, you traveled across dimensions?

Good luck ever getting him to stop talking about this

Not only does he get the most massive ego-boost in the universe knowing that he’s worth travelling across dimensions for, but he’s just found out that his significant other is apparently amazing and magical enough to do so

This is no longer a secret by any means; he is telling everyone

He’s not particularly interest in learning too much about your reality, but if you want to talk about it he’ll listen

He does, however, enjoy hearing about how much Vesuvia (and he) are better than your reality (and the people in it)

Whenever you have to go back, he feels a bit upset that he can’t go with you

He demands that you bring back cool stories of your adventures there though (and requests that you cuss out anyone in your life who is even a little toxic)

He also orders you to come back to him, no matter what (he’s pretty pushy and rude about it, but you have to understand that he’s really just nervous of the possibility of losing you, seeing as you’re the love of his life)

Obviously he’s not a fan of you going somewhere he can’t follow, somewhere that he can’t protect you, so he makes you swear that you’ll be as safe as possible and take care of yourself so that you’ll always be able to come back to him

[outercrasis]

Sessions

Pairing: College!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (18+)

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: References to sex, masturbation (nothing actually occurs)

Summary: After meeting Mando, you just can’t seem to get him out of your head. (events directly follow Introductions)

A/N: Thanks for the kind reception to the first post of this AU! I’ll be making a masterlist soon for easier navigation :) Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future posts or if I’ve missed a warning.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Lingering Impressions

Your day ended up being an exhausting one. Mando had been your most exciting session for more reasons than just the obvious. You'd reviewed the papers of two freshmen, a junior who wanted you to basically write their paper for them, and another graduate student who disregarded every suggestion you made. Needless to say, Mando's gratitude felt extra special after all of that.

Getting home, you're greeted with the welcome smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen as you throw yourself face-first into the couch. The open floorplan of your tiny two bedroom apartment allows Layla to spot you as you wander in.

"Hello to you too!" she calls over. "I'm making chicken marsala."

You lift your head up from the watermelon-shaped throw pillow to smile at her. "You are a saint and I don't deserve you."

"You totally don't," Layla teases back, happily returning to the stove. You flip over on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone while she finishes making dinner. A comfortable silence fills the room, interrupted only by Layla's hums and the discordant sounds of cooking.

Layla has been your roommate since your sophomore year of college, randomly paired together by the dorm sorting system and inseparable ever since. The two of you clicked, a friendship forged over the awkwardness of early adulthood and a shared love of terrible reality TV. Both of you keep busy schedules while pursuing your respective master’s degrees and help each other out where you can. Making dinners for each other is just a part of that.

It’s not long before Layla brings over two steaming plates of food to lay out on your thrifted coffee table. She sits opposite you, preferring to sit on the floor rather than the couch. You’re eager to dig in, groaning at the first bite.

“I’ll take that as a thank you,” Layla grins, tucking into her own meal.

“God yes.”

“Long day then?”

You groan again, this time in irritation rather than pleasure. “Yes. I don’t know how many more know-it-all grad students I can deal with.”

She’s heard all about your nightmare sessions with students that think they already know everything. You’ve questioned more than once why they bother booking the session if they're just going to ignore your advice and decide their paper is perfect as is. It seems like a total waste of time for both you and them. 

Layla sympathizes and shares her own gripes about some of the assholes she's forced to put up with while working on her research project. After all, no group project is complete without the one person who does nothing but acts like they know everything. Giving each other time to vent another small way the two of you take care of each other.

As you think back on your day and sessions your mind inevitably drifts to Mando. He hadn’t been anything like you’d expected. He was kind in his own way and by far the most amenable session you’d had all day. Not taking off the helmet was odd, as was not giving out his real name, but neither of those had really bothered you when it came down to it. If anything, they only serve to fascinate you further.

“Did something else happen today?” Layla asks, a spark lighting up in her eyes. She can always read you, something that can be either a blessing or a curse depending on what it is you're hiding. You take a few more bites before answering, already anticipating her reaction.

“Well I might have also met Mando today,” You try to throw it out there casually, hoping that if you treat it as though it’s not a big deal she’ll follow your lead. You should have known better.

“You what!? Tell me everything,” Layla screeches at you from across the coffee table. She pushes her food off to the side, clearly deciding that your unexpected meeting with campus's resident celebrity is far more important.

"He came in for a session. His paper was really good, it-"

Layla is quick to cut you off. "I literally couldn't care less about that and you know it. Tell me about him, what's he like? Is he terrifying?"

You can’t help but snort at that. You know why she asked of course - the rumors flying around about him getting out of hand these days - but when you think about him now they all seem ludicrous. The gentle way he spoke to Grogu and offered his hand out to the kid before leaving. The sincerity in his voice as he spoke to you, eager to hear any advice you had to give him. No. Mando was decidedly not terrifying. “He’s… just a guy,” you tell her, not really sure how to explain his unique presence.

The eyeroll you receive in response is warranted. “Are you kidding me right now? You probably know more about him than anyone else on campus and you’re going to tell me he’s just a guy?”

You shrug, shoveling another bite of food into your mouth. “I don’t know what to tell you Lays, I only spent an hour with him. He was nice, really sweet with his kid, and I’ll probably never see him again.”

You’re not sure why you feel a quick sting in your chest at that thought. It wasn’t like you knew him well or that he even owed you anything. Considering the fact that you’d gone weeks without so much as glimpsing him on campus you’d probably only have another chance to see him if he signed up for another session and there was no guarantee he’d return.

“So the kid thing is true?” Layla asks.

“Yeah. Really cute kid, pretty quiet.” Very quiet now that you think of it. You don’t have much experience with kids that young, but you’re certain kids Grogu’s age can talk. He hadn’t said so much as a word, only letting out an occasional noise or two. It was odd, but then he could just be shy or something. Another question you’d probably never have an answer for.

“Is the kid his?” Layla presses.

“I don’t know, it didn’t exactly come up while we discussed his paper on unique material applications,” you snap back at her. You wince a little at your sharp reply. It wasn’t deserved. Layla was simply curious and now the victim of your long day and swirling thoughts.

You quickly follow up with an apology. “Sorry. I just- I had a long day and I really didn’t learn much about him, okay?” 

There’s a small sense of relief when Layla nods, backing down from her inquisition. “It’s cool, I get it. Just promise you’ll tell me if you see him again?”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know.” 

The rest of the night passes like usual. You wash up after dinner, a fair trade since Layla cooked, and the two of you get to tackling homework that’s begun to pile up with the semester entering its full swing. Nighttime study sessions have been a regular occurrence since your undergrad days and have only intensified while pursuing your respective graduate degrees. It’s more about solidarity and accountability than shared workload, what with your program being in English and Layla’s in Marketing, but it’s nice. Simply having company is better than doing it all by yourself.

Around 10:30 you call it, eyes bleary from staring at your laptop. Layla is deep into a PDF reading so you leave her to her work and shuffle off to the shared bathroom. While the water heats, you brush your teeth lazily, going through the motions of your nightly routine. You test the water with your hand before deciding it’s warm enough to step in.

Your thoughts drift aimlessly as you stand under the hot stream, unfocused until they land back on him. It’s like you can’t help yourself, the way your thoughts have been returning to him all night. You’ve puzzled about him before, but only in the abstract. A hypothetical more than a real person. Wondering if rumors are true isn't quite the same as wondering about the man himself. 

All throughout the night he kept popping up. One moment you would be considering the symbolic use of color in your assigned reading and the next you would be puzzling over Mando’s favorite color. Maybe orange, if his gloves were anything to go by. Layla's favorite song played and while she sang along you couldn't help wondering what kind of music he listens to. Rock probably, or was that too on the nose? As you sipped your drink you wondered what his drink of choice would be, alcoholic or not. Did he even drink alcohol at all? Something told you he wasn’t much for losing his inhibitions.

It's all the little things, all the little details that actually make up a person that no one bothers to speculate about that consume you now. Who cares about his favorite movie or favorite food when you can guess on whether or not he's been to jail?

As you wash the grime of the day from your body, your mind continues to drift further, settling onto the first thing that captured your attention earlier today. His hands. Those gorgeous sun soaked hands, how fluidly they moved across his keyboard. The firm hold of them when he shook your hand.

Eyes fluttering closed, you can't help imagining that it's his hands skating across your skin. You can almost feel the gentle roughness of them, the way he'd squeeze and hold you - tight, but not so hard that it hurts. Almost unconsciously, your hand begins to drift down your body, only to be interrupted by a pounding on the bathroom door. Your eyes snap open, confusion and embarrassment replacing your fantasy.

"Hurry up in there! I need to pee," Layla yells through the door.

You grumble in response, knowing she can't hear you, but quickly finish your shower. It's not quite as relaxing anymore, flustered by your wanton thoughts. 

Getting back into your room, you check your email before setting your alarms for tomorrow. There’s the usual spam from online stores reminding you of limited time deals, a reminder that rent is due next week (lovely), and a couple generic university emails. Your eyes fall to your new tutoring appointment emails and you flick through them mindlessly to clear them out, knowing they’ll all automatically appear on your calendar. 

Just as you’re about to close out of the app and get some well needed rest, a new email pops through. It’s another appointment alert scheduled for next week. You tap to open it and your heart flutters when you read the name on the form. Mando. No need to wonder about if you’d ever see him again now. You’d be seeing him Tuesday at 3 PM. Somehow you know he won’t miss his appointment.

×××××

Din is exhausted. Between Grogu, classes, and trying to find ways to make money, he barely has enough time to do basic functional adult things. Things like showering regularly, eating more than a required minimum of once a day, or heaven help him sleep. 

He wishes he could afford a regular babysitter, allow himself some occasional reprieve but it's not possible. He makes just enough to keep the bills paid and at least Grogu's stomach full. There's also an ever present paranoia about letting a stranger into his home, much less to watch his son. Only Paz and Cara have ever babysat for him and even that was mostly against his will.

Din slumps onto his couch, exhausted from the long day. He’d found the couch on the side of the road. It’s well worn and has a couple holes in it, but it was devoid of fleas, comfortable, and most importantly, free. His helmet is off, sitting on the kitchen table where he’d left it after getting home from campus. He’s mostly used to it these days, but sometimes it can still feel suffocating underneath the custom bucket. Taking it off at the end of the day is always welcome, especially when Din sees Grogu’s eyes light up at his exposed face.

He allows himself just a moment of rest, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the back of the couch. Grogu had finally gone to bed, demanding three stories before he fell asleep and Din not having it within him to deny the requests. A small smile rests on his lips, thinking of Grogu's excitement at his mediocre storytelling. He already loathes the day when Grogu won't ask him to read anymore.

There are about twenty other things he should be doing right now other than sitting on the couch. The apartment hasn't been cleaned properly in weeks, dishes are piling up, laundry needs to be done, he needs to find a job for this weekend, should probably find better daycare for Grogu, has an exam to study for, and a paper to finish writing. He should be doing all of that and more, and yet he can't find the will to move. He stays planted firmly on the couch, letting his thoughts drift. A few different ideas and ruminations swirl around, but his mind settles onto one. Her.

She isn't what he had been expecting. When his professor had recommended a session with a writing tutor he'd been a little miffed at first. Din knew words weren't his strong suit, but he hadn't thought he was that bad. He probably wouldn't have even considered it if she hadn't immediately assured him that it was only a suggestion because she saw potential in his work.

He had still only been considering it, form half filled out, when Grogu had hit submit. He’d looked for a way to cancel the appointment, but couldn’t figure it out with the school’s poorly designed website, so instead he had resigned himself to going. After all, just the one session couldn't hurt and he'd already be on campus.

He thought the tutor would be some irritating know-it-all, pointing out all the mistakes in his paper. Either that, or that they'd be too nervous to make any real criticisms. He’d noticed the way people froze up around him, sometimes too timid to even look in his direction. She wasn't either of those things.

She was all smiles and kindness, not hesitant around him for a moment. Even Grogu took an immediate liking to her, as evidenced by the gift of his frog drawing. Din had more of those than he could count, but very few others had been bestowed the honor of his sacred amphibian themed artworks.

She challenged him in a way he liked, not rude but still forceful. Encouraging him to figure out what it was she was guiding him towards with the paper. Not taking ownership, simply identifying where ideas could be made stronger or clearer. They’d only worked through a few pages in the session and Din already felt more confident in his writing. 

What he liked most though was that she hadn't even asked about the helmet. It was all he heard from those brave enough to speak to him. Where did he get it, why did he wear it, did he ever take it off, what does he look like underneath, and so on. Avoiding all of those questions got to be draining. She didn't even acknowledge it.

She had mentioned the rumors that were apparently swirling around campus about him but that was it. He was a bit grateful for that though, entirely unaware of how popular he'd apparently become. The stares that followed him on campus were hard to ignore, but he didn’t know about their accompanying whispers. He still isn’t sure if the rumors are a good or a bad thing. Her reaction hadn’t given him all that much to go off of. He wishes it had.

That thought stops Din short. Where did that come from? Why did her opinion of him suddenly matter after a single one hour session? Din can’t remember the last time he considered someone else’s opinion of him. Probably when he first brought Grogu home to meet everyone. Now here he is, wondering what his English tutor’s thoughts were about the rumors everyone has been spreading about him. He needs to get out more.

Din shakes his head free, trying to ponder other aspects of his life. Like when he’d be able to get the Razor Crest up and running again. She’d broken down again after only the second week of classes. Paz makes fun of him for riding on such an old bike, but she’s a classic. Din can’t get rid of her, no matter how much she likes to break down on him. In the meantime he could make due with the loaner truck from Peli.

Thoughts of his motorcycle only distract him for so long though. He realizes half-way through the fantasy that he’s imagining taking her out on his bike, feeling her hands clasped around his waist as he rides through the city. The way she’d hang on just a little tighter, pressing herself against his back, as he hits the throttle just a bit harder.

Din sits up on the couch and mutters to himself. “Come on, Djarin. Pull it together.”

She’s beautiful, yes, but to already be fantasizing about taking her for a ride? That’s a bit much. It has been months since Din has seen any kind of action, but he shouldn’t be this desperate after spending only an hour with a pretty face. Still, now that he’s thinking of it, his mind wanders to what she’d be like. 

Would she take charge, calm and in control like she was earlier today? Or would she submit to him, allow him to do whatever he wanted? A small groan escapes Din’s lips at the thought of having her beneath him, begging for him to take her. How she would look spread out on his bedsheets, how sweet she’d taste. He can already imagine how good she’d feel wrapped around him, the way her eyes would look all strung out and cockdumb. It would be a beautiful sight if he’s ever lucky enough to see it.

An alarm Din forgot he set suddenly blares on his phone. He can’t even remember what he set it for as he’s yanked from his lewd imaginings, scrambling to turn it off. There’s a small wave of embarrassment as he registers where he allowed his thoughts to drift. 

Ignoring the uncomfortable pressure in his jeans, Din pulls up the tutoring appointment form on his phone and signs up for another session. There’s an option to select a specific tutor and he’s quick to open it up, choosing her name from the drop down menu. 

There’s nothing wrong about this, right? She’d helped him with his paper and Grogu liked her. She even asked if she’d be seeing him again. That was plenty of reason to have another session. His renegade fantasies had nothing to do with his decision to go back. Din is a man in control of his urges. If anything, this next session would prove that his thoughts were all just fleeting, just a simple result of going too long without anyone in his bed.

.

.

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taglist: @honestly-shite​ @booksarekindaneat​ @wonderless-screwup​ @pinkninja200​ @captain-jebi​ @ajeff855​ @leias-rebelion​ 

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[sisterspooky1013]

Nuptiae Sub Rosa, Chapter 21

Rated Explicit / Read it here on AO3

They don’t talk about it until the next day. There are wounds to be tended to, statements to be given, bags to be packed, and then the matter of sleeping. Sleep doesn’t come easily to a person who has just killed someone in cold blood, nor to someone who saw the look of detached resignation in her eyes while she did it. And so they put food in their bodies, shower away the blood, and lie awake quietly for a long time. A very, very long time.

In the morning, they sit on his green leather couch like shoes nested in the box, each with their back against their respective arm rest and their legs outstretched alongside each other. They are quiet, steaming mugs of coffee in hand and discarded plates of eggs and toast on the coffee table.

Studying the darkening bruises on her face, he thinks back to the first day on this case and how he’d begged her to stay behind, to stay far away from Donnie Pfaster. She was so fragile, even then, though she worked hard to mask it. He knows how important it is that he not let the vulnerability she allows him to see in private inform how he treats her at work, and so he hadn’t mentioned the egg transfer. He wonders now if maybe that would have made a difference, if she would have changed her mind and gone back to DC if he’d reminded her that not two days prior she was a heap of agony on her living room floor after learning that the last transfer wasn’t successful. The steely cut of her eyes as she insisted on staying told him it wasn’t the right move, so he kept his mouth shut.

“I suppose I should count myself lucky that the last transfer didn’t work,” she says suddenly, as though reading his mind. “I think losing a pregnancy would be harder than never achieving one at all.”

He thinks to himself that if it had worked, she wouldn’t have been there. He wouldn’t have let her within two states of Pfaster if she were pregnant. But there is no benefit in pointing that out, so he lets her have it.

“True,” he responds half-heartedly. “That’s a bit of a silver lining, I guess.” He watches her for an indication that this is a line of conversation she wishes to continue, but she’s gazing dreamily out the window at the rain that has just begun to wet the glass. “How do you feel?”

She shrugs, slowly bringing her eyes over to meet his. “My back hurts like a bitch, and my head is throbbing, but unfortunately, I’ve been worse.”

He nods knowingly, trying not to call to mind her many other close brushes with death. “Aside from physically, how are you feeling about...what happened?”

He doesn’t know what words to use. How are you feeling about murdering someone? How are you feeling about shooting a suspect that I had fully under control? How are you feeling about taking a murderer off the street?

She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then takes a sip from her mug. He bites his lip to stave off a smile at the idea that the mug has become “hers” at this point. He suspects she likes it because it’s small and fits in her hands well. Or maybe it’s because the colors have a decidedly Christmas vibe. But now is not the time to talk about coffee mugs.

“I feel...pretty okay, actually,” she finally says as though surprised by her own answer. “I keep thinking about what he did to those women, and the legal system already failed to keep him behind bars once. The only way to prevent him from taking more lives was the death penalty, and that’s what he got, maybe just not in the way I’d imagined. And whether that was driven by God or something more sinister…I guess I’ll never know. Either way, it’s for the best.”

He reaches out to wrap his hand around the ball of her foot and gives it a reassuring squeeze. She knows he doesn’t judge her, so he doesn’t bother saying so.

“Sounds like it’ll be at least a few days before your apartment is accessible again, and Skinner’s forbidden you from going back to work until next week,” he remarks in an easy tone, redirecting the conversation. “What do you wanna do?”

“Are you not going into work?” she questions.

“I would, but apparently if one of us is at work, the other one can’t seem to stay away, so Skinner also forbade me from darkening the door of the Hoover Building,” he replies with a touch of pride.

She knows it’s true; if he were at work, he’d end up calling her ten times a day, and inevitably she’d end up going down there. The word inseparable comes to mind, and she almost smiles at the thought. But then she remembers a book on codependency Missy had handed her when she became obsessed with her college boyfriend and she pauses to consider whether their relationship has veered outside the bounds of healthy, but that’s a question for another day.

“I guess we can just hang around then,” she replies good naturedly. “See what shakes out,” she finishes with a small smile, using one of his catchphrases.

He smiles back at her and nods. “See what shakes out.”

Tuesday, they order Indian food for lunch and have a movie marathon. After watching her wince and gasp in pain a dozen times, he finally convinces her to take one of the painkillers he has left over from his zombie encounter on New Years Eve, and then spends the evening showering her with compliments and declarations of affection while she’s too high to mind.

Wednesday, she points out his overflowing laundry hamper and orders him to transport it to the basement. They spend hours minding the wash and dry cycles, and she folds his T-shirts into perfectly crisp little squares. He leaves her to bring a clean load up to his apartment, and when he returns she’s perched on top of the washing machine reading a book. He steps into the space between her knees, plucking the book from her hands and setting it on the adjacent dryer so he can kiss her. When the spin cycle kicks on, she hums and pulls him closer and he laughs, claiming he knew there was a reason she wanted to do laundry. Later, as he’s putting away his neatly paired socks, he spots their wedding photo. He takes it out and props it up on top of the dresser.

Thursday, she gives herself a manicure on his couch. When he asks why she doesn’t go get her nails done she says that she doesn’t like to go there with bruises on her face; she doesn’t like the pitying looks the nail technicians give her. He watches with interest as she pushes back and trims her cuticles, cuts and files her nails, then paints them a nude color. When she’s done, she holds out her hand in request of his, then gives him a manicure too (minus the polish).

Half past eight, there’s a knock at the door and he gives her a sheepish look as he remembers that it’s poker night with The Gunmen and he forgot to cancel. She doesn’t mind, and even plays with them, cleaning house but refusing to keep any of her winnings. When the gunmen leave near 11:00 pm, they cast each other knowing glances when Scully doesn’t follow them out the door.

Friday, the fridge and cupboards are bare and Scully makes her first trip outside the apartment to accompany him to the grocery store. They smirk at each other while he puts junk in the cart and she returns it to the shelf over and over.

She cooks him lasagna for dinner, and rolls her eyes when he claims it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. After her shower, she traipses out into the living room naked and climbs into his lap on the couch. Warning him not to touch her back, she gently rides him while they kiss slowly, and she realizes that she’d never really identified with the term making love until she was with him.

Saturday, it’s time for her to return home. She packs her things, leaving behind her toothbrush and a change of clothes. As she passes by his dresser, she stops and picks up the photograph, tracing her finger lightly over the place where her hand rests on his chest. She tucks it back into his sock drawer and meets him near the front door. They are quiet on the drive back to Georgetown. When they’re a few turns away from her apartment, he reaches across the console and takes her hand.

The inside of her apartment is cold and smells like bleach. The rug from her living room floor is missing, and her bedroom looks bare without the mirror and shelf that were destroyed during the struggle. She walks slowly from room to room, noticing what’s gone or moved, but the cleaners did a good job. There’s no speck of blood, no leftover broken item. Hopefully no ghosts.

She walks him to the door, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up as she faces the reality of being alone here. She wants to ask him to stay, but she’s already asked so much. He stops at the threshold and turns to look at her with a pained expression. Something hangs between them, something expectant and desperate. Scared and lonely. Maybe he doesn’t want to be alone any more than she does. Maybe for reasons beyond fear and anxiety, but that too is a question for another day.

“Would it be okay if I stay tonight? I don’t think I’ll sleep if I don’t. I’ll just worry about you,” he says apologetically, and she lets out a shuddering sigh.

“Yes,” she replies. Maybe a little too quickly. “You can stay.”

Tagging @today-in-fic

[exceptionimagines]

Meeting and Dating Don Collier

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

- You and Don meet when him and his men roll through your city. 

- When the war broke out, you were lucky enough to be one of the few towns who went relatively untouched and because of that, the American soldiers; who had planned on just passing through, decided to take refuge there for a few days and set up camp. 

- Whether or not it was a smart idea is up for debate but, when your father; or one of your relatives who you lived with, saw the men going about their business, they decided to invite some of them back to your families farm for a night; or however long they wished to stay, of “normalcy”. 

- Which is how you; and the rest of your family, ended up standing at your kitchen window in shock as your father walked alongside a beat up tank, guiding them onto your property as he made his way home from work. 

- Once he steps through the door, he offers the men a couple of things, introducing you and your mother with a wave of his hand as you momentarily lock eyes with the man who seems to be the groups leader; the man whose mere presence has your heart racing. 

- No one; besides perhaps your father and the men, is exactly sure of how to react and while you question the older mans sanity, your family attempts to go about their days like normal and show the surprise guests as much hospitality as you can.

- That night, the five soldiers join your family for dinner and you get an inside look at the relationships between all the men. Don; or Wardaddy as you’d heard his men call him, seemed to rule over the soldiers with an iron fist. You got the impression that he was keeping them on their best behavior; particularly for you and your mothers; and any other siblings, sakes. 

- After everyone finished their dinner, your father asked you to gather up some spare blankets and pillows for the men; which you did. When you returned with them, you decidedly handed them to the youngest, least threatening one in the room and merely gave the leader; Don, a flustered nod as he thanked you and your father. 

- When you woke up the following morning, you came downstairs to a strangely filled home: soldiers littered here and there, doing their own things and conversing with each other. It felt like you’d been thrusted into the life of a bed and breakfast owner; everything felt so surreal. 

- Nevertheless, you found that one of your house guests was missing and out of sheer curiosity; and a girlish infatuation with the man, you decided to look around and see if you could find him. 

- After trying your best to look around as unsuspiciously as you could, you found that he was nowhere in the house and moved your search to outside. And to your surprise: you had no luck; not until your eyes fell on the barn. 

- It was there that you found him, standing by one of the stables, his hands stroking across one of your horses faces with a familiarity that had you guessing he was used to being around the gentle giants. 

- You decided it was time to announce yourself instead of standing there, watching him like a creep and so you called out the name of the horse, walking a bit closer and leaning against one of the columns nearby. 

- The man glanced over at you and questioningly repeated the name before turning back to the animal. The two of you stood in silence before he asked how old they were, if you rode them, what kind of equipment you used, etc. 

- The conversation wasn’t long; just a few questions as he patted the horses head, but it had opened up the gate and you found yourself falling head over heels like school girl. You chalked it up to the fact that all the available boys in your town had been off at war for at least a few years by then. 

- Regardless, there you were, doing whatever you could to inconspicuously spend time with the man and borderline following him around like a lost puppy.

- It seemed he didn’t mind, in fact, he genuinely seemed to enjoy the companionship at times: occasionally inviting you to walk with him or amusedly explaining whatever he was doing whenever you asked. 

- He hadn’t invited you to sit with him when he was outside one night but you’d found him all the same, asking if you could join him as he stared out at your property. It was there that the two of you shared your first kiss. 

- You’d been silent for the first few minutes, merely taking in the atmosphere of the night and enjoying the lack of people around you. But, when he did speak, your heart dropped. 

- He told you he’d be packing up and heading out the next day; en route for some war torn capital that was sure to have a bunch of clueless Krauts none the wiser to their upcoming arrival. 

- You weren’t sure what to say and so you stayed silent, looking anywhere but at him. “We’ve done it before” he said next, perhaps to reassure you, perhaps to reassure himself; you weren’t sure which but it certainly didn’t make you feel any better. 

“Did it turn out alright?” You asked and he nodded, telling you that it worked out fine enough; that they’d be fine enough, and you told him you were glad; your eyes finally meeting his. 

- The two of you locked eyes for a long moment before you found yourselves slowly leaning in. You hesitated for a few seconds, your lips mere centimeters away, before he’d finally tilted his face and kissed you. 

- The two of you wind up doing a lot more than sharing a kiss, and while you probably should have regretted it; you didn’t. You merely wished that he didn’t have to go, wrapped up in his arms as dawn approached. 

- You’ll have to wait a while but he intends on coming back to you one day. You just hope that that one day is soon....

- It may not be considered “Pda”; which if it isn’t then you don’t do a whole lot of that, but he’s constantly got his hands on you in someway whenever you’re out in public. He wants to keep you close and let people know who you belong to.

- His hand gripping the back of your neck and head. It’s oftentimes how he pulls you into kisses; either that or he’ll tell you to “come here” with a little smile and press his lips to yours.

- His hand on your knee or the back of your chair whenever you’re sitting together. He has a habit of holding onto you in general: whether it be you, your clothes or something you’re on.

- If there’s sweet, actual affection happening; particularly in public, then chances are, you’re the one performing it. So he’ll be glaring out at something and you’ll be kissing his cheek or holding onto his arm and hand.

- Hugging him from behind. He’s secretly a big fan of it.

- Forehead and temple kisses. They’re always featherlight but it never fails to make you melt whenever he does it.

- How he kisses you depends on the day. Sometimes he’s soft and slow; his lips being the only rough things about him. Other times it’s harsh, abrupt, and dominant; stealing your breath away and making you feel like you’re drunk.

- Sitting in his lap. It’s one of the only things he’s really verbal and obvious about liking.

- Whenever the two of you cuddle, he’s always got a tight grip on you; keeping you plastered against him until you’ve got a good reason to get up. He’ll usually wind up being the big spoon or wrapping his arms around you while cuddle into his chest.

- He calls you “sweetheart” more than anything. It’s his favorite pet name to use; both on you and mockingly on other people.

- Don secretly; or not so secretly, craves a quiet and domestic life. He’d want a girl who; at least somewhat, fits into that traditional feminine role: the caretaker and homemaker that he; and most other men of the time, was raised on.

- Relaxing evenings spent inside or alone together; rather than going out.

- Going shopping together. He likes running errands with you; he finds it soothing to be by your side and do something so normal after the life he’s lived. He also just likes keeping an eye on you.

- Cooking for him.

- Early, peaceful mornings spent sitting together at your dining room table or cuddled up on your couch.

- Horseback riding.

- Picnics.

- Memorable dates or trips that you talk and reminisce about years later. He likes making new memories with you; ones he can wholeheartedly enjoy when he looks back on them.

- Don’s sort of just willing to do whatever you want to do. You can almost always persuade him to go and do something; both because he likes making you happy and spending time with you and because he likes keeping an eye out for you whenever you’re out in public.

- The two of you are inseparable most of the time. You spend most days by each other’s sides, helping him get used to normal life again and being the constant companion that he needs after the harsh realities of war. You’re sort of the only person he really has left in his life so the responsibility is going to lie on you.

- Don is wholeheartedly whipped. The amount of times you can puppy dog eye him and get your way is borderline hilarious.

- Convincing him to go with you into photo booths. He’ll probably roll his eyes and just keep the same serious face on the whole time but he’ll go in with you. He does secretly enjoy seeing your bright smile and your adorable attempts at copying his glare after you notice he isn’t smiling.

- Going dancing. He thinks he looks ridiculous in a nice evening suit; and you cannot convince him otherwise, but he suffers through it for a night every now and again to make you happy.

- Tracing the scars on his face. The softness of your touch makes him melt on the inside.

- He says a lot with his eyes. After a while, you’ll learn to read what he’s trying to say or thinking from them.

- He likes listening to you talk; even if it’s just rambling about something he would arguably have no interest in.

- Getting taught how to play card games and gamble like a pro. He’s gotten ridiculously good at swindling people out of their money over the past few years and he likes seeing your bewildered expression every time he wins or tries showing you something new.

- He loves teasing you. He finds it amusing to annoy you from time to time; grinning as you roll your eyes or snap back at him. That being said, he always knows how to tastefully push your buttons and never goes overboard.

- Him cutting both your hair. He cuts his own so he probably gives you a little trim from time to time as well.

- Wearing his dogtags.

- He really doesn’t like telling you about his time in the war but you could probably convince him to after a bit of pestering. Although, even when he is telling you stories, he tends to steer clear of the more gory details; instead talking about places he had to visit and funny shenanigans.

- He lowkey tries to keep you away from his crew. You probably have either never met them or have only had brief; and most likely somewhat tense, interactions with them. He thinks of them as part of the war and not necessarily as his friends.

- The only person he probably keeps in contact with after the war is either Norman or Bible and you’ll occasionally invite them over or exchange letters with them.

- Helping him deal with his past. He’s done a lot of things in his life that he isn’t proud of and sometimes he really thinks that he doesn’t deserve you but you refuse to let him think that way and stay with him through thick and thin.

- It takes him a while to really be comfortable with you seeing his scars. He tries not to be shirtless around you as much as possible, or have you touch his back, but you just have to reassure him that you want to see it and that it doesn’t bother you.

- He’s literally been covered in brain matter and intestines; your period or you shaving isn’t going turn him off. So yes, the two of you are very comfortable with each other; or at least you can be comfortable around him without fear of judgement.

- Comforting him whenever he goes through something. Just your presence does wonders in grounding him and making him feel better or think more clearly.

- Certain things really tick him off; like nazis for example, and you’ll occasionally have to calm him down and stop him from killing someone.

- Patching him up after fights or whenever he manages to hurt himself.

- In turn, he takes care of you: making sure you eat and sleep enough, telling you to wear a jacket, etc. He’s used to patrolling people and acting like a father of sorts to them, so it’s sort of just become a habit of his.

- Don prides himself on not playing along with silly little games so you aren’t going to be able to make him jealous; at least not purposefully. He’ll merely quirk an eyebrow at your antics and frustrate you with how little he reacts.

- That being said, when it comes to other people flirting with or taking interest in you, he tends to be a little bit more responsive. He usually just interrupts and; in some way, scares them off before things can get out of hand, but if you cluelessly wave him off so that you can talk with the other person more, his jealousy will really begin take root and he’ll find himself silently despising the other person.

- He’s incredibly protective of you; never letting anyone get too close and always keeping you in his sights. You’re the most important thing in his life and he isn’t going to let anything; not even something perfectly trivial, happen to you.

- The two of you really don’t fight all too often; perhaps because you both sort of knew what you were getting into when you first started your relationship. Regardless, when you do fight, they range from yelling and being cruel to just frustrated scolding; usually on his part.

- When the actual fight is over, he’ll usually search your face, forcing you to look at him and trying to see how you’re actually feeling. A nagging feeling of guilt will invade his body and he’ll; usually, try to make things up to you without verbally apologizing; though he certainly isn’t incapable of doing so if the moment really calls for it.

- He doesn’t outwardly tell you he loves you incredibly often but he shows it and says things that let you know that he does all the time. That being said, he does love the look on your face whenever he does finally say it: a cross between surprise and an overwhelming wave of joy as you try your best not to look too excited.

- After being in the war for so long, he thinks he’s suffered enough retribution for his crimes; inside of it and out, and he’s looking forward to spending the rest of his life with you; if you’re able to handle it.

[reidyoulikeabook]

College! Spencer Headcanons

Warnings: Some mentions of smut!

A/N: Requests are open! This may or may not have been inspired by the fact I have a metric ton of work to do and was getting distracted thinking about Spencer Reid and decided to combine the two.

You and Spencer meet at a college lecture about criminal psych. You’re wanting to go into profiling, and it’s something he’s been thinking about lately.

Your first kiss is after a college party. You get dared to go and do 7 minutes in heaven and Spencer confesses he’s never kissed anybody before.

“You don’t have to kiss me,” You say.

“I do want to kiss you, just not as a game,” He says, nervously.

You’re a little knocked for six by that.

When he does kiss you the next day, earnest and soft and gentle, you’re decidedly glad that it was meaningful.

You’re inseparable from that moment onwards, really.

You had to book a nice hotel room to take his virginity because the thought of Spencer Reid, almost three time doctorate recipient, losing his v card in a dorm room was one that didn’t sit right with you.

You’re the reason Spencer has even somewhat of a real college experience. Before you, he hid himself away. Now, you take him to do all the things. Explore the areas around campus he wouldn’t go to alone. You never force him into any social situations he isn’t comfortable with, but you give him gentle prods to push him out of his comfort zone a little. He feels better for it, gets a teeeeny bit more confident, manages to make a friend or two when before he’d always felt so isolated.

Spencer is always happy to help you with studying. Seriously, he’ll absorb entire textbooks for you just so he can help you out on them by asking you questions to test you.

He’s also happy to help encourage you to learn in other ways. He knows enough about positive reinforcement to know that several correct answers in a row can earn you a reward. A reward usually either received in the form of his mouth, or of him taking you from behind, while you bend over the desk. Your flashcards end up all over the floor every time but it’s worth it.

You and Spencer curled up in bed together eating cheap ramen noodles and watching Netflix for date night because you’re poor but you’re both just really happy to be together so it doesn’t even matter.

Any classes that you’re in together, you’re sat together. Holding his hand with your free hand and writing up notes with your other hand.

Mr Eidetic Memory doesn’t really need notes or flashcards but he lets you make flashcards to test him with. He keeps them afterwards, loving how you scrawl the word ‘dioxycarbon’.

Also because he just loves to keep physical reminders of how much you care about him.

Late night library sessions.

Sometimes, they get cut short because you keep running your hand up Spencer’s thigh while he’s trying to read, ignoring him when he half-heartedly says “Quit it ___!”

Teasing him until he slams his book shut, standing up to adjust his satchel and make sure his tented pants are covered, “Let’s go home.”

One particularly quiet night, you do manage to convince him to let you give him a blowjob behind the bookcases. It’s a lot hotter than he wants to admit.

Taking him home during the holidays to meet the people you care about.

He takes you to meet his mother too, which is something he was really nervous about. He’s always been worried about people thinking negatively of his mother or judging him about it.

He has absolutely nothing to worry about, of course.

You and Diana get on like a house on fire, and she gives you a big hug before you leave, saying, “I’ve never seen him like this. I’ve never seen him so...so happy, so himself. Thank you.”

It brings a tear to your eyes. And to Spencer’s too, much as he tries to hide it.

Instead of going home over summer break, you both get little jobs and get a place together. And that’s when you decide you never want to be apart from each other again. The next fall you sign a lease on the place.

It’s a little more expensive than college accommodation but he manages to get a bursary and you get a side job at a cafe. He comes in on the days he doesn’t have lectures, to study, and he’ll write flirty things on napkins and you’ll bring his coffee over, joking that it’s “almost as sweet as him.”

By the time it comes around, it might be his third graduation but it’s even more special because you’re there this time around. Smiling and telling him just how proud you are of him.

Obviously he has a much better graduation night too, you on all fours before him screaming “Dr Reid” has a much nicer ring to it than when anybody else says it.

You graduate too, and then you both find out you’ll be heading into the FBI together. (You wind up in the BAU together, eventually, and you joke often that since he made the mistake of sitting next to you he’s never been able to get rid of you.)

[jakeyp]

“I don’t know why I’m crying I-I’m sorry” // angst and fluff ♥︎

hi... i kind of wrote a small fic with that prompt. you can read it here or on ao3! thanks for this i really needed the motivation. i decided to write something about what happened after 8x06! <3 

—

Amy arrives home a little later than usual that night, overwhelmed with the events of the last few days. There are so many things to process, though the only thing she can focus on at the moment, is her husband’s suspension. She knows Jake very well, and most likely he’ll try to hide his sadness and pretend he’s fine, not because he thinks he’s weak but because he doesn’t want Amy to worry about him. Yet, she can’t help to wonder how he’s taking it.

Not knowing what to expect as she enters their apartment, Amy tosses her keys onto the couch sadly, too distracted to place them on the key hook. Jake is nowhere to be seen, so she figures he must be putting Mac to sleep, since it’s past ten already, and there are no toys scattered around the floor.

Indeed, she finds Jake whispering to his son, who lies in his crib, babbling and very, very awake, even though the lights are dimmed and it’s quiet in there.

“Hey,” Amy says softly.

Despite her tone, Jake startles, turning around, but immediately relaxes when he sees it’s just her. “Ames,” he breathes, looking down at Mac and then back at his wife, guilt taking over his features. “I kind of let him take a nap earlier and now he can’t sleep…”

“It’s okay,” Amy says, shrugging. She wants to add something else to reassure him, but her mind’s entirely blank, so she settles for a casual question. “What did you two have for dinner?”

Jake smiles. “He tried scrambled eggs for the first time. I know it’s technically breakfast food, but I read he can eat them now, plus it’s what I cook best.”

“And?”

“He loved them, duh.”

Amy chuckles. “Of course. Did you have some too?”

“I… wasn’t really hungry.”

“Oh. Well, I haven’t eaten either. We can heat some leftovers if you want.”

Jake nods with a weak smile, which widens as he turns to check on Mac. “Hey, he’s asleep! Maybe he just needed to make sure mama arrived home safe.”

Amy leans over to look at her sleeping son. Mac looks so much like his dad, when he laughs or smiles—which he’s been doing recently a lot—but especially when he’s asleep and completely peaceful.

She turns to see Jake staring at their baby with a proud smile and it warms her heart. Perhaps he’s forgotten about the suspension.

“Leftovers, then?” she whispers after a while, grabbing him by the wrist to pull him a little closer to her.

“Sure,” he says, throwing a last glance at Mac before following Amy out of their room and closing the door behind him. They’ve learned to make as little noise as possible in the last ten months, so their voices are barely above a whisper by default whenever Mac is asleep.

As it’s routine, Jake turns on the TV, not choosing a channel, and mutes it before joining Amy in the kitchen, while she gets the food from the fridge and puts it in the microwave.

From the corner of her eye, she can see Jake leaning against the counter in an awkward pose, staring at her almost anxiously.

Amy has no idea how to ask the question she’s been wanting to ask him since she got there, so she takes a deep breath and turns to him. “Babe, are you… okay with it?”

His expression tells her he’s been dreading her to ask. Yet, he plays dumb. “With what?”

“With everything that happened. Your suspension…”

“Oh,” Jake spats after what seems like hours, as if every emotion he was supposed to be feeling before was just settling in. Amy’s stomach drops. These subjects might not be her thing. “It’s fine. I suppose I can talk about it, but is it necessary?”

She shrugs. “Just tell me.” Her voice is as soft as it can be. “How do you feel about it?”

Jake puts on a poker face now. She’s usually good at reading him, but she can’t tell what he’s thinking. Amy knows how much he enjoys his job. Everything had happened so fast, though, at some point she’d lost track of it all. One second he was very excited about his ‘Speed’ situation and then, suddenly, he was in too deep.

To sum it up, it hadn’t gone well.

“I feel weird,” Jake finally admits, looking down. “It feels weird to know I won’t be going back tomorrow. But I’ll… adapt, I guess.”

“I’m sure you will,” she automatically replies, hesitating a little before placing a hand on his chest.

He seems to attempt a smile, but it vanishes right away. “I feel stupid too. Why can’t I listen? Holt told me to stay out of it and I screwed up. I screw up a lot.”

Amy frowns. “Of course you don’t. Sometimes you can be silly, yes, but there’s nothing wrong with it. This time it just… it got out of my hands too. I was really drunk.”

Jake chuckles. “Yeah,” he says shortly, and then swallows. “So five months, huh? It isn’t that much, is it? There are like thirty days in a month so it would be like a hundred days which have twenty-four hours each, so it would be like twenty-four thousand hours.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head with a smile. Math is decidedly not Jake’s strength. “It’s only like… three thousand and seven hundred hours.”

“Oh. That’s… still a lot.”

Amy sighs. His eyes are red, probably with exhaustion, and she can’t recognize the emotion behind them. It might be just deep, deep sadness.

“Ames,” he says huskily before she can talk. “What am I gonna do?”

Her eyebrows shot up, but before she can even think of an answer, Jake cuts her off again. “Things were so well yesterday. It makes me think… I can mess everything up so quickly. And it’s always my fault. What am I gonna mess up next?”

“Don’t say that,” she says, her throat knotting. “It’s okay to make mistakes, babe. And you are great at dealing with the consequences. You learn from your mistakes, you’ve always done.”

“Yeah, I keep pushing things until something goes wrong,” he argues in a trembling voice, “and until then I stop, I—” and suddenly that trembling voice breaks.

Amy’s stomach drops again as his eyes tear up, becoming redder. He immediately looks away when he realizes himself.

“Hey,” she says soothingly, cupping his face to make him look at her. “Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I know it’s a dumb thing to cry over, I just—” once more he’s unable to finish his sentence, pinching his lips shut before his voice can get any louder or high-pitched.

A single tear streams down his cheek.

“It’s not dumb,” Amy says. “If it makes you feel like this, it’s not dumb.”

“Well, I got myself into it—”

“And as I said, you will learn from it. That’s what matters.”

“I’ve been suspended like a thousand times already,” he counters, his tone bitter. "What makes you think it won’t happen again? What makes you think I couldn’t get fired?”

She shrugs, trying to stay calm even though she wants to cry as well. “I wouldn’t be less proud of you than I am today,” she says. “You’ve grown up so much and whatever you have to deal with, I have to deal with too, because I love you and I’m willing to. So please, don’t beat yourself up over this because it’s going to be fine.”

He sniffs. “How can you know that?”

“Because I’ll make sure everything’s fine. You’re not alone, babe. You have me.”

Jake stays in silence for a few seconds, and she thinks he’s going to start sobbing, but his lips curl instead. “I love you so much,” is all he says.

“I love you too,” she mouths back, afraid she’ll begin crying if she talks, and then pulls him into a hug.

They stay like that for a while, maybe five seconds or ten minutes, sinking in a silence that they don’t really mind. She pulls away from his embrace only to wipe his tears away. Jake looks so tired. Exhausted, even. She feels the same way, when minutes ago they were going to watch some TV and have dinner, though now she’s not sure she’s up for it.

Jake must have been thinking the same thing because a small laugh comes from his lips all of a sudden.

“What?” Amy asks, amused.

“I just realized we never even heated the food.”

Amy chuckles, and it only causes him to laugh a little harder. She wonders if it’s the exhaustion making such a simple detail seem so funny, and rests her head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. It’s calmer now, it could be matching hers.

“Babe,” she says softly.

“Yes?” Jake hums.

“It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and Amy separates, afraid she said the wrong thing, but Jake’s only bowing his head like she said the cheesiest thing in the world.

“I know. Thanks, Ames,” he says, and then adds, “I love you.” Even though she hears those words coming from him at least ten times a day, he manages to make them sound like it’s the first every time.

“I love you too,” Amy whispers, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Jake is about to return a much longer kiss on the lips when Mac interrupts the moment. Amy squeezes her eyes shut with a knowing smile—this has happened many times before. However, Jake immediately becomes alert and rushes to attend to his son.

Amy chuckles to herself, finally heating the food which is still inside the microwave and turns off the TV, because they are definitely not watching anything before they fall asleep, worn off with the events.

Like Jake would say, they’re sort of an old couple now, but she couldn’t care less. To her, so far, it’s meant that things can be so easy now.

Her husband doesn’t join her back in the kitchen so she goes and checks on him and Mac. The room feels so warm and quiet still, as Jake rocks his son softly, lulling him, again not realizing Amy’s watching. It always seems like he drifts away from reality when he’s trying to make Mac stop crying—and he’s good at it. She doesn’t know what it is, but Jake is great at it.

“I have to admit,” Amy says, startling him of course, “I’m a little jealous of you. You get to spend five months with him, all by yourself.”

Jake gives her what looks like an automatic smile, and then realization hits him. “I hadn’t thought about that before,” he huffs, stroking Mac’s soft curls and looking down at him. “Did you hear that, bud? Five months for only the two of us.”

Mac babbles, and Amy tries to ignore how awake he still sounds. “Careful, Ames,” Jake tells her. “That sounded a lot like ‘dada’, and with these five months? It’s definitely going to be his first word.”

Amy rolls her eyes with a playful smile. “Not if I train him every night.”

“Challenge accepted.”

An hour later they’re both in bed after eating dinner and Amy has already changed into her pajamas. Jake hasn’t stopped rocking Mac, who woke up once more, but his father doesn’t seem to mind, and Amy has the feeling that his suspension doesn’t sound so bad to him anymore.

—

[pascalpanic]

Caffeine Rush: Chapter Six / Frappe

W/C: 2.9k

Warnings: language, kissing, pining lol. this is pretty fluffy before things become... decidedly unfluffy! oh Javi’s got dirty thoughts here too

A/N: HI! Thank you thank you @sanchosammy for the idea for this date :) and thank you to my pals for editing and reading for me!!

previous chapter || next chapter || masterlist

iced beverage that has been shaken, blended or beaten. It is served cold, often with whipped cream and toppings.

Javier is not a man extremely accustomed to cold temperatures. Most of his life has been spent in Laredo, Texas, or Colombia, both places known for their heat. Snow is a luxury, something to get excited about. Meanwhile, in D.C., the slushy cold is all too common and annoying.

The falling snow enchants Javier. You’ve noticed this, watched the way his eyes glimmer as the dense flakes drift from the clouds to land on your head or jacket or his own hands. He brings his dark jacket sleeve close to his face to admire the unique little crystals, only to melt it with his warm breath seconds later. Javier is a stoic man, generally stone-faced and tense. The little wonder behind his eyes melts your heart.

You told him you loved him two days ago, when you sped away from that fancy bar Javier would never return to again. You meant it, you think. You look at the man and it makes your heart race, makes you melt just like a snowflake under his warmth. You love him.

You’ve always been quick to fall in love. It’s never taken long, but it’s never happened so quickly. You suppose the process was helped along by the many hours of close proximity. It reminds you of one term you’d studied so hard in Psych 101- the mere exposure effect. It’s a simple concept, one you’ve seen mirrored many times in your life and are now living: the more one is exposed to a certain stimulus (in this case, Javier), the more you like it. It’s that easy. Human beings love familiarity, and something about Javi simply feels like you’ve known him your whole life.

Javier leans against your windowsill, staring through the frosted glass. Your plants look shrunken, the cold radiating from the glass into their roots. You’ll have to change that pretty soon, but now you just admire him.

As always, his mustache is neatly trimmed. His hair is a little messy, slept in and wavy. He wears a t-shirt and jeans, slung low over his hips without a belt. You sit on your couch, curled into the corner with a blanket draped across your lap. Your head rests on the arm of the sofa as you watch him, watching the snow.

He turns and looks at you after a few moments. You smile and close your eyes, enjoying the warmth of your radiator and the blanket. He takes his turn to admire you, the way you watch him with such adoration. Between the snow and your love, he never wants to go back to Colombia. He doesn’t want to go back to the loneliness, to the endless beat downs his health and brain take from hours upon hours of work. He wants this, but this isn’t him. This isn’t who Javier Peña is, is it?

He’s a new man. He’s starting over, new job, new love life, he reminds himself. He comes and sits next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and kissing your temple. He can be whoever he wants, and what he wants most to become is the man you see in him. He wants to be something you love, something for you to be proud of. He wants to be better for you.

You lean against him, and he wraps both arms around you. His chest is warm and steady beneath your head, and you sigh and cuddle in closer. “Do you like the weather up here?” You ask him quietly, knowing the answer.

“I’m always hot,” he admits. “It’s nice to feel cooled down for once.”

Smiling at that, you pull your knees into your chest and fully relax against him. “I don’t want you to leave, Javi. I don’t want you to leave me.”

“We’ve got plenty of time, abejita,” he murmurs and nuzzles his face into your hair. “Three weeks or so left. Enjoy what we have now, right?”

You sigh. You’ve always been a planner, laying out the foreseeable future so that you can have something in mind, goals. Javier certainly threw a wrench in them- you didn’t expect to have someone to spend your time with, someone to be completely infatuated by. And you can’t plan what will happen when he goes back to Colombia. Will he want to put up with a long distance relationship? He’s told you about his past; he rarely went a week or less without fucking a prostitute or informant. He certainly wouldn’t want another problem on his schedule, making time for long-distance dates. And it’s a permanent job, isn’t it? He’s not coming back on a schedule. There’s too much in your head, too much fear, and it makes you bury your face into his chest. “What’s wrong?” He asks, stroking your back.

“I just… want you in my life.” You murmur, nudging your nose into his neck. “Whatever it’ll take.”

“We have time to figure that out,” he reminds you, and you sigh and give a soft nod. You just snuggle in closer and hope that his warmth and affection will take away your worries. “I do like the weather here,” he muses as he looks out at the frosty glass. “I never got snow growing up. Never in Colombia either. It’s a special thing.”

Lifting your head to look out the window, you pull the blanket tighter and rest your head on Javier’s shoulder. “I have an idea for what we can do tonight, since you like the cold.”

“Hit me.”

-

Balance is not an essential skill as a DEA agent, and therefore, Javier doesn’t have much of it. He wobbles nervously as he steps along, the blades of the ice skates holding up his feet.

“You got it,” you laugh, walking along as the blade covers press into the ground. “It’s just like wearing heels.”

“I don’t do that,” he reminds you with a frown, trying to make his way to the ice rink a few feet away.

Giggling at the way he stumbles along, you remove the guards and step onto the ice. The glide beneath your feet is familiar. You’re good on the ice, somewhat skilled at it. You do a little spin in a circle, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. “Come on. You’ll be- no, stop,” you laugh as he tries to step on the ice with the guards on his skates. “Take those off.”

Javier balances against the edge of the rink as he removes them, leaving them on a pile of them nearby. He wobbles through the entrance of the rink, finally standing on the ice. His long legs knock together and quiver at the balance. “Good,” you smile at him. “Come skate to me.”

You’re a few yards away from him, and he continues to frown, trying to take a step forward- a rookie mistake- and slipping as he puts his skate down. He catches himself on the guard rail, cursing loudly.

It’s late at night; you’re the only ones on the outdoor rink. You’re not ashamed as your laugh rings out into the dark, the floodlights illuminating the sheet of ice. “Oh my God, you really are a beginner,” you laugh, pushing off and into a peaceful glide around the oblong shape.

“No shit,” he calls out to you, standing up straight again with both hands on the edge of the rink. “This isn’t exactly my wheelhouse.”

When you stop next to him, a cascade of snow flying out from beneath your blades, you take his hand in his. “Alright. One hand on me, one hand on the rink,” you tell him, daring to push forward just slowly enough for him to have time to react.

He pushes off, mimicking what he saw you do earlier, and the two of you glide along for a moment. “There we go, now push again, a little harder,” you tell him, and you both push along in sync, sending you floating across the ice. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m concentrating,” Javier grumbles. How the hell did you rope him into this? When you’d suggested something outdoors for tonight, he’d wholeheartedly agreed, eager to spend some time in the cold. This, however, a physical activity that doesn’t end with a gunshot or an orgasm, is not something he’s used to.

You kiss his cheek and his frown lightens, instead falling into a neutral expression of focus. His eyes stay on the ice, and you cup his chin in your hand to lift his head. “Look ahead, not down. You’ll keep tripping if you keep looking down.”

He nods at your orders, trying to focus on the boards around the rink as they approach. His legs remain shaky, but he’s doing well. “There you go,” you grin at him, letting go of his hand. With the other on the boards, he does a good job, and in hardly any time, you’ve made a full lap of the rink. You stop and he does his best to do so, though he nearly flies over. Smiling, you take his face in your hands and kiss him gently. “If you don’t like this, we can be done,” you remind him as you break away, keeping your face close to his.

Javier smiles softly at you, just enough to show the little dimple in his cheek. “I’m going to figure out how to do this if it kills me.”

“It might,” you tease, patting the ass he’s already fallen on several times. “That’s gonna hurt tomorrow,” you laugh and Javier kisses you again, one hand steadying himself on the wooden boards.

Breaking away, he kisses the tip of your freezing nose before leaning back. “I learn best by watching. Why don’t you just… do a couple of laps?” He asks.

You nod and skate backwards away from him. “Sure.” You hug your jacket tight around your body as you glide across the ice, doing a few little twirls and loops. The breeze is cold, even on your legging-covered shins.

You’re graceful on the ice, the opposite of Javier. He gives a half-smile as he watches you, admiring your grace. Those damn leggings cup your ass, showing the curve and the way it moves. God, he’s always noticed you for your beauty, but this is something else.

The bulky winter coat covers your torso, but your expression is so peaceful and free as you move, your momentum pushing your hair back as wind seems to curl around you. You look astonishing. Javier wishes he brought his camera with to capture this.

“Did you tell me to do this just to stare at my ass?” You tease from across the rink, skating forwards and looking over your shoulder at him.

“Would you be mad if I said yes?”

You laugh and cut across the rink, no longer circling the perimeter but taking the quickest route to him. “Not in the slightest,” you laugh and kiss him again. His lips are addictive, making you crave his kisses more and more the longer you go in between them. “Okay, come on, hot-shot,” you say and take his hands, pulling him out onto the ice.

Dropping your hands, Javier’s arms stick out parallel to the ground, wobbling and trying to balance. He pushes a little, remembering your advice and looking up, and sighs as he lets himself slide across the ice, his feet unintentionally pointing in then out then in again. “Look at you!” You laugh proudly, skating next to his side.

When you’re next to him, Javier takes your hand and chuckles a little in amazement at the movement. It’s like riding in a car with the windows down, the air rushing past. Your hand feels warm, even despite the cold air, and it anchors him as he picks up speed and the two of you fall into a steady rhythm.

He even dares to try skating backwards at one point. He succeeds for a moment, earning an astonished laugh from you, but it ends as one would expect: on his ass. You help him up and kiss his cheek. “Want me to kiss it better?” you flirt, smiling jokingly at him.

“Mm, I’ll pass,” he shakes his head then kisses you on the lips, his hands finding your waist. The two of you stop in the middle of the rink, kissing slowly under the bright lights of the rink.

Javier leans in a little, desperate for more, but he rocks too far forward on his skates. “Fuck, fuck!” he shouts as he loses his balance and falls forward, taking you down with him as he falls onto his knees.

“Javi!” you squeal as you fall backwards, landing on your ass this time. “Goddamnit,” you laugh as you look at him, his palms pressed to the ice on either side of you in an attempt to break his fall but not to land on you. He hovers over your body, and you can’t stop giggling with the adrenaline of the moment.

Javier’s laughing too, a genuine laugh that puts lines in his face. Such genuine laughter is rare for such a serious man, and you feel warm inside with the honor that comes along with bringing that joy to him. “You know, I do, I think so.” He looks at you in confusion. “I really do love you, Javi,” you have no choice but to admit.

He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He can’t bring himself to say it back, even if he knows deep in his heart that he would mean it if he said it. He does love you, but there’s a lump in his throat that refuses to budge.

Just a second before the silence would become awkward, he brings his face to yours and kisses you, slowly. It’s sweet and longing and he forces his emotions through it, transmits them through his lips and into yours. I love you too, abejita. Really. I just… can’t say it.

It’s alright. You can tell from the way that he kisses you that this is his way of saying it back, that he feels the same flutter in his heart when your fingers lace through each others’, when he wraps his arms around you and his arms flex tight to pull you as close as he physically can.

You stay like that for a moment, kissing, Javier hovering over you on the ice. It doesn’t last too long before you break away. “Not to ruin the moment, but this is deep-freezing my ass,” you admit with a chuckle. You get up and help him up, and the two of you take one more lap around the rink before getting off the ice.

The drive home is filled with comfortable silence, Javier driving with one hand on your thigh. He knows his way to your place by now. You don’t even have to direct him. You park on the street then walk into your apartment with him, appreciating the warmth of the building.

The little nightly routine you’ve assumed works itself out. You both get into your pajamas, readying yourself for sleep. Javier’s spent two nights on the couch and he’s fully prepared for a third when you stop him in the doorway to the bathroom, a hand flat against his chest. “Sleep with me tonight, Javi. Please.”

He’s spent the entire night admiring your ass. If you sleep in the same bed, he won’t be able to take it any longer. He shakes his head. “It’s for the best that I sleep on the couch, bee.”

The words make you frown, but the nickname makes your heart tingle. He translates it from abejita to little bee when he’s lazy, and shortens it from little bee to just bee when he’s tired. Well, you suppose you’ve worn him out tonight with the ice skating. “Please,” you beg of him, fingers finding their way to the muscle protecting his heart. “Can we at least snuggle?”

Javier sighs but gives you a tired little smile. “How can I say no to that?”

You find your way to the couch together. It starts with you both sitting up, your head resting against Javier’s shoulder as you watch the late show on the TV. As you both grow more tired, Javier begins to slump to the side, and you follow him down, fully leaning against him. Then more and more until Javier lies down on his back and pulls you on top of him.

“Mm. You’re comfy,” you hum as you lie on him, head in the curve of his neck. His skin radiates warmth, and he pulls the blanket over the two of you, too sleepy to comment back. He just kisses your temple and watches the TV with half-open eyes.

A few minutes later, his breathing slows, and you can feel his breathing switch from his nose to his mouth, his warm breath on the top of your head. He’s fallen asleep. You smile as you nuzzle in closer. The couch isn’t ideal, but you’ll take any chance you can get to fall asleep with Javier.

The late show drones on in the background, then changes to infomercials that run the course of the night. Neither of you are awake to see it, too deep in a perfect sleep, nestled in each other’s arms, Javier using you as his blanket and you using him as your pillow.

-

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[amorgansgal]

Moonlight as my Guide

Chapter Three of Cruel, Cruel World! If you’d like to read the first chapter it’s here, the 2nd chapter is here and you can read the whole thing on Ao3.

Warnings: Depiction of illness.

He has found himself thinking about her, the worry niggling at the back of his mind. It has been over two weeks and the rabbit they caught won’t last forever. Will she have been able to find more things to eat, will she have learnt how to use her husband’s rifle? He knows his presence will likely do her no good, that she would do better to not associate herself with an outlaw. And yet he finds himself riding along the path that runs by the train tracks, after he has made a visit to Annesburgh.

His horse, Cleopatra, trundles along, he’s not encouraging her with kicks to her side or clicks of his tongue. Arthur is too busy arguing in his mind that he shouldn’t visit Charlotte, he shouldn’t put her at risk, he shouldn’t care too deeply whether she lives or dies. But he’s already reached the Brandywine drop and is following the white, churning water that leaves cool droplets on his face. Perhaps it is part of dying. He must know, he has to be able to rest knowing that people are alive and well. Assumptions just won’t do anymore.

As Cleo trots lightly through the green swaying trees, the peaceful, quiet morning is interrupted by the loud crack of gunfire coming from Charlotte’s cabin. He immediately spurs his horse into a gallop and then once he’s near the entrance tumbles down from the saddle, foot almost catching in a stirrup. He runs up the rest of the hill, heart racing, desperate not to find her lying dead or begging for mercy at the hands of some thief looking for what little money she has!

He’s barely made it into the garden, when relief floods his heart as he hears Charlotte’s frustrated cry of, ‘Gosh darnit! Not a single one…’ and once he reaches the top of the hill, he sees her. She’s wearing the same blue blouse and plaid skirt, but both have evidently been cleaned and the skirt mended. She’s holding a rifle in her arms, her frustration all too evident as she kicks the ground with the toe of her boot.

She is busy reloading the gun, when she hears his footsteps and turns her head towards him. The frown she wears disappears within an instance and she smiles joyfully on seeing him. ‘Oh, hey there!’

He finds himself warmly returning the smile. ‘How you feelin’ Ma’am?’

‘Much better than I’ve felt in a long time, I… If we hadn’t caught that rabbit, I don’t think I’d have made it another day.’

‘Well, you look better.’

Her face is clear from the mud and tears, her skin looks clean and soft, though flushed from sunlight and the cold wind that blows down from the surrounding hills. A few strands of her dark hair have fallen loose from her bun, they shift lightly against the breeze. Arthur feels a strange urge to reach out and tuck them behind her ears, to feel the dark hair that is lined with silver against his hand, to cup her face in his hands and feel the warm flush.

‘Better and determined, thanks to you. And if I’m going to learn to hunt, I figured it was time I learned how to use Cal’s gun properly.’

She turns back to a row of glass bottles that have been set up on a crate and rests the gun against her shoulder.

‘And how’s that workin’ out for ya?’ he asks.

‘Well, let’s just say my prey is looking decidedly unscathed.’ She aims carefully, and then fires. The gun ricochets upwards almost out of her hands and she staggers back a little, chuckling at her efforts.

‘But the end of labour is to gain leisure, is that not what Aristotle said?’ She suddenly looks flustered, gazing down at the ground and Arthur moves the gun away from her face, so it is instead pointing out towards the entrance near the road.

‘Well, I… I don’t know much about Aristotle, but erm, I know a thing or two about shooting a gun.’ He gently turns her around to face the target again. ‘Look you gotta hold steady and firm.’ He places his hands on her shoulders, positioning the gun against the crook of her arm and straightening her back. The warmth of her bleeds through her shirt and he quickly pulls his hands away.

‘You just focus, breathe slowly and always pull the trigger on empty lungs.’ He gazes at her face, the small frown above her eyes and the eager, determined look in them is beautiful.

His eyes flick down her shoulders, her back, but before he goes any lower, he quickly walks round to her other side, anything to distract him from the way his mind is wandering. Christ’s sake, she’s a widow after all, her husband barely resting in his grave! He ignores the uncomfortable wave of shame that sweeps into his gut.

‘Here, I’ll show ya.’ He pulls his revolver from the holster and focuses on the bottles. ‘Okay… calm and steady… don’t snatch at the trigger.’ Arthur murmurs, more for Charlotte’s benefit than his. This is second nature to him, muscle memory. If he aims a gun he knows where the bullet will go. He aims at a green bottle and fires; the glass explodes and he just catches Charlotte’s gasp of amazement.

‘You make it look so easy,’ she says warmly.

‘Alright, you try now. Remember to breathe,’ he says, quickly brushing over her compliment.

She hoists the gun back to her shoulder, her green eyes narrowing on the target. ‘Wait to breathe out… wait to breathe out…’ she murmurs to herself. She fires, the bullet whizzes past the bottle, hitting the ground and sending a plume of dust into the air. Charlotte, however, smiles at him. ‘Would you look at that? I haven’t hit one that close all day!’

‘Not bad. Focus on the inhale, shoot on the exhale.’

She rolls her eyes at him good naturedly. ‘Come on, you got to give me some praise!’

‘I just did.’

She moves the gun back up and focuses on the bottles again, but her eyes suddenly dart over to the house and she gives a sigh. ‘Oh no, that wretched rat is back. Over there, do you see?’

Arthur glances over and sees a large brown rat scurrying by the undergrowth that surrounds the two buildings. The rat pokes its head up and sniffs the air, turning beady eyes on him. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the rat is glaring at him.

‘It’s been a thorn in my side ever since we moved here. Could you kill it?’

The words have barely left her mouth, when he fires the pistol and the rat is no more. Charlotte lets out a small gasp of surprise that turns into a chuckle of amusement.

‘Show off! Alright, let me try again.’

She raises the rifle and Arthur watches as her long fingers carefully hold the weight of the gun. Her hands are calloused and a little dirty, and he finds himself glancing down at his own. They almost match, though his are certainly rougher. He wonders what it would be like to clasp her hand in his.

‘Come on, come on…’ She shoots and one of the glass bottles explodes into a shower of glass. He grins and Charlotte staggers back a little as though she can’t quite believe it. ‘Yes! I hit it! I hit it, didn’t I?’

She lets out a breathless, excited laugh and turns to him with a warm smile. ‘What can I say? Thank you.’ Her green eyes are shining brilliantly, her lips parted in a delighted smile and she shifts closer to him. He should draw back, take a step away from her, but instead he finds himself entranced by the forest glade of her eyes. She looks into his own and just for a moment the trees and nearby river seem to fall silent, as though the world is holding its breath in anticipation.

It is Charlotte who draws back, a soft flush on her cheeks and she worries her lower lip. ‘I still have some of the rabbit left that I salted up. Would you join me for a meal? It’s the least I can do.’

He gives a short nod, now uncomfortable with his actions and trying to gaze anywhere but her eyes. As she leads the way to her cabin, he directs his attention to the hills and forest that surrounds the house, to avoid looking at the sway of her hips. Isn’t it bad enough that his own selfishness brings him to her door? Because he is seemingly determined to bring death and destruction to good people who don’t deserve it? Because he likes the way she smiles and looks at him and praises him.

They walk into the cabin, it’s a simple, rustic place. There’s a soft curtain with green leaves covering the window that looks out onto the backyard, a few cupboards line the walls most with books on them and there is table in the centre of the room. A warm fire is still burning in the grate and Charlotte throws another log when she passes it. On one of the cupboards, he sees a rudimentary trap that looks like it’s being repaired.

‘Go ahead and take a seat at the table. Food is just about done.’

He does as he is told and sits down. Charlotte grabs hold of a cloth and hefts the huge pot of stew over, then places on the table. She lets out a slight hiss and pulls her hands away quickly.

‘Well, it’s… it’s good and hot. I hope you enjoy it.’ She heads back to the cupboards and picks up two bowels, a large ladle and some cutlery. ‘You helped me catch it after all.’

She smiles at him and dishes the stew into the bowl, then passes him a spoon. ‘Bon appetit!’

‘Huh?’ he looks up in confusion and immediately feels bad on seeing the embarrassed flush that stains her cheeks. Goddammit, can’t he just keep his mouth shut and not be such an ignorant fool?

‘Please enjoy,’ she says, giving him a small smile. ‘And thank you again for everything. I really am grateful.’

‘Ahh,’ he shakes his head and reaches for his spoon. ‘It was nothing.’

‘You’re a good man.’

He gazes down at the bowl, shifting his spoon amongst the rich brown stew, the carrots and potatoes. He wished he didn’t keep hearing that. He wished people would stop saying it. He’s not. A good man is the last thing he could possibly be. He looks back up at her.

‘Oh, you don’t really know me.’

‘I know enough,’ she insists, her gentle smile warming him better than any stew. Although he’s always tempted to argue back and insist he’s not a good man, he finds himself focusing on the stew instead and quickly placing a spoonful in his mouth. He doesn’t want to disagree with Charlotte, she’s been far too kind to him, but she couldn’t be more wrong.

‘There’s always more to find in ourselves, you helped me to see that.’ She turns around and picks up another bowl from the counter. She sits back down and reaches over to the ladle in the stew pot. ‘My husband, Cal, was such an optimist. I found that to be very contagious.’

The stew is good, certainly better than Pearsons, though Arthur is aware that’s not a particularly hard feat. But it’s warming, rich and hearty, seasoned with small green herbs, a decent amount of pepper and salt. It runs hot down his throat and he suddenly finds his lungs burning, that deep desire to cough overriding everything. He tries to listen to Charlotte as she continues talking, hoping that her soothing, calm voice will distract him from painful ache in his chest.

‘But there’s a fine line between optimism and naiveté. We were both born with the silver spoon… banquets, butlers, valets…’

He gives a slight cough so he can speak, but it does nothing to soothe the burning claws that have entrenched themselves in his lungs. ‘Sounds terrible,’ he manages to rasp.

‘It was just… so many people, so many things. I was lost in it, I was crushed by it.’ She’s staring down at the stew, barely a mouthful has passed her lips. She looks back up at him, he avoids turning his head when he sees the deep look of trust in her eyes. He can’t hurt her, even if just purely by her knowing him.

‘My father was very overbearing. Then we came out here and I got crushed by this.’ She gazes around the room for a moment and then gives a light laugh. ‘You know I pictured myself picking fresh vegetables, sipping homemade wine, writing a great novel. But I turned out to be a far more pathetic anti-heroine than any I could ever pen.’

It sounds like a pretty dream and wouldn’t he like to be part of that dream. Helping to dig up potatoes, sipping wine with her on the porch, drawing her as she writes her great novel. But there isn’t a hope in hell that she would want him, she came here with her husband after all, she’s not looking for another man to take Cal’s place. It’s not like he has enough time to take his place, even if he wanted to.

‘Ah well… I reckon you’re going to be just fine.’ He coughs heavily. It’s getting worse, the claws sinking into his throat, till he can taste blood on his tongue and he can barely gasp for air.

Charlotte looks up at him, concern written all over her features. ‘Are you alright? Can I get you some water?’

‘No, I’m… I’m, I’m fine. I just um…’ He manages to get to his feet, trying to clear away the deep cough so he can continue talking to her, can listen to her talk about her family, her hopes, her plans. But right now, all he can concentrate on is the rasping cough, the tight burn of his lungs, the iron tang on his tongue that is mixed with the savoury taste of stew.

‘Yeah, thank you for this. I think it’s, it’s best if I ju… If I make…’ The cough takes every last bit of strength he had and leaves him gasping for air on his knees. He tries to inhale, but his body is wracked with the painful coughing. He hears Charlotte come to his side and through his half closed eyes, sees her hands reaching out to him, but shamefully he succumbs to the exhaustion his body has felt for far too long. The darkness swallows him up.

He wakes and it’s not with the soothing comfort of someone who is well rested, who relishes the warmth of their bed and the enjoys the gentle lull at the promise of a new day. He wakes with a cough, the gasping air rattling in his lungs and chest, his throat tight and heavy. He wakes on a small bed, by the looks of things one for a child, and slowly pushes himself up so he can get some air in his lungs.

There’s a small bedside table next to him, with a folded letter resting against a lacquered box with a brown lid and gold trim. White flowers decorate the lid and sides of the box. He picks up the letter and unfolds it. The neat script can only be Charlotte’s, it’s pretty and elegant to look at. No doubt something that was hammered into her from childhood. If she saw his rough scrawl she would probably laugh.

My dear Arthur,

I have gone out hunting. Not a phrase I thought any pen of mine would ever ink but nonetheless one I am very proud to finally be able to write. I am so very grateful to you for all the help and encouragement you've given me. You met me at one of my lowest points and showed me the way back to the person I really am. It pains me greatly to see your pain.

There is some money in the box on the nightstand. Please take it, I have more than I need back in the city and I'd like you to have it. Perhaps you can do some good with it or can use it to help yourself in some way.

Please take care and remain true to the man I know you are.

Yours fondly

Charlotte

He finds his thumb tracing the words ‘Yours fondly’ and quickly shakes his head. Damn fool that he is. He rereads the letter. Then looks up at the box. Should he take the money? Even if he did not use it himself, he could use it to help others.

He opens the lid and gazes down at the crisp bills inside the box. There looks to be about a hundred dollars in there. Arthur sighs and closes the lid. He’s got plenty of money and he’s trying to get rid of it by helping people. What does he need more money for now? What can he do with it when his time is rapidly running out? Better to leave it to Charlotte, so she may buy a horse or chickens or new boots, than to leave it to a man whose every step leads him closer to death.

Arthur grabs his hat from the bedside table and then reaches down to his satchel that has been left learning against the small cupboard. He pulls the bag open and takes out his journal, then slips Charlotte’s letter inside to keep it safe.

He looks around the room. There’s a chest of drawers with children’s books scattered over the surface and a pot containing some bird feathers. He walks over and picks up a leather-bound copy of fairy tales. Did these belong to Charlotte or did she hope to have a child who would sit in the small bed and read those stories under the comforting light of the gas lamp?

He looks back to the bed envisioning Charlotte resting against the bed frame, a girl cuddled next to her with dark hair and blue eyes shining with delight as Charlotte reads to her. Would she have looked up to find him in the doorway and grinned more wildly, leaping up from the bed with a shout of ‘Pa!’?

He clenches his hands into fists and pulls himself away from the thought. It’s not helpful to think that way, it’s not wise to think that way. Dreams of what could be or what might be have never helped him. Dutch’s dreams have spiralled into a hellish nightmare and even though Arthur spends most of his time encouraging everyone to leave as soon as they can, he is going to be trapped. There will only be one way out for Arthur Morgan.

[barnesandco]

Little Hands (IV)

Series Masterlist

Communication is key.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2021. Word count: 2248. Square filled: “Sung to Sleep”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: More Hydra Evilness, More Sad Child, Parental Anxieties. Brief mentions of war, sickness, death, grief. 

A/N: I know 2.2k words isn’t objectively a lot but boy did this feel like it. I hope every word is worth it and that you enjoy! Lmk what you think!!! Also I won’t even lie, the idea of Steve’s kids is 100% from one of my favorite comfort fics, family means no one gets left behind or forgotten, by the genius, the wonderful cosmicocean. IT’S SO SOFT. Pls read it.

You’re stunned when Bucky tells you what’s going on. The idea that his daughter (?) was made in a lab like some kind of experiment, and that the man who led said experiment now wants her back like she is his property, his weapon, is too horrid to consider for very long. Weaponizing an innocent child. Hydra.

Bucky gave you the broad strokes of the investigation – currently running on little more than educated guesses based on the meagre intel they have – and has let you know that he has had to recuse himself from the case, due to his… personal connection. That leaves him somewhere he finds awkward, to say the least.

It's evident in the way the corners of his lips turn down, how he is constantly rubbing the pads of his fingers against the coarse scratch of denim, while he watches Ana watch Zoya, Steve’s 17-year-old daughter, working on a tablet. Zoya tucks a strand of hair behind her hijab, then continues to draw up a storyboard, narrating the events to the younger girl. Steve had apparently forgotten the lunch his kids had made him at home, so Zoya had brought it in, and decided to stay the day.

Ana’s quiet, attentive for the most part, listening with her full capabilities, but her eyes flit away from the screen every now and then to look at you and Bucky, as if to reassure herself that you’re still there.

Besides that, there aren’t all that many distractions present for an already precocious child. Most of the team has dispersed for the investigation, with the exception of Peter, who is sat at a table in the corner making intentionally fruitless efforts at teaching Morgan chess, while she giggles and tries to stack the pieces like Jenga blocks instead.

However, Bucky’s restlessness is infectious, and you think he needs to get it under check before it grows any further. That’s why you stand, saying, “Could we go for a little walk, Bucky?”

He nods, man of few words that he is, and leads the way. You’re sure he knows that you formulated it like a request for his benefit, but he doesn’t mention it. It’s just as well – that he knows you like that, and knows when to accept the proverbial hand being offered.

Bucky takes you to a corner of the roof that you’d mistake for a community garden if you didn’t know any better. The Avengers seem to have green thumbs, or at least, a significant portion of them do. They’re good with plants, and possessive about them, too. Autumn ferns grow outside the circle they seem to have been planted in – with a sign shouting Wanda! – to invade the territory of a vegetable garden labelled Bruce (accompanied by a Hulkish, green thumbs up presumably not drawn by the man himself).  

Meticulously maintained daylilies and columbines, in vivid reds and vibrant purples, litter the edges of the path that has been carved through this little paradise, and the birdhouses between them stake the claim of the owner more effectively than a neon sign screaming Sam Wilson. Bucky’s told you about his abilities, how they veer into the decidedly supernatural but Sam insists are only the residue of a childhood with homing pigeons.

Nothing here looks like Bucky’s, though. He seems to be taking it in, perhaps thinking about his own little paradise back in the city, and how he’s chosen to keep it distant from that of his teammates. That worries you. He worries you.

And this, the situation with Anastasia, becoming a father, it’s terrifying. Hell, if it scares you this much, how is he feeling? You ask him as much.

“Bucky, are you okay?”

He laughs, softly, disbelievingly, no malice in his scoff, only fear. Only the sound of a voice saturated with consternation and total, complete anxiety. “Would you be?” He asks back.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

Bucky evades the questions, turning first one way on the path, and then the other, approaching the edge clear of shrubbery and blooms alike, resting his palms on the top of the wall.

“I can’t be a father.”

The solemnity in his tone allows no room for negotiations, but then, neither do the facts. “You are,” you reply, somewhat hesitantly, because the technicalities of how Ana came to be are still a little blurry to you. She’s far from a normal child, and not quite a clone, either. She is of Bucky, though. His, in any way that counts.

“That little girl was created in a Hydra lab as a super soldier to serve the cause,” he says, shaking his head vigorously as the cause repulses him even more than it does you. “And who knows what else she was put through before SHIELD fell and Orlov got her out, and it’s my fault.”

“You didn’t—”

“I didn’t ask for it to happen but it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t happened. They used me to make a super soldier from scratch, and now I’m supposed to raise her? It’s not that simple. I’m not Steve. I can’t…”

Being honest, you feel you’re pretty far out of your depth here. But you’ve promised him your help, and you’ll do your best.

“You don’t have to. There are other options.” You’re sure you’re overstepping. Perhaps this gentle companionship has not yet reached the point where you can give advice on parenting. But if you don’t, who will? Steve, whose answers don’t enter the gray territory Bucky’s mind is residing in right now, who parents like he was born for it?

Steve chose fatherhood. Bucky has been nailed to it like it’s a new cross to bear, heavier than all the previous ones put together.

His gaze roams the grounds that stretch as far as you can see. You’re both far away from home right now, far outside your comfort zones.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into my mess, sweetheart. It’s not right. You have things to do, and I shouldn’t have—”

“Bucky, I’ve been staring at the same four sentences of dialogue for the past month. I literally could not have been happier to get out of the house. Even if I do wish it was under better circumstances,” you say fervently. You’re here because he needs you. Because Ana needs you. It’s nice to be needed.

“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, and you’re glad to see it.

“Not to mention, it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault except whoever your team is looking for,” you insist. “And Ana’s a sweet girl. A little quiet, but Baba says I was, too.”

This, Bucky thinks about. You wonder if he was a quiet child, too. “What’s he like?”

“Hmm?” The reverie snaps like a rubber band.

“Your father?” Bucky asks, shyly, his eyes meeting yours, letting you know exactly why he’s asking.

You look up at the clouds, think back to Boston, to time shared between the library and the park. A childhood with books, lunch breaks under a desk in an office at MIT, stealing his glasses and running away with them, rubbing at his stubbly beard like he was a housecat. Inside jokes with your father and rolled eyes with your mother. Laughter and tears, laughter with tears.

After a long while, trying and failing to summarize your father, you say, “A jokester. The most sarcastic person I know. But still kind of neurotic, to be honest. The kind of parent that makes you show up at the airport a full four hours before your flight.” It’s grossly insufficient. For a writer, you’re not very good with words. You suppose it’s not the words that are the problem; it’s the lifetime they have to encompass. “What about yours?”

Bucky sighs. “Soldier. He’s one thing I don’t feel bad for not remembering because it wasn’t Hydra that wiped those memories. He just died when I was really small. Survived the Great War only to be killed by TB a few years later at home.”

“I’m sorry.” You avert your eyes. Grief feels private, even decades later, even in the smallest doses.

He shakes his head, smiles fondly, up at the sky, too, like you did. Only, he’s smiling at it, like he’s thinking of someone beyond the clouds. “Don’t be. Was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t allowed to hurt anymore.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“I sound like my therapist.”

At this, the two of you look at each other and burst into laughter. It feels forbidden, as though the severity of the situation condemns joy. That isn’t fair, you think. The situation is that of a child, and nobody needs laughter more than kids do. Food for the soul.

When the echo of your exhilarations falls, Bucky grows serious once more. “They have them for kids, now, too, right?” He asks, referring to therapists. “Do you think Anastasia should see one? She’s not exactly… normal, you know?”

“Maybe.” It’s a difficult question, but a good indicator of how Bucky is growing to feel about Ana. “You’d make a good dad, if you wanted to be one, Bucky,” you say, and mean it. It’s plain as day that he cares about her.

“I can’t even remember my own.”

“Parental instincts are intuitive, not genetic,” you tell him.

“You been reading handbooks?” He teases.

“You’d be surprised by how much you learn from the rabbit holes you fall down while researching books,” you deadpan.

“Can any of that research get the nightmares out of my head? I think it might scare a kid.”

The self-deprecation hurts, but your response is honest, heartfelt. “She likes you already.”

“She won’t if she thinks I’ve run away,” he answers, straightening up. He might be trying to evade the conversation, but you’ll let him, for now. He’s gotten some fresh air, had some time to clear his thoughts, or sort them, at least. And so you return, to the little girl who has a tighter grip on both of you than you even realize.

------

Ana grows unsettled as night darkens the sky. It could be the ruckus she isn’t quite used to. It could be the toy fire truck Tony has been altering with his utensils to increase its noise output, much to Morgan’s amusement. It could be the actual parrot perched on Sam’s shoulder.

Whatever the cause, she hasn’t succumbed to it enough to make a seat out of the fridge again. She’s sitting in her seat, between Bucky and yourself, eating the hummus Bruce and Wanda have made. Nat discusses sniper scopes with Clint, Peter tries to get away with eating the side of vegetables on Jordan’s plate without Steve noticing, and Bucky eats silently, eyes almost constantly on Anastasia, who takes it all in while her knee bounces up and down with an ever-increasing speed, much like her father’s.

You excuse yourselves soon after dessert, after Morgan has fallen asleep against Jordan’s arm on the couch, and Steve and Tony’s friendly debate is starting to develop the edge it tends to when they’ve been bantering for too long.

Bucky sets up on the sectional in his room, and leaves the ridiculously large double bed to you and Anastasia. It’s been a strange, strange day, and one can only hope that tomorrow brings some ease, a balm for the prickly, fiery ache that has settled over the man you care so much about.

------

When you wake, it’s because of singing. For half a moment, you think you’re in a dream, but as your eyes adjust to the blanket of dark, you see the shadow on the sofa nearby. Only, it’s bigger than just Bucky. Anastasia is sitting on his lap, her head cushioned against his chest. Scrambling for your glasses, and turning on the lamp on the bedside table, you notice that there are trails of drying tears on her little cheeks, and she’s still shaking with the aftershocks of whatever scare she must’ve had during the night.

Not for the first time, you curse your deep sleep that meant you didn’t wake with Ana, but watch in wonder as Bucky sings.

Hush, little baby, don't say a word Papa's going to buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won't sing Papa's going to buy you a diamond ring

Ana’s eyes begin to close, but she fights the sleep. Bucky doesn’t let her. He lies down, easing her down beside himself, singing all the while.

And if that diamond ring turns brass Papa's going to buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke Papa's going to buy you a billy goat

His voice fills the room, low though it may be, and he curls himself around Ana.

And if that billy goat won't pull Papa's going to buy you a cart and bull

And if that cart and bull turn over Papa's going to buy you a dog named Rover

She succumbs to the lull of his tone, his song, his promises, sighs a little sigh, lets the last, little hiccup leave her body.

And if that dog named Rover won't bark Papa's going to buy you a horse and cart

And if that horse and cart fall down You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town

Bucky lifts his hand from where it was stroking the hair at her temple, and lays his arm over his daughter. They’re safe, for now. Together.

[drowningbydegrees]

This was supposed to be a Whumptober ficlet, but that is... not what happened here. Instead, I come bearing mostly fluff.  Read on AO3

Jaskier makes it a whole six months past Posada before he comes to the inconvenient conclusion that this feeling stretches beyond mutually beneficial companionship. He’d kick himself for not recognizing it, except… Except that while Jaskier falls in love like breathing, it’s never like this. He’s never felt himself drawn in so thoroughly by someone else’s gravity, hopelessly stuck in their orbit. Worse still, he’s rarely loved anyone who so obviously didn’t love him back.

It’s three years after that, almost on the nose, when it dawns on Jaskier that he’s got that last part all wrong. To say that Geralt isn’t particularly talkative is a laughable understatement, but the lack of words aren’t a lack of affection. There are no terms of endearment and from Jaskier that would be quite telling, but means very little where the witcher is concerned. Geralt speaks in the way he unceremoniously dumps his cloak over Jaskier when the cold begins to creep in, in the way he often camps out in the corner of an inn to listen to songs he’s heard Jaskier sing a thousand times, in a hundred other gruff, offhanded kindnesses the witcher indulges in in the most taciturn of ways and never acknowledges.

They’re singing the same song, Jaskier recognizes eventually, but they’re on entirely different sheets of music, and that really won’t do. It’s not a seduction that the bard settles on, at least not in any traditional sense. There’s no lack of attraction (really, Jaskier is continuously baffled by how anyone could look at Geralt and not want him), but it’s background noise. He thinks of this more like finagling the two of them into some sort of harmony.

It should be a simple translation, he thinks, to convey what he means in a language Geralt might recognize. As often happens, Jaskier has a strategy. As also often happens, none of it goes to plan.

Geralt slogs back to camp like he’s carrying the whole world with him. Even from the other side of the fire with his decidedly human senses, Jaskier can tell that this is worse than usual. Before he even knows what he’s doing, Jaskier has set aside his pen and paper in favor of urging Geralt to sit.

Jaskier has often tried talking, conveying his concern or affection in the shape of words because that’s the language he knows. Geralt doesn’t speak it, or doesn’t want to. No matter how wounded he is, Geralt snaps in the face of anything like kindness. Asking to be let in turns out to be the quickest way for Jaskier to find himself pushed away. So, Jaskier doesn’t ask for Geralt to meet him halfway or to invite him to do the things he’s good at. Instead, he works with what he knows already.

Even in the waning light, the dark lines spider webbing across Geralt’s pale skin stand out. Jaskier has long since learned the cadence of Geralt’s potions because it’s always the same. There’s a sort of frenetic energy that seems determined to keep Geralt from sitting still. And then, rather rudely, all the benefits the potion bestows are yanked away. At least, this is how Jaskier imagines it to be from the way Geralt always seems to crash afterwards.

But the witcher knows this far better than Jaskier even, and he’s strategic about it. He gets wherever he plans to be long before the potion wears off. Tonight, Jaskier can already see flecks of gold in Geralt’s pitch black eyes, and so, while the witcher looks to be thankfully in one piece still, he can only assume something went very, very wrong for there to have been such a delay.

“Are you hurt?” he asks as he reaches to unfasten Geralt’s armor. Not everything the witcher hunts draws blood, after all.

“No.” It’s a single word, rough and weary, but more than Jaskier had really expected. Exhaustion is at least a less treacherous issue to deal with than injury, and Geralt really must be exhausted because he barely even glowers at Jaskier’s efforts to help.

Determined to speak in a way Geralt will understand, for once Jaskier doesn’t speak at all. Instead, Jaskier wordlessly tugs Geralt’s weapons and armor from his person far more efficiently than the witcher’s sluggish attempts would have managed. He does not allow himself to be distracted by the endearing flutter of Geralt’s eyelids as they droop only for him to try to blink them open again. He’d like to think it means something that Geralt would be this vulnerable in front of him, but that something is probably just that Geralt is far too overtaxed to fight it.

“Oh no you don’t,” Jaskier chides when he comes back from fetching their rations to find Geralt’s head drooping forward. Much as he’d like to just let Geralt sleep, he shakes the witcher’s shoulder and presses a couple of strips of jerky into his hand. “If you don’t eat something before you pass out we’ll both be sorry for it later.”

“I don’t-” Geralt starts, and it’s probably meant to be grouchy, but Jaskier can see enough of his eyes now to tell that they’re sort of crossed and unfocused.

“Yes yes. I know. You don’t need my help,” Jaskier finishes for him, shoving a waterskin at Geralt. “But you’ve got it, so let’s skip to the part where you stop complaining and let me.”

Much to Jaskier’s surprise, they do. Geralt makes a noncommittal sort of sound around a bite of jerky, but otherwise makes no attempt to shoo Jaskier away.

He’d had a plan, damn it, but Jaskier can be adaptable. He’d meant to say it with a hot dinner and maybe an equally hot bath or something. Geralt puts value on so few things that it had always been a sort of nebulous idea anyway. Instead, Jaskier says it with field rations and lukewarm drinking water. He says it with the effort it takes to lay out Geralt’s bedroll and then to bully the witcher into it. He says it by sitting nearby and keeping an eye out while Geralt drifts to sleep.

Geralt is lovely like this, in an eerie sort of way. Bit by bit, the black veins are fading and the chalky pale tone of his skin is warming, and he looks soft in the muted firelight. The frown that so often graces his lips is entirely absent, or perhaps just out of view since Geralt’s nose is all but pressed to the side of Jaskier’s thigh. Messy silver locks that have long since escaped their tie frame Geralt’s face and shoulder, like something out of a fairy tale, and surely, Jaskier thinks, no one could fault him for running his fingers through it.

It’s softer than it has any right to be, especially with the lack of care on Geralt’s part. For once it doesn’t look like someone dumped a bucket of dirt (or worse) over Geralt’s head. More importantly, the gentle scrape of Jaskier’s nails against Geralt’s scalp draws a quiet sigh from the witcher, and honestly he’s practically obligated to continue if it helps his friend sleep. It’s totally and entirely selfless, you see.

That’s he’s entirely distracted from the writing he’d meant to return to is just an unimportant detail. Jaskier might have kept on forever, but very abruptly, Geralt reaches up, trapping the bard’s wrist in his grip. It’s too well placed to be something the witcher did while dreaming or some such, and too firm to be anything but intentional anyway. Feeling rather caught, Jaskier stumbles over an attempt at an explanation. “Geralt. I- uh-”

But there’s no complaint forthcoming. Geralt doesn’t even open his eyes. He only turns his head a little, nuzzling into the palm of Jaskier’s hand. Before Jaskier can wrap his head around that, Geralt hums contentedly and presses a sleepy, feather light kiss to the bard’s skin.

It’s a soft, nothing sort of gesture, and Jaskier smiles to himself as Geralt’s grip goes slack with sleep. He frees his wrist from Geralt’s hand to smooth over the witcher’s hair once more instead. Of course he should have known Geralt was trying to make him understand too.

Message received. Jaskier allows himself a moment to watch Geralt sleep and a chaste kiss to the witcher’s temple. Still grinning like a fool, he gathers up his paper and pen and gets back to work.

Witcher Masterpost