#hair is not NEARLY this brown irl it's just the flash .. sigh

[aleixis]

face reveal except i already posted myself on tumblr before but ignore that ^_^

[he-goes-down]

The Blood That Moves The Body:

-irl friend req

Masterlist

Pairing: Vamp! Izzy x reader x Were! Slash

- quick moment of silence for me not finding a gif-

Warnings: smut (with plot), threesome, vampires, werewolf, fingering, unprotected p in v, oral! M receiving, slight oral!F receiving. Blood

Second person pov:

A low animalistic growl echoed through the trees as you walked through the dark foggy forest. Standing dead still, your senses peaked with anxiety. Your eyes scattering from one dark corner to another, swearing that each shadow was out to get you. Your eyes landed to in-front of you. In the distance, orange-yellowish eyes glowed out of the darkness. The eyes position closer to the ground, like a wolf staggering and bending down as it stalked it’s prey. With one fast growl and leap your live flashed before your eyes. You were paralysed in fear. Couldn’t move. Only put your hands and arms in-front of you, squeezing your eyes shut. Ready to embrace quick death.

Breathing hard, that was the only thing you heard. Your breath. And silence, the sound of charging towards you on the soft forest floor was gone. Another hard breath. Not yours. A warm blow on your hand, your one eye peered open. The beast. Now in-front of you, the moonlight shining on it’s dark brown fur, had all the features of a wolf except it was huge. It’s head tilted like a puppy as it sniffed the hand that was still frozen in-front of you. After a few nerve racking sniffs it began to lick ur hand, getting more playful after each one. It’s tongue nearly bigger than your hand itself. But you began to relax seeing it was friendly and for now harmless. Taking a big sigh as your other hand went to the side of its furry head, scratching through it like you would to a dog. It seemed to enjoy it, you pulled your hand away from it’s tongue and began scratching the other side of it’s face. It’s eyes closing and mouth open panting as your scratched in all the right places.

‘It’s like a puppy.’ You thought to yourself. ‘Just an abnormally large and kinda freakish one.’ You added to your inner dialogue.

“Oh, he’s no puppy.” You heard a voice behind you, you turned around. Not just behind, but above, in the trees. You looked up to the tall towering trees. A shadow figure standing on one of the big branches that formed the canopy above. It walked forward onto the air, a fast accelerating drop but as the figure was inches above the ground it stopped in the air, taking a step down to the forest floor. And another accelerated charge, in humane speed. The figure stopped to right in-front of you. Some of the leaves on the forest floor fell back down again as the figures speed triggered it to lift from the ground.

A very pale, dark haired handsome man. His nose straight, his eyes a dark hazel. God he was quite fine, the comedic relief in your brain added to your monologue. His eyes flashed red, a weird feeling came and gone from you, almost unnoticeable. “You really think I’m handsome?” He asked, smugly raising an eyebrow. As he spoke you noticed his fangs. A vampire. Of course he knew what you were thinking, he could read minds. Before your sputter out a fearful exclamation you felt a nudge on the middle of your back. The animal was still there, wanting attention. “Slash you can stop it now, stop using people to scratch your nasty flee invested fur.” The vampire crossed his eyes, talking to the animal. With one dog like whine, the beast, apparently named Slash turned from an animal to a human. A werewolf. Some animal parts still attached but fading; ears, fur - now body hair, but not everywhere - a tail that seemed to be retracting back into his body. He had gorgeous abs, soft brown skin and luscious curly hair that covered his face a bit. And with your eyes scanning his body you noticed no clothes and immediately looked away. “I don’t have- sorry-“ Slash protested but then apologised to you, “ I don’t have fleas you nocturnal prick.” He continued his protest. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cover up mutt.” The vampire rolled his eyes and tossed Slash a pair of underwear and pants. He quickly put them on and turned to you. “Sorry for scaring you in the beginning. I thought you were Izzy.” He said as he put his hands on your shoulders. The vampire’s name was Izzy. “What are you doing out here anyway?” Izzy butted in. “Yeah it’s dangerous, there are other creatures out here that aren’t that friendly.” Slash said.

You had explained to them that you were chased from your small heavily religious and traditional town that was close by, because they thought you were some sort of witch or demon, for many silly and miscommunicated reasons. You ran to the forest knowing no one would follow you in. Slash and Izzy were nice enough to be sympathetic to your story and allow you to stay at their place. An abandoned cottage, you were thinking more of a manor or castle as there are many stories about vampires living in such places.

As you got more comfortable in being with magical strangers you were encouraged by them to ask questions on what the towns people think is real about them. It was a real laugh but some a bit more dark, Izzy did drink blood, Slash does prey on animals like a wolf and once or twice a human that annoyed him. But assured you they had their fill today. You then asked about the cottage and why they don’t live in an abandoned manor, and adding that question of rivalry between the two groups. They explained that they were a bit exiled as well, they became friends when they were young and saw no problem of the two groups mingling but each clan kicked them out and now hate them.

You slept in Izzys bed that night as he slept through out the day, Slash slept in his bed which was next to Izzys, but in the middle of the night turned Were and slept by your feet taking in some of your human body heat.

The next morning you discussed with them about finding a nearby town to settle back down in, but they insisted that you stayed with then for a while as it was the start of a complicated season of moon for both Werewolfs and Vampires alike, and if other members of the clans found you in their forest it wouldn’t end well.

About 3 weeks into the season, and you were comfortable with Izzy and Slash, not seeing them any different your average human, sure they were different but it didn’t freak you out as much as when you first met them. You liked them. Sure they had their annoying moments like; Izzy reading your mind and giggling at you when ever he pleased, or Slash which took most of the bed space when you allowed him to lie down by you. But again you liked them, maybe a bit too much, you tried to get your sinful thoughts of them out your head before Izzy had the chance to randomly infiltrate your mind and see your deepest feelings. The thoughts became worse when they dropped an small flirt here and there. You didn’t know what to do and it was getting you nervous as now was the blood moon week and meaning they both stay inside 24/7.

Evening fell and a red ball which was the moon rose to the sky. All of you sat on the couch watching the window from a far. Izzy began to sweat, trying to hold something in, picking at his lace collar, holding it from his skin to get cool air in, especially on the bite marks on his neck. Slash began to scratch, but hard. Itching everywhere, taking his one hand and transforming it into a claw just to try scratch it right. You were worried for them, asking them if they were okay and what was happening. “Just go upstairs…” Izzy stuttered out as he scratched his bite marks. “But-“ “Go.” His tone changed to irritation and anger, eyes flashed a red warning. You didn’t retaliate and went upstairs swiftly. Closing the door and sitting on Izzy’s bed, knees up, your chin on them, gazing out the red scenery of the misty forest. Now 30 minutes later of lazy boredom your mind wandered to Izzys change of tone, dark laced with anger. Making your heartbeat faster thinking about it, and your thoughts going down a darker lustful root, thinking of him calling you horrific names while he- and your thoughts continued, soon also turning to Slash, thinking of his pleading eyes, as he wanted you to touch him, sick dirty thoughts infiltrated you head again. You never thought of them this heatedly, you were slightly embarrassed. Looking back out to the moon again. That might be a reason for your change as-well.

Soon you heard the door creak open slowly, your gaze traveling along the wooden floor to the door, as the door opened by itself, revealing Slash and Izzy.

Izzys shirt was half way unbuttoned, scratch marks and sweat dripping down his chest, the same with Slash but it seemed like he grew another foot tall, maybe double the size of Izzy, making his pants tighter against his legs, which made your eyes travel and reveal an aching hard on. That just made you soaked to the core. “I saw some… interesting things that came to mind, wouldn’t you say so too?” Izzy chimed. Fuck. Izzys senses where heightened to the max this week, meaning he could read minds of people in other rooms. You blushed hard, embarrassed. You swallowed hard, both of then inching closer to you. “We can make those dreams a reality.” Slash told you as he came behind you sitting on the bed, his now larger body engulfing you as his hands held your hips. Kissing your neck as he spoke in lust. Izzy sat in-front of you, his eyes glowing another red flash. Infiltrating your mind, but now you could feel his emotions. A fiery lust, an animalistic need. But a hard desire and want. For you. To fuck you. To eat you. Suck all the life from your veins. Your mind became foggy from his long search through your private thoughts. You were now filled with the same lust and desire that they were feelings. You felt a tingling sensation on your skin, wanting to rip it out. An even stronger feeling was making your pussy soaked. Slash’s big hand began to wander to your shorts. Landing on your thighs, giving a rough squeeze, his fingers on your inner thighs, dangerously close to your core. Your knees still up, Izzy put his head on your knees, looking at you from under his brows. His eyes flashing another red, reading your sinful thoughts, mostly about what you wanted Slash’s hand to do to you.

“Mmm… Slash, I think she wants something from you.” Izzy said smugly, and with one look yours were roughly spread open by an invisible force. Slash’s hand grazed your clothed pussy, his whole hand was now bigger than your crotch and it made you weak thinking if the unspeakable things his large fingers could do. A sharp claw like nail tract from his previous shorter nails. With one swift movement your shorts were split ripped off, and ripped to shreds, the fabric scattering on the bed. Now the sharp nail resting on your panties, digging a small hole in the fabric, you could feel it against your wet folds. Another quick motion and your panties were off and in pieces, and not one nick on your pussy. He retracted the nail and his fingers now exploring your soaking cunt. Izzy on the other hand began to take your shirt off for you, not in a traditional way. His eyes flashed another red and like a lit match to paper your shirt disintegrated, not one fluff of fabric was left. But he gently let his invisible powers unclasp your bra and let it fall to the side. “ My precious moon…” Slash whispered as he sloppy kissed your neck, his canines making brief contact with your skin making you shiver. His one finger began to enter your pleading pussy. It was big, almost not enough space to add another, but soon after you settled on his finger he added another one, stretching you out. You moaned, falling back onto Slash’s chest. Izzy taking the opportunity to crawl between your legs and kiss you from your tits to your neck. A low groan cane from his lips as they grazed over your neck, just wanting to dig his fangs into you and leave you whining his name as he sucked your life away.

“Sunshine… can I?” He groaned against your exposed neck. You nodded hesitantly, waiting for the stinging injection. The sharp tips of his fangs pierced your skin, making you hiss, soon it dug all the way through your veins and his mouth was no situated on your skin, skin and grunting as he tasted your sweet blood. Slash was pumping his fingers in and out of you as you moaned both their names through pain and pleasure. You felt yourself draw closer to your orgasm as both Izzy and Slash worked on your pussy, Slash fingering you and Izzy playing with your clit. Tears began to stream down your face from the pleasure and the howling pain you were feeling as Izzys sharp fangs were still lodged in the side of your neck. Slash whined like a dog as you felt his hard on on your lower back, his hips bucking against you to get friction. You thought about how his big cock probably wouldn’t even fit you, but god it made the pits of your stomach burn with desire. Blood dripped down your collarbone to your tits and then to your stomach and thighs, gushing out of the two bite marks like a waterfall. You were getting light headed, from loss of blood and of your orgasm coming near. Slash did a few more slams against your g spot, feeling you clench around him and finally cumming all over his big fingers. You sighed as you came down from your electrical high. Izzy taking his fangs out of you the same time Slash took out his fingers. Slash took his fingers and licked them softly groaning to himself as he tasted your cum. “Fuck… you taste so good.” He sighed.

Izzy’s mouth dripped with your blood, quickly wiping of the excess he had to get another kind of taste of you. You moaned and your hands flung to his dark head of hair, tugging as he licked through your folds. Groaning as he tasted you on his tongue, both your blood and cum. He cleaned up your wetness, devouring ever single drop, whilst you moaned out at his actions and how his fangs were so close to cutting you. “So fucking good…” Izzy agreed with Slash as his mouth detached to your aching pussy. You whined at the loss of friction and pleasure. “Don’t worry baby, I’ll fill you up real good…” Slash said lowly in your ear, feeling his big cock against your back. You mind wandered to the endless things he could do to you with his now bigger stronger body. “I see… only thinking of the little mutt are we? Well thats not fair is it… I’m the one that marked you as mine.” Izzy spoke, his last line directed at the two fang marks on your neck. You were willing to do anything for him, you being his or not. “Do what you’re thinking of sunshine.” Izzy said with a smirk, his hard on getting more visible as he read your thoughts. He sat back on the bed in front of you, his elbows perching him up as he laid back. You lead forward, now away from Slash’s torso, leaning down and arching your ass in the air like a cat. Your hands going over his clothed thighs, soon unbuttoning his jeans, his hard on now deliciously close to your mouth, under his boxers, you took them off too and watched as his dick sprung out of its retrains. Dripping with precum. You looked him in the eyes as you licked up and took his tip in your mouth. He groaned, his head flung back in ecstasy.

You felt a something press against you ass while you were taking Izzy’s big dick in your mouth. Your eyes rolled to the side as far as they could to see what it was. Slash. Only in his underwear, his enormous boner pressing against your soft ass cheeks. You moaned a nod, telling him he could do what he wanted. Taking off his underwear, positioned behind you. So certain it wouldn’t fit, but you didn’t care, you wanted him to fuck you to shreds with this new growth of his. He slowly entered you, only the head, you already felt filled. You moaned against Izzy’s cock. Izzy taking you by the hair and pushing you down gently, making your body feel on fire as you heard Izzys soft erotic groans as you pleased him with your mouth and tongue. You whimper against him, holding onto his thighs as Slash pushed deeper into you. It hurt like hell but god was it hot. You felt like he was reaching all the way to your throat, you were filled to brim with Izzy that was already down your throat. After you got comfortable with his huge cock in you, he started to thrust in and out of you. Moaning hard on Izzy dick making him groan and tug at your hair.

Slash’s thrusts got faster and harder, making your whole body move and shake, the bed squeaking and skin slapping. His one hand parted from your hip and with a flick of the wrist, nails turned to claws and he scratched his side, drawing blood, dripping and staining the sharp ends with his scarlet blood. Then swiftly going to claw at your back, harder than he did with himself, your blood starting to run, his that was on his nails fused with yours in your new wounds. A strong burn erupted your senses as his blood dripped into your veins. Marking you as his, just like Izzy. Another sweeter and stronger feeling erupted as Izzy spilled into your mouth and down your throat. “Swallow baby.” He said through pants. You did just that. “ Good girl.” He praised. Soon you and Slash felt the same feeling as his thrusts got sloppy but harder and he moaned, cumming into your clenching hole and you cumming over his dick, your sweet fluids fusing as-well.

“Ours.” The word that rang in your ears.

You were Izzy’s s Sun

You were Slash’s Moon

Both weaknesses, but intertwined with their souls

A/n: idk what to write at the end so theres some horrid poetry i guess

[suntrastar]

sink or swim

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you first meet ransom when meg drags you along to a party. everything somehow spirals from there.

warnings: swearing, smut (but like very vague smut, nothing super explicit), ransom’s general assholery

word count: 9.3k

author’s note: i hate ransom drysdale! he is a shit character! if he existed irl i would whoop his ass with NO hesitation. but i still wrote this fic because ... a bitch gets thirsty okay?? okay. and ik this is very long BUT a lot of it is dialogue so it should flow pretty fast!!! likes and reblogs are always appreciated!!! ily now enjoy!!! you can also read this on ao3 :)

There’s something fun about being somewhere where no one wants you, and then something shameful. 

Meg isn’t touching you, but as she drags you around her famous grandfather’s mansion in search of people to bother, it feels like she has you on an invisible leash, fastened tight over your neck. To keep you tethered to her- like a fucking dog. 

The leash hurts like it is not made of plastic or metal but instead two hands squeezing tight, wringing you dry, choking you harder and harder and bruising you purple with no remorse.

Now, she’s debating political theory with her douchebag fuck of an uncle, who almost hits you once- almost hits you twice with his cane while waving it around as he quotes Fox News-

Their voices rise. You’re the only one that flinches.

Standing awkwardly on the edge, you wonder why you are the only guest at this terrible party that looks so lost. Meg gives you a covert this-is-total-bullshit glance, and a small, pained, rehearsed smile, both of which you have to return- that’s the real reason you’re here, after all- and her uncle rants on, wholly oblivious.

You look past them both, to where one man stands by himself.

He’s leaning against the far wall, and while Meg retaliates with some of her favorite words, including audacity and bigoted and problematic, you take a sudden, intense interest in the wallpaper pattern, sweeping your eyes over the span of it, looking over the man just once.

He is staring right back at you.

All it takes is his eyes- he’s just staring, but you’re absolutely embarrassed. 

He looks rich, with too much product in his hair and a coat that looks like it cost more than your rent, with loafers that expose an uncomfortable amount of ankle and an expression that morphs into something wolfish as he starts towards you-

Before you can think, he’s joined your little circle- Meg prefers standing, so of course, everyone stands- and smiles when she glares at him. 

He isn’t looking at you anymore.

“So,” he interrupts, and his voice is so dark, “what riveting political topic are we debating tonight?”

You should call an Uber. Why did you accept Meg’s offer of a ride?

“Ransom,” Meg says sweetly, “could you just, like, fucking not?”

This is supposed to be a Christmas party, but none of these people seem to be in the Christmas spirit. Including her uncle, with his stuffy sweater set and clunky-as-hell shoes. He sputters something about young people and their profanity, and then hastily leaves. 

Without thinking, you breathe out a heavy sigh of relief. 

The man smiles wider. Unfortunately, it makes him look very handsome.

”Ouch,” he says lightly, to Meg, and turns to you.

A shiver runs down your spine. 

You hate him immediately. 

“Who are you?” he asks.

For whatever reason, the question makes Meg scoff. She shakes her head at you- a warning. Her hair flounces with the movement.

Because she doesn’t want you to, you give him your name. And then add, because your name alone seems like a title too stripped down, “I’m Meg’s friend.”

It’s hard to convince yourself to be polite, when you don’t like how he’s been looking at you- with his eyes narrowed and brown furrowed and lips parted. He gives an insufferable nod.

“Right,” he says. “The one she’s been showing off all evening.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Ransom-” Meg starts, and suddenly you are so angry, at this man for confirming what you thought was all in your head, at Meg for suddenly swooping in to save you, like she’s been waiting for it-

“I guess,” you say, and smile a little, and regret everything.

“That’s pathetic,” he says, and looks at you kindly.

 Apparently, Meg is the only one allowed to be self-righteous in her annoyance, or anger, or any other mildly passionate emotion. She doesn’t return your covert this-is-total-bullshit glance. 

So you fend for yourself.

“Well, so is this fucking party, so-”

He interrupts you with a laugh. 

It’s loud and arrogant and mirthless, and you’ll climb out of a window, find a way to walk through the walls, if it means that you’ll escape it.

“I’m just joking,” he says, pursing his lips, and the hands on your neck, ever-present, nearly crush the breath out of you. “Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”

“So funny I forgot to laugh,” you say, and instead of replying, he just looks at you.

He looks at you slowly, like he has nothing better to do, like he has time to waste. You can smell him- some cologne that’s spicy, and expensive, and Meg is staring at you in shock, like you’ve committed a crime. 

But she’s quiet.

“I’m Ransom,” he says, and raises his hands to make little air quotes, which is weirdly adorable in a way that you hate, “Meg’s ‘asshole cousin’”

“Weird name,” you say. 

You’ve changed your mind- you’re not even going to attempt to be nice.

For a second, he looks furious.

It’s attractive.

“Yeah,” he says. “Anyways, I’m about to ditch. Do you want a ride?”

How does he know you came here with Meg?

He was staring at you from the wall-

From his butterscotch-colored coat with its awful, ostensible lapels, he pulls out his car keys. The BMW logo flashes silver and blue, clashing against the gold of his pinky ring, clinking against the metal as he twirls the key ring around his finger-

For a second, you think that he’s about to toss the keys across the room and command you to fetch.

“Um,” you say, uncertainly, irritated with your own restraint, “Thanks, but Meg will-”

“Meg will what?”

He’s mocking you, and there is no one to come to your rescue. 

Hesitantly, like she has to think twice about it, Meg opens her mouth to say something. What is her problem? What is your problem? Why are you treating her like she is your saving grace? 

You talk before she gets the chance. “Okay, yeah. A ride would be great.”

***

Ransom offers because he likes your face.

You’re better-looking than the girls that Meg usually brings along to these parties, or maybe his standards have fallen- he isn't sure. Does it really matter? Even though he’s been looking at you all night, even though he’s positively thrilled to have you in his car, he’s not going to try anything.

There’s something desperate in your eyes that compels him against it.

You inhale sharply when he turns left. 

“You forgot your turn signal,” you say, and he kind of likes how you chastise him, not angrily or even upset, but just exasperated-

How is someone like you friends with someone like Meg?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly, and the tired glare you give him is enough to make his entire week.

Now that he thinks about it, his mother is always on his case about things like this- compassion and civility and basic human decency, and how he lacks it all, but what about now? He’s taking a miserable girl to her home, simply from the goodness of his own heart, with no strings attached. 

This is such a good deed- this is like charity.

His mother is also always telling him that he’s severely, almost clinically narcissistic.

He definitely is, but again, does it matter?

“So, what do you think about my family?” he asks, making a big, dramatic show of using his turn signal before swerving right, feeling too pleased when you smile. 

He steals a glance at your knees and somehow feels guilty.

He’ll have to do something about that.

“They’re pretty... lively,” you say hesitantly, and he’s suddenly hating the dark, this stupid fucking night- he’d like to see you better.

“Lively,” he repeats, and barks out a laugh. “They’re fucking crazy.”

You laugh, too, a real one- off-kilter, and too loud- none of that artificial shit he heard at the party. Nothing meant to please.

“I was definitely thinking that,” you say. He catches you looking at his hands, but boldly, you don’t look away. “I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Now you’re worried about being rude?”

“I’m in a car with a strange guy I’ve never met before, so yeah.”

You’re smiling but look uncomfortable, and then afraid.

All bark and no bite- you’ve been talking all this talk, when really, he realizes, you’re so washed-out, so faint, like the bare sliver of moon out in the sky, the same weak moon he’s been cursing out. The same stars, too- you are just as scattered.

You look pretty.

“Are you scared?”

He keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks you’ll snap at him if he doesn’t. Not like anyone drives out here anyway- not like he can’t pay off a ticket or two or five-

“Should I be?”

There is something so delicious about this moment, with you starting to worry- he can’t look at the road anymore, not when he can watch your throat bob as you swallow instead, and it still feels so violating, but so good. 

“Nope,” he says, and you startle when you hear him say it, and he has to bite his cheek to keep himself from smiling. “No need.”

“Great,” you say, and go quiet. 

When he pulls up to your apartment complex, not too far from where he lives, he holds his mouth in check. He could say so many things right now, but for you, he restrains himself.

You have your bag in hand, seatbelt off. From the streetlight, the planes of your face look waxy yellow.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say. 

Your hand is on the door handle, nails glittering. He can’t make out the color of the polish.

While looking at it, a sudden urge overcomes him.

And he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he wants to, so bad. It’s borderline frantic, the desire- it’s necessary and all-important and crucial, for him and his basic peace of mind, and maybe for you, too-

Who is he to deny himself?

“Wait,” he says, even though the door is open and you have half of yourself out the door. 

The cold is slowly seeping in, bone-chilling.

You wait.

“Let me just,” he says, and can’t bring himself to say anything else.

He reaches out for your waxen face with one hand and presses it firmly against your cheek.

Under his touch, you shiver. He fans out his fingers to hold you better. 

Your eyes are wide. He thinks you look a bit horrified- horrified with yourself for not resisting, maybe.

But he closes his eyes as he leans in, so it doesn’t matter.

He turns your head for you, a bit forcefully. You don’t protest.

He kisses your cheek.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, you’re staring at him with your mouth in a perfect circle.

“Uh,” you say, and suddenly look away and out into the night, and it makes him angry, even though it should be flattering, “Merry Christmas.”

*** 

You don’t think about Ransom as much as he probably would have wanted- life picks up too fast.

In the last days of the year, Meg calls you and texts you and even goes so far as to send a few emails, but finally, you seem to have found the self-respect to not respond- consider that ridiculously wealthy bridge burned. 

In January, your brother leaves to study for a semester abroad. All the walls in your small apartment are suddenly looming, standing high over you, standing empty. You try to shove off the loneliness by studying harder, by staying distracted.

In February, you have the same dream nearly every night- you’re sitting outside on a porch in the sun and for some reason there’s a bird on your head, and in your lap there’s a clock whose hands don’t work, and you’re wearing a heavy necklace made of gold links that jingle, and you’re so happy. 

Does the bird count as company?

In early March, while you’re watering your plants, your phone rings with an unknown number. 

You shouldn’t pick up unknown numbers.

You pick up.

“Hello?”

“Remember me?” 

His voice nearly gives you whiplash.

It’s dark and harsh, faceless and yet as arrogant as ever. 

“Hi, Ransom,” you say, and think of the night in the car for the first time since, think of how he gripped your face so hard that his ring left an imprint. “How the hell do you have my number?”

“Meg gave it to me,” he says smugly. “She says hi.”

You wonder what Meg thinks you did to her. It’s obviously something bad, something terrible, if she so willingly gave your number to this pretty-faced, pretty-voiced, ugly-coat-wearing asshole-

“Awesome,” you say plainly. You don’t want to talk about her. “Do you, like, need something, or-”

“I want to take you out,” he says.

You laugh and your grip on your pitcher slips, sloshing water over the edge.

“You’re joking.”

He is, right? 

He takes an impatient breath that, for some reason, sounds inappropriate. “I’m serious.”

“Ransom,” you say, slowly, “I don’t even know you.”

“Then get to know me,” he says testily, and you can perfectly picture him, sitting in some colossal brownstone his parents bought him, while a butler daintily dabs the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Tonight.”

You’ve overwatered your marigolds. 

Has his voice really swept you this far away?

“No,” you say, and shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No fucking way.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “You have anything better to do?”

You don’t, but you take a deep breath and prepare yourself to lie-

“I’ll treat you good,” he suddenly says, and his voice is low and sticky-sweet, dripping with honey. “I promise.”

He says it in a way that makes your knees weak.

You physically have to sit down- he knows how to get what he wants.

Could you actually do this?

Could you go out on a date with a crude, pretentious, trust-fund piece of trash, who probably thinks you’re easy, who’s only calling you because he’s bored, who has already subtly insulted you twice in this conversation alone-

-who got your number from his cousin that you both decidedly dislike, who kissed your cheek like you were pretty in the dark of the night, in his cold car?

“Fine,” you say. “Take me out.”

***

He doesn’t tell you that you look nice- he just stares.

There is something predatory in his eyes.

You’re out on a Wednesday night with a bad man, wasting your time, trying to get something out of nothing, smiling a fake smile when he orders you a drink you don’t like, already irritated with him, and trying too hard to stop looking at his face.

How are you actually interested?

You tell him that you’re in medical school.

“Really,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. “You don’t strike me as that kind of girl.”

Underneath the table, you clench your hands for some sense of control, but still feel like you’re spinning. “What kind of girl?”

“Smart,” he says, and picks up his drink. The glass sweats beads of condensation, wetting the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t know you were smart.”

You shouldn’t dignify his flimsy insult with a response- he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, trying to make you roll your eyes or scowl or shiver. He wants you unsettled. 

But the moral high ground is, unfortunately, too high.

“And I didn’t know that you’re such a terrible date.”

His teeth gleam white when he smiles. He knows.

He knows that he can say whatever the hell he wants, because he has money, and those eyes, and that insufferably nice rich-boy hair, and that sweater with its charmingly frayed hems, and that voice- he has everything, and then some, and he’s about to have you, too, if he keeps on looking at you like he already does.

“You’re so sweet,” he says. 

“Fuck off.”

He winks and you could cry, you’re so fucking bothered-

You’re not usually this uptight, but he has you so drastically wound up that every little thing he does, even how he’s sitting- body sprawled, manspreading- is fire licking up on your skin, scorching-hot and ruining you with no remorse, like you have done something to deserve it.

When his eyes trail down, from your eyes to your mouth to your neck to below, you are so acutely aware of wanting him that you feel guilty. Like it’s a crime.

***

You don’t seem like the type of girl to fuck on the first date. 

So, of course, Ransom tries to fuck on the first date.

As you stand outside the restaurant, in your dress and strappy sandals, you look so tense that he wants to laugh.

 He can’t help it, because this whole thing you have going on- this weariness you approach everything with, this attitude- is so funny. Maybe, in any other situation, it would be irritating, but he’s been so bored lately that it’s stirring.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he asks, quietly, taking a step closer to you so that at this very moment, under the waning sun, you should be able to just lean up and kiss him-

You blink slowly and keep your silence.

This is fucking tedious.

This should be so easy- all he has to do is settle his hands somewhere soft and let time pass, and then before he knows it you’re there and under and begging. But he can’t bring himself to touch you just yet, not when his head is calling you pathetic, and his heart calls you-

His heart just calls you.

You start to answer, and then hesitate. All five stages of grief flicker over your face at once- denial to acceptance in the same breath. 

“Sure,” you say, unevenly, desperately-

When you step inside his house, your eyes go wide. As you take it in- the decor, the windows, the excess, he locks the door behind him and takes you in.

You step further inside, and he thinks of where it would be best, but then your eyes crease as you smile- it’s impossible to wait when your smile looks like that- and so he backs you right into the closest wall, cups your face with both of his hands and kisses you.

He kisses you and you curl your hands over his shoulders and immediately kiss back, and he is taken aback and delighted. 

And he knew- the entire time at dinner when you were making eyes at him like you couldn’t believe that you were actually sitting there, present in that moment- he knew that secretly, you’re a freak. He knew it- he knows it.

He hopes it.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispers, right into your mouth, when your heart has been beating right into his for a while, “Let me fuck you right here.”

You bite his lip.

He takes a hand away from your face and reaches under your dress fast, rucking it all the way up your thighs, trailing up to touch you-

“Fuck,” you gasp, and arch your back up against the wall, and he grips you a little tighter-

He presses a finger into you- pushing aside your underwear and, good grief, you’re already wet- harshly, and pulls away from your mouth, so he can watch your face. 

The lines creasing your forehead look like poetry.

He thinks he likes you. It’s a shame he had to meet you through Meg- it would be nice if he had met you somewhere else, on his own. 

That way, he’d be able to waltz in one day, to another insipid family gathering, with you tucked under his arm. You, with your promise of a medical degree and your strappy sandals, and your iron grip on his shoulders and your drawn out breath of a moan-

The looks on their faces would be priceless.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, and he’s a little irritated at how cracked his voice sounds, but it’s the right thing to say- you swear again and he picks up his pace, pressing hard on your clit. “If you’ll be good to me.”

“I’ll-” you say, and you’re actually stuttering, and breaking out into a lovely sweat, still forced back into the wall with his hand and body. He leans closer, so he can’t tell where you and him and the wall start and end. “I’ll be- fuck, Ransom-”

You still have your arms wrapped around him, like an embrace. He keeps one hand between your thighs, your dress pooling over his arm like water, and uses his other to work at his belt buckle.

This is also funny- you stay exactly how you are, even though at that moment, there is nothing holding you back.

***

The world is begging for you to consider your actions.

But you don’t. You know that when he offers, you’ll meet him again.

It should be too late. You’re exhausted, from a day full of lectures and an evening spent in a lab, working as a professor’s research assistant, and then studying for a few hours in the library- all you really want to do is sleep. 

But then he calls.

The night is suddenly brimming with possibility, and you’ve never been more awake.

On a whim, Ransom suggests ice cream, and because you can’t bring yourself to deny him, you end up at a place that you would never go for- where everything is handmade and served in thick paper cups with multicolored plastic spoons, but he pays, because of his stupid ego or fragile masculinity or whatever the hell, so you don’t care.

He stands next to you as you order, and his shoulder keeps on brushing into yours. You can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. In the glass shield that the tubs of ice cream sit behind, you’re both reflected, your body warped and tall, his body warped and taller. In the glass, his eyes meet yours.

The tension is strong- it’s only a matter of time.

Your heart flutters.

When you sit, he bumps his knees against yours- you’re sure it’s on purpose, now, but you don’t say anything. What even is there to say? 

That you like it? 

When he digs into his ice cream, the plastic spoon- a green one- snaps in his hand.

 And because you’re so caught up in your own ridiculous thoughts, before he can go back up to get another, you pull your own from your mouth- a pink one- and offer it to him.

The proposition makes him smile.

Why does he smile like that? Each movement, each twitch of muscle is so perfectly detached and coordinated- it’s violent. 

But he still takes the spoon from you gently, with a soft hand. 

He’s too pretty to be mean, you think, but against any type of judgement- not just the better kind- you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You let yourself laugh and he scowls. 

“This place sucks,” he says, like he isn’t the one who chose it.

He adjusts the womens’ scarf he’s always wearing, carefully arranging it over himself so it looks like it was carelessly thrown on. The blue in the paisley print brings out his eyes- it makes him look so stupidly hot that you start to get angry.

You just shrug. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

He puts your spoon in his mouth and looks at you.

Again, the night ends at his place- this time on an actual bed, because you ask for it, and you think he likes how you look when you ask for things in the current state state you’re in-

He fucks you in the dark, and swears into your ear, and is not kind or soft in any way, but after he finishes, he takes the time to kiss the spot in between your breasts, and you think that maybe he isn’t entirely horrible. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, and his mouth is always hot.

You leave without a word.

***

He takes you out this time, in a real, urgent show of wealth- he picks you up in his fancy car, takes you to a fancy restaurant where the numbers next to the fancy menu items are all appalling, where he spends the whole time making these awful, unfunny innuendos that still manage to rile you up, because they’re coming from his mouth-

On the way back, while waiting at a stoplight, you take a deep breath and brace yourself before looking at him.

He really is gorgeous- all lazy grace and harsh angles. The light colors his face red, red in his eyes and in the plane of his cheekbone and in the slope of his mouth- like a beautiful warning sign. His hands are carelessly draped over the steering wheel and, despite the warning, you reach out and trace a finger over his knuckles. 

His whole body jerks.

You quickly draw your hand back.

“What?” he asks sharply. He’s staring at you like you’re crazy.

You don’t know why this is suddenly so fucking embarrassing, all you did was touch him- but you suddenly feel terrible, and-

“Nothing,” you say, with the same tone, and whip your head away from him to the window, where you smolder in the dark and furiously stare at nothing.

The light turns green. He takes his foot off the break and all but slams it on the gas pedal, driving as atrociously as ever, looking over at you for a split second when you don’t protest. The blood rushing in your ears is too loud for you to think- you can’t form any words.

Once it subsides, marginally, you add, “Sorry.”

His jaw tenses.

You look back over at him, at his ring, and imagine it pressing into your neck.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” he suddenly asks- suddenly demands, with a blazing authority that makes your stomach do flips.

You don’t know what answer he wants. “Um, one time I snuck out of-“

“Let’s do something crazier.”

On an abandoned road, he pulls over, and then you’re under him in the backseat- doing something crazier. 

You might have some type of psychic tendencies, because his ring presses heavy into your neck as he pushes himself inside you, starting at a bruising pace, and then he says your name in the dark, and he looks so beautifully flushed, startling when you grab his hair, laughing when your hand accidentally skims his thigh, smiling when you come-

You wish you had the resolve to put an end to this.

You wish you could stay when it’s over.

***

You don’t like his house.

It’s not the brownstone you imagined, but rather a huge, minimalistic box, with too many windows and spotless paint and modern wood fixtures. Ransom has all of these customary rich-person things, including stately furniture and eclectic art pieces and tall shelves stuffed with books, but owning any actual personality has escaped him.

Standing in his house feels like standing in an empty room- it’s all so apathetic.

Still, you show up when he calls.

You haven’t done anything this bad before. 

But there’s a first time for everything, right? First time for enjoying bruises and biting and an unwavering grip on your neck or hips or waist or thighs, first time leaving something so intense so awkwardly.

Each time is worse than the last, with the awkwardness spiraling, accruing beyond reason, and each time you struggle with what to say- even now, you just do your best to stay quiet as you start to get up, reaching for your clothes-

Ransom drapes a heavy arm over you before you have the chance.

“You can stay,” he says flippantly, and then shifts to pull you close to him, so that you are suddenly lying bare-backed against his chest, so that his sweat-slick body and heartbeat imprints itself on your skin.

Is he asking?

You crane your head over your shoulder to get a look at him.

He returns your stare like he’s been waiting for it. 

His face is still flushed pink and a lock of hair hangs low over his forehead, and if you were any braver, you would comb a hand through it, gently, with no real intentions. He’s breathtaking. Even the new, foreign purple under his eyes is a sight- pretty like something you would want to kiss.

“You want me to stay?”

He rolls his eyes and tilts his head back. You would lick the sweat from the divots of his neck, if he asked you to.

“Or leave, if you want. I could care less.”

He cares

You know it because his grip is unwavering, because the terseness in his eyes is enough to make you look away.

Eventually, you settle a hand over his arm and try your best not to tremble. Ransom mumbles something under your breath- you can’t make any of it out, but you don’t ask him to repeat it, for the fear that it’ll upset this fragile bedroom balance you’ve so painstakingly built yourself into-

He wants you to stay. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, because you don’t think he is.

He inhales. You feel his chest against you; it’s shaky. You wonder, for a second, about who he might actually be, underneath the arrogance and egotism and constant need to be an asshole- is he someone you could like without feeling bad about it?

“Yeah,” he says, and throws his other arm over you, so that he is holding you. “Why?”

There isn’t a genuine bone in this man’s body, but he genuinely sounds confused.

It’s possible that you’re the one who isn’t okay.

“Because,” you say, and take a great leap of faith- holding your bare heart in your hands, you turn to face him.

You’re fully exposed and subjected to his gaze- it’s nearly eviscerating. His eyes dip down to your chest and something like insecurity flares in your chest. It’s awful and terrible and you urgently want to kiss him on the lips.

He always kisses you first. You don’t know if you have it in you to kiss him yet. 

You wouldn’t ever try, in case you don’t.

“You look kind of tired,” you say, and his eyes bore into you with a sinking weight, threatening to drown. One of his hands finds a blooming bruise on your skin and lightly presses. He doesn’t react when you wince. The action is still kind- almost tender.

He sighs, and it is such a delicate breath, fanning hot over your skin. 

“I’m not tired,” he says, almost childishly.

You might be overstepping. But you don’t even know where the lines have been drawn. 

“Okay,” you say, and because you would not dare kiss his lips, you lean close and kiss his jaw instead.

He startles and then gives you a crooked, lazy smile. He is everything good, you think- for this one moment. Pretty and soft-handed and made of glass and honey and all other lovely things.

You tuck your head in the crook of his neck and wrap an arm over his, tight, so he knows you are there, and hope for the best.

***

In your spare moments, you’re always thinking.

Ransom knows this because of how you look when you do it- your brow furrows and your eyes go glassy, and you frown with an intensity that he has never seen on anyone else.

It happens when you finish a sentence, when you have no response for him, when he is still talking but you’ve stopped listening. When you think it’s quiet.

It never happens during sex- is it pathetic to take pride in that?

As he stands in your apartment for the first time ever, you look like you’re in near-despair, like your thoughts are wreaking havoc on your mind, destructive and distressing. You wear basketball shorts and a college sweatshirt and glasses.

He didn’t know you wore glasses, and that you looked like this in them- he’s been missing out.

“Hi,” you say, and stare at him with troubled eyes.

Your apartment is so small. He almost feels claustrophobic, standing in here. When was the last time he willingly stood somewhere so small?

The lengths he’ll go to, for… 

For you, he supposes.

“Hi,” he says, and wonders, also for the first time ever, what it is that you’re always thinking. “Why do you have so many plants?”

On the windowsill, with even spacing in between, sits an entire row of glass jars housing plants- all singular flower stems, some budding, some in bloom. The petals of a marigold brush against the window, orange against the grey outside. It’s cute, he absently thinks, in a struggling, shabby type of way.

“It’s just something I do for fun,” you say, sounding irritated. “Like, a hobby.” 

Infringing on the living room space is a small table, cluttered with textbooks and pens and an open laptop with its screen dark.

It still baffles him that you’re smart.

“So,” you start, and cross your arms over your chest. He feels kind of offended, because he’s just realized that he really only knows a handful of things about you, and even that handful is sparse, slipping through his fingers. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He called on impulse. 

He’s just- he’s in what someone could call a mood, where he hates everything and has the intense desire to ruin something, and while he was thinking of how to fix it- beyond just getting wasted- he thought of you.

And when he called, you were sounding so tired and so he even said he could just meet you here, so you wouldn’t have to drive, so you could squeeze in a few more minutes of studying before he inevitably invades your mind-

Easily, he deflects. Nearby, there’s a hallway with two doors, one of which is tightly closed shut.

“What’s in there?” he asks, and points towards it.

You relax, slightly.

He wants to gather you up in his arms, but he doesn’t know for whose sake- his or yours?

“That’s my brother’s room,” you say, and your shoulders slump, and he resists the urge to pull you upright, and the urge to gawk. Brother? “He lives with me. But he’s studying abroad this semester.”

“Where?”

“Prague.”

He nods. This is a stiff, perfect, shocking distraction. “Nice city.”

You nod distantly and head back to the table to put your things away.

“Yeah,” you say, after too long of a pause, as you start to cap pens and set them aside. You look at him as you do it, and so you miss a few times, accidentally drawing dark lines of ink all over your fingers. “I’m glad he got to go. When we were kids, he was obsessed with wanting to travel- he had this entire map in our room, and he would draw stars over every country he wanted to visit, and there were, like, a hundred of them, and he could list every single one, in the exact order he wanted to visit, and he could even list the capitals- I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

He doesn’t.

Or, he shouldn’t, but your eyes are clearer, and as you neatly stack your textbooks in an order only known to you, he is almost intrigued.

He’s longing for you- when you are right there.

He feels like a person outside of himself, when you look at him and smile tiredly.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

There’s a cheesy ‘90s horror movie you find after a few minutes of channel surfing, complete with terrible special effects and edited-out profanity. The days are longer, now, and to stop the sun from casting a glare over the screen, you close all the blinds. It adds to the atmosphere, you say lightly, fully phased out of whatever just possessed you, and his hands are so itchy- itching to do something.

He sits. Patience is a virtue, but he is not virtuous, and so when you sit next to him and bring your knees to your chest, making yourself small, he goes to-

Something in his stomach stops him. 

It’s butterflies- is he actually nervous?

This is so fucking infuriating.

You’ve got him trapped in some type of pain-and-power-play, some type of unassuming purgatory, and all he can bring himself to do is lightly brush a hand against your shoulder. You smile at his touch and his heart fucking breaks.

As the second boy in the friend group gets murdered onscreen, you close your eyes and duck your head into your knees.

“Tell me when it’s over,” you say, voice muffled.

“Scaredy-cat,” he says, even though this is no time for jokes. 

You crack one eye open, looking only at him, and give him the finger.

Come here, he almost demands. The butterflies protest- he holds his tongue.

The dance continues. When the sun sets, everything darkens, settling into a dim blue. You look like something out of a painting. Faintly sad, unusually serene. The skin around your eyes has smoothened- you’ve stopped thinking so hard and he can suddenly breathe easier because of it-

And then there’s a jumpscare, and he shouts, “Jesus!”

The murderer has broken down a door, and all of the remaining characters are screaming, and you burst out laughing.

He’s in the middle of a crisis, and you’re laughing.

You lean into him as you laugh, with your head turned away from the screen and your eyes open, looking at him so fondly that he suddenly feels violated, and you let your shoulder brush against his.

“Scaredy-cat” you tease, and it’s absolutely now or never-

You’re making him weak- it takes too much time and effort for him to draw an arm over you.

You don’t flinch, but he is sure that you can hear his heart beating dangerously fast, without abandon, like it's trying to break free of his ribcage. He almost gasps when you come even closer and lightly kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around him, and his head is just saying yes yes yes-

Your mouth goes over his ear, lips ghosting over skin. He waits, more scared than he’s ever been in his entire life, for what you have to say. 

***

So this is Ransom’s deep, dark, ugly secret.

He likes to be cuddled.

If it were anyone else, you would laugh.

But it’s Ransom, and so you just take it in stride, as part of his extremely fucked-up psyche that is probably a result of a hundred things he’ll never tell you- childhood trauma and neglect and the consequences that come with having more money than you need or deserve.

He’s always talking, always talking shit, always talking over you and over everyone else, and you realize, one day, that he really only is treading water- he’s only focused on staying afloat, speaking whatever he wants, but never actually saying anything.

He’s responsible for his faults, of course. But still, when he smiles in low light or curls his hands over yours so viciously, you don’t know if you should leave, or if you should just stay and pity him quietly.

You’re starting to like him too much to even care.

He starts coming around more. And he actually stays, and starts leaving pieces of himself behind. He has a toothbrush next to yours and a phone charger on his side of the bed and imported, undoubtedly expensive snacks in the kitchen.

He leaves clothes, too- you wash them with yours and keep them, neatly folded, in your closet.

On a warm day in May, he meets you at a cafe.

He does most of the talking, like always. It’s been months, already, but you still find it difficult to start conversations.

You still have trouble telling him certain things without feeling like you have to defend yourself, and he still rarely deviates from being a total dick, even when you hold him or have his head in your lap, when you make him laugh or when you kiss him.

Or when you put your hands in the sleeves of his sweaters and rub your palms against his forearms, because he’s always running warm and your hands are always cold. 

He always acts like it annoys him, jumps when your hands meet his skin- but you know he secretly likes it, because whenever you’re done he pulls the hems all the way over his hands and looks at you with something amazed in his eyes.

With the weather warming up, he’s ditched the sweaters and taken to wearing these awful fucking short-sleeved button-downs, all unnecessarily tight and showing way too much collarbone. He’s making you sweat.

“You’re staring,” he says, and smiles, self-satisfied.

You bring your straw to your lips and shake your head. “I’m not.”

He knows that you can’t help it- he is always so gorgeous. He’s infuriatingly pretty.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, and nudges your foot under the table, voice suddenly low, and it’s like, holy shit-

You bring your drink down and lean over the table, careful to avoid knocking anything over, and kiss him quickly.

He tastes like bitter coffee.

You’re sad, all of a sudden.

When you settle back in your seat, you clear your throat like nothing happened. You want to lean in again and button up the rest of his shirt, and kiss him again. You want to come so close that your noses touch, and then yell at him, just for being him.

He looks appalled

“What was that for?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever done this.

“No reason,” you say. “I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like it,” he repeats, and it’s like the same reaction from the night at the stoplight, and you realize-

He’s dumbstruck.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it disappears. He sets his jaw like he’s about to get up and leave. You try not to scowl, even though you feel like you’re drifting, tide carrying you away, sand clean and smooth on where your body once was-

It gets to you.

“Can I not just kiss you?” you snap harshly, glaring at him with a ferocity you don’t think he’s ever seen.

It’s inevitable- the result of months of frustration. You can only suppress yourself for so long. Why, you want to ask, why are you not entitled to him the way he is to you and everything else? Can you not ask for him so wholly?

He flinches.

Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire, flinches.

It brings a small sliver of satisfaction with it. There’s some nerve you’ve struck, and the discontent on his face is steadily growing- 

You pay it no mind, drinking the rest of your iced coffee in calm silence. 

Outside, the day is vaguely summery, where the sun is out and strong, but still too cold in the shade. You stare past his head, towards the door. How quickly can you leave?

“You can,” he says quietly, when you’re rising to throw your cup in the trash. “Whenever you want.”

His eyelashes are so long- they command a moment of attention all on their own when he blinks- soft and slow and gazing at you from underneath them. You wonder if he is doing this for the same reason you are. If he’s lonely, too.

When was the last time you had the dream with the bird?

You smirk. “Whenever?”

He is forlorn. 

You like him better in the spring.

“Whenever.”

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, and make your voice low, since two can play at that game.

He considerably perks up. 

*** 

When you wake up, he’s still in your bed.

Lately, he’s been spending more time at your place than his. You think that all those windows are finally starting to get to him.

Ransom always holds you fiercely in his sleep. You break free as gently as you can and take him in for a brief moment- you like how he looks when he’s asleep. Unconcerned, chest rising slow with each breath, hair splayed over the pillow in nearly every direction. He almost looks innocent.

You get up quietly, even though there’s no chance he’ll stir- he sleeps like the dead.

Daylight filters through the blinds in white-yellow streams, dappling him golden. 

You almost take a picture, but regretfully leave the room for other tasks- you stretch and water your plants and check your email, and then sit down at the table to Skype your brother.

He picks up fast.

“Hey!” you say, and at once feel so much relief, to see his grainy, smiling face on your laptop screen.

Europe has done him good- he’s grown out his hair, and his skin is glowing, and he looks so happy.

He tells you about what he’s been doing lately, studying architecture. It makes you so proud, this fact alone- that unlike you, he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t have the looming promises of debt and academic burnout and crushing, ever-present stress hovering over his shoulders. It is so good to see him, and you are so grateful that he can be who he wants to be, do what he wants to do-

“Holy shit, who is that?”

He’s looking past you. You turn around and almost jump- 

Ransom stands in the kitchen, shirtless and rummaging through the cupboards. He waves at you.

You would think that someone like Ransom would exclusively sleep in, like, silk pajama sets, or something, but at least he’s in sweatpants- however low-rise they might be, however loosely knotted the drawstring is. It’s better than nothing, at least- what if he had walked out in nothing?

When you turn back to the screen, you catch a glimpse of yourself in your camera feed- you look absolutely mortified.

You are absolutely mortified. This is the start of what can only be a nightmare.

“Are you dating that guy?” your brother asks incredulously. He’s still staring at Ransom with his jaw hanging loose. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” you say forcefully, without thinking. “That’s, um... “

Hopelessly, you gesture back towards him, trying to come up with the words. Nothing feels right in your mouth- every title you can come up with is too consequential, too heavy.

“...That’s Ransom.”

“Weird name,” your brother says, and grins.

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp. “I know.”

“Hey,” Ransom says, from the back, and continues to loudly open and close the cupboards- what the fuck is he even looking for? You don’t keep enough shit in there to warrant this much noise- he’s doing this for theatrics.

“I think I’m going to go,” you say loudly. “Love you.”

“Bye,” your brother says, and he’s grinning stupidly, like a madman.

You disconnect and feel like you might faint.

Not your boyfriend, right?

“Was that your brother?” Ransom asks, casually, finally finding what he was looking for- two mugs. There is no way that he didn’t come across them earlier. 

“Yeah- yes,” you say shakily. It feels like someone has filled your brain with fizzy water.

There’s a few boys your brother has met over the years, but you’ve always been careful. Because an introduction is like making a statement- it’s like saying that this person you’re with is important enough to you that they’re going to overlap, exist in more than just one part of your life.

But Ransom is a catastrophe of a person- you can barely handle him as he is. How could you ever have him as anything more?

He goes through the cupboards, again, and finds a box of teabags. “The one studying abroad?”

“I only have one brother,” you snap.

“Okay,” he says, totally unbothered, surprising you. He’s not a morning person in the slightest- why is he being so cordial? “Where do you keep your kettle?”

“Second cupboard on the right,” you say, and bury your head in your hands.

He looks at you. He is so many things, but never kind, until now. His hair, in its adorable bedhead, flops over his eyes. Before, it was only almost, but now, you think, he looks completely innocent, like the type of guy you could give kisses without feeling nervous, the type of guy you wouldn’t deny as your boyfriend.

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with you?

At the end of the day, he’s always there- you’re exclusive, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough to deserve a title?

He finds the kettle, and then sifts through the box. He sorts through different flavors with a gentle precision you’ve never seen before- is this really him? Is he the type of person that is gentle and precise?

The uneven smattering of blue-black bruises on your thighs say no.

You’re so confused that your head hurts.

“None of these flavors are any good,” Ransom says, and shakes his head. His hair shines in the morning light. “Earl Grey- who the hell drinks Earl Grey?”

“Don’t insult my tea like that,” you say, and he looks back at you and gives you a brilliant flash of a smile.

If he’s bothered at all by your denial, he never brings it up.

*** He’s too far gone.

He’s in freefall, feeling weak- he’s fucking succumbed.

To you. To your comebacks and the world-weary gaze you have of everything, to your nonsensical collection of plants and your painfully unattractive basketball shorts, to the way you laugh too loud and too little, to the way you say his name, where he can never tell if you’re happy with him or exasperated-

It’s wrong. 

But, he thinks, so are all of these other things, like drugs and alcohol and blowing money on shit he doesn’t need- and you make him feel better than any of those things ever have, so why should anybody have a problem with it? A week goes by after you tell your brother that he isn’t your boyfriend- and it doesn’t bother him, because he’s never wanted that title in the first place, never has- but it obviously bothers you. 

You’re disappointed in yourself, because you think you’re supposed to be better than him, because you’re so smart and he is so terrible.

He hopes that that’s not how you actually think. It hurts him to0 much to even consider it, and so he doesn’t, and so he thinks of how to keep his hold on you, and then he thinks of why he even wants to-

The truth is too apparent to deny.

After a week, he calls.

***

He’s very slow.

Not tired- just consumed with the sudden need to savor things. When you let yourself into his arms, Ransom treats you like you’re fragile.

“What’s up with you?” you ask, and as he stares, your voice reduces to something small. You go timid when his eyes are on yours, he realizes, and the thought sends a thrill through his body- he slowly rocks you, to calm himself.

Your shirt is off and you wear a bra with a small lace trim- not racy, but very cute- and he just keeps on staring.  

Wow, he thinks. He fucked up good.

“Nothing,” he says, and moves one hand from your waist- he has you in his lap, straddling him- up to the top of your neck. He trails down and over to your collarbone, hooking a finger into your bra strap.

You laugh, breathy and indecent.

He lifts it, subtly, and you whine, and he bites back his own.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and kisses your neck. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Ransom,” you gasp, with your hands splayed over his back. He slowly skims his hand over, to your back, feeling every little thing, dip and contour and curve, everything- and then unhooks it, and you are bared to him and he is breathless.

He takes you by the shoulders and twists, to bring you down, to pin you against the bed. Your comforter is dark blue, like ocean water.

Your eyes are endless, like ocean water.

“Are you upset about something?” 

Your chest rises and falls and he almost reaches for the waistband of your underwear, but stops himself. He presses a wet kiss to one of your breasts, and you arch into his mouth. He feels like you know every single secret of his, when he has told you none.

You know by accident that he’s ticklish. That’s it.

“I’m not,” he says. “I promise.”

He bends low to kiss down the length of your body, repositions his hands to hold your waist. He thinks that this is more intense- it is just his mouth and your skin and the sound of your breath hitching.

He still has it put together, remarkably well- unfathomably well.

“I feel like there’s something you’re- ah- not telling me, honey.”

That does it.

He grips your waist harder, in the way he knows you always like, so that tomorrow he will be able to retrace his steps, follow the blue-

“Say that again,” he says, and presses a soft kiss over you- even through your underwear, with its delicate lace trim, he can feel how wet and wanting and ready you are for him.

“Say- fuck- say what?”

Your hand flails, for a second, before you thread it through his hair, and yank. It hurts, pleasantly.

He hooks his fingers into your waistband and shimmies it down your thighs, and you instinctively spread your legs. He puts his mouth to your slit, slicker than he imagined, and the heady arousal rushing through his mind- and everywhere else- is nearly enough to make him forget what you even said-

He is quite possibly drunk off of you alone, and he wants to slap himself, and, like, press you so close into him that you forget your way out.

With the spare glow of one lamp, you look like you’re made of gold.

He breaks away from you for a terrible moment to strip, and with one hand he teases your clit, and with the other he pumps himself, hard, once, twice, three times in anticipation-

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, and comes back up to cup your face once more, and slips his hand back down into you at the same time, with his cock hard against your thigh- this is all quite slippery- the game you’re playing at and the risk he’s trying to take-

“Honey,” you say, and you’re smiling deliriously, but shakily. “Honey honey honey.”

“You’re killing me,” he says, and his voice, in a moment of terrible, vulnerable, unspeakable betrayal, cracks. 

“Good,” you say, but your voice is all wobbly as he lines himself up and roughly pushes into you, holding you a little tighter to keep you steady. “You deserve it.”

He kisses you openmouthed, with his teeth scraping- it’s rough and jarring, the way you always take it. Against his mouth, you swear incoherently, stringing together a litany of curses with his name thrown in between, and goddamn him- it makes him smile.

He wastes no time- he can’t be patient any longer, not when he has you under him like this, and so he goes fast, snapping into you at a bruising pace and keeping his mouth close, and rubbing at your clit, to overstimulate you and make everything faster, harsher, more immediate-

When you come you always say his name, thickly with gravel in your voice, and gasp like the breath has been stolen from your lungs. This time, when you are so far gone that he thinks you’re beyond the realms of sound, and sight, too, with your eyes tightly screwed shut, he says it, for the sake of himself.

“I think I love you-”

[sillyrabbit81]

Her Heavy Cross

Summary: Three years after tragedy hits, Lana she decides to start dating again. She meets Will through a dating app and they begin an online romance. After months of constant requests, Lana relents and agrees to meet and go on an irl date with Will. But is Will who he says he is? Lana is quickly pulled into an intense relationship forcing her to confront her tragic past. Will Lana face it or will she close her heart forever?

Pairing: OMC x OFC

Word Count: approx 2.7k

Warnings: swearing, angst, drunk, motion of death

Authors Note: The story started as a Henry Cavill fanfiction but I changed it to be an original character, but shades of Henry are still there. Hope you enjoy the story and thanks for reading.

Part 2 Part 4

Part 3

In less than ten minutes, we had pulled up to Liam's house. Liam paid for the taxi too. I kind of argued this time, but he pointed out he asked me to his house. I didn't get too stubborn about it.

Liam was living in a four-story terrace house, recently renovated by the looks of it. It was painted white with black wrought iron lacework, and it was beautiful. The front door and windows were painted black. It appeared to be the twin of the house that shared its wall.

We entered through the dining room, and I realised it was actually the two houses renovated together. The inside was modern with original heritage touches. The floors were light timber, and the walls were white. The ceilings had plaster and cornice so beautifully ornate that restoration must have taken ages. The room had an imposing black marble fireplace and a deep brown, almost black wooden dining table set on a grey shag rug in the room's centre. A huge abstract painting of bright pinks, greens and grey hung on the wall.

"Wow, this must have cost a mint!" I quickly covered my mouth. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me."

"It's ok. I was pleasantly surprised by the house too. The studio got the house for me I...." Liam was interrupted by a massive dog bounding into the room.

Liam got down and roughhoused with the dog for a bit. Wow, he was a monster! I'd seen a picture of Cole before that "Will" had sent me, but I wasn't quite prepared for how big he was. He was almost completely black with some brown above his eyes and ears. His paws were brown too, and his belly was grey. He wasn't any particular breed, apparently a rescue dog. I thought of my bull terrier cross cattle dog at home. This dog would eat him for breakfast, and Perrin wasn't small.

Cole's pink tongue lolled, and he panted as Liam moved from side to side. Cole imitated Liam's actions jumping about. He barked a couple of times as he got excited by the play. The noise reverberated through the quiet house.

"Shhh, Cole, people are sleeping." Liam softly admonished. Then his voice became stern. "Sit," he ordered before patting him. Liam looked at me and said, "Lana, this is Cole. Cole, Lana."

"Hi, Cole. You're much bigger in person." I could hear the slight tremor in my voice. Liam must have sensed I was nervous and came over to stand near me. Cole padded over and sniffed at me. Gingerly, I put my hand by my side and let him approach me. Cole nuzzled my hand, and I gave him a pat on the side of his neck. I let out a sigh of relief.

"I was worried he wouldn't like me. I love dogs but always get nervous around new ones." Liam put his head to the side, asking a silent question. "I had a dingo go me one time, and I've never really gotten over it." I squatted down and gave Cole more pats. "I think this guy is ok, though."

"Yeah, he's a good boy. How is Perrin, by the way?"

"He's ok." I sighed, "he's just old. The poor little guy can't get onto my bed anymore and sleeps in my lounge room now. I kinda miss it, but I have slept a bit better."

Liam gave Cole some more pats and told him to go sit. "Come on. I'll make you a tea or coffee if you'd like." I agreed a coffee would be perfect right now. I needed something to sober me up.

I sat at the kitchen bench while Liam made coffees. Cole sat by my stool, and I patted his head while watching Liam. Liam had kicked off his shoes and was walking around in his bare feet. It was amazing to see him so much more relaxed here than while we were out. He really did appear to enjoy being at home.

As Liam made our coffee, he moved with a grace that surprised me. His movements seemed economical and rigid but hinted at the power beneath them. He seemed coiled and ready to explode at any moment. It was like he was dancing the pasodoble, his body moving to an invisible beat. Images of Strictly Ballroom came into my mind, and I found myself humming Love is in the Air. I was drunker than I thought.

When Liam was done, he led me over to his large L shaped lounge, and I sat. Liam flopped down next to me, casually laying back and popped his feet up on the coffee table. Cole sat on a mat that was clearly his.

I sipped my coffee, not knowing what else to do. Suddenly the quiet between Liam and I felt awkward.

Liam and I spoke at the same time, "What.." "So..."

We both laughed. Liam indicated I should proceed. "Well, I was going to ask what brought you out to Sydney, for real, not the Will answer."

"A new project. I'm going to be filming a television show." Liam proceeded to tell me about his project, working with some people from Netflix on a fantasy/sci-fi series adaptation. He was so animated when telling me that it was obvious that he loved his job.

It would be his first television series and was to be more romance heavy than anything he had done in years. Liam explained that he is filming here because the story was written and developed in Australia. "If it works out, I'll probably be based out of Australia for the next few years. I'll go home to England for a few months during breaks, maybe do some small film roles. It's hard with Cole, though, because every trip into Australia means 10 days quarantine for him."

"Oh yeah, and you don't want a Pistol and Boo situation." Liam looked confused, and I explained about Amber Heard and Johnny Depp smuggling their dogs into Australia.

"I thought you said you don't follow celebrity gossip."

"I don't, but that was big news, hilarious really. It was on every bit of media in Australia, and then they had to make this cringe video apology. I almost felt bad for them." Then I yawned, suddenly all the alcohol had lost its buzz, and I was just tired. "The coffee doesn't seem to be doing its job. What time is it?"

Liam looked at his watch, "11.30."

"Yeah, it's late. I should get home. I don't want to turn into a pumpkin." I cringed. Fuck.

"You don't have to go. You could stay here." I raised my eyebrows. "I do have more than one bed if that's what you want." Liam leaned over to me and placed a hand on my cheek, rubbing his thumb against my skin.

I looked at my nearly empty coffee mug. I swirled the dregs around the bottom as if it were tea leaves, and they would tell me what to do. "I don't want to go home yet, but I don't want to go too fast, either."

"That's ok."

I didn't move. I wanted to stay. Ten years ago, I would have stayed, but Andy's face flashed into my thoughts. I knew it was ridiculous. Andy had been gone for over three years now. But every time I even contemplated being with someone, I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Liam was waiting for an answer, but I didn't know what to tell him. 'It's not you, it's me' is such a tired cliche, but sometimes it's true.

"Lana, it's ok. If you want to go home, that's absolutely fine. I'll even call you an Uber."

I felt my eyes sting, and I looked away from Liam. My bloody traitorous tear ducts giving me away. I shouldn't have drunk so much. Alcohol always makes me emotional.

"Fuck." I swore under my breath. I angrily wiped at my eyes, thankful I had used waterproof mascara. My eyeliner was a different story, though, and black streaked my fingers. I asked Liam where his bathroom was, and I got up, only half listening to his directions. I found it quickly. It was only through the doorway into a little enclave with a powder room, stairs and a lift. What kind of bloody house has a lift?

I closed the door and sat on the toilet seat. I knew enough not to try to stop the tears, so I just let them go. Bloody hell, Andy. Why did he fucking have to leave me? Why the fuck did you have to fucking die. Goddammit. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I do this to Andy? I wanted to scream, to punch something, to throw something. I needed another cigarette. Fuck you, Andy. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck Liam.

As I always did when I thought of Andy, I remembered the last time I saw him. His sweet face looked down at me as he kissed me goodbye. His deep brown hair fell like a curtain around us, hiding our kiss from the world. Cheekily I had slipped my tongue into his mouth, and he had groaned as he pulled away. He told me to save it for when he got back and would be as quick as he could be. I had thanked him for filling in for me. He winked and said to thank him later. Then he left.

When I was able to, I started to take deep breaths. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I could feel the tightness in my chest slowly ease. Breathing became more comfortable, and the tears stopped. I looked at my hands, and I was able to release the fists I was making. My nails hadn't broken the skin this time, but small red crescents remained etched into my palms.

I waited a few minutes longer to make sure the moment had passed. It wasn't Andy's fault he died, and I knew that. It's also not my fault that I wanted someone to love again. Sleeping with someone other than Andy felt like crossing the Rubicon, no going back.

The fact was there is no going back, no Andy to go back to, even if I wanted. In my head, it still felt like a betrayal. But it wasn't. And Liam wasn't just anybody. He was a guy I had spent weeks talking to, getting to know, and although he looks different, he is still acting as I had expected. I saw a potential future here. Did I really want to let my past ruin it?

I cleared my throat and stood up, preparing myself to see the horror that looked back at me. Ugh, it wasn't great. My eyeliner had given me panda eyes, and the tears had created streaks down my cheeks.

Getting a tissue and blew my nose, and decided there was nothing else for it, I washed my makeup off my face. I avoided washing my eye makeup off though, that was a mess I just didn't have the products for, so I just wiped under my eyes and cleaned it up. I binned my tissues, washed my hands, took a few more deep breaths and prepared myself to face Liam.

I opened the door and walked straight into something solid that made me bounce back into the bathroom like a tennis ball. Hands caught me before I hit the floor, and I found myself in Liam's arms.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" He asked.

"No," I was flustered again. I spent all that time calming down to just be in a state two seconds later. "I just didn't expect you to be outside the door. Jesus, you're like a brick shit house."

Liam didn't laugh. "I was worried about you."

"I'm fine," I lied.

Liam didn't look convinced. He let me go and ran a hand through his hair. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not right now."

Liam nodded. "I'll get you that Uber." He pulled his phone out.

That's it then. All in all, it wasn't the worst date I'd been on since Andy died. Actually, it was probably the best. Liam, at least, was a guy I was attracted to and didn't appear to be a man child. He seemed to like me, even when I cried over another man. Although I doubt Liam knew that's why I was crying. I had told him I was married before and he had died, but that was only once and a long time ago, and we hadn't discussed it again.

The tears had done their job, and a calmness came over me now. I had said goodbye to Andy, and I was ready to take that last step to move on. That was why I started to date again; to open my heart, I was ready.

I put my hand on Liam's wrist, "if you still want me to, I'd like to stay."

"Are you sure? I probably shouldn't have asked in the first place. I let my other head think for me." Though I laughed at his candid admission, Liam's face was serious. "I'm not joking. I want you, and I didn't think about how you must be feeling. The whole fake profile thing must still be weighing on your mind. And all of the other problems that go along with being with me. You should have more time to think about it."

And my dead husband, let's not forget that. I didn't say that out loud, thank God. "I will have time to think about it. But right now, I want..." Shit. I've gone shy again. Just fucking tell him you want him too! "I mean, can't we just have a bit of a cuddle and a snog?"

Liam's lips twitched as he tried to suppress a smile, "a cuddle and a snog?"

I nodded.

Smiling, Liam put his phone back in his pocket. "I think I can arrange that."

Without further warning, Liam grabbed my wrists in one hand and pinned them to the wall above my head. His other hand snaked around my waist, holding me to him, his hips rolling into mine. His eyes were fierce and focused on mine. I  closed my eyes, the sensations too much, and my breath quickened.

I heard Liam say through gritted teeth, "It's taken everything I had not to do this to you since I saw you at the bar. I wanted to take you then and there." His voice seemed to ease, the words coming easier for him. "You don't know how much I've wanted to touch you. To know you are real." Then he whispered, "and you are. Real. You're as beautiful tonight as you were in your pictures."

I opened my eyes and found Liam staring at me, and his intensity was nearly frightening. He pulled me tighter against himself, his fingertips digging into me while he crushed me against his body. I felt his hardness against my hip, and I couldn't stop myself from rubbing against it. This time Liam closed his eyes, and I felt the rush of blood to my centre.

Liam opened his eyes, desire naked on his face, "Kiss me," he said.

I met his soft and warm lips. I felt Liam's groan rumble in his vast chest, and kissing him again, my lips scraped against his whiskers. Liam kissed me back now. His tongue pushed past my lips, and found mine. His tongue playfully danced in my mouth. Liam's hand left my arse and started to feel my hips, my waist and then my breasts. He cupped them and gently squeezed. My breath caught as his hand skimmed past my nipple. His palm created friction against the lace of my bra, and tingles radiated through my body.

His lips left mine and went to my neck. He kissed and sucked at me, moving down to the top of my breasts. I heard him take a deep breath into my chest as his cheeks rubbed against my skin. His kisses became harder against my chest and moved back up to my neck, his teeth nipping at me as he went. Even though he had me captured, I wriggled against him, my hips moved uncontrollably, my breath uneven and weak.

Liam pulled away, still firmly gripping one of my hands. "Come with me." Liam led me to the lift.

"Where are we going?"

"To my bedroom." I pulled against him, forcing him to stop. "Sweetheart, I promise I won't fuck you until you ask."

My legs turned to jelly. I wanted to fall to my knees and beg despite my reservations. I nodded and followed Liam into the lift.

Part 4

[betsyandmaxwellandduchessohmy]

this isn't even an imagine request but it can be if you want it to be; AU's where dadsona is actually a Fairy Godfather, and not a very good one at that; they resort more to actual fathering than magic most of the time, but one or more of the dads catches them in the act of something they just CAN'T explain away.

((I'm so love for magical au's. How could I not use this bad boy as a prompt?

Decided to give Brian the spotlight on this one, because there’s really not a lot of Brian content. Which is a damn shame! I didn’t enjoy Brian’s route as much as the other dads, because I felt like the competitive streak the route used for the dadsona was more mean-spirited than my own irl competitive streak, but I love Brian as a person! He’s so sweet and gentle and tbh I wish my dad was more like Brian. I have dad envy for Daisy. There. I said it.

A little late on the promised time, but in all fairness to me, I work a late shift at work tonight and had to sleep late so I don’t fall asleep on the production line.

I kind of borrowed the baby teeth thing from the movie Toothless, which I haven’t seen since I was ten or less but had a profound impact on my childhood. I am a grown ass woman, and I still have one of my baby teeth. There was just no adult tooth underneath it, so I have to take extra good care of it. So! If that’s a canon rule for toothfairies/magic, I have a pass to see it!))

~~~

Make A Wish

You sighed softly, kicking a bit of sand as you walked down the beach. It was a beautiful afternoon - a spattering of clouds in the sky, but nothing big enough to block the sun’s bright rays for more than a minute. You had been planning to spend the evening at the baseball fields, watching Craig’s girls’ game, but the other team’s coach had called, saying their bus had broken down and asking to reschedule. Craig said the girls were annoyed, but that they would certainly survive the ordeal of waiting two more days to crush the Pine Place Hashbrowns into the dust. 

So you found yourself with nothing to do. You had been expecting to give some kind of pep-talk, rally the girl’s spirits when they started to lose, and cheer them on to victory. Now there was no guarantee they would still need your help, if indeed they ever would have.

Your powers were chancey that way. You didn’t know if you were doing the fairy-god type of fathering until your wings popped out. There was always a pull guiding you to where you were needed, and once you found the key element of your newest task, your wings materialized, letting you know you were on the right track. They were sort of a radar, in their own way. And of course, this drew attention from children and the occasional tween, since they were the only ones who could see the wings when they appeared. It had taken you until Amanda lost her last baby tooth to realize that that was the defining factor. Once a kid lost their last baby tooth, they were blind to this bit of magic. 

As if on cue, your wings fluttered up, a pale iridescent green with swirling tails that stretched halfway down your calves, just in time to feel a bump to your hip that nearly bowled you over.

An undignified sound escaped your throat as you stumbled, and you looked down at your assailant - an enormous cocoa brown mastiff, with a dusky brown muzzle and ears. She looked up at you with droopy eyes, almost expectant, just waiting for you to do something. Offering your hand, she gave you a sniff and a nuzzle. “So what’s your name, gorgeous?” you asked, taking a knee so you could rub at her face. If this beauty needed a home, you’d be more than happy to provide one, but that didn’t seem quite right. Besides, she was wearing a collar - return her to her home? Except the collar only held a tag that assured a rabies shot, the back of which gave the address for the animal shelter.

But ‘home’ felt right. Looking into the dog’s dark eyes, it struck you, and you smiled. “Can I trust you to follow me?” you asked, taking a step and looking back to indicate that she should.

She looked at you blankly and you sighed. “What if I promise you treats when we get there?”

You took another step and the dog began to follow, and your grin returned. You started heading back to the cul-de-sac, the mastiff at your heels. “Duchess Cordelia? Duchess!”

Glancing back, you noticed a person with dark hair, looking rather out of sorts and clutching a bag of dog treats. It almost looked like-

You shook your head and kept walking. Damien wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a polo shirt.

In any case, they hadn’t seemed to have noticed you, so you kept walking, carefully ducking out of sight of the shelter employee

“The Duchess Cordelia, huh? I think it suits you,” you hummed, grinning at the oversized pup. “Well, Duchess, let’s get you adopted, huh?”

~~~

It was only a short walk back to the cul-de-sac, but you were grateful that working out with Craig seemed to have made it a little easier. Flying would have been easiest, had you not had to worry about being spotted, and carrying two-hundred pounds of dog.

The Duchess, seeming to know better than you what she was doing, trotted right up to Hugo’s door and began fiddling with the knob. She probably would have gotten it open, too, had it not been locked. You’d kind of been hoping Hugo would be home so you could talk him into adopting before the shelter person found their way here, but the loud music blasting from the upper floor said Ernest was probably home, and you would take what you could get. “You’ve got the right idea,” you grinned, brows furrowing nervously. “Normally I’d say ‘a little breaking and entering never hurt anyone, but. Well.” Shaking your head, you lifted your hand, waving her away from the knob, now plastered in drool and mud. Luckily, with a little zap of magic, the door creaked open, and that was all the Duchess needed to get inside. 

“MC?”

You jumped, whipping around to spot Brian, looking at you with all the concern one expected of someone who just witnessed one neighbor let a strange dog into another neighbor’s house. “Can I ask why you just-” “Duchess!?”

You groaned, grabbing Brian’s arm and hauling the larger man to the side of the house. When he tried to ask what you were doing again, you shushed him, wings fluttering nervously as you peered around the side of the building. Polo person seemed to note the open door with a groan of their own, moving quickly to the front step and knocking politely before stepping inside. “MC, what is going on?” Brian demanded. You shushed him, peering through the window. 

“I’ll explain later. For now, I just need you to trust me,” you added, whispering your plea for patience. You expected Brian to saunter off to call the police, but instead, he sidled up beside you, both of you poking your heads up over the window sill to look in on the scene. The Duchess seemed to have left the sitting room in tact, but she definitely did not like the leash that Polo Person-

“Is that Damien?”

Holy shit, that is Damien.

“... I didn’t know he wore polo shirts.”

She didn’t seem to like the idea of Damien leashing her.

Things were looking cagey; Damien seemed to be trying to reason with the Duchess, until a flash of orange drew your eye, and suddenly, the Duchess blew past Damien, tackling Ernest to the ground and eating a pizza roll from his hand “Sweet success,” you grinned, until you caught sight of your wings out of the corner of your eye. Was there something else-? “So you want to explain to me why you put a stray dog in Hugo’s house and count his son getting tackled as a ‘success’?”

Ah. So there was. “And maybe also the wings?” What.

“I mean, I’m not one to judge, and they look like they’re very high-quality, but I don’t think-” “You can see them?” Brian seemed jarred by your interruption, but even more so by the way the words “Dad can we keep her” (And when did Hugo get home?) made them fold down and vanish off your back.

“I mean- I could? A second ago?” he murmured, bushy brows furrowing in confusion as he leaned back as if to check that they truly were gone. 

“It’s… a long story,” you confessed, running a hand through your hair. “Why don’t we… get out of Hugo’s yard? I’ll explain everything.”

The two of you sneaked back out to the sidewalk, a little hand-wave and a whispered spell on your part kept the men on the front step from noticing you, but Hugo seemed thrilled with the situation, excited to have his son call him ‘dad’ again.”

Brian seemed befuddled and a little frustrated, but you walked him back to your house and sat in the lawn chairs in your backyard.

“So, as much as I would love to simplify it down to “I found a home for a dog and a dog for a home”, you being able - to see me, like that… it complicates things.”

“How so?” he asked, drawing your shy gaze. “Seems fairy straightforward to me.” Any other time, that would have made you crack up. Even now it drew a chuckle out of you, but for the most part, you were solemn. “Does it now?” “Well, you did what needed doing, in an odd sense and with an admittedly strange method, but it did seem to work. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Hugo smile like that when talking about Ernest.”

You couldn’t help but smile, glad to have had a hand in your neighbor’s joy.

“I just… this can’t really be real, can it? I mean, that very nearly looked like magic,”

“It was,” you sighed, drawing his eye. “What i don’t understand is how you saw my wings. Only kids ever see them! People lose the ability to see magic when they lose their baby teeth - it’s a representation of childhood innocence thing.”

“I still have a baby tooth. There was no adult tooth underneath, so if that’s the rule… I didn’t exactly break it…” You sighed, taking a long dredge of pop.

“If that’s the case, I’m surprised you haven’t seen anything before. We’re not exactly subtle around adults, since they usually can’t see any magical shenaniganery.”

“Okay. Well, the wings are gone now, so… what’s that about?”

“They become visible when the job starts and vanish when it ends,” you explained, resting your elbows on your legs and folding your hands. “I told you I travel around town for work, and that I worked with kids, both of which are true.”

“You said you were a child psychologist.” “I said no such thing. I told you about my job and let you draw your own conclusions. The actual, official title is Fairy Godparent. The wings are… sort of a radar. When there’s something I can do to help someone who needs it, they become visible and act as a sort of calming aura, to let kids know that they can trust me. Sometimes it’s granting a wish kind of help that they need, for bigger stuff, but most of the time… most of the time, they just need someone to talk to. To tell them it’s going to be alright.” You gave a shrug, summoning a few cans of soda from the garage and offering one to Brian. Who accepted dumbly and looked at the unlit firepit as he absorbed all he’d been told. 

“So… Wand? Crown? Magic?”

“The crown and wand are a uniform thing, I only wear them to meetings and evaluations.” “Fairies have meetings and evaluations?” “There are offices, too. Real similar to mortal offices, except everyone has wings,” you chuckled. Sighing softly, you took a sip from your can. He did the same. 

He pestered you with questions for the next half an hour; Are there other fairy god parents in Maple Bay? Did Amanda know? Was her other parent a fairy too? How well did being a fairy pay? You answered them dutifully; Yes, we all work in precinct-like sectors, she’s always known, Alex was a mortal, it pays well enough.

“You think the dog is a good plan for Ernest?” he asked finally, after you finally caved and lit a fire to show off a little magic. 

“It’ll give him a chance to be responsible, and hopefully give him and Hugo something to bond over,” you hummed, finishing off your can. Brian chuckled, scratching at his beardy cheek with a thoughtful look. “You alright there big guy?”

“I was just thinking…” “Uh oh, that’s worrying.” “Watch it, MC.” “Sorry,” you gave him an apologetic smile. He pouted lightly at you, but it melted into a smile of his own a moment later. “What were you thinking?”

“I probably should’ve figured something magical was going on a lot sooner,” he stated, swirling the last of his soda in the can and watching you out of the corner of his eye. His grin went a little cheeky. “There always was something enchanting about you.”

You would have spit out your soda if you’d had any left. Instead you choked on air, looking at him with wide eyes and red cheeks. You ducked your head, trying to hide your smile.

The stars had begun to dot the twilight sky. You heard a deep ‘boof’ a few houses down, and somehow, in years of performing magic big and small, this was the first time you were the one to be bewitched.

[englivesandzero-sloane]

Broken (Google IRL X Reader Oneshot)

!!!WARNING! THIS STORY CONTAINS SELF HARM, SUICIDE, ABUSE, AND DEPRESSION! DO NOT READ IF THESE THINGS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE!!!

     You ran towards where your "boyfriend" was doing... Something... In your kitchen. As you ran around the corner, the man in question turned, his eyebrow raising in confusion.

   "Love, I thought I told you to stay in bed. Today is... Special." He cooed, smiling mischievously.

     You huffed, pulling a pout across your (s/t) face. The man's deep, chocolate orbs flickered to your pouted lips briefly before meeting your (e/c) eyes once more. He chuckled, walking over to you and kissing the crown of hair on your head.

   "My sweet, you know my primary objective is to love you ceaselessly. Your pampering comes first and foremost." He smiled.

     You blushed, blinking up at him before smiling warmly. He smiled back. However, as his brown eyes locked with yours lovingly, you could have sworn you saw something...

     Something red. But then you shrug it off.

     It never dawned on you that granting the lovesick male Admin Privileges last week would have any consequences.

   "Happy Valentine's Day, love." He smiled.

|TIMESKIP||

     You hummed, running your fingers through Google's dark hair. The robotic man made a soft humming sound, his eyes closed. As you continued to caress his scalp you took note of the soft glow coming from the 'G' in the center of his chest.

   "I like this." You say, slowly, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around his shoulders, smiling.

   "As do I, (Y/n)." He replied, his voice a deep, smooth baritone.

     You smiled wider, moving to sit in his lap. The android stiffened at this, and his eyes flashed red again, staying like that for more than two seconds. But you didn't see this. Instead, you were too busy nuzzling into the side of his neck, sighing in content. After a few moments, he realized his error and forced his eyes back to their cocoa coloration. As you pulled away, you picked up fate traces of red in his face from his prior rage, but you simply thought he was blushing.

   "I love you, Google." You beamed, kissing his lips softly.

   "I.... Love you too, my Valentine." He replied, his voice slightly cold.

||TIMESKIP||

     You sat on the sofa, watching a miscellaneous show. From the bathroom, you could hear Google showering.

     The android had been, over the past few years... Changing... Somehow. Back in your first year with him, when you'd given him Root Access, he'd lavished you in love, showering you with affection. He was just so... Loving.

     You'd fallen so, so hard for the sweet, gentle side of the man who most only saw as cold, calculated, emotionless.

     You were snapped out of your thoughts when a wet-haired, shirtless android walked into the room, his eyes locked on yours.

     That was another thing to change. The once warm, chocolatey pools of kindness had... Morphed. They'd slowly gained more and more of a blood-red coloration. It scared your friends off. You hated seeing so many close friends leave, but you just couldn't bear the thought of leaving the mechanical man. So you stayed. You slowly became more and more... Despondant.

     You never interacted with anyone other than Google. The communications between you and your fellow humans were always short and cautious -- Google had started noting on how humanity was slowly dwindling from the earth. Every day, he'd tell you of a new, recent school shooting, or of murder, or rape. It scared you, scarred you... Paranoid you. You rarely left your own home anymore.

     Instead, Google had offered to take over running the necessary errands -- getting food, paying for things, buying clothes... He was making you dependent. On him.

     In fact, that's what he was preparing for currently.

   "(Y/n), I'll be out for longer than usual. Now, I want you to do is lock the house, block every entry so that no one can get in, and then go to the basement. Lock yourself down there. I've already stored several years-supply of food and water. There are several blankets, candles, first-aid kits, and clothes down there as well. Do not, under any circumstances, come out until I come to get you." He stated, eyes hard.

     Confused and scared, you nodded.

   "Wh-when will you be c-coming back?" You sniffled, tears pricking your eyes at the thought of losing the one person -well, being- you could trust.

   "I don't know. Bu-but I'll be gone for quite a whi-while." He grinned, his voice suddenly glitching.

     Shocked, you stared apprehensively at the man, but, reluctantly, nodded.

   "P-promise me you'll come back? A-and then... We could get married? O-or at least be 'official'?" You pleaded, eyes desperate.

     The android simply stared at you before turning around. And walking away. You stared after him, helpless. Once he was gone, you reluctantly followed his instructions...

     If only you knew what he was doing outside...

   "H-happy Valentine's Day..." You whispered to yourself.

||TIMESKIP||

     Distant screams could be heard, even from your fortified basement. Well, bomb shelter would be the better term, but who cares? Trembling, you hugged your knees to your chest, gazing around with teary eyes. Luckily, Google had thought ahead to give you a phone and some other electronics...

     But he'd cleverly kept your internet locked. He'd even restricted the data, so you couldn't even get on the internet through there.

     It'd been nearly three months since you'd first gone down. You hadn't seen the light of day since. Instead, you were stuck in this gloomy hellhole until Google decided to return to you -- if he ever even planned to.

     Sighing, you decided sleep would be your best option, as it kept the nightmarish screams -that you knew not the reason for- at bay.

To be continued....