#having trouble sleeping is endlessly much better when you can listen to the rain

[pumpking64]

it’s been raining so much this week and it’s been an absolutely blessing for my mental health. bringing me a bit more calm and peace

[rowansparrow]

By Any Other Name: Sequel Announcement

I am SUPER excited to announce the sequel to By Any Other Name: What Blooms in Thunder!

(VERY special thanks to @hockeyjedi13​ who designed the banner and the one for BAON, and @fat-zygerrian​ who has listened to me ramble about this ENDLESSLY and has helped me come up with so many incredible ideas.)

Your excitement over this series has meant the absolute world to me, and I cannot WAIT to finish BAON and continue to take you on this journey through WBIT next. Thank you all SO, SO much. I hope you are as excited for this as I am. :) 

For now, read on for a sneak peek at what’s waiting for you in Part Two: What Blooms in Thunder.

***

The halls were dark, the lights were low, and the only sound was the patter of the incessant rain drumming out a marching song against the many windows.

Ninety-Nine had spent many nights staring out those very windows, gazing up into the stars, wondering what the world looked like from up there, wondering after his brothers, and reciting their names, one by one, over and over again, hoping they were all alright.

He knew better than to linger in the hallways, lest one of the patrols found him staring absently out the windows instead of being asleep in the maintenance quarters, or performing some type of task, not just daydreaming. He stooped slightly, picking up his mop again and starting off down the hallway.

And that’s when it began.

It was soft, at first. Nothing more than a stifled little wheeze. Then louder, blossoming into a cough. It was muffled, as though someone was desperately trying to hold it in.

Ninety-Nine looked up, gazing over the sleeping pods lining the wall above him. The cough sounded again, from one of the smaller pods near the ground, and Ninety-Nine wandered over cautiously. He was in the cadet’s wing. The ade. He wasn’t a stupid man, no matter how many people seemed to assume otherwise. He knew he could be… frightening to the ade. His hunched back and drooping face wasn’t exactly a comforting sight, especially looming over you in the dead of night long after lights out.

He started to turn away again, but the cough sounded again, much rougher this time, almost painful, and Ninety-Nine couldn’t help himself. He turned towards the offending pod, pressing a button as the little thing slid open.

The child on the bunk gasped, curling in on himself as he fought off another rasping cough. His cheeks were rosy and bright, eyes watering slightly as he tried to stifle the noise. The poor thing looked terrified.

“Er… hi.” Ninety-Nine began slowly. “It’s alright. You aren’t in trouble.” He soothed. “Are you alright?”

The child didn’t move, and he didn’t speak, but he coughed again. He was so small, his little body shaking with the force of the coughs, his long curly hair hanging in his eyes.

“What’s your name?” Ninety-Nine tried a different approach.

The little boy just shook his head. Ninety-Nine craned his neck to look at the holopad, glowing dimly along the inner door of the pod.

“CT-25-7673.” He read. “I’ve got a number too, you know. I’m Ninety-Nine.”

He took a step back, and reached for the boy. “Come on, lad. Let’s see if we can do something about that cough.”

The boy seemed to hesitate just slightly, but he scooted off the edge of the pod, his chubby little legs dangling for just a moment before finding his footing. He was dragging the blanket from his pod along behind him as he reached for Ninety-Nine’s hand.

The old clone smiled, taking it gently and leading the child down the hallway. “There we go.” He pressed a hand gently to the boy’s cheeks. “You’re warm. You’ve got rosy little cheeks.” He hummed, and bent a little lower, picking up the kid in his arms and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, carrying him down the hall. He couldn’t have been much older than two or three in standard years, he was still such a little thing.

He coughed again, the sound echoing in the empty halls, and Ninety-Nine rubbed his back gently, shuffling on down the hallway. “Hang in there, 7673. I’ve got just the thing.”

He peeked around to make sure the coast was clear, and smuggled the boy into the cafeteria. It had long since gone silent, but Ninety-Nine still had the access codes to the kitchen for cleaning purposes, and carried the child into the back, setting him on a counter top while he looked around.

“I’ve overheard some of the lessons for the medics.” He explained to the child. “They’ve said that honey tea can help with coughing fits. Not sure about your fever though… do they know you’re sick?”

The boy nodded, patting his own cheeks. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and he was missing a front tooth. “I got… rosy cheeks.” He said, and coughed again, rubbing at his chest.

“That you do.” Ninety-Nine chuckled. “Is that what they tell you, Rosy Cheeks?”

The boy nodded, his curls bouncing, and Ninety-Nine returned to him a few moments later with hot tea and honey.

“Drink this. All of it.” He instructed, brushing a hand over the child’s forehead to feel his temperature again. He pushed the boy’s curls out of the way, but one stubborn one fell back to the center.

“They’re going to make you cut your hair, little one.” Ninety-Nine warned. “But don’t worry. Once you leave, you can do whatever you want with it. Grow it out all you want.”

The boy nodded, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He was focused on his drink. When he finished, he smacked his lips together and handed the cup back to Ninety-Nine. “Thank you, Ori’vod.”

Ninety-Nine couldn’t help his smile. “Let’s get you back to bed, vod’ika.”

He started to reach for him to help him down off the counter, but the boy pushed his hands away. “I can do it!” He said firmly.

“Alright, my mistake.” Ninety-Nine chuckled, taking a step back as the child scooted to the edge of the counter, swinging his legs for a moment. 7673 hesitated, and held a hand out.

“Hold my hand, please.” He instructed.

Ninety-Nine was grinning now, and he took the boy’s hand, holding him steady as he jumped off the counter, landing on his feet.

“Thank you.” The boy grabbed his blanket again, wrapping it around his shoulders.

“You’re very welcome, Rosy Cheeks.”

The boy giggled, swinging his arms as he walked.

He didn’t let go of Ninety-Nine’s hand.

~

TAG LIST:  @fat-zygerrian @ladydiomede @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life @threevie @cheesemachine44 @bubblyacey @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @loverofclones @starwarsgarbage @hockeyjedi13 @crazygirlwithasword @dar-manda-rjct @gotomarvelgal @baba-fett @whore4rex @bubblegumcat229 @generalcannoli @hellothere501stlover @in-the-crosshairs @vaderthepotater @for-the-love-of-clones @babyhowzer​ @imrealatedtothe501st​ @chewychewyque​

[dindjarindiaries]

Mandoctober - October 18: Arvala-7

summary: You catch a half-asleep Din telling stories of Arvala-7 to the baby. (from this old prompt)

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x gn!reader

warnings: sleepy!din is back and better than ever

rating: G

word count: 928 (short ‘n’ sweet!)

mandoctober masterlist

october 18: arvala-7

You’ve been working on the Crest for nearly the entirety of the day when you finally close up your tool box. Din had really run into some trouble during your last flight, getting caught up in a skirmish that ended with the Crest roaring for mercy—and forcing an emergency landing on the nearest planet. Thankfully, it’s a fairly abandoned forest moon, and you’ve been able to fix up the ship as long as you’ve needed to without any safety concerns.

In all your months spent running with this Mandalorian and his adopted child, you’ve never heard the Crest so quiet before. You’re almost worried when you’re stepping back up the ramp and into the hull, nearly expecting both of them to be gone—having escaped somewhere to run around or do something active. You hope that’s not the case, because you know the only thing Din needs is rest. He’s been going job after job endlessly and restlessly, taking whatever he can pick up that’s not Guild work. It’s been chipping away at him slowly yet surely, and you know if he keeps exhausting himself too much, he’s going to be the next thing you have to fix.

Though, you wouldn’t really mind that. You know how you truly feel about the man clad in beskar—you’ve known from the moment he trusted you enough to use his real name.

You close the hatch as you place your toolbox back on its designated shelf, holding in a light sigh as you also reach for a ration pack. You start to nibble at whatever’s inside as your gaze roams around the Crest, looking for any sign of life other than yourself. Typically, the child’s running around the hull as Din tries to tame him, or Din’s keeping himself warmed up with his Amban pulse rifle as the child looks on with wondering eyes, but you know that neither thing is happening in the hull—which means they must be somewhere else.

Once you finish off the small portion inside the ration pack, you decide to ascend your way to the cockpit, wondering if Din’s been doing some work trying to find another planet for you to lay low on. What you find, however, is something much sweeter instead. Din’s sitting in front of his navigation system with the child in his arms, his pauldron missing as he nestles the child comfortably against his shoulder. You stay quiet as you walk further inside, straining your ears to hear what he’s saying.

“… was not my favorite. But this, this… thi-this is Arvala-7, where I found you.”

Din’s modulated words are hushed and almost slurred, as if he’s about to fall asleep at any moment but forces himself to stay awake. Your heart melts as you lean your arm against the passenger’s chair, continuing to watch and listen for a bit.

“It was… warm… and dry, do you remember that? It was… very dry….”

The child makes no kind of response. You realize he must already be asleep—and you know that Din deserves the same kind of relief.

“Except for when it rained. Before the mudhorn. That—That was cold. So… so cold.” Din pauses again. “And the ship… it was stripped. But thankfully the Ugnaught had some supplies. Do-Do-Do… you remember that?”

You hold back a soft laugh at the way Din sounds so entirely innocent in this moment, as if he’s barely even here. At the same time, your heart yearns for him to give into the need to sleep, so you finally decide to speak up. “You’re cute when you’re half asleep,” you inform him with a smile.

Din nearly jumps in his chair as he turns off the navigation system and spins around to face you, slowing down as he remembers the sleeping child against his shoulder. His visor stares at you for a few moments, as if he’s trying to swallow down his embarrassment before speaking. “How long have you been standing there?”

You shrug. “Long enough to know that you need some sleep.”

Din starts to shake his head. “But, I need to—.”

“The only thing you need to do is rest,” you insist, raising your brow at him as you gesture to the ladder of the cockpit. “Remember, I’m a mechanic—I know how to fly. Just tell me where you want me to go, and I’ll get us there. All right?”

Din lets out a sigh, half full of relief and half full of exhaustion. He turns around quickly to punch in the coordinates for the planet he’s aiming to land on, standing up from the chair shortly thereafter. He stops just in front of you, taking one of your hands in his free one and giving it a gentle yet secure squeeze. “Thank you, cyar’ika.”

You beam up at him. “You don’t have to thank me, Din.”

He gives your hand another squeeze, holding it a moment longer than he should before dropping it and walking off to his cot. You bite back a smile as you head towards the pilot’s seat, unable to stop thinking about your unspoken affection as the Crest roars back to life.

One day, you’ll be able to ease him to sleep in your arms—and you’ll make sure he’s much warmer than he was that day on Arvala-7.

permanent tag list: @mikahid @bestintheparsec​ @stilllivindue2spite​ @givemethatgold @xbrujita​ @mandalorianspace​ @blushingwueen​ @sevvysaurus​ @myakai13​ @thisis-theway​ @beskars​ @rachelloveseveryone​ @theindiealto​ @hiscyarika​ @wickedfrsgrl​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​ @bookwafflefangirl​ @charliepeaceout @cable-kenobi​ @ezraslittleblondestreak​ @hdlynn​ @your-pixels-are-showing​ @b0n-chann​ @javier-djarin​ @nettyklecan​ @mistermiraclee​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​ @smellssharpies​ @catfishingmorales​ @wille-zarr​ @kaetastic​ @saltywintersoldat​ @agentpike​ @mrsparknuts​ @readsalot73​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @mandhoelorian​ @lilangeldevil006​ @roxypeanut​ @hail-doodles​ @randomness501​ @this-cat-is-dea​ @hopplessdreamer​ @paintballkid711​ @dracos-jedi-marvel​ @whataenginerd​ @katlikeme​ @petertingless​ @propertyofdindjarin​ @theocatkov​ @bisexual-space-slut​ @cyaredindjarin​ @arkofblake​ @cryptkeepersoul​ @motleymoose​ @mrschiltoncat​ @f0rever15elf​ @lady-of-nightmares-and-heartache @rogueonestan​ @goldafterglow​ @thedevilwearsbeskar​ @badassbaker​ @pancakepike​ @create-a-constellation​ @mymindisawhirpool​ @antmnwasp​ @capbrie​ @freak-of-nature2002​ @arabellathorne​ @mandilflorian​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @beiroviski​ @darthadeline​ @cheriedjarin​ @edencherries​ @mstgsmy​ @seasonschange-butpeopledont​ @aliciaxglasgow​ @poesflygirl​ @weirdowithnobeardo​ @dee-rosemary​ @ceebeetheartdork​ @kiwi-the-first​

mandalorian tag list: @lola-wolf​ @hoodedbirdie​ @chibi-liz05​ @nerd-without-a-cause​ @hdlynn​ @thepjofanqueen​ @bwemph​ @starwarsslytherin​ @iellarenuodolorian​ @littlevodika​ @jjemcarstairs​ @promiscuoussatan​ @fahrenheit-not​ @vernon-dursley​

[13atoms]

Close Protection (Davos x F!Reader)

Chapter 1: An Introduction

Bodyguard AU, post-S2. Davos finds his way out of prison, and straight into trouble. Fortunately he meets a woman who's in even more trouble.

___________________________________________________

The rain hammered down on New York, making the scent of garbage and concrete and people stew in the air, a cocktail of misery which made Davos’ chest ache for the open air and biting cold of K’un-Lun. Life in the mountains had been difficult, survival more challenging at altitude, at the whims of the climate, but at least it had been fucking simple.

Behind him yet another Kung Fu kwoon had slammed their doors closed at the sight of him. He could teach their students discipline, mastery of the craft he had dedicated his entire life to, and instead he had been shunned. Turned away. Davos had expected to shed a few surly words, perhaps give a mild demonstration of the martial arts he had learned as a child, and an easy ticket to his own kung fu studio would be available shortly thereafter.

In the half-dozen establishments he had visited, none of these weak imitations of Shifus had given him a chance to speak.

This watered down version of his entire livelihood, taught to children after school and bored, middle-aged office managers, was an insult. More insulting, he was not even deemed worthy to teach it.

Davos growled with irritation at himself as the rain made him shiver, his body betraying him in its coldness. His hair had grown out in prison, for the months he had been left to rot before his charges were abruptly dropped, and beads of the grimy American rain clung to his dark hair. He ran his hands over his face, wincing at their softness after months without even a spar, ruffling the shaggy mess which had taken root on top of his head.

The beard, too, was irritating. He hadn’t had the chance to shave. A shaggy moustache brushed his top lip and nose, making him look as bedraggled as Danny as he wandered the streets aimlessly.

His cheap rubber shoes slapped against the sidewalk, making smashed glass skid and trash crinkle with each step. Car headlights cast unnatural white-light, skimming across the puddles of the road, their drivers taking it in turns to cut one another off and create meaningless traffic as Davos trudged past them.

He scowled at a taxi driver, the irate man yelling at someone in a black car who had blocked an intersection, spitting with anger as his words were lost to the chaos of the city before they reached their intended recipient. Was this all these people did? All that was beyond K’un-Lun?

In cities across the world, was this man’s meaningless argument being replicated and replayed, night after night? It was enough to make a man give up.

He stared down at the cracked screen of his smartphone, barely functional with a soaked screen, trying to find the next dojo he was looking for. Perhaps they might offer him lodgings, if not work. Surely someonepracticing Kung Fu in this city had a sense of honour.

As he approached the cheaply printed banner outside the building he saw the lights switch off, the heavy doors already firmly closed. Bastards.

Davos stood for a moment, silent, trying to listen for voices inside. Another taxi driver was screaming at a drunken boy for throwing up in his car. A rat skittered across the pavement, searching for its next bin to scavenge through. There was no activity in the dojo.

With a groan of frustration, a kick at the door just substantial enough to bask in the pain of the collision, Davos turned back to the unforgiving city.

New York’s skyline was not high-rises here, none of the grandeur of the city centre which Joy had so nonchalantly enjoyed. This version of the city consisted of three-story buildings and fluorescent signs, shabby facades to concrete buildings which hid a multitude of sins.

A multitude so great that Davos had decided he no longer cared. He slumped on to the curb, his soaked feet perched at the edge of a river of disgusting water which rushed down the tarmac. It was unhygienic, it was uncomfortable, and Davos no longer cared. The slab of cast-concrete curb he sat on was loose, one more piece of this hodgepodge city which was falling into disrepair, wobbling as he shifted his weight on it.

Overhead a helicopter was circling. It seemed to happen endlessly, in this city, always one chase afoot. A huge rat run, filled with eyes and yet powerless to stop the proliferation of vermin throughout the streets.

A stray cat roamed past him, fur plastered to itself and revealing a bony skinniness after years of struggling to survive, a dead rodent in its mouth. The feral creature looked up at Davos lazily, unfearingly.

It walked right past him, on its merry way. He wasn’t even a threat.

*

The crack of your knees against the cheap plywood floor was barely more than a whisper, but you winced at the noise, hoping the honks of irritated taxi drivers and the shouts of pedestrians outside would conceal the indiscretion of your body. You contorted your torso down, out of sight, feet braced and ready to run if you had to.

You cursed yourself for being barefoot. For being unarmed. For choosing such an obvious place to hide. Scrambling out of bed in the wee hours of the morning had left you a little disoriented, and you forced yourself to blink sleep away, tensing your body against the threat in your house.

A heavy footstep crossed the threshold, distinct and deliberate as the hunter got closer and closer to your hiding spot. The living room was a small space, the kitchenette an even smaller corner of it, and the man coming after you looked big. His shadow was fuzzy from the low lighting as he took another taunting step, daring you to move. You stayed as still as you could manage, fingers reaching for the lip beneath your cabinets. Crouching behind the counter, reaching blindly, you muffled a breath of satisfaction as you found a knife concealed beneath the kitchen island.

The handle of it was dismally small, the blade barely any bigger and not even fixed, but it was something. With the steel in your hands, you felt a little bit stronger.

The intruder was rounding the counter deliberately. You felt sure he knew you were there, with nowhere else to hide in this damn place. You had the same training, and you knew he was toying with you. Trying to flush you out.

You unflipped the blade, and waited.

“If you come out now, we can get takeout on the way to prison,” he sing-songed, and you forced yourself not to laugh at the taunt.

You had always liked Agent Byrne, all things considered. He was a little heavy-handed, but he got the job done. But you would certainly never see a prison, if he was the one sent to capture you. You could picture the butt of handgun cradled in his non-shooting hand now, dwarfed by the giant of a man, as he braced to get a clear shot of you.

It was his distinctive move. He liked to fire a single bullet. Usually through the forehead.

It was merciful, in his strange way. He had always liked to take the shot himself, overruling his partner, and for good reason. He was one of the finest assassins the Firm had. Regardless, it would almost be embarrassing, to be taken out on the floor of your own kitchen, armed with only a knife.

An assassin of that skill deserved a much better fight.

As the scuffed nose of his sneaker edged around the kitchen island, you knew you had to give him a hard time. Clutching the knife in one fist, you drove it clean through his foot, leaving the blade there was Bryce screamed in pain and anger. You were out the door before he had time to draw his weapon, ducking as a bullet perforated the drywall above your head.

“Sorry!” you called behind you, another bullet rocketing dangerously close to your arm as you grabbed your go-bag from beside the front door.

Then you paused, hearing your name bellowed by the man as his limping footsteps approached the front door. You felt a little bad for him, wincing at the memory of your own injuries.

Still, it was part of the job. And one of the reasons you had been so desperate to leave.

He screamed your name again, colourful threats and curses spewed after you. You winced at the harsh insults, taking a second to cut the building’s intercom wires and close the door for good measure. Another bullet punctured the door as your keys left the lock, and you bolted.

Without an elevator, the fastest way to street level was the stairs.

You thundered down them, uncaring if your neighbours were woken up at this ridiculously early hour. The city itself could be louder, and the gunshots would have tipped them off that something was wrong. It didn’t matter if you were heard, you had to leave. Fast.

You heard the slam of a door upstairs, one heavy footfall followed by a lighter one, screams of your name. Your heart pounded, grab-bag thumping against your back, as you took the steps faster still. Agent Bryce was limping as he followed you, but he was certainly giving chase. Your gaze was fixed on the ground, one hand ghosting the railings, as you descended stairwell after stairwell, sticking to the outer perimeter where Byrne couldn’t get a clear shot at you.

He was following, slowed down the by agonising wound to his foot, and raging with anger at the escape of a bounty.

Perhaps he had thought you would go down easily, that you wouldn’t be waiting for him. No one left the Agency. You knew it. You had sprung out of your bed when he had snuck into your apartment with a gun in his hand, perhaps hoping if he creeped enough you wouldn’t hear him.

No. You had heard him coming, sensors on the stairs tripping and the man’s heavy tread unable to be disguised even by tiptoeing.

His feet were louder now, slapping against the stairwell, echoing alongside his roars. The whole damn place stank of piss as you inhaled raggedly, lungs heaving as you reached the final stairwell and took it two stairs at a time.

You had no idea what you would do once you were at street level. You couldn’t go to the police. You certainly couldn’t go to your new employer, not at this hour, and not with an assassin on your tail.

When you burst out onto the open street you cursed at the heavy rain, instantly drenching you, ruining your visibility as you looked around wildly for somewhere, anywhere to hide.

Unarmed and unskilled in fighting, you knew you couldn’t take on Bryce. The man was a mountain of muscle, wielding a pistol with enough bullets left to take you out half-a-dozen different ways, faster and stronger than you.

Though perhaps not smarter.

A taxi driver was idling outside the building, and you moved to wrench the back door open, ignoring the driver’s shouts of irritation through a puff of cigarette smoke. You threw yourself into seats, ducking down to hide, ignoring the irritated glare the driver gave you.

“Please, drive. Get me away from here,” you panted, glancing back nervously at the building. The man scoffed, glaring at you in the rearview mirror.

“I’m waiting on a job, lady. Get out.”

“No! Please, it’s dangerous, you don’t understand,” you begged, but you could already see the driver’s uncaring stare, rejection in the premature wrinkles lining his face.

“Out.”

When you ducked down, staring once again at the doors of your apartment building, he sighed. Climbing bodily out the car, leaving his lit cigarette smouldering on the dashboard’s ashtray, the driver opened the taxi door. He attempted to haul you out of the vehicle, and even in your terrified state you were forced to comply. What else could you do?

Out on the cold road again, you stared wide-eyed as the taxi driver slammed his door shut, moving the car up the block and away from you.

As you stood in the middle of the street, dismay sinking agonisingly into your stomach, you found your feet frozen to the ground. The front doors of the building finally slammed open, a sickening grimace spreading across Bryce’s face.

His roars of anger had been terrifying, but that silent smile sent a chill through you like nothing else.

“You’ll pay for this, you bitch.”

He lifted his injured foot, blood seeping through his sneaker and glinting in the streetlight as it mixed with the oily water on the road’s surface. Then, he lifted his gun. Sirens were blaring in the distance, but you knew the cops would be too late. You would be bleeding out on the road, your blood joining the city’s bilge, and Bryce would get a pat on the back for a termination well done.

You hated your voice, your shaking, as you started to beg.

“Please! I’m sorry! I did nothing wrong I… if you knew what they were doing. All the fucked up shit I saw in those files, they’re not the good guys! The Firm… they’re –”

At the mention of your ex-employer’s name, a gunshot ricochet through the night, skidding off the road.

It was a warning shot. Agent Bryce would never miss otherwise.

Your head ached, pre-emptively, at the thought of the bullet which would smash through your skull and separate the tissue in your frontal lobe as soon as the assassin stopped having his fun.

“Shut up, you traitor bitch,” he growled, and it gave you some measure of satisfaction to see the pumice red crawling up his face, the shaking and the frustration building in him “I know what you did!”

He spat as he yelled, his voice echoing around the streets even louder than the pounding of the rain and the whine of distant cars. You noticed the taxi which had kicked you out creep around the corner, and tried to push down a sense of irritation at the man’s cowardice.

You turned back to Bryce, wondering how to stall for time. And if stalling for time would even help. The sirens seemed to have gotten further away – maybe your neighbours hadn’t even bothered to call the cops.

“I did what was right!”

Your voice shook, body trembling in the rain, grab-bag limp on your back as the barrel of the Agent’s handgun stared you down from the sidewalk. You tried not to jolt at the whisper of movement behind you, unable to break Bryce’s stare. To give him the window of non-judgement he could use to kill you.

This was good. You knew that Agents should never get personally involved. Should never let emotion cloud their operations. Clearly, he felt very emotional about this particular job.

“You have no idea what’s right, you disloyal –”

Your jaw dropped, the gun clattered to the ground, and Bryce crumpled.

Behind him stood a soaked man, significantly smaller than Bryce, a concrete slab in his hands. You stared wide-eyed at the attacker, watching as he crouched smoothly to inspect his victim, sprawled unnaturally on the ground. The gunman’s head was split open, and you didn’t need to get any closer to realise that he was dead.

“You…” your voice came out strained as you looked at the man who had saved you, the piece of concrete curb he had wielded smashing as it dropped to the ground.

Both of you seemed as surprised as each other, your jaw hanging open while the stranger’s was clenched painfully tight.

“You needed help,” he offered, stunned.

You nodded.

“Thank you.”

The pair of you startled, your standoff interrupted, as wailing sirens seemed to get closer.

“We should go,” you declared, watching as the stranger nodded his head firmly, glancing at the entrance to the street.

You took off, bare feet protesting against roughness of the ground, surprised to hear the slap of rubber on tarmac as the stranger followed you.

“Where to?” he asked, wide-eyed as he took one last glance as Bryce, bleeding out in the taxi lane.

“Not sure,” you admitted, “away from here.”

In truth, you hadn’t expected your sudden accomplice to stick around. He kept up, following you as you avoided glass and obstacles on the ground, mere inches from your side.

“That works for me.”

__________________________________________-

A/N: This is due to be chapter 1 of 8. The fic is still being written, so let me know what you think! I'm hoping to get a chapter out every few days, as I write them.

This one requires a little cheesy-trope-tolerance, but it'll be worth it.

[purplesauris]

The Five Times Jaskier Was Shy, and the One Time He Wasn’t

This is 100 percent inspired by artwork that @frostedbasilisk posted over the weekend and is also dedicated to them for the soft, lovely inspiration I got just looking at their work.

Read it on AO3 here!

Mornings were busy for them. They didn’t often spend a day in bed, and even when they did Geralt couldn’t bear to stay still longer than absolutely necessary. But, there were rare mornings when Geralt would wake up as the birds began to sing and the first rays of the morning sun hit his back through the window and decide not to get up. This morning is one of those days, where they’ve been traveling hard and Geralt could use a rest just as much as Jaskier.

The sun is warm on his back and the breeze coming from the open window is balmy, and both of those things make him want to curl up for just a little while longer. Jaskier is asleep next to him, splayed out on his belly with the only pillow clutched under his chin with the sheet draped carelessly over his lower half. Geralt had long kicked it off in lieu of feeling the breeze fully, but the sight stirs something in him. Maybe it’s the quiet morning, or the way that the sun turns Jaskier’s brown hair golden in the light that has Geralt reaching to brush a few strands away from his face, touch lingering a moment longer than needed. No, not too long, Geralt reminds himself. Jaskier is his, and he can look and touch and love as much as he wants without worry of heartbreak.

Jaskier shifts next to him, squeaking softly and stretching as he stirs. Geralt watches the muscles in Jaskier’s back shift, lazily tracing his way back up to Jaskier’s face to find himself watched. A rare smile graces his face at the sight of Jaskier squinting sleepily at him, blue eyes soft in the morning light. “Somethin’ on my face?”

“No.” Geralt says quietly, voice overflowing, and his smile only grows when Jaskier’s cheeks flush pink and he buries his face in the pillow. Jaskier grumbles something along the lines of ‘quit staring’ and Geralt chuckles, rolling to snake an arm around Jaskier’s waist and pull him close. He presses soft kisses over the expanse of Jaskier’s shoulder blade and up to the slope of his shoulder, smiling against his skin when Jaskier giggles at the sensation. “C’mon little dove, we’ve got places to be.”

Jaskier whines, wiggling a bit and turning his head to peek one blue eye out at him. “Five more minutes?”

“Three.” Geralt replies, but doesn’t say anything when Jaskier takes his five minutes, and then a few more.

                                                            -*-

The forest is loud tonight. Geralt can usually ignore it with little trouble, but tonight the squirrels were leaping through the trees and the rabbits were scurrying through the brush particularly loud. The noise had grated on his nerves since they’d settled for the night, so he’d built a rather large fire and caught a couple of the rabbits that were lurking nearby. Jaskier had taken them with a quiet thanks, and had used their meat to make some sort of porridge for them. Geralt wasn’t picky on what he ate and it smelled good enough, so he wasn’t going to complain.

The animals have begun to settle by the time they’ve eaten, but the owls and other nocturnal birds had started up in their stead. So Geralt had grabbed his swords and whetstone and sat near the fire to tend to his blades. The soft scrape of stone over metal was familiar and soothing, and with Jaskier’s heart nearby, beating steadily, he was able to finally begin to drown out the noises around him. He was nearly done with his swords when he heard Jaskier’s sharp intake of breath and heart begin to go wild.

He glances up, looking around for whatever had spooked him and finds Jaskier staring at him, cheeks awash with color and mouth hanging open. Geralt’s grip on the hilt of his sword lessens, and he raises a brow at the flabbergasted man sitting across from him.

Jaskier clears his throat, reaching back and rubbing his neck in an uncharacteristically bashful movement. He mumbles something that’s lost in the crackle of the fire and a particularly rowdy owl, and Geralt sighs softly. “What?”

“I uh, you were humming.” Geralt tilts his head, unsure of what the problem is. The rouge on Jaskier’s cheeks is lovely with his complexion, and Geralt stares at him to remember the image for later. “One of my songs.”

“Ah.” Geralt sets his sword to the side, folding his hands in his lap and watching him a bit closer. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no not at all!” Jaskier’s cheeks flush darker, and Geralt smirks, quirking a finger so that Jaskier will come closer. The man does as he’s told without much fuss, and Geralt draws him into his lap, hugging him close. Geralt leans a bit closer, brushing his nose along the bards neck and softly crooning the words of a ballad that Jaskier had yet to sing in public. Jaskier squirms in his lap, but doesn’t make to move away even when Geralt’s grip loosens to let him escape.

                                                            -*-

The winter was a long one. Jaskier had been unable to winter with him in Kaer Morhen due to the academy, and so he hadn’t seen his bard for months. Sleeping had been hard without a soft, warm body against his and the steady, familiar beat of Jaskier’s heart. His brothers had teased him mercilessly about his moping and tired eyes, but they seemed to understand, perhaps better than he’d expected them to.

Still, he’s glad to be back, and this time they’re meeting not in Oxenfurt, but in Novigrad. Geralt had business there when the snows finally let him leave, and Jaskier had said he would make his way there after classes had finished for the semester. The city reeks as it always does and Geralt keeps a sharp eye out for thieves, but he’s left unmolested and makes his way to the Golden Sturgeon. They hadn’t agreed on which bar to meet at, but Geralt was patient, and if Jaskier wasn’t here, the Kingfisher would be his next destination.

Geralt can hear him before he even gets inside; the dulcet tones of his voice accompany the melodic strumming of his lute merrily, and Geralt slips inside quietly. His hood is up to protect from an early spring rain, and Jaskier is in the far corner, perched atop a barrel and singing to his heart’s content. Geralt takes his place at the bar, far enough that the other patrons aren’t bumping into him and hidden enough that Jaskier hasn’t seen him yet. Jaskier is just as he remembers, eyes bright and doublet a soft lilac. It’s a true spring color, but the snows have barely melted and Geralt knows that Jaskier is only trying to usher spring in a bit quicker. Warmth spreads through Geralt’s chest and down to his toes at the thought of finally, finally being here with Jaskier again, and he can’t help the small, foolish smile that tugs at his lips.

He enjoys watching Jaskier when the other man doesn’t know he’s here. He’s different, cocky and sure of himself and devilishly charming. Not that he isn’t that way around Geralt, sometimes he’s even moreso, but Geralt enjoys the easy way he carries himself around strangers. Geralt orders an ale and sips at it slowly, listening as Jaskier launches into a bawdy sea shanty at the request of some drunk sailor. He’s halfway through the song when his eyes skim over Geralt in the back and then fly back to latch onto him a moment later. Jaskier doesn’t falter, but Geralt can see even in the shitty light of the tavern that the tips of Jaskier’s ears go red. He pushes his hood back now that Jaskier has seen him, and listens to him finish his song before thanking the crowd for their attention.

He slips gracefully from the barrel and pads through the crowd, making a beeline for Geralt and smiling. “You’re here. When did you get in?”

“Not long ago.” Geralt responds, taking a drink from his tankard and slipping an arm around Jaskier. Jaskier leans against him easily, and Geralt’s fingers dance over the bumps of Jaskier’s spine. Jaskier shifts a bit in his arms, and Geralt tugs him a bit closer, turning to press his nose just under Jaskier’s jaw. He takes a deep breath, heart settling when Jaskier's scent- lavender and sweat and happiness fills his nose. Jaskier smiles at the contact, and Geralt presses a kiss on the soft skin of Jaskier's neck.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's voice is quiet, and Geralt hums against his skin. Gods but he missed the way that Jaskier smelled, the way he felt in his arms. When Geralt begrudgingly pulls back to look at him he finds Jaskier blushing, glancing around the room and pressing a bit closer.

"Hmm?"

"You're very affectionate." He points out, and Geralt merely shrugs at that. While usually Jaskier is the one making Geralt squirm with loud declarations of love and saucy winks during a set, Geralt has his moments of possessiveness, where all he wants to do is hold Jaskier close and press kisses into the column of his neck.

"Missed you."

"Apparently so." The bard muses, and though his cheeks are red and he teases Geralt endlessly, he doesn't push Geralt away when Geralt spends most of the night with his face tucked into Jaskier's neck, listening to the rest of the world but focusing solely on Jaskier.

                                                          -*-

Geralt's hands were steady as they held onto Jaskier's hips, drawing him just a bit closer. He rolls his hips up, pressing a bit deeper and basking in the needy gasp that Jaskier lets out. Jaskier's thighs are snug around his sides and he doesn't think he'll ever tire of having the man in his lap,  especially not when he can see Jaskier's eyes hazy with lust.

Geralt grinds his hips up, watching the way that Jaskier's eyebrows scrunch and listening to the little moan he gets in return. Jaskier peeks an eye open when he hears Geralt begin to purr, and he smiles softly, kissing Geralt as best he can when the man is doing his best to grind directly against his prostate.

"What is it, love?" Geralt knows that by now Jaskier can tell when he's thinking, and he hums low in his throat. He kisses Jaskier again, just to prolong the moment, and answers as he takes Jaskier in hand.

"You. You're enchanting." The word feels silly and foreign on his lips, but he can't think of any other way to describe him right now. Jaskier blinks in surprise, and Geralt watches his cheeks flush as he ducks his head down to kiss at Geralt's neck. Geralt allows the sweet kisses for a moment before using a hand to gently draw Jaskier back, stealing a kiss for himself. "I love you."

Jaskier slides his hands down Geralt's chest, tracing scars and smiling against his lips. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are a delightful, flushed red, and Geralt wonders how he can still be so shy. "I love you too."

                                                        -*-

It's high summer. Geralt is used to wearing black on top of black, and though heat doesn't bother him until it's extreme, he can still feel the hairs on the back of his neck stick, damp with sweat. Jaskier is no better- he's long since taken off his buttercup yellow doublet and tucked it away, rolling up the sleeves of his chemise and undoing the ties. Geralt has to focus to keep from staring at the column of his throat and the way that the shirt frames him so nicely. Jaskier's fingers dance over the neck of his lute and pluck at the strings, something he does well even while walking, and Geralt will admit he likes whatever song that he's begun to create.

They're halfway to the next town, sun high in the sky when Geralt perks up, glancing off to the east and nostrils flaring. Jaskier takes notice immediately, the notes from his lute fading as he allows Geralt a moment of silence. Geralt cocks his head, closes his eyes, and when he opens them he sees such naked hope on Jaskier's face that his heart beats a little faster.

"The river." Jaskier lets out a whoop and hops in place, grinning from ear to ear. Even Roach seems excited, stomping a hoof and shaking her head as if to say what are you waiting for? Geralt adjusts their path and follows both the smell of water and the sound of it, holding back a smile when he sees Jaskier jog a few steps ahead and then wait for him to catch up.

The air coming off the river is blissfully cool compared to the stagnant summer wind they'd been having, and even Geralt sighs softly. Just because heat doesn't bother him doesn't mean he enjoys it. Geralt sweeps the area for drowners but finds none, and he leads Roach to drink and leaves her to rest under the shade of a tree. Jaskier has tucked his lute away, stripped butt naked, and is already in the water by the time Geralt has his gambeson off. Geralt just huffs fondly and continues to undress himself. He gathers the rest of his hair up and away from his neck- he doesn't particularly feel like having it get wet today, nor does he want to feel like he's soaked in sweat when they begin their trek again. He secures it into a messy pile atop his head as best he can, and when he looks toward the water he sees Jaskier staring, eyes just above the surface of the water. He quirks a brow and Jaskier goes under, apparently content to pretend he wasn't looking.

Geralt finally joins Jaskier in the water, sighing at the relief the water brings. The temperature difference makes his knee and thigh twinge uncomfortably, but Geralt stands still until it subsides and heads deeper into the water to cool off. Geralt stays in the water until his fingers have begun to prune, enjoying the weightlessness of his limbs and the way that Jaskier swims laps around him just because he can.

"This is nice." Jaskier says, floating on his back next to Geralt and holding his hand so he won't drift too far. "Should we get going? Don't want to be out after dark."

"Hm." He doesn't want to move yet, but Jaskier has a point and Geralt knows it. He tugs Jaskier to his feet and heads for shore, snorting when Jaskier shakes his head like a dog, spraying water droplets everywhere. Geralt gives him an unamused look, but Jaskier merely grins and places a kiss on his shoulder before heading off to dry and get dressed. Geralt dries off and dresses much quicker than it takes to get undressed, and he takes a moment to observe their surroundings.

And if those surrounding happen to be mostly Jaskier, well, that's his business. Jaskier has put his pants and boots back on, but he seems hesitant to put his shirt on just yet and get warm all over again. Geralt takes this time to admire his bard; the muscle that he keeps hidden under fancy silk and lace never fails to take his breath away. He's lean, strong in a way that Geralt doesn't often see in most humans. While he's given to the finer, softer things in life, his legs are strong from all their traveling and his chest and arms toned from hefting bags and strumming away at his lute. He's unfairly attractive, and Geralt swallows back the words he wants to say. You're beautiful. I love you. Don't leave me. They swirl in his head in a near constant storm- make him choke on a breath whenever Jaskier glances his way with a sly smile on his face or grabs onto the edge of his armor to yank him down for a kiss regardless of how he reeks of monster guts.

Geralt is deep enough in his musing that he doesn't realize he's been caught, his own cheeks warming slightly as Jaskier covers his chest and bites his lip.

"It's very improper to stare at one while they dress, you know."

"Thought it was while they undressed."

"That too!" Jaskier wags a finger at him, mock frowning, but his cheeks are red and Geralt knows it isn't from the heat. Geralt's eyes flick over Jaskier's face, searching for any true anger, and finds his gaze drawn to the soft arch of Jaskier's cupid's bow. He glances up, unable to help the way his gaze drifts, and finds Jaskier red as a cherry.

Geralt stands from his spot under the tree and walks over, kissing Jaskier softly and sighing when Jaskier melts against him. He feels Jaskier reach up, and his hair cascades down from its tie as Jaskier buries a hand in the strands.

                                                             -*-

“Fuck you.” Geralt has an arm around Jaskier, holding him back as he rages at the man in front of him. “He’s more of a man than you could ever be.”

Witchers were a sensitive subject for Jaskier- especially his wolves, who he’d seen lay their lives on the line countless of times not only for him, but for people who would never care for them. Who stiffed them on contracts and spat at their feet as they walked past. Geralt is used to hauling Jaskier away from whole groups of people, puffed up like a peacock and wielding his words like the sharpest of blades. While the words, the stones and jeers were cruel, they didn’t hurt the way that they used to- not since Jaskier had come into his life.

“They aren’t men.” The man was drunk, even more so than the friends of his who goaded him on, and he physically hears Jaskier’s teeth grind together in anger. Geralt pulls Jaskier back a couple more steps, presses his lips to Jaskier’s ear and speaks low and soft. Jaskier sags in his grip, and though the iron scent of Jaskier’s anger is clogging his nose and blurring his mind, he can tell Jaskier is done. Geralt lets him go then, turning to go- but the man can’t leave it alone. “Mutant lover.”

There’s the sound of someone spitting, and Geralt knows it isn’t directed at him this time. He turns on his heels, snarling and bearing his teeth, but Jaskier is already leaping forward. He tackles the man to the ground, punching him in the face and roaring in fury. The others, though obviously with him, back away as Jaskier lands blow after blow, and Geralt hears the dull crunch of bone as Jaskier breaks the man’s nose. Geralt takes a few heavy steps forward and plucks Jaskier off of him, snarling just as loud when Jaskier snarls at him. The sound stops Jaskier short, causing him to blink blue eyes dark with fury and truly look at who’s got him. Geralt doesn’t dare set him down, hoisting the protesting man over his shoulder and dropping a few crowns on the man’s chest. “Go get patched up.”

He turns and walks away then, carrying Jaskier away and not setting him down until they’re safely back in their rented room. Jaskier is still fuming, Geralt can see that, so he leaves the man to mutter to himself while he gets something to wash the blood from Jaskier’s hands. He washes Jaskier’s hands gently, looking for any damage and humming when he finds none other than a few bruises.

“Good form.” Is all he says, placing featherlight kisses to Jaskier’s bruised knuckles and letting go of his hands. Jaskier snorts, shaking his head and releasing a heavy sigh. With it the tension goes from Jaskier’s shoulders, and he takes Geralt’s hands back into his to kiss his fingertips.

“I love you.” Jaskier murmurs, glancing up at him with dark, sea storm eyes.

“Even for a mutant?” Geralt means it as a joke, but a shadow crosses Jaskier’s face. Geralt is about to apologize when Jaskier takes a few steps forward, herding Geralt back until he sits on the edge of the bed and Jaskier is standing above him, between his legs. Jaskier dips forward, tipping Geralt’s chin up with a firm hand and kissing him fiercely. Their teeth clack together uncomfortably and one of Geralt’s fangs cuts his lip, but Jaskier laps at the wound and groans into his mouth. Geralt huffs when Jaskier presses kisses over his jaw, dragging his teeth over sensitive skin. “Jask-”

“I will spend a thousand years being called worse than that man called me today, so long as I spend it loving you.” Now, it’s Geralt’s turn to flush. The admission goes straight through him, makes his head spin and his heart race wildly. Jaskier chuckles when he pulls back and sees Geralt’s red cheeks, kissing him again before murmuring against his lips. “And I’m about to spend the night proving it to you, love.”

[sleepawaywriting]

Mornings, Part I

[Piers x Reader, NSFW]

okay so this is half domestic headcanons, half unadulterated horniness. i love the goth boy okay I JUST WANT HIM TO GET SOME SLEEP.

NSFW (18+) UNDER THE CUT

You learn a lot about a person by sleeping with them. In your case, literally. Sleeping next to someone can be an exercise in trust, as it can be extremely vulnerable, and potentially disastrous. After all, you never know who you truly are while asleep until someone is there to bear witness. You could see everything: their nightly routine, their little habits and quirks. What did they prefer to wear, if they wore anything at all? How did they wind down? How did they get comfortable? Did they read? Listen to music? Did they prefer one pillow, or two, or ten? Did they surround themselves in a cocoon of blankets, or sleep completely uncovered, mocking the monsters under the bed? Did they stir at the slightest disturbance, or could they sleep through the end of the world? Were they restless in their slumber, or still as the grave? Did they snore? Did they talk? Did they steal blankets in the night, or did they cling to their partners? You personally found all of these details fascinating. It was as if the other person was sharing a special part of themselves, a part not too often seen by others.

You especially appreciated it now, as you dozed in-and-out of consciousness on a warm, cozy Sunday morning, lying entangled in the slender arms of your loving boyfriend. Your mind tended to wander on mornings like this, when you had no duties, no obligations, and could simply bask in the comforting presence of your slumbering musician. You thought it was funny, how you personally had very little change in your own sleeping habits since dating the ex-Gym Leader, despite your newly-inherited responsibilities as the Champion of Galar. Piers, on the other hand, had gone through an entire circadian metamorphosis since the two of you became intimate. Before you had moved into his flat in Spikemuth—a shocking and borderline scandalous development in your relationship, as far as the tabloids were concerned (you rarely paid them too much mind)—and before he had stepped down as Spikemuth’s Gym Leader, you were amazed if he managed to sleep more than four hours a night. You had an idea of how rarely he slept before you started dating—after all, why else would he send you texts in the dead of night and wee hours of the morning? But it wasn’t until after the two of you began sleeping together that you fully understood the extent of Piers’ problems. He had insomnia, that much was clear, and tended to become restless in the hours that you normally retired to bed. He claimed that all of his best ideas came to him late in the night, and would spend hours scribbling in his trusty journal while you cluelessly snoozed away next to him. Upon discovering this, you felt somewhat guilty, but he assuaged your worries by waxing poetic about how your soothing presence provided him with endless inspiration—that even while asleep, you helped organize his frenzied, haphazard thoughts long enough to translate them into song (and no matter how many times he admitted it, hearing how much you effected his music never failed to make you blush like a starstruck teen).

After moving in together, and as your domestic routines began to blend, so did your sleeping habits. It was surprisingly easy to get Piers into bed with you, you discovered. You simply had to tip-toe down to his basement studio and subdue him with a gentle kiss to the neck, along with some soft words teasing the shell of his ear. Though your schedules were not entirely in sync, as you had very different jobs, your sleepless songbird was finally getting some well-deserved rest. Gone were the mornings spent opening Spikemuth’s Gym, and spending most of the day prepping Gym Trainers, training Pokemon, and fighting rambunctious, overly-confident Gym Challengers, who often underestimated the rockstar’s abilities, much to your frustration. Now that he was a full-time musician, his workday didn't begin until late into the afternoon, and his concerts would often go late into the night. During your busiest times, when your Champion duties required you to be up at sunrise, you would have to bow out early most nights, feeling guilty when you could only support your boyfriend’s gigs about half of the time. Of course, in typical Piers fashion, he was endlessly understanding, and there was nothing quite as sweet as the feeling of going to bed alone, only to wake up and find him exhaustedly cuddled up next you, face buried into your chest or the small of your back (along with your menagerie of Pokemon, which, due to many of them being simultaneously competitive and cuddly, the two of you had to make a schedule for which Pokemon got to share the bed on certain nights).

You never expected Piers to be such a massive cuddler, but you very much welcomed it. At the beginning of your relationship, you suspected that Piers was averse to touch, as he tended to tense or not entirely reciprocate when you first began kissing or embracing him. You soon discovered that this was far from the truth, and that the poor guy simply wasn’t used to the type of affection you so enthusiastically showered upon him. Once the two of you lived together, it became increasingly obvious that he adored and craved your touch, often snuggling up against you and draping his arms around you when asleep. You also learned, that despite having trouble falling asleep, once Piers was securely in dreamland, it was almost impossible to wake him. On most mornings, escaping his Bewear-like grasp was your first Champion challenge of the day. On top of being a heavy sleeper, he was also a heavy sleep-talker. This rarely bothered you, in fact, you enjoyed having full conversations with him while he was none the wiser, with topics ranging from Marnie’s homework, Obstagoon’s yearly PokeCenter check-up, scheduling future gigs (he often mistook you for his manager in his sleep-addled stupor), and other silly, mundane things. He never remembered any of it, no matter how much you tried to jog his memory (he once mumbled out an imaginary itinerary for your future wedding—you never told him this, but it was a secret you held near and dear to your heart). There were many mornings where you would lie next to him, mindlessly scrolling through your phone or checking your emails, only for him to jolt half-awake, ask you, groggily, to write something down (usually an idea for a song), then immediately plop back down onto his pillow, snoring comically.

Those mornings were much like this one: quiet, unassuming—where you would debate for several minutes on whether you were gracious enough to let him sleep in, or impatient enough to wake him. You weren’t exactly in a hurry to get out of bed, as this was one of your rare days off, and the warmth radiating from Piers’ body, the welcoming scent of his lingering cologne, and the light pitter-patter of rain on the roof of the massive structure overhanging Spikemuth was enough to tempt you back into sleep. Your head rested under your boyfriend’s chin, your face close to the base of his neck, and you gently brought one hand up to trace a finger along the smooth metal of his collar, which he rarely removed. You weren’t sure if it was because he never wanted to, or if he simply forgot it was there, and either sounded like him, if you were being honest. Yawning quietly, you nudged your head back, wanting to get a better view of Piers’ sleeping face. Your bedroom happened to have a window facing the outside of Spikemuth’s container, allowing the diffused morning light to bathe your room in an overcast veil. He seemed to be sleeping soundly, despite his perpetually-grumpy expression still present, if somewhat more relaxed. You smiled to yourself, remembering when you first admitted to him, early in your friendship, that you assumed he hated you because of how he always seemed to look annoyed around you. “Hate to break it to ya, love, but that’s just my face,” he said then, making you feel embarrassed for assuming the worst about him, but also somewhat flustered that he referred to you as “love”. Back then, you wanted to write it off as one of his many Spikemuth-isms—that perhaps it was just a more casual nickname where he was from—but here you were, proven wrong.

Sighing softly, you looked over his sleeping form, admiring the way the stormy glow highlighted his features. You had always found him both incredibly adorable and handsome, despite the things he would say about himself in hushed tones on his worst days. His large, sad blue eyes, though closed for now, paired nicely with his high cheek bones and dark, striking eyebrows. You drew the tip of your index finger down the bridge of his nose, slightly crooked from the handful of times he had broken it in his youth, through back-alley scuffles and far-too-wild concerts. You tried not to giggle when the muscles in his face twitched as you reached the tip, giving it an extra boop for good measure. And, of course, you loved his mouth, the way his lips felt so soft and inviting against your own, the way they curled into the most adorable little smiles. The way they felt against your skin, at your wrists, the dip of your neck, across your shoulders, between your breasts, down your stomach, flush against your sensitive, needy heat, along with his overly-generous tongue.

Oh.

Suddenly and without warning, you really wanted him. Biting your lip, you didn’t wish to disturb the musician’s peaceful slumber, nor did you want him to spend the energy on reciprocating, which you knew he would insist upon (it was difficult to get him to be the least bit selfish about his own pleasure). Not to mention, you were still fairly groggy yourself, but you were equally as longing for your boyfriend, and the way his body would react to your loving, methodical touches, the way his beautiful voice would sound upon waking up in the throes of pleasure. Then, you remembered something. It was an idea the two of you had discussed before, whispers of heated fantasies in the dead of night, something that you had been waiting to act upon, but only at the right time, when it would truly be a surprise. Well, now was as good a time as any, you thought, smiling mischievously to yourself.

Ever-so-slowly, you wriggled out of Piers’ all-encompassing grasp, trying desperately not to laugh at how ridiculous you looked—arms firmly pressed to your sides, legs squeezed together, shifting yourself to-and-fro like a newly-hatched Caterpie. Once free, you sat up on your knees, careful to not shake the bed with your movements. Next came the difficult part, you thought, as he was on his side, and you needed him to be on his back for your plan to work. Placing one hand gently on his shoulder, and the other on his hip, you subtly began nudging him onto his back. You almost startled when he suddenly moved, shifting onto his back of his own accord. You winced internally, fully prepared for him to stir awake and be reasonably confused as to why you were leaning over him, but he quickly settled back into sleep, completely oblivious to the waking world. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, smiling at the silly, dramatic, sprawled-out position you boyfriend had assumed.

Carefully, you straddled his waist, making sure to place most of your weight onto your knees. Since the weather was getting warmer, even in the rainy, coastal town of Spikemuth, the both of you were sparsely clothed, with Piers completely bare, save for a thin pair of briefs. Looking him over, you watched the slow rise-and-fall of his chest, and admired the way his long, thick, two-toned hair cascaded down his pillow, descending into rivulets of stark white and midnight black against your bedsheets. He had just showered the previous night, which meant it was extra soft and fluffy, and just messy enough to make him look even more attractive, without risk of becoming a tangled mess. From your angle, you took the time to appreciate his slender frame, which you found endlessly attractive. You loved everything about him, from his prominent collarbones, to his flat chest, to the slight indents of his ribcage traveling down to the smooth plane of his abdomen, punctuated by his sharp hip bones. It took everything in you to not draw your hands up his torso, feeling every muscle and the occasional edge of bone beneath your eager touch. You frowned slightly, remembering how he would occasionally jab at himself, stating that he looked like a skeleton or a walking corpse at times. Though you knew he was joking, at least for the most part, you were adamant on reminding him just how much you adored his body, which was something that simultaneously baffled and flattered him. Your effortless and brutally honest compliments never failed to turn him sheepish, avoiding your gaze and hiding his warm cheeks behind his long, thick bangs. And you would keep reminding him, again and again, that he was plenty attractive, even if you needed to give him a a few more hands-on demonstrations to prove it, which you were more than happy to provide.

Taking a deep breath, you leaned over him, slowly placing your hands on either side of his head. Leaning down, you simply couldn’t resist brushing your lips against his own, just the softest, feather-light touch, holding yourself back from diving in and kissing him blissfully awake. Moving down, you grazed your lips across his neck, planting a gentle kiss at the base, right beneath his choker, noting the faint, yet sharp scent of leftover hair product, and the smooth, silky scent of mild soap. You left a trail of soft kisses across his collarbone, smiling into his skin as you noticed goosebumps appearing at your touch, then moved down to his chest, leaving a few kisses over his sternum before boldly swiping your tongue over one of his nipples. He flinched, and you looked up at his face, fearing the worst, but he simply turned his head to the side and settled back into sleep, breathing deeply. You could have imagined it, but you thought his cheeks took on a slightly rosy tint, contrasting with his normally pale complexion.

Continuing your journey downward, you lavished his soft belly with loving kisses and the occasional warm, gentle sweep of your tongue. Reaching the top of his hips, you nuzzled the soft, dark hair trailing down from his navel into the waistband of his briefs, before shifting your body down between his knees. You gingerly spread his thighs apart with your fingertips, lying down onto your stomach and slowly shimmying yourself forward, fitting comfortably between his long legs. Kissing up his soft inner thighs, you began to apply more pressure, teasing the sensitive skin with the edges of your teeth. You journeyed further upward, sucking on a particularly sensitive patch of skin that made his legs twitch beneath you. Hearing him exhale, you looked up, noticing as his breathing became slightly more labored. With a satisfied grin, you reached up with one hand, lightly palming the growing bulge beneath the soft fabric of his briefs. You adored the way Piers’ body reacted to even the slightest, most teasing touches, and the fact that you could make him feel so good so easily was a massive turn-on. It certainly helped boost your confidence—not to mention, seeing the handsome musician thoroughly enjoy himself never failed to make you weak in the knees.

It only took a few moments for your boyfriend to grow hard and wanting beneath your ministrations. You released him from his briefs, taking a moment to admire his cock in all its unapologetic glory. You suddenly remembered his reaction to you the first time you saw it. You must have been making some kind of face, because he immediately interjected with, “It’s not that big, is it?”, to which you replied, “Oh, ‘It’s not that big, is it?’,”  playfully mocking his accent for good measure, “Mr. Humble over here with ‘It’s not that big’. Seriously?” you smiled and rolled your eyes as your boyfriend laughed. You then told him it was pretty, which made him laugh even harder, but you were being completely serious. It was big, as in long, but not too girthy, and as pale as he was, save for the last half, which was flushed pink (it was actually quite similar to the rest of him, now that you thought about it). It also never failed to make you feel so full and satisfied, hitting all the spots inside of you that made you whimper and squirm. You wanted to be re-acquainted, preferably soon, but for now, you had other plans.

You decided to tease him a little more before fully indulging yourself, drawing the soft pad of your index finger up the underside of his shaft before circling it around the tip, taking your sweet time to feel every dip and curve. His breathing grew heavier, and now you could see that his cheeks were fully flushed, his brow tensing slightly as you all but tickled his aching cock. Licking a stripe up your hand, you gently wrapped it around him, keeping your grip loose enough as to not overwhelm his senses right away. Stroking him slowly, you lavished the rest with gentle kisses, reveling in the way his hips twitched and his breath stuttered once you began swirling your tongue around the tip. He was so warm, and you felt him throb beneath your hand, his hips practically jolting in place when you gave the tip a generous squeeze. You briefly wondered if he was dreaming, and if so, if he was dreaming about you.

Watching, enamored, as the tip began to leak clear pre-cum, you felt a hunger welling up deep within your chest and between your legs. You slowly began to take him into your mouth, securely holding his hips down in case he unconsciously thrusted up inside of you (though you weren’t opposed to the idea, you didn’t want him to wake up to the sound of you gagging). You took him down about half way, before delaying his gratification by withdrawing and, again, swirling your tongue around the tip. His entire body shifted this time, a soft, tired, breathless moan escaping his lips, sending a sharp pang of arousal deep into your lower belly. Your brain grew foggy, a wave of lust and adoration clouding your thoughts as you took him all the way, brow furrowed in concentration, wrangling in your gag reflex once the tip hit the back of your throat. He moaned again, and if it wasn’t the most beautiful, erotic sound. His voice was already gorgeous under normal circumstances, but especially in the morning, when it was tinged with the slightest bit of gravel and honey-like richness. It made you feel hopelessly needy, your own arousal, slick and hot, pooling between your thighs.

You continued with the same action, slowly taking him until he hit the back of your throat, then withdrawing, listening intently to the way his moans became more haggard and desperate—until about the fifth time, when you pulled him in completely, daring to swallow around him and practically choke yourself on his cock. You heard him gasp, a startled moan escaping him as you felt a hand grip the back of your head. Well, good morning, you thought, trying not to smile or laugh with a cock stuffed halfway down your throat. You drew up off of him, your eyes connecting with his sparkling blue ones, his pupils blown wide, noting how his adorable flush had spread up to his ears and down his neck. Before he could say anything, you took him again, setting a more intense pace now that he was awake.

“Fuck—,” he groaned loudly, hips stuttering as he carded his long, slender fingers through your hair, his other hand clinging to the one holding his hip. You laced your fingers through his own as you drew up off of him again, sucking on the tip almost obscenely before licking a firm stripe up the underside of his shaft.

“So good, love,” he praised, shuddering as he threw his head back onto the pillows, taking a handful of your hair and tugging slightly. Pulling him back into the slick heat of your mouth, you moaned around him, his breathless praise making your heart flutter. Feeling him throb inside of you, you moaned again, breathing out through your nose, before bracing yourself and taking him as far as you could go, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He practically convulsed, making a delicious choked, startled noise when you felt him spill down your throat—hot, musky, and not entirely unpleasant. He held your head firm to him as he rode out his orgasm, a string of curses, praises, and broken moans leaving his exhausted body, before you tapped him twice on the hip, indicating that you needed to breathe.

“Ah, sorry—!” he startled, releasing you as you practically gasped for air, settling back onto your knees. He leaned up, reaching out to cradle your face with one hand, drawing a thumb along your cheekbone before hooking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His gentle touch made you shudder, closing your eyes as you steadied your breathing. Upon hearing your name, you opened them again, your heart swelling at your boyfriend’s tired gaze and dopey, lovestruck grin.

“I… I just—,” he started, stumbling over his syllables, drawing a hand back through his messy hair, “You— you’re so— ah, fuck it,” he gave up on words and decided to just pull you up into his lap instead. You laid on top of him, chest flush against his own as he drew you into a lazy, tender kiss, and you couldn’t help but hum at the way he slid his tongue lovingly between your lips. Cradling your chin, he broke the kiss, staring deep into your eyes.

“I love you,” he practically whispered, and you felt your face heat under his intense gaze. Suddenly feeling shy, despite the filthy things you just did to him, you hid your face into the crook of his neck.

“I… I love you too,” you squeaked. He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you, and you could feel the vibrations of his voice beneath your flushed cheeks.

Sighing, you settled into him, listening to the rain and breathing in his warm scent as he came down from his high. You had almost dozed off again when he suddenly spoke.

“Ya know, if ya want me to do somethin’ for ya, I could—“

“Not right now,” you hummed, pressing a soft kiss to his neck, “Can we just stay like this, for a while?”

“Of course,” he replied, voice gentle and smooth as silk. He felt you smile against him, before you yawned dramatically, nuzzling further into him. He began tracing soothing circles into your back, sending tingles down your spine, and you quickly fell asleep to the sound of his breathing.

[havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong]

An Interlude — The Unknown Expanse

A fearful baker lost his calendar yesterday, and a month passed—

And ever since that year went by, the coward has lost sight of everything but the false safety of ‘home.’

That decade passed without word, without sound, as the baker faded away from the world —

—until, that second later, a message from ‘someone.’

—

I lost my calendar yesterday.

Last April.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it. Seconds, maybe, or hours. It could be days.

A light shines underneath the door, for a moment, and flickers off. It illuminates hardwood floor — its texture worn down over months of use, light barely showcasing whatever cracks remained after all that pacing, just before vanishing as quick as it came.

It could’ve been anyone — my parents, perhaps, or someone else entirely — but it felt the same.

It all felt the same. A grip surrounding my neck, that forced the breath out of me, its spare hand rearranging my stomach to tie itself into hundreds of knots.

Dread, wasn’t it? That was its name. That horribly, sputtering feeling, that bit into your heart and ground its teeth relentlessly until all you could think of was passing out to halt the pain.

Darkness surrounded my vision — the tunnel vision that built up, certainly, and the darkness of the place I called ‘home.’

In the shimmer of my light, someone could easily see a target of burglary — someone to steal from — through a window that wasn’t boarded up from the inside just yet.

Compared to that, the endless darkness surrounding me was preferential, if not optimal. The fear of possible insects, of beings that scuttled in the night, was nothing compared to it.

‘Aah, wouldn’t it be nice, if...’

Even in my mind, I cut myself off thinking of a better idea.

Slipping in and out of consciousness endlessly — in this darkness, time was impossible to understand. ‘Sleep’ and ‘awake’ melded into one whole, two lovers apart by circumstances now waltzing together in the haze. Only ever seeing daylight in the times I ate, it was all too easy to mistake reality for fiction, and fiction for reality.

‘...It’s better like this, isn’t it?’

Aah, for all I knew, it was reality that this was all there was — that thieves and criminals existed only in my head, and that the world outside was only an illusion made to hurt me.

Was that reality?

Was that truly reality?

...Or had my eyes closed again?

—

I was 14.

14, 13, 10, 15–

The first incident is impossible to recall in the soup of ‘happenings.’

Twenty dollars — a little dollar bill I held close to my chest, moving slowly through the Toronto streets that lay just outside my home.

The bakery, ‘Roland’s Pastries,’ lay just a stone’s toss away — a half hour walk from our home. My father’s business, one he pridefully named off his last name, and the focus of the pastime we enjoyed more than anything else.

More than even the base jumping my father enjoyed, or the parkour stunts my mother taught to a generation of gymnasts —

Was a simple pastry, made delicately and kindly, warm to the touch, to sweeten even the sourest of days.

To call it my dream to run that bakery one day would be putting it lightly. I could still remember the shimmering gaze I always directed at its structure, the way my parents joined their staff to produce the best quality they could manage. I could still remember the first loaf of bread I helped make — even though it rose poorly, and didn’t taste the best, the gleaming smiles of my family stayed with me.

Yes — today was the day I was going to buy my own baking materials. Twenty dollars wasn’t much, but I wanted to contribute something to the next loaf of cinnamon bread we made.

A man brushed past me, however.

They wore a dark green rain jacket, and a grey shirt. Black jeans, too — they were impossible to miss.

Their face was a blur — a mismatched cloud of skin-shaped vapour in my mind, only a single bloodshot eye remaining in my mind.

It stared daggers into my skull, but I hadn’t noticed.

I was going to get some cinnamon. Maybe flour.

I was going to help. I was going to make cinnamon loaf.

I

I was going to

I was

I couldn’t make the

The hand reached out , and the gaze of the ‘person’ said it all -

Their hand remained in their pocket, but the outline of a <hand/dagger/gun>

Their hand reached to mine, and their <hand/dagger/breath>

The weight was gone in a moment, but the front door opened, and it

—

Aah,

So that was fictional.

Certainly, it were my dreams — separated from reality only by the fact that ‘nothing’ lay instead of ‘something’ before my eyes.

Darkness — the roots of unknown, of fear — felt comforting, compared to that.

The light outside my door was turned off. Shuffling could still be heard, though — and a gentle knock at my door.

“...It’ll be your birthday soon, son. If you want to celebrate... Just let me know, alright?”

...A calm, older male voice. My father.

Aah, how it was so pleasant to hear — how someone existed who could be that kind.

It must’ve been May, then —

...

“...I’ll think about it... Thank you, pops. Really.”

“Of course. Just... Let me know what you want, okay?”

...

Aah, how it almost felt like those older times —

—

...16.

I can still remember the first muzzle I stared down.

I was working the cashier booth at our bakery. Handling money, the works.

“Just smile and do whatever the customer says,” said my father. “If they cause any trouble, just call me and I’ll be here.”

He’d pat me on the back and send me on my way, with a list of basic instructions. Just the way I liked it — after all, words in general were in one ear and out the other when it came to me. Didn’t stop my mother from trying to speak a novel to me, but I could always rely on my pops to write down some of what to do.

Of course, those days usually went well — kind customers, kids with the cutest goshdarn smiles, and admittedly a fair few free cinnamon buns given to people who needed a pick-me-up.

I remember, one day —

“He’s been too slow lately. You need to punish him a bit, or he’s just going to stagnate like this.”

“He’s doing just fine for his age. He’s taking a load off our shoulders, handling customers, so I think he’s doing well.”

“You need to teach him a better work ethic.”

“He’s doing fine enough as is.”

I did have my slow days — where, suddenly, counting dollars didn’t mesh with my mind. Where in a matter of moments, I lost my desire to keep working, and I was fighting my mind to keep moving.

And this, of course, was one such day — the line was small, albeit, but I couldn’t deny I was a bit slow on the draw.

I remember counting out around forty dollars — around four of which were due in change.

Just enough time for—

...

...I was handed a note with the change. I open it, not thinking much of it-

“Empty the register, and say nothing, and nobody will get hurt.”

A teenager at the register of a bakery. The perfect target for a silent robbery.

Nobody was behind me — nobody could see his actions. Least of all the empty line behind this man, holding no witnesses in sight.

My family, arguing in the back, had no idea of what lay beyond that thin wall.

Just me — and the muzzle of a pistol.

It wasn’t possible to forget what the inside of a gun looked like.

A dark, empty void — reflecting what it could do to me, in an instant, if my hands now stopped.

The blur of repressed memory brought the scene into a haze —

—But hours after its completion, as that ‘me’ lay in horror, sobbing, I couldn’t help but listen —

“He’s misplaced most of our earnings for today! I told you that you had to discipline him better!”

—Aah,

They hadn’t known, had they?

—

Something — to nothing.

Faint, hazy memories dissolved like a tablet into water, as I felt something on my face.

I couldn’t see it, nor understand it in full — it were there, however, placed as if to irritate me specifically.

...I’d awoken in a cold sweat. Perhaps from the chilled air surrounding me, and the weak blanket I forgot to sleep under, I found my legs quivering when I tried to stand in the darkness — groping and feeling the air around me, stumbling into my bathroom to take a sip of water from the tap.

Even this darkness, this state of mind as if I hit the supercritical point of reality and dreams, felt comforting —

—Even the horrible memories of what once was could be dismissed as dreams, even the fear that came from living like this, and the fear of abandoning everything.

Here, reality was what you made of it — what you chose.

Lapping at the lukewarm tap water, barely reaching it, unable to see it save for the small reflections in the surface of the water itself, I heard a buzz on a nearby device.

My phone — charging there, waiting for something that would never come, began to vibrate.

“...What..?”

Unlocking my smartphone, I was met with a familiar image as my home screen —

—a young ‘me,’ eyes shining with delight, holding a loaf of cinnamon bread with utter care while grinning in pride.

“The only one who could take that was...”

...My phone began to ring.

A phone number I didn’t know — only one number off from mine, I realized. Out of curiosity, or perhaps loneliness, I placed my finger on the ‘accept’ button.

“Hey! I don’t know who you are, but we’re textdoor neighbours! Thought I’d say hello.”

...

...

“...Who are you..?”

“Uh, Ritsuka. Ritsuka Fujimaru. If it helps, I was the person who bingeplayed tekken and ate curdled yoghurt for superchats.”

“...”

...Had that much changed? How long had it been..?

“...Tell me more.”

—Somehow, it felt wrong to continue.

As if, by saying those three words, I was changing something that should have never been changed.

And yet — as my finger hovered over the button to hang up, the words fell out of my mouth instead.

Within the fear that lay in revealing who I was to a stranger —

—somehow, I felt as if this person was worth meeting.

Somehow, I felt as if something would change if I said something.

Something better would happen —

—surely, better than this.

[radioheadyaoi]

you were everything.

(for @playitaagain)

It’s raining.  We are sitting together on the boat as we wait for the weather to drift away.  We are passing a fork back and forth, sharing preserved peaches, a rare treat.

I stare out into the open water, you stare up at the sky.

It is dusty and I am holding in a cough.  I don’t want to disturb the drenched earth, or you, beside me.  There’s dirt in the grooves of my fingertips and while you hold the can, I try and scrub them clean against my jacket.

The rain washes away the grime.  In the morning, we will all start new.

There is a notebook pressed under your thigh.  

You pass me the peaches.  I eat two slices.  Everything is simple.  

I fall a little in love with you everyday, with the little things.  Your laugh, the way you shake your head when you’re tired, how you slump against me to sleep, how you always share any food you have with me, even if it’s only a little, how you write in your notebook and make sure I’m okay.

I often dream of a quiet place where I can tell you what I feel.  I often dream of running my hand through your hair and listening to your every word, to every sound you make, to listen to your heart beat,  Oh, I forget how hard it is to be in love.  You are the reason for my suffering and I want to suffer.  

(I fall in love with you but you do not love me.  That’s the truth of life, we fall in love with someone and they become home.  They are home in a way that no one has ever been your home before.  You cannot tell them how you feel because you finally have a friend, you are finally not alone.  And having someone halfway is better than having nothing.)

I have never wanted to kiss anyone more than I want to kiss you.  

Everything sits silent.  Then you say: Can I read you something.

I nod.  You clear your throat and open your notebook, turning to the page marked with a bright orange stripe of paper.

Sometimes Death leaves a kiss on your cheek, feather soft, with the sprinkle of all the things you’ll never know, (it stays wet on your face, on your freckles).  She holds you close like no one else, keeps you between her hands, slender and bony, crackling like the wind, and her heart, solid black, shining in the night.  She is stealing your life away and you are letting her because you long for a home and she is giving it to you.

Death kisses every boy, every woman of war, skin made of nightmares, bones built from sleepless nights and silent screams. I sit next to you in the trenches, through the smoke just for you to leave me for her, for a home that isn’t real.  She is not what she says she is but you do not listen to me and you slip through my fingers, too wet with blood to catch you.

You were a boy when she first laid her dead eyes on your sweet face, when she first hugged you and a boy when she took you.

I imagine up your death in every way, the snap of your neck, a bullet in your heart as she watches the blood pour out of you.

I can’t give you the home she’s convinced you that she has, I cannot compete.  Not with her, not with you.  But, in the end, it will be me, not her, never her, watching you choke down your last breaths as the world spins above endlessly and the sky blurs and rain falls.  When you are gone, she will blame me for all this, for your bloodstained, torn open body, skin dyed red.  It will be my fault that you died like this, that I did not stop you from falling, falling, falling.  She will take me too, but she is not asking, not warmly extending her hand.  She is dragging me by the ankles into the fiery ends of Hell, where you will not be, but I will forever alone without you, (she will be there, arms tugging on mine, but every eternity where we are not together is empty, deserted of all love.  Men like us are not awarded happy endings.

Your brown eyes, once golden, go dark, black like the sky, like the colour of her hair, the paint on her nails.  A storm lives inside your soul, crashing lightning and deafening explodes that shake your core.  There isn’t an end to the war you have with her, not one I can help with, that can go away with a snap of fingers, the flick of a wand.

Paradise only exists in our minds.  Tall pink and orange skies stretching towards the Heavens, stars kissing our faces, cotton candy clouds.  Pieces of the moon in the streetlamps I kiss you under late at night.  Eyes no longer bloodshot, bodies no longer heavy with exhaustion.  I do not get in trouble for holding your hand. 

We could have had that, there was a chance before your wrapped your fingers around hers, accepted your offer.  (We are both paying for it.)  We didn’t have to be alone.  My tears are turned into the wine she drinks with dinner.  (So I do not cry anymore, leaving her thirsty.)  We aren’t who we once were, no longer boys, instead, messes of things we didn’t choose.  Her throne is made of your blood and words.  It’s all a game, a game we are playing with her, but she is changing the rules all the time.

You were everything.  You were hot showers and blueberry pies and Sunday morning and Wednesday afternoon and Friday night..  You were fresh bed sheets and apple soap.  You were summer picnics and autumn dinners. The sun and the moon belonged to you and so did I.  You were the everything that filled my soul.

Now, you are nothing but the shell of a man because of her.   

Careful, we are not in Wonderland.  We are in a nightmare dressed up in lipstick and sunshine.  We are seizing vines to pull ourselves free. 

She has tricked you, darling.  Don’t worry, I don’t blame you.  (This is partly my fault.)  I love you the way the stars love the sky, clinging to the universe the way the tears cling to your eyelashes.  I cannot let go. 

I am trying, trying, trying for us.  

It is all silent when you are done.  You wrote about me, I think.  I’ll never know how much you truly write about me, mostly because I’m scared to find another thing like this.

You close your notebook and adjust yourself the way you always do when you’re getting tired.  I reach out and grab your hand, warm and comforting. 

Your eyes are blue.  I will always remember this.  The colour of salty waves hitting cliffs and crashing off rocks.  The sky lives in your body, I see it only through your eyes. Soft heart and ocean eyes.

We were doomed from the start.  Boys are not meant to love, not in war when the sky is breaking, not in everyday, when the garden blooms and stars explode into the night.  Nothing was ever right for us, the cobblestones of the path crumble and the trees grow in to block the sunlight.  

I kiss you.  It tastes like peaches and summer air.

[masked-buffoon]

Chapter 7: An oxidising dream of a world (Part 6)

Warnings: angst

Author notes: at this point, I’m not even going to apologise anymore...

The rain was heavily falling, covering Yokohama with a strange, ominous curtain of water. The sky was greyish, covered by heavy clouds which hid the sun away and deprived the world of its colours, and the streets were absolutely lifeless. On such days, I always felt under the weather, for I disliked rain. Rain could pour, and pour, endlessly, water could soak me until I felt wet til the bones, but never would it wash away my sins and the blood on my hands. The rain reminded me all too much about the atrocities I did daily, and I did not want to have such disturbing thoughts. Besides, having the sky crying rarely did announce anything good... I could foresee that something would end, very soon, by the end of the day perhaps. Something would break and shatter, never to be repaired again, and I was afraid. If time could stop just a moment to delay this event... If time could slow down enough so I would never see the sunset...

"Ogawa...?"

I turned around toward my superior. He had finally woken up, past eight in the morning, and he had wanted to make me believe he was not tired...

"Yes, Dazai? What do you need?" I walked toward the couch.

"Did I sleep a lot...?" He seemed concerned.

"I hope enough to feel better than yesterday." I answered "You slept soundly."

"Which is odd..." He commented "But oh, well, I'm not going to complain..."

"You'd rather not." I shrugged, turning my attention toward the ringing phone on the desk "I'm going to pick it up."

The moment I put the device onto my ear, I regretted it. I replied to the voice, curtly, shakily, avoiding Dazai's look at all cost, and finally hung up with very tense movements.

"What's going on...?" He frowned.

I had to fight to stand on my two legs and used the wooden furniture to support my weight, unable to gather any kind of strength to my muscles anymore. But he was waiting. He wanted words from me. He needed to know, and I could not tell.

"The Western restaurant..." I started, immediately noticing the slight widening of his eye "It was... It was attacked..."

Without a word, without asking for details, he raised from the couch and hurried out of the office, messily throwing his coat onto his shoulders. If I did not know better, I would have stayed there, dumbfounded, and would have waited for him to come back. However, with all that had been said the previous night, I could not let him face troubles alone and followed him, taking an umbrella on the way out.

The downpour did not stop when we arrived; worse, it increased and the light umbrella could barely resist the heavy drops of water crashing against it. The restaurant was surrounded by people, journalists and the police. The source of the ruckus was a bus, or rather, the remnants of a bus. The vehicle had completely burnt, due to an explosion, but other than the scent of gas, what my nose smelled did not please me. Burnt human flesh. My being had gotten used to the sight and the scent of human corpses, yet this day, I could barely hold my disgust back. I did remember Oda was raising orphans he had taken in after the Dragon's Head Rush... I wished, strongly, that I was mistaking, but deep inside, I knew I was not. The ones to have died in the explosion were children. Innocent children who had been used for the sake of attracting Oda into the trap. And it had worked. Coming out of the restaurant, Dazai's friend wore a stoic face, and his blue eyes, normally devoid of any violence, were darkened by murderous intentions. He was not the one I had known before, not the same I had last seen. It was not long before my superior rushed toward him.

"Odasaku...! Odasaku, you can't go, it won't —"

"Bring back the kids?" He almost huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets "No it won't. But I'll go still."

"No...! Odasaku... Even if you feel down, you can still live on, and believe something good will happen...!" He tried to sound reassuring "You have to believe..."

I lowered my head. He acted out of the world, but he was the one who understood the best how our minds worked. He was the one who analysed us with the most accuracy. He understood everything, but could not make use of it... He had told me he felt lonely; just how lonely was he actually?

"... Do you know why I joined the Mafia...?"

Oda and I exchanged a glance. It was the first time he ever talked about his own reasons...

"I wanted to try... I thought perhaps in this violent world I could see human qualities and... Find a reason to live..."

A reason to live... His voice sounded so broken when he said those few words, I felt my throat tighten. A reason to live... What exactly was my own reason to live...? Why was I born into this world, with such a fate? What role was I supposed to play on this Earth...? I kept silent.

"My dream was to be a writer..." Oda sighed "A person who gave life through words... But I no longer have the qualifications... I only have one wish now."

"No..."

I watched, expressionless, as Dazai called after his friend, desperately, but the man he called would not glance back at him, and walked away, toward what would be his death. I realised. He would be another loss. My superior would lose something else he held dear in his heart. He would be broken. Dazai would be the one broken by the end of the day. So, I did a foolish thing; I went and tried to defy his destiny.

I dropped the umbrella on the ground, and, without a word, without caring about the rain, I ran after the shadow of the one who used to be nicknamed "Odasaku", leaving the executive behind. The puddles of water did not stop me as I jumped above them, nor did I care about the person running toward the crime scene, hands holding onto detective materials. No, my mind was only focused on the person in front of me, and I grabbed the back of his coat, stopping his track.

"Oda..." I panted "You can't go..."

"Not you too, Ogawa..." He did not give me a single look.

"That's not for myself...!" I argued "So listen to me... If you go and die, because I know you will die, he will shatter! He will be hurt... Do you know how pained he was after your meeting with Sakaguchi-san, yesterday...?! You cannot go... You cannot leave him..."

"He must learn, too..." He turned around to remove my hands from him "Are you truly acting selflessly?"

"Eh...?" I did not understand.

Only then did I notice that my own tears were mixing with the rain on my cheeks.

"If I die, it is you who will lose him." He stated "You don't want him to suffer, only because your own happiness gravitates around him. That's pretty selfish, making him your reason to be."

"I..." I wanted to protest, but could not deny what he was saying "It is true... But even so, do I not have the right to wish for his smile...? Even if I want him to be happy for my sake, would it not contribute to his own good as well...?"

"You have the right to... But I can't go back anymore now. So, there is a single thing you can do, if you truly care about him." He looked at me, holding my shoulders.

"... What is it...?"

"Stay by his side. Help him going on."

"That's not..." I chuckled bitterly "I did promise him so... But he does not need me as much as he needs you... I am not important... I am not enough... I only make him suffer... You know... Perhaps I should go in your stead..."

His hands gripped my shoulders tighter, making me wince in pain.

"You promised him... You can't go back on your words. Dazai does need you, although it is different from how he needs me. If he loses you because you wanted to save me, I do not believe that I can console him, because you made a promise. And for once, he sees a person as someone he may not lose, for you tied yourself to him on your own whim. It's too late, now..." He spoke lowly "Please stay by his side... I entrust him to you."

I could not have done a thing. Why could I not be the least useful to Dazai..? Why could I not do anything right...? Going and breaking my superior... How could he do that to his friend...? I was well-aware that never would I be able to comfort his pain... It had been too hard the previous night, to stand his sufferings without myself shattering, how would I stand having him act like an empty soul...?

"What the heck..." I cursed, trying to remove without success the wet hair sticking to my face "We both know... Who means the most to him..."

Without much energy, I made my way back toward the restaurant. I was cold, I was soaked, and the rain would not stop pouring onto me, masking my tears from the sight of others. I was tired, too. I only wanted to run away, from there, from the Port Mafia, from Dazai, but mostly, from myself. I wanted to dodge any responsibility and live the carefree life of a child... Why had I never had a childhood? Why could I not be innocent, almost naive, and ignore my duties as a human being? It was so stupid. Being alive, for someone like me, was such a waste...

Bumping into someone stopped my feet from moving. The thin umbrella sheltered my head, preventing me from getting even wetter, and, surprisingly, I was pulled toward the person's chest.

"Don't blame yourself..."

Now that the rain could not fall on me anymore, there was no way to disguise my tears as droplets, and they rolled, heavily, onto the cold skin of my face.

"I tried..." I sobbed "He was so far away... I couldn't... I'm sorry..."

"Don't blame yourself..." He repeated, pulling me closer in what seemed the attempt to a hug "Please, don't blame yourself..."

"How can I not...?" I buried my face in his coat "He is gone... He went away, and I could not... Stop him... For your sake..."

"I know... That's why, don't blame yourself..." Dazai made me look up at him "He chose this path willingly... The only thing we can do is assist him... Let's go back to the headquarters to prepare our men... We can still make it."

He clang onto a hope he knew was not meant to exist; a vain, meaningless light, yet he clang onto it so desperately. I had never seen him being so human...

"... Understood..."

I was utterly anxious as I waited for Dazai, in front of the headquarters. It had been a moment he had gone in to see the Boss. It was too long to my liking, and I feared Mori-san was trying to make him stay. What was going on...? If only I was more intelligent, perhaps would I understand the truth behind this whole case of ghosts Mimic was... I had sent around twenty men toward the abandoned mansion in the forest, where the remnants of the organisation were hiding, but I doubted it would help Oda a lot. I prayed for him to stay alive until we could go to him, but there was a voice which kept screaming I was comforting myself in delusions. Oda had chosen to die, and whether he won or lost against Gide, the leader of Mimic, he would die in the end.

It was not raining anymore, and, instead, the sun shone warmly above the busy Yokohama, as though accompanying a great man in his last moments. He did not deserve to die this way. He did not deserve to see his dream scattered on the ground. He did not deserve to see the kids he cared about being taken away from him. Yet, it had happened. Why was the world so unfair? Toward rotten criminals and filthy businessmen, it was so peaceful, whereas toward war orphans and starving homeless people, it was worse than Hell. Why so?

"Ogawa-kun! Let's go now!" Dazai called me suddenly.

"Yes...!" I walked after him as he led the way "What happened...?"

"The Boss... He has planned everything." He quickly told me "All of this for a damn certificate..."

"The 'Ability Business Permit'...?!" My eyes widened "Would that not make the Port Mafia's doings legal...?!"

"Exactly. Logically speaking, it was the right thing to do, but —"

"Your friend's life is on the line." I cut him, speeding up "There is no logic in that... You just want to save him, and this is normal. Am I right?"

"... Very right..." He conceded "I don't want him to die..."

[spoondrifts]

the evergreen needles inside your bones

ao3 link

Whumptober 2020 Prompt, Day 8: Isolation.

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood’s Mother, Jonathan Sims, Daisy Tonner (Mentioned), Elias Bouchard (Mentioned)

CWs: self harm, emotional/psychological abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, depression, past child abuse, suicidal thoughts

He's walking. He isn't sure where he is or how he got here, only that it's rather nice. The air is cool and the breeze is gentle, the sand beneath his feet shifts as he steps. The coastline stretches endlessly on into the fog, which collects in thin, wispy tendrils around his ankles, condensing in little droplets in his glasses. He wipes them off every few minutes. Distantly, seagulls call back and forth, shrill and grating, but the fog muffles it well enough.

There might be a lighthouse, off a ways, but he can't focus on it properly. Every time he tries, it seems to blur and shudder, refusing to be locked down. He understands, sort of. To be seen, to have eyes cut down to your core and pin you in place, defining you... it sounds awful.

To his left, the ocean rushes quietly, white waves lapping against the shore. He can taste salt.

A rush of cloying static fills his head, and then Peter is there. He's wearing his ridiculous sailor's coat, the dumb hat brim on his head hiding his empty eyes.

"Hi, Martin," Peter says, voice warm. He is anything but. "What are you doing in here?"

"Here?" Martin says, a bit confused. His voice sounds distant. He's not sure what Peter means.

"In the Lonely. You weren't in your office and I wanted to go over some emails from tech support I got this morning. Apparently, the archive is having trouble with their computers again, they keep breaking, and if they go over the Institute budget..."

Peter's voice fades out. Martin looks over at the sea; the fog rises to his knees, chilling him to the bone. He's been rather tired of Peter, lately. Despite being typically absent, the man has an exhausting presence, and when given the opportunity he can and will talk for hours. Martin is an expert at tuning him out by now.

"Martin," Peter says sharply, snapping his fingers in front of Martin's eyes and regrettably drawing his attention. "Are you listening to me?"

Martin blinks slowly. Lukas' form is indistinct, growing more hazy by the moment.

"Blackwood," Peter says. He sounds startled as he lurches forward, face twisted in confusion, but Martin steps back and the fog swells up, encompassing, swallowing Peter up. And then Martin is alone.

He hadn't known he could do that.

Far away, the lighthouse beam sweeps through the gloom.

His notebook sits open on his desk, blank white pages staring accusingly at him. Several pages have been ripped out, crumpled, and tossed away, covered in jagged scratches of pen. He rolls the pen over in his fingers, eyeing the notebook.

Picking it up, he braces it on his knee, uncaps the pen, and lifts it. Stares. He presses the tip to the page. Stops, removes it.

it's like drowning

he writes, then scowls and crosses it out. Too Buried-esque.

like clogging, like stifling, like I could reach down my throat and rip my emotions out by their throats. maybe then I could strangle and kill them for good. maybe then I could feel something.

He thinks he can hear someone like his mum scoffing at him, telling him to write something real. Something that isn't so silly, so theatrical.

He looks at the lines for a long while. Grits his teeth. Crosses them out.

Martin watches Jon hurry into the Institute, soaked all the way through and shivering violently. Rain is pouring in unrelenting sheets beyond the doors, a steady drizzle of cold and grey and wet.

Maybe once, Martin would have fetched Jon a cup of tea, offered to hang up his coat to dry for him. Fussed over him all the way into his office, where once, Jon would have snapped out a terse, yes, thank you, Martin, before unsubtly ordering him back to work. Maybe once, Martin would have stood in the break room over a cup of tea for himself, warming his hands, chest aching so deep he feared it might shatter him into a million pieces.

But he can't do that anymore. So he watches Jon shake himself, grumbling about the foul weather, and storm down the hall to the archives without so much as giving Martin a glance.

It's better, this way.

Make yourself useful, Martin, his mum's voice echoes in his head. He's making tea. The Institute is dark and everyone has gone home for the night. Everyone except for Jon, of course, and Daisy, who has been sleeping in the archives ever since Jon dragged her out of the coffin by her fingernails.

Martin doesn't get it. He doesn't get a lot of things about Jonathan Sims, but he doesn't understand the whole Daisy situation most of all.

He remembers the way Jon had staggered into the archives with his throat slit and bleeding, choking out with wry humor that Daisy, the cop, almost killed him, as Martin pressed a handful of paper towels to the wound. He remembers the a rush of worry and anxiety and fury.

And now they're—

They're friends? Maybe more?

No, that's ridiculous. Don't be so melodramatic, Martin. Selfish, jealous boy.

His hands shake as he pours his tea. Stirs in the sugar. Burns his tongue on the first sip. A piece of prose has been rattling around in his head all day, itching to be written down. He doesn't think he has the strength to open his notebook again.

there's a pickaxe behind my eyes, chipping away at my face, causing such a thudding and pounding racket that I can scarcely gather my thoughts into neat little boxes, where they belong. tucked away. pocketed, pocketed, pocketed. I am pocket-sized; stuff me away and fold me into the dark, the background. hide me away. please don't look; I may fracture like stained glass.

Christ, Martin, his mum sneers.

He loses his pen.

It's an accident, and a harmless one, really. He's leaning over his desk—once Elias', once James', once Richard's, once once once all the way back to Jonah Magnus. Painted eyes bright and green and sharp with something, maybe it's amusement, maybe it's malice; who can tell, does it matter—and his fingers fumble, and he drops the pen.

Martin straightens, sighing, and gets up to look for it, assuming it had rolled under the desk. He sweeps his foot over the carpet, peers into the shadows, even paces the room a few times to make sure he's searching everywhere, but it's gone. Frustrated, he pushes the desk out of the way, causing a few papers to slide off and scatter across the ground. The pen still isn't there. He hisses lowly as the damn pen refuses to make an appearance. There's no way it just vanished. It can't have vanished. He very clearly dropped it right there, it should be somewhere on the floor, but the more he looks the more he becomes convinced that it's not.

He stops for a moment. Assesses the office.

It's a mess. The desk, haphazardly shoved to one side; cabinets flung open, none fully closed; himself, panting and flushed hot with irritation and in the epicenter of the disorder. His notebook is on the floor, face down.

There's no pen.

He can feel the anger rising, something burning and steely that squeezes his lungs and rings in his ears, and then—

Christ, it's only a pen, a voice snarls in the back of his mind.

It sounds like his mum.

She's dead and he's here. Sometimes Martin thinks he shouldn't be: here and alive and fine when everyone else is suffering so badly, but then he chastises himself—It doesn't matter. That's his mantra, these days. It doesn't matter how he feels about it. All that matters is that he does it, and he does it well, and no one else has to get hurt by monsters like Elias or Peter or the—the thing that stole Sasha, ever again.

He won't save the day, but maybe. Maybe he can save them. Even if it costs him his life.

Martin sucks in a breath. One. Two. Three. Four. He takes in another.

Faintly, he registers that his wrists are stinging from how hard he is pressing his nails to the skin. Not bleeding, not yet. He has the good sense to pull his hand away and inspect the damage. Four crescent gouges, likely to bruise, and bruise a dark, sickly purple, like rot. Like crawling, infestation, like Jane. He still has scars. He has not touched a peach in over a year.

He breathes deeply, sniffs, and then all at once he is crying. His eyes burn as tears well up and spill over, trickling down his cheeks in uneven rivulets, stopped by his scrabbling fingers that rub valiantly over his face in an attempt to quit, but somehow that only makes it worse and his chest stutters through a hitched sob.

Dropping forward, he gets on his knees and starts to pick up the papers he'd messed up, sniffling and choking down the involuntary sobs. His hands tremble badly as he grabs his notebook and presses it to his chest.

Useless arse, his mum growls. Can't even clean a bloody office because you're too busy getting all weepy over something you chose.

His teeth grind so harshly that his jaw aches.

"Shut up," he hisses, his voice horrifically watery and broken. His notebook slides back to the floor as his hands fly up to cover his ears, desperately trying to block out her cruel words. "Shut up, shut up, shut up, you're gone and you're not coming back and I'm still here when you're not so shut UP!"

He isn't sure how long he crouches there, hands shut tight over his ears, wracked with loud, gasping cries as his body shudders and shakes and falls apart.

It's only when he notices how quiet it is that he finally opens his eyes, lowering his hands.

He's on the beach. The fog curls, gentle, around his huddled form. The waves crash and collide with each other, sending great sprays of salt water into the misty air. His pants are covered in sand.

And the lighthouse looms before him, dizzyingly tall, it's outline distinct and crisp for the first time. Martin breathes in the scent of the sea and slowly rises to his feet. His head is fuzzy, but his chest doesn't hurt anymore, and he isn't sure why he was so upset in the first place. It was just a pen, after all. He sniffs, shaking his head, taking a few wobbly steps towards the lighthouse.

The door is open. Waiting. He can't see what's inside.

When he manages to reach the entrance, he pauses, glancing back. The empty expanse of beach and coastline is still there. It's rather beautiful.

Martin takes in a breath. Another.

He turns, and walks into the lighthouse.

[elisaphoenix13]

Don't Touch Me

His day had been pretty miserable. He had a pop quiz in Spanish that he wasn't entirely sure he passed, he had to keep Harley out of a couple of fights, and on their way home from school...it started raining. Heavily. He and Harley were soaked the first minute they got off the subway and headed to the tower. Except this time there was no cat to rescue. Tibbs would probably think they looked like drowned rats when they got home and Peter wouldn't blame him. He felt like one at the very least and if Harley's grumbling was anything to go by, he did too.

"Think someone will make us hot chocolate?" Harley asks and Peter shrugs.

"If they haven't already."

Once they arrive at the tower and enter, they make their way into the private elevator and Peter once again apologizes to the receptionist for the watery mess they leave behind. He always apologized and she always waved him off with a smile, but he was raised to have manners. If he wasn't polite, he was afraid Ben and May woukd be rolling in their graves and quite possibly come to haunt him. Ever since meeting Stephen and listening to his stories of whatever he encountered, ghosts didn't seem as far fetched as he used to think.

When they reach the penthouse and the elevator doors open, both boys grin when they find Wanda in the kitchen and holding two steaming mugs out in their direction. They throw their backpacks toward the stairs and rush over to each take a mug of hot chocolate in enthusiastic gratitude, and Peter sniffs his suspiciously. Wanda smiles softly at the action.

"No mint. Marshmallows are on the counter." She adds and walks toward the elevator.

"Thanks again Wanda!" Peter says and she waves over her shoulder before disappearing onto the elevator.

He turns toward the bag of marshmallows on the counter and cackles when he finds Harley's  cheeks stuffed full like a hamster as he actually adds some marshmallows to his hot chocolate. It was probably only because he couldn't fit anymore into his mouth.

"Hey! I want some too!" Peter gives Harley an unimpressed look when the older teen grabs a single marshmallow and drops it into Peter's mug. "How generous of you."

Harley ignores him to munch happily on the fluffy sugar currently in his mouth and Peter steals a few more from the bag to put in his mug before chugging it down. Seconds after he drains the last few drops, a portal opens up near the living room and Peter sets his empty mug in the sink so he can go greet the sorcerer that steps into the room. Peter doesn't even make it three feet from Stephen though before the man throws out his hand to stop the teens approach.

"DON'T!"

Peter freezes at the tone and even Harley was on alert at the uncharacteristic shout. They both study the doctor curiously and notice him practically curling in on himself, his hands shaking violently, and if Peter listened carefully, Stephen's thundering heartbeat. He even had a wild look in his eyes that looked both pained, tired, and frightened all at the same time and it had both boys worried.

"Mom?" Peter asks carefully and Stephen flinches when he tries to move closer.

"Don't touch me." The man whispers and immediately breaks Peter's heart as Harley asks FRIDAY to get Tony.

Did he do something wrong? His spider senses weren't going off like they had with the evil version of Stephen, so Peter knew that this was the right one, but he was keeping Peter away. The sorcerer just mumbled to himself and flinched away whenever the teen tried to get closer and it hurt. The hurt got even worse when his father showed up and was able to get much closer to Stephen, and only made him wonder if maybe he was the cause of Stephen's...pain. That was what this all looked like at least.

"Honey?" Tony soothes as he slowly reaches out. "What happened baby?"

He stops for a moment when Stephen flinches again but reaches out again until he's gently cupping the other's cheek. Stephen whimpers at the touch and it turns into a sob as he continues to mumble almost incoherently as Tony tries to make out the words. Even Peter was having trouble figuring out what Stephen was saying and he had enhanced senses. Words sounded like 'door room' and 'dorm mom' was all Peter could put together and when he told Tony, his father's eyes widen.

"Stephen? Did Dormammu come back?" Tony ask gently and winces when he gets a single sharp nod as an answer. "Was is just like last time?" Another sharp nod. "Okay. Okay. I'm going to touch you a little bit more so we can get you up to bed alright?"

Peter and Harley watch Tony lead their trembling mother up the stairs to the master bedroom, and Peter climbs the stairs himself minutes after to go up to his own room. Watching Tony be able to touch Stephen with little problem and hardly any protest or repercussions was a bit of a blow for him. It made Peter think that Stephen didn't trust him at all. He knew that was a stupid thought, but the relationship he had with the sorcerer was important to him. Just like his relationship with Tony. They were his parents, and he really wanted to do whatever he could to help them and prevent the possibility of losing them.

From what Tony said downstairs, he lost Stephen several times again and didn't even know it. He and Harley were griping about the rain when Stephen was fighting off a powerful deity by putting it through a time loop again and dying endlessly. Each death more horrendous than the previous one. Deaths he only knew as little detail about as Stephen could possibly give him when he told the family about his first encounter with Dormammu.

"Pete?" Tony raps on the door with his knuckles. "Can I come in?"

"...sure." Peter responds quietly and his bedroom door opens. Tony walks in and closes it behind him before sitting on the bed next to Peter and putting an arm around him to pull him into his side.

"I know what you're thinking. Mom doesn't hate you or anything like that."

"He wouldn't let me touch him."

Tony exhales through his nose. "He's a little touch averse right now and he didn't want to accidently lash out at you. He'd much rather take that risk with me than with you or Harley. If he hurt either of you--"

"He would never forgive himself." Peter finishes softly. "Is he going to be okay?"

Tony stares ahead at the Star Wars poster on the teen's wall. "Eventually. It might take a day or two of TLC on my part, but yes."

"...okay."

Tony pats his back and tells him and Harley to order pizza when they get hungry, and then kisses the top of his head before he leaves Peter's room. Access to the family floor was cut off to everybody who didn't live on it for the rest of the evening so Stephen could rest quietly. It didn't matter that the room was sound proof. The fewer problems they had to deal with, the better. Harley only left the floor once to get the pizza when it arrived, and he and Peter binged watched a tv show while they polished off the pizza. Thankfully Tony went down to get some for himself and Stephen before they dug in, and they went up to bed when they both started to nod off in the middle of one of their episodes.

Peter didn't rest well that night, and he only knew that because when he woke up in the middle of the night, he found himself standing in the middle of the living room. He knew for a fact that he had fallen asleep in bed, so that and finding Harley standing nearby and watching him closely was proof enough that he had been sleepwalking again. It very rarely happened.

"What are you doing down here?" Peter asks  and Harley sighs.

"Making sure you didn't hurt yourself. I didn't know you sleep walk. You scared the crap out if me." He admits.

"It uh...only happens when I'm stressed or upset...or both."

Harley nods and picks up Tibbs from one of the couches and hands him to Peter. "Here. Take your cat and go back up to bed. Don't fall on the way up."

That was as nice as Harley was going to get and Peter wasn't about to make fun of him for it right now. Harley could have left him to bump into furniture or hurt himself, but he stayed and watched Peter just so that wouldn't happen. He may act aloof and like he didn't care, but Harley had a big heart. Nothing like Peter's of course, but he was nice in his own way. He cared about his family, and like Peter, would do anything to keep them.

So Peter goes up to his room and goes back to bed.

True to Tony's word, Stephen was more amiable to touch and mingle when a couple of days had passed, and the first thing he did was crawl into Peter's bed. All of the stress and anxiety that the teen didn't even realize he was feeling or had went away after he exhaled from a deep inhale. Tea leaves and incense calmed his nerves as well as the slightly trembling fingers that weaved gently through his hair. Tony had tried to spend some time cuddling with Peter over the past couple of days, and it helped a little bit, but there were just some things that only Stephen could do. Everything about his embraces and cuddles were firm but gentle. Tony's were more...secure than soothing.

"I'm sorry for pushing you away." Stephen says quietly into the top of the teen's head. "I imagine what I was feeling was what you feel during a sensory overload times one hundred...if I had to explain it."

"Yikes. Remind me not to complain next time I have a sensory attack." Peter half jokes and Stephen chuckles quietly.

"You're allowed to complain. It may not be as severe as that...or maybe it is...but you experience it more often."

"Are you sure you're okay now?"

"...I'm much better than I was." Stephen admits. "Your father was a big help and incredibly patient."

They lay there quietly for a few minutes, the only sounds Peter heard being Stephen's calmer heartbeat and Tibbs purring at the end of his bed. The calm atmosphere was only temporarily interrupted when Harley came into the room to lay on the bed on Stephen's other side, forcing the eldest of the three to lay on his back so both teens could curl into his sides.  The peace lasted for another few minutes as they both enjoyed being able to cuddle Mama Bear again until Harley eventually opened his mouth.

"Mom hog."

Peter grabs a loose pillow and whaps the other teen with it, and Stephen sighs.

"It's a miracle the quiet lasted as long as it did."

[deathbyvalentine]

Assorted Prompts

Loveletter

There are always secret places in schools. They’re unseen to adult eyes. Hollows of trees, particular broken drawers in classrooms, unused desks. They could become post offices, central hubs for things to come and go. Lip glosses, lists, small talismans for luck and witchcraft. Some were private, known only to best friends, not realising they were carrying on a grand tradition practised by hundreds of schoolgirls before them.

Chrissie and Angelique were two such girls. They had the type of friendship only fourteen year old girls could have. They were joined at the hip, endlessly fascinated and infuriated with each other. The came apart and came together in a cycle as predictable as the tides. 

They went to the woods on the outskirts of the grounds, pricked their fingertips with needles and pressed the bloody prints to each other’s lips, swearing an oath to be each other’s forever. They walked to class with linked arms, heads leaning together, weaving whispers between them. They invented their own language, as much about twitches of the hand and eyebrow as the nonsense words they said. They passed notes, never caught. They lay together on Chrissie’s bed, legs tangled together, pressing hands to each other. Sometimes they didn’t even need to speak. They just gazed at each other, memorising the other’s body until it may as well have been their own.

Years later, when they had graduated and were girls no longer, a new pupil plunged their hand into a birdbox and found a faded piece of paper, blue ink bleeding a little from years of damp. It said; 

Chrissie, Tomorrow we will wake up and we will be friends still. How can life get better than this? Your Angel

High Flyer

She had red hair. That was what I remembered best about her. When she took her helmet off it shone like fire in the evening sunlight. She was like a poster come to life, her lipsticked smile perfect, her leather jacket fitting like a dream. She was the perfect pilot, everyone’s idea of one. At least, she was certainly my idea of one. I loved her best in the morning, before she left, before she had to put the world before me. Even in her sleep she was a fighter, never still for too long, always stirring. I knew that she would never go out quietly, that however she went, it would be with an explosion. It turned out I was right, her plane tumbling down into the English channel like Icarus, her hubris being the assumption she could out fly death. She’s buried there somewhere, out with the salt and the seaweed, conquering the waves as she conquered the sky. I don’t miss her. In life she was never around enough to form a life around and now without her, her absence feels as a natural as the wind. I still love her, and I love the spaces where she once was.

Blue

Constance woke up, as she so often did, in the early hours of the morning. For once, the school was peaceful, the entire place breathing slowly. Everything was bathed in pale blue light, the colour of a summer just before dawn. The place was as lonely as she felt, corridors and teaching rooms abandoned. Well. Abandoned if you didn’t know the right way to look.

She realised what had woken her on this occasion. Not nightmares, not rain pattering against the window, not hearing giggling in the next room. Distantly, echoing down the corridor, was a soft wailing. She tilted her head, wondering why the nurse hadn’t taken care of it. Then, after a moment, she realised exactly why. She slipped out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold polished wood, pulling open her bedroom door. She peeped out, listening before distinguishing where it was coming from. 

She followed it down the corridor, a small shiver travelling down her spine from cold or fear. Her fingers brushed the banister as she tip toed down the stairs, slipping past the teacher’s quarters like a forgotten shadow. It was deep within the kitchen where she finally found what she was looking for, rubbing her eyes to free them from the clinging fingers of sleep.

The figure was small, as she expected it to be, sitting on the edge of the wooden table and howling fit to burst. Constance forced herself to keep a neutral face, to not recoil or flinch when the figure looked up to reveal a face with deep claw marks across it. She hadn’t met this one before, but then ghosts appeared whenever they liked. Sometimes it could be centuries before they manifested. Yet another part of her power she didn’t quite understand. Timidly she stood, squirming as she worked up the courage to ask if it was alright.

The answer would be no of course. She had yet to meet a happy ghost. But sometimes someone seeing them, talking to them, acknowledging them would ease their soul enough that they would let her sleep. It didn’t always work. Hence why Constance had quite the reputation for falling asleep at her desk. She took a step closer, fingers brushing the shoulder of the incorporeal form. With a shock like electricity, she felt the claws rip into her flesh, the teeth and terror. She blinked, and her body was her own again, vital, living. The ghost had not yet stopped crying, only for a moment to be surprised that Constance could see him before continuing, undeterred.

With a sigh, she moved over to fill a heavy iron kettle and place it on the hob. She needed tea. It was going to be a long night.

____________________________________________-

Calpurnia and Matthias’ first meeting

He stood behind his mothers and fathers, attempting valiantly to look disinterested. But he had never met a Urizeni before and his curiosity betrayed him. He peeked around his father’s shoulder to inspect her. He noted her stance, straight backed and rigid, the expression giving nothing away as to what she thought of his land, his family, his lodgings. His instinct was to assume arrogance, but he had been told about the Urizeni occupation with poise. She could just be controlling herself, a concept fairly foreign to the young changeling.

He also noted the soft feathers sprouting along her brow. If it wasn’t clear from her confidence, the feathers made her lineage intently clear. He himself had no chance of hiding his own - swirls painted his face, the beginnings of antlers protruding through the mess of curls, his eyes a sparkling blue. In hindsight, he probably should have spent less time examining every inch of her and more time listening to exactly what his family was saying. 

“- Matthias will show you - “ “- What?” He blinked, rapidly being jolted back down to earth.  “You know the way. Calpurnia here needs to be shown and we’re too busy with the clients we currently have. It’ll get you out from under our feet for a few days.” Their tone was traditionally blunt and invited no argument. Matthias frowned and looked over at the other teenager that had caused him to be jolted from his days of relaxation and socialising.

She smiled. What a dick.

_____________________________________________

That Bloody Alleyway

The alley provided a much needed moment of respite. They stood for a moment, backs pressed to the brick walls, their chests heaving. Their assilants sprinted past, not a single one of them glancing into the gap. Even if they had, they might not have seen anything. They were bathed in shadow, the light of the street not quite touching them. 

They could hear nothing but faded footsteps and the sound of their own breath catching in their throats. Alyssa tilted her head, double-checking. Then grinned. She wrapped her hand in Taylor’s t-shirt, closing the gap between them and kissing her, hard. Taylor returned the love, moving up the hand that wasn’t holding a bag of stolen jewellery to Alyssa’s hair, tangling her fingers within it. 

It took them both a moment to notice the body. It was only when they had broken apart and glanced either way to begin to plan their exit when they saw it. Alyssa clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a scream, but Taylor did nothing more than inhale sharply. They stood as still as statues, making certain that his chest was not rising and falling, that it wasn’t just some drunk sleeping off his evening. Taylor stepped closer, using her phone to cast a little more light on the situation. 

A dark pool surrounded his head like a twisted version of a halo. One pale hand lay flat against the concrete, the other tucked inside his jacket pocket. He was smartly dressed, looking for all the world like he had just stepped out of an office. But that seemed unlikely in this part of town. Legitimate people didn’t work around here. This was a place for getting by and getting into trouble.

Hence the dilemma that now faced the partners. Did they call someone, anonymously and risk sticking their noses somewhere they did not belong? Or did they do the right thing? It was Taylor who stirred first, grabbing Alyssa’s hand and tugging her out of the alleyway and into the street. Not their problem. Not their business.

_________________________________________________

“Any two etc. au bandfic.”

Amy stormed into the green room, tossing her bass onto the couch without caring if it landed on the cushions. She stood in the middle of the room, motionless, her hands clenched into fists, cheeks flushed pink. After a moment she broke the pose, moving over to carefully adjust her bass, murmuring an apology under her breath as she did so. She ran her fingers down it’s neck. 

It was a thing of beauty, the only constant in her life since she was thirteen. Parents left, friends, boys, girls but her green bass stayed, as much a part of her as her hands. She stays in the silence, listening only to her breath. I am close to crying I think. I’m not sure. It’s been so long that I’m not sure all the pipes are connected right. She hated how she looked when she cried. Red puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks. She was not a girl who suffered prettily and she hated that she was even conscious of that fact. She wondered if boys watched themselves through another’s eyes, even at their worst.

She wasn’t sure if James worried about anything, let alone if his sadness was beautiful enough. But then, she also wasn’t sure if sadness was an emotion he felt. Anger, yes, frequently. Bitterness, of course. Sadness? She couldn’t see it on him. Which was probably the problem.

Amy was sad a lot. It was her default state. That and anxious. She frequently found her moments of happiness only came on stage, the music surrounding her, watching James sing her words, the words she had written. Out of his mouth, her words weren’t teenage and embarrassing. They weren’t personal. A crowd sang them back and they became poetry. They became something profound, universal. It felt like releasing them into the world, the weight from her chest finally easing, just a little.

She thought she had found another place. In James’s arms, in his bed. It had started almost as an ego boost. James was stunning, with those big brown eyes and thick eyelashes, strong arms and perfect smile. The fact that he wanted her, with all her flaws was enough to give her head rush. Then it had became more. It was him, just him that made her mood jump, her heart race. Stupid of her really. Falling in love in general was idiocy. Falling in love with a lead singer was lunacy. She didn’t know how to tell him to be careful. Not with her, she was already broken, but with her words. Her music. Her band. That was all that mattered really, when you cut down to the bone of it. 

But James was not a careful man. He didn’t know how to be. He knew only how to be reckless and brave and maddening. It’s what made him so electric to watch and so dangerous to know. Amy only knew how to be careful. She lived in a fragile world. Everything was made of glass, everything could come crashing down, leaving cuts.

She wasn’t surprised that she had seen him kissing somebody else. It was in his nature. The old story of the scorpion and the frog, played out a hundred times over and over. She was however, surprised it hurt.

_______________________________________

“Any character: sex work AU”

It had taken a while to get used to. Her civvie clothes were flowing layers, in deep yellows and oranges, a way of carrying summer with her all year long. Her work clothes were not just tight - they may as well have been painted on. They clung to every dip and curve, highlighting the imagination rather than leaving something to it. What wasn’t covered by latex or leather was not covered at all, the black of the material and the tan of her skin working together to create a symphony of seduction. 

Amberly liked it now. The feeling of it, especially when it warmed, becoming like a second skin. She ran her hands over her hips, feeling the slopes of her own body. She was not often aware she had a body. She generally considered it irrelevant. Simply a vessel for actioning her thoughts. A machine, just one made of flesh and blood.

Here it was different. Here it became a way for her to present her personality, to cause and stir excitement in others. It could be desired and admired. She became fascinated with herself, the swing in her hips, the noise her skin made against sheets, the way her hair streaked down her back. She memorised her freckles and scars, inspecting herself in her mirror with nothing but kindness. She knew logically she was supposed to find fault. Prod at her thighs, despair over a spot, circle what she would change. But none of that entered her mind. She loved herself, her body. And this job gave others the opportunity to do the same.

Experimentally, she smacked the crop against her palm, smiling at the noise that echoed through the room. 

__________________________________________

Petitioner Change

Canyon sat on top of the decaying rock, feet just resting in the water. Dark shapes moved below, but she wasn’t afraid. Shadows were as much a part of this world as the sea itself. The sea spray and the mist left tiny droplets on her skin, shimmering like crystals.  Sometimes they fizzled where they hit her skin, the infernal burning inside her not abated. She was a creature of fire surrounded by water. Not that she minded. Not anymore.

It wasn’t just the landscape that was changing. She had known from the moment it had happened that Abyss had gone, shifting into something of his essence but definitely not the same. Your shaper was a part of you. When they changed, the world changed, and as a part of the world surrounding you, so did you. 

Her rage hadn’t subsided. Her passion. Her adoration and hate. That was still there, fuelling the fire of her soul. But something else was there too. A deep, dark shadow behind the fire. One whispering about acceptance, peace, about the refuge that came with accepting shadow as the natural counterpart of fire. One that saw no experience as valuable as experience. One that thought one sounded like a dreadfully lonely number.

She leaned down, trailing her fingers in the sea, watching some shadows dart up and nip at her fingers. Part of her wanted to slip into the water and let them consume her, a thousand pieces of her in a thousand others. She wasn’t scared. She was happy.

[sasusake]

SasuSaku Month 2017, day 2 prompt: Something More.

Second part to Roadside Misadventures, #2: Drunk. M-rated.

--

Sakura woke up to unrelenting nausea. Her mouth felt as if it held ash and paper instead of tongue and teeth; even swallowing scratched at her tender throat. She tried to move, but there was a weight in her, as if she’d slept under the mattress instead of on it. Her limbs felt heavy and numb, foreign to her.

         «You can touch me, too.»

 A faraway voice echoed in her mind. Sakura dismissed it sternly.

It must still be very early. The faded light that filtered through the thin curtains had a soft hue of rose, but it was still harsh enough on her eyes to make her want to bury her face in the sheets.

Gathering enough healing chakra to slowly dull the ache in her temples, she sluggishly placed both hands on her painful head. A few minutes went by, and much of what remained from her hangover was a dry mouth and that lingering heaviness. Water, she needed water.

Sakura tried to prop herself up. Something hindered her movements; she was being held, more than merely weighed down by wilted limbs.

         «You can use all of me…»

 It was then she began to truly acknowledge her surroundings.

An empty futon lay on the floor just in front of her, crumpled and cold. Warmth irradiated from the arm that rested gently upon her waist, and she could see the marks and scars scattered upon it like constellations. The soft, steady breathing on her neck was, only now, evoking shudders down her spine. Her pulse darted immediately.

         «I… want to show you more. And… I want to feel more.»

Blinking hard, she tried to check if she was just dreaming.

But no dream could ever hope to match this.

“You're awake,” said Sasuke, voice thick with sleep. Her heart broke into frantic pace, overtaken by a restlessness she could not control.

A million questions coursed through her mind. She could not bring herself to voice even one of them, entirely lost in inarticulate surrender. Her body, now weightless, only resisted floating away due to the presence of his arm.

His arm, surrounding her hip; his lips, moving but inches from her neck. She could stay like this forever, and she would be content.

Sakura felt the vertigo spiralling from within. She wanted nothing more but to lose herself in it, to turn to him and tangle her limbs in his, to kiss him until she ran out of breath and succumbed to this dreadful, all consuming desire.

“Do you remember anything from last night?” He asked. The closeness of his voice still felt surreal, dreamlike.

Sakura isn't sure.

         «I want to sleep naked in your bed.»

 What if… ?

She closed her eyes, brought her hands to her chest, and she lied.

“No, I… I don't remember.”

“Ah. I see.”

He relieved his hold on her. She wished she had the courage to pull him back.

The spell was broken. Sakura trembled when he parted from her, but was still too numb to beg his return.

“How did I … end up here?” Here, in your bed; here, with you holding me as you did only seconds ago.

Sasuke sighed. Carefully, Sakura turned to look at him. There was something in his eyes she couldn't begin to understand.

“You had too much to drink,” he said, sitting up. “And I should have known better.”

“You drank, too.”

He chuckled, unamused. “Well, I'm glad I stopped when I did. Otherwise, we…” Sasuke paused, apparently troubled by his own thoughts. He seemed to be considering his next words carefully. “Could have done something we might regret.”

Standing to full height, he stretched the sleep away before disappearing into the bathroom. The door closed, and Sakura let out a long, winded breath.

She lay on the small mattress, still wrapped in those sheets that smelled like him, and played in her mind the bits of memories that had surfaced. She felt ashamed, foolish and utterly distraught that the words that resounded in her mind could have left her lips.

However, Sasuke's expression left her wondering – did he not regret sleeping with her?

-

-

The rest of the day carried on almost wordlessly. Sasuke wasn't much of a talker as per norm, although he spoke even less than usual. As for Sakura, well, the more she listened to the voice in her head – her own voice – the less she felt like talking.

To her own mortification, she was unable to pretend that she had not said the things she'd said. That she wanted to touch him. That she wanted him to touch her. That she wanted to lie naked with him, to kiss him endlessly, to make love.

It was nearly impossible to make eye contact, much less love, even when they did speak.

Their travels carried them far away from the last village, until they reached a tall, lumbering forest with dark trees and few flowers. She had always pitied such places,  forests with little to no blossoms to fill the senses.

It smelled of mud and rain, of rotting leaves and stale puddles. The sky retreated into the horizon and clouds gathered, dark and heavy, looming overhead. Before long, the timid drizzle had grown into a downpour and they were soaked to the bone.

“Fucking hate this weather,” Sasuke spat, clearly irritated. An unusual outburst, indication of a sour mood.

Just like me, then, Sakura mused, kicking at the small twigs and branches that littered the sopping ground.

They took shelter under a modest cave. It was tall enough that Sasuke didn't need to slouch, and long enough they could light a fire inside without worrying about it becoming a danger.

With one of her favorite devices – a metal box you could hook to the wall, containing a wire that stretched several feet in length – Sakura set out their clothes to dry. Fat drops of water dripped from their capes to the ground, even after she'd wrenched them.

With their backs turned, each of them rummaged through their travel bags in search of something dry to wear.

“Everything is soaking wet,” she grumbled, resentful. “At least the food was spared.”

“Don’t you have a plastic bag?” His voice floated behind her.

“Damn thing has a hole in it, that’s why… ugh!” Frustrated, she tossed the piece of plastic aside and tried to select something she could wear. Pretty much everything was somewhere between damp and drenched.

“Here,” she heard him. Something soft and dry landed on her shoulder. Sakura took the grey shirt in her hand, grateful. After the initial relief over having dry clothes to slip into, she found her cheeks warming up to his scent.

“You don’t mind if I wear it?”

“Of course I don’t. All I have is one pair of clean pants, though. You can – ”

“That’s fine. This’ll do. Thank you.” Wrestling off her qipao and bra as quickly as possible, Sakura shuddered as soft cotton came in contact with icy skin. Cold fingers lacking deftness, it took her a while to get all the buttons done up.

“I was gonna say we should have done laundry back in the village, but…” she shimmied out of her shorts and boots and collected her wet clothes. “Wouldn’t have done me much good now, to be honest.”

“We’ll do laundry at the next one. We should be there tomorrow night if we wake early.”

“Right.”

“We got lucky,” he said. “There’s some usable pieces of wood back here. I can start a fire, but it won’t last long.”

“Give me your clothes. I’ll hang them up while you do your thing.”

Nodding, Sasuke swiftly handed her the damp attire. He didn’t even look at her. It was only when she had her back to him, and the flare of orange flames lit up the dark cave walls, that she remembered how much better his eyesight was than hers, especially in the dark – and how, even if oversized on her, his grey shirt was no replacement for a pair of pants.

Again: the heat, and the cheeks, and the awfully inconvenient thudding of her discourteous heart.

They shared their food and mostly ate in silence. Luckily, Sasuke’s quilt had also avoided most of the rain, and they had somewhere nice to sit on rather than the cool earth.

However, the problem was precisely that she sat so close to him.

(she never, ever in her life would have imagined sitting next to Sasuke-kun could be labelled a problem)

Embarrassed, Sakura had sat on her knees. Her legs were getting cold and sore. She cursed the decision not to wear the damn underwear straight away. It’d be better to brave a cold bottom than to risk – her mind did a little somersault at the thought – flashing Sasuke.

After last night, this was the last thing she wanted to happen.

         « I want you… to kiss me until I can’t breathe… I want, I want… let’s be happy… I love you.»

 Shuddering, she willed the recollection away, along with the still-too-vivid impression of his warmth surrounding her. At least, wearing his shirt, she could still smell him.

The fire began to dwindle, as it didn’t have much more to burn on. Sakura kept watching the rain outside, trying to ignore the stinging emptiness in her chest. Anything to keep her eyes from wandering over to him, sitting so closely, so effortlessly handsome.

It was he who broke the silence.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Hm?” Distracted, she winced at the sound of his voice, velvety and warm.

“Your hangover.”

“Ah. Y-yeah, I’m… better.” Her voice felt small and weak, so she cleared her throat. “I’m better. Wouldn’t be much of a medic-nin if I couldn’t cure my own hangover, right?” She let out a nervous little chuckle, resisting the urge to peer at him.

“Right.” Sakura could have sworn she’d heard him sigh. Maybe it was just the wind blowing through, or leaves rustling outside.

Or did he?

“Sakura.” The way he called her name was enough to make her feel light-headed. Whatever he was going to say, he had a serious tone to it. “You said you don’t remember last night. If that’s the case, I should tell you. We should… talk about it. I think I owe you an explanation.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened and, finally, she looked at him. “Oh, oh – wait.”

His stare might as well burn through cloth and flesh alike. Sakura braved through a hurricane of butterflies trapped inside her chest, her stomach, and found out she was unable to hold his gaze once again.

Swalling the knot in her throat, she hesitated. “Well… it’s a little fuzzy, I’ll admit, although I… I guess I wasn’t entirely honest this morning. I mean, well, umm. It’s still in bits and pieces, but –”

“You remember.” Calm, he sounded calm. As always. Sasuke-kun always looked calm, always looked composed. It made her feel very gauche in contrast, but why should she equate them in the first place? She was Sakura, and he was Sasuke; she was light and pink and bouncy laughter, he was dark and black and perfect posture, even when he slouched. Nobody could pull that off like he did.

(he was not as calm as he seemed)

All Sakura could do was nod. Her legs were getting number and colder, no matter how much she pulled at the ends of his shirt.

“I see.”

“…you’re mad.”

“Did you mean it?”

This time she looked up, blinking. There was something soft and unexpected in his expression, something flighty and hopeful that caught her in a daze. It wasn’t always easy to read him, as he guarded his expressions carefully, but lately he seemed to be more open, more earnest.

More open to her, at least.

Or maybe she had just gotten better at it, as time went by.

“What you said last night,” as she didn’t respond Sasuke insisted, assertive, eyebrows pulled together, “about you. About us. Did you mean it?”

Cornered, she at least owed him honesty. “Yes.”

(that such a small word could weigh this much)

A sigh – of relief ? – escaped those faultless, regal lips.

“Then, no, I’m not mad.”

Sakura felt like she should say something, but nothing occurred outside of an apology.

“Don’t be sorry,” he replied. “I’m the one who took advantage.”

Took… advantage? Surely, he must be joking.

Sakura considered the word. Advantage. A benefit, a favourite position or circumstance. She considered what it meant; to him, to her.

Sucking in her breath, it was now or never. She owed him honesty about her feelings; she owed it to herself. Whether he wanted her or not, time spent with him was precious to her, and if he cared for nothing more than companionship – it would suffice.

It would have to suffice.

“Sasuke-kun, just being able to travel with you brings me so much happiness. Everything that we share, I’m glad for it. I’m thankful for every moment, I truly am.” She hugged herself, reminiscing. “Today, I woke up next to you. Your arm was on me, and you were so warm.”

She let out a sigh, unable to keep a small, timid smile from burgeoning. Hangover or not, that was the best morning she’d ever had.

“I felt… like I was someone dear to you.”

“You are. I –” He paused, diffident. Those words alone were warming, like sunshine in her veins.

“Listen, if what you said last night… if that’s how you feel, then…” It wasn’t like him to speak in fragments. Sasuke had always been a decided man, even as a boy, of few words that meant a lot. He always knew what to say, like he’d memorized a script and had his lines ready. He seldom vacillated. He was self-assured so when he spoke, he spoke with certainty. “Then it’s the same for me. Okay? I want something more, too.”

The world had stopped spinning, surely. Sakura forgot how to breathe.

“You said all those things. You said you wanted to make me happy.” Sasuke turned to her, yet his eyes kept getting lost on the way to meet hers. “So if there’s more of this, of any of this –” his warm, large hand took one of hers, small and light and tremulous, and the rush of heat that was born upon contact made every hair on her body stand on edge. “I just want to make sure it’s mutual. That I have your consent.”

Consent to what?

It was a little too much to take in at once. Sakura needed a moment, or maybe ten.

He leaned forward.

Oh.

Moments be damned. There wasn’t a minute to spare, not a breath to waste.

“It is. I mean, you do. That is, I –“

The rest of her words disappeared when his thumb stroked her cheek. Sakura leaned against his touch; her face fit perfectly into his palm.

This kiss felt new, she thought. It ran hotter from his lips through hers, took longer than any other had before. He broke apart to catch his breath, only to meet again, each kiss deeper, more tender and wild.

For the first time, his tongue ran across her lip. The tremor he evoked in her made the world burst into colour, illuminating even that dark, forgotten place with a shine of its own.

He was about to pull away, to drag a curtain over the light he shone, but she held on to his shoulders. Now that she had him – now that he allowed her to have him, only if for a heartbeat – she didn’t want to let go just yet.

“Please,” she beckoned. “Stay.”

Sasuke seemed to contemplate her request in quiet discomposure. He squinted, struggling against himself – holding back, when all she wanted was for him to give in – and he made her wait no longer.

The closer Sasuke drew to her, the harder it was for her to hold her legs in position. Sakura didn’t feel cold anymore, she didn’t feel the numbness from before. She felt a weakness but not in strength, worn out by a deluge of heat.

There was no telling who pushed or who pulled.

But by the time Sakura lay on her back and stretched her legs, he was already kissing her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. The weight of his body pressed down on her, and she could only gasp to his fervour.

Never could she have imagined he’d have this much to give; never did it cross her mind that Sasuke had this much passion, this much tenderness – this much longing in him. His movements were, like hers, tentative and hesitant. But what he lacked in experienced he made up for in intent.

Something hard pushed against her thigh just as she bit his lower lip. Sasuke broke his silence with a low, rumbling groan, and the sound was such novelty to her that the clamour in her chest grew tenfold, and the heat… by the Gods, the heat, it threatened to consume her from within and she had to do something, anything, whatever it took to dull the ache.

For a moment he seemed to be searching her features. Sakura ran her hand through his hair, damp and thick, and nodded.

Her legs now parted – unthinking, out of instinct, out of need – there was barely any time for cool air to bring reprieve. Sakura squealed when she felt Sasuke readjust himself to her position; that hard, heavy pressure now settled firmly against her bare, tender core.

She felt insanely high, overtaken with a rush that made her vision blur for an instant. The thrill of these new sensations was almost too much to bear, the intensity of Sasuke’s aphrodisia shaking her to the very bone. Sakura moaned, she mewled, frantically searched for air until her hips bucked against him, against the hardness of his want.

“I’m –” suddenly, Sasuke abandoned her swollen lips and pulled himself back.

Quick to react, she held him in place with a leg on either side. “Don’t go…!” Then, as if coming to her senses, she swiftly pulled her knees back.

Don’t go…

Some odd, un-Sasuke like sound escaped his throat, and at that moment Sakura remembered she’d left her underwear hanging on the wire.

It was a tangled mess, between bumping knees and hands fretting about with clothes obviously not long enough for modesty, and even he was fumbling with his words when only a moment ago he was so, so decided.

What had changed?

“What’s wrong?”

He sighed with unsteady breath, looking torn.

“Where are we going?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“With this,” he rolled his shoulders, his palm settling on the back of his neck. Sakura noted the rise in his pants and her breath hitched again. “I mean… how do… should we stop? Is this even the right place?”

“Wha… do you want to stop?” It was hurt, more than anything, that weighed on her voice now. To her, it didn’t matter where she was. She was with him, and for all she cared no palace in the world could hope to be as comfortable as his embrace.

“Do you?”

Sakura shook her head. “No.”

And then, fingers trembling, she undid the buttons of the shirt she wore and she took his hand in hers, bringing it to her chest.

“What I said… last night…” there was wonderment in his gaze, and it granted her courage. “You can have all of me.”

The light cast from the evanescent fire grew dimmer, the world reducing itself to their own little corner. Dark eyes flickered with something feral, something raw and untamed roiling under the surface, ready to claim her. His fingers touched her ribs, first; a fluttering breath came when he reached the underside of her breast. The largeness of his hand fully enveloped her softness with a gentle squeeze. Sakura gasped, enthralled as was he, captivated by this wordless intimacy.

She let him feel her heartbeat in his palm, let him hold her heart in his hand, allowed him access to the innocence she had to offer.

I just want to make you happy. But also, I’m… being selfish, aren’t I?

His thumb grazed her hardened nipple, flicked it ever so lightly, before drawing away with a satisfied, throaty hum. The way he licked his lips before pulling off his shirt was enough to send her reeling back into the same asphyxiating trance.

A tight shiver ran hotly down her spine, until the very tip of her fingers prickled with the urge to caress him, too.

Sakura reached out, hesitant. Unmoving, Sasuke watched her with riveted gaze. He tensed at her touch, as fingertips traced the defined lines of his body, charting the scars that spread, here and there, across otherwise faultless skin. Muscles rippled as she outlined his stomach, around his navel, the pelvic lines on each side – until her index and ring finger hooked behind the waistband of his pants.

He hissed. Something moved under the cotton slacks, barely brushing her hand, and Sakura’s eyes widened at the reaction.

“Not yet,” he snarled, taking her by the wrist and urging her to lie back down. She complied, cheeks burning deep red as he parted her knees – not just because he was looking at her like this, naked and exposed, but because his stare seared through her skin like hot steam. A rough, calloused hand ran down the length of her thigh with untamed urgency, and she fought the impulse to cover her face with her hands.

She couldn’t take it much longer. The tender ache between her legs, already slick with ardor, resonated with anticipation for the sweet, delicious pressure he had to offer.

This time, as he eased himself upon her once again, they were skin on skin. The sensitive peaks of her breasts, now laid bare against the soft, sinewy muscles of his chest, felt like metal rods ensnared by a thunderstorm.

He was being gentler with his kisses, now. Thoughtful, she considered. This much tenderness coming from him, of all people… Not for the first time today, her heart swelled with delight until it hurt. That they could have come this far, that Sasuke – once so broken, so torn, so cold – could ever be with her like this, brought her bliss beyond words.

Sasuke was saved. He was alive. He was living; and he was letting her love him. Truthfully, he was loving her, wasn’t he?

The bulk of him held her against the ground and made her his, holding her there as if he feared she may fade away. Never, she thought aimlessly, never will I fade from you. She trusted, as their skin glided together, as they danced to the same heartbeat, that he knew this.

The fire finally withered into nothingness, its flames reflected in the shimmer of a blood red eye.

“S-Sasuke-kun…” she panted his name, holding him closer, thighs clenching around his legs as he rolled into her in the muted darkness. His breathing grew louder, rougher, and Sakura began to writhe beneath him, to grind against his hips until her gasps grew frantic, sharper, rising into moans, her pulse in ecstatic turmoil.

“Sa…” he began, but buried her name along with his lips into the crook of her neck, now pushing harder, thrusting against her, and if not for his slacks he’d already be inside her, stirring her from within, blending with her.

And if she already felt this good, this hot and wet with every jerk of his hips and so, so close to the edge, she began to grow impatient with the need for more. Sakura parted her legs further, blindly feeling the length of his back until she finally reached his slacks, sensed his body quiver as she was about to slip her fingers between cloth and skin –

“Don’t – f… fuck!” His weight crushed her, depriving her lungs of air as he shuddered. The lack of oxygen, the friction on her bare sex, rendered Sakura a writhing mess. All she could do was brace herself against him, wrap her arms around his shaking form and ride out the roaring throb of his cock, swollen and impossibly hard, until the shaking had subsided and his breath came back in ragged, deep draws.

I think he… I think he’s…!

After that, Sasuke didn’t move for a while. His body was warm, as if feverish, damp with sweat. A moment passed, and he finally eased some of the weight off her, beginning to stand on his elbows and knees.

In what little moonlight still breached inside the cave, Sakura could finally see his expression: painful satisfaction, traces of guilt. Pleasure. She could see pleasure in his face, and knowing she was the cause of it allowed her some form of pride.

What little tremors still agitated within him in the aftermath of his frenzy, also carried into her; but, in Sakura, these were the prelude of a stolen orgasm, and not the remnants of one.

Still, in her heart, she was contented.

Sakura had been close enough – close enough with him, with Sasuke-kun, was better than anything she’d felt before.

Gently, he lifted himself off her and rolled, unceremoniously, to the ground by her side.

A moment passed, again, in languid silence.

Skin prickling, from the lack of his warmth on her and the murmur of cold air, Sakura began to button her shirt (his shirt, Sasuke’s shirt) back up.

“The fire’s out,” she mumbled, stating the obvious, not knowing what else to say.

“We’re out of dry wood,” he exhaled, still catching up on himself. Then, after a beat, “Sakura, did you…?”

She turned her face toward him, blinking. The question hung in the air until his struggled expression brought its meaning to light.

Goodness.

What was she supposed to answer? What he implied made her self-conscious, and she tittered somewhat nervously. It was kind that he cared enough to ask, but she didn’t just want to say no.

She wanted to say thank you, she wanted to tell him it felt good. He’d made her feel good. This was more than she’d ever hoped for, and if such a thing was at all possible, Sakura loved him even more. Overflowing with endearment that she could not place into words, Sakura but smiled.

Sasuke sighed. “You deserve better.”

“Love isn’t about deserving, Sasuke-kun,” she bristled. They’d had this conversation already, on the night of their first kiss. “I’m not above you. And –”

“Not that,” he smirked, bemused.

(deep down, he still felt her love was something undeserved to the likes of him. but he’d let her win that argument, if it made her happy)

“I meant, this place. It’s cold and damp, it’s uncomfortable. It’s not what I had in mind for…”

She couldn’t keep susprise off her voice. “What you had in mind?”

Sasuke’s face did something close to a grimace. “Forget it.”

Excitement flared at the pit of her stomach. She let it go, holding her tongue despite curiosity’s best efforts. Sasuke was a reserved creature still, and she knew they had to do this at his pace or not at all.

Sakura turned her back to him, allowing him enough privacy to clean himself up and slip back into his shirt. She sighed, content, and closed her eyes. Then, she sneezed.

“Tch.”

Another sneeze.

“You’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” she sniffled.

Sasuke moved closer – annoying, he mumbled – and pulled at the small of her hip. “Be quiet and come here.”

“I-is this okay?”

“Aa.”

“Humm…” With her head tucked against his chest, his arm around her back, legs pulled together, she never felt cozier.

“Tch.”

“Was is it?”

“These were my last clean clothes… Sakura. Stop laughing.”

“I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t.

Just before sleep took over, he kissed the crown of her head and gripped her shirt tightly, just between her shoulder blades; then, he drew a circle with his index before resting his palm against her spine.

She loves him.

(He loves her, too)

[wildgrave]

@annawrites​ tagged me in this ask meme thingy so here we go!!

1. coke or pepsi: neither!

2. disney or dreamworks: i... do not care

3. coffee or tea: coffee. preferably with extra shots of espresso.

4. books or movies: books!

5. windows or mac: I AM SO BAD AT USING MACS THE DOUBLE SCROLL THING ENDLESSLY CONFUSES ME so windows

6. dc or marvel: marvel!

7. x-box or playstation: secret option #3: pc

8. dragon age or mass effect: never played either!

9. night owl or early riser: i go to bed early and sleep in late b/c i need a solid 12 hours to function #justlittledepressionthings

10. cards or chess: cards

11. chocolate or vanilla: chocolate

12. vans or converse: i’ve never worn either

13. Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash, or Adaar: .......???????

14. fluff or angst: FLUFF 100% 

15. beach or forest: beach

16. dogs or cats: as i am a Literal Puppy..... dogs

17. clear skies or rain: clear skies with lots n lots of sun!!!!!!

18. cooking or eating out: i’m a god awful cook but i also hate going to restaurants other than IHOP. also pls appreciate the self restraint it took to not make an “eat pussy” joke

19. spicy food or mild food: i’m That Bitch that walks into chipotle like... is this water spicy?? honestly i have 0 tolerance for spice

20. halloween/samhain or solstice/yule/christmas: i don’t like either v much, but halloween, if only bc u can literally wear a corset and bunny ears and no one cares, which is the hoe shit i approve of

21. would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot: a little too hot

22. if you could have a superpower, what would it be: NONE of that mind-reading crap. probably something basic like super-strength or a nature related power!

23. animation or live action: live action

24. paragon or renegade: ?????

25. baths or showers: showers

26. team cap or team ironman: cap

27. fantasy or sci-fi: fantasy

28. do you have three or four favourite quotes, if so what are they: 

enthusiasm is the best protection in any situation

turn soft and lovely any time you have the chance

i want to be the owner of my own trouble

29. youtube or netflix: netflix!

30. harry potter or percy jackson: oh you know i dont really prefer either EXCEPT THAT HARRY POTTER IS THE SUPERIOR SERIES THANK U AND GOODNIGHT

31. when you feel accomplished: after finishing an essay or cleaning up a bit

32. star wars or star trek: star trek!

33. paperback books or hardback books: paperbacks, but only bc theyre easier to bend around and write in.

34. to live in a world without literature or without music?: what kinda bullshit

35.  what’s one thing you hope to accomplish in life?: helping ppl

36. who was the last person to make you laugh? myself bc im HILARIOUS

36. which is better: sour or sweet candy? sweet

37. do you believe in aliens? yeah

38. dawn or dusk? dawn, bc theres nothing like staying up all night and hearing the birds chirp and looking at that beautiful sky and thinking “aw shit i fucked up”

39. piercings or tattoos? POR QUE NO LOS DOS

40. physical book or kindle? physical

41. fantastic beasts or cursed child: i havent read either, but given the fact that cursed child is literally my immortal on crack cocaine..... fantastic beasts

42. rock or pop music: rock

43. big cities or small towns: big cities! small towns are cute for a lil bit but i get bored really easily

44. girls? always

45. volcanoes or black holes? FUCK A BLACK HOLE, VOLCANOES ARE WHERE ITS @

46: Favourite language (either to listen to, or that you can speak): english bc its wild and fucked up and honestly? i relate

47: sun or moon? SUNSHINE SUNSHINE, ITS FINE, I FEEL IT IN MY SKIN, WARMING UP MY MIND

48: perfume or cologne? perfume

49: favourite season? summer!

my question:

50: what fictional world would you live in, given the chance?

aaaand i tag @metalarmsolid @folivorah & anyone who wants to!

[papa-guna]

In-depth Character Sheet

Credit to Sir Ender at this writing forum.

Reblog or repost. DO NOT remove credit.

FULL NAME: Laguna Loire MEANING: Laguna is a shallow body of water, in Spanish it means ‘mental blackout’ and in Basque it means friend (all of which are very appropriate!) The Loire is the longest river in France. NICKNAME: Guna, dork....moron? MEANING: Well, the last one is Squall’s...illustrious nickname for his dad, lmao. AGE APPEARANCE: Definitely does not look his age. At all. BIRTHDAY: January 3rd (aka...TODAY) ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: Capricorn  SPECIES: Human GENDER: Male ALLERGIES: None that he knows of SEXUAL PREFERENCE: Raine, lol THEME SONG: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jho-peCAKs&index=4&list=PL4zF4bGzV0-7hGa_uw6RXMRkZfhjZLDsd (DUH)

APPEARANCE

HAIR COLOR: Dark brown, nearly black with grey streaks HAIR STYLE AND LENGTH: Past his shoulders, usually kept in a ponytail. EYES COLOR: Emerald green EYESIGHT: Pretty darn good, he notices a lot of details. As he gets older he eventually uses glasses for reading, but otherwise perfect vision! HEIGHT: 5′11″ WEIGHT: 150...ish? (I’m bad at figuring out weight...) OUTFIT/CLOTHING STYLE: Loose and comfortable clothing. Slacks or khakis and button up shirts with the sleeves rolled up.  ABNORMALITIES(TAIL): Nope, aside from an abnormally abysmal sense of direction, lol. DISTINGUISHING MARKS(SCARS,MOLES): He does have some scars, though no specific ones that I’ve figured out yet. SELF CARE(MAKE UP): None, that gorgeous flawless skin is all him, heh. FIRST IMPRESSION ON PEOPLE: Outgoing, loud, kind, energetic, passionate SKIN COLOR: Light but he usually has a tan as he loves to be outdoors BODY TYPE/BUILD: Slim DEFAULT EXPRESSION: Large smile POSTURE: Good, though he can slouch at times MEASUREMENTS(FEMALE ONLY):  PIERCINGS: His ears. DESCRIBE THEIR VOICE: Not terribly deep, more somewhere in the middle. Lots of emotion when he talks, also tends to be on the loud side. But it can also be very soothing. He’s great at calming people down and taking control over situations.

RELATIONSHIPS

MOM: ... HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: I have a few headcanons for his parents but nothing solid yet. Just that they were lower middle class and he was an only child. They treated him well enough though and he got along with them! DAD: ... HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: -points upwards- SIBLINGS: None. HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: ... CHILDREN: SQUALLY! And Ellone of course! HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: Eh...well he and Elle have always gotten along very well. As for Squall? Well...they’re working that out as they go along XD OTHER FAMILY MEMBERS: None PAST LOVER(S): Raine....-cries- CURRENT LOVER: None REACTION TO MEETING SOMEONE NEW: He loves making new friends and unless given a reason to (usually threatening those he cares about) he will immediately be super friendly with them and try to make them feel at home. ABILITY TO WORK WITH OTHERS: Pretty good. He gets along well with others and always makes sure everyone involved gets their ideas heard. HOW SOCIABLE(LONER,ETC): He’s very sociable and flourishes in groups of people. He’s easily the life of any party...if people can stand to listen to his endless babbling, hah. Though on the flip side, he’s also perfectly happily spending a day on his own as well.  FRIENDS: First and foremost are Kiros and Ward. Raine is as well, she was a friend first after all and that never stopped. Cid, Tifa, Aerith...honestly there are so many, across so many verses. Basically unless they’re an enemy (or an adopted Loire!) they’re a friend! PETS: DESI! His precious little kitten, Desperado ^.^ LEAST FAVORITE TYPE OF PERSON: Anyone who hurts the ones he loves. PARENTAL TYPE(PROTECTIVE,ETC): Super affectionate, always takes the chance to tell his kids how much he loves them. A bit protective, though not to the extreme. And, despite being very easy going, he can be strict if need be. AFFINITY WITH…: Elemental wise? I’ve always thought Wind. FAVORITE PEOPLE: RAINE LEAST FAVORITE PEOPLE: In original game? ADEL

PERSONALITY

..WHEN YOU FIRST MEET THEM: Happy, friendly, energetic ..AS YOU KNOW THEM BETTER(AND THEY LIKE YOU): Intelligent, stubborn, kind, protective, sentimental, affectionate ..AS YOU KNOW THEM BETTER(AND THEY DISLIKE YOU): Stubborn, quiet, calculating, ruthless. FAVORITE COLOR: Yellow, green, blue FAVORITE FOOD: Anything tbh FAVORITE ANIMAL: Moombas! All of them? FAVORITE INSTRUMENT: Probably a guitar? FAVORITE ELEMENT: Can he say moon? LEAST FAVORITE COLOR: none LEAST FAVORITE FOOD: none LEAST FAVORITE ANIMAL: ...none? I’m sorry, he loves a lot of things and hates very few... LEAST FAVORITE INSTRUMENT: ... LEAST FAVORITE ELEMENT: ... HOBBIES: Writing, doodling, driving, traveling USUAL MOOD: Happy DRINK/SMOKE/DRUGS: Occasionally/Rarely/Never DARK VERSION OF SELF: Once he snaps, he snaps. He becomes ruthless and actually cruel. Thankfully it’s nearly impossible to bring this side out, usually only when his family is threatened. LIGHT VERSION OF SELF: His usual? HOW SERIOUS ARE THEY: Depends, but if the situation calls for it he can be very serious. CLASS IN AN RPG: Gunner BELIEVE IN GHOSTS: YES. He swears that Raine came to him right after she died. (IN)DEPENDANT: Very independent. SOFT SPOT/VULNERABILITY: Family. OPINION ON SWEARING: He basically never swears, if he does you know you’re in trouble. DAREDEVIL VS CAUTIOUS: DAREDEVIL MUSIC TYPE: Basically anything, he just loves to dance and groove (dude, he’s from his world’s equivalent of the 70′s, groovy is his thing, lol) MOVIE TYPE: Horror (surprisingly), comedies, fantasy BOOK TYPE: Fantasy and Sci-Fi, mysteries GAME TYPE: Classics (think Super Mario-esque), RPG’s, stuff where he can explore and build and create endlessly.

COMFORTABLE TEMPERATURE: Anything tbh. SLEEPING PATTERN: He flops. And twists. And turns. Basically he sprawls and takes over the whole bed. Except when he was with Raine. He was perfectly content with her in his arms. CLEANLINESS/NEATNESS: Organized chaos DESIRED PET: He has his cat but he wouldn’t mind having one of everything! HOW DO THEY PASS TIME: Writing mostly. He always keeps journals about everywhere he’s been and sees. BIGGEST SECRET: That he’s not always as happy as he seems. HERO/WHO THEY LOOK UP TO: Raine. She’s his guiding angel now, and he always looks to her if he needs help. FEARS: Losing his loved ones, being rejected by Squall, open or fast moving water, failing to protect his family. COMFORTS: Raine, rain, forests, the smell of flowers, smell of old books, writing, reading, music

HOW DO THEY ACT WHEN THEY ARE…

SAD: Shoves it down, forces a smile and puts the effort to seem extra happy and content. Can get quiet, withdrawn, gets lost in memories more. HAPPY: Big smile, whistling, bouncing on his toes, talks a lot and rather fast, lots of hand movements. ANGRY: Quiet, deadly quiet. Serious and calm. If you get him really angry you might hear him curse, though he’ll still be pretty quiet. Doesn’t yell, just speaks very softly but sharp.  AFRAID: Goes quiet, loses his breath, goes cold, frantic thoughts LOVE SOMEONE: leg cramps, tries to flirt...fails more than succeeds, can actually be very suave though, when he’s not trying. Always thinking of them, doing things for them. Loves surprising them with little things, from spontaneous hugs and kisses to little gifts. Always little touches, holding hands, a brush against her cheek, arm around shoulders. Basically sappy and romantic and super sweet. HATE SOMEONE: Sassy and snappy. Looks down on them and glares, generally unless he’s pissed will try and ignore them as long as he can.  WANT SOMETHING: He will go for it. He’s of the belief that if you want something you make it happen yourself.  CONFUSED: Tilts head, furrowed brow. Twisted lips, sometimes bites the lip as well.

HOW DO THEY REACT TO…

DANGER: Might get intimidated if given time to think but he won’t back down, especially if he’s protecting someone. SOMEONE THEY HATE WHO HAS A CRUSH ON THEM: (Hahaha @jenovaiisim) Snappier than usual, won’t give a second thought to knocking them down.

PROPOSAL TO MARRY: Nervous as all hell. Almost backs off and walks away but sucks it up and goes for it.

DEATH OF LOVED ONE: Stomach drops when he first hears, drops the letter that bought the news. Starts shaking and collapses into a chair. Eventually tries to deny it, gets a bit angry. Then after that, nothing. He buries it and goes on as well as he can, forces himself to.

DIFFICULT GAME/MATH/ETC: Frustrated movements, if really having trouble you might get some scattered cursing. Probably will eventually toss the game/book/etc aside and walk off in a huff and try again another day. INJURY: Depending on the situation/injury he would either play it up and whine about it, but in a teasing way (small injury when around someone like Raine or Squall or Kiros) or anything major he would just go off and treat himself. SOMETHING IRRESISTIBLY CUTE: Giggles and squeals, glomping, takes lots of pictures. LOSS OF HOURS OF WORK: He’ll just work overnight, forgoing sleep to finish up projects is actually rather common for him.

KNOWLEDGE

LANGUAGES: English, or whatever their equivalent is. And he can at least communicate in most languages, thanks to his frequent traveling. Also knows how to read and write a lot of the old/dead languages as he loves to read and research history. SCHOOLING LEVEL: High School only but has done a ton of hands on learning in his travels/on his own. FAVORITE SUBJECT (S): History, writing, geography. INTERESTED CAREERS: He always wanted to be a journalist. He did that and so much more! EXPERTISE: Writing, reading (books and people), history, world knowledge, fighting (both with his gun and hand to hand). COOKING: Not much...he’s good with a BBQ but in the kitchen itself? Minimal, very very minimal. SEWING: He was in army, he’s had to sew a wound shut more than once. MECHANICS: Decent? He’s repaired his old clunker of a truck before but he can’t do in depth stuff with it. BOTANY (FLOWERS): Pretty good actually, from his time with Raine. She loved flowers, so therefore he did as well.  MYTHOLOGY: Very knowledgeable.  DRAMATICS(ACTING,SINGING): Decent at singing...not so good at acting (though he likes to think he’s pretty good) HOW GOOD ARE THEY AT PLANNING AHEAD: Not that great. He’s lived his whole life following his heart and doing things spontaneously and he’s not going to change that. IMPULSIVE/STRATEGY: Very impulsive but surprisingly can come up with good strategies when need be.

ROMANCE

DO THEY TAKE INITIATIVE: He can but doesn’t mind letting Raine take charge either. HOW DO THEY ACT(SHY,ETC): Very shy and nervous in the beginning but once he’s serious he can be very suave and romantic. GENTLEMAN/LADYLIKE VS KLUTZY: He is a giant klutz but also strives to be a gentleman. GO SLOW VS JUMP INTO: Slow, romance is the one things he won’t jump into without thinking. PROTECTIVE: EXTREMELY ACT LIKE FRIENDS OR LOVERS: To him, lovers are friends. That’s what made him so comfortable around Raine, they were friends first. To him love is more than romance, it’s being able to tell each other anything, being able to have fun, to laugh over the stupidest things. WHAT KIND OF PRESENTS DO THEY BUY: Meaningful things. He listens and searches for the most perfect things. Sometimes he’ll come home with random things he found on his travels as well.  TYPE OF KISSER: Sometimes he’ll surprise her with a quick peck from behind, sometimes there’ll be long and slow and sweet kisses.  DO THEY WANT KIDS: -staaaaares at Squall- DO THEY WANT TO MARRY: He already did and doesn’t regret it one bit. MAKE GOOD OR BAD DECISIONS: He thinks he makes bad ones, looking at what happened with Kiros and Ward and then Raine and Elle. But in reality he’s pretty good with his decisions most of the time, it’s just his luck always seems to go bad at the worst times. ARE THEY ROMANTIC: SUPER romantic HOW ARE THEY IN BED: Well, Raine always seemed satisfied, lol. GET JEALOUS EASY: Not really? He’s pretty secure in his relationship with Raine, and for good reason. WIFE/HUBBY BEATER: v v v v MARRY FOR MONEY: HELL’S FUCKING NO. FAVORITE POSITION: Having Raine secure in his arms. (Sorry, nothing sexual XD) WHAT WOULD HAPPEN ON THEIR DREAM DATE: As long as he’s with Raine he doesn’t care what they do. Both of their favorite things to do is to gaze at the stars, so that’s definitely on the schedule. Maybe a picnic under the stars, a large fluffy blanket for snuggling. OPINION ON SEX: He’s Raine-sexual. No details, as I find it hard to imagine Laguna like that.

[ahri-fanfic]

Oath keeper Doomed shadows.

by Ahri

Alice, a baleful woman of unquestionable ability, stood alone with her feet in the in the lake, ankle high, gazing over the sapphire water with her haunted jade pools. Her mahogany hair danced lightly in the breeze. She tried to deny the overwhelming sadness, resting her cheek against one hand as she hummed to herself. Her hair was woven into a braid, complementing her lachrymose roseate-flushed ivory visage.

Her thoughts wandered to her days in Nancy's company. It must have been fate in mortal form that brought them together. She knew from the moment she laid eyes on her that they were meant to be. From then on, Alice was sometimes needy and close, but then suddenly cold and fearful. Nancy tried her best to hide her pain, but it was plain in her depths. That was how it was to this very day. "Alice," Nancy said simply with a smile on her face. Her aqua crystals complimented her golden mane, woven into a braid, belying her pure heart. She had a toned but slender body covered with healthily platinum skin. Furry ears flicked at the top of her head and she twitched her tail. As Alice drew nearer, she caught a note of Nancy's familiar scent of lingering iron and steel. Her eyes softened. It always reminded her of the time they shared.

"Nancy. I feared you might not come," Alice whispered.

"Of course I came," she said nonchalantly.

Alice shook her head. "Everyone else abandoned me."

"I won't leave you, that wasn't your fault, we were only toddlers", Nancy said firmly. Nancy held her hand out, and hesitantly Alice took it. With that, they began to walk along the lakeside.

Alice's mind was flooded by painful thoughts. She clung tightly to Nancy as if it could save her. She was burdened by the.. inexpiable. Nancy, strong as she was, wouldn't possibly be willing to bear her burdens.

"What is it, Alice?" Nancy suddenly asked.

"N-nothing," Alice whispered. "Why do you ask...?"

"You've got my hand in a death grip." Alice let her head droop and let go. She was always causing Nancy trouble.... "I don't mean it like that. I mean if something's bothering you, you should tell me."

"No... Nancy, I couldn't..."

Nancy looked at Alice long and hard. Nancy was struggling to understand what it was that plagued Alice, but to Alice, it seemed like she was glaring at her.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm always so..."

"Always so... what?"

"..."

Nancy scratched her head and looked out over the swell, it reminded her of a calming, steady breathe.You'll tell me when you're ready, won't you?"

Alice gave the faintest of nods. But of course she could not imagine ever feeling ready to tell Nancy her secrets. In truth, Alice hardly even deserved her. Alice was ... Wounded by the unexplainable.

Alice was unworthy of her time. The very thought of that brought tears to her eyes, and she looked away from Nancy to hide them. But she couldn't hide the sobs that shook her.

"Alice." Alice rubbed the tears from her eyes. "Alice, look, you need to tell me. You're a mess!"

"I can barely put it into words. You've treated me so well, and I never want this to change."

"It won't change. Never."

"It's... I'm..." Alice's shoulders shook, and she buried her face in her hands. "Forget it! Let's just..."

Nancy put an assuring arm around Alice's shoulders and brought her toward herself. "Hey... hey. It's all right... I'm here. I'm here."

After a few moments, they found themselves walking beside the lake again. Alice couldn't stop thinking about her incomprehensible secret. It plagued her endlessly -- while she was far from Nancy and while she was near. It threatened to consume her. When Alice had let the faintest hints slip in the moments before, it had already taken taken so much of her will.

With concern, Nancy turned her spotless depths toward Alice. "Alice? What's wrong?"

"Nancy... it's..."

And at that moment everything came together, all of the magic and the hurt that had been building that day, they locked eyes and nancy whispered, "You can tell me."

It was like a floodgate burst, or some barrier of fear had been struck down. Alice shook her head and everything came out at once. "I don't know if I can put it into words. I... lately... it might not even be just lately.... It's nothing. It's nothing! Nancy, I... it hurts, Nancy... there's nothing that helps. Except that... sometimes, I feel a bit better when you're by my side...."

Nancy listened silently and solemnly. At last, when all had left Alice and she was at a loss for words, Nancy reached out to her and took a deep breath to whisper back, "Alice... that's awful. I wish that weren't how it is. I wish I could say more. Alice...." Alice's eyes began to burn, and she abruptly pulled Nancy into a fierce embrace. Nancy's eyes widened at first, but then she too felt overwhelmed by emotion and succumbed to the warmth of Alice's touch.

"You," Alice whispered, her breath hot on Nancy's ear. "As long as you're here, I... I can make it." They held each other as tears trickled down cheeks and dripped onto the shifting silt to be carried away into the sea. Their pain dissipated into a mist swept out by the waters caress and toward the setting sun, where dark clouds began to loom into sight. They basked in each other's quiet companionship for a few moments. "Look... it's the sunset."

Alice lifted her head at Nancy's words to behold the dying sun's fermented radiance. But even as she replied, "Mm," the pitch-dark clouds looming on the horizon worried her. "Nancy, I'm worried about those clouds. Maybe we should go back."

Nancy looked at her with such pure windows to her soul and asked, "Just a few moments more? I want to savor today."

"Mm... if you want to," she relented.

They were unprepared for how swift, how brutal the coming storm was. The rain poured in torrents, bading the lake itself to rise and flood. Winds whipped about them and kept them from moving on the shifting sands. Soaking, shivering, they fought against the storm.

"Nancy!" Alice screamed against the wind. "Please, don't let go!"

"I won't!" Nancy shouted back, her hand clasping hers firmly as Nancy struggled upward towards the arms of the forest. "It's my fault! I won't fail you, Alice!"

"Nancy--!!"

Her scream was lost in the crash of waves against her body, the roar and power of the sea risen to steal her from her soul mate her bond keeper.

She struggled against the water, but it was too much. The violence of the storm-swept waves forced her under without contest.

The waves had beaten the air out of her lungs. Desperately, she willed herself not to suck in the icy water about her. Will I die this way? she wondered. She closed her eyes, accepting her fate.

A hand seized hers and Alice felt herself being pulled up and up until the cold wind hit her face again. She coughed, sucking in the air greedily. Her arms had tightened themselves around Nancy's neck without permission, and Nancy was shouting, "Hold on, Alice. Hold on!"

"Nancy," she murmured. "You shouldn't have. I'm not worth it...."

"Don't talk like that, Alice," she commanded. "We'll make it through."

"Nancy..."

Thunder crashed in the distance, and the waves pitched and brought a mouthful of salty water against their faces. She coughed and held on to Nancy, thinking, no, this isn't how it should end, this isn't how *Nancy* should die...

Something bumped against Alice's leg. An animal ? Fear coursed through her body. But before she could react, another wave pushed them under. Nancy slumped against her, momentarily knocked senseless.

Summoning forth all her will, Alice reached for Nancy grasping her by the wrist.

It was the last thing she did before her world went black. "She was a kind person. I used to see her feed the stray cats."

"I wish I could have made her happier. And now she's gone...."

"She was so skilled. So talented. She'll never know how much she helped us."

Nancy sat on a chair by the coffin, globes dry, her soul too numbed to grieve. The funeral attendees -- And who knew there'd be so many to come to pay their respects? -- nodded to her as they passed. She nodded stiffly back.

The reception lasted hours, but it seemed to Nancy that it was only moments before the crowd disappeared. She picked herself off the chair and turned to look into the coffin for the first time since the funeral started.

Eyes closed and still, Alice laid inside in a fine lavender dress, her hands clasped over her chest. She could have been in a very deep sleep. Nancy fought the urge to reach out and nudge her awake. Alice was gone. Gone because of her. Because she loved her. Casting a long look at her beautiful visage, Nancy leaned in and laid a single kiss on Alice's lips. ... Thus concludes our tale.