#he deserves to strangle somebody. as a treat

[angelfic]

percy’s anger management issues are so intense you’d think you were reading the internal monologue of an eldest daughter

[scoobydoodean]

the thing about emma vs amy is they’re literally not comparable at all really!! one HAS KILLED PEOPLE WITHOUT REMORSE (arguably, it’s been a while since i’ve seen the episode) and the other… HAS NOT! a comparison i have never seen people make that is actually so much better, so much more interesting? emma and that dude in metamorphosis, the rugaru. both are supposedly “monsters” who will inevitably kill somebody and thus deserve to be killed as a preemptive measure (even though they haven’t actually hurt anybody yet), as argued by sam about emma and dean/the other hunter about the rugaru. the difference? DEAN DECIDES TO TRUST SAM AND TRY TO HELP THE DUDE. sam on the other hand disregards dean’s wishes and any possibility of emma making the right choice.

i’m convinced that the only reason people compare emma and amy is because “dean admits he was wrong to kill her” (which isn’t actually what he says but people don’t really care about the exacts). if they were to look at any other episode where the definition of monster is argued, they’d see that sam is usually on the side of “give them a chance” (and ftr dean is too almost all of the time) UNLESS it’s a “monster” associated with dean… why are sam’s morals different for these people? for emma?

sorry i know that’s a long rant, but every time i see the emma vs amy debates it boggles me that metamorphosis dude is never brought up too! also i hope this all makes sense haha

Emma and Amy aren't even remotely comparable. In any way. Emma and Amy's son who Dean didn't kill? Yep. They are directly comparable. But Amy and Emma? Get outta here! Jack Montgomery (Metamorphosis) and Jack Kline (two Jack's!) can both be interesting Emma parallels. Especially when comparing how desperate fans are to coddle Jack Kline from so much as experiencing a negative emotion when he's brainwashing people from the womb, bursting out of his mom's body like something out of Alien, and actively strangling innocent black store clerks to death.

Contrary to the belief of people who don't watch the show but are always making wide-sweeping claims about what happens in it, Sam and Dean have a long history of trying to protect "good" monsters (including from other hunters!) from 2.03 "Bloodlust" and onwards (2.03, 2.17, 4.04, 5.06, 6.02, 8.04, 12.04, 12.16). There's a weird disk horse that's opened up in the last several years that Sam and Dean are always indiscriminately killing monsters who don't deserve it all of the time because "supernatural power bad" and that just isn't true. Like. Actually look at the cases they go on? Sam and Dean kill murderers whose crimes are committed supernaturally which is going to allow them to get away with it and/or continue doing it. They don't kill people just because they're "different"—in fact, the entirety of season 2 is about not killing people just because they're different, or because of some alleged inescapable dark destiny.

I've spoken before about how "Bloodlust" is treated by fandom as an episode where Sam stands on some sort of moral high ground from the beginning about the existence of good monsters, but that isn't what actually happens in the episode. Sam ends the episode with zero remorse about any previous hunts John ever took them on while Dean thinks back and wonders if they hurt people who didn't deserve it at some point (no questionable hunts in season 1 FYI—and the majority of them are ghost-related).

The way that Sam can compartmentalize/let go of his past actions and move on is useful in their field of work, but in contrast with Dean's tendency to feel eaten alive by guilt, it often results in fandom disk horse where fans follow Sam's lead by compartmentalizing and burying and excusing his actions as if they never happened, while putting everything Dean does under a microscope because his visible guilt implicates him in the eyes of fans. Because Dean spends several episodes feeling bad after 7.03, he must have done something super duper bad and horrible and is the worst person alive, and Amy didn't deserve to die. But because Sam doesn't ever show a single shred of remorse after 7.13 and Dean doesn't ever talk about it again, Sam must have been in the right. It's actually bizarre when you think about it—Sam's lack of guilt ought to be chilling to fans, but instead, it's often used to absolve him of wrongdoing... and for all their flaws that everyone is always harping on, I do think Bucklemming intended Sam's actions and his attitude after to be chilling. They don't intend him to be seen as "in the right".

Dean buries what happens with Emma down deep, and it's obvious why. He can't take another hit like this in season 7. Not after Cas and Bobby. He buries it deep down like he buried Lisa and Ben deep down. In addition... if Dean wanted to bring Emma up, who the actual fuck would or could he have talked to about her? Bobby's dead. Cas is dead. The only person left in Dean's life is the person who killed his daughter, and Sam made it very clear that he didn't give a shit how Dean felt about her being dead. In fact, he lectured Dean for hesitating to kill his own biological child, and said she "wasn't really his". Then when Dean disputed that claim, Sam immediately called him crazy and acted like Dean's actions (trying to push a monster kid who hasn't hurt anyone off a terrible path) are out of character when they ARE NOT (2.03, ALL OF SEASON 2, 4.04, 5.06). Even 7.03 itself supports Dean's actions with Emma as in character, because the ACTUAL Emma analogue, Amy's son, is not killed by Dean. So yeah. Who the FUCK was Dean going to talk with this about? Given Sam's long and storied history of behaving as the thought police, if Dean had so much as looked too sad in his presence, Sam would have lit into him all over again, and what fucking good was that going to do?

And yeah teehee Sam doesn't want Dean to have too many friends. More than one often-dead close friend is too many.

[disasterofastory]

Three times when Ubbe wants to make you a free woman (Ubbe x Reader)

Three times when Ubbe wants to make you a free woman Ubbe x Reader Warnings: slavery

I.

The Queen bought you from a merchant who wandered around the world to make money selling slaves for everyone who can pay. You are free from him, but you still hope he drowned in the sea when he set off after the Vikings bought you. He was a cruel man with yellow teeth and a hooked nose from fights. After him, everything was a pleasant change, even if you were still a slave or a thrall as they called you.

You serve Aslaug’s oldest son for two years now.

Your job is mostly to take care of Ubbe’s needs. You wash his clothes, sharpen his swords and cook for him when he wishes it. He is nice to you. He never hits you and doesn’t force you to do anything you don’t want. It’s more than a slave deserves.

One day you sit before the fireplace, sewing one of his tunics. The blue material is soft and warm between your fingers in contrast to the brown dress you wear. Your skin was irritated for a month before you got used to the rough fabric.

You are grateful you chopped the wood yesterday because the snow starts to fall while you sew the prince’s third shirt.

You are so busy with your task you don’t even hear Ubbe’s arrival. He stops at the entrance watching you work with a focused face. Your tongue even peaks out between your lips as you try to follow the shirt’s line. Your hair is loosely braided and a little bit messy after cooking and washing.

“It’s cold outside,” he says after a while, and you jump a little in fright.

“Oh, my prince,” you laugh a little at your reaction and nod at his words. “Yes, but you have enough wood for a few days.”

“Thank you,” he says, walking to the bowls full of food. “It smells good.”

“I bought new spices from a trader.”

“Come, eat with me,” he nods at the other chair, sitting down at the table.

“I can’t, my prince. I still have things to do,” you argue softly, lifting his tunic in your hands as proof.

“You can do it later,” he replies stubbornly. “I am your prince.”

You feel awkward sitting down in front of him. You start to eat silently, fidgeting on your chair. Ubbe sees your uncomfortableness, but he says nothing. He enjoys these few minutes. He almost imagines another scenario where you aren’t his thrall but his wife.

II.

A few weeks later, you heading towards Ubbe’s hut after you bought a few more spices and pelts for the prince. The winter is colder than you expected, and you can see your breath in the air. Your hands are red because you forget your gloves and you didn’t have the chance to go back for them. You still grateful you escaped from that man who thought he could attack you early in the morning. You know you should be more upset about it, but after a few years of slavery, you get used to it.

“Y/N!” Ubbe yells after you, and after a few steps, he catches up with you. His face a little bit red from the cold and the furs on his shoulders make him much bigger. Like a bear.

“Good morning, my prince,” you greet him with a slight smile.

“Do you need help?” He asks but doesn’t wait for your answer, grabbing the pelts from your arms.

“I bought them for you as you asked me,” you tell him. “The trader said he killed the animal with his bare hands.”

“And you believed him?” He laughs.

“Not really, but he gave them cheaper because I seemed impressed,” you answer with a shrug.

When you get to Ubbe’s home, you put away the spices and the fresh loaves of bread before you set more wood on the fire. You take off the pelt from your shoulders so you can start the breakfast.

“What happened with your dress?” He asks when he looks down on your clothes. At first, you don’t know what he is talking about, but then you notice the tear at your hips. You can see your skin through the hole.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you try to distract him. “Fish will be good for breakfast?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” he says. “Y/N, what happened?”

“Somebody tried to…” you start but can’t end the sentence. “It doesn’t matter,” you say stubbornly.

For a few minutes, he just stares into your eyes, opening his mouth, but he says nothing. His blue eyes cloudy with conflict, and he chooses to say silent.

III.

The winter does not spare the village. The cold has no mercy, and the snow just gets bigger and bigger every day. Ubbe bought you new boots and warmer clothes and forbade you to do chores outside the hut.

For the last two weeks, the prince acted strange around you. You caught him staring at you several times, and sometimes he looked like he wanted to tell you something.

“It feels like the winter never ends,” Ubbe says from a chair, sharpening the knives you want to use to slice the meat.

“The spring will come. You have to be patient,” you reply. “How is Prince Ivar? I know he hates the cold.”

“The spring will come. He has to be patient,” Ubbe repeats your words with a smile. “He will be fine if his wife doesn’t strangle him in his sleep.”

“She learns patience before their child comes,” you joke.

“Do you want kids, Y/N?” He asks you, handing you the knives.

“A bunch,” you squeak before you return to reality. “I mean… I don’t know,” you continue more calmly.

Ubbe doesn’t answer you, just smiles and goes out to chop more wood while you start cooking.

When you finish, and Ubbe comes back, the sky is already dark, and the outside world is silent.

“If you don’t need me, my prince, I would go back home while I can,” you tell him politely, looking out the window.

“Stay for the night,” he says. “It’s too dangerous.”

“No, I-I…”

“Y/N, please. I would hate it if something happened to you. Sit down and eat with me till it’s warm.”

“Thank you,” you tell him in the end. You know the prince, you wouldn’t win this fight.

You want to sit down at the table, but Ubbe grabs two plates with food and sits down before the fireplace, waiting for you. You feel a little bit embarrassed, but you enjoy it too at the same time. Of course, you could imagine your life without being a thrall, but you are still lucky with Ubbe.  He treats you like a human being who helps him and not like something he could kill at any moment.

When you wake up from your thought, both of your plates are empty, and you want to grab his so you can wash it, but he doesn’t let you. You look up at him, and he is already watching you. His braided hair is messy, and his blue eyes are hypnotizing. The snow is long gone from his beard. Yeah, he is handsome. You never saw Ragnar, but everybody says his son looks exactly like him.

“Do you want more?” You ask him. You don’t understand why he doesn’t let you take his plate.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I thought about something. Honestly, I thought about it a lot for the last few weeks.”

“Something is bothering you?” You ask him. Sometimes he tells you about his problems, and you listen to him and try to help him.

“It does not really bother, but…” he shrugs. “Everybody says I need a wife.”

“Oh,” you moan breathlessly, but you are not surprised. He is right. He needs a family of his own. Are you jealous? Of course, but you know it’s only natural. All of his brothers are married already. Even Hvitserk and everybody thought he never finds the right woman.

“But there is my problem… I know the woman I want, but I’m not sure she feels the same.”

“Of course, she feels the same,” you tell him. “You would be a good husband and a good dad.”

“And I’m a prince,” he tells you, but you shake your head.

“If that woman really loves you, she doesn’t care you are a trader, a blacksmith, or a prince.”

You want to apologize because you feel you crossed the line, but when you look at him, he smiles at you and grabs your hand to pull you closer to him.

“You are the woman,” he tells you, and you forget how to breathe.

“What?” You ask him, searching his eyes. Maybe he is joking, or you heard him wrong.

“For you to be my wife, you have to be a free woman,” he tells you, and the only thing you can do is nod. “Don’t say yes if you don’t want to. You are a free woman from now on, whatever you say yes or no.”

You don’t even have to think about it. You don’t love him yet because you never let your feelings go that way, but you know you don’t have to force yourself to fall in love with him.

“Yes.”

[writefightandflightclub]

Somebody to love (PART 2/2): (Richard Alonso Muñoz x fem!reader)

Summary: PART ONE IS HERE. Whilst your neighbour, Richard, is in love with love, you are a little more commitment averse. When he performs a small act of kindness though, your feelings start to unravel, and you wonder if you may have found somebody to love - right next-door all along.

Richard is a sweet, gentle man, and so I hoped to create a sweet, gentle story. I hope you enjoy spending some time in it!

I HAVE POSTED THIS IN TWO PARTS, ONLY BECAUSE OF LENGTH. WHILST YOU COULD PROBABLY(?) READ EITHER PART AS A STANDLONE, THEY ARE MEANT TO WORK TOGETHER.

Genre / tropes: pining, friends to lovers (sort of - neighbours to lovers), getting together, domesticity, fluff, smut, nothing bad happens, ends happily, quite a slow burn for a one-shot, I guess?

Author’s note: This is part of my friends to lovers event, prompt requested by @foxilayde​  who I adore and you should too. Prompt was: he does something utterly mundane which shows how well he knows you, and your feelings hit you. I took some liberties with the prompt, and there is zero pressure to read this - IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB! :P More of these requests in pinned post!

Tags: (will add tomorrow)

Warnings/ Ratings:

PART ONE (Mature, 18+ ONLY):  swearing; sexual themes (erotic poetry, thirsty internal monologue, sexual tension); food themes inc. mentions/ consumption; family mentions - reader has nieces but they need not be biological; brief mentions of the prison system - Richard is a Corrections Officer; exceedingly brief mention of the Holocaust in context of a non-fiction book Richard is reading (I believe this is a canon read but may be wrong); loneliness (theme, not too angsty); self-esteem issues if you squint.

PART TWO: (Explicit, 18+ ONLY): swearing; explicit sex, including - oral m + f receiving; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie; f squirting (first time doing so); well-endowed man, ahem.

Word count: 10k for part 1, 9k for part 2.

The date has been flawless. The best date you’ve had.

Richard is amazing to talk to and appealing to look at. He makes you feel safe and secure, yet also ignited and pleasantly destabilised. His laugh is music. His smile is sunshine. He is at times serious and in other moments delightfully playful. His gentle, quiet nature suckers you in to him, and once you are in the circumference of his warmth, you simply don’t want to leave.

You want to treat this special man to all the love he deserves.

You reflect, as you walk together towards your street, hand-in-hand, that it feels as though you’ve known him for years - and, of course, you have. You simply hadn’t been paying adequate attention. It is evident that Richard has, however. That he already knows you and understands you better than you could have imagined.

So, now, as you step up on to your porch, Richard stands a couple of steps below you, his cola-coloured eyes big and gentle and sparkling as he looks up at you. You loop your arms so that they rest on his shoulders, your fingers dipping into the glorious manicured curls at the nape of his neck. You had hoped that Richard might respond by winding his arms around your waist -or perhaps gripping your hips or your ass, to be quite honest- but instead, he stands there, taut with nerves, and yet his arms hung limply by his sides.

He seems so responsive; so receptive to every small touch you give him, the man humming lightly as you stroke his soft skin, and yet, he hasn’t returned the favour. You wish he would touch you, but, in resignation, you smile softly, guessing that if Richard won’t take the initiative, you will simply have to. After all, you’ve been desperate to kiss the man all evening. So, with a gentle smile and a search of his eyes, you shift one hand to cup his shapely chin, tipping his face up towards you.

“I want to kiss you, Richard. Is that okay with you?”

Keenly, he lets out a half-strangled affirmation, the weight of his plea creasing the space between his brows. “Please.”

And so, you pick up his unsure arms and you guide them around your waist, until his hands tentatively settle, polite but also firm and broad and warm around you, and you rehoop your arms around his neck, readying to move in for the kill.

Dipping your head down, you inch yourself closer and closer towards Richard’s lips, and you wonder if his heart is hammering the way yours is. You take in the beautiful sight of his eyes fanning closed and chin tilting up eagerly towards you, before your own eyes follow suit, your noses bumping awkwardly as you tilt around each other. The first sensation you feel is his moustache, the thick brush of it tickling your lips and causing you to faintly moan as you feel this small indication of his closeness. This breathy, broken sound from you causes Richard’s hands to tighten around your waist, finally, and with either a surge of bravery or a collapsing of his resolve -perhaps both- it is he who closes the remaining distance, his warm lips keenly meeting yours.

At first, it is a chaste, closed-lipped kiss that, even so, makes your legs tremble almost immediately. His soft lips are so moreish that when you break from him, leaning your forehead against Richard’s -both your chests heaving and your breaths practically one- you immediately sink back again to his lips, needing to taste him again.

You smile into the kiss as you become accustomed to the sensation of that glorious moustache, scraping lightly against your upper lip and cheek and nose, and you feel desire sink all the way through the pit of you like a stone as Richard’s tongue delves gently into your mouth. This surge of his kiss is like nothing you have felt before, and whilst Richard may seem timid, and while his ministrations may be gentle and slow, you could swear you have never felt a more assured tongue in your life.

“Do you want to come inside?” you ask urgently, your voice a broken, breathy thing, the air for your words ripped from his lips.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to, very much,” Richard answers just as quickly, his eyes dancing with a delicious brewing heat as you take his hand and lead him into your home.

Your lips find him again as shoes and jackets are shrugged off, strewn haphazardly in the hallway, his kisses slow-moving and deliciously sweet, sending a cloying desire like warmed syrup sinking to the pit of you. Your stomach flips each time you feel his tongue against yours, as though your core intends to mirror the languid circling of his tongue, and suddenly you are already throbbing there, thinking of where these burgeoning kisses might be leading.

“You’re so beautiful,” Richard breathes, sinking on to your lips again, and your legs weakening beneath you.

You lead Richard deeper inside your home, and you vaguely consider your options, but with this hazy, hungry heat all around you, dragging him to your bedroom by the hand seems like the only viable course of action. 

“Do you... want to come to my bed with me?” you ask, voice levelled with need and stomach buzzing with the pleasant thrum of nerves.

He answers affirmatively and you waste no time, until you are both seated on the edge of your bed, continuing your slow, sensual make-out session, bodies twisted towards each other. Richard kisses you deeply, opening your mouth up to him, until he breaks from you with a wracked groan, squirming with slight discomfort and apology as he adjusts himself, to better accommodate the growing bulge between his legs.

When he spreads his denim-clad thighs, like that, they look so sturdy and appealing that you want to climb him. Want to straddle his lap and writhe your heat right over his tenting arousal.

Still, you hesitate. He’s eager, you know that much; and God, so are you. However, he still seems nervous about reaching out to you or taking the lead. His hands never stray far from zones he may consider more polite or more comfortable, despite the fact he has happily allowed your hand to inch up and up his clothed thigh and towards that tenting crotch of his, his pretty, wracked moans spurring you on.

So, as he breaks from you, momentarily, you pull back to search his eyes.

“Would you… Would you like to touch me, Richard?” you suspire, wanting to progress this further, but only if he’s comfortable. 

As you regard him, you note that you have never seen a man look quite so dishevelled with need - both literally and figuratively. Your hands have upset his perfectly fixed curls, mussed tendrils now draping over his forehead. His kiss-plumped lips are parted to accommodate his now ragged breaths, and he looks almost forlorn - pained with it, as though he might end if he isn’t kissing you again within moments. “Yes. Please.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” he responds, brow furrowed with weighty desire and eyes searching yours.

The tone with which he responds to you, sunken with need, has a hard swallow trailing down your throat. An immediate and impossible ache building between your legs.

“How about… here?”, you say tentatively, gingerly taking his hand, and moving it beneath the fabric of your dress until his warm fingers meet the bare flesh of your thighs. His thumb instantly sinks in to knead you as he works his hand up further, inching towards your core, exactly where you need him. 

“God, you’re so soft. You feel so good.”

“C-can I touch you?” you ask, as he inches higher, and it comes out as a plea. You need to. Need to touch him. Everywhere. You need to feel him under your hand - feel him all over you. On you. Against you. Buried in you. Fuck, you need him.

With your question though, Richard’s hungry eyes are momentarily clouded by apprehension, and so, you take a moment to rein in your snowballing desire; to properly check-in with him.

“Let’s talk for a minute. Can I do anything to make you feel more comfortable?” your voice soft and soothing, your hand smoothing over his thigh.

Richard flutters his eyelashes and looks down at his lap, withdrawing his hand from under your dress. Your skin shivers, instantly cold with the loss of him. He nods, slowly, soberly, his face set and moustache downturned. Then, when his words come, his voice is small and sad. “I asked my buddy at work for advice. Said I had a date with someone out of my league. Somebody so perfect, and that I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Your eyebrows knit together. You shake your head in disbelief. Your one single desire now, is to set his misapprehension to rest. “Fuck that. I’m not out of your league, Richard. You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect.” You cup his cheek again, planting a kiss on that now familiar spot, right on the tip of his cheekbone, a spot perfectly contoured to your lips.

His eyes flick back up to yours, shining with gratitude, but he still looks unsure.

“Perfect,” you repeat, dipping to press a kiss to his opposite cheek. “Gorgeous.” To the tip of his nose. “Sexy.” To the corner of his lips. “Handsome.” To the column of his neck. Meanwhile, smoothing your hand over his thigh and arm and chest, keeping your desire stoked but mainly aiming to offer him comfort, and to bolster his wavering confidence. 

A smile claims Richards eyes, at least, if not his lips, and he brings his hand to your face, caressing you gently in gratitude. You pull up to search his eyes and his expression says it all.

You are beautiful.

And, despite his nervousness, his timidness, when Richard next speaks, there is no hint of self-consciousness in his voice. Not an ounce, his kind eyes backlit with lust. With that now familiar, gentle, nuanced heat. “He said… Said that I should eat you out like a man starved.”

To your credit, you try to speak. You really do, your mouth opening and closing again wordlessly, but all of a sudden, you have lost language. You can barely breathe. Can barely form a coherent thought. Barely an incoherent one. Barely a -

“Would you like it? If I did that, bonita?”

You whimper. You actually whimper, as he sits there, coolly holding your face in his broad palm, caressing you with the pad of his thumb. Behaving as though he’s an innocent thing and yet making you feel like this.

“I would not be. Opposed to. That,” you muddle out, barely, your voice trembling with need. An insistent pulse between your legs, causing you to press them tightly up against one another, just for a morsel of relief. “But… you. Ohhh.” His thumb brushes over your cheek. Towards your mouth. “Y-you don’t have to. Um.” Skims your lower lip. “Ahhh. Do. Anything you. Uh. Don’t want. To.” The pad of his thumb pushes inside, just deep enough for the tip of your tongue to meet it as he grazes over you. “Uhhh.”

Richard nods in understanding, and when your tongue fleets out to taste the tip of him, his eyes darken deliciously, pupils lust-blown.

You, meanwhile, are vapour. Your breath is ragged. Your arousal is soaking through your dress. You can feel it.  Feel your own slick, a mess on your thighs.

And yet, you can tell there is more he wants to say, so you encourage him to go on. “Richard?” you plead.

“I... I want it to be perfect for you. You’re so perfect. But I...” his moustache twitches as he sucks his own lips between his teeth. His hands drop dejectedly into his lap, and he can’t meet your eyes, fixing his gaze on a spot of carpet. “I want to. So much. I‘m aching for you.”

Then what? You search his beautiful big eyes, reaching up to gently tuck a cute, hanging strand of curls away from his eyes and urging him to go on.

He reaches behind his head, to self-consciously stroke the nape of his neck. “The last woman I was with... It wasn’t... She didn’t like the moustache. And she... she said I was... too big.”

Fuck.

Your hand drops from his face into your lap, and your jaw slackens in shock as you let his words sink in. Meanwhile, his face becomes tinged again with that undertone of crimson you’re becoming rather familiar with.

Too big?

“Fuck, Richard,” you breathe -or, rather, can barely breathe- as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes, nervously, humbly awaiting your reaction. He really has no idea what he’s doing to you, does he? How perfect he is? You can feel the heavy pulse of desire throbbing between your legs once more - even more so now. A slow-crawling heat under your skin.

Can he really be so... endowed?

Can he really be so shy and so hot at the same time? (Yes, apparently, he can.)

You gulp. You take in a breath to speak and then literally say nothing. You consider, so help you, burying your face in the mattress and silently screaming. But, somehow, you hold it together.

“That’s. Wow. Well, we can definitely figure that out. Together, Richard. Can work around… That,” you reassure, your blood rushing in your ears, your hand slowly trailing back up his thigh. “Will you… will you let me take care of you?”

Looking reassured, he nods. He smiles softly. His eyes ardent as he looks at you.

You reinstate your hand on to his sturdy thigh, and you begin your slow, languorous crawl up towards his crotch, following the seam of his pants like a trailing spark along a fuse line. As you inch further, his eyes flutter shut and he groans when you reach the junction of his legs, lightly ghosting your fingers along his straining zipper.

“Can I... see?” you purr. “Are you hard for me, sweet man? Can I take you out of your pants?” 

“Yes,” he nods. “Yes. Please.”

You proceed when Richard eagerly shifts position for you, parting his thighs for you and leaning back on his hands so that you’re able to unbuckle his belt, and to slowly release his zipper.

You’re playing really well at having any shred of self-control left, for his sake, but in reality, you’re a trembling, wet mess, overtaken by a furious, barrelling need. You simply can’t take this. Shit, you wonder if you will actually, very literally, be able to take this. Take him. Still, you certainly don’t want to stop, and so, with Richard’s cooperation you tug his jeans and his boxers down on his hips, and, biting down on your lip, you release his proud length.  

“Fuck,” you say, almost inaudibly as you drink the sight of him in.

He wasn’t exaggerating. He is big. He’s long, but perhaps not the longest you’ve ever had – a fact you are honestly thankful for. He certainly is thick too – especially thick, his contoured head ruddy and gleaming for you. Launched on an urgent breath, you ask if you can touch him, and when he encourages you, you wrap your fingers around his shaft, his length warm and heavy in your hand. He fills the circumference of you in such a pleasing way, hard and velvety and thickly veined. He eagerly strains against you; engorging even further against your touch.

“What do you think?” he asks shyly, intently watching your fingers tease and skim and squeeze him. “Can you work with this?”

“You’re perfect. Fuck, Richard. This is the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean it?” he asks, modest as ever.

“Every inch of you is perfect, sweet man.” You want to prove it to him. And you know exactly how. “D-do you… Do you want to feel how wet you’ve made me? How much I want you, Richard?”

“Please,” he begs hoarsely, his voice quaking, desire knotting his brows, and, you stretch out on the bed beside his already half-reclined form, the mattress dipping beneath you. Eagerly, you return his hand to your thigh, where his girthy fingers resume their slow path towards your core. This time though, Richard doesn’t stop. Positioning himself, propped on one elbow, he turns on to his side, his other hand travelling under your dress - inching, achingly slow, all the way up your thigh. He traces a warm, steady, torturously slow pressure along your clothed slit, over your aching nub, until he reaches the top hem of your panties -silly, silky little things- and then, he pushes the elastic hem aside, dipping his two, thick middle fingers down into your folds, gliding effortlessly through your slick until he curls towards your entrance.

You shudder from his touch, submitting an open-mouthed moan to him already as he skims through your wetness, his half-bared cock twitching against his soft, rounded stomach in response to the feel of you. The sound of you.

He pulses and swirls his fingers up and down over your heat, simply gathering and playing with your arousal, and you can imagine what he is feeling beneath his fingers. You can hear your own wetness, your sweet nectar aiming to sucker him in.

It works.

“Please. Can I taste you?” he asks, in that wrecked voice again- the one which ends you.

Your eyes traverse him, hungrily. His mouth tipped open, needy breaths circling beneath that flourishing facial hair. His forearm exposed and veins popping as he works his fingers against you. His cock. Fuck. His delicious cock looks so hard and ruddy, the head of him practically crimson -fit to burst already- and the man must need some relief, and yet all he can think of is sinking his mouth to you? Not that you’re complaining, mind you.

What most gets you though – still – are his eyes. Those gentle, heat-infused, heavy-lidded, lust-laden, adoring, cola-coloured eyes.

Still, you throw your head back, as his fingertips continue to haphazardly explore your folds, your hips bucking and writhing readily, messily against his fingers. “You… ohhhh. You don’t have to do what your buddy said, you know? Only if you want.”

“I want to. I want to taste you, please. Hermosa. Please.”

Fuck, those beautiful brown eyes.

You never imagined you would end the evening with this handsome man begging to eat you out, and you don’t have it in you to resist, not even for a moment. Instead, you nod eagerly, scrambling to spread your thighs for him and hitching your dress up over your hips, opening for him with slick and eager hinges. Richard’s exposed member gleams for you, peeking out from his jeans, and each item of his clothing now looks like it is an impediment; however, he wastes no time on that. Instead, he simply begins a slow, deliberate peel of your panties down to your ankles, and, as you expel a string of affirmatives and pleas into the air, he sinks his face towards your heat.

You weren’t ready for it. You weren’t ready for the feel of his supple, eager tongue writhing against you, nor the feel of his lips engulfing you, his moustache scraping your sensitive skin ever so slightly as he munches over your clit. You weren’t wrong either - he is definitely, unequivocally not afraid to make a mess of himself. At all. In fact, you wonder if he has forgotten this is for you, as he truly does seem intent on tasting you, drinking from you as though he’s slurping on a milkshake, or relishing a cherry sucker. You think he might drink you dry. Or, you would think so, except you are getting wetter, as his assured, quietly confident tongue laps and probes and licks at everywhere it counts.

“Unnng. Dulce. Como duraznos en almíbar,” he praises into your heat.

Sweet. Like peaches in syrup.

You mewl for him. You writhe yourself desperately, embarrassingly, but this man moans eagerly into your heat as if he’s gaining as much pleasure from this as you are. That can’t possibly be true, however. It can’t be true because you are positively alight with ecstasy. You are experiencing such an abundance of it that you can scarce handle it, pleasure both balling and knotting tightly at your centre, and zipping out to every extremity. Your body bows and bucks under the weight of it and at the same time soars, weightless, to another plane.

When you think you couldn’t possibly take any more, Richard’s thumb begins a slow circle of your entrance, tracing around you. Dipping in to you. When his thumb slips in to fully puncture your heat, your juices spill over him, like you truly are a ruined peach, your fists clenching wildly in the sheets. You are his fruit. His ruined, ravaged fruit, existing and perishing only on his tongue. Coming to life and ending when he tastes you.

“Fuck, Richard!” you exclaim, as your peak threatens to overtake you so soon, and you worry that the sound was too weak for him to hear it; however, the man is apparently attentive as ever, even when he’s lost in between your thighs. He stops immediately, lifting his pretty eyes to yours, running his hands up and down along your quivering legs, trailing his fingers reverently over your mound and your patch of hair.

“You’re shaking, bonita,” he says, sounding awed.

“F-feels too good. But I want you inside me. I need you. Please. Will you – W-will you undress and lie down for me?”

It’s all you want. He is all you want. And you can’t explain why, but when you do fall apart for him, you need it to be together. Perhaps, so that when you unravel, you can bind yourself to him. You will tie those knots so tightly, you think, that they will not come undone.

In response to your request, Richard looks positively wrecked with need -and still a little nervous- but he obliges you, and your eyes keenly watch him as he slowly relinquishes his clothes. First his lower half, jeans kicked off to the floor. Then his shirt. He hesitates, when it comes to his white undervest. He looks so appealing in it that you wouldn’t mind if he kept it on; and yet, you are endlessly pleased when he peels it over his head, revealing his smooth chest and stomach and arms to you, your hungry eyes wandering over his form.

“Mmm. Gorgeous man,” you praise, rolling onto all fours with a surging, tidal wave of desire, trailing kisses and skimming your hot, wet mouth all the way down his bared torso as he kneels on the bed. He tastes faintly of sweat; salt on your tongue.

“Tell me what you want, Richard.”

“I… I need to feel your skin. Feel all of you,” he pleads hoarsely, and so, you follow his lead, tugging your dress over your head, and, with a ravenous, seductive stare, slowly releasing yourself from your bra. Richard’s jaw actually goes slack as he takes in the sight of all of you, entirely bared for him, the word “wow” gently suspiring from the pillow of his lips.

You smile as you guide him on to his back, and, tucking your body into his side, propped on one elbow, your hand smooths over his chest as you kiss him deeply. You taste yourself on him, a sweet, heady musk lingering on his moustache; and then, your hand traverses his chest and soft stomach, inching closer to where you crave. His body shivers under your hand as your fingertips stroke him at a spot where he’s evidently a little ticklish. He half-giggles, but the sound transforms quickly into a stuttered moan as your reach his arousal, a single finger circling the head of him.

Your fingers have barely so much as grazed him there and his cock is twitching, his hips bucking in search of your hand and his shapely chin tilted up towards the sky.

“Fuck. Are you sensitive there, baby?” you purr, and, as your fingers curl gently around him again, he nods vigorously – desperately- his expression almost tortured and his arms pinned by his sides.

“Yes, Ma’am. It feels so good when you touch me. Please. Please don’t stop.”

He shivers again -in a whole new way- as your thumb swirls, gingerly, spreading the glistening pearl of precum around the head of him.

You believe the man – that you make him feel good. He expels a breathy, gasping moan, or a tortured half-chuckle every time you so much as brush him. His might even be the most sensitive cock you’ve had, you think, and you watch, enraptured, as his pleasure plays out over his face, his hands fisting into the sheets at his sides as his body writhes for you. Still, you want more. You are greedy for him. Want to feel him everywhere.

“Can I take you in my mouth, Richard?”

“Do you want to?” he asks, and you nod, slinking cat-like down the bed, until you are in position, your mouth settling over his cock.

“You look delicious,” you purr, and when he pleads with you, you dip your head, your tongue laving out to encircle him in a wet, writhing embrace. He’s moreish here too, and so, you sink your lips down around his straining mass. He’s big, and he stretches your capabilities. You can’t even take all of him right away, but you give it your best effort as he moans beneath you.

“Unngg. No-one has ever fit so much,” he praises in disbelief as you take him deeper, humming around him, your head bobbing languorously over his shaft. Richard bucks his hips up ever so gently into your mouth - very careful not to drive into you further than you can take him. His hands come to rest tenderly on your head too, and his fingers smooth so delicately over your hair - reverently even. He doesn’t make any move to grab you to push you down on him- even if you might like that, or he might like that, at a later stage. Right now, you are more than content with this rare, unparalleled gentleness. This delicate, tender joy.

With relish, you continue. He makes such pretty sounds when you have him under your tongue, and yet, for how sensitive he is you are certainly impressed with his stamina. After a particularly deep bob down on to him, you surge off his length, using your hand to rub your slick into him as you look up at him, finding you have him transfixed.

“Need you inside of me, Richard. Can I get on top of you?”

This ache between your legs is becoming untenable.

“Unngg. Want to be inside of you so badly, bonita. Are you ready for me?”

Indicating your readiness, you shift yourself to straddle his hips, your core practically dripping over him as you settle your arousal over his. You writhe him along your folds, coating him in your juices, before rising up on your knees. You have to rise a little higher than you’re used to, to reach the tip of him, and eagerly you settle the blunt pressure of his ruddy, gleaming head at your entrance. You can barely steady yourself in position as your thighs and core tremble for him, in mere anticipation of him filling you. You are grateful when Richard’s hands come to lightly grip the meat of your hips -steadying you, supporting you a little- thumbs caressing your soft spots.

You tug in a breath as you prepare to spear yourself on him, the air faltering in your lungs as you pause where you are, just for a moment, Richard looking up adoringly from under you.

“Soñé contigo por tanto tiempo,” Richard whispers, barely audible. I have dreamed of you for so long. You’re not sure whether it is his sincere, heartfelt words igniting this pleasure within you or the slow inch and drag of your wet heat down his thick, veined shaft. Likely both, but either way, you know you want more.

“Uhhh. Slow. Slow, bonita,” he groans, as you begin to sink all the way down on him, his steady hands guiding you, now cupping your ass, staccato breaths escaping his parted lips as you engulf him. You take him, slowly, gradually, feeling him inch by inch as his girth and his length stretch you open. As you take him to his base, all the way, the full weight of you settling on his hips, Richard’s eyes practically roll back into his head. “God, it feels so good inside you. Can you take me like this?”

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip and you nod, stilling as you adjust to his size. He’s a lot, but it’s a pleasant kind of pressure as he strains against your walls and all your sweet spots. “Can you… take a little bit more, hermosa?” Fuck, how does he have even more to give?

“Say stop if it’s too much,” Richard pleads. “Promise?” When you nod, Richard slowly plants his hands on your hips and pulls you down on to him, just a little, as he bucks his hips up, ever so gently. You cry out, your face contorting in disbelief and your head arcing to the sky as Richard fills you to your limit. Meanwhile, Richard is studying your face with gentle concern, feeling it out, checking you are comfortable, letting you slowly reconfigure your insides to the shape of his girth and length. He’d never hurt you. He’d simply never.

And, even though he has filled you all the way up, it feels so good.

Richard stills under you, until you are ready. His fingers trail tenderly over your thighs and belly and breasts. Over the mound of you. Your legs are shaking, folded and clamped down around his hips, and you’re not sure that your weakened limbs have the strength to allow you to rise on his length. But damn it, you will give it a valiant try.

“I need to move,” you beg, even though you are in the position of control, and Richard looks up at you with big pretty eyes, and God, he’s buried in you that you can feel him all the way in your guts. You gasp, whimper, as, gingerly, you rise up, feeling the fullness and drag of him against your walls as you start working and undulating against him, feeling out all the angles which feel best and…

Fuck there are no bad angles.

As you melt, become molten, Richard is your stiffness and he gives form to your boneless, bodiless flesh. You are full, all the way up. You are so full and it could feel urgent and dirty, having his cock deep in you like this, but it… doesn’t. It feels… Fuck. It just feels…. right. You can only describe it as a caress, as he comes to be held safely and tightly inside you, and you begin to move slowly, wanting -somehow- to imbue each drag of him over your walls with the care and affection you feel for him. The adoration you feel so deeply; as deeply as he’s buried in you. Deeper.

“Richard,” you plead, and you hinge forward at the hips, until your chest sinks down to his, your lips on to his lips, and as you undulate on his body you cling to him. Bury your face and your tongue and your hopes and your dreams in him, as though, if you plant them deep enough you can take root and call him home. As if you are a fruit and you need his ground to grow.

In turn, he holds you, arms wrapped around you, fingers caressing your back, moustache scraping against your cheek, your lips, your neck as speaks honey into your skin, nourishing you with sweet, wholesome praises. And, when he’s content that you can take him, when you’ve shown him how you can, Richard starts moving too, working in tandem with you as your bodies roll and heave together.

You show him not only that you can, but how much you enjoy taking him. There are sounds of pulverised fruit, leaking over him, his cock pushing your juices out of you, as though there is no room inside you for anything else but him. And, as your tightness surrounds him, his arms surrounding you in turn, he bestows you with simple yet jewelled praises, calling you all the beautiful names under the sun in both of his tongues.

It’s sweet, and it’s slow, and you both embody tenderness, all caressing fingers and lips and sugary, grateful noises. Clutching hands and arms, drawing the other closer, deeper into this tangle. As he stokes you, you can barely stand these sensations. You can barely comprehend something so pure and so perfect.

He glides into you now, your slick everywhere, your sex increasingly loud and obscene as his beautiful cock is suckered into your wet, liquid heat. As you quicken your pace, Richard’s mouth settles over your shoulder, teeth lightly gripping your flesh as he stifles a moan into your skin. Then, his breaths are billowing gusts fanning over you, and you can guess that he is trying to bring his approaching release under control.

By this stage, you are overwhelmed, your legs spent and tremoring, and you can barely rise and sink on his length anymore for shaking. You have become weak for him, practically liquid from this slow, torturous build. You need Richard to be your stiffness and your joints. You need to be a fluid thing beneath him, or else, you think, you will perish.

“Lie down for me, bonita?” Richard whispers sweetly, so attuned to you, and, seeing, as you flounder with need, your full weight almost limp on top of him, that a change of position is in order.

He draws out of you with a shudder and rolls you, carefully, his own body following and chasing yours. Richard’s weight settles pleasantly on top of you this time, and, as you fumble into position you spread your legs for him, wrapping your thighs and arms tightly around him. You hold him close to you, your hands cradling his head, fumbling through his grizzled curls, now mussed wild tendrils falling around his face. Then, ever so gently, dipping to kiss you sweetly with that assured tongue, Richard re-sheaths himself, sliding easily inside you now with a divine caress of skin. He feels overwhelmingly good. He feels like heaven reaching inside you to kiss your soul and you pray out loud, your moans greeting his kiss.

The angle and the pressure like this is something else, the press of Richard’s soft stomach and hips and the driving of his cock pushing you pleasantly down into the mattress, your body given a little bounce from the springs which helps you set a perfect rhythm together. You are moments away from unravelling, already, as Richard pistons in and out of you, over and over, a glorious pressure building as you are wrapped up safely in the warmth and scent and sound of your sweet, perfect man. You are lost in the feel of him, both of you clammy and breathy and sheening with sweat as you writhe and combine; and fuck, you want to unravel. You need to.

You want to unravel so you can bind yourself to him with more than this ephemeral tangle of limbs. You want to get lost in him, in a way that makes you feel found.

“I’m going to lose it for you, Richard. It feels too good. I... can’t take it. I… It’s too much. I’m… Harder. Deeper. Please.”

Richard is spurred on by your praises, his pace becoming quickened, his thrusts slightly harder. He sinks into you with vigour, though not with any need to dominate or take from you, you think. Simply as an expression of the overwhelming need to be closer. Deeper. More held by you. To hold you in return. It’s not close enough, even as you hold him tightly in your arms. You are so greedy for him that you don’t think you could ever get enough, even as it’s all too much.

You moan. You moan like a sob. Like a plea. Like a prayer. And he shushes you. Soothes you. He shushes you while he’s buried so deep in you -burying himself so deep in you- that you are fucked wide open. There’s something so pure and yet so wicked about the contradiction of his gentleness and this huge, undeniable force in your centre. You feel that he has crawled so deep up in you that he can never leave; and you want it that way.

“Can you take a little more, hermosa?

Fuck. No. Can you? But, yes. Please, yes. God yes.

“Yes. Please, Richard. Give me everything. I want all of you inside me. Need you.”

He thrusts his hips forward. He’s been holding out on you.

“Ohhhh, just like that,” you plead, voice ragged and your moans escalating, both your bodies slick with sweat now as you tangle together. “Right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, Richard! I need. Unnggg. Fuck. Need you deep inside me, just like that. Please don’t stop. Don’t stop!” You plead desperately with him -as if you even need to bargain- your teeth clamping down on your bottom lip and your hands reaching for him, tugging him closer to you as he drives his length into you over and over, pressing you harder into the mattress as you sucker him into your tightness.

His lips sink to the column of your neck, that moustache grazing you there, his own rich sounds of pleasure reverberating against your skin, his voice humming so close it sinks into your bones.

“N-never want to stop,” he gushes hoarsely into your skin. “Always want to be inside you- feel you wrapped around me, preciosa.”

His words are sincere. Earnest. And, with his words, and the repeated drag of his perfect cock, and his warmth enveloping you, you finally cry out, omitting a wracked, disbelieving moan as your pleasure pulses through you; toes curling, head thrown back, body jerking and spasming beneath him. This is an orgasm which keeps on giving, deep and strong; waves of bliss rolling through you whole body. A star bursting out from your centre. A flood. Quite literally a flood, intense and urgent and everywhere, and you look down at yourself. This is something else. Something more. A bigger heaven. You hear a new sound even, and you look down, realising that Richard’s cock has you squirting all over him, your release gushing and sloshing wet between your bodies as he continues to thrust into you, coaxing you through your peak and deepening your earth-shaking orgasm with every single movement.

“Ohhhh fuck... Richard-” you cry out, in what can only be described as awe, almost sobbing with ecstasy, your legs violently twitching and trembling as they wrap more tightly around him “-no-one’s ever made me do that before!”

Despite his gentleness, his control, this flood seems to overcome Richard too, and his thrusts become sloppy, as though he can barely stave off his release long enough to keep going, his body going near limp over you for a moment. You even swear he gets harder and bigger and deeper -if that was even possible- when he realises exactly what he made you do. When he realises that you soaked him. Flooded him. Your liquid and your juices shining on his stomach and coursing down his sturdy thighs.

You worry for a moment- you wonder whether he minds or if he likes it, as your release coats his skin and the tangle of sheets, but you needn’t worry for anything more than a moment. In response to your deluge, Richard looks at you as though you are a divine being, and, if you thought he seemed dishevelled with need earlier, this is something else. He’s undeniably into it. Indeed, as he takes in the sight of you below him, bared and writhing in ecstasy amidst a tangle of wet sheets, he stutters moans into the air, his thrusts become more determined, his cock pumping into you with refreshed vigour.

“N- never done that b-before?”

“No, Richard. Fuck. You made me-”

“-I’m going to make you do it again,” he purrs, and it is not a command at all. He never loses his characteristic gentleness. It is half a plea and half a promise, his sincere as ever. “Do it for me again, Bonita,” he coaxes, and he sounds thoroughly levelled by you. He sounds like he can’t get enough of you.

Fuck. You don’t know if you can...

“You can do it, baby. Please. Soak me again.”

You don’t think you can, until Richard is talking to you like that, with profuse, sugared pleas, and until he is hitting you exactly where you need, how you need, all over again.

You practically scream with it, weep with it, curse with it, sending a hoarse, high-pitched crescendo into the air, the keen punctuated by quickened, spent grunts Richard expels into the air with each deep, thick, purposeful thrust into you. You don’t think you’ve ever felt a more assured cock.

You don’t think you can, until-

When you gush over him a second time you are more prepared for it. Prepared enough to watch as you spill over him. Prepared enough to catch the positively awed, sunken expression which spreads over Richard’s face. To appreciate the sound of your release squirting over him and sloshing, wet in-between your bodies, liquid slapping against the roundness of his soft stomach as he thrusts into you faster; more urgently. This time -how can he help it- Richard comes undone with you; and, suddenly it seems everything is liquid, like a flood.

You can feel him fill you up, can feel his hot seed pulsing all the way from the base of him and coating your walls with thick ropes of cum as his hips stutter, burying his length into your heat as deep as he can go. He goes practically limp on top of you, hips collapsing into yours, and you feel him filling you -once again- to your limit, as the motion drives him just a little deeper, just a little closer. Meanwhile, you twitch and shudder and writhe and clench through your aftershocks with Richard still balls deep inside of you, barely able to comprehend the new heights of pleasure you have reached together. Awed, by the way your bodies are speaking like they’ve known each other for years too - despite that this is their first encounter.

There’s this wetness. This wetness everywhere; inside you, on you, under you, and for several moments you feel you too could be liquid, melting and pooling and coursing from the bed. Becoming vapour and evaporating from his hot, sweat-slickened skin. You might, if it wasn’t for Richard - his weight settled on top of you in a pleasing crush. His head settling in the crook of your neck, his length still inside you, his tongue laving to bury itself in your mouth too in a desperate, haphazard motion. He means to bury himself in all ways he can, you think, and you let him. You let him become your stone heart, as you are nothing but boneless, bodiless flesh; an oiled thing beneath him like pulverised, spent fruit - all your juices squeezed out.

You coil your limbs fluidly around him, and you engulf his sturdy form with your softness, holding him at the centre of you. Still buried -softening too- in your centre. Held in this intimate circle of your arms. Becoming the centre of your universe.

You bind yourself to him. You become his. His fruit.

Still panting, spent, hot, Richard rolls off you then, his stiffness gone and his body boneless now too, his stomach and his thighs sheening with a concoction of wetness. His smooth, hairless chest slick with sweat. He collapses beside you, but he immediately reaches for your hand and presses his body to your side. Immediately checks that you’re alright, as you truly become corporeal again, flitting down from heaven and into his arms; a conduit of heaven too, you think.

Now, what the… hold up a damn second. What did this sweet man just-

You gush. You gush for him in words now that the old relic of language and (almost) coherent thought has returned to you, your voice still breathy and discombobulated. “Richard. Richard? Richard! Fuck me. That was... I need you to know that was... Fuck. Phenomenal. I’ve never. In my life. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never... Oh my God. I can’t feel my face. Was that... good for you? Was it...? Fuck. Sweet man.”

Richard chuckles fondly at your near-incoherent babble of words, drawing you into his chest and cradling you like you are a precious thing – the most precious thing.

“It was perfect,” he whispers, satin soft, through a disbelieving breath, and his words make your heart flutter and your stomach tumble pleasantly. Richard’s soft sounds continue, as he whispers sweet names and gentle praises into your hair, kissing everywhere he can reach to punctuate his words, and smoothing his fingers in nonsense shapes over your skin. Hermosa. Bonita. Preciosa. “Everything was perfect. You’re so perfect. I’ve never... I’ve never had someone take care of me so well, princesa. Thank you.”

You can hear it - the flood of emotion in his voice, and, at his admission, his praises, the rush, tears pool in your eyes. It seems he has yet more water to drain from you as a patter of tears course over the bridge of your nose and settle in the hollow of his chest. However, it is not sadness, but joy, you realise. You are thoroughly overwhelmed by how held you feel. By how happy you feel. However, when your eyes brim over and you sniffle, Richard cranes his head down towards you, pulling you up from him so your eyes can meet his.

He looks momentarily devastated. “What’s wrong? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“No, sweet man. Not at all. It was perfect for me too,” you are quick to reassure, and, as you shuffle on to your stomach, propping yourself up to gaze into his eyes, Richard runs a solitary thumb across your cheek. You ache with the tenderness of his touch. “Just... I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that either,” you admit, and his eyes shine gently at you, misting over with pure, unadulterated adoration. “I’ve never felt so-”

Loved.

Loved, you realise you want to say, but that would be ridiculous, right? This is your first date.

Who said anything about love?

Still, you realise that is the truth of things. That is exactly how he made you feel. Richard was so tender with you, so present, so sensual, so connected. So… right. Had you made him feel this way too? Will he let you take care of him again?

You want to. You so desperately want to. Want to protect him, care for him, laugh with him. Rest your head on the soft pillow of his stomach as he holds you close to him.

He has taken care of you so well, and you don’t want him to stop.

Please. Don’t stop.

Still, as you silently contemplate all of this, Richard simply bundles you firmly into his chest. if you are unable to find the right words, at least he is able to find the gesture. And so, the need to clean up forgotten, the cloying wetness of your skin and the sheets seemingly not bothering him, you languish against him, safe and warm and held.

“Did it feel good?” he asks, after a few moments of comfortable silence. “When you… um…?”

“Squirted all over your cock? Hell yes.” You interject, able to find the words for that at least, filling in the blank for him and laughing gently against his skin. You weren’t able to turn the act into poetry, not yet, your words clumsy and crude, but you didn’t exactly need to. The whole act felt like poetry already. Poetry written on your bones. Etched into your heart.

When he flooded you.

“Maybe you can write about it,” he suggests, and you can hear the cheeky, playful smile dancing on his lips.

“Richard Alonso Muñoz,” you scold, teasingly, your fingers dancing equally playfully over his smooth chest. “Is that what you want me for? You want to be immortalised in poetry? I don’t think you’re as innocent as you let on, are you?”

“I’m not?” he chuckles warmly.

“You read erotic poetry and trashy romance novels… and you fuck like that.”

Make love, like that.

You still cannot move beyond crude words, but in your heart, he makes the words come easily.

“Truthfully, it’s... not always like that,” Richard admits. “It’s… only like that with you.”

Once again, his sincerity has you speechless, and it is all you can do to hold him close to you, as tightly as you can, your eyes squeezing closed and a soft smile tipping your lips. He holds you in return. Holds you in this perfect moment.

“It really did feel good though. It was… I can’t even describe it. My body feels likes a… fucking… limp, wet noodle.”

The laugh he emits at your words is music. “Wet noodle? Aren’t you supposed to be a poet, darling?” Oh, he’s teasing you now? This sweet man is teasing you?

You gasp, mock affronted, and jab him playfully in the stomach with your finger, in the spots you remember he is ticklish. “Rude!” you exclaim, and he jiggles joyously against you. When the laugh dissipates, leaving only smiling, appled cheeks, silence once again enfolds you like a warm, comfortable blanket.

“I was thinking,” he begins softly, after a few moments of laying together. “We could go to the farmer’s market tomorrow. The one with the cider donuts. We could take Lady.”

You can’t answer right away, can’t find the words, and it is all you can do to tug in a slow breath. Your hesitation evidently has Richard worrying again, and he rushes to fill in the blank space with his own insecurities. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice brittle. “I assumed... because I want to, but... but maybe you’re not thinking that you want to see me again...”

You pull back. Urgently moving so that you are face-to-face with him on the pillow, his body following yours on to his side too, like a magnet. You cup his face again, with your tender, open hand. You look him in the eyes. Those sweet, expressive, cola-coloured eyes. Your heart is shining for him, and it feels rubbed until it gleams.

You examine his tentatively hopeful expression. You get the sense that this man falls hard. Falls quickly. He’s in love with love, after all. You, on the other hand, love slow. And so, even as it breaks your heart that you can’t yet say the words aloud, you deflect. “You want to know what I’m thinking, Richard?” He nods. “I’m still thinking about how you turned me into a wet noodle. You should be the smuggest Adonis this side of Midtown - how on earth are you playing that one so cool?”

Richard’s face pinches a little, his gaze dropping from yours, lashes fluttering.

“It was perfect,” he agrees, in a small voice. “But, I guess, I’m not as… surprised as you are.” You shake your head slightly, in mild confusion. Wanting him to elaborate. “I always imagined you would be perfect.” He blinks shyly, and attempts a masking smile. “I don’t know if you thought the same way about me.”

A terrible lump swells in your throat. Your chest tightens.

It’s time to speak. To make your words a little more like poetry.

But it’s scary. It’s hard. You know that now.

“That’s not quite it, sweet man,” you begin. Realisation sinking heavily through you, drawing your brow down with it. Richard searches your face, encouraging you to go on, expression open; pretty eyes big. And, although the words are hard to say, they are easier. The words are easier around him. “Honestly, Richard? I think, you’ve always been perfect. I just didn’t want to realise it. I didn’t want to notice you,” you confess, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Why?” Richard encourages, a knot in his brow now too as he smooths his thumb earnestly over your cheek, breath bated. His touch is like the path of a match against its counterpart box; it is a little thing, which threatens to ignite something far larger.

“I…” you sigh out some of your tension and nerves with a billowing exhale. “I suppose… because I knew. That as soon as I saw you, there would be no going back. I must have known deep-down, that if I saw you, that I… I could love you so quickly.”

Richard swallows. “Is that… not something you want? Love?”

“It didn’t used to be. I… didn’t used to believe I deserved it,” you reveal, tears balling in your eyes as all of your deepest fears and secrets loosen and rattle inside your chest, gradually being shed and needing to find their exit.

“And now, preciosa?” Richard asks, gingerly smoothing a hand over the crown of your head, dipping a moustached kiss to the centre of your forehead. “What do you believe?”

Now? Now, it is different, and a cautious smile slowly claims your lips - even as your cheeks are wet by tears.

“I’m thinking, Richard Alonso Muñoz, that… That nothing would give me greater pleasure than accompanying you to the farmer’s market.”

Your words sound flippant, perhaps insignificant, but you can tell, from the way Richard’s eyes pool with a subtle, brewing joy, that your true meaning is abundantly clear to him. So, in mutual celebration your lips press together in a crush, smile lines radiating across his face. When he pulls back though, a gentle, playful heat seemingly overtakes him. “Are you sure about that, bonita?” he asks in a fond, teasing tone. As his chest shakes in a rich, gleeful chuckle, you perfectly catch his meaning too.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, with a giggle, as he slants his hips forward, pressing his already hardening length against your thigh. “Maybe there is one thing that could give me more pleasure.” You tick-up a suggestive eyebrow. “Want to remind me?”

“Please,” he purrs, just as broken with need as before. “My beautiful, wet little noodle.”

At his ridiculous new pet name -which you only have yourself to blame for, honestly- you squeal brightly, expelling musical peals of laughter into his open-mouth as he surges to kiss you, the act imbued with deep affection. He kisses you until the laughter pleasantly dissipates, your bodies suffusing with a resurgent heat, as you tangle together all over again.

As Richard holds you, every so tenderly, you are overcome. Your loneliness? It has never felt so far away. You hadn’t realised how much you needed somebody to love. You hadn’t realised that someone was him. You hadn’t wanted to admit it. But, oh, you are realising it now. And, you are never going to forget it.

“Kiss me again,” you plead into the air.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

Everywhere.

Everywhere.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he responds, affirmatively, and with relish, you feel his moustache graze the column of your neck. Somehow, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of that feeling.

As his lips crush to your again, you note how he tastes. A combination of your sweet, nectar-like juices, and the subtle tang of sweat he has kissed from your sex-flushed skin. He tastes like a salted peach. He is pure poetry, you think. You’ve never tasted anything quite as sweet, and you’ve never experienced such a flood. And, now that your deluge of joy is through -your happiness instead streaming steadily- it no longer feels heavy. It no longer weighs you down.

You want to love him, and be loved; and, you will.

What’s more. You deserve every bit of it.

It’s the little things. One by one. And then, suddenly, there it is. There’s everything; in your arms.

[youforgivehowgodforgives]

So I only recently finished watching Hannibal (everybody I followed for other content turned out to be a hidden Hannibal stan all of a sudden idk), and I really love your art! Thank you so much for sharing it!

Okay, that was the only good sane thing I had to say. Now I'm just gonna. Rant. Because I think you might understand. Also I'm treating you a little bit as a representative of the Hannibal community on this site.

This show. Those visuals. These characters. Those absolute shitheads. I've always thought 'it makes me go feral' was a silly hyperbole. It is not. I want to cry over every still and throw things at the screen for being so highbrow and fancy and yet completely bonkers at the same time (the Botticelli stuff is SO stupid and SO beautiful, and if I see one more Christian metaphor I'm going to bite someone and I mean that as a positive). And the characters. OOOOOOOHHH those characters. I never got why everybody on this site was like *affectionally* 'we'd give them a little kith and murder them in their sleep :-)', but now I'm like. Hannibal. Should get punched to death. Also, has never done anything wrong in his life. I want to strangle and kiss him every time he goes all ~ the trout is a Nietzschian floppy flop uwu ~ HOW DID SOMEBODY WRITE THIS AND GET IT PRODUCED. Will is my baby boy, the light of my life, I am kinning, the sarcastic vibes alone, those eyebrows, transmasc goals, also he's a twitchy rat man and deserves to be punched by me.

In short, many thanks/fuck yous to the Hannibal community on Tumblr.

wait i'm so happy for you 😭😭😭 thank you for choosing me as a representative for the hannibal community LMAO

[sidespromptblog]

What to Do?: Chapter 6

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten

Warnings: Angst, Remus Accurate Thoughts, and Hurt/Comfort.

Summary: Logan realizing that his first mistake was seeing the other sides as anything other than coworkers. They weren't a family. They didn't even like each other. How had he not realized sooner?

Word Count: 1,880

There was a moment where the silence felt like a ticking clock between the two of them, and then...

The moment of weakness was over in a second.

Virgil hastily jerked his shoulder away from Remus’ very touch so hard that the other side was sure that he nearly dislocated it with such a move, it didn’t stop Remus from raising an eyebrow at Virgil as the anxious side snarled at him. As if he wasn’t just weeping his eyes out moments ago, and as if Virgil hadn’t just looked at him like he was hoping that Remus held all the answers to his problems the moment he had appeared. 

“What do you want?!” The anxious side spat out, had he fur Remus was sure that it would have been bristling like a cat’s. “Why are you here? Didn’t you ruin enough?” 

Ouch.

That shouldn’t have hurt the way that it did, and yet… somehow coming from Virgil of all people, it stung in a way that dish soap could not. It was like… peroxide on a fresh scrape. Like it was bubbling and destroying each cell in its wake, not caring if it was bacteria or any normal cell trying to help. 

That’s what this pain felt like.  

For a second there was nothing to be said, not as he felt Virgil’s scorching heated glare that told him just how much the anxious side hated him in this moment. Although, for the life of him, he couldn’t tell if it was because he had seen Virgil in his moment of weakness, or… if Virgil was secretly grateful that he had come along when he did. Either way he could only blatantly stare at the other side for a moment, taking in how Virgil was holding himself, and just how he seemed to clutch at the papers Logan had given him like a lifeline so that he wouldn’t fall apart even more. 

Speaking of Logan though…

“I wanted to see this all for myself, and to see if Janus was right.” Remus didn’t know it was possible for Virgil to bristle even more at Janus’ name. “To be honest… It’s kind of weird to see that he’s right, I mean.. I didn’t think Janus was lying when he told me about it. But I was sure that he was exaggerating in how Logan treated him.” It perturbed him, which he hated, because nothing was supposed to perturb him. He wasn’t somebody who got perturbed by anything! He was Remus Sanders, he was the one who usually did the perturbing, so this.. this wasn’t at all fair. “With dearl old Logic like this it's very unsettling... even for someone like me.” 

For him it was almost impossible to not draw parallels to when it was him, Janus, and Virgil. And just like them, this felt all too similar to how Virgil was acting right before he left them, and as much as he liked to deny any sort of squishy feelings for the anxious side…

It was kind of hard for him to see it happening to Virgil in real time.

But be that as it may, “When it was you…” Virgil flinched, and even so Remus carried on. “There were plenty of warning signs that me and Janus missed and by the time that the point came around it was already too late to get you back.” 

Virgil glowered darkly at Remus, having a feeling that the creative side was trying to point him in some kind of way that he couldn’t exactly see just yet. He didn’t like the kind of game that Remus was attempting to play with him, he already didn’t have a lot of patience when it came to this side, and now with everything involving Logan he had even less of it now. A part of him just wanted to hear it straight up, without any kind of nostalgic twangs in Remus’ voice. But another part of him… Well the other part of him couldn’t help but to agree, he had given Janus and Remus plenty of signs that he was starting to grow tired and that he wanted out of what they were doing. And when they had missed them at every turn, as well as the light sides as well... 

He had simply decided to duck out, and save everyone the hassle of dealing with him in person. 

That little reminder did little to ease his ire though, “Just what are you trying to say?” He growled sharply, not liking this one little bit.

Virgil felt his stomach drop as soon as the smile curved onto Remus’ face like a knife.

“Simple,” The creative side said with a bout of fake cheer, “That you all had plenty of chances to help Logan before it got to this point. And just like me and Janus, you all failed miserably at doing anything worthwhile.” 

In an instant, Virgil rounded on Remus, his hands clenched into fists as a burning rage flooded his stomach and crawled up his throat. In that moment right then and there, he could have strangled Remus with his own stupid sash and he wouldn’t have felt bad for about it for a single second. His teeth bared themselves into a snarl, and without even thinking he took a step forward, almost talking himself into acting on the dark urge that made his hands want to move. 

Virgil was a little more than pissed, “What would you know about any of that?!” The words he had wanted to spit out, he ended up shouting instead. “What the hell would you know about helping someone?! What would you know about making things better?!” His voice shook the pictures on the wall, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care that the others could hear him, and he didn’t care about the weird look of guilt on Remus’ dumb face. The only thing he cared about was pounding his frustrations through Remus’ stupidly thick skull until he finally understood and got it for once. 

Since when had Remus ever cared about helping other people? Since when did he ever extend a thought that just wasn’t about himself, or making someone else’s day even worse? Since when did he care about anything that went beyond tormenting others with his weird thoughts, and the nightmares that he regularly gave to Thomas? Since when did Remus actually have single solitary thought that wasn’t going to hurt them in some kind of way?

As if reading his mind Remus extended his hand in an uncharacteristically placating manner, “Plenty.” He merely says, “Plenty…” Remus says, with a surprising amount of calmness. “I have regretted it every day of my life,” Here Virgil went still, the momentous amount of seriousness in Remus’ voice deserved that much at least. “I have always regretted that I didn’t do a single thing to stop you from leaving and even more that I didn’t help when you needed me to.” For a second he hesitated, delaying and deliberating on what he knew he was going to have to say next to Virgil. “And… I feel that this is also somewhat my doing too…” 

It wasn’t that he was scared, far from it. 

It was that… if he told Virgil what he knew and what he had done, that would be owning up to all of this. And that in some way all of the others could pin this on him, and not the fact that they too could have helped Logan not make the choices that he had made. 

“How?” Virgil tiredly asked, “How could it possibly be your fault? You just said that we didn’t pay enough attention to his warning signs. I know that you were a dick to him recently, but I don’t understand how this is your fault…” 

Remus’ fleshy insides softened at Virgil’s words, and at how much the anxious side seemed to want to absolve him of any kind of guilt. It was sickeningly sweet in his eyes, like Virgil knew he couldn’t absolve himself, so he could in the very least do it to Remus. 

But it needed to come out.  

He had to tell someone. 

So, taking in a steadying breath he went on. 

“I gave him the nudge,” He finally blurted out, he had never been one to keep secrets. So the truth had been pressing inside of him, like a stuffed animal full of too much stuffing. And upon seeing equally Virgil’s bewildered and shocked stare, and clearly not understanding what he was talking about. He went on before neither he or Virgil could stop himself from elaborating. “He was in the imagination after the fiasco of my plans had fucked everything up, he was angry, and sad, and just upset. I could tell that he was feeling a lot of things because clearly no one was listening to him, I.. I had ensured it when I ruined his schedule. And I had thought that he would just shrug the thought I gave him off, or he’d know that it was me…” Remus floundered for a moment, the taste of guilt strange on his tongue, “ I had only suggested that things couldn’t continue like they were, nothing else. But he…” 

But Logan had gone with it, and hadn’t stopped for a single second.

Then everything else had happened. 

He had not meant for the idea he had given Logan to get so out of hand, he was impressed, sure, that Logan was actually taken to it and was making the changes he wanted to see happen. And he was definitely impressed that he had broken under the weight of Virgil’s and the others’ woes certainly… but seeing Janus go numb on him, and seeing Virgil absolutely bawling his eyes out…

Seeing how Logan had reacted to Virgil of all people had made him so obviously apparent to the major flaw in what he had wanted to happen, he had thought, and hoped, that the others would apologize, change, and that Logan would go back to normal. 

He had thought that just once he had helped, but… 

“I don’t think that he’s going to stop anytime soon…” 

It was a lot harder than he had thought that it would be, and it was even harder to see it happening to people that he knew and cared about. 

Looking down at the anxious side he feared for just a moment that Virgil was going to explode on him again. That this time he’d actually lunge forward and wrap his hands around Remus’ throat, and choke the daylights out of him for causing all of this. He knew that Virgil had thought about it, hell every time he talked and caused trouble he could tell that it was something Virgil wanted to do to him.   

But Virgil had gone dead silent, the look on his face unreadable by Remus.  

“Help me fix this,” Virgil finally whispered, his body finally loosening as his fists unclenched, no longer full of murderous rage. “If you want so badly to help… then help me fix this.” After a second finally adding, “Please.”

That was something at least, no even more than that…

It was a start. 

A better start than he deserved.  

[acabecca]

Evie Hart + Johnny Storm // Supernova series

*

"I know it's not fair to say this, but I don't have anything without you. If I don't have you, I have nothing.” - for @fyeahsuperverseocs angst prompt event

*

The clattering of pans in the kitchen stirred Evie from her sleep and she sat up in her bed, running at her eyes groggily as she pulled herself up with a sigh as she glanced at her clock on her bedside table.

2.57am.

There was only one person who would be dumb enough to let themselves onto her floor of the Baxter building at this time of the morning, and she really did not want to deal with him right now; not when things were still so tense between them, the sting of their breakup still fresh to her, even after three months.

But she knew she had no choice. From the sounds of things he was about to make a huge mess that she’d be left to clean up, and so she begrudgingly threw the duvet off her and trudged out of her bedroom.

“Johnny?” she called, squinting against the light and biting back a laugh when he jumped, banging his head on the underside of the cabinet. “What are you doing?”

Johnny’s head emerged from inside the cupboard, a pout on his lips and his knuckles rubbing just above his ear, the spot he had obviously bumped when she’d startled him.

He beamed when he spotted her standing in the doorway.

“Heeeeey! Evie! I’m makin’ pancakes, you want some?” he asked, gesturing you the mixing bowl and ingredients scattered on the worktop.

“It’s three in the morning,” Evie took a step further inside the room, her eyes surveying the mess he’d already created, flour dusting her floor and one broken egg lying in front of the fridge. “And also, you don’t live here. Go make pancakes at your place.”

“I don’t have-” he paused, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and one eye closed as he carefully poured milk into a measuring jug. “I don’t have all of this stuff!” he glanced at her, his brow furrowed. “Whose shirt is that?”

“Yours. Forgot to pack it up with the rest of your stuff. You have flour in your hair,” Evie sighed, taking the milk carton away from him and wiping the top of his head. “Are you drunk?”

Johnny grinned. “Obviously.”

Rolling her eyes, Evie moved the mixing bowl to the side and put the milk back in the fridge, grabbing a dish towel and scooping up the smashed egg. “So, you just decided to let yourself into my place and make yourself breakfast?”

“Like the way you make pancakes,” Johnny hummed, and Evie snorted when she heard the scrape of the chair being pulled out at the table. “They taste better when you make ‘em. Secret ingredient is love.”

“Secret ingredient is cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg, and it’s not a secret,” she told him, pouring the milk into the bowl and mixing the batter together. “Sometimes blueberries-”

“Put those in!”

“I don’t have any.”

“Why not?”

Evie knew he was pouting without even turning to face him. “Because I wasn’t expecting any midnight callers to raid my cupboards, demanding I feed them. What are you- I mean, why did you come here? There’s a diner down the street.”

“Told you,” Johnny hummed. “Like the way you make ‘em. With love.”

“Well, these ones are being made under duress, so they might not be all that nice,” she murmured.

“…Not made with love anymore, huh?” he asked in a whisper and Evie paused, taking a breath.

“No,” she shook her head, her voice quiet. “Not anymore,” she poured some batter into the pan, ignoring the sound of Johnny standing up from the table behind her as she swallowed the lump in her throat. “You have to stop doing this, Johnny.”

“Doing what?”

He was closer than she expected, but his voice was still quiet and she could feel his gaze burning into the back of her head. Evie shrugged, flipping the pancakes over and grabbing a plate out of the cupboard.

“Showing up whenever you feel like it. Acting like nothing’s changed. Everything has changed.”

“…Could change back, though.”

Evie swallowed thickly, finally turning round to face him and leaning against the worktop as she cocked her head to the side. He looked so young stood in front of her now, his hair disheveled and his cheeks pink from alcohol, one eyebrow raised and a small, hopeful smile on face.

He looked like the Johnny she had fallen in love with, the cocky but sweet boy she had gotten to know, different from the Johnny Storm the public had grown to love.

It made her heart pound in her chest, her fingers itching to reach out and run through his hair, to fix the collar of his shirt, and she clenched her hands into fists to stop herself from touching him.

He had broken her heart. She had to remember that. Had to remember that he was no longer her Johnny, no longer the Johnny she had loved. He was somebody else now. Somebody who had a different girl - sometimes two - on his arm every night. Somebody who got invited to club openings and celebrity events, who had his picture appearing in tabloids, who had to be available at the drop of the hat in case the world needed saving.

“Things will never go back to how they were, Johnny,” she kept her voice void of emotion, her stomach churning when she saw his face fall. “It’s different now. You’re Johnny Storm. The Human Torch. Bonafide superhero, girls falling all over themselves to be with you. Why would you want things to go back to how they used to be?” she laughed softly, turning back to the pan and scooping the pancakes out onto a plate.

“Because I miss you,” he admitted, and Evie screwed her eyes shut. “I know I have no right. I know it's not fair to say this, but I don't have anything without you,” he murmured, his hands landing on her waist and his chest pressed against her back, his nose nudging the spot just behind her ear. “If I don't have you, I have nothing, Eve.”

“Here,” she turned in his arms, holding the plate up between them and shoving it towards his chest so he had no choice but to let go of her and take hold of it. “Your pancakes are done. You can bring the plate back tomorrow. Or don’t, s’not like I’ll miss one plate.”

“Evie-”

“I want you to leave, please,” she interrupted. “It’s late, and I’m tired,” she pushed him gently towards the elevator and his shoulders slumped as he allowed her to guide him off of her floor.

“I don’t- I need a fork-”

Letting out a strangled noise of frustration, Evie stomped back towards the kitchen and grabbed a fork, before making her way back over to her ex-boyfriend and shoving it at his chest.

“There you go, enjoy the pancakes, enjoy the hangover. Goodnight, Johnny!” she pressed the button for the elevator repeatedly. Really, it was the early hours of the morning; who could possibly be using it right now? Why wasn’t it already there waiting, since Johnny had obviously taken it up to her place?

She could feel her resolve cracking the longer she stood there, her finger jabbing at the button and Johnny staying silent as he watched her carefully.

“…How come you’re wearin’ my shirt?”

“Because I- it- it was just there. I forgot to put it in your box of stuff when I sent your things back with Sue and then I- I don’t know. Sometimes I just- I like sleeping in it? It’s comfortable.”

“S’why I left it at your old place,” Johnny shovelled a forkful of pancakes into in his mouth, syrup dribbling down his chin as he stuck his tongue out to catch it. “Don’t want it back. You can keep it.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, just don’t make a habit of letting yourself in here, alright? I can’t promise I won’t clock you over the head with a pan next time, what if I think you’re a burglar?” Evie offered him a weak smile. Johnny sighed, his gaze shifting to the plate in his hands.

“I didn’t mean for turning up and letting myself in here unannounced,” he muttered, his eyes widening slightly. “I mean, I am sorry for doing that, of course. But I meant, I’m sorry. For doing what I did. For how I treated you. For hurting you.”

“Johnny-”

“Please let me say this, because we both know I’m gonna lose the nerve when I sober up,” he interrupted as he reached out to take Evie’s hand in his, his fingers sticky with syrup. She pulled a face. “I think you were the best thing that ever happened to me, Evie. An’ I fucked it all up, an’ I know I don’t deserve another chance but, if you ever take pity on me and decide to give me another chance, I promise it’ll be better this time. I’ll be better. I won’t mess it up again because I know what it’s like to not have you. I know what it’s like to lose you now,” he finished quietly, the corners of mouth turning up into a small smile as his eyes searched hers.

Taking a shaky breath, Evie cleared her throat and pulled her hand out of his grasp, reaching out and wiping her hand on the t-shirt he was wearing. “You have sticky fingers,” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

She looked up at him, her arms crossed over her chest as though she were putting a wall up between them, and Johnny sighed as he heard the elevator doors ping open behind him.

“You should, uh… You should go,” she gestured behind him and he nodded, walking backwards into the elevator. “Enjoy the rest of the pancakes. Drink some water before you go to bed, and make sure you have some painkillers for when you wake up.”

“Always takin’ care of me, huh?”

“Well, someone has to,” Evie rolled her eyes, and Johnny snorted out a laugh.

“I’ll drop this back off tomorrow,” he tapped his plate with the fork.

“It’s okay; just sleep off your hangover.”

“No, I’ll come down tomorrow afternoon-”

“I won’t be here,” Evie rubbed her forehead. “I, uhm. I have a date.”

Johnny’s jaw went slack, his shoulders visibly deflating and his whole body felt numb. “Oh.”

“Yeah, so…” she paused, avoiding his gaze with a sigh. “Johnny, I… I heard what you said just now, but… I need someone who can tell me how he feels when he’s sober. I need someone who doesn’t have to lose me to want me.”

The elevator doors began to close and Johnny stumbled, quickly shoving his arm between them to keep them open. “Yeah, I… I get that. Is he- who is he?”

“Just some guy,” she shrugged weakly. “My sister in law set us up. His name is Steve, he seems… nice.”

“Nice,” Johnny repeated.

“Nice,” Evie nodded. “Easy, y’know? Normal guy, ex-military, works security now. He’s-”

“I should go,” he said quickly, dropping his arm back down to his side. “Thanks for the food, sorry again for waking you up and letting myself in. It won’t happen again. Goodnight, Evelyn.”

“Uh, yeah,” she blinked, watching as he disappeared behind the closing doors. “Goodnight, Johnny.”

taglist: @sgtbuckyybarnes @starcrossedjedis @jewelswrites-ish @lukespatterson @mer-writes @hiddenqveendom @if-you-onlyknew @raith-way @foxesandmagic (let me know if you want to be added/removed!)

[malfoymanortings]

somebody else PT 2

SUMMARY: Mae has been in love with Draco Malfoy since her first year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy fell in love with Mae in their fourth year, and then promptly fell into Pansy’s bed instead. All the while, Mae clings to the hope that Draco will change. That is, until, Ron Weasley takes his chance.

PAIRINGS: toxic!Draco x OC, Ron x OC, Ginny x Luna

im not sure that I like how this turned out, but hopefully you all enjoy it! I was very surprised I got so much positive feedback on that little one shot i posted. thank you all for the love! 

also, let me know if you want to be on the taglist for the next part. 

Perhaps it was her conversation with Ginny the previous night, or perhaps it was because she felt so hollow inside, but Mae resolved herself on confronting Draco. Of course, he didn’t make things easy for her. He never did.

“Pansy and Draco are sitting awfully close, aren’t they?” Blaise said conversationally, taking a sip of his morning coffee. Full of cream, three sugars. As always.

Mae eyed Draco and Pansy warily, noting the way Pansy laughed into Draco, her hand seeming to move onto his leg although it was hidden from the table. “They’re just friends.”

“Rubbish,” scoffed Blaise harshly, stabbing an egg. “You’re much smarter than that, love.”

Pansy took that moment to brush Draco’s hair out of his face, and something broke inside Mae as Draco caught her hand in his own, bringing her knuckles to his lips and ghosting a kiss across them.

“It’s none of your business though, innit?” snapped Mae, slamming her glass of pumpkin juice down so harshly it brought the attention of the entire half of their table, including Draco and Pansy. “If Draco wants to fuck a slut, let him.”

Blaise choked on his eggs, slamming a fist into his chest as he attempted to swallow. Draco tilted his head, a sneer on his face, while Pansy began hurling insults at Mae. 

“Perhaps if you weren’t a filthy half-blood, Draco would be more interested. He wants a real woman.” Pansy declared wickedly, her lips lifted up in a snarl.

“A real woman with real STDs, hm?” retorted Mae, standing up from the table. “Everyone knows you fucked Theodore Nott last week, and he had to go to Madam Pomfrey from whatever you gave him!”

The part about Pansy fucking Theodore Nott was true, although the STD part was not. But Mae was so angry, so fed up with how the both of them were treating her, that she couldn’t contain it anymore. At this point, most of the Great Hall had caught sight of what was happening, although the teachers at least pretended to be oblivious. She caught sight of Ginny grinning at her encouragingly.

“I’m going to be honest with you, because no one else will,” Draco said the words slowly, casually, as though he were speaking of the weather. “Anyone who says they’re interested in you, beyond just fucking you, is a liar.”

Mae felt her cheeks burn, as the Slytherin table began laughing and oohing under their breath, and she rushed out of the Great Hall. She heard footsteps behind her, but she ignored them, until someone tugged harshly on her arm, the rings on his fingers alerting her to who it was.

“Why?” demanded Mae, turning around with unshed tears. An amused Draco stood in front of her, looming over her. “Why do you do this to me?”

Perhaps the question caught him off guard, because Draco replied with “I don’t know.”

Mae let out a strangled sob, wiping her hands harshly down her face. “I just want to be the one you love.”

“Oh darling,” Draco said the words softly, reaching out to caress her cheek. Mae closed her eyes for a moment, and she could pretend everything was fine. “I’ll never love you.”

With those words, Draco shoved her jaw harshly, causing a loud popping noise to sound as pain reverberated through the lower half of her face.

“I’m breaking up with you.” Mae said the words first, opening her eyes to see Draco actually looking.. Hurt, by her words.

“Took you long enough.” 

Mae looked to see Ginny heading her way, her hand intertwined with Luna’s, with the Golden trio, Pansy, and Blaise following close behind.

“We would have never made it anyways.” Draco responded quietly, and Mae felt a bit vindicated to see that he appeared to feel at least partially upset.

“That’s your fault.” her voice shook, but Mae said the words passionately.

“How?” he had the nerve to sound incredulous, and Mae balled up her fists as tears of anger came to her eyes.

“You always cheated on me with Pansy! You treated me like I was your pet, like you could keep fucking around without any care for my feelings!” the words she had been keeping in for so long burst out, and she felt a rush of vindication that she finally got to say them aloud.

Draco scoffed, and any hope of him apologizing or fighting for her went out the window. “You really think I give a shit about you? It’s your loss, Callisto.” he sneered her last name, looking over his shoulder to see the others approaching them.

Mae’s eyes hardened, hatred growing as Pansy ran pathetically over to Draco. “Your whore’s here.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Sorry you don’t know how to keep a man.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be Callisto,” Draco drawled out, slinging an arm over Pansy. “Nobody likes a slut that doesn’t understand when her time is up.”

“What did you just say?” Ron Weasley was the last person Mae expected to speak to Draco after he said those words.

Draco scoffed. “You heard me, Weas-”

Before Draco could get the full word out, Ron’s fist collided with Draco’s delicate features. Mae’s eyes widened as Ron wound his fist back once more, knocking Draco flat on his back. Pansy started screaming, and Blaise started laughing.

“Blaise, help him!” Pansy shrieked, slapping a hand to her mouth in horror.

Blaise sighed, rolling his eyes. He gave Mae a quick look, (perhaps in an apology?) before he gave Ron a swift kick to his stomach. Ron stumbled backwards, falling on his bottom, and Draco lay on the ground clutching his bruised and bloody face.

Pansy promptly threw herself down onto Draco, and Blaise stood there with his arms crossed as though he were just waiting for the show to be over. Mae, on the other hand, had nothing left to say to Draco, and turned her attention to Ron, who had just gotten off the floor with the help of Harry. 

“Thank you,” the words were quiet, but sincere. Ron nodded to her, his eyes not wavering from hers.

“He’s not worth it, yeah?” said Ron, shaking his bruised knuckles. “He never deserved you.’

Mae, suddenly flooded with emotion, just shook her head, and with tears burning in her eyes, she left the scene behind her.

--=--

The hardest thing was seeing Draco be so openly affectionate with Pansy. It broke her, each time she entered the common room to see her sitting on his lap. Getting a kiss on the cheek. A hug. A tender embrace. It burned like hell.

So, she began spending less time in the common room. She began joining Luna and Ginny on their outings, normally in the astronomy tower, and at some point, the Golden Trio started joining them. It became a routine, the six of them hanging out in either the tower or the library, if Hermione got her way. 

On the bright side, her grades had never been better. 

A month after the incident with Draco, Mae found herself feeling the wound particularly harshly. She paced outside the Gryffindor common room, hoping to find Ginny coming out of the portrait hole. Instead, she got Ron Weasley, who didn’t seem all too surprised to find her out there.

“You alright?” Ron asked awkwardly, halfway in the doorframe and halfway out.

Mae shook her head silently, her chest aching. “Not really.”

“How ‘bout we take a way, yeah?” suggested Ron, stepping out of the portrait hole. It swung shut loudly behind him.

Mae shrugged her shoulders, and together they walked in silence. They had no clear destination in mind, and Mae found she felt slightly better having his company around her. Ron, she had found, had a fairly dry sense of humor and it was ever so easy to laugh around him. Sometimes, the others didn’t quite understand the joke, but Mae always did. His humor was similar to hers, if she could just find it again.

“I always wondered,” Ron broke their silence, stopping to sit on a ledge overlooking the black lake. “If the squid really existed.”

“Oh, it does,” Mae assured Ron, hopping up on the opposite side of the stone ledge, wrapping her robe tightly around herself. “Sometimes in the common room, we get to see it swim by.”

Ron’s eyes flashed with admiration. “Wicked.”

“I suppose it might be a bit more exciting than overlooking the grounds,” Mae said the words pretentiously, sniffing as she hid a grin from Ron. “We get to see the inside of the black lake, while you boring Gryffindors just get landscape.”

“At least during winter we haven’t got to sleep under ten blankets just to get by,” protested Ron, bringing a hand up to brush his hair out of his face. “Then again, you might just have an iron deficiency.”

Mae’s eyes widened. “That’s a big word for Ronald Weasley.”

“Hermione mentioned it!” defended Ron, moving his hands as he spoke. “She’s the one who suggested you go to Madam Pomfrey for it! You’re always freezing!”

“It’s a perk of being damaged goods, I suppose.” Mae said the words without much thought, as she had gotten distracted by Ron’s rather large hands moving around.

Ron went still, and he gave Mae a confused look. “Damaged goods?”

Mae’s feelings of inadequacy came back, and she felt the stinging of tears hit her eyes. She tried to play it off, giving a weak laugh. “Well, yeah, what else would you call me?”

“Beautiful,” the word rolled off Ron’s tongue rather quickly, as though he hadn't had to think about it at all. 

Tears slipped out of her eyes as Mae processed his words. How could anyone think she was beautiful? Couldn’t he see how damaged she was? Draco had used her up and thrown her out, and no one else would ever want his seconds. He had told her that many times.

“Don’t,” the words came out wet and wobbly. “Don’t lie to me.”

Ron was rarely serious, but he completely focused on her as he reached out to grab her hand in his large one. “Mae, why would I lie about that?”

The tears came freely now, and she could feel a sob building up in her chest. “Ronald Weasley, don’t you dare sit there and lie to me! Don’t fucking sit there, and tell me I’m beautiful, because I’m not. I’m used up and I’m damaged, I will never be anything beyond that!”

Before she could protest, Ron had pulled her into a hug, engulfing her small frame in his large one. Mae had forgotten what it was like to be embraced like this, and she buried her head into Ron’s wide chest as she cried. In the back of her mind, she understood that was likely having a panic attack. 

“Calm down Mae,” Ron held her close, caressing her hair. “You’ll be alright.”

They sat like that, until Mae’s cries subsided and she took a shaky breath, pulling out of Ron’s embrace. She was suddenly embarrassed that she had overreacted as she did, and a blush stained her wet cheeks.

“‘M sorry about that,” mumbled Mae, wiping her cheeks roughly. “I didn’t mean to make you all soggy.”

Ron laughed at that. “Why would I complain, a beautiful girl cried on me today. Sounds like a win to me!”

Mae hit Ron on his arm for that, a small laugh coming out of her as well. If anything, Ron Weasley knew how to switch the mood. “Don’t be a prat, Weasley.”

Ron’s eyes crinkled in the corners as he tossed his head back in a loud bout of laughter, and Mae found herself staring at his full lips. Really, how had she not noticed how perfectly shaped Ron’s lips were before? And Merlin, how were his teeth so straight and white?

As quickly as she began admiring Ron Weasley, images of silver hair and grey eyes flashed through her mind, and she shut her eyes and swallowed hard. There would never be Draco and Mae, that much was clear. It did not do to dwell on things that would never change.

“Imagine leaving me for a Weasley.”

Mae’s stomach dropped as she saw Draco swaggering towards her and Ron, Blaise close behind him. She hated how she still got butterflies as he eyed her appraisingly, before sneering at Ron.

“Shut it, Malfoy.” snapped Ron, his ears growing pink as he dug in his robes for his wand.

“Oh,” whistled Draco, drawing out the vowel. “Weaselbee is going to show off how big of a man he is. Trust me, Weasel, been there, done that. I’m the best she’ll ever have had.”

“Tell me Malfoy, you ever been hexed so hard you had to fight for your life?” snarled Ron, standing before the silver haired boy and brandishing his wand.

Mae quickly got down from the stone ledge, standing in between Draco and Ron, placing a hand on both of their chests. “Both of you, stop it!”

Ron’s jaw clenched, and he didn’t lower his wand. Draco smirked at the sight of her hand on his chest, his eyes flicking down at it before backup to look her in the eyes. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Mae said the words firmly, glaring at Draco. “We aren’t together anymore. Stop acting like this.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t fight little Weaselbee.” drawled Draco, flexing his fingers on his wand. “I still had you first.”

“And I fucking left you!” shouted Mae, shoving Draco back from her and Ron. “Get that through your thick skull, and go back to Pansy. The bitch you always cheated on me with!”

“You said you loved me.” Draco said the words softly, bitterly, so quickly that Mae almost didn't catch it. 

For a moment, it felt as though it were just the two of them, Draco and Mae, just as it should have been.

Mae stepped back, away from Draco, away from Ron. Her mouth twitched, her eyes grew wet, and she was at a loss for words. She turned then, and hurried out of the courtyard.

How dare he do this to her. 

taglist: @xoxohollands @phantomsmalfoystyles @lidiyabest @justmimithings

Part one

Part three

[excelsi-or]

your type (pt. 7)

Hellooooo~ I’m in a writing mood lately and have been paying more attention to this story again. :) so you’ll get a few more parts this month. 

BIPOC rec: Braiding Sweetgrass - Robin Wall Kimmerer; a beautiful book about botany and its influence on Indigenous people and how we can relate their teachings to climate justice. My favourite quote: “All flourishing is mutual.”

I’m also going to reblog this post with a bunch of links to support Daunte Wright as well as the protests in the U.S.

w.c. 1.4k (this one’s a bit shorter, but the next part is a LONG one. Like the longest post I’ve ever done across all my stories. I don’t want to split it up. So be prepared and enjoy :))

pairing: jihoon x OC/reader

pt. 1; pt. 2; pt. 3; pt. 4; pt. 5; pt. 6

Like every day for the last month, Jihoon is waiting for her in the hallway outside her lab. She closes the door behind her and notices the paper bag in his hand.

“I made us lunch.”

She blinks. “You made us… lunch?”

“Yeah.”

She ducks into the student office to grab her water bottle. When she reemerges, Jihoon motions with his head for her to walk with him.

“We need to talk.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “What about?”

“Just have to lay my cards on the table.”

Jihoon had gone over what he was going to say with Seungcheol, Mingyu, and Soonyoung the night before.

“It doesn’t need to be a big fancy speech,” Seungcheol said. “Just say how you feel.”

“I don’t…” He couldn’t exactly argue that he felt nothing. And his friends were clear that they didn’t think he felt nothing. “I don’t know what I feel. I just don’t think we can win this bet and we should call it.”

Soonyoung smacked the side of his head. “You can. And here’s what you’re going to say.”

“I want to be honest with you about my intentions so that you’re not confused as to why I’m hanging around you.”

She nods slowly and then takes a swig of her water. “Seems very formal of you.”

They walk right through the skywalk and take the stairs out onto the green. They find a tree to sit under. The air is warm, but there’s an intermittent breeze that makes it tolerable. He pulls two bowls of spicy ramen that he made before coming and hands one to her. It, at the very least, gets a smile on her face.

“I want you to know…” Jihoon pauses, stirring his noodles and watching the steam rise from the container. “I’m all in.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “All into what?”

So, he doesn’t either. “This. Us. Whatever this is I’m pursuing. I want you to know that the stories you’ve heard about me are probably true, that I have hurt other people before, but I want to try with you.”

Her chewing slows, as she processes these words.

“Look,” Soonyoung had said, “it’s not lost on her that you’re a player. And Jihyo’s told hyung that some of your past girlfriends have shared… their opinions about you. You can’t hide those.”

“I know that someone like me has hurt you before and you don’t have to tell me about him ever, but I don’t want to be that guy. I want to be someone you can trust. Someone you can trust to give you the honesty you deserve.”

He’s started adlibbing off of Soonyoung’s speech. The speech had something about heaven and finding himself. It was too romantic and there was no way someone like her would buy it.

Meanwhile, her stomach is churning and she isn’t sure if it’s from the spicy noodles or from what Jihoon is saying. “You’re saying,” she searches for the words she wants to use, “you want to date me?”

“Yeah.”

“Just… me.”

“Yeah.”

She leans back against the tree and makes a point of stirring her noodles to cool them, mostly just stalling for time. A third woman had come to her while she was walking into the chemistry building that morning. It was as if all of Jihoon’s past conquests were gravitating towards her in some weird twist of fate.

Which was a strange coincidence, because Jihyo had just spent the better part of last night convincing her to give Jihoon a chance.

And now hearing Jihoon speak like this is messing with her head further.

“What happened to your date last night?” She shakes her head. “You told me you had dates lined up for the next week.”

“Cancelled. All of them.” Jihoon knew she knew about Ara yesterday. “Including yesterday’s.”

“All because you suddenly want to date me?”

“No, because I realized that unless I tell you what I want straight up, you won’t know. And my actions and what I want weren’t lining up. So…” Jihoon makes a point to catch her gaze. “I’m trying.”

“She’s not going to believe you,” Mingyu had said. “So, the best way is not to convince her that you’ll be good but that you’ll try to be better. For some reason, girls love when we say we’ll try to be better than we once were.”

She pauses. She’s about to put food in her, but sets the bowl down instead. “How many girls were there before me?”

Bewildered by this question, Jihoon says, “I can’t count that.”

She shakes her head. “Not one-night stands. Not girls you were only with for sex. Actual people that you actually dated.”

Jihoon swallows hard. Being honest here could ruin everything he’s built up until this point. “Maybe 7.”

She nods. “Name them.”

Jihoon bites his tongue.

“If you dated them, they must have meant something to you. You gave them more than a few nights.”

So, he does. He lists them off, but her face doesn’t look happy. Which maybe it wouldn’t because he’s listing off his exes, and she’s never come off as a masochist.

“Chaeyoung?”

Jihoon freezes. Almost immediately, his mind is scrambling and he’s unsure why.

“She’s in your lab,” Jihoon says in disbelief.

“What did you tell them all when they asked you why you weren’t talking to them?” She’s reaching with this question; hoping and dreading that Jihoon really is the creature of habit she’s learned him to be.

And it’s only through this sudden interrogation that Jihoon is realizing how intensely these past women of his have outted him. And it explains why she’s been distant. He hangs his head in shame, because he cannot believe he’s being called out like this. “It was something like…” He turns away from her, hoping a breeze carries his voice away. “‘I’m ignoring you now, please leave me alone.’”

“So, tell me how I’m any different to those girls. Tell me this whole thing isn’t some orchestrated game you’ve played over and over again.”

Jihoon doesn’t know how to answer.

“Jihyo told me that I was being too harsh with you. That the stories I was hearing were coming from women who had been hurt by you. That heartbreak distorts all the good parts about a relationship.” She waits for him to look her way. “My experience with heartbreak is… varied, that’s for sure. And you’re right. Your reputation is exactly how I felt like I was treated the last time I gave my heart to somebody.” She picks up the noodles and lets them slip through her chopsticks.

Jihoon can feel the tiniest flicker of hope rising in his belly, can’t explain the way his heart lifts.

“But my friends keep telling me that I’ll never know good love if I don’t let myself be vulnerable again.” She looks at him, studying his features. What she’s searching for neither of them is sure. “But I’m really, really scared that…”

Jihoon nudges her gently with his hand, careful not to touch her too much. “You can talk to me.”

Her gaze is unwavering. “I’m scared that I’m just going to be another notch on your bedpost.”

The magnitude of work required to win this bet hits Jihoon’s chest like a ton of bricks, hard. He’s sure it almost winds him. But he can see the cracks in her armour right now and he would be stupid (not to mention his friends will strangle him) if he doesn’t wiggle in just a little bit.

His voice is gentle. “I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you.”

“I never liked promises I know people can’t keep. They make real promises redundant.”

Completely fine by him.

“Can we just try it out?” He knows this formula works.

Except the pause is so long that he swears she’s going to say no. “Fine.”

His eyebrows lift, so does that hope in his belly. “Really?”

She nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Yeah. Really.”

Jihoon realizes that she’s definitely played his game before with other men when he glances at her lips and she smirks.

“That does not mean that you can kiss me right now.”

He smiles genuinely for the first time since they started taking. “Fine.” He recognizes the warmth spreading through his chest. It’s a nice feeling. One he hasn’t felt around anyone in a while.

“Thanks for the ramen, by the way.”

“Not too spicy?”

“I mean, yes, but it’s still good.”

“Does this mean that you’ll come to the studio and listen to those songs after work?”

She hums. “Yeah, okay.”

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mission of Mercy: Thirty-Five

Bucky wasn’t sure what the fuck your mother was trying to accomplish, but he knew she wasn’t doing it. You were using the same tone of voice you used with Rookies who were having a breakdown.  And that Bucky assumed you used with clients in an old life.

There was too much chatter for him to clearly make out the words. The clink and clatter of glasses and cutlery and the low, buzzing hum of conversation. Ostensibly, this was a celebratory dinner. One that you’d organized without telling your mom it was a celebration. And now, after the announcement, you were standing off to the side trying to coax her into coming back to the table. Because of all things, your mother was furious that you were using a family heirloom as your engagement ring. 

Because it should have been Clay’s. But mostly because it had never been given to Rex to give to her. Rex had, evidently, told her it had been lost instead of telling her that his mother just forbade him to use it. 

Joe glanced to the side and cringed slightly, “Sorry, kid,” he sighed, “I didn’t know it would cause this much of a fuss.”

Bucky smiled a little and let the waited refill his glass, “It’s not like you could have known… Y/N either for that matter.”

“Still-” but whatever he meant to say, was cut off when he saw you walking back towards the table with your mom.

“Everything okay?” Natasha asked, stepping on Steve’s foot to keep him from getting up to pull out Carlie’s chair. 

“Fine,” you say brightly, giving her a meaningful look over your mom shoulder. 

“It isn’t,” Carlie argued, “It isn’t yours.”

“Carlie,” Joe cut in over you, “Margie didn’t like you. Nobody did. And, at the time you and Rex got married my wife was still wearing it.” The old man sounded tired. He hated that this was being discussed in public. “I gave it to the boy because Clay is dead. I figured it made sense for Y/N to use it now… And if they ever have a son she can gift it to him.”

Carlie made an irritated sound and Bucky heard you mutter, “Mom, you’re making a scene. No stop.” And there was a sudden little bit of calm. It swept through the table like a cool breeze on a hot still day.

“I hate it when you do that,” she snapped. Still obviously irritated. “It’s creepy.”

And for the first time, Bucky realized that you didn’t change a person’s emotions. You just changed their perception. 

“I like it,” Steve said helpfully. Bucky nodded in agreement and hoped Steve or Sam would have something to add. 

“Xanax doesn’t work on supersoldiers,” Sam said stage whispering to Carlie.

“Really?”

Steve and Bucky both nodded. And then it happened. 

Things went from bad to worse. And like the barometer you are, you saw it coming but couldn’t do anything about it.

“She’s an asset on missions,” Steve said trying to be helpful. And three Identical gasps. From Sam, From Joe, and from Carlie, clued Steve in that he had made a horrible, terrible mistake.

“On missions?” Carlie said rounding on you, “I thought you worked at the hospital.”

“I do,” you say, taking a sip of your champagne, “Part time.”

“You lied to me?”

The ear splitting screech caused both supersoldiers to wince and several other dinner parties to turn and glare.

“To avoid exactly this conversation,” you say calmly. Bucky knows you don’t feel calm. He can see the tension ratcheting down on your body. Ready to run. He puts an arm around the back of your chair and squeezes your shoulder.

When she raised her hand to slap you ,you catch her wrist, “Stop.” Your voice never rose, it was still the same calm tone.

“Ma’am your daughter is a hero,” Steve tried. 

But when it was clear you weren’t going to bow to her tirades she twisted her wrist out of your grip and swatted her drink at you, spattering your face, your dress, Bucky and Joe with the gin and tonic she had been drinking. You sat stock still and didn’t turn your head as she stormed off  but you did take the napkin Sam proffered to get the liquor off your face.

“Excuse me,” you say quietly, standing and turning the opposite direction she’d gone. Heading towards the washroom. And Natasha follows with both of your bags quickly. She isn't sure what exactly you have in your bag to fix your make up but she says a silent thank you to the creator of waterproof mascara. 

Bucky watches helplessly for a minute and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thanks, Steve.”

“She called her creepy,” Steve said, offended on your behalf.

Joe chuckled bitterly, “Son,” he said, “That’s mild. And nothing compared to the earful she’s gonna get.” The old man shook his head and pushed his plate away. Sam looked towards where your mother was standing outside waiting for someone to chase after her. To soothe her wounded feelings.

“Are you gonna-”

“Nope,” Bucky said, not turning.

“Buck-” Steve started, not really sure what he wants to say but knowing that Bucky looks livid.

“Stop helping,” Sam said quietly, watching Joe pat the brunette’s shoulder. 

Bucky turned and looked at the old man and he smiled a little, “Give her a few minutes to get herself calmed down.” Bucky nodded and took a deep breath. 

“Well this wasn’t how I wanted the night to go,” he said dabbing at his shirt with the napkin Steve handed him and handing one to Joe. “Do the melt downs ever get less dramatic?”

“Nope.”

Bucky watched Carlie start back inside and stood, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m about to go put the fear of god in this woman.”

____

You pause at the door of the washroom, looking towards the window. “What’s Bucky doing?” you ask, lips bloodless. So far you’d managed to keep them mostly separated. Your mother required careful handling and you’d built a pleasant little fiction for her about your life.

“I don’t know,” Natasha said quietly, looking to where Bucky’s co-conspirators appeared to be pretending nothing was happening. She handed the glass a helpful waitress had given her to another waitress and linked her arm through yours. 

“Chin up, tits out, I suppose,” you mutter letting her lead you to the table. You kiss Joe on the cheek and take the chair Sam is holding for you.

“What’s going on?” Natasha asked. 

Joe cleared his throat and took a sip of his beer, “Tin Man out there is giving Carlie the tongue lashing she deserves I  imagine.” When you make a strangled sound and start to get up, Joe puts a hand on your arm. “Sunshine,” he said quietly, “You sit right there. People have been kowtowing to her shit since you were a baby. But now you’re grown and there’s no way for her to hold you over all our heads. This has been a long time coming.”

_______

Carlie turned to face Bucky, expecting her future son-in-law to give her a sympathetic ear. She sniffled pathetically and Bucky had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “What the fuck,” he asked quietly, “Do you think you’re doing?”

The woman in front of him drew herself up to his full height and glared at him “Don’t you dare-”

“I will dare. And I’ll tell you this. You ever talk to my wife like that again and I’ll personally make sure that you never see her again. We’re not playing the poor me game any more. You think you’re the only one at that table that’s ever been lied to? Ever lost somebody?” He took a deep breath and half a step forward making Carlie move back out of the walk way and closer to the wall. 

“You don’t know how hard it is,” she spat.

“No- I only spent 70 years as a mind controlled zombie while everyone I ever loved thought I was dead. Carlie, no one wins the misery olympics.”

“I raised-”

“Everyone else raised,” he corrected. “They raised those kids while you wallowed and treated Y/N like she was a freak. Do you know why Y/N joined SHIELD?”

Carlie didn’t answer. She wouldn’t even look at Bucky.

“She took the job because she thought it was her one chance to find Clay and bring him home.”

The woman looked up and he shook his head. “She talks about him like he’s in the next room. Everything she’s ever done she’s been competing with your ghosts. And I’m not going to let her anymore.”

He hailed a cab for her and turned, taking a deep breath. He had more he wanted to say but he just couldn’t. He was so angry that he was liable to say something he couldn’t take back. So he left. Leaving her to decide where she was going and to go and kiss you until he didn’t want to shake your mother until her teeth rattled.

[ladykissingfish]

the Akatsuki's reaction to giving/receiving gifts on Valentine's Day (w romantic partner)

Deidara Is beyond flabbergasted to get a present. Never expected anything, didn’t even expect partner to know what this day WAS. If it’s candy or something edible, will open package and scarf down entire thing in one go, smiling proudly when finished. If non-edible, will wear or display or brag about so obnoxiously that the other Akatsuki vow to strangle him (and the person who gave it to him) if they have to hear about it one more damn time. Will also “remember” much later in the day that THEY have a gift for partner, as well. Partner will brace themselves for something explosive, but will instead be pleasantly surprised with a bouquet of rare and beautiful flowers, ones that Deidara would have had to go pretty far out of his way to find. Also attempts to make dinner for partner, which turns out in a fiery, explosive horror (and makes partner question whether Deidara did this on purpose). Obito Serial hugger. Will hug partner before they give the gift, as they’re explaining what the gift is, and long after they eat/put on/whatever- the gift. If none of the others are around, will remove mask and treat partner to seeing his beautiful face for much of the day. Had struggled for a long time on what to get as a gift for partner; didn’t want to do the cliche of flowers or candy. Eventually settled on an absolutely lovely hand-crafted necklace, with lots of different-colored stones, all of which with the Uchiha symbol carved into them. Partner will be awed and honored by Obito giving this to them, and will wear it secretly underneath clothes every single day. Hidan Very loud and entirely graceless. “What the fuck is this shit?!” Won’t accept the gift because “Lord Jashin doesn’t celebrate fucking Valentine’s Day! Are you trying to get me damned to hell?!” Also, upon hearing that the day is named after a Saint, Hidan’s rage will increase tenfold. “Saint?! Saint of what; ass-grabbing?? You want me to celebrate a fake Saint from a fake religion?? Here; I want you to read these Jashinist scrolls and then tell me you still believe in this bullshit.” However, partner is used to this kind of reaction from Hidan, and therefore doesn’t take too much offense to it; will eat or use gift themselves. Later that night Hidan, feeling guilty about earlier, will come up to partner and inform them that they sacrificed “(Whatever partner’s favorite number is)-people to Jashin today, in your honor.” Partner will sigh and nod. Holidays with Hidan are never easy, but they’re certainly interesting. Zetsu The plant-man isn’t really one for giving, receiving, or even understanding romantic gestures or holidays. His partner will be somebody who understands and accepts this about him, therefore the day won’t even be brought up. At the very most, he will observe other Akatsuki members giving their partners gifts or affection, and defuse that the day is special, somehow; might decide to “gift” partner some fresh entrails from their latest victim. Partner tells Zetsu they appreciate the thought, but, no thanks. Itachi Itachi will start off the day feeling a bit morose. Valentine’s Day puts his mind back at the Academy in the Hidden Leaf, and how, every Valentine’s day, his desk would be covered with boxes of homemade chocolates from all the girls. He doesn’t miss the sweets themselves, or even the attention, so much as the feeling; the feeling of being a normal kid in a normal world. A simpler time, a happier time. Before all of this pain and heartache that led him to where he is today. Partner knows that Itachi has days where his mood can’t be salvaged, and will leave Itachi alone on Valentine’s. Will come up to him the next day with a box of dango and some new flavors of tea for him to try. Itachi will put his arms around partner for a long time, ending with a soft kiss on the cheek. Then he’ll make himself and partner a pot of the tea, and the two will eat the dango together and tell each other about their days. It’s the kind of domestic atmosphere that his mother and father shared with one another, and knowing this keeps a smile on Itachi’s

face.

Konan

Konan isn’t one for gift-giving, and neither is her partner. However the two will recognize the sentimentality of the day, as well as the importance of making time for one another (Konan’s Akatsuki missions and partners own busy life don’t leave them a lot of time to spend together) so they both take a day off from their respective missions to be with each other. Nothing very fancy; likely just a low-key day of relaxing, napping, maybe taking a nice walk or having a swim together.

Sasori

Sasori thinks Valentine’s Day, as well as all holidays, are a pointless waste of time. His partner knows this, but will still feel bad if they didn’t get him anything. So they casually walk into Sasori’s workshop while he’s putting together a new puppet, and leave a container of rare oil, one that Sasori has been trying to find for months, at the puppet master’s elbow. Sasori doesn’t respond to or acknowledge this, which partner had expected. What they DON’T expect is, later in the day, they walk into their room and find a small box on their pillow. They open it, and inside is a miniature puppet, small enough to fit in their hand, that is a near-perfect replica of themselves. Eyes, nose, lips; even the light scatter of freckles across the cheeks. A tiny card is also in the box; no words, just a neatly-drawn heart with an S in the middle. Partner will see Sasori later in the day, but, knowing Sasori isn’t one for physical affection, will simply nod at them and smile. Sasori will reward partner with one of their rare tooth-bearing smiles, and the two will spend the rest of the day in sweet contentment.

Kakuzu

If Kakuzu’s partner is waiting on the cantankerous old grump to buy THEM a gift, then they’re out of luck. This is the same guy who once cut off his own frost-bitten toe with a dull kitchen knife rather than spend money on going to the hospital and getting a proper amputation; so partner sure isn’t waiting on flowers or candy. However, Kakuzu is not as mean as he presents himself; at least not to his partner. Partner will remember all of the nice things Kakuzu has done for them in their relationship, and, even though the probability of them receiving a return gift is very slim, will still give him something. Nothing flashy or fancy; they will most likely knit Kakuzu a new sweater or a warm pair of socks, something practical that didn’t cost much to prepare. Kakuzu will act gruff at first ... but it’s guaranteed he will wear that sweater or those socks until they fall off his body. In return, Kakuzu will prepare a meal for his partner (with food that was already in the house, of course) and the two will have a quiet, pleasant evening with one another.

Kisame

Never expected to even HAVE a partner, let alone have the need to remember what he’s told is a romantic holiday. Would have just let the day go by if not for Itachi repeatedly reminding him about it. Knows that partner has a fondness for cats, so, even though Kisame is somewhat afraid of felines himself ((he IS a fish, after all) will procure a cute little kitten for his partner, as well as (again thanks to Itachi’s practical reminders) food and toys for it. Partner is overjoyed and spends much of the day hugging and kissing Kisame, as well as coaxing him to make friends with the animal (who partner names Kisame Jr.) Will make Kisame a delicious shrimp and crab gumbo, which he (and Kisame Jr) will chow down on together.

Pein (Nagato)

Valentine’s Day? Ah, another trivial mortal holiday. No time to waste on — but wait. Nagato’s partner is a mortal, and as silly as the day is, their partner has sacrificed a lot for them, so they deserve something. Gift exchange will likely come on the form of rare-gem jewelry, with Pein gifting a bracelet, and partner, a new necklace. Partner will travel to see the actual Nagato, something which is a very rare event, and the two will spend an afternoon with each other.

[deepdonutkid]

Hi, I'm so sorry it took me so long, I wanted to make it short as possible but always failed so...I have one that is somewhat short (this hurt me so much because when I'm describing something, it is LOONG) and second that is LOONG (that is why I warned you that I actually wrote horribly written "one-shot" or what it is actually, it would be much better, if you have time, to read both...when I tried to make it short, I maybe cut out important things...).

Like I said the girl is my OC, and her name is Sinon (given by Poll), but she is actually Maya (given by her real parents). And I gave names to her parents. But yeah, you can read it, consider if you will write it and change anything you want. Surely there are mistakes, holes and things that don't make sense.

I completely understand if you don't want to write it like "You wrote it yourself, what do you want from me, go to hell." But hey, I'm not a writer, I hate writing and I'm dead sure you can write it 100% better. To me, it looks like a grocery list. If you don't want to write it, just tell- JUST TELL ME TO F*CK OFF. 🤣🤣🤣🤣 (my apologizing must be annoying, welp, sorry once again).

So yeah.

I will send both, if you have any question, or if you don't want to write it, feel free to tell me.

➡ Short one: Ada brings to Polly a baby girl after the woman stopped her, gave her to her and quickly left. Ada discovers a small book, with the letter and a note with the name "Shelby" written on it. Polly thinks that the woman was a whore and the baby is his due to having also blue eyes. Polly decides to not saying anything to Thomas and adopts her herself. The girl grows and is known as an angel among demons. The Shelby's brothers love her, but Thomas...he lives for her. She loves him and he loves her (just...ugh 💝💗💘💓💖💕💞). They play, dance, everything. She is helping him with nightmares, bad moods, not hearing shovels, etc. Life goes by and Thomas loses his wife and brother. Polly and Ada want to cheer him up by telling him that the girl is maybe his daughter but he gets angry and says nasty things about the girl, she hears it and runs. After some time he wants to apologize but Ada stops him. She tells him she contacted the girl's family to pick her up. Thomas is devastated, not only because she leaving, but because he was just a dick to her and can't properly apologize. The Shelby's say goodbye to the girl and she leaves. After years (S5), Thomas is not himself anymore, regrets everything, etc. One day he is closed in his office sitting on the floor, mess around him and hallucinating. Then he hears knocking on the floor and is met with the blue eyes of the much older girl. He thinks she is the only hallucination and wants to shot himself, but she throws stuff into his face, launches at him, hugs him and pushes him and herself to the floor. She tells him that despite everything she loves him and that she missed him. He just hugs her tightly, begging her to forgive him and to never leave him alone ever again. They'll fall asleep and after a few hours when Tommy wakes up, his sister comes in and tells him she and her father are back and he will buy a house here. The girl never left Thomas's side and helped him heal.

➡ Disgustingly long one (it's funny how much of a useless words/sh*t Tumblr allows you to write): Ada brings the baby to Poll after a weak-looking woman approaches her and asks her if she could look after her baby because she needs to check something. When they take a look at it, their eyes meet with two beautiful big blue ones and an adorable smile of a baby girl. After washing the baby Ada discovers a note saying the name "Shelby" wrapped in the blanket. Polly immediately thinks the woman was a whore, got pregnant, then fell ill and now threw fruits of karma back at where it belongs, to Thomas Shelby. Ada asks Polly what they'll do now, but Poll doesn't say anything, Ada look at her and see Polly with a sweet smile and tears in her eyes. She wants to keep it. Why give this sweet little being to the most dangerous man in Birmingham when she can say nothing to him and rise her like her own? Ada agrees but is unsure at the same time...what if that woman wasn't a whore? What if she never had something with the Famous Thomas Shelby? She looked weak, ill, but stressed and maybe...sad? She remembers her crying and kissing this baby's head when leaving, that is not what unloving mothers do...

Polly rising this baby as best as she could now was the most beautiful, kind, clever, brave girl that ever ran through streets of Small heath. She had honey-blonde hair, similar to Ada's in style and length with long curtain bangs on her face and beautiful blue eyes, similar to Tommy's. She never liked girl clothes, always wearing boy clothes after Finn. Shelby brothers loved her so much, she never was problematic, never wanted to know things about the business, only have her little happy life and do fun things with her family when they made time for her, and oh boy they made it plenty. They played with her, danced with her, sang with her. But Thomas, a man who was drawn to this little girl like no one, was everywhere she was. She loves him and he loves her, she was something beautiful to him, peace in mind and heart, always melting how she treated him like a normal person, not thinking about all the bad things he did and just loving him for not so many good ones. He wants her to feel loved like she is one of them, not allowing her to question herself because somebody said she is not Gray, nor Shelby, that she is different and too good for Gypsies like them, like a real diamond among cheap bijouterie, an angel among demons. She helped him to sleep after every nightmare, with bad moods, stop hearing shovels against the wall.

Life goes by and Thomas experience the worst days of his life...he loses his wife and brother. The girl wants to soothe him everything will be fine. She was almost there when she heard Polly and Ada in his office, so she stayed behind the doors and listened to what were they about to say, maybe they trying to soothe him too. Little did she know what she'll about to hear. Ada and mainly Polly tells Thomas a secret about a girl Ada brought home, that Poll didn't find her in front of her doors, that in reality some whore approached Ada and pushed her her baby with a note saying the name "Shelby", and left. She didn't want to take care of a bastard child. And, our girl has the same eyes. But Tommy only scoffs and slams his hands on the table. After everything he's been through, they come up with this shit? They thought they are helping him, that his sweet girl is actually really his, that it will give him new hope for a new beginning, Thomas thought they can't be serious. His wife died, is now a single father, his brother died and now this?? He starts to shout he's not the father of good for nothing, any whore belonging, an odd, snotty and annoying child he never loved. Polly wants to beat him, strangle him but hears behind the door sobbing of her " daughter"...Polly is cursing his nephew before running after her girl, Ada following right after her. Thomas is unable to move, doesn't know what to do...He regrets every word second after but being stubborn cretin in his whole gory, he doesn't follow them but sit into his chair and let silence eat him alive.

After a few days of not facing his family and overthinking what to say and do, his sister stops him in his tracks. He's forced to sit and she starts to explain why is she here. She pulled out of her coat a burned sheet of paper, a small book and starts reading:

"Dear Thomas Shelby,

If you receive this letter...I'm begging you, please, to help my daughter. My name is Bella Rogers and I got separated from my husband, Scott Rogers when we were running from America to England. I heard about you from people in London. (Some people told her Thomas Shelby, so she went somewhere he likes to go in London, to his sister. And bc he never stayed long, she gave the baby to Ada.). I know I can't expect anything but please, contact this person (her husband's mother), tell her you saved my daughter, Maya Rogers. Tell them our names. You are my only hope now. Please help my daughter, please help me...

Thank you deeply,

Bella Rogers.

(Adress or number of her mother-in-law)

Ps: Please tell my daughter I love-"

And stopped.

Flashback: When the girl was growing, Ada confronted Poll with a small book in her hands.

Present: She handed the burned book to Thomas and he took it.

Flashback: She told Polly that the girl belongs to someone else and they deserves to know what happened to her and her mother.

Present: He carefully opened it.

Flashback: Polly knew it was selfish to keep her here, but she loved her so much she ignored every word.

Present: He started to spell the girl's name, date of birth, her parent's names, their date of birth...

Flashback: Ada begged Polly to think about this, she felt bad for a father and family that they didn't know what happened to them, but Polly had enough, she grabbed the book and a letter Ada was holding and threw it into the fireplace and with teary eyes left, Ada immediately took a piece of wood and got both things out of the fire, hoping that everything wasn't lost.

Present: Ada knocked on the table, drawing Thomas's attention from his thoughts. She swears she could see tears forming in his eyes when she told him she already contacted Rogers family and they are coming from America to get her back. He felt betrayed, he wanted to vomit. Ada tells him Polly already knows it and hesitantly agreed and that maybe it's better he said what he said, she wouldn't miss him that much and he made it easier for her not to think about him, which made him snap his eyes from the ground back to Ada. He asks her when they will arrive. An hour. Instead of getting up and do something he just sat there, sharply inhaled, and started crying. He cried, with his sister by his side, hugging him, crying as well.

When an hour was about to pass, they took all courage they had and get going to meet their girl's family and say goodbye. He wasn't ready. He never wanted to be ready for something like this.

Now they were standing there, in the uncomfortably big room, face to face with their Rogers family, two grandmothers, one grandfather and one father. He looked more beaten up by time than Thomas himself. They on the one side and Thomas, Poll and other Shelby's, Ada not with them but with the girl preparing. They greet each other, had a glass of whiskey, awkwardly debated about stuff, business, America...when then a young man asked where his daughter is, not willing to wait anymore. They called and there she was, hiding behind Ada's leg after coming into a room full of people she knew and didn't know. Her father immediately started to cry, slowly kneeled and opened his arms. She was looking at him and after a minute she starts to cry too...she maybe was the baby, but she remembers him, his face, his voice. She lets go of Ada's skirt and runs into his arms for the warmest and tightest hug she ever received. All members of Rogers family are immediately around her, introducing themself. And she's smiling, hugging everyone like she knows them for years. Thomas can't bear the sight of them so happy, especially her. He wanted so much to be in their place. He doesn't know why but asks Ada if they are really who they may be and Ada looks at him, understanding from where this is coming from. She shows him a slightly burned photo of their girl and her parents. "I remember how her mother looked like," Ada says. "And I remember her." Tommy is pointing at the baby in the middle, and Ada chuckles. "Yes, me too." "And now she about to be taken away from us and we can't do anything about it" ". Ada tries to hide her tears. They now looking at Arthur and Polly with Finn behind him hugging the girl and begging her to visit them every summer and Christmas. They kiss each other, Polly goes into a loving bear hug and kisses the girl on the cheek like million times. Uncle Charlie, Shelby's wives, even some of Peaky Blinders members themself like Curly. Now it was Ada who hugs the girl and then looks at her lovingly. "I'm gonna miss you, we all will." The girl softly smiles but looks at Thomas with an apathetic expression. Ada looks at him as well but Thomas is ghostly absent, just staring at the girl with glossy eyes, happy moments with his girl running in front of his eyes. He couldn't bear it anymore, he never ran from things, but now...He snapped into reality, quickly shaken with hands of the other side, wished them luck, TOO quickly ruffled the girl's hair and left, Ada following right after him. Rogers family just stared. Eventually, Rogers family said goodbye with the girl in their arms and left. They promised they will visit them.

That same day at night Thomas couldn't sleep, well, he never really slept after the girl left...

Years passed and Thomas was like a corpse, functioning only on 50%, if even. Ada and Poll tried to talk to him, Lizzie, his brothers tried too, but nothing helped, eventually all of them stopped. He regretted everything. One day was especially hard. Thomas was in his office, sitting on the floor with face in both hands. Around him a broken glass, two other chairs and papers. He was hearing his wife, crying charlie, shovels against the wall, gunshots, ghostly breathing. Everything was too loud. But nothing as loud as three soft knocks on the door. He lifted his head when a person who knocked came inside. His blue eyes met other blue ones. There she was, standing in front of him, much bigger and older, with a teddy bear he once bought for her. She still had it? How?. He couldn't believe it. He thought his mind is messing with him. You're not here, you're not real he said to her and every time he said it, she denyed that. He wanted to end this, grabbed his gun at aimed it at his head, but before he could do anything, a teddy bear hit his face. He opened his eyes and tried to process what just happened. You just threw your teddy bear into my face he asked. She said yes and that if she wasn't real, it wouldn't hit him. So...she was real? But how best to know your sanity is gone, then to welcome whatever your mind was made you see into your arms?

She ran to him, Thomas expected her to dissolve under his touch, but little did he know both of them would end up on the floor. She was giggling, saying he doesn't have any strength and fell easily, he on the other hand had eyes wide open, tears start to sting them. Thomas didn't waste a second and wrapped his arms around her warmly and tightly, proving to her even he can give this kind of hugs. He started to cry, cry like he never did, everything went out, rocking forward and backwards, face in her neck, begging her not to leave him alone ever again. He continued apologizing about what he said, for how bad he is, what he's done. She told him that despite everything she will always love him and that he missed him so much. He stroked her hair gently and she cuddled into him. He felt safe again. He finally was in peace.

When he woke up, he and the girl were covered in a blanket. He sits up. He smiled but got worried at the same time. How did she get in here? He needed to know. But before he could wake her up, somebody knocked. "Tommy?" Ada whispered into the room and walked in. She smiled, seeing Thomas with a little one sleeping in his lap, both covered in a blanket a cuddled to each other was....beautiful and cute. She carefully sits next to him and leans against his shoulder. He asked her how is she here, where is her father her, family. She said he didn't want to go back to America, his only plan from the whole beginning was to move to England with his wife and raise a child here, that he is buying a house. Somewhere nice and safe. In memory of his wife. A new beginning, new hope. And that she was sad and depressed. It wasn't fair from them to keep his daughter and it wasn't fair to just grab her and leave, promising to come back and never mean it. He put his cheek on the girl's hair and brushed it slowly. I think I can live with that he said. Ada chuckled. The rays of sunshine shined into his office. This is his new beginning, new hope. And he was willing to fight for it like a lion.

Eventually, the girl stayed with Shelby's family. The girl's father bought a house a few villages away so he could always pick her up and be with him. He made a little monument for his wife where his daughter put flowers Thomas or Ada bought. He knew who Shelby's were, but just like his wife telling Ada she trusted her when giving her baby to her, he trusted the rest of the family. Happy Ending!

Thank you for your time!!!!😍😍😍😍

Omg, you didn't lie, this was fucking long for a request... if this can be called a request at that length!

I really like the idea tho and it's super cute, Tommy with his daughter, etc.

Like you offered, I'm going to change a few things or to be percise... I will take the short version, because this already got me thinking and the long version was basically a story already.

I like to fill in the gaps myself and make this a full story, but it's going to take a while... because I have loads of other requests and I can't shut up... so I might write +10k again... for this idea.

Or multiple parts, I don't know yet XD

Gosh, I have to say it again... this is a long ass request... coming from meeee, the person who writes 12k ONE- SHOTS XD

Thank you for sending this in! 🌹

[andorerso]

don't say yes, run away now

Who did this? Who barged in on someone’s wedding and asked the bride to run away with them? It happened only in movies, and yet – this was his last shot. In an hour, she’d be married and there would be no more chances left to spend.

I don't want to say too much but Rebelcaptain is definitely endgame so just keep that in mind while reading! You can also read this on ao3 where I give some of my thoughts on why I wrote this fic.

It was a small wedding which made sense because Jyn never liked to be the center of attention. Part of him was surprised she’d even agreed to a reception – when they were together, he always thought she was a “let’s get married spontaneously at the courthouse” kind of girl. But maybe it was all for her husband to be, maybe he wanted a big wedding and they settled on a compromise, maybe – maybe he pushed her into it. He couldn’t imagine Jyn being forced to do anything she didn’t want to, but he was desperate to hate this guy.

Not that he knew anything about him, other than his name and Facebook profile photo, but still. It was the principle of the thing. He was supposed to end up with Jyn, not this random dude she’d known for what? A couple of years? How well do you get to know a person in only a few short years? He didn’t want to be the crazy jealous ex-boyfriend but he had always thought –

Well, he just had to make sure she was serious about this. Because if there was even a part of her that still felt the same as he did…

He couldn’t help himself. He saw the announcement on Facebook a couple of months ago and he resolved himself to forget about it. What could he do? Then an old friend of theirs who still kept in touch with Jyn let it slip when and where the wedding was taking place, and here he was now, wondering if he’d officially lost his mind.

Who did this? Who barged in on someone’s wedding and asked the bride to run away with them? It happened only in movies, and yet – this was his last shot. In an hour, she’d be married and there would be no more chances left to spend.

He tried to keep this in mind as he stepped into the room, pushing his doubts aside. They hadn’t spoken in five years but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they belonged together. This was his moment to make her see it.

Jyn turned around as the door opened, her eyes going wide as she registered his presence. He stopped for a moment to take her in. She looked breathtaking.

Her dress was knee-length and pale green, matching the color of her eyes. Her shoes were flat and her hair appeared to be a half updo with a small flower crown. It was every bit as clean and simple as he expected. At the sight of her, he was hit with a longing so intense, his breath caught in his throat. It only furthered his belief that he had to be with her.

But she looked furious.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demanded, never one to hold back on profanities. He almost smiled. His foul-mouthed angel.

He’d prepared a speech on the way here but looking at her, he couldn’t remember any of it. All he could say was, “Don’t marry him.”

Jyn gave him an incredulous look, then took one step closer, quickly glancing around as if she was afraid someone was eavesdropping on them.

“Are you out of your mind? We broke up five years ago,” she reminded him as if he didn’t know, as if he didn’t think about her every day since.

“I know. I know, but there’s a part of me –” he paused, unable to find the right words. “If there’s a part of you – shit, I just mean that I think it was a mistake to break up. I never forgot about you.”

She looked like she wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said. Her arms were crossed across her chest in a defensive manner, her nails digging into her skin.

He took a deep breath and plunged in.

“Run away with me. Let’s go, let’s leave now. I have a car parked out front, we can be gone in no time. I know – I know that’s a terrible thing to do. But… I think there’s still something between us. And I think you feel it too.”

When he finished, Jyn looked uncomfortable, holding herself tighter and staring out the window to her right, not meeting his eyes. He felt his heart drop to his stomach. He didn’t think he was wrong about her but – well, of course she’d be reluctant to agree instantly. This was her wedding after all. Anyone would be hesitant.

“I think you should go,” Jyn said really quietly and still wouldn’t look at him. He gave her a pleading look but when she turned around, refusing to entertain his presence anymore, he took the hint and left.

But as he walked away, something tugged at the corner of his mind. She hadn’t said no. Hope began to unfurl in his chest once again as he realized she was just afraid. He could understand that. Perhaps he should have tried to convince her harder. Because if he was right about this, he couldn’t let her make the biggest mistake of her life.

The ceremony began an hour later. He sneaked in among the other guests, taking a seat at the edge of the row of white chairs, closest to the woods surrounding the area. There weren’t too many people attending so he did stick out a bit, but he just said he was Jyn’s colleague and nobody pressed too much. All the while, he was thinking about what he was going to say.

This was a risk, and perhaps not something good people did, but – but it was the gesture that counted, right? The big romantic gesture. Everyone loved those. If anything could convince Jyn to take a chance, if anything could prove that he was serious, it would be this. He just had to make sure his timing was right and his words were heartfelt.

If it went well, it would be a great story to tell their grandkids someday.

The wedding was quite simple but still pretty. He had to admit he did like the outdoor venue, the fairy lights on the trees, the white and yellow flowers matching the color of her dress. Her fiancé – he honestly forgot his name – looked calm and composed. It honestly threw him off a bit, how the guy wasn’t even smiling. How much could he love her if he didn’t even look happy to be here? Jyn deserved someone who would cry at their wedding, and this made him even more sure of his plans. He would treat Jyn better than this guy.

(Then Jyn walked down the aisle and her fiancé’s expression softened. He never once took his eyes off her. By then, he was too set on his plan though, so he pretended not to notice.)

He waited. There was usually a place and time for speeches like this… but it looked like he might not get his chance. The guy who was officiating the wedding – a friend of theirs, as far as he could tell – skipped the whole “if anyone objects to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace” part. Which was a problem. What was he supposed to do now?

When it was time to exchange rings, he panicked, realizing there was no more time for him to interrupt. He had to do it now. Before he could think about it too much and chicken out, he stood up.

At first, Jyn and the groom didn’t even notice. But then people started looking at him, and he cleared his throat, trying to ignore their stares and the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. Silence descended. Jyn finally noticed him, looking just as shocked as she had an hour ago, though she was rapidly turning red in the face with fury. Her fiancé just seemed perplexed and a bit agitated.

“What. Are you doing?” she hissed, looking like she wanted to murder him on the spot. Not a good sign – but he had to see this through now.

He could hear the guests beginning to whisper amongst themselves and he tried not to pay attention, though he could feel his face growing hot with embarrassment. Oh god, what the fuck am I doing?

“I – I love you, Jyn,” he said. A few people in the crowd gasped but he only had eyes for her. And the groom who blinked in disbelief. His expression could only be described as what the fuck is this guy on? “And my mama always told me to fight for the people you love. I love you and I think you should be with me.”

Another long silence followed. Jyn looked like she was too angry to say anything, but the groom turned to her and jerked a thumb back at him.

“Who’s this guy?” he asked, his tone nonchalant.

“Brandon,” Jyn said, the frustration evident in her voice. “My ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh,” the groom uttered, squinting as though he was trying to recollect a memory. He finally remembered the guy’s name – it was Cassian something. Brandon thought he looked way too calm for the situation. “I think you mentioned him once. Bad breath guy?”

“No, that was Chris. He’s small feet guy.”

Brandon felt a little offended at that. Not only were they completely ignoring him, but they were also insulting him? Had Jyn never talk about him? Did her fiancé really not even know his name?

Sure, he only dated Jyn for about seven months. But he always thought it was something special. How could she dismiss it so easily with a couple of words? Small feet guy.

He was starting to feel stupider by the second, especially as the guests stared at him, chuckling behind their hands.

“Alright, can somebody please get this clown out of here?” the groom asked, looking around.

“I got it,” said a big burly man with a gruff voice, heading towards Brandon. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to be thrown out by this guy so he started backtracking.

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry. It was just a misunderstanding. Sorry.”

He walked backwards, holding up his hands, and when there was enough distance between him and burly guy, he turned around, preparing to run. But… he stopped. Shook his head, telling himself that he shouldn’t. But Jyn still hadn’t said no.

“It’s just,” he said as he turned back around, still holding up his hands in a sign of peace. Jyn’s head snapped back to him, and for a second, he thought she was about to walk down here and strangle him herself. She was very capable of it, he knew.

“What?”

“Well, you didn’t answer.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, you didn’t say… that you didn’t love me.”

“Oh my god,” Jyn said, looking one second away from exploding. “Brandon, get a hint. I don’t love you. I love Cassian and I’m very happy with Cassian. You can’t just walk in and ruin people’s weddings like that!”

Yeah, he knew that was a bit horrible of him. But he thought, well, for love, it was worth it. Because love always won in the end. And if Jyn felt the same, then it couldn’t be the wrong thing to do, could it?

He was so sure Jyn felt the same. But he could see now the way she and Cassian had looked at each other during the ceremony. They didn’t have eyes for anybody but each other. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her so enthralled with anyone; it almost felt… unlike Jyn to look at someone with stars in her eyes. Like no one else mattered. And though he didn’t know Cassian, the love on his face was plain to see for all. Like he couldn’t imagine a life without her.

Brandon felt like a fool. He hadn’t wanted to see it then and now – he really messed this up, didn’t he?

“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time, he really meant it. It probably mattered little to them now that he’d made a spectacle of their wedding, but he didn’t know what else to say. If he could take it back, he would. “I’m really sorry… I hope you both have a nice life together.”

And before the burly guy could throw him out for real, he left. All the while thinking about the deep emotional connection that Jyn and Cassian seemed to share – and the shocking realization that he never had that.

He hoped he could find a love like that someday. But first, he really needed to be single for a while.

[whitecatindisguise]

The Sundrop Alchemist (16)

Wohoo! Another chapter so soon??? Welp, what can I say? With the cliffhanger like that in the last chapter, I just NEEDED to write next one asap! So, here it is! Hope you guys like it!

Summary: The alchemy brothers have to face Donella, the woman more than ready to do anything to keep them from escaping.

TW: Donella, strangling, animal abuse, brief mentions of past injuries, death threats

AO3 link is here.

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Chapter 16: The Great Escape

Varian was frozen in fear, staring at Donella’s angered face. The woman looked between the alchemist in her grip and Hugo standing several steps away, all colour drained from the teen’s face. 

“So you are betraying me, darling?” She asked, the calmness of her voice only adding to the tense atmosphere. Hugo flinched and stepped back, his green eyes darting between the door and the boy held by the woman.

“I-... What you’re doing is wrong!” The bespectacled teen argued, his voice trembling slightly. He was afraid, good. “He- Varian didn’t do anything to you! He doesn’t deserve this!” 

“Are you undermining my methods, darling?” Donella raised an eyebrow and Hugo shrunk away. 

“N-no. I mean-” The teen stuttered, trying to come up with an answer. 

“I don’t understand, Hugo. All those years, I’ve been nothing but good for you.” The woman continued, staring down at him. “You had food, a place to live in, a job. Would you rather I left you on the street where I found you?”

“N-no! That’s not what I-!” Hugo tried to argue but Donella didn’t let him. 

“And now you’re throwing it all away for him?” She pulled Varian closer, the boy crying out at the grip on his arm. “The boy you know only for several days? What is it about him that you even considered betraying me, hm?” She forcefully grabbed Varian’s chin with the other hand and squeezed it painfully. 

Ruddiger let out an angered cry and launched at Donella, claws and teeth out. The woman rolled her eyes and in one quick movement released her grip on the boy’s chin, the other hand still holding his arm, and punched the animal away. The raccoon flew through the air and hit the wall, a pained chitter escaping his mouth. 

“Ruddiger!” Varian cried and tried to run to his friend, only to be pulled away harshly by the strong grip on his arm. 

“You are not going anywhere, Sundrop.” Donella hissed. “One way or another, I will get this power out of you. Even if I’ll have to use more… drastic measures.” 

Varian’s breath stopped at the words, implications too obvious to miss them. He started to struggle more, pulling on his arm in an attempt to release the death grip. Donella clicked her tongue in annoyance and roughly pushed the boy at the closest wall, his back hitting the stones harshly. He cried out in pain, tears filling his eyes, when a gloved hand closed on his throat. 

“Fine, we’ll do it your way, darling.” The woman snarled, pulling the boy up, so his feet won’t touch the floor, hand still clenched around his neck. 

Varian struggled in the grip, his breathing becoming sharp and shallow. He desperately clawed at the gloved hand, trying to loosen the grip before it’s too late. The corners of his vision were already darkening, meaning there was not enough oxygen getting to his brain. His movements were slowing down but he wasn’t stopping. Stopping meant giving up. And he didn’t want to give up. 

Suddenly, the grip on his neck disappeared and he fell to the floor, grasping for breath. His lungs burnt, vision was swimming, but he could breath. He noticed a bundle of grey scurry to his side and heard anxious chittering. 

“M’fine, buddy.” He slurred, breathing heavily. He pushed himself up and against the wall, trying to focus on steadying his breathing. 

The sounds of struggle caught his attention. Varian looked towards the source of the sounds and it took him a moment to understand what was going on. 

It seemed Hugo had barrelled into Donella while she was strangling the younger alchemist, and now the two were locked in a fight on the floor. Right then, Donella launched a precise kick at Hugo’s stomach, the teen crying out in pain. 

“Hugo!” Varian shouted, scrambling to his feet to help him. 

“D-don’t, Goggles! Just run!” The bespectacled teen wheezed out. He had several bruises and cuts on his face, glasses dangling from one ear. 

“I’m not leaving you here!” Varian argued and cried out when Donella launched herself at him.

“Neither of you are leaving this building!” She shouted, pushing the startled boy into the adjacent wall and reaching for the knife strapped to her hip. 

Hugo let out a roar of anger and barrelled into the woman again, getting her off the long-haired boy. She growled angrily and in one swift movement she switched the sides, now Hugo being sprawled under the furious woman.

“I’ve had enough of your games, you insolent brat!” Donella shouted, a knife raised to strike. Hugo’s eyes widened in realisation, as he tried desperately to escape. The hand lowered and Hugo snapped his eyes close, awaiting the strike. 

Surprisingly, it didn’t come. Instead, he heard a familiar SMACK and felt something heavy slam into his body. Startled, he opened his eyes to see Donella’s unconscious body sprawled on his own, and heavily panting Varian standing over them, frying pan in his hand. 

“A-are you okay?” The blue-eyed boy asked and Hugo was never in his life more glad for Varian being there. 

“Y-yeah.” The bespectacled boy replied after a second of shock and managed to push Donella off him. “I never thought I would be glad to hear that smacking sound.” He laughed and Varian gave him a sheepish smile. 

“I… I just saw her over you, knife in her hand and I- reacted.” The blue-eyed boy explained, scratching the back of his neck nervously. 

“You saved my life, Goggles.” Hugo smiled and stood up, stealing a glance at the unconscious woman. “We’d better get out of here before she wakes up. Or someone comes to check what’s going on, since we weren’t exactly the most quiet about our little fight.”

“That’s- that’s a good idea.” Varian nodded and scooped Ruddiger into his arms, his satchel hanging on his shoulder. 

They ran towards the door, Hugo checking if the coast outside was clear, before darting into the night. Varian didn’t know how long they were running, but the moon moved halfway through the sky by the time they finally stopped to take a breath. They slumped to the grass, breathing heavily. 

“So- so what now?” Varian finally asked, as his breathing calmed enough to let him say the whole sentence without wheezing. He moved his head to look at Hugo, laying on the grass next to him. 

“I… I don’t know.” The bespectacled teen replied, staring at the sky above them. “I haven’t really planned that much forward.”

Varian hummed in response and looked up at the stars again. So much has happened since he left the tower. He wasn’t even sure how much time had passed when he was in that dark cell. But it didn’t matter anyway, Mother is going to be furious once he comes back, one way or another. There is no way he could explain his injuries as failed experiments. She wouldn’t believe him, especially with how long he was absent. Talking about that-

“Hey, Hugo?” He called out, moving his head once again to look at the teen. He heard a questioning hum and continued. “How long was I-?”

Hugo tensed at the implication of the question but answered nevertheless. 

“A week.” He said, his tone sad. He sighed and turned to face the boy. “I’m sorry, Blondie. It’s all my fault. The capture… and everything.”

“I don’t blame you.” Varian shook his head and smiled. “You still helped me escape. And you treated my arm.” 

“Which wouldn’t even happen if I didn’t come to your tower.” Hugo mumbled and Varian pushed himself up on his elbow, facing the teen properly. 

“You said so yourself, Donella wanted my powers. If she wouldn’t send you, she would somebody else.” He argued, and smiled again. “And, despite everything that happened, I’m glad she chose you. I know I must have been a handful, with all my crazy ideas, dream-talking, babbling about alchemy and everything. But you still held up to your part of the deal and made this trip memorable. I… You’re like a brother I never had, Hugo.”

“A-and you’re like a brother to me, Goggles.” Hugo finally smiled back.

From behind the trees, two men observed the whole scene. They looked at Hugo and grinned maliciously. 

“Time for some payback, McCoy.” One of them said and they both laughed silently.

------

Donella Smack Count: 1 (Let’s be honest, she deserved that one.)

So that officially ends Donella Arc. But the boys are not in the clear yet. What else is there for them, I wonder...?

[greensaplinggrace]

Clerifa in lockup >:) feral bastards all trapped together until they can get bailed out. First meetings preferred! And all of them in there for going waaay too hard at whatever crimes they got arrested for. Also I like your Cloud hurt/comfort fics a lot, so maybe some of that as well? Sorry lol, this is a bit of a convoluted ask, but I just can't get the idea of Cloud/Tifa/Aerith all locked in a cell together out of my head.

Here it is! Clerifa trapped in a jail cell together XD. They’re all feral, but what’s new. I hope it’s in character 😅. Please enjoy!

*TW for mild violence, abuse of authority, police brutality, and heavy cursing

- If you want to send in a prompt, the guidelines are HERE and HERE!

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In a room full of empty cells, Tifa and Cloud are jailed together. The cop placing them behind the bars had said it was to preserve resources, but Cloud’s not entirely sure how sound his logic is when the resources they have seem to be in excess. Not to mention the fact that breaking out will now be twice as easy.

The cop had been a bit dim, he concludes, though not at all like the vicious bastard who’d cuffed them in the first place. That one had been big and mean and surrounded by an entourage of equally cruel sycophants, and if Cloud never sees the man again it will be too damned soon.

He stretches out on the cool metal bench, eyeing Tifa’s agitated slouch against the wall across from him. She’s making an effort not to fidget or bite her nails, but the furrow of her brow is enough to let him know she’s worried. She’d been incensed when they were first brought in, red with rage and utterly willing to deck the bastard cop for a second time if he so much as spoke out of turn, but now she simmers and frets in a silent panic. It’s distracting, to say the least, and Cloud dangles his hand over the side of the bench, dropping his head onto hard metal and staring at the ceiling.

“Tifa,” he sighs, and her responding huff is immediate.

“This is outrageous. I can’t believe they would do this.”

“You can’t?” Just last week, she’d gotten drunk with Barret and stood on his shoulders in the middle of a walmart to tell the world exactly how bastardous cops are. In very bright, explicit, colorful language that had forced every mother within a one mile radius to cover their child’s ears. 

Come to think of it, that’s probably what had drawn a dozen of them to Tifa’s door. Armed to the teeth and high on that heedy sense of power all cops seem to possess.

“The way they treated Marlene…” she grinds out angrily, tensing as if preparing for a fight all over again, and this time Cloud can’t help but agree with her. He doesn’t think he’s ever been as enraged as he was when the cop had laid a hand on Marlene. The intense interrogation was already too much for a child, let alone an adult, and Cloud wonders how anybody had expected either of them to remain calm in the face of such despicable violence.

They probably hadn’t, he realizes with a scowl. 

“Assholes,” he chuffs, and like the devil they appear. The thick steel door leading out of the cell block clangs open, voices spilling into the room as footsteps clomp inside. Tifa pushes off the wall to get a better look at the newcomers, and when her eyes widen in shock Cloud reluctantly follows her gaze. He has to tilt his head back to see them, barring his throat and bracing his boot against the bench to lift his hips, but it’s absolutely worth it for the sight that beholds him.

Two massive men flank a petite woman as they march her inside, gripping her arms as if at any moment she’ll break away and flee into the night, and the image would be hilariously out of touch if she wasn’t currently struggling furiously against her captors. Her brown boots scrape across the ground as she kicks out, arms straining like pale twigs in their grips.

“I didn’t do it!” she snaps, brown bangs whipping around and catching one of the men in the shoulder as she whirls to glare at him viciously, “this is wrongful imprisonment.”

“Look, miss-” one of the cops tries, and she growls him into silence. Cloud feels a number things at that, none of which are particularly appropriate for somebody currently trapped in a prison cell, and he’s only mildly comforted by Tifa’s own breathless shift in response.

“You have no evidence against me,” the woman huffs, digging her toes into the ground and going limp in their grips. The men drag her a few feet before struggling to get her moving, and Cloud has to choke back an astonished laugh at the sight of it all.

“Ma’am, we saw you walking away from the scene of the crime.”

“Anybody could have been hanging out in that alley.”

“But nobody else was.”

“That’s not even a lick of of proof. I’m allowed to wander where I please. This is a deceptively free country!” 

Tifa puffs out a laugh at that, stifling it behind her fingers and ducking her head with a blush. The cops don’t answer except to finally lift the woman's feet entirely clear of the ground. She struggles with in a ferocious protest when they haul her further into the cell block, and as they reach the end of the room, the larger one waves a hand in Cloud and Tifa’s direction. He opens his mouth to speak, but the woman slides like an eel from his grasp and forces his mouth shut with a clack. For minutes, the two cops wrestle to regain control, and Cloud wonders why the hell they hadn't put any cuffs on the woman, if she's such trouble.

"I thought you said she was safe!" The smaller cop barks at his partner, and the other man scowls.

"She was actin' all nice and friendly when I brought her inside. How was I supposed to know?"

"That was before I realized you were jailing me," the woman argues, "It's unlawful. You have no proof!"

The smaller one lets out a noise of frustration, but they both eventually manage to wrangle her back onto the ground. The scene almost has Cloud grinning, right up until the bigger cop moves resumes speaking to them. He's got a big, smug looks painted across his face, and Cloud can already feel whatever joy he'd gotten out of the situation disappear.

“Lighten up, lovebirds! You’ve got company.”

“You can’t be serious,” Cloud deadpans, narrowing his eyes at them.

The smaller cop only snickers. “I’m sure you’ll get along great. This one’s a fighter, just like you headcases. So at least you’ve got assaultin’ cops in common.”

Cloud scoffs in disbelief. “There are a dozen empty cells around us. There’s no reason she should be put in here with us.”

Tifa casts him a scolding look, but Cloud isn’t about to share his cell with a violent stranger, no matter how impressed he’d been only a few seconds earlier. It’s one thing to see it happen to other people, but he and Tifa had been just fine here on their own without some suspicious woman sharing their space.

“Guess you should’a thought of that before punching a cop, kid.”

“I ain’t a kid.”

“Really? And here I thought it was only children that threw tantrums in public.” The man sneers at him, and Cloud's stomach drops at the words. He fights viciously to keep his expression neutral through the rush of shame, determined not to let them see him affected.

Tifa, on the other hand, has no such qualms. She instantly light up in a burning rage, stalking over to the bars and clenching her hands into furious fists at her sides. “Don’t ever speak to him like that,” she snaps, “It was your people that escalated the situation, not Cloud.”

The big cop barks out a mocking laugh. “That’s not how the reports are gonna tell it," he says, and the woman in his grasp makes a noise of disgust.

“You liar! Are you going to do that to my case as well? You can’t falsify evidence!” 

“Aw, what are you gonna do about it? Cry to mommy?” 

“Ex cuse you?” The woman stomps and yanks her arm away from him, but the man is quick to catch her by the wrist again. He mercilessly wrenches her away from the cell door with brutal force, nodding sharply to indicate that his partner should head forward with the ring of keys. The sight has Cloud’s blood boiling, Tifa practically vibrating in a barely contained inferno of rage before him, and he has to clench his teeth to keep calm - to remind himself that there’s nothing he can do. That he doesn’t even know this woman.

“Hey! Watch it!” The woman protests, but it’s a fruitless effort; her cries fall on deaf ears. She doesn't even think to let it get to her, though. Letting out a strangled yell of frustration, she twists in the cop’s hold, attempting to break his grip, and lands a solid kick to his shin. Cloud almost winces at the force of it, impressed when her eyes narrow in a glower that promises violence. “Don’t touch me like that!”

“Ugh, aren’t you a bossy one," the man complains, not even deigning to face her as he speaks, and Cloud’s anger almost boils over. Stranger or not, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. “Could we get her in the cell already?”

The smaller cop finally jumps to attention, working up the courage to edge toward their cell with small, fearful steps. Tifa remains pressed dangerously close to the bars, fiery red eyes tracking the man’s every movement with a pointed fury, and Cloud can see the sweat dripping down the man’s brow beneath her glare. When the cop reaches their cell at last, he fumbles with his keys for a solid thirty seconds before he finally finds the right one.

His buddy groans obnoxiously. “Hurry the fuck up, Gallows. I don’t have all day.”

“And yet you’ll leave us in here for just as long,” the woman huffs, expression still thunderous as her green eyes roil in stormy indignation, “I demand that you let me go! You have no right to keep me here. I haven’t committed a single crime ever, in my entire life.”

It’s Cloud’s turn to hide his smirk this time around, lips twitching with amusement.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Then a loud click sounds throughout the room, and the door to their cage is unlocked. Cloud and Tifa both tense, but before they can so much as breathe the door is being yanked open with unerring speed. The larger cop doesn’t hesitate for a second before tossing his prisoner inside, and she stumbles with a yelp of surprise, falling into Tifa’s arms as the other woman rushes to catch her. Cloud rockets into a sitting position, muscles coiling in case of an attack, but the door slams closed just as quickly as it had opened, the cop instantly retreating to wipe his shaky palms on his pants.

Cowards, Cloud thinks, snorting.

The two cops level him with threatening glares when they hear the sound, but Cloud has better things to do than cower. He meets their eyes head on with a stoic expression, mouth curling only faintly in the mocking hint of a smile. The big one flushes with anger, clenching his fists and charging forward like a rabid animal, and his partner has to drag him back by the shoulder before he can do something he’ll regret.

Cloud doesn’t even watch them go.

“Thanks,” their new prisoner says breathlessly, pulling back to brush her bangs from her eyes as she smiles, “you caught me.” 

Cloud hadn’t thought it at all possible for Tifa’s blush to get deeper, but the red on the back of her neck looks like something caused by a burn, and she brings a hand up to rub at it as she returns the smile. “It’s no problem at all. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

The woman huffs. “No thanks to those... men.”

“You've got that right,” Cloud agrees tonelessly, turning to lay back down on the bench. He gathers his hand beneath his head this time around, letting one of his legs fall over the edge while he peers over at their new arrival. 

“My name is Aerith, by the way.”

“Uh, Tifa.”

“Tifa,” the name rolls smoothly across Aerith’s tongue, drawn out with reverent fascination, “it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh! Uh, you...you too.” Tifa clears her throat and ducks her head shyly. She’s quick to retreat and resume leaning against the far wall, smiling crookedly as she avoids Aerith’s eyes. “This- this is my partner.”

“Cloud,” he offers succinctly.

He half expects her enthusiasm to die down with the word partner in play, and is instead completely caught off guard when Aerith doesn’t even falter, turning to give him a small wave as the corners of her eyes crinkle in a smile.

“Hello, Cloud!” she says, “it’s nice to meet you!”

He almost squints against the brightness of her smile, swallowing when he catches sight of the light dusting of freckles across her cheeks. They’re a light pink, rosy from exertion or embarrassment, he doesn’t know, and her lips look incredibly soft. “Uh…” He licks his lips. “Yeah.” 

Fuck.

His chest heats with a rising blush, heart thundering wildly, and he turns his head to stare up at the ceiling before he can make an even bigger fool of himself. Thankfully, neither of the women in the cell comments on his fumble. After a time, there’s a rustle of fabric that draws Cloud’s eyes to Aerith again, and he watches as she moves to the opposite side of the bench. He bends his knee to give her more room, glancing away from her grateful smile with a light cough. 

Then she hops up onto the metal, sitting cross legged despite her dress, boots drawn up under her. She extends her arms to wrap her hands around the place where her legs cross, rocking with an excited energy.

“So,” she exclaims brightly, as if she isn’t surrounded by two dangerous criminals in a room devoid of witnesses, “you hit a cop, huh?” 

Tifa’s eyes widen at the question, and Cloud feels a tinge of his earlier wariness return. He frowns. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I did too!” The words sound so surreal, spoken loudly and happily by a tiny woman in a pink dress. Despite his misgivings, Cloud feels a distinct curiosity about their new cellmate form. He can see Tifa leaning forward with interest as well, eyeing Aerith up with equal parts wonder and skepticism. “Why are you acting so suspicious? They already know you did it.”

The interrogation that was the cause of the whole situation had been about other crimes, though. Ones that they don’t have any evidence of. Cloud decides not to mention that. “Who did you hit?”

“Well, aside from kicking and scratching the one that brought me in…” She tilts her head consideringly, raising a finger in the air. Cloud and Tifa both stare at her incredulously as she actually takes the time to think. “...I guess his partner, who wasn’t really my fault. I mean, how was I supposed to know that pushing him would make him hit his head on the doorframe? Plus the cop who ran over my flowerbed with his car. Oh! And the one from last week, who tried to grab me when I was climbing onto a roof. So rude! Can you believe it?” She sounds honestly, earnestly offended by the action, and Cloud blinks in wordless bewilderment.

“Um…”

“You have quite a history with the law,” Tifa fills in, smiling uncertainly. She repeats her earlier motion, rubbing at the back of her neck, and Cloud resists the urge to take her hands in comfort. They don’t usually hold hands in public, but he doesn’t like to see her so upset.

“It sounds a bit far fetched,” he offers instead, for lack of a better way to help her, "we don't know if you're telling the truth."

Aerith doesn’t get affronted, which is a good sign, laughing and taking the time to cast the both of them incredulous looks. “Wow. You two are a bit distrustful, huh?”

Tifa hunches over in the beginnings of shame, and Cloud isn’t having it. “Cops have a habit of using plants.”

“Well, I can assure you that I am one hundred percent plant free! Except for my garden, of course.”

“Garden?” Tifa asks.

“Mhm! I’m a florist. So, not necessarily... plant free. But the cops definitely do not like me.”

Cloud bites back a smirk, vividly remembering the way she’d fought against her captors. They certainly hadn’t been fond of her, that’s for sure. He doubts that kind of animosity can be faked. Though she seems so pleasant now, not even a lick of her earlier anger to be seen. Merely an impossibly upbeat attitude and a playful demeanor.

Tifa smiles as well. Another point in Aerith’s favor, considering how reserved Tifa is around most people. She shifts to get more comfortable and folds her hands together behind her back, humming and sharing a knowing grin with Cloud. He nods lightly in response, and she turns her full attention to Aerith.

“What did you do to get on their bad side?”

“Florists aren’t exactly known for their rebellious behavior.”

Aerith giggles, which Cloud thinks doesn’t exactly speak for her innocence. “They believe I graffitied the precinct.”

“Graffiti?”

“What would anybody even paint on a police building?”

“Oh, just a bunch of flowers…” Aerith twirls her hair around her fingers and grins deviously. “Surrounding a beautiful message of the people.” She raises a finger and winks. “‘Fuck the police’.”

A laugh escapes Cloud before he can catch it, short and strangled as he bites his lip to muffle the tail end of it. Tifa covers a giggle with her hand, eyes creasing in a smile and shoulders shaking. Cloud grins.

“Sounds fitting,” he says, and Aerith nods enthusiastically.

“It’s a shame they’ll never know who did it.”

“I’m sure.”

There's a short silence, then: “So what are you in for?”

The question is spoken innocently enough, but Cloud’s humor instantly evaporates with the words. Tifa’s smile dies and a frown settles on her face again, worry and anger and a dozen other things. The memory isn't exactly pleasant for either of them, and he can tell Aerith's already regretting asking. 

“The police came to ask some questions and things got...physical,” Tifa offers hesitantly, voice low. Then she scowls, shoulders stiffening and eyes blazing. “They attacked Cloud!”

Aerith’s brows raise in shock, but her smile is one of pure awe. “So you hit them?”

“Oh yeah.” Tifa says it as if she’d never think to do a thing differently, and Cloud has to fight off an overwhelming bout of fondness.

“But what happened? I mean, why did they attack you?”

“They were...harassing a friend of ours,” Cloud says, “and I stepped in, but…” He’d been too weak. Too out of it, still suffering from the aftereffects of his most recent therapy session. “I wasn’t in a good place.” Mentally, he adds, but the word won’t come out. 

He stops speaking and flits his eyes over to Aerith, hoping to gauge her reaction, and the riled cross of her arms is not at all what he’s expecting. Tifa shares the same expression of protective rage, and for a second he fears that the both of them are about to bust out of the prison cells themselves just to track his attackers down.

“What, so they thought they could just bait you and get away with it? Who do they think they are?”

“The police,” Cloud offers mildly, but Tifa only nods vigorously in righteous agreement.

“They acted like a bunch of animals!”

“They were investigating a crime.” At Aerith’s questioning looks he shrugs, carefully picking out his next words. “Our friend was suspected of stealing and leaking some very important documents.”

“Documents?” Aerith’s demeanor drops into one of pure curiosity.

Tifa nods. “Some stuff about the things they’d been doing recently was leaked, and they immediately assumed it was Barret.”

“Stealing evidence from a precinct? That’s pretty impressive.”

Cloud knows. Zack had been the loudest person he’s ever had the misfortune of sneaking into a building with, and the entire mission had almost ended in a spectacular disaster. Although their near escape was absolutely worth the dirt they had dug up on the local police. His only regret is that Barret was caught in the crossfire, not that the man hasn’t committed a number of crimes himself. One of which had involved him and Tifa infiltrating one of the largest Shinra buildings in the city.

Perhaps the cops had been there for more than just the information leak. It's definitely a possibility. The subsequent fight had left both him and Tifa lacking any crucial information on the situation. They hadn’t really had the time to ask questions.

In retrospect, maybe they should have acted with a bit more caution.

“Yeah,” Tifa says, “but they don’t have any evidence about their suspect. They were throwing stones and happened to hit Seventh Heaven. It was all purely coincidental.”

Cloud nods in agreement, but it doesn’t take a genius to see Aerith isn’t convinced. Not that either of them had expected her to be. Fortunately, she doesn’t press the issue.

She makes the right call and inquires about a different matter, instead. One that has Tifa perking up in excitement. And Cloud would be worried a bit more about her instant attachment to Aerith if he wasn’t suffering the same. She’s...surprisingly easy to talk to. Usually, Cloud takes a while to warm up to people, and Tifa’s either too closed off or too shy to get to know them. Yet with Aerith...the words just spill out, and even the silences are comfortable. Easy and featherlight in their simplicity.

Aerith asks about Seventh Heaven. And Tifa opens up. Not about emotions, of course, because Aerith is still new and the terrain is unsafe. But about her people and her place and their life. A life so intertwined with Cloud’s that he should find himself upset with her sharing it. 

Except that he doesn’t.

It’s strange, meeting somebody in lockup, of all places. Somebody so bright as Aerith, trapped in here with the best woman he knows. They’re both more talkative than him. Gathering a frisson in the air around them that’s filled with tension and delight. Aerith looks into Tifa’s eyes as if she’s seeing the stars for the very first time, and Tifa looks at Aerith like she’s never seen anything so beautiful. 

They both look at Cloud, too. Despite the fact that he doesn’t talk as much as the both of them. Silent and listening and watching in a peaceful sort of complacency. But every time he speaks they listen, and every time they engage in a back and forth he doesn’t at all feel left out or abandoned, but rather included in a strange sort of camaraderie. A bond between just the three of them.

He eventually sits up to lean back against the corner of the cell, an uncomfortable junction between the bars and the concrete wall. It’s worth it to be able to see the two of them, even if he doesn’t ever tell them that’s the reason why, and the conversation shifts from Aerith’s flower shop and Tifa’s bar to their families. Then it changes again as they do, with Aerith letting her legs fall over the edge of the bench and Tifa coming to sit between them through conversations about martial arts and staves and swords thes ize of a man.

After a couple more hours, the conversation lulls. Cloud appreciates the silence, if only because his voice is growing tired from so much use. He can’t even imagine how Aerith and Tifa are feeling right now.

Then Tifa yawns, hands stretching above her head as she arches her back. And within seconds she’s falling sideways to lay her head in Cloud’s lap.

He blushes at the level of physical affection. It isn’t exactly public, but Aerith is right there. Of course, she shouldn’t have any qualms about it herself when Tifa’s feet are in her lap. When Cloud glances over to check on her, he notices that she doesn’t even pause in surprise at Tifa’s sudden touch. Tifa’s shoes must be dirty, Cloud knows, and Aerith’s dress is light enough pink to get stained, but Aerith only hums and lays a gentle hand on Tifa’s calf. She leans her own head back, closing her eyes.

And the cell is bathed in silence.

[ibijau]

Burn it down AU // on AO3 // extras on AO3

During the Sunshot Campaign, Nie Huaisang kissed Lan Xichen

warning for nsfw <3

Nie Huaisang is not, has never been, will never be a warrior, and for the first time in his life he’s starting to regret that. It is hard, being left on the sidelines when everyone else is on the battlefield, bleeding and dying for their right to live free. 

It’s not that he doesn’t try to help. The Cloud Recesses act as a secondary base, a place to send the wounded once they can be transported. It is also understood that if the Unclean Realm falls, it is in Gusu rather than Lanling that the enemies of the Wens will retreat, since its isolation puts civilians less at risk (since, also, Lanling Jin cannot be trusted and is likely to change side if the war takes a bad turn). That means preparations have to be made, provisions secured, defences prepared. Nie Huaisang isn’t good at much, but he’s good at math and at begging, so he helps secure some deals with local merchants and makes sure Gusu Lan doesn’t overpay those resources it desperately needs. He also watches over the juniors whenever he can. 

The younger ones are terrified and don’t understand why, after having their homes burned, they’re now abandoned by their families. The less young ones, who understand what a war is, keep saying they want to fight as well, to get just revenge for everything the Wen have done to them. They’re just… they’re babies, because anyone older than fifteen is already on the frontline since they’re desperate for manpower, and yet if they weren’t Lans, if they didn’t respect authority so much, Nie Huaisang knows some of them would have run off to join the war.

He knows also that they look down on him for being here with them rather than dying in battle with everyone else. They’re too polite to say it, but after all, Nie Huaisang is the only person of fighting age in all of the Cloud Recesses, alongside Lan Qiren who at least has the excuse that somebody needs to be supervising everything.

Nie Huaisang has written to his brother, asking if he really can’t be of more use on the field, or at least in the Unclean Realm. Nie Mingjue’s short, angry answer ordered him to stay where he was since he’d be useless anywhere else.

Some days after that letter, worrying news arrived from the front. A small troop led by Lan Xichen had been attacked. No survivors were found.

Not everyone was found dead either, of course. A good half of those cultivators are just missing, Lan Xichen among them. They could have fled and be hiding until they can safely regroup with everyone else. They could have been taken prisoner, too, and that’s…

Nie Huaisang has helped treat former prisoners rescued from the Wens. Usually, the best that can be down for them is to help them pass away quickly and painlessly. To imagine Lan Xichen like this, broken and bruised beyond recognition, is just unbearable. Nie Huaisang almost wants to pray to the gods for his friend’s death rather than to think of him in the hands of those dogs.

Guilt and fear haunt Nie Huaisang as he tries to write to a money lender on behalf of Lan Qiren, begging for a delay to repay what is owed, explaining that the war, while longer than expected, will soon draw to an end and allow Gusu Lan to settle its debts.

This is the third time he’s rewrite that letter.

He’s going to need a fourth one because again he foolishly allowed himself to think about Lan Xichen, and so again he’s started crying, ruining his careful calligraphy. He scolds himself for that. Paper is precious, like everything else in these trying times, and yet here he is wasting it.

A knock on the door startles him. It’s unusual for anyone to come bother him when he is in this abandoned servant’s bedroom that he’s claimed as his office. The juniors don’t seem to have figured out he hides here, and Lan Qiren deals with him as little as he can. He scrambles to his feet and rushes to the door, only for it to open before he can touch it.

Lan Xichen smiles at him.

“There you are, Huaisang,” he says, warm and gentle and alive.

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

Lan Xichen is alive and Nie Huaisang, like the fool he is, can’t stop new tears from falling down his cheeks.

Lan Xichen makes a concerned noise and brings a hand to Nie Huaisang’s face, gently cupping his jaw and brushing away the wetness with his thumb.

“Huaisang, were you worried about me?” he asks softly.

The hand touching Nie Huaisang’s face is rougher than he’d have expected, befitting someone so adept with weapons and instruments alike, but it is also more gentle than he’d have dreamed of. Warmer as well.

What really breaks Nie Huaisang though is the concern on the other’s face, as if Lan Xichen were the one to have done something wrong. As if he hadn’t been fighting for everyone’s lives while Nie Huaisang hid like a coward.

“Of course I was worried!” Nie Huaisang sobs, overcome by relief and guilt and other emotions he’s in no state to name. “I thought you were… I feared you were…”

“But I’m not,” Lan Xichen replies. “I’m here with you, see?”

He’s here indeed. He’s here and alive, he doesn’t even look harmed, just a little tired, and Nie Huaisang is so happy, so relieved, that he can’t think straight anymore.

Lan Xichen is alive.

So Nie Huaisang kisses him.

It’s just a peck, so quick that Nie Huaisang can barely feel whether Lan Xichen’s lips are soft, if they are cold or warm. As soon as he realises what he's done, Nie Huaisang tries to pull back. 

Tries. 

Lan Xichen's hand, still cupping his jaw, slides toward the back of his neck and curls there, keeping him from escaping. And then there's the intensity of his gaze, freezing Nie Huaisang in place, making it hard to breathe even because those dark eyes are burning right through him. 

"Huaisang," Lan Xichen whispers, almost reverently. "Really ?" 

A nod. That's all Nie Huaisang can manage. He's not even sure what question is being asked exactly, but he's sure the answer is yes. He did just kiss Lan Xichen. He is aware how stupid it was. He is in love with Lan Xichen, even if he never realised it until almost too late, until that messenger told them Zewu-Jun was missing and something in him broke. 

He's ready for anger, or disdain, or most cruel of all pity. 

What he's not ready for is Lan Xichen leaning down toward him, slowly, as if to give him time to protest before their lips meet again. 

Lan Xichen's mouth is soft, and warm, and hungry in a way Nie Huaisang would never have expected from someone so calm and collected. It makes him feel weak, forcing him to cling to the lapels of the other's robes to stand upright. He gasps when Lan Xichen's other arm wraps around his waist, pulling him closer until they are flushed together while a tongue hesitantly licks inside his mouth. 

Nie Huaisang moans, pressing himself harder against Lan Xichen, dizzy from a sensation unlike anything he's ever known. Dizzy from lack of air as well, perhaps. When they separate they are both breathless, panting against each other's mouth. Nie Huaisang’s face, no, his entire body is burning and impossibly aware of all the place Lan Xichen is touching him. 

Half an hour ago he was feeling bold for thinking of Lan Xichen as his friend, and now… 

"Let me kiss you again," Lan Xichen pleads, tightening his grip on him, as if it's hurting him to leave any space between them. 

Rather than to answer, Nie Huaisang takes the initiative this time, pressing their lips together once more, so giddy he could laugh or cry. He can’t get enough of this, the closeness, the tenderness, the way Lan Xichen holds him like he’s the most precious thing in the world, the friction of their bodies growing more heated with each new kiss.

It might be him that makes them sit down, or it might be Lan Xichen. It makes no difference, the result is the same, Nie Huaisang half on the other’s lap. Before long that’s no longer enough, there’s too much space between them which is unacceptable.

It is definitely Lan Xichen who rearranges their position so he’s on his back with Nie Huaisang above him, nestled between his legs, bodies flushed together and writhing together as their kissing resumes. He’d be mortified about getting hard if he couldn’t feel a similar reaction from Lan Xichen.

This is… it’s a terrible idea, even Nie Huaisang isn’t stupid enough to believe otherwise. It’s a terrible idea, and it’s a wonderful one, and he just can’t stop what’s happening, not when Lan Xichen clings to him with such sweet desperation while pressing open mouth kisses to his jaw and neck, not when there’s a burning fire coiling in his guts and he has to bite back embarrassing whimpers. It doesn’t take long for Lan Xichen to tense under him with a sharp, strangled cry and in turn this, the knowledge that he’s made this happen, is enough to send Nie Huaisang over the edge as well.

For a moment they lay like this, still clinging to each other. Lan Xichen can’t seem to stop himself from petting Nie Huaisang’s hair and pecking gently at his face until Nie Huaisang is smiling so wide it nearly hurts.

He wants to laugh.

He does.

Lan Xichen throws him a curious look but doesn’t seem upset by that sudden hilarity. 

“I’m just happy,” he giggles, stealing a quick kiss. 

“I’m happy too,” Lan Xichen replies, kissing the corner of his lips a little clumsily. “I never thought it was possible to be so happy.” 

Nie Huaisang grins and properly presses their lips together. The earlier urgency and heat are gone, replaced with something softer. They really should talk about what happened, about what’s going to change now, but it’s so nice to be kissing Lan Xichen, it is the nicest thing in the world. After everything awful that has happened in recent month, Nie Huaisang feels he deserves to just feel nice and happy for a moment longer. After the next kiss they’ll talk he keeps telling himself, until somewhere in the distance a bell rings, startling both of them as they realise it’s now night around them, and this is the call to dinner.

“Uncle is going to kill me,” Lan Xichen gasps, hurriedly sitting up, nearly knocking off Nie Huaisang as he does so. “I told him I’d just say hi and return quickly to discuss everything that has happened. He’s going to be furious.”

“Sorry,” Nie Huaisang mumbles, all of his previous joy quickly dissolving at the thought he might have gotten Lan Xichen in trouble.

Lan Xichen, kneeling on the floor and desperately trying to put some order to his hair, freezes.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, hesitantly reaching out toward Nie Huaisang and cupping his cheek with one hand, exactly as he had done hours earlier. “I don’t regret this. Huaisang, I… I’m happy. I’m really happy. I have to hurry now but… let’s talk tomorrow? That is, if you want to…”

“I want,” Nie Huaisang eagerly cuts him. “Anything you want, I want it too.”

It is Lan Xichen’s turn to chuckle with giddiness. He presses one last, tender kiss to Nie Huaisang’s lips before standing up. After he rearranges himself a little, the only sign of their activities is the fact his lips are red and swollen, and that’s impossibly unfair because Nie Huaisang is starting to feeling like a sweaty, sticky, disgusting mess and he knows he’ll have to skip dinner to avoid drawing attention to his state.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lan Xichen promises again just before crossing the doorway.

Nie Huaisang nods, once more happy beyond what words can express. 

He can’t wait for tomorrow to come.