#hey. it did the less than threshold thing. can you measure it for me

[ghoulodont]

Here’s some moral support Rain for you

thank youuuu i am healed & revitalized by these images

[spacestationdaedalus]

when my demons won’t let me be

or: not in his right state of mind, Jon accidentally compels Martin. It’s not okay, but it’s okay.

or or: i spend so much time reading sick fic and i finally wrote one of my own angst and plenty of hurt/comfort, warnings for canon-typical compulsion and descriptions of panic and disassociation

Martin wakes to a shifting of weight and a cut off breath. It's a hazy half-awareness, coming to him under a snowdrift, on a radio station drowning in dull static.

In a well-practiced motion, Martin extends an arm over the covers to rest on Jon's chest. He doesn't let the full weight fall, not yet. Enough for Jon to know he's there, a touch light enough that Jon can readily push away or lean into. It depends on the particular brand of nightmare, the terror that's chosen to follow him to sleep. Sometimes he sets Martin's arm aside with a gentle squeeze, sitting up against the headboard and taking comfort in the cool bedroom air and the sound of Martin's breathing. At least, in Jon's own words. Other times, he holds Martin's arm to his chest, taking comfort in the weight and warmth of it.

Neither of those things happen, though.

Jon rolls sharply, seemingly ignoring Martin's arm in favor of the other side of the bed. He curls around himself with a low whine, harshly cut off in the back of his throat.

"J'n?" Martin props himself up on one arm. Voice rough with sleep, but no less concerned.

Jon shifts, a back and forth movement that looks like it could be the shaking of his head. His shoulders are taut and trembling. He makes another sound that could be the beginning of a shout, and it brings Martin to full awareness. He moves his hands to Jon's shoulder before he has time to think, desperate to help, to comfort, to something.

"Jon, it's alright-"

“Don’t touch me!” Jon bursts out, dripping and full of static and oh oh oh. It cascades over Martin’s mind, oily and slick. His hands pull away like they've been burned, but numb and far off. As though belonging to a stranger.

He shifts away from Jon and off of the bed, limbs moving robotically to pull back the covers, to move him away until his back meets the bedroom wall. Martin's hands are raised halfway, frozen in a caricature of comfort. A puppet on strings. He wants to move, shout, anything. But the gaze of eyes he can’t see bears down on him, an insurmountable weight holding him in place. Like a butterfly pinned inside a glass display case.

Jon is sitting up, now. Eyes (eyes, eyes, he's all eyes) blown wide, bright and glassy even in the low light of the room. His breathing is ragged and uneven in obvious panic. Even with his hands clenched tight in the front of his nightshirt, Martin can see they’re trembling. Martin’s heart aches and he wants to help but he can’t move and Jon’s eyes are still on him and he can’t breathe and it hurts. And he's afraid. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, the eyes are still watching him and it feels so much like burning paper and righteous anger and Elias's face and everything Martin had been trying to forget.

Jon brings up a hand to cover his mouth. Horror and panic clear in his eyes, which Martin knows are reflected in his own. Then Jon backs away, clearly unsteady on shaking legs. Martin's vision starts to blur (when was the last time he blinked?) but he hears Jon's steps fade into the hall. And Martin can do nothing.

The back of Martin's mind still using logic was hoping the feeling would fade once Jon wasn't looking at him. Unfortunately, Martin is used to being proven wrong. Face blank, body rigid, mind screaming.

Autonomy comes back to him slowly, a tingling in his fingertips that trickles down his arms and leaves an awful shakiness in its wake. Nerves making up for lost time, maybe. Trying to catch up with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. A grip Martin wasn't aware of begins to loosen from around his ribcage, and his first real breath in ages is a shuddering gasp. The force of it combined with the jelly replacing his knees sends him sliding to the floor, using the wall for support.

Martin breathes. In. Out. The first breath is molten in his lungs. His eyes water against it, and the second one is even worse. The third leaves as a sob that echoes back at him. In one last betrayal of his body against him, the tears spill over to drip down his cheeks. Martin rests his forehead against his knees and wills himself not to fall apart.

The Lonely was easy, in that regard. For months, Martin didn't have to worry about this kind of thing - the fear and anger and gaping misery that had been following them for so long. But evidently suppressing your trauma with more trauma wasn't a healthy coping mechanism. Go figure.

Leaving the Lonely was hard. Martin had spent most of the first 48 hours oscillating wildly between numb detachment and emotion so overwhelming he thought he would drown in it. Jon helped. He was patient, gentle, all the things Martin thought were too good to be true.

Martin forces himself up as soon as he's able. Maybe sooner, given the way the room sways when he stands. But it passes after a moment, and Martin goes to find Jon.

The house is dark. The occasional creak from the pipes and floors could be off-putting, but compared to everything else, it's benign. He uses fingers brushed against the wall to guide him down the short hallway.

"Jon?" He calls. The floor creaks in response.

Martin reaches the threshold between the hall and the kitchen. The haze of the moon behind thin clouds bleeds through the window above the sink, providing just enough light to see. Martin catches a shadow out of the corner of his eye, but it isn't actually a shadow, and Martin lets himself feel a hint of temporary relief.

Jon is tucked in the corner between two cabinets. Head buried against his bent knees, hands gripping into his hair in a position that mirrors Martin's from mere moments ago. Martin's heart leaps into his throat.

"Oh, Jon." Martin kneels in front of him, slow as to not startle him. If Jon notices, he makes no sign of it.

"Jon?" Martin reaches, but stops halfway. He doesn't want a repeat of before. His palm itches, but he keeps it airborne. Until he knows it's okay.

Jon makes a sound in the back of his throat, one that Martin hasn't heard before. His next inhale is strained and wet and - oh. 

Martin had never seen Jon cry before. Angry, upset, shaken, sure. But not this. It twists something awful and thorny in his chest. Martin wants to hug him, but he keeps the few inches between them.

"Don't-" Jon starts suddenly, and for an awful moment the hairs on the back of Martin's neck stand up on end. But Jon cuts himself off with a keening noise, and curls further into himself. His shoulders are trembling, either from holding back sobs or the biting chill of the poorly-insulated kitchen floor, Martin can't be sure. Probably both.

"I-I'm sorry-" Jon stutters, sounding like each word is a fight to get out. "I-I-I don't - I don't know…"

"Just breathe, Jon. It's alright."

Jon shakes his head against his legs. "N-no, you need to-" A sob cuts him off.

"Need to what, love?" The term of endearment slips out naturally on Martin's tongue. If Jon notices, he doesn't say so.

"Leave." The last word crackles slightly in the air, like static electricity threatening a shock. Martin freezes. The compulsion threatens to overtake him, but it's weaker than before. It rings in his skull, and Martin fights it back until it fades to background noise.

Jon whispers, barely audible. "I can't - I can't control it."

Oh.

"Alright, alright…" Martin bites his lip for a moment. Nods to himself.

"Okay, let's just - I'll ask you yes or no questions for now. You can, ah - just nod for yes and shake your head for no. Is that alright?"

Jon's face is still hidden, but that's alright. After a moment, he nods enough for Martin to discern the movement.

"G-good, okay-" Martin pauses, not immediately sure what question to go with first.

"Did you have a nightmare, earlier? Is that what scared you?" Martin silently chides himself for asking two questions, but hopefully it won't matter.

Jon nods.

"Has this happened before? The, uh-" Martin makes a hand motion, but Jon can't see it. "Th-the 'not being able to control the compulsion,' thing?"

There's a pause, then Jon shakes his head. Martin frowns.

"Alright, that's alright. Do you think you can look at me?"

Another pause, longer. Martin doesn't press as the seconds pass. Then Jon slowly raises his head.

Jon's eyes are wide, rimmed with red and dark circles more pronounced than they had been in the last few days. Tears are steadily dripping down his cheeks, flushed dark against his complexion. His lips are pressed tightly together, and Martin can see the barely contained panic mingled with exhaustion in every line of his face.

"Hey." Martin greets, feeling like a small victory. Jon quickly casts his gaze down and to the side, not meeting Martin's eyes. He also moves his hands to wrap around his torso, shivering harshly against the cabinets. Martin frowns again. He racks his brain for the seemingly mundane moments from the previous day. Jon talking less as the day had gone on, his less-than-already-finnicky appetite, going to bed early because he said he was a bit tired. Nothing individually out of the ordinary, not after the hell they'd dragged themselves through just to get here. But-

"Jon, is it alright if I touch you?"

Jon nods almost immediately, but still avoids Martin's eyes. Encouraged, Martin moves carefully to press the back of his hand against Jon's cheek. It's warm - hot, even - to the touch. Martin checks his forehead for good measure, feeling the heat before their skin actually makes contact. Martin's winces in sympathy, moving his hand back to Jon's cheek. He uses both hands, for good measure, to cup Jon's face, and wipe the stray tears still dripping from his lashes.

"Oh, love. You're burning up." Martin says, gently. "That must have something to do with it."

Jon's brow furrows. He brings his own hand up to his face, seemingly to try and feel his own temperature. Martin can't help the quiet laugh.

"First let's get off the floor. 's not exactly comfortable, yeah?" Martin offers. 

Jon doesn't react, eyes locked in a middle distance between the two of them. But then all at once his expression breaks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Jon doesn't react, eyes locked in a middle distance between the two of them. But then all at once his expression breaks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Martin's heart leaps into his throat. "Oh, hey, hey-"

Jon's words are muffled by his hands, and broken up by harsh, jagged sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-I didn't-"

Martin moves forward slightly so he can wrap his arms around Jon. He can feel the shivers wracking Jon's frame, and the heat radiating off of him in waves. Martin tucks Jon's head under his chin, and holds him.

"Hey, it's okay." And it's not a lie. Martin was scared - terrified, to put it lightly. He knows he can't just brush that fear away. But he's not scared of Jon, never has been, never will be. And Martin know Jon, knows him and loves him and knows that he loves him back. Martin thinks that this might be more complicated than that, but right now, with Jon coming apart on the kitchen floor, it feels that simple.

"I know you didn't mean to, Jon. It's alright."

Jon shakes his head weakly in protest. Martin can't make out his exact words, jumbled as they are. But he feels the intent behind them, with the way they reverberate in his chest.

"We can talk about it later, when you're feeling better. But I'm not mad, I promise." Martin runs a hand through Jon's hair. It might have been a braid when Jon first went to bed, but it's mostly undone now. "Right now, I'm just worried about you. That's a nasty fever you're running."

They stay like that for a few minutes more. Jon's form is still a trembling leaf in Martin's arms, shallow and uneven breaths punctured by the occasional apology and stifled cry. Jon's forehead is pressed into his neck, burning like a furnace against Martin's skin.

Martin almost asks Jon if he can walk, but instead-

"Jon, is it alright if I pick you up?"

Jon tenses, and Martin immediately regrets asking. But then Jon nods affirmative, relaxing slightly into Martin's hold. Oh thank god.

Jon fits easily into the bends of Martin's arms, one at his back and one under his knees. Jon's hands clench the front of Martin's shirt, tightening and loosening in an uneven rhythm as Martin stands. It's easy for Martin to carry him the short distance to the bedroom, mindful of the narrow door frames.

The quilt and sheets are pulled back from before, which is helpful now. Martin eases Jon onto the bed. He brushes Jon's hair away from his face in what Martin hopes is a comforting gesture. But Jon still has that faraway, panicky look in his eyes, and Martin has an idea.

"Don't move, alright? I'll be right back, I promise." Martin presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, hoping he heard and understood enough of that to not mind when he leaves the room.

Martin comes back with a damp cloth and a glass of water. And a bottle of pain reliever - one that Martin had originally picked up from the store as an afterthought, but is grateful for now. He sets the glass and bottle on the nightstand and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. Next to Jon, who hasn't so much as shifted in Martin's admittedly brief absence. Martin lays a hand on Jon's shoulder, but after a moment, moves to Jon's cheek. An olive branch to Jon's clouded awareness.

"Alright, love. I'm gonna lay this on the back of your neck, okay? Can you lean forward a touch for me?" 

Jon doesn't move or otherwise react for a moment, and Martin is almost sure he didn't hear it. But then he pitches forward slightly, and Martin shifts so he can support Jon's weight against his shoulder. He brushes Jon's loose curls to the side, letting his fingers linger there for good measure.

"It's gonna feel really cold, but it'll help. Easy," Martin murmurs, placing the folded cloth on the back of Jon's neck. Jon flinches at the touch, hissing between a groan and a whimper. 

"I know, I know." Martin soothes easily, adding other words of comfort here and there, lost to his memory as soon as they cross his lips. He holds Jon close, taking the chance to comb his fingers again through Jon's bed-moussed hair. He knows Jon likes having his hair played with, so Martin ever so gently works his way through some of the tangles, careful never to pull too hard or too fast. Jon's breaths slow and deepen - still marred by the occasional hitch, but a vast improvement from before. He gradually sinks more of his weight onto Martin's shoulder, until Martin is sure he's the only reason Jon is still upright. But Martin doesn't mind.

"Better?" Martin asks, when Jon's trembling passes and his breaths sound less like someone on the verge of drowning. Jon clears his throat.

"I- yes." He rasps, hardly a whisper. The word pulls a cough out of him, but he keeps going. "Th- thank you."

"Of course." Martin says. He all but beams at the sound of Jon's voice, wretched as it sounds. He considers making tea, but something about the bonelessness of Jon's posture tells him Jon won't be awake long enough to see a cup finished. But he does grab the glass of water from the nightstand, and shifts so Jon can take it in both hands.

"Drink some of that for me." Martin presses, and Jon doesn't argue. Martin reaches for the pain reliever next, shaking two pills out and handing them to Jon. He seems surprised at first, but quietly offers a thank you as he takes them from Martin's hand.

"How are you feeling?" Martin asks. It feels like a stupid question, but one of those stupid questions that you just have to ask in lieu of anything else.

"I'm-" Martin knows Jon is about to say I'm alright and something in his face must stop Jon from finishing, because he cuts himself off with a sigh. He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, suppressing a wince. "To - to be honest, uh, quite terrible."

The frankness of it could almost be funny, but Martin's heart aches instead. "I'm sorry. The medicine should help, at least."

Even without his glasses, Martin can make out the two in the hour place of the digital clock on the nightstand, and yeah, it's time for bed.

"And some proper sleep."

Jon nods, eyelids heavy. Martin takes the half-empty glass from his hand, and encourages Jon to lie back with a gentle push. Martin joins him on the other side of the bed, pulling the covers back over the two of them. He leans, partially sitting up against the headboard, inviting Jon into the place at his side if he wants it.

Jon fills the space immediately, burrowing his face into Martin's shoulder. Arms curled in front of him, pressed into Martin's side. He sighs softly. Martin watches the last of the tension bleed out of Jon's face, eyes closed. Jon's fever leaves Martin's side overly warm in minutes, but Martin can't bring himself to mind.

He's sure Jon is already asleep, but-

"M-rtin?"

"What is it, Jon? Do you need something?"

Jon makes a negative sound into Martin's shoulder, shaking his head. It's quiet for a moment, save for their breathing.

"I love you."

Martin freezes, and the response comes as naturally as an inhale after an exhale.

"I love you too."

[projectcaramel]

Narcissism (2) - Obey Me! Asmodeus

RAD News

In a matter of 24 hours, the Devilgram post captioned, “First Makeover” has gone viral across RAD, and demons can only ask one question: “Who is the mysterious woman who has received this makeover?” Many are jealous beyond measure that their idol, Asmodeus, has suddenly showed a bout of favoritism, so all suspicions will be kept private. 

However, there are also many suitors that are wondering as to whether or not these two are couple—could it be that RAD is about to experience an all-out war based upon the relationship between these two individuals?

“Jesus christ,” I groaned, flapping the newspaper closed. “Why did I agree to let him put my picture up...?” 

“Trouble just loves following you, doesn’t it, Adelene?” Mammon asked with a laugh, and I smacked him with the newspaper. “Ow! You gave me a papercut...” 

“It’s not funny!” I fumed. “What am I supposed to do if one of his fans recognizes me!? I could die!”  Mammon paused in sucking his thumb. 

“Well, it’s Asmo’s fault anyway, so if that sort of thing happens, just ask him to help you.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to be my guardian,” I replied, annoyed, and he twitched. “And you want me to tell Lucifer that you were doing your job rather than playing pachinko at the new gambling house that opened up.” 

“Well... um... please?”  I sighed, rubbing my face, even as a familiar set of footsteps walked into the room. 

“I can’t believe this!” Asmo’s voice cheered. “Delli, I made you so popular!” 

“I don’t want to be popular!” I snapped at him, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mammon sneaking away. Asmo seemed a little taken aback. “People are already targeting me for an abundance of reasons! Hell, I might turn up dead by the end of the week! Be beautiful!? Don’t make me laugh! I’d rather be an ugly un-woman rather than an idol like you!” 

I ignored Asmodeus as he stretched out his hand, and I stormed away without another word.

...

“Are they still fighting?” Lucifer asked with a sigh as he finished his sip of demonus. “We already dismantled the post rumors, so why is it still such an issue?” 

“It’s Asmo and Adelene,” Leviathan reminded, and Lucifer paused. 

“Good point,” he sighed. I can hear you bastards, I thought irritatedly, even as I stabbed at my salad. I suppose, in hindsight, they weren’t wrong—if there was one thing that Asmo and I had in common, it was the fact that we were both petty. 

Which is why it surprised me when Asmo texted me a few hours after dinner. 

Asmo: Hey, Delli, can you come to my room?

I certainly thought about leaving him on read; it was an ambiguous, bizarre request, and it wasn’t one I felt like indulging. It wasn’t as if he’d apologize; the most would get from him was a “I’m sorry for doing you a favor”. I was just his little design project. 

Me: Why?

Asmo: I wanted to say I’m sorry. 

I nearly dropped by D.D.D. at the text. For him to say it outright, even misguided, seemed almost impossible. Now I was too curious. Fine, Asmo. I’ll come to be insulted. 

...

“I’m not apologizing to you, Asmodeus,” I warned, even as I stood at the threshold of the male’s room. He stood to greet me, surprisingly without his D.D.D. in hand. It was almost baffling to see him without it, given how attached he was to his social accounts. 

“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” Asmo replied with a soft laugh, his brows coming together in a helpless expression. “You could be a little less hostile.” I didn’t deign to respond to that comment, and I wouldn’t step over the threshold when he invited me in. I would hold this grudge to the ends of the earth if he tested my patience. 

“Say what you want to say here,” I replied thinly, and Asmo blinked at me, as if confused, before he sighed. 

“After all the effort I went through to neaten up,” he complained. “I even chipped a nail, you know.” I stared at him, and he eventually decided to grab something from the other side of his door before he handed it to me. A bottle of pink nail polish—I think it was the exact shade he normally used.  “Adelene,” he said, and the use of my actual name gave me pause. “I am sorry! Really! If I’d realized the danger it would have put you in... I never would have done it!” Asmodeus was ardent, and I felt a little taken aback when Asmo stepped forward, closing the distance between us, his orange eyes shining with honesty. “So...” Asmo clapped his hands together and bowed his head. “Please don’t let that be the last time you let me do your makeup!”

“Uh.... hah?” Asmo seized hold of my hands, curling my fingers around the bottle of nail polish he’d handed me. 

“Pretty please! I had a lot of fun, and when you dress up, it’s like a closed flower is revealing its gorgeous petals! Obviously, you can’t compare to me, but it’s not like anyone can help that I’m this amazing!” 

“...a flower, huh...” I mumbled, even as I glanced away from Asmo. 

“Yes!” he affirmed brightly. “I always thought that it was sad how you kept trying to lock yourself up in that dreary appearance when you should have been taking in the sun. It always felt like you were withering because you wouldn’t accept it, and I always wondered... why would you do that to yourself?” Asmo laughed to himself. “Oh, goodness, listen to me gushing. Anyways, I wanted you to have this. It’s called Pink Euphoria, and it’s my favorite shade from this brand. You can come ask me to help you paint your nails anytime.” 

“...we’ll see,” I replied, probably not even coherent as I turned away from Asmo, although I didn’t let go of the nail polish he’d given me, only playing with it in my hands. 

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[barbers-glimmerin-darlin]

Golden

Charlie Barber x (female) Reader

Summary: Charlie gets you a gift for doing well at work. Fluffy AF

Warnings: Sugar daddy themes, mentions of food, brief mention of alcohol, nickname ‘princess’

Word count: 1.6k

***

You breathed a sigh of relief as you finally stepped through the door to your apartment, closing it behind you with a decisive thud. You kicked your shoes off in record time, placing your laptop bag down by the little side table, and finally placed your coat on the last available coat hook. Damn, it was good to be home. 

The smell of garlic, tomatoes, and assorted herbs greeted you as you stepped further into the welcoming air of your home, and you felt your stomach rumble in anticipation of the delicious meal you could smell. It brought a soft smile to your face to think about the ‘chef’ in question.

“Honey, I’m home.” You singsonged in a teasing way, making your way to the kitchen where you could hear the sound of pots and pans being used. Before you got the chance to make it to the threshold, Charlie’s head and shoulders popped around the doorframe, checking to see if he’d actually heard you over the din of his cooking. His face broke into a charming smile when he saw his ears hadn’t deceived him. 

“Hey sweetheart.” He greeted you, moving out of the kitchen to meet you halfway across the living room. He looked effortlessly put together in his sharp black slacks and pale blue shirt, unbuttoned enough to show his clavicle, sleeved rolled up to just underneath his elbows. 

He leant down to press his lips to yours in a sweet kiss, broad shoulders bowing slightly as he descended to your level. His plump lips and warm tongue tasted faintly of expensive red wine, and you imagined him pouring himself a glass to enjoy while he cooked, maybe he even added a little in with the food.

“I didn’t expect you to be home already.” You told him, placing your hands on his strong shoulders and kneading them gently. 

“Well, when you texted me earlier and told me how well your review had gone at work, I decided I wanted to have dinner ready for you by the time you came home, just as a little celebration.” He told you quietly, looking deeply into your eyes as he placed his large hands on your hips, pulling you closer. You couldn’t help the shy smile that rose up onto your lips.

“You didn’t have to do that Charlie! It was only a silly quarterly review!” You laughed, Charlie really took the tiniest opportunity to shower you with praise, it was ridiculous and heart-warming in equal measure.

“It’s not silly at all princess, I’m so proud of you. I even got you a little present.” He said, his voice lilting with a slight air of mischief. You gave him a mock-stern look, placing your hands flat to his chest.

“Charlie Barber you are an absolute menace with your gifts.” You said, though it was plainly evident that you were highly curious about what this gift was. It was true, Charlie would buy you a present for saying ‘bless you’ when he sneezed if he could. While it had been a shock to you at first, him buying obscenely expensive presents for seemingly no reason at all, a couple of things quickly became apparent to you. 

Firstly, that these lavish gifts barely even made a dint in Charlie’s bank balance, this much was evident by the numerous designer watches he had collected, the quality of his clothes, and his gorgeous apartment. Charlie’s wonderful talent as a director had made him rich beyond belief, and while he didn’t brag about it, he certainly wasn’t ashamed of it either.

Secondly, over the time you had been together, almost three years now, it had become clear that giving you beautiful things was just one of the ways that Charlie liked to express his feelings for you. He wasn’t always the best at saying out loud, but when he returned home with an outrageously pricey lingerie set, or a custom made dress for date night at the most exclusive restaurant in the city, you knew it had more meaning to it than the promise of a long night of lovemaking, and some good food. 

“You’ll like it, I promise.” He husked into your ear before releasing you from his hold and moving over to the dining table. You hadn’t noticed the small box lying atop it when you had entered, but you eyed it now as he brought it over to you. As soon as you saw the lustrous red hue of the box, you knew exactly where Charlie had got his purchase from. Cartier. 

Sure enough, as he held the box in front of you, you took in the elegant gold calligraphy which proudly announced the name of the brand atop the shiny red box. Clearly he had been feeling extra proud when he went gift shopping today. 

“Let it never be said that Charlie Barber does anything by half.” You teased him, he responded with a smirk as he deftly unlatched the box to present the contents to you. 

Nestled securely in the black velvet was a glittering gold bracelet, incredibly simple in design, seemingly just one solid gold circle with no gaudy decoration to mar the quality of the metal. Upon closer inspection, the bracelet was inlaid in regular intervals with what looked to be… circle screwheads? Your confusion only grew as you examined the other item in the box, a tiny golden screwdriver, with a flat head that looked as though it would fit perfectly in the grooves of the screws placed in the bracelet. 

“It’s absolutely beautiful honey, but what-” You began to question, unsure of what the intricacy of the piece was all about. 

“It’s designed so that you can only put it on and take it off by unscrewing it, so that it’s secure.” He told you, drinking in the way your eyes were lit up with awe, he never doubted that you would like the gifts he picked for you but it never dulled the thrill of seeing your delight. 

“Will you help me put it on?” You asked him, suddenly giddy to have this beautiful piece of artwork on you, so you could proudly display it. He chuckled lowly at your eagerness  but ushered you to go and sit on the couch where he shortly joined you. 

You couldn’t help but be mesmerised by the motions of his hands as they used the tiny screwdriver to release the opening of the bracelet. His hands were so big and strong, it was a wonder that he managed to operate them with such dexterity, but he’d proven on many occasions that his hands were highly skilled at many tasks. 

He slipped the bracelet onto your left wrist, and you took a moment to focus on the coolness of the gold on your skin, the subtle weight of it letting you know that it was a genuine article, not that you expected anything less from Charlie. You couldn’t keep the smile off of your lips as you watched him use the screwdriver once again to tighten the screw back into place, securing the bangle on your wrist, though he ensured that it wasn’t too tight, and that it could still move slightly. 

He caught your wrist gently in his hand when he finished, admiring the way the light glinted of the precious metal he had just affixed to your lovely arm, he smiled warmly at how beautiful you made such a simple piece of jewelry look. He flipped the screwdriver in his hand and offered the handle to you, gesturing for you to take it. His brow furrowed when you shook your head at him.

“I want you to keep it.” You told him, turning the hand that he held in his to lace your fingers through his much larger ones. You wanted him to keep the screwdriver, it felt right in every way. This bracelet was such a clear symbol of Charlie’s feelings for you, his love for you, that it only seemed right that he should be the one with the means to remove it. 

Charlie’s beautiful brown eyes searched yours for a fleeting moment, and you saw his Adam's apple bob slightly, as if he’d just swallowed a wave of emotion. It wasn’t long before a handsome smile broke out across his face, warming your insides instantly. He let go of your hand and placed his on the side of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb, holding the screwdriver tighter in his other  hand.

“It’s safe with me princess, I promise.” He assured you before leaning in to catch your lips with another tingling kiss. You knew what he meant, it was safe with him. Not only did he trust you with his heart, he was humbled that you allowed him to leave that little piece of him on you at all times. He wanted you to be the home to his feelings for as long as you would have him. He trusted you with his love, and in return you trusted him with yours. 

“I love it.” You told him when you had pulled your lips away from him, resting your forehead against his, carding your fingers through his soft, thick hair. Your bracelet sparkled in the lamplight as your wrist moved, and it ignited a pleasant warmth in your tummy. That very same tummy chose that moment to emit a loud rumble, seemingly disgruntled that dinner had been momentarily forgotten about. 

The pair of you both laughed at the interruption, and Charlie made haste in standing up, pulling you up with him. 

“Luckily for you, dinner’s ready. Will you set the table for me?” 

(This is the bracelet in question, it’s called the Cartier Love bracelet and I am literally obsessed with them. They retail for just under £4,000 which is why I have self indulgently imagined Charlie gifting us one for absolutely no reason at all. JUST COS HE LOVES US. OKAY?!)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Never Too Late 2

Warnings: noncon sexual acts (later in series)

This is dark!Steve Rogers and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re turning forty and life seems to be forging ahead on its one way track, that is until you meet Steve Rogers.

Note: Things are... going. But I’m doing my best.

Thank you. Love you guys!

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It was about time you started doing something. Past due, you’d say. Your body was screaming for it. You were no longer the college grad who could sit and eat potato chips to her heart’s desire. Or the thirtysomething in denial of the looming 4-0. No you had stepped upon the threshold and you felt and saw the changes which came with another decade.

And yet, the simple act was daunting. Your old beat up sneakers squeaked as you descended the stairs of your building to the street. You wore a pair of thin track pants you’d bought years ago on the unspent whim of a New Years’ resolution. Your sports bra was new and uncomfortable; the tank top a bit too tight for your liking. 

You did your best to stretch outside. You kicked your foot up against the brick and lunged a few times forward and back. Your muscles were stiff from inactivity; from years of neglect; from time. You hopped in place as worked up to your departure. 

You began at a slow jog. You reached the first corner out of breath.

You were old. Accept it.

You continued and wove your way to the park where few others paced themselves around the fountain and winding paths where happy owners walked their happier pets. Another breather as you gasped. The sweat gathered under the cotton shirt and created a humid tent in the pants. 

You gripped your hips and stared ahead. Keep going. You pushed off your heels and bent your arms as you fought your way through the tension in your chest, the burn in your lungs, the ache in your knees. One day at a time, it would get easier. You hoped.

You wondered how you’d manage to fit in your new regime on workdays. A morning run would mean even earlier days; likely shorter nights. You’d have to make it work. You didn’t have another ten years to wait around; if you did, it might be too late to change.

You were tired. Of the years passing like second. Of the tedium. Of nothing happening. Of failed hopes. Of pointless relationships and temporary stability. You weren’t where you wanted to be and you’d likely never get there but there were other desires in life. Other achievements to be made.

Your mother could resent you for your singleness; your lack of familial bliss. She could not begrudge you entirely. Not if you bettered yourself. Not if you turned it around and tried. Not if you set aside your passivity for proaction. Because it was your life, not hers.

When you got back to your building, you were ready to collapse. The old elevator was still out of order. It’s old grated doors marked with an X of tape and a handwritten sign. You dragged yourself up the stairs and stumbled inside. You downed a glass of water and splayed over your single armchair. Your heart slowed as you flipped on the television and checked off day one in your newly downloaded app.

👟

Day two. Exhausted and still sore, you made yourself go. You had an hour before you had to be back to shower and ready for work. The day seemed even longer ahead of you. Eight hours at a desk in pain, dealing with the frustrated public. It was worse than you could imagine. Your night was spent with an ice pack and half-dazed.

Day three, four, five. A tic in your phone which barely felt worth it. Six almost saw you giving up as you ambled around work with splints in your calves. Seven, another day off, but you still had work to do. You pulled on your freshly washed track pants and a loose tee. The last days of summer approached but the heat had yet to relent. 

You took your usual route to the park. You stopped at the entrance and stretched a second time. You found it was helping. The pain was duller, the aches less spread out. You set off and found your step. A week and you could already see the ounce of improvement. Well, inside more than out.

You measured your breaths as you neared the curve shrouded in trees; leaves still lush and aromatic. Soon enough, they’d darken and drop. Time was like footsteps. Each one forward took you further from where you were and yet you could feel like you were standing still or come to a startling stop that left you hurtling into the void.

Like then. Your worn treads slid over the ground as you collided with the unexpected runner coming your way. Your eyes had been above him, staring at the rounded tree tops and their sprawling branches. On the early morning hues that cast the sentinels in a placid mural.

You stumbled back, your hands reaching back to catch yourself but you never met the ground. Two thick hands caught your upper arms and steadied you. You looked up, both surprised and not by the face staring back at you. Both familiar and not. After so long in the city, the last two weeks had seen as many run-ins with Steve Rogers. More, now.

“You,” He smiled as he slowly released you, his fingers tickled your arms. 

“You.” You echoed dully. 

“Small world,” He chuckled.

“New York isn’t that small,” You said. “You must think I’m some weirdo.”

“Or maybe I’m the weirdo?” He ventured. “Didn’t peg you as a runner.”

“Wow, thanks,” You scoffed. “And I’m not. Well, wasn’t. New hobby.”

“New?” He raised a brow.

“One week,” You shrugged. “Not much and I’m sure once it’s cold, I’ll go back to my sloth,” You said. “Uh, sorry about… wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Not at all. Neither was I.” He smiled. 

“Well, I, uh…” You looked past him, “Have a lot to go.”

“Can I join you?” He asked. You squinted at his eagerness. 

“Weren’t you going…” You pointed over your shoulder.

“I just do circles,” He said. “Doesn’t really matter which direction.”

“I’m not very fast.”

“It’s not a race.”

“Alright,” You threw your hands up, just wanting to get it over with. “But if you feel like leaving me behind, don’t think it’ll bother me.”

“Come on,” He turned so he faced the same direction. “It’s always easier with company.”

You exhaled and righted yourself before you fell back into a jog. He kept pace beside you. You could smell his sweat. You tried to keep your breathing quiet.

“I used to run with my pal Sam but… he joined a gym.” He said. “So, new hobby?”

“Hobby is putting it… nicely,” You huffed. “More like trying to make up for my own laziness.”

“It’s never too late to make a change,” He preened. “You got any other hobbies? Maybe something you enjoy more?”

You glanced at him. Your chest hurt but you didn’t want to slow down.

“Cross-stitching? Tetris?” You offered. “Nothing special. Just… life.”

“How’s work?” He asked.

You were silent as you kept running. You listened to the sound of your foot falls as your breath came faster.

“I--” You came to a stop and turned to him as you touched your side. “Forgive me for being a bit--confused but--” You gulped. “Don’t you have friends? Super friends?”

“Co-workers,” He said and his hands went to his hips. “Oh, maybe you already have enough friends then.”

“Look, I’m forty, I work the same job I had sixteen years ago, I live in a box, and I’m falling apart,” You shook your head. “Not many people are trying to be my friend. All my friends have families; obligations.”

“Well, it sounds like we have a lot in common,” He grinned. “So we should be great friends.”

You frowned. His optimism was irksome. His refusal to be rebuffed more so.

“Friends?” You repeated darkly.

“Maybe just running buddies?” He suggested. “I do get a bit lonely out here with just the chipmunks.”

“Steve.” You uttered.

“And I think you need someone to keep you on the right path, hmm? I’ve been told I’m a great motivator. Bit of a hard ass but I’ve got a talent and I use it.”

You considered him. He was right. An app wasn’t going to keep you going forever. Already, you were tempted to drag the little icon to the bin. Already you were tempted to sleep in. Already you were succumbing to failure. 

“You sure?” You asked.

“What time do you usually run?”

“Well, weekdays, I head out at six, back home at seven, then off to work,” You explained. “Weekends I get an extra hour of sleep.”

“Alright,” He turned and set off. You followed. “I can’t promise every day. Lots of work out of town but weekends at least.”

“You really don’t--”

“Maybe if you start saying yes, you’ll find what you’ve been looking for,” He intoned. 

You grumbled and pressed your lips together. He was right. You hated that he was. Something about this man both intrigued and disturbed you. He was kind but with a hint of pushiness. You just couldn’t decide if his insistence was merely clueless or something more deliberate.

👟

Another week and the mornings were easier, though the days continued to drag. Steve met you again on Monday and Tuesday but Wednesday he was gone. You didn’t mind so much but he returned on Saturday. He waited for you at the park entrance, a wrapped box in his hand. You were curious but not nosy.

You slowed as he greeted you.

“Hey,” He smiled. “I didn’t realise until after I’d gone that I had no way to tell you I’d be away.”

“It’s fine.” You assured him. “Think I managed just fine on my own.”

“Work,” He said. “But a quick mission so I can’t complain.”

“I saw you on the news,” You looked towards the fountain that stood further inside the park. “I figured.”

“Still, I think maybe… I’d like a more direct line.” He pulled out his phone as he kept the box under his arm.

“Are you asking for my number?”

“In case anything happens,” He said. “I mean, we’re not strangers.

“Sure, but…” You wetted your dry lip with your tongue. “Okay. Um, I don’t have my phone on me but I can give you my number.”

“Great, I’ll text you.” He unlocked his cell and carefully keyed in your details as you recited them. He replaced the phone in the strap around his bicep. “There. Your very own on-call hero.”

“Right,” You nodded slowly.

“Oh, and…” He grabbed the box from beneath his elbow. “Happy belated birthday.”

“What? Uh, I can’t. You already--”

“A cake? Really. Everyone should have a cake on their birthday.” He held out the gift. “And presents too.”

You looked at the small square box. You chewed your lip and shifted your weight on your feet.

“It’s really nothing special.” He urged. “If you’re wondering, July fourth,” He pointed to himself. “So you’re in the clear.”

“Steve--”

“I already got it and… it’s not really my colour,” He shoved it closer. “Please.”

You slowly took it as you gave a quiet thank you. You carefully slipped a finger in the crease of red wrapping paper and tore it open. A dusty pink smart watch shone back at you. You blinked and looked up at him.

“The guy at the store said you sync it with your phone and it can count your steps and all that. Send you reminders.” He rubbed his neck. “I thought it would be useful. Especially when I’m away.”

You tilted your head at him then looked back to the clear plastic window of the box. It was expensive, you could tell. 

“It’s… a lot.” You said. 

“It’s a gift. It’s not about the price tag,” He shrugged. “Come on. Try it on.”

You scratched your hairline and muttered. You went over to a bench and sat as you worked at opening the box. You took out the watch and admired its round face. He offered to do it up for you and you turned your wrist over. He secured it and you held up your hand as you looked it over.

“You like it?” He asked. “They had gold but I liked the pink.”

“Nice color,” You affirmed. “I guess… I guess I can use it.” You lowered your arm and hid the watched with your other hand. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. It’s what friends do,” He stood and gathered the packaging. “You don’t need all this, do you?”

“No,” You stood. “Thanks.”

He tossed it in a bin surrounded by hedges and you neared.

“Well, should we get going?” He asked.

“Yeah. Maybe an extra lap today?” You said. “Push myself a little.”

[wyofabdoms]

Ten Days - Epilogue

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: Javier is shot and refuses to take his antibiotic while recuperating. You get creative and make him a deal that ensures he will take his medicine everyday: one kiss for one pill. It's gonna be a long 10 days.

Rating: Smut (18+ only)

Warnings: Major character injury, swearing, sex after a slow burn, vulnerable Javi, unprotected sex (be safe out there, everybody), more fingering

Word Count: 4469 (Whoa, not exactly sure what happened there...???)

Note: No way I’d leave them hanging...

Read the full series on Ao3

The week that follows your conversation in the hallway has all the elements of normalcy that you asked for.  With Javi returning to work (but still not to active field duty) his mood was almost as bad as it was when he’d been stuck at home.  Chaining the usually restless agent to his desk and burying him in paperwork was torture for everyone that came within growling distance.  By the end of his second day back, the two of you had ended up in a shouting match across the bullpen.

Welp, you had thought ruefully as you’d stormed away from your desks. You did ask for things to go back to normal…

It had been a slow week by Columbian DEA standards.  It had allowed you plenty of time to be out and about rooting out intel, but when you were in the office with your partner, your interactions gave every indication that he had heeded your wish for things to simply go back to the way they were. Your stomach turns on Thursday when you overhear two young agents from the typing pool tittering by the water cooler about how much good the time off seems to have done for your partner’s physique, despite being laid up at home for ten days; you hadn’t thought about everything going back to normal when you had asked for it...but you had made your choice and now you would have to deal with everything that went along as “normal” for Javier Peña.

You both knocked off from work early on Friday, waving your “have a good weekends” to one another as you went into your separate apartments. You showered, changed into a casual, comfortable sundress, put on some Steely Dan and had polished off some leftovers and a glass of wine when you heard a knock on your door.  Checking the peephole you pulled the door open, surprised to see him.  You’d expected him to either have a flavor of the week joining him at his place or to be out meeting up with one of his informants. Your partner stood with one arm raised leaning against your doorframe and he looked surprised when he scraped his eyes up and down your figure, his face falling. 

“Sorry,” he stuttered.  “I uh...I didn’t know you were…” his eyes glanced into your apartment then back to you.  Seeing the question on your face, he said “Are you expecting someone?”  

“No...why?”  You realized: the dress, the music...he thought you were with someone.  “Oh…” you sputter.  “Uh, no, no...I’m not expecting…” You chuckle to yourself at the sad state of your life, unconsciously resorting to dressing up and having a romantic dinner with music by yourself on a Friday night.  You sigh and change the subject, crossing your arms in front of the low cut top of the dress you wear.  “What’s up, Peña?”

He’s taken off guard by your question.  He straightens and seems to search for words for a moment, his eyes flitting to the door, over your shoulder, the floors, your kitchen, his toes; he looks everywhere except at you.  You wait impatiently, slightly annoyed that your pleasant evening alone has been interrupted.  When his eyes finally land back on yours, you see a familiar look there: that puppy dog look again.

“So…” His voice is soft.  “Turns out after ten days I sorta developed a habit...”  He trails off, searching your face for understanding.  When he sees it in your eyes, he slowly pushes himself off the doorframe and steps carefully across the threshold, closer to you.  You don’t move, your arms still across your chest, your eyes locked with his.  He takes another half step closer, stepping into your space, his eyes locked with yours.  You shake your head a little, feeling your stomach twist in knots, full of want and yearning.  

“We can’t…” the words barely squeak out and with much less conviction than you had intended.  You wouldn’t have believed you if you’d heard it and neither does Javi.  He swallows and reaches his arm out next to you, pushing the door shut with a soft click then waiting, seeing what you’ll do next.  When you don’t move, he steps even closer.  As he does, you start to step back but find yourself following the path of the closed door and before you can step in a different direction, your back is pressed against the door and your mind is full of the last time he had you pinned against an apartment door.  “We can’t…” you breathe again.  

“I want you.” 

It is such a simple statement, spoken so quietly and so matter of factly that you can’t believe he’s not simply reciting a plan for a takedown.  His hands stay at his side as he closes the last of the space between you, brushing against you in all of the magic places that set your heart fluttering and your pulse racing. 

“I know you do.”  You say.  “But...we can’t.”  He ignores the words for a third time and continues to stare into your eyes.  His voice is gravely and soft, full of vulnerability and tinged with fear when he says:

“Do you want me?” His directness puts you off balance and your mouth falls open...unsure of how to respond.  The simple answer was ‘yes’...but your lives weren’t simple.  You admire his courage in this moment; something has changed in him; he’s no longer resorting to silly innuendos, with teasing and testing jokes used to measure your temperature.  You wonder at his sudden change in tactic.

As usual, he seems to be able to read exactly what you’re thinking by looking at your face.  When you don’t answer his question, he continues:

“I coulda died two weeks ago.  A couple millimeters to the left and I might not have known how it felt to kiss you.”  You feel like you’ve been smacked in the gut by his surprisingly sweet words, the earnestness in his voice.  “I don’t wanna…” He seems to struggle to speak for a moment, then he continues.  “I don’t wanna do this fuckin’ dance anymore with you that we’ve been doin’.  I know what you think this’ll be, but…it's not.  Maybe it woulda been two years ago, but…” he trails off and shakes his head softly.  “I don’t think…” Again he stalls on his words, taking a breath and starting again.  “I...know...that I’m not the best guy to...ya know…” he tilts his head as though to fill in the blank.  When he can see you’re not following what he’s saying he sighs and tries again, staring into your eyes.  “I dunno if I’ll be any good in any kind of...relationship,” he practically chokes on the word but he steadies himself and keeps going. “But, I’m willing to give it a shot.”  His eyes that have held your gaze up this point suddenly blink several times and you see them flash with fear the longer the silence between you stretches.  He huffs out breath and you can see panic starting to set in on his face, you shake yourself and try to piece words together to say something.  He licks his lips and takes a step back.  His voice is husky and low and you think that maybe it’s streaked with the deep self-loathing you know he unfairly has for himself. “It’s ok, though,” he says reassuringly, backtracking frantically.  “If...if you don’t...we can just...forget this ever happened.”  His voice cracks just a little as he echoes your words from a week ago.  “Go back to the way thing-”

Before he can finish speaking, your hands lift and tangle themselves into the hair at his temples, reveling in the silky softness of his dark locks between your fingers.  His brow furrows and his eyes close at your touch.  He’s completely taken off guard when you lean into him and press your lips to his mouth, feeling his breath hitch at the unexpected touch.  You feel his body sag as the tension he’d been holding leaves his body and his hands finally lift to cup your face when your lips part from his.  He rests his forehead on yours and releases a breath of relief, his eyes still closed.  You bump your nose against his, nudging him to look at you.  When he opens his eyes, you see something in them that makes a smile spread across your face.  He smiles at you, too, and he reaches for one of your hands, pulling it to his lips and kissing your palm, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

You lose track of how long you stand pressed against your door, his hands traveling over your body, stroking your hair, grazing under the hem of your dress along your thigh, brushing the back of his hand over your breast, tugging on your hips to bring you closer to him.  Where his hands don’t go, his mouth explores instead, seeking to draw sharp breaths from you as he travels along your jaw, traces around your ear, whispers down your neck, then changing course and peppering kisses on your forehead, your eyelids, your mouth, your nose.  At one point he hitches his leg between yours, and you feel him heavy and hard against your thigh, a promise of what’s to come.  You put your hands flat against his chest and push him gently, causing him to tear his lips away from your clavicle.  His eyes are hooded and he looks at you, confused.

You push his jacket off of his shoulders and let it fall to the floor in a heap, then clutch his shirt with both hands and start to slowly direct him backwards further into your apartment.  You kiss him deeply, his hands fisting in your hair, echoing the kiss he’d given you that night on his couch as you’d pored over maps and satellite photos.  You keep your lips sealed to his as you change direction and begin pulling him towards the hallway leading to your bedroom, giggling like kids against the other’s lips as you trip and stumble over each other in your attempts to walk.  You pause for a moment and pull back, caressing his cheek with one hand.

“Hey.”  When he doesn’t stop trying to devour your wrist next to his face, you bump his nose with yours again, drawing his attention to your face.  You smile.  “Hi.” You say softly.  He grins back at you.  

“Hi.”

“Listen…” you begin as he leans forward and softly presses his lips to hers.  You tear your lips from under his and try again.  “Hey, listen, at some point, we should probably talk about how this is gonna work, ya know?”  He nods and chases your lips with his again.  You pull away again.  “I mean, we don’t have to do it right now but...soon.”  Another kiss stops you from talking and he nods against your mouth, then proceeds to drag open mouth kisses along your jaw and down your neck, licking along your pulse points and the sensitive skin below your ear.  “Like...maybe tomorrow?  It’s important, Javi.”

His head abruptly pops up and he stares at you with a dazed look on his face.  

“What?”  you ask.  A lopsided grin spreads across his face.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever called me, Javi,” he says happily and your heart breaks as you realize it’s true.  He kisses you again, soft, fluttering kisses that change the angle of your lips on his every time he lifts his mouth.

“Javi…” you breathe and you hear him give a satisfied mmmm from deep within his chest, still kissing you softly over and over.  “Javi.” You put your hand on his mouth, trying to create a barrier to stop his amorous onslaught on your lips, but he simply draws two fingers into his mouth.  You sigh and fix your resolve, trying once more.  “Javi!”  He pauses with your index and middle finger in his mouth, looking at your face with another question in his eyes.  “I mean it,” you say with all the seriousness you can muster while a man felatios your fingers.  “We’re gonna have to have some serious conversations...some probably hard conversations.  We’re both going to have to say things that might not be easy...we have to be honest...vulnerable...ok?”  Your fingers slip from his mouth and his face becomes serious.  He nods and strokes your chin with his hand.  

“Ok.”  More kisses.  Another forced pause.

“Promise you won’t sneak out in the middle of the night?” You ask him pointedly.  He chuckles good naturedly as you both know he’s done that with other women on more than one occasion.

“I promise...I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He kisses the tip of your nose, adding for good measure: “I’ll even make you breakfast in the morning.”  You roll your eyes, remembering the mess he made in your kitchen a week ago.

“Well, let’s not get carried away here.”  You chuckle as he kisses you again.

“No, I mean it,” he mumbles against your mouth then moves his lips to hover over your ear.  “I make a pretty mean pancake.”  You smile at him as he looks at you, another lazy grin spreading across his handsome face.  All of a sudden, he ducks his head and body low into your side and before you know what’s happening, he’s lifting you over his shoulder fireman style and is carrying you down the hall to your bedroom, you screeching loudly that he’ll exacerbate his injury, him chuckling the whole way.

He kicks open your bedroom door and unceremoniously deposits you onto your bed, crouching over you and planting a powerful kiss on your lips before he grabs you behind the knees and pulls you backwards with him to the edge of the bed.  Your legs hang off the side as he kneels between them.  You prop yourself up on your elbows and he lowers himself to the floor, trailing kisses down your chest, your stomach, your abdomen, your thighs, all the way down to the hem of your dress, where he slides a hand up each thigh, pushing the skirt’s material up slowly. His eyes lock on yours as his hands start their return route upwards, his mouth following, gently nipping along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his mustache prickling along the way.  He pauses for half a moment when he realizes there isn’t any underwear to impede his journey and he  smirks at you like a cat that’s eaten the canary; his eyes are dark, full of lust and burning with want and desire; like nothing you’ve ever seen before.  You shiver: whether from his touch, his gaze or the idea of where his mouth is headed you’re not sure… and it doesn’t matter.  You smile softly as you watch part of his face disappear between your thighs, his eyes still glued to yours.  

At the first feel of his mouth on you your head falls backwards and you gasp.  It isn’t long before your arms begin to shake from the sensation of his tongue and mouth and teeth exploring your folds.  You lay back and let out yet another gasping breath, your hands fisting in the sheets as he continues to pleasure you.  His nose bumps along that most sensitive bundle of nerves; your hips involuntarily jolt off the bed and you cry out.  He slides one hand up around your hip, holding you in place as he refocuses his onslaught on your clit.  His other hand continues to travel upwards, rucking your dress up your body further, his palm finding your breast and his thumb swirling around your pebbled nipple.  You gasp out his name, bringing one hand up to cover the one lavishing attention on your breast.  You rest it there as he sucks gently on you; it isn’t long before you feel yourself nearing your climax.  

“Javi!”  You bring your head up, clutching your fingers in his hair, your gaze catching his again as he looks up at you.  He pulls his mouth away from you briefly with a filthy slurp that nearly tumbles you over the edge.  “Close…” you pant out, your eyes pleading with him.  “Want you when…”  You can’t seem to form words to make yourself coherent, but he understands you. 

“I know, baby.  We’ll get there.  I promise.”   He lowers his head to you again and after only a few more moments you feel yourself unfurling within yourself, white hot and perfect; the pleasure rolls over you as you cry out again.  He holds you with his hand at your hip, his mouth gently working you through your orgasm.  As you come back down and your breathing starts to settle, he carefully crawls over you, back up your body, his lips sealing against yours again, his tongue nudging your mouth open and swirling against yours.  You taste yourself on him and a satisfied little moan escapes your throat.  You feel him smirk against your lips.  “Good?”  He asks softly, his lips still against yours.  You hum a happy affirmative.

He takes a moment to pull you to your knees, flush against him and hauls your dress up and over your head, taking time to gaze at your bare body with reverence, focusing his kisses and his tongue on each of your breasts.  You suddenly realize he’s still completely clothed and you make quick work of his shirt and belt, but when you start to unsnap his jeans, he bats your hand away and yanks you behind the knees, pulling your legs out from under you and causing you to flop back against the mattress.  You give a tiny squeal of surprise and giggle.  He chuckles at the sound of your laughter as he stretches out behind you, pulling your hips back against him.  You gasp as you feel his length, much the way you had little less than a week ago against your kitchen counter and he reiterates the memory by snaking his hand around and burying his fingers in your sensitive and soaking folds.  You cry out, jerking your hips back into him, hearing him grunt raggedly into your ear.  

“Ohmygodyes...” You breath out, dropping your head back onto the pillow, crying curse words and moans into the bed, giving him unfettered access to your neck.  He devours what feels like every inch of your exposed skin as his agile fingers pump and stroke and circle you.  His thumb frantically rubs your clit as he plunges two fingers inside of you, curling them just right and hitting you right there...over and over and over again.  You feel yourself starting to come apart again and you grip the wrist of the hand between your legs, then scrape your fingernails along his arm, scrabbling for purchase somewhere, finally settling on his head as he sucks on your ear.  You fist your hand into his hair, eliciting a hiss of pleasure from him and causing him to gently bite down on your shoulder as you squirm next to him.  

“Come on baby,” he whispers against your skin and you follow his invitation, the molten heat consumes you once more, spreading through every inch of you as you cry out his name again.  He strokes you a few more times as you come down.  

You flip over on top of him quickly, straddling his hips, grabbing for his jeans button and zipper, tearing them open like a hungry person.  He chuckles again at your eagerness when you shove the offending denim down his hips and he does the rest of the work by kicking them off, grinning up at you and clasping your hips with his hands.  You take his length in your hand carefully, give him several experimental strokes, watching in fascination as his eyes roll back in his head and he chokes out a moan, his head lolling back against the pillow.  You move your hand back and forth, up and down, twisting occasionally, feeling the magnificent hardness beneath the satiny skin. 

It’s your turn to smirk as you watch him grunt again and feel his hips jerk up into your hand, the veins in his neck standing out as he strains against the pleasure of your touch.  You move your warm core closer to where your hand works and carefully slide the entire length of him along your wet seam, drawing a sordid groan from his mouth.  You drag him back and forth several times, recalling the night you straddled him in his recliner, participating in a similar action but with far more clothing separating the two of you.  You repeat the motion a few more times, enjoying the noises he’s making before gripping him carefully and placing the tip of him against your dripping entrance…

...He sits up straight suddenly, causing you to lose your grip when he pulls away from you.  His arms fly around your waist to keep you from being bucked off of him and he pulls you flush against his chest, hugging you closely to him and he burying his face in your neck beneath your jaw, breathing in the smell of your skin; his mustache tickles you, but you ignore the urge to giggle, focusing instead on the feeling of his hard length pressed against your belly.  He holds you there together for a few moments, both of you panting.  You stroke along the sides of his face with both hands and he pulls his face away from your neck, gazes up at you in adoration.  You smile down at him and trace his swollen lips, hypnotized by their softness.  He takes your hands in both of his and laces your fingers together, drawing them to rest on his chest for a moment.  He bends his neck down and presses a gentle kiss on the knuckles of both of your hands and you think how much he looks like a man in the midst of prayer, bowing his head and kissing a sacred relic.  You press a kiss into the top of his head, inhaling the smell of smoke and sweat and soap in his hair.  Desperate for him to fill you, you whisper against the dark locks:

“Javi...please…”  That’s all you need to say.  Once again, he knows exactly what you mean.

He carefully turns you both over, settling himself between your thighs, holding his weight off of you, forearms along your sides, caging you.  He keeps his eyes on yours as he moves himself to your entrance, and you bite your lip as you feel him begin to press you open.  You nod and moan as he continues to push himself further and finally...finally...he’s completely seated inside of you.  You release identical moans of pleasure simultaneously as you both relish in the sensation of being so intimately connected after so much time of only imagining and dreaming of it.  It feels better than anything you had ever created in your fantasies. 

Carefully, he pulls out and pushes in again.  Making sure you’re not in any pain or discomfort, he starts to move faster.  You wrap your arms around him, your nails digging into his shoulders and you hook your legs up around his hips, pulling a strangled groan from you both as the movement draws him into you deeper and creates a new angle.  You cry out as his length causes friction against just the right spot within you, and the sound seems to serve as a starting pistol for him.  His hips begin to move at a desperate pace.  You spur him on by calling out his name and he returns by calling yours, too.  The only sound in the room becomes your flesh slapping together over and over again amidst a mix of Spanish and English expletives, naming of deities, shouts of praise, and desperate encouragements and affirmations to continue a particular speed or movement.

You feel the molten fire beginning to rise inside you again and you whisper into his ear that you’re close.  He kisses you in response, snaking a hand between you and finding your bundle of nerves, swallowing your cry with his mouth against yours and moaning into you as he feels you come apart around him.  You let the wave of pleasure sweep you up into the heavens and within moments, you’re dimly aware of his thrusts becoming shallow, losing their steady rhythm as you feel your walls clench around him.  In the next instant you feel him twitch inside of you and he fills you, his own cries dancing across your tongue and traveling down into your very soul.  The two of you rock against one another for several languid moments, riding out your respective climaxes, simply holding one another and delighting in the feeling of being completely spent.

Eventually, Javi’s arms begin to wobble and he collapses next to you on the bed.  You stroke his flushed cheek.  He gives you a small, exhausted but very satisfied smile, and you draw his head down to your chest.  He immediately snuggles into your body, wrapping his arms around you.  You hold each other as you stroke your fingers through his hair and you listen to his breath become slow and shallow.  Just when you’re sure he must be asleep, you hear him murmur against your skin.

“Why’d we wait so long to do that, again?”  His voice is thick and slurry and you laugh ruefully.

“Because I’m a fool,” you croak out.  He hums in sleepy disagreement, drawing in a heavy breath and lifting his head to look at you, propping his chin on your shoulder.  You just stare at each other for a while and then he extends his neck upwards, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to your lips; it reminds you of the one he gave you last Friday when you sobbed in his arms.  You’re struck by the simple sweetness of it: full of tenderness and affection….and maybe…just maybe….love? When he pulls back, you’re certain you’ve never seen his stern face look so peaceful and open and happy, and you feel similar emotions tugging inside your chest.  Not tonight, you think to yourself.  There’s time to talk about all of that tomorrow.  You know he’ll be next to you in the morning, just as he promised.  

He shifts his weight a little, making sure you’re both comfortable as he yawns and puts his head back on your chest.  You carefully pull the comforter over the two of you and you both begin to fall asleep.  Just as you slip from waking into slumber he murmurs sleepily against your chest:

“Thanks for making me take my medicine.”

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day Six

Day Seven

Day Eight

Day Nine

Day Ten

[flying-nightwing]

Pink and Totalitarianism Always Go Hand in Hand

Here’s the promised crack fic. Disclaimer, this is terrible in every and any form, because it is meant to be that way. If you want quality, structure, a story that makes sense, this ain’t it chief. This is certified Crack. If you finish this and all you can say is something along the lines of “what the fuck”, my work here is done. (Besides, this isn’t edited to add to the overall crack vibe)

Enjoy and good luck, because it get worse and worse as it goes

Masterlist in bio // pinned post

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word count: 4626

Warnings: Mention of drugs, light non-graphic violence, language

Summary: You’re stuck in a world that does not make sense, alone and surrounded by secret police and spies that will report you to the government. One early morning, Jason appears in your living room. His arrival gives you an opportunity to get the hell out of there for good. 

You had taken a habit of sleeping lightly.

You, who had once cherished your sleep like it was the rarest gem in the world. Yet, you found out you had still severely underappreciated its importance in your life, something you realized only when it was gone. You missed it like an old friend who was gone to war and died on the front, leaving words forever unsaid. What would you do for just one more night in your bed, with your own pillows and that drool stain that just wouldn’t leave anymore, sleeping like a log until the late morning. Or just a nap, that even would be enough. But you were far from home now, and you didn’t have a lot of hope you’d ever come back. 

When you heard a loud thump in the living room, your eyes flew open and your muscles tensed. Pushing off the pink comforter and pulling on the equally pink robe that was draped over the wooden chair, you carefully made your way down the corridor and toward the sound. A man dressed in black and red, with a red helmet complementing his strange outfit was standing there, looking around like he was trying to understand what was going on. You plastered a smile on your face. 

“Hiya there” The corner of your mouth hurt from the strain of smiling so wide. “Can I help you?”

“Uh?” He looked up, and even through his helmet you could assume his eyes were wide with confusion. They wouldn’t get you this time, you’d make sure of it. He didn’t fool anyone. “Where am I?”

“Silly!” You laughed, waving your hand in a small dismissive gesture. “We’re in Happy Town, obviously!”

“Uh?” He repeated, already visibly exhausted. That one agent lasted longer than the last, you had to give him that. His confusion was credible and well played down to the last detail. “Listen, lady, I’m sorry I crashed your house but I need you to point me toward Metropolis”

“Metropolis? I haven’t heard of a city of that name” You didn’t drop the smile. The goddamn smile. “Although, you are quite illegal sir, black and red are prohibited colors”

“... What?” 

“I’m afraid you’ll need to change” You explained. “Luckily for you, I have spares in the bedroom. Come along”

“Wait, prohibited?” He repeated, and you nodded eagerly. A test, it’s always a test. “What colors aren’t prohibited then?”

“Well, pink, you silly goose!”

He stared at you for the longest time. “What the fuck”

You froze. Actual agents were not allowed to swear, under any circumstances. They were physically not able to, even. “What did you say?”

“I said what the fuck”

You let your smile drop and sighed in relief. “Oh thank fuck”

“Hey, stay with me” He waved a hand in your face. “What the fuck is going on? Where am I?”

“Okay, we don’t have a lot of time, but basically” You paused, looking around to make sure all of your curtains were closed. You found a way to disable your microphones, but you had only to sunrise before they turned back on again. It was less suspicious that way, when you could attribute the lack of sound to you sleeping. Besides, you couldn’t risk you saying incriminating things in your sleep. “We are in a side dimension called Happy Town, but things are sketchy here. I don’t know what they are hiding, but if you don’t stick to their gimmick to the letter, you’re going to reeducation camps and stuff. This is some serious brainwashing, and I’m talking worse than Scientology”

“Fuck” He swore, taking off his helmet. “How did I get here?”

“Some portal, I dropped in the same place you did” You spoke quickly, in a hushed tone. “I haven’t found a way out, obviously, but if you came from Earth too, I’m betting there’s something I missed”

“This is insane” 

“You tell me” You scoffed. “And you haven’t even seen how bonkers this place really is yet”

“Do I really have to wear pink?” He flinched, and your eyes widened.

“Yes, you do!” You replied. “They will have you under scrutinization as soon as you step out of this house. If you want to survive, you must follow the rules to the letter. They don’t fuck around, I tell ya. When I first appeared, all the neighbors moved away and were immediately replaced by other creepier neighbors. I swear they’re spies. They’re all spies!”

“Wait, how long have you been there?”

“I don’t know, years?” You guessed. Could have been any measure of time really, you couldn’t know for sure. “I have no idea how I got through their brainwashing sessions. Either I outsmarted them, or they have no idea what they’re doing. It’s better not to take any chance, though”

“This is fucked up” He sighed and sat on the couch. “Besides wearing pink, what do I have to do?”

“Oh boy, sit tight” You began pacing in front of him. You didn’t know him, but he was your best chance at getting the hell out of here. Your bed now seemed a little bit closer now, even though you knew you’d never sleep the same. “It’s not just the clothing that’s pink, it’s any fabric, by the way, because happy people like pink”

It was like he was now aware that every couch, chair, carpet, curtain in your house was actually pink. 

“You gotta smile, always. You gotta look like chuck-e-cheese on crack” You continued, pacing in front of him. “Talking of which, never, EVER eat pie. I don’t know what’s in it, but it messes with your brain. Always find an excuse or distraction to avoid eating it”

“I’m not--”

“Never allude to the microphones you might find, act like you’ve never seen them and have no idea they’re there” You added. “Also, tomorrow we’ll have to get you registered if we don’t want the secret police to storm the house. You’ll have to follow my lead or we’re both dead, got it?”

“Yeah but--”

“Don’t say anything incriminating during the day” You interrupted him again. “I tweaked the microphones so they’re scrambled from midnight to sunrise. But that’s it. Also, always assume anyone you talk to is a spy or a snitch. It’s the Stasi all over again here, you can’t trust anyone who you don’t hear swear, which is nobody”

“Wai wait” He stopped you as you opened your mouth to continue on. “Why?”

“Because the people from here cannot swear, happy people don’t swear, they smile and giggle” You felt your eye twitch as you recited the lines you were fed over and over again. “The people engineered here are not able to, only those they kidnapped from Earth. Bad news is, beside that, they are virtually non-differentiable from each other. And they all wear those stupid pink clothes, only the regular police wears a darked shade of magenta. Other than that, all the same”

Confusion and horror was evident on his face. He sat there, processing it all as your eyes fell on the clock. You had about ten minutes until the first rays of sun showed up and reactivated the mics. “There’s no way back?” He finally asked.

“Not that I know of yet” You wrapped your hands around yourself. “You know, I have been begging for help out of this hell hole. You might be the key. Anyway, we gotta change you into something non offensive before they find out you’re here”

You dragged him in the bedroom, leaving him at the threshold while you rummaged through the dresser. All those clothes had been there too when you popped in the house, as if they had known exactly what they were doing by bringing you here. However, it wasn’t clear whether or not they had planned for their new citizen to be you. Ad judging by the arsenal of weapons on the new guy, ir reinforced your theory that the actual selection was still experimental. You weren’t exactly the shut up and obey type, and you doubted he was either.

“What’s your name?” You asked as you pulled a pink cardigan out of a drawer. It occured to you that you might have to know what to call him. Polite people knew the name of their housemate. You grabbed a yet again pink pair of slacks and pushed the clothes in his hands.

“Uh, Jason” He replied, surprised at the sudden income of pink fabric. You threw him the socks, suspenders, bow tie, belt and dress shirt that was, you guessed it, the exact same color as the rest. He was covered in pink clothes like a coat hanger.

“(Y/N)”

“Hey, I’m not wearing that” He objected as he took a better look at the clothes. His face turned to disdain as he shook his head like he had drank bad milk. “Nope, no way”

“If you don’t wear pink, they’ll kill you” You said through your teeth.

“No, I’m not talking about the pink” He said, his expression unchanging. He pulled the cardigan and held it up. “This. This won’t do at all. I’m not wearing a fucking cardigan”

You stared at him, wide eyed. You didn’t have the time to deal with that, sunrise was a few minutes away!

“You will wear that cardigan or so help me” You said in a low, yet threatening voice. He recoiled. “Suck. It. Up.”

Wordlessly, he headed for the bathroom on the other side of the bedroom. He changed in two minutes, coming back awkwardly with his pile of dark clothes. You picked them from him and walked to that spot just beside your bed, and kneeled. You unscrewed the floor board, which was already loose, and you deposited the bundle, weapons and all, next to a very, very dusty blue jeans and burgundy coat. You hurried to replace everything like it hadn’t been touched and stood up again to face an all pink, visibly uncomfortable Jason. He was tying his bow, a displeased frown on his face. It made you wonder what was his life before. He changed rather quickly, and didn’t seem confused by the way bow ties worked.

“What now?”

“We gel your hair”

“No” His eyes widened. The wake up siren sounded outside, and like a reflex learned through violent lessons, your face pulled into a pained smile. You still made a zipping motion over your mouth, pointing to the bathroom. With a silent sigh, he complied.

---

His smile looked unnatural.

But again, so did yours probably. So did everyone’s. Smiling that much wasn’t natural for anyone or anything but perhaps a hyena. Or a clown. You walked arms in arms with him, waving at people sending you curious glances, their smiles unwavering. The government was already aware of this presence, either because they zapped him there or because they heard your made up meeting conversation through the microphones. 

“Okay, I see what you meant by everyone is a spy” He muttered through his teeth, making sure his lips weren’t moving. He was holding to his grin like it was a lifeline. And it was. 

“Right?” You replied in the same manner. “So don’t slip”

“I won’t”

“Well hello there!”

You jumped in surprise at the Mayor appearing in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere. You put your free hand on your heart and laughed. “Hi there, you startled me good!”

He laughed. Jason laughed. It all seemed forced. 

“I see we have an addition in Happy Town!” The mayor pointed to Jason, nodding in approval at his attire. “Where did you come from?”

His first test.

“I… Came from Earth!” He replied with enthusiasm. “Although I have to say, I looooove this place. It’s so… Happy!”

Well played, Jason. Well played.

“I am so glad to hear you say that” He placed a “friendly” pat on his shoulder, but he seemed satisfied. “What is your name, lad?”

“Dick Grayson, sir” 

You swallowed back your confusion at his words, but also at the hint of genuine smile that crossed his expression. Keep smiling.

“Well Mr. Grayson, welcome to Happy Town!” They shook hands. “I see Miss (Y/N) is already taking care of you, integrating you nicely in our community”

His gaze shifted to you as a silent warning behind those cold, smiling eyes. You had your fair history of problems with them, but they had every reason to think it was over now. Still, the warning lingered. But those pink assholes wouldn’t catch you this time.

“I’ll make sure he becomes one of us in no time!” You assured, giving a light nod to Jason.

“No doubt you’ll make an amazing couple” He tipped his pink hat and you noticed Jason held back a cough of surprise. “The daily play of the anthem is about to start, I must return to city hall. I’ll see you around!”

He waved. You waved. Jason waved. He walked away with a skip in his step like the happy jerk he was.

“Couple?” He said, coming back to your public mode of communicating. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you” You sighed internally.

“Sorry?”

“Yeah!” You wanted to burst out so bad. “What about it, Dick Grayson?”

“I wasn’t about to give them my real name” He defended, watching around for people noticing your hushed conversation. But everybody was preparing for the anthem, their attention directed to the morning messages man on the giant screens.

“So you gave that poor guy’s instead?”

“Poor? Nah. Relax, he can take care of himself” What you were sure was a chuckle escaped his lips. “Besides, he’s not even--”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please rise for our national anthem”

You elbowed Jason and stood up straight, the sun hitting the side of your face. He mimicked your posture. The music started, and you could see faltering in the corner of your eye.

“Is this--”

“Yes”

“What the fuck”

“I know”

“Whyyyyyyy”

“Stay with me” You urged silently. You really didn’t know how or why Happy Town’s anthem came to be ‘Yeah!’ by Usher feat Lil Jon and Ludacris, but even if you did, now was not the ideal time or place to get into that kind of discussion. You suspected it had something to do with the exclamation mark after the ‘yeah’. But you could be wrong. You still didn’t understand the bigger picture however, since the lyrics clearly contained the word ‘not’ followed directly by ‘happy’ in the first verse, which made ‘not happy’. It was against the party line. 

“Okay, we stage a coup tonight” He decided as the song ended. “I don’t think I can do this another day”

----

Midnight came slowly.

After a day of mingling and presenting Jason as Dick Grayson and your future husband like the Mayor had most probably hinted at during your morning encounter, of slyly getting out of eating pie and avoiding the police, you were glad to finally breathe. 

“UUUUGH” Jason whined, plopping on the couch. “I can never look at the color pink the same way ever again. I’m sick of it, sick of it!”

“Get it together!” You snapped. “We need to plan our coup. We’ve got one shot for it, and if it fails we’re toast. I need my bed, Jason. MY BED”

“Alright, what do you have in mind?” He asked, taking a deep breath. “You know this place more than I do”

“I say tomorrow night, we quietly follow the police after their curfew patrol round” You began, biting the skin around your nails. “How good is your stealth?”

He looked at you blankly for a good ten seconds before he let out a small, ironic snort. “Above average, I’d say”

It was like he wanted you to ask why he’d think that, but you were too busy thinking about your plan. “Good, good” You nodded. “There must be some headquarters somewhere. All we have to do is get there, threaten them at gunpoint--Your guns are functional yes?”

“Obviously”

“--So they’ll zap us back to Earth. And if not, we shoot the mayor and take control of this hell”

“That escalated quickly,” He stated. “But what the hell, sure, I’m on board. Let’s go”

“Tomorrow the sun sets at 8:07. We’ll need to be changed and ready to go by then”

“Wait, tomorrow?” He sprung up in his seat, eyes wide. “No, no. I can’t take one more day of pink cardigans and pleasant conversations with spies!”

“DEAL WITH IT” You gestured wildly before calming down almost instantly. You didn’t need the neighbors to hear and report a fight. “Patrol is already over for today. Be smart about this”

“Fine” He sighed aggressively. “But if this flops, I’m taking everyone down with me. There won’t be an after tomorrow, I can fucking tell you”

“Yeah I won’t stop you”

“Good”

“Good.”

You stayed there in silence, unmoving for a moment. This was it. The moment you’ve been waiting for. Your liberation. Your bed was less than 24 hours a day if things went as planned, which you hoped it would. 

“I’ll… Sleep on the couch” He mumbled after a while, moving to lay down. YOur eyes widened.

“You can’t” You objected, knowing the government would find a way to find out the scam you were running through that detail. 

“Why not?”

“If the secret police comes for a surprise inspection and your side of the bed is cold, we’re kaputt” You explained. “We’re supposed to be at the very least fiancés, remember?”

“God fucking dammit” He swore, looking up at the sky like it would help him. Ha, you already tried that and it didn’t work.

---

The next day, as you prepared the decaf pot of coffee because happy people didn’t need caffeine to be happy, a knock sounded on your door. Jason was taking a shower in the bathroom, so you went and opened the door. Like you had predicted, two men in dark magenta stood at your doorstep with dangerous looking smiles. 

“Good morning ma’am” One greeted with a tip of his hat. “This is a surprise inspection, warranted by the new arrivant in your household, name Dick Grayson and title husband to be. May we come in?”

Your smile widened as you stepped aside, like you actually had a choice in the matter.

“Of course!” You exclaimed. “Coffee, officers?”

“We’ll have to politely decline, thank you” The other smiled as they came in and observed the clean state of the house. All houses were required to be neat and clean at all times. They looked around for something out of place, slowly but surely directing themselves to the bedroom at the end of the hall. You followed them a few paces away, ready to answer their question if they had some. It wasn’t your first surprise check. 

They finally reached the room, from where they could hear the shower running. Their gazes caught the neatly folded pink pile on the bed, then they surrounded it. They started to feel under the comforter and drapes, on the pillows, everywhere they could spot the presence or absence of another person. You called it, oh you so called it.

The shower stopped, and both officers shared a look. “Alright, everything is in order ma’am. Have a good breakfast and a good day!”

You escorted them to the door, threw them a thank you on the way and silently sighed once the door closed behind them. You returned to your coffee, and not long after, Jason emerged from the hallway all dressed in pink.

“Ooh, who were the gentlemen here?” He inquired cheerily, but you knew what it meant. 

“Some nice officers came to see if we were doing fine here!” You replied with equal cheer.

“Shucks, I missed them” He snapped his fingers, chuckling. “Next time perhaps”

“Of course!” The pep in your voice did not match your eye roll. Thank god there were no cameras. 

You finished breakfast and went to town once again, like you did everyday. You felt like everyone was staring at you even more than usual. Like they all knew what you planned for that night. You might have been slightly paranoid, but Jason’s calm demeanor was helping. He was good at that, like he had practiced for all of his life to deceive people.

The mayor bothered you again after the daily play of the anthem, a song you were sure would elicit a violent reaction from you once you would be back in the real world. Then, you repeated the same daily routine you had had forever. Smile, avoid the pie, smile, talk with the neighbors-spies, smile, think about how life is amazing, smile.

Smile smile smile smile smile smile. 

Eurgh.

That night, the pleasant conversations contained codes to trump the microphones. Jason pretended to dance while you unscrewed the loose floorboard and carefully placed his clothes and weapons on the bed. You picked your old clothes, quietly dusting them off. They smelled weird but you were excited to wear something other than pepto bismol dyed fabric. Making sure the curtains were drawn, you proceeded to change. Jason looked ecstatic to finally be rid of his cardigan, while you took a moment to appreciate your black t-shirt and burgundy coat. While he had his red helmet, he handed you a domino mask from his pocket. You had no idea why he had that, but you took it anyway. It looked cool and rebel. You sneaked through the back door, avoiding the spots of light by either lamps outside your house and street posts. You watched the patrol casually making sure everyone was inside, keeping a good distance in between you and them at every time. They weren’t talking, but whistling some creepy tunes. You had to make a small hike through a hill when they entered a gated tunnel, but you ended up in front of a giant factory where workers dressed in grey buzzed around with crates. YOu gasped.

“Illegal” You muttered.

“What?”

You shook your head. They had gotten to you too much, it was time you left that god forsaken place. “Nevermind. How do we go through that barbed wire?”

He pulled out a medium sized pair of cutters from… You had no idea where, but he had them. You shrugged, gesturing to him to go ahead. In a blink, you were in. You sneaked inside without being seen, navigating the building with guesses and feelings. You finally ended up in the main production room, where crates of products were opened and emptied in a giant bassin. The stirred liquid was purple and smelled strange, but you knew it was to do no good. And right beside, there was the pie filling packaging. 

“I knew it!” You hissed under your breath. “They’re putting drugs in the pie! Can you see what it is? Cocaine? Heroin?

“Doesn’t seem like…” He leaned in. “Wait…”

“Al-- Allegra?” You managed to read the crate.”Never heard of it, but it must be terrible and dangerous”

Jason turned his head and stared at you. HIs helmet bore no expression, but you were sure he looked at you like you were dumb. Did he know what it was? “Are you kidding me?”

“No, why?”

“Allegra is--” He sighed. “It’s allergy medication. It’s… Not drugs per say”

“Uh?”

“God dammit--” He paused as something caught his eyes. It was sparkly, and unfit for this environment. From it emerged five armed guys dressed in earth clothes. They had a bag of white substance, which was tasted by the man who welcomed them. “Of fuck, THAT’s cocaine” 

You waited as they put some of it in a vial, which already had purple liquid. 

“Fuck, they mix it with allegra?” He cursed, mostly to himself. “What kind of fucking insane dimension did I step in?” 

“I told you”

“Okay, so those guys will have to leave eventually” Jason pointed at the visibly Earth humans. “We’ll make sure we catch it as well”

“But they have machine guns” You pointed out, not sure how his mind worked. 

“Wait for my signal” You knew he was grinning under that helmet. Before you could ask him how the fuck he would manage five armed guys, he jumped over the rail and started running toward them. You shut your eyes shut as gunshots went off, then opened them again when it was silent. There were bodies around, but Jason was still standing, wrestling with two guys. You watched for a few seconds when you noticed a pink figure sneakily approaching from behind, a frying pan in his hand.

The mayor!

You jumped over the rail too, but your landing was way less graceful than Jason’s. Actually, you were pretty sure you sprained your ankle. But still, you ran-limped to the man and jumped on his back before he could bonk Jason’s head with his weapon.

“ARRRRRGH”

He did not see you coming, as he lost balance at your attack. You crashed on the ground, where you managed to get on top and start hitting him. But apparently neither of you knew how to punch, so it was a rather pathetic looking fight. You swapped and slapped, pulled hair and scratched, until you got a hold of his pan and made a pancake of his face. 

“Take that you pink fucking nightmare” You spat as you stood up. You turned to Jason, whose shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

“Wow uh” He covered it with a cough. “That sure was an interesting fight to watch”

“Keep mocking me, mister fucking assassin” You rolled your eyes. “I stopped him from bonking your head”

“Alright, alright, thank you”

“No problem” You replied. “Let’s get out of here”

You went and stood on the platform the dealers came through, then waited. But nothing happened.

“I think we need to activate it” He spoke up. That was logical.

You scanned the room for a panel control, and you believed you spotted it on the opposite wall. You grabbed your shoe to throw at it, before Jason held back your arm’s motion.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Activating the portal” You furrowed your brows, pointing at the panel. A big red button on which was written ‘ON’ was glaring at you from the distance. Practical target.

“Don’t throw your shoe, that’s dumb” He snorted. “Let me”

Before you could argue, he cocked his gun and fired a bullet right on the button. A death sound resonated, but nevertheless sparks began to fly and not just from the ruined panel. The portal opened and swallowed you, sending you through flashes and weird colors until you were spat out in a dull, dark place that smelled bad. Jason seemed to have landed just fine, but you were another story. You pulled yourself up, whining at the pain in your ankle. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here”

A creepy, unknown voice made you both turn around. It was a pale man with an unnaturally stretched smile and bad taste in clothes, and right away it made you think the worst. You had been thrown in Dark!Happy Town. Without thinking, you let out a war cry and hurled your frying pan to the more evil version of the Mayor, knocking him out instantly.

What you didn’t expect though, was the roaring laughter from beside you. 

“Oh--Oh my god” He could barely talk. “I wished I filmed that”

“What? What’s happening?” You asked. Had he gone crazy? “Who’s that? We’re not back home are we?”

“Relax, we’re back” He took a deep breath, his shoulders still shaking. “You’ve just knocked out the most wanted criminal in Gotham city”

“WHAT?”

“Welcome back, (Y/N), welcome back”

[caught-in-a-seesaw-stigma]

Peripheral 7.5

Pairings: OT7 x reader; Taehyung x reader; Taehyung x Jimin

Series Summary:  An unfortunate accident leaves Kim Namjoon with amnesia, and Big Hit, BTS, ARMY, and the entire world is desperate to help him regain his memories and knowledge. Fortunately, a new genetics company has successfully created a system to alter our brains into human databases which can help someone regain knowledge and memories through a simple input/output exchange. Can this new invention give us back our beloved leader?

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Idol AU

Word Count: 2K+

Warnings: NSFW 18+ Cursing, oral (female receiving), teasing, groping, bisexual overtones

Word Count: 2K+

Taehyung POV

All that skin...so soft, so smooth, so pretty…

Y/N’s thighs were rubbing together slightly and her hips lifted off the mattress as she released a barely audible moan. The oversized RJ shirt covering her body shifted further and further up her thighs and Taehyung licked his lips at every inch that was revealed before him.

“Tae,” she breathed out. “Please, touch me.”

Taehyung groaned at the needy tone in her voice and palmed himself over his pajama pants. The impressive tent he was rocking was barely contained behind the thin fabric. Y/N’s seductive movements caused his dick to twitch to life with a copious amount of precum pooling on his pajama pants,

Probably should’ve worn underwear.

Y/N reached out and pulled on Taehyung’s forearm, encouraging him to get closer to the bed. As soon as his thighs made contact with the edge of the mattress, Y/N was already trying to pull him onto the bed.

“Y/N-noona,” Taehyung chastised playfully. “You should be resting.”

“Rest with me, Tae-Tae,” she pleaded sweetly. “Come on, I’ll let you be the big spoon.”

Taehyung looked around the room in search of another person, but alas, Yoongi was nowhere to be seen, even though Taehyung could swear his hyung was just in the room a moment ago. Now, it was just him and Y/N.

Big spoon, little spoon.

There was a seven second pause before Taehyung released an exhale full of excitement and climbed onto the bed, hovering over Y/N’s barely clad body. The RJ on the shirt slowly morphed into a Tata graphic, and Taehyung was incredibly pleased.

It’s not just about being cute, it’s about being unique.

“Tae,” Y/N sighed. “I need you.”

“Do you now?” Taehyung grinned. “Where do you need me, beautiful?”

Y/N’s smile increased in brightness as she reached down to remove the oversized T-shirt from her body. The golden skin that was revealed nearly blinded Taehyung as he drank in every centimeter of her glorious body. His breath caught as she lowered one hand down her stomach and straight into her dripping folds. Taehyung gulped as her fingers split into a V shape to reveal her swollen jewel hidden in the folds. It glistened enticingly in the dim lamplight of the room, and Taehyung felt his throat dry up in response.

“I need you right here, Tae-Tae,” Y/N purred. “Be a good boy and help me out, yeah? Are you my good boy?"

"Fuck yeah, you know I am," Taehyung responded gruffly. "I'm a good boy, I swear."

“Show me how good you are, Tae,” Y/N pleaded. “Show me what that silver tongue can do.”

Taehyung happily situated himself between Y/N’s legs and started licking, kissing, and nibbling his way to her flushed core. The trails of arousal he swiped away with his tongue just made his dick ache even more.

She’s fucking delicious.

Once Taehyung’s lips made contact with Y/N’s hidden jewel, she released the most incredible sound from her throat. It was airy and light and full of passion and sweetness. Taehyung wanted to record it and play it on repeat so he could always have it bouncing around his ear drums. Every erotic moan she released just increased his desire to have more of her in his mouth, in his ears, in his world.

He dragged his tongue across every millimeter of her sex, not allowing a single drop to go to waste. The more he licked and slurped, the wetter she became, and the flavor of musky fruit pirouetted along his taste buds delightfully. Y/N’s essence rivaled the most exotic fruits and Taehyung was lost in the extravagant taste on his palate.

How can one person be this unbelievably sweet?

“Tae,” Y/N groaned. “Kiss me.”

Taehyung placed one last lingering kiss on her glistening lips before traveling to the ones above. He slotted himself between her legs and allowed his girthy erection to nestle on top of her throbbing sex. She hissed out of sensitivity, but the fabric was so soft that it wasn’t causing any discomfort. With measured precision, Taehyung dipped his lips to capture Y/N’s and he began languidly teasing her with small kisses and playful tongue flicks.

Y/N’s hand slid between their bodies to grasp Taehyung’s warm length over his pajama pants and he groaned as soon as she applied any pressure to his turgid length. Her delicate hands stroked him up and down while he continued drawing small whines and moans from Y/N’s mouth. The numerous rings on her hand confused him at first because he didn’t remember her wearing much jewelry, but he quickly dismissed the thought when Y/N sucked especially hard on his bottom lip. He moaned out in response and pushed his cock harder into her ring clad grip.

“Tae,” Y/N gasped as his lips traveled across her jaw and to her neck. “Ah, Tae.”

“That’s right, beautiful,” Taehyung whispered. “Say my name.”

She continued to chant his name in a hushed, breathy voice and her hand tightened around his shaft, causing him to groan and buck forward against her upper thigh. Taehyung nipped at her earlobe and made his way back to her lips, which were fuller than he remembered. In fact, they seemed to have doubled in size in the last few minutes. He sucked on the bottom one, puzzled by its plush texture.

What’s going on? Am I imagining things?

Y/N’s other hand traveled into his hair and pulled gently on the golden locks, desperate to recapture his attention.

“Tae,” Y/N whined cutely. “Why aren’t you touching me?”

Taehyung chuckled at the pout evident in her tone and he lowered one of his hands to palm her plump ass. It was unbelievably firm and warm in his palm and he used his leverage to rut against her even more, drawing more breathy moans out of her with every shallow thrust. As a matter of fact, her ass felt firmer than he thought it would.

Weird, but nice. She’s got a dancer’s ass.

“Tae,” Y/N squeaked out. “Tae, Tae,”

“What is it, beautiful?” Taehyung grunted as his pushed himself against her bare sex. “Do you want me to put it in? Tell me you want my thick cock inside of you. Say the word and it’s all yours.”

“No, Tae,” Y/N’s voice deepened slightly. “I want you to wake up.”

Did she just say she wanted me to wake up?

“Wake up, Tae,” Y/N persisted while stroking him. “Wake up.”

Taehyung wrinkled his forehead in confusion and took a moment to clear his lust-crazed mind. Her voice didn’t sound the same. It was almost like she sounded like someone else, someone he knew very well.

It couldn’t be his voice. That’s impossible.

As he pulled his face up from Y/N’s neck, he was pleased at the bright pink blossom he’d left behind, but that elation was short lived as he looked down and realized Y/N was no longer beneath him.

“Taehyungie,” Jimin smirked up at him. “Wake up.”

-----------------

Abruptly, Taehyung lifted his head and realized that he was still on the couch in the living room. He glanced at the lap he was in and repressed the urge to yelp. He looked up and realized that Jimin was giving him the strangest look and he gulped nervously before pulling himself into a sitting position, grabbing a pillow to cover the erection begging to be released from the confines of his pajama pants. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before he met Jimin’s curious eyes. As soon as he did, he immediately hoped that he hadn’t done anything to Jimin to hint at what his dreams consisted of.

“Are you ok, Taehyungie?” Jimin asked sweetly, while scooting closer to him. “You looked like you were having a nightmare. You kept moaning and moving against the couch. Was something chasing you?”

After releasing a nervous giggle, Taehyung shook his head and breathed out a sigh of relief. Jimin lifted a hand to rub at Taehyung’s shoulder, trying to ease the tension he could see tormenting his soulmate. Fortunately, Jimin didn’t seem to have a clue about what just occurred in Taehyung’s dream, so it appeared as though he was in the clear.

“I’m ok, Jiminie,” Taehyung assured his soulmate. “Just a weird dream, that’s all.”

Still though...what the hell was that all about?

Footsteps were heard coming from the hallway, and Yoongi appeared at the threshold looking less pissed than before. His facial expression gave off a serious vibe, but his eyes were sparkling with contentment.

Oh man, something happened between him and Y/N, I just know it.

“Hey, guys,” Yoongi greeted them with a sigh. “I’m sorry about my harsh words earlier, but I was really worried that we’d harmed our guest and it really upset me. I apologize if I hurt any of your feelings, but I didn’t want Y/N to have a bad impression of us. She’s only been here a few days, and we haven’t been taking care of her properly.”

Everyone offered up an apology at once and Taehyung almost missed Jimin’s hand slipping down and under the pillow on his lap. Delicate ringed fingers slid over the hardened outline of his erection over his pajama pants and Taehyung resisted the urge to yelp. His head snapped over to look at Jimin, but Taehyung found the cherubim's eyes locked onto Yoongi.

What the fuck are you doing, Jimin?

Yoongi lifted his hands and quieted everyone down and then leaned against the kitchen counter to look at them.

“Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook piped up. “Is Noona ok?”

“Yes, Jungkookie,” Yoongi smiled softly. “She’s awake and she’s ok. She used some machine to run some tests on herself, but we have to wait for the results. Whatever fever she had earlier is gone now, but she’s feeling a little weak. She will probably be in bed all day.”

“Can we go in and talk to her now, Yoongi-hyung?” Hoseok asked. “Would she be ok with that?”

“I told her that you needed to talk to her and she’s waiting for you now,” Yoongi replied. “Visiting hours are open, but please, only go in a few at a time. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

“Hobi-hyung and I will go first,” Jungkook spoke up. “We want to tell her about the weird stuff that’s been happening.”  

Taehyung was about to speak up, but Jimin’s hand retreated from his lap and he was momentarily distracted.

“You guys go ahead,” Jimin suggested. “Taehyungie and I will go in and see her after you’re done. If we all take turns, she won’t have to be alone unless she wants to.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Yoongi agreed. “Where’s Jin? Still sulking?”

“I sent him to his room,” Hoseok explained. “I told him he’s grounded until we find out more information from Bang PD-nim.”

“Ok,” Yoongi nodded. “I’m going to go shower and change while you two visit. It’s been a long morning and I’m exhausted. Tell Y/N that I’ll be back to bring her something to eat after I’m done.”

With that, Yoongi turned around and made a beeline for his room and Hoseok and Jungkook followed him into the hallway, heading to the end of the hall to Y/N’s room.

Left alone, Taehyung readjusted himself on the couch as Jimin turned sideways and stared at him with a neutral expression on his face. The living room was eerily quiet and Taehyung zoned out listening to the sound of the air conditioning kicking on once again.

“So,” Jimin’s voice broke through the tension in the room. “Do you want to tell me why you were dry humping the couch while nuzzling my dick earlier, Taehyungie?”

Taehyung inhaled too quickly at Jimin’s sudden question and ended up coughing uncontrollably. When he was finally able to speak, he met Jimin’s fiery gaze and gasped at the seductive grin blooming on his face.

Fuck...

Author’s Note: I finally got back to this story again. I’m hitting a stride with the plot and I am going to start working on the next big chapter since I already have most of it outlined. Things are getting a little sticky in the VMin corner, and I think the dynamics of their relationship are finally evening out. Should make the next couple of chapters very interesting. Thank you to @xxxille-girlxxx​, my gorgeous Goguma, for Beta reading this for me. Borahae, soulmate!

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PERIPHERAL MASTERLIST

Caught-in-a-seesaw-stigma’s MASTERLIST

[eagle-raider]

Mon Roi

AN: this is an original fiction I wrote some time ago. Not related to my current WIP, this is just the tale of a woman trapped in a relationship with a narcissistic man. It’s... kind of dark? I guess.

Dazzled. 

It didn’t start right away. It never does.

Nineteen, naïve and in love.

Isis is floating on cloud nine, humming along to the music as she cleans the counter. If she plays it right, she might get off a little earlier, which means she can drop by her apartment to have a quick shower before meeting with Thomas.

“Ew, gross!” Kowalski's voice sounds from the kitchen. His head pops up next to the threshold. “Someone didn’t throw the food in the bin before putting the plates to wash,” he grimaces in disgust. “Just had a hand full of a gooey, wet cheesecake.”

Isis looks at him and snorts. “Wear gloves next time.”

He sticks his tongue out, disappears into the kitchen before coming back a second later to give her a long, suspicious look. There’s a grin on his lips. “He’s coming back, isn’t he?”

She can’t’ help it, she is beaming. “Already here. I let him sleep it off,” jet-lag is a bitch, they all knew it.

“So caring,” Kowalski coos. He pauses for a while, observing her frantic cleaning and shakes his head. “Leave, I’ll take care of this.”

Isis stops with the cloth halfway in the air. “It’s okay…”

“Leave, I’m telling you,” he makes wide gestures with his hand. “You’re… vibrating all over the place. It’s distracting. Just go. I will deal with it.”

“You sure?” man, he really was the best.

“Yeesss,” he draws the word out, catching her with a grunt when she jumps in his arms.

“Thank you, love you. Love you. Love you,” she says, dropping a kiss on his cheeks at each sentence.

Isis jumps off Kowalski, dashing to the lockers, as she throws her apron away.

“Hey, don’t forget we’re practicing for the chamber thing tomorrow,” he calls when she is already halfway outside. Isis hums and he gives her a look. “Tomorrow morning. You know how she gets. Don’t want to have her up my ass again.”

She grins despite herself. “I thought you liked having things up y—”

“Don’t,” his hand rises up to stop her. “Finish this sentence, or I swear to God you’ll be sleeping in the streets.”

Isis shrugs it off. He stares again and she sighs. “Yes, dad. I will be there.”

“Nine. Sharp.”

Nine on a Sunday, such heresy. “Yeesss. Nine, sharp,” she makes a sign that says scout’s honor, for good measure.

Satisfied, Kowalski nods. “I will get you breakfast.”

She smiles. He knows her all too well; bribe her with freshly baked pains au chocolat and croissants and Isis would follow to the Moon and back.

She leaves, the bell tingling her departure like a warning.

Isis remembered, she really did, asked Thomas to please let her set the alarm at seven thirty (eight at the latest), because she had a rehearsal and it's very important, but his kisses are distracting, and he keeps grabbing her hand in his. The alarm ends up forgotten.

She wakes up at ten twenty to the smell of pancakes and coffee.

When she barges in for practice, Kowalski’s silence weights on her like a ton of bricks.

The bag of cold croissants sits at her place, idle.

Taking control

Little things. Small things. Not so innocuous things.

He is upset and she doesn’t know why. He is upset and she can’t figure it out. “What’s wrong?”

Thomas is glaring at the TV, scratching his cheek slowly. “Nothing,” he says in a breath.

Something.

Isis isn’t a quitter, he was deflecting, she knows. She would get to the bottom of it. “Something is obviously wrong, you look upset,” she lets it hang for a second. “Is it something I did?”

A deeper sigh, another pregnant pause, full of accusations.

It’s definitely something you did.

He turns his head, looks at her, to the side, and back at her again. Thinking. Then: “You kind of made fun of me earlier. I didn’t like it, is all,” even voice, stating facts.

“Oh.”

Dinner, with Chloé, Kowalski and a few other friends. They were celebrating the end of a particularly long and excruciating music project. Laughs, beers, greasy food and nothing but the burble of the Seine as background noise. Perfect. Or so she thought. 

Isis frowns. She did poke fun at him, it’s true. Gently, always gentle. Called him a walking American cliché at some point, but she doesn’t remember when exactly. “Okay,” she smiles, a bit awkward, a bit sheepish. It was her fault. “I’m sorry,” she says, index and middle fingers raised in solemnity. “Won’t happen again, Scout’s honor.”

He smiles. Such a lovely smile. She likes it. She lives for it.

When Chloé starts to look at him funny, she tells her to knock it off.

Nineteen, naïve and in love.

Closing in on her

Twenty, losing her identity.

Isis had practically moved in at this point. It’s closer to her work, he says. There’s plenty of space, he says. She’s ecstatic. She still sees Chloé and Kowalski at the conservatory (when Thomas is not monopolizing her attention) or at work. It’s not the same, she knows, and they know. Kowalski gets this look sometimes, like he wants to say something, but he keeps his mouth shut and sighs instead, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Chloé is less accommodating. They argue (they never did), she hints at things and Isis doesn’t like how she makes it sound.

Like she’s giving up a part of herself. All of it, Chloé says, in her eyes there’s a mix of frustration and worry (“How can you be so blind?”)

Isis is okay. (“What the hell is your problem, Chlo?”)

She’s not a puppet.

Not a puppet.

Not his puppet.

…

The months blur together.

He frowns and her heart is racing again. Isis does a mental check-list of everything, out of habit, just in case. Nothing is out of place, she didn’t forget anything. Everything is fine. Then, why is he frowning at her?

Thomas approaches her. He relishes in her doubts. Control. His fingers running through her hair slowly. “You should put it up, it would look nicer. Or just straighten it from time to time,” he’s smiling.

Just a suggestion. An option.

Later, when she does it, his eyes twinkle and he smiles again. He is lovely like that. When he takes her to bed that night, he tells her how beautiful he thinks she looks. He takes locks of hair in his fist, twirls them around with his fingers, looks at her like she is the most beautiful canvas in the world.

After that, there are… other things. Clothes, shoes, makeup. Exactly the way he wants, exactly as he asks. Never imposing anything, always suggesting. And that smile, that smile!

Isis forgets herself for that smile, because that’s how she loves. It’s full on, or nothing at all, there’s no in-between.

“We made it!” she barges in his—their place one day. “We’re going on tour!” she almost shouts, all crazy energy and vibrating with joy. His glare is fleeting, but it’s there. Isis hunches over herself and apologizes with a sheepish smile.

He grins, opening his arms wide for her to jump into them. And she does exactly that.

…

Obeying him because that’s what she was good at. Like a good puppet.

“Did you pick up the scores for Friday’s rehearsal?”

It was Monday. They still had time.

Of course, she didn’t. They both knew it. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

A sigh, a look. A teacher scolding a difficult pupil. “You always put things back to the following day.”

No, she wanted to say. No, she wanted to scream. Didn’t he see everything she had done already? Didn’t he notice? The hair, the clothes and the makeup? Wasn’t it good enough?

Wasn’t she good enough?

...

The first time his eyes stray to Manon, she doesn’t notice. Doesn’t think much of it the second time. The third, she wants to call him out, but he looks back and his eyes say don’t you dare.

Isis keeps her mouth shut. Like a puppet.

Crumbling

Isis is going crazy. She’s up, she’s down, she’s sideways with stress eating at her brain. The new conductor of Paris’s Philarmonie just fired half of his orchestra. No question asked, pack your bags and get out. Rumor has it he was out for blood.

Rumor has it he might consider handpicking a few of them. Isis wants to believe it, but she doesn’t let hope cloud her judgement. She knew they had struck big with the tour months ago, knew he had noticed them. This could be the chance of a lifetime.

“You’re distracted,” Isis flinches. His voice is grating (it never was before).

It’s like he is trying to drill her down when he stares at her like that.

“Something on your mind?” Thomas prompts.

What are you hiding is what she hears. There’s a lump in her throat, and it crawls down all the way to her stomach, it knots, and knots until she feels like she can’t breathe. 

I need to breathe.

But he’s chocking her with his words, with his eyes looking at her like that, he’s smoldering her with his presence. And. She. Can. Not. Breathe.

Her hand is flat on his chest, pushing him away a little. She wants to take it back but he grabs it, keeps it in trapped under his own. Keeps (forces) her with him. Isis can’t fight, she doesn’t have it in her anymore.

She spills the beans. The conductor, the orchestra, the maybes. Everything.

Thomas frowns, then smiles. Big. Bigger than she's ever seen. It’s beautiful.

(It’s terrifying).

“That’s wonderful,” he says.

His arms slither around her frame, she searches and searches but there is no comfort in his hug. It’s a cage. A cage she doesn’t have the strength to escape anymore, so she lets it happen, smiles when he pulls back to kiss her. His lips taste bitter on hers, like ash.

He doesn’t smoke.

 ...

Thomas visits her at work one day, puffing his chest, proud and parading like a peacock. She feels the dread, feels the lump growing and knotting and hurting. Her hands start shaking, she knows, he doesn’t have to say it. She knows.

“The conductor wants us to audition,” and he looks so happy. “That’s great, right?” his hand comes to caress her cheek, travels, his fingers curl around her neck and stay there for a bit. “We’ll be together, can you imagine? Us in the same orchestra?”

Isis can, and she doesn’t want to. It’s her thing. It’s always been hers. It’s hers. Hers. If he gets in, it won’t become theirs, but his. His. Like her.

She barely has the strength to nod, her voice is meek when she says, “Great.”

Kowalski is watching the whole scene. Thomas is scrutinizing her face like a hawk. “You don’t seem happy?”

Why can’t you be happy for us?

Isis blinks, she is at a loss. “I—I am. I j—just—just… I’m…” the stuttering is all over the place because she can’t breathe. Thomas takes up all the air in the room.

“She’s tired, dude,” Kowalski’s low baritone wraps around her like a safety net. He comes next to her, all grins and shiny chocolate eyes. “We all are, look at us,” his hand is pointing at the rest of the staff. They are more sluggish than usual. “Let her be, you guys will celebrate tonight.”

It’s her out. Isis takes it. Kowalski’s grabs her hand under the counter, she doesn’t let go. Thomas looks at them, back and forth, back and forth. His hand is still on her neck and he is still smiling.

“I’m sorry, you’re busy,” he lets go, leans in to kiss her cheek again.

(it burns).

“I’ll see you tonight,” she says, barely a whisper.

When he finally leaves and Kowalski looks at her, she blinks. Her eyes are shining but the tears don’t fall.

“You don’t have to stay with him,” is all he says.

(His eyes speak volumes. A thousand words).

“I know.”

She knows. She just can’t.

...

When it happens, it’s not really a surprise. Isis is hunched on the cold toilet seat, frowning at that little white rod like it was going to change its mind if she glared at it long enough. Her eyes blur and Chloé is pacing like a tigress trapped in a cage.

“Isis,” she growls, then blinks. Softer: “You can’t stay in there forever.”

There’s only silence on the other side. Isis blinks and blinks because she can’t bring herself to cry. It’s too much.

It’s not that she never thought about it. She did; but not like that, not right now.

Not with him, her mind supplies. She tunes it out.

Not with him.

Not with him.

The thought buzzes around in her head when she finally opens the door. Chloé is there, her face creased with worry. She takes Isis in a hug, wraps around her like a blanket and lets her shake. She doesn’t say anything, they already spoke. Isis knows. Isis knows.

(She’s not sobbing.)

It’s a virus, replicating within herself, feeding off her cells.

…

It takes her three weeks to tell the news to Thomas. She tries to convince herself that it’s not out of fear, she just wanted to make sure. Use other sticks, other brands, blood tests and what not. They all come back positive, the nurse announcing her pregnancy with a finality akin to a death sentence.

(It’s not the same, she knows it’s not. It just feels that way.)

Isis doesn’t want to keep it. Kowalski doesn’t say a word and just nods, Chloé keeps her arm wrapped around her shoulders. Their support is a given.

She won’t keep it.

(He will want to keep it.)

(Trap her.)

(Deeper.)

Isis doesn’t make a sound when she comes in the apartment that night. She is exhausted, bloodshot eyes and sticky cheeks. Silent tears to give her the courage to face him.

Chloé is waiting at the(ir) apartment. She wanted to come, but Isis didn’t let her. She had to do this alone. It was between them.

She breathes, her hunched body expending, growing taller as she inhales.

There’s a grunt. Faint. Female.

She frowns, takes a step forward and blinks when it comes back.

A bit louder. Muffled.

Her heart is beating, beating, beating.

Beat. Moan. Beat. Grunt. Beat. Thud.

It’s not what she thinks.

(It’s exactly what she thinks.)

Leave. Now is your out. Leave. LEAVE.

Isis doesn’t turn back.

...

Her mother’s eyes are still bleary with sleep. Worried. Isis hasn’t said a word. It’s been hours and she hasn’t said a word. She’s staring a hole in her mug of disgustingly lukewarm chocolate.

Beat. Moan. Beat. Grunt. Beat. Thud.

It’s all she hears, like a broken record.

Beat. Moan. Beat. Grunt. Beat. Thud.

Her brain is always on, and so she surprises herself trying to turn this into a song. A sick melody of quivers.

Heartbreak in D minor.

[kayr0ss]

Elder Scrolls Academia: A Series of Stories

Book One: The Dragonborn’s Fire and the Lady of Ice

[Diakko, SkyrimAU LMAO, action, adventure, cute goofy fluff, and romance, and dorkiness]

Summary: Diana was unprecedented in her talent for magic, even from her home town of Daggerfall among Breton nobility. But to sharpen her skill to its most lethal, she'd have to train where the cold bit the hardest--Skyrim. Now, the College of Winterhold's foremost student is crossing the threshold from apprentice to full-fledged mage, but her arch-mage mentor had tasked her with one last act to prove herself: Guiding the Dragonborn.

Except, the Dragonborn was hardly what she expected them to be.

[A gift to PyroTato]

---

“Hey, you.”

She blinked through her bleary vision. The first thing she felt was the harsh bite of the cold. Next was the sound of horseshoes clicking against what must have been mud and stone, followed by a view of she could only describe as… white.

“You’re finally awake.”

It wasn’t just white. There were hues of gray and blue, but it was all just merged back into an endless expanse of… white.

She was jolted upwards by a bump in the road—ah, I’m on a carriage—and she tried to right herself but seems she’s been restrained by the wrists. She should have been more panicked, but it wasn’t like this was anything new. Something about her foreign features and red eyes made her an easy target for picking; what’s worse than a foreigner is Skyrim? A foreigner whose origin was a mystery. But she supposed others still had it worse, she was at the very least, as far as she could tell, from the blood of man.

She looked over to the space beside the carriage driver (an Imperial solider, looking still wet behind the ears) to find a locked chest of what must have been their belongings. It looked standard—nothing too hard to pick—made of wood like all the others, and hinges that would give if she pulled hard enough. It was secured onto the cart with two straps of thick leather. Her red eyes scanned the perimeter of the cart of for a sharp object she could use, but her observation was cut short by the thick voice of the Nord who had woken her.

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” He said. His eyes were deep-set, and the dirty blonde of his hair and beard was styled in the proud norther tradition. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us and that thief over there.”

She mulled over the words quietly, still a bit too disoriented to engage. She was hungry, and much too focused on trying to flee. The rest of the men had fallen into conversation, with the thief bemoaning his luck while the Nords seemed to take captivity with dignity. She blinked up at the mention of Ulfric Stormclock—apparently he was the sulking large fellow to her right.

And—oh—they were going to be executed?

No thank you, she tested the strength of her bindings. She’d like to live to eat another sweetroll.

The solider called out that they were arriving soon, and that this was a small town called Helgen. Their reception was less than spectacular and a little mixed—some came out to watch like bored spectators, others screamed, “murder!”, and a handful of parents rushed to drag their children back home; hopefully sparing them the trauma of heads casually lopped off in the name of the Emperor. It was a pity. It seemed like a quiet town with people who weren’t nearly as aggressive as farther up north. There weren’t too many buildings, although all of them were imposing with their stone walls and high beams. Not to mention the Imperial fort at the center, which didn’t look tolerant of any kind of trouble.

And she was trouble in every way that counted.

But also so, so hungry!

They were ushered out of the cart with no small amount of roughhousing, thrown into the ground and yelled-at to fall in line and present themselves to a young officer holding a list. There were several soliders on standby, with a woman donning the helmet of a senior Imperial officer barking out orders for the block to be readied. There rattling of chains mixed in with some commotion—the thief had tried to escape.

Mistake.

He fell limp on the ground, not given a second thought after the arrow sniped him square in the back, through where the heart must have been. She gave a low whistle and looked over at the archer, thoroughly impressed.

“You.” The young soldier called, and suddenly she was shoved forward—closer to that damned execution block—and asked to present herself. “Who are… you?”

She stared back at him, red eyes determined and stomach grumbling persistently.

“You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen on the continent.”

That was probably because as far as the stories have said, she wasn’t. She had to live through a rough life of never belonging with anyone for it—and so she sized him up and for the first time, spoke her name:

“Atsuko Kagari. Who is seriously very hungry.”

 ---

The mage took a deep, chilling breath. Her blues eyes were fixated on the flute glass of water that sat at the center of her desk. She was tucked away in her study, happy to wait out the winter storm with some semblance of warmth within the tower. But it was always cold in Winterhold, and by now it didn’t bother her one bit.

Slowly, the water began frosting over, solidifying under the sheer force of her will and the careful turning of her hands and fingers.

Gentle movements—no fancy gestures. The water froze and slowly crystalized upwards and towards the center into a haphazard cylinder, but then it twisted into itself, the ice moving in shards forming a frozen whirlpool that began to splinter along the top—branching out it as though it were alive, taking the shape of the dead tree in the middle of Whiterun that she had seen while coming to visit Farengar for advice.

It was a near-perfect replica.

She sat back, satisfied with her work. Shooting out a crass bolt of ice was easy. But this? This was control—and with the way the branches had curved in all the right places, the control was absolute.

Back in High Rock, among the Bretons of high society, she was Lady Diana Cavendish of Daggerfall, whose noble house held property in the Duchy of Cumberland where they grew the most potent plants for medicine.

Her person was synonymous with her name and where she had come from. Even on the years of her life spent travelling between Wayrest and Daggerfall for study, she had been measured by the weight of her name and not her magic.

But she excelled quite handsomely at both. It served her well—Bretons were made of diplomacy and trade in one hand, and magic in the other.

But it wasn’t real enough for her.

Not anymore—not in a country where the most a mage could be was the advisor of a king in court, or a glorified cannon on the battlefield.

She left the warm rolling hills of High Rock for the unforgiving cold in the far, far North.

---

Atsuko was just contemplating the effectivity of rolling out of the way of the very big sword meant to take her head when a giant dragon had swooped in and rudely interrupted her untimely demise.

Alright. Perhaps it wasn’t all that rude.

She knew to take an opportunity when it was handed to her, and she bolted straight for the fort where all the soldiers were taking cover.

It was chaos. Utter chaos. There was a roaring overhead that her blood seemed to recognize, but Shor’s bones, she wasn’t going to take the chance and look. The young officer was yelling instructions to protect the citizenry. The ground was shaking! Stone toppled over as the buildings gave in to the monstrous black claws that swatted them away like brittle clay pots.

But the worst of it all was the fire.

The air was scalding even when a few feet away from the plumes of hellish flame raining down from the dragon’s maw. She cursed her luck, wondering if she really escaped death a moment ago only to die as pile of ashes in the next.

“These goddamned bindings!” She hissed, her breath shaky while she pressed her back against the wall. A shadow shaped like wings blocked out the dreary sunlight and she closed her eyes—praying to every single one of the nine, Azura, and anyone who would listen in between.

There was a guttural rumbling coming up from above and—no. She still wasn’t going to look.

Staying close to the wall was a good idea. The dragon shot down a pillar of fire hotter than anything she’d ever felt burning down the buildings opposite her hiding spot. Just because she was expecting it doesn’t mean she was prepared—her hands shot up to cover her face, and though the heat was overbearing; her skin didn’t burn.

It was over, and the dragon flew back up to douse another part of town in an inferno.

“Foreigner!” A loud, clear voice called out. It was—it was the young officer? He held a dagger, beckoning her to hold out her arms. She thought he’d finish the job that the executioner and the dragon seemed to have left undone, but to her surprise he cut the bindings off and dragged her into the fort though a small entrance at the back.

“Follow me if you want live.” He commanded.

They barged into the relative safety of the fort—Atsuko saw the chest of their belongings from the corner of her eyes. She scrambled towards it, eager to retrieve the only belonging she had carried through the years, but the young officer held out his arm in front of it before she could reach it.

“I’ll unlock it.” He reassured. “Take what’s yours—there should also be some armor along the racks.”

“Why are you helping me?” Atsuko looked over warily, helping herself to the now-opened chest. The axes and shields didn’t interest her, neither did the potions, but—ah. There it is.

“Two can survive the dungeons and the caverns down below better than one.” He looked over towards her. “My name’s Hadvar. I think I—” His eyes widened at the sight of the old, worn sword that she held near her.

This reaction was nothing new, and she’s had her fair share of fending off thugs who thought it was theirs for the taking. They had another thing coming. She knew how to use this, at the very least. The blade was curved and slender, a stark contrast to the heavy, wide swords of Skyrim. The grip was wrapped in dark leather, crisscrossed with finely-embroidered cloth of a deep red, making a pattern of diamonds. The guard was simple, and so was the pommel, and the worn blade itself was dotted with seven, in-laid stars. It seemed the sheath was missing—Atsuko would later scavenge for cloth to wrap it with.

“That’s an Akaviri blade.” Hadvar looked in poorly-concealed surprise. “Where did you truly come from?”

Atsuko rolled her eyes—feeling annoyed despite the threat of a rampaging dragon outside. “I’ve asked myself that question more times that you can ever imagine.”

--

Atsuko had woken up in the house of a blacksmith in Riverwood. With a bit of a headache, she sat down with her head in her palms trying to remember it all. She was hungry. Oh, and about to get executed. The—dragon? Hadvar was leading her through the caverns.

He brought her to his uncle and aunt, and they were kind enough to open their home to her and feed her. They only favor they asked in return was for her to ask Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun for help.

Of course she’d help! She crossed her arms at how tentatively they asked. Did these wonderful people really think she’d turn them down after feeding her the best venison stew her taste buds had ever been graced with?

And so she found herself hiking to the capital of Whiterun Hold. Addvar fashioned her a scabbard out of wood and leather, and her sword hung snugly across her back. The travel was easy, save for the pestering of some wolves, and soon she found herself past Honningbrew Meadery, just about to cross the bridge that led to the slope coming up towards Whiterun Stables.

For the second time in a few days—the world around her was suddenly shaking.

There were… voices. Wailing. Calling. Pounding into her eardrums and her head so strongly that she had lost her balance and nearly fell over. She caught herself on the wooden railing of the bridge that ran over a small stream. Her breathing became erratic, and she clawed at her chest, feeling her knees give in.

Dohvakiin!

Her eyes snapped up, looking around for its source. Her soul felt like it knew that voice but—how?

And why did it sound like a call into battle?

---

She was summed for a meeting by no less than her mentor, the arch-mage, herself.

"Did you hear it?"

Holbrooke looked out from atop the bannisters of the College of Winterhold. Her hands were folded neatly at her back, holding her staff across it, while the wind whipped at their cloaks; cold and merciless from the Sea of Ghosts. The view was always white. One could barely see through the thickness of snow and slat, which would have cut deep into Diana's bones if she hadn't learned the art of befriending the cold from the moment she could cast a spell.

"Somehow." She replied curtly. It was an honest answer; she didn't so much as hear than she felt it.

"The Greybeards call." The arch-mage looked towards her. "The Dragonborn has been summoned."

Diana nodded silently. She looked out into the Horizon, across the dying town at the base of their castle, towards the peaks which she knew was the Throat of the World. It was barely visible on most days, but it seemed the howling winds and frost would reign themselves in to make way for a pronouncement which struck fear as much as it did hope: there is a god amongst men in Skyrim.

It was no longer a legend.

"Did you hear?" Holbrooke began. "Or did you feel?"

Diana turned sharply towards her mentor.

"Because the rest of us could hear, but I reckon you're a little bit different."

"I'm not quite sure I understand—"

"Lady Cavendish of Daggerfall," Holbrooke looked up to her with a burning intensity. "Within the bounds of Skyrim, you will be Diana of the Frost—A proper mage. A proper master. But first—"

The smaller woman stomped the base of her staff into the cold, icy stone of the castle. The action was weak in its physicality, but the waves of magic it had sent cackled like lightning.

Diana's foot inched back a little to keep herself steady against the pulse.

"—you will seek out the Dragonborn and guide them."

---

The arch-mage had sent out word of their search for the Dragonborn of legend, and many responded with cynicism or outright disinterest. Thankfully, there was still brotherhood amongst the College’s alumna and they had agreed to keep their search a secret.

Farengar was the first to respond with any promise. The magical letter he sent was a rather enthusiastic one—of no surprise to Diana. He always spoke… so much.

She rode gracefully on her steed, intent to make up for the few days she spent fixing her affairs with the College before riding out towards Winterhold. It would take more than a half-a-day on horseback, and she had started early, hoping to arrive in the afternoon for some rest before presenting herself to the Jarl, and in turn, her colleague. The icy crags of Winterhold slowly melted away the closer she got to the Pale, and the sight of mud and greenery was more welcome than she thought it would be.

Wolves stalked the roads, but they were a nuisance at best. It was the frost trolls she had to watch out for—her area of expertise in magic was painfully ineffective against them, but she could hold her own if push came to shove. Ice wasn’t the only thing she knew how to weaponize.

She pulled on her hood, her breathing coming out in puffs of thick, misty vapor while she took a moment of respite. She’d been going at it for a few hours now. The land was beginning to turn into an expanse of green and yellow—she was at the border of Whiterun Hold. She could see spires at the top of a walled city on a mountain. Dragonsreach was clearly within view. It reminded her a little bit of High Rock, and riding through Rivenspire and Glenumbra when her mother visited for political affairs.

She bit at her lip, pulling on the reins of her horse as it began to whinny and buck. She didn’t actually know what guiding the Dragonborn meant. How did one guide a human with the soul of a dragon? What wisdom could you impart the mortal incarnation of no less than Akatosh himself?

She had studied many things in the world—more than just magic. She’s seen statue upon statue and endless sketches of Tiber Septim. The conqueror—always standing coldly in stone, uncompromising in his just crusade to unify all nations of Tamriel.

Diana was never one to doubt herself but—what guidance can a mage possibly impart on someone with such power?

She surveyed the land ahead of her, noting there wasn’t much left to cover. Something caught her eye.

It was smoke. And… fire?

She prodded her horse forward and into an urgent gallop, riding straight into the fray of what looked a small skirmish happening on the outskirts of the city walls, near the watch towers.

She was a little bit closer now but then—she gasped. It took everything in her power not to choke up and pull her horse into a full stop as a large, reptilian figure shot upwards from the ground with the beating of wide, leathery wings.

It was horrifying.

Her throat had constricted into tightness—but she grit her teeth and rode on. The closer she came, the more horrible the scene had become. Nameless guards had been gobbled into the drake’s hungry mouth, their helmets falling off and into the dirt, disappearing in a cloud of dust where once a whole man was standing. It looked like the fighting had been going on for some time. She whipped her rains, pressing her feet into the sides of her horse to push him onwards—faster. She could hear their voices now. Screams. There was a dark-elf woman who seemed to be in-command, along with a handful of what must have been the Jarl’s elite guard.

There was also a… a woman with brown hair, whipping around ferociously in tattered imperial leather armor. It looked like it was too large for her, but she wore it masterfully. She was brandishing a curved sword that looked vaguely familiar—but the dragon’s claw was coming down onto her fast and Diana was too far away to stop it and—

“Look out!”

She yelled, the exertion making her lungs burn. The woman was cued in by her shout and had rolled to the side, taking the opportunity of the dragon sinking its claw into the ground to land a clean slice at the underside of its arm.

It roared. That made it angry.

She hopped off her horse now—throwing self-preservation away with reckless abandon. She vaulted into a run, her hands growing cold, ice at her fingertips buzzing with power and anticipation. A cold shot of death waiting to be unleashed.

When the dragon pulled itself upwards to fly back into the air, Diana sent a sharp bolt of ice towards the exposed underside of its torso. Reptiles tended to have soft hides on the underside—and if memory served, dragons were reptiles all the same, albeit overpowered.

All it managed was a small gash, but the creature staggered, losing the momentum it needed to take to the skies. An arrow from the dark-elf general got it straight in the eye. There was hack from a solider at one of its hindlegs. It reared, smoke billowing from its nostrils, and Diana eyes widened—the next thing that would come was fire!

And it was going straight for the brown-haired woman.

On instinct, she reached out, a wall of ice encasing the stranger protectively. It would give her enough time dodge out of harm’s way but—

“By the eight divines, what are you doing?!” Diana yelled. She wasn’t moving at all! She was standing there, biding her time behind the wall of ice while flames engulfed her at every other direction. The dragon was getting frustrated, inching by nearer, and by the gods Diana was good but she wasn’t that good—not yet. That wall was going to melt very soon—it was already starting—but the woman kept steady while the it began to give way. Her left hand was splayed between herself and the dragon and—she had flames.

Flames of her own.

There was a pause where Diana caught a glimpse of red eyes.

Who is she?

The woman made the slightest opening with what she recognized as the gesture for the fireball spell, but how could it—? Against a dragon?

It seemed like it was more of a distraction than it was a hit for damage—it soared through the plume and straight into the dragon’s mouth. In the split second that the fire sputtered out, she lunged forward with her sword, stabbing it straight through the dragon’s throat, gruesomely forcing the sword down, and down, and down to cut an incision all the way through.

The strangled yelping didn’t last very long—the creature soon after collapsed on top of the woman.

Diana’s instinct was to hold the dragon’s body upright with pillars of ice lest it crush the woman completely. She was already falling unconscious. Diana strode forward, noticing that the armor was singed, but she was otherwise unburnt. She was covered in sweat, her breathing was ragged and uneven.

Her hand glowed in the warm light of restoration, holding it flush against the woman’s forehead.

She pulled her gently away from the giant carcass as the soldiers began to gather around them.

“I don’t believe it.” One of them muttered.

She couldn’t either, to be honest. That was a dragon. A full, proper dragon.

And she was alive.

Then the woman began to… glow.

“What’s going on?” Diana muttered to herself, eyebrows knit in confusion at the sight she was seeing. The dragon—it was also glowing. There was something similar to a link in-between them and—

“She’s…”

Diana’s stared in utter disbelief.

“…the Dragonborn.”

---

She’s the Dragonborn.

Diana told herself for the tenth time that evening, watching the woman (Atsuko with remarkable recovery) gouge herself with her third platter of sweetrolls within fifteen minutes of waking up from unconsciousness.

“You’re going to give yourself a stomachache.” The mage carefully offered.

She had frosted butter at the edge of her lip, and those red eyes were round and… charming.

There was no sign of authority.

Not even of ferocity.

She wouldn’t believe this was the same woman from that fight if she hadn’t brought her back into Dragonsreach herself.

“Nah!” Atsuko mumbled through a mouthful of food. A servant came by with a platter of roasted deer—Atsuko’s eyes glazed over. “I can like… eat. A lot. I love food.”

“I’ve noticed.” Diana said evenly.

“So who’re you supposed to be?” Atsuko said absent-mindedly, reaching for the platter which was next-in-line for devouring.

“I’m Diana Cavendish, from the College of Winterhold.”

“Oh.” Atusko blinked. “Okay, awesome.”

Awesome? Diana blinked. She shook her head, clearing her throat and speaking with every ounce of professionalism the life of diplomacy and schooling offered: “Dragonborn—”

“Akko.” She waved her hand.

“—you and I are… going to be stuck together, for a little while.”

--

fin

--

A/N: Pyro - we did it buddy. We did it. This is for you. And all your memes.

Hey guys - no one asked, but I'm writing it anyway, if only because of how much fun and joy this AU has given me. This first chapter is as serious as it gets, unfortunately, because this is gonna be a one-shot dump of SkyrimAU Diakko where they kind of goof around like dorks, except they're overpowered, and sometimes Akko sneezes but shouts 'FUS!' by accident and Diana has to clean it up. The format I'm looking for is each chapter is a separate story about their adventures, much like the books scattered around in Skyrim (because I have no commitment and will focus on Appointments I'm sorry huhuuuhu). You could probably read them on their own - save for chapter 1 which is for context of the rest of the tales of the Dragonborn and her Ice Lady girlfriend.

But if you read it anyway - I hope y'all enjoy and if you wanna share headcanons, by all means, let's make it happen!

[halequeenjas]

What the Howl || Harsh & Jasmine

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @notsoharsh & @halequeenjas SUMMARY: Jasmine hears through the grapevine that Harsh is a hunter. She hires him to take out the Cù-sìth occupying the backyard of one of her listings. CONTENT: Gun use

Living in White Crest, having contacts with a wide variety of skill sets was a must. Jasmine knew as much. While she could kick a ghost out of just about anywhere, monsters were decidedly not her thing. She was still super human even with her abilities. There was no accelerated healing or added strength to make her more likely to survive an encounter with a beast. When she saw this wolf-like animal roaming around the yard of the estate she was trying to sell, she knew she’d have to get rid of it quickly. She couldn’t even safely show the property with it there. Thankfully, this Harsh guy seemed confident he could take care of the beast and she’d pay him generously for it. All the doors were secure as she waited for his arrival. Once she heard a knock on the door, she jumped up a bit startled by the sound, and glanced out the peephole. Thankfully, it was just her hunter and not the monster getting smart on her. She opened the door and ushered him in. “Hey,” she greeted, “I appreciate you coming out and helping with this problem. I may be good at many things, but beasts aren’t one of them.”

Someday Harsh would learn to not do the first stupid thing that popped into his head. Today probably wasn’t going to be that day. On the one hand, the more people thought he was a hunter, the less that might show up at his door with stakes in hand. But on the other, even hours of googling had only given him the slightest idea of what he was about to go up against. Green Dog hadn’t gotten him very far, but it hadn’t shown up on any weird werewolf hunting forums, which were mostly just trolls and conspiracy nuts anyway. So maybe it was something else. He had stocked up on silver bullets anyway and grabbed a few wicked looking knives for good measure. Hunters always had tons of those. The fact that the cashier hadn’t looked at him twice told him a lot about White Crest that he probably should’ve already known. The property was for sale. Huh. Harsh grinned even as he half waited for the invisible push to keep him from crossing the threshold. It didn’t come. That was good to know. “Yeah, no problem. I like doing what I can. Now, fair warning, I wasn’t able to find much on your wolf, but I think what I’ve got should cover most things. You’ll probably want to hang back, just in case things get rough.” 

Between the weapons packed on him and his build, Harsh definitely looked the part of hunter. Whether he was a good one had yet to be determined. Even so, Jasmine led him towards the back of the house where the expansive backyard was. Minus the creepy wolf, it was quite the setup with an outdoor bar and kitchen, lush foliage, and plenty of space to run around. It was a dream backyard that plenty of people would pay a pretty penny for, but she could not in good conscience sell it knowing it was unsafe. The fact he wasn’t able to find much on the wolf wasn’t promising, but at least he had that whole strength and dexterity thing going for him. At least, she hoped he did. Calling the police and animal control to collect a dead body was not high on her to do list. “You’ve got quite the arsenal there. I don’t think Mr. Wolfy over there will know what him… or her. I don’t really care I just want it gone.” She gave a firm nod and said, “You don’t have to tell me to hang back twice. I’ll keep an eye out from the balcony.” Odds were the wolf couldn’t fly or leap quite that high. It still felt odd sending someone into danger, so she added, “Shout if you need anything.”  

“Got it.” Hopefully one of these things would do the trick. Harsh pulled the gun from his bag, loading it up with silver bullets as he headed toward the back door. Maybe just one shot would be enough. Whatever this thing was, maybe it wouldn’t like silver. At least he wasn’t trembling when he gripped the door knob. So many years of faking, he always looked confident at the very least. That was probably good for a hunter. They probably never looked like they were about to go off to face certain death. He threw open the door. The monster… whatever it was, looked like it was just standing there. It was definitely green. And big. And wolfy. But not a werewolf. Harsh could tell that much at least. The beast looked at him with curious eyes. If he was more patient, maybe he could reason with it. Patience had never been one of Harsh’s virtues, so he lifted the gun and fired. Then the beast began to howl. 

Jasmine had shuffled up to the balcony to keep eyes on the situation. While she was sure what the hell she could possibly do if things went south, she still had an iron bar firmly in her hand anyway. Better safe than sorry they always said. She jumped slightly at the ringing sound of gunfire and let out a small gasp. Neither of which could be heard over the loud bang or the howling of Shrek the werewolf over here. Since when were monster wolves green anyway? So far, the situation still seemed to be under control so she watched from the balcony and hoped with everything in her that was where she could stay.  

It had probably been a few decades since Harsh had last fired a gun. Or that was at least the reason he was going to go with when he missed. His second shot was a little more on target, catching one of the beast’s legs. The creature let out a pained bark, far louder than any wolf had any right to be. Harsh winced, throwing his free hand up over one ear. Shit. This thing was seeming less and less like a werewolf. What the hell was he supposed to do? Maybe it would still die if he just shot it enough times. But the creature didn’t look like it was too interested in letting him. With an oddly silent snarl, it charged. Harsh swore under his breath as he leaped out of the way, firing again. A direct hit, the bullet biting into the beast’s chest. It staggered, letting out another ear splitting cry. But it didn’t go down. As Harsh watched with widening eyes, it looked like it was already shaking off the first hit. Shit. That was so not good for him. He cast a glance back to the house, Jasmine was still in there, maybe she could grab him something else. Catching sight of her, he gave her a slightly panicked look. “Uh, I don’t think it’s a werewolf--” was all he had time to say before the beast charged again. 

The loud bangs of gunshots left her ears ringing and the wolf relatively unbothered. Injured, yes, but now seemingly pissed off. Great. Jasmine was beginning to wonder if this guy had any idea what the hell he was doing. She didn’t even deal with real monsters and she could tell this big bad green wolf over here wasn’t a werewolf. It wasn’t even a full moon. Why would the assumption had been werewolf? This was decidedly not good, the wolf was charging Harsh and he kept shooting at it. Enough bullet wounds should be enough to kill it she hoped. Outside of the fact she was supposed to stay away from them, Jasmine knew little else about beasts. Her recreational reading was reserved for trashy romance novels and ghost-related research. “Uhm, duh,” she called out from the balcony wondering if he needed anything. She was not about to go down there and get charged by that thing. She already had a broken arm. The last thing she needed was claw marks ruining her near-flawless complexion. She threw her hands up over her ears again as it let out another deafening howl and she could feel her heart rate creeping up. Terror was evident on her face as she watched the scene play out before he. “Watch out,” she screamed. Her hands were shaking, but she needed to do something. The wolf was nearly on top of Harsh as she leaned over the railing of the balcony. For a moment, she was frozen in panic as the iron rod she had been holding fell out of her hand and onto the wolf seemingly distracting it from Harsh.

Shit shit shit. Why had he just gone straight for the silver bullets? This thing definitely wasn’t a werewolf. But it was still wolfy. And shouldn’t shooting something at least slow it down? Harsh cursed as he tried to throw himself out of the way, throwing up his hands. If the gun didn’t do it maybe he could punch the stupid thing to death. Hunters did that, right? But then the wolf stopped. The creature skidded to a halt, letting out a deafening yelp of pain. That was something. What did that? Harsh looked over frantically, watching as the creature shook, throwing a metal rod from its back. Huh. There wasn’t time to think. Harsh rushed forward, snatching the iron rod as it fell. “You don’t like this, huh?” He bashed the beast across the snout with the iron. Something crunched as it let out a piteous howl and staggered backward. Harsh found himself grinning as he straightened up. “Arlight, now we’re talking. You’re not all that wolfy, are you?” He twirled the rod in his hand. Iron… he was going to have to google that when he got home. But for now, there was a monster to put out of his misery. It was out of it, still shaking its head. Harsh readied himself, iron rod held tight as he whistled. “Hey, over here, greenie.” Blood was dripping from the creature’s mangled snout as it hissed, one claw dragging through the dirt before it charged. Maybe it was a little too showy, but wasn’t that what hunters were supposed to do? They acted like such bigshots, treated themselves like real life superheroes. And Harsh had never really been able to resist the urge to show off. So he rushed forward as the beast charged, dropping at the last second as the beast ran right over him. He rammed the rod up, right into the beast’s chest, driving it in as hard as he can. The beast let out one last, mournful howl before it went still. With a great shove, Harsh forced the creature off, staying where he was, taking a few unnecessary breaths. Had to make it look real. Managing a grin, he looked up to Jasmine, lifting a hand. “I think I got it.”

 Every howl left her heartbeat racing faster and faster until the iron rod fell onto the wolf causing it to yelp in pain. A new development that Jasmine hadn’t quite expected, but Harsh got his hands on the rod which would surely only help his fight. It appeared this thing also didn’t like iron. Was it a ghost wolf? No, Harsh wouldn’t have been able to seen it if it had in fact been spectral. Other creatures could have iron sensitivities too she supposed. That happened to be some dumb luck and she felt the terror melting away as she watched Harsh fight. Okay, this guy knew what he was doing. She held her breath as she watched the finally moments of their showdown. The bar collided with the wolf’s face. The way Harsh seemed to move quickly. She’d held in a gasp as the wolf charged him and he managed to move out of the way just in time to let it collide with an iron rod. The pitiful howl resonated in the yard and sent a chill down her spine, but it was over now. Once the relief set in, she was able to offer up a small round of applause. “Clearly, you know what you’re doing. Sorry for any doubt on my end.” She made her way back down to the first floor and let him back into the house. “That was intense… and impressive.” She gave him a smile as she got her checkbook out. “I don’t think I caught your last name before-- Who should I make the check out to?” 

“Hey, I don’t mind. I looked kind of stupid for a minute there,” Harsh said, with an easy laugh at himself. “I went at it with the wrong equipment. But hey, live and learn.” At least now he could deal with these things easily if he ever ran into another one. He still wasn’t quite sure what it was, but if iron did the trick, maybe it was a ghost or a fairy… or some third thing he had never even heard about. That was always a possibility. Even with how long he had been around, there was plenty to the supernatural world that he had never really experienced. And getting paid certainly didn’t hurt. “Harsh Mishra. And thanks. If I ever have any ghost issues come up, I’ll make sure to send them your way.”

“You said it, not me,” Jasmine joked as she fished her checkbook out of her purse. Not surprisingly he had been a good fighter, most hunters were. He was right about the equipment though. Still, for not knowing what hell kind of wolf it was, that had been relatively quick and easy. “Harsh Mishra,” she said more to herself as she filled out the check, “Please do, I’m kind of the best in town.” Or definitely. It felt more like a definitely considering the other exorcists she knew. She handed him his check and offered niceties as he made his way home. Or to hunt more monsters. She didn’t really know what hunters did with their free time, but she did know she’d have his number on speed dial. Just in case.

[persephonesfill]

i’ll never make it alone

a/n: part 2 to oh! darling, although it’s not necessary to read that fic in order to read this one. already posted on ao3, just felt like posting it here too bc i crave validation

summary: Tony and Steve bond over a sleepless night.

rating: T, just for a few swears and mental health

warning(s): mainly hints of characters exhibiting PTSD and panic attacks, but hopefully nothing too triggering

The tower was too quiet. Steve never thought he’d miss the roar of train cars passing through Brooklyn or hearing the daily hustle and bustle of the city. New York had been the city that never slept, even in Steve’s day. 

Sleeping through the war had been easier than sleeping in the tower, he decided, staring up at the stark white ceiling from the comfort of his bed. Trains to tanks. Hustle and bustle to screams and moans. The war had taught him to fear the quiet moments. There had been no respites or breaks for them, and if things were going too well, it was only going to go to shit later. It had been a fact of life then, and Steve believed in it now. 

Goosebumps sprouted like weeds on his arms as the air conditioning kicked on. He tried to ignore it, he really did, but ever since coming out of the ice, he had a hard time staying warm. Steve wasn’t anemic by any means, and yet, even the slightest breeze could set him off. 

“Hey, JARVIS?” he asked, the words sounding clumsy in his mouth. 

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” came a smooth, distinctly British voice, which, according to Tony, was not in the ceiling. 

“Could you turn the air off in my room? Please?”

The AI sounded puzzled. “Are you sure, sir? It’s quite warm out.” 

“Please,” Steve repeated. His stomach twisted into a knot. What if JARVIS said no? How would he be able to explain anything to a being who had never known real life and the anguish that came with it?

“...As you wish, sir.”

The air went off with one swift whoosh. 

Steve inhaled and closed his eyes. A super-soldier could survive off of less sleep than the average human, but that didn’t mean he liked being sleep-deprived. But the air had already worked its magic. When Steve closed his eyes, all he saw was black water glinting like glass in the sun; An icy abyss calling his name. Cold crept into his lungs, frost coated his skin, and there was that familiar burn only ice could give you, engulfing his blood—

His eyes shot open. The beat of his heart echoed in his ears, sounding too close and too loud. Sleep was going to be a long way off. Throwing his blankets back, Steve sat up and sighed. 

“Just one night,” he said to no one in particular. “I just want one night.”

“If you’d like, Captain,” JARVIS said, startling Steve. He didn’t know that the AI could speak unprompted. “Sir is currently in the communal kitchen if you want company.” 

“Sir?” His brows furrowed. “Stark?” His panic momentarily forgotten, Steve slid out of bed completely, not really sure where he was going. A session in the gym with one of Stark’s super-soldier grade punching bags sounded swell, but if Stark was in the kitchen, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to seek him out and talk about...something. 

He and the tower’s resident genius were on their way to becoming friends. Maybe. Possibly. They were close to becoming whatever came before friends. Most of Steve’s friends hadn’t insulted him and offered him a place to sleep free of charge in the same breath. But Tony Stark was a genius; maybe being eccentric was a requirement. 

“What’s he doing up at—“Steve glanced at the clock, “two in the morning?” 

“Sir believes that sleep, and I quote, is ‘for the weak.’” 

Steve snorted, his mouth turning into an unwitting smile. Eccentric, indeed. 

Mind made up, Steve made his way to the kitchen, a blanket wrapped securely around his shoulders. The air was still going full blast outside of his room. Steve gritted his teeth and pulled the blanket tighter around him. “I’m never running out of shields,” he thought.

The elevator ride to the communal kitchen was over all too quickly, and Steve was greeted to the sight of Tony fluttering from counter to counter. Oddly enough, Tony didn’t look out of place in the kitchen, despite having heard many, many horror stories of his past attempts at cooking. 

“Hey, Tony,” Steve said in greeting, hovering on the edge of the threshold. 

Tony paused mid-flurry and gave him the smallest of smiles. There was something fragile about it that had the edge of broken glass. 

“Hey, Steve,” Tony said, nodding at him. “Nice blanket.”

The blanket had been a gag gift, courtesy of Natasha, of course, of Steve in his full USO regalia. 

“I had it custom made,” she had said with a smirk, which for Natasha, might as well have been her beaming with pride.

“Thanks,” Steve said, and the conversation died just as soon as it had begun.

Tony started to fidget in place, the silence growing unbearable. Despite living together for three months now, awkwardness still clouded their interactions outside of the battlefield. 

“Um,” Steve began. “What are you doing up?” 

A shadow passed over Tony’s face, but as quickly as it had appeared, Tony broke out into a grin, and it was gone. “Innovation doesn’t have a curfew, Rogers. Don’t tell me a sketch has never kept you up?”

Steve blinked. “You know that I draw?”

“Of course I do,” Tony said, resuming his motions around the kitchen. “You leave your sketchbooks all over the tower.” 

His cheeks burned. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to inconvenience you.” 

“Please, you? Inconvenience me? You’re talking to the king of inconveniences. Besides,” Tony shrugged as he measured out a few tablespoons of what looked like fresh ground coffee. “You’re good.” 

“Thanks,” he said. He was getting all kinds of compliments tonight. “I was in art school before…”

“Everything,” Tony finished.

“Everything,” Steve agreed. 

A silence fell over them again. Tony dumped the coffee grounds into a silver Moka pot and set it on the stove.

“You know why I’m up,” Tony said, leaning back against the counter. “But what about you? What’s keeping you awake?” 

Steve weighed his options. He could tell Tony the truth, tell him that his brain was fucked, tell him how he couldn’t stand the cold without picturing himself plunging to his death.

Or, he could lie. 

“It’s too quiet,” he blurted out. “The tower,” he gestured around them. “It’s...quiet.” That was close enough to the truth, at least. 

Tony, thankfully, didn’t laugh at him. “I thought soundproofing the walls would be a good idea. Don’t know too many people who enjoy city life for the noise.” 

“I grew up by the tracks,” Steve found himself saying. “It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but it was one of the only places that would rent out to the Irish.” 

That was one of the strangest parts of the future. In Steve’s time, the Irish, along with the Italians and the Jewish had been second-class citizens. A step of above people of color, in the eyes of bigots, but only just. All of them had been an afterthought in the collective consciousness of WASP America. 

“I knew that,” Tony said, his voice going low. The Moka pot bubbled away on the stovetop, the rich smell of coffee, hitting Steve’s nose. 

“You seem to know an awful lot about me,” Steve said. 

“Your buddy, Howard, thought tales about his old war pals were appropriate bedtime stories for a child.” 

Steve frowned. A bitter note had seeped into their conversation that always occurred whenever Howard was brought up in Tony’s presence. Steve may have known the man during the war, but that didn’t mean he was the same man who Tony had called “Father”. During the war, Howard had always been loud. Flashy. The most conspicuous person in the room. 

“That man wouldn’t know the meaning of subtlety if it whacked him over the head with a frying pan,” he remembered Peggy saying, her crimson lips pursed in distaste as Howard chatted up an SSR secretary.

“Why a frying pan?” Steve had mused. 

“They’re sturdy, for one,” she had said, matter-of-factly. “And quite hard to miss.” 

Steve remembered the secretary had slapped Howard upside his head after one too many risqué remarks. In hindsight, Peggy was right, not that Steve ever doubted her. A frying pan would have been just as, if not more, sufficient.

That man had apparently settled down and raised a child who was staring at him with something dark and dangerous pooling in his eyes. Steve would have to tread carefully. 

“As smart as he was, he didn’t have much sense, did he?” he said with all the caution of someone approaching a stray animal.

Tony’s posture lost some of its rigidity. “No. He didn’t.”

Silence again. If someone asked him, he couldn’t tell them why, but at that moment, Steve wanted to hear what Tony had to say. About anything. About everything. 

“Stop lurking in the shadows like a creep,” Tony said. “Unless you’re trying to do a Fury impersonation, then by all means continue. You’re missing the eyepatch, though.”

Steve huffed, but even he couldn’t hide his amusement. The thought of Fury sitting in the dark with a fuzzy blanket draped over him instead of his usual leather duster made for a decidedly less intimidating picture. And if Tony was joking around, then the danger of mentioning Howard had passed. Steve entered the kitchen completely and took a seat at the island right across from where Tony stood. 

“You’re drinking coffee at two in the morning?” he said, arching a brow as Tony took the now whistling Moka pot off the burner. 

“Not coffee,” Tony corrected. “Marocchino,” he said, placing a can of cocoa powder onto the counter. 

“Still has caffeine,” Steve said, mainly because Tony was so easy to rile up. 

“‘Still has caffeine’,” Tony mocked, his voice going up a pitch. “That’s what you sound like. Don’t you chastise me, Rogers.”

Steve chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “My apologies,” he said. “Must be an important project.”

“All of my projects are important,” Tony said. He pulled a glass out from under the island, paused as if he were pondering something, then pulled out a second glass. 

Steve drank in every sure movement of Tony’s as he dusted both glasses in cocoa powder, and carefully poured the steaming espresso and milk into each cup. He sprinkled more cocoa over the top of each glass with a flourish before pushing one towards Steve. 

“Drink up, Cap.”

Steve gingerly grabbed the cup and blew at the steam. 

Tony held his glass in front of him. “Toast?”

“What are we toasting?” 

“To sleepless nights,” Tony said, sounding perhaps more serious than Steve had ever heard him. “And the things that keep us up.” 

As Tony looked at him with those dark eyes of his, his glass aloft, he realized this wasn’t Tony Stark, CEO. Tony Stark, son of a legend. Not even Tony Stark, Avenger. This was Tony Stark without a mask.

“To sleepless nights,” Steve echoed. Their glasses met with the lightest of clinks. Steve’s fingers brushed against Tony’s as he pulled his drink away. It was nothing, really. Barely a glance. And yet a light jolt zipped through his fingertips and left him feeling unsettled. 

If Tony had also been shocked, he made no mention of it, instead downing his espresso with gusto. Steve watched the bob of Tony’s throat, feeling hot beneath the collar. The coffee was already getting to him, and he hadn’t even taken a sip yet. 

Steve took his espresso like a shot. The coffee surged through him, driving away the cold that had settled into his bones. The cocoa was sweet and creamy on his tongue. Of course, Tony wouldn’t waste money on the cheap imitation stuff made with powdered milk. 

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Tony asked, his eyes twinkling. 

Steve burst out laughing, maybe the first genuine laugh he’d managed since coming out of the ice. At that moment, ice and the cold were the furthest things from his mind. 

“Even better,” he said, perhaps too earnestly, but that was between him and God. “I wouldn’t mind a refill.” 

Tony’s answering smile was blinding. His eyes were all crinkled in the corners, the way they did whenever Tony was truly happy. Not that Steve spent a lot of time memorizing Tony’s smiles. 

The tension from earlier had (hopefully) disappeared for good. 

“He should always smile like that,” Steve thought. Tony’s smile could drive a blizzard away. 

They sat there for the rest of the night until the sun crept over the horizon, flooding the kitchen with light and something warm and golden had curled in Steve’s chest.

[the--sad--hatter]

Bloody Roses - Chapter Two (Bucky x reader)

FANDOM - MARVEL

WARNINGS - SOME BLOOD AND INJURIES, MENTIONS OF NUDITY

SUMMARY - What you thought was a trapped squirrel turned out to be a super soldier in need. It’s not every day an Avenger turns up in your garden, in serious need of help but you deal with it as best as you can.

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Winter Soldiers absence had strangely left something of a chasm in your chest, an aching void. You were somehow empty and heavier at the same time, carrying the heavy weight of what was missing with every step you took. Everything you did seemed to take longer and had much less reward. It was wholly unlike you to get attached to people, and it never happened this quickly.

People in general were like a loud buzzing in your head, they made your skin feel too tight and your heart beat a little too fast. It wasn’t full blown anxiety, more like a quiet discomfort. It was easily hidden, and usually you ignored it so you could persevere. It actually took you a few days to realise that Bucky hadn’t made you feel uncomfortable at all, he hadn’t triggered that stifled feeling.

 There was a strange juxtaposition between your dislike of company and you human need for companionship, it’s why you befriended Othello. So while Bucky hadn’t been around for long, his absence was felt.

 Over the next week, that aching chasm numbed though. You went about your day to day life, walking Othello, baking, gardening, painting… Whatever random artistic endeavour you wanted to try out and inevitably abandon in an attempt to keep yourself amused, keep your life going, keep yourself soldiering on instead of just festering away.

 Today it was knitting, because you’d seen a youtube video about making blankets from giant wool with just your arms. That had ended spectacularly badly, thpugh Othello had fun. It had however, led to you deciding to try actual knitting, with actual needles and wool. When Othello started barking at the door, you were tangled up in a long strand of periwinkle blue and had resorted to cussing it out in the hope your foul language would free you. Doing a weird twisting move to get free you made your way to the door, pulling it open and peering out.

 There were several boxes on the deck with a clipboard resting atop them. You pulled the door open to see John, the delivery guy pretending to be very interested in the bushes that lined the driveway. He did this every time, tried to be subtle about giving you space. You appreciated it, and made sure he knew it with the tip you always left. You signed for the delivery and picked a box up, pushing the others over the threshold with your foot.

 As soon as you closed the front door you used your keys to cut through the tape and started unpacking the new books you’d ordered.

 “What do you think, is there room in the upstairs hallway for these?” You asked Othello.

 He barked and shook his fur out.

 “Fair point, maybe by the window seat I keep meaning to build?” You suggested.

 “Boof”

 “I will so get it done! Right after I build that porch swing.” You gasped, thoroughly offended.

 Ultimately, the books stayed in the box, at least for the time being and you went back to trying to *not* stab yourself with a knitting needle. After making the worlds thinnest scarf (“You have fur so I did this on purpose, I didn’t want you to overheat.”) you got frustrated and bored, giving in and curling up on the sofa with your laptop.

 The cursor hovered over Microsoft word for a moment while you chewed your lip and tried to bring yourself to click on it but as was the norm lately, you went for Chrome instead. You had just enough dregs of energy to click on Facebook and assure the minimal amount of friends and family who pretended to care that you were in fact, still alive.

 You were 100% convinced that the rumours that Facebooks advertising algorithm could read your mind were true because right there at the top of your feed was a news article. Apparently The Avengers had been caught up in another scrape. Before you could catch yourself you clicked on it, quickly scrolling through the article. It was remarkably vague but posturing, so the press didn’t know what The Avengers had actually been doing then. They did know that Earth’s Mightiest had won.

 It was strange to thin that you had had one of them on this here couch, life in your hands. And like your thoughts had summoned him, there he was in HD. Pictures didn’t do him any justice. Yes, he was handsome in a photo but it couldn’t capture the tenor of his voice, the glint of light in his eye or the way that despite falling in a river and walking several miles in his own blood, he still smelled divinely sexy.

 There was a minute, tiny, very high chance you had developed a lingering crush on the man out of time who had literally stumbled into your life. He was dark, tortured, charming, funny, gorgeous and strong, all strong ingredients in a crush. Most importantly, the strongest factor, guaranteed to make you fall… he was fleeting. He was a feather on the breeze, the rays of light at sunset, the crashing waves of a cerulean sea. Beautiful and gone too soon, leaving nothing but the awing memory of the beauty you had once bore witness to behind.

 You ploughed through the article, breathing a sigh of relief when you read that eyewitnesses had seen The Soldier leaving the scene unharmed. You were relieved but… the aching void had returned.

 You tried to distract yourself, knowing it was futile but going ahead with the attempt anyway. In the end, as predicted, your mind could not be coaxed off of the topic of the stormy eyed sergeant. You had a number you could call if you needed him but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to call.

 You could call and say you were worried one of his enemies had tracked him here but that wasn’t close to true and you couldn’t bring yourself to worry him about it. If you had gotten the correct measure of him, and you were certain you had, he would immediately feel guilty and would panic.  Truthfully, you doubted you would make that call even if there was truth to it. But that kind of left you at a loss as to reasons to seek him out again.

 The truth was that even though you had a solid feeling in your gut that you shouldn’t let him leave your life, you had to let go.

 Bucky Barnes had no place in your world, and you very much doubted he would want to be in it anyway.

 So you went to bed that night, knowing you would be thinking about him as you fell asleep, knowing you would dream about him and knowing that he would never be more than that, a beautiful dream.

 Othello pushed himself into the small of your back, letting you lean on him while you lay your head out on the pillow and closed your eyes, and remembered to press of Bucky Barnes lips so tantalizingly close to your own. It was the image that carried you off to dreamland, and that’s where you stayed until after the sun had risen over the horizon.

 You knew that a specific sound had woken you, a loud buzzing sound, relentless and loud but for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out what it was. A lawnmower? But that begged the very important question… who the fuck was mowing your lawn? You groaned loudly and flopped onto your back, glaring up at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling as if they might be responsible. Eventually you sat up, flinging the duvet away  and stomping over to the window to look outside.

 Not a lawnmower, a Buzzsaw. Your unused, should be in the shed, Buzzsaw. Someone was slicing planks of wood in your garden and you actually recognized the pulled back brunette hair before you recognized the glinting metal arm. Your heart summersaulted in your chest and a kaleidoscope of butterflies burst to life in your stomach as you pushed out of the French doors and hung over the edge of the balcony. Othello saw you and barked happily, wagging his tail. Bucky switched the saw off and turned around to lean against the table, arms crossed and gazing up at you with a charming, cock-sure grin.

 “Hey Romeo, whatcha doing?” You called down to him.

 He chuckled and scratched Othello on top of the head before he answered.

 “You never called sweetheart, and I still felt like I owed you. I remembered seeing a lot of books lying around when I was here so I decided to come and build you some bookshelves.” He explained.

 “Uh huh. How’d my dog get out there? And how did you get into my shed?” You asked, trying to contain the giddy smile threatening to break across your face. `

 “I picked the lock, didn’t want to wake you and this guy was scratching at the door. As for the shed, I wanted to see if you had any tools before I went to get the stuff I needed. Surprisingly, you had everything I needed, all brand new and unused?” He said, lilting at the end to signify he was curious about the state he’d found the shed in.

 “I may have decided to take up woodworking a while ago. There were setbacks.” You admitted, ducking your head in embarrassment.

 “What happened?” He asked in a teasing voice.

 “I turned the saw on and it scared the hell out of me. That thing is dangerous!” You explained.

 Bucky threw back his head and let out a full throated laugh, unrestrained in his amusement at your predicament.

 “Not if you’re partially made of metal.” He said, still laughing.

 “Saws can cut through metal!” You insisted.

 He arched an eyebrow at you and reached behind himself to flick the saw on, before he turned around, holding his metal arm over the rotating circular blade.

 “DON’T YOU DARE!” You shrieked, but it was too late.

 His metal fingers came into contact with the saw and you thought you were going to be sick but to your absolute disbelief and wonder, the saw shuddered to a halt for a few seconds before he moved his hand away and flicked the switch again. He turned back around to see you hanging over the railing of the balcony, hand held to your heart and an expression between fear and fury on your face.

 “Doll, my arms made of Vibranium. Nothing can cut through it.” He soothed.

 “Next time, tell me that!”

 “Sorry! I’m sorry.” He said quickly, but you could still see the smug amusement on his face.

 “It is RUDE to break into someone’s house and give them a heart attack before they’ve even had coffee.” You half grumbled, half gasped as you righted yourself, glaring down at him.

 Not that your glare lasted more than half a second before it melted into a fond smile. Something he definitely noticed because he perked up and beckoned you down.

 “I figured out your ridiculous contraption and made a pot of coffee actually, I do have some manners.” He informed you.

 You didn’t need telling twice and did your best roadrunner impression as you whooshed through the balcony doors and padded down to the kitchen, only just remembering to grab your nightrobe on the way. You shrugged it over your shoulders and tied the sash as you perused the cupboard for a suitable mug.

 You liked collecting mugs, from ones with funny captions, to photo mugs, to your personal favourites… The Disney Collection. Today felt like a dopey the dwarf day and you fetched the giant cup from the correct cupboard and filled it with the steaming coffee, inhaling deeply to enjoy the smell. You heard the door open behind you, seconds before a cold wet snout was pressed the back of your knee.

 “Morning traitor.” You said amicably to Othello, gently flicking his ear.

 “Morning sweetheart.”

 You turned around to greet Bucky, trying to shove down the voice in your head screaming at how right he looked stood in your kitchen, illuminated by the early morning sun and sipping coffee out of your oversized Grumpy Mug.

 “Mornin Sarge. Top up?” You offered and he held the mug out for you to refill it for him.

 It felt strangely domestic and natural considering he was a near stranger. Who had technically broken in…

 “Do you have a pen?” he asked and you pulled open the knick knack drawer under the microwave and dug one out and tossing it to him.

 “Actually it’s for you. I was wondering if you might sign something for me?” He asked sheepishly, pulling a book out of the back of his waistband and sliding it across the counter to you. When you saw the cover, your stomach dropped.

The Life Of Death.

 “You looked into me.” You scoffed, shaking your head.

 “I didn’t. Stark did, he gave me the book, didn’t tell me you wrote it until after I read it.” He defended himself.

 “You read it?” You sighed.

 “I did. It was beautiful. Really. The idea that Death fell in love with humanity, slowly becoming more and more human himself and when the gods found out they ripped the flesh from his bones, leaving nothing but the Grim reaper behind… but he never stopped loving humanity, shepherding them to the other side and asking them to tell him their stories, even when they feared him. It was tragic but there was still hope in it.” He said softly, and you could tell he meant it.

 You could feel the weight of his gaze, the silent assurance that he’d gotten the hidden message in the book. Death didn’t let what had been done to him change who he was, he kept his curiosity and compassion intact, even when his body was ripped apart.

 He was still holding the pen out to you and you sighed and took it, flipping the jacket of the book open and scribbling something, slamming it closed and handing the book back to him before he could see what you’d written.

 “Why aren’t you more proud? You wrote a novel, a damn good one.” He questioned.

 “All I ever wanted to do was write, to connect with people and give them some kind of hope. Didn’t work out the way I expected. I am proud, I am but… the books a reminder of my failings more than my achievements sometimes.” You said tiredly.

 “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He said.

 His eyes were heavy with guilt, regret etched into the frown lines on his face.

 “Don’t be sorry for trying to give me a compliment, it’s not your fault I’m not great at taking them.”

 He looked you up and down, almost like he was sizing you up before the corner of his lip twitched minutely, drawing up into the flicker of an almost smirk.

 “You’re beautiful.”

 The breath you’d been in the process of inhaling froze in your lungs, suspended in your airway as the painfully raw, honest, heartfelt compliment passed his lips. Your shock lasted only a brief second because while you’d been telling the truth about not taking compliments well, you were a fucking master at reigning in your embarrassment and anxiety’s to regain the upper hand in a situation. Spitefulness could achieve what years of therapy could not.

 “And you’re exquisitely stunning , Sarge.” You said back, equally as honest.

 His eyes widened and his jaw loosened. He blinked at you, once, twice, three times and swallowed the lump in his throat before his brain kicked back in. A deep chuckle vibrated from his broad chest and it was a warm, soul soothing sound.

 “I’ll build the shelves and repay my debt, should be done before lunch and then I’ll be out of your hair. Unless…” He started, looking at you with unabashed hope.

 “Unless?”

 “Well since I’m here and not afraid of the power tools, anything else you need built or fixed?” He offered.

 You chewed your lip and thought it over.

 “Do you want to help me build a porch swing?” You asked.

 His whole face lit up, brighter than the sun and he smiled so wide and happily that you felt your heart crack a little.

 “I’ll even make you lunch.” You quickly offered, knowing he was already going to say yes anyway.

 “S’long as it’s not broth, you’ve got yourself a deal darlin.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N -  Ok so... If you've read any of my other fics you may notice a slight difference in style with this one. That's because this fic is kind of more me than the others. I'm writing this one selfishly, it's very much my comfort fic. So I won’t be offended if you don’t wanna read this, it’s basically me living my ideal life with zero drama. I actually had to go back and edit because Bucky called the reader by name a few times. But it's such a fluffy, warm, drama free fic that I'm hoping it provides a little bit of comfort for someone else as well. It's a safe haven.

@likes-to-smell-books @thelostallycat @dilaila95 @dropthepizza346  @destiel-artemis @hiddles-rose @myfandomlife-blog @thosesexytexasboys  @liveonce-sodoitright @spnrvt   @tarastudiesalot  @dahkness @sexyvixen7 @jaynnanadrews  @littledeadrottinghood  @pinkisokay  @angieptt @anamcg317 @belladonnarey @queen-kayy92 @breezy1415 @penumbrawolfy  @fairislesheets  @lianadelphius @coolmassivenerd @youhavebeenspared  @candyxcyanide @musingpredilection  @isaxhorror @destiel-artemis @my-drowning-in-time @isabelcrichards @teh-nerdette  @dlcita @deathofmissjackson  @life-wanderer @cleo0107 @spicymagz @drdorkus  @inquisitor-selvala @le-mow @zeannastardust @nighmxre @blue-cat-1989  @writingforbucky @abo4280ooof

[thiswasinevitableid]

Could you maybe do sternclay with #57? :3 Stern needs Barclay hello him with cookies IMMEDIATELY

#57: You called me at two in the moring insisting that I come over and help you bake christmas cookies for the party tomorrow because you forgot to make them earlier and need help now.

(I tweaked it slightly for the set-up)

Beepbeepbeep

Barclay blinks awake in a panic. That is definitely a smoke detector. His faculties return enough to clue him in that it’s not the one in his apartment, but rather the one below him. 

It’s probably nothing. His downstairs neighbor sometimes gets home late, and makes (or burns) dinner at odd hours. Still, Barclay would prefer to check and have it be no big deal than go back to bed only for said bed to collapse through the floor into the fiery inferno below an hour later. 

He pulls on his green, plaid bathrobe and walks the short flight of stairs to 32B. It takes a few moments for his knock to be answered. And he’s unprepared for the sight that greets him when it is.

Joseph Stern is the epitome of buttoned up; Barclay’s never seen him in anything less formal than a button shirt and slacks, even on the weekends. His black hair is always slicked back, allowing Barclay an unfettered view of his movies-star handsome cheekbones and bright blue eyes. He’s certain Stern doesn’t know how badly he’d like to dig his fingers into the gelled strands and pull them loose, how he looks forward to the times Stern invites him in for tea if they arrive home at the same hour, how weirdly relieved Barclay feels that he’s never heard or seen a sign that Stern’s brought a date home. 

Which is why the man who opens the door makes Barclays imagination spin out like a car on the ice. 

Stern’s hair is mussed, he’s in a white t-shirt and bigfoot-patterned pajama pants, and there’s a streak of white across his cheek. He turns red as soon as he glimpses Barclay.

“I’m so sorry, the alarm woke you up I assume?”

“Yep. Just, uh, just wanted to check to see if everything was okay.”

“Nothing’s on fire, if that’s what you mean.”

“You sure? Still smells kinda smoky-”

Beepbeepbeep

“Shit.” Stern dashes back towards his kitchen, leaving an open door and a confused Barclay behind him. 

Barclay crosses the threshold, shutting the door and then jumping when a narrow head and beady eyes peer at him from the dark bedroom

“gAH!”

Stern stops waving a piece of junk mail at his smoke detector to address the eerie shape, “It’s alright Nessie, your idiot owner just burnt some cookies.”

A greyhound pokes itself into the living room, collar jingling as it cautiously approaches Barclay. 

“Hey there, friend.” Barclay coos, lets the narrow, wet nose investigate him as he walks into the kitchen, “Cookies, huh?” He takes in the messy counters, the pile of bowls in the sink, and the plume of smoke escaping the oven. 

“Yes. I have a holiday party to attend tomorrow and I was already in bed when I remembered I agreed to bring cookies.”

“Can’t you just buy some before you go?”

“I considered that, believe me. But, well, it’s at a house where I know my ex will be attending, and he would just love the chance to point out to everyone how I’m too busy to even make cookies for the people I care about.”

“Jesus, what a dick.”

Stern laughs, a sound only he could make dignified, “That’s the understatement of the decade. And the reason it’s two in morning and my kitchen is full of smoke from cookies I clearly did not make correctly.”

Barclay examines the cookie sheet. It’s contents are one giant blob.

“Well, looks like your batter was too liquid so it spread and dripped off the sheet. That’s what started burning. Do you still have some left?”

Stern nods toward a silver mixing bowl. Barclay peers in, then grabs a nearby quarter cup measure and the bag of flour.

“This is a pretty easy fix. Here, I can get this sorted out if you can get the gunk out of the oven when it cools.”

“Right, of course.” Stern kneels down, searching beneath the sink through a stash of cleaning supplies, shooing Nessie away when she gets perilously close to the bleach bottle. 

Barclay adds flour to the cookie batter and turns on the mixer. It takes a little tweaking, but soon it’s looking how it needs to. His lingering grogginess turns on his autopilot, and he flours up the rolling pin and starts pressing down the dough.

“Why are you helping me?” Stern asks softly. 

“Just being neighborly, I guess.”

“It is two a.m, the apartment still smells like burnt dough, and you must have work at the bakery in the morning. You don’t need to stay. I care about our friendship Barclay and I’d hate you to resent me for this. You should go.”

“Yeah, I guess, even though I have the evening shift tomorrow. But I kinda want to stay. I like making cookies, and you could clearly use a little help. Unless you, like, need me to go, in which case I can.”

“I’d prefer the company, honestly. I can’t think of many things more pathetic than a grown man frosting Christmas cookies by himself in the dead of night.”

Barclay sets the rolling pin aside, rests a hand on either of Sterns shoulders, and smiles down at him, “Okay, how about this then: you plug in those lights you’ve got up and put on some water for tea and some music, and then come and help me make these? That still sound pathetic?”

“On the contrary” Stern meets his gaze, eyes regaining some of their shine, “it sounds wonderful.”

——————————————

The clock reads 3:30 a.m  by the time they’re frosting at the table. After he agreed to stay, Stern became immediately calmer, and has moved from that to downright chatty. He looks even more handsome by the glow of his christmas lights, and has made Barclay laugh more times than he can count. Barclay’s crush is only intensifying as a result. 

Stern opted for tubes of premade frosting to simplify things, and he’s busy decorating tree-shaped cookies with the green while Barclay tackles the star cookies with the white. 

“Anyway, that’s how come I named her Nessie. I actually had–ugh, why isn’t this coming out–a hamster named “Hodag” when I was youngAH!” The bag explodes, splatting sugary green goo over both men. 

“Shit, I’m so, so sorry.” Stern scrambles for a napkin.

“Really not your night, huh?” Barclay chuckles as he undoes his now-frosted bathrobe and tosses it on an empty chair.

“Clearly, good lord, I wasn’t even squeezing that…”

“Everything okay?” Stern’s eyes have gone worryingly wide

“Yes.” Stern breathes out.

Barclay shivers. Which is how he remembers that he’d gone to bed shirtless. And that Stern hasn’t stopped staring. 

He grins, “Like what you see?”

“Let’s just say my night has been greatly improved by seeing it.” Stern steps around the table, draws the napkin along Barclays neck, trying to remove a stray splotch of green.

“Agh, why is this stuff so hard to get off?”

“Dunno, must be whatever dye they use-oh, oh fuck.” A warm tongue laps at his neck, and the spot is gone in an instant. 

“It appears we’ve just found an efficient way of removing it.”

“Uh huh.” Barclay cups Sterns cheek, kisses him as gently as his jackhammer of a heart will allow. 

“Is this really okay?” He whispers. He needs to know, he has to be certain, because Stern is relaxed and melting into his arms and if he fucks that up by moving too fast he will never forgive himself. 

“It’s perfect.” Stern nuzzles his beard, “I’d, uh, I’d very much like to keep kissing you until I fall asleep.”

“Think I can manage that. Go get cozy, babe, and I’ll join you in a sec.”

Stern kisses his cheek and heads into the bedroom. As Barclay packs up the cookies, the dark-haired man reappears with a puzzle toy and a dog bed, which he sets in front of the heater so they won’t be disturbed.

By the time Barclay is done, Stern is waiting for him under the covers, sans his frosting covered shirt. Barclay snuggles up in his arms, kissing him slow and soft, learning and memorizing the ways to draw little sighs of pleasure from his lips. Sterns eyelids droop first, and he falls asleep in Barclays arms. He strokes his back gently before dropping off himself. 

And in the morning, they have cookies for breakfast

[japanessie]

MY FIRST STORY & Saitama Super Arena capacity

I received this question on Twitter regarding the attendance at MFS TamaAri Tour Final. I think it would be interesting to share with my readers especially for those who might aspire to enter the showbiz.

Disclaimer: Answers were based on my personal observations as a longtime music fan. Also, I used ONE OK ROCK as a comparison because that's what my readers are familiar with. Peace everyone 😊

Question:

So I just read that MFS TamaAri was 18000 tickets? Normally I know the venue has a much larger capacity, so why is that? Are they taking it safely? And do you know what’s more important to secure bigger venues? Is it to sold out or the number of tickets you had there? Just trying to understand if this was necessary to get to Tokyo Dome. It just kinda makes me sad because they deserve so much!

I always just assumed that it’s 37000, didn’t know there was two modes, any idea on what’s the difference and why they went with arena mode instead of stadium.

------------------------------

MFS held an “arena" tour NOT “stadium" tour

First of all, from the start, MFS had declared their Kobe World Hall & Saitama Super Arena dates as “ARENA Tour". They never said “stadium". So, it only made sense that they booked Saitama Super Arena in its arena mode.

Based on MFS' proposed seating plan, they were honest from the start that they were NOT aiming for >30000 capacity. Just look at how small the space they allocated for standing spectators. The rest were all seated. They were pretty realistic about their crowd attracting capability & current limitations. They knew they were not OOR who could easily dedicate the entire floor area for standing spectators.

-----------------------------------------------------

Saitama Super Arena was designed to be mechanically multi-sized to suit multiple purposes

Look at the “Stadium vs Arena” diagrams from the venue's official website.

Saitama Super Arena does have TWO modes i.e "stadium" and "arena". It is a multi-purpose venue which means it can be used for concerts, sports events, exhibitions, death memorials (if you want) etc. Thus, to serve the different functions, it was designed in such a manner.

What is meant with max capacity of 37000 pax is the entire fixed seats taken up PLUS the maximum additional seating that the floor area can take, which is more suited for sports events where a smaller space for the athletes/performers is needed e.g. boxing, wrestling etc. For sports such as soccer or baseball, the floor area obviously will not be used for seatings.

Stadium vs Arena configuration

Stadium = the full length space with seats all around facing the centre. 

Arena = the space is partially blocked off reducing the seats & floor area.

Stadium Mode

Let's look at a typical concert stage end side configuration.

1. A chunk of the space is already taken up by the stage. Meaning the seated area behind the stage is already unusable for the spectators. Then, some artists have a runway or even multiple runways extending into the floor area. To my eyes, at least 1/4 or even 1/3 of the space is already reduced. Then, when you put designated seats on the arena floor, the number of people will be reduced even more because chairs take up more floor space per person than a free-standing area.

Arena Mode

How about centre stage configuration to maximize the viewing?

Here is an example of a centre stage from KOBUKURO LIVE TOUR 2015 at Saitama Super Arena. Even with this configuration and a more packed crowd than MY FIRST STORY, this only packed in 21000 spectators.

http://music.emtg.jp/liveReport/20150806213e27519

For safety reason, you can’t pack in more people than the officially declared maximum capacity

I'm not sure how the Law is in Japan or what legal obligations that the management of Saitama Super Arena needs to comply. However, generally, it concerns evacuating people safely and quickly in the case of fire or any disaster.

--------------------------------------------------

However, it looked like MFS didn't quite reach the number they were originally aiming for.

Got to be honest, there was a big block of unused seats at the end of the arena. The staff covered it with a huge piece of cloth. There was also some rather generous spaces around the floor seating area. They are not yet at OOR level who can easily attract >30000 crowd. But overall, it was good enough and not disastrous like the Shanghai show (unwise choice of venue that one... sorry my boys).

Photo by Taka Tallman

The difference of the Final outcome compared to the Original plan based on the official photo.

Why was it announced as "Sold Out"?

1. Logistics reason.

They needed to finalize the layout of the seatings and the number of chairs they actually needed. If they kept the ticket sales open to the performance day, it would be difficult for the staff to arrange the overall seated / standing areas. Notice how they often announced on-the-day tickets (toujitsuken) for their free standing Livehouse shows but not for Halls and Arenas. It's easy to squeeze in free standing audience as long as it is safe enough.

2. They very likely had already reached the sales target to cover the cost of the concert.

If you already sold out the quantity you needed to make profits, then it's not a lie to declare it that way. "Yeah, we sold out!". MFS is blessed to be an indie band because the money they earn mainly goes to them. Well, looking at the luxuries MFS members pampered themselves with (a huge rehearsal studio, holidays abroad, head-to-toe designer fashion etc), these guys made A LOT.

Despite playing to smaller crowds and playing less shows per year, MFS members are able to live comfortably at a more leisurely pace. Compare that to the major-label-and-talent-agency-tied OOR who certainly sell more in quantity but is being worked to death by their management with every Tour to make $$$!

3. In showbiz, image is everything.

Notice how once an actor won an Oscar, his publicity promo will always attach the term “Oscar winner (insert name)" with almost every appearance? Because it gives “value" to his name! Even if you only got nominated, being known as “Oscar-nominated actor" elevates your status.

It's the same with music artists. Saying “the band held a Sold-Out show at (insert a place)" gives “value" to your resume. The general public rarely ask the numbers or even question it.

Not only MFS, even OOR plays the same publicity game. For example, their Nagisaen show has always been hailed as attracting >100000 people. What is being downplayed is it was >100000 people over TWO days. Meaning >50000 pax per day and many of them actually went to BOTH days. But still, saying >100000 sounds better and it's not like they're lying. It's technically correct. So MFS saying, “Thank you. We sold out!" is technically true if they had passed their profit threshold. Anything extra is a bonus 😊.

Why still went for such a huge venue even though their fanbase still has not reached that level?

Just a basic management strategy no matter what field you’re in. Once you set a big target, you need to measure your achievement from time to time. They want to do Tokyo Dome. So, they need to see how far they can reach and what to plan to achieve it. With the Nippon Budokan, they knew that they could do 12000 pax. With Makuhari Messe and Yokohama Arena, they knew that 18000 figure was in their hands. With Saitama Super Arena, they very likely wanted to see if they could reach more than 20000. Now that MFS knew 20000 is a figure they need to still work on, they can plan from now what to do next. My prediction, there is a HUGE chance that the Tokyo Dome show would be fully or mostly seated.

What’s more important to secure bigger venues? Is it to be sold out or the number of tickets?

Strictly from the economic point of view, the number of tickets you can sell is more important. You'd want to earn enough to recoup your investment first & foremost. The venues don't care if your event is sold out or not. They just want their money. Being “sold out" is more for the artist's image.

Every artist has their own sales threshold of what they can call “sold out". MFS put limited standing tickets from the start which means they have a lower “sold out" threshold compared to a bigger band like OOR who allocates a lot more standing tickets.

The bigger your name, the higher the stake. I still remember when the late King of Pop Michael Jackson was deemed a failure for selling “only" around 45000 tickets for a stadium concert in the UK back in the late 90s.

So, was MFS playing it safe with Saitama Super Arena?

Nope. 

On the contrary, they were daring themselves to take the risk in order to know where they are at. But hey, ANY indie artist in the world would KILL to have 18000 people per night. It’s awesome that MFS could reach that number as an independent band.

------------------------------------------------------

My 2 cents

Why did MFS struggle a bit to fill up Saitama Super Arena?

To me it still boils down to one thing. Their archrival ONE OK ROCK.

This had been the first time ever that MFS was doing a major Tour head to head against OOR. They even had a few clashing dates!

* (Remember that Summer Sonic Tokyo (MFS) vs Osaka (OOR) incident? A small crowd in Tokyo vs a packed crowd in Osaka?）

OOR by Julen Photo

For the most part, getting the majority of their fans from OOR fandom has been a huge blessing for MFS. But we must take note that many of them still keep OOR as their main band and thus, are more likely to spend their money on the OOR Tour instead. Not to mention that OOR ticket & merch prices are higher.

MFS hardcore fans are still way smaller and probably will never top OOR, which is fine to me (seriously, I don’t want MFS to compromise their music like OOR did 😑 ). However, I do believe that the day will come when MFS can attract 30000 crowd in one show but it will take more time for that to happen.

But comparing it to OOR, it wasn’t too bad even though it is still a long way to go :-)

Someday MFS will be able to pack in fully standing crowds on the floor 😃 !

What MFS needs to do?

1. Keep on with their current strategy of reaching out and expanding to fans outside of the OOR crowd. Keep on collaborating, guys!

2. I personally hope that the little darling Hiroki can continue being careful with anything that comes out of his mouth so as not to make another faux pas e.g that misunderstood MC at Summer Sonic (OOR fans accused him of jealousy towards Taka again because of it... oops 🙈), that "kiddy tantrum" at Storyteller Tour Osaka (your warped sense of humour may not necessarily work outside of your band & crew, Hiro 😑). Watching him in the later part of 2019, I do feel Hiro had learned a bit from it all though.

3. Continue strengthening the bond with the existing fans. It’s important to cherish their loyalty. I had talked before about the benefit of keeping your core fans. Thankfully, MFS is doing it right in this area. Bringing awareness to ALS, dedicating their songs to special selected fans and helping in realizing their dreams. After all, support is a two-way street.

4. Connecting with the younger crowd like they did during the ALONE era with the “university tour” might be a good idea too 🤔. I still remember photos of the members walking through the crowd among the stalls at students’ fairs 😃. That was an exciting time 😊

-----------------------------------------------

So, what do you all think 😃?

[camillemontespan]

gossip girl: cordonia’s elite [part three: marshmallow]

Warnings: Sexual harrassment. 

I’ve taken some liberties with the TRR canon.. you’ll see what I mean. 

************************************************************************************

Camille sipped her martini, eager to cloud any anxious thoughts that were racing through her mind. She wished she hadn't gotten at Bertrand but she had felt so furious about Maxwell's treatment. She shouldn't have gone to the Bash. She should have stayed home and prepared for university on Monday, like a good girl.

She noticed from her Gossip Girl notifications that someone had sent a photo of her at the Palace Hotel Bar. Whoever took the photo was now gone as Camille was the only person drinking.

Gossip Girl needed to get rid of that 'submit a post' option for her readers. Anyone could be paparazzi these days and Camille was sick of it. She knew that now she was back, Gossip Girl would be reporting on her every move.

'Hey trouble.'

Camille looked up to see Leo sauntering towards her. He gestured to the bartender. 'Can I have a scotch on the rocks, James?' he asked.

He slipped down beside Camille and studied her. Camille sighed. 'I thought you would be at the Bash. You can never resist a party.'

Leo chuckled. 'True. But I saw on Gossip Girl that you were here so I felt like saying hello. Give you a warm Leo welcome.'

Camille drained her glass and asked the bartender for a refill. 'Why do I feel like a warm Leo welcome is code for get Camille on her back?'

Leo shrugged and sipped his scotch. 'I'm Leo Sullivan.'

He eyed her and gave his best lazy smile, the one that made girls go gooey. 'You remember last time.'

Camille visibly shuddered. 'Please don't remind me.'

'I recall lots of screaming my name and back scratching.. Man, you tore my skin to ribbons-'

'Please just stop talking,' Camille interrupted. 'I'm not in the mood.'

Leo sipped more of his drink, his eyes looking at her over the rim of the glass. He placed the glass down on the bar, before gesturing for the bartender to leave. This was his family's hotel. He could do what he wanted.

'You're always in the mood,' he said.

'That was the old Camille,' she bit back, her voice laced with venom. 'I'm different now.'

Leo rolled his eyes and leaned over to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. 'I liked you better before,' he whispered, his hand snaking up her leg towards the space between her thighs.

Camille pushed him away. 'Leo! Get the fuck off me!'

'Come on, Cammy,' Leo teased. 'You know you want to. We're good together. I make you feel good, don't deny it. You want it really.'

His hands were snaking over her skin. Camille twisted her body, trying to get off her chair so she could escape but Leo's body formed a barrier.

'Come on, baby..' he said. 'I'll fuck you good and hard, just as you like it -'

'Get the fuck away from her!'

Leo and Camille looked around to see a dark haired guy standing at the threshold of the bar with his fists clenched. He looked extremely angry. Camille breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn't alone with Leo anymore.

Leo laughed bitterly and strolled towards the stranger, his hand up in defence. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'Why are you interrupting a private meeting in my bar?'

The stranger narrowed his eyes. 'Get away from her.'

'Seriously, who the fuck are you? Get out,' Leo replied, losing patience. He had Camille to fuck.

The guy launched forward and his fist connected with Leo's face. Leo fell to the ground, clutching his face as Drake stood over him. 'I'm fucking Drake Walker!' he shouted. 'I'm at the same university as you. I see you every fucking day. Leave her the fuck alone.'

Camille was gripping the edge of the bar. She didn't know what to do. But looking at him, at Drake, she recognised him from the train station. He had bumped into her and she had dropped her book. He had been really apologetic and awkward. She remembered he replied to her joke with 'nggggghhh..'

He was cute.

Leo got up awkwardly and gave Camille a cold look. He looked back to Drake then back to her before letting out a harsh laugh. 'Not worth my time,' he decided. He looked at Drake and smirked. 'She's a good fuck. But who wants damaged goods?'

Drake pulled him in by the shirt collar, fury burning in his eyes. 'Say that again.'

Leo blinked and stayed silent. A bruise was blooming over his right eye. 'Alright, let me go,' he croaked. 'Easy.'

Drake let him go and Leo skulked out of the bar.

                       ********************************************

Drake hadn’t meant to punch Leo. He hadn’t meant to get angry but when he had walked into the hotel bar and saw Camille struggling to get away from Leo who was saying such obscene things.. He saw red. How dare Leo treat her like that? Not only did it anger him that it was Camille who was being targeted, but Drake imagined his sister being put in the same position and he felt anger flood through his veins. 

Now, he was alone in the room with Camille and he felt like he had to explain himself. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to go crazy there..’ he muttered. ‘I just hate it when guys like him act entitled. He’s a prick.’

Camille surveyed him, her eyes looking him up and down. Drake sighed and closed his eyes, knowing he had blown it. He had looked like a crazy person. Turning to go, he moved back to the door but was stopped by her voice. 

‘Join me for a drink?’ 

He turned back and saw that she was smiling bashfully. ‘I owe you for saving me.’ 

Drake chuckled and walked to where she was sitting. Camille hopped off and went behind the bar, running her fingers along the bottles. ‘Which bottle should we take from the Sullivan’s collection?’ she mused. ‘I think Leo can put this towards his grovelling present.’

Drake sat down and watched her. She moved like water, fluid and light. ‘Which is the most expensive?’ he asked.

Camille laughed and picked out a bottle of whiskey. ‘This one.’

‘Nice choice.’

Camille opened the bottle and poured generous measures into crystal tumblers before handing one to Drake. Their fingers brushed and Drake felt the electric shock. Camille blushed and moved to sit next to him again. She clinked her glass against his. 

‘So, what’s your name?’ she asked. ‘Or do you not have one? Just a mysterious stranger who saves girls from creepy guys?’

Drake smirked. ‘It’s Drake. Drake Walker.’

Camille grinned. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Camille Montespan.’

The fact that she assumed he didn’t know her name proved him right about one thing; she wasn’t arrogant like her friends. They sipped their drinks and sat in comfortable silence. 

‘You bumped into me at the train station,’ she said. ‘I remember you.’ 

‘Sorry about that,’ Drake apologised, blushing. ‘I wasn’t looking.’

‘It’s okay. I’m just saying that I remember you.’

But she didn’t remember him from their biology class in high school. That was the kicker. Drake thought to himself, trying to calm down his negative thoughts. They both looked different from high school; he was taller, broader and more muscled now. Her braces were gone. It was normal for her not to remember him like that. 

‘What do you study?’ she asked. She was so much better at making conversation than he was. Why was he so awkward? Why wasn’t he more forthcoming? Why wasn’t he sparkly and easygoing? 

‘English Lit,’ he told her. 

Camille’s face broke out into a grin. ‘Same! We’ll be in the same lecture on Monday then.’

‘Awesome,’ Drake said, trying to settle his pounding heart. Oh man. They were studying for the same degree. He would see her every day. As much as he wanted to see her every day, he still felt nervous. They would drink now but on Monday, she would pretend not to know him because that was how his life was. He expected this from people now; that way, he could avoid disappointment. 

‘Sit with me in the lecture hall?’ Camille asked hopefully. ‘I don’t know anyone on our course.’

Drake blinked. ‘Uhh… sure?’

Camille tossed back her whiskey. ‘Wow, be more enthusiastic, Walker.’ 

‘Sorry! Sorry! Yeah, that sounds great.’

Camille smiled. ‘Perfect. English buddies.’ 

‘Buddies, huh?’

Camille raised an eyebrow. ‘Drake, you defended me from Leo’s creepy advances, I think we’re buddies.’ 

‘Can we not call ourselves friends? Buddies sounds like a… 90s cop TV show.’ 

Camille rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, Drake. Friends. God, you’re such a marshmallow.’ 

Drake laughed and pushed her shoulder with his, feeling less self conscious now. Camille shot him a warm smile and poured them another drink. 

‘Bottoms up, marshmallow!’

‘I’m not a marshmallow.’

‘You so are. You defended my honour, ergo, marshmallow.’ 

‘I think you’ll find I’m a s’more.’

Camille burst out laughing and Drake revelled in the joy of it.

*******************************************************************************************

Olivia was helping herself to another vodka at the Beaumont Bash.  She was glad she hadn’t seen Camille and from what she saw on Gossip Girl, her ex-best friend hadn’t bothered to come to the Bash, instead choosing to drink alone. Pathetic. 

She had been trying her best to engage with Liam but he had seemed distracted. Twice she had caught him refreshing the Gossip Girl website on his phone, as if he was waiting for more notifications of Camille. 

Olivia spotted Leo stalk into the manor and head straight for the drinks selection. He poured himself a scotch and tossed it down his throat. He sported a purple bruise around his eye which hadn’t been there when she had last seen him. 

‘What happened to you?’ she asked him. 

Leo touched his eye gently and winced. ‘Nothing.’

‘Okay, liar.’

‘I mean it. Nothing. A fucking nobody sucker punched me.’ 

Olivia frowned. ‘What did you do to deserve that?’

Leo glowered, not wanting to answer the question. Olivia knew not to push him. She knew Leo more than most people. 

She knew what his hands felt like against her skin.

She knew what her name sounded like on his lips.

She knew that his lips were soft.

She knew he smelled like sandalwood. 

Only Olivia knew these things, these things they had both shared. Liam didn’t know that Olivia had lost her virginity to Leo when they were seventeen. It was the dark secret she kept locked in her heart. 

Despite being with Liam for so many years, she hadn’t been faithful. It had been a mistake, she knew that now. It had been a drunken night, reckless, chaotic. She had instantly regretted it. Loyalty was a big deal for her and she had gone against everything she believed in when she spread her legs for Leo Sullivan. 

But as she watched Liam from across the room who was unable to peel his eyes away from his phone, she did wonder: why are we still together?

*******************************************************************************************

Drake walked Camille home. She lived on the other side of Cordonia, right by the harbour, but he didn’t mind. It was nice just to walk with her, talking about everything they could think of. So far, they had debated about which American football team was better (Camille was pleased to discover a fellow American), talked about her grandmother, his mom being away and Texas. They had covered a lot of ground. 

When they reached her door, Camille smiled up at him. ‘Thank you for saving my night,’ she said. ‘Seriously. I was having a bad time. But you made it good again.’ 

‘No problem, Montespan,’ he said, shuffling on his feet. 

‘Look at you calling me by my last name like you’re not a marshmallow,’ she teased. ‘So cute.’

‘I’m not a marshmallow!’ he protested. 

Camille stuck her tongue out and Drake resisted the urge to pull her in for a kiss. He was rejecting every single part of him that longed to take her in his arms and kiss her. This wasn’t the moment. They had only really just met. Plus, she had already been harrassed by another guy tonight; she didn’t need another. 

‘I’ll see you Monday,’ she said quietly, her brown eyes penetrating his. 

‘See you Monday,’ he croaked. There was a silence and then Camille turned on her heel and opened the front door, calling out, ‘Grandma, I’m home!’ 

‘You’re home early!’ Drake heard her grandmother say. ‘Taxi?’

‘No, a nice guy dropped me home!’

Drake chuckled and sloped off down the street. A nice guy. 

*******************************************************************************************

Good morning, Cordonians.  Heavy heads this morning? I thought so, after last night’s Beaumont Bash.  Thank you to my source, Camille didn’t even bother attending- does this mean Beaumont Bashes are now defunct? Do you really want to go to a Bash if she isn’t going to be there? 

I hear that she was drinking whiskey until the early hours with a mysterious stranger. How quaint. Perhaps after three years, Camille is over the glamorous debauchery of elite society and has decided to try out what the rest of Cordonia has to offer? What glittering heights can he show her? A bottle of whiskey and witty banter? Who knows, but I’ll be watching. 

I’ll be watching all of you, as you know.  Now, pound that ibuprofen or order a Bloody Mary. As the always elegant Elizabeth Taylor said: ‘Put on some lipstick and pull yourself together.’

You know you love me.

GG