#honestly the light/dark thing was sort of incoherent

[onebizarrekai]

Apologies if it doesn't exist / sounds stupid,

Is a "Corrupted" Arthur a thing that exists? Like how in their Dreamswap Version we had Dream with red eyes, the demonic looking wings? Just curious

nah he don't, not in fatal flaws. it's just a dreamswap timeline thing because the light/dark magic thing only exists in that version of the story

[brayneworms]

prompt: l lawliet + food play + pink

wc. 2.8k. gn!reader, foodplay, virgin!l, handjobs, sliiiight come eating, reader is a wet cat in a cardboard box kinda, safe sane and consensual, no real power dynamics.

L contextualises things in the way he sees the world.

Strings of numbers, statistics, behavioural patterns that he's memorised to a 'T' until he can tell guilt from the aversion of an eye or fury from the remnants of nails pressed into the palm of someone's hand. It's why maybe something like sex or desire is a struggle for him. It's not that he doesn't understand it, it's more like he doesn't see the—the need for it, or whatever. You chalk it up to him being extremely busy and also probably totally asexual and don't think about it.

(Don't think about it much.)

It sort of surprises you that it's you he corners with his questions about. Maybe he's more embarrassed than he lets on—as it is, he looks cool as a cucumber save for the faintest shade of pink across his cheekbones. There's no way he would escape a conversation about it from anyone on the squad without a degree of ragging. Misa would squeal like a pig if L dared to broach the topic with her, you're sure. Matsuda would blush bright red and trip over all his words, and Aizawa would probably stare at him like he'd set his firstborn on fire.

And Light is Light. He probably knows little more than L, for all the airs he puts on.

So it's you he comes to. When it first starts, you think it has something to do with a case or lead he's hunting. Tell me, have you had sex before?

Perched like a frog, licking whipped cream off his finger. You don't know if he's doing to be provocative or not; don't know which is worse, that he's aware of what he's doing or not.

"This isn't exactly proper workplace conversation L."

A flicker of a smile. Cheeky, omniscient. "Feel free to report me to HR, in that case."

You do answer—honestly and concisely, if not with a shade of awkwardness. He's essentially your boss. But L seems so far removed from the worlds of sexuality and desire that it seems harmless, occupational, and eventually it stops feeling embarrassing. Out of nowhere—what is the purpose of restrains in an intimate context? Why do you think some people like to feel as though they have no control in the bedroom? Would you say that visual pornography has given watchers unrealistic expectations of actual intercourse?

One night, the two of you alone in front of a big glowing screen, turning to him and asking. "Why do you ask me this stuff, anyway? Is it for a case?"

"No," he says neutrally. A quick glance from his dark eyes you could almost describe as coy. "I'm just... curious."

"Curious," you echo, deadpan. "You?"

"Does that surprise you?" he murmurs. You almost feel that your honest answer—yes—would be insulting now, so instead you just shrug and mumble something incoherent under your breath. "You're not completely wrong. I thought having a better understanding of things like sex and power dynamics would be beneficial in the long run. Most people have a greater knowledge of it than me, which—puts me at a disadvantage." He says these last words with an air of revulsion, as though the very concept of knowing less than someone sours in his mouth, and you chuckle at his childishness.

"That makes sense." You pause. Wonder if you're reading this all wrong, then barrel ahead anyway. "Wouldn't actually experiencing it for yourself lend a better understanding than anything else, though?"

L's eyebrow raises. His smile has vanished, leaving him bug-eyed and unreadable. "What are you suggesting?"

He's not stupid, and you're not subtle. He knows exactly what you were suggesting. The fact that he's trying to get you to go into more detail rather than firing you on the spot is probably a good sign, and further than you expected to get. You squirm in your seat.

"You know. It's like being told about how something feels rather than knowing," you say awkwardly. "I'm just—can I ask—"

"It only seems fair," L says slowly. "After I've been badgering you with my own questions for so long." His chair spins; he rests his wrists on his rucked-up knees, fingers steepled in front of him. "Please."

Hot-faced, you spin your chair aimlessly. "Okay, well, uh—have you? I mean, before?"

L hesitates before he shakes his head, an almost imperceptible twitch that has his dark hair floating. You swallow the sudden large dry lump in your throat.

"Okay. So. Probably somewhere to start," you mumble.

L seems to consider this. "Would you be willing?"

You don't have the right to be surprised, with all the dancing around the subject, but you are, still. You choke on your spit and fly around to look at him, which is a mistake. His gaze is so dark and intense, and you think he can see right through you before you even open your mouth to answer.

"I'm not—" you stammer, with no idea what you're going to say. "I mean—"

"I had assumed you would be," L goes on calmly, but you catch the slight flicker of his eyes, a ghost of uncertainty that makes your chest squeeze. "If I have read your responses incorrectly, though, feel free to forget I asked. I can guarantee no awkwardness tomorrow."

"It's not that," you blurt. L blinks at you, go on. "It's just... do you have any idea what you're, you know. Into? Where to start?"

L's eyes flicker, the barest furrow knitted between his brows. You can tell he hasn't thought too hard about it. "What would you suggest?" he asks, curling his long fingers over his knees.

You swallow. "Well... anything you like the idea of, I guess. Something familiar, to ease you into it."

L's eyes roll over to his desk, where a perfectly glistening slice of strawberry cake waits for him. Pink sponge and halved red berries, topped with pale pink cream. "Familiar," he echoes. "I may have a suggestion."

-

So you feed L a strawberry just to get started.

Hold it up. It's distinctly awkward; L just stares at it for a moment, the berry dusted with frosting that glistens between your fingers. You tell him, "If you're not comfortable with this, sex is probably going to be—"

He leans forward and plucks the fruit from between your fingers; you feel the barest ghosting of teeth, the sweep of his tongue sharp and curious against the pads of your fingers before he leans back again. You watch the motions of his jaw and throat as he chews and swallows. Pins you with his headlamp stare, wide and dark.

You deconstruct the strawberry cake carefully, removing the berries and setting them to the side. Cast a look over at him. "Take off your shirt?"

L twists the hem of this shirt for a few moments before removing it. It feels so strange to see him devoid of clothing, like a knight removing their armour. Pale ribs, pinched waist. He's not whipcord-thin like you had imagined—there's lean muscle packed under the skin, his stomach flat and somewhat soft. It flexes almost nervously when you look at it. He reclines back on his bed without being told, bracing his weight onto his elbows, legs dangling off the side.

"You sure about all this?" you ask, glancing from the smooth planes of his white skin—shit—to the plate of crumbling pink dessert. "Didn't think you'd be into, you know. All the mess."

"I have a shower," L says reflexively.

You take that as permission to approach with the plate. You place the strawberry halves in a red dotted line, starting at his clavicle, watching him shiver and flex at the cold touch. Down—one at the bottom of his ribs, one above his bellybutton, one at his naval just above the low sling of his jeans. He's started to flush, prettily pink down his chest. It makes you slightly dizzy.

"Okay. So. Okay." You try not to feel so nervous, but it's more like you feel out of place, or time, or space. It feels surreal, basically. Standing between L's legs with your fingers stained pink from fruit and frosting. Him looking up at you like that, all big dark round eyes and slightly parted lips. Damn it. You take a deep, steadying breath. "Okay, so, I'll start now if you're okay. And just say if you don't want—if you want to stop, or if you don't like anything, just say, okay?"

"I understand the basic premises of consent, if that's what you're trying to affirm." The words are all L, but there's an element of breathlessness to them.

"Just making sure we're clear," you mutter. You lean forward and smooth a palm over his collarbones. They're sharp, they jut up to meet your hand like cut diamond, and you hear and see his breath hitch, which is slightly intoxicating. His skin is warmer and softer than you thought it would be. You run your hands over his shoulders and neck, which he squirms away from with a wrinkled nose.

"No neck?" you ask.

He shakes his head. So no neck.

Once you're done exploring this part of his body, you lean forward, close your lips around the strawberry and bite the end of it, sinking your teeth into the flesh. Pink juice runs down your chin; L's eyes follow it, transfixed, as you tilt your head forward and push your mouthful against his lips. They part unquestioningly, and you push the strawberry into his mouth with your tongue. Your lips brush together, tantalising and sweet with sugar. A mimic of a kiss, a palimpsest of intimacy. You don't want to overwhelm him, anyway.

This goes on; your hands over his chest next, the soft pectorals. An experimental brush of your thumb over his left nipple that makes his whole body shudder. He's so sensitive, reacting to every prod and touch and tweak with a jerk and a shiver. Gooseflesh blooms up his skin, pebbling his nipples, and when you tweak the other one gently he lets out a choked sound.

Finding the strawberry nestled under his ribs. Taking it between your teeth and passing it to him. His face gets pinker with each one. Stomach, concave, flexing with every hard breath. A ticklish spot over his belly button. Strawberry, bite, pass. The flex of his jaw as he chews.

Fingers over his waist, indenting the skin as much as you dare. You try not to think of how easily he would bruise. Brushing your touch over his lower abdomen makes his breath catch again. You find the strawberry, hold it between your lips. L cranes his neck, searching this time—he thinks he knows the game, has memorised the steps, found the pattern, the sequence. He doesn't know that the best sex is the unpredictable kind. This time, you press your lips against him and when your tongue pushes the strawberry into his mouth it stays there. His lips part, slack against yours, either in shock or inexperience. You allow yourself the briefest twirl of your tongue against his before pulling back with a wet pop.

L stares at you as you retreat. The strawberries leave pale pink residue on his skin. Pulling back fully reveals the hardness between his legs, pushing up against the dark denim of his jeans. He grunts when your eyes land on it, either out of embarrassment or frustration. You swallow and its like sandpaper.

"Still want me to...?"

"I have not changed my mind," he replies, slightly hoarsely and a beat slower than usual. You shrug, smooth your hands over the tent at his crotch, and he whines. It's the most searing noise you've pulled from him yet, and all from some halfhearted palming over the jeans. It sends a thrill zipping through you, hot and addicting. His arms shake with the weight of holding himself up, neck craning to follow as you sink to your knees between his legs.

You unzip him, pop the button, and he groans slightly at the freedom from the constraints of his clothes. He's fully hard, straining against his dark underwear. You experiment, rubbing at the tip, feeling for the wet spot, and he keens and thrashes, losing his stability and crashing to the mattress. He makes a frustrated noise just after, as though cursing himself for his own lack of control.

"That—" he swallows hard, breathes shakily. "That feels..."

Your hand hovers. "Am I stopping?"

"No, I don't..." He scrambles. L scrambles over his words. "Please, continue."

You stroke him over his underwear for a few concentrated minutes, mostly enjoying the way he twitches and huffs and occasionally makes soft, whiny noises, the way he starts to rut his hips against your hand. No technique, no rhythm, just some sort of baseless desire that you find incredibly hot. There's almost a frustration to it that makes you want to laugh—of course there would be nothing more agonising to someone like L than seeing what he wanted so close to him but being unable to accomplish it himself.

When he starts gritting his teeth, you pull his boxers down to his thighs and he makes a choking, embarrassed sound. When you wrap your fingers around his cock for the first time, finding it velvety-soft and leaking, his eyes roll back and his hips arch into the loose wet tunnel of your hand. "Oh," is all he says. Small and soft like he's surprised. His neck twists and his mouth presses into the starched white sheets. "Oh," he says again as your fist moves slowly, stroking with intent, up and down. He's not overly big, fits nicely in your hand, makes swiping over the head where the pre beads with your thumb nice and convenient. And you love the way he shudders and thrashes when you do it.

"How does that feel?" Your voice is lower than you remember it being. L cracks a bleary eye open; his face is flushed bright pink now, a flush that bleeds all the way down his chest, blending in with the strawberry stains.

"It feels," he starts, before his brow pinches. "I—I am not sure how to—how to describe..."

"It's okay," you tell him. His thighs shake, flexing against the edge of the mattress. When he tips his head back the cords in his pretty throat bulge, so biteable. "You can come whenever."

"I wasn't—oh," he gasps, squirming. "I wasn't aware I n-needed your—permission, oh."

"Yeah, well," you say intelligently, a little struck dumb by the sight before you. "Just making sure we're on the same page."

"A-and what page is that?" he pants, thrusting his hips messily into your hand. He's so fucking sensitive that you swear you can see his eyes growing shiny.

"The one where I help you out, so don't be a brat," you murmur. L laughs breathlessly, trying, you think, to summon some retort. You twist your fist around him and it died, half-formed in his brain, his eyes rolling back and fingers flexing hard in the sheets.

After another minute, he reaches out and grabs your wrist hard enough to bruise. He doesn't say it—can't, maybe. But you know. Your pace speeds up just a touch and he honest to god moans, spilling out of him soft and breathy before he comes, streaking over his stomach in pearly arcs. You watch him flinch at the contact, fingers slipping on your wrist. His chest flexes—in, out, in, out.

You collect a big scoop of pink frosting on your finger and dip it in the come starting to cool between his pecs before pressing it to his lips. L's brow wrinkles, startled—but he opens his lips and lets your fingers pass into the hot cavern of his mouth. Like a cat he licks your finger clean, pointed pink tongue prodding with no technique or flourish, just something steadfast, something stubborn.

You do him the dignity of tucking his softened cock back into his underwear and zipping up his jeans. Unsure how to proceed until L sits up rather abruptly. His hair is even more tousled from his tossing and turning as he reaches for a tissue to wipe himself down.

He looks at you. "I understand it's customary to offer some sort of equivalent exchange in these circumstances." A pause whilst he gathers his breath. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm not quite feeling up to the task."

His tone is normal, if a little shaky. You rock back on your heels. "Did you like it?"

L blinks at you. "My curiosity has been sated," he says, carefully. "Yes, I believe I did enjoy it."

Well, that's a relief if nothing else. The pink remnants of the strawberry cake it on the plate; the shade matches his blush.

[papercutsunset]

but i'll be honest: in the end, the character's feelings on how they are, in body and mind, have to come first. i don't care.

if we have to go about it this way, im speaking as someone who is, in all technicalities, disabled here; and you can leave your debate of that fact at the door when i say this; so it's not like im saying this for no reason. im also saying this the way i am because i tend to put the character and their journey above most else in my full-process writing, meaning that's my first priority.

realistically, they shouldn't be making it out of so many things unscathed. if she gets shot in the side three times, she should feel the lasting effects of that. we don't have to hook her up to machinery for weeks and send her to physical therapy if you don't want to, but does she feel it when she strains? does the once-fractured part of her skull and the injury to her brain have any sort of ramification? these are things that you did to her.

your characters are accumulating injuries. they are. and the story still needs to happen, so what do they do?

because, to be frank, and we have to be frank here, there are a lot of disabled people who don't treat themselves gently. they just full-out don't. they don't have the time; they don't have the money; they don't have the energy or the patience or the self esteem or the whatever. or maybe your character does treat themself with some grace when they fucking need to, right? maybe they do. because let's be honest: there are limitations to their life now.

i can admit that the reason i didn't want to write about tiff's (or denny's) anxiety in the beginning (which, outside of government purposes, isn't really counted as something disabling) was because the thought of writing something so vulnerable that could make someone else uncomfortable was terrifying to me. and you know what? sometimes you have to step out of your shell and write it anyway.

conversely, the reason i didn't want to write about migraines later on before i gave in (oddly, mid-migraine, though i didn't mean to be) was because i... well, aside from not wanting to mess up, knowing that my migraines aren't one-to-one with those that everyone else has (whose are, really), i didn't want to have to deal with thinking out every trigger and counting out the hours of postdrome and having the thought of readers looking at this character slurring her words and rambling more incoherently than usual and going, "why is this necessary? why include this? and if you're including this, why is she fighting ben on getting her pajama shorts on? why is she fighting ben and elton on taking a nap? why is she staying awake and trying to do things instead of taking a nap and trying to stop it from happening? this just feels really out of character."

listen, man. it's already happening. might as well dim the lights and try to be useful. might as well try to get through it. and sometimes you look back on it and you're like "... why did i eat a bowl of strawberry ice cream? i hate strawberries. i hate them so much." you are out of character. you're in pain; your brain is messed up; the sun wants you dead; and it's nothing if not true to life. leave it be.

so i think, honestly, you can and should think through your own biases, but thinking through the biases of the characters themselves is just as important. why don't they want to lay down when their blood pressure is tanking? why do they want to push through massive blood loss? why is their instinct to down a fistful of painkillers and slap on sunglasses and then go to literal hell instead of laying in a dark room like everyone says you should? and so on

[cdroloisms]

vegas team 2.0 lets go !!

vegas team au 2.0 my beloved !!! 

if you don’t know what the vegas team au 2.0 is, it’s an au that a couple of my twitter friends and i developed (notably, @stabbysideblog and @dreamsclock) as a post-canon version of sparrow’s vegas team au, which had c!dream, a post-revival c!wilbur, and c!quackity working together at las nevadas. 

this au exists much in the same vein, but exists post-canon (and therefore, post torture from c!quackity) and adds c!sam to the crew - it’s essentially four really, really messed up people screwing things up in las nevadas and being completely AWFUL to each other. it’s a very messed up group dynamic, 50% angst 50% crack 0% fluff or healing (...unless ;) ) and it’s absolutely one of my favorite aus at the moment. 

anyway, have this ficlet for the au i wrote a little bit ago that basically goes into how these four end up working together !! 

tw: implied torture, unhealthy relationships (SO many unhealthy relationships), manipulation, threats, emotional distress, mental instability

When Sam first sees the two figures standing on top of the roof of Las Nevadas, the first thing that comes to his mind is oh no, I have a bad feeling about this.

The feeling is far from foreign; a "bad feeling" has been his life for the past week ever since Dream and Wilbur had disappeared from Pandora's Vault seemingly without a trace. He's tried to keep the knowledge under wraps, only telling Bad and Ant to send them on a manhunt to find the prisoner (a lost cause if he's ever seen one; the two have hunted Dream before, and all of them know that there is no way they're finding the man if he doesn't want to be found) while he and Quackity plan for the coming storm. And there will be a coming storm, he's sure - he's heard enough of Dream's desperate, deranged plans of revenge voiced in near incoherent screams through bubbling lava to think that he will come out of the cell with anything close to mercy in his heart.

Unfortunately, there's been little to nothing from the pair of fugitives running around the server, his communicator chat still buzzing with Tommy's usual shouting and Puffy's usual invitations to tea and Technoblade's usual cryptic "technoblade" messages sporadically throughout the day. It's frustratingly, maddeningly normal, and each day of waiting for the other shoe to drop only leaves him even closer to snapping completely. In a twisted, bitter sort of way, he's almost relieved at the sight of the people standing on the polished quartz roof of the casino; at least now he'll finally get some answers.

Next to him, Quackity narrows his eyes. "Nobody should know about this place," he says, lips twisting into a tight frown.

Sam shrugs, shoulders heavy and tense under netherite. "Do you think-"

"-that it's our dynamic fuckin' duo? Yeah," he breathes out, short and quick through his teeth, and his wings stretch and flutter behind him, "I think it might be."

The figures become clearer as they step closer, silhouettes dark and thrown into harsh relief against the backlighting of the sun behind them. One of them is definitely wearing armor - netherite, from the looks of it - and both are very clearly armed. Wonderful.

The taller turns towards them, gestures with a wide sweep of their arm. "Big Q!"

Sam jumps at the voice; Quackity smiles humorlessly. "Wilbur."

Wilbur turns towards the other figure - Dream, for sure then - and they seem to talk, though they are far too far away for Sam to make out anything they say. Dream seems to hand something to Wilbur, and seconds later twin dots of bluish-green arc smoothly towards the ground in front of Sam's feet. He steps back, watching from the corner of his eye as Quackity does the same, and sure enough Wilbur, and then Dream, land on the grass where their enderpearls hit the ground.

"It's been a long time, Big Q, Sam," Wilbur smiles, tight-lipped, confident, tipping his head at each of them as he says their names. He's not wearing any armor save for a crossbow - enchanted - slung loosely over his hip and a netherite sword hanging off of his belt. "How have things been?"

"Cut the crap, Wilbur." The smile stays on Quackity's face, but his eye is dark and cold and dangerous. He's changed - of course he has, you can't do what he's done in Pandora without changing, but the sight of his expression still sends a disturbed shiver down Sam's spine. "You want something."

Wilbur, to his credit, doesn't seem fazed at all. "We've been doing pretty well - I think we've made quite some progress, considering how little time it's been since we've escaped that prison - nice build, by the way, Sam." His voice is lilting, almost sincere, and he looks over at Sam with a laughing light in his eyes like they're sharing an inside joke. "It's really quite impressive - what do you think, Dream?"

Dream doesn't seem to respond; he's all decked out again, netherite covering him from head to toe, the enchanted metal plates completely dwarfing the man hidden within them. His hands clutch at a golden apple, knuckles white against the golden skin, and a plain shield is strapped over his left arm as well a hulking enchanted axe on his back. They've been busy, it seems, and Sam's teeth grind against each other; he's not sure, if it comes down to it, that this is a fight that he and Quackity can win.

"Wilbur," Quackity repeats, impatience creeping into his tone, "What do you want?"

Wilbur smiles wider; it makes Sam uneasy, like Wilbur had been waiting for this, waiting for their desperation to send them at the devil's table with paper in one hand and a pen in the other.

"You're a businessman, aren't you, Big Q? You know how business deals work - so let's talk business. I think we can come up with something agreeable, what do you think?"

Quackity huffs a short laugh- "And what's stopping me and Sam from putting a sword through your gut?"

Wilbur smiles, sharp-edged. "Well, Big Q. Resurrection magic- it's quite interesting, really. Dream was explaining it to me, you know. And here's the thing; how many lives do you think I have right now?"

What- oh. "You have all of your lives back."

"Oh, no, Sam, I'm not saying that, exactly," Wilbur waves his hand flippantly, "I'm just saying you don't know, you know? And if I were to- say, have more than one life, and you were to kill me, well," he shrugs, a thoughtful look on his face. "We were smart enough to set our beds far away from the prison, of course. It would be an awful shame if people were to find out about what the perfect, responsible Warden was allowing in his inescapable prison, wouldn't it?"

No, no, no-

"So you're blackmailing us," Quackity's eyebrows are furrowed, jaw clenched tightly. Wilbur tips his head back and laughs.

"Oh, this isn't a threat, Big Q! Just a few- let's just call them hypotheticals." He begins to pace back and forth, gait smooth and unburdened, "I'm just saying that you two are powerful right now, you know? And it's great! I love this- what was it, Las Nevadas, you're calling it? It's great. It's absolutely magnificent. I'm just saying that you might want to be careful about what people end up finding out; you know people can be about power, on this server, and it would be such a shame to see this place burned to the ground."

Quackity's wings tense, and Sam can already see the younger's mouth opening and his fingers beginning to glow white with him reaching into his inventory, and oh prime if things escalate here then they're so, so screwed-

"Business!" He shouts louder than he wants, Quackity's head snapping towards him, lips still slightly parted from the words that he never got to say, and Sam ignores him to focus his attention on Wilbur, still staring at them with a smile playing on his lips. "You said you would be willing to talk business, right, Wilbur?"

"Yes, of course! Let's talk business. What do you think, Quackity?" Wilbur pauses, looks Quackity in the eye, and the younger glares but doesn't say anything. "Oh, don't worry too much, Big Q. I honestly think that it'll be good for all of us - a mutually beneficial arrangement, if you will."

"Wilbur, just," Sam sighs, fights against the incoming headache. "Can you please just get to the point?"

"Of course, Sam," Wilbur all but chirps, "So- we have something you want, and you have something we want. I say we pool our resources- our knowledge, Dream's combat prowess, your protection and items - and make something better."

"Pool our resources- wait wait wait, you mean you want to fuckin'-"

"I don't know how much Dream has told you, but I've been dead for a pretty long time; there really isn't all that much to do in the Void, you know. I've gotten pretty bloody good at cards, if I do say so myself." Wilbur grabs Dream, ignoring the way he flinches as he slings an arm around his shoulders, "What do you say? Have room in Las Nevadas for two more, Big Q?"

Sam blinks. Prime, give him strength. "What?"

Quackity hisses quietly, "You want to help with Las Nevadas? Both of you?" Sam watches as he turns his glare from Wilbur to Dream, and oh, so that's what this is about. He points his thumb jerkily in the direction of the masked man, watching, as Dream ducks his head down, unable to back away too far with Wilbur's arm still braced behind his neck. "And why should I work with him?"

"Two in one deal, Quackity, you have both of us or nothing at all," Wilbur drawls, "Besides, I know you've wanted the power of the resurrection book - and done quite a lot to get it! I'm really very impressed. Of course, we couldn't simply give it to you, but with us on your side, there's hardly even a difference." Quackity opens his mouth, looking like he's about to protest- "And, really, it would be nice to have Dream on your side in case the Blade comes for your other eye, no?"

His mouth shuts with an audible click, one-eyed glare meeting Wilbur's all-too easy expression, before finally nodding jerkily. "Fine. As long as he doesn't cause too much trouble."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Wilbur claps Dream on the back, and he curls into himself more, arms raising up to his head. "You've done more than enough to keep him obedient."

"We'll have to write out the terms later," Quackity presses on. "Don't want either of you trying anything. I've put so much fuckin' time into this place, I'm not letting you fuck it up, you hear?"

"Of course, Big Q," Wilbur's smile is jagged, all teeth, as he holds his arm out between them. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Quackity breathes in, out, looks over at Sam. There's a question written in the tight edge of his shoulders, in the way his wings are braced and held to his sides - are we sure about this?

Sam tips his head in a shallow nod. Do we really have a choice?

Quackity takes Wilbur's hand, shakes it. "Then welcome to the team."

Wilbur laughs, and it sounds like flames and explosions and the ground shaking beneath your feet, burns with the cold heat of smoke and ash - and Sam knows, with a bitter, searing certainty, that this is going to collapse around them in a blaze of glory, that they've all but signed their death warrants, have nothing left but to wait for the countdown timer to hit zero and blow this place up to kingdom come. Wilbur meets his eyes - dark, dead, grey like cinders and gunpowder - and he knows that the other man is thinking the same thing.

"I think this is the start to something beautiful," Wilbur says, and Sam grits his teeth as he steps into the building.

Something beautiful, indeed.

[sneezefiction]

of night owls & early birds

Kuroo x Reader

desc: Kuroo, your roommate and longtime best friend, likes you but he really dislikes your sleep schedule. alternatively, your crush gets up way too early and you “suffer the consequences.”

a/n: the irony of working on this fic at 5 am doesn’t escape me… but it also hasn’t assuaged my awful sleep patterns. i hope you enjoy!!

warnings: school/general anxiety, crass/offbeat humor (jokes about planning your own funeral), idk if you’re scared of love don’t read this - it’s very fluffy.

wc: 3.6k

--- You’re screwed, you think, as a light flickers on just outside of your room. It illuminates the carpet underneath your doorway with a warm orange tint.

And though it shouldn’t make your heart jump into your throat, it does.

You’d promised, swore to Kuroo, that you’d be asleep by 2 am - and to him, even that was a stretch. But he should count himself lucky that you’d even agreed to his demands at all. 

After all, he is well-versed in the world of night owls.

Kenma, though maybe not your kindred spirit, shares at least a couple of qualities with you. Kuroo likes refer to these “qualities” as crimes.

One of these crimes (and quite possibly Kuroo’s least favorite) is your god-awful sleep schedule. And you’re a repeated offender.

There was only so much nagging and bickering you could take before you’d cracked and told exactly him what he wanted to hear. In a flurry of words, you’d agreed to turn off your laptop, close up your textbooks and actually put your head to a pillow.

You also may have been bribed.

To sweeten this deal, Kuroo had promised to buy you pizza this upcoming Friday, given that you actually did get some rest.

But as you reluctantly lift your phone, the glass screen glowing a little too brightly, you realize that it’s already 5:30 am.

You grimace.

It’s Tuesday morning. Meaning that the repetitive beeping across the hall is Kuroo’s alarm.

Your lips press into a firm line. Most birds don’t even get up at such a godless hour.

You can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have a functional morning routine. Or a morning routine at all.

Leaning back in your plastic desk chair, you squeeze your eyes shut. 

It stings.

You probably got so caught up staring at the blob-like words on your computer screen that, somewhere in the process, your body had forgotten how to blink.

And while the tension in your neck and shoulders is painful, it’s nothing in comparison to the festering guilt of not listening to your longtime best friend and now roommate (a suspiciously well-intentioned college boy who had somehow managed to win your heart over the course of this fall semester.)

Thinking back, working on your final English assignment at midnight wasn’t the brightest of ideas. It wasn’t even due for another week. But as due dates loomed, the impending fear of a bad grade had begun to burrow deeply within you.

If you could just pump the brakes on deadline anxiety, you wouldn’t feel so pressured to type incoherent sentences at odd and empty hours of the night.

And maybe Kuroo wouldn’t feel the need to coerce you into a firmer sleep schedule. Though you do find this caring habit of his to be inexplicably endearing. 

Thus, the prickling feeling continues to infiltrate your restless mind and the brewing concoction of anxiety and guilt in your tummy makes you feel uneasy.

But before you can sneak into bed and tuck yourself inconspicuously under the covers, you hear a floorboard creak. 

As if on instinct, you hold in a breath.

Kuroo isn’t one to forget about little promises. Of course, he’d want to know if you’d made good on your side of the deal. 

Gently, you close your laptop and swivel your chair to face the door. You still your movements, keeping your body taut against the back of your chair.

More soft steps fall just outside of your room.

Your eyes can’t pick a place to land, so they choose to wander. And with a quick scan of your room, it doesn’t take you long to realize that your bedside lamp had been left on - an instant giveaway.

You begin planning for your funeral. 

However, if it were up to you, you wouldn’t go out this way. You prepare yourself for death by interrogation or shame-induced coma.

Regrettably, neither options seem very interesting to you. If you ask politely, maybe your friends will engrave a portion of an epic poem into your gravestone just to make your passing seem more sophisticated. Yeah, that sounds nice and pretentious.

Okay, you might be overdramatizing things - Kuroo would never send you to your grave. But that doesn’t change the fact that your psyche likes to play tricks on you in the wee hours of the morning and that the eerie quality of the atmosphere somehow reminds you of a cemetery.

As you sort through who-gets-what on your will, there’s a not so sudden knock on your door. The soft tap makes your heart skip for two reasons:

The first being that you still haven’t gotten used to the fluttering in your chest from him being present all the time. Developing a crush on him (and suspecting feeling on his side) had made you a little jumpier over the past few months.

And the second had to do with the fact that you were actually going to have to talk to him about this. To apologize for being a bold-faced liar. It wasn’t clear to you whether you’d be teased or reprimanded. And honestly? You’re not sure which option would feel worse.

So you take a breath and steel yourself.

“Y/n?” A gravelly voice sounds from outside your room.

It’s tainted with sleep. You shiver.

There’s a preemptive sigh, “C’mon y/n, your light is on. I know you’re awake.”

You’ve been caught, so there’s no point in prolonging it.

“...You can come in.” You reply meekly, clenching and unclenching your fists.

The door cracks open.

That soft orange hall light floods into your room and directly into your eyes. With a squint, you try to fully visualize Kuroo. He’s positioned himself so that he’s leaning in your doorway with his arms crossed.

Before coming to grips with the situation, you scan the boy up and down. Amusingly, you realize that he has to duck his head just to fit underneath the door header - he really is tall. You have to wonder if he’ll ever stop growing.

Aside from his intensified bedhead (which doesn’t shock you) and the sleepiness in his eyes, he looks normal. But you must look positively spooked, because the moment he sees you, there’s a flicker of humor in his golden eyes… and an almost invisible smirk.

At least he isn’t angry. That fact alone allows you to let out the breath you’ve been holding in. Anger isn’t really a trait you’d ascribe to him anyway.

“It’s funny…” He wonders aloud, “I thought we’d agreed to something yesterday.” Kuroo brings a mocking hand to his chin in a thinking motion.

Your body naturally begins to shrink into your seat. You want to sigh, protest, explain yourself… anything to keep him from lecturing you. But, technically, you deserve this. 

“I’m pretty sure you promised me you’d be in bed, asleep,” He emphasizes “by 2 am…”

“And” he adds, motioning evenly to your set up, “I highly doubt you’re up early just to get work done.”

You bite your lip while gripping and releasing the fabric of your sweatpants.

Kuroo isn’t a mind reader by any extent, but the body has a language of its own. Right now, your actions are murmuring signs of discomfort. And exhaustion, according to your dark circles.

Kuroo heaves out something between a sigh and a yawn before he takes another couple of steps into your room. 

The sound of mattress springs and rustled bed sheets gets you to turn your head toward him, though you hesitate to meet his gaze.

He makes himself comfortable.

This is a familiar scene, Kuroo invading your space. Well, it’s less of an invasion and more of an unspoken agreement that the both of you can ‘come and go as you please’ in regards to bedrooms, granted that the “invader” knocks first.

Essentially, if Kuroo wanted company, he would find his way to you and plop himself on the edge of your bed. You would do likewise. The interaction could last 5 minutes or 3 hours depending on your mental stamina that day.

In a way, it mimicked your childhood - going over to Kenma’s and knocking relentlessly on his bedroom door until he finally let you and Kuroo tumble through the doorway together. The only difference now is in the way that you spend time together. Conversations become deeper a lot faster. Belly-laughs after a miserable day of classes are considered sacred. Study sessions are done shoulder to shoulder and with a myriad of disgusted faces when frustrated with a particularly tricky problem.

But this is different from your usual conversations. It’s sickeningly early, you haven’t slept a wink, and a tidal wave of stress from this entire semester is finally crashing into you.

“I’m sorry,” You start softly, fiddling with your fingers, “I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about this expository essay I’ve been working on and my mind is totally numb. I’m so stressed out by all of these-”

“-Classes.” He finishes for you.

You swallow, bobbing your head softly in confirmation.

 “I get it.”

And just by looking at him, you know he understands. For someone so laid back and put together, Kuroo’s eyes could speak a novel’s worth of emotion and information at any given moment.

“But you’ve already spent more than enough time on it.”

Have I really? Have I actually done enough? Because it feels like I’m failing. Like I can’t seem to finish what I’ve started. I can’t even complete this paper.

But at least Kuroo sounds resolute. 

He’s stating a fact, not an opinion.

And he’s not trying to be unempathetic. He does get it, he really does.

But Kuroo also sees how hard you work already. And he knows all too well that there’s only so much work you can get done in one night. You’ve got enough on your plate even without your classes, so having the extra academic pressure is just the cherry on top.

“Mm,” you hum, “yeah, I guess you of all people would know.” You hunch over and rest your elbows on your thighs, using your hands to prop your head up.

He’d been there at your most and least productive moments. On days when you were cranking out a few thousand words and nights when you could only jot down a few sentences. Hell, Kuroo had even volunteered to help you edit and format it when the time came. What kind of person offers to do that before they’ve even been asked to?

It’s just another feature of his charm, you suppose.

But you still feel stuck. Like you’re a boat stranded in the middle of the ocean and you just can’t seem the muster up the strength to pull up the anchor. The anxiety lingers.

“...It just doesn’t feel like it’s ever enough, y’know?” You breathe out.

There it is. Finally out in the open.

And Kuroo hums thoughtfully to himself.

He’s been there.

Not knowing if the effort he put into his work was having any actual effect. Being unsure as to when he should stop taking responsibility for something. Putting work, classes, and people before himself.

It’s draining; a swirling spin-cycle of exhaustion.

But he’s also been learning that “enough” is subjective. So he decides to say just that.

“Enough is a pretty vague word, don’t you think?”

You blink. 

Yeah, you suppose it is. 

Hopefully this isn’t another one of his bizarre epiphanies - the kind that makes you think your brain is going to implode. Sometimes Kuroo could be a little too philosophical for his and your own good. But you humor him anyway.

Shifting in your seat, you give him a stiff nod.

Satisfied with your understanding, he proceeds with his thought.

“What I mean is that we probably have totally different definitions of enough...” he drawls on, “... and different standards too.”

“Okay...”

“What I mean is that-” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, “-what’s ‘enough’ to you may not be ‘enough’ to me. And vice versa.”

Kuroo tilts his head back, brows furrowing in thought. He’s grasping for the right way to put it.

“Y/n, I think you’ve done enough. You’ve worked hard,” he points out, “and I don’t think I know anyone who deserves a break more than you do.”

That makes you pause. You lift your head up to catch his gaze - his eyes are already studying your expression. Something inside of you stops functioning because never have you seen such raw sincerity. Or maybe you have, but you’re only just now noticing it.

He gives you a gentle smile. It makes your chest ache.

“You mean it?” You half-whisper.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

You’ve known this for years now, but Kuroo truly has a way with words. They had the ability to pierce like a harpoon or stick sweetly to you like warm honey. Even with a few (thousand) shitty jokes littered throughout your conversations, it’s only natural to be awestruck by him. By his ability to make even the most awkward of situations a little more bearable. How he subliminally knows how to soothe and temper you. You think he would make a really great businessman - he’s quite persuasive; a real salesperson.

One part of you wants to apologize to him again. Another part wants to jump up and kiss him. To tear up and cry in his arms with relief. You chalk these potential reactions up to exhaustion and hormones… but you don’t write them off entirely.

Because suddenly being 3 feet apart feels like miles. And your bed is looking terribly comfortable.

“Mind if I join you?” You ask, but you’re already moving from your seat.

He gives you an indifferent shrug - though he feels anything but.

“It’s your bed.” 

Oh, you’re well aware of that fact. You can already feel heat rising to your face.

You stand up slowly, raising your arms to the ceiling in one final attempt to stretch. Then softly, you place a knee to the mattress and wedge yourself on the rest of the way until you’re sitting crisscrossed in front of him. He shifts his torso so that it’s facing you.

And now that you’re finally eye to eye, you can breathe.

He may be your crush, but you feel strangely comfortable in his presence. You always have. It’s part of what makes Kuroo... well, Kuroo. He embodies security while still pushing you out of your comfort zone. And for that, you’re grateful.

You break the silence.

“I really am sorry,” you echo your earlier apology.

You undoubtedly are. And you’re not sure why it feels like such a heavy thing to say over something as menial as a good night’s sleep.

“Hey, hey,” He soothes, reaching a hand over to ruffle your hair, “it’s no big deal, alright?”

You send him a half-hearted glare but it immediately breaks into a soft smile. His hand lingers for a moment longer than it should before he draws it away. You miss the teasing touch.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to maintain eye-contact, but even as you look away, you note that his eyes remain concentrated on you. You can’t tell if it’s you who has moved closer or if he has. Either way, those few inches of distance have narrowed by a decent margin.

“I honestly just wanted you to get some rest. You’ve had it rough and by the looks of it-” He scans your face like he’s trying to diagnose you with something.

“Hey, watch it-” You warn, narrowing your eyes.

You already know you look tired. Kuroo loves reminding you of that in his own little way.

He smirks playfully, continuing anyway.

“-You could really use the sleep.” Kuroo’s raspy voice trails off.

“But apparently even pizza isn’t a convincing enough strategy.” He gives you a lopsided grin.

You shake your head, “Oh no, no, the pizza was very convincing.”

He scoffs, “Was it, now?” Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, “Because you seem very awake to me.”

“Can’t we just blame this on the paper, please?” You sigh.

He furrows his brows in contemplation, “Hmm, no. I don’t think so. This is partially your fault.” A rather underwhelming response.

“A small part.”

“I’d say it's fifty-fifty.” He reasons with a raised eyebrow.

Rolling your eyes, you respond, “Okay, you can quit whatever-” You gesture to his expression, “this is.” He always managed to pull the strangest faces and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of making you laugh.

He snorts, “Oh? I thought you liked-” Kuroo gestures to his own face, “whatever this is.”

His voice has a curious edge to it. Some might even call it flirtatious.

And you go quiet. 

You can’t help but stare at him. His messy hair, his barely parted lips. The fact that Kuroo just woken up and somehow still looks this attractive to you is so annoying. So frustrating.

And words are failing you.

It was an innocent comment. He’s just messing with you like he usually does. Maybe this has all gone a little bit too far. You should probably just say good night (or good morning) and rest your eyes.

Yet you can’t shake the feeling that this could be the perfect segway into addressing your relationship.

At literally any other time of day, you might be more rational. You could reason with yourself that this is quite literally the weirdest time to bring up your feelings for him. But something in you needs to close the literal and figurative gap between you two. And, for some indecipherable reason, it has to happen right now.

Whatever the outcome, you trust that Kuroo will always be your safe place.

So you throw caution to the wind.

“Actually, Kuroo…” You begin, staring at your hands which are placed neatly on your lap. “I really do.”

His eyes snap to yours.

This time it’s Kuroo’s turn to go silent in contemplation. Taking in a steady breath becomes an act of labor.

“You… really do what?” He asks slowly, grasping for your intended meaning.

Your heart pounds.

“I really like you.” You clarify.

It isn’t at all eloquent, but it’s sincere. You’d once heard that honesty came easier late at night, but you had no idea that it applied to early mornings as well.

But you finally make sense of the words that just escaped your lips. Panic arises. In an attempt to hide, you bury your face in your hands. You wish you could put the words right back into your mouth.

“I-” You take a deep breath, “I think I spoke without thinking.” Is all you allow yourself to mumble.

You no longer trust yourself with words. 

Your face, your whole body really, feels like it’s on fire. Humiliation begins to wash over you in red hot waves… but you startle when a pair of hands meet your wrists.

You lift your head.

His fingertips are warm and worn. Still decorated with calluses from his years of volleyball back in high school. You want to question why the world has withheld this touch from you for so long.

He lures your hands away from your face, grasping both of them gently. For a sensation so new, it was somehow strikingly familiar. A thumb is meditatively tracing small, slow circles in the middle of your palm.

You gawk in disbelief… and as you scan his face, you catch a hint of pink on his cheeks. You can’t say anything though - your own face feels like it’s just become 1000 degrees warmer.

“I kinda figured you might,” Kuroo breaks the tension rather… bluntly.

Of course he did, wait what?

“But the thing is…”

Is this some sort of rejection? Is he just letting you down gently? Is that why he’s holding your hands like they’re as fragile as fine china? Then why is he looking at you so sweetly, so tenderly-

“I wanted to be the one to say it first.”

You start planning your own funeral again. 

However, this time, emotional whiplash will be your stated cause of death. At least it’s a more unconventional way to go out.

“I- uh,” you swallow, “w- what did you just say?” It comes out as a stammer. 

You’re squeezing his hands a little too tightly. When you recognize your modest death grip around his fingers you loosen your hold.

Kuroo smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly.

It’s nothing like that cunning smirk that you find annoying, yet so adorable. It’s also not one of his full-scale grins. It’s far too simple and reassuring. You almost don’t trust it.

“Well, in short, I like you too,” He re-explains, searching your face for a reaction, “but... I’d hoped to tell you that over pizza on Friday.” Kuroo looks away.

If you weren’t already gaping over his personal confession, you would probably be laughing at this new side of Kuroo. He looks unmistakably bashful.

It takes you a second to recover, but you finally open your mouth to respond...

But you’re cut off by Kuroo, once again. His softened expression is long gone. And, much to your dismay, he’s suddenly shifting himself off of your bed.

“It’s just too bad you didn’t keep up your end of the bargain. I guess that means there’ll be no pizza… no movie… no me.” He slowly releases your hands, knitting his brows together to feign sorrow - it looks hilariously forced, but you’re too worried about the warmth leaving your fingertips to care.

He’s teasing you like you’re his best friend.

And that’s because you are.

So then why does it feel like something’s changed? Like he’s daring you to make the next move?

Before he can pull away and leave, you tug at his hand which draws his whole body toward you.

Your heartrate spikes through the roof. When’s the last time you’ve been this close to someone? To a guy? A guy who’s shown actual living, breathing interest in you.

And he’s in your face.

Close enough that his scent, his cologne, is drowning your senses. Close enough that his breath is fanning faintly against your cheek. Close enough that you know there’s only one thing left for you to do.

Before you can think to hesitate, your lips are brushing up against his.

Intuitively, he brings his hands to your face, closing any extra distance. 

Kuroo’s thumb feathers over your cheekbone, stroking it tenderly. His lips apply very little pressure and it’s unbearably delicate, but it fills you with an indescribable warmth. His lips linger just long enough for you to detect the mint from his toothpaste - he can probably taste the cinnamon tea you’ve been sipping on over the past hour. As far as kisses go, it’s reserved, but perfect for this distinct moment.

Plus, you figure, this is just the first of many longer, more eager kisses - though you can’t imagine being more breathless than you already are right now.

But you can hardly get another taste of him before those warm hands on your cheeks are prying you away. He stares. You stare back. His eyes are brimming with something warm and full. You immediately choose to label it, “affection.”

And in a much lower voice, Kuroo murmurs, “Let’s save this for later.” 

You scan his face, wondering if he’s actually serious. He gradually makes his way off of the bed and onto his feet and before you can protest, Kuroo is speaking again.

“You-” 

He leans down and gingerly lifts your chin with his fingers. The gentleness of his touch almost makes you flinch, but you somehow manage to hold it in the road. Though now you’re really at a loss for words.

“-need to get some good rest.”

He places a chaste kiss on your forehead.

You still feel it after he pulls away. After he closes the door. After you’ve laid you head down on your pillow in shock.

How does he expect you to fall asleep after all of that?

---

extra: this is dedicated to Izzy - our sleep schedules may be jacked up, but i’m pretty sure it’s a blessing in disguise if we’re taking our time zones into consideration. thanks for making me laugh & for not stealing my quarter of the braincell.

and to my precious friends and followers - thank you for being patient with me. it’s hard to post or even write at the moment, but i’m steadily pushing myself toward a better mindset. i appreciate your comments, likes, and the fact that y'all even bother to check out my works in the first place. i’m working on it.

also happy birthday, Tetsu. you’re a real star.

[willidleaway]

OK, let’s talk about Deltarune Chapter 2. Right off the bat two things:

Toby Fox could have been charging 20 USD for this or asked people to pre-purchase the remaining chapters to play Chapter 2, and I’m frankly very surprised (if delighted) that he didn’t.

Soundtrack’s bopping. If you don’t feel like playing two free chapters of a game, which by themselves will give you nine hours of a brilliant time in an absolutely insane world filled with mad characters that all still manages to hold together somehow, I can still recommend giving the OST a listen and then a buy if you are so inclined.

And with that and the spoiler-free lead image out of the way, let’s actually (largely incoherently) talk about Deltarune Chapter 2 below the Read More line. Spoilers galore, including for a bonus enemy ...

OK, so this guy is still a card:

But some non-positive observations to begin with: the Castle Town is nice to look at but maybe a bit uninteresting for the moment, since it’s a completely separate Dark World from the main underworld of Chapter 2. It seems perhaps like a decent hub world for people who haven’t replayed the previous chapter and need some refreshers, especially with the dojo challenges. But some of the other mechanics associated with the Castle Town like recruiting, fusing items, and so forth are as yet unclear. But perhaps it hints at more interaction between chapters through the Castle Town.

And that’s all the non-positive observations I have about Deltarune Chapter 2. It’s not even a negative observation, just taking note of potential seeds being planted for the remainder of the game.

Now. Now now now now now.

I don’t know how Toby Fox manages to continue coming up with such a diverse array of antagonists all so ridiculous and insane in their own special way, but he continues to outdo himself. And not only is Queen insane but so is literally everything that happens in Cyber City and then in Queen’s Mansion, like the layers of truces across Queen and her quasi-willing peons:

and indeed, ye Triumphant Returne of Rouxls Kaard, absolute card:

But the madcap side of things doesn’t mean there isn’t real attention to fleshing out everything introduced in Chapter 1, in tandem on both the narrative side and the gameplay side. As far as the latter, we can (finally) get party members other than Kris to undertake at least basic standard non-magical actions on their own that don’t cost Tension Points, which is very much welcome. But at the same time managing TP well is even more important than before. A lot of careful grazing makes certain fights a great deal easier, in a way that I didn’t really notice for most of Chapter 1 (with the possible exception of Jevil, who I still haven’t successfully pacified). The attacks are correspondingly far denser and often don’t leave too much margin for error, but as someone with minimal hand-eye coordination I still had a reasonable time completing Chapter 2.

Well, except for one particular enemy.

oh god this fight used up every single recovery item I had

Spamton NEO is an interesting enemy, arguably more so than Jevil, and I’m not just saying that because I managed to spare Spamton but still haven’t had any success with Jevil. For one, finding the pieces of the key for Jevil’s cell is straightforward, whereas finding the Empty Disk for Spamton is itself a nightmarish dodge-fest. But more importantly, you actively have to seek Jevil out in Chapter 1, whereas your first encounter with Spamton is actually mandatory as part of the main story and then you optionally follow up on Spamton’s lead later to be able to face off against his NEO form.

Perhaps relevant to the forced nature of Spamton’s introduction is his relevance to Deltarune as a whole despite his bonus boss status. Compared to Jevil’s dialogue, Spamton’s babblings seem far more directly tied to the central themes of Deltarune around choice or agency, or rather a lack thereof (in stark contrast to Undertale’s general ethos). Jevil mostly just wants to wreak mischief and chaos; Spamton is fuelled by a need for freedom, to no longer be a puppet of ... something. And facing him in this way obviously clearly affects Kris, whose own free will is in real question ...

Oh yes, it seems now we’re really getting into the real core of Deltarune’s story, with all of the lore about the Roaring and more talk of the Knight leading up to this ending. But are Kris and the Knight one and the same? Or is Kris a puppet of the Knight? Or ... is it even the other way around? (No idea if that makes any sense but it sounds like a cool thing to throw out there.)

And another thing: this staticky smile ...

I would guess that’s Chapter 3′s boss once we actually go through this new Dark World, but why does this static remind me of the static you see behind Spamton’s glasses in some of his creepier shop dialogue? Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but there’s certainly an embarrassment of riches to over-analyse, even around Chapter 2′s bonus boss.

And I haven’t even talked about every other character being amazing. Susie of course continues to undergo really positive development, but Noelle seems to get the bulk of the attention honestly—we not only get her to finally interact with Susie, but we also learn more about her past as well her family, both about her lost sister (strongly implied to be named December) and her mother. The latter we get not only through more dialogue with her father Rudy but also in an implicit sense through her interactions with Queen, which may well mirror her fractious relationship with an overbearing mother.

Ralsei’s characterisation doesn’t try to expand as much, instead continuing to detail what’s already been planted throughout Chapter 1—his rule of the Castle Town, his awareness of the danger posed by the potential dark/light imbalance, and so forth—but nothing quite as revelatory as with Noelle. It doesn’t mean I can’t try my best to ship Kris with Ralsei though ...

Anyway, fluffy boys and mean girls aside, it’s also nice to see characters like Berdly—who seemed like a completely incidental one-note gag character in Chapter 1—get fleshed out with reasonably compelling (although obviously insane) motivation and backstory, and one wonders which other characters may get this sort of treatment in future.

Speaking of other characters as well, how cute and/or cool are all of the new enemies and enemy-adjacent characters???

Part of me suspects Tasque Manager in particular is actually carefully engineered to break the Internet. But my favourite is Swatch, who gives off weirdly Tuxedo Mask-esque vibes to me:

And an additional bit of speculation: I strongly suspect we’ll see some persistent things across the chapters that aren’t necessarily linear in progression. When I brought Spamton’s shadow crystal to Seam, they basically chided me for not having Jevil’s crystal (for god’s sake Seam it’s not for lack of trying), but then said this:

Is it possible that the game’s keeping track of certain global things outside of any of your individual saves, and some of these certain global things might not just have to do with optional bonuses ... ? Is it possible that some of these certain global things may enable cross-chapter nonlinear gameplay to accompany all of the other Castle Town mechanics introduced in Chapter 2?

Or do I just not want to replay all of Chapter 2 if I manage to pacify Jevil?

Time will tell. How much time?

Only time will tell on that front too, I guess.

Overall: Chapter 2 of Deltarune is another spectacular episode in Toby Fox fleshing out this unbelievable yet somehow credible world in his madcap way, and you can bet I will be watching for future chapters with great interest.

PS: I finished Chapter 2 of Deltarune to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now—

look expiration dates are important okay

[pocketfulofrecs]

It's Friday and we're here with another Author Spotlight!

It’s impossible for you to be in this corner of fandom and never have heard of Vir_Abelasan. She has written some of the most interesting Wangxian fics we have read, a shade darker than usual, but so engrossing. When we want to read something a little savory, we go back to this author.

She has written 49k words in 5 fics, and we can’t wait to see what else she will come up with.

Her fics:

It’s we that you are for - [explicit | 2.5k | LWJ/WWX/LXC pwp]

to be wielded by your hands (our post) - [mature | 3k | competence kink]

Visitations - [mature | 18k | wip | modern au - corporate espionage]

Like stones on an unseen board - [not rated | 11k | dark lan wangji]

Symmetry (our post) - [mature | 13k | dark sizhui]

Dee’s favourite: I love Symmetry but my favorite happens to be Like stones on an unseen board. I have a special fondness for dark LWJ who is just as devoted to WWX as canon LWJ is. This fic has the potential age difference and teacher-student relationship but they don’t really get together in it. I like that, I like how LWJ recognizes how Jiangs are dimming WWX’s light and does things to get WWX away from them, even if it involves manipulation and subtly widening the divide between the Jiangs and WWX. Dark in a way that eventually benefits WWX.

Ju’s favourite: Ohhh I loved Symmetry. I loved to see JC getting his just deserves by Sizhui. The fic is very dark, and in many moments I was completely blown away and so angry. I love when reading makes me feel things, and I felt a lot of things reading this one. But as dark as it gets in some points, it makes sense in the story. And then we get a happy ending that is so good and perfect. Made me cry.

The Interview:

Q. When did you start writing fics? Did you have fandoms before this one?

A. Somewhere around the early 2000s with the Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom, and BtVS was very prolific with crossover, which just led to more fandoms, mostly Western TV series. I wrote a lot of the Dragon Age trilogy afterwards, and a lot of Pacific Rim before finding MDZS.

Q. What made you start writing for MDZS?

A. Honestly at first I was here for the porn, because the Wangxian porn is bountiful and tender and exquisite. But then I read the novel and was enamored with how much more nuanced everything was, especially the many recurring themes and motifs related to social classes and personal vs familial/communal responsibilities, which as an Asian person you don't often get to dig into in the oftentimes Western-leaning fandom spheres.

Q. What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

A. In the MDZS fandom it's Symmetry, because it's literally the fic I wanted to read upon completing MDZS but was not able to find. One of the saddest thing in canon for me is the lack of consequences for any of the gentry cultivators' actions in the past, and while it's realistic to the world building, I just really want an alternative where someone could go around an inherently broken system and make it so perpetrators actually pay for their crimes and less people in general becomes collateral.

Q. What’s your favourite type of fics to read?

A. Smut, because I'm just really bad at writing it. And oh, how the MDZS fandom delivers - Pure smut, sad smut, painstakingly tender smut, existential smut, it has everything! But Wangxian smut in particular is almost always a treat because there's just always that undercurrent of trust and having a person who's just for you in every sense of the word despite everything else happening. It's such a good, affirming feeling.

Q. What’s your favourite comment? Or type of comment?

A. Any comment is always a delight! From just incoherent screaming to details of which lines spoke to them the most, every comment is a reaction and stories are out there to create conversation in the first place.

Q. What motivates you to write?

A. Writing has always felt like problem solving to me, and fanfics in general has always been really interesting to write because there's the inherent conflict and problems written into canon, but also the matter of the fandom's perception of the source material to play with and solve.

Q. Who’s your favorite author?

A. There's so many fanfic authors throughout the years who are just amazing and hit a lot of very profound places a lot of published works didn't go to, so it's really hard to choose just a few. But thank you, every single fan author out there, you've really made a lot of people's days (and lives) better with your writing.

Q. What is your favorite trope to read and/or write?

A. I'm particularly fond of the trope of characters who are normally amicable or accommodating just going apeshit, both literally or figuratively. Because both in fandom and in real life, kindness and compromise in someone are often mistaken as a free pass for others around them to be terrible.

Q. Do you have any advice for new authors?

A. Write what you feel strongly about, I guess? And it's sometimes helpful to have an objective to the whole thing, for the times when it seems the story is going nowhere or you get stuck in a particular aspect of it. Sort of like a thesis statement, so whenever you fumble you have something to refocus on.

Q. What do you think is the most important element in writing? Plot, characterization, relationship?

A. Characterization carries you a long way since they're the vehicle to bringing the readers to where you intend them to be, but I also feel like structure helps a lot with stories too. Just the way you scaffold a narrative, like laying down the kind of path you want your readers to follow and experience along the way to the end.

~

Check out their stories on ao3 and remember…

Comments and kudos feed the author’s soul.

[yeojaa]

NOT YOUR FAIRYTALE - ft. myg

What do you do when you've called your wedding off but forgot to cancel your cake tastings?  Why, you ask your brother's grouchy best friend, of course. 

pairing.  min yoongi.  sort of.

genre + rating.  fluff-adjacent.  general.

warning / tags.  mentions of infidelity, cake tasting, cake tasting isn’t a euphemism, fluff and hurt/comfort, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, friendship, friendship/love, childhood friends.

reading.   n/a.  a stand-alone three part one-shot.

word count.  ~1850

chapter iii.

“I didn’t mean it, Yoongi.”

The apology is off your tongue and crashing into his ears before you have a second to consider it, pleading colouring syllables in soft shades of blue.  You hate the way he’s looking at you, like you’ve found the chink in his armour and are on the verge of exploiting it.  

“It’s fine.”  Over a decade of friendship tells you it’s decidedly not fine.  His concession comes far too quickly, meant to placate whatever guilt he’d accidentally kicked up. 

It makes you feel worse, the weight increasing tenfold when he offers you his seldom-seen smile.  Gums flash, corner of his mouth hitching over soft pink tissue.  It doesn’t quite meet his eyes though, falling just short of the endlessly dark depths of his irises. 

“Seriously.  Forget about it.”  You know he’s doing his best to force you onward but you can’t help but dig your figurative heels further into the dirt.  An immovable force.

“I’m really sorry,”  you repeat, voice thick with meaning. 

Yoongi huffs a little, seemingly frustrated.  You shrink a little further in on yourself, shoulders dropping and lips shifting in tandem.  You’re probably pouting.  You feel his stare from your periphery, feline gaze focused wholly on the way your mouth turns and turns around words you’re trying to perfect.

Silence stretches on, longer than you can stand and far more awkward than you’re used to.  You can feel it like a suffocating weight, a goose down comforter in the heat of summer - heavy and unpleasant.

“I’m sorry.”  It squeaks out in the same instant he sighs.  He sounds less irritated, though you can see the tension in his chin, how it jumps the muscle in his jaw. 

“You don’t have to keep saying it.”  

“But I don’t think you’re heartless, Yoongi.  I shouldn’t have said it.”  You say it like it’s crucial - as if you might perish if you don’t get them out.  They sweep into the spaces between you, earnest and full of fear, filling all the cracks left by your own hand.

You layer your reassurances as best you can, tongue tripping over teeth as you ramble about all the different ways you see him.  

In shades of diffused morning light, lined with silver like a physical reminder that there’s always hope.  Through the lens of childhood admiration, sprinkled with childish laughter and doe-eyed awe.  With as much unconditional love as you’ve ever been capable of, wrapped up in furtive glances and curious, miserably nonchalant texts to your brother.

It comes and comes, word vomit that won’t stop until you’re brought back by the expression on his face.  It’s tender, bemused - reminiscent of a parent of an overzealous child.  You’ve seen it a million times before, though the instances were much fewer and far between now that you were older. 

You immediately backtrack.  “I’m sorry.”  This time it’s for wasting his time, for being his best friend’s annoying little sister. 

You’re tumbling over your own two feet again.  You’ve said too much by the time he speaks at all.  

“You’re more than that.”  A statement of fact, seemingly, by how he delivers it with such ease, as if it hasn’t just set your heart off in your chest, the poor thing stuttering to life (or death).  You’re not sure.

Despite your best efforts, the singular word gives you away, coloured canary red with hope.  “What?”

If he’d heard your question at all, he says nothing, footsteps never faltering.  He’s walking ahead like he hasn’t just turned your world on its axis, throwing you completely off-balance.  He doesn’t even offer a glance back, halfway down the block by the time you come to your senses.

You jog to catch up, fingers eager to close the distance you quickly eat up.  You settle into a measured pace behind him, though your mouth moves at a mile a minute.  You can feel the maddening persistence in your bones, hear it as it carves demands into what was once comfortable silence. 

“Why did you say that?”  No response.  “Yoongi!”  He doesn’t even flinch, gaze trained ahead as if he’s never been in Apgujeong before and he’s terribly interested in everything but you. 

The distinct urge to stomp your foot fizzles through your limbs and you almost do.  You’re rooting yourself to the spot, sneaker raised comically, when he rounds on you.  Brows have disappeared into his swath of dark hair and his chin tilts just so, studying you quizzically.  It looks like he’’s having an internal debate as to whether he should rib you further.

He decides against it - returning to the conversation you’re so adamant to have.  “You know, for being a Kim, you’re not that bright.”

“Excuse me?”  Indignation bursts out your mouth.  You’re focusing too hard on the words he’s spoken than the implication behind them.  They sail over your head, lost to the pretty coral that streaks across the sky and eats up the horizon. 

To Yoongi, it’s like watching his literal heart fly out the window.  He’s a little exasperated when he speaks again.  “You’re my best friend’s little sister.  I don’t know what you expect me to say.”  

“What’re you saying?”  Because you’re really confused now.  You think Namjoon would be too. 

Are you even having the same conversation?

“Do I need to spell it out for you?”  The line of his mouth quirks, corner stretching into something that borders on a smirk.  It’s devilish - decidedly not something you’re used to - and you imagine your stomach kickflips before wrecking itself on the pavement.

Your silence seems to be answer enough.  

He heaves a sigh as if he’s been terribly inconvenienced, arms folding over his chest.  The gesture should read as don’t come near me! but you have the very distinct urge to fold yourself under his arms.  You resist it by biting down hard on your bottom lip.  

“I’ve had feelings for you since we were kids.  Specifically since you had your 10th grade ballet recital and you kept the bear I got you.”  

You remember the day like it was yesterday.  You’d been lucky enough to land the coveted spot in the winter showcase and he’d been there, shoulder to shoulder with your brother, when you’d taken your bow.  The bouquet of peonies he’d brought you - in soft shades of blush and violet, your favourite colours - had nearly engulfed your frame and you’d had trouble holding both it and the sweet brown bear that came with it.

The same bear that still sat on your bedside table, propped up beside your charging cable and yearly planner.  The one you’d cried yourself hoarse over after you thought you lost it during your freshman year of college.

“I don’t understand.”  You frown, deeply.  You can feel the little dent between your brows.  It comes out when you’re stressed or confused or, in this instance, both.  

He’s more teasing than unkind:  “Like I said - not that bright.”  

You ignore the dig.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”  

“I couldn’t do that to Joon.  I promised I wouldn’t.”

Somehow, that’s more of a revelation than Yoongi’s confession.  

“He knows?”  You can’t help the gasp that ricochets out of your mouth, belligerent and betrayed.  You’re already running through the 100 different ways you’re going to kill your brother.  Because he’d known!  While you’d pined, Namjoon had known and simply stood by.  “He knows how I feel about you and he didn't say anything?”

You know if you think about it, you can’t blame him.  You’d given him a hard time too when he and Sora seemed to get along a little too well.  Call it a sibling thing.

In the heat of the moment though, you’re livid.  So Yoongi does what he does best and redirects effortlessly.   

“—feel?”  

The prompt reassigns all focus back to him, your anger toward your brother all but forgotten.  You think you could give Pikachu a run for his money by the surprise that works itself into your expression.  Heat licks itself across your cheeks, rolling like a steam engine over the exposed skin of your neck and up past your ears.  Had it suddenly jumped 20 degrees?

“I mean felt.”

When Yoongi steps forward, you’re hyper fixated on the way his mouth bends and bows, gums and neat white enamel revealed by the motion.  You’re rooted to the spot as he’s suddenly all you can see, crown of dark hair blocking the light from behind him, narrow shoulders curling in on you.  He’s near enough you can smell his comforting, woody scent.  

You haven’t been this close in - well, ever, you think.  

Then he kisses you - a chaste thing, right on the cheek - and you forget how to breathe.

“I guess we’ll need to change that.”

SIX MONTHS LATER

“I’m honestly surprised,”  your boyfriend drawls, the picture of disinterest as he leans himself against the packed counter top, elbows propping himself up.  He’s staring out at the sea of people swarming the apartment, a comfortable group of new and old coming together to celebrate something very important.

He watches as your brother narrowly misses knocking over the beer pong table, earning a groan from the participants.  Jungkook yells something about his shot being messed up;  Jimin denies a re-throw.  There’s more incoherent shouting. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  

You’re at his back, arms twined neatly around his slender waist as you press your face into the warm expanse of his back.  The sweater he wears is overly soft from years of wear and it feels good under your reddened cheek.

You’d had a bit to drink and you were feeling exceptionally affectionate.

“You actually kept it a secret.”  Not that he hadn’t figured it out himself.  It was in your nature to throw surprise parties - you did for Namjoon and Jin and that loud best friend of yours - so he’d only figured he would get one when the time came. 

“We’re very good at keeping secrets in this family, remember?”  Your voice carries past the cotton of his clothes, filtering through laughter to kick his beating heart into overdrive.  

“Oh, how could I forget.”  He snorts quietly, turning in the same instance you unlatch yourself from him.  He has to fight the look of disappointment that threatens to pull his mouth into a pout, brow knitting in disapproval as you round on the refrigerator.

It’s only when you spin back to face him that his expression cracks and re-sets itself with glee.  Now he’s actually surprised.

Because you’ve got a cake box from the same bakeshop you’d gone cake tasting at.  He recognizes the logo on the front and the pretty frosting behind the plastic cover.  It’s shades of cream and citrus and decorated with cherries.  Your - and his - favourite cake from that day.

“You’re not supposed to see the cake ahead of time!”  It’s Namjoon bursting into the kitchen looking alarmed.

You laugh first, bright and sunny.  “It’s a birthday cake, not a wedding dress.”

But as you kiss him, cake cradled gingerly between your bodies, Yoongi thinks he wouldn’t mind seeing you in that, either.

notes.  this final chapter was short and sweet but i hope you enjoyed it.  thank you for reading!  x

tag list.  @hoodmeup​​ @loveyoongles​ @vi-hoshi​ 

[floridabaiter]

Kiss Me Once and Kiss Me Twice and Kiss Me Once Again.

dnf, 3 kisses fic. oneshot. what it says on the tin. posted this on our ao3 yesterday so it is crossposted!! very sfw and very like. wholesome :] a bit ooc i think but it was written for comfort! uhhfuhghg <3333 them btw...

It isn’t direct. It’s whispered over late-night 14 hour calls, it’s the laughs that puff out of his chest even while he’s half-asleep, it’s the staying while he’s dreaming. So, no it’s not direct when “tell me you love me” meets George’s ears, it’s not a forgien intrusion and it certainly isn’t unwelcome. It’s a special sort of familiar, tucked away far into the back of George’s mind and in the depths of his heart. But, with that comes a few other concerns. Something pangs when the jokes go too far, cracking slowly at the facade he’s had for the past few years- but no, it wasn’t anything to be too concerned about. It wasn’t anything more than a friendly infatuation. An infatuation that takes you miles from home across the pond, an infatuation that leaves him standing in the Orlando airport- shuffling his way with some semblance of running from his travel-warn legs and sleep-warn brain and slipping into the tube with record times. Anxiously tapping his feet as he shuffles his way out of the crowded train, pushing past people scoffing at him. It’s an infatuation that takes you to the unknown, that you’d follow blindly through the dark and into the sunlight of the lit up baggage-claim. He sees him, and it is wonderful. And suddenly he’s spinning, completely forgotten is his carry-on draped to the floor and he’s being spun like a top before subsequently toppling to the ground. He looks warm. “You smell like airport.” Dream laughs. “Well, I’ve been waiting here since-” He checks his watch, “Four AM?” George rolls his eyes. “Should’ve come later, idiot.” He bites his lip to hide the smile. “I told you my flight got delayed.” “I thought it was a prank!” An elbow smacks Dream’s shoulder, “Use your brain next time, idiot.” Eyebrows wiggle above him. “Maybe I will.” George holds a hand to his face, “Oh my God.” He breathes heavy into his hand, “You’re even stupider in person.” “Prettier too.” George stays silent. Dream grins. - When they get home George is far too tired to carry in his things and Dream is far too polite to argue. George stalks his way up the steps, peeking around cautiously at the rooms. Sapnaps, empty because a visit with Karl. A guest room, and another bedroom across the hall that seemed to be decorated in a bit more of a childish manner. Glow-stars dawned the ceiling, lights lined the walls and the bed was draped in stuffed animals. George’s tired brain wracked slowly, dragging himself into and promptly falling asleep on the bed that just looked oh-so comfortable. - When George woke he felt the sun drape through the blinds over his face, shirt missing and pants replaced with too-big pajamas he wasn’t really too alarmed. And when the strong arms wrapped around him shifted, he froze for a brief moment before recognizing them. Dream had fallen asleep next to him. Willingly. Something turned in his stomach, blush shooting up his face. His friend was sleeping next to him. Also shirtless. His friend who he had obvious feelings for. He shifted a little, being sure not to wake him; pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek and then his forehead. Fuck, he was in deep wasn’t he? ---------- George woke up, left the bed and ignored it. He ignored it when he placed his head against the cool tile of the shower, water hitting his back. He ignored it when he made his way down into the kitchen- still shirtless, Dream having a blush across his face. He ignored it while they made small-talk over breakfast. Tension bubbled thick throughout the day, like he knew. - They watched TV on the couch together, George stretching his legs out on the couch and was draped out tucked into a hoodie that he’d put on. When his eyes drooped closed and he was almost sleeping, it was almost as if he imagined it; a kiss was placed on top of his hair. --------- He woke in the bed again, warm arms once again slung around him. It made his heart stop for a second; his face being pressed directly into his friend’s chest. George shuffled, Dream groaned low in his sleep. Mumbling something a bit incoherent under his breath about ‘5 more minutes’. There was no getting out of this without waking him up. - George let himself lay and think, snuggling a little closer for just a moment before promptly going still. A hand trailed up his back. “Morning Georgie.” He froze, acting like the name didn’t stir something in his gut. He pretended to be asleep. “No no, I know you’re awake.” The hushed voice brushed past his ear and his face was tipped up gently, “Wake up, c’mon.” George glanced down and bit his lip, eyes opening slowly. “There he is.” He tried to stifle the blush, “You going red?” He shook his head no. “Don’t lie to me George..” Dream let out a short breath, something akin to a laugh. “C’mon, say good morning idiot.” George rolled his eyes. “Good morning, idiot.” And that’s when Dream took George’s jaw in hand, lightly pressing their lips together. It was tender, George was frozen- shocked for a moment that he was being kissed, but it was tender. “I- I’m so sorry I probably totally misinterprete-” George kissed him again, soft and slow. A twinge of need, but passionate and loving and honestly not perfect at all. There were no sparks, nothing that made him feel ‘alive’ (perhaps because he’d been perpetually feeling that way for years) as he dragged himself up into Dream’s lap and straddled along his waist while a hand met his backside. Just a sense of comfort, something he knew was a long time coming. It didn’t feel new, it felt special. It felt like coming home. George pulled away. “Shut up idiot.” And then they kissed again.

[orionwhispers]

Sweet Disaster// Tommy Shelby

(A/N - hello. so basically, i had a dream about chris evans, and then i modified it into this tommy imagine. it was supposed to be a drabble but i physically cannot write anything less than 12k words so thats great. honestly this is very similar to ‘fools gold’ but hey, im in the mood for some angsty fluff and fighting with our main guy tom. next tommy imagine will be the lolita wedding and that will be the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed. thanks for everything, PLS let me know what u think. see you soon! stay safe!) 

trigger warnings: fighting, tommy being a douche, everyone being a dumbass, tommy getting jealous and implied sex.

You saw him on a Saturday night, at a bar on the outskirts of the city.

It had been three months, and you had hoped you would have managed to slip through the cracks; pass through the night like the foxes that roamed in the back alleys - but you had never been that lucky, especially not when he was involved.

It was your friend’s birthday, and you tipped back glass after glass of expensive champagne that bubbled and burned at the back of your throat. The lights were blinding, twinkling chandeliers and the smell of cigarettes and french perfume, something like bergamot and vanilla, lingering in the air.

Your dress was cherry red, your hair tied back with a sequinned headband and your lips and cheeks painted in rouge, but you had never felt so awful. It had been bad enough trying to find something to wear, the contents of your wardrobe tipped all over your floor, a mess of mesh and feather and lace, almost everything reminding you of him, as if he had been stitched right into the fabric. You had ended up curled in a ball on the floor, wiping your tears with the Chanel blouse he had bought back from a business trip in Paris.

Stupid fucking boys.

You could hear the girls talking around you, high pitched giggles and exaggerated voices as they gossiped about something or other that faded into static around you. You had spent the past three months holed up in your flat, only leaving for work or the street market on Sunday, stocking up with bread and wine and cheese, everything carb filled and rich to fill the hole in your heart. 

You weren’t used to the company of others or the hustle and bustle of a crowded room, and you sat back against the plush cherry velvet seats, dreaming of climbing into bed and devouring the slab of dark chocolate you had been saving.

Your close friend Emma, the one who knew the reason you were staring into space and not laughing and drinking with the rest of the girls, placed a manicured hand on your shoulder, and tilted her head slightly.

“How are you holding up?”

You snapped out of your trance.“I’m fine. I’m sorry I’m not much fun right now.”

“Nonsense.” She pushed you lightly, her voice as soft and playful as ever. “At least you came out! It hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Yeah - I’m sure everyone missed having me bawl like a baby and mope around.”

She elbowed you, “Stop bloody feeling sorry for yourself and have a shot! Christ! You can spend the rest of the week wrapped up in your duvet, but tonight - suck it up, and have a drink!”

She handed you a glass of something dark, and you brought it to your lips, tipping it into your throat with a wince. It felt as though you were drinking petrol.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. All that matters is that it’s top shelf and it came from those fellas over there.” She pointed towards a group of men huddled around the bar. They were shooting quick glances and sly winks towards you and your friends. Sure they were relatively attractive, most likely handsomely rich and dressed in suits that looked finely tailored - but they made your skin crawl.

You hated the way that you would always be comparing other men to him, and you especially hated how they would always come up short.

An hour later and whatever liquor was coursing through your bloodstream had done its job, and everything seemed infinitely brighter. You even found yourself laughing at jokes and stories that you only caught halfway through, the alcohol wonderfully dizzying your brain.

You were so caught up in the rush of being drunk and finally feeling somewhat happy for the first time in forever; that you didn’t realise you had caught the attention of one of the men across the bar. You felt him sidle in next to you, following his friends who had snaked their way into your booth, their arms slung around the girls shoulders, whispering sweet little sentiments into their ears.

“Can I get you a drink?” He asked, so close to you that you could smell the sour whiskey on his tongue, your nose wrinkling.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Perhaps you had spent so long being ‘Tommy Shelby's girl’ that you had forgotten what it was like when you were being hit on. You had spent so many nights safely tucked under his arm, his hands possessively wrapped around your body, an unspoken threat sent out to everyone and anyone around you - it had been a long time since a man had tried his luck with you.

Perhaps you were so infatuated with him that you never noticed anybody else. Your mind forever filled with visions of oceanic eyes and three piece suits, his Birmingham accent ringing through your ears like a gospel. He invaded all of your thoughts and infiltrated your dreams, and you loathed and loved him for it. The way that he filled your brain and heart like smoke, clouding your decisions and judgments, like some kind of magical elixir, blurring everything but the shape of him.

The man beside you didn’t concede. He cleared his throat, running a finger over the rim of your glass, ignoring the way your eyebrows furrowed and lip curled.

“Let me get you a drink, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl.

It sounded so wrong. It was never pretty girl. It was - darling, sweetheart, princess. It was - my love, honey, kitten. It was said teasingly and exasperatedly, it was whispered in your ear and buried into the space between your thighs. It was never said in the sticky corner of a club, from the greedy mouth of a stranger undressing you with his eyes.

“I’m - ” Taken. But you weren’t, not anymore, and you hated the way the thought of him made your lip wobble. It’s had been three goddamn months, why did the memory of him still make your body go up in flames?

Emma stiffened beside you, waving a dismissive hand at the gentleman speaking to her, and turned to face you and your unmoving suitor.

“We’re alright here, love. Thanks.”

A flicker of annoyance. His fingers tightening until his knuckles turned white, his tongue running across the ridge of his front teeth. He obviously didn’t take rejection well, and he was doing a shitty job at hiding it.

“Are you sure? It looks like she could do with another drink.”

You swallowed thickly, eyes rolling back at the way he dismissed you and spoke as though you were incapable of thinking for yourself.

“I’m fine.” Your words were curt and clipped, a clear indication of your disinterest, but he refused to back down.

“You shouldn’t be here all alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Really? What kind of man would leave a pretty little thing like you all by herself?”

“The kind of man that would punch you in the fucking teeth for speaking to her like that.”

You froze.

Oh Christ.

A million irreverent, evil, blasphemous phrases hurtled inside of your mind, and you knew that if Polly somehow ever caught wind of what you were thinking, you would be on the receiving end of a sharp slap around the head.

He was here. Of bloody course he was. He had a knack for showing up out of the blue and knocking all of the wind from your lungs.

It hurt like an open wound, feeling his eyes on you, the same ones that had looked at you with love and humour and gentleness, and not being able to fully meet his gaze - knowing just how much it would hurt if you did.

“She’s with me.”

His voice was firm, laced with the same sort of dismissive irritability he used to use whenever somebody tried their luck with you. This time was different however, you couldn’t roll your eyes and kiss him, you couldn’t put your head in the crook of his neck or mutter that you were his under the golden chandeliers, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hip.

You couldn’t do any of that anymore, because you weren’t.

The man seemed pick up on the tension, clicking his tongue slyly, unaware of the consequences his words would have. “Doesn’t seem like she is.”

“Get the fuck out.”

The penny must have dropped for the rest of the boys. The booth going silent as they realised just who the handsome shadowy figure towering over them was. You felt them slowly inch away, head down and gazes low, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire. A few hushed mumbles of “holy shit! That’s Tommy Shelby! One of those blinders!” hurtling around the tables beside you, not completely drowned out by clatter of the jazz band.

“I have every right to be here.” The ballsy stranger said, stiffening up beside you. His spine curled as he tried to make himself bigger. “Who says I have to leave?”

You huffed at his words, exhaling like a balloon. “That’s enough.” You didn’t want to cause a scene. You were exhausted, the night taking such a sudden turn you felt like you had whiplash, and the alcohol sat deep in your gut like a rock. You just wanted to get home, away from the man you wanted so badly your fingers ached to hold him, and crawl into your bed with your cat and a mountain of chocolate.

“Well, considering I own the fucking place, I think that I do - and if you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”

That seemed to do it.

You kept your eyes focused on the mans paling face, the grim look washing over him like salty sea air, you didn't dare turn and face the man you could feel burning holes in your neck.

“I.. I...” The man spluttered almost incoherently, rising to his feet and stumbling out from beside you. From behind you you heard Emma giggling coyly into her glass. “Sorry.” He mumbled quickly, his knees buckling when Tommy clapped a hand around his shoulder, holding him in place like a dog.

Tommy’s voice was still, almost too controlled, and you knew that his words were deadly. “If I see you around these parts again, I’ll put a fucking bullet in your skull.”

He gulped and nodded, darting into the sea of bodies in the crowd.

You kept your eyes low. Fumbling with the pearl clasps of your purse you squeezed Emma’s hand in parting and rose to your feet, wanting to leave as painlessly as possible, not even daring to look up at the face staring you down.

“I should go.” Was all you said, sliding out of the booth and onto the marbled floor. You saw the way the rest of the girls were watching the scene unfold before them, and you knew that by Monday you would have a lot of questions to answer, but right now you needed nothing but the safety of your flat.

You didn’t even let your shoulders brush against him. You coiled around him like a snake, your feet moving so fast your embroidered shoes were nothing but a blur of scarlet. You only made it to the hallway, he let you go far enough that you were in private before he reached for you, a familiar, large hand curving around the dip in your shoulder. You hated the way your body reacted, goosebumps rising to his touch unconsciously.

“(Y/N), wait.”

Your name on his tongue was sweeter than honey and richer than wine, it sounded so right that it hurt. It had been so long since you had heard him call you by your name, so long since he had spoken to you that your gut was twisting inside of you, your whole body aching for him to do nothing but repeat that word like a mantra.

You inhaled, thinking of a way out. It was too dangerous, you were playing with fire and you couldn’t get burnt, not again.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t know, it’s Jessica’s birthday and we - ” You hated how you stumbled over your words. You had never felt so uncomfortable around him and it made your skin crawl. You had kissed him under the stars, laughed with him in the corner of a private party, made love to him in every room of his fucking mansion, and now he felt like a stranger.

You knew what he looked like when he woke up, with his sleepy eyes and tousled hair. You knew what he looked like when had spent the night doing something unholy, you had cleaned his knuckles and kissed his wounds as you sat pressed up against him in the tub, his hands wrapped around your waist. You’d stood by his side, your hands intertwined in the middle of some expansive ballroom, and listened to him sweet-talk his way into a new business deal, all the while stroking his thumb over yours. You had seen him vulnerable, pulling you so close to his chest that it was like you were bound together, whispering to you how he loved you, how he couldn’t live without you.

But he still let you go.

He moved in front of you, leaving you with no choice but to meet his eyes. He looked good, but that was a given, he always did, no matter the circumstances. He looked so... soft. He always seemed that way around you, his eyes getting a little bit kinder, the harshness of his words dipped in sugar, even the sharpness of his jaw looked inviting and gentle, practically begging you to wrap your palm around it.

You bit your tongue. You were being ridiculous. You were seeing things that weren’t there. It was over between the two of you, he had made that very clear. You were grasping at straws and all it was going to do was hurt you.

He spoke suddenly, his thick accent cutting through the silence that felt so loud. “It’s alright. Only really been ours since last night, there were... problems with the last owners.”

Despite everything you felt the ghost of a smile tugging on the edge of your lips, immediately knowing what ‘problems’ he was referring to.

“Arthur?” You asked.

“Yes.” He said with a small grin. “Arthur.”

A moment passed. The air around you feeling all too hot and all to cold at once. It had been a long time since you had seen one another, and both of you were caught up in appreciating such familiar beauty up close. You had missed the small things about him, like the slight curl of his hair and the veins in his neck, you could remember running your lips across the curve and dip of his throat.

You were treading in dangerous waters. It wouldn’t be long until the current pulled you under, and you weren’t quite sure how much longer you could keep a rational mind. You inhaled, flittering your eyes to meet his in some kind of signal of parting, pulling your clutch tighter to your body as an attempt to keep yourself grounded. “I should go. It was good to see you, Tommy.”

You spun on your heel, heading for the large golden doors that led outside. Fresh air would clear your mind, the stars and the velvet night would be good for clearing out all of the junk rattling around in your skull, but you barely got two steps forward before he spoke, already knowing his next words before he even opened his mouth.

“Let me drive you home.”

He spoke so surely, addressing you the way he would one of his brothers or Johnny, as if he knew what was best for you. Once upon a time you would have believed that he did, let him grasp you by the wrists and drag you to the end of the world if he asked nicely, those fucking baby blues and pink lips dulling any warning sirens in your head.

Even now, after everything, you knew that he would never put you in danger, that he would always protect you. And it was with the knowledge of that striking your heart like lightning, you knew that you were still hopelessly, undoubtedly in love with him - not that you ever thought differently, but you had done a damned good job of pushing your feelings away.

“You’ve had a lot to drink,” He said, “and I wouldn’t even let you out on those fucking streets by yourself stone cold sober.”

You pursed your lips. “I’m not drunk, and you don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m driving you home.”

You looked up at him through your painted lashes, disarming him in a million different ways you didn’t even realise. You were oblivious to the fact that his breath felt trapped in his lungs.“You and I both know that’s not a good idea, Tommy.”

“Cmon. Get your things.”

You sidestepped away, pushing the bottom of your heel deeper into the champagne coloured carpet. “No Tommy, I’m not a child! I don’t need your help.”

He rolled his eyes, something akin to fond exasperation rising to his cheeks. You felt your heart drop and flutter like it was a sparrow inside of you, you had never thought you would see that face again, and it hurt how something so simple could twist and mould you in his hands like clay.

He pressed his hands to the small of your back, pushing you forward.

“I don’t care if you don’t want my help. I’m doing it anyway.”

You huffed. Too tired and drunk and confused to put up a real fight.“Fine.” He smiled coyly and his smug attitude made you click your teeth, running a hand through the curls in your hair, not stopping the childish retort on the edge of your tongue. “Prick.”

You felt his hand swat at you, dangerously close to the hem of your dress and you were certain that your cheeks were the same colour as the candles flickering on the tables below. It was such a playful, tender thing to do, and so horribly familiar - memories of his hands on you, pinching and teasing and digging in, a way of communicating without words, something so intimate and personal, something that only the two of you knew.

You wondered if he felt the same way. You wondered if he was reminded of the past, of peach moons and starlight kisses and strawberry lipstick, but as always he remained impassive, as poker faced as always as he strolled down the hall, pushing open the wide brass doors and waiting for you to pass through, him trailing behind you, like always.

———————————————————————

Through your hazy eyes the moon almost looked pink, like a spotlight shining down on you, illuminating the both of you as Tommy’s car purred down the streets, like a black cat stalking under the cover of darkness.

It smelt like him.

Like cigarettes and sin and mint and woodsmoke. You were reminded of driving at midnight with the windows down, his hand wrapped around your thigh, his eyes anywhere but the road. You thought of sticky skin and leather seats and the smell of sex, breathless little laughs and the feel of his teeth biting down on your top lip.

You stared at the polish on your fingernails, hoping for some kind of distraction from the man beside you. It wasn’t far to your flat, and you prayed that the drive home would be as hitch free as possible.

“Had a good night?” Tommy asked, looking over at you from behind the wheel. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, his usually mechanical brain almost short circuiting because you’re finally next to him again. Words and phrases seem tasteless and meaningless, but he wants to savour as much of you as he can. He knows it makes him hypocritical, especially given everything he’s put you through, but he’s never really been very conventional with his love.

“It was alright.”

“Friends from work?”

“Yeah. It was Jessica’s birthday, she wanted to get drunk, you know how it can be.”

“And that...that man - ?” He cleared his throat, hoping that his words came off breezier than they sounded in his head, pretending as if the thought of you with somebody else didn’t feel like a noose around his neck. “Who was he?”

“Just some stupid twat.”

Your words weren’t doing much to quell the fiery flicker of anger inside of him, half of his brain telling him to turn the car around and put a razor blade through the fuckers eye - but one glance over at your sleepy, beautiful face and all of his jealousy fades into mere smoke.

None of it matters.

Nothing will ever matter more than you.

“I shouldn’t have even been out tonight, but Emma practically dragged me.”

Emma. The name rings a bell. He flips through a mental picture book of everyone you’ve spoken about, and finally lands on the glamorous, dark skinned, velvet haired vixen that you called your best friend.

Memories come flooding back.

The nights you would spend with her when he was too busy with work. How in the darkness of his office with nothing but an empty feeling in his chest and glass of bourbon beside him, the phone would ring and cut through the silence.

He’d roll his eyes when Emma spoke quickly down the line, words slurred and filled with giggles as she would explain the drunken shenanigans you had both fallen into. He’d drive through the night and the dim city streets, his mind for once not filled with business deals or money, instead his heart tugging at the thought of his doe eyed, honey lipped girl waiting for him in the city.

“I think she had too much to drink.” Emma would say, clambering into a taxi cab she had managed to hail, teetering in her tall satin shoes. “I wanted to take her home with me, but she was causing such a big fuss and asking for you - couldn’t bloody say no.”

Outside the club his voice would be stern and his stare would be solid. Clipped, quick words to the doormen, feeling you press your cold nose into the base of his throat, mumbling something incoherent about how pretty he was. He’d scold you fondly. Settle you down in the back seats of his car and cover you up with his jacket, smiling ever so softly at the way you cuddled into the warmth and the familiar smell.

He thought of how lonely his nights had been without you.

“How is she?”

“Fine. Everyone is just fine.”

But how are you? He wants to ask, but he has a feeling that no matter the answer he’ll still end with a bullet in his gut, so he lets the silence engulf the both of you, nothing in the air but unspoken tension and the soft purr of the engine.

He had an idea. Something conniving and crafty, something that he’s been wanting to do since the night he told you that it wasn’t safe to be with him, the night he told you to leave. Thomas Shelby has always been a strong, level headed man, but something about you just makes him crumble. You have a way of twisting around him, snaking around his thoughts and feelings like a vine, and he gives himself up wholly.

He would never put you in a position you were uncomfortable with, but he can’t help the claw in his gut when he thinks of how long it’s been since you’ve been apart. He can smell the sweet liquor and perfume on you, can see the way your eyes are glossed ever and your hair is mussed. You’re tired, and after the way that goddamn leech of a man had been fawning over you Tommy is in no mood to leave you alone, he likes knowing that you’re safe, it’s the only thing that makes him able to sleep at night.

He glanced over to you, watching as you yawned into your palm, your soft, pretty eyes looking at the stars and the moon and his decision was made for him.

“You missed the turn.” You said a few moments later, perking up a little in your seat.

“Hmm?”

“You missed it. You should have turned left back there.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you’re pretty sure you know the reason why. Despite the part of your body that is sparked like a match at the thought of spending the night with him, you also know that it is too dangerous, that the two of you together are fire and gasoline.

“No. No, Tommy. I’m not staying over with you.”

“Yes you are. You can stay in a guest room - it’ll give you time to sleep off that hangover.”

“I’m hardly drunk.”

“Well, when we get home you can walk in a straight line for me, eh?”

“It’s not my home.”

That hurt.

He ignored you, feeling the familiar bite of irritation, hating that he wasn’t the same man to you that he once was. He could feel his tone getting desperate, and under any other circumstance he would be furious at being so weak, but never around you. “Just stay. Tonight? For me. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not getting into any trouble.”

“Tommy Shelby never sleeps.”

You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest, sighing in defeat. Tommy smiled, and realised as the car lurched over the bridge that’ll take you back where you both belong that he’s the happiest he has been in a long time.

—————————————————————

His house was as intimidating as ever, even more so under the thick blanket of the night. The architecture looked gothic, the sprawling roof and high chimneys almost seeming menacing as the car pulled up along the gravel, the low sound of the rocks crackling like a fire.

It almost felt strange. A house you had stepped foot in hundreds of times, suddenly feeling unfamiliar and mystifying. It was like the very first time you had seen the house a few years ago, how the large rooms and the tall ceilings seemed empty and dangerous, as though they housed a million secrets.

But since then it had been full of so much light. You had danced with him playfully, barefoot on the kitchen floor, with the windows open and soft jazz flittering in the air like sunlight. You had slept on the sofa in the drawing room, tangled up against his bare chest, the room littered with wine stained glasses and cigarette burns. You had laughed until you had cried, kissed him on the vivaciously on the mouth, sat through dozens of rowdy family dinners, shared coffee and pastry under the sleepy morning light - and now it felt as though a million years had passed.

You let him lead you inside. Keeping a safe distance and a wary eye as though he was an unpredictable stray dog that needed to be kept at arms length. He sensed your suspicion and ignored it, marching forward like a solider, pretending that your distrust didn’t make him feel awful. He hated to think of you on edge because of him, he hated how small it made him feel. He never wanted to be insignificant to you.

You noticed how bare it was in the hallway. Once upon a time the coat rack would have been filled with your furs and shawls, your pastel pink boots and his forever charcoal posh oxfords lined next to one another, a poignant reminder of their owners and the differences that you both shared.

It wasn’t just lack of your belongings, somehow the house seemed much emptier. It didn’t smell as worn as it usually did, the warmth of a recently lit fire didn’t dwell in the air and there were no keys or shoes by the front door. You knew that Mary kept a clean house, but this was something different, and a sour thought suddenly hit you.

“You haven’t been home much?” You tried to keep the jealousy out of your voice and remain level headed, but it was proving hard when you were feeling so nauseous at the thought of him sharing a bed with somebody else.

“Lot of late nights at the office.” He shrugged his jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it around a hanger, his icy blue eyes catching yours. “Home didn’t feel like home anymore.”

You didn’t miss the implication in his words, but you chose to ignore it.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“I thought I was here to sleep.”

“You are. But what kind of host would I be if I didn’t offer my guest a nightcap?”

You made a noise. Something halfway between a scoff and a huff.

“Tea? Whiskey?”

“No, I’m fine thank you.”

“What about hot chocolate? I still have some of that god awful strawberry stuff you love so much.”

Memories of sickly sweet strawberry kisses flash in your head. Images of Tommy wincing and groaning as if you had poisoned him. Belly laughs and pillow talk. All things you had tried so hard to forget.

“No. I don’t drink that anymore.”

He looked at you. There were no diamond chandeliers or dark corners or red velvet walls distorting your appearance, just the two of you stood opposite in the hallway of his mansion. He looked you up and down, not in a sleazy way, like the man at the bar who had so desperately wanted to get his hands under your dress but almost - longingly. There was something in his eyes. Swimming right in those ocean eyes was something you couldn’t quite make out, he opened his mouth to say something but before he could speak you heard the whine of the door above you.

“Mr Shelby! You’re back.” It was Mary, stood at the top of the stairs. Still dressed in her maids uniform despite the ungodly hour, she looked as pristine as ever, and you couldn’t think of a time you had seen the elderly woman without makeup on. She flew down the stairs, eager to offer Thomas anything she could, but she stopped dead in her tracks when she finally saw you.

“Miss (Y/L/N)!” She said, trying to control the shock in her voice. She hadn’t been there the day that you left, but it wouldn’t take a fool to guess what had happened between you and her boss. Just like you, she probably assumed you would never return to the Shelby house. After a moment she smiled kindly, regaining her composure after the initial shock. “It’s a pleasure to see you once again.”

“And you, Mary.”

“Oh! Mr Shelby I’ve made up your quarters and -” she stopped, realising what she was saying and she awkwardly shifted as she tried to change the subject. “Can I get you anything? Shall I bring you some tea? Or some wine?”

“Oh no. I’m fine thank you, really.”

“You know what Mary,” You heard Tommy say, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Can you fix us some drinks? Whatever’s in the cupboards is fine. Oh, and bring us those chocolates Ada brought from New York. We’ll be in the sitting room.”

“Tommy - ” You started, but he was already gone, walking through his house with renewed energy, and you strained your ears to hear the sentences he called out over his shoulder.

“One drink. For old times sake.”

“Ugh. You’ll be the death of me, Shelby.”

———————————————————————

It should have been awkward. It should have been awkward and uncomfortable and painful - but it wasn’t.

He lit a fire, something about the yellow flames and the crackling wood soothing you like warm milk. You missed the feel of his sofas, the ones that cost such an outrageous price that it made your eyes water, and you sunk into the cushions far more easily than you liked. Mary had made your favourite drink, and the situation felt so familiar that it was ridiculous, but it was more ridiculous how good everything felt.

He was as charming as ever. Giving you those side eye glances and cheeky smiles as he spoke, asking about your family and telling you stories of the trouble his brothers had been in. He moved around the room in a blur of navy, because as God would have it tonight of all nights he was wearing your favourite blue suit, the one that made him look so beautiful and powerful.

He didn’t ask about work, and you were glad, because you weren’t ready to tell him yet.

Perhaps an hour passed, the two of you dancing around each other, neither one wanting to be the one that crossed the line first. Your mind was blurry but you knew that this had gone on too long, you needed to pull the plug before it was too late, but as always, Tommy got there first.

“It feels like fate.” He said, his voice so much warmer than it had been a few moments before.

“What does?”

“Running into you tonight.”

You scoffed. “Please. Tommy Shelby doesn’t believe in fate.”

“I didn’t. Not until I met you.”

Your whole body felt like it had been set alight. He knew just what to say to get you to curl around his little finger. He was watching you intently, moving forward so his elbows were on his knees, as though he was desperate to hear your reply. He was being honest, more so than he had been in a long time, but your mind was too filled with the past to give into his sweet words.

“So,” You said, knocking back the last dregs of your drink. “Are you just going to pretend it never happened?”

“What?”

“Cut the crap, Tommy.” You snarked. “You know what I mean.” A breathless laugh. “God, this is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Don’t say that.”

You rubbed your forehead, massaging away a migraine you could feel brewing. “I need to go to bed. I don’t want to get into all of this again.”

“(Y/N) - ”

“Goodnight, Tommy.”

You stood up and heard the sound of his glass of whisky hitting his red oak table. Your fingers touched the edge of the door handle, but he was pulling you backwards before you could leave. You were facing him, trying to keep your eyes away from his, not wanting to go falling into him the way your body desired.

“You might not want to talk but you can listen.” He said, so close to you that your noses were almost touching. You pursed your lips and squirmed like a child, but he raised an eyebrow and you huffed, letting him speak, his words shattering you like you were a sheet of ice.“Im still in love you.”

You bit your lip to stop from crying. The scab had been picked off, blood clotting down your ankles and onto the floor.

“Think I will be till the day I die. Even after.”

His words were so sincere and you wanted to believe them. You could feel him watching you, cornering you, willing you to say the words back, needing to hear the words fall from your lips.

You held up one finger, trying to stop him from speaking. “Don’t.”

“It’s true.”

You could feel the hot prickle of tears forming in your eyes, and the way your throat constricted like you’d been swallowing cotton balls.“Was this the plan all along? Invite me back, get me drunk and think I’ll crawl back into bed with you after you tell me a few lines?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never do that to you.”

He was angry. More so with himself, he’s always been in control, so articulate and calculated, but he was losing his grip on you, his knuckles turning white. He knew he made a mistake that night when he told you to leave, but his pride was too strong to do anything about it. Seeing you tonight had been more than just a coincidence, he knew that, and everything in him was screaming at him to fight for you.

“I miss you.” It ached for him to say it out loud, such a powerful man admitting that you were his weakness, that you bring him to his knees like he’s a child.

“I miss you too, Tommy, you know I do. But - ”

“I fucked up.”

“Tom.”

“I never should have let you leave.”

“We - Us - It’ll never - ” You couldn’t think let alone speak, all of your words twisting and tumbling from your mouth like loose marbles.

“We were a lot of things, but you can’t tell me that we aren’t supposed to be together.”

“I don’t want to talk about this... I can’t!”

“So let’s not talk.”

His lips met yours and you were on fire. The breath you didn’t know you were holding was knocked out of you by the force of his body on yours. His hands were all over you, checking you were real, feeling the curve and dip of your body the way his mind had conjured up in the dark in the months that you had been gone, he savoured you entirely, he devoured you.

“This isn’t - This isn’t right.” It was lie. Nothing felt more right. Your whole body ached and quivered for him, you wanted to breathe in his smell and run your fingers through his hair until they bled, but you also didn’t want to go down without a fight.

He knew you too well though.

“Stop it.” He had you backed up against the wall, his body pressed in between your thighs. He’d caged you in, one hand curling softly under your jaw, manipulating you so that you had no choice but to look right into his damn sea foam eyes. “Stop being so stubborn.”

“Stop being such a prick then.”

Lips on your neck. His hands all over you. Inhaling your perfume and the smell of your hair, digging his fingertips into your hip, a jolt of pain that you knew would leave a bruise. He captured your lips again, relishing in the way you felt under him, he was desperate for more, and he smiled cheekily when he heard you moan.

“I thought you wanted to go to sleep.” He teased, his voice was playful but he was struggling to keep his composure, he felt like his head was being held underwater, the pleasure teetering on pain.

“I hate you.” You said, gasping for air, feeling adrenaline and liquor and lust flow through you.

“No you don’t.”

You bit down on his plump bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. He winced slightly, and rolled his eyes, shoving you backwards into his bookcase, kissing you even harder. A few novels and a porcelain figurine fell to the floor, the small black horse shattering at your feet. He grumbled slightly, and you giggled into his neck. You bent down to try and collect the broken pieces but he swatted your hand away, kissing and sucking all across your neck and throat, wanting to mark his territory.

“Stop that. I don’t want you cutting yourself.” He muttered into your flesh, clasping your hands together and holding you by the wrists, refusing to let you do anything but melt into him - not that there was anything in the world you would rather be doing.

Slowly the kisses got softer, more tender, all across your collar and shoulders like raindrops. There was something methodical about it, almost poetic, like he was trying to savour the taste of your skin, and the way your body rippled under him. After a moment he stopped, his hands tangling into your hair, gripping you by your jaw, looking into your glossed out, wide eyes.

“I really fucking missed you. I’m sorry.”

You shuddered. “I know.”

“Tomorrow we’ll talk. Alright?” There are a million things he needed to say. A million things he needed you to know, but there was nothing more important to him at that moment than having you under him, letting his body show you all of the things he couldn't put into words. He needed you, all of you. His head was fucked and he needed the wash of calm you gave him, he needed to feel whole, the way that only you could make him.

“Tomorrow.” You whispered.

He nodded solemnly. Ducking his head and pressing your mouths together, hot and raw and heavy. You were sweeter than sugar, stronger than whisky and prettier than all of the stars in the sky, and he struggled to keep himself from buckling at the knees under your touch. The only thing that could stop him from moulding your bodies together were the sweet little words that left your lips, the ones that rang like a gospel in his ears.

“Take me to bed, Tommy.”

————————————————————

He broke it off three months prior.

You had been missing each other, your schedules hectic and mismatched, and it had been a good few weeks since you had spoken for more than a few stolen seconds over the telephone. Finally, like the sun parting through rain clouds, there was one weekend that was empty in both of your diaries and Tommy told you to expect a car outside of your flat one Friday afternoon.

A whole weekend. Two days and three nights spent with your beloved, it should have been a time filled with late nights and rumpled bedsheets, coffee in the morning and wearing nothing but his linen shirts and the pretty lilac underwear he loved so much - but it turned soon turned sour.

On Sunday you had been making rhubarb pie. Folding and rolling the pastry between your fingertips, listening to the birds whistling through the open window and the lull of soft jazz from the radio behind you.

He had taken a call. A sullen look falling over his face as soon as he answered the phone. He had shut himself in his study, and all you could hear was the deep rumble of his voice and the sound of his footsteps, and so you left him alone, and busied yourself with other things.

It had all been so wonderful. Riding his horses through the fields, reading books under his arm as he rifled through papers, stealing kisses that tasted like hard candies and peppermint. You'd forced him to relax, made him take a bubble bath with you, poured lavender and vanilla oil across his aching shoulders until he let out an involuntary moan, ran your fingers through his hair until his breath evened out and his eyes fluttered shut, finally feeling at peace next to the woman he loved.

You’d laughed and made love and kissed and danced and it had all be so perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

For 48 hours he had been yours. He wasn’t “Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders,” he had been your Tommy. You weren’t a fool, you knew that work was always the most important thing to him, that he lived and breathed for the company he had built from his two bare hands, his work ethic and brilliance was something you admired about him, but it didn’t mean that it didn’t sting when he slipped back into business mode.

It had been about an hour, and you were cleaning the counters, something soothing about finding the dark marble granite under the mess of flour. You knew that Mary would have a fit if she knew you were cleaning, but you enjoyed the normalcy it gave you. You heard him before you saw him, the sound of his matte leather brogues on the tile in the hallway, and you lifted your head when you felt his presence in the doorway.

“You need to leave.”

His tone was so sudden and blunt that it almost made you laugh, but one look at the sallowness of his skin and the intensity in his eyes made you straighten up. “Excuse me?”

“It’s Sabini.”

“What about him?”

“He knows - he fucking knows.”

He was being uncharacteristically agitated, and it sent a deep chill down your spine. You lurched forward, hands spread, wanting to carry some of his worry. “Knows what? Tommy, calm down.”

“He’s had men lurking outside your flat.”

“What?”

“One of the new boys spotted ‘em. Fucking filth have been there all weekend.”

You felt your heart sink to your stomach. Truthfully, whilst the thought of Sabini and his men watching you made your skin crawl, you were more worried by the way it seemed to have frazzled Tommy. You weren’t used to seeing him so... anxious, and that sent red hot warning signs to your brain.

Your relationship had never been a secret per se, but you never made it public. After a few months of rendezvous in hotels and bars up and down the country, and Tommy realising his feelings for you were much more than just lust - he laid everything out bare. He told you he wanted you. But he also told you what the consequences of hanging off his arm were. You knew the risks, knew what chaos his love could bring, but you were falling so deeply that none of it mattered to you. You weren’t stupid, and Tommy did everything in his power to keep you safe, and the two of you found a mellow middle ground, a place where you could be happy and young and in love, without all of the mayhem.

“Well - it’s alright. I’m here. I’m safe aren’t I? He was probably just scoping the place out, he probably thought you were there and - ”

You were rambling, and most of what you were saying was untrue. You both knew the reason that Sabini was there, it was a message, a warning. A threat to Tommy that he could take away his weakness with one snap of his slimy little fingers.

You shrugged off your apron, and stepped towards him, shaking your head. “We knew that one day this would happen. That people would find out, it’s not your fault Tom.”

“We were stupid. We were reckless.”

“And what? We were supposed to just stop living our lives in case somebody saw us?”

“Not just somebody. Somebody who could fucking kill you.”

“Tommy.”

“You need to leave.”

“Listen to me -”

“I’ll get Bernard to drive you to the station. Your friend...” He paused momentarily, trying to remember a name he had heard in passing. “Sarah? She still lives in Manchester doesn’t she? You’ll stay with her till I’ve sorted this out.”

You scoffed, your eyes the size of dinner plates.“I’m not leaving.” You tried to make him see sense, but you were having a hard time keeping your voice levelled. “I’ve got work, Tom. I can’t just up and leave.”

He ignored you. You could see his brain whirring a mile a minute, the wheels inside his mind frantically looking for a solution. You marched over to him, forcing him to look at you. “I’m not scared.”

“Well then you’re a fool.”

“Am I? For not running at the first sign of danger?”

“Don’t fucking start with me. Not about this. This isn’t some fucking game.”

“I never said it was, Tom. But what? I’m supposed to hide out in another fucking city until all of this settles down.”

“Stop being so fucking difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. I know what I signed up for, we both did. We knew this would happen eventually.”

“And now that is has - we have to be smart.”

“Not everything in life is a business deal.”

“What would you know about that?”

It was a low blow. Something that struck you like a winning punch to the gut, you stepped back from the impact, shaking your head and pursing your lips. You’ll let him brew in his anger, let him get worked up and pissed off, and you’ll wait for his apology in a few days, something expensive and designer showing up at your front door, his way of saying “I’m sorry I was such an asshole.”

“You know what? I’m leaving. Call me in a few days when you get your head fucking screwed back on. We can talk then.”

“No.”

It came out strangled, like the word sliced the inside of his throat when he said it.

“What?”

“You need to stay away. We need to end this.”

“End this?” You scoffed. “What? Like we’re just a business deal?”

“It’s not safe, and I can’t do anything that’s going to jeopardise the company.”

“The fucking company?” You were furious, your body stinging with hurt, feeling betrayal wash over you like sour milk. “How - How dare you!”

“I think it’s best if we spend some time apart.”

“So this is it then? You’ll throw away everything just because some fucking man has been looking around corners?” His silence made you more enraged, and you willed him to fight back. Fight for you. “Do you want me to leave? Do you want me to go, Tom?”

Silence.

And then - “It’s not safe.”

“Fuck you.”

That was the last thing you had said to him. Three words replaced with two that shattered around the room like an earthquake. You had tears in your eyes, and you rushed upstairs to pack your things, your heart breaking into sharp little pieces inside of you. He could hear the start of your sobs, the ones you tried so hard to muffle with your hand and he truly fucking hated himself. He gripped the marble above the fireplace and steadied his breathing, pushing out any thoughts of the weekend. He willed himself to shove away the happy memories, the sound of your laugh and the smell of your skin, the way he didn’t hear the shovels when you were beside him, safe and warm in his arms.

He needed to do what he did best, regain control and protect those he cared about, and right at the fucking top of the list was you. Any niggles of rationality and guilt telling him that pushing you away was wrong quickly turned to ash in his mind, he was certain that this was the right thing to do, despite the way that it really fucking hurt. He had to keep you safe. Men like him didn’t get to have nice things like you.

So he shut the door to his office, muffling the sound of you rummaging around upstairs, a part of you wishing and hoping that he would open the door and kiss you and apologise, and instead he picked up the phone, and went back to work.

———————————————————————

You woke up to sunlight painting your skin, and an empty bed, the silk sheets in disarray and bundled beside your bare body.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Like an ice cold bucket of water dropping over your head, you remembered every detail of what had happened overnight. Your skin relived the feeling of hands and fingertips and oh god, tongue dragging all across you, branded into your memory like a burn. It was the best nights sleep you had gotten in a long time, and the bed was so warm and soft and smelling like sin that you struggled to even lift your head from the pillow to check the time.

Mid morning.

You hadn’t slept in this long for a while, and you knew the reason why. Head slightly pounding from too much alcohol and adrenaline, you crawled out of bed, washing the remnants of last nights makeup from your face and pulling on your crumpled dress and stockings that had been haphazardly flung over the furniture. Your heart lurched a little when you freshened up in the bathroom and noticed your toothbrush still in the holder on the sink, right next to his.

You could hear cluttering downstairs and followed the noise, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, unable to stop the small smile that the sight gave you. He had evidently sent Mary on an errand, something far away so he could make you both breakfast in peace, away from prying eyes. He looked so boyish, so domestic, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, nimble fingers turning the bacon on the pan, his hair mussed from sex and sleep. It made you feel like you had swallowed a match. Your whole body alight from seeing him so gentle and vulnerable, so bare for just you to see.

Thomas Shelby whisking eggs and squeezing oranges, barefoot in his own kitchen, the sight rarer than a unicorn, and you were the only person who ever got close enough.

“Hi.” It left your mouth awkwardly and rolled off your tongue like an ice cube.

“Morning.” He turned and smiled, his lazy eyes trawling the length of your body. You hadn’t noticed it, but he felt a flicker of hurt that you were in your own clothes, a part of him wanting and hoping that you would be in one of his shirts, something that he loved much more than he could comprehend. He shook his head, willing the thoughts away. “It’ll be done soon. I think I’ve burnt the toast though, and probably added too much salt to the eggs.”

You smiled thinly, the light not reaching your eyes. This was all too much, all too soon. He was here and he was beautiful and you were right at the frontline, ready to get your heart broken all over again.“Last night,” You cleared your throat, as though the words were lodged deep inside. “It was a mistake.”

He didn’t blink, cool stare focused on the meal he was preparing, long fingers methodically slicing and dicing, as though your words didn’t make his heart thump against his rib cage. He didn’t like it, not one bit, the way that it sounded as though you regretted the time you had spent together. He never wanted you to feel like that, like the intimacy you had shared was something crude, as though you were a one night stand of a drunken fuck at a bar, this was so much more than that. This was love.

But Tommy liked holding his cards to his chest, and it was much easier to tease you then tell the truth.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

You scoffed, hating his cockiness yet knowing that he was obviously right. “Don’t be a twat, Tommy.”

The ghost of a smile on his face, if you had blinked you might have missed it, but you were always the best person at reading him - the only person he had let close enough to see him, flaws and all. He always liked when you bickered with him, his little firecracker. He didn’t tolerate just anyone speaking to him the way you did, but he would let you get away with bloody murder and he couldn’t deny that it didn’t bring a flush to his cheeks when you got particularly feisty.

You opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off, his hands full with cutlery and plates filled with slap up breakfast foods, and you couldn’t deny that your mouth was watering.

“Eat first. We’ll talk later.”

You let out a sound halfway between a huff and a groan but caved in, clambering into the seat he had pulled open for you and piling your fork high. He watched you with a smile, the way you looked so young and pretty and angelic in the morning light, no makeup on and eyes still drowsy with sleep, like some kind of Renaissance painting he wanted to hang above his fireplace and stare at whenever things got rough.

He filled the silence with small talk, noting the weather and a story about one of John’s kids hiding a puppy in her room for almost a week without anyone noticing. You listened as best as you could, but you were distracted by the palomino mare you could see grazing in the fields behind his house, and something was prickling at your skin like brambles.

You cleared your throat, acting as nonchalant as you could muster. “Emma tells me that May Carlton is training your new mare.” Your knife sliced through your yolk, rich butter yellow bleeding across your plate. You tried to keep your voice steady, but you could feel the thickness in your throat as you remembered how it hurt like a bullet wound when your best friend had told you of his new associate. “I hear she is quite beautiful.”

“Yes, I suppose she is.” He murmured, cutting the edge of fat from his bacon. “But she’s nothing compared to you.”

You tried to pretend that his words didn’t make you swoon, and he tried to hide how much he loved it when you got jealous, something about the fire in your eyes making him want to push you up against a wall and kiss you till you couldn’t talk.

He paused, a coy smile on his lips. “Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

You scoffed. “Well, it’s only fair. What with all those Blinders following me. Can’t even go to the bloody shops without one watching me.”

So you had noticed. He had half been expecting a blazing call where you yelled at him for having men watch over you, and it had left a hole of disappointment in his gut when it never came.

“You know I would never let you be unprotected.”

“I know.”

Your eyes met, a wave of warm affection washed over the both of you, but you pulled your gaze back quickly, focusing your attention anywhere else.

“You should come and watch her.”

You froze, wondering if Tommy had just invited you to spend the day with May Carlton, you were sure that would be one evening that would end in blood and tears.

“The mare.” He said, picking up at your uncomfortableness and biting back a smile. “We’ve called her ‘Wicked Gypsy’, and she is brilliant. I reckon she could win the whole bloody thing.”

You liked how passionate he got when he talked about horses. Liked the way that he seemed to light up like a child, despite all the finery and bravado, you liked knowing that the little boy inside of him was still there, hidden deep, deep down, but still there. You were too busy being captivated by him that it took you a moment to realise that he had asked you to join him at the races.

You wanted nothing more, you truly wanted nothing more than to be his girl again. Cradled under his arm, dressed in lace and fur, his lips pressed to the heat of your throat, sweet little words whispered in your ear, a hand tight and possessive around your waist - but it just wasn’t that easy.

You sighed, crossing your cutlery. “Tom. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I want you there. I need my good luck charm.”

“Tommy, after everything. I don’t think we should.”

Firmer now, he looks at you, emphasising his point.“I need you there. When she wins, I need my best girl to be right by my side.”

He was so slippery. So sickly sweet that you could drown in him, struggle to move in the molasses that dripped from his tongue. He was dangerous, carnal fire and sin, but he wasn’t lying, he needed you, really fucking needed you.

You exhaled, thinking things through, and massaging the migraine brewing in your temples. He could see you trying to think of an excuse, another lie about how you’re bad for each other, but he got there first, not wanting to hear it.

“I’ll have a car pick you up on Friday.” He turned his hands so his palms were facing the ceiling, eyebrows raised playfully, “Or... maybe you can stay here the night. You know you’re welcome.”

Always so bloody charming. But you can’t stop the tsunami of thoughts, the mistakes of the past. “What is this, Tommy? What are we doing?”

“I fucked up. I never should have let you go.”

“But you did. And - I don’t want to get hurt all over again.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“You always do.”

You words stung him worse than if you had slapped him across the face, and he had to take a moment to swallow the sour taste that had been swimming across his tongue. He reached his hands out, clasping them with yours, so large and warm and safe, and he spoke with intensity.

“Just - Come with me, Friday. Please. I can’t do this without you.”

Friday. Suddenly it was no longer about slipping up or falling back in love and wondering what your friends might think when you told them, it was about something else that you needed to tell him.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Why not?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Leaving? Leaving where?” His tone was one of disbelief, his eyes sizing you up, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate excuse.

You sighed, taking your hands away from under his, noticing the lack of warmth immediately. “To Oxford. Peggy transferred me to the company over there.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because I asked her to.”

“You did what?”

You could see him thinking, wondering how none of his boys had found out this priceless piece of information that makes him want to throw his expensive fucking china at the wall.

“I did it all through work. Emma’s the only one who knew. I’m getting the train Wednesday night.”

He stood up so quickly his chair squealed across the wood floor, his mouth agape. “So what? You’re just going to leave?”

“There’s nothing here for me.”

He pointed one finger at you, scolding you like a child. “Don’t say that.”

You narrowed your eyes, shaking your head. “It’s true isn’t it? Why should I waste more time on this stupid cat and mouse game?”

“Is that all this is to you? A game?”

“You left me. For three months I was completely alone! What happens when something comes up, huh? How do I know that you won’t leave me all over again?” It was hard to keep the emotion from your voice, hard not to show just how badly the impact of those three months had been. “We need this! Some...some fucking space. Maybe being a few cities away will be good.”

It was a lie. Nothing sounded worse, but you had to say your piece because god knows you can’t keep holding everything in.

His voice was frayed, split like the hairs in an old rope. “Don’t. Don’t give me space. That’s the last thing I want from you.”

His words and his actions never lined up, and it made your blood boil. All of the anger you had turned into tears had remoulded into red hot rage, and you slammed your hands down on his expensive counter tops, flesh on marble ringing around the kitchen. “So then why did you let me go? Why did you tell me to leave?”

“Because I thought that was best for you!”

“You aren’t the one who gets to decide that!”

“Everything I do. Everything I fucking do - is to protect you.”

“Don’t say that. Protecting me isn’t making me leave, and then not speaking to me for three fucking months.”

You could see the click in his jaw, the vein in his throat throbbing. “You knew what you signed up for when you met me.”

“No, actually, I don’t think I did.”

It was true. You expected late nights, days of no contact, blood staining your bathroom counter and men watching your every move. You expected fights and make ups, going to the races in your finery and then walking down the shit filled streets of Small Heath, but you never expected that he would just leave you the way he did.

He was breathless, trying to control the rise and fall of his chest and the way that his fingers clenched. He never thought that you would leave, he had some fucked up feeling that you would always come back to him, that the two of you would always end up on the same ship, drifting along the same ocean. It was maddening. He had tasted you once again, had you under him, his girl reduced to putty in his hands. It had all made sense, the night seemed to be sweeter and the stars a little brighter and his lungs a little looser when you were next to him. It had all felt so right, and now you were going to leave.

He put it down to exasperation at not being in control anymore, the fact that he was watching you slip between his fingers once again like grains of sand, and so he said the worst thing he thought of, something that he knew would rip through you like a shot to the heart.

“Well at least I got one last fuck eh? That was all you were really any good for anyway.”

He could hear it immediately, the sound of the bullet leaving the gun, or perhaps that’s your heart shattering in two. He regretted it, he regretted it so badly that he wished he could pull the words back down his throat and swallow them like they were poison.

Your eyes watered but you didn’t let him see you cry. Your mouth opened and then closed not wanting to waste your breath on a reply, not wanting to hurt him the way he’d hurt you. You didn’t bother with a reply, not trusting yourself enough to talk, only wanting to be alone to like your wounds in peace. So you turned and left, last nights heels echoing through the hallway, the sound of the front door creaking open and slamming shut, silence falling once again.

Tommy pushed the plates off the table.

—————————————————————————-

Wednesday night and you were listening to your favourite record, something to distract you from the suitcase you were packing. Since the fight you hadn’t heard from Tommy, the first thing you’d packed had been your phone, pulling it off the wall as soon as you got home, not wanting to be on edge waiting for his call.

You didn’t allow yourself the time to wallow, refused to let yourself be beaten up by the words he had said, the ones that hung around your head like dead files. You hated that you let him speak to you that way, and you also hated that you missed him with every bone in your body.

Lilac, sapphire and emerald green. You threw your clothes together, watching the colours fade into a blur. You hadn’t packed anything he had given you, but you didn’t want to throw them out either and so they sat in a lonely purgatory in your wardrobe; a little gift to the next tenant.

You knew who was there the second the doorbell rang. Well, rang three times. The sound so shrill and violent that you tipped your head back in frustration. You considered leaving him outside in the summer rain, but soon the rings were switched with incessant knocking, your door surely about to break from the weight of his fists.

“Fucking hell.” You seethed, dropping your shoes onto the floor and stepping over the piles of toiletries stacked in the hallway. “Fuck you, Tom.”

You wanted to say those three words to him as soon as you opened the door, hoping your eyes reflected the anger bubbling inside of you, but he cut you off with a sigh of relief.

“Thank fuck you’re still here.”

“Not for long.”

You tried to shut the door, you really did, but he pushed past and into your flat with little effort.

“Get out, Tom. Now.”

He spun round to face you, and you finally got a good look at him. He looked rough, frazzled almost. His hair messy and his shirt ruffled and his eyes were mostly white, frantically watching your face.

“I fucked up. I fucked everything up.”

“You came all this way just to tell me that?”

“I should have followed you sooner. I should have followed you the second you walked through that door.”

You quirked an eyebrow in challenge. “Which time?”

He spread his hands out, biting down on his tongue. “Don’t go. Don’t leave.”

You sighed, kicking a stray shampoo bottle with your feet, something to fill the emptiness that surrounded you. “I’ve made up my mind.”

He moved one step closer and you moved one step back. “Is this what you really want?”

“We can’t always get what we want.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You threw your hands up in despair. “I’m not doing this with you now, Tommy. My train leaves in an hour and I have my first day tomorrow and I don’t want to fuck it all up.”

“If it’s what you really want, then you should go. But don’t leave if it’s all because of me.”

You scoffed. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

“And I’m not going to let you go without telling you that I love you. I really fucking love you.”

“Tommy.” It’s a warning. It’s a threat. But it hangs between you both, lingering in the air like smoke.

“I know you love me too. I know you do. I also know that I’m a massive twat who fucked everything up, but I’m not letting you get away, not again.”

You're exasperated. His words like honey, but you’re scared that that’s all they are, and you’re more scared that they might be so much more. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because I’m telling the truth. I don’t care about anything. Nothing matters to me more than you. I don’t care if Sabini has men outside my house every fucking night, you’re only safe with me, and I can only do this with you by my side.”

“Talk is cheap.”

“If I have to spend every day proving how much you mean to me then I will. I can’t - I can’t be without you.”

He was so close to you. Your noses almost touching, the hair on your arms and your spine sticking up, something electric about him. You want to hate him but you can’t. Not when he’s standing in your dimly lit hallway, looking dishevelled and beautiful and dare you say, broken. The edge of his jawline caught the light, shimmering like a jewel, and the pools in his eyes were so sincere and so deeply blue that you wanted to fall right into them.

Were you going to do this? Were you going to let him in again? You thought of everything - rain splattered kisses, dancing under the pale moonlight, sour whisky in the corner of his office. You thought of all of the chaos, all of the blood, all of the family arguments and shouting that echoed around his manor. You thought of all the tears you had shed, all the times your throat had been raw and your heart shattered into pieces. You thought of strawberry fields and his hand in yours, laughing with his brothers until you couldn’t breathe, the way that he felt and smelt and spoke like home.

It had been bad, but it was also the best thing you had ever been a part of.

You sighed loudly, clicking your tongue, meeting him somewhere in the middle. “Fuck. I’m never going to get my deposit back.”

His whole body trembled, relief coming from every pore, and he made a vow to go to Church with Pol on Sunday and thank whoever was listening for getting you back. “Well you’re moving in with me so there’s nothing to worry about.”

You rolled your eyes, his large hands wrapping around your jaw, making you look at him. He smelt like woodsmoke and peppermint, like a million bad decisions and the tang of a smoking barrel. It took everything in you to not buckle at the knees and let him carry you like a child.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He cradled your face, hoping his words came off as strongly out loud as they did in his head. He’s not going to fuck up again, but even he can’t stop his brain from short circuiting at the sight of you, so pretty with your doe eyes and raspberry lips, the skin on your throat just begging for the tug of his teeth.

You buried your head in his chest when he pulled you close, your words muffled through the cotton of his shirt. “If you ever speak to me like that again I’ll rip your fucking balls off.”

A soft smile, one that washes over him like warm candlelight. “I know.”

He’s not letting you go, not again. You’re a fucking part of him, like the blood that runs through his veins and the steady thump of his chest, you’re a part of his body, the reason why he can breathe and run and love. You’re the thing that stops the tremor in his hands, the thing that makes him so unshakeable, so tough and in control.

He had something to fight for.

And only knowing that you’re by his side, safe and warm and pressed into the crook of his body, does he finally allow himself to exhale.

[duchessfics]

Business and Pleasure Part 6

(https://lauramaher25.tumblr.com/post/179156351521/ahs-billie-dean-howard-apocalypse)

Billie x Fem!Reader

Warning(s): None? Except toxic work environment?

Summary: While Billie thought that this would be a shared vacation, she soon realizes their first day in New York, that this trip is in fact a very different experience for you compared to her. And in the process of seeing you being mistreated, she also has to deal with her own feelings towards you and if this is meant to be more than friends with benefits.

Word Count: 6031

A/n: So...this is late because my first draft was deleted for some reason...I don’t wanna talk about it 😭 but I feel like I should preface this by saying that this chapter is SFW because it’s focusing on some of the emotional/feeling things that Billie and the reader have not really dealt with as much. Of course there will be more NSFW content in the future, but I hope you enjoy this change of pace.

Part 5, Business and Pleasure Masterlist

When the chirp of your alarm rings out in the dark room you nearly cry in exhaustion. Yes—you are an adult and shouldn't find yourself on the verge of tears due to only sleeping for around 4 hours. But the inclination is still there.

You try to reach out and grab your phone from the nightstand. However that's when you remember your devilish plan to charge your phone across the room so you have to get up. 

Damn your ingenuity.

The loud sound pounds through your head and fortunately the woman sleeping next to you is separate enough for you to slip out from under the covers, stagger over to your blaring phone, and turn the alarm off. Now that the room is still once more you pause and find your senses slowly perking up at the unfamiliar space.

Your toes curl into the soft cushiony carpet that is a little firmer than Billie's but still pliable and cozy. At the same time you see a crack of daylight by the curtained windows and hear the muffled sounds of morning traffic in Manhattan. Because you didn't get a good look last night you softly pad over to one of the windows that nearly expands the floor to the ceiling and part the blackout curtains just a crack to keep the room dark while peeking outside.

Amber hues with streaks of marigold and coral blend together and reflect off of the surrounding steel structures that line the streets and reach for the sky. Although the time is still early, the sun is rapidly rising and you look down to see vehicles and people the size of toys rushing around to where they are required for the day.

A soft breath from behind you gets your attention and you step back to shut the curtain once more. It takes a moment for your eyes to fully adjust to the darkened room, but your ears hear each soft breath she exhales. Like listening to a distress signal pulsating from afar.

Luckily the floor isn't cluttered with items, so you cautiously brush your hands out in front of yourself and follow her small, sleeping breaths until the tips of your fingers skim the satin duvet of your shared bed. By now your eyes are able to see the beautiful woman in front of you who still sleeps peacefully.

Because she lays on her side, Billie's face is turned towards you and you can see the slight crease between her brows and her eyes moving just the slightest bit under underneath her eyelids as she dreams. With her eyes closed, the length of her lashes is accentuated. Every part of her looks perfect. Like she’s a gift bestowed by the gods above. 

And for some reason she notices you of all people.

The sharp intake of air between her slightly parted lips startles you and she shifts while mumbling something. The noise made you jump, but you go from shock to concern when she lets out the softest whimper and her brows scrunch up. Before you can even think, you take a seat on the side of the bed and softly shush her quiet noises of anxiety and protest. 

Then your hand comes up to cup her cheek that doesn't rest on the pillow and you run your thumb up the bridge of her nose to rest in the space between her brows. The area is still crinkled in worry so you gently but firmly run the pad of your finger from the beginning of her brow to the end to smooth out the space while soothing in a voice more prominent that a whisper, but softer than regularly spoken word, “It’s ok Billie. Shh, it’s ok. I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

You keep up the slow movement and soft affirmation, and within a minute or two she settles back into her relaxed state and breathes deeply.

In an effort to not jar her by pulling away and exposing her to the cool air you run your fingers along the edge of her face to tuck back some of her hair near her mouth. However that is the moment you see on the nightstand alarm clock that a half hour has passed since your alarm went off. 

Shit. 

So you reluctantly withdraw from Billie retuck the covers around her and rush into the bathroom for a speedy get ready…

By 8:00 you're all dressed and ready to go. When you re-enter the main suite Billie still sleeps. So you quietly call room service and order a breakfast sampler for her and something for yourself. But the main thing you need at the moment is coffee. Luckily there's a Starbucks just around the block so you make an order on the app. Since room service said it would take 20 to 30 minutes for the food to be delivered, you run downstairs to grab the drinks while Billie continues to sleep.

Compared to last night, the streets and sidewalks bustle with activity and provide all different sorts of sights and sounds to take note of. But time is of the essence and honestly, the atmosphere will be marginally better with Billie out here with you. So you speed off to the Starbucks, wait in line, and grab Billie’s usual with your own basic iced coffee that has two extra shots of espresso. Then you do your glorified run back up to her room and arrive just as room service does.

After warning them Billie is still asleep, you open the door and let them swiftly and quietly set the plates on the small dining table in the living area of her suite. Then you help them remove the tops of the dishes and thank the staff before they leave. The delicious concoction of breakfast smells fills the room and your stomach rumbles in response. You didn't realize how hungry you are until now and your mouth waters as the decadent items of food layout before you.

“Is that breakfast I smell darling?” Billie asks from the other room. 

Her low, sleepy voice warms your insides and you reply, “Yes. I've got your coffee too.” You hear her let out a soft hum of approval and a couple minutes later the blonde enters the doorway wearing one of the hotel’s luxurious, white robes over her light coral baby doll nightgown and her hair loosely tumbles over her shoulders as she saunters over. However, before she actually sits, she comes over to where you stand and presses a soft kiss to you lips. Then she parts enough for her chocolate orbs to meet yours and murmurs, “Good morning sweetheart.”

Her intentional intimacy isn't lost on you and the feeling of her soft, petal-like lips on yours does more to wake you up than five shots of espresso could. And the way you breathe, “Good morning Billie.” tells her everything she needs to know. 

Your employer backs away to take a seat and you watch her fingers delicately curve over the top of her to-go iced latte and pick up the item to take a sip before setting it closer to her dining spot. The way she shifts to grip her fork and knife maintains your attention and as her fingers flex and curl you can't help but wonder if she uses those same movements when her digits are buried deep inside you and stroking that sensitive spongy spot in your depths. 

Jesus Christ. It's barely past eight in the morning! Get ahold of yourself.

That's when you realize Billie has slowed her movements to a stop. So you slowly lift your gaze from her hands to her face and see she looks up to you with a raised brow 

“Is something wrong?” she asks and her lips twitch in amusement. Rather than stuttering out some incoherent response like you normally do, you automatically answer, “Nope.” And sit across from her. Of course that's the moment you remember you need your binder to say the day’s itinerary. 

You’re about as smooth as sandpaper—as usual.

Rather than even trying to act suave or nonchalant you clear your throat and feel your face warming as you mutter, “I'll be right back.” Then you shoot up and rush from the entertainment room to the bedroom, snatch your binder, and run back to sit down . The medium chuckles at your behavior and looks to you with the devious grin as she inquires, “Awe do you miss being in my presence that much, dear?” Of course she would assume that.

Because you’re alone, you let yourself laugh and tease back, “Do you have a humble bone in your body?” Billie grins at the fact that you feel safe enough to tease back and playfully muses, “I do but I can't say where. I will permit a full body search by you though.” Her words make you roll your eyes and groan, “Ha ha, very funny.” But both of you know you're far from annoyed.

You both go quiet but it's not an uncomfortable silence. Instead you pause to enjoy this uncommonly ordinary moment with someone you care about. 

However, the buzzing of your phone interrupts the stillness and you break eye contact to see it's an email. At the same time you see it's twenty minutes past 8:00 and know you need to keep things moving to stay on time. So you look back to your boss and suggest, “How about I tell you today’s schedule while you finish your breakfast?” She agrees and starts to eat the warm breakfast. Meanwhile you open up your binder, flipping through numerous pages as you take a generous sip of your bitterly strong iced coffee.

By the time you set your drink back down on the table you’re on today's date and tell Billie, “Today is a less intense day. We need to be out of here by 9:30 for your photo shoot with Vogue. And that is expected to last from 10:30 to 4:00 between makeup, hair, outfit changes, set changes, lunch, and anything else. Then we'll need to be back here for your virtual PR prep meeting. It's not until 6:00 PM so I can get you dinner by calling in room service or ordering something to go. After the meeting you’re done.” 

You look up from her itinerary to see her neatly slicing the last sections of the two mini pancakes on her plate. However her movements pause when you stop speaking and she looks to you before purring with sparkling eyes, “So, we have the whole evening to ourselves?” 

Of course that's the one thing that stands out to her.

You let out a sigh and reply with a lightly admonishing tone while trying to keep from smiling, “Yes we'll have the whole evening. But first we need to get you ready and at your photo shoot.” Then you pick up your phone and open it while asking, “Do you have any special requests for them? Certain music, temperature, smells, lighting—anything at all?” 

The medium chuckles and smoothly replies, “Just my lovely assistant by my side.” Her shameless flirting prompts you to look up at her face and playfully warn, “Billie…”

However she giggles and assures, “Kidding. I can't think of anything. But thank you sweetheart.” You respond you’re welcome, set your phone to the side, and start to dig into your own breakfast. In between her final bites she asks, “What time did you get up?” Even the memory of your alarm going off so early causes you to cringe and take another generous sip of your coffee before answering, “6:30.” Billie must see the discomfort though because she nibbles her lower lip before asking, “Well, did you at least sleep well?”

Her look of concern warms your heart and you assure her with a smile, “I slept great. The bed and everything about it felt amazing.” Her eyebrow arches and lips quirk as she inquires, “And the company you kept? Was it satisfactory?” 

Just when you think you've seen Billie's peak confidence; she surpasses that level by 100! 

You clear your throat and straighten up a little before attempting to casually counter back, “I’ve had worse bed partners.”

While the comment was primarily a joke you don't miss the flicker in her darkened eyes or the way her grip on her fork tightens at the thought of someone else holding you as if she wants to snatch you close. 

However one second she shows that and the next she's back to smirking and purrs, “Well I guess I'll have to up my game then. I don't mind some competition. It only helps to show why I'm the best.”

Her words prompt your mouth to gape and you gasp, “Billie!” She grins at your shock and scoots back to stand up while innocently saying “I guess they should start getting ready then.” Meanwhile you continue to just gawk at her. 

When you don’t answer, she smiles even wider and turns to walk back into the bedroom. And as she starts to strut away your boss casually flings her hair over her shoulder while saying, “I'll be ready by 9:25. Don't miss me too much, sweetie.” And with one backward glance and a wink she's gone from your sight…

By 10:00 you have Billie set up with hair and makeup and she speaks to the head photographer about their concepts and ideas for her photoshoot. So you head off to find out about lunch for Billie. The studio space Vogue uses is larger than BuzzFeed and it takes you a moment to orientate yourself, but when you see three long tables with food warmers you are sure this is where you need to be. So you walk over to where two women who seem to be in charge stand.

Even though they face you and you are sure they see you walk up, both women still look down at the tablet one of them holds and taps on. 

Maybe they’re finishing something up. 

So you pause for a moment and watch them already sensing an air of entitlement with them. After a couple moments of watching them giggle and murmur to each other it's clear they're not on a work project. So you're clear your throat, trying to muster up your confidence, and squeak “Excuse me. I just have a small question.”

The one with beach blonde hair that looks down at the tablet but doesn't hold it lets out a dramatic sigh, looking to you, and the other with dark brown hair continues to scroll on the iPad she holds as she says, “Name.” On the inside you groan knowing it's been a while since you've had difficult clients. But you put on a smile and try to sweetly reply, “Well I don't know if it will be on there because—"

“We didn't ask for your life story. We asked for your name.” The brunette says earning a snicker from the blonde. Heat rises in your cheeks and you have to actively fight to not roll your eyes. While part of you wants to find a corner to hide in until Billie is done, you know showing weakness will make you even more of a doormat for these people to stomp over. 

So you stand taller and confidently say your first and last name. That shuts them up for a moment but after a couple of taps, both women look to you with smirks and the blonde says, “Your name isn't on here, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. 

The use of Billie’s name for you makes your fists clench by your sides and you return a fake smirk back before coldly replying, “it's ok. I guess I'll just tell my boss, Billie Dean Howard I couldn't get her lunch information and she'll have to come here herself since her assistant’s name somehow didn't make the list.” And you begin to walk away, relishing in how their eyes widened at those words.

After going less than five steps one of them calls out, “Wait!” and you pause before slowly turning back around. While both women still look annoyed the brunette says, “There will be a selection of soups, salads, and sandwiches for lunch that she can choose from starting at noon.” You let a sickening sweet smile curve on your lips, and you channel your own confident demeanor when you purr, “Perfect. I'll let her know.” 

As you walk away you hear one of them mutter, “Bitch.” But that only makes you smile a little more because even though they called you a name, you got what you wanted. And you can tell already today is a day to celebrate the small victories…

While you aren't allowed to be close to Billie today and get scolded when deemed so you still feel grateful to even see glimpses of her in different outfits, hairstyles, and makeup looks. The way she smiles, how she poses, and her eyes lighting up shows her true enjoyment of being photographed.

Shortly past noon you go back to the lunch table and let out a sigh of relief when the two women you spoke with earlier aren't present. However, that doesn't stop people from cutting you off in line or shoving past you like you're invisible. At first you try to assume it's innocent errors. But by the time you finish gathering her lunch you are fully annoyed at this toxic atmosphere. You're tired and just want to hideaway in the hotel. 

However, as you walk up to your boss and see her laughing and speaking with the photographer you know this is a moment to shove your feelings down. If she sees you upset, she'll know something is wrong and this is the time for her to enjoy the moment.

So you take a deep breath roll shoulders back and put on a small smile to deliver her lunch. However the blonde from earlier steps in front of you and sneers, “You can't be back here.” The unexpected run-in makes your eyebrows flatten in annoyance and you retort, “I'm giving Billie her lunch.” She looks you over for a moment before holding out her arms and groaning, “Well, just hand it to me and I'll take it to her.” 

Are you fucking kidding?! That’s so dumb! How are you not allowed to—ok, deep breaths. It’s just lunch. It’s not the end of the world. 

On one hand you want to resist and insist on taking it to her yourself. But you also don't want to cause a scene and feel too tired to fire back a response. So you hand off the items with a lowered get gaze in clenched jaw. And as you walk away and feel your shoulders slumping you remind yourself it's less than four hours left here. You can make it through the time…

By 3:30 you are on your fourth cup of coffee and Billie is getting her hair brushed out and makeup removed. After checking to make sure the coast is clear and she doesn’t speak to anyone, you rush up to her. And when you smell her sweet jasmine and vanilla scent your eyes gloss up at missing her. It's like you didn't realize how much you missed her until now that you're close and can meet her warm brown eyes and you find your voice wavering as you ask, “What would you like me to order for dinner tonight?”

Right away the mediums brows furrow at your thick voice and she asks, “Are you ok, honey?” Her concern only makes you feel more emotional, but you clear your throat and nod with the reserved smile. 

Of course that's about the time you see the two women who have been on you all day headed your way. 

Fuck. 

So you look back to Billie and practically plead in the hopes of not getting scolded again, “Or is there a certain type of food you would like?” Her eyes narrow for a split second at your behavior, however she knows you are a private person. So she tries to casually reply, “I'm…fine just ordering room service when we get back.”

In the process of her answering, your eyes briefly dart over to the women as much as you try not to. And when Billie finishes speaking you make a curt nod and quickly squeak, “Ok. And just as a reminder you have a zoom meeting with your PR manager at 6:00 tonight.” Before the blonde can even utter a thank you, you look down to your rough-looking shoes and say, “That's all . I-I'll let you finish up now.” Then you step away and try to stand tall but feel like the dirt on the bottom of someone shoe.

Billie tilts her head in confusion at your unfamiliar behavior but gets pulled back to reality when one of the head staff members rushes up while saying, “I'm terribly sorry for the interruption Miss Howard. I've been trying to explain to your assistant that she doesn't need to keep bothering you. She must be new or something.” 

That's when things start to click into place and Billie realizes how absent you've been from her today. She tries to shrug it off by saying with her usual smile, “I don't really mind she's always so...”

However her words trail off when she sees one of the staff members reprimanding you with her arms crossed across her chest and speaking loud enough for Billie to hear, 

“Who do you think you are walking around anywhere you would like? You're an assistant. So just find some little corner to do your work in and stay out of our way.” You clench your fists by your sides and open your mouth to say something back, but after reminding yourself that to some this is how assistants are and not wanting to expose your personal relationship with Billie you let out a sigh of defeat and answer with a clenched jaw and bowed head, “Fine.”

Meanwhile your boss is both horrified and furious at what just played out in front of her. Has this been going on all day? How could she let this happen?! 

Her inner rage is interrupted by the hair stylist saying, “Oh shit, did I just yank your hair too hard Miss Howard? I was trying to be gentle, but I noticed your grip on the chair arms tightened.” It’s only then she realizes her own jaw is clenched and her nails do dig into the leather of the arms. 

So she makes herself relax a little and assures them, “No you're fine, honey. I just had my mind on...other things.” However she does turn to the woman who just apologized about you and says with an icy tone, “There’s no need to apologize. I told my assistant to keep me updated on my day. Is that a problem?” 

The brunette that has held the tablet in her hands all day now has wide eyes and shakes her head while sputtering, “Well—I—no—”

“Good.” Billie cuts her off and continues in a stern tone, “If you have any problems with her, you come to me. Am I clear?” She stutters out a quick yes and another apology before running off. 

After that heated exchange, the medium flicks her fingers in her desire to have a cigarette, but she forces herself to relax as the crew finishes unpinning her hair and removing her makeup. She'll ask you about it on the way home...

You feel Billie's eyes on you as you look out the car window and fiddle with your thumbs. But you don't look to her. It's been a long day and you feel completely and utterly drained. In fact you're sure that if you closed your eyes for longer than 10 seconds you would fall asleep. 

However you do perk up a little when your employer puts up her car window. She must have thrown out her cigarette. Then she says in her warm, honey voice, “I saw you being mistreated earlier... at the photo shoot.” 

Her voice isn't the usual suave, confident tone and you look down to your lap so you can sneak a glance in her direction out of the corner of your eye.

Billie is turned to face you but stays quiet to allow space for you to speak. You keep your eyes down on your hands in your lap and respond, “It's nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes workdays are just like that. I'm more tired than anything else.” 

If it were anyone else, they would likely just say ‘ok’ and move on. But this is Billie and she knows you better than that. She lowly says your name and you finally make yourself turn your face to make direct eye contact.

There's no smug tilt of her lips or raised brow. Rather the medium’s lips curve downward, and her eyes have a warm, molasses color that you can nearly taste the sweetness of. You have rarely seen her look so distraught and once you make eye contact, she says, “I'm sorry I didn't notice earlier.”

Immediately you're filled with guilt and you shake your head. Before you’re fully conscious of it, you take her hand and give it a squeeze while reassuring “Billie you have nothing to be sorry for. Some people are difficult but at the end of the day they won't see me again and they're probably projecting their own self-consciousness onto me.”

The blonde looks down to where your hands join, and she runs her thumb over the top of your knuckles as she says “But you shouldn't have to put up with that and I'm sorry you have to. It hurts me to see you being mistreated like that because I-I—”

Love you too much. 

Billie cuts herself off before she can speak those powerful words. Where did that come from? She doesn't not love you. But is she willing to open a door that can't be shut once opened? 

That's when the medium notices your eyes rapidly scanning her face and your brows wrinkled so she clears her throat and finishes, “I- I care about you so much. Not that I don't think you can't handle tough workdays, but—you just, you deserve the best, y/n.”

Did Billie Dean Howard just stumble over her words to articulate her care for you? Yes. Yes, she did. 

You can't help but smile at her unusually vulnerable demeanor and reply, “Well I appreciate your words. That means a lot to me Billie.” You both look to each other for a moment and it finally feels like the weight of the day is starting to roll off of you. 

After a moment you break eye contact but keep your hand in hers as you pull out your phone and say, “I saw that they had a variety of pizzas on the room service menu including your favorite—meat lover’s. Would that interest you?” 

Your boss gets that familiar grin that sends butterflies to your stomach and replies with a wink, “That sounds perfect sweetheart.” You go ahead and place the order now so that there will be a hot and fresh pizza waiting for you both in her hotel room...

One meat lover’s pizza later, you are barefaced and changed into a matching set of sweatpants and sweatshirt for bed, sitting in one of the lounge chairs next to the windows overlooking the city. 

Billie still wears her clothes, sans her heels, and sits on the bed leaning back against the mountain of pillows the hotel staff so meticulously positioned back against the headboard. Her legs extend in front of her with her ankles crossed and she looks to the screen of her laptop resting on her thighs as she listens to her new PR manager.

In an effort to prevent distracting her and to keep quiet since you technically should be in ‘your room,’ you curl up with a blanket and read your book. At the same time, you halfway listen to her PR manager explaining, “Tomorrow morning at 9:00 you will be interviewed by Savannah and Hoda on the Today Show. Now that's their prime-time slot...”

Between the ambient city sounds, Billie’s soft voice when she asks a question or affirms something, and your own fatigue, as you run your eyes down the novel’s page you find your eyelids getting heavier and heavier until they can't stay open. 

Of course the medium notices you nodding off until you finally fall asleep and smiles at how hard you fought to keep your eyes open. However she also realizes she hasn't seen you crash like that since she made love to you on the kitchen counter. You're always up before her, keeping track of her even when she takes breaks, and more often than not you're asleep after she is. Yet you never complain or make a big deal out of it.

“Miss Howard? Is something wrong?” 

Brings Billie back to reality and her eyes snap back to her computer screen to see the PR manager with furrowed brows. The blonde clears her throat and her eyes flick back up to peek at your sleeping figure before she puts on her practiced smile and looks to the computer screen. “No sorry. Just worn out from the day's activities.” She responds, telling a half-truth. They smile and nod in understanding before assuring, “Well I'm just about done so I'll be quick.”

As the PR manager rambles on Billie does her best to pay attention, but they don't speak to her like you do. 

You put so much thought into your advice, watching and observing her, always taking notes about possible blind spots. And you do everything in your power to prevent those from showing up in public spaces or interviews. Whereas they give obvious suggestions. But if it gets the TV producers off of her back she'll grin and bear it. In the meantime, the blonde sneaks glances at your huddled up sleeping figure and tries to memorize every minute detail.

When the PR manager ends the video call, she shuts her laptop and you shift to get more comfortable, resulting in the book that was precariously held in your hand falling to the floor. But the noise has no effect on you except you wrap your now free arm around yourself and let out a deep sigh as you settle further into the chair.

Billie sits up and sets her laptop on the side table before uncrossing her legs and sliding off the bed. Then her slender feet pad against the luxe carpet to where you sleep. 

First she bends down to pick up your splayed out book and properly places it on the coffee table nearby. When the medium stands back up, she looks down at your serious sleeping expression. 

Without thinking one of her hands comes up to cup your cheek and she watches the corner of your lips twitch and your eyes roam beneath your closed lids. There are moments when Billie swears she can read your mind like a book. However then there are moments like now when she wishes that she could just get a glimpse of the complex galaxy of your thoughts and experiences.

As usual your skin is cool to the touch, so the warmth of her flesh against yours prompts you to nuzzle into her hand even in your sleep. Billie lets out of soft chuckle at the movement and brushes her thumb along the peak of your cheekbone in a soothing manner as she whispers, “Do you even realize how special you are y/n? You're so precious to me sweetheart. So, so precious.” 

Of course you don't hear any of that but a small smile forms on your lips at the feeling of her thumb and she's more than ready to advance from caressing your face to holding you close in bed.

So she glides the palm of her hand from the apple of your cheek, down the column of your throat, to your shoulder and gives you a small shake while murmuring, “Y/n, darling?” 

Her low, velvety voice pulls you out of your slumber and you inhale deeply, unintentionally filling your nose with her sweet scent. Then you slowly open your eyes while rasping, “Hmm?” Billie chuckles at your groggy response and moves to lightly scratch your shoulder with her smooth, rounded nails while softly suggesting, “How about we get you in bed?”

At this point you're awake enough to yawn and make a big stretch as much as your seated position will allow. But your brain is still too foggy to speak so you merely nod. 

Billie goes to take her hand away, however in your sleepy daze you reach out and take it, knitting your fingers with hers before standing up. The blonde's eyes widen at your instigated touch, but you don't notice her changed expression—too focused on gathering your blanket in your other hand. And when you do have it gathered you skip looking to her face for instruction. Rather you begin to walk and she follows suit.

Once you sit on the edge of the king-sized bed you keep ahold of Billie's hand and ask, “You're coming to bed too, right?” 

Her heart melts at the hopeful twinkle in your eyes and for a moment Billie is overcome with so much joy her eyes glass up. However she reins herself in and puts on her well-practiced smirk, attempting to effortlessly reply “After I've changed out of my clothes I will. Ok?” 

You don’t want her to leave your side. And in your state of fatigue, a little whine escapes your throat. But you reluctantly unwind your fingers from hers and answer, “Ok.” Then she helps you pull back the covers to lay down. After you’re laid back on the firm, yet pliable mattress, you let out a lethargic sigh and say in a small voice, “Billie I have a question.”

The blonde tucks the covers around you and leans down to peck your lips before replying with a smile, “Fire when ready.” 

You smile at her phrase and now that you’re all warm and cozy, your eyelids begin to feel heavy. So ask with the lowered gaze, “Could you hand me my phone so I can set my alarm please?” You force yourself to wake up enough to you look back at her chocolate brown eyes she pecks the tip of your nose before purring, “I would be happy to, honey.”

After bringing your phone over, Billie goes to the bathroom to change and you use every last ounce of your willpower to stay awake until she comes out with the same light coral negligee on that reminds you of creamsicle ice cream and her hair brushed out. 

First, she flips the lights off leaving you shrouded in darkness. You feel the duvet lift and her weight shift the mattress as she climbs into bed. And when you sense her close to you, you roll over and wrap an arm around her middle while intertwining one of your legs with hers. Only then do you mumble into the bend of her neck, “This is ok-right?”

The medium chuckles at your ability to be so bold one second and so timid the next. But her hands slide up your back to hug you close to her chest as she whispers, “This is perfect.” Thank goodness. 

You nuzzle into her silky locks, let out a contented sigh, and whisper, “Good.” Within minutes you're fast asleep in her warm, comforting embrace.

Billie listens to your deep breaths and absentmindedly strokes her fingers up and down your spine as she tries to navigate her feelings for you. However, the more she thinks about it the more her thoughts spiral out of control. So for tonight she lets the steady stream of your breaths lull her to sleep, relishing in the present moment with you in her arms and letting the future worry about itself.

Tagged:  @marilynroselleprentiss, @saviorinsilk, @chokemepaulson, @versonstar, @find-me-a-constellation, @cordwliagoode, @psychobitchtess, @midnight-lestrange, @mysweetdelia, @venablesbitch, @peachesandlesbians, @nerdaroo, @cordeliafoxxe, @leskaksel, @lovelymspaulson, @grilledcheeseandguavajelly, @whatabluddymess​, @natasha-danvers, @saucy-sapphic​, @marvelfansince08love​, @wilheminawinters​, @dontsblameme​, @mssallymckenna, @myheadmistress​

Let me know if you would like to be tagged in later works!

Part 7

[whump-town]

A Cumbersome and Heavy Body

Chapter Six: Looking In Their Eyes When They’re Down

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word Count: 4453

Author’s Note: The next chapter is the final chapter... somehow

I bet on losing dogs I know they're losing and I'll pay for my place By the ring Where I'll be looking in their eyes when they're down I'll be there on their side

She has no warning to prepare her for the swift sea of medical personal swarming around them. One moment she’s folding Aaron’s fingers over her own, using both hands to keep his captive between hers, and the next he’s lodged free. Her own panic spikes and she can see his tired eyes snap open with alertness, shoulders moving as he tries and fails to move his body. His deep, rasped voice calling out to her muffled by the oxygen mask they’d pulled over his face. Any movement he manages is met with a hand, his left shoulder pushed back to the stretcher, and his wrist caught swiftly and held down. He stands no chance against them.

She’s allowed to stand at the corner of the room. Left to watch as Aaron’s nose starts to bleed again, he gives a low grunt as his head begins to pound. She steps forward, moving to point it out, but she stumbles into a nurse and is met with two more guiding her right back out. One stands by her side, a hand on her bicep to keep her in place and all she can do is stand and watch them cut his clothes away. She winces at the bruises, ones he’d managed to keep hidden from her, or maybe she just can’t keep track these days there are so many. They stand out horribly-- dark greens and blacks and blues against his nearly colorless flesh. Up and down his legs and arms and chest.

He gives a soft protest as his shirt is peeled open, both of his hands shaking where they lay at his sides. Painful goosebumps breaking out over his skin. He’s lifted up, the head of the stretcher lifted so the blood pouring down his face won’t slide back down the back of his throat. His weak protest is met with a pink bucket being thrown into his lap and he takes it wordlessly. A nurse moves the mask off his face, giving it to a woman behind her to be cleaned, and Aaron falls forward, caught by the swift-handed nurse, as he throws up. All this movement too much for his stomach to take.

The whites of his eyes are all Emily can see and she shouts, being held back by that nurse, as he slumps back against the stretcher. She watches them pass things between one another, doing everything but ignoring how cold he obviously is. She doesn’t get a clear name of the drug they press into him, just watches it get passed to the woman standing over Aaron’s shoulder. It’s as if she’s watching in lapsed time seconds behind every action that takes place. Having no idea what they’re doing or what’s wrong just that Aaron has stopped moving, laying still and calm while they manipulate his limbs. She watches the needle sink in and frowns, waiting for some sort of reaction. Watching for whatever is that they’re waiting for. Hotch lets out a little kicked breath, leg twitching as he rasps something incoherently, and falls limp once again.

“What--” she never gets the chance to ask.

They start kicking the stretcher, forcing the wheels into motion as they scramble overtop one another. Placing machines on every side of Aaron and pulling the guard rail up. She’s pulled back not allowed to follow.

“If you’ll wait in here,” she’s left in a hall or something like one. There are some chairs thrown against a wall and two shitting vending machines with overpriced snacks in one and shit coffee in the other. “Someone will come out and speak with you shortly.”

What’s she to do until then?

“Da-Dave?” she hears his groggy reply. A slurred, panic not yet set in, mumbled “yea”. “He’s -- We’re in the hospital,” she says, restlessly walking the cold hall of the waiting room up and down in slow lazy circles. “Pneumonia, they think. Probably, uhm, maybe caused by the radiation. Something to do with -- with scarring.” She pushes her hair back from her face with her palm, the messy ponytail she’d managed running out the door isn’t cutting it anymore. The cold sweat dying off as her adrenaline goes with it. She wants a shower and to see Hotch.

“It’s -- It’s not a big deal,” she mumbles, speaking far too quickly for Dave to even get a chance to get something out in the way of conversation. “He’ll probably be fine. Or, well, I guess I don’t really know. They won’t tell me anything yet. They just took him, Dave. They just took him from me and left me in here in this fucking room that’s freezing.” She motions up to the unapproachable white walls extended all around her, shaking her head. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she mumbles, frustratedly. “I just wish I could--”

She wishes she could do something, give him a kidney or a quarter of her liver so that this little game can come to its falling action and find them naïve and drunk off winning. She’d return to them in a heartbeat and never go back to London. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to leave Hotch again, can’t spare the thought of what shit he’ll get into if she’s not around. Maybe she knows too much for him to want her to (or maybe they’ve developed a sort of codependency). But she’s learned her lesson and she’s not sure what Hotch’s is but he’s probably figured it out too. Certainly, that means they have just reached the climax of this awful story, she thinks around every turn it’s here and finds herself pumping the breaks never hearing the right words.

“It’s aggressive, abnormal.”

“It’s spreading rapidly to his other organs.”

“We’ll combine the chemo and the radiation but all we can do is cross our fingers.”

Where’s the ringing of that bell that’s downstairs in the treatment facility Emily drives him to? She knows what it’s for and she’s never heard it ring. Not once. Someone should get to, after all the people she’s seen during those trips, and not a single one has done it yet. When does it end?

Because they’ve done the hair loss. She’s seen him puke so many times and wondered how he managed to still bring something up. Watched him cry in the front seat of the car in pain and lay so still, sleep so deeply she thought he was dead. They do the walks the doctor said would help but unless she’s supposed to be harnessing the sun to shoot into his veins alongside the poison they pump into him she’s not sure what else to do. How much more do they need to take? She’ll give them an arm or sell her soul but there has to be some sort of answer. A place, an option, some time, or someplace where they get to win. So Dave can make them a celebratory dinner Aaron won’t eat but it’s not about what pasta is chosen. It’s about the giant, flared office chair that Derek will roll him out on a little too fast. Smiling no matter how propped up by pillows that he has to be and with as many blankets and layers of clothes that he wants until he’s warm. So that he can rest his head against the side, curling into himself as he falls asleep to their laughter.

It’s about winning.

Fuck, she just wants to beat this.

“Emily? You with me, kid?”

She snaps back to reality. To the hall. “What? Yeah, yeah.” She walks over to the chairs along the wall, falling into one and folding into herself. Letting her head fall into her palm. “I’m here,” she mumbles.

Dave is sitting up in his bed, working his body into motion. “I know you said he’ll be fine,” and honestly, he does believe her. “I’m going to come down there, okay? You don’t need to be alone and I’ll bring real coffee, don’t drink whatever they have.” The doctors have Aaron, he’s in the best place that he can be. Emily is in the worst. “Okay? Does that work, Emily?”

She nods her head, humming, before pushing her hair back again and forcing herself upright. “Yeah,” she rasps. “Yeah, that’s okay.” She wipes her mouth, moving up her face and drying the tears sliding down as best as she can. If not scoffing at herself for crying in the first place. “I’ll see you in a second?”

Dave sighs, nodding. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’ll be there. Hang in there, kiddo.”

She has two degrees, you know. A bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice and a master’s degree from Yale.  She’s not stupid or oblivious but the ability to obtain a college education has never been a good determinant of intelligence. To compare her ability to compartmentalize her life recently would lend some light to her naivety. She might have gotten the grades to get into Yale (and more importantly the money) but here she is sitting at the hospital refusing to see what’s right in front of her.

What good has college done any of them?

He could have owned Roy’s old shop in town and raised Jack there instead of here. Where the local kids run around with no shoes or shirts and he greets each of them by name and exchanges good grades for candy bars. With a back porch that he stands on at eight-thirty calling Jack home for the third time until sweaty and breathless his son pops up with a grin and rushes right past him into the house for water. Where Haley watches him build swing sets and trampolines for birthdays and Christmas with a smile and a shake of her head because Aaron’s the farther thing from handy but he’s going to get this damn thing built.

He probably would have made it so much longer, cancer or not.

But he doesn’t want that, no matter what she convinces herself. That life she just captured wasn’t his, it wasn’t a choice he’s ever had. He’d never be okay there where his father’s ghost could latch onto him, where it would follow him into his own grave, and, if he wasn’t careful, Jack’s too. He got away because it was the only way he’d be able to live and Haley decided she didn’t want to live without him and after all this time he doesn’t want to live without her either but he has. And, if he had a choice, he’d keep doing it.

“Aaron Hotc--”

She stands, nearly zombified with her sluggish amble. The night has worn her down. After spending way too long sleeping in his office chair and managing to wake-up to every little bump and hitch into the night only for this to happen-- she’s on edge. “Yes?” she responds to the doctor. “That’s me, I’m here for Hotch. For--For Aaron.”

The doctor nods, “good, good. He’s doing well. We’re giving him steroids for the pneumonia. I’d like to give you a projected release time but I’m afraid I can’t do that until I see how he takes to the steroids. The pneumonia will need to clear up  a bit before I suggest sending him home again.” The doctor flips Hotch’s chart closed, tucking it under his arm and motioning with his head for her to follow. “I can take you back to see him if you’d like.”

She nods, pulling out her phone to send Dave a text, and lets him lead her back.

They give him back to her worse than when she left him.

His dark blood is harrowing where it’s pooled and splashed along his pale skin. They’ve managed to poke another hole in him, she’s not sure what this one is for, but she sighs and prepares for his confused pain over it. He’s attached to so many machines that it should be daunting but after sitting and watching chemo dribble into him for hours they are nothing. She knows they don’t hurt, maybe emotionally as she watches his heart rate and knows the beat is too fast to be safe. They don’t hurt him, though, and that’s all that really matters.

They’ve been lucky, as lucky as they can be considering. They really haven’t spent that much time in the hospital and even less time compared to when they’re all active duty and not on varying levels of “in” and “out” of the field. Less time than when they’re chasing serial killers around. Maybe they were taking it for granted or maybe luck is just sand in an hour-glass and it was really only a matter of time before it started pouring in the other direction.

With a sigh she slides into the chair they’ve left at his side. There’s no doubt in her mind that this is the first domino, she’s read about it plenty. The nosebleed a while back, the first one when he was still working, was what she thought would start them off and it terrified her to see it so soon. Having this time, though, has allowed her some naivety to believe the domino might never fall. That the things every blog she’d read had to say, every book, and pamphlet and article, was wrong. Not Hotch. That wouldn’t happen to him.

But this hospitalization will end it all.

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

He thinks about death less than he had before. All he has is death, it’s of little importance these days in its abundance. Experiences concern him a great deal more. Life often feels like an endless source, no matter how much you take when you return you will find it full and swelling with its richness. In reality, it’s a stopped sink and they’re scraping the bottom. Everything they have is numbered and he watches them find mindless reasons to be here. Reid with his endless facts, spending hours explaining, again and again, each element until Aaron’s tired mind can understand. Never commenting about how these are all things Aaron had, at some point, understood. Maybe a matter of days ago, maybe longer but now he watches Reid silently, with little clarity. Garcia hides things around the room so that she can sneak in long after visiting hours are over under the disguise of getting something “oh, please, it’s super important” to sit with him. He enjoys hearing her coming, smiling without even opening his eyes and knowing it’s her. Her happy giggles as she greets him with a kiss to the temple and a soft retelling of her slick little plan.

He taught JJ to dance before her wedding, which feels like forever ago now. He remembers how hesitant she’d been to place her hand in his, anxiously messing up every move, and stepping on his toes so many times he’d started to think she might take them off. He convinced her to dance in socks for the sake of his toes and so that she could master the motions. It had given them both the perfect distraction, if not selfish, to have to think about what they knew Emily was planning to do. At her wedding, she’d made him dance with her again, beaming the entire time and he’d be lying if he said he was immensely proud of how far she’d come. She didn’t step on his toes once and when they’d parted she’d kissed his cheek and thanked him.

Now she comes in here and forces him up and into motion. The doctor says he should spend more time trying to keep active, even if it’s just a stroll up and down the hall or moving from the bed to the wheelchair and going outside for a moment. JJ makes him dance. He’s clumsy now, lacking the control he’d had not that long ago. Now she’s the one reminding when to step and she takes it far easier on him than he had on her. Pushing until he can’t stand it and the two of them just lean and sway but this time she has no hesitation stepping closer to him. No second thoughts about wrapping her arms where she wants them and hiding her face against his shoulder when she cries.

He sleeps well after her visits and the weary weight of his limbs, though painful, is solidifying. He can feel his body, take some sort of ownership of it before the night calls him home and he twists and turns and is lost to it once again.

The greatest joy he can obtain is not in a direct action so much as a lack of action.

“You have pneumonia, not an identity crisis, let me cut the beard.”

After they cut what was left of his hair off he kept shaving for… autonomy reasons. A way to maintain the semblance of control over his life and his body. Mostly, though, because there’s something about the simple, repetitive nature of shaving that soothes his mind. So he’d continued to shave, the one thing that started this whole mess.

“Look at that pretty boy,” Derek jostles Reid the most about it. “Hotch can still grow a better beard than you!” And it’s funny, it really is, and sort of astonishing. The doctors brush it off, it happens, they say, which is fine. The beard, though thinned, covers his gaunt cheeks and the sickening pallor of his face. In the right light, it does draw more than unnecessary attention to his poor color but they stick to seeing it as some sort of win. Some way in which Hotch has overcome… a way to ignore the ways he doesn’t.

Plus, Emily hates it.

“Oh leave him alone,” Dave always defends him.

He only keeps it because Emily hates it. It’s the little things, you know?

Everything they do, everything he does, is just a tactic to ignore the pneumonia. Coping is, well, it’s not going well for them.

The snow does not let up and it starts to complicate their days. A foot accumulates and it just keeps going and that love Emily had for it is starting to dissipate. She gets snowed in, too much snow falling and she can’t get it cleared to leave her house. It’s really not that big of a deal that he spends a single day alone but it does scare her about what could happen if no one is there.

She calls him but he’s started this awful habit of not picking his phone up or forgetting to charge it. He doesn’t answer.

He considers this perfect timing.

He doesn’t sleep well that night at all. He can’t get comfortable and maxed out on painkillers and his oxygen at a poor level but stable, each second feels like hours. A nurse comes in every so often, coaching him through breathing deeply and evenly, but he ends up with a nebulizer or a coughing fit. He does fall asleep for a few hours a little after one in the morning. Chest aching from the coughs, a sharp cutting pain across his ribs, he’s too tired to stay away. He’s vaguely away of people moving around him, the mask coming back down over his face.

When he wakes, just a few minutes before Emily calls, he’s in a panic. Laid out on his back, sucking in weak, thin breathes around lung fulls of fluid. There’s a moment, suspended, light-headed where he feels the hands of various staff members on him. They speak to him but he’s moments behind, hearing their warning but not understanding until his brain is on fire and he’s sitting more upright than he had been before.

He tries to pull in a breath and can’t. On the right side of his chest, is a sharp pain that increases to stabbing when he tries to keep breathing. His chest tight like a vice, as if decreasing the size of which his lung can expand.

“Just keep breathing Agent Hotchner.”

He watches the doctor pull out a needle, his vision swimming out of focus as he’s reclined back.

“The needle aspiration isn’t going to work--” It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s helping. “Hand me a scalpel.”

His last thought, just as the scalpel breaks his skin and the doctor grunts as he manipulates the wound he’s just created, is that Emily is going to be fucking pissed when she comes back. He’s just not sure if that anger is going to be pointed his way or theirs.

Derek comes through and spends his day shoveling everyone’s drive-ways with this wacky machine she’s never seen before and hits her house first, freeing her. As grateful as she is, she sends him off with a rushed appreciative tap to the butt and leaves. Luckily most of the machines they brought in have been taken away. That doesn’t mean they don’t tell her what happened.

“We had to intubate--”

She can see him in the bed from here. His hospital gown just sort of thrown over his chest and loose, oversized material leaves him bare enough that she can see the tubes and wires sneaking here and there. Crossed and varying in color and size. Her eyes are drawn to the chest tube-- a thin white thing that protrudes between his ribs, the gown raised to leave it easily accessible. Though she knows it’s not life-threatening, it’s a taunt just being here. For now, it’s a wound easily fixable. It’ll take longer for his body to heal but it’ll go away eventually. It’s just the beginning.

“He’s alright now?” Calm overcomes her and instead of seething with the anger that she feels, all she knows is this strange gratitude that it wasn’t all somehow much worse. That she doesn’t have to come in and see the tube, his head extended back and body motionless. Not even his breaths his own. That he’s just beyond this door watching whatever daytime TV channel Reid left on last time he was here.

The doctor is expecting there to be more of a fight, there typically is. All he finds is a weary, tiredness. “He’s doing much better. His oxygen has improved and we hope to move on from the mask this afternoon to something less obstructive like a canal.”

She nods, “and the chest tube? When can you take that out?”

The doctor smiles, realizing his potentially hopeful news. “The fluid from his lungs is draining nicely, so with some luck and if he continues to react well to the treatment we’re considering removing the chest tube and releasing him by the end of the week.”

She knows better than to get hopeful, she nods. “Okay.” She nods her head towards the door, “can I?”

The doctor nods and she leaves him there in the hall.

“I see you’ve been busy.”

He means to nod but winces, moving his left hand over his chest to lightly touch the ribs the tube sits between. “Something like that,” he says, pulling clumsily at the mask until he manages to pull it down under his chin. “Still enjoying the snow,” he motions to her coat, a single finger and a grin pointing out the small collection she has of it still on her.

Her sigh is answer enough and she bats it away, flicking some at him for good measure. “I hate it,” she puffs, falling into the chair beside him. Being here again, having him just a foot away soothes her nerves more than she thought possible. It makes her feel kind of silly for being so anxious in the first place but then she looks over and sees the tube and the deep angry wound around it and remembers why she was scared in the first place. “What’re you watching?” she asks, standing back up. She goes to the little closet near the door, pulling down on the blankets the nurses showed her are kept there. It’s nothing to her, all of this, and him it’s all just so… normal.

Careful to spread one over him, she pulls the other around herself. Waiting a few hovering seconds for him to tuck himself underneath it and settle before she sits back down.

With a tired sigh, looking every bit as exhausted as she feels, he mumbles, “Judge Judy.”

She glances at him, smirking because he’ll never admit it but he loves Judge Judy. Loves the mindless drama. It is nice, though, and she soaks it in. She couldn’t sleep last night and couldn’t sit still in that house without him. She’d washed all the bedsheets, made the beds, washed dishes, and even mopped. All for the night to fall and for her to, once again, find herself stuck. Can’t sleep and can’t relax.

“I missed you yesterday,” he admits, watching her eyes drop shut as she falls asleep.

She hums, squishing herself deeper into the chair. She’s not ready to admit just how much she missed him-- okay, maybe she’s a little dependent on him but it’s hard not to miss someone you see every day. “I’m sure you did,” she sneaks a glance up at him, smiling. “Poor old Hotch, nobody here to eat his jello or sit around and watch Judge Judy with him.”It makes him smile and that’s worth everything. “I missed you too.”

Her phone goes off and she spares it a glance before frowning. He raises an eyebrow and she shakes her head, “Reid.” She answers it and hears exactly what she knew was coming. She nods her head along as he speaks and agrees to help him. “Okay, be there in a second. See ya.” She pockets her phone. “He’s a genius but he can’t drive in the snow. He needs me to come pick him up.” Leaning down she kisses Aaron’s forehead and rolls her eyes. It’s snowing hard still and she’s driving Hotch’s SUV so she can get through it and besides he wants to come here anyway so it’s not that big of a deal. One ride isn’t going to kill her. “Behave,” she mumbles, poking his arm and she means and he knows it. “I love you but I will kick your ass when I come back, got me?”

He glances at her and moves his eyes back to Judge Judy, “I got ya.” It doesn’t occur to him to return the sentiment. This is the third time she’s told him that she loves him and he hasn’t said it back once. Not verbally and he’s slacking in the “showing” it department. But he hasn’t got the fear that she does, he doesn’t think he’ll run out of time to say it back to her.

That makes him just as naïve as she is.

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan, @lazyhater

[some-dr-writings]

Gundham’s and Kazuichi’s mangaka S/O wants to draw them

Gundham Tanaka:

·       Though you were the Super High School Level Mangaka you specialized in historical fantasy! You absolutely adored doing research and finding new mythical beasts and species to sketch and incorporate into your work. It was no surprise that Gundham became your muse the moment you two met!

·       Gundham would allow you to visit his creatures and draw them to use as bases for cryptids and monsters of all sorts in your manga. The four Dark Devas often acted as your pose models given how unusually animated they were for hamsters.

·       Having asked the Overlord of Ice to allow you near his animals so often you spent much time together and eventually started dating.

·       “My Queen, the Stringer of Fates, what curse dares to plague your soul?! You’ve not touched the pages with which you create and destroy worlds, as if it were deadly to do so! You’ve yet to search out a demon to immortalize. Not even have you greeted the four Dark Devas of Destruction as you always have.” You huffed lazily watching the rabbit Gundham was currently grooming. “Artists’ block. I can’t seem to draw or write anything. Either I just stare at a blank page for hours, or I start something which quickly dissolves into an incoherent mess!” Rubbing your temples, you grumbled at the clogged feeling fogging your mind. “I did pull a few all-nighters last week. Maybe I’m just drained. But if things keep going like this, I’ll miss my deadline! I already asked for an extension on it last week, I can’t keep doing this!”

·       Gundham watched as you picked up the sketch pad and pencil. There was this stiffness in your movements. Your hand which once flowed about gracefully like a bird in flight now paved plain straight lines. Your eyes darted about unable to focus on anything. “UGH! I can’t even draw a proper circle for the rabbit’s body!” Sinking into your seat you tossed your sketch pad and pencil aside. “Perhaps a day of respite is in order.” “No, I already took a day off yesterday. I feel I’m even worse now than I was two day ago.”

·       The Devas quickly scurried over to you, hopping into your lap, or climbing onto your shoulder to nuzzle your cheek. “… thanks.” Gently petting the two in your lap you sighed in defeat.

·       It was at that Gundham abruptly stood up. “Where is my Queen, and what have you done with her, villain?!” “… Huh?” “MY Queen would never rot away so quickly into a decrepit state such as this! She’d fight and claw till her final breath! She’d never faulter so easily!” “I Am, your Queen.” “Hmph! No, you are not. Now, tell me where she is.” You marched right up to Gundham glaring at him. “I’m right here! I am your Queen, the Stringer of Fates!”

·       It started as a chuckle which boomed into uproarious laughter! “There you are. That determination, your will to live has returned to your eyes. I am glad to have you back.” Surprisingly, you did feel like you had more energy than before. “So, shall we be off? A piece of you is still missing and we must search it out less you start to fade away once more.” “… Yeah, a date sounds nice right now.”

·       As a bright blush dusted his cheeks, the Overlord of Ice took your hand into his bandaged one, the other taking your bag of sketch supplies, he led you out of the school grounds into the great beyond!

·       The day was filled with fun and laughter as you raced from place to place, doing anything you could think of. A walk in the park, a trip to the arcade, lunch at a café, shopping at a bookstore, and anything else you could have dreamed of.

·       As the sun began to set, Gundham and you found yourselves at the clear beach, dancing around barefoot, not a care in the world. “… Gundham. Thank you, today was amazing.” His entire face instantaneously flushed hearing his true name being called. In that moment he just looked so beautiful to you. His sheepish smile, those tender eyes, just, everything about him.

·       “May I draw you?” “… Of course, my Queen.”

·       And thus you drew, having completely forgotten that morning or the past few days, you were struggling.

·       “Ah! Your depiction captured my true form! I should have known you could see through my mortal guise!” He so happily admired your drawing with sparkling eyes.

·       While he was distracted you worked on another piece, one of a dark king holding his queen close on the soft shores of the beach.

  Kazuichi Soda:

·       You never held much interest in machinery till you came to Hope’s Peak and met Kazuichi. It seemed just about every time you saw him, he was tinkering with something, from a small robot toy to a monster truck engine. Often times the parts of whatever he was working on were spread out, and then seeing how they all fit together fascinated you. Without realizing it you’d end up just watching him work for hours and sketching out the pieces and tools he was using.

·       Quickly this fascination bled into your own work, incorporating steampunk-esque elements into it. And the more elements you added, the more references you needed. At first you tried getting some on your own, but you’d just end up injuring your hands and fingers in some way or you’d break the pieces.

·       “Look, you got me into this mess and now you have to take responsibility.” “W-what!?” Before Kazuichi could panic you placed an old, rusted pocket watch before him. “How do I disassemble this!?” For a week or two after you’d bring some new item to Kazuichi to disassemble and reassemble. You eagerly sketched out the pieces you needed the references of and more.

·       Quickly you and Kazuichi became friends. You would chatter away as you did your own things. Before you knew it the two of you ended up spending time together just to be together, no drawing and no tinkering.

·       Kazuichi would go to you for advice for his unrequited crush on Princess Sonia to which you’d try your best to help, even if it did hurt a little given your crush on the mechanic. She wasn’t the only thing he spoke of though, so you had plenty of other conversations.

·       Kazuichi certainly liked chatting so when one day he was quiet you got a bit worried… Then you remembered something. “Oh Soda. You’ve never been on a school trip before, right?” “Hmm, uh, yeah. I skipped out on the only one I got a chance to go on.” “Because of financial issues, right.” “Yeah.” “Well, I happen to be going on a trip all over Europe for background references and I was thinking who better to take along than my best friend and best mechanic I know!” The news certainly perked him right up, and he excitedly chattered on about traveling! Quickly the news spread, and it ended up becoming a class trip! Honestly, though a trip alone with Soda sounded lovely, you more enjoyed seeing how ecstatic he was to be going on an actual class trip with everyone.

·       The trip was fantastic, it seemed to be nonstop fun. Often you’d forget that you were being payed to go on this trip for work and that you needed to get reference materials, thankfully Mikan took more than enough reference photos for you.

·       Though during the trip, you noticed how Kazuichi, though still friendly, was a bit more reserved than usual. When you asked him what was wrong, he said he appreciated the concern, but it was something he had to work out on his own.

·       Eventually your trip took you all to France the city of love. The place was certainly an artist’s dream, you found yourself drawing nonstop there. It was amazing!

·       At one point in your trip your class wanted to get to a restaurant at the top of a rather large hill, but the only way to get there was via a thin road by car. So, you, Kazuichi, Sonia and your driver were the last to get to the restaurant.

·       Then the car broke down. Kazuichi immediately went to check the engine while Sonia stood at the edge of the road, looking out at the sunset. It was a gorgeous sight, her profile, the sunset, the city lights, everything. You had started sketching out the scenery when a though struck you.

·       You elbowed Kazuich, gaining his attention. You then leaned in real close while still looking at Sonia, not noticing the blush spreading on his cheeks as he kept looking to you. “Hey Soda, now’s your chance. This view is absolutely romantic, and you’re in the city of love. Don’t you think this is the perfect time to ask out the girl you like?” This hurt, it really did, but seeing how happy he was to be going on a school trip without worry like he always wanted, you could hardly imagine his joy if Sonia got together with him at a time like this. It hurt, but you just wanted to see him happy.

·       “… Ask out the girl I like, huh…… Okay.”

·       Turning to you he placed his hands atop your shoulders. “Y/N I have a crush on you. Please go out on a date with me.” “… Wait? I thought… what about Nevermind?” “I, well, yeah, I do like her, but… I really like you… I… That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out lately and... so I... You get it, don’t you!?” “… Soda, please let me draw you!” “Huh?” “Well, if we start going out, we’ll be boyfriend and girlfriend, right? I’d like to have something to commemorate the moment by.” “S/O!” He pulled you into a tight hug, giddy out of his mind.

·       You ended up drawing him at the restaurant. He loved the drawing so much he took a picture to use as his phone’s lock screen. From then on you often drew him for references for poses and though all great, his favorite would forever be the first one you made of him. It was made to celebrate you getting together, it was always so special to him.

[sylvie-writes]

Bad (3): Memories We Used to Share

First inspired by this song ➳ Bad by Lennon Stella

(Ransom Drysdale x wife reader)

Summary: It’s time to move out! 6 months of getting your life sorted, along with a few surprises, some pleasant, others not so much.

A/n: My search history is looking weird, due to this series haha. I’ve been reading multiple articles about uncontested divorce just to get an understanding for this series lmao. 

Disclaimer: Just so you know, I’m not a law school graduate, so I can’t say I really know what in the hell I am talking about. With that being said, if I screw up the divorce process in this chapter and/or the next, please don’t come at me. Our law system is confusing and I’m just here to write, no one said it would be accurate lol. 

Warnings: mild profanity & your typical cheesy, predictable fanfic by yours truly. 

Shoutout: MANY THANKS TO THE ANON WHO GAVE ME SOME IDEAS TO MAKE THIS A SERIES!

As always, plz pardon any mistakes, the stories are always proofread but I tend to make many mistakes regardless.

Series Masterlist

For six months, you worked to get your life back together. 

By the end of April, a week after you yelled at your (ex) husband, you had successfully packed up your stuff, without being bothered by the man. Ever since the night you had confronted him, the two of you never stood in the same room or even looked the other in the eye. So it worked in your favor today that he was busy with his new flame, probably entertaining her with a trip to Prada. Never once did you take a break, for eight straight hours, you spent one whole Saturday organizing and strategically packing your things away. Around eight o’clock, all of the boxes were stacked by the front door, ready to be moved into the U-haul trailer attached to your car. Lucky for you, Ransom could care less about what was his and what was yours. The dog, also going home with you. In truth, ever since that day you rightfully ripped the man for his mistakes, a black cloud has loomed over his head, no matter what he may be on the outside, he’s broken on the inside. 

One more box was left in the bedroom, and you quickly jogged up the stairs to get it. Unbeknownst to you, as you were upstairs, Ransom and Blair had come home, apparently mindless to your car in the driveway, because when you walked down the stair box in hand the two pulled away from each other’s lips, staring at you.

You had made an agreement with Ransom that he’d not show up while you packed your things. He had done a good job so far, up until now that is. “Oh, (y/n), I didn’t think you’d be here this late. You should get some rest.”

His “concern” disgusted you. Now he decides to care about you? I think not.

Filled with rage, you drop the cardboard box, letting the contents inside shatter. In most divorces, there wouldn’t be this much emotion, but it hurt you beyond words can describe, to see this man that you loved with every inch of your body, kissing another woman, in YOUR house. You could even see yourself in her shoes, because damn, once upon a time, you WERE her. 

“Are you okay!” Blair came rushing to your side, to try and move you out of the shattered glass. She seemed like a genuinely nice person, and had she not been a home-wrecker, you’d want to be her friend. But at this moment, all you could think about was that she wasn’t even bothered by the fact that she’d been seeing a married man. So, just as Blair tried to help you, you pushed away her hands and collapsed on the steps, lightly sitting in the glass, yet numb to the pain. The weight of the world had finally, physically pushed you to the ground. You were at wits end, and things were looking pretty dark. At this point, you couldn’t even see the light at the end of the tunnel. What had you done to deserve this and would there be a second chance for you? 

Just then, Ransom came to remove Blair, telling her to go get ready for bed, the two clearly coming from a night of clubbing. As she ran up the stairs, mindful of the glass, Ransom came to pick you up. Grabbing your arms, you laid limp against his chest, willingly letting him carry you down the stairs. Oh how you missed his caring touch, why couldn’t things be different? It should've been you out dancing with him, you lip locked with him. Instead, here you were, letting the man who single-handedly destroy your life, carrying you to the couch, laying a blanket and a long kiss on your cheek. Consumed with emotions, sleep soon took over your body before you could protest and leave the house. Had you only heard Ransom’s apology.

“I’m so sorry my precious (y/n), it shouldn’t have been this way, my love.” A few stray tears rolled down Ransom’s cheek as he sadly sauntered up the stairs. 

Ironic, how in a house that was once yours, a new woman took your spot in the bed, besides your once husband, while you slept on the couch like a toy banned to the isle of misfits. 

The next morning, you woke up to the smell of coffee and giggles. You were angry at yourself, no doubt, how could you be so vulnerable by staying at the house? Before you could think anymore, you walked to get your keys, finding that Blair was in the kitchen, cooking pancakes for Ransom, who sat at the kitchen table with coffee and the newspaper. You kinda screwed yourself, by leaving your car keys on the kitchen table. It was your only escape and unfortunately it meant interacting with dumb and dumber. 

The two once again forgot you were there, shocked to see your form walking through the doorway. With a fake smile, you grumbled out a few choice words.

“Don’t worry, I’m getting out of your house ya lovebirds!”

Victory at last. Your words stung Ransom, well, rather word. In another time, you’d say our house, but now, it was no longer the Drysdales’ Household, no, it was Drysdale’s Household, hence why you reminded Ransom that he was alone. Sure, Blair was there but you both knew it wouldn’t last. 

That day, when Ransom and Blair had once again left, going god knows where, Ransom texted you that you could pack your boxes into the u-haul trailer. Since you just wanted to haul ass out of the place this morning, you left the trailer and boxes behind, making a beeline to the nearest bar. So far you had handled yourself without alcohol, but now you needed some relief, specifically in a few whiskey sours. Around 3pm, Ransom then sent that text, and you sobered up, gracefully throwing up in the bathroom stall, then driving to the house to officially get out of his life. Even with a major headache, you managed to pack the trailer. It was then that you realized you were destined to function alone, you didn’t need Ransom. Screw him. 

In May, you went around town, scanning different apartments finally finding one. Unfortunately, there was a waitlist with three people in front of you, the estimated move in time being late July or August. With that being said, you moved all your things into a storage unit and continued to live in a hotel room. Thank the heavens you kept your job, despite Ransom’s pleas for you to stay home when you were married. Somehow, you were able to juggle working and functioning around others, coming home to be your true self, the night normally ending with takeout and tv. This divorce had truly ruined your life, and Ransom’s. The two of you constantly lived with the rain cloud, never once catching a break and seeing a rainbow overhead. For now, you were just separated and soon you’d file for divorce.

Around the last week of May, your life was turned upside down once again. This time, for a good reason. 

Currently, you were on lunch break, eating at a nearby diner with your closest work friend, Lorraine Bailey. She really has been your best friend, taking the title that used to belong to Ransom. At least she was loyal, understanding, and wasn’t a backstabbing bitch *ahem* your ex.

“How are you holding up, honey?”

You were too busy staring into the nothingness of your chicken sandwich, that when Lorainne gently shook your resting hand, you let out an incoherent “huh?”

“I was asking how you are doing? With everything that’s been going on in the past few months--”

Before she could answer, you just snapped, quickly yelling at the woman, who wasn’t trying to be nosy, she was genuinely concerned. 

“Could you just stop nosing around? It’s none of your business really!” 

At that, Lorraine leaned back in her seat, lowering her head like a scolded child. Honestly, you didn’t mean what you had just said and you had no clue where it came from. Lately, your mouth has been an unreliable thing, for you could barely control your answers without acting like a moody child.

Quickly, you excused yourself, lightly jogging to the bathroom to expel the few glasses of water you drank. As you washed your hands, upon looking in the mirror, you were met with a face you barely knew. Sure, you looked the same  on the outside, but on the inside you were a different person. No longer peppy or truly happy. Ransom had taken it all from you, but it was time to take that back. Walking out the bathroom door, you vowed to yourself from this point on you’d try to become your old self. 

Surprisingly, Lorraine still sat at the booth, allowing you to give her a real and sincere apology.

“Lorraine, I’m so sorry, I can’t even fathom the words to justify my actions. Lately, I haven’t been able to truly control my emotions and I took it out on you. That was wrong and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it, after all you’ve always been here for me.”

The woman smiled at you, despite the tears rolling down your face. Why were you crying and since when did you become such an emotional person? You weren’t cold hearted, but nor were you one to cry at a movie. 

“That’s fine, I know you are under a lot of pressure. What do you say we get out of here and spend the rest of break at the bakery across the street?”

“I’d say you know me very well!” 

Soon, you flagged down the waitress and paid the tab, ignoring Lorraine’s pleas to pay for lunch. It was the least you could do after yelling at the poor woman. As you left the restaurant, the guilt was still surfacing in your body and you felt the need to hug your best friend, who was happily surprised, hugging you back. 

Once in the bakery, you were met with the sight of homemade chocolates, like your dog at home, you were practically drooling. Let’s just say the baker was stunned when you bought two dozens of chocolate, and then proceeded to eat half on the way out. What was even more surprising, was that about a seventy-five percent of your order was chili dark chocolate. 

As you were walking down the street, and to work, Lorraine reached over, tasting one of your chocolates, a chili one to be exact. Her face twisted with disgust and her suspicions were confirmed. 

“Uh, (y/n), I think I might have an explanation for your constant mood swings, the amount of times you leave to the bathroom, and why you’d buy this absolute garbage!”

The minute she listed all the symptoms together, you immediately denied her. 

“Don’t even say it. I’m just moody because I’m mad, I pee a lot because, uh-”

“Exactly! Even you can’t explain all of it. Just do me a favor and buy a test. It won’t hurt anything to try.”

“Yeah, but I know you are wrong, Lorraine.”

“I mean c'mon, don’t you want to know too?”

At that moment, the two of you were halted in front of a CVS, Lorraine pointing at the store like she was Vanna White. 

Your conscience: Maybe you should listen to the woman, after all she has three kids!

And so you did.

Thank god your friend was there, because you were an absolute novice in this field. Sure, you wanted kids, but right now you were praying that you were just having an irregular cycle due to stress. Lorraine, the best, best friend anyone could ask for, bought the test to spare you the embarrassment. 

The minute you walked into work, Lorraine pulled you into the bathroom, giving you instructions, you following them, then waiting for the timer to beep.

Any minute now you’d find your results, and for some reason part of you wanted this test to be positive. It would be nice to have a little company.

Once the timer beeped, you looked at the plastic stick that held your future, immediately smiling when your answer was pregnant.

You were pregnant!

But the father...

Unlike Ransom, you weren’t unfaithful and unfortunately, the father was no doubt him. Of course, the one time that asshole sleeps with you, he got you pregnant. And to think at the time, he didn’t even really love you just enraged you even more. It was gonna be a while till you got over this. 

So the rest of the day you were thrilled, and it was a lot easier to stick to your vows from earlier. Your mood was noticeably different to many of your coworkers, smiles all around. The old (y/n) was slowly reappearing. 

June through July, you spent your days, working and when not working, taking advice on a baby from Lorraine, even visiting her doctor who she so highly recommended. Fortunately, the doctor didn’t prod around in your life and was absolutely judge-free about your situation. You couldn't have been more grateful. 

In early July, you reached the second trimester, where the slightest bump formed on your stomach. Now it wasn’t noticeable to everyone, but to you, just the slightest site made your lips turn upward into a smile. Motherhood was the best thing to happen to you. And to make matters even better, your baby was going to be a Christmas baby, making his or her appearance at the end of December! 

Telling Ransom was gonna be a whole other story.

Finally, August 3rd came around, and the apartment complex office called, an opening for you. Lease signed, you shelled out your first payment and soon moved in, once again alone. It had been months since you’d heard from Ransom and honestly it was nice. 

The month of August flew by, and soon September came. Time passed by with flying colors and your mood had improved a bit, the baby in your stomach making life worth living. On the last Friday of September, your work friends decided that they all needed to go out, inviting you the first weekend of October to go ice-skating and out for dinner! It was time you treated yourself to something nice, so you giddily agreed. What could go wrong? 

That Friday, after work, Lorraine came to pick you up, the two of you going to meet the rest at the ice skating rink. Being 26 weeks pregnant, your stomach had finally started showing, allowing your coworkers to start nagging you. Last they had all heard, you were divorced. So when they asked, you kept your lips shut, it really wasn’t any of their business. The only one who knew was Lorraine, but she wasn’t a gossiper.

Arriving at the ice rink, the cold Massachusetts air was blowing, making you zip up your trench coat ever the slightest. Unfortunately, the wind wasn’t the only thing making your blood run cold. 

Most of your coworkers were out on the ice, Lorraine going out too, you told her you’d be out soon. It was nice to watch the skaters enjoy their time on the ice till you saw him. 

The familiar tan suede coat made your face lose all warmth, your own jacket no longer keeping you warm. Beside the laughing man, was the one and only, Blair, except this time a new accessory on her finger. A diamond ring you could see all the way from your table along the side of the rink. His laughter made you sick, and at this point you wanted to throw up the hot cocoa you had been sipping on. 

At the moment, you and Ransom were in the middle of divorce, thank the heavens an uncontested one, having been able to work many things out with your ex. This meant, zero court hearings (hopefully), a thin expense, and overall a clean divorce. Then, you had hired a paralegal to work on the legal papers and currently the two of you were waiting to see the judge to finalize the divorce, the approximate date set around the second week of November. 

Feeling suddenly insecure, and definitely not ready to tell Ransom, you pulled the large trench coat across your chest and secured it with the belt around the waist. The minute you looked at them, all the memories came flooding back. One specifically hitting you at this moment.

“Ransom, I’m gonna fall! You know I’m a klutz.”

Your husband just persisted and instead slipped on your ice skates, tying them up and resting his warm hands on your knees.

“Honey, I will be right beside you the whole time, and by the end of this, you’ll be a pro!”

His reassuring smile was all you needed, nodding, you placed your gloved hands in Ransom’s bare ones, trying to waddle your way to the rink entrance. First, Ransom skated onto the ice, turning and holding his hand out for you. The minute your feet made contact with the icy ground beneath, you fell straight to the ground, Ransom reached out to grab you, although he ended up going down with you. You looked at Ransom who wore an entertained smile on his face, laughing. Playfully, you slapped the man on the shoulder. 

“My failure isn’t funny!”

Ransom tried his best to cease his laughter, getting off the ice to help you up, although he was still chuckling the slightest bit. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it!” 

Once on your feet, Ransom locked arms with you, trying his best to balance you both, while also coaching you. 

At some point through the night, the fake snow was fluttering in the air, along with tunes of piano and jazz. You had finally gotten the hang of things somewhat, yet still latched close to Ransom. The man on your side, leaned down and whispered in your ear.

“I give you my word that every year I’ll bring you to this exact rink, just to teach you how to skate, darling.”

If only that same Ransom was the one you were staring at right now. 

But overall, looking back, memories like those, with him, are the ones you miss.

Why did he have to change?

“(y/n)?”

A tap on your shoulder, made you pop up from your seat to be met with the stare of that same man. He slowly gave you a once-over, making you slightly worry that he’d notice the baby bump.

He didn’t. 

“Ransom.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Drysdale.” 

Clearly, Ransom was trying to give you an olive branch, but at the moment, you just weren’t accepting it.

“I asked you first, (y/l/n).”

“Work.”

Your voice was monotone and Ransom gave a slight hum of acknowledgment. 

“Nice. Well uh- it was nice seeing you.”

Nervously, Ransom waved you goodbye, heading back to Blair who was removing her ice skates. You took notice how she was struggling and Ransom wasn’t down on his knees helping her as he did you. It did your ego good to see that your husband hadn’t completely replaced you. There was a difference between you and Blair. Ransom actually loved you, like the “die for you” kind of love. While Blair, on the other hand, was honestly there to fill the whole in his heart. 

It did intrigue you though as to why Ransom wasn’t being an arrogant jerk to you, yet he was being humble? None of it added up, but before you could do any more mental acrobatics, Lorraine came over, asking you to come ice skate, to which you smiled and put on your skates. 

Tonight was about you, not him. 

Something you hadn’t said in a long time.

taglist (series and in general tags): @kiwihoee​ @buckybarnesthehotshot​ @memissbee​ @tricereads​ @tonystankschild​ @coffeebooksandfandom​ @ria132love​ @what-is-your-wish​ @maan24​ @bval-1​ @jemimah-b99​ @turtoix​ @just-one-ordinary-fangirl​

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[mingishoe]

Joongie | K.HJ

Summary: You think Hongjoong is really pretty… you just want to show him how pretty he is.

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Part 3 of the kink series- Praise Kink

Smut Warning:  SoftDom!Reader Sub!Hongjoong, Hongjoong being soft and shy, fluffy smut, Praise Kink, riding, kinda a lot of dirty talk, unprotected sex

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Let’s just say… a crush hardly describes how you feel about Hongjoong. Hongjoong has been your best friend for years now and you’re starting to struggle keeping the little secret between yourself and Hongjoong.

Hongjoong might look all scary on the outside but in reality he’s probably the most precious and even the shyest person you’ve ever met.

 Your favourite thing is probably giving Hongjoong compliments. You loved the way his cheeks turned a shade of light pink when you told him he was pretty. You loved the way Hongjoong bit his lip and the way his ears turned red when you called him “Joongie.”

You remember the first time you called him “Joongie.” 

You two hadn't been friends for too long and it was one night the two of you were at your place. It was really late, probably around one in the morning, and you had told him, “Joongie? C-Can we promise that w-we won’t let feelings get in between us? I-If it’s between us… or s-someone else… Can we just promise each other that?”

You had looked towards Hongjoong and he had the cheesiest look on his face, “W-What?” 

Hongjoong shook his head as he looked at you with the cutest smile, “Joongie?” 

Your cheeks had turned a bright shade of red that even Hongjoong could see in the dark. “I-its okay… I like it.” And it’s always stuck.

You and Hongjoong have kept the promise since you’ve brought it up but you’re really regretting it now. You honestly want nothing more than to take Hongjoong in your arms and kiss him. To tell him how much you like him. To show him how much you care about him.

The two of you were at your place watching a movie and Hongjoong was laying on top of you. His arms were wrapped around you as you played with his hair. 

The movie you were watching was honestly kinda raunchy and just like kids, every time there was a sex scene both of you looked away awkwardly. 

Your heart started beating faster as the moans coming from the TV got louder. Hongjoong was definitely able to hear how fast your heart was beating causing him to look up at you.

You looked down at Hongjoong as his eyes looked between your lips and your eyes. You knew Hongjoong was struggling between kissing you and not kissing you. Hongjoong leaned in carefully in case you weren’t okay with it. 

You guess Hongjoong gave up on holding himself back and pressed his lips against yours. Hongjoong pulled away almost immediately mumbling what sounded like “P-Promises”

You didn’t even have time to comprehend what Hongjoong did before you gripped his chin and whispered, “Fuck the promise.” You brought Hongjoong back to place your lips on his. 

When you pulled away Hongjoong was looking at you with wide eyes. His cheeks were red as he smiled softly. You scanned Hongjoong’s face for any sign of discomfort so when you didn’t find any you continued, “Took too long for that to happen, didn’t it?” 

Hongjoong nodded softly and put his head down into your neck. You felt Hongjoong smile against your neck and your heart clenched in your chest. 

You placed kisses on the top of Hongjoong’s head until he looked back up at you. You placed kisses all over his face until you kissed his lips again. 

You held Hongjoong’s head in your hands as you bit his lip gently. When Hongjoong let out a quiet moan you almost came right there. You let your tongue enter Hongjoong‘s mouth to deepen the kiss. 

You felt Hongjoong harden against your thigh making you smirk against Hongjoong’s lips. When you pulled away, you took a minute to look at Hongjoong. In your eyes, Hongjoong was the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen and you’re sure to let him know. 

“You’re so fucking pretty Joongie… Dunno how I was able to hold myself back for so long.” You flipped the two of you over so you were straddling him. Hongjoong held onto your waist as you leaned down to kiss his jaw. 

Hongjoong’s back arches off the bed as you suck on his sweet spot. “So pretty Joongie… should’ve done this a long time ago.” 

Hongjoong moaned as you licked over the marks on his neck, “B-But you said-” 

You pressed yourself down on Hongjoong’s crotch to cut him off, “I know what I said… now tell me, how long have you wanted to do this Joongie?” 

Hongjoong rutted up to try and get any sort of friction from you. Hongjoong threw his head back and bit his lips to contain his moans. You hum softly to get Hongjoong to answer your question, “T-Too long… S-such a long time. W-Would’ve a long time ago i-if you never said that p-promise.” 

You laughed softly and nodded, “That promise should've been broken a long time ago huh?” 

You bring your hands to the bottom of Hongjoong’s shirt. You look up to Hongjoong for confirmation before you bring it up and pull it off of him. Hongjoong looked away as he covered his face with his hands. 

You pull Hongjoong’s hands away from his face, “Don’t cover yourself Joongie, you look so pretty.” You dipped back down to leave marks down Hongjoong’s chest. Hongjoong looked down at you, dark brown eyes-shining down at you. 

“Y-Y/n?” his voice was hesitant like you could stop at any moment.

“Yes Joongie?” You rubbed your hands down to the waistband of his jeans, already knowing what he was wanting.

“T-Touch me please…” His hands made their way down to your thighs as you grinded down on him harder. Your body was filled with emotions. You’ve never felt like this before and you honestly had no idea how long you were going to last. 

Hongjoong was watching you expectantly as you unbuttoned his jeans and pulled both his jeans and his boxers down at the same time. You took a minute just to look over Hongjoong. You looked down at Hongjoong’s length with your mouth parted slightly.

Hongjoong was fidgeting under your stare, “P-Please…” Hongjoong pulled on your shirt hunting for you to take it off. You were still fully clothed while Hongjoong was completely naked.

Hongjoong sat up and gripped onto your shirt tightly. You allowed him to pull your shirt off of your body and pull the waistband of your shorts. 

“Want me to fuck you Joongie?” You were surprised by the words that came out of your mouth. You slowly pulled down both your shorts and your underwear down at the same time while staring into Hongjoong’s eyes.

Hongjoong moaned loudly as you straddled him completely bare. You jerked slightly when Hongjoong’s cock twitched against your lower stomach and made you moan quietly. 

Hongjoong watched as your hands ran down his chest. He loved the way your touch felt on his skin, he loved the way your lips were parted and the way your eyes shined in the dim lighting of the room. He loved everything about you, about this moment. 

You pushed him back and watched as he looked up at you with wide eyes. Hongjoong wanted to grab you and fuck into you more than anything, just so he could stop you from making him wait any longer. But you were in charge, he wasn’t.

You rested your hands in the Center of his chest as you started to roll your hips. It was almost unbearable the way Hongjoong was looking up at you, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen.

You grinded down onto Hongjoong harder making you moan loudly. The sound almost made Hongjoong cum immediately, “D-Does it feel good Joongie?” 

He whined loudly while nodding his head, “W-Would feel better if you fucked me…” you raised your eyebrow at Hongjoong but shrugged and gripped onto his cock in one swipe. 

You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust before you sat all the way down onto his cock. Hongjoong let out the most angelic noise you’ve ever heard before and it had your legs shaking. 

Hongjoong’s hands immediately flew up to your hips and gripped onto them tightly. Hongjoong’s cheeks were flushed a bright shade of red. He was silently begging for you to fuck him, to make him cum.

You stayed still for a few moments trying to contain yourself before you came without even doing anything. Hongjoong had been waiting too long and he was about to snap, “Please- fuck- please y/n, I need you t-to move. N-Need to cum.”

You took in a shaky breath as you slowly started to circle your hips, the both of you moaning loudly at the feeling of him moving inside you. “Joongie n-needs to cum huh? Who am I to tell you no?” 

At that, you brought your hips up slowly pushed yourself back down. It took you a minute to find the perfect pace for the both of you but once you found it, you were certain neither of you were going to last. 

Hongjoong’s grip on your hips became tighter as you started to praise him. “J-Joongie, you sound so pretty. W-wish you could h-hear yourself…” 

Hongjoong’s hips bucked into yours as you started to move your hips at a faster pace. Your thighs were aching and you were 100% going to be sore but it didn’t matter. The only thing you wanted to do was make Hongjoong feel good. 

“S-So fucking pretty- could f-fuck you all day if you let me. Bet the neighbours can hear y-your pretty little moans.” You were close, the only thing that was stopping you from cuming was Hongjoong. You wanted him to cum first.

Hongjoong was babbling incoherently as his back was arching off of the bed. You knew he was close, he just needed you to push him over the edge, “T-This is what you w-wanted isn’t it Joongie? W-Wanted me to make you c-cum?” 

Hongjoong’s moans got impossibly louder as the headboard of the bed started banging on the wall. There was definitely going to be a noise complaint made… The feeling was almost too good. Your lower body was shaking uncontrollably as you clenched around Hongjoong like a vice, “C-Cum for m-me Joongie-” 

You didn’t have to tell him twice. Almost as soon as you gave him the okay, he came. You squeezed your eyes shut as you took him the feeling of Hongjoong’s cum releasing inside of you. As you slowly grinded on Hongjoong to help him down from his own orgasm, his cock was rubbing against that sweet spot inside you and that was it for you, this is probably the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had all thanks to Hongjoong.

The both of you were a panting mess, the room was filled with sounds of heavy breathing coming from the two of you as you leaned down to rest yourself on Hongjoong’s shoulder. 

You slowly got off of Hongjoong wincing from the feeling of his cum dripping out of you. You moved to your side and faced Hongjoong.

“J-Joongie?” You whispered into Hongjoong’s ear so softly even he barely heard you. His hands rubbed along your side gently, almost like he was scared he was going to hurt you. 

Hongjoong hummed softly in response, “I… I love you.” Your heart slammed against your chest as you tried to predict what Hongjoong was going to say. 

It was okay if he didn’t feel the same way but you just wanted to feel some closure with yourself. Hongjoong’s arms wrapped around your waist tightly as he placed kisses on the top of your head, “R-Really?” 

You smiled softly and nodded, “So so much Joongie. For the longest time, I’ve just wanted you.” 

Hongjoong looked like there were a million emotions going through his mind and you couldn’t tell which ones they were. 

Once Hongjoong leaned in to place his lips onto yours you immediately knew what the response was, “You know y/n, if you had never brought up that promise all those years ago, this would’ve happened such a long time ago.” 

[arcticfox007]

Giving the Best Gift

Destiel December Challenge 2020

Day 13: Ornaments

This is a continuation of previous challenge days. The masterpost can be found here or you can read it on AO3!

*Sorry I dropped off the map for a few days, RL stole me away*

***

               Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and while Sam was sad to say goodbye to Charlie, he’s extremely grateful for her help over the past few days. Not only did she sneak in more pictures of Dean and Cas than Sam had realized, she had also managed to get quite a few of their whole group. He hadn’t even realized she’d been taking pictures while they played Clue at the inn before they turned in for the night. Honestly, Charlie deserves credit for things going so well between Dean and Cas right now more than Sam. He was impressed that Dean took Cas on a date even if the angel seemed unaware that it had been a date. Either way, Sam thought that if the two of them were ever going to get over themselves and actually use words to communicate, now was the time.

               Sam’s one concern was that Dean still seemed to be careful around Cas when he thought Sam was looking. Maybe Charlie’s advice hadn’t been too far off, maybe Dean just needed to know that his brother was okay with him and Cas being together. Sure, Sam had tried to make that clear before, but Dean seemed particularly oblivious to all things involving feelings and Cas. Sam sat on his bed and looked at the doll he’d had made (well, altered really, there hadn’t been time for a completely custom order) and contemplated how best to approach his brother.

               Sam seized his opportunity a few hours later when Cas had been sent out on a supply run by Dean. Sam found Dean in the middle of working on his Christmas present for Cas, understanding now why Dean had sent the angel out on his own for food they didn’t really need.

               “Hey, do you need any help?” Dean turned at the sound of Sam’s voice and looked like he was thinking hard for a moment.

               “Yeah Sammy, I wanted to put lights up, Cas likes the ones on the Christmas tree. I mean, it’s easier to like the lights than the creepy antique ornaments, but I still think he’ll appreciate it.” Sam was happy to see how much thought Dean was putting into Cas’ gift.

               “No problem. By the way, do you mind if I jump onto your gift a bit? Just to help decorate, nothing fancy.” Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother but then he shrugged.

               “Sure. I’m showing this to Cas privately though, at first.” Sam smirked at his brother.

               “Privately, huh? Don’t worry, I can give you guys whatever alone time you need.” Sam couldn’t resist teasing Dean a little. Even so, he held out his hands to take the lights from Dean while he stood around with a stunned look on his face and got to work stringing them along the edges of the wall.

               “I didn’t mean it like that, bitch.”

               “Jerk. Sure, you did, and I’m really happy for you man.” Sam couldn’t help but smile as his brother mumbled incoherently for a moment, obviously not having any idea what to say. While Dean sorted himself out Sam finished up with the lights.

               “First Charlie, now you. Am I wearing a fucking sign or something?”

               “Pretty much, yeah. Honestly you and Cas are the only ones who seem to assume there’s nothing going on between you two.” Dean glowered at him, but Sam just smiled. “Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about the whole thing.” Dean looked at him suspiciously.

               “It’s not like anything has actually happened Sam. It’s not a big deal.”

               “It is though. Seeing you happy is a big deal to me Dean. Look, I just – I want you to know that seeing you making an effort to help Cas feel like he belongs, seeing Cas smiling more than I’ve ever seen him smile, seeing you really content – it’s all I want for you.” Sam waves at Dean to stop him from interrupting. “Look, wait here a sec.”

               Sam runs off before Dean can protest, but he’s back in less than a minute handing Dean a bag. Dean is still viewing Sam suspiciously but he opens the bag anyway. Sam takes a moment to enjoy the surprised but gleeful look on his brother’s face. The doll he pulls out has dark wings, brown hair, blue buttons for eyes, and a trench coat.

               “Seriously Sam? Where’d you even find this?” Sam’s grin widens at his brother’s laughter.

               “At a custom doll place, Charlie thought I was crazy when I said I was having a doll made for you. But I wanted to give you something to tell you that I support you. Both of you. And you were right, we do already have an angel, but the real one can’t stay on top of the tree. You can tie it to the tree with the belt of the coat.” Smugly, Sam reflected on how he was the absolute best at giving presents.

***

               Castiel returned to the bunker to hear the Winchesters arguing over something about the tree. Cas dropped off the food in the kitchen and took another bag with him to see what was going on. Absurdly, he walked in on them standing back to admire the new tree topper – which was apparently him. Castiel wasn’t sure whether to laugh or glower. He settled for asking them what in the world was going on. Dean rubbed his hand on the back of his head while Sam pointedly looked elsewhere.

               “Uh- yeah, so Sam got us a tree topper. Of, well, the angel that actually watches over us. And – yeah…” Dean trailed off, obviously concerned about Cas’ reaction to the whole thing. Cas stares them down for another minute before breaking into a smile.

               “I like it. Although I’d prefer you don’t pack him away with those terrible ornaments when Christmas is over.” Sam laughs and Dean sighs in relief.

               “Don’t worry, Dean can keep him in his room.” Dean and Cas both turn somewhat pinker at Sam’s words, but the angel is pleased to notice that Dean doesn’t protest. Cas feels another pulse of grace warm and heal his wings, and he happily shares the box of Scooby-Doo ornaments he found at the store with his friends.

***

@galaxycastiel, @jellydeans, @nguyenxtrang, @my-favourite-hellatus