#i get so wistful it fucking hurts so much

[traumacodedtransbitch]

I don't like going home a lot now because I'm on my own and afraid I'll not be able to curb my self destructive impulses because being alone with your mentally ill traumatised thoughts is the worst nightmare imaginable

[jarofstyles]

Caught

Heyyyy.... This is something I wrote all in one night and it got filthy quick lol. I've been trying to do more one offs and I hope you guys like this one!!

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WC- 9.1k

Warnings- Sex w someone who isn't Y/N (It's quick don't worry), friends to lovers, angst, unprotected sex, spitting, praise kink

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Y/N hadn’t thought twice about going into the living room she shared with her roommate, AirPods in her ear as she had padded across the hall. Maybe if she had been aware of her surroundings, maybe if she hadn’t assumed Harry would figure out she was home by her keys on the rack or her text prior, she would have avoided walking into the scene of filth she found herself stumbling in on. 

Strolling into the living room, she was stopped cold by the scene in front of her. There, on their couch, was Harry. Fully naked, his back red with what would be scratch marks in the morning, thrusting into someone. A woman, by the sound of the whimpers. Manicured nails gripped his biceps as she whimpered, the sound of sex becoming evident as she ripped the AirPod from her ear. 

She was frozen. Standing there shocked, hearing his grunts as his hand steadied him on the back of the couch with his fingers denting the fabric, his powerful thrusts jolting the girl and the furniture. He was into it, fully. As much as she felt she was intruding, she couldn’t stop looking. 

It was hot. Y/N had to admit that, even in her frozen shocked state. The mix of their sounds, her red hair spilling over onto the pillow, her leg being held up by one of his hands to get, what was most likely, the perfect angle. Just by the sound of it, the pair was having an incredible time. 

“Fuckin’ taking it so well..” His raspy voice was deep, a depth she hadn’t heard the fullness of. It sent tingles down her body, hearing her roommate and seeing him in a way she hadn’t before. He had always been sweet and goofy and silly. He joked around about getting lucky, she heard some lighthearted sex stories and had he was a master at dirty jokes- but she had never seen him in the element. Assuming most people didn’t see their friends like that. 

Y/N didn’t harbor any feelings, not that she knew of. She wasn’t hurt by the viewing, no, more so fascinated and embarrassed because she had caught them. But they seemed far too into it to notice her. That itself got her hot between her thighs. 

Harry seemingly hadn’t been lying about his skill in the bedroom. She thought he had been exaggerating, but the way the girl under him was wailing seemed to have her thinking different. 

“Fuck me.” The girl’s voice sounded weak, red nails tangling in his hair and pulling him down. The sound of lips coming together for a kiss echoed in the room, his pace slowing and his hips grinding into her, making the redhead moan and arch her leg up over his hip to pull him closer. The weak whine was wistful, the pop of their mouths disconnecting and saucy chuckle from Harry was low as he gripped her jaw. 

“You’re so close. I can feel it.” He spoke close to her mouth. “Wet little cunt’s making a proper mess. Should make you clean it up with your tongue. Filthy little thing.” He grumbled. 

Y/N had sense to slowly back into the hallway, hiding behind the wall- but she still couldn’t look away. It was wrong. So goddamn wrong, but her cunt was hot and wet from simply watching, she wanted to see it all. Just looking at how wet his covered cock had been, stretching the stranger’s cunt out and hearing her whines had her imagining herself in her place. 

Would he choke her? Would he call her filthy? She could only hope. 

Her eyes watched as the girl clung to him, letting out little noises each time his cock thrusted into her. The pace was picking up from the slower one, her lips parting in a soft ‘o’ as Harry looked down at her. It seemed intense. No words exchanged but the noises of their sex, the wetness of her cunt and his cock fucking into the stranger’s welcoming cunt filling the room. 

The shift happened when he slowly adjusted her leg. Like a bolt had hit her, she squealed and arched up, panting out to him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck… right there, fuck me right there, don’t stop.” She was desperate, begging him as his prick filled her dripping cunt again and again. 

“M’not stopping until you’re creaming around my cock, sweetheart.” He smirked, keeping the angle perfect as he continued to sheath himself inside of her. The pleasured groans and moans, slapping of skin, it was all hot. Every bit of it. Y/N wasn’t going to be able to forget it. Harry was stretching her out, and watching his cock inside of her was doing something to her. 

It planted a seed of jealousy in her mind. Displaced, of course, because she had no claim over him. He was her friend, her roommate, but watching this made her recall her own experiences. While they hadn’t been bad- some were ever good!- they never made her moan like that. Never made her legs tremble in the way the girl underneath Harry were. No one had spoken to her with that sort of grit, that dirty. Her own had been moans, whispers, but nothing that came close to how her body was reaction to the mere sight of this. 

The noises got louder and she could see that they were getting to the edge but it felt like too much to watch it happen. Instead, she shut her bedroom door and listened. The slap of skin, the whimpers coming from the woman that were slightly muffled and the words of encouragement leaving his mouth. He called her a good girl, told her to cum around him, and a smack followed by a heady moan made her eyebrows raise. Harry was into it. It happened soon after, the repeated mewls into the air that she was cumming and the sound of his hips quickening before he let out a groan that would surely haunt her, then the sounds of frantic lips meeting. 

It was over now, but she surely wouldn’t forget about it anytime soon. 

——

Y/N hid out in her room for 2 hours. She knew the girl was gone, heard Harry tell her goodbye and the closing of the door. Heard him take a shower. But she was hesitant to leave. It was going to be an awkward thing, she knew, especially because she’d slipped her hand into her panties and made herself orgasm in record time. 

She was ashamed to get off to the memory of that. This was Harry, after all! But she couldn’t deny the hunger that rose after seeing the type of sex she’d always thought was reserved for her erotic novels in real time. Her sex had never been like that and the pleasured sounds and words from the woman he’d fucked had sounded so desperate and real, there was no way she was faking it.  The other thing that bothered her, though, was the fact that he had done it on the couch. They had a rule not to do anything in common areas, and if he had just followed them then she wouldn’t be in this mess. Thinking of him in ways she shouldn’t be. 

The guilt bubbled in her stomach, but it was hungry more than anything. She needed to eat something, needed to face the music, and she waited until Harry was in his room to scurry to the kitchen and grab some snacks as fast as she could- some chips, dark chocolate, a protein drink, piling them in her arms to make the great escape back to her room- only to turn around to see Harry standing there with a smile. 

Fuck.

“Hey, lovely. When did you get home? I didn’t hear the door.” He hummed, stepping closer into the kitchen and bumping her hip to get into the fridge. 

There were a few ways she could go about this, but Y/N didn’t like to lie. She despised it, actually, and that’s part of what made Harry like her so much. His words, not her assumption. She was honest to a fault, and it was hard to go back from that. But she wasn’t about to admit she stood there and watched- not on her own terms. 

“I’ve been home all day.” She said simply, avoiding his eye as she adjusted the snacks in her arms. Part of her wanted to book it to her room but if she did that, it would be even worse. He’d follow her. As hard as she’d tried, her voice came off a bit cool, not the normal easy warmth it usually held. He’d know. 

He froze. Harry’s body stiffening as he stood up from the fridge and shut the door. “You-You have?” His voice was hesitant and she could feel his eyes on her as she nodded, pretending to be interested in the ingredients list of her chocolate. “I- um…” it was very rare to have Harry speechless. He always knew what to say, how to say it, but in this instance he didn’t know how to react. “You… Did you-“

“Yep.” Y/N nodded. Despite how much she yearned for a lack of awkward, there was no avoiding it. 

“You said you’d be gone today.” His tone was accusatory, making irritation flare up in her. Her eyes blazed as they looked up at him. “You said you’d be at work.” 

“I texted you and told you that someone switched shifts with me.” That was no lie, but her voice was hard. Defensive. Because she wasn’t going to be blamed for his lack of phone usage. He was usually good with checking texts but some days he slacked, but she texted him and let him know she would be home. It was clear that he saw that when he fished his phone out of his pocket and saw the message on his lock screen, his body deflating and shrinking back as he saw the hard look in her eye. Y/N wasn’t usually irritated with him, but she didn’t appreciate being called a liar. 

“Fuck.” He said quietly, looking from the phone to her face which was showing obvious signs of discomfort. Harry would never want to make her uncomfortable, and he’d done exactly that with his own oversight. “Y/N, Love- I’m so sorry, I-“

“It’s fine.” She said quickly. “Just… clean the couch.” It made her feel gross to think there were traces of someone else, bodily fluids where she liked to take her naps. Even more so because she didn’t know how often this had happened. 

“I-of course. I’m truly sorry. I didn’t see the text, I would have never done anything if I knew you were home-“

“I said it was fine, Harry.” It came out sharper than she intended it to. Obviously it wasn’t fine. “I was waiting for a few hours to get something to eat so I didn’t interrupt. I just wanted to get my damn snacks and eat them in peace. If you’ll excuse me.” Bumping past him, she rushed towards her door and turned the lock, placing the snacks on her desk. That hadn’t gone smoothly. Not at all. 

—-

Harry felt like a piece of shit. 

It wasn’t often that he felt like that, but knowing he had done something that obviously made Y/N uncomfortable. The icky, nasty guilt and shame settled in his stomach as he sat on the couch he’d just steam cleaned, face in his hands. He’d known it had been a dumb idea to bring a girl back from the gym on a whim. He’d felt weird about it at first, but he’d been positive Y/N was at work and he’d have time to clean up and whatever before she came home. 

It was worse considering he chose a common area. He’d been so fucking horny, and the girl had been more than willing to be the one who relieved him. To be honest, he didn’t know her and probably wouldn’t ever see her again, but that didn’t matter now. The impulsive decision, his lack of awareness and selfishness had gotten him into a mess. This wasn’t just his flat. Y/N had been here first, she had bought this couch, and he had been selfish and done something on it that he knew he’d probably be a bit peeved about if she had done the same thing. 

Truthfully, he’d be hurt if he had to listen to Y/N get fucked. Even more so if he saw it but, he didn’t know what she knew. What she saw. It made him panic a little internally because there was no way he could get what he wanted with her now. He’d fucked up massively and he didn’t know how to fix it. 

His crush on Y/N had been an inconvenience he was truly trying to get over. She made no implications that she liked him back and he had been trying to learn how to be okay with that. How was she ever going to believe that he liked her when she was witness to him fucking all his pent up sexual aggression, aggression she unknowingly caused by walking out in her little sleep shorts this morning riding up her bum, onto another woman? There was no way she was going to take him seriously. His head was beginning to hurt as he tried to think of a way to apologize. 

Ordering her favorite pizza, he had it delivered to their flat and thanked the man with a tip before placing it on their dining table. The nerves were overrun as he made his way towards her door, the cold panic in his stomach making its way up his throat as he hesitantly raised his knuckles to knock on the door. 

“Love?” There as a brief silence and he held his breath, hoping he didn’t fuck it up enough to the point where she hated him. 

“Yeah?” The hesitant voice was smaller than the one he was used to, making him deflate a little bit. At least she answered. 

“I um, I got pizza for dinner. Your favorite.” His hands rested against her doorframe as he spoke through the door. “Did you- would you want to come out and eat with me? We can watch a movie or a show.” The attempt was something, at least. 

“I…” she paused. “If it’s alright I’d like to eat in my room. I’ll pay you back for the pizza.” He could almost hear her brain going. “I don’t think I’d like to sit on the couch for a while.”

His stomach dropped. God damn it. He really did make her uncomfortable, enough where she didn’t want to eat with him or sit in their living area. He felt his throat thicken, frustration building in his veins that was unfairly aimed at her. 

“I said I was sorry, Y/N.” He grunted. “Why don’t you want to eat with me? I steamed the couch, it’s safe to sit on now and I just want to fix it. So can you please get over it a little bit and come and eat?” 

Of course he regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to talk to her like that. The frustration was aimed at himself and not her, but it came out all wrong. He heard her hitch in breath as she shuffled on her bed, opening the door to look at him with a blazing glare that made him shrink back. The man had never been in the receiving end of her anger before. 

“No, I’m not going to just get over it, Harry. Walking into my living room and seeing you pound some woman into the couch I like to take my naps on, a couch I bought before you even lived here may I add, is a bit jarring. We had rules about bringing people over and it’s supposed to stay in our rooms. Obviously it doesn’t fucking matter when you think I’m not home and I’m kind of sick at the thought of what else I may have sat on or slept in because you decided to disrespect me in our home.” She snarled, looking up at him with the severe gaze.  “If you really think all you have to do is buy some pizza and offer to watch a show with me and I’m just going to forget that you’ve gone behind my back, you’d be sorely mistaken. I’ve never lied to you, never once.” The look of betrayal had his stomach turning. “Just… leave me alone. I’m not ready to talk about it.” 

He watched as she slammed the door in his face, his body hot with embarrassment as she locked it. A clear sign she didn’t want to talk to him and it made him feel even worse than before. The words he said had been out of line and he knew it, but he didn’t know how to handle fighting with Y/N. It had never happened until this moment. 

“I’m sorry. Y/N, I-I don’t know why I said that but I just-“

“Harry. I asked you to leave me alone. Can you just respect this one fucking thing?” Her raised voice made him jump, eyes widening at the tone. Being at the receiving end of her anger wasn’t something he ever wanted to happen. “Just… go eat your pizza and leave me be. I’m not hungry.” 

It stumped him. He didn’t know how else to fix it. How could he? She was still very upset and he had fucked up, but what was even worse was knowing that he liked her way more than she liked him and having nothing to prove it by. He had brought home women that looked like her to try and get it out of his system many a time, but it never worked. 

To her, he was her silly, clumsy, charming friend. He was a shoulder to lean on, maybe. But to him? She was incredible. She was honest, brave, intelligent, witty, and so fucking pretty it was hard to look at her without wanting to touch sometimes. 

He’d never made a move because she didn’t seem like she was interested. She’d never gazed at his mouth the way he knew he looked at hers, she didn’t elongate the hugs- he was the one that would let go last. She’d been a friend to him when all he could think about was cupping her face and kissing her lips until they were swollen and she was breathless. He’d gone and mucked up any chance he had with her seeing him as anything more. 

Going back into the kitchen, he put the pizza into the fridge and returned back into his room. He wasn’t hungry anymore. All he was going to be able to focus on was the ability to fix this. 

——-

Y/N knew she was probably overreacting a little bit. It wasn’t as if he had killed someone. He’d broken a rule, yes, but she wasn't a tyrant. It shouldn’t matter to her so much, and that’s what she had been trying to figure out. Why did it?

She just didn’t like the answer she came up with. 

The girl was jealous. That was the thing that she could see, even if she didn’t want to. She was jealous because she’d never been fucked like that, never been touched in that way, talked to that way, and it had never been by Harry. He’d made her see him in a different light and now she was thinking about him in a way she shouldn’t be. 

She’d always loved Harry. He was a friend and her roommate, of course she was going to have fondness for him. It had never seemed like there were any feelings there, nothing had been outwardly there, no jealousy when he spoke of other people, but…. Seeing it? It had been arousing, yes, but after she thought about it for a bit it’d felt like a kick in the stomach. Why had he never tried anything with her before? Was he just that much of a flirt? It wasn’t a secret that he liked to fool around but somehow, things in her brain were changing and making her feel irritational. 

The sexual frustration that came from that was, well…. Stupidly frustrating. It made her wonder what his hands felt like, what his lips tasted like. If he would treat her the same way, or if he would be gentler. If he would kiss her neck and tell her she was a good girl, that she was taking it so well, if he would smack her ass too. It made her feel guilty that she even thought about him that way. 

Avoiding him for 3 days was a bit overkill, for sure. But she didn’t know how to look him in the face. How could she after all of that? It didn’t help that no matter where she tried to bring her fantasies when she would touch herself, it came back to him. The last three days had been plagued by the thought of him grabbing her hair and tugging her head back for a sloppy kiss while he was balls deep, praising her for it. 

He’d been sweet about it. Leaving her donuts one morning, flowers another. This morning it had been a hand written note. 

‘Y/N

I can’t express to you how sorry I am that I broke our rule. I know you don’t ask for much of me as a roommate and I promised I’d uphold them, and I fucked up. I had a lapse in judgment and I regret it a lot more than you can imagine. 

I don’t know how to fix this with us. I want to. I miss you and I miss talking to you but I’m trying to give you the space you need even if it hurts. I made the mistake and I’m paying for it. 

I promise I won’t ever do it again. I won’t bring someone home again, if that could help. Please talk to me when you’re ready. I miss you so much more than you could know. I’m not trying to buy you over with the gifts but I don’t know what else to do without making you uncomfortable. It’s killing me to know I hurt you at all. I’ve never done it before, though. I promise. I’ve never had anyone else there. It truly was a mistake. 

I’ll be home at my normal time if you want to talk, I’m bringing home Italian food. I’ll grab your favorite. Text me if you need, I’d love to hear from you.

H xx’

The note sounded genuine. It’s why she placed a blanket over the couch and sat stiffly as he walked into the door, noticing his double take as he hung up his keys. The bag of food hung off his arm and he looked at her wide eyed, though staying quiet as he went into the kitchen to place it down. 

“Hi.” He started, walking over to her slowly. “D-Did you have a good day?” The nerves could be heard in his voice and it made her sad. She didn’t want him to be terribly nervous around her, not when they used to have a really comfortable relationship. 

“It was okay.” She murmured, rubbing her hand over her lounge pants. “Got off of work early.” What else was she supposed to say? It was hard to navigate this when she’d never imagined fighting with Harry at all. 

“Oh? That’s good.” He sat on the coffee table in front of her, wanting to face forward when he spoke to her. “I had to stay a tiny bit late. It’s why I wasn’t home on time. I’m sorry.” His eyes were studying her face, desperate to see forgiveness in her eyes. The last few days without her had felt so empty. 

“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “Figured something like that happened.”  Picking at her nails, she moved to look at him. “I’m not sure how to talk to you right now. I’m not angry anymore, but I don’t know how to go about it.” Y/N, as blunt as ever, made him smile sadly.

“M’crawling out of my skin. Don’t like that I made you upset at all. It was stupid. You read my note?” He anxiously awaited all day a text from her but he hadn’t gotten one. 

“I did.” She took a deep breath. “I’m upset about the couch thing but there’s layers to it that have been difficult for me to understand. It isn’t fair of me to sit and say it’s all your fault I stayed away for the last few days because part of it was me.” It was terrifying to admit things like this but she didn’t know how else to be. It would probably make things weird with them, but it had to be discussed or it would ruin their friendship. 

“How do you mean?” Brows furrowed as he shifted forward, hands on his knees as he leaned into her space. He’d always been a touchy person who didn’t know what personal space was, so she was used to it but it still made her react. A bit differently this time. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” It was difficult to look at him without feeling that burn in her stomach. “It made me look at you differently. A way I hadn’t allowed myself to look at you before, and I’ve felt guilty and…” how could she word it? “Slightly perverted for it. You’re my friend and I shouldn’t have let seeing that influence anything other than my upset about the rules, but it made me think of you in a light that friends shouldn’t look at other friends.” 

Well, he hadn’t expected that. 

He was slowly catching on, watching her shy face as she looked back towards her lap and fiddled with her hands. She looked at him in a sexual way. That’s why she was avoiding him. The couch issue was one thing, but she was upset that she was looking at a friend in a way that went past their normal relationship. 

As fucked up as it may be, he felt a sprinkle of hope. Her postures perked up a bit as he tried to get her eyes again, but he didn’t want to assume she wanted anything from him. “That’s okay, love.” His hand cautiously grabbed one of hers, holding it lax enough that she could pull back if she wanted to. “Really. There’s nothing wrong with that at all.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, relief flooding him that the majority of the reason she had been avoiding him was something like this. Something he could remedy. “So you’ve been thinking of me sexually, that’s what you’re saying?”

Y/N groaned, closing her eyes as her head fell back against her shoulders. “God, yes. Okay?! And I’m ashamed of it. I don’t know why it happened and why I can’t just forget about it but it makes me…’it made me annoyed that I haven’t felt anything like that before. I’ve never made noises like that and no one’s ever made me feel like what I assume she was. I’ve always seen you as something else and then, imagine my fucking surprise when I walk in and see you acting like a porn star. Not even one of the bad ones either. It would have been easier if it was!” The floodgates opened and Harry watched with raised brows as she continued, fueling his ego in the process. “I feel guilty pthat I looked at it and wanted to be in that position. I never thought of you like that, not that you aren’t amazing and attractive but you were supposed to just be my platonic friend considering we’d roommates. Don’t you know how bad it would be to be into your roommate? It makes everything insane.” 

“I know how it feels.” He murmured, making her pause. If she was unloading all of this stuff, being honest as honest could be, he figured he may as well. Let it all set out on the table. 

“Wait- what?” She squeaked, looking at him with wide eyes this time. It had been a mistake, she thought, until he shrugged his shoulders. 

“Yeah. I’ve always thought of you like that, but you didn’t seem to reciprocate so I tried to get over it. I was distracting myself so I wouldn’t fuck up our friendship.” It was his turn to look at his lap, watching his freshly painted thumb run over her knuckles and fiddle with her ring. “Always worried about making you feel like… objectified in your own home. I wanted to be respectful. But do you really think I’m not attracted to you?” He found the courage to look up again. “I’ve been attracted to you since we first met. But you’ve always been so nonchalant about everything, I assumed you didn’t care.”

Y/N was stumped. Harry was into her? He wanted to touch her this whole time and she had been none the wiser? It made her pause, trying to recount all their memories. Had he always looked at her like this? With the soft glint in his eyes, or with the hunger? Yearning, perhaps was the word. She’d never even guessed that in the slightest. He’s had a revolving door of partners coming over to fuck around, but she thought that’s just how he was.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to make you feel obligated to cater to my feelings. I still don’t. If you aren’t into me like that, it’s okay. I want our friendship to remain in tact. But I needed to tell you it’s not one sided. You don’t have to feel guilty over thinking of me like that considering the only reason I took that girl home was because you’d made me sexually frustrated that morning with those little sleep shorts and coming in for a hug and pressed your sleepy, soft body against me. I needed to get that out.” He knew it didn’t make much sense when he said it out loud. 

“Did it work?”

That hadn’t been the response he expected, blinking a few times as he gave her a questioning look. “Did what work?” 

“Fucking her. Did you get me out of your mind?” She looked at him expectantly and he could feel the heat starting to raise in his cheeks. He’d expected… not this sort of train of thought, but he wasn’t about to lie again. 

“Not really.” He admitted. “I mean… in the moment, an orgasm helped. But I wasn’t fucking the person I was thinking about.” 

This time Y/N blinked a few times at him, trying to catch up mentally. “So…’you were thinking about me, when you…”

“Yes.” Unashamed at this point, there was nothing to lose. 

“And all the things you were saying? You were like….” Her eyes fell to his mouth. Pretty and pink, obviously nervously bitten, she had been a little shocked at the revelation. “You were saying them to me? In your head?”

“Basically.” He could see on her face that she was flustered but chose not to tease her about it like he normally would. “I usually bring people back that look like you. Tried to do people who were the opposite but, it made it harder to cum.” The gloves were off now. There was a shift in the air as she adjusted herself on the couch, pressing her thighs together and desperately hoping he didn’t notice. 

He did. 

“You can’t… finish? Unless you think about me?” It made her eyes stay wide, her grip on his hand tightening slightly out of reflex. 

“Well… I can, but it isn’t as good. Usually that’s where my head goes to. I can’t really help it.” Harry came the hardest when he looked at where his cock connected to the other person, imagining it being her cunt he was fucking. Her moans. That the praises that he was saying was heard by her and the clenching and slickness was caused by her reaction to him. It was a bit pathetic and he knew it, but at least it wasn’t a secret anymore. 

“Do you still want to?” 

Harry’s head whipped up so fast he knew he must have pulled a muscle, but there wasn’t a tract of joking on her face. Was she asking what he thought she was. “Do I still want to fuck you?” He clarified, watching her bother head in response. Fuck. The lump in his throat was swallowed as he tried to reply the best way he could. “Of course I do. I’ve been thinking about it for ages but… it’s not just about sex with you.” It was much more than that. “I actually like you. I’d want… I wouldn’t want to have sex once and be done with it. I’d want to properly take you out at some point.” It was a bit unorthodox considering they already lived together but he wouldn’t want to give her any less than she deserved. 

“Okay.” She said softly. “We can do that.” 

His head was spinning. Y/N was so casual about it, not hesitant at all in her agreement to basically be something with him. It felt like he was in a dream, but the frantic beats of his heart made him understand he was very much awake. “Yeah?” He leaned in closer. “You’d want to do it all with me?” The voice was hushed even though there was no one else around. 

Tonight was full of surprises, it seemed, when the girl got up from the couch and made the move to straddle his lap. His hand was quick to wrap around her to make sure she didn’t fall, but his body burned as she ran a hand through his hair and he tilted it up to look at her. They’d never been this close before and he was already growing in his pants, making him shiver as she leaned down to brush her nose against his. “Yeah. I’d like to go on a date with you, too but…” she took a moment to rub it against his own, back and forth. Making his eyes hood a bit as his arm shifted to pull her closer to him, desperate for the contact. “I want you to fuck me, first. Make me cum harder than the other girl did. I want to make those noises, H.” She whispered. 

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. Not when she was sitting right on his lap, presenting herself like the perfect little present. Willing and eager for the taking. Leaning himself up, he caught her lips in a gentle kiss. Trying to pace himself, though he could feel the self control slipping from his grip as she hummed into his mouth. This was he shit he had been dying for, feeling her fingers slip from his hair to the back of his neck as he pulled apart to take a breath. “I’ll do whatever you want, sweetheart. Anything.” 

Back again their lips were attached. It wasn’t as gentle, no, not when she kissed him harder. He was going to give into anything she wanted. Not only because he had fucked up, but because he wanted to make her happy. He was desperate to please her, to make her feel as good as she possibly could and he wanted to be the one responsible for it. 

Their kissing escalated quickly, groaning as she easily opened her mouth for him and even more so when she sucked on his tongue, making arousal zip up his spine. He’d never expect her to kiss like this, not in the slightest. The expectation had been soft and hesitant, but she was giving him the kisses in his wet dreams. His hand found her ass, palming over it before giving a squeeze, making a moan muffle against his mouth. “Take me to your room.” She whispered against his lips. “Please, H. Just take me there. I want these off.” Fingers tugged at his shirt, trying to get it off. 

Who was he to deny her? 

He helped her toss it off before grabbing her and standing up, chuckling when she squeaked his name and scrambled to hold on to him with her arms around his neck. “Said I’d give you whatever you wanted, love.” 

The walk there was short, but it took an even shorter time to get her on his bed with her top off. She wasn’t wearing a bra, much to his surprise and delight. The fabric was tossed to the side of his bed as his pupils dilated, looking down at her topless body. Something he had been dreaming about for ages, and here she was. Sitting pretty in his sheets, hair messy and lips swollen from kissing him. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He drawled, running his hands down her sides. “So beautiful. Y’know that? Drives me fucking mad.” His fingers were greedy, crawling back up to her collarbones and back down to the curves of her breasts. “Been dying to see you.”

Y/N took his wrists, guiding his hands to cup her breasts. She was impatient and that much was obvious, but it made him amused more than anything else. His eager girl. “Touch me. Please.” Her eyes matched the pleading in her voice, making him smile. This sort of begging he’d never expected from her, not with her usual strong will and blunt demeanor but he couldn’t say he hated it. 

“I’m going to, lovely. It’s all I want to do.” He soothed, thumbing across her nipples. She arched into it, letting out a soft sound as he did so. It seemed like once the wall had cracked, it was deteriorating quickly right in front of his eyes. He’d be the one to get to see her like this now after pining for it, and he knew she would be the best. Anyone else had been filler, as cruel as it sounded. He was respectful towards them, honest about only wanting to hook up once, because he knew that no matter how hard he tried to imagine nothing would beat he real thing. 

And he’d been right. 

No one else affected him so quickly, so intensely. Watching her mouth fall open as he moved to pinch both of her nipples lightly and tug, she whimpered into the air and gave him a look he wanted to commit to memory. He wanted to see that face every time he closed his eyes. 

“My lovely girl… don’t need to beg me to touch you, because you know I will… but.” He leaned down to kiss her again. “I do like the sound of your voice while you beg for me.” 

His hands moved from her breasts regretfully, clicking his tongue to hush her whine of protest as he hooked his fingers into her lounge pants. Pulling them down, he was met with a beautiful picture- a filthy one. His eyes shot to hers, narrowing slightly. “No fucking panties either? Y/N.” He hissed between his teeth. “Are you always walkin’ around like this? Nothing on underneath?” She nodded quickly, kicking the pants off of her ankles. 

“Hate them.” The girl huffed. “So constricting. I don’t wear them when I don’t have to.” 

His eyes closed for a moment, groaning at the information. “So every time you’ve been sitting there with me, watching one of those movies… I could have slipped my hand down your shorts and felt how wet you get for me?” He questioned, looking down at her. His fingers tugged at his belt, tossing it haphazardly as his eyes stayed pinned to hers as he continued undressing. “You’re telling me…. You prance around here in those little cotton shorts, and you’re bare under them? Could have just… tugged them down and gotten to see that pretty pussy?”

“Mhm.” She grinned, liking the reaction she was getting. “Everything you said. I don’t usually wear them at home.” Her fingers dragged down her stomach, stopping at the mound right above her cunt. “Makes it easier when I want to touch myself, too. Less layers.” 

Harry took a deep breath, watching her hand as it slipped further down to cover her cunt. It was wet, there no was no hiding it. He could see it clearly, and his cock was aching to bury itself in there and let it squeeze every drop of cum from him. He tried to collect himself as he looked down at her, watching her fingers spread herself open for a moment before swirling over her clit with a whimper. 

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, a dark look on his face. “Not yet. That’s my job tonight.” He warned, falling to his knees in front of her. Clad just in his briefs, he hooked his arms under her thighs and pulled her close to him, so close that he could almost taste her. Instead, he kissed her inner thighs. Soft, sweet. Gentle in the way he had always wanted to be with her before her fucked her and made her hopefully as addicted to him as he knew he was going to be to her. “You okay with this, love? Tell me you want me to have you.” Lips pressed on the soft mound above her cunt. “Tell me I can.” 

“Please, I’m okay. I want you to have me, you can do anything you want. Just… touch me. Please, H.” Her hips tried to move up and catch his mouth, Y/N showing no sign of embarrassment as she did so. He felt a surge of pride, knowing she wanted him that badly. Her body was perfect for him, every dip and curve and scar soon to be memorized. He’d call off of work tomorrow to spend the day in bed with her, pampering and spoiling not only herself, but his innermost desires. 

“Such good manners.” He cooed, shifting her closer as he took his first lick. “Remember what I said about begging, yeah?” 

It was all bets off. Y/N could barely breathe as she felt his mouth on her. Slowly licking up her and tongue finding her clit, flicking over it and repeating the process. His hand held her lower tummy, keeping her still as he continued. Her breathing was already picking up when he felt his tongue dip into her, making her grip fall from her own thighs to his hair. “Oh my god, Harry. That-“ she couldn’t finish her sentence as he did it again, nuzzling into her without a care in the world.

It was true. He wanted his face messy and wet with her, wanted to bury himself in there and feel her stomach jump as his hand held her down. He was tasting her directly from the source. “Taste so good.” He mumbled against her. “My favorite thing to taste now. You know that?” He took another broad sweep of his tongue, looking into her eyes as he pursed his lips and spit on her clit. He smirked at the little gasp she let out, head dipping back down to spread it over her cunt as she began to move her hips to chase his tongue. “No, baby. None of that. Stay still for me.” He coaxed, pressing down harder on her stomach to pin her to the bed. 

Y/N tried, she really did. But it felt so good, so fucking amazing- and then he added his fingers into the mix. Slipping one in slowly, she let out a noise she didn’t recognize. Of course she knew this was going to feel good, but she vastly underestimated how crazy he was going to make her. “Harry please… fuck.” Truthfully? She didn’t even know what she was begging for. Her mouth fell open again and she arched her back as she felt his mouth over her clit, sucking in in messily while his finger fucked into her. It was impossible to stay still. “Harry, more. I want more, please, I’m gonna cum if you….” She lost her train of thought when he added another finger. 

The man was eating this up. Watching her as she tried to keep still for him but feeling her fingers curl in his hair and press him further against her clit, he sucked harded the more she pushed. Finding a good rhythm as his pulsing sucking had her panting, toes curling into the sheet as he continued the pleasure filled torture. He wanted to feel her cum on his tongue. 

“Cum.” He ordered. “Do it for me, precious girl. C’mon.” He finally allowed her to move, rubbing herself on his face as his fingers fucked and curled into her, his mouth latched to her puffy, swollen clit. She felt crazy, she was sure of it, writhing on the mattress as the heat crawled up her body. His eyes were directly on her, hot and dark while she felt herself fall over the edge. 

“Harry- Harry, oh my fucking god.” She couldn’t breathe, repeating his name like it was air as she fell over the edge. White hot pleasure washing over her, orgasm soaking his face as he pulled up and kissed her hard. Her body still shook as he pulled himself out of his briefs and began to push in, feeling her still orgasming pussy quivering around him. “You just- please.” Her eyes opened frantically, fingers finding his back as she pulled him in. Legs wrapped around his waist as he sunk in deeper, filling her up in ways she hadn’t felt before. 

“I know, baby. I know.” He cooed. “You feel… so good around me. Just let me in.” He cupped her face, pressing soft kisses to her mouth. “I’m going to take you all fucking night. You know that?” His voice was a deeper tone than she’d even heard him with the other girl. Feeling it directed at her only amplified the arousal. “Not going to last long, feeling you and taste you… it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Almost came just licking you out.” He told the truth. Y/N was perfect, he thinks. Exactly what he needed. 

“I want it all.” She replied, pulling his face down further to kiss him deeper. “So much. I want you to do anything to me. Just…” her legs tugged him in deeper, making them both groan. “Just fuck me, Harry. It’s me this time.” It boosted her ego to know he had been searching for her this entire time. “It’s not someone you have to pretend with. You’ve wanted me this whole time? Show me.” Her nails dragged down his back, making him shiver. “Fuck me like you own me.”

Something in that triggered something in him, something he’d been hiding all along. Kissing her hard to shut her up, he slid out of her to ram back in. Jolting her, she cried out against his lips as he did it again. Hard thrusts paired with a grind at the end, pulling out slowly only to repeat it. She’d never been fucked like this- so purposefully. “Yes- like that, H.” The girl whimpered. “Please. Use me. Have me.” 

“Yeah? You want to be mine?” He asked, wild eyes looking into her own as he pressed his forehead against hers, not caring about the stickiness of their sweat. “Do you know how long I’ve been dying to be wrapped up by your cunt? Hm?” He spoke against her lips, smiling drunkenly as she whimpered with his intent thrusts. “Since I first saw you. Wanted to drag you to your bed and fill you up. Make you cry for me. And every day since… It's been growing.” The desire for her has grown to something he hadn’t ever thought possible. It was hard to ignore. Thank god he never had to ignore it again. “Every day, I thought about pulling you into my arms and kissing you until you couldn’t breathe. You think anyone else could ever compare to you?” He shook his head to answer his own question. “No. No one. Not anyone I’ve taken home, not the girl from the other day… no one has made me feel as good as this.” 

Harry had always loved sex, but when he met Y/N and developed the attraction and then feelings for her, he’d been chasing a high that couldn’t be provided by anyone else. This, this was exactly what he needed. “Need to stay inside of you, sweet girl. Need to… fuck.” Some hair fell into his face as his thrusts sped up just slightly. It was hard to think when her walls were contracting around him, so slick and hot that it made him dizzy. “Need to cum in you and do it again… and again.” He knew she was on birth control considering he’d gone with her to get the implant. They were safe, but that didn’t stop him for perhaps wishing it wasn’t. “Just want to make you mine, my sweet fucking girl….” His head lulled forward as he looked down to watch them. 

It was a filthy sight. His bare cock pulling out, glistening with her arousal and mess. Her cunt stretching open, her lips puffy and wet just for him. He was doing this. He was filling her up, he was making her cling to him, and he was finally inside the one person he’d never thought he could have. “Look at how good we are together. Look with me, baby.” He pulled her up slightly, holding the back of her neck to let her see the filthy sight. His prick spreading her while the wet, puffy lips of her cunt as he filled her. “Touch yourself. Rub that clit for me.” 

Y/N did as requested, finding it quickly as she watched the now slower thrusts inside of her. It made her smug, really. Knowing that he was this enthralled with her. Also, the knowledge that he was losing his mind far more over her than he had the other girl. He was obsessed with her and she could visibly see it. 

“There we go.Pretty, pretty fucking girl. You’re all I want. This body, that mouth, S’all I dream about. Just want you in my bed, want to get rid of those damn rules so I can take you on every damn surface… please let me, angel. Please.” He pleaded. “No more rules. Only want you.”

“No more rules.” She nodded, finding the pleasure building back up. Her hand rubbing her already sensitive and puffy clit, watching as her arousal began to make a creamier mess on his cock, she was in awe of how perfect they looked together. “H… you’re gonna make me cum.” 

Harry smiled, a real smile that took her breath away. “Thank god. I’m trying to hold on for you, but m’so close.” He let her lay back down, leaning over her and speeding the pace back up as he sucked a nipple into his mouth. It was hard to focus on one thing when he’d been dying for this situation for a year. He had his dream girl wrapped around his cock. 

Fingers found his hair again as she arched into his mouth, mewling as he sucked over her nipple and fucked into her at a steady speed. He was hitting right where he needed to, her fingers rubbing circles on her clit. It was messy and wet and so perfect, it was hard to keep herself together. “Please.” She whined. “Please, can I cum? Let me cum, I need to. I want you in me and I want to feel your cum inside me, mark me, make me yours.” She pleaded, feeling him pull off her other nipple with a pant.

“Don’t have to hold back from me. M’gonna go right after you, just want you to feel good. Let go for me, my good girl. I’m yours, always have been. You’re already mine.” His nose brushed hers, moving her hand to take over rubbing her clit. He did it faster, a bit more pressure and that little difference with his permission was all it took for her to let go.

Harry felt it as she did. The pulsing of her cunt, the slickness growing and the way her mouth went lax, not able to kiss but only breath him in as she tumbled into the pleasure. Her legs tightened around him, nails digging into the back of his neck as her eyes fell closed, the prettiest moan vibrated against his lips. 

It pushed him right off the edge with her. Thrusts growing sloppy, he didn’t lighten up with his hand as he felt her contracting around him, sopping wet and tight for him as he felt his balls tighten and unload into her. His deep groan was loud, louder than he’d anticipated as he kissed her to try and muffle it. He could feel himself throbbing as her cunt sucked him in, greedy for it as the pulsating of her walls drew each ribbon of cum into her. She was coated, and he underestimated just how much he had as it began to spill out of her as he filled her to the brim. 

“Oh my god.” He whispered. “Fuck me, baby. You’re perfect.” It was a bit of disbelief that coated his tone. Lips fell all over her face, pressing soft pecks over her cheeks, her chin, nose, eyelids, forehead, everywhere he could get it as he tried to get his breathing back to normal. It was the hardest he’d ever came, and he still felt shaky from it as he stayed buried in her. Where he belonged. Y/N melted under the kisses, smiling wide as her eyes peeled open to look at him. Dark eyes and flushed face, messy hair she continued to drag her fingertips into. One fell from the softness, cupping his chin and pulling it back to her mouth for a proper kiss. It seemed to make him melt as well, sagging slightly on top of her despite being mindful of his weight on her body. 

Harry knew this was the start of something much bigger than either of them could have anticipated- and it all started because of his silly mistake. He’d finally gotten the one he wanted. No more pretending with anyone else. He had the real thing at home. 

Y/N nudged his nose with hers, feeling so many things her head felt overwhelmed. But the most important question had to be asked. “So. When can we do it again?”

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #8

xxx forced to stay awake

"Do not let him sleep!" Louisa's voice, sounding strange and distant. It reminds River of the vinyl records he used to listen to with the OB as a kid, the really old ones that made his granddad get that wistful look on his face that disappeared again as soon as he caught River looking at him. Things were so much simpler back then. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he's back there...

"Cartwright!" Lamb snaps, shaking him a little. "Do you want to be fired from the Service for good?"

In this moment, that actually doesn't sound like too much of a bad thing if River is being honest. He doesn't say so.

"That wasn't rhetorical." Lamb's voice is loud, sharp. "We both know how your last job interview went. No one that's any good'll take you, which means you'll be stuck behind a desk at some basic mid-level office job. Or maybe a private firm'll take you on, like your old pal Webb! Imagine working for those arseholes. Is that what you want?"

"No," River mutters.

"No? Then keep your fucking eyes open!"

River forces himself to comply. There's not much to look at, really: the back of the passenger seat; the blood on his hand; Jackson Lamb's knees; the back of Louisa's head and, when he lifts his gaze a little, a glimpse of her worried face in the rear-view. The inside of his eyelids offered a better view.

The car hits a bump, jolting him and ripping a cry from his throat as pain tears through his side and chest where the bullets had struck. His vision goes dark for a second, and then he's pulled back to awareness by the sound of Lamb's raised voice.

"Jesus Christ," he's saying. "Who taught you how to drive?"

"I'm sorry!" Louisa, voice pinched. "River, come on!"

River groans, and prying his eyelids apart is harder this time. Breathing is hard, too. Everything is hard.

"River, talk to me! You okay?" Louisa cries.

"Yup," River gasps. Another groan. "Hurts."

"I'll bet it does," Lamb says. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before running off on your own like a fucking dickhead, eh? Course, I thought the same thing the last two times you did it. It's like you never learn, no matter how many times I tell you to stop doing stupid shit."

"You can..." River really shouldn't be wasting his breath on this, but he can't help it. "You can lead a horse to water."

Lamb makes a noise that could be a snort of laughter or, more likely, he's hacking up something disgusting.

"I don't know that I could lead you fuck-ups to water if we were on a-a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific."

River tries to draw in another breath to respond, but his chest hitches and he lets out a wet cough. His mouth fills with the taste of iron and he almost gags, but coughs again instead, blood flecking his lips, and he just keeps coughing. Panic is creeping in, black dancing at the edges of his vision. He can't get enough air...

"Keep breathing," Lamb commands, his words filtering through the ringing in River's ears. The pressure he's been holding on the hole in River's chest increases as he tightens his grip.

He doesn't know how long it takes, it feels like a lifetime, but the coughing fit finally subsides. His chest is burning, head pounding. He can't catch his breath. And, more than anything else, he's so, so tired. It's a deep, heavy exhaustion. He just wants to sleep.

"Cartwright! You open your fucking eyes, now."

Fucking Lamb. Louisa is speaking too, but River can't discern the words. She's too far away. He suspects she wants him to stay awake too, though, damn her. Damn both of them.

"Now!" Lamb repeats, tapping River's face. "You hear me, Cartwright? That's an order. I know you're shit at following those, but you had better follow this one. Come on. Eyes open. If you won't do it for me, do it for Guy. You saw what happened after Min. What do you think'll happen if you die in her backseat?"

That sparks something, the faintest bit of anger, and River's eyes open a little. He doesn't know how he manages it.

He doesn't know if he'll manage it again.

xxx

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

till i lost you

the wistful wyvern, chapter six

a/n: alright, everybody calm down! it's happening, it's finally happening! get ready to weep (both from your eyes and somewhere a little lower....)

summary: letting your hazy gaze flutter across the abandoned mine, you then uttered, “I don’t think I can do this anymore… I shouldn’t have ever agreed to this mission. I should have just stayed away and not get dragged right back into the hole I was trying so hard to dig myself out of,” your vision began to blur as tears started to well up, “it hurts. Being near you hurts. Having you touch me as if you care hurts.” 

warnings: knight!bucky barnes x knight!reader, smut, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, ex-friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, former fuckboy!bucky, tattooed!bucky, slow burn, one-sided pinning, forced proximity, injuries, love confession, crying, kissing, cave sex, injured sex, dirty talk, size kink, penetrative sex, protected sex (a fantasy birth control tea commonly used by men), creampie

word count: 2869

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“Careful, careful,” you murmured as Bucky leaned on you, letting you help him to a seated position.

“Please,” he panted, his eyes fluttering shut as he breathed through the pain, “just take the eggs and run,” he pushed the narrow chest, that you’d placed down beside him, closer to you. 

“Stop,” you swiftly shook your head.

“You can get out without any of the soldiers noticing,” he kept urging, “go back to Erasild, get Echo and return the eggs without me.”

“No!” you snapped and finally found his gaze, “I’m not leaving you!” 

Holding your stare for but a moment, his ocean eyes then averted to the rough cave floor below. 

You’d ducked into the abandoned Faldemire Mine that lied just north of Ingorn. It was cold and dark, but both with Bucky’s injury and the army of soldiers hunting the two of you, it stood as your one and only chance of survival. 

“Fuck…” you knelled down behind him and gently inspected the arrow that still pierced his shoulder, “I-I don’t know how bad it is.” 

“Just pull it out, snow,” he groaned, “I would do it myself, but I can’t reach it.”

“But–”

“Just get it out!” he barked, actually making you jump. 

Carefully, you wrapped your fingers around the length and slowly pulled it out. The groans that rumbled out of him echoed off the cavern walls, till the arrow dropped from your grasp and tumbled to the rocky ground. 

Swiftly peeling the black jacket of his formal attire off, you tugged the neckline of his equally ebony tunic back enough for you to examine the wound. 

“Oh, good!” a relieved breath escaped your lungs, “it doesn’t look that bad.”

“Great,” he huffed dryly through the laboured breaths he still sucked in. 

“I mean, it doesn’t look good, but–… fuck… I wish we could start a fire so that I could cauterise this.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather bleed than bring the search party right to us.”

Ripping a chunk of your already tattered blue gown off, you used it as a bandage and patched Bucky up the best that you could. You’d both fallen quiet when the silky fabric was securely tied off around his frame.  

A wince then escaped you as you twisted your spine, fierce enough for you to fear that perhaps you’d hurt yourself more than the fading adrenaline had let you notice. 

As you curled an arm back to undo the laces of the dress, Bucky’s low voice then caused your fingers to halt their efforts, “here, let me help you,” his gaze captured yours a moment before you wearily let him. Turning your back to him, your eyes fluttered shut as he slowly unlaced the gown. When it was open enough and your hands had found the front to hold it up, the touch he let cascade down your spine caused you to gasp quietly, “it’s–…” his low breath tickled the back of your neck, “you’re alright…” he slowly retracted the contact, “it’s just some bruising.”

“Thanks,” you breathed, before he carefully helped you close the dress once more, though only loosely fastening it in order for you to be more comfortable. Twisting your neck, you glanced back at him and uttered, “…we should try and get some sleep…” 

“…yeah…” he waited a moment longer before parting from your proximity and laying down on the hard ground. 

You told yourself that it was just because of how hard you both shivered that Bucky soon pulled you close to huddle for warmth, but the bittersweet intimacy of his body pressed against yours had your mind reeling whether it was a good idea to indulge yourself in this sensation after the kind of day you’d had. 

You understood why it slowly blossomed into something more. You might not make it through the night, get to see another sunrise, so naturally, the man beside you let his touch wander. At first, he just scooted even closer, pressing the curve of your bottom back against his groin, but then the hand around your waist started drawing dizzying patterns that crept dangerously close to other areas. But when his soft lips pressed down against the nape of your neck, that’s when you cracked. 

Shooting up to a sitting position, you strayed from his touch.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and you swiftly felt yourself drowning in the thick molasses of his voice.

“You can’t do that,” you quietly choked out, “y-you–…” although your back was firmly turned away from him, your eyes still fluttered closed in order to shut him out, “Bucky, I don’t wanna be another one of your flings.”

“What?” you heard him sit up behind you, “snow, you’re not.”

“I c-can’t,” shaky breaths leaked out of you, “you can’t–…”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–… fuck…” he groaned quietly, “I’m sorry, please, let’s just forget about it and go to sleep,” he pleaded, though you didn’t even move an inch. 

Letting your hazy gaze flutter across the abandoned mine, you then uttered, “I don’t think I can do this anymore… I shouldn’t have ever agreed to this mission. I should have just stayed away and not get dragged right back into the hole I was trying so hard to dig myself out of,” your vision began to blur as tears started to well up, “it hurts. Being near you hurts. Having you touch me as if you care hurts.” 

“What are you talking about?” he breathed, “I do care!”

“No, you don’t,” your head shook lightly from side to side, “not in the way I’ve yearned for so fiercely,” a tear slowly rolled down your cheek, “and I’ve accepted that, I’ve learned to live with it, but what I can’t take is finally having you for one single night, only to endure your usual routine with women of moving on to the next and never looking back again. You can’t do that to me, not me. I wouldn’t survive that. I genuinely thought I meant more to you than just another piece of ass, but apparently not,” one of your palms came up to press against your aching chest, “if I could take my heart back, I would. I don’t want it to belong to you, but it does. From the day I met you, my heart has been yours. And even though you’ve broken it a dozen times over and over again, I still don’t know how to make it stop, because I fucking love you!” your voice rang throughout the cave, “I have loved you when we were together, I have loved you when we were apart, I have loved you since you moment I set eyes on you.”

Your face then crashed down into your open palms as sobs billowed out of you. 

“Why–…” he slowly uttered, “why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I almost did,” you sniffled into your hands, “that night, that harvest fest celebration, before I went away… it’s so stupid and I know that you were just incredibly drunk and would have probably flirted with a wine bottle if it was curvy enough, but I just thought–… I thought there was a moment between us…” 

“Y/n,” the shock of your actual name rolling off his tongue startled you enough for you to crawl out of your hiding spot and glance over your shoulder at him, “there was,” he uttered sincerely, the intensity of his stare holding you captive, “I was just too fucking thick-headed to know what it meant, what any of it meant, till you went away, till I lost you,” you slowly twisted your body back to face him fully, “I love you, Y/n. It is my heart that belongs to you. Whether or not I was smart enough to know it, it has always been yours.”

You could barely breathe, especially not when his fingers found yours in a warm weave. 

“Can I–…” his words got cut off by a sharp intake of air as his gaze momentarily flickered down to your lips, “…I would very much like to kiss you…” 

Eyes still brimming with tears, your lips curled up into a shaky smile as your brain still scrambled to comprehend his confession. 

Even though he’d technically kissed you only a few hours earlier in the night, the way he kissed you now could in no way compare to that ruse of a sample. Both his hands climbed up your cheeks till his fingers disappeared in your hair, rooting himself there as he let the light and fluttery pecks turn into an all-consuming taste as his tongue hungrily brushed against your own. 

“I love you,” you murmured breathlessly as his kisses then began to dance down the length of your neck.

Voice vibrating against your rapid pulse, Bucky planted a scorching peck for each of the words in his echoed reply, “I… love… you…” 

Plucking up his face in your palms, you kept him steady and let your glossy eyes flutter across his face in search of any signs that this wasn’t real, that you’d actually fallen asleep and this was just some heart-breaking dream. 

But then his hands slowly shot up to wipe the remaining mist from your cheeks, “I love you, snow,” he uttered, “and I’ll keep telling you that as much as I can for the rest of my life, just to make up for the decade where I didn’t, where I should have. Gods, I wish I realised it sooner… I wish I’d gotten to have you earlier… I’m so sorry…” 

Sucking in a breath, your voice came out no higher than a whisper, “you have me now.” 

“As you have me,” he exhaled longingly and let his forehead rest against your own, “you have me, every part of me is yours.” 

Seizing your lips once more, the kiss took your breath away. 

Heart thumping in your chest, a shiny string of saliva still connected you when you eventually pulled back. Your hazy eyes fluttered from his and down to where your fingers were tangled in his dark tunic. 

“Can I?” you asked breathlessly, tugging lightly at the fabric. 

“Mhm,” his head offered a faint nod before you carefully lifted his shirt up, making sure to be gentle around the makeshift bandage that knotted around the shoulder where ink crawled up and spilt across his flesh. Tossing it to the ground, your stare wandered down his form. 

“How are you this beautiful?” you whispered as your touch hypnotically ghosted over his skin, “seriously, I don’t get it. It’s just–, urgh…” 

The soft groan you let out conjured a chuckle within his chest. Pulling you into his lap, he smiled, “you’re one to talk,” and slowly began to peel the blue dress you wore off, tugging the at the sleeves and pushing it down till your tits spilt out and the upper half of the gown crumbled at your waist, “holy fuck…” a heavy breath seeped from his lips as his fingers curled just below the newly exposed skin, right at your ribs, “you’re unreal…” his thumb extended to swipe across your softness and a shiver promptly trickled down your spine at the caress, “how do you look like this underneath your armour?” 

You only bit down on your smile before capturing his lips once more, though his kisses swiftly strayed to trickle down your neck and dance across your boobs. As a palm soared up in aid and his lips enclosed around one of your pebbly nipples, your eyes fluttered shut. Digging your fingers into the fabric still tangled around your form, you gathered it up, and when it was all crumbled around your waist, Bucky’s fingers dented in it before he parted from your warmth just long enough to rip it over your head and let it join the rest of the growing cushion-like clothing pile beneath you both. 

When you had shifted to yank his pants down for him, you swiftly returned to his lap, the sensation of his throbbing hardness nudged against your core caused a shaky sigh to tumble from your lips.

The sloppy kisses were dizzying as your needy hips began to move. Grinding your cunt along his length, your pussy drooled all over him as your aching clit received a hint of relief. 

Moving the palm you had planted on the side of his bearded cheek, it slid further up his features till it curved around to loosen the thin leather cord that tied off his hair, your lips never straying from his as you tossed it to the ground. 

And as the sinful sounds of your slickness echoed within the mine at every smouldering rock of your hips, you reached down to grasp his girth. Parting slightly, a soft smirk bloomed on Bucky’s lips as he thought your intentions were simply to touch him a bit, but that swiftly melted away into blissful surprise as you, out of pure desperation, slipped it inside and sank down on his cock. 

“Oh, f-fuck!” he shuttered, his fingers flexed around your waist as you slowly eased your way down. 

“Sorry,” you whimpered, your eyes fluttering at the discovery of just how fiercely he stretched you out and perhaps how hasty you’d been in your eager pursuit, “I just couldn’t wait any longer. I’ve been fucking dreaming about how you’d feel for so long, I’m honestly not even sure right now if this isn’t a dream.” 

Letting out a low groan, his head tilted and he pressed his lips to your brow, “well, if you’re dreaming, then I’m dreaming,” his right hand soared up to find your cheek as he bottomed out and you settled for a moment of stillness atop of him.

Buried deep within you, Bucky’s fingers gently brushed away the lock of hair that had fallen over your eye. His intense gaze held you captive as you shared his breath, goosebumps tingling across your flesh as he throbbed within you. 

When you began to move, the intoxicating pleasure that each silky roll gave you as the details of his cock kissed your cunt, caused you to nearly melt on top of him. 

“Nghh,” a guttural whine slurred from your lips. Struggling to keep your eyes open, you almost missed how your reaction caused a gentle chuckle to roll from Bucky’s tongue.

But his light laugh then promptly faded as he tried to aid in your movements and take the lead, a sharp wince pierced through your fog.

Freezing atop of him, you blinked open your eyes and gasped, “are you okay?” 

“Fuck,” he hissed at the pain his attempt sparked, “yeah, yeah, I’m good, don’t stop, please,” he grunted, then let out a soft laugh, “fucking hell, I feel useless.”  

“You’re not useless,” you echoed his chuckle, then gently pushed at his torso for him to lay down completely, “in fact,” your nose brushed against his as your tits smooshed down against his pecs, “I personally think you’re being incredibly useful right now.” 

As you pressed your lips to his, you slowly began to raise your hips up enough for just the tip of him to remain, before you sank back down. 

After you’d found a rhythm so slow and deep it caused your thighs to tremble, you slowly pushed yourself back up. A gravelly moan rumbled within Bucky’s chest as he enjoyed the view of you gently bouncing on his fat girth. 

“Gods, yes,” his touch vanished from your ass and slid up to play with your tits, “just like that, snow. You’re fucking perfect.” 

It felt like his hands were everywhere. From squeezing your boobs to capturing your nipples in a harsh pinch, to rubbing your puffy clit and even landing a smack across your ass, he made you lose yourself and render you to nothing more than a trembling and whimpering mess on top of him. 

Somewhere in the haze of it all, your body had melted back down against his. 

And as you felt the edge begin to near, you couldn’t protest when he rolled you both over and he muffled his small groan of pain against your lips as he shifted onto his good side. 

Careful not to touch his injured shoulder as your palm clutched the side of his neck, he grasped your right leg and tugged it over his hip. As he glided his hand down to the curve of your bottom, he clung to you as he bucked into your pussy till you fluttered around him and squeezed him so snugly that his demise became inevitable as well. 

He stayed inside of you long after you’d milked him of all of his worth, simply stayed there, buried and frozen as your mutual nectar slowly leaked out. 

Softly brushing some hair out of Bucky’s face, you sighed blissfully into the embrace and breathed, “I can’t believe that just happened…” blinking up into his eyes in utter awe. 

“What,” a smile bloomed on his lips, “you need a reminder already? Alright, fine,” he jokingly faked a sigh, “you drive a hard bargain,” his quip conjured a gentle giggle within you, “but sure, we can go again already.” 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[greeneyessmize]

I want to highlight how Penelope is a QUEEN at quick, satisfying exits in Season 3.

Exhibit 1.

The Queen's Garden Party Escape:

Colin comes up to Penelope and tries to impress her with his new persona and clothes, tries to engage with her over Eloise being friendly with Cressida, but is just left confused in the dust when she leaves without a proper friendly goodbye or even a half-hearted smile. Boy is practically slack jawed inhaling her dust.

Exhibit 2.

The Danbury Ball Exit:

Here, we have take two of Colin's attempts to charm Penelope. He lies about having come to check on her, compliments her, tells her she cannot be a spinster when she attempts to flee his presence with a bit of grace, says he misses her and gets the shit slapped out of him with his own words... and again is left grasping for words and coherent thought as Pen gtfo's.

Exhibit 3.

The Kiss Run:

Penelope thought this was her only kiss she would ever have. It was glorious. It was beautiful. And she ran from any awkwardness that could have crashed that memory. But the result is the same, Colin left in a muddle of his brain & bits short circuiting while she Cinderella'd the fuck out if there.

Exhibit 4.

Under the Willows:

The boy is all tangled up in his underpants after the kiss, so this one wasn't too hard. But he barely said even one truly honest thing that he wished to say before she was just goooone. And again, sad boy left looking confused af.

Exhibit 5.

The Day of Francesca & John's wedding:

Penelope exits their bedroom fully dressed, gloriously cool and unbothered. She lets Colin know that she is going to see her mother and spare him the carriage ride with her to Bridgerton House and is gone before he can even say a word. He looks so wistful and puzzled and like he had so much he was ready to say. And this time, THIS TIME, he does something about it. He goes and rereads her letters.

Mad respect to Pen for these swift exits. As a woman who has also employed it when mad at or uncomfortable with someone... it's such a power move. Whether or not it helped any of the situations? Ehhh, but still, damned satisfying to leave the man who hurt you just hanging to twist in the wind sometimes.

[nyoomfruits]

i had the time of my life fighting dragons with you (carlos/oscar, 1k, t rated)

wrote this in a 20 min sprint with my tsgc gc besties <3 prompt was 'royalty au + "why are you covered in blood?" "long story"' so i wrote a carcar fantasy au heavily inspired by the book 'so this is ever after' by f.t. lukens and the dungeons and dragons movie :)

Oscar really only just manages to stagger himself outside before he collapses on the stone steps of the castle, feeling all the fight drain out of him. Behind him, the castle burns, and he should probably put that out, should probably try to find the other, but right now he’s just exhausted.

Three years of chasing prophecy all led to this. He needs a moment to breathe.

Which is of course, annoyingly, when Carlos shows up.

“Cabron,” he says, coming to halt in front of Oscar, smoothly dismounting his horse. There’s not a single spatter of blood on his clothes, not a hair out of place. His armor gleams in the soft warm light of the setting sun. Oscar hates him so much. “Why are you covered in blood?”

“Long story,” Oscar sighs, letting his head fall back against the stone railing of the stairs. Papaya, the little baby dragon they’d befriended on their journey, chooses that exact moment to trip through the large castle doors, skittering over the worn grey stones towards Oscar, chirping loudly.

“Hm,” Oscar says, scritches Papaya under his chin. “Well, tell him I’m okay, yeah. And to enjoy his moment. He did it and all,” he tries not to sound too wistful when he says it, as he watches Papaya skitter back into the castle. He’s just has a hard time accepting it’s all over now. Done. They can all go their separate ways.

Lando will probably have to do whatever The Chosen One has to do after they’ve defeated The Evil Wizard, George will go back to doing his whole Lord thing in the Kingdom of Mercedes, Alex and Logan will probably find a nice little inn to run somewhere. Charles will inevitably make some rich Lord fall for him and then never have to worry about money ever again, and Oscar.

Oscar will be alone. Like he was before.

“So he did it, then,” Carlos says, startling the shit out of Oscar, who had fully forgotten he was there. “Killed The Evil Wizard?”

“Yup,” Oscar says, pulling himself back up into standing with a loud groan. “You’ve got perfect timing, as always. Showing up when all the hard work is already done.”

Carlos ignores him. “And everyone is okay? Lando?”

“Everyone is fine, according to Papaya. Lando’s panicking a little bit but honestly I wouldn’t have suspected otherwise. Logan broke his leg, but Alex is already trying to heal him, so. All good,” Oscar sways on his legs a little, tries to hold on to the railing. Fuck. Maybe sitting down was a bad idea.

Carlos eyes him. “And you?”

“I’m fine,” Oscar grits out. He tries to take a step, and wavers. God, he’s so exhausted. His bones feel like mush. He’s not magic, like the others. He’s just Oscar, and he’s just spend hours fighting an unnecessarily large amount of The Evil Wizard’s minions.

He sways again, and suddenly Carlos is there, hand on his elbow, holding him upright. “You are hurt,” Carlos says, frowns.

“I’m fucking fine, Carlos, let me go,” he grits. God, he wishes they’d never bumped into Carlos back in the first year of their journey, in the Enchanted Woods. Fucking self-righteous magic ass knight always showing up when Oscar’s at his worst.

Carlos, as always, completely ignores Oscar’s request. “Let me get you back inside.”

“No, I’m, no,” Oscar protests, as Carlos starts leading him back up the stairs, struggling a little. “Carlos, let me go.”

Carlos doesn’t let him go, but he stops walking, looks at him for a really long time. “You were never planning on going back inside,” he says, eventually.

Oscar looks back down the stairs, at a moss stain a few steps down, stubbornly refuses to look at Carlos. “Fuck off,” he says, eloquently.

“Your friends,” Carlos says. “They would miss you.”

“Right, sure,” Oscar says, finally turns back to look at him. “Would they, though? Lando’s probably like, King now. George is already a Lord, Charles will probably marry one, and Alex and Logan have each other. What do I have?”

“Me,” Carlos says, and Oscar snorts.

“Oh, yeah, great. Fucking consolation price, that. No thank you,” he goes to yank his arm away again, walk back down the stairs, but Carlos holds on.

“And Lando,” Carlos continues. “And all your other friends. They care about you. I care about you. If you are not going back inside, at least come with me. I could use someone like you, on my journeys.”

“Yeah, really not making me feel better here,” Oscar spits. “Just. It’s fine, okay. I know Lando only took me along because I was the only one in our village to read maps. I know they see me as a burden. So it’s like, fine. It’s whatever. I can just slip out now and they’ll never have to see me again and it doesn’t have to be this whole big deal.”

Carlos makes a frustrated noise, and suddenly he lunges forward and kisses Oscar full on the mouth.

Oscar is still very much exhausted and very much covered in blood and very much confused, and so he doesn’t even consider kissing back until Carlos is already pulling away. He’s glaring at Oscar, something that’s somehow both slightly undermined and slightly made creepier by the fact that there’s now a smear of blood on his perfectly moisturized cheek.

“Do not ever say again people see you as a burden,” Carlos tells him, so firmly and adamantly, that Oscar can only look at him a little wide eyed and say, “Okay.”

“Good,” Carlos says, and then his frown drops, and he gingerly reaches out with the hand not still holding Oscar steady and carefully wiping a strand of hair away from Oscar’s blood stained forehead. “Now, let’s get you inside and clean you up, yeah? And then we can see how bad those injuries are.”

And Oscar. God, Oscar is so tired. And he hates Carlos so much. But Carlos is also looking at him so softly, so tenderly. And maybe he has never really hated Carlos at all. Maybe it’s always been something else. Something else that’s making his gut swirl and his throat feel tight. His lips are still tingling, and he only just manages to refrain himself from reaching up to touch them.

But then Carlos leans down and picks him up bridal style and Oscar thinks okay, yeah, no, never mind. He really does fucking hate Carlos fucking Sainz.

Or maybe, he thinks, as Carlos carries him back into the castle – that is thankfully no longer on fire -  back to their friends, back to their unsure future, as the sun finally fully sets behind them. Maybe it’s a mixture of both.

Either way, he can’t wait to find out. After a bath. And dinner. And possibly a million hours of sleep.

[wordsinhaled]

Wild to me that photo-shoots like this exist and no one has yet written the AU where Charles has many outfits for Edwin to lose his mind over. But it’s about more than just the outfits, of course. It always is.

So... if I were to do it it'd be like this:

Charles’ history and childhood are the same, and he’s chock-full of confidence issues, anger, a profound need for validation. When he’s in front of a camera he can make that all disappear for a bit, and just be pretty.

But what is he worth when what he is isn’t pretty? When he’s full of spitting, incandescent rage so strong it scares him; when all he wants is to fight back against the people who hurt him?

He thinks it’s ugly how much he can’t stand his dad. How jagged he is inside. How much he wants to be loved and held safe. How deep he carries the shame for wanting to simply be admired, and for daring to think he could deserve it.

He learns his way around a cricket pitch because he has to. Because it’s the thing to do. The thing that’s going to get him the least hurt, at home and at school. But it’s not foolproof: He’s never quite one of the lads. Never quite the right sort of son, either.

Charles who saves up for ages for drapey, pretty things; lovely things; things that feel too nice and look too nice on him, and secrets them away because if his father or his friends find them he’ll be dead. Charles who finds a secondhand camera in a charity shop. Charles who takes secret photos in the middle of the night of himself wearing his secret clothes, photos in which he could maybe be the kind of person he wishes he could be all the time. Confident. Cool. Not just pretty but beautiful. Unbroken.

He stashes the photos even though it would be safer not to keep them at all. And maybe it should be enough just to know he took them. But some selfish and needy part of him wants the evidence, the physical proof. So he’s got this shoebox of photographs stashed under a loose floorboard in his dormitory room at St. Hilarion’s, and after he dies, he retrieves it before he and Edwin leave the school together forever.

He won’t let Edwin look inside the box, at first.

Charles doesn’t show up on film anymore, or in mirrors. He tries to keep it a secret from Edwin—that this might be the bit that hurts the worst about dying, the being invisible. But it’s harder to keep this a secret than other things about his past.

He doesn’t have to really actually say it. It’s the wistful glances that do him in, probably, the ones he fails to hide well enough. One day, with no preamble, Edwin presents him with a full-length mirror in an ornate frame. “We going somewhere, mate?” Charles asks. Edwin tells him no, this mirror is different. He’s enchanted it. “Look again, Charles,” he says gently. And Charles looks again, and realizes he can see himself.

And who the fuck is going to stop him choosing what he likes now, when he’s picking out his outfits for the afterlife? His cunt of a dad? The ignorant tossers who drowned him to death? Charles’d like to see any of them try.

It seems like it won’t be Edwin who stops him either—Edwin, who goes a little glazed round the eyes every time Charles draws up short to stare at a silk shirt in a highstreet window. Nah, Edwin Payne’s a bloody first-rate enabler of all of Charles’ base needs to feel worth it. Charles has got the best best mate in the world. He doesn’t say anything as Charles’ wardrobe slowly grows. Just smiles his little enigmatic smile, the one that's just for Charles with its tantalizing flash of teeth, and drags his gaze over Charles like he approves of Charles’ daring every time Charles wears something new.

So one day he shows Edwin the box. The photos. A month later Edwin brings him a vintage camera and a roll of spelled film. Offers to photograph him.

And Charles could cry. Could shake apart into tiny little pieces. He wants to be seen so fucking bad. By Edwin in specific. By Edwin, who wraps himself all up in tweed and pinstripes and flushes regularly at the sight of Charles’ collarbone. By prim and proper Edwin, who puts his hand on the small of Charles’ back and tells him to buy the silk shirt; that is why they get paid for taking on cases, isn’t it, after all? Port Townsend has changed him. Changed them both.

“We all have our pleasures,” Edwin says, and there’s that smile again, that raised eyebrow—and what does it mean? Charles wants to know Edwin’s pleasures. Wants to be one of them.

Can he be one of them?

There’s a tiny little thrift store in this little seaside town, crammed full of clothes Charles loves almost viscerally and just has to have - but he doesn’t try any of them on until they’re back home in London, in the familiar comfort of their cluttered, dimly-lit office. He digs the camera out of the bag of tricks backpack then, puts in the film; checks and rechecks that he’s put it in right.

One evening he sets the camera on the desk in front of Edwin, who is reading. Waits patiently for his attention to catch on it and for his curious eyes to lift to Charles’ face.

“Right,” Charles says. Past the lump of nerves in his throat and the phantom heat in his cheeks and the impending thrill of being looked at. “About those photographs. You asked if I’d...”

“Be amenable,” Edwin finishes for him, like he’s remembering their conversation precisely.

Charles wants to shrivel up. And he also wants to stand taller, prouder. Angle himself just right. Because Edwin’s watching him now, appraising, and the idea that he might like what he sees makes something unbearably good fizzle down Charles' spine. “Well, I'm. I'm a bit more than amenable, mate,” he says. His voice is a rasp in his throat.

“Are you indeed,” Edwin says evenly. He steeples his fingers. Like Charles is a case and he’s already solved him. Like Charles is one of his cherished first-edition detective magazines with a fraying binding and Edwin is going to fix him right up.

Maybe it'll be easy. Done in a flash. Or if not, maybe Edwin will be up for the challenge. Charles wants to find out which, more than he's ever wanted something in his entire short life and in his afterlife combined.

[chasingfictions]

the pink pony club -> naked in manhattan -> california -> guilty pleasure run is so fucking insane every time . like. story song about longing for the gay coast from the heartland and then you get there and you'll always miss where youre from and it will always be in you but you'll never go fully back either, the queer freedom you have in santa monica is too good and too much and everything you've ever wanted, it called you here from across thousands of miles. then meanwhile back in real life but also not real life chappell is on the other coast the other major city experiencing a different kind of first taste of queer living, only it's never happened yet, it's a dream song it lives in the almost, she had never kissed a girl yet when the song was written, she was still dating a man and dreaming about what she wanted her life to be, and even in the song, the queer desire is so close, it's in the air, but also you can't tell if it's really happening or if it's just another daydream. and then we're back in california and it's so real this time and it just hurts and the dream wasn't what you wanted it to be, and home is calling to you, home can give you things this place can't and never could and never will, and also you feel like you're letting everyone down by going back, this is supposed to go the other way, and part of that, from the context of the previous two songs is like, well were the desires not enough? is the big flashy life you were supposed to go live in a place that can give you these other things not enough? was this dream about your life being different actually just a dream did it just hurt?

and then ending on a treatise on desire itself, and like, why does the pleasure feel guilty, your home put that in you, your home made it feel like a bad thing to feel, bad thing to want, but you come back to it anyway. and this time the desire is physical in front of you. you're not telling a story about a girl from tennessee who runs away to be a drag queen at a mythical club, you're not telling a daydream about how in new york you're allowed to be gay and maybe some friendship with a girl could turn into more, you're not wistful about all the might-have-beens in california or the midwest you fled to get there. like you are still fantasizing but also you're watching someone try on jeans and their body is Right There. your body is in the room and you can't deny that you feel this. and also while all the three previous songs were so rooted in specific geography, this time you could be anywhere -- learned it on the internet. you could still be home in the midwest, you could be out at some coastline far away, you could be at a million other somewheres.

but no matter where you are, this desire will be there, you will always pursue this want, there's no version of you who wouldn't want this. you were always going to find a way here. and you want it forever. it may be bad for you and you may not be supposed to belong here but you're gonna make yourself belong because you want it forever. i want this like a cigarette can we drag it out and never quit. um!!!!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 2: The Jailhouse]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, historical topics including war and discrimination, smoking, blasphemy, kids, parenthood, alcoholism, y'all know exactly who is in jail come on now, Pizza Hut, a wild ex-husband appears!

Word Count: 7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevir @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰🧁

Amir is sitting at the kitchen table and icing peach cobbler cupcakes; he has a single white flower from a dogwood tree poked through one of his cornrows. He wears a short sleeve button-up shirt with a kaleidoscopic geometric pattern, high-waisted khaki shorts, and eyeglasses with large rectangular, tortoiseshell frames. He has one leg crossed over the other and is kicking it absentmindedly as he works, a habit he’s had since long before you met him in your 9th grade English class. The microwave is humming. Walk This Way is blaring from the little pink boombox.

“Ho, I mean it this time, I gotta get the hell out of this town.” Amir uses a fork to place a small peach wedge—sauteed in butter, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla—atop the swirl of buttercream frosting, then sprinkles the cupcake with cinnamon before moving on to the next. “Guess what some inbred neanderthal swamp creature did last night. They busted a window out of my car again.”

“I told you to take that thing off it.” Amir has a homemade bumper sticker on his Ford Escort that reads, in holographic rainbow cursive: Fuck Ronald Reagan (not literally)!

“That war criminal can let 50,000 people die of AIDS but I belong on America’s Most Wanted for exercising my First Amendment rights?”

“I know you’re not wrong. You know you’re not wrong. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“To be afraid is to behave as if the truth were not true. Bayard Rustin said that.”

“And I’m sure he was a very smart man, but he didn’t have to live in Napoleonville.” The microwave beeps, and you remove the sweet potato inside with an oven mitt and place it on the counter alongside the others. This is a trick you’ve learned: they’re so much easier to peel and slice once they’ve been microwaved a bit, thirty seconds for a small potato, one minute for a larger one. “You want me to ask Willis to do a stakeout or something?”

“He might be the one committing vandalism.”

You frown down at the sweet potatoes as you peel them over the cutting board and toss the skins into a bowl so Cadi can feed them to the squirrels later. You doubt Willis is responsible, but one of his friends very well could be.

Amir sighs, acquiescing, wistful. “Six months from now I’ll be in San Francisco.” Yes, he will; he’s been saving up for years. The thought of him leaving is practically apocalyptic. You can’t envision a future without Amir. It’s like the very worst version of when you’re a kid and some event—Christmas, your birthday, summer break, prom—is so glimmeringly monumental that whatever life will exist beyond it is incomprehensible, a haze of other people’s dreams and warnings. Surely you won’t exist in that timeline; surely you will dissolve away once that fateful checkpoint is reached and become nothing but sun and sand.

You don’t tell Amir any of this. You don’t want to make him feel guilty. Instead you tease: “You sure you don’t want to stay and get a job on one of those shiny new oil rigs?”

He laughs as he pipes buttercream frosting onto the last peach cobbler cupcake. His artistic talents far surpass yours, but you bring the baking techniques and recipe ideas. Still, you have always split the bakery profits—however meager they might be—equally. “Yes, how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to lose half my skin in an explosion caused by company negligence? Or inhale toxic fumes, or have my limbs ripped off, or fracture my skull? Or fall off a platform in the middle of the night and be eaten by a gator before anyone bothers to fish me out? I will surely regret all my life choices when I’m lying on the beach in Pacifica next to my new boyfriend who looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

The front door opens. It’s Mr. Fontenot, the town pharmacist. You call out: “Hi there! Come right on in! We’ve got your cake ready. Blue velvet with marshmallow cream and topped with candied blueberries. We read up on how to make them just for you. So thank you kindly for the learning opportunity.”

Since you’re wrist-deep in sweet potatoes, Amir leaps up to retrieve the box. He opens it so Mr. Fontenot can inspect his order. “When you cut into it, you’ll see that it’s a dark royal blue on the inside. Cookie Monster blue, not robin egg blue, just like you wanted.”

“Will ya look at that,” Mr. Fontenot says, beaming down at the cake. Written across the marshmallow cream in blue icing is (in Amir’s most elegant script): Happy 8th Birthday, Corey! “My grandson is going to get such a kick out of a blue cake.”

“He sure is,” Amir agrees. “Now can I talk you into anything else for the party? Some peach cobbler cupcakes, perhaps? Praline brownies? A brown sugar pie? Homemade Fruity Pebbles Rice Krispie Treats? Kids love them…!”

You say once Mr. Fontenot has gone: “He works for the company, you know.”

“Huh? Who?”

“Aemond. He works for Jade Dragon. He’s an engineer.”

“Ho, you are obsessed with that man!” Amir says. “You’ve brought him up, like, four times already!”

“Yeah,” you confess, a humiliation that is futile to deny. Parts of you are still sore from what he did to you; other places are aching for more.

“And you didn’t even get to see the dick?!”

You shake your head as you cut the peeled sweet potatoes into haphazard chunks. Amir puts a pot of water on the stove so you can boil them until they’re soft enough to mash into filling for a sweet potato pie. “Didn’t see it, didn’t touch it…”

“Didn’t lick it, didn’t suck it?”

“Okay, that’s enough, Dr. Seuss. But no.”

“Secret dick, scar on his face, missing an eye…” Amir mutters. “Maybe he’s a veteran who lost his andouille in combat! Yes! That’s it! He was there when we invaded Lebanon or Grenada or Libya and now he’s horribly disfigured and can’t bear the prospect of your inevitable horror and rejection!”

“His andouille is definitely unchopped. I could…uh…tell. Through his jeans.”

Amir closes his eyes and presses his palms together. “Sweet baby Jesus, please send me a gainfully employed big-dicked blonde man too.” He looks at you again. “But he really wouldn’t use it?!”

“Aemond said he wanted me to trust him first.”

“Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe he thinks you might be on the prowl for Shotgun Wedding #2. You should tell him he’s got nothing to worry about in that department. You’ve been on the pill practically since Cadi was born.”

You murmur: “And I will be forever.”

“I know,” Amir says gently, pausing to squeeze your shoulder before taking the sweet potato hunks you’ve sliced already and dropping them in the boiling water. “So! When are you going to call him?”

You startle. “I can’t call him! I called him the first time. Now it’s his turn to call me. I can’t call him again, that would be desperate. Right?” Right?!

“Does he even know your number?”

“He knows my name, and he knows about the bakery. The number is publicly listed, he can find me in the phone book.”

Amir groans. “Lord have mercy, just call him! Pick up that pink phone right there beside the refrigerator and press those cute little buttons and say, loud and proud: Come on over here, big boy, I want to see that traumatized war veteran dick.”

The phone rings. You trip over your own feet as you lunge for it.

Amir snickers. “Pathetic!” He takes over slicing the rest of the sweet potatoes.

“Hello?!”

You hear a deep, slothful drawl; Willis’ family have been bayou people for longer than the United States has been a country. “Hey sugar, you want to bring your favorite ex-husband some dessert?”

You sigh. “Hi, Willis.” From across the kitchen, Amir makes retching noises.

“So what’d ya say? I just had a late lunch and got to thinkin’ of you. Gave me a sweet tooth.”

“Um, I don’t know, we’re really busy right now.” Amir snorts; you’ve had three customers in the last hour. There’s usually a rush first thing each morning and then again around closing time.

“Ya ain’t got time for me? Well, alrighty then. Maybe I won’t have time for you when you need a wild hog chased off your porch or a flat tire changed out there on Route 401.”

This is the eternal dilemma, the balance you wrestle with like a boat in a storm: not making him angry, not letting him get too close. You and Willis don’t have a formal agreement for custody or child support. You’ve worked it out yourselves, and he typically doesn’t make it too difficult. You’ve always felt that appeasement is the wisest course of action. As the elected sheriff of Assumption Parish, Willis Boudreaux is responsible for all criminal investigations, court proceedings, and tax collecting. Even when he was just a deputy, he had plenty of friends at the little white courthouse in the heart of downtown Napoleonville. You’re better off working with him than against him. “Okay, fine, I guess I have a few minutes. What do you want?”

“Why don’t you make a professional recommendation?”

You glance irritably at the kitchen table. “We have brown sugar pie, peach cobbler cupcakes, praline brownies, lemon blueberry cookies, uh, I’ve got half a strawberries and cream cake left in the fridge…”

“Definitely the cake,” Willis says. “I love strawberries. Remember how you fed them to me on the beach when we went to Grand Isle?”

That was…what, eight years ago? Ugh. “Barely.” You like when Willis has a girlfriend; then he mostly leaves you alone. Tragically, he and his most recent fiancé Colleen broke up last month. “I’ll drive the cake over now.” You slam the phone receiver into the base before Willis can respond.

“Let’s kill him,” Amir says.

You laugh. “I’ll consider it.”

“We can feed him to that gator out in the tree row.”

You grab a flat white bakery box off the pile, fold it open, and fetch what remains of the strawberries and cream cake from the refrigerator. “You’ll get that sweet potato pie in the oven if I’m gone for a half hour?”

“Yup. Then I’ll start working on the brown butter oatmeal raisin cookies. Is the recipe…? Oh, I see it, it’s right here on the counter. Got it. Have fun with your awful ex-husband. You sure you don’t want to add a little something special to that cake? Windex? Rat poison? He sure looks like a rodent to me. That nose? Those eyebrows?!”

“Amir, he’s just French.”

“He should be exiled to Saint Helena.”

“I’m going to have to put my own ad in the Bayou Journal,” you say, smiling sadly. “Who’s going to run the shop with me when you’re in San Francisco?”

Amir winks. “Maybe your traumatized, half-blind, hung-like-a-horse war veteran knows how to bake.”

Outside, the gator is sunning herself by the gravel driveway. She’s only about five feet long and dozing with her muddy green eyes closed, jagged upper teeth on display, missing toes here and there, back scarred by boat motors. It’s 90 degrees and sunny, warmth flooding over your bare legs and arms: denim shorts, lime green tank top. You can hear cicadas, doves, chickadees, starlings, goldfinches, ospreys, the benign droning of bumble bees. You throw the white box in the passenger seat and start your Chevy Celebrity, yellow paint, wood paneling, brown velour upholstery. You crank down the windows—the air conditioning is broken, that’s one reason why Willis’ brother was willing to sell it to you so cheap—and turn on the radio: 867-5309 by Tommy Tutone. You pull out onto Route 401, headed northeast towards downtown Napoleonville.

You pass fields of sugarcane and soybeans, shacks and trailers, grass green like emeralds. The hot mid-May air, humid and stagnant, blows through your hair. If the ride was any longer than ten minutes, you’d have needed a cooler for the cake. You find a parking spot on the street outside the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and grab the box containing half a strawberries and cream cake, probably just starting to get melty around the edges. Deputy Melancon is on his way out when you arrive. He holds the glass door open for you.

“Comment ca va, cherie? Is that for me? I hope so!”

“I think your boss would chew your arm off if you tried to get between him and this cake.”

Deputy Melancon guffaws as he ambles towards his police car. “Have fun in there! It’s a zoo today.”

“What…?” But now you can hear the noise coming from inside the building: howling, banging, Willis telling someone to sit down and shut up, his Cajun drawl lethargic and calm. Willis is not a yeller, and you’ve never witness him raise his hands in violence. The being a cop part of his job is the aspect he enjoys the least. But sitting around jawing with his deputies until long after midnight, regaling them with tales of supposed glory acquired while you were home with a screaming baby, scrubbing floors, fixing dinner, still bleeding eight weeks after birth, waiting—because it was all there was to look forward to—for him to walk through the door and shuffle to the couch and collapse there with an ice-cold can of Bud Light in his fist, dripping condensation down his sinewy forearm? That’s what Willis lives for.

Willis is at his desk and grudgingly plodding through an intake form. His sunglasses have been shoved up into his dark curly hair; his hat—which he loathes wearing—is resting atop a mountain of deserted paperwork. There’s a poster of Heather Locklear on the wall along with a dartboard with a cutout of Tommy Lee in the center. There’s a man in one of the three holding cells that you’ve hardly ever seen used. He has slicked-back blonde hair, an aristocratic wisp of a moustache, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and tiny red shorts and thick foam rainbow-patterned flip flops. He’s the person responsible for the ruckus.

“I want my phone call!” the prisoner shouts as he beats his palms against the iron bars. “Hey! Hey, mullet boy! I want my fucking phone call!”

Oddly, the stranger has a British accent. Aemond? you think for a split second. But no; this man couldn’t possibly be related to Aemond. He is short, slouched, soft all over, uncoordinated and uncomposed, pathetic, petulant, innately pitiful. Willis ignores him. He speaks to you instead.

“Bienvenue, sugar. Ya got something sweet for me?”

Obediently—though not entirely willingly—you bring him the white box and set it on his disorganized desk. Willis produces a stack of Styrofoam plates and a Ziploc bag full of plastic eating utensils that he keeps stocked in a drawer specifically for such occasions. He opens the box and sighs euphorically, his eyes on the moist pink cake and layers of whipped cream frosting as if it’s the flesh of a naked woman.

“Hey!” the prisoner shouts, gripping the iron bars and pressing his flushed cheeks flat against them. “Hey! I like cake too!”

“Just what I needed,” Willis tells you, as if the man isn’t there. “Sit down, eat with me.”

“I really don’t have long.”

“Ya got five minutes, don’t you?”

I guess I do. You sit down but don’t take any cake. As Willis cuts himself a slice, you can’t help but watch the man in the holding cell. He stares back at you, a little ashamed, a little defiant, palpably weak. You ask Willis: “What did you book him for?”

“DWI,” Willis says with his mouth full of cake. “Driving While Intoxicated.”

“Huh. You don’t usually pick people up for that.”

Willis points at the prisoner with his fork for emphasis. “This one was very intoxicated.”

The man kicks the bars with his flip flops. “I want my fucking phone call!”

“Ya already used it,” Willis says pragmatically, and nods to something on the floor of the holding cell: an empty, grease-stained Pizza Hut box. The prisoner looks at it, regretful.

“I didn’t know I’d only get one,” he admits. “But also! You ate three slices of my pizza!”

Willis chuckles. “Consider it payin’ your taxes.” Then, to you: “It was tres bien. Meat Lover’s. Ya can’t argue with that.”

“Hey cake lady,” the prisoner says, his prominent eyes weepy, needful, a deep stormy blue. “Can I have a piece? Please? Please? I’m having a rough day here. My flip flops are giving me blisters and your redneck husband committed pizza theft. And I’m in jail.”

“Ex-husband,” you correct him.

“Good for you. Smart cake lady.”

Willis says: “You just settle down and I’ll drive you over to the parish jail as soon as I’m done with my dessert.” He shovels cake into his mouth; he eats like a gator, like a pig.

At last, you cut a portion of strawberries and cream cake—the whipped cream frosting turning thin and runny—and place it on a Styrofoam plate. Then you get up to take it to the prisoner. You have a soft spot for the freaks of the world. You and Amir, you know exactly what it’s like to be freaks.

“Don’t give him no fork or nothing,” Willis says around a mouthful of cake. “I can’t have him tryin’ to kill himself.”

“As if I’d give you the satisfaction, Sasquatch!” the prisoner flings back.

“It’s the Rougarou we got down here, son,” Willis replies, unbothered.

You set the plate on the beige linoleum floor close enough for the prisoner to reach out and drag it to his cell. When you step back, he retrieves the cake and eats it with his bare hands. “Oh, fuck, this is so good!”

You turn to Willis. “Cadi keeps mentioning some horseback riding camp that a bunch of her friends are going to this summer. Can we make that happen?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?! It’s over $300! That’s a new boat!”

“I think it would mean a lot to her.”

“Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year.” Willis licks pink cake crumbs from his fork. “Why the hell’d she ever get it cut like that?”

You shrug, irritated. “Because she wanted to.”

“Never wears no skirts or dresses, doesn’t care about jewelry, always got dirt on her face…ain’t she gonna want a boyfriend in a few years? Who’s gonna take her out lookin’ like that? Who’s gonna marry her one day?”

“She’s ten years old, Willis.”

“She’s been spending too much time with your little friend, that’s the problem.”

You glare furiously at him, but are interrupted before you can say something unwise. The man in the holding cell has finished his slice of cake. He sucks frosting off his chubby fingers and then yanks on the iron bars in vain. “I gotta go home! I gotta feed my ferret!”

“Guess ya should have thought about that before driving 70 miles per hour in a school zone, Mr.…” Willis glances at the intake form to refresh his memory. “Targaryen. What the heck is that, Italian? Polish? It ain’t French, that’s for sure.”

“It’s Greek, you dumb hick.”

Willis jabs his plastic fork at him. “You oughta watch that, son, or you’ll catch yourself a nasty case of what the liberals call police brutality.”

“He’s a Targaryen?” you ask, stunned. The man in the cell peers back at you with large, ever-wounded, ocean-blue eyes, glassy but not entirely unintelligent.

“So what?” Willis says.

“Willis, those are the oil people. Jade Dragon, the new rigs on Lake Verret? The Targaryens own that company.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” he marvels. “Really? This bon a rien right here, his family are a bunch of millionaires?”

“Yes. And you should probably let him make another phone call.”

“Yeah!” the prisoner says excitedly. “Listen to the cake lady!”

“Alright, alright,” Willis grumbles. “Guess I don’t need no legal trouble.” He picks up the phone off his desk and walks it to the holding cell; the cord stretches just far enough. “Make your damn phone call, gros couillion.”

Mr. Targaryen snatches up the receiver, punches some buttons, and listens as it rings. “Hi. Okay, don’t yell at me. Here’s the deal. I’m at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and I need you to pick me up. Wait, I said don’t yell at me! Stop yelling!!”

“I really need to get back to the bakery,” you tell Willis as you make for the door. “I’ll see you around, okay—?”

“Hey, sugar.” You stop and wait for him to finish. He’s considering you in that way he does sometimes: mild, thoughtful, vaguely sad, how’d we end up like this? He should know, you’ve told him a hundred times, but that doesn’t mean he understands. “I’m supposed to be gettin’ a new deputy next week. When he shows, I’ll send him down your way, recruit ya another customer. Charge him a little extra if you want. He won’t know no better.”

“Thanks, Willis,” you say, and you mean it. Then you step outside into sun glare and the shrieking of cicadas.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s almost dinnertime when the phone rings. You’re heating up the turtle soup that Amir brought over earlier, stirring the pot as the sky outside turns from a crystalline blue—just like Aemond’s eye—to rust and amber and fool’s gold, as the twilight air breathes into the room warm and ancient. There’s a plump nutria nibbling on grass at the edge of the backyard. Wham’s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go pipes from the boombox. At first you’re too startled to race for the phone—too terrified that it won’t be Aemond, too afraid to get your hopes up—and you hesitate just long enough for Cadi to answer instead.

“Hello?” she says, and then: “Yeah, school was good.”

Everything sinks in you, heart, spirit, the sweltering pressure of blood ebbing in your veins. Oh. It’s Willis.

Cadi continues chatting away obliviously. “Uh huh. Not really. We learned about robber barons and cannons of Italy. Yeah, captains of industry, that’s what I meant. Uh huh. Yup. It was okay, I guess. Yeah. Today it was pizza, but it’s always shaped like a rectangle. Exactly, no crust. It’s weird. Pepperoni. I always sit with Michelle and Erica. Erica has this totally tubular book about horses she showed us. Yup. I like the Appaloosas the most. Uh huh. Okay, I will. Yup. Bye.” Then she hands you the phone. “For you,” she says, then resumes setting the counter: cups, bowls, spoons, folded Bounty paper towels, dinner for two. You never eat at the kitchen table. The table is reserved for business.

You raise the pink phone receiver to your ear with some uncertainty. What does he want now? “Willis?”

“No,” Aemond says, amused. “Though we’ve been to some of the same places.”

You try not to let the smile fill up your face. You fail. “You were asking Cadi about her day?”

“Evidently.” You don’t know what this means; you don’t ask. “When are you free?”

“I usually have the house to myself on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.” It’s currently Monday.

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. What time?”

“I should be done in the bakery at around 5:00.”

“I’ll be there at 5:01.” Then Aemond hangs up. So do you, your skull suddenly abloom like springtime, colors and promise and warmth. He’s going to be here in less than 24 hours. I really am going to see him again.

You turn towards the counter. “Cadi, what are robber barons?”

“Rich people who are mean to their workers to get as much money as possible. They don’t care about others. They just want more and more and more. They’re very greedy and are never satisfied.”

“So like the Rockefellers and Standard Oil,” you say, thinking back to your high school American History class. It feels like a lifetime ago, it feels like trying to catch lightning bugs in your bare hands.

“Yeah.” Cadi pours herself a cup of Tang. She’s wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and green corduroy pants; her father would not approve. “Or Jade Dragon Energy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Tuesday, 5:03 p.m., rattling cicadas and golden light like the lit coil of a stove burner. You’re still scrubbing dishes, and Amir is icing the last of the orange creamsicle cupcakes for the next morning. Aemond opens the unlocked front door and strides purposefully into the kitchen: ripped jeans, red t-shirt, Converses to match, Marlboro jacket. He is carrying a neon teal duffle bag that he drops on the sloping wooden floor where the living room meets the kitchen. He is momentarily taken aback when he sees Amir, then recalls what you told him about your friend who helps run the bakery. Aemond pulls out one of the kitchen table chairs and sits. He lifts the glass lid from a cake plate, takes the last peach cobbler cupcake for himself, makes unflinching eye contact with you as he licks the frosting off it with long, slow, sensual drags of his tongue.

Amir says: “Hey Scarface, that’s $1.”

“Amir!” you scold, mortified. But Aemond doesn’t seem offended. He smirks, extracts his black leather wallet from the pocket his jeans, and fishes out four singles. He slides them across the table.

Amir sighs. “This bitch can’t even count.”

“I’m sure he can count,” you say, smiling. “He’s an engineer.”

“He’s mouth-fucking this cupcake right in front of me, he’s clearly unstable.”

Aemond looks to you. His voice is low, imposing. “I need to know what your limits are.”

“Oh my God!” Amir squeaks, bent over the table and icing as quickly as he can.

“Okay,” you tell Aemond. You rinse the pearlescent soap bubbles from your hands, wrists, forearms. Then you step out from behind the counter and watch him, remember him, imagine what will happen next.

He gives the peach cobbler cupcake another lap. Buttercream frosting coats his mischieviously curled lips and then is swiftly licked away. “Can I spank you?”

“Yes.”

Amir mutters to himself: “Grandma is never going to believe this.”

“Can I tie you up?”

“Yes.”

“Can I bite you hard enough to leave bruises?”

You pause. “Only places that will be covered by my clothes.”

“And what should you say if you ever don’t like what I’m doing?”

“I just tell you to stop.”

“Exactly.” Aemond grins. His right eye skates from your face to your chest to your hips to your thighs to your ankles, drinking you down like the earth swallows rain, like the vines and cypress trees and Sanish moss of the bayou thieve sunlight and never give it back. His left eye doesn’t move at all, though this is not something you would notice if you didn’t know to look for it. “Good girl.”

“Done!” Amir announces triumphantly, completing the swirl of frosting on the final orange creamsicle cupcake.

“Can I pull your hair?” Aemond asks you.

“Yeah, I think so. Not hard enough to yank it out though.”

Aemond scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t actually want to hurt you. That’s what some doms are after, but not me. Not here, not with you. You don’t want real pain, do you…?”

“No, definitely not,” you say, relieved.

“Brilliant. Then we’re on the same page.”

Amir could leave, but he doesn’t. His eyes dart between you and Aemond from behind his large rectangular glasses, fascinated, scandalized, too astonished to move.

Aemond continues: “Birth control?”

“I’m on the pill and have been for years. I can show you the pack if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you. I saw them in your bathroom last time I was here. I’m in the practice of using condoms regardless.” He tilts his head impishly. “Can I fuck your ass?”

“Um.” You hesitate. This is uncharted territory, though you cannot say that you are entirely unintrigued. “Maybe one day.”

“Noted. Some people find the sensation, the taboo, the fullness…quite pleasurable.”

“Do you?” Amir asks flirtatiously.

Aemond gives him a lazy, ludicrously charming smile. “Well I’ve never been on the receiving end, but I’m game to give it a try if you are.”

Amir bursts out laughing, then says to you: “He’s alright. He can commit abominable sins with you, I guess.” He stands and shakes Aemond’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Kind of.” Then he saunters off through the living room and out the front door. After a moment, you and Aemond listen to his blue Ford Escort rumble to life and then the crunching of gravel as it rolls out of the driveway. From the boombox drifts Just What I Needed by The Cars.

Aemond licks the last of the frosting from the peach cobbler cupcake and says: “Now you’re going to be the cupcake.” He crosses the kitchen, kneels down in front of you, roughly yanks down your denim shorts. He presses his face to your royal blue satin panties—hastily purchased this morning while Amir watched the shop and changed into just one hour ago in anticipation of Aemond’s arrival—and inhales deeply, desperately, like a drowning man gasping for air. Then, through the sheer fabric, he begins to tease you: nudges of his nose, nibbles of his lips.

Your fingers tangle in his short blonde hair. Blonde like the drunk man in the holding cell, you think randomly. “Aemond, why didn’t you want me last time?”

“I wanted you. I wanted you then and I want you now.”

“But I disappointed you. You didn’t finish.”

“Oh, I came,” he purrs. “Went home, got in the shower, thought of you. It didn’t take long. I would have disappointed you terribly. Woke up in the middle of the night thinking of you. Tried to miraculously get some work done yesterday while thinking of you. Crawled out of bed this morning thinking of you. Are you noticing a theme?”

You smile as his tongue presses forcefully against the satin. “I might be.”

“How many times in your life has a man treated his orgasm as essential and your own as an afterthought, if he considered it at all?”

Oh God. That’s the fucking truth. “A lot more than once.”

“So consider what we did on Sunday as one little notch in the other column. Just restoring a bit of much-needed balance to the universe.” He hooks his thumbs under your panties and tugs them off. “Open your thighs for me,” he orders as he pushes them apart with his palms: large, smooth, artful hands. You brace your own hands against the kitchen counter as he buries his face between your legs, not lapping in a tentative, exploratory sort of way but feasting on you, drowning in you, lips and tongue and then fingers that skate up the downy inside of your thigh to taunt you, enter you, fuck you expertly yet leave you wanting more of him, all of him. Your nerves are on fire, your blood is simmering. Outside the birds of prey are emerging from their liars and battle-scarred gators stalk boldly through the green prehistoric wildness of the Deep South.

What happened to his eye? you think through the lust-pink haze, knowing you cannot ask him. Aemond respects your rules. You must abide by his as well. How was he injured so gravely? Who hurt him? Did they atone for their misdeeds, did they pay the cost?

Suddenly, Aemond stands and pulls you against him by your waist, rips your yellow tank top over your head and unhooks your bra, kisses you fiercely. His mouth is dripping with you, clean mineral longing; his right eye is gleaming, famished, not just lustful but half-mad. No one else exists. No one ever has or ever will. “Go to the bed and wait for me there.”

“No.”

He spanks you once with his open palm; the sound is sharp and exquisite. “Go.” And this time you obey, counting the seconds in the dusk-lit splinter of time before he joins you.

In Aemond’s duffle bag—among other things, surely—are silk scarves the color of sapphires. First he fastens one over your eyes as a blindfold. Then he ties one around each of your wrists and binds both to the same bedpost, low enough that while your hands are kept up by your head, you still have some room to maneuver on the freshly-laundered, wildflower-patterned duvet. “Not different posts?” you ask Aemond.

“No. Tying your arms far apart like that can cause cramps in your back and your shoulders. It can even make it difficult to breathe. I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be focused entirely on what I’m doing to you.”

You moan as his fingers slip between your legs and circle over the place that makes your muscles yearn and twist and tighten until you feel they might snap, until you can imagine every string of you breaking and dissolving from the prison of flesh into water, air, gravity, the eternal silent progress of time. He bites and sucks at your nipples, flicking his tongue over them, admiring them, praising them, ravenous for them. You are enraptured by the weight of him on top of you. Without your sight, everything else is more noticeable, more real: his warmth, his sweat, his every brush of skin against yours, his smoke and cologne and gasps and sighs, the grinding of his bare cock against your thighs as he makes you ready for him. And you beg for it long before he gives it to you.

“Roll over,” he commands breathlessly, and then guides you: your fingers clutching the scarves that secure your wrists, your elbows propped on the mattress, your back arched and hips angled up towards him, his lips murmuring against your shoulder, your cheek, the side of your throat. He’s telling you so many things, perfect things, delicious things you’ll never hear enough of: how beautiful you are, how badly he wants you, how well you’re doing. There is the sound of Aemond opening a condom wrapper, and a strange sorrow ripples through you. I wish I could have him raw.

One of his hands reaches around to stroke you, keeping you soaked and supple for him. The other begins to guide his cock into your aching, starving wetness. You stretch for him, you accept him eagerly…and then there is resistance. He stills immediately and tries a slightly different angle. Nothing. He could force it, probably, but he won’t. He recedes from you, agonizing emptiness, dire unfulfillment. I’m disappointing him, he’s too big, I’m too tight, too nervous, too inexperienced at being dominated, I can’t please him. You whimper: “Aemond, I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, more ferocious than any words you’ve ever heard from him. You are not allowed to criticize yourself. You are not allowed to give up so easily. He leans down and whispers into the shell of your ear, his ribs against your spine, his heat entombing you: “Relax. I’m in charge now. I’ll take care of you.”

You want him to. You need him to. His commandment rolls through your blood and bones like a wave, loosening those last vestiges of anxiety, shaking grim psychological heirlooms from the highest shelves. You can surrender yourself completely to Aemond. He is worthy, he is safe, he is euphoria made flesh. His fingertips are still stroking you. He pushes your thighs just a little farther apart and—slowly, cautiously—eases his cock into your throbbing warmth. He hisses in a breath, though he tries not to break character, to show you that he might just be a little bit at your mercy too.

You moan loudly and shamelessly, letting him know you’re alright, more than alright, in ecstasy, in bliss, in torment, on the edge. When Aemond thrusts, he finds a place that’s never been hit so directly or so well. The climax is on you before you are aware of it, one of those swells that rises out of nowhere, capsizes the boat, fades back into the endless blue of the ocean. It jolts through your pelvis, your spine, your skull, and then evaporates like steam from a bathroom mirror. And now Aemond is trying to finish too, but something is off. He tries a few different rhythms, can’t seem to get it right. You think you can feel him beginning to soften. No no no, I can’t leave him unsatisfied again.

You look back, though you cannot see him through the blindfold; instinctively, you want to be closer to him. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond says. “Nothing, nothing, nothing is wrong. You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.” He turns your face so he can kiss you deeply, his tongue in your mouth, swallowing you down, entangled in every way possible. And only then he is able to come: powerfully, trembling, crying out like he’s in the kind of pain that leaves scars for life.

He glides his cock out of you, and you can hear him snap off the condom. Then he unties your blindfold and your wrists. You reach for him, then stop yourself; he reaches for you—a reflex, surely—and then shakes the notion away and collapses beside you on the duvet. You both lie there panting, gazing dizzily up at the long shadows of centuries-old oak trees that cascade across the ceiling, minds drained, bodies spent.

After a moment, Aemond clambers off the bed to grab a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his jeans pocket. Then he flops back down next to you, lights a cigarette, takes a deep, slow drag. “So, cupcake,” he says nonchalantly, exhaling smoke, hand shaking. “Where’d you get married?”

You laugh; this is ridiculous. “Why on earth would you want to know that?”

“I want to know things about you. Things other than your tits and your pussy. I mean, those are great. I enjoy them tremendously, and I plan to keep enjoying them. But I also enjoy you.”

You sigh. Aemond waits, puffing on his cigarette. “The parish courthouse.” Plain, boring, economical. “I wanted a wedding at Saint Honoratus, but…”

“Saint…who?”

“The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens,” you say. “It’s this gorgeous place in a town called Belle River on the other side of Lake Verret. Very small, very old, it’s a historic site or something, they can’t ever knock it down.”

“Why couldn’t you get married there?”

You shrug; how much could the details matter now? Someone needed to organize it, someone needed to decorate, someone needed to pay for food and drinks, someone needed to send out invitations, someone needed to care enough to make it happen, and that someone would have been you, just you, seventeen and broke and bedridden with morning sickness until noon every day. “It just didn’t work out.”

“Sounds like a lot of things didn’t work out for you.”

You raise your eyebrows. Aemond winces.

“Sorry. That was…not the way I meant to express that sentiment.”

You forgive him. You’d forgive him for anything right now, right here, in a bed stained with his sweat and your wetness and the seed you wish he could have spilled inside you. You taunt him: “Should we meet up at your house next time?”

He recoils, horrified. “No. Definitely not.”

“Why? What’s at your house? An abandoned wife and six tall, blonde, prominently-jawed children?”

He chuckles; he has collected himself again. “No. It’s just that…well…I have family in town currently. They’re staying with me while I get set up with the new job and everything. Quite a lot of people. And my family is…unorthodox.”

You wish he would stop using words you don’t know. That’s the hazard of affiliating with a highfalutin petroleum engineer, you suppose. “So they’re strange?”

“That’s a kind word for it.”

“I like strange people. I like you.”

Aemond smirks warily. “You wouldn’t like them. Just trust me on that.” He traces the border of your face with his fingertips, contemplating your secrets, tending his own like a nightscape garden. “Do you ever want to do something…not in your bedroom?”

You grin and he kisses you, nicotine and quelled desire; he can’t help it. You say when you break away: “What, like dinner or flowers or any of the other activities that were very clearly not a part of this arrangement?”

“Arrangements are flexible.”

“Are they?”

“This one is. Increasingly so.”

You ponder his proposition. “There’s this new restaurant I really want to go to. I’ve never been before, but it looks pretty rad in the commercials on tv. It’s up in Gonzales.”

“The same town as your illustrious Kmart engagement. How fortuitous. Pease continue.”

“It’s an Italian place,” you say.

“I love Italian.”

“It’s called Olive Garden.”

Aemond’s mouth falls open. He is bewildered, appalled. His cigarette smolders forgotten in the crook of his fingers. You might as well have told him you wanted to run over puppies with lawnmowers. “You want me to take you to Olive Garden? Seriously?”

You are wounded. “What’s wrong with Olive Garden?”

“Cupcake, Olive Garden is not real Italian food. That’s like saying Taco Bell is Mexican.”

“…Isn’t it?”

“Okay,” he capitulates. He smiles as he smooths your disheveled hair and touches his lips to your forehead. “It’s fine. We’ll go to Olive Garden.”

“Really?” you reply, beaming.

“Really. You’re free Thursday?”

“Unless Willis has to switch nights for some reason, yeah.”

“Then we’ll go Thursday.” Aemond rolls off the bed and finds a mug—Return Of The Jedi, Princess Leia and the Ewoks—left on your dresser to put his cigarette out in. He looks through the screen of your open bedroom window as the sky turns ever-darker, as the moon and stars begin to rise, and he breathes in the verdant, humid, ageless witchcraft of the bayou. “You have no idea what the last few days have been like for me,” Aemond says softly, his bare back turned to you, the ridge of his spine like a road cut through a swamp or a forest or a field of sugarcane. “You have no idea how badly I needed this.”

[yellowharrington]

jaded - chapter 4, carmy berzatto x reader

pairing + fandom: carmen “carmy” berzatto x fem!reader (she/her pronouns used), the bear fx

warnings: smoking mention, minors dni with this story please.

word count: 2k

a/n: ok literally i am the worst ever and i totally didn't finish this fic even tho i started it so im finally posting the last part literally MONTHS later!!! sorry besties but i couldn't have an unfinished fic out there in the world so... if u fuck w this story at all thank u for reading it and all the encouraging and nice things people have said, it literally made me want to complete this fic so thank u <3

summary: tying up loose ends.

and it's a fuckin' shame that it ended like that you broke your own heart, but you'd never say that we went to hell, but we never came back

masterlist | chapter 3

It all just feels numb.

Sun coming up over the horizon and a light snowfall onto the street below. Your home is quiet, no pans in the kitchen making French omelettes, no TV playing outside the bedroom door as you sleep. No toothbrushing in the bathroom or running shower water, warm and steamy, inviting you in.

It’s not that you weren’t expecting his answer. Or, lack thereof. It’s that he couldn’t make up his fucking mind. First, he’s cooking you an omelette in your favourite pan with a cup of coffee made exactly the way you like it. He’s spending every evening on the couch with you, your hands splayed out against his stomach, comfortable beneath the waistband of his sweats. You’re in his sweater, baking fresh warm cookies so he can have one before bed, smudges of chocolate against your lips as he pushes you up against the counter, hot skin on cold tile.

Next, he has that look on his face, where he’s somewhere else. Thinking of her, in a dreamland where he can make it right again, and it all feels like it comes crashing down. The sweet nothings don’t exist in this realm, there’s no happiness here.

And when you do have to face him on Monday, it’s back to cold shoulder, nothing different. Yes chef, no chef, thank you chef. 

Sydney tries to make conversation, and you feel bad because you won’t bitch about Carmy like you usually would. Richie’s having secret meetings with Natalie, probably more about Claire, but you don’t even think to join in. It hurts, it hurts so fucking much, and it’s hard enough to go outside and take a fucking break from it all, let alone be in the same cramped kitchen with him. There’s no solitude, just aching, just disappointment.

“Did you order me a new cake pan, chef?” It’s directed at Tina, who looks up at you with the same wistful softness as she always does, smiling before nodding in your direction. You don’t hear her slide over to you, but when she suddenly appears at your station, you can tell she just knows something’s wrong.

“What’s up with you?” she asks, clipboard finding it’s way to the counter beside you, where a piping bag lays. “You’re not yourself. Something… wrong. Don’t tell me a boy did this to you.” The tears prick at your eyes and you swallow it all before you can get out a word, because yeah, it all fucking aches and the hurt feels like it’s sitting right behind your eyes, in your throat, ready to come out.

“It’s nothing. It is a boy but, boys are stupid and I’m not gonna cry over one,” you sniffle, before untying your apron and letting it hang loose on your body. “Not worth it.”

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

Your blood runs cold when she gestures just outside to the bright light of the door, where Carmy sits, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other.

Luckily the kitchen is empty when you reply, only so she can hear, “how did you know?”

“I saw the way you looked at him this morning.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Fuck no. Between you and me, chef.”

You sighed relief, letting your front hit the counter as the stress left your body. “Thank fuck. Yeah, I don’t know, we were-“

“Fuckin’?” Tina’s got a sly smile on her face that makes it impossible not to laugh with her.

“Yeah, I guess. It felt like more than that. But apparently he’s still hung up on Claire so, I guess that ends it.”

She exhales slowly, joining you in a lean against the counter. “Jeff makes mistakes, everyone knows that. He’s moody and sad and he’s got fuckin’ problems, that kid, I tell ya.” She pauses for a second, eyes meeting yours, sincere. “But he’s good. I just don’t think he can handle himself, is all.” She takes a beat, letting her soft hand lay over yours, “He doesn’t let himself have the good shit because it always gets ruined. But you’re good. He’s scared of you.”

“He should be scared of me. I’m gonna fucking kill him,” you mutter, letting your floured hand meet your forehead in annoyance. “I’m not responsible for fixing his shit.”

She nods, agreeing with you, a hand cupping yours on the counter. “No, you’re not. I’m just saying he could use someone like you to bring him back to Earth, is all.”

-

When Carmy does make it back inside, he’s thumbing through paperwork at the desk, hand through his hair stressfully pulling at the strands. He’s trying so hard not to stare at you from where he’s sitting, noticing your cold gaze, somewhere far away. He takes out his phone to scroll through it mindlessly, procrastinating, when he meanders his way to the text icon and opens up your thread. A few texts here and there, mostly just asking about plans to come over, the occasional sexy photo or recipe idea.

[sunday, 10:26] they don't have fresh sourdough. should we just make some this aft?

[saturday, 4:35] i hate when you go in on saturdays

[saturday, 4:36] Photo Recieved

[saturday 4:36] don't you wish you were home with me?

[tuesday, 12:22] is balsamic glaze overdone? lmk. miss u.

It feels a little too domestic, seeing the way he so effortlessly became comfortable with you, a warmth and excitement that was just never there with Claire. It’s raw and it’s guilty and he’ll beat himself up over it forever, but it was never going to be perfect with her, no matter how hard he tried.

“Boss?”

Richie appears in the office, leaning against the door frame before noticing Carmy’s disheveled look. “Yeah?”

“You look worse than usual.”

“Thanks. What do you need?”

“Well, I was gonna ask if you ordered more eggs.”

“I, uh, yeah. Yeah, I think Sydney did.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

It’s like Richie could see right through him.

“Nothin’. Stupid shit.”

Richie steps into the office, leaving the door only slightly ajar.

“Cousin.”

Richie can be sweet when he wants to be, and when he’s got a hand on Carmy’s shoulder and a somber look in his eyes it’s like he already knows how Carmy feels.

“Why do I suck so bad at being a fuckin’ normal person?”

Richie sits next to him, a look of surprise. “Is this about Claire bear?”

“Yes, well - yeah, and also no. Kinda. I don’t know.”

“Is it about Miss Buttercream out there?”

He gestures to you outside the door, zesting some orange on top of the cake you were finishing up. Carmy stifles a laugh.

“We all know you’re porkin’ her.”

“Don’t say that,” Carmy laughs, hand coming up to his face to rub his eyes. “It’s more than that. We’ve been kinda, dating, I guess? I still don’t know what counts as having a girlfriend.”

“So what did you do?”

He gnaws at the skin of his thumb and lets his eyes flicker up to Richie’s. “Fucked it. Last night, I, uh,-“ his hand finds his warm forehead. “I really like her, like a lot. But she asked about Claire and I said the wrong thing, like I always do and uh, she didn’t like it.”

“She’s good,” Richie starts, letting his hands find his aproned thighs as he sits at the corner of the desk. “Claire was good for you too. But she didn’t… get it. Not like she does,” he gestured vaguely to your station outside the door. “Claire was never gonna get the restaurant and the kitchen and the fuck of it all.”

Richie's hand extends to cup Carmy's shoulder.

“Look, do whatever you want, but there isn’t really someone who matches you like she does. Claire’s history now, drunk phone calls don’t mean she’s still in love with you. If that’s what you were thinking.”

Carmy sits back in the creaky chair. “Nah, not that. I just don’t know how to do it right.”

“It’s not about doing it right,” Richie’s got sincerity in his eyes. “It’s about fuckin’… trying shit. Just go and make a move and see.” Carmy watches you hang up your apron on the hook and grab a hoodie before fucking outside. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks Richie.”

“Good luck.”

- 

“I’m sorry.”

Carmy’s voice takes you out of your trance as you stare into the back alley of the restaurant. “Hi.”

“Can we talk?”

“You can talk, I’ll listen.”

The crackle of his lighter, orange flame against white snow. You can see his breath slipping from between his lips as he exhales out of the corner of your eye.

“I feel like a fuckin’ asshole,” he starts, plunging his other hand in his pocket. “I don’t know what to say.” A beat. “Can you look at me?” It’s gentle, a question, not a demand.

You turn to look at him. Cold blue eyes, darkened by the brightness around you. “You’re not second best to me. You’re it, this is it. I like this, I, I fuckin’,” he takes a breath, “I love… this. I want this.”

“You hurt my feelings, Carmen,” tears brimming your eyes and coating your lashes. “If you’re not done with Claire, I don’t… I don’t care. If I am your second choice, fine.” 

“You’re not.”

“Even if I was. But don’t fuck me around if you don’t want me.”

“I do.”

“Are you sure? You weren’t sure last night.”

“I get it if you don’t trust me. I get it. I haven’t given you a reason to.” He searches for the right words, but chooses to take a tentative step towards you. “I’ll beg for you,” he’s quiet, unlike Carmy. “Anything.”

Your eyes meet his briefly, a soft smile pulling at your lip. “I’m not saying yes, okay?” He nods. “But I am saying I would appreciate a ride home tonight. If you’re serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“Good.”

-

The walk up to your apartment is easy. His heavy steps behind your light ones, hands sliding up the bannister as you unlock your door. He’s on your heels, a little behind. When he steps in your apartment, it’s familiar. Browned butter, vanilla, laundry. 

“Do you want dinner?” He’s tentative, letting his shoes sit next to yours on the mat. His jacket goes up on the hooks by the door, together. 

“Are you offering?”

“Yes.”

Carmy shows love through food, that’s how he always is. You can tell he’s feeling particularly sorry about it all because he’s bringing out a big pasta pot and a saucepan, pulling the only fresh ingredients left in your place and putting them next to the stove top. Your t-shirt finds its way into the laundry basket, an old sweater thrown over your bare skin.

You hate how normal it all feels, because it’s scary. To think of a domestic life with him, where there’s another girl lingering in the background of his thoughts that he has unfinished business with. Insecurities of who is better, prettier, happier, warmer… if he had the chance, would he leave? Would he jump ship?

He sits next to you while you eat, thighs against thighs, and comfortable silence blanketing your small apartment. He hasn’t gotten into one of the many pairs of pyjamas he’s left at your place, or taken his usual after-work shower, or taken out the frozen cookie dough to thaw. You can tell he’s not sure if he’s welcome here for good, yet.

When your food is done, he pushes the plates away and takes a calloused hand to wrap around yours. There’s sharpie marks small knife cuts on his fingers. 

“Are you gonna stay the night?” You ask, still not meeting his gaze. 

“Am I welcome to?” He doesn’t sound like himself, and you can feel his warm breath near the top of your head as you turn towards him. Your body collapses a little then, folding slightly at the middle to have your head fall right into the centre of his chest.

“Yes, Carmen,” you nod, letting your eyes flicker up to meet his. “You can stay for as long as you want.”

His hand slipped from yours then, sliding around your side and up your back. He pulled you into his embrace, lips wrapped around yours in a soft capture. Your hands found their way under his t-shirt, only slightly, his warm skin against the palms of your hands, pulling him impossibly closer. 

And when you lay in bed with him that night, your face burrowed into the softness of his chest, you know the days of waking up alone are over. 

[sitp-recs]

the sun between us by @eleadore (E, 7.4k)

Draco Malfoy, an omega. It was laughable until he was right in front of you, smelling like he was one shaky step from tripping into a heat.

How could it be? Not him, with the cold eyes and mean mouth, and all his sharp edges—every edge, no respite—nothing soft to him, nothing to draw you in. (…) He's not pretty, with his pale, pointy face, all washed of colour and full of spite. Haughty and unfeeling. Cold, Harry thinks, even in the grip of a heat, he'd be cold. Who would want to fuck him? Who would want—who would—

I finally got the chance to read this fic and I knew I was gonna write a rec for it the moment I read the quote above (I’ve actually combined my two fave quotes up there). Then I stared at my tumblr draft for about 10 minutes before I remembered how to actually write a rec lol it’s been over an year since the last one and god knows how long it will be until the next, so thank you kindly @eleadore for fueling my Drarry feels once again!

What a delicious read. So viscerally raw and thick with tension (not only sexual, which makes it even more compelling), this put me at the edge of my seat, brimming with anticipation from beginning to end. I don’t usually read a/b/o and it takes me a bit to get into it but my god, they’re so mean and so horny that I felt the UST punching my bones and was salivating from the moment Harry first sniffed Draco 🔥

This is not only an impressive masterclass in tension building within 7k (insanity!), but also a refreshing take at omegaverse and a fascinating dive into Harry and Draco, who are SO intense even when they say nothing at all: rough around the edges, unable to differentiate fighting from fucking, desperate to appear smooth when in fact they’re about to burst with want. I love how they are so attuned to each other, the desire to hurt/touch/help/hurt too strong, the wistful memory of that one day in 6th year colouring the “enemies to lovers” dynamics. It was so much fun to see this stone-cold, mocking, demanding Draco through Harry’s increasingly wanton eyes, the unrelenting banter taking the “fucking your enemy through their heat” trope to a whole new level.

Speaking of - and being a good smut champion as always - I just want to highlight how incredibly hot the whole sequence was: that unhinged frenzy of a/b/o sex, all biting and no softness, the post-nut clarity replaced by the hazy confusion of losing control and accidentally knotting your omega boyfriend enemy. Peak Drarry moment 🤣 reading this felt like a fever dream that made me eat it up in one sitting, so if anyone hasn’t had the chance to check this series yet (oh yes, there’s a sequel!!!) run don’t walk! Happy Wednesday :D

[arealphrooblem]

A Good Roommate Is Hard To Find Part 4

Synopsis: Civilian has harbored a secret crush on his roommate for a long time, only to find out that said roommate is the newest villain on the scene during a robbery at his job.

CW: mentions of homophobic parents

Part 1 Here

Ben’s parents always accused him of being as stubborn as a goddamn mule, especially when it came to his sexuality, which they viewed as some sort of rebellion that he childishly refused to grow out of. Even Adam joked about it when Ben would play a video game until he completed every task, gained every achievement, and found every collectible.

Even his crush was stubborn, digging its fingers in when any sane person would have moved cities, new roommates be damned.

In the face of Adam’s injuries, his resolve crumbled like a Nature Valley granola bar. The new fear that unlocked seeing Adam limping and covered in blood over-rode whatever lingering anger and resentment he had about Adam’s . . .new career.

 In its place rose a fierce protective instinct and the need to dote like an old grandmother. He made Adam tea, changed his bandages, cooked and did the dishes and brought Adam his meals so he wouldn’t have to hobble to the kitchen table.

No matter what happened between them, no matter what Adam did in Ben’s absence, the realization that he nearly lost Adam haunted him.

Ben arrived at this city friendless with a useless degree and freshly disowned by his parents. Meeting Adam at his first job felt like nothing short of a miracle. They clicked instantly and for the first time in years Ben felt seen. Adam lit up when they found shared days on each weekly schedule and complained bitterly about the days their shifts didn’t cross. The first time Ben called in sick, Adam sent him a flurry of concerned texts and Ben nearly cried. A quiet, awkward kid turned anxious loner, Ben never had his absence noticed or mattered to someone this much.

He thought for sure their friendship would go to shit when they got an apartment together but living together felt as easy as breathing. What few fights they did have were resolved quickly, as Adam refused to let Ben hide his issues and suck it up. They always found a compromise, something Ben’s parents never granted him.

No wonder he fell so quickly and so hard. And even in the face of a knife at his throat, those feelings refused to let go. He was stuck with them and the night Adam came back Ben resigned himself to his fate.

“Fucking Christ, Ben, sit down,” Adam said from the couch. “I can get my own drink, I don't need a fifties housewife.”

“It's fine, I was already getting up anyway,” Ben protested but Adam glared.

“Sit down.”

“But —“

“Sit. Down.”

Something dark flashed in Adam’s eyes, sending a thread of hot, shivery desire through Ben’s spine.

He sat down.

Adam limped over to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. Even after two days, his leg still pained him, though he wouldn’t tell Ben what the injury was or how he got it.

“Maybe you should go to a doctor,” Ben suggested as Adam wandered back in.

“Absolutely not.”

Adam didn’t even spare him a glance as he reached for the remote.

“What if you broke it or something?”

“I didn’t break anything. Quit fussing, Benji, and scoot over.”

Ben obliged, sitting at the far edge of the couch. Adam stretched out on the rest of the couch, setting his head in Ben’s lap and draping his injured leg gingerly over the other end.

Suddenly every nerve was on high alert. Adam had done this before, usually when drunk, and always with a pillow. This time his face lay bare against Ben’s jean clad thigh. Whiffs of his cologne teased Ben’s nose, his body heat sinking into Ben’s leg.  

It took every inch of willpower not to spring  a boner right then and there. If Adam turned his head the other way, he would be breathing right against Ben’s dick.

“Doesn’t it hurt,” he asked, trying to turn his thoughts anywhere else.

Adam glanced up and gave Ben a small, wistful smile. “I’ve had so much worse. You worry too much.”

“That does not in fact make me feel any better.”

Adam wriggled, adjusting into a more comfortable position and Ben bit back a whine when the back of his head brushed against a growing erection.

“You want a pillow or something?” he asked, voice coming out somewhat strangled.

“Nope. I’m fine. Flip to ESPN. The Lakers are playing tonight.”

Sports. Dozens of men in their physical prime sweating and running and showing off lean, muscular arms while another man lays in his lap. Just great.

Of course the day the worst cold front of the season hits, the power to half the city gets shut off, including their apartment building. Ben had just shuffled home from work, kicked off his shoes, and pre-heated the oven before the whole place plunged into darkness.

And of course Adam was nowhere to be found and he didn’t answer any texts or calls.

Things like this happened more and more often. Maybe it was because he didn’t have to lie to Ben anymore about his activities — Adam had taken a lot of “late shifts” and overtime before the truth came out — or maybe things were ramping up in the criminal underworld. But more and more often came long swathes of time where Adam disappeared and could not be contacted.

Usually Ben spent that time staying up as long as he could for Adam, always scared of another bloody return.

This time he yanked off his comforter from the bed and sat on the couch, pissed. It was freezing, his phone battery almost dead, too dark to read and no internet. The fuck was he supposed to do?

By the time Adam stumbled back through the door, Ben had dozed off and on the couch in pitiful snatches of sleep, too cold to get any rest.

“You have shit timing,” he said, teeth clacking. “Turning off the power couldn’t be a summer activity?”

“Then you’d be pissed at how hot it was,” Adam retorted.

“At least I could open a window.”

Adam threw him a devious smirk that looked almost ghoulish in the glow of his phone. “Or take your clothes off.”

Ben’s cheeks heated, the only warmth he could feel.

“Seriously though, what the fuck?”

“It wasn’t my idea, trust me,” Adam grumbled, toeing off his shoes. “My boss is an impulsive fuckface.”

“So how long until the power comes back?”

Adam shrugged. “A while. The point is that it will take a long time and a lot of resources spread across the city to get it back. So layer up, Benji.”

Ben groaned. “Fantastic. Are there any perks that come with this gig of yours?”

“Not yet. But there will be.”

 Ben had his doubts about that. Part of him wanted to really interrogate Adam, to know everything — what got him started, what his goals were, what the point of all of it was. But Adam was right — the more Ben knew, the more of a liability he was. Better to stay ignorant, even if his anxiety filled the gaps with ideas probably worse than reality.

“Come on,” Adam said, motioning to his bedroom door. “Bring your blanket, we’re bunking up tonight.”

All thoughts ground to a sudden halt.

“What?” Ben asked stupidly.

“It’s freezing in here or have you not noticed?” Adam said, already heading towards the bedroom.

“Yeah, but  —“

“Quit being a wuss and come on. It’s the only way we’re gonna get warm.”

Heart pounding, Ben followed, blanket clenched around him like a shawl. Adam didn’t know about Ben’s feelings but he did know about Ben’s sexuality and he never had an issue with it. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t get freaked out if he woke up to Ben’s erection against his back. Or to Ben moaning from a dream or sleep-cuddling or hundred other humiliating tells that could happen in the obliviousness of sleep.

Still, his idiot self followed Adam into the bedroom. Adam gestured for Ben to crawl in the bed first. The twin mattress was set against the wall and did not leave much room for two grown men. Ben started to despair as he scooted as far over as he could and still Adam’s thighs brushed against his as both men jockeyed for room. Eventually they ended up on their sides, facing each other, close enough to feel their breath on their lips.

That and the smell of Adam and his warm radiating against Ben under the covers was enough to send him a little light-headed. Only two inches and his own willpower separated them from kissing.  

“You good?” Adam whispered.

Ben nodded. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

Adam shuddered and scooted closer, pressing his head against Ben’s shoulder. “I’ve been freezing all night,” he muttered.

“Same,” said Ben, hardly daring to breathe. The smell of Adam’s shampoo tainted every lungful of air.

“I’m too wired for sleep, though. What about you?”

He should feel exhausted but having Adam pressed up against him ignited every nerve in his body.

“I’m not tired,” he said.

“You wanna play Never Have I Ever?”

 “We don’t have drinks.” And thank God for that because who knows what insane statement Ben might ask under the cover of darkness. Like Never Have I Ever killed someone.  Or Never Have I Ever thought about kissing another man. Things that haunt Ben that he also doesn’t want the answers to.

“What about Truth or Dare?”

“There’s no way in hell I’m getting out of this bed for a dare and I don’t trust you not to ask me something totally humiliating.”

Or for Ben to trust himself not to dare Adam for a kiss. The temptation, with Adam pressed close enough that Ben could feel the reverb of Adam’s voice against his own ribs, was too great. Something about the darkness made Ben feel reckless and only the life-long ball and chain of his anxiety kept him from going rogue and ruining everything.

“Goddamn do you get cranky when you’re cold,” Adam grumbled. “How about this — we take turns telling us something the other person doesn’t know about us. But we get to pick what we reveal.”

Always hungry for knowledge, especially about Adam, the King of Evasive Answers, Ben could not resist.

“Okay. But you go first.”

Adam thought for a moment before answering. “One of my greatest fears is that I’ll get that tick bite that makes you allergic to meat.”

Ben smiled. “Good thing we live in a densely populated city.”

“There are ticks in the city. We’re not safe here.” Adam sounded so serious that Ben had to laugh. He pulled away from Ben’s chest and he could feel Adam’s glare even in the darkness. “Alright chucklefuck, what about you?”

“Um . . .I hate cake. I’ve never had a birthday cake I enjoyed.”

“You hate cake?”

“It’s dry and gums up my mouth and the frosting is always too sweet.”

“You’ve just never had good cake.”

“I’ve had all kinds of cake. They all suck.”

“I could find you a cake you’d love.”

“Careful, Adam. That sounds like a bet.”

“Oh yeah? And what would you give me if you won?”

“Anything.”  The word slipped out of Ben’s mouth before he could stop it.

He felt a sharp intake of breath against his collarbone.

“Anything?” Adam whispered. A strange tension strung his voice taut. Ben wished he could see the expression that matched it. “That’s a dangerous thing to promise.”

“I um — ” Ben swallowed thickly. “I really hate cake.”

“We’ll see about that.” It sounded almost as if Adam was talking about something else and though Ben usually squashed any wishful thinking down, he let  this one take root.

“Your turn,” he said.

“I’ve never been drunk.”

“Bullshit,” Ben said. “I’ve seen you drunk. Multiple times.”

“You’ve seen me pretend to be drunk. I’m very good at it.”

“Seriously?” Ben thought back to last New Years, at a party thrown by one of their old coworkers. Adam had been giggly and ridiculous and adorable, his guard down in a way he never allowed sober.

Or so Ben thought.

“Being drunk makes you too vulnerable,” said Adam. “People do and say stupid shit they never would sober. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Why lie?” asked Ben. “You could just say you don’t drink.”

“That draws a lot of attention. People take it as a challenge to get you to drink or they interrogate you about it or they get pissed because they think I don’t drink out of some moral high ground. It’s easier to pretend.”

Adam always seemed confident and untouchable, even before Ben found out about his criminal activities. To hear him admit to so much fear tonight . . .the trust felt addictive. And suddenly the weight of his own secret, his own fear, felt unbearable.

“I’m in love with you.”

 The intimacy of the darkness, of their bodies cradling each other, the vulnerability of secrets, cocooned around him like a protective shell. He felt bulletproof. He felt tired. The secret weighed so much, even if he could ignore most of the time.

Silence intensified between them at the confession. Ben’s heart roared in his ears.

“Oh Benji,” Adam sighed. “You’re supposed to tell me something I don’t know. That’s how the game works.”

“I — you knew? How? How long?”

“Not long after we moved in. You’re not very subtle, especially when I know you so well.”

Ben anticipated all kinds of reactions, but not this one.

“Oh. I’m — I’m sorry. I didn’t mean — ”

“Don’t be sorry,” Adam said, his tone heartbreakingly kind. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I don’t — I don’t want to weird you out.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” Adam’s fingers curled around Ben’s shoulder and squeezed. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

A dangerous spark of hope ignited in him. Adam knew. Adam knew and it didn’t freak him out. Adam knew and he still put his head in Ben’s lap and cuddled with Ben in bed and —

“Do — ” Ben swallowed, his heart in his throat. “Do you — ”

“My father is a supervillain.”

Once again all the thoughts zig-zagging in his head screeched to a halt. “What?”

Adam took in a shaky breath. “He’s dead now but he was very infamous when he was alive. Other villains cowed to him. I inherited his powers.”

“You have powers?”

There had been a handful of infamous supervillains in the past few decades and all of them had terrifyingly powers. No matter who Adam ended up connected to, every option was lethal. A lick of fear tingled up his spine.

I don’t need a knife to hurt you.

But right now, pressed so close together in the freeing darkness, Adam didn’t feel dangerous. And it wouldn’t matter if he did because reckless want surged through Ben, burning out the dogged fear that always followed him. Adam might be murderous, he would never love Ben back the same way, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t want it to matter.

Adam pulled away, his fingers digging into Ben’s  shoulder, the intensity of his gaze almost a physical weight.

“No one knows about this, Ben. No one. My crew, my boss — they think I’m a grunt, a weapon to point with. And I need them to think that. Do you understand?”

Of course Adam had a plan laid out. And the fact that he’s telling Ben the one piece that could bring it all to ruin left an ache in Ben’s chest.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Ben said. “I swear. I worry about you all the time. I want you to be safe.”

“I trust that.” Adam’s grip loosened and he smoothed his hand over the wrinkles he caused. “I shouldn’t. I don’t trust anyone. But you . . .you feel different than anyone else I’ve met. I can’t really explain it.”

“You do too,” Ben whispered.

Adam’s hand traced up the column of Ben’s throat, cupping his jaw with just the barest finger tips. The urge to kiss him swelled up in Ben, overwhelming, a wave of reckless desire finally cresting. Just a small kiss. Just this once.

He ducked his head down a fraction of an inch, terrified and determined all at once, when Adam pulled back.

“Go to sleep, Ben,” he said quietly, hand sliding away. “I have a long day tomorrow if you want the power back on.”

Disappointment crashed into him, a wave against a cliff. “Yeah,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “That would be nice.”

He slept facing the wall, feeling Adam’s breath against his neck. The next morning the bed was warm but empty.

Taglist: @itsmyworld23 @canary-warrior @cyborg0109 @littlesadzap

Let me know in the comments if you want to be tagged!

[faellain]

The Accidental Baby Trap Incident

Summary: About four years after the events of First Class, Erik arrives at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters with two little twins who he didn't know existed. Thinking he doesn't know what to do, he runs to Charles, not knowing the state his old friend is in.

Snippet 5

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charles goes back to avoiding him while he weans himself off the shots. raven is clearly annoyed with erik, but she knows he didn't want to do this to her. to either of them. neither does she take a shine to the kids but kids were never exactly raven's speciality.

on the third day of charles flushing out the drug, erik finds him leaning on the outside rail, staring at the satelite dish. erik lifts his hand, moving it towards them, memories of his mother and their menorah and of charles bringing that memory back dancing in his mind. charles jolts when it moves but then turns to see erik. after a moment, he turns back, but does not tell him to leave.

erik stands next to him, staring at the satelite. silence hangs over them like dark clouds before a storm. did charles really hate him? did he really hate charles? when he was worried about his children, charles was where he had turned. yet, he felt stung- betrayed by charles saying they did not want the same thing. by charles' dedication to a coexistance that could never be.

"we'll never be those men again," charles says.

"pardon?"

"we'll never be them again," charles repeats, his voice wistful, "i will never be the charles xavier who pulled you out of the water. you will never be the erik lehnsherr who could not move a satelite dish."

"we are those men," erik tells him, not fully understanding.

"no. those men died on a beach in cuba," charles all but whispers, his voice shaking, "erik died the moment you put on that helmet. charles died when you left him on that beach."

erik frowned, his nose wrinkling in disgust, "so it's all my fault then?"

"yes," charles replies, quick and firm, his once piercing azure eyes still dull and tired. he hasn't been sleeping.

"fuck you," erik snaps, "i gave you the chance to stay at my side. you told me no. you said we didn't want the same thing."

"we don't," charles tells him, "my erik did. but you do not. you tried to kill my erik so often. the minute you found a way to shut me out of his mind, you took it. and you made him a monster."

"i am not a monster," he growls, taking charles by the shirt with one hand, "i didn't come out here to fight with you."

"i loved you so much," charles says, voice so gentle that it hurts, "but it was never going to be enough. your hate will always be so much stronger than anything else in your heart."

erik wants to scream until his throat is raw. part of him wants to hurl charles into the satelite dish. his teeth click as they grit togther inside his clenched jaw. his hand shoves charles back as he shakes his head, disgusted with him.

"you are so self-righteous," erik sneers, "you always have been. it is why raven left. it is why i left. you think you are some beacon of morality and peace, but you're just a man. and you've become a pathetic one at that."

charles laughs, hollow and broken, "maybe so. it's nothing i don't already know."

erik did not expect charles to agree. an arguement would have felt good. instead, charles rolls over like a tired hound dog. there is no bite in him, no spark of hope and kindness.

i did that, erik thinks and wishes that charles could hear him.

"did what?" asks charles, fingers rubbing his temples in hypnotic circles.

erik whips his head up to look at him. instead of trying to press, charles is walking away, rubbing the side of his head fiercely as a headache comes on. he mutters something about not wanting to know. instead of letting the other man be, erik follows him his pace brisk.

"you need to sit down," he says.

"you need to leave me be."

"charles-"

charles glares at him, anger taking over him, "you do not get to pretend you care about me!"

as he storms over the threshold with thundering steps, charles gasps, hand flying to the base of his spine. his legs give out. erik sees him falling and rushes forward, grabbing him before he can hit that hardwood floor. he all but flies toward the wall, hitting his own back so he can sink them both down, cradling charles in his arms.

"i- i can't do it," charles whispers, voice shaking before he shouts, "HANK! i can't do it. ask your diamond friend, erik. i can't do it."

"charles, breathe, tell me what's wrong," erk says, moving to cup charles' face.

charles laughs bitterly, his cracking pale lips shaking, his hand riddled with tremors as he touches his leg, "as these go," he moves his trembling hand to his temple, "this comes back. as i said."

all this over his powers. this was the result they wanted. raven had come here so charles could use cerebro and his familiarity with sean, but there was nothing stopping them from having azazel teleport emma in. it would have been faster than flushing the drug out of charles' system. had erik and raven not bothered to think of it because charles was already there or had they made a silent agreement to get charles back to the way he was.

but he had never been like this. from erik's arms, he calls for hank again. the young scientist runs by the top of the stairs, looks down at charles and shoots off. no doubt he was willing to give in to the demands of a charles clearly in pain. erik is tempted to as well. a shaky breath all but plows through charles' body, lifting his hands to cover his ears.

"they all come back," he whispers, wincing as he pressed against erik.

charles starts wrestling with his shirt, trying to roll up the sleeve. ever since he had arrived, even when they had kissed, erik had not seen charles' arms. at his vein there is a dark pock-mark. purple and red petals blossom around it, but it churns erik's stomach. he presses his arms around charles, keeping him from doing any more.

"don't stop me," charles hisses, begging, "i can't do this. i can't hear them all. it's too much."

erik cups charles' cheek, pressing their foreheads together. such tenderness feels foreign to him now, yet it's so easy to remember holding charles like this. it's even easier to imagine they're on a beach in cuba, erik about to make the biggest mistake of his life. leaving charles behind should have never been an option.

"focus on me," he tells him, "you can do that. find my mind. only feel my thoughts."

"i- i will never go back inside that head again," spits charles, though he does not push away.

i love you, erik all but screams, knowing now that charles has to be able to hear him. he lights his thoughts up like a beacon, trying to blare them loudly. charles goes remarkably still in his arms.

happy memories- of the road trip. of that first kiss. of dancing. of channukah. of the satelite. of doing missions together. all of it love. all of it their story. erik came here because no matter how many allies he has, charles is his friend. his lover. his other half.

they had been made for each other. erik truly, deeply, madly believed that, even now. even after everything.

a hiccup escapes charles' lips, mind prodding at the recent memory of their angry kiss. there had been no danger. just a frustrated erik who was struggling to pretend that was was between them was dead. charles reaches up, his hands clinging to erik's arms like a life line, letting himself be bathed in the noise of erik's thoughts.

of erik's love for him.

"i- but- " charles tries to garble out but fails.

i have loved you from the moment you told me i was not alone, erik explains, nuzzling charles' hair, even though it was stringy and tinged with sweat. it was still part of charles, his beautiful perfect charles.

every pained gasp made erik's heart wrench. as much as he wanted to blame moira, this was hardly her fault. by god, did he want it to be her fault. yet, she had only done it to stop him. he had only been careless a moment.

charles was shaky as he cups erik's cheek, smiling at him. he says no words, but shakes his head. erik wishes he was a telepath, not for the first time. charles is painfully cryptic. still, he gasps again as hank rounds the corner.

"raven is keeping the kids from seeing. i've got some serum with a little bit extra if he wants it."

erik looks down at charles, "do you? we can get emma."

that is the last thing he wants. but charles is clearly in pain, he is fighting his very nature. suffering is not something erik likes to see in charles' face. yet, the other slowly shakes his head no.

"erik, carry me to the study, please."

without question, erik slides his arm beneath charles' knees, hoisting him up as he stands. charles arms come to rest at either side of his neck. erik presses his nosebridge to the side of charles' temple. all three are silent as they go to the study. charles lets out a breathless chuckle- he hasn't been in here since erik's arrival. erik knows because he dusts and cleans in here often enough.

memories float along which make charles, still tired, still unsure lean against erik's shoulder slightly. their heartbeats thud in tandem. all erik does is adjust his hold, securing charles closer.

hank opens the door to a closet. there are plenty of things in there, but erik has never opened it. curiousity nearly got the better of him several time since he could feel a magnetic pull in there, but he was trying to avoid losing the tenative acceptance he and his children had. even if he did prefer to argue with charles.

inside, sits a sleek wheelchair. its not the rickety thing that erik is used to seeing. much of it is polished wood with built-in gray cushions for charles' comfort. yet erik can feel it. metal lines the wheels, the brakes. despite everything, charles designed this wheelchair so erik could one day push him in it.

i had always hoped you'd come back, a soft, tired voice prods into erik's mind.

you fool, he replies, what if i had used it to kidnap you?

unaware of their conversation, hank shakes his head, "are you sure about this?"

charles shakes his head, "absolutely not."

all three of them head downstairs to cerebro, erik pushing charles along with a light curl of his fingers. he can feel charles' focus playing with the edges of his mind, still using him to keep from hearing every voice his powers let him all at once. good. it means that charles is exercising his ability to control his powers.

erik had not seen this completed cerebro. he had helped build the skeleton of it when they were training for cuba, but he never saw it finished. a blue 'x' scans charles' eye before an automated voice welcomes him inside. he watches charles' jaw clench with apprehension.

i'm here with you, he reminds him, softly. is it as much of a comfort as he hopes?

[pewpewkachuuboo]

People reacted really well to radioapple, so here’s another few short short drabbles of those two with some huskerdust sprinkled in because they’re so good it hurts my heart- I really appreciate the likes and reblogs 😭 I wanted to just have some slice of life style interactions because I love the idea of them being besties at least end game (every spicy scorpio needs their charismatic libra bestie - idc what their signs actually are this is my headcannon and I will not be swayed).

Working on a few long form works with actual plot lmao - I want to get a few chapters in before I post because I don’t like the idea of not posting weekly updates to long form. I’m having so much fun, ya’ll. I really needed a creative outlet 😭 I missed writing so much.

—

-Alastor discovers romance novels-

Angel Dust was draped across one of the sofas in the hotel lobby with a book open in his top set of hands while petting a sleeping Fat Nuggets with his bottom set, the pink pig curled up at his abdomen.

The lanky man’s fingers were quick to turn the pages as his eyes scanned the pages, his tongue sticking out slightly from concentration.

(Husk was watching thoughtlessly, a wistful smile on his face as he rested his cheek in one paw while the other wiped in lazy circles around the bar counter, but he would never admit the lopsided smile was for the spider if he even realized he was doing it at any point.)

“Why, Angel, I had no idea you were literate.”

Alastor’s static voice broke Angel Dust out of his trance - he jumped higher than intended, scaring Fat Nuggets who ran to the bar for shelter (Husk panicked at the voice, but his demeanor went back to his usual disinterested face after Fat Nuggets dove for his feet). Angel Dust’s face had a soft pink tint, “Are ya kiddin? I can read. I’m dumb but I ain’t stupid.”

Alastor tutted, “That makes no sense, dear.” Angel opened his mouth to retort but Alastor cocked his head to the side at an unsettling angle as he interrupted the attempt making Angel bite his tongue instead, “What are we indulging in? Hemingway, perhaps? Maybe some James Joyce?”

“Who?” Angel Dust didn’t miss a beat, smiling slightly when he saw Alastor’s eye twitch, “I don’t read that old timey shit - this is…” he paused before telling him the author, a grin spreading devilishly across his face, “This is one of ta best novels to come out in years according to the reviews.” He motioned to the pile spread out beside him, “If you like ta read you’re more than welcome ta borrow one.”

Alastor made a noise in consideration before picking up one of the books with two of his fingers like he was afraid to get bitten, “I would hate to discourage you picking up good habits, and I do miss a harrowing tale.”

Angel Dust crossed his long legs, “Oh, they’re harrowing alright.”

Alastor raised an eye brow in suspicion, but moved to hold the book regularly, “Well, then, don’t mind if I do indulge in some entertainment. Thank you, Angel Dust.”

Alastor disappeared into his shadows and Angel Dust grinned at Husk, “Wanna bet on reactions when he gets to the steamy parts?”

Husk’s mouth quirked in another half smile as he sighed out a laugh, “I do love to gamble.”

A few hours later, Angel Dusk had moved to the bar and was laughing at one of Husk’s stories from when he was alive before he received a sharp thump to the back of his head as Alastor appeared and had slapped the spider demon with the borrowed book. Angel growled, rubbing the place of impact, “What the fuck-“

“You just tricked me into reading some very inappropriate content.” Alastor mused, laying the book on the bar top, “Never do that again if you know what’s good for you.”

Angel huffed, handing Husker a crisp twenty as Alastor turned on his foot to leave, “Whateva, you probably liked it.”

“Ha Ha Ha - no.”

Angel Dust stuck his tongue out at Husk who was grinning from his win, but they both turned just in time to see Alastor pick up another book from the pile before disappearing again.

The spider looked back at Husk, eyebrows raised, “Wait, gimme the $20 back - I told you aces usually love smut if it’s a book, watching and reading are different than doin and I FUCKIN WON.”

Husk growled lowly, handing him the bill back before fishing another twenty from his tip jar and handing it over, “Fuck, I hate when you’re right.”

Angel Dust laughed evilly and made an effort to just leave his novels around the hotel to see if any would get picked up - and they usually did.

—

-Lucifer tries to lead one of Charlie’s lessons-

Lucifer looked over the hotel patrons one by one before taking in a deep breath and letting it out, “Today we are going to talk about and learn about unconscious bias and random acts of kindness.”

He tried not to linger on Alastor’s form for longer than needed because that fucking smile made his blood boil and he had promised Charlie that he would take this seriously and her sparkling, expectant glare was putting more pressure on him than he had thought it would and he HAD to get this right or Charlie would never ask him to help again (probably).

“Unconscious bias is when you make assumptions about someone you don’t know without realizing based on things that you learned as you’ve been a conscious being. For example, most men here in hell probably assume that women are only capable in traditional wife roles and will treat women as less powerful or threatening as a result.” He pointed the apple at the tip of his cane in the direction of the women in the room, “All of our lovely ladies are obviously very powerful and would not adhere to that stereotype, but when someone assumes they are weak because they are women, we call that an unconscious bias because it happens without that person realizing.” He cleared his throat, “Does anyone have another example?”

Angel Dust raised his hand and then tapped his chin thoughtfully when Lucifer motioned for him to share, “Well, people think I’m a woman cus I have tits. Is that right?”

Lucifer’s eye twitched, “Well… kind of, not quite.” He hummed thoughtfully, “When people think of you, they think of your career in adult films, right?”

“Ya.”

“Okay, Husk, what is something that you assumed about Angel Dust because of that career that he’s proved you wrong in getting to know him?”

Husk’s jaw went slack and his cheeks turned a soft pink, “M-me?”

“Yes- the two of you seem to be good friends, so I assume you have an example.”

Angel Dust smirked, “C’mon, Kitty Cat - tell me what you’ve learned about me.”

Husk sighed and stayed quiet for a moment before clearing his throat, “I had assumed that because he’s an actor that he was fake, but what I perceived as fake was a shield and he’s actually one of the most genuinely kind people I’ve ever met.”

Alastor cocked his head at this and Angel Dust was silent -face unreadable. Both were making him increasingly uncomfortable so he stuttered out a, “H-he’s still annoying as hell, though.”

Lucifer clapped his hands together, “Amazing! That’s a great example!” He looked to Charlie and Vaggie as Charlie excitedly waved her hands in the air chanting me next several times before Lucifer motioned for his daughter to share.

“I made assumptions about Vaggie when we met! I assumed she was a demon because we met in an alley and then I assumed that Adam would help us because angels are supposed to be good but he was an asshole!” She ranted and chirped excitedly for a few more moments, and once she had finished she grinned up at him, “Do you have unconscious bias?”

Lucifer nodded his head thoughtfully, “Everyone has unconscious bias.”

Charlie made an ‘O’ with her mouth before she scanned the room and pointed at Alastor, “What unconscious bias did you have against Alastor?”

Lucifer’s eye twitched in irritation, looking to the radio demon whose eyes narrowed in curiosity. After a few minutes Lucifer sighed, “I assumed he was a psychopath with ill intentions. I still think he’s insane, but… he has protected you all and I think that means he doesn’t have the illest of intentions.”

Alastor’s grin widened, “Why, thank you sir! I’m tickled to know you care to notice.”

Charlie’s eyes sparkled as she clasped her hands together, “Wow! This is so great!”

Lucifer moved his neck to pop it from the uncomfortable feelings he just had to experience. Complimenting Alastor was exhausting. “Now, random acts of kindness. This is when you want to thank someone or see someone that needs help, you go out of your way to assist them. It doesn’t have to be life saving - for example, to thank you all for coming today I have brought you all a….” He reached into his coat and threw yellow objects at the group with a grin, “rubber duck!!”

He let them pick up the ducks before he continued, “These are important to me, and all of you are also important to me and so I am giving you a gift to reflect that. Another example would be giving a beggar some change, buying food for someone who can’t afford it themselves, or even just listening when you see someone get emotional that seems like they need company.” He popped his knuckles, “Your assignment is to go and perform a random act of kindness and report back with what you did, why, and how it made you feel.” He lifted his arms and created a wind to blow the material of his coat behind him as well as open the front doors to the hotel dramatically, “Go! Randomly be kind! I’ll be waiting!”

The first to return after being released was Alastor. He held out a bag to Lucifer, who looked at the offering with high suspicion, “I have brought you a gift to show your importance in the hotel.”

“Is it poisoned?”

Alastor chuckled, “No, sir, this is a genuine gift.”

Still suspicious of the radio demon, Lucifer carefully held the bag at a distance. Once free of the bag, Alastor bowed at his waist, hand on his chest, “I have some other matters to attend to, so a bid you adieu for now. Have a swell afternoon, your highness.”

Once the shadow disappeared, Lucifer carefully opened the bag with the tips of his fingers. He was surprised, however, that the item in the bag was a weirdly large rubber duck that had been colored to look like an imp. Lucifer narrowed his eyes and took the duck out, not sure if he should be thankful or wonder if it being an imp implied that he was less than Alastor. But it was cute….

He studied the red duck for a moment before smiling, moving to take it to his tower to place with the rest of the collection.

—

-radioapple does coffee-

The cafe the two sat in was quaint and silent, aside from the bustle of the barista as the small imp moved to clean the counters spotlessly while there was a lull in customers. The walls were a soft purple, and large white daisies decorated the walls randomly while the floor was occupied by black tables and chairs for patrons to sit in.

Lucifer had his legs crossed and eyes closed as he lifted his cup of coffee to his lips with a grace that only someone of royal lineage could hold.

Alastor was sitting opposite the king of hell, humming as he tipped his own cup to his lips.

The silence that hung between them was comfortable for once, not angry or awkward like it was normally at the hotel.

Lucifer opened his eyes slowly to look up at Alastor’s permanently perfect smile, flashing one of his own, “If I had known you were a tea and coffee connoisseur we may have gotten along sooner.”

Alastor chuckled, “Sir, if that’s all it would have taken I would have brought it up as soon as you had stepped into our lowly hotel.”

The shorter male made an amused sound at the thought, “What ifs aside, we probably would have gotten over it eventually. I will say, I’m still not sure of your true intentions with my daughter and her friends, but I do approve of you keeping them safe and also of us doing this weekly - I’ve never had a coffee friend before.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, “Friend, sir?”

Lucifer shrugged and took another sip of his coffee, letting the silence settle over them again.

Alastor’s voice box crackled before he made a new suggestion, “A dear friend of mine is the leader of Cannibal Town - they have a rather tasty and aesthetic cafe out there, we should make that the destination for next week.”

Lucifer’s eyes brightened, “Ah, Rosie? I haven’t seen her since the extermination before last - and it’s been centuries since I’ve been to Cannibal Town. It would be nice to say hello again! Let’s make that the plan, then.”

The two sat in comfortable silence as they enjoyed decent company and good coffee.

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas - Part II

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. Eventual nsfw, not this chapter. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. 😆 chapter map.

II. The Interminable Fucking Car Ride

“So…what do you do?”

“I run the marketing department for JD Power.”

“The car trophy people?”

“That’s a magazine.”

“Ah. So you’re the grand architect of big corporate’s bid to tell us what to think while slyly taking all our money.”

He snorts. “Only those who are incapable of thinking for themselves. Somehow, that doesn’t seem to apply to you.”

If you squint, that almost felt like he was paying you a compliment.

“So, what do you do?” he asks in turn.  

You don’t know why you’re almost embarrassed to tell him. “I run an art gallery/gift shop on the beach in Playa Bonita.”

He blinks, those lovely dark eyes fixed on you for a moment. “Of course you do.”

“What does that mean?”

He huffs a little. It almost sounds wistful, but then he frowns, utterly fucking ruining the moment.  “You just look the type.”

You’re not sure why that stings…or why you even give a fuck.

The Fucking Rehearsal Dinner

“I’ve never really understood the point of the rehearsal dinner. Is eating so hard we really have to rehearse it?”

You sense an almost twitch of the corner of Frank’s mouth. They have stuck you together at a table in the far back. The black sheep who they felt they had to invite, but didn’t really want to.

“Not to miss the opportunity to make the groom’s parents spend unnecessary money too?” Frank offers.

“Fair to spread the misery, I guess.”

“Didn’t you sue Keith over this shit?”

“My parents did. They lost thirty thousand dollars in deposits.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. No one should spend that kind of money on a wedding.”

“Strangely, I agree with you now. I didn’t know any better at the time.” You’d been so young, you could hardly even fathom how much thirty-thousand dollars was.

Your parents had been happy at the time with the prospect of marrying you off to Keith. He’d been successful, charming, and outwardly doting on you. They never really thought you had much going on your own, so they probably thought he was the best you could do. The thought still hurts, more than it should.

“I mean,” you blurt, “Did you know who you are or what you wanted when you were 20?”

“Of course not.”

“He was my whole world. When he dumped me. It...it really fucked me up.” You don't know why you're admitting this to this near total stranger. There is just something about his forthright manner that demands honesty. 

“Ah well, join the club. My father tried to shoot me once, if it makes you feel any better.”

You blink. “He tried to shoot you?”

“Yes. With a gun.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran at him.”

“You ran at him? Not away from him?”

“Yeah. Well, I was pissed off. He tried to shoot me again, but I got the gun away from him and hit him with it. Broke his orbital bone. He said I was the accumulation of all his bad decisions. He started to cry and begged me to kill him. I didn’t, only because I didn’t want to fuck my whole life up. The poor bastard jumped out the seventh floor the next day.”

Before you can stop yourself you reach out to place your hand on his on the table.

Before he can stop himself, his long fingers close around yours.

This connection endures for precisely 1.5 seconds before he shakes you off.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t think your fine.”

“Fine, I’m all fucked up, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

You sigh, sinking down in your chair, embarrassed. Why did you touch him? What were you thinking?

“I guess we’re in the club together,” you answer miserably.

You feel him looking at you out the corner of his eye. There is a weight to this man’s gaze. It’s not unpleasant, just…you feel as though he sees everything.

“I feel like we should get at least decoder rings or something,” he grumbles.

The bride and groom make their entrance, interrupting whatever acerbic thing you were going to say next. You watch as they make their way through the crowd, basking in the glow of being the center of attention. Keith always loved that shit. You hate to admit, that his bride to be is a solid stone cold foxy 10. The kind of woman that men will trip over themselves for as they walk down the street.

You weren’t bad looking but you’d never had that kind of power.

If you wanted to trip a man, you had to do the dirty work and actually stick out your foot.

“Oh, look at us, let us presume to inconvenience you with the ostentatious display of our love,” you mock quietly in a mousy little falsetto.

It actually makes Frank laugh. At least, you think it’s a laugh. Maybe it was indigestion.

He joins in, though forgoing the funny voice, “And we’re conceited enough to think we’re actually different from the rest of the human race, and our love will last forever and ever…”

You’re enjoying this malicious bit of fun, but there is something in the way that he says it that makes you pause. “You don’t think love can ever last?” you ask.

He snorts. “Well, he doesn’t. I heard the prenup she had to sign was brutal,” he tells you.

 “Poor thing.”

“You really feel sorry for her?”

“Slightly?”

“Are you going to say hello?”

You sigh. “I guess I fucking better.”

You slowly make to stand, the chair screeching under you. “Give ‘em hell, kid.”

You flip Frank the bird as you go, and hear that peculiar strangled sound that must pass for his outward expression of mirth.

Dumb ass free shit you would never do on your own

"I spoke to the bride last night."

“Indeed?”

You’ve had pedicures before, but you’ve never sprung for a professional foot massage, and you have to admit it feels pretty good. It totally surprised you to find Frank there, but he’d informed you unashamedly that he can’t resist free shit. You find that amusing, considering he’s obviously comfortable, if not outright rich.

Maybe that’s how he stays that way.

“Yes, and she told me she doesn’t mind that you’re here, and she’s not threatened by you.”

You snort at that, taking a long sip of your iced latte.

“At least, I think she meant you. She’s dumb as a box of rocks, it was hard to tell who or what she was talking about at times.”

You sigh at hearing that. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to soothe my feelings.”

It’s his turn to snort. “Merely reporting facts, I assure you. If you still feel badly about Keith and have not managed to move on to one of the other 8 billion people on this planet, then there is no helping you.”

“Is that your method for getting over a bad breakup?” He makes it sound so easy, you cannot help but roll your eyes at him.

“No, I have opted out of that shit show. It makes me uniquely qualified to offer comment on your own situation.”

You tilt you head in confusion, looking over at him. “You’ve…opted out of what? Dating? Romance? Marriage?”

“All of the above. It never ends well, as I have learned from watching my mother’s train wreck of a life as she blithely stumbled between marriages and boyfriends and suitors.”

“That’s so sad,” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

If you hadn’t already started to learn this man’s gestures, you would have missed the way he stiffened slightly, staring fixedly down at his feet.

“How many times have you been in love?” he asks.

You think about it, and regret the answer. “Just the once.” With Keith, the asshole. Any one who came after didn’t have much luck getting over the wall you built to protect yourself from another heartbreak.

He looks at you then, and you are pinned by those chocolate brown eyes, that for once seem earnest rather than annoyed. “What’s it like?”

The fact that this man, who is at least ten if not fifteen years your elder, is asking you tears your heart into little bits of confetti.  

“It’s like going insane,” you answer truthfully, and he looks back down, frowning.

“I thought so.”

***

You are standing in your inflatable body bumpers together on the sidelines, declining to partake in this insane sport, content to watch the others attempt to inflict cervical injuries on themselves and others.

The question is eating at you, and you decide what the hell. What’s he going to do? Be mean to you?

“So, you’ve never been in love?”

“I don’t think so,” he answers, frowning, though it’s the same frown he’s been wearing for the past hour watching the idiots running around the field.

“Believe me, you would know.”

“Do insane people know they’re insane?”

“Ok, maybe that was a bad comparison. It’s…total surrender.”

“Wow, you’re really talking it up.”

“It is though. You have these special feelings for a person, and you just know whatever they do to you, it won’t matter, because you’ll still care for them.”

“It doesn’t matter, until it does matter.”

“Some people have higher tolerances for pain than others.”

“If you loved Keith you could probably take a Caesar-style stabbing without flinching.”

You’re not sure how exactly to respond to that.

“At any rate. I prefer to avoid pain rather than withstand it. My parents inflicted quite enough. No need to spread it around.”

“Alright, I get it that your parents sufficiently traumatized you, with the failed marriages and the…shooting thing. But doesn’t there come a point where you have to let it go and rise above it?”

“I don’t see any reason to.”

“Think about all your missing out on though.”

“What exactly is that?”

“You know…human connection. The things that make life worth living.”

“Jesus, are you sure you don’t work for Hallmark?”

“Positive.”

“I bet you sell rocks in your shop that have inspirational words carved in them.”

“Of course I do. The markup on those things is astronomical.”

You see him smirk out the corner of his eye.

“I bet you also sell little statues of big-eyed children slinging bible verses.”

“Ohhh, now those are fighting words, sir.” You bump him lightly with your inflatable tutu, making him shuffle a step. For a fleeting moment, you catch a hint of a smile, and it feels like a resounding victory.

Feeling bold, you fix him with an earnest stare. “You claim you’ve opted out of this mess. But what if you meet someone you really like?”

“Then I should probably run swiftly in the opposite direction,” he says, paying you a side-eyed look.

Five minutes later, he does quit the field, though he doesn’t quite run from it. You tell your self that it’s just a coincidence, and that he was just done standing in a polyvinyl orb in this heat.

But deep down…there is the tiniest kindling of something in your heart, and you know you should kick dirt over that shit and stomp on it.

You don’t, and you carry a ridiculous little light feeling with you as you return to the hotel.

It feels like you swallowed a butterfly.

[bunnakit]

last twilight ep 7 thoughts, feelings, etc

ALRIGHT i ran my errands, caught up on pit babe and playboyy to relax, and now i'm doing my speedwatch. i took some notes while watching the first time and they're a fucking MESS but hopefully they help me remember everything i want to comment on because without fail i always forget something.

you'll all be glad to know this week's meta bullshit from me is far, far less romantic and wistful than last weeks. you've all been spared by my adhd brain not being able to piece together a single poetic thought.

i kind of knew from this moment the trajectory the episode would take. Day is clearly nervous but not defensive - this isn't out of the realm of something Mhok would do for him but with recent context it probably feels fairly intimate. i think this was a really good indicator of what we're in for.

there's a collection of sunflowers in Day's room, tucked away in the corner, not unlike Mhok tucking away his feelings for Day's comfort. the poor things are shrouded in shadow, away from the light. the pain is unending and forever.

Day's flashback to the kiss has me curious. his eyes are closed so he's not even thinking back to seeing what he can of Mhok up close. as he reminisces about this kiss is he simply remembering the sensation of Mhok's lips on his own? how his hands curled into Mhok's jacket? and i'm sure we've all seen the post but - was he thinking of the way Mhok tasted like cigarettes? this isn't to romanticize his disability, i'm just genuinely wondering what exactly he's drawing on here in this moment, because it's clearly something significant to him.

Porjai just keeps getting prettier every episode and it's making me insane. i just think i should be allowed to take care of her.

"I'm jealous of Day's ability to make you smile."

this makes me think Mhok's smiles have been few and far between, and maybe Porjai has been looking to bring out that smile for a long time. does she ever worry that maybe someday Mhok could end up like Rung? does she worry about finding him too?

oh i so very badly want the context for this, i want to know everything. but also, it's really not that surprising. not when we've seen the things Mhok has done for Day. Mhok lives his life in extremes; anger, kindness, protectiveness, his work, etc. everything Mhok does he puts his whole self into it and it's nice to see his love is no different, because why would it be?

i'm once again in awe of what P'Aof has done with Mhok and Porjai, though. they live together so easily and naturally. there's nothing strange or awkward about it, just two people surviving life together. it's such a breath of fresh air.

Day just cannot catch a break when it comes to August. this has to hurt so fucking badly, the pity has to feel amplified by 1000. not only was August trying to force himself to like Day back because he's blind, but also because he was thinking of leaving. Day is a stronger man than me because i would be frothing at the mouth pissed.

but once again, Mhok doesn't let Day stew in his fish tank. he encourages him to go out and resolve his feelings, even if that means screaming at August and letting out all his hurt and frustration. he's seen what happens when Day lets his hurt fester and he won't let it happen again, not while he's around.

"He's a lot stronger than I thought. It's me who's so weak that I let him down."

as much as August pisses me off, i do think this is him realizing his pity was misplaced, and he failed Day in that way, so he gets some redemption points here. (still think he's a stinky bastard man tho)

the immediate distance Mhok puts between himself and the group never fails to hurt my heart. i get it, he's there for a job, but their relationship has progressed past that - now even moreso, and i cant help but wonder if this is his attempt at keeping a distance, curbing his expectations, reminding himself that while his role is to be by Day's side it's only in a professional capacity.

i love that Gee acknowledges him with a little head nod, occasionally looks in Mhok's direction as if to include him, she's just - ugh - i love all the women in this show so fucking much. i just wish someone would invite Mhok over sometime, encourage him to join the conversation (like they did back at the party.)

sometimes Mhok really is the embodiment of a shadow - both of Day and of his former self (for good or bad.)

(he looks so fucking sexy leaning like that with his shirt tucked into his pants tho, whew.)

Gee also becomes one of my favorite people for asking Day to take the photo of all of them. she just gets it, she includes him, she doesn't act like he can't do things, she even insists he can, she's just !!! the women of all time in this show i swear!!! I LOVE WOMEN!!!!

also the "you don't drink coffee, girl spill the tea" from Gee is just so good. she knows a diversion tactic when she sees one.

i want this expression framed, she's so cute, HELP.

i wish i had the time and energy today to make gifs for this week but ugh. the journey Mhok's face went on here to end up at quiet resignation. because he did figure. someone like Day? with someone like him? because we know Mhok's opinion of himself isn't great, largely influenced by his incarceration and reintegration into society, i'm sure, along with his guilt. but there had been that little bud of hope, a little sunflower seed that had bloomed just a little too far, reached for the sun a little too much. it must feel like a weed in his chest.

the way Day says 'here' so softly, with so much vulnerability made me feel like screaming. he doesn't know what his feelings are for Mhok yet (you can't tell me he doesn't feel anything) but he knows he doesn't want to lose Mhok and the sudden idea of it is terrifying. Mhok is the only person that really understands him, one of the only people he's comfortable around anymore, and he can't lose that. he doesn't want to go back to the dirty fish tank.

i also think this was an indicator to Mhok that maybe Day doesn't know how he feels, and maybe he can get away with flirting in tiny, subtle ways because from here on his secret flirting game is in full effect and it's so fucking cute. he's careful not to completely push past Day boundaries, but to test them in gentle ways.

THE SHOES MY BELOVEDS. we all know what i feel about these shoes after last week and i'm so glad to see all of my stupid babbling confirmed here. i love that Mhok constantly mends things instead of throwing them away. the sentimentality of items means something to Mhok and we love him for that.

we also got a proper 'sweet dreams' this episode, finally!! thank you subbers!

so many shots of feet this ep tho and lemme tell you as someone that HATES feet, this was rough.

oh you are so smitten. Day realizing Mhok is warm, warm in his own way, warm in such a gentle and understated way. UGH. you would've thought he knew after everything they've been through but sometimes people need a reminder and maybe something to drive them to pay closer attention. our boy is BESOTTED. kicking his feet and giggling. i think this is the happiest we've ever seen him.

so here's where i'm probably going to wax poetic the most. Mhok is finally opening up to Day in such an incredible way. he brings Day to his home with no fear of pity or judgement. he brings him into this sanctuary created by him, his sister, and Porjai and he cooks for him and cares for him and in letting him in Day sees even more how impossibly warm Mhok is.

what's even greater is there isn't a single moment where Day is jealous or questions Porjai being there. Mhok has told him she's expecting and he's never weird about it, just kind and understanding and it's all so normalized, it's fucking beautiful. Day even takes the time to encourage Porjai, to share about his mom, and about the strength it takes to be a single mom. P'Aof i adore you.

Mhok has planted jasmine simply because he knows Day likes it, and maybe now he likes it too. and he brings Last Twilight home to practice reading (i'd always wondered how he managed to read without stumbling over himself lmao) and he's done it so much that now Porjai wants to name their child Mee, wants to create this connection to Day forever.

and once prompted, once Day knows enough to ask, Mhok opens up about Rung, talks about her more. Day comments on the warmth of the house, something started by Rung and cultivated by Mhok. it would be so easy for the house to feel cold and clinical, especially knowing what happened here, but Mhok has kept it a home - warm, inviting, comforting - all the things Mhok has been to Day.

the noises took me by fuckin' surprise tho, i genuinely looked around my house like who the fuck is making all that noise and then i was like OH THOSE ARE-- OKAY--

and I know people are like haha P'Aof has a scent kink but like. idk. maybe it's just me but scents are something i'm drawn to. i remember the way someone smelled more than i remember their face. i recently took a shirt out of my closet and immediately started crying. it smelled like face powder and perfume. it smelled like my grandma. the leather jacket pushed to the side smells like cigarettes and horses, like my dad always did.

scent is such an ingrained memory, something that is so hard for our brains to let go of. every time i get a familiar smell it knocks me on my ass, and i'm so glad to see some of this represented in these shows.

this absolutely warmed my heart. whatever is going on with Night and Day is clearly more on Day's side than anything else. Night clearly loves his brother and i'm just fucking DYING to know what is going on that is causing Day to drive a wedge between them. sure, Night hasn't been perfect, but there's love there and that counts for so much.

and what exactly are you doing here??? this is a charity run for blindness - does he know someone that is blind other than Day? did meeting Day inspire him to participate? has he spent time talking to Mhok about Day and maybe the difficulties of his blindness? i am filled with questions but i love this character so much, he's just so kind.

Day's hesitation to cross the finish line was also something i found so interesting. it felt long, possibly too drawn out, but Day needed to think, needed time to understand that if he crosses that finish line, if he accepts Mhok's request to be his boyfriend, their lives will never go back to how they were. things between them will change forever, whether the relationship is a success or otherwise. it's an incredibly mature thing of Day to do, even if it felt a little lengthy for us, the audience.

i strongly believe that in addition to Mhok Porjai is going to be a big driving force in Night and Day's reconciliation. i would love to see Porjai gain Night's side of the story, Mhok gain Day's side of the story, and the two of them working together to see how they can reunite these brothers.

also if i had a nickle for every time P'Aof paired Mark with a pregnant woman in his shows i'd have two nickles, which isn't a lot but it's interesting it has happened twice.

while i, like everyone else, hope the mock proposal is a parallel we get to see later i want to focus more on this moment.

i forget who said it, it's long gone to the depths of my dash by now, but someone commented that disabilities do not stop for love, and fuck is that so true. i love Mhok's concern, his immediate reaction to soothe, and the way he seems to feel Day's fear as his own. and poor Day, he can't even enjoy this moment of bliss with Mhok because of course, of course something like this had to happen. it's so fucking real in the way Last Twilight has been this entire time.

the constant excellent representation of disabled living has been incredible to see, i've seen so much of myself in this show (even though my disability is so very different) and it's been like a warm blanket put over very single comment: you're too young to be disabled, you aren't THAT disabled, you're being dramatic, etc.

from the bottom of my heart, thank you P'Aof and team.

tag loves: @benkaaoi @callipigio @infinitelyprecious (as always tell me if you want to be added {for LT only or all meta} or removed!)