#i just never draw it and instead rotate it rapidly in my mind like a nuclear microwave

[1ncend1ary]

hot as fuck outside today

[anxiousgaypanicking]

ever since i posted that thing about logan playing volleyball and remus being a “fan,” its been stuck in my head. so... here’s a lil story about it. it’s been a year since i’ve played, but i remember the rules semi-decently ;) Setting and Swooning

“Set,” Roman shouts, setting the volleyball over his head, and into the middle. 

There comes a yell of “mine” before Logan rapidly approaches the ball, jumps up, and swings, spiking it over the net. He barely listens to the scattered yelling of the other team before the referee blows his whistle and straightens his arm on Roman and Logan’s side, indicating a point had been scored for their team. 

Roman cheers, and so do the people on the bleachers who were rooting for their team. All except for one. A certain bored brother, who was watching the whole game with unamused and frankly uninterested eyes. He didn’t care enough to learn the rules, and thus watching the game was practically a confusing mess. 

Or, that’s what it would be, if Remus actually cared enough to watch the game. Instead, he was more focused on leaning back in the bleachers and eyeing the lower half of the players on the court. 

He knew it was considered disrespectful, but the outline of their asses shown clear through the flexible spandex. 

Besides, he actually had the consent of one teammate. Initially, he did stare solely because he was bored and perverted in what else could entertain him besides guys and ass, but, after some none too subtle stares, and a whole shocking reveal as Remus found out who that player was, he finally asked if he felt comfortable with Remus continuing to stare. 

And surprisingly, he had said yes!

So, he spent his current time staring at the lower half of the player who’s jersey displayed a proud “3″ on the back. Logan. 

Most people didn’t realize Logan was even on the volleyball team. He seemed more the reserved and studious type, and while yes, he was, he still liked to keep his body as healthy as his mind. 

Plus, sports were a good way to get anger out. 

Volleyball specifically showed off his body though. Logan was surprisingly muscular, with rather defined legs and, in Remus’s opinion, a great ass. All the squatting that had to be done in volleyball definitely played a part in both. 

When the players start moving again (as there was a pause for rotations, and then as the next server got themselves ready), Remus groans, earning a glare from his mother. 

If only she knew his peril. Due to their seats, whenever the players moved, he couldn’t focus entirely on their bodies. 

Which, admittedly, wasn’t the point, as one was instead suppose to focus on the literal game being played, but that was irrelevant. 

There’s a pause, before a kid tosses the ball up, runs, jumps, and hits it, serving it over the net. There’s a yell of “serve” from the other team, before they all practically go for it at once. Poor communication leads to a poor game being played, and that showed here. 

The ball hit the floor, not even being touched by any of the other players, which earned frustrated groans from them, and their coach. 

The home team on the other hand, aka Logan and Roman’s team, grinned, and did a short stomp while cheering “A-C-E; ace!” Despite having asked Roman what that meant, he had forgotten. All he really cared about was seeing Logan’s normally so neutral face soften slightly into a slightly proud, slightly relieved smile.

It only really happened during volleyball games. Logan really only emoted during games, whether it be through angry scowls, or pleased cheers. It was unfairly cute. 

Deciding he was quite tempted to just run onto the court and scoop Logan up, he sneaks a glance at the scoreboard. 19-7, the home team in the lead, although that wasn’t surprising in the slightest. 

The first game had already been played, with the home team winning that as well, which means he only has to wait until one of them (probably the home team) got to twenty-five. 

Unfortunately, he was impatient, so he groans again, as his leg bounces rapidly. He was so bored, but he’d rather stare at Logan than his phone, even if the more he stared, the more he wanted to jump onto the court. 

Stupid impulses. Stupid urges. Stupid sexy Logan.

There’s another serve, another scramble, another point to the home team, and another cheer from them. Remus could only hope that this one person serves the rest of the game. 

And, he almost gets his wish, up until the other time finally bumps the ball, sending a free ball back over. Normally, that would provide an excellent start to an eventual set and spike, but Roman misses his set, the ball not going up high enough, and Logan ends up spiking into the net. 

The other team cheers, and the home team looks bitter. Remus watches as the coach pulls them to the side (specifically Roman and Logan) to scold them. It was an easy ball that should have ended with a point for their side. And even if the ball was too low, Logan should know to try setting it or tipping it over the net. 

He watches Roman shift his weight back and forth on his feet, presumably ashamed, and watch as Logan’s foot taps rapidly against the ground, annoyed, but focused on receiving the pointers nonetheless. 

While he didn’t like hearing that he had messed up or done bad, Logan still enjoyed feedback. 

After a few more moments, Roman and Logan run back to their positions, Roman lightly nudging Logan before they stay still and watch the serve. 

If Remus didn’t know any better, he’d assume Roman was crushing on the athletic nerd. And, in all honesty, Roman had before. But after being turned down, Roman forced himself to get over it. 

Remus likes thinking about that moment. It was upsetting for his brother, of course, but that meant Remus’s sexual (and, he supposed, romantic) feelings had the potential to be returned. 

Although, he highly doubted it. 

Even if they never would be, at least he still got to stare at that ass every time he was dragged to one of these boring games. 

The serve goes over, and Roman shouts “serve!” The libero gets it, bumping it to the front row, where Roman sets it to the front left player. They tip it over, and it hits the ground right past the net, earning cheers for the home team again. Another point is added to their side 

The team rotates around again, and as Logan’s rotated back to serve, the libero is rotated out, the middle front player taking their place. 

Roman shoots Logan a thumbs up, and Remus leans forward in his seat. He may find volleyball boring, but Logan was an impressive player. And while he jump served, Remus was more focused on the way he approached the jump, before serving the ball over the net. 

Roman always gushed about how Logan had such good control, and as Logan’s hard serve barely landed past the net on the opposing team’s side, Remus could low-key see what he meant. A point is given to the home team, and the ball is rolled back to him. Logan adjusts his glasses, before he bounces the ball a few times. He tosses it up, and lets it fall and bounce back against the floor. 

He glances to the refs, and one of them whistles, before motioning to the net, indicating Logan was free to serve. 

He bounces the ball once more, before tossing it up and jump serving yet again. It’s another short serve, that once again lands right past the net. 

There’s angry groans from the opposing team, before Roman hears somebody say “he serves short!” 

He watches as they adjust their position accordingly, and Roman turns around to nod to Logan, who nods in return. He serves again, this time regularly, and the ball goes past the front row, and a little past the back. There’s exasperated noises, as they miss it again. 23-8. 

“Two more, Logan!” Roman shouts, as they bring it in for another quick ace cheer. The other team members also playfully pat his back and encourage him, and Logan backs up behind the serving line. 

“Two more,” he repeats to himself, drawing in a deep breath, before tossing the ball up into the air again, serving it over. The other team hits it, bumps it, specifically, but person they bump it to bumps it over. Logan bumps the free ball to Roman, who serves it to the current middle front player, who tips it over. One of the front row players on the other team tries to get it, but they can’t manage to bump it up, and the ball falls to the floor.  

There’s loud cheering. Logan didn’t join in in the premature celebrating, instead shaking his arms and head in an attempt to cure the end of the game jitters. 

“One more,” he says, and Roman smiles. 

“One more,” the setter repeats. “You’ve got this.” 

“One more,” Remus says to himself, staring at the scoreboard, and then looking back at Logan. Logan hits the ball against the ground a few times, before looking over to the bleachers. He makes eye contact with Remus, who grins at him. Even from a distance, Logan can tell Remus is rooting for him. 

He never would have expected that the class-clown, and honestly the class hindrance, to genuinely cheer for him (let alone attend a volleyball game, but Remus didn’t have much choice), and it honestly amuses him. 

The whistle blows, and Logan takes a deep breath, before tossing the serve up and jump serving it over. 

There’s shouts from the other team, as the ball gets just barely bumped up from the floor as a result of a dive, before bumped up again. One of the opposing middle front players jumps up to spike it, and Roman and the middle front player jump up to block it. It hits their hands, before falling back on the opposing side, bumping against the player before falling to the floor. The whistle blows, and there’s a moment of silence as it seems like everyone holds their breaths, waiting for a result. 

Did it count? Or were they going to call it a violation. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the refs nodding back and forth to each other, they extend their arm to the home team’s side. The final score read 25-8. 

Cheering erupted in the gym, with Roman picking Logan up in a hug. Logan looks proud in his own way, a smile over his face. Teammates slap his shoulder and pull him in for hugs, before they line up to shake hands with the opposing team. Afterwards, the coach calls them over to congratulate them. 

After that talk, the coach orders them to put away the net and get changed. 

Parents and fans stand and cheer, and some of them run out onto the court, Remus included. He wasn’t running to Roman, however, and Roman didn’t expect him to. He runs to Logan instead, immediately hugging him and picking him up. He happily spins him around, cheering “you did it! You fucking did it!” 

There’s hardly time to reprimand him for disturbing Logan as he tried to put away the net, before Remus’s has set him down and has immediately moved to running his hands over Logan’s body. 

“You’re such a good player,” he says, eyes drifting from Logan’s legs, to his eyes, and then back to his legs. “I mean, I don’t understand the game much, but you’re very strong and you seem to be very good at playing.” 

Normally, anyone would grow quickly annoyed with Remus’s rambling, especially if he was both feeling someone up and checking them out while doing so, but Logan didn’t seem to particularly mind. If anything, he was rather amused. 

“I appreciate the compliments,” Logan says, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair in an attempt to brush it out of his face. “I need to finish getting down the net, but afterwards I planned to grab some food and head home. Would you care to come with me?”

His parents worked late, so he’d be home alone. He lived within walking distance, and also had the money on him to grab some food, and he decided that walking with Remus would be more fun than walking alone. 

“Sure,” Remus replies with a shrug, his hands coming to rest against Logan’s ass. “As long as you promise not to change out of your uniform.” 

“What about the knee pads?”

“I suppose you can take off the knee pads.” He groans as he responds, and it earns a soft, and rather cute, laugh from Logan. 

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” 

Remus was practically swooning as he watched Logan walk away. He appears to effortlessly carry the metal poles back to the storage closet, before he heads to the locker room with a fellow teammate. 

And Remus has to admit, he’s started going to the volleyball games willingly, specifically to have interactions like this. 

To get the chance to spend time with Logan. 

[f0rever15elf]

They Were Roommates: Part 2. Jealousy

Part 2 of They Were Roommates: Part 1 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5  / Part 6 / Part 7 (Coming soon) Pairing: Moder!Pero Tovar x f!reader Rating: NC-17 Word count: 6,010 Warnings: so much smut (i’m not sorry), oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, lots of swearing, restraining, over stimulation, tiny bit of angst (for the spice) 

Summary: The first intimate night with Pero has been weighing heavily on your mind. A night out with his coworkers helps to fix everything. 

A/N: Thanks to @whiskeyslasso​ for so many of the inspiring ideas, and for convincing me to make this into a multi-part series. Also, for your sweet words about the first part. I hope this lives up to your expectations.  How many parts? I dunno, let’s see when I run out of ideas lol. I can’t even begin to tell you how long I spent staring at the wall trying to work this part out. 

Masterlist |  Ao3

Life with Pero didn’t really change much after that night you asked him to stay with you. Not quickly, anyways. You both still go to work, you still prepare dinners, and he still helps to clean the house. The only real notable difference is how much closer Pero stays to you. When you cook, he is either sitting at the bar watching you, or leaning against the counter in silence as he observes. When you share a moment of down time on the couch, he pulls you to his side, draping his arm around your shoulder as calloused fingers dance along the curve of your body. But the biggest difference is that your room slowly becomes your shared room. With each progressing day, more and more of Pero’s clothes make their way into your massive closet, taking up the other half that is usually kept empty. Your sheets take on his smell and his toiletries find their way to the counter next to yours.

It was comfortable.

The only thing you don’t really like is how unspoken everything is between the two of you. You had never really talked about the night of intimacy you two shared after he caught you with your pants down, literally. You had thought that labels didn’t really matter to you, but with Pero, you find yourself wanting them. You want that affirmation that what you have with this grump is more than just a mutual comfort in the embrace of another, warding off the years of loneliness. You want to be able to call Pero well and truly yours.

Fingers snap in front of your face and you zero back in on reality. Pero stares at you, the corners of his lips tugging downwards as his eyebrow arches in question. “You still with me, hermosa?” Your cheeks heat up as you attempt to stutter out a reply.

“Y-yeah, sorry, I don’t know where I went just now. What were you saying?” You scratch at the back of your neck, an anxious habit.

“I asked you if you have to work this weekend. Friday night.” He crosses his arms, leaning back in the bar chair as he watches you attempt to save dinner, the chicken looking a little crispier than you would have personally liked as you flip it.

“Shit,” you mumble, disappointed, before looking back up. “No, I don’t. I have Saturday off also. Why?” Pero just shrugs, not saying anything and it’s your turn for your eyebrow to arch. “What are you planning, gruñón?”

“I’m planning nothing,” he grumbles, staring you down.

“You know, I really don’t believe you,” you mutter as you grab two plates down, serving up the chicken and rice before hopping up in your seat next to Pero. Your leg rests against his as you eat in silence, the touch comfortable and familiar at this point. The silence allows your mind to wander again,  thinking about just what exactly this was, what it could become. You weren’t even sure if that was something Pero was looking for. Hell, you hadn’t realized it was something you were looking for until the thought of spending your life without your Spaniard caused an ache to riddle your chest. Falling hard into your daze again, you don’t realize that Pero has already cleared your places until he quickly rotates the seat of the chair, caging you between his arms as you yelp.

“Hermosa, you don’t seem well. Lost in a daze all day…” His rich, dark eyes scan your face, and you could swear that worry creased his brow just a bit more than his scowl already did. His face, his body so close to yours kicks your heart into a sprint as you press back into your seat, eyes wide.

“I just have a lot on my mind, Pero. It’s nothing.” His steady gaze holds yours long enough that you fidget in your seat, worrying he was going to call your bluff. Slowly, ever so slowly, he leans forward until his lips are level with your ear. The feeling of his breath against your skin sends a shiver down your spine and you have to bite your lip to keep from whimpering.

“Then why don’t I fuck you until the only thought you have is of how much pleasure my cock brings you buried inside that needy cunt?” The huskiness of his voice shatters all resolve you have and you melt, hands snapping up to grip his arms as a whimper finally makes its way past your lips. He nips at the shell of your ear before pressing his lips to your neck, sucking and nibbling at the exposed skin. Your head falls to the side as you let out a needy whine, fingers digging into his biceps. Pero presses himself as close to you as the chair will allow, spreading your knees so he can stand between them. When a gentle beg for more passes your lips, Pero pulls back, staring down at you with a look so dark and hungry that you feel as if your body will spontaneously combust.

Strong hands move from caging you to the chair to rest on your thighs, inching up under the bottom of your shorts. The touch feels electric along your skin, raising goosebumps along it as you squirm in your seat. His hands move at a maddeningly slow pace, avoiding the heat at your center in favor of gripping your hips. His eyes never leave yours as he gauges your reaction, unable to get enough of the sight of you.

“P-Pero please, don’t tease me like this,” you beg, your eyes reflecting your need and desire as you can feel a wet spot rapidly growing in your panties. With a growl, he crashes his lips to yours, swallowing your pleas with fervor. He pulls his hands from your shorts, instead grabbing your legs to wrap them around his waist before sliding his hands under your ass to lift you out of the chair. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding yourself to him as he carries you back to the bedroom, his lips never leaving yours. A little nibble to his bottom lip draws a groan out of him before he lays you down on the bed, laying himself on top of you. Impatient fingers tangle themselves in the thick curls at his neck, tugging them to hear that delicious moan you pulled from him the last time you found yourself in such a position. And oh dose it work like a charm.

The guttural moan Pero lets out goes straight to your core and you wrap your legs tightly around him, pulling his hips down against your as you rock your hips up against his, desperate for some kind of relief. His hands grip your hips in response, holding them firmly to the mattress as he pulls back, eyes raking up and down your body. “Fuck…” he breathes, watching you writhe under his grasp, lost in your own desperate desire.

In a flash, Pero’s hands leave your hips only to yank your shorts off your body, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You shiver at the sudden cool air brushing over you and the predatory smile works its way across the Spaniard’s lips that raises every single hair on your body in anticipation of what he has planned for you.

“I think dessert is in order, eh hermosa?” He scoots down the bed until he is level with your absolutely dripping slit. He hums in appreciation as his fingers spread you wide, drawing a heat to your face as you grab his hair. “Look at you, so desperate for me.” How is it he could say such things so easily? His words absolutely ruined you every time, and you weren’t sure if you go get any wetter. When he finally takes your clit into his mouth, you damn near come up off of the bed, curling up around his head as he absolutely devours you. Your legs wrap up around his head, but he lets you go long enough to press your legs back against the bed, effectively holding your down, spread wide for him as he savors the taste of you on his lips. The hairs of his mustache tickle you in the most delicious of manners as his tongue delves inside of you, tearing a keen of pleasure from your throat.

You weren’t prepared for when he eases two fingers into your dripping slit, his tongue running circles around your clit in a way that had you seeing stars. Your walls clench around his fingers and he groans against you, his own hips grinding against the bed as he seeks his own pleasure. As your fingers curl tighter in his hair, you lay back against the bed, your back arched and eyes screwed shut. The sounds of him sucking and licking at you, the squelches of his fingers plunging inside of you, were absolutely obscene. And you love every second of it.

As he picks up the pace of his thrusts, you begin to pant and whine, begging for him to let you cum. You were so fucking close, teetering right on that edge, you just needed a little bit more. Reading your body, he drags his teeth lightly against your clit and you scream as your stomach tightens, euphoria washing over you. Pero continues to thrust his fingers into you, still sucking at your clit until it becomes to much and you lightly push him away, your chest heaving from the intensity of your orgasm.

As he sits up, resting on his heels, his tongue runs along his lips to collect the traces of you shining on his face before licking every drop from his fingers. You weren’t sure you have ever seen something more erotic. Your eyes dip quickly to his waist where you find his bulge straining in his pants to the point where it looked uncomfortable, and a smirk works across your lips. Getting on to your hands and knees, you crawl towards him, pressing your lips to his in a hungry kiss. The taste of you on his lips draws a moan from you and you reach to palm his cock through his pants. He bucks into your touch, letting you have this moment of presumed control.

“You know, I still have all of these thoughts in my head,  gruñón.” The words tumble from your lips, dripping with as much desire and intention as you can manage as you glance up at him from under your lashes. You see the fire in his gaze flare and he grabs your wrists, pulling your hands from his pants and up over your head. His head tilts ever so slightly and your heart stutters, your breathing picking up.

“Que mala.” you shiver at his words, trembling with want in his grasp.

“P-please…” The quivering of your voice is impossible to stop, and Pero’s smirk widens. He lets go of your hands which drop to your sides and presses firmly on your chest, pushing you back onto the mattress. The gasp that earns him sounds like music to his ears. He steps from the bed to rid himself of his clothes and you move to sit up until he passes a serious look your way, with the slight shake of his head. You lay yourself back down, swallowing thickly.

Once rid of the offending garments, he slowly climbs back over you, capturing your lips in an absolutely starved kiss that leaves you breathless before reaching into the nightstand to grab out a foil. He raises it to his teeth, ready to rip it open until you grab his wrist.

“L-Let me,” you beg, and he shivers.

“Fuck...beg in that voice and I will bring you the world, hermosa.” He allows you to take the packet from his hand and you use your own teeth to slowly tear it open. You take his leaking cock in your hand, pumping him twice, reveling in the hiss between his teeth as he bucks into your hand before you slowly roll the condom on to him. As soon as you do, he grabs your hands, forcing you back onto the bed with your hands pinned above your head in one of his. You bite your lip in anticipation, bucking up against him and he growls, running his other hand down your body before lining himself up, slowly easing in to you. Your jaw drops and you toss your head back, letting out a silent scream of pleasure as he fills you so completely. You feel his eyes on you as you revel in your own pleasure, bucking up against him wantonly. His hand grabs your hip firmly, holding your down as he thrusts into you so fucking slowly you could scream.

Squirming against his hand holding yours, you let out a needy sob, your face so contorted with pleasure and need. Pero watches you, drinking in every bit of your beauty as the sounds escaping you severely test his resolve. It’s only when your eyes open, delirious and glassy with pleasure, and your lip trembles with the ghost of a beg on them that he snaps his hips against you, ramping up his pace. He drops his head to your neck, sucking yet another mark along the tender skin there as he plows you into the matters, each thrust tearing pleasured screams from your throat.

“Yes, yes, yes oh my god, PERO!” His name on your lips because of how he fucks you drives him mad and he tilts his lips to your ear.

“So fucking beautiful, como una diosa,” he grunts, the sound of skin smacking against skin ringing in your ears. You let out another pleasured whine as his hand runs along your stomach before slipping between your bodies, rubbing your clit in languid circles, a harsh juxtaposition to the brutal pace his hips have set. Your cries of pleasure turn strangled as you arch off the bed, begging for release. Begging him to let you cum. He nips at your ear, picking up the pace of his rubbing as he growls into your ear. “Cum, maravillosa. Scream my name and cum for me. Let the neighbors know who fucks you like this.”

That was all you needed. A blinding white light flashes through your vision as you arch up off of the bed, your walls clenching down tightly on Pero’s cock as he keeps up his harsh pace, riding you through it. Your toes curl and your fists clench as his name echoes off the walls of your room. Everything is totally him, the only thought you can bring together being how good he feels, how good every point of contact with him feels. How desperately you want this to be how you always exist, totally consumed with him, by him. The whimpers and moans from your lips bring Pero to his own climax, his hips slamming against yours as he captures your lips once again, crushing his to yours. He groans into your mouth as he thrusts shallowly a few more times before breaking the kiss, gazing down at you with a smirk.

The look of you can only be described as “thoroughly fucked out,” and he twitches inside of you at the sight, knowing he’s the one who left you like this. His hand releases yours, but you don’t move, too exhausted to. As he eases himself out of you, his soft moan matches yours. He leans down to brush the hair from your face and press a kiss to your forehead before he moves to the bathroom to clean himself up, bringing you a glass of water as he returns. You graciously accept, your throat raw from your screams of pleasure.  

“And how are those thoughts now, hermosa?” He settles into the bed beside you, smirking at you.

“What thoughts?” You grin back at him and he chuckles, shaking his head before closing his eyes as he enjoys the light feeling of his release relaxing his body. You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him as he rests. This was one of those few times where the frown lines of his forehead smooth out, his face relaxed. He looks so peaceful and you’d never tire of seeing it. The smile on your face fades ever so slightly as your previous thoughts slowly worm their way back to the forefront of your mind. He said he would never leave you, but what if he had just been placating you? He needed a roof over his head still, what if he had just said what you had wanted to hear so you wouldn’t kick him out?

A frown tugs at the corners of your lips as you get up, sighing at feeling so thoroughly spent. Maybe a shower would clear your mind. Pero grumbles, rolling over to watch you as you strip out of the shirt that never got removed in your haste. You were still acting strange, he thought, but he wasn’t sure what was the matter. And, well, if you wouldn’t talk to him, there wasn’t much he could do. At the sound of the water turning on, he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

Under the water, you close your eyes, trying to let the droplets take your anxieties with them as they roll down your skin. You had to be overthinking things, you just had to be. Over the months you had spent with Pero under your roof, you had learned one thing; if he was displeased with something, he let you know. You needed to just...let this go, and let things develop if they were going to. With a sigh, you turn off the water, stepping out and drying off, wrapping the towel around you as you head to your dresser for a change of clothes.

Laying yourself next to Pero feels like the most natural thing in the world. His arm drapes across your waist, pulling you against him with a soft grumble before he dozes back off, and you could laugh at how often you found yourself like this, your cheek pressed up against his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat strong in his chest echoes in your ear, and your own falls into cadence as you relax against him, joining him in sleep.

For the next few days, you don’t see much of each other. Work has been keeping you late so by the time you get home, Pero is asleep, usually on the couch. He loved his security detail job, but it was physically demanding and left him exhausted pretty early into the night. It bordered on a blessing, him being asleep by the time you got home, allowing you to sneak to your room after covering him up to be alone with your thoughts and avoid his prying gaze as he still tries to figure out what was driving you mad.

Friday finally rolls around and you head off for your morning shift, leaving Pero sleeping soundly in your bed, not wanting to wake him on one of his rare days off. You are sure he had been planning something, the man had practically been GLUED to his phone for the past three days, something he rarely did. What you weren’t expecting, was to come home around lunch time to see him in the kitchen, cooking. Or, well, attempting to cook anyways. The smell of burnt sugar hangs in the air causing your nose to crinkle.

“Pero…? What...are you doing?” His head snaps up, the look on his face that of a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar before the stoic, grumpy look replaces it once again. You wander into the kitchen to see the mess he’s made. It looked like your pantry had exploded and you arch an eyebrow, staring at him.

“How you do this every night, I will never understand,” he grumbles, moving a smoking pan with two charcoal briquettes off of the burner, turning off the heat.

“You mean cooking?” you chuckle, hopping up in the bar chair across from him. “Dad taught me from before I was able to see up onto the counter. What, uh….what did you utterly destroy in that pan there?”

He scoffs, tossing the spatula into the pan that you really hoped wasn’t ruined. “It was fish. At one point, anyways.” You bite your lip to fight back the smile that wants to split you lips at how irritated he sounded, like this whole debacle was the fish’s fault.

“And...why did you do this…?” He looks up at you in response, staring at you again with that intensity that he has carried with him since the night you first saw him. It causes your pulse to quicken and you clear your throat, sitting back in the chair.

“I thought it would be...nice,” he mutters under his breath, turning to put some of the…many…dirty dishes into the dishwasher. “We need to eat before we go, anyways.”

“Go? Go where?” He turns around, still scowling as he cleans and you hop up to help him, putting away the spices that littered the counter tops.

“Out. To a bar. My idiot coworkers want us to come.”

“I haven’t been out in ages...are you sure you want to go? I never took you for the bar patron type,” you grin and elbow his side and he casts a sideways glance your way.

“William will not stop harassing me, so we should go so I can have five minutes of peace at work for once.” You snicker and nod, scraping the remnants of the fish into the trash before letting the pan in the filled sink to soak.

“I finally get to meet this William you talk so much about! That will be nice.” You swear you think you hear him let out a low growl and turn to look at him quickly before shaking off the idea. “I’ll wear something nice. I haven’t dressed up in a while.” He nods, grunting as he shuts the dishwasher with a little more force than necessary before starting it. “And we can grab a bite to eat on the way there. Maybe some pizza. Pizza is good before a night of drinking.” You quickly squeeze his hand as you walk by him, smiling. “I’m going to shower and get ready, and we can head out.” You feel his eyes follow you down the hallway and you sway your hips a little more than normal, putting on a bit of a show for him before disappearing into the bathroom.

“Are you done yet?” Pero calls from the living room a couple of hours later, his voice bordering on exasperated. “I’m turning gray.”

“Oh hush you! You can’t rush perfection!” You yell from in front of your vanity, lacquering your lips with a shimmering gloss before pinning two silver hoops into your ears. You step back from the mirror appraising yourself. A navy blue strapless dress was your choice for the night, with a wide silver accent belt and your silver, strappy heels. You wore a smokey eye that took you three tries before you were finally satisfied with it, settling on your silver hoops and thin silver choker for jewelry, your hair up in a simple, neat style. Your heels click down the wood of the hallway, your purse over your shoulder as you head to the living room. “I’m all set. Let’s go eat, I’m starved.” Pero grunts, standing from the couch before looking at you, his mouth falling open for the briefest of moments before snapping it closed again. You grin and do a slow turn. “Well, what do you think?”

“Guapísima…” He says softly, coming over to stand in front of you, his eyes raking over your body. “Gorgeous.” You beam up at him, preening over the complements.

“You’re looking pretty amazing yourself, gruñón. Wine red suits you.” Pero was wearing a deep red button down that he had rolled up to the elbows and some black jeans. You didn’t even realize he owned any button downs. His hair was still a mess, but it looked like he had at least tried to tame it some. You bite you lip to try and keep the lewd thoughts at bay about how amazing he would look with that button down open, hovering over you as he- Nope! None of that! No time for that! Shaking your head in an attempt to clear it, you grab your keys and head out the door. Pero follows silently, his eyes never leaving your figure as you walk in front of him.

After grabbing your pizza, the two of you make your way to the club that apparently William had suggested. It wasn’t one you had ever heard of before, but it was on the nicer side of town, so you weren’t too worried. The two of you made it in without a problem, skipping the line, and you were pretty sure it was due to Pero’s size and that scowl he still had plastered on his face. It’s amazing his face didn’t hurt from wearing the expression so much. Loud, bass heavy music filled the club, the low, flashing lights disorienting you for a minute. Pero rests his hand on the small of your back and it sends a shock up your spine as he leads you to a table near the back.

“There he is! The resident grump!” A happy looking man with dark blonde hair stands up, the lights shining in his eyes. “Glad you finally made it!”

“William. Of course we came. Now maybe you will leave me alone at work, eh cabrón?” William chuckles at Pero’s suggestion and shakes his head.

“Not a chance, amigo. After this, we’re gonna be best friends.” You giggle at the grumble Pero lets out as he guides you into the seat, sliding in after you. “Hello there, pretty lady. The name’s William. I’ve been partnered with your grumpy friend here since he joined our little security detail.” You smile and extend your hand to him, shaking it firmly as you give him your name.

“It’s nice to finally meet you. Pero’s told me a little bit about you, but it’s good to finally have a name to put to a face.” You chuckle as Pero crosses his arms, scowling at William. Your left hand comes to rest on Pero’s thigh, squeezing gently in an attempt to calm him down. It was going to be a long night if the man didn’t try to relax a little.

An hour or so and a few drinks into the night, some more of William’s friends show up, including his girlfriend Cynthia. You take an immediate liking to her, and after she finishes trying to suck off William’s face, she grabs your hand and pulls you to the dance floor. You laugh, swapping stories about the men in your lives, giggling like schoolgirls. It had been a while since you’d had a girlfriend to actually talk to and you absolutely craved the attention. Pero never left the table to come dance with you, electing to stay and talk with his coworkers. Every now and then, you would feel his eyes on you and you would punctuate the sway in your hips, knowing he was watching. A shyer you would have perhaps thought twice about doing this, but after several stiff drinks, you don’t have a care in the world.

Cynthia eventually wanders off to the bathroom, but you stay on the dance floor, enjoying the bass pumping through the building. You feel someone behind you and turn with a smile, expecting your Spaniard. When you are met with the eyes of one of Pero’s coworkers, your eyes widen in surprise as he joins you in dancing to the music.

“I don’t think I ever got your name! I’m Justin!” he calls over the music. You nod and give him yours in return, smiling as you dance with him. You aren’t sure how long you danced for, or how many jokes he tells, all you remember is that he is one of the funniest guys you had ever met. You like him, and were happy that Pero was working with someone so nice. Suddenly, hands are on your hips and you jump, looking up over your shoulder to see Pero there, glaring daggers at his coworker. You rest your hands over his and tilt your head in confusion. He looks down at you before crushing your lips against his own in a harsh kiss, pulling your ass back against him. When he breaks the kiss, his eyes dart over to look at Justin again who is slowly backing away to head back to the table. Your brow furrows and you turn in Pero’s arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands still hold your hips, pulling you flush up against him.

“What the hell was that about?” You ask, confused as you attempt to keep the tremor out of your voice at the feeling of him through his jeans.

“I didn’t like how he was looking at you,” he growls, watching your face in the flashing lights. “Like he wanted to take you right here in the middle of the dance floor.” You shudder at his words, the hard edge to them something you had never heard from him before. It sounded possessive, and it went straight to your center.

“He was just being friendly, Pero.” He scowls, leaning down to kiss you again, biting at your bottom lip roughly. You gasp and open your mouth, letting him lick into it as your tongues dance around one another, drawing a moan from you. Pero’s fingers dig deeper into your hips and you were sure you were going to have bruises.

“No. He wasn’t. I am the only one who gets to look at you like that. Me. No one else.” His possessive, demanding tone raises the hairs all over your body and you shiver, pressing yourself up against him.

“Pero...are you...jealous?” You voice is coy, a grin spreading over your face. He grunts and pulls his hips back ever so slightly before pulling you harshly back against him, earning a pleasured gasp from you. He leans down to growl in the shell of your ear.

“We are going home. Right now.” Anticipation and adrenaline flood your veins and you nod rapidly. He takes your hand, pulling you to the door with just enough time for you to wave at Cynthia at the table, making a gesture to text you. The cool night air does little to calm the heat that fills your whole body. Pero’s grip on your hand is firm, his pace brisk as the two of you make your way home. He remains silent until the front door of the apartment shuts and locks.

The next thing you know, he has your front pressed up against the entry way wall, his hand palming your ass through your dress as he slides a knee up between your legs, spreading them. His lips attach to your neck as he bites a bit more forcefully than you were use to, and you would be lying if you said the little bit of pain didn’t turn you on. You let out a lewd moan, pressing back against him.

“P-Pero, what has gotten in to you?” you whimper.

“Mine,” he hisses against your skin. “You’re mine, no one else gets to look at you like I look at you. No one else gets to know about this.” He smacks your ass and you cry out in pleasure, begging for more. He leans back enough to flip you around so your back is against the wall before his knee returns to between your legs, pressing up against your soaking panties, his lips pressed to yours. You grind your hips down against his thigh, whimpering into his mouth as your hands come up to grab fist-fulls of his hair. His hands greedily grope your breasts before moving down to your hips, guiding your ruts against his thigh. This time, it’s you who breaks the kiss, muttering against his lips.

“F-Fuck, Pero, I need you. Right here, right now. Please.” You accentuate your plea with a tug on his hair and he groans, reaching a hand down to undo his jeans. He pushes them down just far enough to free his cock from the restrictive trousers and you bat his hand out of the way, gripping his cock and giving it a few sharp strokes. He mutters curses in Spanish, digging into this pocket to yank out a condom. You reach for it as you did the other day but he yanks it away from you, tearing it open with his teeth before rolling it along his length. Strong hands grip under your thighs, hiking you up against the wall. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing back against the wall as he holds you there, yanking your panties aside before lining himself up with you. His lust blown eyes glance up at you as he sinks you down on his cock, fully seating himself inside of you. He smirks as the grip on his hair tightens, your face contorting in pleasure, and his hips move back before sharply thrusting into you.

From the start, he sets up a brutal pace, one far more frustrated than the other times he has fucked you. Jealousy brought out something entirely different in Pero, and you love it. You feel wanted, desired, needed; and the roughness it inspired in him was driving you insane.

“Fuck, hermosa, you feel so good, so tight for me. Perfección.” He ruts into you at a maddening pace, his moans coming out through clenched teeth. You reach down with one hand to rub your clit in time with his thrusts, screaming out his name as he fucks you into the wall, the lewd slapping sound of his hips hitting your only encouraging you. “You. Are. Mine. Eres mío. Solamente mío.”

“Yes, yes, fuck, YES! I’m yours, Pero, I’m fucking yours. I’m so close oh my God!” You lean your head forward to kiss and bite at his neck, leaving a matching mark on his as on yours, his scruff rubbing against your jaw deliciously. Your orgasm blindsides you and you bite down harder on Pero’s neck as you clench around him, earning a fantastic growl from him, stiffening in his grasp as he thrust into you twice more before joining you in your euphoria. You pant against his neck, twitching as you come down, your limbs starting to feel like jello. Pero’s shoulders heave as he tries to catch his breath.

Slowly, you lift your head to look at him, moaning softly as you feel him twitch inside of you. His eyes have lightened, the lust lifting with his orgasm and you smile, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his swollen lips. He hums against your lips, returning the kiss for a moment before breaking it to slip out of you, carefully easing you back to the ground. Your hand moves to stroke his cheek gently, and the frown eases just a bit under your touch.

“I mean it, hermosa,” he mumbles, reaching up to grab your hand, holding it against his face. “Be mine. Only mine…” His eyes are nearly begging and your heart melts, every doubt and worry of the past week fading away as if they were never there.  

“Pero...of course I will be. You have me completely.” Tension releases from his shoulders at your acceptance and he leans in, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, then your forehead.

“Cara mía…” his own hand comes to brush along your cheek, smiling at the heat under his fingertips before taking your hand, leading you to the bathroom to get cleaned up. This had been a night you would not soon forget.

Translations:  hermosa: Beautiful Que mala.: How bad/naughty.  como una diosa: like a goddess maravillosa: marvelous  gruñón : grumpy Guapísima : gorgeous/sexy cabrón : Bro, asshole (slang) Perfección: Perfection Eres mío. Solamente mío: You are mine. Only mine.  Cara mía: My darling (In this house we stan Gomez Adams) ~~~~ Tags:  @lilkermit14​, @the-feckless-wonder​, @whiskeyslasso​  Let me know if you would like to be added! 

Requests are open! Tag list is open!

[goodomensblog]

Afterward - Part 17

A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic

Here’s how it works:

I’ll write a scene.

At the end of each scene, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.

Comment or reblog to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes after the first 24 hours after each update is posted.

Read: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16

(#2 definitely won - but #4 was a pretty close second, so we’re doing the classic punch and run!)

Afterward - - - Part 17

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

Entropy, rising up, tilts its head and smiles a wide, infinitely deep grin. Pale, ephemeral tendrils squirm where the creature’s head and neck are rapidly reconnecting.

Gabriel has picked up the sword and is twisting it up.

Beelzebub, however, beats him to the punch. Literally.

“Mine,” is all Beelzebub manages, a low, rasping shout. Pushing roughly in front of the archangel, Beelzebub winds a bloodied fist back and strikes.

Their knuckles smack between its eyes - and with a wet sounding squelch, the head which hadn’t yet fully re-attached, flies off Entropy’s shoulders.

This time, however, Entropy seems to retain consciousness, and the head screeches in outrage as it careens across the room.

“Shoo, bitch,” Beelzebub spits.

“My angels,” the head shrieks, rolling across the floor. “Your master commands you! Attack!”

From the top of the courtyard, where tiled roofs curve above stone carved archways, movement draws Beelzebub’s gaze up.

Angels line the tile rooftop, their formidable white wings spread wide. In the place where the angels’ eyes should be, dark, sunken pools hauntingly stare.

From behind Beelzebub, Gabriel makes a low noise of distress.

Beelzebub scans the faces. There are none they readily recognize - Michael and Uriel, at least, are absent. But surely most of the dark eyed angels are - or were - under Gabriel’s command.

“No…” the archangel breathes.

Forcibly ignoring the pain they feel radiating off Gabriel in cold, nauseating waves, Beelzebub shakes their head and, squeezing their hands into fists, cracks their knuckles one by one.

“What are they?” Aziraphale asks, horror lacing his words.

The first angel steps from the rooftop. Where it lands, stone splinters around its feet. From its eyes, black ichor drips, trailing like tears down its pure, celestial skin. It takes a second step, and the floor cracks anew.

“That,” Crowley says, speaking up from the back, “looks like an angel on steroids. Bloody evil steroids.”

Another angel drops. Then another. Gray dust from pulverized stone rises in an ominous cloud.

“I - I have to-” Gabriel is muttering, and Beelzebub can feel him moving behind them, probably making up his mind to do something stupid.

“Yeah,” Beelzebub says, surveying the hoard of freaky angels. “Fuck this noise.”

Turning right the hell around, Beelzebub grabs Gabriel roughly by the arm. 

When he doesn’t move - like the absolute asshole he is - Beelzebub grits their teeth and yanks, violently hauling the lead-limbed archangel with them. When they look up and see that Aziraphale and Crowley are still standing there, waiting, they yell, “Oi! Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum! Fucking move!”

Crowley and Aziraphale retreat through the doorway, but go no further.

Beelzebub is panting, blood from a cut they didn’t even realize they had dripping into their eyes, and the room is tilting as a frankly annoying whine picks up in their ears - but this is no time to pass out, so Beelzebub doesn’t. 

At least Gabriel is finally moving; Beelzebub, all too happy to release him, shoves the archangel through the door. 

Upon crossing the threshold, Beelzebub is hastily elbowed out of the way by Crowley; Aziraphale, bracing a hand on the wall, traces glowing symbols on the floor.

“What’s-”

“That’s why we were waiting,” Crowley snaps.

Beelzebub reflects that if the room were spinning any less, they would have happily smacked that smug look off his face.

Instead, they crouch, bracing their hands on their knees.

Aziraphale straightens up with a satisfied nod. “That’ll do the trick.”

Then Crowley is swinging the door closed. Hand on the handle, he melts the lock. 

“If Aziraphale did what I think he did, we do not want to be here when they cross that threshold,” Crowley says.

“I did,” Aziraphale says with a grim smile.

Gabriel, who Beelzebub thinks is looking more like his usual insufferable self by the minute, claps his hands together. “Then let’s fucking go!”

“Right!” Crowley crows, pointing at Gabriel, “Your illicit sneaking out of Heaven door!”

Beelzebub and Aziraphale turn to look at Gabriel.

“Okay it’s really not as weird as he’s making it sound.”

 “It doesn’t matter-” Aziraphale says with a wave, but Beelzebub isn’t listening.

Blinking rapidly, they frown at the black dots blossoming across their vision. They immediately blink harder because they are not going to pass out; It is a fucking bad time for losing consciousness - and besides, they’d honestly rather die than look weak in front of these morons.

Crowley is turning, leading the way, and Beelzebub starts to step after him - when everything takes a sharp and sudden dip. 

And shit - Beelzebub thinks, consciousness slipping as a roaring white noise fills their ears. Blackness is spreading, sweeping across their vision.

They see outstretched, reaching hands - and then darkness swallows them whole.

Reality narrows to individual, isolated moments.

The press of fine, soft as silk fabric against their cheek.

A long hallway lit by a single flickering light.

Aziraphale, pale with purple bruises beneath his eyes, pulling a tapestry aside - pushing a doorway open.

Crowley’s hands cupped around that strange, blue flame.

Then white light - at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

Beelzebub stiffens, crying out in protest - because they know the saying about light and tunnels, and they straight up refuse to let that prick Death lay those frigid hands on them now.

This is followed by the soft, hesitant brush of fingers over their forehead and a whisper-soft murmur. “Don’t worry. It’s not that kind of tunnel.”

Again, darkness.

And then Crowley is exclaiming, shouting excitedly, and Beelzebub squints their eyes open to glaring sunlight - and a sleek black car, parked on what appears to be a random London street corner. 

When someone swings one of the rear doors open, Beelzebub has a sense of deja vu as they are laid down on black leather seats.

Voices drone, someone shifts beside them, and the car awakens with a reassuring purr; Beelzebub’s tired eyes close.

- - - 

Brushing his hands over the steering wheel, Crowley sits in the Bentley, taking a moment to enjoy the car’s energetic rumble. She doesn’t handle long periods of idleness very well. And though Crowley hasn’t been gone all that long, he imagines it must have been rather demoralizing to have been abandoned on a lonesome countryside road. He’ll have to make sure she’s still in working shape. 

“Just cause I gave you a little vacation,” Crowley says, tapping the dashboard admonishingly, “is no excuse for any slacking off, you understand?”

The car rumbles, and Crowley sighs, rolling his eyes. “See? I leave you for half a day and now I’m getting back talk.”

“Can we please just fucking go?” Gabriel snaps.

A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals the altogether unpleasant sight of Gabriel’s frowning face. 

The archangel is pressed up against the door, his large arms folded impractically in front of him. 

Beelzebub, in the few minutes after they’d been set down, had somehow completely rotated, and now they stretch out, arms flung out in either direction. Their booted feet are kicked up - one jabbing Gabriel’s side and the other shoved up against his face.

The archangel glowers.

From the passenger seat, Aziraphale clears his throat.

Crowley’s attention is immediately diverted.

Aziraphale is battered. Deep scratches scatter over the entirety of his person, and a bone deep exhaustion shows in his overall pallor and the bags like dark bruises gathering beneath his light eyes. 

Crowley has the impulse to stroke a thumb beneath that gentle gaze and burn a miracle to soothe some of the exhaustion marring his skin. 

He doesn’t.

Because he filled Aziraphale’s veins with demon blood, and Crowley isn’t entirely sure Aziraphale won’t come to resent him for it. 

The desperate transfusion had worked. Aziraphale is here. That is what matters. But the fact that the cost of this gamble - the cost of mixing that which was never meant to join - has yet to reveal itself, leaves Crowley deeply on edge. 

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, mercifully interrupting Crowley’s rapidly spiraling thoughts. “We fled the bookshop earlier because we believed we were dealing with a threat who knew us, personally. Entropy does not know us. And I presume that it does not know where I live.”

“...you want to go home, don’t you?”

“Yes I want to go home!” Aziraphale says in a rush, hands folded, his fingers twisting together. “It’s been a really long day.”

Crowley considers, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “I suppose we could ward the hell out of it.”

Aziraphale is eagerly nodding, “I already have a good few around the foundation as it is.”

“Is it defensible?” Gabriel asks.

“Better,” Aziraphale replies. “It’s hidden.”

“Though adding a few defenses wouldn’t hurt,” Crowley adds.

“As long as we get off the damned street,” Gabriel says with a weary sigh.

“That, we can do,” Crowley says, shifting the car into drive. 

“Wait!” Aziraphale says, grabbing Crowley’s arm. “First, we need food, Crowley.”

“....right this second?”

“As soon as possible. You do realize that we should avoid using powerful miracles at the moment, right?”

Crowley glances in the rear-view mirror, only somewhat mollified to see that Gabriel is also staring at Aziraphale with an expression of blatant confusion.

“Er - yes? I mean, we don’t want to go around putting beacons on our heads,” Crowley replies. “But what in the world does this have to do with food?”

Aziraphale is staring at him like he might be stupid - which he’s not. Right?

Crowley checks the rear-view mirror again.

Gabriel is squinting at Aziraphale. “Aziraphale. What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale looks between them, mouth agape.

From the backseat, Beelzebub groans. 

“Angel,” Beelzebub says, cracking an eye reluctantly open, “They’re both idiots. Don’t… strain their brains.”

Aziraphale glances back, relief evident. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Of course I know what you’re talking about!” Beelzebub replies, and the other eye opens to a menacing slit. “Food strengthens your bloody corporation. You. Are. Living. In. It. So fucking feed it. The stronger your corporation is - the stronger you are.”

Aziraphale is nodding vigorously. “And we are all very injured. Beelzebub especially. A good meal will help kick start our angelic - and demonic - healing.”

“Ah,” is all Crowley manages.

“Honestly, dear. You really didn’t know that?”

Crowley, who will frankly never admit that he played hookie during the body orientation seminar to check out the strange angel he’d seen walking up on Eden’s wall, adjusts his glasses and shrugs. “I’m a demon. What’s the archangel’s excuse?”

“Corporeal bodies are not my department.”

Beelzebub blows a raspberry.

“Since you’re awake, your highness - mind moving your foot out of my face?”

Beelzebub’s only reply is a long, deep snore.

Crowley shuts both of them up by jerking the car into motion.

Food it is!” Crowley says, foot sinking satisfyingly down on the gas pedal. “And I know just where to take us.”

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

The angels and demons have managed to escape Heaven and flee from Entropy. Before holing up at Aziraphale’s bookshop and deciding their next move - Aziraphale insists they get something to eat. Crowley decides the best place to get a couple of angels and demons lunch is….

The grocery store! Crowded around a single cart, they will shuffle round the aisles of the local grocery mart, exploring the strange wonders of fluorescent illuminated human cuisine. 

The Ritz! Sitting elbow to elbow around a pristine white tablecloth, they will be sipping at champagne and making awkward small talk. Probably nothing will catch fire.

The drive thru! Packed in the Bentley, Crowley will drive them all to the greasiest of fast food establishments. With all three speaking at once, Crowley will attempt to order.

Please comment or reblog to vote! :)

Part 18

[nrth-wind-a]

So I took a couple Romance Drabble Prompts on special request and uh... this spawned. A sort of companion piece to Cantus In Memoriam! Takes place right after Douxie explodes the Fortress in ep10 of Wizards. // @flamekeeperbellroc 1. I’m sorry 2. I hope you (and others!) enjoy! <3 --

Skrael can count on one hand the times he has been defeated in a magic battle, over the course of billions of years. So the very idea that it happens at all is… metallic in his throat.

Or, it will be.

He cannot feel it, yet. He cannot taste it, yet. He cannot feel—taste—anything. Yet.

Because at that exact moment, he is hurtling through the air, feet over head, end over end, and he is not awake to witness it.

A stuttered gasp as wind steals their breath—and it is not by the usual suspect, and that is already enough to push their panic up higher, into their closed throat—and as the air makes their eyes water, makes their stomach drop, rips at their feathers and their hair, Bellroc, Keeper of the Eternal Flame is the one to witness the North Wind at the mercy of his own domain, instead.

That cannot do.

They have to fix it.

They have to fix it, and they have to save- and they have to get- they have to- they have-

Their thoughts, their feelings, their—everything is flying. Too fast, too quick. Anything they feel, think, is merely half-formed as it is torn from them by their fall.

Instinct is a funny thing.

It can be cruel, and it can take from rationality. It can force terrible acts, and it can paralyze and freeze and grip. It can call from deep within.

But sometimes, like the Universe Herself, Instinct can be merciful.

And it is indeed by Mercy’s guidance alone, that Instinct takes hold of Bellroc in the right way. The way that slides itself into their arms, their hands, their body, and moves.

And it moves fast.

They collide into Skrael, and the trees are getting closer.

He is terrifyingly… not, warm, but—his cold does not hurt to touch, so it is warm to him, or will be, when—if?—stop that—he wakes—he will be uncomfortable—

They do not have time to think on this.

Clutching him to their chest, the only thing that comforts them is the weight of their staff in their hand—and there is warmth—and the way they point it downwards, and the way flame jets from it, and the way it slows their descent. It does not stop them, and they do not rise, but they slow—and—and their mind is slow, foggy, and this, even this, is effort they cannot afford to expend, but they pay it anyway, and will always pay it, because—

They will not let something as graceless… as… distant to them, as gravity, be Skrael’s undoing. The North Wind will not be a victim of his own expertise.

As the forest floor approaches too soon—still, too soon, even with their magic and the first prayers they’ve spoken in eons—they drop their staff, meters from the ground, and rotate, hitting back-first the soft, wet grass.

Skrael does not wake, even on the rough impact which sends them sliding, as they curl around him, doing all that they can not to roll, despite the scrapes they take because of it.

As they finally halt, they are still for just long enough to assess… to process—they swallow hard, working to draw in weak puffs of air.

And then they unfurl, lie him gently in the dirt—it is cold, so maybe—maybe it will—maybe he will—

His eyes remain closed.

For so long, all they’ve wanted for him is peace, but—

Not Like This.

Their voice breaks with their mind, and they cannot tell the bounds of either—whether or not their sobs are real or imagined, a product of the spiral their thoughts funnel down as easily as water through a drain—and—and—

Their voice, desperate, filters to their ears, as though there is cotton in them.

“You can’t die.” They are kneeling over him, hands on his chest, and it feels like begging at an altar, and they should hesitate in their next words, for what place could something so undutiful have at the feet of the restless gods? But they say it anyway, because their home is—their fortress, rather, is falling, engulfed in flame. Their Home, though, their real Home, has already fallen, and they cannot parse the meaning of that, here, in this moment because words have multiple meanings and emphases, and they cannot tell if he has fallen, or—capital f, Fallen. And if he has, then—they should have said it sooner, place and time be damned, so they don’t hesitate, as they finally breathe life into the words, “I love you.” 

They burst in their chest like an explosion, an exothermic reaction, which they pay for in their rapidly heating eyes, “So if you die—” They swallow, ignore the undignified, nasal noise they don’t even mean to make, “I’m going to—to find you, in the afterlife, and—and revive you myself,” their voice quivers and they do all that they can to keep magma from dripping onto him, “And then… scold you like hell—” they cannot bear to threaten worse, “So come back to me, Skrael. I will—” they gasp, “—will never forgive you if you follow Merlin, and not…” their voice goes soft, “not… me.” It breaks.

They hold their breath.

He does not stir.

A sob reaches them belatedly, barely freeing itself from their throat, which feels as though a vice has looped around it and pulled taught, and they—they want to do something, hit something, shake Skrael to life, kill Hisirdoux Casperan, cry to the heavens so loudly, they’d put Achilles to shame—they cannot deny how… real that story feels, in that exact moment, and they must remember to grieve with Homer in the After, because to write something of a demigod’s grief reaching the feet of the gods, his family, in the far off heavens above must beget a deep understanding of a loss like this—of a cry like that, which shakes realms, upseats goddesses, calls on the Universe and makes Her weep, too, demands She join in the tragedy She has allowed—

A weakened, dry laugh slices their heart in twain. “The very idea that I’d follow Merlin anywhere is truly insulting, my flame. I have half a mind to disobey you, if I thought you wouldn’t make good on your promise.”

Wooden eyes cannot widen, but a gasp can be sucked in, and when it is, it nearly chokes them.

“Skrael.” They breathe, and before he can fully sit up, ashen arms are thrown around his neck, and a hand is on the back of his head, pressing it into their shoulder, and they are warm, and so is he, but he can’t even mind, because he can feel them, and they are no longer weeping.

A second laugh whispers across their skin, for them to feel him this time, as they hear him say, “I—apologize for taking so long. On the subject of that bastard, I… had to give him one last rude gesture on my way out. It would have been utterly remiss of me not—”

Two hands grip his hood and tug him close as lips meet his—meeting his, in relief. It is a salve. For the both of them. One that proves life, proves safety.

Heated lips can feel the cold ones beneath them grow colder, and there is a smile somewhere between them, but they aren’t sure whose it is.

Later, they will find it in themself to care of his nonchalance, but for now, as he draws back, pulls their head to his shoulder, traces his hands up their back, across their shoulders, their biceps, the only thing they can even begin to give a care for, is that Skrael is alive. They are alive. The both of them are—alive.

The castle crashes a mile away, and it should bother them, but it only feels the way his touch does in the pit of their stomach, in the gooseflesh across their skin. The electricity of his cold. The knowledge that he’s survived.

And the knowledge that he loves them, too. Which they do know.

Because the breath he uses to say it ruffles their hair, and the shiver down their spine that it causes, is—release—perfect.

[a-lil-perspective]

The Bad Batch X Sick Reader

A/N: This is my very first posted fic on here, I hope you all enjoy. Please feel free to provide feedback, it’s much appreciated!

Although you didn’t bolt upright in dramatic fashion upon returning from a deep slumber, you nevertheless awoke with a start, eyes fluttering open and feeling vaguely aware of the dampness of a cold sweat permeating your hairline. Disorientation takes over as you lie rigid in the bed, only being able to process the physicality of how utterly terrible you feel- you didn’t think you could move in such quick succession if you tried- Every joint feels stiff and your muscles are resistant to comply, attempting to encompass and entrap your body deep within the mattress, refusing to give way to your motions.

Swiping at the remnants of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, you become uncomfortably conscious of the fact that your face is burning up, despite the rest of your extremities freezing in stark contrast.

This was no good. Your heart rate quickens as panic rises in your throat, gripping tightly as your breath hitches. Your mind begins racing, conjuring up every angle of the current situation in an attempt to make some light of it. You eventually force the lump down, giving into the overwhelming realization.

You were sick. Big time.

Fearing you looked as bad as you felt, you promptly thrust yourself out of bed with great effort and a groan of pain before stumbling into the ‘fresher, examining your entirety and fervently hoping your initial concerns were just an exaggerated oversight.

One glance at your trembling, pale, and achy form confirmed your worst suspicions.

“Kriff,” is all you can manage, further worsening matters by the realization of your curse rolling out only as a mere croak. Gritting your teeth, you roll your puffy, exhausted eyes and shake your head in disappointment. Great. Sick AND losing your voice. This can’t get much worse, you think to yourself bitterly as you level your gaze back at the mirror.

With great effort you manage you pull yourself together enough to make it out to the common area of the ship, bracing yourself to face the others. You remain self-conscious of your movements, attempting to exert your stance, stride, and demeanor with purpose as to not draw unwanted attention to yourself and your condition.

Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair- they were no fools. Hunter especially, what with his enhanced senses and innate perceptions, will pick up on your illness lighting fast.

Realizing you’re up and starting your day much later than usual, it’s no surprise the guys are already up and in their respective places- although Hunter is nowhere to be found upon entering the common room.

Tech, lounging in a seat with his nose buried in his datapad, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, looks up to greet you first, his expression turning into that of perplexity.

“Good morning, Y/N. I am surprised you slept in. Stayed up late last night, I presume?”

You clear your throat in an attempt to forcefully exact your normal, chipper level of voice. “Hey, Tech. Yeah, something like that.”

He nods, returning sights to his work, facial expression evident that his curiosity is momentarily satiated. It’s clear that he didn’t pick up on the fact that your voice, despite your best attempts, came out in just above a whisper. For that, you were thankful.

You head over to the cupboard to pour yourself some caf, hoping a warm drink would do you some good.

“You look like hell.”

A terse statement from the jaded appearance of Crosshair standing in the corner, arms folded across his chest and eyes boring into you, caused you to jump and your already trembling fingers to drop the empty cup you had grabbed, clanging to the ground and reverberating with purpose as if some cruelly overly-dramatized joke.

Feeling frustration bubble to the surface, you sigh deeply and level a thinly-veiled unimpressed look in his direction, unable to muster the willpower to put up with his attitude today.

“Thanks.” You sneer. Before you even manage a step over in his direction to where the cup had predictably rolled, Crosshair moved in the blink of an eye to pick it up and appear alongside you, placing the now unusable cup to the side and in one solid motion, reaching up to grab a new one down for you.

You look at Crosshair quizzically. Out of all the other members on this ship with whom you’ve fallen into methodical and sequential step with, you two have still got some steps to learn to your dance, with you having never quite fully figured out the enigmatic sniper and all of his expressive layers.

“Thanks,” you mutter in just above a strained whisper, though pushing more sincerity and less of a sarcastic quip this time. Turning to pour the caf, you’re taken by mild surprise when Crosshair engages with you once again.

“You sick or somethin’?” His eyes narrow questioningly as he searches your face before reaching out tentatively to thumb at your cheek, gently cupping it.

You’re taken aback by the touch, distantly aware of your heart rate quickening it’s pace. You avoid his questioning gaze, instead focusing on the sensation of his cool fingertips meeting the increasing warmth radiating from your skin with ease. Despite the fact that the action further solidifies your current state of being fever-ridden. It’s oddly comforting.

You hesitantly turn away, but not before slightly leaning into his touch.

“I’m fine,” you manage weakly.

Crosshair’s not convinced in the slightest. But before he can voice his trepidation, Wrecker comes bounding into the room, his voice boisterous and projecting. Not exactly the sound volume you want to hear right now but, you can’t help but smile inwardly at his puppy-like energy. He means well.

“Hiya, Y/N!” Wrecker greets you with a less-than-gentle pat on the back, making you almost spill the cup of hot caf you had laced your cold fingers around just moments before.

You weren’t sure what facial expression you were wearing, but Wrecker falters nonetheless. “You okay?” He asks, voice coated with concern.

Kriff. You wish everyone would kindly stop asking you that. You just wanted to enjoy your kriffing cup of caf and TRY to recoup before your briefing in two standard rotations, with which you’d been tasked with compiling numerous works together in preparation for a large-scale mission forthcoming. The fact that you were in this state, so close to the arrival date of the meeting and your work not AT ALL in a state of completion, was seriously stressing.

“Yeah, Wrecker.” You once again smile up at the gentle giant looming over you. “All good.”

As if on cue in an effort for the universe to illuminate your lying streak with full bravado, your body is racked with increasing pain and you tremble, feeling a shiver go up your spine.

Nobody gets a word out before Hunter comes around. He looks as if he’s just awoke, blinking rapidly and rubbing at his temples. You consider him for a moment then, realization hitting you like a ton of bricks.

OH.

THAT’S why he hasn’t been around this morning.

Guilt suddenly pangs at your chest as you revert back to yesterday, recalling how Hunter had to turn in after the last mission due to a headache caused from a sensory overload. He had explained to you how it plagued him from time to time, and reassured you not to worry, but you couldn’t forget how much pain he was in- eyes glazed over, body doubled over, beads of sweat enveloping his face. It made you feel helpless.

Helpless, and embarrassed at your perceived selfishness.

Here you were, out here dropping cups from the cupboard and making general racket, all the while wallowing in your own self-misery today- having not even previously processed how Hunter could’ve been in the other room feeling just as miserable.

Now he stood before you, addressing everyone about something, something you couldn’t even hear over the sound of your own thoughts simultaneously drowning everyone out.

“-Feels like I heard commotion or somethin’ out here, just thought I’d check on y’all.” He grinned in amusement, feeling a spark of playfulness. “Wanted to make sure Y/N wasn’t acting up in here.”

Everyone cracked a grin but you, who all but blurted out your guilty admission, much to your chagrin. It’s your own guilt, coupled with illness, sporadic emotions due to the fact, and lack of coherent thoughts nagging at you all at once.

“Hunter... I’m sorry,” you croaked. All eyes were on you, each differing degrees of quizzical expressions.

“I-I’m the one who dropped the cup and made the racket. I didn’t consider that you could’ve still been feeling unwell. Sorry.” You sheepishly confess, before spilling into a coughing fit.

Kriff. Shouldn’t have said so much in one setting. Way to make your condition obvious.

Hunter, who holds the most mixed expressions you’ve ever seen- amusement, discomfort, confusion, laced with compassion- comes striding over to you.

“Y/N. You’re rambling. That’s not like you,” he chuckles. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me, okay? You look like you could use a lot more help right now.” He reaches a hand to splay out across your forehead to check for a fever that you both already know is becoming, to which you gracefully duck and sidestep him, all while gripping your cup of caf.

Crosshair chuckles at your motion and Hunter just looks to you. He’s diving fully into empathetic, sensible parent mode- you can tell- as he sighs exasperatedly at your innate ability to prove difficult.

“Y/N... ya gotta let us figure out what’s going on with you, so that we can get ya well.”

You look down into the cup, weighing those words and considering what to say next. You’ve never been one to freely and openly allow someone to care for you, nor have you fully possessed the ability to convey your feelings in a refined way- especially when you’re unwell. Your tenacity, though admirable, doesn’t always make it easy for someone else to know how to help you. Likewise, deeming it challenging for you to even know how one can help you. It’s a tedious cycle that plagues you when you immerse yourself too deep.

“I... I think I’m just tired.” you manage weakly. “Besides,” you croak, “I’ve got to get all my works completed before the briefing.”

With that, collective silence falls as you stumble back towards your room, thankful for the closed doors that keep your vulnerabilities and current physical ailments tightly locked away.

You were thankful for the brief quiet time, and managed to clear your head just enough to work for what you estimated to be about a half hour that came and went. With your work sprawled on the floor, you alongside it, the caf mug well empty now and off to the side, there’s a wheezing that now accompanies your breaths and, it worries you. As you lie flat on the floor, fear swells in your chest and you wish you had the courage to call the guys in here to you. You wish you weren’t so conflicted.

As you finish that train of thought, there’s a loud bang on the door.

“Y/N?” It’s Wrecker, the realization coming unsurprisingly to you judging by the obvious choice gesture of greeting at the door.

“Come in,” you strain your voice to project.

In the doorframe you find all four members of The Bad Batch, all weighing mixed levels of concern at your small, sick frame curled up on the floor. They all collectively rush in, though in a way as to not alarm you. In the moment, you’re thankful for their company.

“Hey,” Hunter soothes as he kneels down beside you, running a hand through your hair. “You’re gonna be okay. Let us take care of you, like you take care of us.”

You nod weakly, coming to your senses and surrendering all complaining rights in that moment.

Hunter orders Tech to go and grab the small medkit kept on the ship, though they’re all well aware of the fact that it’s not on par with medical facilities. Being several parsecs away from the nearest, they want to at least get the ball rolling here onboard for now. They decide not to move you until you’re stable.

Wrecker comes behind you and sits down, straddling you back into his lap and letting you use him as a body pillow. He doesn’t mind, he loves your small frame in contrast with his own, much larger one. You love how warm he is in the moment. It’s a mutual feeling between you two of safety and security.

Tech promptly returns with the medkit and although Crosshair is the only one appearing rigid and most hesitant to be hands-on with you, The Bad Batch get to work, communicating amongst themselves with the same efficiency they project amidst all things. They give you some anti-inflammatories to take the edge off, and you vaguely remember a stimulant- an overwhelmingly pleasant aroma of something very herbal-like. You initially thought it to be reminiscent of Bacta, but it wasn’t.. What was that?

Almost instantly, your chest felt clear. Your breathing became even and despite still being in pain, you were no longer wheezing. You attempted to make a mental note to ask later what the miracle worker was, but you weren’t able to give it much more thought as you felt your eyes suddenly became heavy-lidded, succumbing to rest you know your body desperately needed.

You awoke much later, feeling immensely better, and no longer needing the medical facility services that were finally available to you. Four pairs of eyes were studying you and, upon seeing you wake, the expressions attached collectively sighed in relief. You couldn’t help but feel something soft swirl in your chest upon lovingly fixing your gaze on the crew of the Havoc Marauder. They truly were something special. They knew you the best, and were able to have the most profound effect on you, no matter how adamantly complex you could be. They deeply cared for you. It’s moments like these, you realize how intertwined and inseparable you are.

You hope it always stays that way.

[alilbihh]

spaced out — (prologue)

masterlist    previous chapter    next chapter

summary: "take me to your leader.“ you couldn’t believe it. this man was otherworldly in all sense of the word. "well I hope you’re hungry, my dude, we’re going to visit the king of burgers.”

or

Planet A3022 is on the brink of extinction. with little to no females there to repopulate and its king not interested in any one of them, he assigns one of his most trusted men to retrieve a female suited to his tastes willing enough to take his hand in marriage. things go haywire once the man in question crash lands into the considerably non technological Planet EA4728 with you there as witness.

genre: fluff, humor (??), angst, highkey crack, poly!au, alien!au

pairing: alien!taehyung x reader x alien king! ??

The man curses in his native tongue, careful not to raise his voice, his temper. He has to remain cool-headed if he is to survive. He grips the rotational controls tighter, palms sweaty as is his back and forehead and shit shit- he's just sweaty all over he's just gross and could really just use a shower.

He jerks the rotational joystick in his grasp to the side just in time, laser beams firing overhead. They hit the comets and/or asteroids instead, resulting in a rain of heavy masses of metals and rocky material drilling holes into the spacecraft made by hand by a group of his kind's top engineers, yet despite that the man is almost sure it's barely even dented its heavy walls. It was made to sustain large amounts of damage. It was made for war, not for speed.

He hadn't raced in a while. And when he had, it had been for fun, back in his training days. This time he couldn't afford to lose. Though with a spacecraft of this size, it didn't seem like he was going to win, either.

He curses again when a particularly massive chunk of rock hits the front of his ship, red warning signs blaring at him immediately from all sides, robotic voices warning him of danger, danger, danger. It's not a big problem, he reassures himself. He doesn't have time to fix it, anyway, not when he's being chased. Though the chase being partly his own fault to begin with. He was being careless, falling asleep when he wasn't supposed to. The ship had been set to auto-pilot, its destination already inputted into the system, but that doesn't mean he was free from danger.

Stupid, stupid. Now he will never gain his king's trust again. He won't have much need for it if he's dead, though.

His breath catches in his throat as he approaches a considerably no-name planet. He'd bought time by firing at his pursuer's viewfinder, but it would only be a matter of time until they find him again. Chewing at his lower lip, he releases a breath as he rapidly inputs a code, praying to whichever higher deity that might be listening for him not to die- for him to please, please not die or, even worse, be found by the civilization he’s literally about to crash into.

"Emergency landing set to planet EA4728."

"Any fives?"

"Go fish."

Jin grumbles mutely, passive aggressively snatching a card from the deck spread over the floor. You snicker, even as he kicks your shin, not discreet in the slightest. The man beside him snorts, so he kicks his shin, too.

Jungkook looks smug from where he sits beside you, raking a hand through his hair with his empty hands. Cardless hands, in fact. You were still stuck playing this mind numbing game with Jin. "Nines?"

"Go fish."

You grin when you end up picking up a nine, leaving Jin to whine at your cheeky expression. You were never good at the whole poker face thing. Jungkook likes to boast that he's won because of his mastering of it, despite this game being entirely based on luck. You curse him inwardly.

Jin clears his throat. "...got any fives now?”

"Still no."

A large intake of breath, followed by a yell of indignation— "This-" Jin starts, slamming his cards onto the pile on the floor, "-Is dumb." You watch in odd fascination as the older man goes to stand up, ending up hitting his head on the counter before letting out a yelp and then, only then do you remember where the three of you are. Shuffled, cramped, hidden under the check-out counter of Jin and his boyfriend’s shared flower shop, away from the customers' prying eyes.

Jungkook is straight up cackling beside you as the other male falls on his bottom, holding his head in his hands, and you're laughing even as your hand ends up brushing against the mustard-stained paper on the floor that once held Jin's sandwich. But you're happy and they're happy, so you wipe your hands on Jin's apron without hesitation.

You stand up, eyeing your surroundings, thankful for Jin's sake that there were no customers around to witness the unfortunate occurrence. You eye the poppies and roses and flowers you don't know the name of, the low hanging vines that grow along the ceiling, the smell of comfort and familiarity. You'd draw this if you could. Exactly this, an awash of greens and blues and oranges.

"Hyung how much longer until your shift ends?" Jungkook asks as he stands up beside you, placing a delicate finger over the bobby headed maneki neko on the counter. "I'm hungry and had to watch you eat your sandwich and it was, quite frankly, the worst experience of my life."

"You ate half of my fries." Jin says at the same time you say, "You ate half of his fries."

Jungkook's doe eyes that already scream innocence are now gleaming in betrayal. Why did his eyes have to be so big and open and honest. As if he doesn't already attract the attention and the protective instincts of anyone within a fifteen foot radius of him.

"I did not." Jungkook whines as you and Jin exchange looks. "I don't wanna hang out with you two anymore. I'll get a boyfriend, surely he'll appreciate me more."

"The whole gremlin vibe you have going on doesn't exactly give you much sex appeal." You say with a snort.

Jungkook makes a noise of indignation before, promptly, punching at Jin's stomach, the man letting out an unappealing oof before yelling—"What did I do?!"

The moment is (thankfully) interrupted by a tired Hoseok trudging out the backdoor, scratching at his chest. You step out to greet him, turning your back to the chaotic duo, immediately regretting it as you hear Jin mutter a "I dare you to put your hand in there."

The man, his arms already spread out in greeting, squeals out a "Y/nie!" the same time you squeal out a "Hoseokie!" before you promptly wrap your arms around his back, squeezing the life out of him, as he deserves. The man has it hard enough already.

When you two separate Jin and Jungkook are already behind him, Jin whining out a "Y/n, stop hogging my boyfriend" as he presses a kiss to the man's cheek. Jungkook is just hovering beside them with a look that screams ew, when will my dads get a room. Three seconds later he says "Gross, not in front of the baby."

"I thought you said you were an adult?" Hoseok mutters, amused.

"Not me, dumbass, I'm talking about Y/n!" 

You could barely even open your mouth to argue before Hoseok continues with a playful sort of warning to his voice, "That's dumbass-hyung to you, brat." Jin shakes his head, patting his boyfriend's chest reassuringly, or maybe he just wanted to feel up his pecs. Pilates has been treating Hoseok well. Jungkook moves to pat the other (platonically, as all bros do). Hoseok doesn't move at this point, unfazed.

Your voice is flat, eyes narrowed at the scene. "Are we gonna, like, go or something?"

It takes a while for all four of you to clamber into the car, Hoseok in the drivers seat and Jin beside him, you and Jungkook on the back seats like children being taken on a road trip by their two chaotic dads. Hoseok had to have closed up shop first and foremost, saying goodbye to the flowers and kissing the ones he likes the most, particularly the peonies. Jin had only stared, used to it after working and (almost, you’re still waiting for the talk), living with the man for so long, occasionally checking the time on his watch for comedic effect.

Now you're all in a comfortable silence, the radio sometimes going from soft and relaxing music to Fergie or something but you don't mind, only watching the world go by from your window. Hoseok's voice cut through the silence only twice, first to ask if you were all going to his and your shared place and the second to ask Jin if he was gonna cook or if he should order pizza or something. (The first ended up being a firm yes, the second with Jin saying something along the lines of "Jungkook has a semi-healthy lifestyle and Y/n asked me if i wanted to grab dinner at one in the morning. I'm making spaghetti.")

You don't know how that agreement led to you being sprawled face-down on their couch, no food in sight. Hoseok and Jin disappeared a while ago and Jungkook suspected it was for less than innocent purposes but that can't be right, Jin never makes out with an empty stomach; Hoseok has said it, Jin himself has said it, it's a well known and not very interesting fact. You should have left with Jungkook for kebabs. What were you thinking. Damn Jin and his really good spaghetti sauce.

You sit up so quick it gives you whiplash, opening the door to your and Hoseok’s comfy apartment resolutely. "I'm leaving!" You don't expect much of a response, but you hear a thump somewhere around the bathroom area, so you take that as answer enough.

The brisk air hits you all at once as you walk outside, and you shiver before aggressively rubbing your arms for some kind of warmth. You didn't really think this through. You decide to walk forward with no jacket and no destination, letting your feet take you to wherever your heart desires.

The man stays strapped to his seat as he goes through the planet's atmosphere, fingers digging into the armrests. He grits his teeth, watching as the blur of shapes and colors starts gaining form into trees and cities and life, and with the force of gravity pushing him back, he can't even lift his arms to steer the spacecraft into a space further away from the cities, for both their safety and his own.

He can only watch helplessly as he gets closer and closer, hoping and wishing and praying that he doesn't end up hurting someone, that he doesn't end up dying, himself. He's about to make a risky decision, he knows.

"My king-" he draws in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut, all too familiar faces coming into view, even from so so far away. "Forgive me."

"Hoseok- oh! ah!"

"Sit still, you moron." Hoseok rolls his eyes, a fond smile creeping upwards against his will. "The kids are waiting on us."

"But i'm in pain." the younger male's massages turn into pinches at that, and Jin sits up startled with a yelp.

Hoseok pats the older's back, "Feeling better?"

“Yeah, thank you.” Jin says with a sigh, relieved his muscles aren't aching anymore. “I wonder what else you can do with those hands, ey-”

Hoseok slaps him upside the head as he passes by, searching the hallway with furrowed brows. "Where'd they go?"

"Huh? they're gone?" the older hums, creeping up behind the other with wide eyes, rubbing behind his head with a barely contained pout. "Maybe they finally collapsed from hunger?"

Another slap upside the head. "They're fine."

You were not fine.

You were cold and hungry and, quite frankly, lost. Nothing around you looked familiar, and you could barely see anything with how dark it was. Not only were you cold and hungry and lost, but you were also stupid, not knowing from which direction you came from. You squint at the dimly lit streets, lampposts flickering as you walked past.

This was, like most things, probably Jungkook's fault. But he was with kebabs and you were in the middle of nowhere, so there was not much you could do except curse at the skies.

The Seoul skies are dark and cold and there are never any stars to be seen, just pitch black, airplane lights tiny and bright flickering across it deceiving enough for you to think it's a star, and you watch with dull eyes as the light flickers until it disappears from sight.

You reminisce on the days back at Busan, tiny Jungkook and tiny you climbing onto the tree in the backyard to get to the roof, arms spread and back pressed uncomfortably to the tiles, the stars and the moon so close, as if you could touch them if you were to reach out. You'd sit there and talk about nothing and everything and sometimes you'd laugh and sometimes you'd cry and there was this one time you straight up fell off roof (you were fine, but he'll never let you live past that), and sometimes Jungkook would sing even past the occasional puberty cracks in his voice.

You sigh at the empty sky, figuring it's late enough to be considered dangerous and that you should at least attempt to find your way back to Hoseok and Seokjin's until a Definitely Not an Airplane flickers in your peripheral vision.

You squint, eyeing the little light in the sky as it flies across your vision. A gasp catches itself in your throat, small smile twitching up your features, the thought of seeing a shooting star for the first time in so long enough to have your heart beat faster. As you're about to close your eyes and make a wish (despite your consciousness telling you how lame it is), your brows furrow as the shooting star continues flying through the sky. Or rather, straight down, getting continuously bigger and brighter as it approaches.

Your eyes widen as the light slowly growing closer gains shape, not one of an airplane or a meteor or anything explanatory that could have fallen from the sky, but something you couldn't possibly identify, even as it grows closer and closer as the seconds tick by. You're left to watch, dumbfounded, as the unidentified flying object is only seconds away from hitting you, and in a split second decision you’re shielding your arms in front of you in a meek attempt to protect yourself, eyes shutting tightly. Oh god. You’re going to die.

When you manage to peel your eyes open again, a few ways away is a pod of some sort, floating only inches off the ground. A metal container, taller than the average person, spacious enough to fit the average person. And there was indeed a person- a person- inside of it, sitting in a suspiciously comfortable looking armchair, hands gripping the armrests and his eyes closed.

Let's set the scene: you're in a deserted one-way street, the flickering of the lampposts above only serving to creep you out even more, an unknown yet oddly handsome man that just fell from the sky only a few ways away, in the middle of the street.

The pod's door slides open.

You jump, eyes and brows comically wide and you would have laughed in any other situation. Against your own volition, you eye the man, nearly forgetting to think beyond breathing at his appearance. He's very much the picture of otherworldly you're starting to suspect he is, jaw sharp and hair still well maintained despite what it looks like it's been through (going through the atmosphere, you remind yourself). His clothes look to belong to someone of importance, despite the torn and dirty shape it's currently in, all perfectly cut and fitted garments and expensive looking fabrics.

You don't have time to think about much beyond that before the man's eyes snap open, flickering towards you almost immediately. Your breath hitches.

With a large yet shaky step, the man steps out with his hands gripping at the pod's walls for balance, not breaking eye contact for even a second, staring with half lidded eyes. He steps out. One foot, then the other. You can do nothing but stare, blinking rapidly to ensure this is all real, that Jin didn't finally snap and poison your food to have you hallucinate. He's about three large steps away from you before he speaks.

"Earthling!" he starts, pointing an accusing finger at you, and you're more than aware of how deep his voice is. "State your gender and sexual preference!"

"what."

You feel like you've made some sort of terrible mistake.

a/n: hello lads!! this is the first installment of this series, feel free to tell me your thoughts! lmk if there are any mistakes lmao,, thanks for reading!!

[jojoreadwhat]

The Ballad Of Me & My Brain • The City | Mini Series / m.h. of The 1975 x OC

a/n; I’m just uploading work from my Wattpad archives (user: sunphazed) this is a series I was working on and stopped and I kinda have hopes to start it up again. Who knows? Anyways, enjoy xx

WARNING; this story in includes triggering materials

Matty's POV.

The steel blue of the night sky collided with the amber gold that reflected from the lustered glass lamp on my night stand. I lied there, my hands behind my head as my body sunk into the chilled sheets beneath me. I sighed. Grabbing my menthols from between the box spring and the bed. My mind swarmed in a cloud of thoughts. I sat up a bit, bringing the flame of my zippo to fag rested on my lips. It's glistening exterior, warming the profile of my face as I held it close. The crumble of the paper disintegrating when I inhaled, exhaling slowly as I watched the swirls of slated smoke. Cut through the spring breeze of the cracked window, moving like the sleep I needed but couldn't grasp.

I looked on, tracing out the room I have began to call home in the little matter of weeks. Cream, dingy walls that held the thoughts of the past human once staying here. My handy work at it's lowest. Small snippets of the bands that played out while on a aimless route to nowhere, poorly hanging over my dresser. To a Polaroid of my baby brother that I selfishly left behind. Only to know it would be best cause he doesn't need a bloke like me around.

Back home my room was a shade of baby blue that was beginning to fade from it's age. Large posters of Sid Vicious, Morrissey. My shitty handwriting on spiral book paper, of my writings or of the writers that helped me to stay existent. Where I stayed up all hours like now, pondering. Thinking of my next move.

Beginning to think about the life I was familiar with before Handforth. My mum paying a visit today was a bit overwhelming. Feeling my mum's red dipped hands draping over mine, watching her smile, radiantly. I missed her and her home cooked meals. All reassuring that she was trying to comprehend this. Keeping it together as she was ready to unravel and question this stale institution.

Mike didn't tag along which I didn't want to see him anyways. Louis was at secondary and I was glad. It was warming to hear that he was doing well, picking up lacrosse and my mum called him out on playing my records. I would have loved to see him, but I wanted him to remember the goods back home. Not having to explain why I left home to begin with.

They haven't gotten the full extent on why I ran away, at least not like Ms. Palermo has heard. Being that if I stayed one more day in Cheshire. The door to my room would've been cold, metal bars. So it was safe covering it up with the story of the 'divorce' and that school wasn't cutting it. I didn't want to watch my mum's unsure sensitivity knotted into her smile, worsen by my dismay. Like the way it did when I told her I didn't want to go home.

I took another long drag, feeling my cheeks dent and the inhale sugar coat my lungs. Running my fingers through my jet black mane. I roused, taking a few steps to my window as the thoughts progressed. I followed the constellation of streetlights outside my room, remembering how on nights like this. I'd be sneaking out the window of my room. Venturing out to the city and sneaking into clubs my fake ID would allow. Ending up back in my bed before my family noticed, sometimes ending up in the beds of others. Women preferably of course. Which reminded me.

My vision derailing to the same amber luminous glow scattered in mine. Coming through the glass panes of the room in west hall. Emma's room. She was casually sitting on her sill, aimless looking up at the sky and all of it's beaded stars. Seeing that she was doing the same as me, pondering as the smoke left her lungs and into the night air. Emma has been a key entertainment since I've settled here. Finding her and I sneaking into each others rooms. To listening on low the beat up records the center supplied in the common hall. Discovering that had bit more in common than shagging about in the janitorial

I admired Emma. Her brazen tude, the denim short skirts she wore. The visionary mind above her shoulders, that bleed out on crisp thick paper. Watching as her silver covered fingers clasped around charcoal, pursued something bright. Noticing from time to time as her handwork slowed and a shade of rouge painted her porcelain cheeks. Today was no different than before, as I admired her. But earlier crossed my mind again. Remembering that I hadn't seen her wandering after her visitors stop by.

As my mother talked about the neighbourhood and the Spring festival coming up this Saturday. I surpassed her as I watched the other table near by. Emma with her visitors. One deeming as her mother. The same shade of honey dipped blonde, mirroring the same beam that I seen on Emma. Adorned in a pretty flowy top over white capris and sandals. Talking as I could word out simple things like 'I'm fine' and 'Okay'. Catching up and probably hearing the same lecture I was getting.

I glanced over a few more times, I was beginning to notice the dark hair figure that accompanied her mum. Broad shoulders, a dirty hippy as some would say in his Stones shirt. Old ripped jeans and beat up sneakers. Possibly her dad but there was no baring resemblance when sitting next to her mother.

Questioning why she never made eye contact with the man. Instead looking like she was going to hurl, on the verge of combustion as her lip became a chew toy. Following Emma turning in and disappearing into the depths of her room. I wondered why she acted in this manner. Why her blatant aura was flattened and defeated. Then it hit me. I placed the last of my cigarette into the cup with a drop of water. Looking down at my Docs that I had intentions to kick off, soon be double knotted. Throwing on my leather overlay and headed out to her room.

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

Emma's POV.

My mind was still trying to wrap around today. A visit that I awaited on Tuesdays. Once excited to see her. Now being replaced with a stab to my gut when she wasn't alone this time. Instead bringing the man that drove me away. Feeling myself in knots as he sat next to me, his eyes etching me out. Gazing at the clock for it to strike two so he could stop resting his viscous hand on my knee.

I thought she believed me. Specially when she told me that she made Frank leave after I confessed my reasoning for leaving. I thought I was noticing progress in myself, possibly even announcing that I wanted to come home. Something that I know she has been waiting to hear for months. Only to have that suggestion came to a immediate halt. I isolated myself in this room that was beginning to feel less safe as now my worst nightmare knew where I was.

Nothing being able to subside it, not even when I sat pretzel legged in front of the jimmied, handmade easel I built. With legs of a table I snuck in from Angry Andy flipping months earlier. Laces from my talking All Stars and nail polish that I remembered worked as an adhesive in my secondary Science course. I would've had half a portrait of a homeless man I seen on the street. Outlined and sketched, possibly shading in his evening shadow around his jaw. I never cried so much in the months I've been here like today. God, I was supposed to be making someone's life miserable than living in my own misery.

I grabbed the box of cloves in my shoes, misplaced under my bed. When the weakness of my limps felt like they had lifted. My feet met the carpet, suddenly rising again when I sat on my window sill. Gazing out at the night that had came upon rapidly than some before. Counting the cars that drove by when wishing on stars obviously didn't work for shit. I exhaled the sweet departure of the clove that lingered on my lips briefly. Cracking the pane a bit, as the smoke immediately evaporated within the gusts of Spring. I felt my shoulders slump as I sighed into another exhale.

In the corner of my eye, I noticed a shadow walking in front of the window. Of the room in south wing I found myself in from time to time. I had a feeling that Matty may have connected two and two together earlier on. Sometimes feeling his whiskey eyes on me as I began to feel small from the blue eyes stabbing at me like daggers. Matty knew a jist of my past, nothing extravagant but only enough to explain why I lied with him most nights.

He was learning though, just in the way his expression changed. When I met his gaze and all I wanted to do was cry. He knew this as that gaze trailed to my quivering lip that I was trying so hard to contain between my teeth. Or maybe he didn't? By this time, I would've heard the jiggle of my doorknob rotating. The boy with so many questions and seeking so many answers, seeing his figuration peering through the doorframe.

Eventually coming to conclusion that the casual fornication that Matty and I indulged in. Never amounted to anything past that line as he still looked out his window. Then again, that was my fault for wanting to feel different under the touch of someone else. I stood up from the window, with the clove still hanging from my lips.

Dragging my feet against the vomit colored gray carpet before towering over my dresser. Reaching into the top draw, pulling out the coral oversized shirt that could set out as a nightgown. Placing it on the top of it as I looked up at the mirror hanging on the wall. Taking my hair between my hands as I worked an upward motion to place it in a band.

That's when I heard the usual jiggle of the knob. My eyes meeting the boy dressed in black, head to toe as he entered my room lightly.

"Hey" He greeted little ways above a whisper. Holding up the door, there was something about this dark mass that crept up on me at night. His jet black hair, pushed back on top the center of his head. His leather jacket hanging steady over his broad shoulders, how his tee shirt and jeans hug properly over his build. Only wanting to tear each article off like the night before, because he looked so good and I was sick of it. But tonight, I wasn't much for it.

I looked away after I perfected a messy bun, shaking my head as I went to grab my shirt off the dresser. "I'm not in the mood." I remarked, a bit annoyed that he probably came here with those intuitions. I was wrong, profoundly.

"I'm not either." He replied, then.

My eyes meeting him again, following him as he trailed over to my closet. Noticing that he was bringing out my jean jacket. I placed my hands onto my dresser, my brow rising a bit. Watching as he stepped a bit closer, with a smirk paired with intentions I was oblivious to. "We're getting out of here." He stated, placing the jacket over my shoulders. Feeling the heat of his hands as they lingered above the fabric.

A rush of shock came over me, almost obliterated in the rush that consumed me. I wasn't sure if it was from the plan or the way it left his lips. My mouth went haywire, "W-what?" I questioned, then.

"There's cameras everywhere.... What if they notice us missing?" I began, then. My mind flooding because what if we couldn't come back after they had found us gone. Being taken out of my own thoughts when Matty placed his hands on mine that were moved in exaggeration with my talk.

Obviously the worry not consuming him like it did me. Matty's chuckled rippled softly through the amber lit room. I followed as he backed up, "You're worried about being caught?" He raised his brow at me. Feeling my cheeks warm from the slight memory of what he was talking about. I shook my head, prying my hands away, walking towards my bed.

"What about Ms. Astrich?" I spoke once more, before I spun to face him again. She was the supervisor at night, sitting at the front desk. Waiting for some sort of trouble made by the kids here. "Did you think about how fast I got here?" He mentioned, explaining that she was either asleep or off in another wing. Matty just happened to get by in good time.

"Why would I think that?" I exclaimed, folding my arms across my chest. "I seen you watching me." He noted, only to roll my eyes at how cocky he could be sometimes. Even if it was partially true, but I wasn't the only accomplice.

"You're a jerk." I remarked, my brows furrowing at him as he chuckled. "You were watching me too." Catching him off for a split second before he shrugged, "What's your point?" He questioned back. We were silent for a moment, looking everywhere else but each other as our thoughts spoke among us. Matty just sighed, breaking my train of thoughts when I noticed his dark silhouette heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my hands dropping to my sides. "I'm going out, like I said." He replied once more. Feeling this sudden sting near my chest when he said that, still not understanding why. Only thinking about how this might be the last bit of conversation I'd have with him.

I peered out the window near us, biting my lip in the same moment. I hadn't stepped into Wilmslow in months. I felt that I had lost all direction that made me street smart. A part of me was my adrenaline overflowing. I wanted to do this, bathe myself under the moonlit sky and do anything that made me feel sane again. The other was the fear of what to actually expect, and the stress I felt earlier holding me back like a strap on a bed.

When I turned back to Matty, he was inches away from me now. The light of outside glistening against his face, watching it dance as he moved his hand near my cheek. Moving some of my hair behind my ear that had freed itself from my bun. "Do you trust me, Em?" Falling nonchalantly. I chuckled a bit at how loosely it did too. Only to be dumbfounded by my return of an answer.

"Yes." I replied, then. Meeting his eyes that swirled in rich golds and browns around his dark pupils. Finding a sincerity in them, something I never found in my lifetime. Knowing that I caught a grasp of it. "Come with me then." He said again.

I gazed at him as he watched me sit on the bed, grabbing my shoes from underneath. Admiring his expression as it relaxed, only displaying that he was nervous too. Not having much of an idea of what we were getting ourselves into.

"So," I said, jumping to my feet after I laced up chucks. Properly placing the jacket he rested on my shoulders, around my arms. "Where are we actually going?" I asked, as silence filled in the gaps between us. Waiting for some type of shrug to play off his toned upper body. I draped my crossbody over my chest. Looking back up at a smiling Matty, a smile that only implied that he knew exactly where we were heading now.

"The City."

[trained-trainwreck]

game over!!

Smoke. That was all he could see for malms out to the horizon as it billowed up in thick plumes from the valley floor below. When combined with the eerie orange glow of the flames lashing out at the sky from below, it was as though the spectre of death spread its inky tendrils to every corner of Gyr Abania. So choked with ash and soot was the air that every gasping breath scorched his throat and lungs as his body desperately fought to keep him standing. He’d been fighting for so long now that he’d lost track of time. How long had it been? Thirty minutes? A bell? Maybe more- without the sun it was impossible to know. All he knew for certain is that his limbs were so heavy there may as well have been lead weights hanging from his wrists and cermet in his boots. At long last his legs gave out and he collapsed into a sitting position in the dirt.

     Everyone in Eorzea knew it was only a matter of time before the Empire retaliated after Ala Mhigo’s largely successful uprising, but no one expected it to come this swiftly...certainly not this aggressively. The relative peace that had settled over the Ghimlyt Dark was little more than a prelude to the symphony of destruction that was to come. Somehow, despite everything, the Empire had managed to not only recover from the series of blows delivered to them by the Alliance but counterattack with such overwhelming force that they shattered the Alliance’s fortifications in the Dark and swept back into Ala Mhigo to wreak their terrible vengeance upon the people of Gyr Abania. Though only barely reformed, the Fists of Rhalgr had tried in vain to put up some kind of resistance across the steppes and they too were swatted away like gnats.

     There had been twenty of them when he first joined the mob hastily assembled to defend some of the outlying villages while the people evacuated, but those numbers dwindled rapidly. Too few. Too little training.

Too goddamn weak.     Only a few had stayed with him when the others decided to save the few wounded they could as they fled back toward the west. She had wanted to stay as well- the blonde one with fire in her eyes and lightning in her fists- and it took no small amount of shouting and arguing to convince her otherwise. The weak would have need of the strength she possessed to see them through to the border. Eventually she relented and grumbled something near enough to ‘good luck’ before rallying her people to depart. A pleasant enough notion, perhaps, but a pointless one: both of them knew exactly how today was going to end.

A storm of blood.

     The time since had been a blur, a smear of fists and steel that all ran together into one big muddy blob of unrelenting carnage that had only just ceased. This reprieve, he knew, would not last. His head thumped against the sturdy pole behind him and his gaze drifted skyward, toward the great purple and white banner flying above him. Tattered and scorched though it was, that banner was the most visible act of defiance his group had been able to display and they were certain it would draw the Garleans’ ire. Scores of broken Imperials in varying states of dead and dying around him and his now long-dead comrades were proof enough of that theory. All he could do now was sit and wait for the next wave.

He didn’t have to wait long.

     Again the enemy presented himself, but not the way he’d expected. Instead of the thundering footfalls of a horde of men and machines, he heard only a single man approaching. His footfalls were even, measured, unhurried; it was as if he had all the time in the world to take a leisurely stroll across the killing fields. He drew in another deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes as the footfalls drew nearer and nearer before coming to a stop only a few short yalms away.

“Disappointing.” That voice made his skin crawl. He opened his eyes and turned toward the source. The man who stood before him was towering, even by Ala Mhigan standards, and adorned in Garlean armor that may as well have been painted with blood. It wasn’t the armor or the almost porcelain paleness of his skin or the shoulder length blonde hair billowing in the wind that he found the most striking about this man, though. It was his eyes. Blue, piercing, and...completely devoid of the spark of life. “I had hoped to find my friend amidst this carnage, yet all I am met with is a half-dead animal.” The Garlean heaved a weary sigh and turned to leave.

“And surrounded by your all-dead pals, asshole.” He grunted, braced himself against the pole, and slowly pushed himself to his feet despite his body’s many protests. “I don’t know what they feed you limp-dicked whoresons in Garlemald, but it makes smashin’ your fuckin’ skulls in real satisfying.”

     This apparently gave the Garlean pause. When the man’s attention fell upon him again, he noticed something of a spark flickering in the darkness of those eyes. For several long moments did his foe stand rooted to the spot and he could feel himself being judged as something less an enemy and more livestock at an auction. It was in this moment that the realization of who this person was struck him like a levinbolt from Rhalgr’s own hand. This was no imperial noble or princeling playing at being a warrior. No, the man he found himself standing in opposition to was none other than the butcher of Ala Mhigo- Zenos yae Galvus. He should have felt the creeping stranglehold of dread slithering up from the pit of his stomach- any normal man would- but instead he felt fire stoked anew course in his blood.

“This country bores me. These people bore me.” Zenos took a few short steps to his left and now stood directly in front of him. One hand lowered toward the contraption hanging from his hip, which rotated with a whirr and came to rest with a dull thunk when Zenos’ wrist came to rest casually atop it. He could only assume this man had decided which implement of death would be the end of one more sick animal. “Hardly sporting, but I suppose you’ll do.”

     Every fiber of his being was burning from a combination of exhaustion and what must’ve been a dozen injuries, minor or otherwise, but he wouldn’t let himself show it. There was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now. “And you call me a rabid dog?” He scoffed, pushed through the pain, and forced himself into his stance. “Sick bastard.” Zenos remained motionless, a statue with his eyes squarely fixated on the man he had decided would be prey. Both of them remained in this state as the world fell away around them, consumed by the all-devouring jaws of complete focus. He forced himself to draw in a long slow breath through his nose and exhale through his mouth, to feel the world around him as he and the ebb and flow of the battlefield became one. Memories flashed in his mind’s eye as he breathed in again, reliving the briefest of moments from battles past and catching glimpses of the warriors who took part in them. Tiny pools of aether scattered around him came together to form rivers that wound their way to the swirling tempest of power at the very core of his being.

     Rhalgr. You and I have rarely spoken- I’ve never known or needed the words. The rivers built in intensity, crashing against the shore of his soul. But I need them now. Grant me this one request, Destroyer: grant me the strength to crush the invader before me. Rivers became torrents became floods that overflowed and warped the air around him in a shimmering haze of his aether. And if you do not listen? He drew in one final breath. Everything he had left, every onze of energy he could muster, was going into this one fight. There was no other option.

Then to hell with you. 

     Stone splintered beneath his feet as he lunged forward fueled by the very aether of the battlefield itself. He could almost feel the spirits of his ancestors driving him onward, filling his body with an unnatural strength the likes of which he’d never known. In an instant he was upon his foe, feet planted, hips rotating, driving through his shoulders to pour everything the man he was into his fist as he focused entirely on driving it straight through the Garlean who had yet even begun to move. Earth trembled and a mighty clap of thunder filled the air around them as he drove his strike home, certain that it had landed clean. Then came pain, white hot and racing up his arm from his fist as the dust began to clear and he cursed under his breath. Not only was Zenos not crumpled on the ground at his feet, he’d simply absorbed the blow with one hand.

     He created separation, exhausted beyond belief but unwilling to give up the fight, and surged forward again. A hailstorm of blows followed, snapping kicks, tight hooks, and punishing straight punches from every angle that he could create. Not a single one of them got through the red armored Garlean’s effortless guard and his body began to break down. Zenos slipped under one hook and he saw what he thought was an opportunity. He shifted his feet wide apart, dropped his rear shoulder, and snapped his hips to drive all of his weight into a savage right uppercut...straight into his opponent’s armored elbow. His wrist buckled, then shattered. The followup left hand was caught in a mailed fist and crushed with next to no effort. Zenos’ expression never wavered throughout. In agony, without the use of both hands, and on his last legs he knew the end was near. Surrendering was out of the question. Not here. Not to him.

     With a bellowing roar, he closed the distance between them again, planted his right leg and lifted his left- a desperate feint at this point- then dropped his left leg back and threw everything he had into his right leg aimed squarely for Zenos’ ribs. He connected cleanly, but not hard enough- Zenos trapped his leg against his side with his right, then delivered a devastating chopping blow to the knee that shattered bone and crumpled him immediately. He lay there in the dust, groaning in agony, as the victor took stock of his prey.“Valiant,” spoke the Garlean in that flat tone, “but pointless.”He glared up from his prone position, unable to even lift himself from the ground.“I’ve seen that look before. In my friend’s eyes.” Slowly, Zenos retrieved one of the blades from its scabbard. “Curiosity gets the better of me.” He canted his head ever so slightly to the side. “What is your name?”

“Ehren,” he spat with all the venom he could muster. “Ehren Ahyfend.”

“I shall remember you then, Ehren Ahyfend, as one who entertained my hunt if but for a moment.”Zenos raised his blade. Ehren, determined to remain defiant, held his head high. There was a flash of silver.

Darkness.( @spiral-seeker thank you for the ask! I got a little carried away. Also @hellocatemonster for the mention )

[sprnklersplashes]

heart of stone (2/?)

AO3

It’s three days before Janis’ rest results are available. That night, her mom pops her head around her bedroom door and tells her they need to be at the hospital early the next morning. She had spent the intervening time lounging around her house, rotating through different sweaters and reading the same book over and over, all the while filling in Damian and Cady as much as she could, trying to reassure them and herself that it was nothing and in a few days she’d probably be fine. She’d be back bugging them in no time, probably by the first day of school, in fact.

And that better be true, she thinks, because she has never been so bored in her life. In those few days between appointments her biggest achievement was successfully showing her dad how to master Netflix and introducing him to Killing Eve. She had tried to draw, but no idea stayed still in her mind long enough for her to recapture it on paper. The pencil bounced between her hands as she looked through outlines of unfinished sketches, trying to make one jump out at her. She puts them all in her drawer with a resigned sigh, one of those impossibly rare moments where she willingly admits defeat and submits to her fate. Her body feels too weary to move and her brain completely burnt out, but her soul keeps pushing her to create, to be active and busy. Her hands weren’t meant for scrolling through her phone as she’s half asleep, they’re artists hands, built for innovation. The restlessness crept through her nerves and up to her brain, shaking it so much that when her mom hung up the phone and told her she had an appointment the next day, she threw her head back and thanked God.

But her initial relief is gone now as she and her parents follow the perky secretary’s directions down to the doctor’s room, passing sunshine yellow walls and hurrying over pristine white floors. She keeps her hands in her pockets, her heart clenching each time she catches a glimpse of a patient. Some of them smile, some of them don’t, some look normal and others… not so much, gaunt faces and loose headscarves. Wrong as it is, her anxiety only spikes when she sees them, not to mention her bedside manner isn’t the greatest. Perhaps it’s lucky her parents don’t set high goals for her because she’d never make a doctor.

Her dad keeps looking back at her, asking if she’s okay, and she tells him she is, even though her chest is pained and tight, either from worry or her own body’s weakness. Or worse, both. Her little personal storm cloud makes itself known again, desperate for her attention after she had put so much effort into ignoring it. It clings to her brain and strains against her skull, stretching over and whispering in her ear, telling her she should get used to this place. She might be seeing more of it than she wants to.

She closes her eyes tightly and stops walking for a second, wishing she could go back to a few days ago, lounging in bed with Cady when everything was normal and okay. But she can’t, so she jogs to catch up with her parents and keeps her eyes on her boots.

“Mr and Mrs Sarkisian.” The doctor they meet is around her dad’s age, brown hair beginning to grey with thick rimmed black glasses and wearing a funky green and blue tie over a white shirt. If he ditched the white coat and clipboard, he’d look like a dad. On his desk, amongst the paperwork and nameplate, is a Rubix cube, a framed photo of two kids and a stuffed frog chilling against the computer, wearing an oversized pair of sunglasses. Doctor Dad looks at Janis, his mouth opening and closing silently for a split second, a fearful glint in his eyes. Exactly what she needs. “And Janis, I assume.” She lets him shake her hand, not letting herself show how clammy it feels. His nerves sparks on the skin in a way only someone who has been through it could pick up on.

She’s been reading him since she first saw him and none of it puts her at ease. His smile looks like someone is pulling it across his face with wires and his eyes flash behind his glasses when he looks at her. His breathing hitches, his fingers fidget and when he sits down, she sees him pull himself back together, starting with the shoulders and up to the chin, straightening everything out, looking presentable. Approachable. Softening the blow he’s about to make. Maybe her parents take notice, or not. They’re specific things, only noticeable to those who are looking for them.

They do say ignorance is bliss.

“These… these types of conversations are never easy.” Oh, what a brilliant opening line. It makes her mom’s hand clasp her dad’s with a grip that’s white-knuckled and desperate. As for Janis herself, she squirms in her chair, biting down hard on her thumbnail. She feels like there’s a million little centipedes all over her body, scurrying around with their tiny feet, wriggling into her elbows, writhing beneath her knees, twisting around on her stomach. She could burst at any moment and they’d invade his office, bury themselves in his carpeting and make homes in the vents.

“Just give it to me straight, doc,” she blurts out. Her parents turn to her, more amused than surprised, and she offers a shrug, the beginnings of a smirk on her face. “Which might be hard in my case.” Her parents chuckle as she looks over at the doctor, herself getting a kick out of his own dumbfounded expression. “Because I’m a lesbian.”

“Oh, right,” he says, managing something that sounds like a laugh. He clears his throat and opens the file in his hand, blocking it from her view in a move that she isn’t sure is accidental. Pressure builds in her chest, her lungs feeling smaller and smaller inside her. The clock must be wrong, because it says only seconds have passed, but they’ve been there for far longer. Minutes. Hours, it must be. She grips the side of the plastic chair, drumming her nails along the underside and pressing her palm into the metal legs. Her mom rubs her hand down her back, asking quietly if she needs anything. She shakes her head, knowing ‘for this to be over’ probably isn’t a good answer.

“Janis… I’m afraid you have leukaemia.”

She’s falling.

Someone took her chair out from underneath her and she’s falling. She phases through the floor and keeps falling, her surroundings a silent blur. She tries to breathe but nothing can come in or out, her hand outstretched but no one holding it. She’s trapped in a bubble, one with no air or no sound, keeping everyone else away from her. She’s alone as she falls, nothing but the white expanse for company, her heart still, her mind empty. All she knows is she’s hurtling towards… something, at full speed and getting faster with each second.

“Janis!”

She blinks, the bottom of the chair cutting a deep, red line into her palms. But it’s steady beneath her, even if nothing else is. All at once, her body and mind come back to her, her heart beats faintly in her chest, weak from shock, and her breaths are quick and rapid. Her brain is a jumbled and confused mess, so much so that she preferred it when she couldn’t think of anything. Now her mind is opening ideas in a flash and tossing them out just as quickly; dashing around her head so thoughtlessly and rapidly that she can’t get a grip on anything. So instead she’s just sitting there, a ringing in her head and cold weakness in her chest, waiting for someone to fix this.

“Janis.” Her dad’s hand is on hers, his fingers curling around with a touch that’s so soft and gentle it almost doesn’t belong in here. Not with that word lingering between them. “Are you okay kid?”

How the hell is she meant to be okay?

“Leukaemia.” She drags her eyes up, not to meet the doctor, but to look past him, to look at the ugly shade of yellow his wall is painted and the framed certificate, declaring him as having graduated from somewhere with a degree in something. She bites her lip so hard she feels the beginnings of a little lump forming there. Like the ones on her neck. Like the ones they always say are a sign of…

The word sticks in her throat and she has to tear it out of her.

“Like… cancer? Like the cancer kind of leukaemia?”

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor says, his voice soft. She doesn’t know if she’s ever heard a voice that soft before, maybe when she was a kid, a really tiny kid and her goldfish died and her mom had to explain to her what death was.

Why did her mind have to go there?

It’s only now she notices one of the posters on the wall. Bright green lettering and a glossy photo of a little girl, fourteen, maybe thirteen, sitting up in a bed, a tube in her nose and a hat on her bald head, grinning brightly up a nurse with a sweet face. That’s what cancer is. It’s losing your hair and being in hospital and having tubes sticking in and out of your body. It’s other stuff too, stuff she hasn’t thought about and doesn’t know because it’s not for her. Cancer isn’t for her, it’s for old grandmas in knitted cardigans and tragic little kids who get to meet spiderman. Occasionally, it’s for teenagers and young people like her, but not her specifically. Never her. Cancer is something that exists far away, lurking around corners, on the tongues of adults who them about the dangers of cellphones or their health teacher telling them to eat healthily. It exists all right, but it doesn’t happen to her.

“Janis,” her mom says gently, running her fingers through her hair. Her voice is thin and shaking as though she’s about to cry. Why would she be crying? She’ll fix this. There’s no way this is real and now her mom is crying over nothing.

“I’m fine,” she replies, squeezing her mom’s hand back. Life comes back to her body and she looks up at the doctor, finally feeling heat inside her, attacking the cold emptiness and sending it back where it belongs. It flares up in her chest, a spark that she’d sorely missed these past few days. She grips her mom’s hand tighter, her own hand shaking and her fingers tight and tense. “I’m fine because I don’t have cancer.”

“Janis I know this is difficult to hear-”

“It’s not. It’s not because I am fine. Because I don’t have cancer, you did the test wrong.”

“Our team ran several tests. We ruled out other possibilities.”

“Clearly you didn’t if you’re telling me that I have cancer, which I don’t, so do another one.” Her grip on her mom isn’t just for her sake, but it’s also keeping Janis from getting up and flipping that desk over and telling Doctor Dad to get fucked. Who does he even think he is anyway? That degree can’t be much good if he’s telling her this and screwed up a test like that.

“Janis,” he sighs, gesturing with his hands like that’s going to fix anything. “I understand that this is a lot to take in right now-”

“It’s not,” she snaps, the smile on her face strained and sharp. “It’s not because you’re fuck-you’re wrong. I don’t-I can’t have-”

“Janis!”

Her mom’s voice is what pulls her back down. When she looks over at her, she sees brown eyes identical to hers, but they’re filled with tears and rimmed red and show a tiny spark of anger amongst the sadness. Her mom’s mouth is half-open, a plea waiting on her lips, begging her daughter to see sense. Her hand tightens around Janis’, her grip becoming less comforting and careful and more irritated and exhausted.

“Sweetheart… please.”

God she’s a horrible person. Her parents just heard probably one of the worst things a parent could hear, and she just threw a tantrum over it.

She looks at the doctor with uncharacteristic and unfamiliar shyness, trying to pick herself back up, present herself as anything close to reasonable after the meltdown she just had. Something about him makes her feel like he understands. Maybe she’s not the first to react like that. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking.

“So what happens now?” she asks in a flat voice.

“What happens now is you start treatment as soon as possible,” Doctor Dad explains. He leans forwards on his desk, his hands clasped together and when Janis notices the distressed expression on his face, the pain of guilt in her stomach only gets worse. “My colleagues have already discussed this and we think it would be best for you to begin within the next two weeks. The earliest start would be next Monday.”

“Next Monday?” she echoes, her voice cracking. “But… but I start school in three days I start before that, I can’t…” She knows it’s a lost cause and there’s no point to it, but it’s the last thing she has. Her school is the last part of her life that’s real in all this, so forgive her for clinging to it. She looks from her parents to the doctor, three different, grave expressions and only one is able to give her an answer.

“I’m afraid going to school will be out of the question,” the doctor tells her. Her mom’s fingers lace between hers, squeezing her hand in what’s meant to be comforting, but Janis can’t feel it. She’s too busy trying to push back another protest. “I’m sorry, Janis. There is the option of online school, but your treatment is likely to make you too tired to focus. It might be easier on your mental health if you saved school until next year.”

Saved school until next year. When everyone she knows is already gone and this year’s juniors will be seniors. She’ll have to wait a year for all the fun stuff that seniors get to do, cutting in the lunch line, going to prom, graduation parties, using the senior’s lounge. She’ll be sitting in a class of people she’s a year older than her, all in pre-formed friendship groups and likely knowing her as Cancer Girl. Cady, Damian, Karen, everyone else will be graduating this year and will move on to new adventures. And she’ll be left behind.

The idea makes her more sick than the cancer has.

“Jan?” her dad asks softly. She finds three pairs of expectant eyes on her and all she can offer is a small nod.

“Okay,” she whispers. She’s not sure what she’s saying okay to.

“What about the treatment itself?” her mom asks. “How is that going to work?”

“We might have to do a few more tests to find that out,” he explains. “But it would likely be chemotherapy. What we’ve discussed so far is two weeks in hospital and then a week at home to recover for around three months. Thankfully, the cancer hasn’t progressed far enough to warrant more, and we’ll want to keep it at that. The goal is to get Janis to remission.” She nods, her head starting to throb a little. She presses her fingers to her temples before she can stop herself, and that’s a red flag to both her parents. She drops it, muttering a lie about being fine.

“Of course there will be a lot of support for Janis through this,” he goes on. “There is an excellent support group and appointments can be made with a counsellor on a one-to-one basis.”

Somehow that doesn’t help, she thinks. It’s not meant to, she guesses.

It’s cold when they step outside, or that might just be her. The wind cuts through her jacket and the sweater she pulled on and attacks her skin, leaving her fighting off shivers. She pushes her dad’s arm off her when he tries to help her to the car. That only makes her feel worse, mentally and physically.

Being in a car with your parents after a cancer diagnosis is a weird experience. The tension between the three of them strangles her. An unspoken conversation passes between her parents in the front and frankly, it pisses her off. If they’re going to be concerned about her, they could at least do her the courtesy of involving her. But maybe it’s better that way because despite being an arm’s length from them, she feels as though she’s miles away. Like when they started driving, she stayed put. She sinks back into the seat and stares straight ahead, the pain in her head coming back louder and stronger, pushing against her skull and screaming behind her eyelids.

“Janis… are you okay?” her mom asks.

“Fine,” she sighs.

“Do you need anything? We can go to the gas station-”

“I said I’m fine,” she replies, firmer than before. “I just want to lay down.”

She’s not kidding. She wants to press her face into her pillow until everything blacks out and all that exists is the colours that explode behind her eyelids. Then they can fade to, and she won’t have to deal with anything anymore.

They drive on in a heavy silence, and the longer they go, the angrier she finds herself growing. She doesn’t know where it’s directed, at herself or her parents or the doctor or the universe, but it’s there, rising in tandem with her the pain in her head and making her restless. She grabs her upper arm and squeezes hard, pressing her nails in until it starts to hurt, just to get it out somewhere.

“Hey… why don’t we go to Dairy Queen?” her dad suggests, as though they’re on their way back from mini golfing. It’s a sweet offer and Janis almost smiles at it. But it’s why it’s sweet that she doesn’t want it.

“I don’t want to,” she replies. “I just want to go home.” Besides, there is a real risk of her upchucking a milkshake on the seat.

Her parents exchange another worried look, their hands clasping over the gearshift, and Janis has to bite back a scream.

When they do finally get home, Janis doesn’t wait for them to get out of the car. Instead she storms ahead, regardless of how it hurts her head more, because she’s so damn relieved to be out of that care and in open space. She opens the door with her own key, remembering to leave it open for them. She runs into the hallway and then stops almost immediately, her chest tight and her breaths coming in short, quick gulps. Something rushes against her and grabs at her legs, and she takes a minute to work out that it’s Maxie, no doubt pouting at her and wondering what she was doing and where she was and why she didn’t take him. He’s probably whimpering or barking, and her dad is probably trying to talk to her, but she can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears.

“Oh my God,” she says out loud. Everything she’s held back in the car bubbles over and she can’t hold it back any more.

She just about makes it to her room in time to throw herself on the bed and start screaming. She doesn’t even sound like a human. It’s deep and it’s guttural, tearing at her throat and painted with rage and pain and fear. Poor Maxie is probably hiding in his bed, scared of the monster upstairs. Her eyes, her face burns and her bedroom melts away, leaving just a mesh of dark colours bleeding together. Tears and snot run down her face and over her hands and on the pillows, making the mark of a miserable, self-pitying girl going insane.

Her head doesn’t just hurt any more, it’s screeching and kicking at her and she can’t do anything about it. She can’t do anything about anything. That’s the problem. Her chest aches and her neck hurts and her mouth is dry and her eyes burn. But all that’s nothing to what’s going on in her heart and head, where dangerous, toxic cocktails bubble. All she wants to do is not feel, but she feels everything and it’s all just pain.

She runs out of tears at one point and they dry on her face as she looks up at the ceiling, the word “cancer” written in invisible ink above her. She thinks “I might die” and then rolls her eyes at herself for being bleak. She wants to tell her all the good stuff about new treatments and technology and whatever but it’s all surface level nonsense. Fear wins over optimism and it cuts right into her, deep into her soul.

She doesn’t know what she’s most worried about and she’s an idiot for it. Not knowing if she’s more scared of the fatal disease wreaking destruction and chaos inside her body or of not getting to go to Cady’s Mathletes competitions or see Damian in the musical. It should be plainly obvious what’s the worse one, but it isn’t. Is this her now? Vapid and shallow, more obsessed with her petty teenage fun than her health? Was she always like this?

Her parents find her laying across her bed, unblinking, the slow rise and fall of her chest the only thing that indicate her being alive.

“How long ago did you guys wait?” she asks flatly.

“Two hours,” her dad explains, shifting on his feet. “We thought you’d need some space.” She nods numbly at that. “Janis… I know this is a lot to process for you.”

“Understatement of the century,” she mumbles. At least she’s still got humour. The bed sags and she sees her mom sitting next to her, her hand reaching out to stroke her hair. Janis can’t remember the last time her mom did that to her, not like this, with dainty fingers that could send her to sleep.

“We’re going to be here the whole time,” her mom promises. “You’re not doing this alone.”

She is though. That’s the problem. They’re not going to be the ones in the hospital beds and taking medicine and missing her senior year. She is. They’ll be beside her all they like, and she hopes to hell they are, but they aren’t going through it with her.

“I know,” is what she says instead. “I know.” She pulls herself to a sitting position, grabbing her mom’s shoulder as her room starts tilting. It takes a few seconds of deep, shaky breaths and her eyes shut tight before she feels normal again. “I’m okay.” She looks up at the two of them, overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness that makes her feel tiny despite her impressive height. “So what happens now?”

“We’ll take care of the official stuff,” her dad days softly, his arms wrapped around himself Holding himself together. “Letting the school know and all that. But… it might be better if you tell your friends.” She shakes her head on instinct. She can barely get that word out of her mouth on her own. In front of Damian or Cady, she knows she’d crumble.

“Sweetie,” her mom says. Her hand hasn’t stopped stroking her. “I know it’s hard. But they love you and they’re going to want to hear it from you. Not from us and not from the school either.” Janis presses her face into her knees, blinking away another wave of tears. They’re right. Of course they’re right. But that doesn’t mean that the idea of telling them makes her want to vomit.

Right now, only she, her mom, her dad and some doctors know. And she can pretend the doctors don’t exist and remove them from the equation. And when the only people who know are living in this house, it’s easier for her to pretend that it doesn’t really exist. She can push it away and ignore her parents and keep it inside these walls. Once she tells her friends…

It’s real. There’s no going back after that. Granted there’s no going back either way, but there’s no hiding either.

“Janis,” her mom agrees, sharking a look with her dad. “If it’s really too much for you… we can tell your friends for you.

“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “No, you’re right. They need to hear it from me.”

“Oh, baby,” her mom breathes, hugging her tightly around her shoulders. She’s not crying, but her breathing is ragged and her grip scared. “I’m so sorry. I wish this wasn’t happening to you.” Her dad sits on the other side of her and wraps his arm around her, letting her head on her head on his shoulder. The hug is clumsy and a little forced, no-one knowing when to let go and Janis quickly becomes uncomfortable in their embrace. The longer it goes on, the less like herself she feels.

She spends the rest of the day and most of the following morning looking at her phone, even when she’s eating or watching TV with her dad or playing with Maxie. Every gesture is half-hearted, the building sense of dread distracting her form everything else. She scrolls through the messages from yesterday, Cady asking how her appointment went and Damian asking if she was free and Gretchen asking her opinion on a shirt. All living in blissful ignorance.

It’s no contest as to who to tell first. She sits on her bed, Damian’s face looking up at her from the phone screen, one button all that separates the two of them. Just press a button. How hard can that be? Very hard, it turns out, when your arm feels like lead and you don’t even know what to say to him, your words written and crossed out and written again on the notebook beside you. The worst part is that she isn’t even sure what she’s scared of. There’s a lot to choose from and when it’s telling someone you love as much as she loves him, that only makes it worse. Like she’s on top of a skyscraper, about to be pushed off and into darkness.  

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and calls him.

“Hey,” he chirps on the other side, picking up after just one ring. She leans back on her bed, biting her nail, her heart ceasing beating altogether. In the back of her mind, she wonders if he’d been waiting for her. “What’s up?”

“Are you-can you come over?” she asks. “Are you free right now?”

“Uh yeah,” he replies. “Everything okay?” No it’s not, the okay train left the station yesterday and I missed it and I’m about to pull you off it too. “Janis… are you okay?”

“Just… how soon can you come over?” she says, moving from biting her nail to her knuckles. “It’s just… it’s kind of important and I don’t know if I can-”

“Woah, woah, woah, okay,” he replies. “Hey, my mom’s giving me a ride. I’ll be ten minutes, tops. Okay?”

“Okay,” she nods. “Thanks.” She’s not even sure if he heard that last word.

He’s seven minutes actually. Seven minutes between her hanging up the phone and the front door opening, her mom letting him in and telling him she’s up in her room. Every step closer only makes her stomach hurt worse and she prays she’s not headed for a panic attack.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle as he opens the door, stepping into her room cautiously, like she’s in the middle of a minefield. He must have picked up on the tension in her house; rather than draping himself across her bed or sitting on her desk, he lowers himself gently beside her, offering her a comforting smile. The same kind he gave her years ago when she was crying in a bathroom stall. God, she loves him. “Everything okay? You sounded nervous on the phone.”

“Because I was,” she confesses. Her hand wraps around Damian’s, him squeezing tightly, but she doesn’t feel the usual strength she gets from him. There’s just a cold, heavy weight in her stomach. “Oh God.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says softly, rubbing his hand up and down her arm, confusion and compassion in his eyes. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she tells him. Her chest feels like someone is tying a rope around her lungs. The words battle from her mind to her mouth, weary and unwilling. “It’s about my… that doctor’s appointment I had. We found out-”

This is it. The point of no return. No pretending or faking or daydreaming after this.

“Damian… I have cancer.”

Damian shakes his head a little, disbelief written all over his face. He keeps his eyes on her, waiting for her to laugh and tell him she’s kidding, almost willing it so. She wishes. Soon the doubt and hope melt away, his eyes turning sad and his mouth falling open, a small, strangled noise coming out as he realises she’s not kidding. As for her guilt tears her chest open and her face crumples. She begins to untangle herself from him, but he refuses, his arm in a firm grip around her shoulders. Maybe he wants to hold her or maybe he just can’t move, paralysed by what she dropped on him. The longer he goes without talking, the more it hurts her.

“What?” he asks eventually. “You… what?”

“Leukaemia,” she tells him as if that makes it better. He blinks, looking around the room like he’s searching for another answer.

“You have cancer?” he asks. She nods, exhausted from the two sentences she spoke, and he pulls her closer, her head falling onto his shoulder. Tears that aren’t hers fall onto her body and her own wet his shirt. His arms are weak around her as he tries to make sense of it. “How?”

“I don’t know how. It just happened,” she mumbles. “Karma, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Okay then let me talk to Miss Karma because this is… fu-this isn’t…”

“Go on. Say it,” she urges, a grin beginning to tug on her lips. “Just for me.” Maybe this will be the day Damian Hubbard finally says fuck.

“It’s fiddlesticks is what it is.” She laughs and it feels unfamiliar. He pets her hair in a steady rhythm, strength coming back into his body. “So what do you do now? Do you know? What even happens?”

“Okay.” She pulls away from him, seeing for the first time how red his eyes are. “I start… I start getting treatment next Monday.”

“Next Monday?” he interrupts. “But you can’t, we have school. We start school in two days!”

“Yeah I don’t think the cancer gives a shit,” she sighs heavily. “I’m just going to do senior year next year.”

“No,” he whispers, his face nothing short of heartbroken. Part of her is actually kind of weirdly flattered that someone cares so much. Most of her just feels worse every second for doing this to him. “But… we were going to… What about the LGBT society? I’m going to have to run it by myself?” He rakes a hand through his hair and looks over at her. His mouth falls open and his hand drops to his lap. “Oh God I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“For making this about me,” he says. “This is about you.”

“Oh please, the other half of your soul has cancer, you can be a little self-centred,” she says.

“Who said you’re the other half of my soul?” he jokes.

“You did.” She lifts the half-heart around her neck, the twin to the one around his. He smiles sadly, his eyes glistening. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, holding on to the only trace of familiarity. “Besides, the club will survive without me. You can always get Cady to do it. I’m sure she’d love something for her college application.”

“Oh my God, Cady,” he says.

Why did she bring up Cady? she thinks as another wave of sadness crashes over and drowns her.

“Have you told her?” She shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“How could I?” she says. “You’re… you’re one thing. Cady’s another.” She leans her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. “I don’t know how to do that to her.” Damian hums in understanding. He doesn’t need to ask what she means. He saw her at her absolute worst five years ago, at her most scared and angry and broken. He’s seen everything there is to her and it hasn’t pushed him away. Cady thinks she’s seen the bad, but that’s just scratching the surface. While she heard how it was back then, Damian lived and breathed it.

What she has with Cady is perfect, far too perfect to be scarred by something like this.

“You know… I could tell her for you,” he offers. “If it’s too much for you.”

“No,” she cuts him off, opening her eyes. “I can’t make you do that.”

“You’re not making me do anything,” he tells her. She nods, but the conversation ends there. Of course he’d do that for her. He’s the most loyal person she’s ever met, worthy of the Hufflepuff badge on his backpack. He’d move Heaven and Earth for the people he loves, especially in their hour of need. Or months of need, she guesses is her case now. He deserves endless happiness and love and joy, and an amazing senior year.

Seconds pass in silence before she croaks out “I’m sorry”.

“Did you just apologise for having cancer?” he asks. He shifts and tilts her head to make her look at him, his hands cupping her face and his eyes severe. She’s never seen him like this before, completely serious, devoid of jokes or laughter, and it makes her nervous. “Janis Catherine Sarkisian, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare apologise for this. This isn’t because of you. This is because… I don’t know. But it’s not you.”

“Okay.” She covers his hands with hers, her breath catching. His thumbs wipe at her wet cheeks and she wonders what she did to deserve him. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Good.” His voice cracks and two tears race each other down his cheek landing in his lap. He takes a heavy, shaking breath before continuing. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.”

“Of course you’d say that,” she mumbles, their clasped hands now sitting between them.

“You will be,” he says again, a fierce determination shining on his face. “Even if I have to go in there and physically fight that cancer myself.”

“You’d win,” she tells him, sniffling. They sit in the quiet, letting the weight of her news settle over both of them, a new and terrifying reality looming in front of them. Then she reaches out and pulls him into a hug; her arms wrapped around him, her head in the crook of his neck. As he hugs her back, she can feel the anxiety in his touch and how his touch is far more careful now. Like she’ll break if he holds her too much. But there’s also courage in there and above all, so much tenderness and it makes her heart grow and almost burst out of her stone cold chest.

“I love you,” she whispers against his shirt.

“I love you too,” he replies, ferocity in his voice, and Janis is struck by just how grateful she is that her best friend is Damian.

[true-neutral-earth-elf]

Primal Arcanum: Analysis and Speculation pt. 1

*Spoiler Warning: This post contains information pertaining to “The Dragon Prince” season 2. If you have yet to watch s.2 and don’t want the final episode to be spoiled, then please hold off on reading any further. You have been warned.*

Fans were introduced to the arcanum at the beginning of season 2 by Lujanne as she explained what exactly it was that enabled creatures to connect to the primal sources. To put it simply, the arcanum is the understanding of the the primal source’s form, function, and essence and how it connects to our body, mind, and spirit. This connection is something felt and is not easily put into words, however both Lujanne, Callum, and Rayla give it their best shot and (excluding Rayla) did a pretty decent job of it! I’d like to begin with the primal arcanum we know enough about then compare them to the Primal descriptions given by the dragon prince main website, that way we might be able to guess at the other four primal arcanum.

The Sky Arcanum:

“It’s not one simple thing, it’s all the things. They just had to...come together, you know? It’s like, I used to hold the sky in my hand, right? But now that’s gone. But, Rayla, the whole world is like a giant primal stone, and we’re inside it. I’m inside sky magic, but it’s also in me, with every breath I take.” - Callum

"I am the wing!" - also Callum

According to Callum’s description, sky magic exists within the air, the very air we breathe, and is ,therefore , in everything. This corresponds with the primal description’s beginning statement, “Sky magic draws on the vast sky.” Where does the sky end and begin? On earth, it ends at the ocean and solid ground, which is the lower atmosphere (the air we breathe). That part is simple enough, but there’s another meaning to breathing when dream Sarai is speaking with Callum. She urges him to slow down, stop focusing on the mess in his head, and breathe, to let his body and spirit catch up to his head, and breathe. She’s telling him to calm down. His anxiety about not being able figure out the Sky arcanum, was what kept him from learning the Sky arcanum! (Ain’t that a doozy?) When Callum declares, “I am the wing,” he’s saying that the wind is carrying him, like it does with birds and sails; in other words, he’s going-with-the-flow! In “Avatar: Legend of Korra” (in the only episode I actually paid attention to) they had a test at the air temple, the goal was to navigate a series of rapidly rotating panels and make it to the other side without touching them, this was achieved by allowing the air currents to direct your body around the panels; an excellent visual representation of this very process! Now, going with the flow does not necessarily mean being directionless. That’s why creatures of the Sky primal must be quick and clever enough to predict the flow, to work with it not against it! To sum it up: the Sky arcanum is (a. understanding that sky magic is in and around us (b. understand that you need to take a step back and feel where the sky magic is directing you (c. work with sky magic, don’t suppress or fight against it, flow with it!

I hope that made sense, cause we're moving on!

The Moon Arcanum:

“The arcanum of the moon is about understanding the relationship between appearances and reality. Most people believe that reality is the truth and appearances are deceiving. But those of us who know the moon arcanum understand we can only truly know the appearance itself. You can never touch this so-called reality that lies just beyond the reach of your own perception.” - Lujanne

Dear god, this some Rene Descartes level sh*t....that’s exactly why I’m going to use him to explain what Lujanne is saying; get ready for a quick philosophy lesson!

So Descartes was a French philosopher who had this policy of never accepting anything as truth unless there was absolutely no way it could be false, this led him to question his own existence. He began asking things like, “How do I know what I’m experiencing is real?” or “Do I even exist?” (He was having the mother-of-all existential crisis). Desperate for answers, Descartes decided to examine himself as though he were a jigsaw puzzle. Taking apart everything he had originally thought to be true of himself and set them aside. He began looking for the single thing that would prove, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was real (like when you look for the corner pieces to get the puzzle’s outline). That’s when he realized that the ability to doubt his existence, to question his very being, was proof in itself of his existence. Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. That was Descartes’s conclusion. From there he began inspecting the other pieces of his puzzle and finally put “himself” back together.

How does this apply to the moon arcanum? Lujanne explained that most people believe that appearances are deceiving while reality is truth. But how can one determine the truth of reality when it is only the appearance that can be seen? To further clarify; appearance in this case refers to something that is perceived by an entity. So we, being separate entities, view things from our individual perspectives; hence, when we perceive something we are viewing its appearance. Reality is often considered separate from its appearance, but is it really? Or is it, perhaps, the collective appearance (all perspectives in one)? Remember, we are constantly perceiving ourselves from a standpoint others could never dream to, which means how we view our appearance may be different than how others do. Does that make our self image false? No. It’s simply a piece of our reality. Descartes feared that his appearance was not reflecting his reality (whither or not he existed), he discovered that there was, indeed, truth behind his appearance, and eventually rediscovered his appearance - his piece of reality. Therefore, appearance is not a lie, but a separate truth; reality is not necessarily truth, but the sum of all appearances.

So those who know the moon arcanum are aware that reality is not independent of its appearance and appearances are not necessarily lies. This is how moon mages are able to use illusions and can connect with spirits; illusions rely on the caster to consider the appearance of their subject, meanwhile spirits live on a separate plane of existence and cannot appear in the same manner as items of this plane.

When you consider the nature of the moon the arcanum makes a little more sense. The moon appears to glow at night, yet it doesn’t. It’s just reflecting the light of the sun. Then, as it wanes, it appears as though parts of the moon are gone until we can’t see it at all! Guess this is why the writers chose this arcanum for it. Since I’ve already taken enough time to explain the moon arcanum I’ll just list the basic points going along the lines of its form, function, and essence: moon magic is (a. understanding that it comes from the moon and will have low and high points depending on the moon phase (b. provides an alternative view of the world and its reality (c. understanding that reality is not independent of appearances, and appearances are not lies but alternative truths (alternative truths do not equal lies, politicians simply enjoy perverting the English language)

From this point on is all speculation based on the previous arcanum patterns; 100% theory time!

According to the Primal description, earth magic comes from two domains: the geological components of the world, and the life that inhabits it ( flora and fauna). I believe this means that there are actually two arcanum for earth magic (7 arcanum in all). Because the source of the magic is different, then we can only assume that the arcanum which draws it out is different too! This could be wrong, but I’ll separate them anyways.

Life (flora, fauna) Arcanum:

Based on the description, life-earth magic of this sort comes from the life that surrounds us: plants, animals, even elves and humans! The potential application of this magic is wide open for speculation, a few possibilities are: floral manipulation (which would be an awesome way to make tree buildings or plant furniture, maybe even weapons), telepathic communication with animals (or just being able to understand animal languages), being able to sense the life force in creatures while meditating (like what Eragon learned to do from Oromis in book 2 of the Inheritance Cycle (god, I’m a nerd)), and healing (instead of it being quick panacea spells, I’d like to think of it’s a strenuous process of understanding the cell structures and their function in the body, then having to focus on certain cells to reproduce rapidly thereby speeding up the healing process; also like in the Inheritance cycle). These are all incredible abilities that have the potential for being applied in so many horrific ways; what’s keeping elf mages from asking animals to maul their enemies? Or inflicting their own plague on man kind? This is where the meaning of the arcanum comes in! I believe that the arcanum of life-earth magic is the understanding that all life has a significant role to play in the world. There’s no such thing as a “major” or “minor” role for all are necessary in maintaining the equilibrium (balance) of the world. Creatures of the Earth primal respect this relationship, and probably view other creatures as equals, if not kin. Death will also, probably be an important factor in understanding the arcanum. Consider the circle of life (I’m going Rafiki on y’all, sorry); when we die our bodies go to the earth, the plants and bacteria feed off of the nutrients our corpses provide, then an herbivore feeds on the plants, later on a carnivore will eat the herbivore and feed their young, later on the carnivore will either die naturally or be eaten by another creature; and so it goes on! Death is a necessary antagonist for life, and earth mages must recognize that. To put this in terms of form, function, and essence: (a. life-earth magic dwells within the life force of all living things, (b. life-earth magic sustains the equilibrium of the world through the continued growth of its inhabitants, (c. life-earth magic requires an understanding that all life plays a role in the world and that death (natural death, this does not condone murder or negligence) is necessary to the continuation of life.

Geological Arcanum:

Referring back to the Primal description, geological-earth magic comes from within the minerals, stones, and crystals of the earth. Theses materials have been around since the dawn of humanity, they’re often viewed as indestructible and even eternal elements. However, this is not quite true. As any child who paid attention to the geology portion of their science class will tell you, the components which make up the earth are always undergoing some sort of change! Some changes are slow and require a mixture of different temperatures and pressure (think diamonds & oil). Others are quick, unpredictable, and destructive (volcanic eruptions & earth quakes). Yet the earth remains to be the most reliable source we know of. Earth is ever changing, but also consistent. It’s this dual nature that I believe is the key to learning the geological-earth arcanum. The application of this magic is difficult to speculate on; it has the potential to be like earth bending in AtLA, but at the same time stones and minerals have been believed to provide remedies for particular ailments, it could have certain healing spells. Crystals are often associated with spiritual energy, maybe the magic works with that? This is what I’m assuming for the geological-earth arcanum: (a. geological-earth magic dwells within the earth’s crust and its components, (b. it provides stability, consistency, but also change, (c. one must understand the dual nature of the earth: it is always changing, yet remains the same.

This is where I'll end part one for now. Feel free to share your thoughts, opinions, or critiques on the arcanum!

Thank you for reading!

[fmdtaeyongarchive]

↬ my long night is not over.

date: early 2019.

location: seoul, south korea.

word count: 2,019 words, not including lyrics.

summary: n/a.

notes: creative claims verification. depression tw. like, this entire thing is about ash’s depression. not proofread because i wrote this all in one night and i’m just throwing it into the queue before i get some sleep lmao.

days off didn’t come often. when they did, ash had a habit of finding some way to fill his time anyway. it had been trained into him, almost literally, not to let a spare moment go to waste since the age of thirteen, and it was hard to ever fully knock that insistent voice out of his head that told him he needed to be busy or he was wasting his life away.

a day off where he didn’t have plans to do any work was unsettling. he’d been laying in bed for hours in an attempt to feel relaxed, but he couldn’t stop his mind racing when there was nothing else to keep it busy. yet, he couldn’t seem to will himself up to do something to waste his time. it was as if his thoughts were weighing down on his chest and preventing him from rising out of bed and forcing himself out into the world like a useful human being. he could recognize, despite his own irrational need for action, that it was odd that he felt his value so intrinsically linked to whether he ended the day with something accomplished when he worked from before sunrise to after night fall every other day of the year. his skin itched with restlessness, but his limbs refused to move, like they were too heavy for his body to lift.

it wasn’t a physical weight. he wouldn’t be getting torn to pieces at the next fitting he had to go to. it was a purely emotional weight, and ash had felt it before. it had been a while since it’d been this hard to fight, though. it may have something to do with his promotions for “untitled, 2014” coming to an end. singing that song on stage every day, multiple times a day, had worn his emotional nerve endings ragged and it made sense that they didn’t want to be exposed to the elements outside of his bed that could fray them again. it’d been a risky move on his part to agree to beat himself up in front of an audience and on camera so consistently. he didn’t have any regrets about it, but some hidden part of his psyche must and it was punishing him even more now by setting off the other parts of his psyche that he didn’t want to venture into the dark and cavernous depths of.

years ago, these episodes of heaviness hadn’t come like this to weigh down on his chest and mind. back in elementary school, he couldn’t remember ever experiencing the feeling, at least not enough to stay in his mind a decade and a half later. as much as he’d like to blame it on bc as he did most of the problems in his life, he couldn’t draw a direct connection to them to make it a fault of theirs either. he hadn’t started feeling this way the day he’d stepped into bc entertainment as a trainee. it wasn’t something in the air of the training building that had done this to him. the times he’d felt it the most often had been since then, but something told ash it would have grown worse as he got older anyway. no longer seeing the world through the eyes of a child was an inevitability regardless of his career path and seeing the harsh scope of reality made it harder to want to crawl out when he was stuck in a ditch like this.

the first time he’d felt this way, he’d been grocery shopping with his mom back in san francisco. his mom was busy piling their items onto the belt to check out and ash’s mind was left without something to distract it and keep the clouds from sweeping in. a feeling of dread had expanded in his chest like a rapidly filling balloon. as vast and wide as the feeling seemed to be, his insides felt completely and utterly empty at the same time. he’d sat in the backseat of the car on his way home from the grocery store so his mom wouldn’t notice the hot tears that wanted to spill out of his eyes. he couldn’t figure out why they were there in the first place. he wasn’t sad and it didn’t feel like it normally did when he wanted to cry. he was numb. suddenly, hopelessness was the only emotion he could reach out and grasp in his palm, all the excitement of life killed on impact like insects on a car windshield. even the idea of exiting the vehicle instead of letting his body rot away within it had felt so utterly pointless. his body would rot somewhere some day anyway.

it’d been such a strong feeling, or rather, a lack of feeling, that ash had never forgotten that day.

the sensation had come back time and time again since then. when he was twenty and the feeling had been constant for months to the point of driving his manager to force him to seek help for it, a psychiatrist had assigned a name to it and ash had wondered why it had taken so long for someone to notice and label it. it explained a lot, ash had discovered when he’d done a search into it beyond what he knew from media. the antidepressants had helped some after trying out a few different options. it was walking a delicate tightrope of what he needed and what bc needed once management knew he was on medication. if he gained weight from it or it impacted his ability to perform, it’d need to be abandoned immediately. that had made it a challenge to find one that helped without unacceptable side effects, but ash had found a variety that worked well enough as time dragged on and the fact that the feeling wasn’t ever going to fully leave him alone sunk in.

no medication could stop him from having days like this completely. “they can’t cure you. they’re to help make it more manageable,” as he’d been told, and any optimism for such days to be in the past had vanished.

so why was it still so painfully unmanageable on days like this?

_______________________________________________________________________

days passed before ash felt up to getting to work in the studio, and even once he did, he had to force himself to ease back into it. the weight never wanted to leave that easily, even after it’d dug its claws out of him enough to let him breathe. friends and colleagues dropped by the studio here and there and it wasn’t easy to smile all the way to his eyes just yet, especially not after long days of trying to do his best at public appearances, but he could press keys on a keyboard to create chords and that was something that could be celebrated as a small victory as long as he wasn’t faced with too much at once.

the simple piano melody came to him as he sat for hours in the studio. it was mostly a succession of chords and nothing too show-offy, but it wouldn’t fit his mood if he did show off. he didn’t feel like he had a few days earlier, but still, he felt like whispering, not shouting from the hilltops. there was no point in trying to write something upbeat when his brain wasn’t ready to expend the energy necessary to go there yet.

the next day, the strings came into the composition. he made a mental note to ask if bc would be able to provide him with real string recordings if the song was ever completed and given the green light for release. he couldn’t see it ever being a single as it was, without a climax or likely much of anything resembling a hook, but maybe it’d be nice to use somewhere in the middle of an album track list one day in a spot that called for something a bit delicate in its closeness to ash’s heart.

the composition wasn’t much, but it was nice on the ears even without vocals. he let the song exist in a purely instrumental form for a while, considering its use as an interlude or outro on a future album. it was cinematic in an understated way, like the score of an animated movie during the scene where the main character was reflecting. they’d be staring into a pool of water for heavy-handed metaphor and there would be fireflies dancing in the dark night around them as a symbol of hope. there wasn’t much hope in his heart writing the song, but the idea of that use of the track brought a dull smile to ash’s face nonetheless. he’d never considered composing scores for movies. he should give that a try one day.

_______________________________________________________________________

he came back to the track several weeks later, with pages of lyrical scrawls he’d gotten out while busy with his work schedule. for the moment, his chest wasn’t so leaden, but it was too familiar and lasting a feeling for him to forget what his really bad lows were like just because they’d passed for the moment. 

the world keeps rotating. it’s getting dark alone. my blank mind. there’s no song i want to sing. i want it to be quiet now.

simple rhymes came together into verses and a chorus to be sung lethargically over the music. he’d record his vocals later on when he could decide the best delivery without faking his emotions, but in their content alone, there was a tone to how they should be sung. 

the lyrics were a mix of reworded thoughts he’d scribbled down and his own additions as he sat in the studio but they came together like an aimless stream of conscious, perfect to represent the headspace he wanted to convey. it was the closest he could get to writing them when he wasn’t able to. he wasn’t able to pull himself out of the pitch black dark for the sake of creating something, but he could put into words what he’d felt later. they weren’t beautifully poetic, but neither was life most of the time. simplicity didn’t have to mean an absence of meaning. ash had learned that.

he’d written similar songs before. off of his first album, “pause” had been near and dear to his heart for the way it bared parts of him he’d been expected to keep hidden. he had no idea how much the depth of his struggles had been received, but it was having it out in the world that made it cathartic more than how other people felt about it. this track could hopefully bring more peace to him in knowing that some songs could come purely from his heart in a raw way that bc entertainment couldn’t take away from him. if they ever approved it, they’d monetize it and slap a pretty album cover on it with ash smiling or seducing the camera, but that would never take away the truth within the songs he’d written from such an integral core of himself. 

when ash had started, he wasn’t so sure what he wanted to accomplish with the song. was his purpose merely to get his thoughts and feelings out onto paper so that they didn’t have to keep floating around in his head? or did he want to selfishly indulge himself by using his keyboard and paper in place of therapy he didn’t have time for in his schedule these days? it hadn’t been clear at the beginning, but once the words were written out in front of him like a poem, he realized that he hoped his own stream of consciousness would be something someone else could relate to. maybe it wouldn’t be the song to save anyone’s life or brighten their whole day, but there were times when knowing there were other people who had felt the same way was the only semblance of comfort that could be found. ash hoped he could be that. no matter how much his music had to become something else to please other people, he hoped this piece could be something else: a song not to please anyone, but to speak to someone like him.

[svtsweet]

Not So Casual

A/N: Did I ghost write this? I swear there isn’t enough dom Vernon smuts out there so this is just afhajksvojfs Excuse me while I try and not die from writing this--

Vernon X (Fem) Reader

Summary: A casual night alone with your boyfriend begins just like any other but as things begin to get steamy between you, the usual becomes a thing of the past.

Genre: SMUT/ NSFW

Warnings: Daddy Kink, Oral Sex + Fingering (female receiving), Dirty Talk, Penetrative Sex

Word Count: 2400+

Candy wrappers litter your nightstand and add to the scattered to go boxes laid at the floor by your bed completing the neat mess. The movie playing on your laptop was slowly being sucked into the back of your mind, the silhouette of Vernon’s face highlighting the arches and plains of his figure. Your fingers give a slight tremble as they move towards his own little by little. It isn’t your first time holding hands but there’s just something about physical contact with him that causes your eyes to look anywhere but at him and hide within yourself like a turtle. Heck it took you a whole month to start hugging him casually. The thought alone sends chills down your spine as the memory of your first kiss crawls out of its cavern. You shake it off, forcing yourself to focus on the movie instead. It doesn’t come easy though. The contact of his shoulder against yours heats your cheeks in record time, fast than last Saturday when you did the same thing. And the Saturday before that, and the Saturday before that.

Vernon sits up straighter, his back shifting against your headboard. His right hand hovers over your laptop, adjusting it with feather-like touches as it sits on his lap. When he’s done, he settles it on the edge of the keyboard, eyes never straying from the screen. However, you’re still focused on his hand, his fingers curling and pushing slowly, the action driving it further to the bottom corner until his palm is floating over your jean-clad thigh. You bite your lip and glance at him. There is the smallest indication of a gulp, blush dusting his cheeks as you feel a warmth land at the side of your thigh. Although you tense a little, your stomach flutters at his touch and you release the breath you were holding when his fingers stretch along the expanse of your upper leg.

His voice breaks the thick silence between you, hesitant and careful. “Is-Is this okay?”

Simply nodding as an answer, you watch at the corner of your eye as his chest sinks down. He was tense. You also decide to move around a little since you felt your leg falling asleep, propping yourself on your hands to slide up only for your hand to slip and push down against Vernon’s hand. His fingers brush against your clothed core perking you up immediately. Yet just as quickly as it happened, Vernon pulls his hand back and apologizes softly. You nod again, the tingling sensation causing your thighs to press together. It felt good. You lick your lips and begin to fiddle with your thumbs. “You can put your hand back.” There’s a moment’s pause before you add, “If you want though.” Your voice trails after that.

Vernon doesn’t say anything, only gingerly places his hand back to where it was. The movie drags on, Vernon slowly gaining confidence to carefully trace the length up and down. Your thighs squeeze every time they near your crotch but other than that, you try your best to maintain your blank facade. It’s Vernon’s curiosity that draws him closer and closer, noticing your reaction the higher his hand goes. Then it stops, resting the farthest it can go without touching you where you want him to. You notice him bite his lip before quickly tightening his grip on your thigh. The action is so sudden you don’t have enough time to consider your own.

“Daddy,” you moan out. The flush that paints your face red is comes instantly, the word repeating itself like an echo that never fades.

“Daddy?”

There it is again. You hide your face in your hands, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes hoping it would take you away from the whole scenario. “I’m sorry.” It’s more a plead than request. Here you were, pulling kinks on your boyfriend when the most you’ve done was kiss, an action that already drained you.

Vernon can’t handle seeing you like this. “No no. It’s okay,” he reassures, voice soft like a lullaby. “Do you want me to keep going?”

His words shock you into a different dimension. Was he seriously okay with this? Were you? “Would that be alright?” You peek through your fingers to see him scratch the back of his head shyly.

“Yeah. I mean only if you want to.”

Your hands drop to your lap and you tilt your head towards his. Without meaning to, your gaze falls to his parted lips, pink and inviting. He takes your hint and closes the space between you. His lips graze yours for a short time before picking up the pace. They mold against yours, his tongue cautiously asking for entrance into your mouth. When you grant it, he leans into you, his body eventually leading you to lay down with your head on your pillows. For a moment, you start to forget what got you there in the first place, his deep kisses clearing all your thoughts. Your thoughts are tethered however when you feel him begin to unbutton your jeans. His movements are languid, your jeans only being pulled down with your underwear to your knees so he can have more time to focus on how much he likes dancing his tongue with yours. He breaks the kiss however to remove them, his eyes lighting up as they scan your exposed skin. You turn your head to look away and close your legs out of embarrassment.

“Let Daddy see you.”

His words do nothing to soothe you, in fact it’s the opposite. If your cheeks could overheat, they would definitely be steaming. Still, you allow him to gently pry your legs open. He lets out a sound of wonderment, taking too much time for your liking. Little did you know he could feel your tension. Gliding his hands up your calves, he hooks his thumbs underneath your knees to open you up so he could kneel and take a closer look. Him smoothly moving your top up to reveal your covered breasts does nothing to help. You could die of embarrassment right then and there.

You jolt when you feel the tips of his fingers spread your lower lips. “Can Daddy play with your pretty pussie?” With your stomach lurching itself into your throat, you bob your head up and down sending Vernon’s lips to curve into a small smile. Tentatively, his index finger prods at your entrance, circling around it until he eases it in. You let out a long breath when he pushes up to the second knuckle, rotating it back and forth. The slick sounds that come from your arousal surprises you and Vernon. Content with how it’s going, Vernon inches the rest of his finger inside of you, ears perking when you begin to whine. It stings, but not uncomfortably. He repeats his motions from before, a second finger joining when your back arches. The stretch causes you to frown. You need more stimulation.

“Can...you curl your fingers...please?”

At your request, he bends them up. “Like this?” You don’t even need to answer, the loud moan that rips your throat when he pokes at your sensitive spot being answer enough.

“Does it feel good babygirl?” His voice is darker, nothing like the sweet, pure Vernon you thought you knew. Then again, nothing like tonight is like usual. “I want to hear you babygirl,” he warns.

“Yes Daddy,” you finally reply. “It feels good.”

“Faster?”

You shake your head, your core shaking at the words that leave your mouth. “No, just deeper.”

Vernon chuckles almost innocently. “My fingers aren’t that long.”

You have to take several deep breaths to continue, your high inching closer. Forcing yourself to look into his eyes, you give him a response that has his eyes widening but his fingers not stopping their hitherto motions. “Are you sure?”

“Please Daddy. I want your cock.” You barely have the energy to give him a reply with how fast your high is approaching.

It’s mortifying how easy it is for his fingers to slide back out, the squelching just about driving you to bury yourself underneath the covers while Vernon fishes out a condom. Actually seeing how hard he became, you sit up and ask, “Do you want me to...?” pointing down to his erection, the glint in your eyes suggesting to offer some relief for him.

He follows your eyes to his lap, blinking rapidly at the unexpectedness of your question. “Uhm, yeah.” He smirks at you causing your knees to buckle. He could get used to this new you. “Show Daddy how much you want it.”

With that, you bite your lip and kneel in front of him, your legs wobbling with the how his fingers prepped you. He watches as you slip out his hard cock out of his pants and briefs eager to see just what he looks like. You have to close your mouth to keep yourself from salivating all over him. Giving him a small lick, your chest swells with pride at the low groan that sends vibrations down his body. Your tongue laps at the precum already forming at the tip, the hand at the base dragging up in a dry jerk. Vernon hisses, his hand tracing up your neck and to your cheek, delivering a small pinch.

“If you want Daddy’s cock you have to be a good girl.”

Mumbling an apology around his length, you go back to licking it. Base to tip, scooping out the precum that leaks and spreading it all over until he’s glimmering, Vernon enjoys your submissiveness and the satisfaction it gives him. While he does like seeing you lather him up, he gently pushes you off and lays you back down so he can fish for a condom. It doesn’t take long for him to rejoin you, his chest now bare and the only clothing between you being your bra and shirt. He takes notice of this and starts peeling your shirt off. He reaches for your straps but stops in his tracks seeing how you clutch the pillow by your head tightly opting to press light kisses on your collarbone, drawing up to your neck and sucking softly.

The tip of his cock pokes at your entrance, his mouth a decent distraction from your stress. How badly will it hurt? He’s more on the slim side but his length is what causes your breath to hitch. Your hands travel to his hair, your fingers wrapping around his locks casually and when you feel him starting to enter you, your eyes close shut. The pain isn’t instant, more uncomfortable, but as more of him gradually fills you up, his groan muffled by your skin, the slight stinging shifts to sharp pain. You wince, tugging at his hair without meaning to. Vernon lifts his head from the bruise he was creating on your neck to check on you. Alarm is encased in his eyes as he tries to form the right words to say but you beat him to it.

“Please ru-rub my clit Dad-Daddy,” you whine, hoping it would be enough to elicit more pleasure.

Vernon has to wrack his brain in order to follow your request, and fast. He needed you to loosen up, literally and metaphorically. With how tight you were wrapped around him, it was very hard to think straight, and stay hard. That’s why he sighs in relief when you lead his hand to your bundle of nerves. Thankfully, Vernon catches on and settles his thumb there, slowly rolling it in circles to soothe you. Soon, your breath returns to you and you motion for Vernon to continue. Your heart is pounding when his hips meet yours, his cock twitching in anticipation. His lips lock with yours once more, his hands straying to your waist as he pulls out halfway and sinks back in. His pace is sluggish, every once in a while pushes as far as he can and staying there.

“Does babygirl like being fucked by Daddy?” His lips brush against yours as he asks the teasing question, dropping back down to swallow your moans.

You break from his kiss, craving for more. “Daddy, more please.” You pull at his hair again as his cock grazes against your g spot.

He smiles. “Sorry babygirl but you feel so good, Daddy can’t get enough.” At your pout, he concedes, his leisurely thrusts speeding up to a steady rhythm, his thumb picking up as well. You moan as that familiar sweet sensation begins to consume you. Vernon groans, his hot breath fanning your cheek and you realize that his hand wandered to your rib cage, his fingers playing with the side of your bra. He lays his head in the crook of your neck, grunting occasionally, the sounds adding to your pleasure.

“Daddy I think I’m close,” you moan.

Vernon’s face is rough, rushing to get his words out before they’re lost. “Yeah babygirl? Want me to go harder now? Want me to really fuck you?”

“Yes Daddy, please.” One of your hands falls to his back, his solid muscles only driving you closer to the edge.

He groans as he feels your nails dig into his shoulder blades. “Good girl.”

His thrusts quicken, thumb going in faster circles on your clit urging on your climax. Vernon’s moaning becomes louder, higher, and you follow, your cunt clenching tighter than your hold on Vernon. He cums into the condom with a deep groan but still thrusts to push through his high and make sure you finish too. Your release crashes over you like a wave, your moan being muffled as you bite his shoulder harshly. Yet you don’t have time to react as Vernon smiles down at you after grimacing at the initial pain causing you to do the same. You lean to kiss him, entangling your fingers in his hair endearingly. At the end of your kiss, he pulls out and gets off the bed to dispose of the condom.

“You’re a lot kinkier than I thought,” he calls from the bathroom.

Shoving your face into the pillow, you groan, “Don’t start Hansol.”

The bed creaks with his return along with your shirt and panties which he helps put on. After he slips back into his own clothes, he laughs seeing your laptop at the corner of your bed. You had forgotten to pause the movie.

[okexijux-blog]

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