#i miss the casual touches and effortless connection

[misfit-dog]

Every time I reach for my phone, I'm reaching for you. Every aborted message says the same thing: Are you thinking of me? Do you like my music taste? Are you ok? I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss

You live in my head. Do I in yours?

[scuttling]

Happy Accidents

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 6,300 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Art, Neighbor Hotch, Shy and Oblivious Hotch, Flirting, It's soo sappy I'm sorry, Oral sex, Unprotected sex Summary: Aaron's new neighbor is out of his league for so many reasons: she's young, beautiful, artistic, unique, free-spirited, the kind of person who turns heads when she walks down the street. It's no wonder he ends up falling in love with her. *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! Against all of his better judgement, Aaron is kind of creeping on his new next door neighbor.

He is absolutely the type of man, any other time, to approach a woman he’s interested in and introduce himself, look for a way to connect, some common ground, but this is no ordinary woman.

She is out of his league in so many ways: young, beautiful, unique, free-spirited, the type of person who turns heads when she walks down the street. There’s not a chance in hell she would look twice at an old, stuffy, monotone suit with a seven year old son and perpetual bags under his eyes. That’s not him feeling bad about himself, it’s just the way the world works.

The first time he saw her, she was getting on the elevator while he was getting off of it, and they’d bumped into each other; she was wearing a short, flowy dress, and she’d smiled at him, apologized, eyes sparkling, smelling like she’d spent all day in the sunshine. It was the only time since Haley he’d ever entertained the idea of love at first sight.

She keeps to herself most of the time, gives off the air of being really cool and mysterious; their paths have crossed a few times since then—at the bank of mailboxes downstairs, in the hallway they share, once during a false alarm fire alarm—but he enjoys watching her paint more than anything.

They have balconies next to each other, and one night when he was tending to his herb garden—Jack enjoys watching the plants grow, and picking the herbs, Aaron likes to eat them—he spotted her standing on hers, facing away from him, in cut off jean shorts and a baggy t-shirt, barefoot. She’d been painting the city, the sky, with the sunset glowing behind her like she was the work of art, and he actually felt an ache in his chest, the feeling of missing someone he’s never really met.

Since that night, he’s started taking his work outside in the evenings after Jack goes to bed, and sitting in near silence while she paints, hums—sometimes songs he knows, sometimes songs he doesn’t. The first time he goes out before she does, she says hello when she drags her easel out, so he starts to say hello to her when she beats him there, too, but that’s pretty much the extent of their interaction. One evening when Aaron and Jack are getting home from dinner, she is lugging a canvas bigger than she is through the hallway and Jack almost runs headfirst into it; when he looks up, he exclaims about how big it is, and pretty—it’s covered with colors, something abstract and cheerful, and even if he’d seen it on the side of the road, he would have just known that she painted it. (That may be a good indicator that he’s getting in a little too deep.)

“Wow, that’s the biggest painting I’ve ever seen! And so many colors,” Jack says, awed. Aaron puts his hands on his shoulders to keep him out of her way; they’re already bothering her enough, when she’s clearly trying to get that giant thing home.

“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? I carry bigger pieces around at my studio, believe it or not,” she says to him, poking her head around the side to look at him.

“You have a studio?” His eyes are wide with interest; his favorite subject has always been art, as evidenced by their refrigerator, which is covered in drawings. She offers him an even brighter smile.

“I do! It’s not far from here; it’s called Live in Color. There’s a big rainbow painted on the side.”

“That’s so cool; it must be awesome to have your own studio.” Aaron loves that Jack seems to be so passionate about this, but the way they are obviously holding her up has him feeling awkward; he tugs gently on Jack’s backpack.

“That is really cool, bud, but we should let her go. I’m sure that’s heavy.” She smiles, shrugs.

“It’s no trouble. Hey, actually, we have some children’s art classes at the studio, and you look like you’d fit right in with the Green group—ages 7-9?” She looks up at Aaron, who nods. “Maybe we can talk dad into bringing you down sometime. We do painting, drawing, and crafts, it’s really fun.” She’s still looking right at Aaron, gives him a little wink, and he swears to god he gets butterflies in his stomach.

He’s a grown man. A federal agent. With butterflies. It’s insane.

“Oh man, dad, please? Can I take classes at her studio pleeease?” Jack tugs on the sleeve of his suit, and he nods, smiles down at him.

“Yeah, absolutely, Jack. We’ll go down and get more information tomorrow?” he offers, to both placate him and finally free the poor girl from the conversation; he nods excitedly, and she smiles, looks sweet, genuinely happy Jack is so excited to take the class.

“Cool, I look forward to seeing you guys there. Actually, if you give me one sec, I can grab my card for you.” She passes them, carrying the canvas and looking effortless while she does it; she props it up against the wall to get her keys out, unlocks her door and heads in, pops back out with a business card in a vivid watercolor yellow. “It has the address and phone number for the studio on the front, and I put my cell on the back; I figured it couldn’t hurt, considering we live next door to each other. Now you know who to call if you ever have an art emergency.”

He takes the card from her fingers, flips it over just to see the handwritten name and number; he knew her script would be lovely, and it is, easy and flowing and natural. It suits her. He tries not to grin, or flush, or otherwise be awkward about the fact that she just gave him her phone number, however innocently.

“Thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow.” They turn to head for their apartment, and she clears her throat; he smiles a little, turns back, and she’s leaning casually up against the canvas with her arms crossed.

“You know my name now. What’s yours?” She’s just being polite, but he gets the goddamn butterflies again.

“Aaron.” She smiles, something beautiful and a little wild.

“Okay, Aaron. See you outside.” From then on, most of their free time, be it evenings or weekends, is spent at the studio. Aaron isn’t the only parent who sticks around—it’s an art class, not a daycare, he doesn’t feel right just dropping Jack off and leaving him there—and he’s also not the only parent, it seems, who is aware of his beautiful young neighbor.

“She’s incredible, right?” another dad says to him one evening, over by the coffee. Aaron looks him over briefly—it’s a job hazard, he sizes up everyone, but he already has a weird feeling about this guy. “I’ve been bringing my kid here for a month just to look at that little ass running around. My wife just thinks our daughter is just really into art.” He says it with a laugh, like that’s a ridiculous concept. Aaron feels himself start to boil.

“You shouldn’t be disrespectful. She’s doing a great thing here, for the children; she’s not doing it for you to ogle her.” He feels a little hypocritical, because he is also looking, but not like this guy. He knows guys like this. He puts away guys like this.

He glances over at Aaron, looking a little taken aback that someone actually commented on his behavior, then rolls his eyes.

“She doesn’t need you to defend her honor, buddy. She wouldn’t run around here in those overalls if she didn’t want us looking. It’s job security.” She’s wearing the overalls tonight, denim shorts with one of the straps unhooked, a t-shirt underneath, but it’s not as if she’s performing a striptease. She just looks like an artist, covered in drips of paint, smiling as she looks at the kids’ pictures over their shoulders. Aaron really, really hates this guy.

“In my experience, women usually dress for themselves; they probably have pockets, easier to keep things at hand that she may need, and it’s warm in here, so she’s likely dressing for comfort. She’s certainly not dressing for you.”

As if she can sense the tension, she looks over at them, flicks her eyes over Aaron, then the other guy, and walks over with a soft smile on her face.

“Hey, Aaron, Jack really wanted you to see what he’s working on.” She reaches out a hand, wraps it around his wrist and guides him over to Jack’s table. “I figured I’d save you,” she says when they’re out of earshot. “That guy sucks. He’s always saying creepy things to me and Alaina.”

“You should ask him to leave if he makes you uncomfortable,” he says, looking down at her with worry. “I can do it.” She shrugs.

“I would, but his daughter really does enjoy the class, and it’s not fair to her that her dad’s disgusting. It’s nothing we can’t handle.” She squeezes his wrist lightly. “Thanks, though. Hey Jack, show dad your project.” He peers over his shoulder, and it’s a pink and orange skyline, much like the one he saw her painting that first time on the balcony. “I asked the kids to paint my favorite thing today, and that’s sunset.”

“I saw you painting this one night,” he says, and then he feels abruptly like an idiot. She just smiles at him though, nods.

“Yeah, I’m a sucker for a beautiful sunset. It makes you feel like, just because the day ends, it doesn’t have to mean things are over; it’s just one of life’s beautiful natural transitions. And the colors are to die for: peach, coral, jasmine, rose, tiger’s eye.” He finds himself unexpectedly touched by her description, smiles softly to shake himself of the emotions.

“The way you see the world is extraordinary. To me it’s just kind of… orange.” She returns his expression, but softer, and squeezes his wrist again; he didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

“Sounds like you need some art in your heart. I give lessons for adults, too; you could even come over and paint with me on my balcony, some time. Special neighbor privileges.”

The thought of being with her on her balcony while she paints is almost overwhelming, which he finds funny, considering he currently sits no more than twenty feet away. There is an intimacy about it, while they both do their work in the cool, quiet breeze, but standing like this, close enough to touch, with the late day sun on her face while she talks about colors… he’s not sure he could handle it without falling in love.

She pats him on the back, moves on to another child, and he tells Jack what a great job he’s doing; his face is lit up, so happy, and regardless of the neighbor, he’s glad they stumbled upon this hobby.

When they pack up to leave, the jerk from earlier comes up to him, leans in to speak in a hushed voice. “You should have just told me you were fucking her. I would have backed off.” He blinks, but the guy and his daughter are walking out the door before he finds himself able to do more than that. About a week later, he goes over for that lesson almost by accident. Jack is at Jessica’s for the night at his request, and Aaron was planning to order takeout and have a paperwork cramming session, but when goes out onto the balcony, phone in hand to place an order, his neighbor is standing on hers like she’s waiting for him.

“Hey. I saw you don’t have Jack; I made some pasta with vodka sauce, if you’re hungry. I always prepare too much.” He sets his phone on the table, walks over to the railing to get a little closer.

“Uh. Sure. I have fresh basil growing here; trade?” She smiles, nods.

“Yeah, sounds delicious. I’ll be right back.” She ducks inside, returns a few moments later with two dishes of steaming, saucy pasta, sets one down on her table and gets right up against her railing, hands the other over to him across his. “That one’s for you,” she says, handing him an orange plate, and he sets it down, picks a few good looking leaves from his basil plant and tears them up, drops them on top. “And this one’s for me.” She reaches, holds a green plate over the gap between their porches, and he adds some basil to it before she pulls it back, takes a deep sniff. “God, it smells so good and fresh. Thank you, Aaron.”

“Thank you, it looks great.” He goes to sit at his table with it, but she scoots her chair closer to the railing, closer to his balcony, so he does the same. They make easy small talk while they eat, mostly about Jack, a little about her studio and his work.

“FBI, huh? I can definitely see that, with your suits, and your… neutrals.” She cringes when she says it, and it makes him laugh.

“I’m sorry I can’t wear paint covered overalls to the office,” he teases, and she shoots him a playfully affronted look, grins.

“You love my paint covered overalls—and for the record, you’d look great in them. You should find a pair. Preferably not black.” He flushes a little at that, but she doesn’t notice, just finishes up her pasta with a sigh of contentment. “That was so good, thanks again for the basil.”

“You’re welcome; thanks for feeding me something other than the takeout I planned to have.” He stands up, gestures to his apartment. “I’ll wash the plate and then hand it back over.”

“Why don’t you just bring it over and come paint with me for a little while? If you want,” she tacks on, and for the first time she seems a little nervous. “I’m not trying to be pushy, I just think it would be fun.”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to; it would be amazing to watch her paint up close and personal. He’s just also afraid he’ll pass the point of no return if he does it, and he can’t handle any more heartache. He only very recently got to a place where just waking up in the morning no longer causes him agony.

It’s the look on her face, though, soft and sweet and open, that makes his decision for him.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.” She grins.

“I’ll unlock the door.”

She’s dragging out her easel when he walks through the door; her apartment is stark white walls with vibrant furniture, artwork, canvases propped up against every bare spot along the wall, paints and brushes and charcoal and pencils on every surface. It’s exactly what he would have expected, warm and lived-in and comforting, very unlike the mostly black and gray interior of his own apartment. She smiles when she sees him.

“Hey! Can you grab that tray of paint on your way out?” she asks, and he picks up what looks kind of like an ice cube tray filled with many different colors, carries it out to the balcony with him. She has a canvas propped up, a little larger than a computer monitor, and she’s gotten started, but he can’t tell what it’s going to be just yet. When he hands her the paint she looks down at it, peers around the edge of the canvas like she’s comparing something. He’s so intrigued, curious about the way her mind works, what she’s thinking.

“What are you painting?” he asks when she picks up a brush, sets it down, picks up another. She smiles at him.

“Well, we’re painting that.” She points to the street, where there’s a rusty, pale blue antique car parked—he says that loosely, because it looks broken down—in the alley. Aaron chuckles softly.

“We’re going to paint that? It’s a little… grim.”

“Yes. It’s part of a series I just decided to create: ‘Beauty in the Ordinary.’” She sighs, and he’s surprised to see that her eyes are a little wet. She wipes the back of her hand over her eyes. “You know Bob Ross, right? Everyone knows Bob Ross.” He nods.

“Yes; the guy who paints the happy trees on PBS.”

“Right. I used to watch him growing up, and I vividly remember something he said once, about needing both darkness and light in life and in painting. ‘You have to have a little sadness once in a while to know when the good times come. I’m waiting on the good times now.’” She sniffles, exhales softly. “I’m waiting on the good times too. Sometimes looking at things like this car, and forcing myself to find something beautiful in it, is the easiest way to get through the day. Does that make sense?” He swallows hard when she looks up at him, because aside from Jack, she has been the lightest part of his life since the first time they passed each other on the elevator.

“Yeah, it really does.” She shoots him a soft, slightly sadder smile, and then explains about the paints a little, shows him the difference in the brushes, lets him feel the weight of them, the textures of the bristles.

She starts painting the car—the background is mostly finished—and he’s more than happy to watch, to hear her talk about her process. She asks if she can use his forearm to mix paints, and he turns it over, wrist up, tries not to smile too hard when she puts some dark blue on him, then white, mixing them and then comparing them to the car on the street. He looks down at her, the concentration on her face, the softness in her eyes, and is met with the sudden desire to brush a line of paint over her nose and make her laugh and kiss her breathless.

“Okay, your turn,” she says when she’s about halfway done with the car. She puts her hands on the backs of his arms, pulls him in front of the canvas so she’s between him and the railing. “You’ve been watching me, so you know what to do.” He has been watching her, but not necessarily for her technique, so he’s a little nervous; he dips the brush in the blue paint but hesitates to make a stroke. “I have faith in you, Aaron. Here.”

She wraps her fingers around his hand, guides him toward the canvas, and together they make a wide, curved line, rounding out the bumper. It doesn’t look half bad.

“It gets easier once you understand the relationship between specific paint, specific brushes, and your hands,” she says softly, and she helps him paint another line. “Are you having fun? You look stressed,” she teases, and he makes it a point to relax his face.

“I’m having a lot of fun,” he says, looking down at her; they make eye contact for a long moment, and she leans a little closer, and he leans a little closer, and then he accidentally dabs a blob of blue onto the canvas. He pulls back, grimaces, deflates. “I made a mistake. You can’t erase paint, right?” She laughs softly, takes the brush from his hand.

“No, you can’t erase paint, but as Mr. Ross would say, ‘There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.’” She gets her fingers close to the tip of the brush, makes a few quick movements, then grabs another brush, dips it in green. When she pulls back, there is a little blue flower growing out of a patch of grass where his blob used to be. He exhales, a little amazed.

“If only the mistakes we make in life were that easy to fix,” he says, and she nods.

“Yeah, that would be nice, but a lot of the time we find a way to turn them into beautiful things eventually. Are you willing to give it another shot?” He says yes, and she guides his hand for a while, then just hovers near it, then just instructs him on what to do. It’s dark before their painting is finished, and she carries it inside to dry, then takes him to the kitchen sink to scrub the paint off of his arm.

“Thanks for having me over; I had a really good time,” he murmurs as she dries his clean skin. She looks up, smiles softly, nods her head.

“I had a really good time too. I’m glad you came over; you’re welcome to join me any time.”

He says goodbye, heads home, looks at his stack of work with a groan, and brews a pot of coffee. He’s in for a long night, but he wouldn’t change his evening for anything. Life is much the same for the next few weeks: school and work, Jack’s art class at the studio a couple times a week, painting on the balcony on the weekend, with and without Jack. When Jack joins them for the first time, she pulls out a big box of markers and thick sheets of paper and he draws elaborate scenes while they talk and paint together. When Aaron makes mistakes, she’s never upset, just turns them into perfect little details that end up being his favorite parts of the paintings.

“What ever happened with your ‘Beauty in the Ordinary’ series?” he asks one evening while they’re painting some ocean waves. “Did I cause you enough trouble with the car to give up?” She looks down at the ground, looks a little shy, then shakes her head and smiles.

“No, you didn’t make me want to give up. I’ve been working on it at the studio. You’ll see it when it’s all done, I plan to hang them there.”

“Looking forward to it,” he tells her, and then Jack tugs on her shorts, shows them the picture he drew of the ocean, too.

Later that week, the team takes a case, and on the day he’s set to come home, Jessica drops Jack off at the studio with the plan that Aaron will pick him up when his flight lands. Due to some weather between where the team is and home, they get a little delayed; he doesn’t want to make Jessica head back out that way almost immediately after dropping him off, but he’s not sure who else he could ask to pick Jack up. It’s almost a stupid length of time before it dawns on him to call the studio.

“Life in Color, this is Alaina.”

“Alaina, hi, this is Jack’s dad—” He has his whole spiel prepared, but she cuts him off.

“Oh, sure, hang on a sec, she’s right here. It’s Jack’s dad,” she says, but it sounds further away, like she’s trying to cover the receiver. After a moment, his neighbor picks up.

“Aaron, hi. Jack said you were working.”

“Yeah, I was, and I’m supposed to pick him up after class, but our flight was delayed.” He doesn’t know how to ask for help with Jack; even with all the time they’ve been spending together, she still makes him a little nervous. Luckily, he doesn’t have to figure that part out on his own.

“Hey, that’s no problem. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just take him home with me. I’ll order pizza, we’ll draw, and you can just stop by when you’re home and pick him up.” He breathes a sigh of relief, runs a hand over the back of his head.

“That would be perfect. Thank you—I’ll owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Hanging out with your mini me is reward enough; he’s painting something special for you today, won’t let me see it.” That makes him smile, and he feels so warm at the prospect of picking him up from her bright apartment, seeing his artwork, her smile. After a long, draining day like this one, it’s exactly what he needs.

“I’ll have to remain in suspense until tonight, I guess. Can you let him know I said hi? And thank you, I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Of course. We’ll see you then.”

It’s late, after nine, by the time he makes it home. He doesn’t even take his bags inside, just drops them outside his door and knocks softly on hers. She answers with a smile, ushers him in, asks him if he’d like a drink and gets them each a beer.

Jack is in her room, asleep, so they have a little time to chat; she asks about his flight, his case, and he asks about the studio, and she gets a little shy when it comes to that topic, clears her throat.

“Um. I have Jack’s secret project, if you want to see it. He said I could show you.” He’s not sure why that would make her nervous—at least, until he sees it.

The background is all watercolors, a gradient of rainbow colors starting with pink at the top and ending with a soft purple at the bottom. Over that, in black marker, he’s drawn the three of them, with a big heart around them.

“Tonight’s theme was the thing that makes you the happiest, and he said he’s the happiest when the three of us are on the balcony together. It was… really, really sweet.” She looks up at him, brushes a hand over the crown of her head. “If I’m being honest, that’s when I’m the happiest, too.” He takes the picture from her hands, runs his fingers over it, and smiles, feeling a warm ache in his chest—not like before, not like losing someone he’s never really met, but like finding something he never really planned on.

“That’s when I’m the happiest, too,” he agrees, and when he looks up, she looks determined, like she does when trying to find just the right shade of paint. She takes Jack’s picture out of his hand, sets it on the counter, and then pulls him down by the lapels of his suit, kisses him long and slow. His hands move to her waist, keeping her close, and eventually she pauses for breath, looks at him again, and then wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him some more.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time I saw you—tall and dark and serious, striding out of the elevator. So intriguing, mysterious,” she breathes when they separate again. “I wanted to know everything about you.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, huffing a laugh. “I’m boring, but you are so vibrant, so full of life; I felt like you were everything I wasn’t, and I wanted to know you so badly.”

“You know me now; would you like to keep getting to know me?” It’s one of the easiest questions he’s ever been asked; he nods, and she beams, and he lifts her into his arms and carries her to the couch, drapes himself over her while she leans back against the cushions, pulling him closer.

They make out like neither of them have a care in the world—god, how long has it been since he’s made out with someone?—her fingers scraping through his hair, his hands on her bare waist when her shirt rides up, and she’s in the process of pushing his jacket off his shoulders when they hear a sound from the other room that startles them apart. Jack.

“I’ll go check on him,” Aaron says, and when he goes into her room Jack is still snuggled up on her bed sound asleep. It looks like some canvases fell over, though, and he stoops to pick them up, then spots the car they painted together. He turns and she’s right behind him, skids to a stop. “I thought you said these were at the studio?”

“They were,” she says, and she looks nervous again. “But I changed my mind about hanging them there. They felt too personal.” He runs his hand over the car and sees where she’s coming from; this one feels personal to him, too.

“Can I see the rest?” he asks. “Only if you want to show me them.”

“You’re the only one I want to show them to,” she says with a soft smile, and she grabs a few more canvases, carries them into the light of the living room. “Beauty in the ordinary, remember.” He remembers, could never forget.

She turns one over, and it’s a kitchen sink, and in the kitchen sink is an orange plate with a fork resting on it—like the plate she’d given him with the pasta on it. She turns one over and it’s a man’s hand, holding a paintbrush, with pale blue paint on his forearm. The next one is a little herb garden on a balcony; the next one is a view from above, of a sandy haired boy with markers all around him. The last one is an open elevator—ripe with possibilities.

When he looks up at her, she’s got tears in her eyes, and one slips down her cheek.

“So, I think I’ve found my good times.” She smiles through her tears, and he takes her face in his hands and kisses the salt from her lips. “I love you,” she says when he pulls back to wipe her face with his sleeve, and he kisses her softly, again and again, and tells her he loves her, too. The next weekend, Jack is at Jessica’s for a sleepover, and Aaron has been enlisted to help with an art project. He walks next door, knocks lightly, and enters the living room; he is met with a very deep, passionate kiss and a smile, and instructions to help move the furniture out of the way.

“I’m really curious what kind of art requires this much floor space,” he says, shoving her couch back against the wall, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, a move he has been unable to resist since she did it the first time they had sex. She knows it’s a weakness, exploits it, and he loves every minute of it.

“You’ll see, but I promise you’re going to like it.” When they clear the floor, she grabs a large, rolled-up fabric canvas and lays it out in the middle of the room, then drops three bottles of paint—one is yellow (jasmine), one is orange (peach), and one is kind of pink (coral? He’s still not sure.)—onto it. “You can obviously say no if you want, but I wanted something over my bed with the sunset colors, and I found this…” She steps closer to him, runs her hands down his chest, guides him down for a kiss so delicious he loses his train of thought. “It’s sex art; we put the paint on the canvas, and on ourselves, and… you know, go at it. What do you think?”

He thinks he really, really loves art now, even more than he thought possible.

“So we have paint-covered sex and then you just hang it on the wall? Like regular art?”

“Yep, I got the supplies I’ll need to hang it; letting it dry will probably take the longest. I figured we could shower while it’s drying, maybe go for round two, if you’re up for it.” She moves her hand to his waist, slips it inside his shorts, and he pulls her closer to his body. “Are you up for it, Aaron?”

That is an understatement.

Undressing happens extremely fast, because this is really sexy and they’re kind of in a phase where they can’t keep their hands off of each other anyway. She pulls her hair up onto the top of her head to try to minimize the amount of paint in it, and then she pours paint on the canvas, turns around and drizzles some on his back and tells him to lay down.

“I think we should probably change positions often so we get a lot of motion on the canvas; I apologize to your old knees in advance,” she teases, but she soothes the sting of her words by pouring paint on herself and then laying between his legs and licking at his dick. “Do some stuff with your hands; I want to see those big handprints on my wall,” she murmurs, and he groans, puts his palms down in the paint and drags them through it.

She leans up a little, sliding her knees through some yellow paint, sucks him fully, deeply into her mouth for couple of minutes, and then stretches forward and puts an orange hand right in the middle of his chest; the look in her eyes is playful, and he reaches out with one finger, hooks it under her chin, and guides her off and up so they can kiss.

“Your turn,” he says with a smirk, and then he gets her onto her back and ducks between her legs, hopes she doesn’t grab for his hair like she usually does. He rubs his pointed tongue over her clit, waits for the mmm it always elicits, and looks up at her, covers each of her breasts with a paint-covered palm and squeezes. “Leave handprints for me,” he leans up and reminds her, kissing her stomach, and she plants her hands, then presses up and grabs his shoulder, smearing pink down his back. “Oh, you wanted more of that?”

“Don’t tease me, the paint will dry,” she whines, and he spreads her thighs wider with his elbows and licks her pussy quickly, until she’s squirming against the canvas and panting for more. “Come here, come here.”

He’s not ready for that, though, paint or not, wants her to come from this; he takes his hands off of her, dips them in the paint again and presses down, then puts his hands under her ass and brings her closer so he can fuck her with his tongue, quick and deep and slick.

“Aaron, Aaron, god.” She slides her hands down his arms, over his neck, digs her nails in when she comes moaning like music.

While she catches her breath, so gorgeous, she sticks her arms out like she’s making a snow angel, and he catches her while she’s off guard and turns her onto her stomach, puts his hands on the smears of paint he’s already left on her ass, and slides inside.

“Oh my god; I was trying to impress you with this sexy art project, but you’re rocking my world.” She’s breathless, pressing back into his thrusts and painting with her entire body. God, he loves her mind.

“You know I always take your projects very seriously,” he says, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, and she groans, laughs.

“Yes you do. From the side? Let’s lay diagonally.” They shift, and he hooks his chin over her shoulder, kisses her neck and huffs hot against her hair. “Hmm, love it like this,” she sighs, and she reaches back to press her hand to his hip, holding him while he moves inside her. “I love you.”

“Love you. I want you to finish on top of me,” he instructs with a wet kiss to her throat, and she nods against his lips.

“Yeah, next; I’m getting close.” A few more strokes and she gets up onto her knees, lets him lay back, propped up on his arms, and climbs on top of him; she kisses him slow and dirty and then runs her hands over him, sits back on his dick and glides up and down. “You wanna come like this too? I owe you a little world rocking,” she says with a flick of her tongue over his bottom lip, and he nods, squeezes her thigh.

“It’s the least you can do after making me move all the heavy furniture.” She rolls her eyes but kisses his chin, down his throat, and bounces harder on him, all delicious eye contact and moans. “Mmm. Just like that, baby, come for me.”

“Fuck. I will, I will.” She wraps a hand around the back of his neck, kisses him kind of rough and with lots of tongue, and then tips her head back and climaxes, clenches, wrings his orgasm out of him so quickly it’s almost jarring. “Oh, yes Aaron. So good,” she mumbles, and then he lays back, out of breath, and she slides out of his lap and lays beside him, out of breath too.

After a moment, she looks over at him, smiles, and swipes a pink fingertip over his cheek.

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever done with anyone. I’m glad I got to do it with you.” He rolls on top of her, presses a kiss to her nose, and nods.

“Me too. You know,” he adds after a moment, “my bedroom could use some artwork, too.” She grins, wraps her arms around him and squeezes tight.

“You’re right; I think we should do yours in blue: liberty, that’s dark blue; periwinkle, that’s light blue; maybe steel gray, too.”

“You’re the expert. I’m just your paintbrush.” Her hands smooth up his back, and contentment washes over him like a warm breeze.

“Hmm. I like the sound of that. Want to get cleaned up?”

Cleaning up is almost as fun as making the mess, because they’re well and truly covered, and when the canvas dries, the sunset colors are almost as beautiful as the ones she used the first time he ever saw her paint. Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc

[film-diary-of-a-redhead]

thoughts on instagram

i’ve been on tumblr off and on for several years.  same with flickr.  i’ve used both intermittently, casually, and obsessively throughout that time.  neither one really making any major difference in the way i viewed/shared art or photographs.  then came instagram.  instagram became a magical place that seemingly brought everything i needed and everything i didn’t even know i wanted, to one place. 

i don’t get out much. i am an introvert so as much as i enjoy being around people and talking about art, it becomes incredibly mentally and physically exhausting if i do too much. i miss out on things, events, people, gatherings because my body doesn’t have the energy to socialize. i don’t network or just randomly meet people easily.

instagram offered a way to connect with people through images. it was a way to network. it was a way to discover art and artists in a way that i was unable to before. tumblr and flickr allowed for that, but not on an immediate/local level.  i never “connected” with anyone on either of those platforms. instagram made it easier to find people to meet up with in real life. i built community through instagram. and it was all so easy and effortless. not only that, but i got to see types of photography and alternative processes i wouldn’t have seen otherwise.  i like a level of curation, but falling down a rabbit hole of wonderous images is an amazing feeling. yes i love to see photographs by my friends, but how can i expand my view or knowledge of art and photography if i’m not seeing new and different work? how can i truly love art without being exposed to different kinds and considering how it was created or how effective it is in it’s message? again, keep in mind that i can’t always go out into the world and converse with others.  no i do not believe that a tiny image on a screen is the best way to view art or photographs.  but i do believe it’s better than nothing and i firmly believe its incredibly accessible on a larger scale. 

the way i use/utilize instagram is not the same as a working artist. i don’t show my photographs in a gallery. i don’t share in order to sell photographs. i happen to be one of the fortunate few who is able to somewhat afford it as a hobby (though with the constant price increases and scarcity of color film as of late, not sure how much longer i can even say that). i do this because i love it. and a bonus perk of that love was finding others who loved it just as much. through instagram.  

i understand why many working artists feel that instagram is making life more difficult for them. i can understand how instagram feels like a toxic lover you can’t leave. theres a strange hold it has on so many of us. my community is mostly still there and though i’d love to leave completely, i know i can’t. not until there’s a place where all can converge on an image based platform where i can communicate with and discover art/artists in a similar way. i will remain there for as long as it takes or as long as i can.  i’ll also try to utilize tumblr and flickr more. i don’t blame people for leaving or wanting to leave. i know instagram is nothing like what it used to be. i know they aren’t keeping it going for the image makers. 

if i know you on instagram, i hope i don’t lose you. its difficult for me to keep in touch with people i don’t have immediate access to. we’re all human and life happens. 

[roughentumble]

did it ever really mean anything?

geraskier, 7k, pining, angst with a happy ending. crossposted to ao3 here

Geralt goes along with Jaskier to meet some of his Oxenfurt friends, and comes to realize he isn't the only one Jaskier gets touchy-feely with or calls "dear heart".

The realization that those gestures don't mean what he thought they did-- that he seemingly doesn't mean as much to Jaskier as he thought-- leaves him a pained, pining mess.

.

~*~*~*~

.

"Gibby!" Jaskier shouts with delight at the sight of his friend and rushes forward to greet her. His arms envelop her with ease, like it's a practiced motion, like he does this all the time, and she folds into the embrace with enthusiasm. "Oh, it's wonderful to see you again, dear heart." He says, and,

Dear heart.

Dear heart.

The phrase ricochets around in Geralt's mind. Jaskier's used that endearment with him before, and it always sounded so weighty, so... meaningful. Dear heart. Doesn't sound like something you throw around for just anybody, but here it is, laid out casually at the feet of someone who he'd never even mentioned before. Someone who wasn't important enough to be the subject of even a passing tale to regale Geralt with on their many nights around a campfire.

He's struck a bit dumb as they continue to greet each other, hands clasped together in a friendly way, patting cheeks and ruffling hair, and he thinks about,

Jaskier, just after a winter apart, standing at a crossroads together, hand pressing only the faintest pressure into his shoulder, lips brushing his cheek so tenderly, words practically whispered right into his ear,

I missed you, dear heart.

The realization comes slow, but hits hard all the same. It twists in his stomach, burrows slowly between his ribs and clenches down tight on his heart.

He doesn't mean as much to Jaskier as he thought.

He's always held value in touch, in words, he's never handed them out easily or casually. And logically, he was aware that Jaskier was his opposite in this regard. Bright and vibrant and eager to bend someone's ear or pull them in close, loose with his affections, Geralt... Geralt knew all that. But somewhere deep down, he'd thought that these were a bridge too far, even for Jaskier. That these tender moments were something of milestones to him as well. They'd felt too weighty, too momentous to be something casual.

So, of course he'd been wrong. He'd known he was wrong, but he'd still held that hope, until... well. Until Jaskier handing out every tender moment he'd had to fight tooth and nail for with Geralt to someone in the middle of a crowded tavern, like it was nothing more than party favors. Like it was almost perfunctory-- that's what you did.

Is this what it looks like? To watch Jaskier with him? Is this what they look like to outsiders? Geralt's never seen him with a friend before.

This is just what he's like with friends.

Geralt's not special.

And he knew that, really he did, but there's knowing something and there's knowing something, and it's so hard to see someone else pulled into the force of gravity that is Jaskier's undivided affections. Given freely, with no expectations of reciprocation, because that's who he is, and,

and it never once mattered they were given to Geralt.

His consternation must show on his face, because Gibby shifts nervously and asks if he's alright. Is he glaring? Must be, although he didn't mean to. Jaskier waves a hand dismissively. "He's fine, just not a big fan of loud places." It's either a smooth lie, or a genuine assumption, but either way the subject is dropped.

"So, Geralt, this is Gibby, and-- well, there'll be time for proper introductions once everyone's here, of course, but suffice to say we had more than a few classes together, and she was my unofficial partner in crime for some time." He ushers the two of them into their seats as he rambles, and Gibby titters goodnaturedly where it's appropriate, but otherwise seems uncomfortable under Geralt's gaze. Her eyes linger a bit too long on a few too many spots on his face that he knows hold things like scars, or unnatural eyes, or the hint of too-sharp canines, and he feels bad for it, truly. It can't be comfortable being on the receiving end of his glare, but he can't quite get his face to arrange itself any other way, so he turns the weight of his gaze to the side instead to inspect the room with unseeing eyes.

Jaskier either doesn't notice the discomfort or decides the best way to deal with it is to ignore it in hopes that time and exposure will ease things.

It doesn't.

More people filter in, join them at the table, and Geralt's introduced to each in turn, and then the group as a whole, but most of it goes in one ear and out the other. He feels bad about it-- Jaskier wanted him to meet his friends, he wanted to meet Jaskier's friends-- but as soon as he gets his eyes to focus, sounds grow vague and muffled, and when he focuses on making out words he loses his ability to connect shapes with any sort of meaning. He spends most of the night with his nose in his ale-- overpriced and watered down, though it is.

He takes in snapshots, catalogs them away. He doesn't want to, but he can't stop himself, mind catching on every instance like a hang-nail, Jaskier's voice,

Dear,

Darling,

You are a wonder,

hand on a knee,

an elbow,

a shoulder,

tucked around a waist,

nose behind someone's ear, whispering conspiratorially,

eyes crinkling at the corners with delight.

There's a man to Geralt's immediate left that, through the haze of the evening and his newest revelation, he recognizes as a bit of a pompous man. Voice a little bit grating, and a little too interested in his own successes, prompting more than one eye roll from Geralt, but Jaskier takes it all in stride, turns everything around into a joke without making it at anyone's expense, pulls the conversation back on track without leaving him behind.

Because Jaskier is easy with affection, talented at making friends,

even with people who aren't necessarily worth it.

.

~*~*~*~

.

He feels as stupid, as foolish, as every one-night-stand who thought Jaskier might stay in some no-name village for her. Of course he never meant anything. Of course they were just casual friends. Of course it was him, getting too intense and making assumptions.

Jaskier couldn't have meant anything bad by it, of course. Hadn't even intended to string anyone along, probably hadn't even realized he'd done so. He was just so funny and charming and personable and free with affection that it sucked you right in, he made you feel important, because for a minute, when those blue eyes lock on you, you are important.

Just. No more important than anyone else he spots.

No more special than the next shiny, flashy thing to catch his attention.

No cruelty in it, just a shortness of attention span and a certain openness that most other folks've had beaten out of them by the world once they reach his age.

Jaskier isn't evil, isn't trying to be calculating by any means, but Geralt lays in bed and clutches a pillow to his chest and aches anyway. Aches over how he'd let himself forget, aches over how he'd let himself be tricked, aches for the closeness he'd thought he had.

.

~*~*~*~

.

The next morning, Geralt gets up early, dons his armor, gets his bags together. He almost leaves, just like that, but-- well. Jaskier might get anxious if he just up and vanishes overnight, and Jaskier hadn't done anything wrong precisely. Geralt doesn't mean this at a punishment. So he knocks on Jaskier's door, and after far too long, he answers, bleary and smelling faintly of vomit.

Geralt comes up with a lie, says a contract came up suddenly, and Jaskier's face falls. "But-- we were supposed to..." He starts, leaning against the door frame for support, then thinks better of whatever he was going to say and heaves out a sigh. "Well. Alright. I suppose it can't be helped."

"I-- I liked meeting your friends." Geralt says, because Jaskier looks sad, and he doesn't want Jaskier to be sad.

Jaskier perks up at that. "Oh, you did? That's wonderful, and they were so eager to meet you too, they absolutely loved you!" Jaskier says enthusiastically.

Geralt thinks back on the space he'd been given all night. No one had bumped him, even accidentally. Almost none would meet his eye.

"I'm glad," he says.

"I," Jaskier's voice sounds a bit odd, maybe a little over-eager as he reaches out to take Geralt's hand in his own, "I have a performance coming up in about a week. I don't know how long this contract will take you, but... if you can, I'd like to see you there."

He should say he can't make it. He should say it'll be a long contract. There isn't even a contract, it's a lie he's making up so he can skulk away and lick his wounds without anyone around to notice and call him out for being pathetic. Jaskier has friends here, they'll come to his performance, he doesn't need Geralt. Instead, what comes out is "We'll see."

Jaskier lights up even further, grips his hand even tighter. His eyes crinkle at the corner, just like they did the night before. "Well, do try your best to make it, my dear. And be safe, alright?" He leans in, and before Geralt can move, plants a kiss right on his cheek. "For good luck." He explains.

Geralt's cheek tingles from the contact. He wants-- he wants to shuck the swords from his back. He wants to explain the contract wasn't real, he wants to shoulder his way into Jaskier's room and press kisses to his mouth until he's red-lipped and rosy-cheeked, he wants-- he wants--

But he doesn't. Because it isn't like that, because Jaskier isn't his, because he doesn't mean it that way. Because Geralt's another in a long list of pining fools, waylaid by Jaskier's effortless charm. Because they're just acquaintances, and none of it ever meant anything.

Geralt steps back, and nods curtly, and Jaskier mimics the gesture in a way that's both mocking and completely fond, and that's that.

.

~*~*~*~

.

He does, actually, stumble on a contract, so he doesn't make a complete liar of himself. A whole stack of them, in fact. There's a little town less than a day's ride out from Oxenfurt, on the opposite side of the city from where he'd initially entered with Jaskier, and it seems they've got more than a few beasties vying for the land they're sitting on.

Ghouls and rotfiends and drowners, oh my.

It's a straight week of shitty, tedious work. Of running himself ragged taking out minor but insistent infestations. Of maybe staying up later than he should, and waking up earlier as well, because in the back of his stupid mind, all he can think about is how Jaskier had asked him to come. As he decapitates a ghoul, the day of the performance in question, he knows-- knows it's not important that he personally shows up. That Jaskier just wants a friend there, anyone he knows, and-- well. He just happens to know Geralt. It's not important. It doesn't mean anything. He's thinking about how it doesn't mean anything when a different ghoul catches him right in the thigh, an impressive swipe of razor-sharp claws, bright-hot and agonizing. He curses under his breath and returns his mind to more pressing matters.

He should've taken the time to wallow, like he'd intended. He should've taken the time to pine and ache and be a miserable bastard. Instead he lost himself in the flow of his work, because--

because--

because Jaskier asked him to come back.

And it was stupid, anyway, to run away, so he might as well keep right on being stupid by ignoring the issue entirely when he lays in bed at night.

The decision to walk back is split-second, but he's also been operating under the assumption that he was definitely going back, his mind and time itself seemingly on some sort of disconnect. He's back in the moment now, maybe, he thinks, though it feels like his brain's been shut off and his feet have been making their own decisions the past few days.

.

~*~*~*~

.

When he stumbles into the tavern-- the same one he'd met Jaskier's friends in, spent the night in-- he's absolutely drenched in rapidly congealing blood. Mostly ghoul, but some his own. Jaskier's on stage, and Geralt's seen him perform often enough that he has a vague idea of what his setlists normally look like, what the usual flow of a performance by Jaskier feels like. He gets the impression he must be more than halfway through already. A few people turn their heads and gasp when he gets closer, shuffle away from him in horror, but no one screams and he isn't kicked out, so he just stumbles over to the nearest wooden beam and leans against it for support.

Jaskier's voice washes over him as he waits, world gone slightly fuzzy at the edges. He should've stopped somewhere to stitch up his side, but-- well. It certainly won't kill him, and...

he didn't want to get there too late. Didn't want to miss this, have Jaskier think he didn't care. Which is a terrible, mindless decision, because they're really not that close, apparently, but, well... Story of his life. He cares too much-- he can't make himself stop caring too much.

It's over too soon, the music giving way to applause and Jaskier's expressions of gratitude, proclaiming the tavern to be a lovely crowd. Without a tune to follow, Geralt suddenly feels bone-deep tired, and his head droops a bit, but somehow-- probably all the blood, honestly-- Jaskier spots him through the throng of people. He pushes through them politely as he can, lute thrown over his shoulder, and makes a beeline for Geralt.

More people turn and gasp as they move out of the way, following Jaskier's line of sight, but he isn't deterred. "Geralt!" He announces brightly, "You made it!" He pauses then, and adds after a moment, "You're absolutely filthy. Didn't think to wash any of that off, darling?"

Darling. The word leaves him feeling hot and cold at the same time. "Didn't want to miss your show." He mumbles, which is a little too honest, but he has a flesh wound, so he thinks he can be forgiven the momentary lapse in judgement.

Jaskier lights up, of course. "Oh, aren't you sweet?" He asks rhetorically, then glances to the side and notices his audience's attention has continued to follow him. "The great White Wolf, back from another successful contract!" He announces as an explanation to attempt to quell their obvious discomfort, sweeping his hand out as if Geralt were something impressive to display, and not a man bleeding all over the floor. Ah, well, he'll clot soon enough anyway. "If you'd be so kind as to draw a bath for my companion, good sir." He calls out, locking eyes with one of the employees and reaching for the purse on his hip.

The man nods and Geralt huffs. "I can pay," he starts, but Jaskier waves him off.

"Nonsense. I just got paid, my treat."

Geralt rolls his eyes. "I also just got paid. I can afford my own bath."

Jaskier grabs his hand and pulls him away from the support beam, following after the person on his way to fill a tub. "You buy us a pitcher, then, or dessert. I'll get the bath." After a moment he screws up his face and glances down at their joined hands. "It's slimy."

"That'd be the blood."

"Ew." His nose scrunches up further, but he doesn't let go.

.

~*~*~*~

.

By the time the bath is filled, the blood's dried just enough that separating their hands is a bit of a hassle, and while Jaskier makes some (justified) disgusted squawking at the way their palms peel apart, Geralt's busy going on a bit of a downward spiral about the prolonged contact. It makes his heart do something funny in his chest, which he then has to chastise with a quick reminder that the gesture doesn't mean what his heart seems to think it means, which then leads to a lovely (it is not actually lovely) sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Well, hurry up and shuck the armor." Jaskier says, apparently having paid the man while Geralt was busy staring at his own palm. "You're not going to get any cleaner just standing there." He swirls his hand around in the bath, then uses the rim to scrape off the worst of the gunk.

Geralt sets to work unbuckling what needs unbuckling, trying not to think too hard about Jaskier's little pet names and affectionate gestures. Jaskier watches out of the corner of his eye-- not perversely, so much as critically. "You're quiet." He says. Geralt flicks his eyes up, then back down to the buckle on his left side. His fingers slip off it, and he mutters a quiet curse as he attempts to wipe his hands off on his pants, to no avail.

"Aren't I always?" He responds, and manages to get the buckle on his second try with a liberal usage of fingernails.

Jaskier tilts his head, considering. "Not quite like this, no."

Is he acting different? He doesn't feel like he's acting different. He almost looks up-- gets as far as seeing Jaskier's boots before he's looking back down again-- and wonders if maybe it's that he can't seem to make eye contact. His chest piece hits the floor and he works on peeling off his shirt, steadfastly ignoring Jaskier's scrutiny.

"Did something happen on your last contract?" He asks, voice laced with concern.

Other than the chunk missing from my leg because I was too busy brooding? He thinks, but doesn't say. "No," he says instead, bending over to unlace his boots. Jaskier makes a little, appraising sort of hum, but doesn't press further. When Geralt straightens, Jaskier has his back turned, slipping his doublet off his shoulders and hanging it on a nearby hook. He stays like that as he rolls his shirt sleeves up to elbows, and Geralt takes the opportunity to shuck his pants(makes a mental note to patch the thigh, now in tatters) and slip into the waiting tub.

The hot water feels better than he'd like to admit, though he can't help the small hiss that escapes as it envelopes his thigh. Jaskier looks sharply over his shoulder at the sound, eyes narrowing. "You're hurt, aren't you?" He asks, turned to face Geralt now, hands on hips. "Should've known some of that blood was yours... I thought I told you not to do that. What did you waste the luck I gave you on?"

And really, Geralt has something for this, some quip he could come back with, but the memory of Jaskier's kiss-- just a little peck, nothing more, and yet-- makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and all words flee him. He grunts back, and Jaskier heaves an exasperated sigh. "Of course. How silly of me. I've seen the light." He says in a deadpan drawl, dragging over a stool so he can sit beside the tub. "One of these days I'm going to crack through that grumpy exterior and find the soft, gooey center I know you have." His voice is light, teasing, and he picks up a wash cloth and reaches for Geralt as if to help, and it's suddenly too much.

Geralt doesn't know what it all means, except that it must not mean anything, because it seems to easily handed out to everyone, equally. He's not so selfish that he feels entitled to some sort of special treatment, but he doesn't-- he doesn't know what it means. Just that it suddenly feels very hollow, and far too casual, and he can't stand the idea of those hands touching his skin casually. Like it means nothing. Like he's anybody.

His body jerks out of the way to avoid Jaskier's touch of its own accord. "Geralt?" Jaskier asks, sounding almost alarmed, and Geralt heaves out an answering sigh, dragging a hand down his face. His hair falls down around his bowed head like a clumpy, bloody curtain. He doesn't know how to act, now that the dynamic's shifted-- or now that he understands it better, anyway. He's suddenly very tired.

"Geralt, are you sure you're alright?" Back to concerned again, hand reaching for Geralt's shoulder, but he flinches away before they touch.

"I'm fine." He grits out.

"Dear heart,"

"Don't call me that." He bites back, bowing his head further. Because I can't tell, he thinks to himself miserably, I can't differentiate. I can't make myself remember how you mean it. It feels too real.

"But I--" Jaskier starts, only to get cut off once more.

"I said don't." I can't take it. I can't take it.

After a tense, quiet moment, Jaskier finally says "Alright." and he sounds defeated, but a weight lifts itself from Geralt's chest, knowing he won't have those words burrowing their way under his skin any longer.

Guilt starts to creep in as seconds tick past and the room remains silent but for the water gently lapping at the sides of the tub. Jaskier asked him to come, was excited about this performance, but Geralt had never asked what made this one special, and now here he was elbow deep in Geralt's mess and miserable. He feels his stomach twist itself into knots all over again. He hadn't meant--

He chews on the inside of his cheek, hunches in a little further. Reaches out tentatively, but keeps his head bowed and face obscured. "Could--" And even as quietly as he said it, his voice sounds almost painfully loud in the silence. "Could you pass the..." He trails off, but the soap is placed in his upturned palm anyway. He hums a short 'thank you' sort of sound, but he just holds the bar in his hands, examining it. Jaskier doesn't say anything. "You were good tonight." Barely more than a whisper, but it still feels so loud. Is there an echo, or is it just his imagination? "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner." The silence stretches on, and he almost thinks there won't be a response at all.

"Are you just saying that to make me feel better?" His voice is carefully even.

It startles Geralt a bit, and he glances up, brow furrowed. "No, I... I wouldn't..." He looks away again, down at the water. It's too pink, saturated with blood. He'll never be able to get fully clean. "I liked it." He says again, unsure of how to say it in a way that proves he means it. "It's-- your voice is... soothing."

Jaskier huffs a sigh through his nose. "Well, in that case, thank you very much, Geralt." Geralt. Seems too impersonal, after everything, but it's what he'd asked for, isn't it? No right to complain about it now. "I'm glad you made it. Always nice to see a familiar face in the crowd at the end of a long set. Here, let me." He adds as an aside, plucking the bar out of Geralt's hands. Geralt ducks away once more, and Jaskier gets quieter, pleading gently. "Please? If... if you truly want me to leave I will, but... please let me help."

Geralt doesn't say anything for the longest time, and eventually Jaskier reaches out, presses a hand to his shoulder. He flinches again, but he doesn't pull away this time. It rubs up against him wrong, but Jaskier huffs a sigh of relief, and he wants-- he wants it to be like how it was. How he thought things were.

He doesn't want Jaskier to be upset.

He allows the washcloth sliding across his back, and tries to pretend it doesn't just leave him cold.

.

~*~*~*~

.

"I never asked... what made this performance so special?"

"Hmm?" Jaskier's nails scratch over Geralt's scalp pleasantly, and he shrugs. "Oh, nothing in particular. I just wanted you here."

Something warm and sweet curls up low in Geralt's stomach. He tries to remind himself that it doesn't mean anything.

.

~*~*~*~

.

"Before we set out again," Jaskier says the next morning, once Geralt is clean and rested and the world seems more solid under his feet, "I have one more friend I'd like to see, and if you're willing, it would mean a lot to me if you'd come with me and meet her. We've been friends for the longest time, you see, and she's very dear to me, and honestly the group you met the other night were mostly drinking buddies, but she's an actual friend. A companion, you know? So..." There's a sinking feeling in Geralt's stomach as Jaskier continues to ramble, but Jaskier looks so hopeful, hands clutched around his lute strap like that, eyes glittering... Geralt steels his resolve and agrees.

.

~*~*~*~

.

He berates himself on the short walk to her house. Honestly, if he can't handle meeting one friend-- one-- just because they're closer to Jaskier than he is, he's even more pathetic than he thought.

He can handle this. It won't be fun, but he can handle it.

.

~*~*~*~

.

They're gorgeous together. Her hair is blonde where his is russet, eyes a deep, honey brown where his are bright and blue, but otherwise they look alike in that way that only disgustingly gorgeous couples do. She matches his wit, and they share a passion, and once Jaskier gets over his seeming allergy to commitment, Geralt could envision him back here. With her. Making music together, a perfect little matching set. It works too well for it to go any other way. And even if they don't figure it out, well... they're very close. Best of friends.

He calls her dear heart and misery claws its way up Geralt's throat.

Geralt waits until Jaskier is in the middle of a story he's already heard to very quietly excuse himself for some fresh air. He steps out the front door and leans against the exterior wall of Priscilla's rented home.

How selfish, he thinks, standing alone outside the house of a woman he barely knows, waiting on a friend who's barely a friend, how fucking selfish.

What right does he have to jealousy?

What right do I have? He thinks, almost wildly, an edge of hysteria to his thoughts, what right do I have,

we're not even that close.

.

~*~*~*~

.

Apparently he takes too long, because eventually the front door creaks and Jaskier joins him outside, looking confused. "Is everything alright? What are you doing out here?"

"Fine." Geralt keeps his eyes closed and his head tilted back, pressed against the bricks. "Just needed some air."

"Air?" He parrots back incredulously, brow furrowed.

Geralt presses his head back against the bricks more firmly, so they dig into the back of his skull, little dull pinpricks of pain. "Priscilla's nice." He says, to avoid the topic of why he's outside, and because it's true.

Jaskier lights up at that, steps a bit closer. "Isn't she just?"

"You make sense, the two of you." Something aches in his chest to say it.

"We do, don't we? Been two peas in a pod, ever since we first bumped into each other at a bardic competition. Oh, and she was so excited to meet you, as well, what with all the stories and the songs n' such."

Geralt can't help but snort at that. "Mhmm, sure she was over the moon."

Jaskier's brow furrows again. "Well, what do you mean by that?"

He sighs. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"No, clearly something's wrong, I want to know what."

Certainly Priscilla had been made of stronger stuff than Jaskier's other bard friends, hadn't so much as flinched, but the rest... "Most people aren't you. They don't really feel much desire to fraternize with witchers."

"Oh, that again." He says dismissively, rolling his eyes. "Well, these aren't most people, they're my friends, whom I've regaled with many a tale of both your bravery and your kindness."

"Lots of people you talk to still don't like witchers by the end."

"Are you doubting my abilities as a storyteller, or just as a judge of character?" he asks hotly, arms crossed over his chest. "I know them, they wouldn't--"

"I'm not a complete fool, I know when people are frightened of me." He bites out, harsher than he meant to.

There's a beat of silence as he stares sullenly at his feet. "Oh, darling..." Jaskier says, tone pivoting to something sad and earnest as his hand reaches out.

"I asked you not to call me that." He says, same harsh tone, because the endearment twists between his ribs, and Jaskier's hand falters, his shoulders slump a bit further.

"I thought-- I mean, you'd only mentioned... I thought you just didn't like dear heart, but I can... I can stop using others too, if you'd like." He sounds soft and confused and a little bit hurt, and Geralt groans, scrubs a hand down his face.

"Fine, it's-- fine. I am a fool, actually. Just... call me what you like."

"No, if it upsets you, I won't say it anymore, just tell me which ones to avoid and I will."

"It doesn't matter, Jaskier, it's fine. I'm being stupid. I know that's just what you call people, so..."

Jaskier's entire face scrunches up this time, instead of just his brow. "What do you mean by that?"

He lifts a shoulder, fingers coming together to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight. "I mean what it sounds like. You don't mean anything by it. It doesn't matter. Say whatever you're going to say."

"No, you're-- you're phrasing it oddly. What do you mean by that?" He reaches out to grasp at Geralt's wrist, tugging his hand away from his face to try and meet his eye, but Geralt just glances past him instead, eyeing the door.

"We should go back inside. Rude to keep someone waiting."

"You've never cared a day in your life what is or isn't rude."

"I care when the person's nice."

"You've never minded being rude to me, though." He sounds indignant.

"I care when the person's nice." He repeats, trying to pull the conversation back into something approaching companionable ribbing.

Jaskier gasps theatrically, puts a hand to his chest in mock-offense, but blocks the way when Geralt tries to shoulder past. "She's not that nice, and you're not getting out of this conversation. You've been acting oddly for a while, and now the sudden offense over endearments-- what's wrong? I'd like a straight answer, please."

Endearments. As if there's anything endearing about him. He leans back against the wall with a groan, tipping his head back so it thunks gently against the brick.

"It's not..." He tries to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat. He becomes, suddenly, crushingly aware of how embarrassing his current predicament is. "It's... pathetic." He mutters, glancing to the side so he doesn't have to look at Jaskier.

"You don't have to worry, you know I won't judge, not if it's really important." Jaskier's hand comes to rest on Geralt's bicep, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. "Are you... worried about making friends, perhaps? Because we can get back together with them, give you another chance. Just because you got nervous--"

"It's not that." He replies, exasperated. "It's just... I... I get too attached. I forget who I am... what I am," he says with no small amount of bitterness, "I forget my place."

"Geralt, you don't have a place!" Jaskier visibly cringes at his own words. "Ah, I meant-- of course you have a place, you know, a place amongst friends n' such, I just meant... you're not lesser or anything like that."

"Right..." Geralt lets out a long sigh, scrubs a hand down his face once more. "It's just... rough being reminded that you're more important to me than I am to you." He clicks his tongue, mouth twisting into a frown. "Fuck, that sounds manipulative now I say it out loud. I don't mean it that way, it's-- fine, really. It's my fault anyway."

Jaskier inhales sharply and pulls back almost as if struck, mouth agape. "Wh-- Geralt, what are you talking about? You're very important to me!"

Geralt nods along, but he keeps his eyes trained on the ground. "Yeah, like your drinking buddies are important, and the barkeep you know by name is important, and... and everyone is important to you. I know. It's just... it's different for me. But really, it's my fault, I'll... I'll get the moping out of my system eventually, alright?"

"Geralt, I genuinely have no clue what you're talking about, you're incredibly dear to me."

He can't help the snort that escapes at that, but every endearment just stabs him somewhere deep now, brings with it echos of every other time he's said it, like the words meant nothing. Probably because they didn't. "Yeah, dear. Dear heart. I get it." He all but mumbles.

He can see Jaskier's hackles start to raise, out of the corner of his eye, and he turns his head a bit more to escape having to look-- having to see-- "What's wrong with--"

"Nothing." He says before Jaskier can get started. "Nothing wrong with it at all. I just... I built it up to be something it wasn't, in my head, and-- and I know I'm the one in the wrong for it, for making something out of nothing, for getting a scrap of kindness and assuming it had some deeper hidden meaning, when clearly you're just... a nice person. I'm not being accusatory-- not trying to be, anyway."

"Geralt," he says, and he sounds devastated, but that can't... that can't be right, because... because-- he reaches out and grabs Geralt by the shoulders, tries to meet his eyes, but he keeps his head turned away, "where is this even coming from? I-- wait, is this because I called my friends dear heart as well? At the tavern?" He sounds incredulous, and something about the tone makes heat rise in Geralt's cheeks. He scowls and tries to push the feeling down.

"I just thought... I was a fool. I thought you only... I thought... that maybe that kind of closeness was... different for you too, but I'm-- I'm just realizing it wasn't, and I know it's foolish, but it just kind of... it hurts, alright? So just stop trying to say that it's equal, because I know it's more to me, I know I'm... being more."

Jaskier huffs and grips him tighter, tries once more, unsuccessfully, to catch his eye. "If you'd just listen to me, and stop cutting me off, you'd hear what I'm trying to say, which is--"

"Stop--"

He just gets louder, grips tighter, "Which is that you've got it all wrong, you do matter to me. I consider you one of my dearest friends--"

"Just stop, stop trying to--"

"And I'm sorry I made you feel like you didn't. I never meant--"

The words come tumbling out so fast he doesn't have the time to think about what he's saying, or what he really means by it, he's too desperate to get Jaskier to stop. His mind casts back, reuses the metaphor it did when he was alone in his room that first night, and he says, "Yeah, Jaskier, I know, I know you never meant it, you never mean to, I'm just like every other two-bit fool you've left behind in every single shitty town who thought she was special just because you smiled at her, alright? And I'm just realizing that, even though I should've known it didn't mean anything special, because you're nice to everyone. But I didn't, and I let myself think it mattered, like a fool, let myself think I was more important than I was, so just-- hurry up and get your shit together and go kiss Priscilla," Jaskier echoes her name, sounding somewhere between mystified and scandalized, but Geralt barrels forwards, "and leave me behind like every other broken heart you've left strewn across the continent."

"Geralt," miserable, he sounds miserable,

The words stick in his throat, but he forces them out anyway. "And I'm not, I'm not mad at you for being you, or for saying it, or thinking we were some sort of friends, you're-- you're wonderful. That's the problem, see, you're wonderful, I'm mad at myself for reading into it, thinking it meant something more where clearly it--"

Suddenly, hands, strong and sure, are tangled in his hair, grabbing at him, forcing his head forward to finally face Jaskier, and he's tugged down into a kiss. It's little more than the firm press of Jaskier's mouth to his, but it brings his mind and his speech to a screeching halt anyway.

All too soon Jaskier is pulling away, as Geralt sits there, stock-still and dumbfounded. "Of course it means something," he says, quietly into the air between them but no less emphatically for it, "of course it does. It's always meant something when I say it to you." His hands slide forward, come around to cup at Geralt's jaw. "Who else do I travel with, like I travel with you? Who is it I wait for all winter? The pet names, the endearments, all those sweet words-- of course they mean something when I say them to you, darling."

He lets out a sound distressingly close to a whine, but Jaskier is right there, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him in close for another kiss. Geralt's hands come up this time, clutching at Jaskier's back, feeling the warmth of him through the doublet, and he tugs him in close, so they're pressed chest to chest. He kisses Jaskier until he's dizzy with it, his mind reeling, then pulls away just so he can tuck his face into Jaskier's neck and breathe deep, grounding himself.

Jaskier's runs a hand through his hair, petting him gently and pressing him that much closer. "My dear, foolish witcher..." he mumbles fondly.

"I thought--" Jaskier shushes him, murmurs a soft 'I know' against his temple, then tucks his own face into Geralt's neck. Geralt marvels at the feel of him in his hands, at the fact he knows what Jaskier feels like against his mouth, at the fact that this is something he can have, and he can't resist the urge to press a kiss into Jaskier's skin.

He giggles a bit and shies away, as if tickled, and Geralt tucks in closer, presses another kiss to the same spot, this one open-mouthed and sucking. Jaskier lets out an appreciative hum and tilts his head away to open up more space, fingers tracing nonsense patterns across Geralt's shoulders. "Fuck, that's nice... love you so much, darling."

A wounded noise works its way out of his throat, and his chest feels fit to bursting. "I love you too," he says, kissing a desperate line up Jaskier's neck, "I love you, gods, I love you," he repeats between kisses, over and over, until their lips connect again, as if he could somehow press the love into Jaskier's skin, sink the bone-deep truth of it into him in a way it could never leave or be misunderstood.

He walks Jaskier back and presses him up against the wall, intent on kissing him senseless, when he hears someone behind him clear their throat. Both of their heads snap to the side to find Priscilla lounging against the door frame, eyebrow raised and lips upturned. "Do you boys plan on coming back inside, or are we cutting this lunch date short?"

Geralt feels bad about eating into so much of her afternoon with his own problems, and is instantly chastened by her words, but Jaskier seems to hold none of the same reservations, eyes crinkling at the corner happily. "Oh, we'd love to. Good timing, by the way."

"I waited until the sounds of arguing stopped, but apparently I didn't wait long enough." She looks faintly amused.

"He was the one who pushed the issue..." Geralt mutters, face heating up once more.

"Mm, sounds about right. He's a little hellion when he wants to be."

"A compliment, I'm sure." He says brightly, and she rolls her eyes fondly and disappears back into the house, front door left ajar for them to follow after.

Jaskier turns back to Geralt, smiling from ear to ear, and takes his hand in his own. "We can talk more about this, and what it means for us, later." He presses a kiss to Geralt's cheek. "I do love you, dearest." He says quietly, then starts towards the door, tugging Geralt along after him. "For now, let's go finish visiting our friend, hmm? We can head back to our room after that."

Dearest. Our friend. Our room. Geralt's throat gets tight, and he nods weakly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that. As long as you're with me."

"Of course I'm with you." Jaskier's smile gets a bit softer, just that much fonder, and Geralt falls into step beside him.

[wheelie-butch]

how did you get involved with your wheelchair rugby group? there are a few in my area but i am not quite sure if i'm supposed to just like, email them? ask if they're doing anything soon and if so can i show up? i'm a most-of-the-time wheelchair user for over a year now and i'd like to get connected to things like that but i guess i don't know what to expect (and i've not been diagnosed with whatever my issue is yet so i'm using a hospital-style chair still, not exactly sporty but i've modified it as much as possible to make it work better). i am really missing being active & would love to be in touch with my local disabled community

ooh that's so exciting you're close to a few! I'm incredibly lucky my club is literally 10 mins down the road but some of my teammates travel hours.

I joined my club back in about September, I just messaged their facebook page asking how to get involved and they told me to just come along to their Saturday training to try it out. Now I'm more experienced I go to their Tuesday night training as well. I think most clubs have a casual and a more intense training. I'm sure email would work just as well, just let them know that you're looking to join a club and interested in a taster session!

At my club you get a couple of sessions free before you need to get a memberships and insurance so I was able to try it out but I knew from the start it was going to work well :) We get new people coming along every few weeks I'd say, usually they're just paired up with me because I'm still mostly doing fairly basic beginner stuff. At my club everyone's very friendly and respectful and welcoming to beginners, I hope the clubs by you will be the same :)

Don't worry about your chair, you won't be using a day chair, the club should have specialist rugby chairs you can use. They're reinforced and designed for the contact, it wouldn't be safe to use a day chair. And honestly, if you've been using a hospital chair please go and try it out so you can see how fun these chairs are, they're huge and go so fast compared to a hospital chair it's amazing! Whenever I get to training at the end of the week and get in my chair I just start doing laps around the hall because I'm excited to be back in it, it feels like putting on running legs after being stuck going slow all week :)

The main thing I can think of to expect is that it's really damn hard work at first. I'd had my chair for about 3 months when I started and I thought that had improved my strength but that was nothing compared to playing. It's a lot of muscles you don't use in your daily life, even using a day chair, and the chairs are heavy and it's a high intensity game. Especially if you haven't been as active as you used to be, it might feel a bit discouraging at first to get tired out and sore so quickly. I still get upset with myself when I struggle at sessions. But it really builds up your strength and fitness fast, and it's so much fun I really think it's worth the hard work! I just really wasn't prepared for how tough I found it at first, especially when the professionals look so effortless with it.

It's also a mentally intensive game, you have to think tactically all the time and pay attention for the whole duration because things change so fast. I found that type of concentration really tough at first. It's honeslty only the past few months I've started feeling like I know what I'm doing during games. Again, I don't mean to be discouraging or anything I more mean like it might seem like a lot at first but you definitely get through that initial confusion and have even more fun than the start!

in conclusion yeah it's a super fun sport, it'll really help your fitness & day to day life using a wheelchair too tbh, and honestly finding a good community of disabled people is just as important as the sport imo :) I really hope you give it a go and I'd love to hear how you find it! Please dm or send more asks if there's anything more specific I can help you with!

[samingtonwilson]

Sweet Creature

Summary: sam is in love with the girl at the front desk of the VA, but he has the ability to help-- so he will. (named after the harry styles song but not ENTIRELY based off it. takes place pre-TWS, through AOU, until right before CW) 

Pairing: sam wilson x reader

Warnings: language. NSFW, sexual content, 18+. very slightly angsty.

A/N: i don’t usually write smut and here i am, writing 2 sex scenes in one one-shot. anyway sam wilson is an angel who has been through a lot and is still full of love.

gif below isn’t mine.

She’s hired in autumn and it’s like color bursts with every step she takes. 

Dull grayscale fades into red and yellow leaves, orange and pink sunsets. The burning sun finally cools, grains of desert sand stuck to his every memory slowly trickle away with the chilly breeze. Jack-o-lantern grins hurt his cheeks less, words exchanged over lukewarm coffee now spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg come easier. 

He hears the whistling of birds at dawn without the thought of malfunctioning wings, sleeps in a bed of softness without an ironic longing for dirt and rock mattresses under attacking stars. 

He falls in love in autumn. And smiles.

A smile that’s gap-toothed and silly by winter. A smile that brings warmth and sweetness to bitterly frozen December mornings. One which he offers her as he slides a cardboard cup across her desk, a white napkin tucked underneath it. 

She sees him listen in winter. Sees him as he lets others bleed on him while he bandages himself in silence. 

She hears him give heavy advice with a lightness that makes the others chuckle, like glittering rays of sunlight tearing through the blanket of clouds which is spread by mid-afternoon nowadays. 

He demystifies plastic bags that resemble harbingers of death, dispels blame and shamefully missed opportunities in favor of forgiveness and acceptance. He offers ribbon to tie a broken heart together, balm to ease the tightness of guilt. 

And it’s all done real easy. Pain isn’t discounted. It’s merely no longer thought of as the sublime mountain range of Romanticism. It’s real and surmountable, it has a slow-acting— but acting, nonetheless— antidote. There is liberty to be attained. Enlightenment.

There’s hope. A word which had lost its meaning until it’s said with those hot cocoa eyes and that woolen smile. A word that hurts less each time it’s used. 

She watches him radiate heat in the form of realistic optimism in winter. And falls in love. 

They’re setting up chairs one morning in spring. Half-past eight, the smell of percolating coffee and a greasy pink box of donuts in cool air. Sam’s phone is connected to the AUX cord, it plays something bluesy. A little sleepy sounding, but infinitely smooth. 

It reminds her of his voice as he greets her each weekday morning, his smile a saxophone solo and laughter a symphony. 

“I’ve been thinking.” 

Setting a chair beside the one Sam has just unfolded, she smiles. “That’s never a good sign.”

Deep brown eyes narrow in playful annoyance. “Cute.” 

“I’m aware.”

“I want to take you out.” 

She stills, rubber caps fastened to the end of the chair legs like boots are suspended just above the floor. Her eyes meet Sam’s as he stands a few feet away. He wears an effortless, confident smile and she stifles one back. Albeit miserably. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about? Asking me on a date?” 

“Among other things.” 

Something about the way he says it, that soft glimmer in his eyes and slyness in his smile, makes heat rise to her cheeks. She doesn’t look away, though. Simply narrows her eyes and sets the chair down. “Yeah? Like what?” 

He leans in her direction to take a folded chair from the rack behind her. She can smell his cologne, feel the warmth which rolls off him in waves, and something in her seems to catch on fire. Softly, he replies, “Say yes and we’ll talk about it on the date.” 

“Bribes don’t work on me,” she says, nose wrinkled as it almost bumps against his. She smooths his collar with nimble fingertips, gently brushing the cotton of his button-up. 

He watches as she looks up at him through her eyelashes and he nearly loses his balance— clumsy at the sight even as he stands still. 

“Give me until the end of the day to think about it?”

“Take as long as you want,” he breathes before he can help it, practically putty. 

Her nod comes with a smile. Something gentle and sweet. Steps slow and casual as she walks to the door. 

“Sam,” she calls, fingers wrapped around the wooden doorframe. Everything about her posture speaks to a reluctance to leave, a reluctance to follow that stupid advice from her old college roommate to mask eagerness. She grins when he looks up from the coffee he’s pouring. “I want you to take me out, too.” 

He grins as well. The coffee pot is set back down and he slips his hand into his pocket. Casual. 

Right? 

He hopes so. “You free tomorrow night?” 

“Tomorrow night?” she repeats with a laugh. Colorful against the beige walls, scuffed tile floors. “A little eager?” 

A shrug. Casual. 

But the look he gives her? Far from. “Maybe.” 

She looks away with a frown of consideration. Sends a smile to one of the regulars of Sam's sessions as he slides past her to enter the room with a short wave in greeting, sun-creased fingers and anemia-paled nails a brief flourish. “How about tonight then?” 

The gushing red of the first date seems to bleed into the second. 

The days between pass with sly looks, smiles hidden behind coffee cups and wrapped around smoothie straws. It’s as if his eyes have remained in hers since that night over a dinner she can’t remember the taste of. That same glimmer, that same miserably hidden desire and elation she knows are in her eyes, too. 

He touches her more in those days when the sun lingers a bit longer and the petals of flowering dogwood blossoms stick to the bottom of her shoes. Deep amber toned skin meets hers when a thumb sweeps over her knuckles, when a hand is placed at the small of her back, when fingers tangled together are hidden between them as they walk to the Hall C vending machine together— whispers about no other vending machine having the ginger ale she likes. 

There’s longing in those touches and whispers. In the looks exchanged across the lobby of the VA. In his posture as he stands in her doorway, a single long stem white rose in his hand. And especially in his gaze as he scans the length of her, done up all pretty for a movie he doubts he’ll be able to pay attention to. 

It’s just as well, though, as they don’t make it to the movie.

She invites him in, mumbling something about needing to fasten an earring, and forgets about it as soon as he takes a step to invade the space she’s kept open for him all along. 

A gentle breath when she thinks her eyelashes might caress his skin before she can and her laugh is a little nervous when she plucks the rose from his gentle grip. “I should put this in water.” 

He nods, but neither of them move. It’s only a second that his eyes slip a glance to her lips. But in that second he’s conveyed the shakiness in both their chests and the rose is forgotten at her feet as his lips claim hers. 

Warm fingers curve around the nape of her neck, holding her steady as he pours every bit of longing and withheld desperation into the kiss. She grasps the softness of his thin sweater in her fists and pulls him closer, smiling against his lips when a groan is ripped from his chest. 

A blind kick— one which has Sam worried that he’ll put a hole through her wall— shuts the door and a graceful spin has her back pushed into the splintering wood she’d painted turquoise a week after moving in. 

The brass knob digs into her side but it’s entirely ignored. All she can perceive is every solid, stone-like inch of his body— hot like fire beneath burgundy cotton— pressed against her, his soft but urgent lips moving with hers. 

It’s another minute, hour, decade perhaps of firecracker heat before he breaks the kiss. He smiles at the weight keeping her eyes closed, forehead lazily set against hers. He visually traces the slight swelling of her lips, the smudged gloss he’s sure is smeared over his own mouth in a thin, shiny layer on her cupid’s bow and the skin below her bottom lip. 

She sweeps her tongue over it, as if it’ll help bring her back to Earth. Her eyelashes flutter up toward her brows. Irises a mere ring around pupils blown wide, she gazes at deep brown eyes just barely honeyed by overhead bulbs. 

He watches his thumb glide over her cheek, feather-light over her lips. Commits the image and feel to memory. 

There’s amazement in his eyes. Perhaps at the confirmation that she is just as soft as he’d imagined. Perhaps at the feeling of finally. And, through harsh breath, his voice is hoarse as he says, “The movie’s in twenty minutes.” 

Before she can reply, he presses a kiss to her left temple, her left cheek then her right. Another kiss at the corner of lips now pitched upward and smooth lips glide over her jaw, then just below. She cranes her neck for him. “I have movies here.” 

His smile is felt rather than seen and it inspires one of her own. A strong arm winds around her waist, tight and answer enough. But, once he’s kissed his way to her lips again, he voices one anyway, “Even better.” 

She closes whatever centimeters of distance separate their lips and sighs when his hands slide behind her thighs, lifting her so that she can hook her legs around his waist. Her arms wrap around his neck and, somehow, she feels as if they aren’t close enough. Not with the layers of fabric separating them, not as he stands only feet from her door. 

His step backwards is hesitant, slow. 

“Down the hall,” she tells him, lips brushing his, “first door to the left.” 

His eyes open, but struggle to remain so when she presses kisses everywhere he had. Barely a foot past the hall entryway, she nips the skin beneath the hard line of his jaw a bit harshly. A soft hiss through his teeth and her tongue soothes the sting. It has his steps faltering until he presses her against the wall to join their lips in a deep but quick kiss. 

Her bedroom door is ajar and requires only the gentle push of her fingers to allow them through. The setting sunlight streaming through her drapes paints patches of her white comforter a deep gold, shining over her mirror and closet door. 

Everything about the space is warm and inviting. From the rumpled grey faux fur throw blanket and the floral rug placed before her bed, to the melted candles in glass jars and sloppily made porcelain vases he thinks she must have thrown and glazed herself. 

He lowers her onto the bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows haphazardly thrown near the headboard, and firmly kisses her lips— but only for a moment. “Baby, are you—” coffee brown eyes pop open to meet hers. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—” 

“I know we don’t have to.” Her nose wrinkles before she smiles up at him, sun outlining her features. “It might be a little soon, but I’ve wanted this for a while.” 

He grins in return. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So have I.” 

She narrows her eyes. A jesting glare, a contradictory smile. “And you waited this long to tell me? Disgraceful, Wilson.” 

“I’ll make it up to you.” The pitch of his voice is lowered, he ducks his head so his lips skim the skin behind her ear. He hears the hitch in her breath when his teeth scrape a particularly sensitive spot and shifts his weight so his hips rock into hers. “Over, and over, and over.”

The grind is faint. Barely there. But her mind reels, her nerves spark. Voice a mess of sighs, she asks, “How do you plan on doing that?”

“Guess you’ll have to be patient and see,” he says, but only once he’s nudged his nose against hers. Spared a long look into her eyes. Watched as her tender bottom lip is bitten.

His hands— such, such good hands, all warm and strong and safe— are everywhere. One grips the tip of her chin to mould their lips together, one skims bare skin just below the hem of her shirt. Fingers soft and the press of them gentle, blunt nails run up her side to follow the curve of her waist, tracing the band of her bra and just barely along the underside of a lace cup. 

He tips her chin upward to trail his lips to her throat. She gasps at the feel of a bite, the lap of a tongue just as his fingers pop the button on her jeans, and the muscles in her abdomen contract as he moves lower. 

His hands now push the knit fabric further and further up— slowly, inch by inch— until, in impatience, she lifts her shoulders and strips it away. Chin set just above her waistband, Sam grins at her. His low laughter is more felt than heard. “A little eager?” 

He’s met with a glower as she reaches back to unclasp her bra and toss it aside— and it only makes him laugh harder. However her frustration is merely a thin veil. A veil which has gone sheer the moment she struggles against a smile. 

Though there hasn’t been a loss of the heat in either of their eyes, their movements are now decidedly unhurried. The drag of his knuckles as he pulls black denim and lace the color of marigolds over her ass and down her legs once he’s tucked his shoulder under her thighs. The slow lift of his gaze as he seems to study every inch of her. The path of his lips and tongue from her belly button to her breasts to her lips. And the languid kiss that follows. 

Her leg hooks over his hip and, though she breaks the kiss, she speaks against his lips, “You’re a little overdressed.” 

Feeling him smile, she pushes against him and manages to roll him onto his back so her knees dig into the mattress. A playfully smug waggle of her eyebrows and she giggles— and, oh, he thinks his heart might burst at that. At the sight of her disheveled and a little scuffed from his ministrations. At the sight of her so bare and vulnerable, but so trusting and strong and happy.

He stares up at her, not hiding any bit of wonder or love, as she imitates the way he’d pushed the fabric of her shirt up her torso until he pulls it off the rest of the way. When she leans over him to kiss him once more, his hands cup her face to hold her there, barely registering in his mind how she unbuckles his belt and undoes his jeans. 

Thoroughly kissed silly, she presses swollen lips to his jaw, his neck, shimmying lower until she’s knelt between his legs. A lift of his hips helps her remove the bothersome fabric and she gives him a slow study of her own. That deep shade of his skin— interrupted only by a few lifted scars littered over his chest— seems to glow and reflect the golden shade of sunlight. Early evening sunlight which brightens already sparkling eyes, an already shining smile. 

Just as she makes to lean down a bit, intending to teach him the feel of his hard length down her throat, he sits up, fingers comb through her hair to guide her lips back to his. 

His arm then wraps around her waist and he pulls her into his lap, those soft, deliberate fingers slipping between her legs. The kiss gains further urgency when she moans into his mouth. When she rolls her hips to grind against his fingers. When he slips in a finger, then two, as his thumb moves against her clit and she arches into him. 

A slight lift of her hips only to bring them back down, Sam’s lips are at her neck now. A stroke of his thumb, a curl to his fingers as they’re thrust deep inside her. Her whimper is broken, a little choked as her walls tighten around his fingers. “Fuck. God, Sam.” 

He looks up at her. Stares at the shadow her eyelashes cast over her cheekbones, the plumpness of her parted lips, that wrinkle of tension between her brows. His hand moves faster, impatient as if he can feel the tight coiling in her stomach, the heat slowly creeping through her limbs. 

A whine escapes his throat as she practically shivers at a particularly slow, purposeful stroke of his thumb. “There we go, baby. Come on, I’ve got you.”

She says something. Something she herself doesn’t grasp. Stutters it, stammers it, slurs it.

Arm resting on his shoulders, her nails dig into his back harshly as the coil snaps. All at once. Walls fluttering, pulsing around thick fingers. Heat impossibly higher in trembling legs and tense arms. 

But it’s not enough. 

Not until, a slight burn and quiver in her thighs, she rises to her knees and grasps him at the base. She swallows over the thickness in her throat as she twists her wrist in a slow stroke of her own. Over his answering shudder, she says, “Condom.” 

A steadying breath. “I’ve got one in my wallet.”

He looks over her shoulder to the floor where the dark denim has been carelessly tossed and nearly whimpers.

Then she giggles. Presses herself closer and tilts a little to the left to reach into a drawer in the bedside table. She tears the package and seems to go purposefully slow as she rolls the latex down the length of him, smiling as her hand, loosely gripping him, sweeps back up and he softly groans. “Did you come here with expectations, Sam?” 

“Just precautionary.” 

Another laugh and a skeptical, “Uh-huh.”

So stiff she feels empathetic pain, she sinks down on him with little resistance. A bit of a lift, then down further. 

She, resisting the downward pull of her eyelids, watches him. As his eyes close, lips part, chest falls. All as he sighs. A loud rumble of relief from deep in his chest. 

He hits a point so far inside of her, it very nearly hurts. So thick, she feels she might have been split in two had he not taken the edge off so expertly. 

And he finds himself having to regulate his breaths. Not to choke at the silky feel of her stretched around him. Not to embarrass himself so quickly because it’s been so long. Since he’s had sex, yes— but especially since he’s felt anything near what she inspires in him, from wonderment to adoration, from blissful to so much love. 

“You doin’ okay?” through light laughter, she asks. Her voice is not much more than an exhale and there’s a soft squeeze around him. Not nearly at the strength of his fingers on her hips, though, bruising and stilling as she experimentally rolls her hips. 

She can’t help her smile at the hissed grunt he lets loose, at his own reacting laughter— dry, a little embarrassed. “Gotta give me a second, baby.” 

It’s only a few seconds— seconds she spends familiarizing herself with the heavy weight of him inside of her— before those same hands beckon movement. First by adjusting her legs so she crosses her ankles behind his back, then by pulling her impossibly closer.  

She pulls off of him inch by inch, sighs a moan at the slow drag of him, and whimpers at the snap of his hips, his voice gruff as he grinds out, “Fuck. You feel so fucking good.”

He punctuates the statement with a hard thrust, drawing a gasped whimper from her, and effectively takes control as his hands guide her hips forward and back. One hand, however, slides across her skin to her neck, his fingers curving around her nape and tangling through knotted hair to pull her into a messy kiss. 

She pants against his lips, kiss broken when his hips— definitely showing off— take on a somewhat circular motion as he thrusts. Her head tips back as he relearns the taste of her throat. 

His teeth scrape that spot he’d learned about just a few minutes— although it feels like a lifetime— ago just as his fingers slide between her legs, carefully passing over that bundle of nerves before pressing down fully with rapid movements. 

It’s as if that firecracker heat now sparkles up her spine, back arching into him as her vision seems to white out. Her walls tighten, her moans broken. 

“God, fuck.” His voice is harsh. Deeper than usual as he watches himself disappear inside her, each thrust more difficult than the last with the way she clamps down harder. 

He tries to stall the warmth that spreads through him, tries to hold himself back, but as his eyes trace every bit of her before focusing on the way pleasure twists her features, he thinks he might snap. Voice now verging on revelatory, he breathes, “So fuckin’ good, so perfect.” 

“Sam— Sam, I’m—” 

He doesn’t voice how thankful he is. Doesn’t praise the heavens aloud because fuck knows he wasn’t going to last much longer at all. 

He thrusts deep, hard. Sweet words mere babble against her lips, hips and fingers working quicker until—

His name is a mantra. The mingling of kaleidoscopic visions beneath shut eyelids and alight sandalwood incense nerves a kind of meditation. 

“Goddamn.” He slows but doesn’t stop working his hips against hers. The sounds from his throat blending with hers as he feels the quick squeeze and release around him, pulsing waves overtaking him entirely. “Fuck, fuck.” 

One last thrust. As far as he can go. And he spills white hot into the condom, words a mixture of curses and praises, declarations and damnations. She’d forgotten her own name in the throws of it all until he says it. Repeats it. A confirmation of reality to them both.

Silence apart from jagged breaths. Sunlight depleting, but she finds his skin still glows, eyes are still bright as he stares right back at her. 

It starts as a silent chuckle through her nose, one that is more felt as she shakes than heard. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip in an attempt to hold it in— this odd, messy laughter of happiness, and surprise, and so much love. It bubbles out of her anyway, especially as he grins in return. 

She doesn’t care about the goofiness of her laughter. The hiccupy punctuations liberally littered throughout. Doesn’t care about the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, along the bridge of her nose. The smudged makeup it sharpens. She leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his lips, smiling when he follows her after she pulls away. 

“So are we gonna talk about that condom you brought?” 

A groan born of a snicker, he buries his face in the crook of her neck. His hands follow the curve of her waist, the indents of her discarded bra against her back and shoulders. Touches meant to memorize, rather than rouse. His thumbs sweep across her ribcage. “Told you. They’re just precautionary.” 

She gasps. Entirely too dramatic. “‘They’?” Her nails dig into his shoulder a little mean when he refuses to loosen the strong arm around her waist. 

He immediately lifts his head to glare at her and she glares back, far more convincing than he could ever be. “‘They.’ ‘They’!” 

She pokes her fingertip into his side. Once, then twice when his hold on her only tightens. “Did you have a big night planned, Sam? Huh?” 

Twice more and he sighs, pushes off the bed to roll the two of them over, smiles at the surprised squeak falling from her lips. He slips out of her as he holds himself above her. “You never know what might happen.”

“At the movies?” she asks. He’s sure he would’ve been able to hear the grin in her voice even if he hadn’t seen it stretching swollen lips. Another jab to his ribs and he hisses. “Just in case we fucked at the movies?”

In one hand, he grasps both of her wrists and pins them against the mattress. “Try it now.” 

Though his grip is loose enough for her to simply twist out of, she glowers up at him. But the glimmer in her eye, the way her toes trace up his calf stirs something still burning inside him. Tone deadpan, she murmurs, “Oh, no. What a terrible position you’ve got me in. What will I do now?” 

Though night falls quickly, draining the room of light but not desire, she sees her bedroom walls turn pink, her comforter now the hue of strawberry bubblegum. 

It seems to blossom more and more each night they spend tangled together beneath her sheets. On the kitchen counter after an early morning trip to the farmer’s market. In her car when the film is just too boring and she kisses him just too fucking much to stay in that fucking theater any longer. Against the wall beside his front door after he’d vanished with that new super-friend of his to chase down a ghost story on a busy highway. 

A pink balloon which pops before summer. Wilted scraps cast a shadow over cotton candy skies, browning once-green grass now gone unwatered. The sun burns tense skin and she fans herself with an informational brochure from the plastic pockets mounted to the wall. 

A summer like the frosty can of lemon-lime soda she drops after having just purchased it from the Hall A vending machine. Barely contained, set to combust at the first purposeful touch. Bent. Entirely wrong. 

She watches as new counselors take over Sam’s sessions. Watches as regulars fall away. Watches as CNN pundits berate a different Steve Rogers than the Please, just call me Steve who drops by monthly with a fresh donation check signed by Tony Stark— a Steve allegedly semi-responsible for the destruction of Sokovia. Watches as the story shifts to one of hope in the glowing hands— and on the wings— of new recruits. 

He stands outside her door that August evening. Shadows under his eyes, a scar below his hairline. “I can explain,” is his greeting. 

The green of a freshly mowed lawn stains her white canvas sneakers. Humidity leaves a sheen of perspiration over the high points of her cheeks. One of the Mickey Mouse band-aids the VA jokingly stocks in the break room first aid kit pasted over her knee. He stores the sight away, something nice to hold onto. “Can’t you always?”

He follows her inside, she knows she shouldn’t allow it. 

He stands too close, she knows she shouldn’t allow that either. “It’s been two weeks. You’ve called maybe twice. You won’t tell me where you’ve been.”

And she believes him when he says, “I can’t tell you where I’ve been. I told you, some things are classified.” 

“Jake Tapper on CNN says you’re moving to New York,” her voice is as small as she feels under the warm, safe hands he holds her face— and every bit of her heart— in. 

There’s little anger in the eyes she watches him with, almost none in fractured words. And he’s fully aware he’s undeserving of that. Of her neverending kindness, that small smile hidden under the long-suffering frown she’d offered upon seeing him in the hall, the home she provides. 

But not the warm apartment with the gauzy drapes and mismatched dining chairs— it’s the heart she somehow hasn’t taken back. Neither through the Steve needs me to find someone explanation which is meager at best, nor the I’ll be back as soon as I can goodbye each time he gets even the faintest lead on the assassin who owes him a new steering wheel. 

He isn’t sure why she’s stuck around. Or why she’s allowed him to walk in and out this way. He sighs and gives her the most detailed explanation yet, “Things are a mess upstate. Steve, Natasha, Stark… They’re scrambling. Trying to get everyone who can help together to avoid another Sokovia.” 

“You could’ve asked my opinion.” She wishes she could sound more stern to even herself. But her voice is a plea and overhead lights do for her filled eyes what the sun does for the ocean. Blinding glitter. “I wouldn’t have said no.” 

“I wanted to tell you in person. Talk to you about it face to face.” 

Though he’s made his decision. Made it the second Steve asked. And she knows it.

Because this is the same Sam with ribbons, balm, and hope. The same Sam who knows there is no liberty to hold when it isn’t made available to everyone. The same Sam who does what’s right no matter the personal cost— and what’s right is helping, simply because he can. 

She forgets that, beyond the barren walls and slowly emptying shelves of his home, summer still scalds bare shoulders and lemonade made from concentrate is still being sold by five-year olds from plastic lawn tables. Too busy boxing up his life. Too tired from nights— and early mornings— marked by urgency and premature goodbyes. 

It isn’t like the first time. Tears punctuate laughter. He holds onto her tighter and thrusts into her harder. Leaves marks as if reminders of himself he knows will physically fade but hopes remain emotionally. Each kiss an attempt to imprint the shape of his lips on the brightness of the soul she’s already embroidered his every touch onto with sharp needles and gilded thread. 

On the eve of his departure, he’s a sinner in confessional. Tells her everything as he rolls them over, a delicate entangling of their fingers while the movement of his hips is anything but. “I love you,” is said against her lips, repeated when he hears her breath stall. But this time as he looks into her eyes. “I love you. I have for so long.” 

He finds himself unable to stop. Strung out on each moan and gasped breath of hers and how long it might be until he can hear it again. How long it might be until he can feel her tighten around him again. “You’re so good. My sweet, beautiful girl. I love you so much.” 

She can’t speak. Not around the knot which has tightened itself at the base of her throat. The knot which only lets his name through, only lets please’s and profanity wrapped in the voice of an angel through. 

She loses count of how many times he says it. Only remembers the different inflections each time. From revelatory and amazed, urging and pleading, to firm, as if it’s indisputable fact. And that, coupled with the way he angles himself to drag against her clit with every bit of push and pull, causes her to fall over the edge twice— nerves overshot and almost painfully sensitive. 

He wants a third. Needs to give her a third. Something to remember him by. So his fingers shoot down between them, thumb hooked between her legs. Even as she grasps his wrist. Her eyes shut, her back arched and head thrown back. 

“You have one more in you,” his voice is rough. Slurred syllables, dragging consonants. His free hand grabs her chin, an attempt to physically bring her gaze back to his. But her eyelids remain closed. “Look at me.”

Eyelashes with remnants of the day’s mascara flutter up toward her brows. Hazy. Yet through it all— through the sparks shooting up her spine as she comes for the third time and through the tears which seem to have found a home above her lashline throughout the past week— she sees him. She’s always seen him. She always wants to see him. 

So as he paints her pulsing walls in warm white ribbons and tells her he loves her for the nth time, she breathes, “I love you, too. Also have for a long time.” 

A beat of silence. Shallow breath held. And he smiles. Silly and warm, like winter in summer. “And you waited this long to tell me? Disgraceful, baby.” 

She rolls her eyes— well-meaning and fond. A giggle that makes him lose his mind. Thumbs brush feather-light over his cheekbones. “Come back to me in one piece and I’ll make it up to you. Over, and over, and over.” 

He makes her a promise that night. 

One he echoes the next morning and every subsequent night they manage to catch each other on the phone. The promise which becomes a goodbye whenever, after a day or two of personal leave as far as SHIELD and the Avengers are concerned, he’s set to take her heart back to New York with him.

“I’ll always come back to you.” 

---

[marshmallow-phd]

Catching Rain

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Minseok x Reader

Summary: You were more than satisfied with your life. You attended a nice college, had nice friends, a nice boyfriend. That’s what your life was: nice. You weren’t looking for anything more, so what were you to do when this seemingly harmless boy walked into your life and turned your nice little world into one much more dangerous?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I Epilogue

**

The theatre was loud, opposite of its normally hushed nature. People were yelling back and forth, saws and drills screeching as they tore through wood. In the background, sewing machines could be heard, along with the occasional curse as the needle got stuck in the fabric. One person, however, was quiet, focused. The paintbrush in his hand was small. The hairs tightly pressed together in order to create the perfect details on the backdrop. Erik was hunched over, sitting cross-legged on the stage floor as he squinted at the distant forest he was perfecting. Setting your bag down in the second row, you headed up the stage stairs.

“Hey,” you said softly in order not to scare him. 

Blinking, he turned around. His glasses were on the very tip of his nose, having slipped from the slight bit of sweat that had conjured on his face from the glaring stage lights. With a green speckled finger, he pushed the frame back up to its proper position. “Hey! I thought you had a project?”

You shrugged. “I did, but… I kind of hit a wall and needed to give my brain a rest. I’m sorry, I guess I should have gotten lunch with you anyway.”

“That’s alright. If you want, I still have half of my sandwich left.”

Smiling, you ruffled his hair. “Thanks, I’m not really hungry.” Minseok’s dismissive response had ruined the idea of food for you. Later you knew you would be starving, but right now food sounded like a great way to churn your stomach and see what it had been brewing all morning. “I’m just going to go hang out in the seats, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “No one will bother you or question it. Not that anyone would notice in the first place.”

“It’s pretty crazy around here, isn’t it?”

“You missed the big explosion when Dorothy couldn’t find the armchair for the second act. Turns out, someone just leaned a piece of wood for the set against it and hid it from view. Still took us half an hour to find it.”

You snorted. “Wow. I’m actually kind of sad I missed that.” You kissed his cheek, careful to avoid a smear that you were sure he had no clue about. That stupid guilt knocked once again.

The seat was only slightly comfortable, the cushion long ago worn down from a thousand performances. You stewed there in the second row. Though it wasn’t appropriate during shows, you didn’t think anyone would care if you set your feet on the seat in front of you. Folding nearly in half, you hid your face from those who might look your way as you cranked the handle to get the gears in your head to turn. 

Confusion seemed like too weak a word to describe what was going on in your head. You were angry, frustrated, sad, relieved. There had to be some language in the world that tied those emotions all together. You just didn’t know it. Perhaps that one word could be the pill you needed to no longer feel this way. If you could shove all of that into a single box, you would be fine. But is it ever that simple? When you closed your eyes and tried not to think of anything in particular, Minseok’s face faded into view. You’d shake your head to drive the image away. It came back anyway.

You felt powerless against this unseen pull, this innate desire to see him again, even after what had just happened in the courtyard. Your mind made excuses, told you that if you simply asked him to explain then he would. Looking up at Erik, you sighed. 

There was no comparison because they were two different people. Erik was the sensitive artist, the kind who went to coffee shops on Friday nights to hear a mediocre guitar player sing his “poetry” because he believed everyone deserved an audience. Minseok, on the other hand, was a strange combination of math lab nerd and soccer team captain. He was goofy and dorky, easily amused by corny jokes, but also had the physique of someone who ran five miles in the A.M. for the fun of it. What you couldn’t figure out was what drew you to him in the first place. In any normal, not-already-dating-someone situation, you wouldn’t have been interested in his type. Yet, it was almost… effortless, being around him. Even after all these years, you sometimes had to force yourself into conversation with Erik. Comfortable silences didn’t exactly exist in your relationship, but you always chalked that up to your own personality. Now you wondered if those moments would be better with Minseok. 

Was this a normal thing? You heard stories of college sweethearts all the time and for the last few years, you thought you and Erik would join that club. You hadn’t thought about marriage, per se, but you hadn’t seen an end either. The idea of coming to a fork in the road had never occurred to you. While logic and third party advice you’d casually picked up over your life told you to stick to the left, you were being drawn to the right. One road you could easily see where it led, signs, clear pastures, and everything. The other way wasn’t as clear, disappearing into thick woods that were both inviting and foreboding. You didn’t know if there was another side for the road to come out to. The only way you would ever find out would be to follow it. 

You were able to sit there in that second row seat for a few hours, surprisingly, with your phone and the internet as your companion. Only occasionally would you contemplate that fork again. Left, right, left, right. Easy, hard, easy, hard. In the end, you decided you needed to see Minseok again to really decide. 

The stage manager called it quits late in the afternoon. Erik washed up his brushes and came to meet you. “Hungry yet?” You nodded, more for something else to do before you were alone again. “Good. I’m starving.” Taking your bag like the gentleman that he was, he waited for you to stand up and then walked you out of the theatre.

Dinner ended up being a small burger joint that Erik had been craving all day. You gave no complaints as you started salivating at the thought of their fries. Surely they had to have some sort of secret, addictive ingredient to make fried potato sticks so incredibly delicious. The two of you ended up splitting a large basket of the side. It stayed equally in the middle of the table so no one could say that the other was hogging. Yes. Safe. Easy. Seeable. 

Erik offered a follow up to dinner, but you feigned exhaustion (though there might not have been any faking truthfully, as your mind was tired from constantly running throughout the day). He walked you all the way to the door of your room. As usual, he told you goodnight and leaned in for a kiss. But unlike your normal anticipation, you flinched back to avoid his lips. He stared at you in confusion. Clearing your throat, you made it up to him by kissing his cheek before running for cover in your dorm. From the light of the hallway, you could see that Erik stood on the other side for a few seconds, hesitating to understand what had just happened, before finally walking away. 

Teeth clenched down on your bottom lip, you pulled your phone out of your back pocket. Thankfully, Willa was still out so you were alone. The glare of your phone burned in the darkness. You squinted as you moved your thumb across the screen, unlocking it before opening the contacts. The number you wanted was easy enough to find. The pad of your thumb hovered over the little green phone. It accepted the slightest touch and switched over to calling mode. You placed the speaker to your ear. 

Rrriiinggg. Rrriiinnngggg. 

“Hello?”

You sucked in air. He’d answered. You didn’t have a plan for this. You didn’t have any sort of plan after pressing call. You’d hoped that he was one of those people who didn’t have a voicemail set up. 

“Hello? (y/n)?”

You hung up. 

**

Minseok watched you stalk off in the exact direction he wished you hadn’t. Anywhere else; he would have been fine with you going anywhere besides the theatre where your boyfriend was. His wolf growled and clawed with jealousy. Why was he so stupid? Since when was keeping his mate a secret more important than being with you? Of course he wanted to eat lunch with you, to see how you got along with his brothers. But the idea of Baekhyun figuring it out had caused him to panic. As obnoxious as Baekhyun could be, he wasn’t stupid. At some point during the meal, Minseok would have done something a little overprotective and Baekhyun would have started to connect the dots. Unfortunately, he’d already picked up on something. 

“Oooo, breaking the rules, are we?” The brat even had the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows at the eldest wolf. 

Not holding back, Minseok swung, hitting a good target on the upper arm. 

“Ow!”

“First, it's not a rule,” Minseok grumbled. “Junmyeon simply suggested that we don’t date. Besides, you’re one to talk. How’s Daisy?”

Baekhyun was hardly phased. He sported a cheeky grin. “She’s great.”

Bored, Sehun asked, “Can we just go eat now? Who cares who Minseok was flirting with?”

“I wasn’t flirting with her!” Minseok shouted. He explained in a lower voice, “She’s having trouble in her math class so I’m doing Sungkyu a favor and helping her out so she can pass. That’s it.”

“So why didn’t you want her to eat with us, then?” Jongin asked innocently. 

Minseok flinched. Jongin was more observant than anyone would give him credit for. Not that Minseok was subtle in any sense of the word. “I didn’t say that I didn’t want her to eat with us. Knowing you all, you would have let something slip about what we are.”

“Minseok, we all caught that she was willing to join us,” Chanyeol said. 

Huffing, Minseok grumbled, “Are we going to go eat or should I just go by myself?”

Shrugging off the odd behavior, Baekhyun turned and headed for the parking lot. Minseok was quick to follow, feeling smaller than normal surrounded by his pack members. In his head, he pictured himself running back towards the theatre, bursting through the doors, and - in true dramatic fashion - declaring you his. 

That would be a complete disaster. He should only do that if he wanted you to never talk to him ever again. 

Minseok hardly paid attention as Chanyeol drove them to his favorite pizza place. He was in a trance as the others took control of what to order. Physically, he sat in the booth next to Sehun with Baekhyun on the other side. His shoulder was pressed into the chipped wooden guard rail that ran along the wall but he hardly noticed the uncomfortable poke in his skin. His mind was still back at the campus. He was driving himself crazy trying to figure out how he was going to make this up to you, how he was going to explain his bizarre switch up to you. He hardly ate, which was fine since the others were more than happy to devour the three large pizzas with varying toppings. The others weren’t bothered by his quietness since it was nothing new. Minseok was always more of an observer than a participant. In a time like this, it worked to his advantage.

There was no consulting Minseok when the lunch was through. They all simply piled back into the car and headed out of town towards the woods. Vague mentions of going for a run were tossed around. Minseok didn’t voice any sort of agreement. He wasn’t in the mood. Ha. A wolf not in the mood to run wild among the trees? He really was turned upside down because of you. While the younger ones headed straight for the trees, Minseok headed up the porch and through the front living room until he came to the kitchen. Oh, thank god. There were still beers in the fridge. He grabbed one and immediately opened it, still chugging as he walked over to the breakfast booth. 

“Did you have fun?”

Junmyeon slid into the booth across from him. Minseok put the can down. “Yeah. At first. We had fun with the project. It was when the others showed up that things…  went bad.”

“What do you mean?” Junmyeon asked with a frown. 

“I… panicked. The others invited her to join us and I….” Minseok shrugged. 

“Worried that the others would figure it out?” Junmyeon guessed. The response was a nod. 

“Figure what out?” 

Shit.

Baekhyun stood in the entryway, looking back and forth between the eldest and the alpha. Minseok gulped. He thought that all four of them had gone out on a run and he hadn’t heard anyone else in the house. Stepping further into the kitchen, Baekhyun asked again, “Figure what out?”

Minseok looked to Junmyeon for help. None was to be found. 

“You should probably tell them.”

“I’m not going to tell just Baekhyun so he can go running and tell the others and exaggerate.”

“I can always call a family meeting.”

“I don’t want to make that big of a deal out of it.”

“Too late on that. Besides, that’s the best way to get everyone here. Get it out of the way.”

“Or to get none of them here.”

“I’m still standing here,” Baekhyun scoffed.

Minseok looked at him. “I know.”

Junmyeon sighed. “Baekhyun, will you go get the others? Tell them it's important?”

He nodded. “Sure. Be back in a flash.” He left, already shedding the hoodie over his head. 

Slumping down in the booth, Minseok felt defeated. Junmyeon sensed this immediately. “It really won’t be that bad. And they need to be prepared.”

“Prepared?” 

“Yes. Once a pack member finds the first mate, the others will slowly start to find their own. It won’t be immediate. It could take years, really. But it’s like a domino effect. They should be aware that it's their turn next.”

It made sense. The pack was always connected, both in mind and in instinct. But it had been just them for so long, the idea of bringing in mates to the fold was odd. Minseok wasn’t sure how the others would react. Fists clenched on the table, he leaned his head down. It took almost half an hour before the rest of the pack came back. Yixing had arrived first, coming back from a lab he was making up from earlier in the week. The rest came into the kitchen ten minutes later. They were knocking into each other as they yanked on shirts and pants. 

“Okay, Junmyeon, what’s the emergency?” Jongdae asked, very prepared to be his usual sarcastic, troll self. 

But Junmyeon didn’t reply, letting Minseok take the reins instead. Minseok didn't want to do this. He wanted to run, to keep his secret a little while longer while he figured this whole thing out. But Junmyeon was right. It was time.

“(y/n) - the girl that some of you met today… she’s my mate.”

It was pure silence in the kitchen. It was unnatural in this household. The only time it was ever this quiet was when the house was empty. 

“I’m sorry,” Jongdae said. “You said… mate? Right?” Minseok nodded. He growled.  “Fantastic.”

“You really found your mate, Minseok?” Yixing was more enthusiastic about the news. He looked elated, even. A small smile was creeping up. 

Despite the stunned silence, Minseok found Yixing’s energy infectious. “Yeah. I did.”

“Have you told her yet?” Chanyeol asked. 

“She has a boyfriend,” Jongin reminded him. 

“Oh. Right.”

“I’m working on it,” Minseok said. “I just-” His phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, his eyes widened at the name popping up on the screen. With sixteen eyes on him, he answered, frantic. “Hello?” A gasp on the other end. “Hello? (y/n)?” You didn’t answer. Two seconds ticked by and you ended the call. He stared at his now black screen in shock. Then his brain started again. “I got to go.”

“Was it her?” Junmyeon asked. 

“Wait, I have more questions!” Baekhyun whined. Minseok was out of the kitchen in a heartbeat, jumping into his car and flying down the road. He didn’t know if you were hurt or in trouble. Why had you called him? Why didn’t you say anything? He was determined to find out. There was only one problem. 

He didn’t know your dorm number. 

You’d briefly mentioned the shared campus housing with your best friend, but that was all the information he had. Looks like he would have to find it the old fashion way. 

Asking. 

As soon as he parked, he headed towards the dorms, thankful at least that the two large housing buildings were close in proximity. He headed for the smaller cafeteria located in the lobby of the first building. The kitchen was closed but there were still students taking advantage of the open seating. Okay. Here it goes. 

The first few groups that Minseok asked had never heard of you. He was starting to berate himself on what a stupid idea this was. He should have called you back and asked you to call him when you were ready because it most certainly would have gone to voicemail. But his luck soon turned around. He approached a group of three girls sitting in a corner. One of them had a camera. 

“Excuse me?” They looked up. Minseok cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but I’m trying to find (y/n) (l/n)’s room. Do you happen to know her?”

One girl narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

Minseok swallowed. “I… I have her notebook. She’d left it behind earlier at study group. She really needs it for class on Monday but I can’t get a hold of her.” Please believe his stupid lie. 

The girl who’d spoken made eye contact with her two friends. “She’s in room twenty-three-nineteen. If she doesn’t answer, just slide the notebook under the door.”

He could almost jump from elated joy. “Thank you!” 

Taking off, he headed for the stairs. Your dorm room was only on the second floor so it didn’t take long to follow the signs until he was right outside your door. Only now did the possibility that your roommate would be the one to answer cross his mind. What lie would he have to come up with then? He had to take the chance. 

After knocking, he waited, shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to release the nervous energy surging through his body. The door swung open. 

It was you. Thank goodness. 

You were not the same level of relieved. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Crap. He probably should have thought of that. “You called me.”

You looked back over your shoulder before stepping out into the hallway, letting the door shut behind you. “So? That doesn’t mean you can just show up here!”

“I need to talk to you.” 

You licked your lips. No, please don’t do that. It’s too tempting already to grab your face and kiss you against the door. Without speaking, you went back into your room. Well, that was a bust. But before he could walk away with slumped shoulders, you came back, this time with shoes on and your bag. “Let’s go.”

He gave no protest as you led him out of the dorm and into the dark. He had no idea where the two of you were headed, but he planned on embracing whatever came his way. The two of you were going to talk. His heart was thumping hard against his sternum. He was getting more alone time with you. Who knew what would end up flying out of his mouth in these next few hours. Would this be the night of truths and revelations?

[xfandomwritingsx]

Hold Your Breath – Chapter Five: Helping Hands - Draco Malfoy

-gif source unknown-

Description: After decisions put you on opposite side of the war, returning to Hogwarts to finish your education proves to be challenging. Maybe closure isn’t the only thing you need from Draco.

Approx. Word Count:

A/N: Well…hello. Yes I’m still alive and working on this story. I had a hell of a time writing this chapter for no reason at all. Hopefully now that I’ve bitten the bullet and gotten it out of the way, I can get everything flowing more smoothly again.

Story Masterpost

December 1998

You arrive to Potions just a little before everyone else. The air around Hogwarts is brisk and chilled, just how you’ve grown accustom to enjoying, so you’d woken earlier than usual to take a walk around the grounds before your first class.

You take a seat at a middle table on the far side of the room. You’ve started to avoid the back rows as it feels too much like hiding but you don’t like being front and center in lessons, so you’ve found a comfort in middle and off to the side. Unpacking your bag, you take a look at the lesson board that Slughorn is still currently prepping.

The room slowly fills with more students, a slight bustle of movement and conversation coming with it. You keep your focus on the board, already pulling out a quill to jot down notes and pulling out your lesson book to flip to the correct page.

When the chair next to you is pulled from the table, you assume without looking up that someone is taking it to make a seat at another table. It’s not until there’s a body in the chair and the person is shuffling through their bag that you realize someone actually chose to sit beside you. Your confusion at this only rises when you turn your head to see the person is Draco. He doesn’t look at you or acknowledge you in any way, but you still feel a little pull in your chest as you watch him.

Then you cast your eyes around the classroom. There are still plenty of open seats which clearly means he’s purposefully chosen to sit next to you. Your heart beats a little faster and you find that pull in your chest to be a slight fear. Is anyone watching you? Do they notice him sitting here? Do they think you’re friends again?

You give a small shake to your head and face front again. What does it matter if anyone thinks you’re friends? Besides, you’re clearly not friends when there’s no greetings exchanged, right? You’re not friends.

Draco remains silent and unbothered by you when the lesson begins. Slughorn’s lecture at least takes your focus off of him and the rest of the students as you concentrate. It doesn’t take long for you to immerse yourself in the lesson and nearly forget about Draco’s presence entirely.

You’re jotting down notes, shifting your glance between your parchment and the blackboard. It’s nearly twenty minutes into the lecture when you notice words appearing on the margins of your page that you haven’t written.

Notice he said three sprigs and the book says two? Trust the book.

You recognize the handwriting immediately and you can’t help the way your head snaps to look at Draco who is still ignoring you entirely. He’s stoic enough that you second guess yourself. Maybe you’re imagining things? Curious and apprehensive, you look back to your notes. The extra bit of advice is still there, permanently inked into the parchment. You run your finger over it briefly and you’re sure it’s his.

It’s been over a year, but you still recognize it easily. Written notes had always been how you two had chosen to communicate when you were friends. You used to have books filled with notes exchanged between the two of you. Everything from jokes to flirtations to helpful tips for classes. You’re lost in thoughts and memories when more words start to fill in beneath the pads of your fingers.

Focus. He writes. No wonder you’re dreadful with potions. You’re not sure if it’s meant playfully or as a sharp jab. You used to be able to literally read his tone, but now you’re unsure and out of sync with him. It gives you a sinking feeling somewhere in your belly.

This time when you look at him from the corner of your eye, he looks back at you. He gives you a pointed look, baffled by your eyes on him. With a sharp, but subtle tilt of his head and raise of his brow, he indicates to you to face forward and listen to Slughorn’s droning. You straighten your back, clear your throat quietly, and refocus on the lesson.

Draco continues to help you throughout the lesson. He does it mostly silently through notes and small gestures, rarely actually speaking to you. The lack of spoken words makes it feel secretive, though you don’t truly believe you are meant to be hiding your interactions. It also makes it feel more personal. Understanding his directions and critiques without the use of words only serves to remind you how connected you still are with him.

He does things as small as raise an eyebrow or tap his finger onto the table and you understand exactly what he’s telling you. As he gives a stir to his cauldron, you wonder if anyone else can read him like you do. It’s not like he doesn’t have friends. You have to assume someone has picked up on his habits and behaviors.

You don’t like the way your stomach curls at the thought.

The feeling tightens and turns to a pleasurable heat as his knee knocks seemingly casually into yours beneath the table. It’s not subtle or soft and judging by the way he ignores the contact, you assume it’s an accident. But then you notice his knee barely moves away. It drifts just enough to no longer be touching you, but you can feel the edges of your pants brush against each other and it’s enough to leave you wondering if he did anything by accident.

The lesson ends just as quickly as it started, your mind having constantly run off on its own. With a swish of his wand, both his and your cauldrons are emptied as everyone around you starts to gather their things. You look once more to Draco and find him still avoiding your eyes, instead shuffling around his bag. You stand to leave, ready to go back to your room and study and try to forget about anything Draco Malfoy related.

Before you can even sweep your bag onto your shoulder, there’s a pale hand sliding a star chart across the table towards you. Surprised, you raise an eyebrow at Draco. He taps his fingers on the chart.

“I need this back by tomorrow,” he says. “Will you have enough time?” It’s not the most polite way to ask you to review his work and you have to bite your tongue to refrain from snapping back at him with a smart remark. He releases the chart and waits for your reply.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Draco,” is all you give him before rolling the chart up and putting it gently in your bag. You turn away to leave before he can say anything more, but you could swear there’s a slight upwards tilt in his lips.

~~~

The common room is dark and empty by the time you finish your work and pull Draco’s star chart from your bag. You had completed your assignments slower than usual, finding yourself purposefully waiting for everyone to disperse before you took it out. You choose not to examine the reasons that may be for. Maybe some other time. But not now.

His chart is almost accurate, an improvement from the last time you saw him draw one. Every time he used to bring one to you, it was always wrong. Stars were in the completely wrong quadrants. Sometimes he even had stars from the wrong hemisphere depicted. You wonder if without your aid in the subject, he’s actually started researching and learning. Either that or he found someone else to copy off of. Either is possible, you suppose.

As you mark some corrections with a colored quill, you admire his work. Draco may have been dreadful with accuracy, but his charts were always so elegant and that, you notice, hasn’t changed. His lines are graceful and effortless, varying in thickness from pressure on his quill as he no doubt flicked his wrist without thought or care. Your fingers trace the dried ink and a smile tilts at your mouth.

His natural artistry is not something too many people know about Draco. What he would call the equivalent of children’s stick figures, you’d call works of art. He used to doodle little images on his work, on your notes, even on your hand once or twice and you were always mesmerized by them.  

Your fingers drift down from the dark quill strokes to a small blank corner of the parchment. The little white space of nothing gives you a little pang of nostalgia. You used to conceal little messages to each other, often on homework, that the other could reveal whenever they wanted. Occasionally, Draco would draw you a small image in the corner of the paper and while you always knew they were your favorite to reveal, you hadn’t realized how much you missed them until just now. Just another thing to add to your list of emotions when it comes to him.

You sigh and refocus on correcting his work, but when you’ve finished and his chart is filled with little bits of your handwriting to explain what you’d done, your eyes fall back to the still empty corner of the page. You look over your shoulder briefly, making sure no one is in the room and then before giving yourself time to think about you, you’re writing a small message in that corner.

The moment your quill lifts away from making the period at the end of your sentence, you feel a surge of regret. You should remove it. Use a quick charm and act like it never happened. Or you could conceal it. After all, what’s the harm in doing so? He would never see it because he’d never reveal it.

But what if he did? What if he pulls it out when he’s alone, much like you are now, and casts the same revealing charm he used to and sees your little message? The brief thought slips into a daydream. If he were to even think of using the revealing charm, it would mean he thought there was a chance you’d write something, that he was hoping for it, looking for it. You can see his little, hidden smile in your mind and the way his fingertips would dance over your writing much like yours had his chart.

The draw of the possibility is too appealing in the middle of the night. You silently talk yourself into it, calling it a risk-free decision. Either he wants you to do it or he’ll never see it. You slip your wand out of the robes you’re still wearing and whisper the incantation as you press the tip to your written words. There’s a rush in your blood and a flutter in your chest as you watch the ink slowly disappear on the parchment.

When there’s no trace of the words anymore, you feel a mix of emotions; anxiety, release, anticipation. You’re committed now though. Before you can change your mind, you roll up his star chart and put it back in your bag and prepare to go to bed with the echo of your words floating through your mind.

I miss you.

---

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[forasecondtherewedwon]

À la Carter

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Rating: T Word Count: 1572

Summary: Even when she’s helping Sam, Sharon has her own agenda.

Sharon’s fingers tap. They spread and pinch, manipulating the scale and definition of Riga’s rooftops. When she feels like she must be zeroing in, she stops, straightens from where she’s been leaning over the screen of her tablet.

She tosses back a swallow of her drink, a flinch around her eyes as the alcohol stings her cut lip. It had been a while since she’d had to fight her way out of a tight corner (or configuration of shipping containers), before Sam, Bucky, and their pet baron showed up in Madripoor. Her tongue prods the cut.

Her satellite access came through, like she knew it would, and John Walker’s no needle in a haystack. On her screen, he’ll be displayed as TRACKER 01, but his position might as well be stamped with the shield—that symbol of justice and virtue and treachery and regret and whatever else the thing stands for these days. She’s a little behind on American public perception when she only feels very loosely American herself. An expat snagged on the last unravelling thread of her former country’s flag.

Another sip, another wince, is punishment in advance. Sharon’s about to do what she does in this new life of hers: take her cut. Her deal with Sam is going to develop a deviation he doesn’t know about. It’ll be seamless, wasting very little of anyone’s time, a detour on the streets of Riga; the view lies between her forearms, resting on the glass surface of the table.

She likes Sam, likes him a lot. The patience and problem-solving in his eyes that say he’s actually listening. The way he looks without his shirt. His persistent trustworthiness when trust is something Sharon thought she no longer dealt in. No giving it out and no inviting it. People don’t just trust her here. That’s why she has hired security. But she’s already expecting Sam to follow through on his end of their deal and sort out her little being-labelled-an-enemy-of-the-state issue, so she’s committed to helping him. The instinct to is annoyingly natural.

Here’s the wrinkle in their verbal contract: the job’s personal. Sam and Bucky are aware of that, she’s certain, and she wonders if they’ve considered that she might be too. It isn’t about her freedom of travel between countries or the do-gooder urge—which Sam in particular appears to overflow with—to ensure Zemo is once again caught and held to account. It’s a Steve thing. She’s heard a lot of rumours (there’s one circulating in High Town at the moment, that Steve is on Mars, building the bones of Elon Musk’s Martian colony in exchange for a couple billion dollars and, presumably, his own self-respect), and it hurts that she can’t dispel any of them, even to herself. Sharon doesn’t know what happened to him. All she knows is that there’s a new guy slinging his arm through the straps of Steve’s old shield and that she doesn’t really feel as casual about it as she might’ve led Sam and Bucky to believe when she mentioned Walker to them. She’s angry. Because she looks at New Cap and wonders what it was all for.

She drums her fingers on the tabletop.

With a deep breath, Sharon touches the screen again. Now swiping intently, she finds TRACKER 01, AKA John Walker. She pulls her phone towards her because she should call Sam to tell him the location. And she will. What she’s going to do first is just for herself.

Hacking into Walker’s comms is surgical and effortless, not requiring payment or bartering like the satellite access, just the skills she keeps honed. Sharon enables a moderate vocal distorter and slides into the ‘secure’ channel. She’s determined to keep her anger and bitterness out of this side-mission, but with nowhere else to go, resentment climbs the back of her neck as an uncomfortable, spreading heat.

“Hey, John.”

“Who is this?” his voice snaps at the other end of the line.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Sharon tilts back in her chair until she can prop the heels of her boots on the table, posture perfectly at ease as she goads him. “Do you prefer ‘John’ or ‘Captain America’?”

“Who are you? A fan?”

Well, she has to laugh at that.

“Um, yeah,” she gushes, channeling the preteen goddaughter she might’ve had if she were living a life where she could make real friends and have neighbours instead of hosting underground art auctions and sniping hostiles from an open window while two idiots from her old life sprint past on the street below. “Is this the Captain America Hotline?”

“Let me tell you, you are seconds away from being located and identified by the U.S. government,” Walker threatens. At least he’s smart enough not to hold on to his fan theory any longer.

“At ease, Cap. I’m not doing any harm.”

“What you’re doing is something incredibly foolish and you will reap the consequences.”

“It’s been a few seconds,” Sharon taunts. “Either the government’s found me and they don’t want to rudely interrupt our conversation or my capabilities exceed theirs. Which one do you think it is?”

“What do you want.”

It comes out flat and hard.

“No more warnings? You’re not going to try to brute-force your way to the conclusion of your choosing?”

“That isn’t always the best method.”

“Something tells me somebody taught you a lesson recently,” Sharon observes, crossing her ankles and rocking her feet side to side on the table. “How bad were you humbled?”

“I went up against the Dora Milaje.”

“So you really got your ass handed to you. I’m surprised you’d be so forthcoming about that. Stiff-upper-lipped soldier type.”

“I figure you could find that information if you really wanted it.”

“You’re being generous then? Saving me time?”

“I just want you to get the fuck off this line.”

“Back to business then,” she says.

She can hear Walker’s breathing change, from a heavy pant to the sound of him clearly trying to control it. Less background noise too, like maybe he just entered a building. She assumes he’s trying to be stealthy. That means he’s either sneaking up on the Flag-Smashers or fears they’re sneaking up on him. It’s almost time to quit toying with New Cap and alert Sam so he can soar in, kick a few asses, maybe save a life. While she goes back to drinking alone in High Town, knowing Madripoor is beginning to tear itself to bloody shreds with so many sharpened claws.

“What do you want?” Walker repeats.

“To tell you I wouldn’t have minded calling you ‘Captain America.’” Sharon shrugs for her own benefit. “It’s just a name, and yet… I think it’s going to bother you. Realizing that you won’t live up to it, I mean.”

“You’re pathetic.”

His breathing’s a little harsher again. He might be climbing a flight of stairs.

“John Walker, I almost feel sorry for you,” she says. “I might if you came off as less of an asshole.”

“Don’t waste your condescension on me. I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

She laughs at him.

“That’s ridiculous. What sort of man agrees to be Captain America when someone as incredible as Sam Wilson has just given up the shield? When the world doesn’t need to close their eyes to picture Steve Rogers still standing behind it? Walker, you stepped into a shadow that was still fading because you were too vain to miss your opportunity. Well now that shadow’s never going to fade,” Sharon hisses at him, her feet hitting the floor as she hunches forward, studying the orange tracker. “You think you’re standing in the sun, but you’re not. And it’s only going to get darker for you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” His voice is hushed, but the tone is arrogant.

“I’m sure you will. You’ll take them without any regard for anyone around you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lectures. “I’m helping—”

“Of course you’ll say you’re helping people when, really, you can’t see past the larger-than-life persona you borrowed like a rental tux. It’s never going to fit, John. While you’re watching yourself, all those people are seeing the guy in the ill-fitting suit, the guy who thought he was going to pick up that shield and turn into Steve Rogers. You’ve got one thing in common with Steve: a name that would be forgettable without the actions you attach to it. Soon, you’re going to wish you really were that forgettable, but it’ll be too late. The world will be watching.”

Sharon closes the connection and throws herself back into her seat, slapping her phone to the table, almost too hard. She rubs her temple and mindlessly watches the tracker flicker back and forth; Walker must be moving around the building more rapidly without her in his ear to distract him. She could’ve done worse, gotten him discovered by the Flag-Smashers, gotten him shot. That’s further than she’s willing to go though because Sam’s given her this pesky sense of hope that her life won’t always have the blinding lustre of destruction. The high shine of a speeding car, the glint of the sun peeking past Icarus’s silhouette. It’s time to let Walker destroy himself.

And, because he must think he can get in the way of that and mitigate the fallout, it’s time to call Sam.

[illneverrecover]

is that so? (M) | jwy

➛pairing: Jung Wooyoung x Reader ➛genre: non idol!AU, established relationship, fluff, smut ➛word count: 5,094 ➛rating: M ➛warnings: oral sex (female receiving), food play if you squint?, marking, biting, slight roughness, praise, anal play (female receiving), butt plugs, unprotected sex, wooyoung being a loud sweet man. ➛summary: You’ve had a rough few days - hell, weeks - at work, and your new boyfriend Wooyoung knows just how to show you how much you’re appreciated.  ➛notes: EEEE, My first Ateez fic! I’ve been following Ateez since debut and fell completely in love with them, so I was excited when one of my fave clowns ladies, @thiccasswonhoruinedmylife​ commissioned me to write a Wooyoung piece. She requested something with Wooyoung cooking for an anniversary present with smut and fluff, which fits him perfectly tbh. Love you Bri, I hope you enjoy! 🖤 ➛song: Try/Effortless - DVSN  & Say My Name - Ateez 

Fuck, you’re tired. 

You’re always tired.

You can’t remember the last time you didn’t feel exhausted, where you felt well rested by the time your alarm went off at the crack of 5 am. Work was draining you to the dregs, long hours with even longer meetings (that could have been EASILY summed up in an email) and copious hours spent hand holding grown men on how to do their jobs (but getting paid infinitely less than them.) They take their toll, and now you dread going - hell, even looking at the building could kill your mood.

The only saving grace was your amazing boyfriend.

You hadn’t been dating too long, about two months, but it was one of those things where you had an instant connection, the click of two puzzle pieces fitting just right. It had been at one of your friends house parties (the ones you normally skip due to wanting to catch up on sleep) but this time she had insisted you come, adamant that you met her boyfriend’s friend who had recently moved back into town. You had brushed her off; knowing her for as long as you had, there was a solid chance that whomever her and her long time beau, Seonghwa, were trying to set you up with was either not your type, a fuckboy, or a combination of both. 

However, she had badgered you enough that you agreed to go, if only to get her off your back for the next few soirees (and to get her to lay off the dramatic gifs she had been spamming you with). Running late from work, you showed up in your business casual a few hours after it had started, the place eerily quiet as you could see silhouettes of guests mingling on the back porch. Taking advantage of not being noticed quite yet, you had decided to make yourself a strong glass of liquid courage before facing her and whatever fuckery was afoot for the evening.

You had just reached into the back of the fridge for the bottle of strawberry soju you knew was waiting for you when a voice had you jumping. 

“Anything good in there?”

Whirring around, you had found a blonde man eyeing you, hair swept off his forehead to show off his glistening skin. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, his plush coral lips curved up into a sly smirk as he leaned his forearms down against the counter. 

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” you swallowed, raising a brow at the stranger. “I know Red always keeps a bottle of strawberry soju in her fridge for little old me, hidden in the back so Seonghwa doesn’t steal it.” You had popped open the lid, choosing to chug straight from the bottle instead of fussing with a glass. “I promise I’m not just rummaging through there.”

He had laughed then, his voice pitching higher than you had expected, and it had made you smile. 

. He held his hands up in a surrender, palms out, a toothy grin on his face. “Hey, no judgment. I was about to do the same - but for food. Seongie is out there trying to grill but he’s such a perfectionist it’s taking forever, even Red is threatening to call for take out.” 

Chuckling, you shook  your head. “Sounds about right. I’m Y/N, by the way,” 

Holding out a hand, you had waited until he placed his palm in your own, giving it a firm nod.

“I’m Wooyoung, Seongie’s friend. I just moved back into town.” 

Ah, so he was the mysterious unofficial blind date.

You had eyed him then, fully taking him in from head to toe, assessing him as if you’d be able to tell his character from undressing him in your mind. He had been wearing some kind of dark button down, the top buttons open to bare some of his tanned chest, a jean jacket thrown over top to keep it casual. A few black chokers circled his neck, emphasizing the muscles there, matching the wash of his inky skinny jeans that were so tight you weren’t totally convinced that they hadn’t been painted on. 

His eyes had widened at your appraisal, but he hadn’t spoken a word, instead giving you another smirk while waiting for you to comment.

“It’s nice to meet you, Wooyoung.”

And it really was. From that point on, you two had been inseparable, even once rejoining the official party. Staying hip to hip, you talked about anything and everything, from the most mundane to the downright unexpected (you don’t think you have ever seen a grown man discuss Harry Potter with such wonder in his eyes), and you found yourself not wanting to go home, even as everyone else cleared out.  It was only natural to accept his invitation to continue your evening, to  be squeezed into a 24 hour diner booth discussing movies until the bleary hours of early morning over a plate of french fries. You just didn’t want the moment to be over, for the night to end, for the spell to dissipate. 

Luckily, you had both been on the same page.

Fate had taken its course from there, and there wasn’t a day that passed that you and Wooyoung didn’t see each other, even if it was just over FaceTime as you warmed up leftovers after work. He was so attentive, so sweet, so funny, bringing back a spark into your life that you hadn’t even been aware of that was missing. 

Maybe you had moved a little fast in the perception of others, but to you, it had just felt instinctive to exchange love declarations after the third week, to swap apartment keys sometime during the fifth. 

Unfortunately, your work schedule has been relentless, your days still painfully long and showing no signs of stopping. Wooyoung is understanding, always offering to run your errands for you and asking how he can help make your life easier. Even when he can’t help, when the load gets too heavy to bear - he holds you, lets you rage cry out your frustration, rubs soothing circles into your back until you feel a weight lifted once more. “I’d do anything to see your smile, Jagiya,” he’d tell you with a wide grin, light in his eyes.

And he went out of his way to make that promise come true as often as possible, from little notes left on your door when you come home at night, to silly dance moves in your kitchen as a Britney Spears song blares from your Bluetooth speaker. He even made sure to make your one month anniversary special by having  your favorite flowers waiting for you when you got home, your bedroom turned into the vision of comfort with blankets and pillows and a large bowl of popcorn, perfect for a movie marathon.

He was truly the perfect man, the reason you got out of bed in the morning, the inspiration to fight through the longest of shifts - and  you were so thankful to have him, always hoping he could feel how much his love meant to you.

So it wasn’t a surprise when you came home to him cooking inside your apartment one Friday night after work. 

You had actually gotten off work at a decent time for once, feet crossing the threshold just as the clock showed it was a quarter after 5, and you had sighed heavily with relief when the smell of sauteed garlic hit your nose. Kicking off your heels, you wandered towards the kitchen, your heart skipping a beat when you saw your boyfriend standing at the stove. 

He has a bright red apron tied around his neck, a flash of words on the front though you couldn’t quite read them. Instead, you were too focused on the ingredients piled onto the counter, the slight flush in his cheeks from working over a hot stove. Candles were placed everywhere, setting the room into a soft glow, and there was a bottle of wine aerating next to twin glasses on the table, plates waiting to be filled. 

He spins when he hears you, grinning at the soft look on your face. “Hey, Jagi. How was work?”

You click your tongue. “Don’t ‘how was work’ me, what’s all this for? Are you trying to spoil me?”

He moves towards you then, giving you an eyeful of his “May I suggest the sausage?” apron, complete with an arrow pointing down to his crotch, making you snort. 

“First of all, how dare you. I’m always trying to spoil you.” Sliding his arms around your waist, you rest your face on his shoulder, melting into his touch. “Second of all,” he murmurs, lips pressed to your crown, “it’s our two month anniversary, so I thought I’d surprise you.”

“You are too good to me, Woo.”

Humming, Wooyoung sways, keeping you trapped in his arms for a beat longer before moving to plant a peck on your cheek. “No such thing as too good for you. Now, go sit down, rest, let me finish up. I’m just about finished.”

You do as ordered - moving to sit at the table, deciding to wait until after dinner to change, not wanting to take your eyes off of him. Instead you poured yourself a glass of wine, sipping it slowly as you watched him cook. It was endearing; seeing him work around the kitchen, brow furrowed in concentration when he would double check the recipe on his phone screen, tongue poking out the side of his mouth when he measured out a spice. He seemed to be taking it so seriously, making sure each step was perfect before moving to the next, which in comparison to the mess he was leaving in his wake, is amusing.

For what he lacked in skill, he makes up in confidence, wielding the knife with ease as he made the final slices to the meat, tossing them in a pan to saute. With a final stir, he adds them to the pot, gathering the sides with oven mit clad hands before sitting it down on the table.

A quick glance told you it was some kind of ramen, noodles and vegetables simmering in an aromatic liquid, steak lined on the top with some hard boiled eggs nestled next to it. Moving to the fridge, he grabs a few more bowls and side plates wrapped in plastic, bringing them to join the other dishes.

“I thought we could have my world famous ramen for dinner tonight,” he explains, tearing the plastic off to reveal the side entrees. “It’s a bit of a mashup of Korean kimchi ramen, but I also wanted you to have options on what to add to yours.” 

He seems nervous, vibrating with untapped energy. Smiling, you reach out and squeeze his hand. “It’s perfect, seriously. Thank you, Wooyoung.” 

Like a true gentleman, he fixes your initial bowl, walking you through all the side entree options and flavors, giving suggestions based on your preferences. Only once you are settled does he prepare his, grinning like a madman when he finally takes a seat. 

Instead of tearing into the food like you expected, he stares at you, eyes dancing with mischief. Your hand hovers over the bowl, spoon suspended half way between your food and your mouth, and you raise a brow at him. “What?”

“Nothing! It’s nothing.” he leans back, placing both hands behind his head. “I just want to see the look on your face when you taste it, is all.”

“And why is that? Is there secretly an entire ball of wasabi in here or something?”

He giggles, head shaking. “No!” he protests, voice echoing off the walls. “No, I would never! How dare you!” you join his laughter, despite your spoon still being frozen, waiting for him to continue. “I just want to see your face when you taste the excellence and decadence that is Jung Wooyoung’s cooking.”

“Is that so?” you purr, cheeks starting to hurt from all the smiling you were doing. You couldn’t help it, he was just so cute. 

Nodding, he slides his hands under his chin, propping his face up to look at you. “Yes, it is. Some would even liken it to a religious experience. Please,” he gestures a hand out, waving it. “Humor me.”

Without dropping his eyeline, you bring the spoon to your mouth, pursing your lips to blow a puff of air onto it before it reaches your tongue. It was the perfect blend of flavor and kick, the kimchi adding a satisfying crunch. 

“So?” he prompts, practically bouncing in his seat. “What do you think?”

“I think this might be the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth,” you sigh, already scooping your next bite. 

He shouts victoriously, throwing his arms in the air. “Yes! I knew you would love it! You aren’t just saying that, are you?”

Swallowing the warm liquid, you lean forward then, grabbing his arm to leverage yourself as you plant a wet kiss to his cheek. “I’m not just saying it, Woo. It’s delicious, thank you so  much for making it for me.”

His eyes crease as a wide grin takes over his face, adoration shining and mirrored within your own gaze. “Of course, Y/N. I’m glad you like it.”

The rest of the meal is shared over tales of your days, you filling him in on all the craziness of the office, while he tells you about the appointments he had and how his dance class went. It was always relieving, to come home at the end of the day and have someone to lament to, to share your life with, especially when they were so willing to do the same, and there isn’t a moment of silence as you and your boyfriend finish your dinner together.

You move to stand and clear the table, reaching for his bowl when he smacks your hand. “Absolutely not, Jagi. I am here to spoil you, and that includes cooking AND the cleaning. Sit back down.”

Giving him your best glare, you try to protest, but he isn’t having it, swift hands pushing you back into your seat as he grabs your bowl and heads to the sink. “Plus, who said the meal was over yet?” he calls over his shoulder, placing the bowls down.

“Oh yeah?” you chuckle, crossing your arms. “What else do you got for me?”

His expression changes then; previous playfulness melting away and leaving an edge to his smirk, a darkness to eyes. “Well, dessert, of course.” 

You continue to eye him as he moves to the fridge, pulling out a domed container before walking it back to the table. Placing it in front of you, he removes the top with a flourish, kneeling down to your seated height. “I made your favorite,” he husks, voice low. “Peanut Butter Chocolate cheesecake.”

The cheesecake itself was beautiful; he had attempted to decorate it with some chocolate syrup and crushed Reeses, and the evident effort softens you once more. “It looks amazing!” you gush, looking to meet his gaze. “You really have gone all out, haven’t you?”

Instead of answering, he serves you a piece on a small plate, handing you a fresh fork. Grinning, you immediately cut into it, shoving a bite into your mouth inelegantly. Closing your eyes, you let out a groan at the richness of the flavor, chewing slowly to savor it. It really was delectable - the cheesecake a perfect dense yet fluffy texture, peanut butter swirling with the chocolate in harmony.

You were so lost in thought you didn’t pay attention to where Wooyoung had gone; why the room had fallen so silent as you revered your treat. You move to cut another slice off your serving, placing the fork between your teeth when you feel a palm slide up your thigh.

“W-Woo?” snapping your eyes open, you look to the side, expecting your boyfriend to still be kneeling there, but coming up empty.

Peering down, you instead see him crouched between your legs, wicked devilry glittering in his gaze. He slides both hands up your bare thighs, fingers tracing patterns right above the seam of your skirt. 

Before you can say a word, he grips your legs and bows them out, making more room for his body, his mouth dipping to press a wet kiss to the flesh above your knee. 

“You had such a long day. You work so hard, you’re always working so hard, Y/N. I thought it would be a nice little treat if while you enjoyed your dessert, I could also enjoy mine?” his voice was honeyed with molten lust, but it was still a question - still seeking your comfort. 

Groaning, you lick your lips, breath hitching at his touch. “Of course you can,” you rasp, eyes closing once more when you feel his fingers caressing closer and closer to your core.

Dropping your fork, the cheesecake is all but forgotten when Wooyoung continues to trail his lips up your inner thighs, digits reaching for the now dewy panties at the apex, sliding them off your legs. Hand fumbling, you move to work at the side zipper of your skirt, wanting to give him more access, when thick fingers circle your wrist.

“No, Jagi. I want you to leave it on,” he murmurs, hands now moving to bunch your skirt up around your waist. “Like this, you’re so perfect like this.”

Whining, you rake your fingers through his blonde hair, tugging gently at the roots in a silent plea to have him move closer. Chuckling, he acquiesces, pupils wide as he takes in the sight of your dripping cunt. 

He hovers for a moment, hot breath fanning over your sensitive flesh, and just before you could beg he drops his mouth to your center. Tongue flicking out, he swirls it around your already engorged clit, tracing the lines of your labia down and back at an unhurried pace, tasting you. Repeating the movements, he groans against you, lips sliding to suckle at your bundle of nerves until your thighs were shaking against him.

He coos praise at you in between long licks against your core, his finger dipping into your wetness briefly before being pressed inside of you. “You taste so sweet, feel so good, Jagi,”

 Crying out at the sensation, your hand pulls at his hair once more, wanting the friction, wanting him deeper.  He gives in for a moment, tongue rolling against your clit, pulling it between his lips and suckling harshly. You feel your high building rapidly, tension rolling from your bones to deep in your gut, threatening to snap at any moment.

Instead of hurtling you over the edge, he pulls back with a moan, resting his head against the cushion of your thigh. He watches his finger disappear inside you one last time before pulling it out, immediately popping it into his mouth.

Wooyoung looks up at you then, lips shiny with your arousal and eyes blackened with need. “I thought I’d have the patience to finish you off like this, but I don’t. I want to be inside you, now.”

Before you can even finish nodding your head in agreement, you're pulling him to you, cupping his face and pressing your mouth onto his. The kiss is hungry, desperate, dripping in passion, his tongue sliding against yours so deliciously that you feel like you’re drowning in him.

He pulls away enough to trail small kisses down your jaw line, your pulse, until he laves the tender skin at the base of your throat, making you whine. As he sucks and bites his claim onto your neck, you feel his arms grab your legs, guiding you to lock them around his waist before he’s shifting you up into his hold.

The low growls he makes while working over your throat have you distracted, arms coming to brace yourself around his neck as he carries you towards the bedroom. You’re gasping into his mouth when he spins to push you against the wall, pinning you in place under the lithe lines of his body. Throwing your head back, your fingers come to tangle in the hair at the base of his skull, hips grinding against him.

“Fuck, Wooyoung,” you pant as he alters his attack to the other side of your clavicle, insistent on leaving twin marks to claim you. His anguished desire excites you, has you clenching around nothing when he returns to peck at your lips. 

He ruts up against you, and for a moment you think he’ll take you right here against your bedroom wall - not that you would mind - but then he slows his hips, releasing his tight grip on your legs as he pulls you towards the bed. 

It's there that he undresses you completely, kissing each inch of bare skin as it’s revealed to him, murmuring words of love  until you are naked and flushing before him. Sitting up on his knees, he quickly joins you - pulling his shirt off and throwing it haphazardly, kicking off his jeans and boxer briefs. 

He stares at you reverently, eyes and hands always roaming the lines of your form. “I have another surprise for you tonight, if you’re up to it,” he husks, lips quirking into a grin.

“Is that so?” you repeat your words from earlier, unable to stop yourself. He chuckles lowly, leaning over you to open the drawer on the bedside table where typically you house your small collection of sex toys. You follow the movement, curious to see what would grab, but your eyes widen when you see him holding something you weren’t familiar with.

It was stainless steel, bulbed at one end before tapering out and flaring into a large circle at the base. The base had a beautiful violet jewel in it that twinkled when the light hit; a small bottle of lubricant nestled beside it in his large palm.

He had bought you a butt plug.

Seeing your expression, Wooyoung chuckles nervously, dropping the items onto the bed in order to hover over you. “I know we’ve discussed trying this in the past, and just thought that after the time we used my fingers, that this might be a good next step…” he trails off, eyes imploring yours. “However, if you don’t want to or don’t feel comfortable, that’s perfectly fine, Jagi. I don’t want to pressure you at all.”

Excitement tore through your nerves, your body lighting up at the idea of doing this with him. He was so thoughtful, so sweet, and you knew in that moment that you trusted him explicitly. 

“I want to,” you purr, leaning up to bite at his collarbone. “I want to try this, with you…”

His face illuminates with a smile as he moves to sit up on his knees once more, grabbing the plug. “I want to try this with you too.”

Ignoring the lube for now, he closes the plug in his fist as he moves to lay down between your legs. For a while, he just kisses you everywhere, lets his fingers drag through the slick of your slit, gently rubbing at your nub until you are panting and relaxing against his touch. When your eyes start to close, he grabs for the bottle of lubricant, squeezing a generous amount onto the plug before doing the same against your tight ring of muscles.

Jumping at the sensation of cool gel against heated skin, you take a deep breath, letting yourself get lost in the sensations he was providing you. A thumb was still rolling your clit, while another finger was gently massaging the puckered skin of your ass. Your body felt like wildfire, molten and burning too hot, and yet all you wanted was more. 

“I-I think I’m ready, Woo, please,” you whine, hands fisting in the sheets. “Please put it in.”

He groans, fingers stuttering at the wanton sound of your cries. He wanted to drag this out, to tease you until you were blubbering and begging, but between his throbbing cock and your sinful noises, he didn’t think he could wait any more. 

Slowly, he starts to push the bulbous end of the plug against you, thumb of his free hand still working against your bundle of nerves. You tense when you feel some pressure, but Wooyoung is there to talk you through it, guiding you to breathe and relax as he takes care of you, edging the plug in. 

You sense when it’s pushed in to the hilt, the jeweled edge nestled against your rim, and you sigh in relief at the pleasant buzz of the stretch.

Wooyoung slides to sit up on his knees, a hand coming to smooth circles on the flesh of your inner thigh, while the other palms at his hardened length. 

“How does it feel, Jagi? You feel okay?” he breathes, slotting himself between your legs and closer to your center. 

You nod, reaching out to grasp at his hips. “I feel so good, baby,” you praise, guiding him until his cock was dragging against your dripping cunt. “Now I just need you inside of me too, please,”

He hisses at your words, pressing the thick head of his length until it was slipping inside the welcoming heat of your walls, slowly moving to bury himself deep inside of you.

The fullness was overwhelming, delicious, his pelvis resting flush against your own. His brow was furrowed, mouth agape in a silent moan as he started to swivel his hips.

“F-Fuck,” you groan, nails dragging down the skin at his sides as he began to pump in and out of you, slowly at first, as if he wanted to make sure you were feeling every inch of him against your engorged walls. The plug was the perfect size to enhance each movement, the dual sensations making you mewl. 

“Does it feel good?” he husks, voice impossibly deep as his thrusts increase. “Does Jagi like being so full of me? Likes having that little plug in her ass?”

Whining at his words, you chew at your lip, hands reaching out to tug him closer to your mouth. “Yes, I do, Wooyoung. Just for you, all for you.”

He growls then, hips moving at a punishing pace, basking in your sweet cries of his name, wanting to make sure you were fully wrecked and falling apart for him. He could feel you squeezing against him, so impossibly tight, and knew you were close to unraveling. 

Dropping his lips to yours, he licked into your mouth, swallowing your moans as he slid a hand between your bodies to rub at your apex once more.

You broke the kiss to sob, head thrown back against the mattress. “Fuck, I’m gonna come, baby,” your orgasm so close you felt your cunt pulsating, your vision going white. After a few more pumps of his cock and probing circles of your clit, you finally come undone, walls constricting as electricity shoots through your veins, gasps tearing from your throat.

Wooyoung doesn’t last much longer, burying his face in your neck as he finally releases deep inside you with staccato thrusts, only stopping when he was sure every drop was nestled into your tender core.

Catching your breath, you lay for a few soundless moments, fingers tracing patterns on his back while he steadily came down from his high. When he finally moves to get cleaned up, he insists you stay put - instead bringing a wet washcloth and removing the plug for you, wiping you clean.

“Happy Anniversary,” he quips, slapping playfully at your ass, and you can’t help but laugh along, rolling your eyes at him.

After a quick trip to the bathroom you’re back in bed - and his arms - snuggled against his chest, eyes closed in contentment. Wooyoung is so tender, asking every few moments how you felt, if you needed anything. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were luckier than you ever thought was possible, and you told him so.

“What do you mean, Y/N? I’m the lucky one here. You are so beautiful and smart and successful, and you let me be in your life, let me support you. It’s all I could ever want.” he murmurs, eyes intense as he presses a kiss to your nose. “Plus, you laugh at all my jokes, eat my cooking, and are willing to try new things in the bedroom. You’re basically my dream girl.”

You laugh then, slapping at his arm. “Well, that’s good to know, and right back atcha.”

“What? I’m your dream girl?”

Giggling, you snuggle closer to his chest once more. “Yes. You’re my dream girl and I’m so glad I get to be in your life.” Leaning up, you meet his eyes. “I love you, Wooyoung.” 

The responding smile is so bright you think it may blind you, but his joy was infectious as he whoops loudly. “I love you too, Y/N. So much.”

For a moment, there was nothing but peaceful calm, twin hearts beating rapidly as you let him lead you in a chaste kiss, pulling away to rest your forehead against his own.

“Even if your dirty talk could use some work, I love you and I’m still glad to be here-”

“HEY!” he yells, pushing back to look at you, face incredulous. “What do you mean my dirty talk could use some work?! My dirty talk is perfect!”

You shrug, a sly smirk on your face. “Is that so?”

Scoffing, he tries to slide out of your grasp, pout heavy on his lips. “Yes, that is so! What, was I supposed to call you ‘my greedy little ass slut’ right out of the gate? I mean, I knew you were a freak, Jagi, but I was trying to be a gentleman.”

Choking back your laughter, you lock your arms around him, bringing him back against you until you are spooning him tightly, cooing apologies in his ear. It took several minutes of cuddles and reassurance before he would turn to look at you again, his gaze still hard.

Grinning, you cup his face, your finger resting against the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Oh yeah? And what if I don’t want you to be a gentleman?” 

“Then I guess we’ll have to go for round two.” he growls, before claiming your lips once more.

[unstoppableforcce]

a mistake ( 2 )

pairing: poe dameron x reader

previous part | next part

a/n: ah yes, a return to my norm, angst. hope y’all enjoy, there should be more of this and perfect exchange coming soon !

It was late. Impossibly late.

He’d been up early and now it was late. And he was still in meetings.

From the second the General appeared at his door for a meeting that morning, he had been moved from meeting to meeting. There were strategy sessions, he had to approve flight plans, organize relief efforts, there were scheduling issues—it went on and on.

Which wasn’t unusual for him, since becoming a Commander, Leia had been progressively saddling him with more and more responsibility during the cold period of the war. It normally wasn’t a problem.

The late nights, the early morning wakeups, he’d been doing it for a while, he was used to it.

But he couldn’t get his mind off of you.

He knew the second his head shot from the door, the casual words falling from his lips just as the General came into view, he knew he was in trouble.

He asked you to stay and you did. For the first time in the months since your light night relations had become constant, when he asked you to stay, you stayed.

He messed it up. You stayed and he knew he messed it up when he saw your face fall, when the General was there to meet you as soon as the door opened. It shouldn’t have happened that way. It should have been easy and effortless.

He couldn’t even apologize, trapped in meetings, distracted by you and unable to get to you.

And Leia could tell.

By the time the final meeting finished and him and the other commanders were finally dismissed, it was late, and Leia still wasn’t done with him, catching him by his arm as he got up to leave.

“Just one second, Dameron.” She sighed, holding him back until the last of the Commander’s left her office.

He messed up. He messed up bad.

“Do I have to remind you of the uniform code, Commander?” She sat back on the front of her desk, adjacent to where he stood, holding her hands together in her lap.

Rubbing the exhaustion from his face, he sighed, she seemed to take that as an answer as he failed to get any actual words to his lips.

“She is technically your subordinate.”

He nodded, not thinking it was worth it to mention that you worked in engineering and he was a pilot because Leia was right, you were and officer and he was a commander, different departments or not.

“It’s not like that.” He chose to defend instead.

“Like what, Poe?” She quirked a brow, a curiosity raising the ‘judgmental mother’ look she was giving for a brief second.

“It’s just—” He shook his head, trying to avoid her eyes.

“I’m not ignorant Poe, you just need to be careful.” She added, standing up and moving back around her desk.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He sighed and she shooed him off.

He had to find you. It was late, but he figured you’d still be working.

He checked the hanger first, he knew his ship was fixed, so he checked every other ship in the fleet looking for you, but to no avail.

Having never actually been to your office in the engineering sector of the base, several floors below the hanger, he had to stop about six different people for explicit directions. But he made it, checking his watch before knocking on the door marked by your name and title.

He checked it again when there was no response.

It was late, but not late enough for you to have gone to bed yet, at least, he didn’t think it would be. He knocked one more time, hoping for a response but only hearing a clank of metal on the other side, something moving around before a grave voice let out a response.

“Come in.”

He knew your voice, and that was not it. That was definitely not it.

He checked the placard on the door again, but it was definitely your office, so he pushed the door open and the sound of metal clanking increased exponentially.

And as he suspected, it was not you. It was an engineer he vaguely recognized but not you.

“Where’s Officer—”

“Just missed her.” He answered quickly, looking up from his work with a distracting magnification over his eyes that took away from everything else about him, just big bug eyes staring into his soul it felt like. As if he hadn’t already gotten that from Leia earlier.

“Where is sh—”

“I don’t know.”

“I need to—”

“She should be back soon.” He kept interrupting him, which would typically have pissed him off beyond belief, but he could let it slide for now. At least he was answering his question.

Another question posed on his lips, but the door behind him opened before he could form it, and thankfully it was you.

Though, it was you, completely unaware that Poe was standing in your office, your head so buried in your datapad, “Have you noticed the connection damage on any of the other ships—”

You walked straight into him.

The anger took to your stoic face in an instant, curling the corners of your lips down, furrowing at your brow, your voice sounded vaguely caught in your throat, “Commander.”

“Hi.” He forced out a smile, but it did nothing for you, you remained entirely unimpressed.

“Do you need something?”

The forced smile even fell now, his hands sinking like weights, heavy in his pockets. “No, I wanted to talk to you—”

“I’m working.” You brushed past him, moving to your desk where the other engineer sat and setting down the datapad in front of him, pointing to a blue hologram schematic of some sort. “The wiring here is faulty, the oscillator isn’t connecting.”

“Is this his ship?” The man asked, gesturing with a pointed thumb over his shoulder to where Poe stood waiting, watching you.

“No, I fixed that, this is Snap’s.”

“Same problem?”

You nodded, flicking the screen to show another schematic, “I don’t know—”

“Officer?” Poe interjected, taking another step forward, trying to catch your attention but you merely held up a hand to quiet him.

“We need to figure out what’s happening.” You continued and the other man nodded.

“I can go look at Snap’s ship.” He stood, finally pulling off his bug-eyed goggles and grabbed his tools. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

As he passed by, he gave the waiting Commander a quick once over and eventually left the room, leaving just the two of you and shutting the door behind him.

“You can’t just show up like this.” You began as soon as you heard the door shut, hands now sorting through the scrap and soldering equipment left behind, “I’m working.”

“It’s late, I figured—”

“What? That I’d be in your bed by now? Sorry to disappoint but I do have a job to do.”

The scrap of metal in your hand hit the desk with a thud, your hands working quickly to move everything around, for whatever reason that was. Poe was starting to figure it was just so that you could focus away from him, on anything other than his lingering presence in your office.

“That isn’t what I meant.” He caught up, taking a step forward and reaching to stop your senseless work.

But you actually flinched away, taking a full step back which made him recoil his touch just as quickly.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized, not knowing exactly what for but knowing he was wrong. He knew he messed up; he just didn’t realize it was this bad.

“You should go.”

His face fell even further, his hands holding in a brief show of surrender.

“Babe—”

“Don’t Poe, I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” He scoffed, no longer on the defensive but taking a step forward. “You keep saying that and I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“How dense are you?”

“Excuse me?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “I’m sorry I don’t have your protection of being the best damn pilot on base, but for me, sleeping with a Commander is very very against the rules and everything that will come with people knowing—”

You shook your head, biting your tongue to cut yourself off. But he waited. You could see him fuming but he was waiting for you to finish before he fought back.

So you did.

“The General walked in on us today, Poe, did you miss that?” You rubbed over your face. “I could get demoted, or you could, or maybe neither of us do but my entire authority over making decisions where you and your ship are involved is deemed compromised because I’m not an officer of engineering but your slut—”

He stopped you there, stepping forward once more and catching your hand before you could gesture any more. “That’s not—”

“That’s not what? Huh?” You fought, ripping your hand away.

He shook his head, “You won’t get demoted, neither of us will, I already spoke to Leia—”

“About me? Great.” A scoff ripped through your chest and forced you to turn away, turn all the way to your work again, occupying your hands as you muttered under your breath.

“No. I mean, it’s okay.”

“So, you conveniently missed the second half of my argument.”

“I was addressing the demotion concern first—”

“And now the General doesn’t regard me for my capability but for being in your bed—”

“She doesn’t care—”

“I care.” The last thing you wanted to do was raise your voice to him, but it happened before you could even stop yourself. As soon as the words shot out, you caught yourself, biting at your tongue again and inhaling a deep breath, repeating it as you calmed down. “I care.”

“Babe—”

“I can’t do this.” You finally broke, turning back to him. “You should go.”

He huffed, stepping up with a response on his lips but you only turned away, back to your work. With your back to him, the conversation was over, he had to accept that even as his heart tumbled from his chest, crashing through the floor.

When you finally heard the door to your small office slam shut behind you, you let your shoulders fall, the breath trapping tension in your body releasing as your head immediately began to pound.

Pounding like his fist did against the metal wall right outside your office, a strangled groan caught in his throat.

-> ko-fi

[elopez7228]

Scenic Route 13/47

Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268208/chapters/43229774  

Start over : https://elopez7228.tumblr.com/post/620919089893933056/scenic-route-0147

***

“If you’re going to follow us on tour I’m going to have to introduce you to the others,” Ben told her.  

Rey chewed on her lip nervously and he practically read her mind.  

“Don’t worry about Syed. She can be a jerk sometimes but she’ll come around. She won’t cause you any trouble.”

He was heading to the door when her hand on his forearm stopped him in his tracks. Her palm burned on contact.  

He turned around, feigning disinterest. But he had lost the ability to speak for a second. What was he, fifteen again?

Rey’s hazel eyes locked with his own. She had freckles on her cheeks and nose and she looked unwittingly adorable, even in shock.

“Ben, is this Syed girl actually your girlfriend?” Her eyes widened, ”She always keeps track of who you take out or share your room keys with, doesn’t she?”

Ben turned to her, towering over her with his massive frame. One of his arms rested casually on the wall behind her. Rey didn’t move. She could feel his breath, his sharp cologne, and she could see the outline of his muscles through his t-shirt. She blushed visibly, looking down.  

Ben didn’t miss her reaction. “What? You’re jealous too?” He smirked.  

He was expecting it. Rey blinked. She inhaled him, and for a fleeting moment a memory replayed itself, surging back from the depths of her subconscious. She suddenly remembered the feeling of kissing him—prying his lips open and seeking out his tongue as she breathed against his mouth.  

But she didn’t remember how it had happened. Had it been in a dream? Was Ben worming his way into her erotic fantasies?

Ben was well aware that she was eyeing his lips, though she probably didn’t realize it herself. His heart beat faster and he swore that his pants felt tighter. He concentrated on making the tension in his gut disappear.  

“Don’t you worry, we’re not together. But let’s just say we have history,” he replied.  

It was a euphemism at best, but Rey didn’t want to find out. She nodded. “I...I should start the dryer,” she said lamely.  

The moment had clearly passed. Ben chewed half-heartedly on his lower lip. He’d wavered. He should have kissed her. He needed the taste of her lips the way a parched man needed an oasis. Had he missed the perfect occasion?  

Rey ducked out of the corner she had backed into, bending over in front of the washing machine in order to transfer her clothes to the dryer. Her phone bulged awkwardly  out of her front pocket, so she paced it on the machine next to her for the time being.  

He responded in kind by letting his arm drop in a futile gesture. “Okay. If you still want to shower, I think there are stalls by the pool. I can give you access. Looks like you have a good forty five minutes courtesy of the dryer.”

She avoided his eyes but managed to nod. “Yeah, sounds good, let’s go,” she murmured as she got up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben observed that she had left her phone behind on one of the washers. Taking special care not to touch the screen with his fingers, he slipped it into his pocket as Rey exited the room. Now he would know if she was truly an Earth Soldiers operative.  

He guided her to the pool area which he unlocked with his room keycard. It was an indoor heated pool, and she would find showers in the locker room. He turned to leave.  

“I’ll be in the lobby,” he clarified, “Rendezvous downstairs?”  

Rey thanked him and beelined to the changing rooms. He made sure to distance himself before taking a sharp left into a corridor. It was there that he pulled out his spoils from the laundry room.

It was some kind of Android.

He could just barely make out her fingerprints on the illuminated lock screen. But would he get the password pattern right without activating the autolock? He examined the traces carefully. It looked like an “E” on first sight.  

Failed attempt.  

Then he tried an “F”, an “F” for Finn.  

Bingo

He cracked a disbelieving smile as the lock screen dissipated.  

But he didn’t have much time. What should he look up first? He badly wanted to go through her Facebook, her social network, or her emails maybe...he could find her photos with Finn. What did he look like? He wanted to look upon the face of the man who was inconsiderate enough—or insane enough—to snub a woman who had no equal.

Concentrate Kylo, what are the vitals?  

Call history.

He scrolled through her recent calls and took screenshots on his own phone. Her voicemail was empty.  

Emails: Jessika, Poe, and what appeared to be work memos from her job...in England.  

Then, he opened her photo album. Wyoming landscapes, two selfies—with Phasma in the background —the sheer level of amateur fuckup  there was absolutely incredible at this point. He scrolled a little lower...

Ben chewed on his lip for the hundredth time that day.

A series of selfies of her and a young black man with a charming smile. He looked sweet and loving, if one were to believe exhibits A through Z of the evidence footage.  

Ben’s mouth suddenly went dry as he scrolled through the pictures of her trying on a wedding dress. A delicate, lacy A-line  gown with a corseted bodice and a short train. Her beauty was breathtaking.  

What struck him most was how happy she was, Ben had never seen her smile like that, with such effortless sincerity. He had finally gotten to know her well enough, after a string of haphazard encounters over the past three days, and now he felt a sudden pang of aching sadness.  

He took some more screenshots with his own device and noted the emails and addresses of Rey’s friends: Jessika Pava, Finn Storm, and Poe Dameron. He also recorded the name and address of her workplace, and listed all of her British connections (most of whom were employed in London). What the hell was she doing Earth Soldiers, then? None of it made sense.  

Either she really had no connection or she was communicating with the activists using another phone. The second option was by far more probable, seeing as she had access to both the Millenium Falcon and BB8.  

In any case, he had to give her phone back. He would rather not risk putting it in the laundry room for fear of having it truly stolen. He walked up to a room service attendant who was making the rounds with a cart. A fifty dollar bill ensured that she would take the phone to the reception desk and claim that she had found it on a dryer in the laundry room.

Then he headed to the lobby where Syed informed him that Shakti and Skylar were taking a tour of the city while the rest of the band were in their respective rooms.

So much for introductions.

While waiting for Rey to reappear, he sent a summary of his findings as well as some coordinates to Snoke, who would no doubt find suitable people to investigate each and every element he brought up. If they found a link had been established between her and Earth Soldiers, or the Skywalker clan in particular, he would be the first to know.

Rey emerged from the corridor leading to the lobby in a frenzy. She was wearing clean clothes but her bag was stuffed to the brim with the rest of her unfolded laundry. Ben and Syed rose to their feet simultaneously.  

“I’ve lost my phone!” she exclaimed anxiously, “It’s an absolute catastrophe, I won’t be able to travel alone without a phone—what if I drop dead in the middle of the desert?!”  

“Are you sure you checked everywhere?” Ben asked, “what if it’s at the bottom of your bag?” he hoped he sounded convincingly worried about the situation.

“No, I...I emptied all of the contents. And my pockets too. I’m retracing my steps...I went back to the laundry room but it wasn’t there I—“

“Try asking the front desk,” Syed suggested, “Someone may have seen it and turned it in.”

Ben raised an eyebrow, taken aback by this unexpected show of benevolence on Syed’s part. Rey’s face lit up.

“I didn’t even consider that! Thanks!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Rey run up to the receptionist and exchange a few words before the woman presented her with a phone. She buried her face in her hands, her body visibly sagging with relief against the counter.  

Then he turned to Syed, cocking his head to one side. “What was that? Are you playing good cop now?”

She gave him a dirty look. “I’m a professional. I know my job, and I deliver. Did you have doubts?”

“Not for a second,” he responded. He then turned his attention to Rey, who was approaching them triumphantly, smartphone in hand. She gave Syed a brilliant smile.  

“Thank you so much, I was on the verge of a breakdown. And...sorry for the whole coffee thing earlier,” she said, extending a hand towards the other woman.

“Syed,” she said as she shook it, “No worries. Kylo tells me you’ll be following us on tour?”  

Rey glanced over to Ben, seeking his approval, but his face was impassive.  

“Oh, no, I mean, not the whole tour. Just some dates. To uh, have a few road stops here and there cause the drive is long,” she was babbling at this point, “It’s just that I’m traveling alone and it would be good to have people to meet up with if I’m having an off day—“ Rey paused, clamping her mouth shut before she could add or if some random blonde woman decides to follow me and steal my car. “—Anyway, I don’t want to spend too much time here in Jackson Hole, but I think I’ve decided to attend your concert tomorrow, if you don’t mind?”  

“Not at all, you’re welcome to,” Ben replied, “I can even give you backstage access, but we won’t have too much time to hang out because we need to set things up for the next show.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Rey smiled, “I’ll take the time to look around a little. Since I landed in Denver I was so busy I never had the chance to really see any of the place. Do you know what I could do around here for fun?”

Syed was going to throw up. It was hard enough to play nice for long without having to play tour guide too. Fortunately—or unfortunately—Rey only seemed to have eyes for Kylo. Alas, it seemed like Kylo was no better in that regard. If anything, he was worse. It took a painful amount of effort on her part in order to stop the bloody Brit from running for the hills. But she managed to keep her voice somewhat natural: “Well it is a winter sports lodge, you could always take the chairlift up the mountain and come back down on foot. Or go on a boat ride down Snake River a few miles north of here.”  

“Ah, a hike would be a great idea, but I’m not sure if dogs are allowed on the ch—oh shit, BB8!” She had completely forgotten that BB was still in the parked car, for over an hour now. She shouldered her knapsack, still half-open and overflowing with laundry, and ran towards the exit.  

Syed and Ben remained standing in the lobby, watching her run like the wind. As the automatic doors screeched to a close,  a feeling crept over them, like calm and devastation at once. Like going back home to examine the damage a tornado had done to your home. Everything was suddenly dead silent. Ben felt empty inside again, and he took a deep breath. As though he had stopped breathing in her presence.  

Syed sighed audibly in exasperation, “Okay, spill it. What the hell’s your problem?” She spat venomously.

“It’s her.” He responded, his mind a million miles away.  

“Trust me, I got that part.” She rolled her eyes, “Where did she come from? Why is Snoke interested in her?”

Ben turned to face her in a slow and deliberate movement. “I’ll explain, but not here. Right now your job is to monitor her every move. The good news is that the dog doesn’t recognize you. Unlike me, who it tried to take a bite out of, stupid mutt.”  

Syed’s eyes widened in amazement. “Her dog really tried to bite you? Are you kidding me?”

“It belonged to my uncle, Luke Skywalker. But it doesn’t add up: why is some English tourist touring the U.S. in Han Solo’s car, accompanied by Luke’s pet? There are too many coincidences here, I have to figure out her relationship with them.”

“So you can do what? Punish her with the intensity of your longing looks?”  

Ben blanched. The fact the Rey threw him off his game was one thing, the fact that Syed was picking up on that and threatening to use it against him...that, he would never tolerate.  

“We’ll see about that.” He said through gritted teeth. “Someone has to get her to talk. If I can get her to admit what my mother has been plotting against FORCE, I’ll sound the alarm.”

“And you think it’ll be some pillow talk confessional? Is that your plan?”

Syed maintained her sangfroid for the most part, but her voice shook with a certain anger that didn’t escape Ben’s notice...but he certainly approved of the idea of a pillow talk confessional. A flame licked down his spine, obliterating all his worldly pain for a moment. He managed to smile, looking for Rey’s telltale silhouette as he scanned the hotel lobby with his eyes.  

“And why not? The ends justify the means after all...and you’re going to help me.” He slid a hand into his pocket, revealing a packet of cigarettes. “I’m going to take a smoke break. Fetch the others, I’ll take care of Rey for now. We’ll meet up at the Gun Barrel Bar in an hour. I advise you to take this seriously because Snoke certainly is.” He turned to leave.  

Instead of leaving herself, Syed blocked him, placing a hand over the fly of his trousers. He was trying to hide the fact that he was still recovering from the idea of bedding Rey. She gave him a stroke from base to tip, smooth and fatal. Her other hand latched on to his torso, and she brought herself up on her tiptoes to graze her lips against his mouth. “Don’t try to hide the effect she has on you, Kylo” she whispered in his ear, “I know you by heart. Don’t try to tell me that this pillow talk scheme is all in the name of Snoke. You’re thinking with your dick here. Don’t screw over the mission you were assigned.  Be careful Kylo—you’re at risk of disobeying the boss man yourself. I hope that fucking her will be worth the pain, because you’re going to lose the mission, and your job.”

“Fuck you,” Ben hissed, and Syed let him go.  

“Whenever you want, wherever you want, baby. And I’ll be quick about it too.”  

She held up her middle finger as she sauntered in the direction of her room, ostensibly making sure that her point got across.

[theentiregdtime]

hey if you’re still in a mood for bryan adams/macden asks: please consider “cuts like a knife”

Dennis is dropping Mac off on a date.

Which is fine. It’s an inconvenience and a complete waste of an hour of his evening, but otherwise… it’s fine.

Traffic is light, he can pick up dinner on the way back, and he’s playing his Bryan Adams CD in the car without any objection from Mac, for once- presumably because he feels guilty for asking this favor of him.

Which he should! And he should give Dennis the usual ‘thanks, man, you’re the best!’ and swear to pay him back and babble on and on about how awesome this is to the point where it’s entirely annoying (but Dennis doesn’t tune him out, he never tunes him out, even when he’s rambling incoherently).

Mac isn’t doing any of that, though. As a matter of fact, they’re hardly talking at all. It’s quiet between them. Not the effortless, familiar quiet, but the kind that sits on the back of your tongue and burns a hole in your throat.

The only thing filling the stillness between them is the stereo, good ol’ Bryan Adams singing about how there was only you and me and there’s nowhere unless you’re there and you told me that you’d wait forever.

“I feel like you’re mad at me, dude,” cuts the silence like a knife.

What? He isn’t-…!

Ah, shit, that’s fair.

Dennis does have quite a history of berating Mac over his dates- but that’s because they were always thinly-veiled charades that he made a big, flamboyant show of so everyone could see just how well he was keeping the closet doors shut.

But they’re open now. They’re open and it’s different and Dennis isn’t mad. He’s not even jealous or bitter about how he’s going to go home tonight and watch a movie alone and his best friend will be out here gallivanting about town with someone else. There’s just…

Something in him is burning. He can’t quite place it, but at the same time, he knows exactly what it is and simply doesn’t wish to look it in the eye.

Mac is out of the closet. He’s dating guys now, and this is the first of them he’s formally gone out with, at least as far as Dennis is aware. He doesn’t pretend to know what Mac gets up to when he spends the afternoon at the Rainbow and comes back covered in sweat and glitter, or what he did over the course of the year they didn’t speak.

It’s real now. It’s genuine. It isn’t a stage act. It isn’t a six-ring bullshit circus of Catholicism and heterosexuality and look how normal I am whilst he parades around like a damned rodeo clown.

That means if he grabs someone by the shoulders and says he loves them, he’ll mean it. If he ducks in to give someone an excited kiss, it’s going to connect and he’s going to want it.  If he goes out on a dinner date, he’s going to wear two colognes and someone is going to like the smell of it. If he moves in with someone, they’re going to sleep in the same bed, and if they sleep in the same bed, they’re going to hold each other. If he buys someone a gift, it’s going to be because he knows them, really knows them.

And there aren’t going to be any more movie nights or monthly dinners or drunken brownouts at the bar. Dennis is going to be alone- and he’s never been truly alone. It was Dee and his parents, then it was Mac, then it was Maureen, then Mac, then Mandy, then Mac-

He isn’t certain what silence is going to sound like.

When he pictures it, he’s on the sofa watching a movie, and no one is eating chips too loudly and leaving crumbs, no one’s feet are encroaching upon his personal space, no one is pausing to make idiotic commentary every ten minutes, and the movie just plays and plays and keeps going until it’s over and time is passing and everything is growing old. He’s reading a book undisturbed because there’s no one in the other room on a goddamned exercise bike or making themselves a sandwich or taking a shower. There is Dennis Reynolds and then there is blackness, deafening quiet, like the vacuum of space, and there is nothing in between.

“I’m not mad,” Dennis insists unconvincingly. He’s not sure why it sounds like a lie, because for once, it isn’t.

The CD skips over to the next song, and an upbeat guitar begins blaring a bit too loudly for their conversation. He doesn’t turn it down, though, because he doesn’t want to have to hear the nothingness in between.

Driving home this evening, could have sworn we had it worked out…

Dennis likes this song. Of course he does, it’s his mix CD- but it strikes him differently now. Typically, he’s slapping the steering wheel and cutting people off in traffic and singing loudly, thinking about wanting something so badly and feeling it slip away but still wanting it, and the reckless thrill and romance of the give-and-take of it all.

Well, I heard it on the street, heard you might have found somebody new…

But it doesn’t feel that in real life. There is nothing exciting or arousing or mysterious about this. It just feels like trying to hold onto water.

Who is he, baby? And tell me what he means to you…

“I do think this is a waste of my night, but I didn’t wish to hear your whining, so I’m here!” Dennis snaps a little callously, but he isn’t shouting yet. “I’m driving the car, aren’t I?”

Mac doesn’t respond right away. It’s just the music again.

Mac was supposed to wait. He was supposed to wait for Dennis. He was supposed to be fine with nothing for years and years, fine with both of them stalling by messing around with inconsequential women, until Dennis decided he was finally ready. He was supposed to always be an option. He was supposed to always be there, just waiting in the corner of the ring until Dennis tapped him in.

The door was always supposed to be open and now it’s starting to shut.

I took it all for granted, but how was I supposed to know that you’d be letting go?

Yeah, that stings.

“It’s just, like, we’re not talking and-”

“Then talk. Why must I be the one to talk? I am trying to focus on the road, Mac!”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to, because you’re just gonna yell at me.”

Dennis doesn’t glance over, but he’s sure Mac is pouting.

Or even worse, maybe he’s not making puppy dog eyes and sticking out his bottom lip as he does when he’s being melodramatic. Maybe he’s hurt, wholly and genuinely hurt, and his face is just dead.

Dennis doesn’t glance over.

“Oh, that is- I am not going to yell at you, you sound like a child-”

“You’re yelling at me now, Dennis.”

“Because you’re being absurd!”

It’s silent again.

Can’t you see we did the best we could?

Mac clicks his tongue.

“See, this is what I was talking about,” he sighs in defeat.

Dennis is not going to apologize. No way in hell is he going to apologize. He isn’t even going to pretend to- Mac is acting absolutely ridiculous.

“Sorry, but you left for like a year,” Mac continues to rant, loud enough to drown out the stereo. “All I’m trying to do is go out on one date!”

Dennis comes to a sudden halt at a stoplight, hoping Mac’s seatbelt locks and snaps against his collar. It’s what he deserves for starting this purposeless argument.

“I didn’t make you drive me to North Dakota,” he levels, voice devoid of any tone whatsoever, and raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, yeah, but I’m doing this for you!”

Oh, what in the hell is that supposed to mean? Is he meant to get down on his knees and thank him for the opportunity to be his chauffeur?

“I didn’t want you not to have the car tomorrow morning if I end up…”

Someone behind them honks, even though the light’s been green less than a second. Normally, Dennis would spin around and memorize such a rude man’s face to seek reprisal, but he doesn’t have the time nor the energy at the moment. Instead, he merely hits the gas and takes the next corner.

“And what if you don’t? You expect me to come back out here at god knows what hour of the night to pick you back up? Like some sort of schoolchild? As if it would be beneath you to take a goddamn taxi?”

Mac is broke, he’s always broke, Dennis knows that. He knows that because all of their money was in the same place for years, and it was all Dennis’, and then he was a ghost and Mac was left to pay the bills alone.

But he seems to have spent the past year getting himself together, supposedly enough to save his money and actually spend it on something other than ironic shirts and scratch-offs and dangerous schemes with Charlie and shopping on the dark web. He’s gotten himself together enough that he really doesn’t need Dennis for anything…

And that’s terrifying.

Oh, it cuts like a knife…

“Fine, then don’t pick me up.” Mac throws his hands in the air in an act of surrender. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

Dennis’ fingernails dig into the steering wheel, and he tosses some words around in his head, feels them out, because he needs to say something and it needs to be convincing, and goddamn it, he’s going to say something because-

“You should get over. It’s coming up.”

He wonders what would happen if he didn’t hit the turn signal, if he missed the stop by accident, if he just kept on driving. He wonders if the door would still be open.

When he looks over to check the flow of traffic in the turn lane, he catches a glimpse of Mac’s face. It’s only been a year, but he looks a lot older than Dennis remembers. He looks less energetic, less happy, less carefree. He supposes they both do.

It’s like there’s a weight on them now. Mac is out of the closet, and suddenly it’s not just fun and games and casual touching and almost kisses and laughter and late nights and sharing beers and crafting fake marriage schemes and pretending it all means nothing. They can no longer fall into the safety net of denial. Everything means something now, and that makes Dennis want to say and do nothing at all, because every word and every touch is a glass one drop from spilling over into something for which he isn’t ready.

But Mac was supposed to wait.

There’s no more time for him to wait, though, because they’re at his stop.

“Thanks,” Mac mutters under his breath before kicking his door open.

He’s angry now, but he isn’t going to do anything about it, because Dennis did him a favor by driving him here. That’s how Mac is. Even when he’s bursting at the seams with rage or excitement or something else entirely, he chokes his emotions down for the sake of their friendship. Dennis is usually apt at keeping things in, too, but tonight it feels like bile is rising in the back of his throat.

Mac’s feet hit the pavement and he tugs his jacket sleeves over his wrists, bracing against the cold air. He turns to close the passenger side door, but before it shuts, Dennis reaches an arm out. His knuckles just barely graze Mac’s shoulder.

“Mac, wait…”

Mac doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t walk away, either. He simply stands there, staring like a fish, eyebrows curved and lips tense, like he might go if Dennis tells him to go, but he might stay if Dennis asks him to stay.

He doesn’t ask him to stay.

“I’ll pick you up later, okay?” he offers, their eyes finally meeting dead on. He hopes Mac will know what he means by it, to save him from having to admit to anything aloud.

Mac swallows, contemplating, and for a moment, Dennis thinks he may respond with an ‘I’ll let you know’.

“Okay,” he says instead.

Dennis wonders what Mac might say if he tells him he’s ready, tells him he doesn’t have to wait anymore, tells him he doesn’t even need to go meet this guy because there doesn’t need to be another guy.

He doesn’t say any of that, either.

“I’ll… rent a movie,” he mumbles, “and you can tell me about your date.”

“Okay.”

Mac nods softly, looking at Dennis like he could say anything in the world and he would still reply ‘okay’.

'Stay with me.’

'Okay.’

'Don’t go on any more dates.’

'Okay.’

'Wait for me.’

'Okay.’

“Text me,” is all that ends up leaving Dennis’ mouth.

“Okay.” Mac closes the car door.

Then he’s stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, spinning on his heel, and making his way into the restaurant. Then he’s gone.

And the door is really shut.

All that’s left is the music. All that’s left is Bryan Adams still singing to him like he knows him and sees exactly what the fuck is going on and just how fucking pathetic he looks right now.

Oh, it cuts like a knife…

“Yeah,” Dennis says to himself, as he turns forward and pulls back onto the road. “It sure does, buddy.”

[thebriarpost]

A Small Gift: Chapter 4

Hi! Quick note! So in this story, Elain and Lucien are not mates. It was really throwing off my plan for this! He is still interested in her, but how could he not be.

ELAIN Elain sat at her vanity placing the last flower in her hair. She looked at the small shadow in her lap, twisting through her fingers. “What colour are you thinking today?” Cerridwen asked from Elain’s armoire, moving through dresses. The shadow in her palm twirled up to her ear. “Blue” it whispered. Elain turned in her seat. “Well, the jury has decided” Cerridwen turned from the dresses to look at Elain  “Who has decided my lady?.”  Elain looked down at her hand perplexed, “Can you not hear this?”  She held the shadow up in her palm. “While we may slip into shadow, if it speaks to you, only you may hear it” Nuala answered for her sister. “Oh,” Elain said turning back towards the mirror. “Interesting” she mused to herself.

 Nuala continued; “The ability to communicate with shadows is rare, I wonder what connection you have…” Nuala’s voice faded away, and Elain’s vision became hazy until everything was black. Suddenly, a pair of boots running up stairs came into sight. A hand covered in shadow reaching towards a door. Then she could see herself, she was pulling her arms through a blue dress. As quickly as the vision came; it was gone again, and she was back to her room. “Are you all right?” Nuala asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. Elain blinked twice - coming back to her surroundings. “Yes, just nonsense. It meant nothing” Elain gave her a reassuring smile in the mirror.  

AZRIEL Azriel stepped to the side at the last minute to miss Cassian’s blade. Pulling his own up to block his next blow. “Where is your head?” Cassian asked. Taking a step back and putting his sword back into its scabbard. He was right, Azriel couldn’t focus. Maybe giving Elain that shadow was a mistake because now he didn’t want to be anywhere she wasn’t. “Sorry, my head is just somewhere else” Azriel replied putting away his blade as well. They walked back to the main tents. No new attacks, no further information. Everything seemed calm for the moment. Azriel knew nothing good came from calm. As they entered two Illyrians stood from the table “There is news” said the older of the two. “Some soldiers from Arion’s camp were captured in a nearby town.”   The younger interjected. “They have agreed to give us information and draw us plans of Arion’s camp in exchange for their lives” He set papers down on the table.  Cassian picked them up and began to look through them. “These should be taken to Rhysand,” he said. Azriel looked from the spot on the ground where he had been staring. “I’ll go,” he said a little too quickly. Cassian looked from the papers to his brother and gave him a smug look. “Eager to get back?” “No,” Azriel said defensively “As spymaster, I should relay this information.” “Right” Cassian answered handing Azriel the papers. Cassian put his arm around Azriel’s shoulders. “Well give Nesta a kiss for me” Azriel winced, knowing that she would likely stab him if he tried.

He landed a few hours later in the garden and was struck with disappointment. He wouldn’t admit to anyone else that he chose this spot hoping Elain might be out. It was still the morning, he wondered if she might still be inside. He walked towards the townhouse, the plans tucked under his arm.

ELAIN Nuala pulled a dress from Elain’s armoire and moved to place it on the bed. While the dresses she wore now were very simple, the backs still required assistance. This one, in particular, closed at the back with a ribbon. She got up and walked to the bed when she realized it. This dress was the one she saw in her vision. The beat of wings brought her attention to the window. “I can manage myself; you should go downstairs.” Elain let out, looking back to the dress. Nuala gave her a questioning look “But how will you do up the back?” “Oh, I can manage” Elain replied, trying to sound casual. The sound of wings again brought Nualas attention to the window. She looked back at Elain with a knowing smile. “Of course my lady, I will see you downstairs” and made her way to the door. Once she was alone, Elain contemplated what she was doing. If her vision was correct, he would walk through her door. She felt jittery, and her hands began to shake slightly as she pulled her clothes from the night before off and slid on her dress. Like clockwork, as she pulled her arms through the sleeves, there was a knock. She stopped breathing for a second. “Come in,” she said, trying to sound effortless. Her back turned to the door, but she heard it open. “Elain” he said, and she heard him stop. She looked over her shoulder to see him. He took up most of the door frame, his hair was slightly disheveled from flying. His hazel eyes were trained on her exposed back, he blinked and quickly looked to the ground. “I’m so sorry, I  thought you said come in. Sorry, I’ll go” he reached for the door handle keeping his eyes low. “Wait” she hesitated, “I did ask you to come in, I need a hand with the back of this dress. You wouldn’t mind would you?” She smiled sheepishly like she hadn’t orchestrated this moment. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Time seemed to slow as he closed the distance between them, setting the papers under his arm on a small table. “I don’t bite” she said jokingly. She could feel him standing behind her, she looked down and could see his hands at his sides, flexing open and closed. “I know” he chuckled. “you’re too sweet.” He used a hand to brush her hair off her back over her shoulder. Her skin pebbled everywhere his hands accidentally touched. He paused for a second before using that hand again to trace over her shoulder blades to the middle of her spine. She inhaled a breath. He took a small step closer, closing any remaining distance between them. He bent to place a soft kiss on her shoulder blade, then another on the nape of her neck. “So sweet,” he said into her skin. His hand moved to splay across her hip and the other around her middle. She felt wrapped up in him and was intoxicated by it. She spun in his arms, his eyes now piercing into hers. She brought her hands up to his chest, feeling the muscles underneath his leathers, then slowly up to hold each side of his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling. “The only thing I don’t like about our shadow arrangement is that I can’t see your face” She lifted herself up and brought her lips to his, and kissed him softly. As she did the hand he had on her hip tightened as he grabbed at more of the fabric there.  She pulled back to see his eyes still closed and he shook his head softly. “Elain” he began, his voice almost strained. “I need to tell you something; I should have told you so long ago.” “Tell me later” she wrapped a hand around his neck and the other grabbed his collar “Kiss me now” she said as she pulled his face back to hers. He sighed into her,  tightening his hold and leaning into her completely. The shadows at his feet began to swirl and rise higher, surrounding them both. Elain parted her lips, an invitation.

AZRIEL He kissed her gently at first, but the feeling of having her this close was intoxicating. He moved a hand to her back, needing to feel the softness of her skin again. Her lips parted, and her tongue ran over his bottom lip. His mind yelled at him to stop that she deserved more than stolen kisses. His body, however, wouldn’t listen. He opened his mouth in response and deepened the kiss needing everything she would give him. “The High Lady makes her way up the stairs” the voice of shadows said to his mind. He pulled back slightly to see Elain already looking back at him. “Feyres coming” she said stepping back and bringing her fingers to her lips. It seemed the shadows warned her as well.   Her face was flushed, and lips were swollen, she was so tempting; as if he dreamed her.

He commanded his mind back to sense. The shadows surrounding them began to recede slowly as if they too didn’t want to be pulled away from her. “Oh, there you are Azriel” Feyre seemed surprised as she opened the door. “I thought you arrived, Rhysand is waiting for you.” Azriel cleared his throat  “Yes, of course”  He turned and gave Feyre a small smile as he passed and made his way down the stairs. He found Rhysand in his office, sitting at his desk. “So I hear you have information,” he said, sounding the part of High Lord. “Yes, I’ve brought you the plans we’ve received” Rhysand looked up from the paper he was writing on. “And where are they?” He smiled at Azriel like he already knew. Azriel looked around; he had left them in Elain’s room. The two males talked at length. Rhysand was resigned not to leave Feyre when she was this far along with her pregnancy, but Azriel could tell this made him uneasy. “Don’t worry Rhys; I can handle this”  Rhysand let out a deep breath. “I know you can Az, I just wish you didn’t have to.” Azriel chuckled “Would you rather have a life of boredom?” Rhysand scoffed. “Some days I think it might be nice” He began to stand from his desk as Azriel’s shadows moved up to his ear. “Vanserra has just arrived, he waits for Elain in her garden” Anger began to flow through him. He knew Elain was her own person and owed him nothing, but he couldn't help the feelings Lucien’s presence caused.  “I should head back” Azriel stood quickly, masking his face with indifference.

ELAIN Elain walked with Lucien through the paths in the backyard, not focusing on the direction. Her mind was elsewhere, it was in her room this morning. The moments that took place replaying on a loop. She had also realized something, another piece of herself. She was tired of being labeled as innocent, of only accepting a chaste kiss to her cheek on her birthdays. Of waiting for things to come to her, and accepting them if they didn’t. She knew what she wanted - whom she wanted. A soft touch at her elbow brought her mind back to the garden and Lucien. He smiled at her, waiting for her to answer the question she hadn't heard. “I’m sorry Lucien, could you say that again, my mind was somewhere else” She felt sorry for blatantly ignoring him. He had always been kind to her, and while his interests were obvious - he didn’t deserve her rudeness. Even if she didn’t reciprocate his feelings. “Do you think Feyre and Rhys would mind if I stayed for dinner?” He asked again as they walked back towards the house.

Dinner that evening was pleasant but slow, Elain kept her eye on the clock. Feigning interest in the idle chatter. She wished to be upstairs and speak to Azriel. He had left without saying anything. Elain wondered if this was due to Lucien’s arrival. Lucien passed her a cup of tea as he sat down to her right. “Late for something?” he asked “Oh! No of course not.” Elain said flustered as she accepted the cup. “You look at the clock every few minutes” he said playfully nudging her with his shoulder. She didn’t realize she was that obvious. “Is there someone your missing..” Lucien began before he was cut off by a knock on the door. Rhysand stood up to answer, he opened the door and stepped aside. An Illyrian who was stationed outside the townhouse since Feryres pregnancy entered the foyer. “I’m sorry to interrupt sir but there has been another attack.”

[deathbyvalentine]

Random Larp Prompts

Cal - Sad Armscrew

It wasn’t exactly something you asked about. But she had been expecting the small psyker to make their way back onto the Chaser. Bit naive perhaps, but towards the end they had had a call sign and everything. An’ it was obvious how attached to the XO they were. She thought they might be sticking around a bit. She wouldn’t have admitted to anyone she was disappointed that Mx. Gearwright didn’t come back onboard.

It was back to general security detail now. No making hot chocolates at silly o’clock, sourcing blankets or giving up her bunk. No more scraps with Castranova’s lot, even though they still eyeballed each other every time they passed in a corridor. No more finding them dozing in odd places or scrawling down weird things they said to pass on. No more getting absolutely infuriated when she lost them when they were played hide and seek with that damn skit.

She should have been relieved. It had been an odd job with an even odder charge. There had been no questions invited about where they had gone and honestly, she wasn’t sure she’d understand the answer considering the weird golden bullshit they’d been pulling. Talk on the ship said they were a saint now. Guess it was time to move on.

But she still found herself humming an old Olethran lullaby from time to time.

Lance - Confession

He felt utterly wretched in a way he hadn’t in far, far too long. He could feel it down to his bones, the hurt so acute it almost became physical. He remembered when he used to get like this in the academy, when he would become incapable of anything but feeling this. It had been one of the many factors that had kicked him into addiction. And now he didn’t have that to fall back on. ‘What do normal people do when they get this sad?’

His shoulders shook with the effort of making sure his tears didn’t produce noise. He couldn’t bear the idea of anyone seeing him in such a mess, not when he had spent so many years carefully constructing this image of competence and effortless control. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply.

“You wasted your years. You failed the God Emperor.”

He knew it to be true and he thought he had forgiven himself. Apparently not. The wound was ripped open and fresh, and the blood was a hundred disappointing memories. Stealing from superiors, constant insolence, neglecting his duties, dousing himself in stimms and sex, every rotten thing he once was and perhaps still is brought to the surface like something dead coming to the surface of a pond.

He had gotten better. He had made himself. It hadn’t been easy. It had been painful and long-winded and some days he wondered why he had even bothered at all. But that wasn’t chronomancy. It didn’t replace what he lost. And now he was wondering if anything ever could make up for that folly or if he was doomed to forever be playing catch up to a self he despised.

He just wanted to be forgiven, to be absolved, to be good. He never would be, due to what he was and what remained. He just had to accept that and hope the Emperor would love him anyway.

Lance - Penance

He sat back on his heels, keeping his eyes perfectly level. In front of him, a portrait of St. Sanguinius staring right back at him with cold eyes like flint. He could feel the blood travelling down his back, sinking to the waistband of his trousers. The individual lashes had ceased to hurt, instead his entire back had formed into a tapestry of aching fire. He did not let his head drop or his eyes water, but even he couldn’t stop the muscle twitches across his shoulders or the tight fists his hands balled into. But his pride allowed him to stay upright, and for that he was thankful.

“Up.” Slowly, he rose from his knees, cursing the slight tremor in his legs betraying the amount of pain he was in. He held his shirt in his hands, unsure of if he was allowed to put it back on yet, or even if he wanted the fabric on his bare wounds. The air was making them sting but the thought of touching them was almost enough to make him retch. Absently, he noted the spray of blood across the marble. He couldn’t quite connect to the idea it was his.

The Commissar looked him up and down, and he wondered how insolent his face was looking. He didn’t mean for it to be arranged that way but he was reliably informed that his intent didn’t particularly matter in that regard.He didn’t have a victim complex but sometimes he really did wonder if he was punished more harshly simply because of the upwards tilt his lips had.

“Report to the medbay. Clean yourself up. If I see you in the next two weeks, I won’t be as gentle.” He managed to curb the urge to laugh, instead he nodded, saluted and left the room, taking a certain amount of grim satisfaction in the knowledge that marble stained.

He was blind to the number of glances and whispers as he walked to the medbay, lost in his own thoughts. He had no sense of shame about his nakedness, nor about his punishment. He hadn’t gotten anyone killed, he hadn’t endangered anything but himself and the Commissar’s ego, so therefore it was fine. He had no guilt and indeed, no intention of not doing it again. Next time he just wouldn’t get caught.

In bed that night though, he began to have second thoughts. Sleeping on his chest was uncomfortable but anything touching his back was utterly unbearable. And there was a small twinge in the bottom of his stomach which was impossible to ignore, the one that felt like his mother’s disapproval. She may not be here, but her morals certainly were and she would be utterly disappointed to find her son’s respect for authority lacking.

But she wasn’t here. Lance told himself, sharply. If she wanted any say in how he acted, she would be here. The absent don’t get opinions and he was choosing to enjoy himself. Maybe if he fucked up badly enough she would return just to lecture him. Maybe.

Lance - MIU

He balanced the mirror between his knees, clamping them tight. His tongue was poking out from between his lips, eyes squinted in concentration. Carefully mounted on a stand next to the mirror was a list of instructions, beautifully inscribed. In his hands were two long, thin, steel tools that were currently pressed deeply into his MIU. Do not try this at home could have been the caption.

There had been a small malfunction, a high tinny whine that he had diagnosed as being caused by a wire snapping. He couldn’t quite tell if the whine was mechanical or biological, but either way, he was confident he could fix it. If he could do it before his superior officer showed up and dragged him to the medbay anyway.

He found it oddly soothing, the knowledge that he could fix himself. He could sew himself up, rewire his nerves, reset his MIU without ever needing the help of anybody else. That sort of self-sufficiency he treasured. And of course he liked altering and working on his own tech, the same way he did any. 

His hands were steady as he gently dragged the wire from one side to the other, peeling back the broken plastic covering and snipping it away. Another moment and he added a new line of wiring, wrapping it up safely. One wrong move and he could cause complete neural failure. His mouth twitched in amusement. This was a risk as much as flying was. 

He exhaled steadily, removing one tool and picking up the casing from his thigh and easing it into place, the maglock clicking it into place. The screws went in easily, the Castellum design made to be sleek and easy to work with. The casing was a new one - iridescent in most lights, matching the colour of his eyes.

He liked how he looked so much better like this, his skin fused with wires and metal. 

“Do You Long For A Friend?” Matthias thoughtfully mulls his Matchmaking Dinner invitation.

It had become a slight running joke within his family. Gentle, loving, but a joke none the less. How much Matthias loved contracts and dating, and went through partners at alarming speeds. It wasn’t that his love or attraction was casual, quite the opposite in fact. He very rarely broke off contacts or was reluctant to renew them. He just tended to become very starry eyed very quickly. He could find something to love in most people, and once he saw it, he wanted them to know it. He was as invested in his feelings as he was about everything else in his life, and as a changeling freeborn, that was rather saying something.

So when the invitation was delivered, there was never going to be any option but yes. Firstly, he enjoyed the decadence of Sarvos immensely and was keen to revisit it. It was a city that knew how to be beautiful. He wanted to visit the theatres and ciscibeo houses, the galleries and operas. He liked travelling, especially if that travelling came with creature comforts.

Secondly, he was rather curious about this particular Carta. He couldn’t make up his mind about them, if they would get along or not. They were beautiful, certainly, but he always felt several steps behind them. And he did not enjoy feeling like he wasn’t the cleverest person in the room.

Thirdly, and this was the crucial point, he wanted to meet more people and maybe more dating partners outside his comfort zone. He liked change, new things, novelty. And most of his beloveds were from the Coast, with the notable exception of his sort of wife and a few other flirtations. Perhaps too, though he would never admit it, he was missing Sol more than he was letting on.

He hated being alone, left with his own thoughts or bored. He was at his happiest when he had proof in front of him he was adored. One of his fathers had tweaked his antler fondly and joked “If a changeling exists and nobody compliments them, do they exist?” Funny, but a little close to the antler.

He would go. He would have fun and laugh and flirt and get complimented, and everything would be wonderful. He’d make sure of it.

The First Day of Spring

There was still a chill in the air, a light frost covering the leaves and grass. Amber liked the cold, the way it felt sharp against her skin and made her feel like she was filled with buzzing energy. She liked it especially first thing in the morning (which was her favourite time anyway), the way it gathered in low mist or made her breath into steam. She sat at the top of a tree, hands firmly on the branch, watching with satisfaction as the sun rose, turning the sky shades of pink. 

She might have been imagining it but she was sure she could feel it in the air. The sensation of shaking off, of waking up, of creatures and plants under the earth stirring and reaching for the sun. Soon there would be meadows of snow drops and bluebells, rabbits and lambs raising their young, and she wouldn’t have to crack open ponds first thing in the morning. There would be fresh greenery to bio-engineer into her leg - she tried to keep the flowers and vines that knit together to form something like muscles in season. She liked matching the woods around her.

Slowly, taking time to observe the forest around her, she made her way down the tree and onto the path she had carved out over the last month. She never stayed in one place too long of course, but recently she had found a place that captured her interest, and she wasn’t quite done with exploring it yet.

It was a lighthouse, old by the look of the peeling paint and shattered glass. It certainly didn’t light up anymore. And the sea wasn’t for miles, so who knew why it was even here in the first place. When she had first found it, she had circled it suspiciously for a few weeks, not entirely trusting it not to be a trick. She even tossed a few rocks at the structure, hiding behind a bush and waiting to see if anyone came out of the heavy metal door that was set into the circular wall.

Eventually she decided to risk it. The door was unlocked, much to her surprise. It swung open into a silence the likes of which she had never heard. In the forest, it was never silent. There were always twigs snapping, birds singing, wind rustling leaves. It was an entire tapestry of sound from which you could tell a hundred things, if you knew how to interpret it. Here, nothing moved. The air was still and stale and silent. 

It hadn’t changed since that first visit. It wouldn’t have. Inside the first room, there was nothing but a cloak room. If you went through the next door, you were in a room with an iron staircase tracking the side of the wall, curling far upward in an insistent spiral.  As she always did, she made her way up, not quite enjoying the ringing sound her footsteps made. She tread gently, but in this place, even her bare feet made an impact. 

When you got to the top, you went through another door, and then you were in a control room. Metal counters and panels lined the place, surrounded by windows that allowed you to see for miles around, like a watch tower. None of the panels lit up, the power long since cut. Nature had tried to claim this place once, but found few footholds. There were vines, but withered and dead.

Then the were the skeletons.

The bones were picked clean, only a few scraps of clothing remaining. They were on chairs, one or two on the floor as though they just dropped where they stood. There was no blood, no staining. No clue to what had killed them. Maybe some Combine gas or something similar, maybe poison from being stupid in their scavenging. Their workplace had become their tomb.

Amber wasn’t quite sure why she kept coming back here. She spent a lot of time evading death, so much so that her personality was formed around survival. Here were those that were not so practiced at running. The consequences of getting caught. Static, unflinching. It was the worst nightmare she could think of.

Crouching, she decided she wouldn’t come back here again. Time to move on with the seasons, find somewhere to watch the flowers burst into bloom, somewhere to let the sun touch her skin, shyly, like a first lover. She snapped the finger bone from one of the bodies. It was the most that had happened in this place in years. A reminder, a totem of what happened when you forgot how to be good prey.

[jillmckenzie1]

The Courage to Question

I have a confession. I haven’t been completely honest with you lately.

I spent my last blog explicating a story about some guy in camo pants that would, quite literally, run into me in the singles line of my favorite chairlift. A guy that would inevitably save me from the digital dead zone of online dating. A guy who, at first take, would appear to be completely random, until we’d both divulge the calculated decisions we had made to get us into that same lift line on that same mountain on that very same day, and none of it would seem so random after all.

As much I want to chalk this up to fantasy (because, let’s be honest now, it is quite the fantasy), my confession is that camo pants is a very real-life guy. He is a walking, breathing, handsome human that has managed to surpass Whole Foods in my list of favorite things (in case you’re confused by this comment, it means that he’s sitting in a generally hard-to-reach number one).

And herein lies the paradox that is dating.

He and I. We are easy, which is perfectly epitomized by that casual chance encounter in a lift line that the two of us have visited – without running into anyone noteworthy – hundreds of times before. We are so easy that I often have to pinch myself to remind me that it’s real. Because I had convinced myself, so many years ago, that it should be so damn hard. And, we, us, we are the furthest thing from hard.

But, the dating ladder. The notorious dating ladder. That is hard.

Because you are both simultaneously, and independently, climbing the rungs of pre-dating to open dating to exclusive dating to full-blown relationship without a clear understanding of how the other person even defines those terms in our trying times of 2019. So, you are forced to engage in open conversation with the utmost fear that you might just scare off or piss off or something off this human that you ultimately just want to like you (like really like you).

Because there is that moment (well, I guess not ever having that moment would be a clear indication to abort the mission). But, you know, when all of a sudden you’ve gone from “Well, isn’t this fun?” to “Uh-oh, I am feeling this person.” Yeah, that moment.

Let me clarify for any of you who aren’t tracking.

We had spent three nights in a row together and on that inevitable return to solidarity – because four nights in a row breaks into some type of savage relationship force field – truth be told, I already missed him. The way he made me laugh while I burrowed myself deeper into his chest, knotting my legs between his limbs, an invitation for him to squeeze me more tightly into his being. And how I looked up to stare into his eyes, to re-memorize the shape of his smile, only to be drowned in the intoxication of his kiss. I already missed his hands that traveled through my hair and down my cheeks to hover on the small of my back while he talked to me about selling art and buying rental properties and building campfires underneath the stars before he’d sidebar to chastise me for not drinking enough water or regularly tuning my snowboard.

In that moment, the missing, I am hyperaware that he still has so much to teach me about his favorite brand of pickles and the corruption of the maple syrup industry and the evolution of punk rock in the 80’s. And I still have so much to teach him about my favorite brand of pickles and the secret of Sun Valley, Idaho and the dynasty that is Duke basketball. We’ve logged hours upon hours of uninterrupted storytelling, and yet, it’s still not enough (bold, vulnerable, unedited fact: I hope it never is).

So, there is the acknowledgement that I’m now spoiled by his presence – so deep into twitterpation that a night alone, a state that has been my comfortable existence for the last two years, now feels unbearably uncomfortable. Because my body begs to wake up as the small spoon, his lips grazing my forehead in the morning to, once again, remind me that he’s real (for the record, I much prefer this method over the pinching). I’ll relish the days that, sans alarm, we race off together towards the mountain. And, during the rest of the week, when he jumps at that all-too-familiar iPhone alert that beckons him to work, I will giggle as I beg for just one more minute of his heat inside my college-sized bed that’s nestled into my tin can that I call home.

And, who am I? Or, even more titillating of a question, what is this?

Because I am drowning in his goodness. I am giving myself permission to need him. I am opening myself up to one of those deep connections that taunts our insecurities with the possibility of heartbreak. Even now, especially now, all of these words escape my fingers in an equal state of bliss and trepidation. Because this guy, this altogether very real guy, has yet to friend zone me or ghost me or barter his sexual prowess with the words, “I like you, but I’m just not ready.”

And, despite all this realness and all the work that I have invested in myself for the last two years – the confidence that I have sharpened through a handful of agonizing decisions – I am still questioning my vulnerability. I have found myself second-guessing my own heart’s desires and have contemplated silencing their whispers (because I just want him to like me, like really like me).

Then, it will hit me (like it always does): I do not get what I want from soldiering my silence. I am met by another when I speak my truth and he embraces it. Any mockery of my speech – any thoughts that are drawn towards my words being too much or too little or too ridiculous – exist inside a person that doesn’t deserve my openness. So, in exposing myself to him, I have also been forced to embrace myself. Again. And again. And again. So as not to become the version of me that is silenced, the Stephanie 1.0 that didn’t know her needs or desires or worth. I have been challenged to keep the integrity of Stephanie 2.0, the one who preaches to live everyday as the most unapologetic version of herself (newsflash: easier said than done).

So, weeks into that aforementioned dating ladder, I am compelled to initiate the infamous conversation. I, Stephanie 2.0, engage (after a longer-than-I’d-like-to-admit pep talk).

So, what are we?

The words escape my lips as my stomach cascades across a set of metaphorical uneven bars. We are lying in bed, staring without hesitation into the deep brown color of each other’s eyes. Our knees, like magnets, slide effortlessly to touch. To be present with one another, that is easy; meanwhile, the tension that surrounds this question is nothing less than nauseating.

What the last two years of work are giving me in this seemingly unbearable moment of silence – the quiet buffer that exists between question and answer – is the ability to arrive in this space without expectation. There is a desirable outcome, of course, but I have both lied to myself and been lied to by others enough to recognize that this question is not the birthplace for a deliberation. I am not entering this conversation with bullet points that will ensure some type of victory.

I am asking because I care about both of us. I am asking because I deserve a spot at this two-person table called dating. I am asking because I owe it to myself to understand what rung of the ladder from which we are both hanging and how we go about defining such arbitrary words. I am asking because I want his honesty, the best and worst parts of it.

In the moment, I recall thinking that nothing could be worse than my sickened stomach sitting inside of that silence.  In hindsight, I realize that what would have been worse would be to never have asked the question at all. To parade around as if I am fine with the not knowing. To mask my voice as a means of assuming that I am, in some absurd fashion, pleasing him.

Because there I go again, creating a story for somebody else. This time, I have convinced myself that no man wants to be met with such a question. And, what I need to be telling myself (what I am now telling myself) is that any person – period – worth having in my life is going to embrace every inch of this inquisition.

And, he did. Embrace it. Every damn inch of it. Against all of my ill-imagined assumptions. He met me with hours of honesty, the best and worst parts of it, until we found ourselves freely coasting smooth waters after swimming, what felt like, upstream of a rather unpleasant and intense current.

I just want to make you feel lighter.

The words roll off of his tongue. I am awestruck at the beauty that exists in stringing together such a simple set of syllables. He wants to help carry me. With one single sentence, he has summarized every dream I’ve ever written, every brave thought about partnership that’s ever escaped my lips.

Alert. I think we just broke the aforementioned relationship force field.

Inside the safe space that we are creating for ourselves, the honest place that we are pruning as the foundation for an us, we chose the courage to question and the humility to answer. I’d be lying if I said that it doesn’t feel damn good to call camo pants my boyfriend, but the weight of this word lives inside our mutually agreed-upon definition of such a term. Together, we are making each other lighter.

And the only way to agree upon titles or definitions or words is to speak. To use our voices to express our needs. To unfold ourselves to another while simultaneously living out the most authentic versions of ourselves. The only way to agree is to communicate.

So, he and I, we are easy. And, our easiness, our attraction to each other because of all the little things that just feel so damn effortless, propels us to confront those conversations that can often times be so damn hard.

I don’t have it all figured out yet. But, this guy, he makes me want to try. Because what I do know is that I like him, like really like him.

from Blog https://ondenver.com/the-courage-to-question/