#i so love it when II goes 'shut the fuck up he's not done speaking' (/lh)

[bubacorn]

(x)

[brighttears]

Battery II Charged

Joel Miller x f!reader

Series masterlist

No physical description

Summary: On the road, your ease lasts only a couple hours before your luck runs out. An overhead confession from Joel leaves your head spinning. 

Word count: 4.9k

Warnings: mention of Joel’s pill abuse, mention of death, suicide, and grief

A/n: not super exciting tbh, good stuff’s at the end. i’m gonna be fucking with some cannon stuff just so i’m not just rewriting scenes from the show so some things are changed/missing! don’t worry Joel stops being an ass like halfway through this and then we will have soft Joel from now on (mostly, probably)

—

You’ve been up for hours before anyone else wakes, Tess being the first, wandering into the room, obviously having just opened her eyes. 

“Hey.” She says when she sees you.

“Hey.”

“Coffee?”

“You have coffee?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she chuckles, strolling into the kitchen to start a pot.

“Thanks,” you say as you get up from the couch, stretching. 

“Joel’ll be up soon. Just has to shake off those pills.”

“Does he take those a lot?”

She nods, “Can’t blame him.”

“Why not?”

She turns to you, resting her elbows on the counter behind her. “Let’s just leave it as I can’t blame him.”

You nod. Not your business. Just as long as he doesn’t take them on the road. “Are they coming with us?”

Tess shakes her head, “Nah, he’s not stupid.”

As if on cue, Joel emerges, looking lost. He glances at you, double takes, eyes still almost half shut, and then shambles over to Tess, placing his hand on the handle of the coffee pot.

“It’s not done yet. Just put it on.” Tess tells him. He grumbles incoherently and then goes to slide into a seat at the table, rubbing his hands over his face. “You gonna be good to get outta here soon?” He nods slowly, face still in his hands. 

“I can help you guys get packed up if you want,” you offer. 

“Sure, you can help me get some stuff together. It’s all under the floorboards in the bedroom.” Tess answers. 

Joel speaks up, audibly groggy, “No. She doesn't need to touch anythin’. I can handle it fine myself.”

You sigh, unable to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, and Tess chuckles. 

“Whatever you say, sir.” You salute him. Joel stares at you, then looks to the floor, shakes his head, and peels himself out of his seat to trudge into the bedroom. You ignore the scraping of furniture on the floor and choose to join Tess at the table. 

“Is he always like this?” You whisper, sipping the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had, granted you haven’t had one in at least a decade. 

She shakes her head, making a face as she sips from her own mug, “He’s better once he warms up to you. But, he’s kinda just that kind of guy, you know? He’s a good guy, and he can be sweet, but, world’s really fucked with his head, you know how it is. He was a whole different person before.”

“You knew him?”

“No, but I knew his brother. He told me what he used to be like. Huge softy, if you can believe it.”

You nod and sip, trying to picture that in Joel. “So, what’s the whole story with him and his brother?” You whisper. 

“Well,” she sighs, “they were together from day one. I met them a few years ago, we ran with a crew for a while, met some Fireflies, and Tommy wanted to split and go with them. They kind of had a falling out, Joel and I stuck together, came here. They were communicating through the radio towers but Tommy stopped responding a few weeks ago. That's when we started looking for a car, go out and find him. Just got a tip he might be somewhere in Wyoming, so that’s where we’re going.”

“You think he might be somewhere in Wyoming?” You repeat back, giving her a leery look. You’re not in love with that plan—Wyoming is very far and a big state, there might already be nothing to find there. But, on second thought, you don't really care. You’ll be in a car with two capable people, and that is more than you can ask for. You’re fine just being along for the ride. 

“You got anything better to do?”  

“Nope.” You chuckle, and she returns one, smiling into her cup. 

Yeah, you guess you are friends. The thought almost makes you choke on your coffee; a whole year with nothing like this, only passing faces, fake friends created for the sole purpose of getting something out of it, and, well, Rat King. But now, you’re exchanging an honest smile and chuckles with a woman over coffee. What a lucky break, to have met Tess.

Ruining the moment, Joel plods back into the room, filling up a mug and choosing to lean against the sink rather than take a seat at the table with you. 

“I’m not infected, you know.” You say to him. “Not contagious with anything. And if I smell, you smell worse.”

“Fuck are you talkin’ about.” He says into his mug, squinting. 

“You’re acting like if you come too close I'm gonna put a knife to your throat.” You stare at him in all his beheaded glory, marks from the sheets not yet faded from his cheek. “I don’t bite.”

Joel just stares back, then, finally and reluctantly, he takes a seat across from you at the table. 

“Ok, I’m serious,” Tess says, setting her mug down, “you two better not keep this shit up. It started off cute, but now it’s getting real fucking annoying.”

“Cute?” Joel says, screwing his face up, and you say over him, “I’m not doing anything.”

“Alright, alright,” Tess puts her hands up, “we’re gonna cut this shit out now. You two, shake hands.”

“What?” Joel screws his face up again. You sip your coffee, looking between them.

“Shake her hand.” Tess gestures, raising her eyebrows at him. Joel moues. It’s been nothing more than irritating so far, but now, it’s starting to hurt your feelings a little. You haven’t done anything wrong. For god’s sake, he should be on his knees thanking you for what you're doing for him. What is it about you that’s so wrong? 

Finally, he offers his hand, and you shake, his hold firm and warm. 

A shock suddenly runs through you as if he was a live wire, and you feel like your skin is melting in the most delightful way possible. The moment of contact is over in a second, but you feel that something inside of you has shifted. You can’t put your finger on what it is, but it feels like trouble. You set your hand on your leg, but it’s as if the warmth from his hand has been transmitted through your skin and onto your thigh. You quickly take your hand away to place on your mug, warm like it’s supposed to be. Your eyes are stuck on each others, but neither glares. Just, stuck. His are brown like dark bark in the sun, rich, deep, pretty. You look down at the table. 

“Alright, we got that taken care of?” You hear Tess.

“Yeah.” You answer, eyes still on the table. Joel clears his throat before he copies your response, his tone devastatingly unrevealing. You will your gaze back up only to be caught in his again, and you look around at the wall, down at your coffee, and back up, all in a second, only to be caught again. He holds it for a moment before looking down at the table. Whatever this feeling he’s giving you stinks to high heaven of trouble. 

“Alright, good, then let’s get the fuck outta here.” Tess concludes. 

You bring the battery back up on your back while Joel and Tess carry the rest of everything you’ll have for a while, abandoning your coffee, not even bothering to place the mugs in the sink. This place will be left exactly as it is, but neither of them seem to mind leaving all of this behind. You leave the apartment and then follow the two wordessly through a maze that eventually leads out past the gates, ending in emerging from a literal hole in the ground. Once outside, still crouching on the ground, you take a deep breath of fresh air, free from smoke and ash and stink. The dawn is breathtaking, being seen for the first time in years, half of the sky barely past midnight's shadow, pulled up like a shade by blood orange leading down to the peachy halo of the sun somewhere behind the toppled buildings, speckled and tangled with green. A flock of birds pass overhead, dancing in the smearing sky. You could laugh. 

“Focus,” Joel hisses, looking at you over his shoulder, also crouched, scowl back in play, though it’s understandable in the stress of the moment. You nod. He’s right. Plenty of time for this later. Right now, you’re still not quite in the clear. 

The three of you scamper silently through the badlands between the Boston QZ and freedom. As you venture out, though, your excitement begins to fade, realizing that you’ve been looking through rose colored glasses for a while now. The QZ is a shithole, but out here is just a much wider shithole. There's less people, no rules, but neither of those pluses are as good as they had been sounding in your head. Less people, because they’re mostly dead or infected, the rest being not much more than animals who know how to talk sweet. No rules, means, well, no rules, no morals, just the loose goal of ‘survive’, which translates to fight dirty, do anything you can, anything to survive. Live to fight another day. 

“How far’s the car?” You ask, the first to speak. 

“Not far.” Tess responds, distracted as she scans your surroundings. You're in the city now, the remains of it at least, weaving around crashed cars and large, rocky craters, twenty years of weather and neglect preceded by bombings and a storm of hysteria. You were expecting Joel to say something like ‘We’ll get there when we get there’, but he stays silent, eyes also scanning around. You seem less fazed. Are you not scared enough? Or have they just been inside longer than you have? You do feel like an animal in its natural environment, ears knowing what sound to look at, eyes knowing what movement to check, agile feet over the broken mounds of rock and glass and all of the other debris out in the open broken world. 

“The car’s supposed to be at the church on Park Street. Few minutes walk from here.” Tess finally answers you. 

“I know where that is.”

“Good for you.” Joel says. 

“Fuck off.” You reply.

“Excuse you,” Joel looks at you, screwing his face up. 

“Hey,” Tess interjects, shooting both of you a look, “Jesus, I feel like the parent of two disobedient kids. Knock it off.”

Joel huffs and looks at the ground. You smirk to yourself, seeing him again as a pouting dog being checked by his owner. 

It’s silent until you reach the church, red brick with a steeple reaching high into the sky. Parked directly in front of it, as if on display, is an old Dodge Caravan, white with fake wood siding, dusted with dirt, wheel wells caked in dried mud. 

“This thing looks like it’s from the 90s,” Tess comments. “You think it’ll run?”

“It better.” You say, shoulders aching with a vengeance from the battery still hanging from them.

“You said that right.” Joel adds gruffly. 

You stop at the front and lower yourself to the ground to unload the battery from your bag. Finally free of the thing, you stretch your shoulders back with a deep sigh. 

“Surprised your back’s not broken by now.” Joel says as he comes to squat next to you, looking over the battery.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” he glances at you, “jus’ maybe we shoulda traded bags.”

“I can handle it.” You retort, though he sounds honestly well intentioned, “I’m not weak.”

“Wasn’t callin’ you weak. What, I can't say anythin’ without it bein’ an insult?”

“That’s all it’s been so far.”

Joel just sighs, then stands to open the hood of the car. You stand to look inside with him; all looks right, though you’re not sure you know enough to make a judgment. 

“How’s it look?”

“Looks fine.” Joel says, then bends down to take his pack off and dig through it, pulling out a couple tools which he sets on the ground before hefting the battery up and into the empty space under the hood, grunting with its weight. 

“You came prepared, huh?”

“Sure did.” Joel mumbles as he picks up the tools and leans over the engine to start working on it. 

“How do you know how to do all that?”

“Used to be a mechanic.”

“I thought you were a contractor.” Tess questions, coming up beside you.

“Before that.” Joel replies, “When I was in high school.”

“I can just see you now,” Tess chuckles, “jumpsuit all covered in oil, you name embroidered on the little pocket.”

You laugh at the thought—Joel leaning over a car, jumpsuit tied around his waist as he works, dirty white t-shirt straining against his back muscles and those broad shoulders—”Fuck,” you say to yourself, startled by your own thoughts. 

“What?” Joel looks back at you, panic in his eyes. 

You dart your eyes away, shaking the thoughts of him out of your head. “Nothing, nothing, sorry.”

“You sure?” Tess asks, raising her eyebrows at you. 

“Yeah, yeah, it was nothing, really, sorry. Is the car ready?”

“Just about.” Joel replies as he leans in close to continue with a wrench. 

“You sure you remember how to do it right?” You say, recovering yourself. He pauses to glare at you but doesn’t respond. 

“Let’s hope he does.” Tess says. 

He glares at her too, then states, “I know how to do it. Just give me a damn minute. 

“Alright,” Tess chuckles, raising her hands defensively, then steps back to examine the van. She slides over the side door to step inside, “Damn, look at this thing. We could sleep in here.”

You come over to peek next to her, “How the fuck did you score this?”

“Beat it outta someone.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Must have been a good beating.”

“It was.” Joel calls from the front, then drops the hood down and comes around to get into the driver's seat. A pair of keys fall into his lap when he drops the visor down, and he takes a deep breath before easing the keys in and turning the ignition. The van roars to life, and you all laugh with delight, Joel clapping his hands and whooping. 

“Hol–ly–shit,” You laugh, half of it being at Joel’s sudden enthusiasm, “look at that.”

“Look at that.” Joel repeats, and you watch his grin through the front mirror.

Just as he catches you, Tess says, “Alright, let me out.” You step back out and she walks around to get into the passenger seat, “Alright, grab your shit and let’s go before our luck runs out. 

You and Joel nearly bump into each other as he gets out and he mumbles a sorry before you both go to gather your things. He hands you your bag and you mumble back a thank you. The relief from having a working car must have flooded all the resenting sarcasm out of you, and you actually almost smile at each other as you both get back in. You flump onto the backseat, sighing as you rest against the cushion, rolling your aching shoulders again. 

“Thank god I don’t have to carry that thing anymore. N’ I’ve got plenty of room in my bag for all the shit we have to pick up now.”

“What’s our first stop?” Joel asks, adjusting the mirror to look at you.

“About twenty miles west.”

“What am I lookin’ for?”

“Gas station. BP. Next spot’s just the same, gas station about thirty miles west from that one.”

“Alright, perfect, we’ll see if we can find some gas.” He says as he puts the car in drive and starts out, rounding the corner, “We’ll be there in no time.”

You lean back in your seat and let yourself smile. It all worked out. With a car, dare you say, it looks like smooth sailing from here. 

“Lemme see if I can find some music,” Tess says, digging through the glove box. “Oh, shit,” she chuckles, pulling out a CD, “Don fuckin’ McLean. Were you ever into him?” She asks Joel.

“Shit, is that American Pie?” He asks hopefully, glancing at it held out in Tess’s hand, “Oh shit, put that on. I love this album.”

You chuckle from the backseat. Such a wholesome little moment, and as Tess slides the CD in and the music starts to play, an air of ease falls over the cabin. Morning sun cascades through the windows and you squint through the dirty pane, watching your surroundings start to speed up past you. On the road again, heading somewhere far, finally free again. No more curfews or guards, no more fucking ration cards or deals in basements. You look ahead to the front seat at your new companions, catching a small smile on Tess’s lips. All you can see of Joel is his shoulder and his hair, wavy and stroked with silver. In the mirror, his eyes are locked on the road, but his brow is relaxed, and there might even be a smile of his own hidden under it. Leaning back in your seat and looking back out the window, the music in your ears for the first time in many years filling you up with giddy warmth, you think you could get used to this.

—

The next couple hours are in fact smooth sailing, both stops being stress free and bountiful, two crates, found exactly where you’d left them, full of food, guns, and ammo next to you on the seat with two red jugs full of gas on the floor below them. 

The car breaks down just past the border of Massachusetts. 

“Shit.” Joel seethes, waving the gray smoke away from his face as he slams the hood shut. “T’s done.” He announces, looking at you and Tess. 

“Fuck.” She mutters, closing her eyes and dropping her head. 

You watch the fumes slinking out from the hood. It was foolish to think this thing would take you all the way across the country. Of course it would break down within two fucking hours. Why not?

“Come here and help me get this shit out before the car explodes.” You say, going back to open the side door and start packing whatever you can fit into your bag. You shove another gun into the back of your jeans and empty half a box of bullets into your jacket pocket. Joel is behind you when you back out, and you shove a crate into his hands, “I got most of it. Just take whatever else you can fit in your pack. Same with Tess. We’ll probably have to leave some behind.”

Joel does as you ask, kneeling to unload the contents of the crate and dividing it up for the two of them. Once everyone’s pack is filled to the brim, you leave only a few things behind, set in crates next to the car, and set off on foot. 

Joel traces his finger over the folded map found in the glove compartment as you walk. “We’ll just follow route 20. Maybe take a turn at, uh, Albany, ‘bout  a day's walk. That’s the next real town, pretty much just farmland for a while.”

“Great.” Tess says through tight lips. 

—

At dusk, you decide to call it a day, though you’re only a few hours away from Albany. You set up under an overpass and light a small fire before nightfall takes away the option. Everyone is all deep sighs as you sit back to rest, no one used to all that walking. Your shoulders are still throbbing, a lasting consequence of that damn battery, and you pull your shirt down to see red bruises covering both sides, flashing like a mockery in the light of the flames. 

“Damn, that battery really did a number on you.” Tess comments, leaning over to examine the bruising.

“I can’t decide if it was even fucking worth it.” You say, readjusting your shirt with a huff. 

“Well, commendable act.” Tess sighs, resting her arms over spread knees. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, not used to genuine praise. 

After a moment, Joel says, “You look tired.” You look up at him and he’s staring with puppy dog eyes, probably unintentionally, but puppy dog eyes just the god damn same. 

“I am.” You mumble, not meaning to be honest about it. 

“Well,” he grunts as he stands, pulling his gun out, double checking it’s loaded, and leaning against the concrete wall, “I’ll take first watch. Tess, I’ll wake you up in a few hours.”

“This is starting to sound like you still don’t trust me.” You say. 

“T’s not.” Joel says, “You just look the most tired.”

You sigh, torn between a longing for sleep and hesitancy to be in such a vulnerable position. 

As if reading your mind, Tess assures you, “Don’t worry, we’re not gonna kill ya or split. We’re in this together now, and we need you sharp. Get some sleep.” She nods her head to the ground. You pause, then obey, curling up on the hard ground with your hands between your knees and pack under your head. You’re out within minutes, being more exhausted than you had realized. 

—

An almost silent scuffle is enough to wake you up and tense every single muscle in your body, but the two familiar, faint voices relax them just as fast. It must just be Joel waking up Tess for her watch, chatting in between shifts. Their low tones tell you this isn’t for you to hear, but you listen anyway. 

“She’s jus’… she’s just so damn… pretty.” You hear Joel. Who is? …Who else would it be, but you? At this realization, your face lights on fire. Tess starts to chuckle, but then it turns into cackling, as quiet as she can manage. 

“Sh!”

You can hear the wild grin on her face as she whispers, “You have a crush on her!” 

You want to squirm, twist your legs up, but you stay still. You don’t understand the impulse, but you don’t like it, either. You feel like a fucking highschooler; a callback to an alien world, but you haven’t felt anything like it since. 

“No, I do not, now be quiet before you wake her up.”

“Yes, yes you do,” she continues to stifle laughter. 

“No the fuck I don’t.” A pause. Then, “Shit, maybe I do.” He groans, voice muffled, “I’m fucked, aren’t I, god, I’m so fucked.”

Oh, shit.

“Yes, yes you are.” Tess chuckles. 

The worst part is that you’re just as fucked as he is. It seems to be hitting you both at the same time. A crush, yes, that’s what the young aliens used to call it. A fucking crush. Maybe it’s due to time, being much, much, older—hundreds of years older, it seems—but this crush doesn’t feel like any one you’ve had before. Maybe because it’s Joel, like no one you’ve ever met. But, how, exactly? You’ve met damaged people, you’ve met people just as cold, just as standoffish. No man has exactly been this standoffish to you, though; most men you’ve met on the road have tried something within a couple days, even if it’s been in a group. Warm bodies. Hungry animals. Horny survivors. 

There’s no way you’re going back to sleep now. Your mind is spinning, gyrating, tying itself into knots. Joel, Joel, what is it about him? You’ve met handsome men. You’ve slept with a couple handsome men. You even held one of their hands once. But, Joel, you’ve barely even touched.

Pretty. That’s all he said. Is he just another horny survivor? None you’ve known have confided in anyone, cared to discuss it with someone. And not anyone has ever used the word crush. Come to think of it, most of them only use the word sexy to describe you, just to say, hey, you’re so sexy, let me fuck you. That’s about it. 

Joel, Joel, Joel, shit, what is it?

“Ah, Jesus,” Joel says. 

“A crush, wow. Gotta say, I was not expecting that from you. I always thought you were a pork ‘er and move on, never say a word about how you actually feel kinda guy.”

“Hey, you callin’ me a slut?” Joel says. Tess tries to muffle her laughter but it burst out of her hands. “Sh!” She sounds like she has her hands pressed firmly against her mouth, but she’s still laughing. 

“Yes, actually, I am calling you a slut.” She finally manages to say, “I mean, with us, it was never like that. I mean, did you have a crush on me? Because, I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t call it that.”

“No,” Joel whispers. “It wasn’t like that. I mean, you know I… care about you, all that. But, yeah, y’know, it was jus’…”

“Yeah, we’re on the same page, don’t worry.”

“Jesus, Tess, this is… goddammit, I don’t have time for this shit. I mean, what should I—what should I do?”

“Don’t look at me, loverboy. I’ve got nothin’. Are you gonna tell her?”

“Fuck no.”

Tess chuckles, “Why?”

“Why on earth would I? This is my problem, not hers. You think shit’s tense now, imagine how’d it be with that piece of fuckin’ information hangin’ in the air.”

“You don’t think she likes you back, do you?”

“Of course she doesn’t.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I—well, I mean,” Joel stammers, “why the fuck would she? Look at me, I’m just some fuckin’... old man, who—who—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Joel. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a good guy. You’re handsome. You’re kind. You’re gentle. You’re a fuckin’ badass. You’re—holy shit, you’re blushing,”

“Would you keep your fuckin’ voice down?”

“Aw, you’re killing me, Joel. I’ve never seen you like this. Never. She has got a fucking hold on you, doesn’t she?”

“Tess, stop fuckin’ around, and just tell me what to do.”

“Hey, I told you, I’ve got no advice on this one. Crushes are not my strong suit. I’m sorry, but you’re on your own on this one.”

“Ah, don’t tell me that. Shit, Tess, come on,” he nearly whines, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

“Alright, why don’t you just sleep on it?”

There’s a pause, then Joel sighs, and you hear him shifting into place on the ground behind you.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. This is bad. But it feels good. But it feels bad. You’re almost nauseous with the number of wings fluttering in your chest, almost dizzy, and you realize you’ve been biting the inside of your cheek so much it hurts. Half of your brain is having a party while the other half is looking for a knife to stick in its chest. What does this mean? What’s going to happen? What do you want to happen?

What do you want?

Joel is the first word that comes to mind, and you want to bang it out of your head and into the ground. But there it is, sticking like a bullet under your skin. Should you talk to Tess about it? The only person you can talk to? Tell her you heard everything? Or should you tell Joel? Oh, god, you don’t even know how you’d broach the subject to him.

What, are you two gonna start holding hands now? What else do couples do—oh, god, couples, what, are you gonna start dating? You almost laugh to yourself but you catch it before either of them realize you’re not asleep like you’re supposed to be. This is all like an out of body experience. None of this exists. 

Your mind wanders to the one time you have seen something like this—Agatha and John, who you met on the road along with a few others; the lovers, everyone always used to call them. Joined at the hip, linked by their hands almost all of the time. You used to make fun of them for their googly eyes at each other, but they never minded. They were in love, and they knew it, everyone did. Marriage without the $25 piece of paper or veil and bowtie. There was always this rosy air about them, their love was enchanting, so real, so innocent, so sweet. 

And then John died. And then Agatha killed herself. 

The whole group fell apart after that. 

That’s why all of this, ever since the second you touched him, just that shaking of his hand, had given you such a bad feeling. Because you knew what it was, and even before you found the word for it, you knew it’d end bad. 

What John and Agatha had was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, even before the world ended. They found each other, and they chose it—love, despite everything, the ugliness, the loss, the loathsome world. And it was so pure, like an angelic little bubble that they floated in. The way they touched each other, the fleeting passes over waists and arms, they way they flowed like a living duet. The way they held each other, when they cried, when they laughed, just, whenever they could. You’ve never seen people sleep so peacefully. The love was tangible between them.

And then when John died, Agatha fell apart, like an angel from heaven, like a baby bird from a nest, into a pile of feathers and blood. She was a shell. For a week. And then she killed herself. She couldn’t live without him.

You envied her before. And then, immediately, you mourned her. 

These violent delights have violent ends. 

Love is dangerous. A crush is a bullet with god cocking the gun. 

[missroserose]

deleted scene time, babes

yep, I am back on my bullshit (also known as editing Act III of When The Waters Start To Cross), and I had this whole damn sex scene written out, and I kind of love it, and...I think it's going to end up on the cutting room floor.

but, I mean, this is some primo hurt/comfort smut, which seems a shame to waste. So I figure I'll share it here with all of you.

for context: this is the scene directly following the end of Act II, where Steve rescues Billy from something in the forest. We've switched to Steve's POV, and he's not quite sure what happened; Billy's being tightlipped about it, but clearly it's traumatic. Steve's done his best to patch up Billy's wounds and reassure him that he's safe, and Billy has finally succumbed to the stress of the past few hours and broken down on Steve's bathroom countertop...

It’s both a few minutes and a lifetime before he quiets, still sniffling. Steve reaches over, grabs a couple of tissues from the box on the counter, turns away and busies himself—putting away the gauze, throwing out the boxes, unfolding and refolding clothes—for a moment as Billy blows his nose, collects himself.

When he turns back, Billy’s picked up the scissors, examining them. The steel blades glint in the bathroom light, sharp point looking suddenly wicked. Steve suppresses a shiver, holds out his clothes. “Here, trade you. These should fit if you need something to sleep in.”

Billy hesitates for a moment, but he hands over the scissors, taking the old shirt and sweatpants. “I can’t stay on your couch forever,” he says, though the words are quiet, tinged with hopelessness.

“Absolutely not,” Steve says, putting the scissors in their basket and shutting it firmly. “You’ll sleep in the guest room.” Billy looks up sharply, the sudden set of his jaw indicating that he’s planning to argue—but Steve just gives him a big smile and takes him by the hand, tugging him off the counter. Takes him across the hall, into the guest room, done in a blue and white that’s impersonal but not unpleasant (thank god my parents’ decorator wasn’t into ruffles, he thinks)—turns down the striped comforter, turns to Billy—

Billy’s lips are on his before he can speak, heated fingers sliding up and around the back of his neck. Steve makes a small sound, surprise and concern and desire—but the kiss only deepens, and he surrenders to it, lets the fire of it catch beneath his skin. When Billy breaks off, panting, eyes dark on his, Steve only stares at him, speechless. ”Billy—it’s not like that—you don’t have to—“

Billy places a hand on his chest, presses him back until he sits on the bed, the sensation suddenly gone from his legs. “Want to,” he says, and presses forward onto his knees, straddling Steve’s lap, still shirtless, a fact of which Steve is abruptly aware as they’re kissing again, tongues and lips and skin against skin as Billy tugs his t-shirt up and off. It’s hot, and messy, and glorious—the way Billy hisses a little as Steve’s hands slide over his bruised ribs, the way Steve’s own breath rattles as Billy’s fingers slide into his hair. “You’re such a pretty boy,” he murmurs when they break away, in a way that slips an ice cube of recognition beneath Steve’s ribs—but it melts almost immediately beneath the feel of Billy’s fingers tracing down his skin, the passionately reverent way Billy touches him. “Want to pull you apart—” the words are almost mumbled, like Billy’s shy, though surely that can’t be right.

“Fucking hell, Billy—” Steve avoids touching his hair this time, puts his hands on Billy’s bare shoulders, marvels at the way the muscles move beneath the skin when he slides down to kneel on the floor, undoing Steve’s fly as he goes. “Do it,” he says, voice half-ragged. “Fuck yes, do it.”

It’s barely a moment more before Billy his a hand around his length, is drawing him out of his pants. Steve feels his lips part as he takes in the sight of Billy there beneath him, lips brushing the head of his cock—he shivers, sensation, anticipation, clings to this moment with both hands as he draws in a breath—

Billy’s mouth is wet, and soft, and heated as if by a whole furnace of its own. Steve makes an undignified noise, loses his grip as the desire floods him, tumbles him forward. Billy takes him in, further, further, and Steve is panting, wanting, barely keeping afloat—Billy takes hold of his hand, slips it into his hair, and Steve tightens instinctively, a buoy in the wild ocean—Billy takes him in even further, until he can feel the back of his throat—glances up at him, eyes liquid, and Steve barely has time for a breath before another wave of oh fuck yes slams into him—

Billy’s moving now, up and down along Steve’s length, tongue tracing patterns along the underside, slipping beneath the head, soft flat wetness pressing at his frenum before sliding back down. Some small part of Steve is observing distantly, noticing things he does, making plans for things he might want to try in the future—but the bulk of him is at Billy’s mercy, surrendering to the waves—Billy’s fingers are pressed into his hips now, holding him firmly in place, as if Steve’s liable to float away if he doesn’t. Steve keeps his hand on the back of Billy’s head, focuses on moving with it, keeping his grip just tight enough to stay centered but loose enough to let Billy have the reins. “God, you’re amazing at this, Billy—” The words sound insipid even to his ears, the sort of thing you’d say to a hesitant girl, and he casts about, tries to find something more solid to grab onto. Tightens his fingers in Billy’s hair, half-hears, half-feels the groan Billy makes deep in his throat. “You’re mine, do you understand me? You’re under my protection. Nothing’s going to take you away—” Another surge as Billy looks up at him, desire tinged with anger tinged with—fear?—and Steve’s words are suddenly urgent, their meaning dire. “I mean it, Billy—if I have to come and find you in Hell, I’ll do it—come and pull you out of there and keep you with me—”

Billy makes another sound, desperation of his own, and redoubles his efforts; it’s barely a minute before Steve is gasping, fingers tightening, voice cracking as he gasps out a warning, words smearing together, bare seconds elongating—“Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Billy takes him deep. Steve cries out like he’s in pain; he nearly is, the sensation is so intense as his body pours everything out and into Billy’s mouth. He feels Billy’s throat work around him as he swallows, curls his body around Billy’s head, half protective, half drawn in by sheer gravity.

A panting breath. Another. Three. The wave recedes, and Steve feels a curl of uncertainty deep in his gut; what’s the etiquette? Should he offer to return the favor? For the moment, his confidence seems to have deserted him; he straightens a little, raises his eyes.

Billy is watching him, eyes molten in a way that warms Steve from his core. He leans forward, kisses him, tastes the mineral tang of himself on Billy’s tongue—a heady mixture, something Steve could imagine becoming addicted to.

Billy places a hand against Steve’s chest and pushes him back onto the bed. Steve goes willingly, their eyes locked—in challenge, in cooperation—as Billy clambers up, straddles him, undoes his jeans. Steve wants to touch him, is almost afraid to; there’s something feral about him tonight, the grace and desperation of a wounded animal, fighting for—its life? Its sanity, maybe. Billy takes his length out of his briefs, gives a tug, another, hard enough that Steve wonders if that can even be comfortable—his eyes flick down, uncertain if he should offer to help, then back up to where Billy’s still watching him, smoky—Billy’s tugs become rhythmic as he stares at Steve with intent—

“Do it,” Steve says again, that deep confidence welling up within him once more. Slides his hands up Billy’s flanks, presses fingers into the flesh of his ass. Billy’s lips part, almost as if he’s going to say something, but his instead his strokes grow, faster, harder, ragged breaths in a ragged throat (wrecked by Steve’s cock, and fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing Steve can imagine), and Steve can feel his own breaths coming in concert, can feel his body trying to get hard again despite just having come. Billy’s focus is on him, heat laser-intense as a flush rises up his chest, his throat, his cheeks; then, without warning, he seems to almost choke, throws his head back, and in that bare second before the spurts of hot liquid land on his chest, Steve thinks he’s never seen anything so wild or so beautiful—

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

interlude ii ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 2.4k

warnings: none really! just an impending, pervasive sense of doom.

rating: m/t

notes: so happy to have finally gotten this little interlude edited and pieced together! just more soft moments because they deserve it considering what's going to be coming up. thank you everyone who has been reading/interacting with this little love project of mine; it took a minute to get myself dug out of the trenches and posting bite-sized chapters because this is a short-fic is definitely doing something to me (lmao) but we're here!

as always you can find translations on ao3, where it's easier to store them in a place that doesn't get in the way.

There is very little time between when Santino cooks her dinner and when he moves her into his apartment. It happens without much acknowledgment from her; she finds herself swallowed up in moments of casual intimacy that break her down to nothing except a girl in love.

Santino wakes her up by kissing her neck and pulling her against his chest; she makes him dinner barefoot in the kitchen, all of the recipes that her mother taught her, and he drags his hand along her hip to reach over her into the cupboard; he stands still and obedient while Euphemia slides his tie into place, and when he zips her dress for her, he peppers her shoulder with kisses. He tolerates taking a walk through the park, even in the chilliness of late Fall or Winter, because Euphie can’t stand to not get some fresh air once a day. When one of her friends asks why he lets her bully him into the cold weather, he wraps his arms around Euphie with a sly smile and says, “How could I not, when I am the one who gets to warm her up after?”

He is an exceptionally tactile man. There is always a reason for him to touch her, trace each line of her, put his lips against her skin. Santi isn’t a man who loves; he covets. And Euphemia shouldn’t like it as much as she does, but she does. Her therapist says that it isn’t uncommon for a girl who grows up without touching to crave it, desperately, like an addiction.

So, she finds herself living in his loft to feed that addiction—which becomes their loft—and teaching him words in French, and feeding him olives while sauce simmers (and does not boil), and kissing the red-wine taste from his lips. It’s all very romantic and greatly overshadows the moments where Santino comes home raging mad, or when his bad mood takes over their conversation and stirs a fight between them. They’re both hot-headed—her more so than he—and he knows all of the ways to diffuse her while she knows none about him.

But it doesn’t matter, in the end; because Santino always kisses her, and always says, Mi dispiace, cara mi, ti amo, ti amo, ti amo, lip-locking between each break in words until her lungs ache.

Euphie has never wanted to be loved sensibly, anyway.

Making money stops becoming an issue. Santino might have been fine letting her wrap up her loose ends, so to speak, encourages her, even—“You should never leave business undone, my Euphie,”—but he’d never tolerate her continuing to skim out of the pockets of his associates. Not out of respect for them, of course, but because Santino is more than happy to provide.

“I have to do something,” Euphie insists, often. But Santino clicks his tongue and shakes his head, inspiring indignation in her. “That money goes to my mother, Santi.”

“Princesa, what are you worrying for?” He replies every time. In this instance, he is reading over some documents, his voice casual, simple, effective at bringing her to heel. “If your mama needs money, she’ll get it. Tutto quello che vuoi è tuo.”

Euphemia used to think that he was doing it to be generous, but as time goes on, she knows that isn’t the case. If Santino didn’t think he was benefitting from sending her mother money every month, he wouldn’t do it: but he does. Euphemia stops playing at arm candy for other powerful men; he endears himself to her by taking care of her mother; he endears himself to her mother; he’s afforded a sense of control. There is no facet of it where he isn’t getting something out of it. And she thinks, too, that maybe Santino likes it like this, where she is completely reliant on him for everything.

She doesn’t mind so much.

She would, if Santino didn’t drench her in his longing, if he didn’t make her feel, every day, that he is desperate to treasure her. She has always heard about this kind of love—and it is love—and never thought she would have it for herself.

But she does now, and she doesn’t want to let it go.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tea or coffee, mama?”

Santino is busying himself in the kitchen. They’ve been together for a little over a year now, and they’re on a tour of Italy—not for fun, necessarily, but for integration. They have just spent the last week with Santino’s father and sister, and now they will spend the next two days in the Tuscan countryside with her mother.

Two days for her mother, instead of the week that they gave Santino’s father and sister, in part because his father deserves more time and in part because Euphemia doesn’t think she can tolerate her mother in much more than two-day increments.

“Coffee, please,” her mother says, very charmed by Santino.

“Tea,” Euphemia interjects. She looks at her mother—her face is tired, and older than she really is. Euphie knows that this is a side effect of heavy, abusive drinking and years spent in emotional terror, not the passage of time. Still, she finds it hard to drum up anything except distant pity in her heart. “You don’t need the caffeine.”

“Oh, you always ruin my fun.”

Santino re-enters the room with a small cup—it’s an espresso cup, but he’s poured it with regular coffee.

“A compromise,” Santi explains, handing the cup to her mother, smiling handsomely. “To make both of my girls happy.”

Her mother preens, glows under the affection. “You are so sweet, Santi. A perfect son-in-law.”

He has always called her and her mother his girls. His own mother had passed since before Euphemia; and while he knows that Euphie’s relationship with her mother is strained at best, he does what he can to ease it. Because it makes her happy, he says, and if she’s happy, he’s happy.

“Not yet a son-in-law,” Euphie corrects, and Santino flashes her a quick, amused little smile.

“You see how cruel she is to me, madonna? I have asked her to marry me, you know.”

“Santi,” Euphemia sighs, but it has had its desired effect; her mother looks scandalized, mortified at her daughter’s resistance to marrying a man as good and handsome and charming as Santino.

“Effie, tell me that you haven’t been bullying Santino like this?”

“Mama, there is no reason—he is just teasing. Ascoltami, you don’t need to look so horrified.”

“I do not know where I went wrong with you, Euphemia Sancia.” Her mother clicks her tongue, muttering something under her breath and taking a drink of the coffee Santi made her, and Euphemia can’t bring herself to say that not everything she has done wrong in her life is a slight against her mother’s parenting skills.

Santino smiles and leans across to Euphie, bringing her hand up to kiss it.

“Don’t worry,” he says to her mother, his voice blooming with practiced warmth. “I will ask her as many times as it takes for her to say yes.”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest. She knows that he means it; he’s suggested it to her three times, now. It seems to be the only thing he doesn’t mind asking more than once.

“She’s always been fussy, my Euphemia,” her mother says, breaking the magic of Santino’s eyes on her. “Never happy with what she has, just like her father. Except for you, Santi—you are the only thing she holds onto.”

Exasperation and disgust flood over her. Both the mention of the man considered to be her father and any similarities they might share has her mood souring. “Mama—”

But Santino is sweeping in, like he always does when he can tell Euphie is getting tired of her mother, coming to a stand and asking her, “We should get started on dinner, cara mia, don’t you think?”

Just like that, he’s taken control of the conversation again. He sees her flailing and steadies her. Euphemia is certain that he doesn’t love her mother—that he doesn’t even like her—but that he can spend his time tolerating her with charm and grace despite knowing what her mother allowed to go on under their roof is indicative of the man that Santino is.

“Yes,” she replies, standing as well. “You look tired, mama. Take a rest while Santi and I make dinner.”

She wanders into the kitchen with Santino trailing after her. As soon as they’re alone, he winds his arms around her waist and kisses the juncture between her shoulder and neck.

“Is it true?” he asks coyly. “That you don’t hold on to anything except for me?”

She doesn’t want to tell him very much, because he knows already, and because to say it out loud will give it legs. A year together, and she still doesn’t want her feelings for him to have legs. Santino splays his fingers against her sternum and kisses her jaw.

“You know that it is,” she says at last, her voice a little unsteady. She can feel Santi smiling against her skin.

“Euphie,” he purrs, “marry me.”

Yes, she wants to say, as her eyes flutter shut. Yes, I’ll marry you, Santi. Anything that you ask. I’ll do anything for you, if you would just keep saying my name like that.

She wants to say it but the words won't come out. There is nothing quite like the feeling of Santino peeling back each individual layer of her defenses, piece by piece; so close, she knows, he is so close, but not quite. Not yet. She is most comfortable keeping him at arm’s length as much as possible—to kiss and to fuck and to let someone hold you at night is one thing. To let someone in past the barbed-wire of defenses is yet another, impossibly reckless. To be seen feeling anything deranges you, as the poets like to say.

“Sancia, hm?” he continues instead, when she can’t bring herself to answer, as the words stick in her throat. It’s one of those things where Santino seems to exercise a surprising amount of patience, this whole ordeal of to marry or not to marry; later, Euphemia will come to understand that it is because Santino believes their life together to be inevitable, that she will always say yes to him, one way or another.

For now, she turns in his arms, cocking a brow at him. He continues, “It means sacred.”

Euphemia nods sagely and props herself up on the counter. “Buon ascolto, my love. I suppose that means you should work very hard to worship me well.”

Santino laughs. He leans in, trapping her against the counter—though it isn’t much of a trap if she’s a willing participant—and noses the slope of her jaw.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “I suppose that it does.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

On the last leg of their tour of families, Santino insists that they spend a few days in Rome by themselves.

The days are used mostly for doing a lot of nothing; neither of them are particularly interested in sight-seeing, but rather interested in seeing each other, a thing which they don’t seem to tire of particularly quickly. Instead, they shop, or lay in bed together until the afternoon, or go out to eat when street lights kick on and the city takes on a life of its own.

“You are much happier, Euphie,” Santino says one evening, smoothing out his napkin on the table absently, “when you are not around your mother.”

It’s not a question, per se, though she knows that he expects an answer. But she is still young and a little petulant, and she likes to push his buttons and make him say exactly what it is he means, so she takes a sip of her wine and replies, “Yes.”

He arches a brow at her. He looks particularly handsome like this, she thinks—not around his family, just eating dinner in a streetside restaurant in Rome, illuminated in warm candlelight and the glow of the streetlights outside.

“Are you going to tell me why?” he asks, amusedly.

“If you ask.” Euphemia sets her wine glass down on the table, and when Santino reaches for her hand, she lets him take it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But it is so boring, Santi, to talk about my mother. Why don’t you ask me about something else?”

The brunette’s mouth is curving in a little smile. “Like…?”

“Like…” Euphie gestures with her free hand, like she has to really think about it. “Euphie, how did I get so lucky to have a woman like you? That is a good place to start. Or, what will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel? Or, Euphie, will I ever be so fortunate as to call you my wife?”

Santino laughs, leaning into their conversation, bringing her fingers up to kiss them. He has long lashes; soft, and dark, and they brush the tops of his cheekbones when his eyes close. Santino glances from her fingers up to her, that boyish grin on his face.

“I already know the answers to the first and last question,” he says casually, like it’s no big deal, but he’s grinning wickedly at her when he says it. She scoffs.

“Dimme poi,” Euphie insists. “I am dying to know, Santi.”

His expression is very sage, very wise, and he nods his head. “Il destino,” he says, winding their fingers together, “e tra un anno.”

There is something very heart-stopping about the way Santino articulates il destino, as though it is fact, as though there is something undeniable about their coming together.

“How do you know?” she asks. “In a year?”

“Because if you do not want to marry me by then,” Santino replies matter-of-factly, “then I am certainly not suited for marriage at all.”

She rolls her eyes, taking a drink of her wine and savoring the way his eyes trail over her, admiring, drinking her in.

“Well?” he prompts. She looks at him expectantly, and he reiterates, his gaze set on her, “What will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel, belladonna?”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest when he looks at her like that; like she is the only person in the entire universe, like she has become the sun that snags him in her planetary pull, like he will never, ever grow tired of looking at her. It sweeps the breath out of her.

“Anything, mio amato,” she murmurs. “Anything you want, if you promise to never stop looking at me like that.”

[sinner-as-saint]

À la folie.

Bastard son!Bucky x Baker!reader HC (as requested by you horny ballsacks)

Run-through: The King’s bastard son is the complete opposite of his step-brother. Unlike Steve, Bucky is shameless, authoritative, reckless and arrogant. He’s spoilt, and has a habit of taking whatever he wants without a second thought. And recently, he’s had his eyes on you... 

Themes: stalkish!bucky, smut, slight dub con, breeding kink, jealous!bucky 

Bucky had been watching you; sneakily, each time you came to the castle. 

You were usually accompanied by your father, but on some days you come by on your own with your baskets of baked goods. 

Bucky’s intentions were never pure when it came to you. He talked to you often, but you were always too shy to look him in the eyes

Whenever he saw you, his mind would be filled with filthy thoughts immediately. It got to a point where he forgot what it was like to look at you and not instantly want to have you in his bed, gripping his sheets and making you scream his name

He wanted you, desperately. He was madly infatuated and almost enamored. 

Whenever he was around, you felt the tension between the two of you as well. He made you nervous, and made your heart race whenever he was around. 

And one day he finally has you all to himself. Initially, he planned on taking you in his majestic bed. But then he saw you talking to his ‘perfect’ step-brother and his jealousy took over

He followed you that day, and cornered you right before you could leave the castle basement, where they store food

Trapping you between his large, muscular body and the stone wall behind you; he stared down at you and you trembled. 

“I saw you talking to Steve earlier. You two seem friendly.” he sounded bitter and angry. He was always jealous of his brother, and he hated the sight of you and Steve together. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but shut yourself up as soon as you saw him clench his jaw. 

Bucky leaned in to gently brush his lips against your own, and chuckled when you shivered. 

“Guess I have to make you mine before anyone else does, huh?” 

You didn’t dare speak. You knew this was immoral and probably wrong but, he was still the King’s son. He could have whatever he desired. 

Bucky fucked you right there, against the wall. And there was nothing gentle about him. 

He would be rough. Growling in your ear in his deep, low voice while he pounds into you from behind. Your cheek and palms pressed against the wall while he grips your hips and just keeps ramming his cock in and out of you while you whimper and moan. 

“So good... you’re mine, you hear me?” he’d say through gritted teeth, making tingles dance down your spine. You could only whine as a reply. Your body welcomed him in deliciously as he filled you up each time, speeding up with each thrust. 

His hand reached out to wrap around your throat as he pressed his body further into you, staying still for a moment once his cock was snug inside you. You whimpered at how full you felt. 

“You’re mine.” he’d growl before thrusting into you again, harder than earlier and making you cum around his cock in no time. 

You felt him pull out and felt his cum drip down your thighs, as he bit down on your neck to keep himself quiet. He pulled away to look at all the bite marks he left on your skin; smirking. 

“There. All mine.” 

After that day, his need to have you all times only grew more and more. Whenever you were at the castle and he was around, all he had to do was give you that look. And you immediately understood that you had to hurry and go wait for him in his room where he would make you scream his name for hours 

It became a habit. 

You would start spending more and more time in his majestic bed, in secrecy. Although you were sure the guards could hear all of what goes on in that room. 

You got up trying to leave his bed and go home for the night one day, but he stopped you by grabbing your arm and pulling back under the blankets with him. 

“Stay.” was all he said, circling an arm around you. 

“I have to to go.” you tried reasoning with him. He opened his eyes and glared at you. 

“My parents must be waiting.” you spoke again and he chuckled. 

Without another word said, he slipped his hand in between your legs under the covers. He toyed with your clit and smeared your wetness around before slipping his fingers inside of you. “Yeah? Well then i better tell them not to expect you home anytime soon. Because you’re busy being my good little whore..” 

He’d stroke your walls gently, perfectly; making you grip the sheets tightly and moan his name under your breath sinfully. “How you spread those pretty legs for me whenever i ask you to.” he whispered along your jaw, kissing your skin as he pumps his finger in and out of you. You were sure you were dripping all over his hand by now. “Or how your little slut mouth takes my cock so perfectly each time, huh?” 

He ended up fucking you again. Pounding into you at an insane speed, looking you deep in the eyes as he makes you cum around him. “Take it, you little whore. You’re body is begging for me... “ he’d whisper in your ear. “You’re all mine!” 

and just like that, you’d forget all about wanting to go home. 

Bucky was obsessed with you. With your body, with the sounds you made when he fucked you and how your body squirmed under his. He absolutely hated it when any other man even talked to you. 

One day you went home, after surprisingly not running into him the whole time you were at the castle. And there he was, waiting for you in your bedroom. 

“Why are you late?” he asked, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. He noticed you were trying to hide one single rose behind the skirt of your dress but he pointed it out. “Who gave you that?” 

Seeing you weren’t replying, he stepped forward and grabbed your chin gently tilting your head back so you looked him in the eyes. “Answer me.” 

“Thor.” you answered sheepishly. Thor was a knight, a very handsome one. And Bucky hated him since the day he first saw him trying to talk to you. And now he dared give you a flower? 

Bucky was furious. And he didn’t hold back that day. He fucked you like he owned you. 

His hand pinned you down on your bed by your throat while he pushed into you, stretching you out. Your soft whimpers and cries only fueled his desire to have you and truly make you his. 

Again, there was nothing gentle about him when he was in moods like these. He was wild, and passionate; fucking you like there’s no tomorrow. 

He’d tighten his grip around your throat as he speeds up into you, growling right in your ear and telling you that you belong to him. “I want to see you swollen with my child, so everyone knows that you belong to me.” he hissed in your ear; speeding up again. 

Your heart raced at his words. It was overwhelming; his voice, his weight on top of you, his cock... oh but you craved more. 

“Can already imagine you... with a big bump, and my child safe inside you. No one would be allowed to touch you, or talk to you or even look at you. You’ll be entirely mine.” he whispered in your ear, in a daze as he pounds into you. 

He released your throat and placed his hand on your abdomen, pressing down on your front so he can feel himself inside you. He stared into your eyes while he speeds up into you again. “You will be mine, forever. You’ll warm my bed every night and have my children.” 

He pressed his lips to yours, swallowing all your moans and mewls as he came inside of you. You felt his warm load shooting at your walls as he shoved his tongue past your lips, his beard rubbing and scratching your skin. You felt his presence everywhere. 

But he wasn’t done yet, he flipped you around and pulled you onto your hands and knees and pushed into you again from behind. His grip on your hips would surely leave a bruise. 

Bucky pounded into you mercilessly, fucking you like he had always dreamt of. Bending and contorting your body however he liked. He came in you again. Then took you again. And again. 

“That’s right... moan for me... beg.” 

His thick cock touched you in all the right places, making you orgasm like never before, filling you up with his cum over and over again. 

“You’re mine.” he growled again as he pulled away to admire his work of art. Marks left behind on your skin, bite marks along your thighs, and your neck, his cum leaking out of you while you closed your eyes and panted under him; both of you hot and sweaty in your bed. 

He slipped his fingers back into you and fingered his cum into you again like a madman, making you arch your back and scream, he didn’t care about how sensitive you were, he just needed to remind you and everyone else that you belonged to him. 

“You will have my children, won’t you sweetheart?” he whispered against your lips as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. “You’re gonna be so beautiful, all big and swollen, filled with my seed for everyone to see. Mine.” he growled in your ear, wrapping his arm around you protectively.

 ---

@brown-bi-beautiful

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[waiting4inspiration]

The ‘40s II (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: You’re back in your own time now, and absolutely heartbroken about it. But Bucky remembers you and confronts you about everything. It’s almost as if you never left...

Warnings: time travel shit, small angst, soft bucky, fluff, so much fluff, strong language, implied sex

Word Count: 2,028

Part 1 HERE II Marvel Masterlist

It wasn’t something you planned to happen. As the time comes for the war to start, a time you knew would send Bucky away from you and right into HYDRA’s hands, you were frantic to find a way to stop that, to try and find a way that Bucky doesn’t go to war. You know it’s impossible to do that, but you know that every woman that has to say goodbye to the man they love would try to do the same thing if they could. In your frantic search to find something, you were engulfed in a bright light, just like when you were in the lab before being thrown back into the ‘40s. 

The first thing that happened when your eyes adjusted from the bright flash was a pair of arms wrapping around you, pulling you in for a tight hug. “Thank God, you’re back.” Hearing Tony’s voice makes you realize that you’re back in your time. 

And you never even got to say goodbye to Bucky. 

“How long was I gone?” you ask, trying to hide your sadness as you pull away from your father and look up at him. 

Tony places his hands on your shoulder as he glances down at the dress you wear. It tells him exactly what time you were in. “A couple of months. You weren’t alone, were you?” he asks, and you shake your head as you look down in heartache. 

You want to tell him that you met Bucky while you were in the past, how you fell in love with him and how you still love him despite everything he had done. You know who he really is and you want to be with him. But you don’t even know if he’ll remember you. 

“No. I actually met someone,” you simply say, keeping your head down as you think of all the times you’ve spent with Bucky before he… Before he became the Winter Soldier. 

Tony now understands why you seem so sad to be back home. He understands that you didn’t know how long you’d be in the past, didn’t know if there was even a way you’d get back. So, you started seeing someone and fell in love. There was nothing to stop that from happening and now that you’re back… Well, Tony thinks that whoever it was is most likely dead now. 

He gently lifts your head up, gives you a small smile before he starts to lead you out of the lab. “Come on. We’ll get you some breakfast, get you out of those clothes, and soon, it will feel as if you never left in the first place,” he tries to comfort, and you force a smile but you know that with Bucky around, it will never feel that way again. 

You don’t expect to see Bucky so soon after your return. Knowing that he normally goes for a jog in the morning and noticing the time on the clock when you pass on your way out the lab, you thought that he’d still be out. 

But when you see him in the kitchen, all sweaty and drinking water, still breathing heavily, a gasp catches in the back of your throat. It’s loud enough to catch his attention, making his head lift from his stare at the counter and his eyes land on you. They grow wide, his mouth falling just slightly as he stares at you in shock. Almost like he’s seen a ghost. 

That’s when you realized that he’s staring at your dress more than anything else. And you know why. The morning you left, when you were putting the dress on, Bucky was right behind you, trying to coax you into leaving it off. From the look on his face and how he turns his head away as he clears his throat, you know that he remembers that. 

Making as if he doesn’t see you, he slips out of the kitchen, not being seen by Tony who’s too busy with something on his phone. You want to call out to Bucky to stop him and explain everything but you stop yourself when you remember your father who basically forbids any interaction between you and him standing next to you. 

Tony makes a displeased sound, making your head turn to him as he turns to face you. “Will you be okay on your own? Something came up and I gotta deal with it,” he says, a sad look on his face because he hates that work is calling him away just as you had come back from the past. 

You shake your head and smile at him. “It’s okay. I’m pretty tired so I think I should rest a bit,” you lie, knowing that if anything, you’re going to find Bucky and talk to him. Tony nods his head and gives you a reassuring smile before he turns to walk away. And as for you, you make your way to your room so you can change into something more time-appropriate. 

As you walk through the passages, you think of what you’re going to say to Bucky. There’s so much you want to say to him, so much that you’re not sure if you should even say. Hell, you don’t know if he even wants to talk to you. 

Where do you even start?

Pushing your door open, your eyes snap up from staring at the ground when you see someone waiting for you, sitting on the edge of your bed. “Bucky,” you whisper, his head slowly lifting up to look at you and away from his hands folded in front of him. 

He swallows, drops his gaze back to his hands and runs his tongue over his lips as you close the door behind you to avoid being caught by anyone that might walk past. “When I saw you for the first time after joining the team, I prayed to God that I wasn’t dreaming,” he starts, speaking softly and slowly, clearly trying to keep it together. “I hoped that somehow, you managed to make it through all these years, just as I had. But when you made as if you didn’t know me, when I found out you were Tony’s daughter, I knew it was too good to be true,” he adds, chuckling to himself as he shakes his head. 

“Then Tony told us what happened, that you were sent back in time and things made a little more sense to me,” he mentions, looking back up at you with a glimmer of happiness in his eyes. “But by then, I forgot you, what you look like,” he says, standing up and walking over to you, your heart racing in your chest as you fight back the tears growing in your eyes. “If it wasn’t for this fucking dress,” he laughs, glancing down to the top button as he slowly reaches for it. 

A laugh leaves your lips as you step closer to him, rest a hand on his wrist and look down at his fingers playing with the button. “I thought you left when you didn’t come back that day,” he carries on, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours and making your eyes flutter shut. “I thought that you went back home because you didn’t love me anymore.”

You shake your head, take a breath to speak and tell him that’s not true. But he stops you by lifting his hand, his flesh hand, to cup your cheek as he steps closer to you. “Just, tell me that it’s really you,” he begs in a whisper, stroking his thumb over your cheek. 

“It’s me. It really is me,” you reassure, raising a hand to touch the side of his face as he breathes out a sigh. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. If I could, I would have stayed to live my life with you,” you whisper, nuzzling your face against his as he breathes out a sigh. 

He drops his gaze a bit to his metallic arm at his side and bites the inside of his cheek. “When I wasn’t what I am today,” he deducts, starting to step away from you. 

You stop him by taking a step forward and lifting his gaze to yours, locking your eyes with his and holding a stare. “Because I didn’t have my father telling me that I couldn’t be with you,” you correct, your words making a smile slowly grow on Bucky’s face as he hesitantly moves his bionic hand to your hip. “I love you, Bucky. I love you, because I know who you really are in here,” you whisper, placing a hand over his chest, above where his heart is. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back before dipping down to press his lips to yours. You wrap your arms around his neck, letting him pull you closer as he snakes his arms around your waist. It’s only been a few hours since you last saw him, but you know that for him, he hasn’t seen you in over 70 years. 

In your kiss, Bucky finds what’s been missing in all those years he was the Winter Soldier, and when he was not. Even when Tony allowed him to join the team, he didn’t have this feeling. As he kisses you, he finds a sense of belonging.

At first, Bucky didn’t want you to see his metallic arm or the scars he accumulated over missions, scared that you would realize that he’s not the man you fell in love with in the ‘40s and he’d lose you. But God, with your gentle touches and you whispered words of affection as you helped him remove his shirt, he ended up falling for you even more. 

He touched you in ways that make you feel as if you would never be satisfied by anyone else, ever again. It was sweet, almost vulnerable, but at the same time, needy and lustful. And at the end of it all, you can’t take your eyes off his face. 

If Tony had to walk in now and see his daughter and the man he reluctantly agrees to work with together with nothing but a sheet covering their bodies, you’re certain he would probably have a heart attack. You know that the longer you keep this relationship with Bucky a secret, the more furious Tony will be when you tell him. But, you can't keep yourself from wanting to keep this between you and Bucky for a while longer. Besides, you two have just been reunited again. 

Bucky has an arm wrapped around your shoulder, his metallic one behind his head, and a stare at a part of the wall in your bedroom as he indulges in the gentle caress of your fingers on his chest. He breathes out a long breath, tears his gaze away from the wall and looks down at you as your fingers slowly make their way to the scar at the beginning of his metal arm.

“I had a plan,” he starts talking, breaking the comfortable silence between you and making your head turn to him, your fingers coming to a stop. “I was going to look for you when I got back from the war, I wasn’t going to stop until I found you. Then, I was going to ask you to marry me,” he adds, smiling to himself as his eyes return to the spot on your wall. 

You can’t contain your smile growing on your face as you think about his words. He was ready to marry you? In the ‘40s, you had only known each other for a few months. Perhaps it was the war getting to his head. Still, the thought of him asking you to marry him makes your heart glow. “If things had gone that way, I would have said yes,” you mention, wrapping your arm around his body and shifting closer to him as you rest your head on his shoulder. 

He smirks, chuckles and looks back down at you. “I know,” he says, running his fingers up and down your arm as he pulls you closer to him.

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[cryinginthebackseat]

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part ii

part i    part iii  AO3 

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 2.918

Warnings: some mild sexual content and swearings, like usual

Author’s note: okay, i know this one's a little short but i promise there'll be more coming on the next chapter, i promise.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The first time Bell showed her face at Langley, it was two weeks after the program. She wore beige, a ruffled high-neck blouse that made her hazel eyes, like charred nut shells, hard and just about indestructible, popped.

She stood at the lobby, regarding the place like she’d waltzed into a wrong banquet hall, the band played in the background, chandeliers dripping like arctic icicles, the bar drenched in opulent gold.

She didn’t belong here.

But Adler met her there, anyway, Hudson in tow.

“Have I ever done something to him?” Bell asked after the rather short-lived meeting, squinting at the vacant spot Hudson left them. She’d yielded very few words. When she did, it’d been all business, crisp, so it surprised him now to hear her uttering something with more than 2 syllables.

“What do you mean?”

“Have I deliberately done something to piss him off?” she elaborated, quieter, but the glower remained.

Adler carefully studied her behind his tinted shades. It still troubled him to a degree that he couldn’t read her. Like she locked herself off. They say eyes are the window to the soul, but thus far, he saw nothing. Fuck the poets.

“No. At least, not as far as I can tell,” he grits out, curious to see where she was heading with the conversation. “Why?”

Bell hummed, but seemingly unconvinced. A beat, then: “He doesn’t seem to like me that much.”

You don’t belong here, he thought and his face went cagier, back stiffer, but no doubt intrigued. Very much so by this mysteriously curious creature.

Perceptive and diamond-sharp intelligent, he pondered. They might have secured the bag after all.

“It's not you. That’s just as warm and fuzzy you’ll see Hudson with everyone, trust me,” he uttered, hoping that she bought the fib. She did. At least, he thought so. “Come on, Bell, we’ve got a job to do.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler finds her outside the garage the next night, smoking alone, reading in secret. The ground is still wet from the rain, straggling cloud wisps and every artery of this place fucking freezes his bones. Bell ditches her gloves inside, but has her coat on, the collar popped up like antennae.

"You aren't cold?" he asks when she doesn’t notice him. Too engrossed in her own bubble. She does look better, though. Park is right about that one at least.

"I'm good," she answers without looking up. "Am I needed for something inside?"

"No, just thought I could use some fresh air."

He’s studying her, raking her from head to toe. Suddenly, he doesn’t care if she would notice him. Then he steps closer, standing next to her, lifting his cigarette to his mouth.

“What are you reading?”

There’s something about this secret element to her that has him on his toes. Everything about her is curious- frustratingly curious, careful, as Bell rolls her neck to meet him. In the low light, she looks quite new, he learns. And his eyes beg for him to linger.  

“Amerika. Kafka,” she says. “Have you read it?”

A subtle shake of his head and, “No.” While Bell nods, silent, like she doesn't know what else to say to him. “Should I? Give it a read?” Adler adds, just to keep the conversation going.

She shrugs, a cloud of smoke escaping her nostrils. “I can’t say that Kafka is ever a favorite of mine, but he really is sui generis. And Amerika is probably the most approachable of all his works? It’s funny too.”

“I never thought I’d hear Kafka and funny in the same sentence.”

“Yeah, well, it’s very subtle. And if only you can understand his nightmarish sense of humor, that is,” she explains, shrugging again, like she’s embarrassed. “I don’t know, maybe you’ll like it.”

Frankly, he hates Kafka. He hates his vatic, dead-eye vision of the world; that acute sense of hopelessness clinging onto his main protagonists like vines, but Adler finds himself nodding, anyway.

“Sure, lend me your copy once you're done with it." If she’s surprised by his answer, she does not tell her. But Adler thinks she’s smiling though- just the barest quirk of her lips, but it’s enough for him to know that she appreciates the gesture.

A brief, unmapped silence ensues.

"I'm sorry, by the way."

Adler arches an eyebrow at her. "For what?"

Bell slots a bookmark into the book, closes it, frowns at it.

"For yesterday. I, uh… I feel like I was being insolent to you.”

He looks sidelong at Bell and tries to read her. Her expression is raw and open, a painting visible through a small tear in the paper. For some reason, that catches him by surprise.

“You already apologized, you know?” Adler teases lamely.

“I know, but still it was uncalled for and very unprofessional of me. You’re my CO, not some random BND agent I’m forced to work with. I shouldn’t have said that," she mumbles softly and sighs, world-weary, heavy, sounding like a woman twice her age. "It will not happen again. I promise you."

"Hey, consider it water under the bridge, kid. You’re in a rather rough place right now, I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he tells her, fond. “What matters is you’re alright. We can’t catch Perseus if you’re green around the gills.”

Her eyes meet his. He meets her back.

“Thank you.” And Bell rotates her body to face him. Mussed brunette hair and sharp cheekbones, mouth kinked up in sympathy as she says, “Is this what you have to put up with all these years?"

He summons a smirk. "With you? More or less."

And then the woman does the unexpected; Bell laughs. She fucking laughs. Delicate sounding, like a tinkling glass, petals wrapped in satin, moonbeams through frosted windows. It dies, too soon to his liking. Adler privately lets the sound of her laughter replays in his head, as if trying to pocket it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s only after Ukraine when he discovers that she smells different. That wintry floral smell of hers that he’s accustomed to is commingling with something else.

But now-

Now, there's music in the air.

Sims does this sometimes, bringing his Zenith Trans-Oceanic, or as he would call it the Tranny, to the safehouse and they would tune in to international radio stations. Cream's Sunshine Of Your Love is playing- or more specifically, their song is 5 seconds away from being cut off abruptly by the DJ. The song reminds him of Vietnam, regrettably. The root of all madness.

“Next up, is my favorite ever track-to-track transition on an album. This is Pink Floyd’s Brain Damage and-”

Adler stops whatever it is he’s scribbling. He sits up, ramrod straight.

“Mind switching to another station?” he asks suddenly, glances up at Sims quickly who, as Adler suspected, is giving him a rather odd look.

“Why?”

"I've always hated Pink Floyd." Only because he’s out of reason. Only because he can feel Bell’s confused stare, searing into his temple. Only because it’s the only way of escaping this. "Change it, please."

Sims opens his mouth. The unspoken: how about that time in Denver?

The telling jerk of Adler’s lips warns him not to ask.

The other man clamps his mouth shut, seemingly gets the message and switches to a different station. He never brings his radio again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Frank Woods is exactly how Adler saw him last time- or since Hue City, that is: tigerish and intimidating- a kick in the head voice, a hurricane in the shape of a man and he is making his way to him right now.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?”

"So talk."

Woods shakes his head. "Not here."

Adler looks at him at last now, curiosity creeping over him. He then stubs his cigarette, nods once and leads them both to his office.

Once they’re inside, he locks the door, secures the blinds.

“What is it?” Adler takes a seat behind his desk. Woods remains standing. He paces around the room, a hand on his bearded chin.

“What the fuck is going on with your girl?”

Adler doesn’t know which one is worse, the fact that Woods manages to sniff out something going on with Bell or that he just addresses her as his girl. Either way, it's bad. Either way, Adler should have expected the former issue. Woods is astute as he is dangerous. There's a reason why the CIA gave the green light for Mason and Hudson to save him in Da Nang all those years ago, after all.

"What about her?" Adler asks, even-toned, giving nothing away. Even though he is in the ‘need to know’ column regarding Bell’s brainwashing, this is something Adler initially wishes he could keep under wraps.

“Don’t bullshit me, Adler. She has that look on her face- I see it in her eyes. The exact same look Mason has been wearing since ‘Nam,” Woods tells him, point-blank, never being the one to settle for niceties. After Hudson, Adler thinks he simply can’t tolerate the agency anymore.

“I saw it all, remember? Had a fucking front row seat to his relapse and shit, so don’t tell me she’s alright. Not when it looks like she could snap out of it any moment.” Woods has his hands on the table and looks at him dead-on. “Tell me I’m right. Tell me there is something wrong with her.”

He regards the other man coolly. Woods is no longer asking. Adler is out of move.

“You're right,” he answers simply, eventually, tipping his king over on its side, stopping the clock. "Did you talk to Hudson regarding this?"

"Since when did I report to Agent stick-up-his-ass? Fuck no. That's why I came straight to you.” Woods heaves a heavy sigh, like he’s the one with all these burdens. “Now, what the hell’s wrong with her?”

“She’s suffering from brain damage."

“Shit. All that ‘cause of MK-Ultra?”

“One of the few factors that caused it, yes.”

His mouth goes flat. "How bad is it?”

“Bad. We’re trying to minimize for any collateral as we speak, at least until we finally get our hands on Perseus. But she… she might not make it.” Adler leans back in his chair, like his body feels heavy all of the sudden.

Woods nods. Uncharacteristically silent, looking strangely contemplative, sympathetic even. That should be categorized as an oddity itself, Woods and him, two proud Americans, Vietnam veterans and she’s just another red, another blood they would indubitably sacrifice for their country and they’re sympathizing with her? Yet something deep inside Adler, something resonates like the throat of a storm, sinks its teeth into him, confounds him, every time he thinks of her.

Woods crosses his arms over his chest, glances at the door, as if someone might knock anytime soon, then back to him.

"So, what's the plan?" He quickly adds, "if things go south, what are you gonna do?"

"It won't come to that. She'll come through, I know it," Adler counters, suddenly defensive. Whatever the use of his tone indicates, Woods ignores it.

"You sure about that?”

"Are you doubting me?” Adler spits out a retort. A quiet fury grasps him tight, but he forces himself to keep under a tight lid.

Woods holds his hands up in mock surrender.

"Look, I’m just saying, that woman is a loose cannon- you can’t be too careful."

"We have everything under control, Woods. And this is the least of your worry right now."

"Alright, okay. If you say you and Park have her contained already, then fine. I trust you,” he says and heads for the door.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Woods says again. He’s facing the door, back to him. “Whatever happens, keep Mason in the dark about any of this."

“Of course. He isn’t on a need to know basis from the very start, you know that.”

"Good. ‘cause the less he knows the better." Woods pauses like he's constructing an entire sentence in his head. He peers over his shoulder. "I mean it. He’s been through enough. I don’t know which ground you crawled up from, but up here, some people implement this kind of civility to other people.”

The words sting, yet Adler stares back at him, seemingly unfazed. "What, you’re saying that I’m simply heartless?”

“Nah,” Woods says, satirical and sardonic. “You’re just Adler.” And with that, he’s gone.

1976

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was eight o'clock on a mid-September evening and Adler found himself coming home to an empty house.

His wife had already left a week prior, crossing the country with a self-proclaimed film critic she'd met at the premiere of The Shining last summer, but Adler didn't know that yet.

He went to the kitchen. Dropped his suitcase, pulled off his coat and scarf. He reeked of cigarettes, cheap air freshener and jet fuel- air travel is simply sickening, in terms of its cost and smell- and in a desperate need of a hot bath.

"Honey?" He switched the lights on. She wasn't here. So Adler headed upstairs, to their room where they would rest their bones every night for the past 15 years. The door was slightly ajar. He expected to see her sleeping from under the duvet, hair splaying all over the pillow.

What he found was a folded note on his bedside table. He stared at it, his heart at his throat, fearing the worst, the unimaginable. He picked the letter and unfolded it.

Forgive me.

Russell,

Live or die, but don't poison everything .

His head did pirouette. So, this was it. This was what it felt like, he thought.

Not heartbreak, not sadness. But a collapse of the world- his world and all he could do was watch from the sidelines.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━��

1981

Adler stares at the words now, sleeves rolled up, anatomical heart. The paper is fading, wrinkled and it smells like smoke and decay and tears, capped with something akin to regret.

It has his name on it, begins with it, and ends with an apology, written in cursive. Like microscopic snakes dancing around his peripheral vision, hissing in his ears.

Live or die, but don't poison everything.

No one likes to be told that they are sick, but Russell Adler has learned to acknowledge it, embrace it, weaponize it. Her words mean zero shit to him now. You can't condemn someone to the depths of hell when it's the only place he's known all his life.

So, he takes the letter for the last time, remembering how the ink used to smudge his calloused fingers, crumples it up, that satisfying crunch dins in his palm, and tosses it into the fireplace.

The paper crackles. Good fucking riddance. It really takes all this time for him to grow the guts, apparently, and he just stares and stares as the fire begins to engulf everything, wiping away his past failure.

He promises he would never fail again, at anything. No matter what the cost, failure is never going to be an option.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Bell arrives at the garage with frantic eyes, a half-burnt cigarette between her lips and uncharacteristically late. Color peppering her cheeks- red, like an apple bitten into.

“I’m sorry, I overslept,” is her excuse, but she’s looking at the room strangely, he thinks, almost like she’s seeking a particular face.

When she makes her way to her desk, when she whizzes past him by the board and her planet is entering his orbit for the first time in the morning, Adler, as if by accident or by design, inhales deeply.

His breath snags.

She smells like someone else.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(Someone fucked her last night)

The telephone rings in the distance.

“Sims. Yeah, sure, let me get him. Hold on.” He puts the call on hold. “Doc, you might wanna take this one.”

(Someone was in her bed; beside her, above her, under her. Inside her. He imagines her fingers digging into the mattress as they rolled her onto her stomach, mouth trailing down the ladder of her spine. Their breaths intermingled in the seraphic glow of her hotel room)

Adler mechanically crosses the room and picks the receiver.

“Adler.”

(If he herds her away from prying eyes and pushes down the collar of her shirt, would he see the evidence there, taunting him? If he kisses her, would he taste them instead of her? )

"Perhaps," he says over the phone, his face hard. "But my decision is final. I'm sending Woods and Mason to Yamantau. They'll leave in a few days."

(Did they make her come?)

"Of course. Why do you think I chose them for this mission?"

(If she made them?)

“Most likely, but we're prepared for this- you know we are," Adler says, customer service polite, an old recording on a playback. "Right. Well, that concludes the matter then. Yeah, you have a wonderful day to yourself.”

Adler hangs up the telephone. Breathes out a sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose for a few good seconds, before remembering that he has an audience.

"Oof. Sounds rough," comments Sims, dark eyes slanting in concern.

(Maybe she likes that, rough. Teeth biting the back of her shoulder, that sweet juxtaposition of pain and pleasure coursing through their veins, his hand curling around her throat from behind as she pants and mewls like-)

(But this isn’t about him. Never about him)

"That's one way to put it."

Someone else fucked her. It shouldn't leave an acrid taste in his mouth, but it does.

[tenacityreturns]

five times kissed with aokaga

i. new to their relationship, but eager, this kiss is exactly as you’d expect it to be. aomine is an annoying little shit, which is a surprise to no one. and kagami loves it.

ii. kagami’s dad calls him at 2am and leaves him feeling bad. if he’d been by himself, he would’ve let it worry him and probably wouldn’t have been able to get back to sleep. good thing he isn’t alone.

iii. aomine’s really good at ghosting him. he had done it before, but now they’re in a relationship, kagami tries his best to help make him feel better. he feels like an idiot but momoi’s there to help. this is the longest because depression, big mood

iv. the vorpal swords reunite, but things are not as kagami would like them to be. this is my fav one because i love kise so much and he’s HERE so that’s all i care about. also you can tell i care about him more than the others bc he has speaking lines.

v. they’ve graduated, and kagami has been in the states for six months. aomine comes to visit.

i) it’s not their first kiss, but it’s still new. instincts tell kagami to push aomine away when he comes close because it’s dangerous to let someone else hold your heart. and his hands are rough, his eyes are cold, and his temper is short, but kagami trusts him. in this moment, they’re both sitting on the edge of their emotional barriers, waiting for the signal that it was safe to fall. he believes that one of them will go first. their personal insecurities are too great to just rush into it wholeheartedly.

     this kiss has a slower build-up than their first. they’re sitting on aomine’s bed, which is dangerous enough territory in itself because kagami is both completely inexperienced and eager to try. as if he could keep his hands off the hottest guy he knows! they inch closer. does aomine know the effect he has? does he feel the same? kagami understands that they both like each other, and want to make out right in this moment, but could he ever affect someone’s pulse like aomine does his? could kagami ever make him speechless? be the only thing he’d want to look at in a room? aomine’s eyes dance across kagami’s face. what’s he looking at? they make eye contact and it sparks a smirk.

     “ah, you’re looking at me with the intensity of a game,” but before kagami can get embarrassed and tell him to fuck off, aomine ducks in close. in a whisper, he continues: “you should loosen up.”

     “you should shut up,” kagami puts his hand on aomine’s chest and pushes him backwards. he climbs on top to straddle him, and it’s the look in widened blue eyes that’s telling him this was the right thing to do. in an instant, the wit returns and he’s smirking again.

     “make me.”

    maybe he would growl, say something like you’re a smartass who always wants to have the last laugh, you know that, right? but kagami is preoccupied. his tense jaw relaxes, and the anger evaporates. the judgement calls between calling out and making out with aomine daiki are often very close. maybe next time, kagami will pretend to be annoyed. ( hint: it won’t be the next time. )

♥

ii) kagami’s ringtone shatters the dark peace of his bedroom. his groggy, half-asleep arm drops heavily to his right, where, usually, it would connect with the bed-side table ( painfully ) and he’d find his phone. this time, he isn’t sleeping alone, and he accidentally hits his barely sleeping boyfriend.

     “hey,” aomine complains as he pushes himself up, “what is it? your phone?”

     kagami doesn’t give a linguistically clear response, but it’s enough of a grunt that aomine gets it. he holds his hand out, and aomine passes it over. it’s dad. it’s 2am. “shit,” kagami presses answer and holds it to his ear. when he speaks, it’s in english. “dad, it’s so early.”

     “good! can we talk?”

     “no, i mean it’s late. can you call me tomorrow?”

     “i’m on a business trip tomorrow, but i won’t be long! it’s friday night, taiga, don’t young people normally stay up ‘til the early hours anyway?”

     “how should i know?” kagami reaches over to squeeze aomine’s arm. it’s a sorry i woke you gesture, which gets a don’t worry about it shrug. as kagami’s father tells him not to be so snappy, he’s just checking in, his son is whispering away from the phone that he’ll be back in a minute. then he’s swinging his legs over the bed and going into the living room.

     “anyway,” asao continues distractedly, and kagami can tell that he’s multi-tasking. “do you want to go to europe with me this winter?”

    “huh?”

     “my business trip! it’s in france, but i was thinking we could take a tour.”

     kagami thought of the winter cup, of getting to have rematches against the generation of miracles. he thought of school ( last, of course ). “what? no, i can’t. i’ve got stuff going on here.”

     “they’ll survive without you for a month! or two weeks, i don’t know, whatever school break is. and you know what they say about french girls?”

    kagami groans. “i don’t care about french girls. i have a boyfriend, remember?”

     silence.

     “go by yourself. or why don’t you grab someone random off the street and tell them to ditch all their plans last minute like this?”

   silence.

    “sorry,” it’s instinctual, second-nature to apologise like this. he isn’t sorry, but he’ll say it anyway for some paternal approval. “people are counting on me and i can’t let them down. --- are you not coming here for christmas?”

    “business trip. alright, taiga. i’ll let you get back to sleep.”

    “bye, dad.”

    dial tone. ah, fuck, he’d hurt his dad’s feelings. he texts thanks anyway, and waits for a reply. it’s a smiley face almost instantly, but that doesn’t put him at ease. it’s not passive aggressive, but at least they weren’t arguing again like last time. when kagami returns to his room, aomine is sitting up on the bed with his arm draped over his legs.

     “everything... okay?” aomine asks quietly. kagami shrugs and plugs in his phone. tentatively as characteristically possible, he continues: “was your dad being a dick again?”

     “he called me in the middle of the night,” kagami climbs across the bed to get back to his side. “what do you think?”

     silence. the urge to apologise bubbles to the surface immediately, leftover from his phone call, but aomine moves and interrupts it. he lowers to one elbow, but it’s the other hand that provides distraction: tenderly brushing kagami’s persistent fringe from his forehead. he never knows what to say in the face of aomine being gentle like this. it’s not uncommon, just surprising, and kagami isn’t particularly good at returning the favour.

     “he asked me to go to europe with him,” kagami says instead, shuffling in a little closer so that his head on aomine’s pillow. his boyfriend is silent again, which is fair, because what the fuck? kagami knows, he gets it. “i’m not going, obviously.”

     “rich people are so fucked,” aomine watches his fingers glide across kagami’s hairline. “he knows you can’t just up and leave, and offers anyway. shit.”

     “right? i have basketball and school.”

     “sounds like it could have been nice, though.”

     “he wants to hook me up with french girls.”

     “never mind. you shouldn’t go.”

     kagami smiles, closing his eyes. “maybe i’ll go.”

     “man, shut up,” aomine pushes kagami’s head into the pillow.

     “hey!” kagami shoves his hand against aomine’s face. they let go. 

     “tch,” as if the last few seconds never happened, aomine tucks himself in close. his head fits just right nestled beneath kagami’s chin. “why couldn’t he call you back in the morning, anyway?”

     “he’s leaving then, or something.”

     “hm. go back to sleep.”

     kagami sighs. usually he can, but sometimes the call disturbs him too much and he’ll lie awake for hours. this is one of those times, he can already tell. ugh. his eyes are open again, blankly surveying the other side of the room. after a few minutes, he can feel aomine’s breathing start to level out and the arm around his body goes limp. red eyes close. please go back to sleep. who cares if his dad disregards all of kagami’s hobbies and relationships in one simple they’ll survive without you for a month? not him! kagami doesn’t care.

     “are you still awake?” aomine makes him jump, which makes a very sleepy sounding aomine jump too. “oiiiii.”

     “sorry! i thought you were asleep.”

     “no, you’re too tense, it’s not relaxing.”

     “daiki,”

     “shhhh,” aomine lifts his head enough to kiss kagami’s jaw. ahhhh!!!! that’s really cute!!!! it gets WORSE. aomine rolls forward, pushing kagami onto his back and lying half on top of him. he holds a hot, red face in his hands and plants three kisses on chin, nose, then forehead. “do you feel a little better?”

    “d--daiki, that’s so cute...”

     “answer the question.”

     “yes?”

     “okay.” he makes kagami’s muscular chest his new pillow. “if you’d have said no, i might have done that again.”

     “huh!!! don’t say that! do it anyway!”

     “shhhh, i’m sleeping.”

     kagami hugs him, but also gives aomine a good shake. a blue head raises with a stern look. “you think you’re getting kissed for that?”

     but kagami’s smiling widely, unable to hold it in. “i wish you were here every time my dad called me.”

     such a statement softens whatever faux grudge had been starting to root itself into the conversation. suffice to say, kagami gets his kisses. brief though they are, because aomine’s half-asleep as it is, it means the world. and it means kagami’s sufficiently distracted to fall asleep again.

♥

iii) aomine hadn’t gone to school that day. of course, kagami wasn’t to know that until after practise when kuroko gets a phone call from momoi asking if he was with them. no, he’s not. they’d been supposed to meet up, but aomine cancelled at lunch time without much explanation. he does that sometimes. at first, it used to annoy kagami, but aomine told him that sometimes he has days when he can’t bring himself to talk to anyone. he’s fine, he doesn’t want pity or anything, just space on days when it happens. i don’t like who i am when i get like that, he’d said. kagami had come to the conversation ill-prepared and hadn’t said anything in reply. he regrets that. so he assumes that this is what today had turned into, one of those days.

     the thing is, momoi also knows when he’s not feeling well. kagami had asked her once if there was anything they could do to make him feel better, somehow, and she said that there wasn’t. she usually takes a box of nice things around to his house for when he comes home. those sexy magazines he likes, a couple of cartons of banana milk, some snacks. kagami thinks of this suddenly as kuroko is ending the call. the words form on his tongue at the same rate as forming in his mind.

     “momoi,” he pulls kuroko’s phone to his ear, holding onto his friend’s wrist. “have you been ‘round to his house yet?”

     “hi kagamin,” she coos, then sighs, “no, i haven’t.”

     “let me do it,” his eyes cannot lift from the floor in his embarrassment ( there are so many of his teammates around, and kuroko’s right there! ). “i can be there in an hour. --------please.”

     “o-okay! i think dai-chan would like that.”

     “i hope so.”

     “i’m in town anyway, why don’t you meet me? bring tetsu-kun and we’ll call it a double date!”

     “how does that work if daiki’s not there? and ain’t the point of this to look out for him, anyway?”

     “ah. yes, i suppose. is tetsu-kun still there?”

     “yes, momoi-san.”

     “ah, tetsu-kun! were you listening? i’m sorry if we left you out! may i steal kagamin for a little while?”

     “i don’t need his permission!” kagami defends hotly, but evens out immediately, letting go of kuroko’s wrist. “i’ll go get changed and see you at that grocery store you mentioned.”

     “grocery... store?”

     “yeah, the one with the, uh,” kagami presses his finger and thumb together and rotates his wrist. like a... key? “the, uh-- popsicle stick? with kuroko, back in middle school?”

     she all but screams a huh down the phone. “why do you remember that!”

     “i don’t know!” because aomine and the others used their basketball ability to take down a bag snatcher, obviously! how fucking cool is that? aomine chasing after a guy on a moped and catching up? kagami’s blushing at the thought.

     momoi sounds like she’s blushing too, and she tumbles into the steep slope of gushing over kuroko and her own, self-described shyness. kagami grimaces. kuroko stares at him. yes, alright, this one is absolutely kagami’s fault for starting. he’ll take responsibility for that one. kuroko finds a nice, polite way to hang up without making her feel bad. damn, if only kagami had an ounce of the tact this guy has!

     but he’ll make do with what he has, and excuses himself from hanging out after practise to attend to something. everyone must have heard that phone-call, but he’s blocking those thoughts from his mind as he speed walks to that fateful store. walking isn’t fast enough. he types out five different texts to aomine that express that he hopes he’s alright, but all of them feel wrong. it’s almost a private joke with himself but as he’s sliding into a taxi to get him there faster, he finds the tiger emoji and the heart emoji. then clicks send by accident. oops. that was... kind of stupid. really stupid. fuck.

     momoi is standing outside with her phone to her ear as he arrives in the car. he pays the fare and gets out. is she on the phone to him? but she doesn’t say goodbye before pushing her phone into her purse, nor does it look like she hung up, so the image is a mystery lost on him. they’re quick inside the store. momoi chooses everything first, starting with the magazine he likes ( ah, thank goodness, mai-chan features a lot in this issue. yes, i’m sure he’ll be fine. but isn’t this strange for you, kagamin? // no, i don’t care. he can like what he likes. // huh! dreamy... ), but then kagami will pick up two others beside it and put it in the basket. she’ll pick up a three-pack of banana milks, and he’ll pick up another. she finds his favourite sweet snack of the week and he grabs five. same with the savoury option. kagami insists on paying, since it had been his idea to quadruple the purchases. on their way over to aomine’s house, they pass a toy shop. kagami only half-glanced, but a little, cuddly crayfish catches his eye.

     “do you think he’d like that?” kagami stops, and presses his index finger against the glass.

     “you want to buy him a toy lobster?” she repeats like it’s insane. he sighs. he has no idea what a good boyfriend would--- “he used to keep crayfish as pets sometimes. you knew that?”

     kagami nods. he doesn’t know how, but he does know that.

     she squeaks. her twinkling eyes and fingers held delicately against her face are making this into way more of an embarrassing ordeal than he’d wanted it to be, so he’s grumbling as he leaves her outside to go and buy it. the little creature is red like a lobster, and speckled, with big plastic eyes and a smiley face. maybe it’s a lobster. what’s the difference? it goes into the little gift bag and momoi has recovered by the time he’s back. she’s all smiles herself, but at least she isn’t saying anything.

     he’s glad she decides to walk him all the way there. kagami couldn’t remember the way. there’s no way of knowing if he’s in, she tells him as they walk up the path. his mother says he’s out, but he could have faked leaving and gone back to bed. he does that sometimes, apparently. it’s cold and wet today, kagami hopes aomine’s in bed. and it’s aomine’s mother who answers the door. she’s working from home today, about to enter a meeting, so she can’t stay and chat, but it’s lovely to see them both. momoi decides to leave kagami to go upstairs by himself. makes sense. she’ll wait in the living room. he takes a deep breath and carries the big bag of nice things up a dark set of stairs. into a dark hallway ( where is the light switch? ). 

     despite the darkness, he knows where aomine’s room is. and there’s a little window near it to bring in the light of a grey day. it’s like the sky sympathises. there cannot be sun when it is not warm inside aomine’s own chest. kagami knocks on the door but there’s no answer. he’s silent as he walks inside. the curtains are drawn, no lights are on. the bed looks empty. damn. he’s not in, after all. something buzzes on the desk and-- it’s his phone. why the hell wouldn’t he take that, what if something happened? kagami sighs. worry gnaws away at his heart. has something happened?

     the decision is made after some deliberation that the best place for the bag is by the desk. the little lobster toy, however, should go on the bed. it’s such a stupid little gift, isn’t it? maybe he should say that momoi chose it. throw her under the bus now, and then when she denies it later, kagami will be long gone and far from the reaches of embarrassment. he snaps the tags off and shoves them into his pocket, carrying it in both hands like a scared offering to a shrine. 

     aomine must have kicked off the duvet in a sulk, because it’s bunched up on one side of the double bed in a long pile. he must be imagining things when he sits and it shifts. the toy looks out of place on the dark pillow-case of a brooding teenaged boy. maybe that’s not fair, but the longer it sits there, the more out of character it feels and he snatches it away. into his hoodie pocket it goes! the blanket shifts again. shit. is--- is someone under there? an apprehensive hand reaches out to where the shoulder would be, connects with something hard. a shoulder.

     “go away, satsuki,” the duvet grumbles.

     kagami doesn’t know what to say. why has he frozen! the hand stays put. is aomine really saying he thinks that kagami’s hands are the same size as the petite girl’s? why is that so offensive all of a sudden... he exhales. the best thing to say is nothing, or so he decides, and instead he pulls the top of the cover down. aomine is facing the other way. kagami runs his fingertips gently through blue hair and still receives no reaction. does momoi do this? he feels as though he should feel jealous, but can’t find it in himself to. aomine should be loved, touched gently and often by those who adore him. whether that’s platonically or otherwise, it’s good if she does stroke his hair gently, and if aomine doesn’t mind, then who is kagami to interrupt?

     “i blew off tetsu and taiga today,” it sounds like a guilty confession. kagami feels like he shouldn’t have heard it, feels like he’s trespassing. “i’m such a fuck up, man.”

     “no, you’re not,” of course kagami knew that once he spoke in his deep voice, and not momoi’s high pitched one, that aomine would roll onto his back and stare in shock. he does, and the heavy gaze makes kagami feel even more like he shouldn’t be here. but he wants to help, if he can. kagami pulls his hand back and reaches into his hoodie pocket for the hidden lobster toy. he produces it. aomine stares at that instead. then back at kagami.

     “what are you doing here?”

     “i got you a crayfish-- thing. ‘cuz you said you liked them, but not to eat.”

     silence.

     “it’s stupid, i know,” kagami’s smile is weak, guilty, and he sets it atop the pillow like before. why he thought this would help is lost on him. “i hope you’re not mad that i came over, uninvited and all. i won’t do it again if you don’t like it.”

    silence. aomine cranes his neck to find the toy, and lifts his arm out of the cover to pick it up. he’s looking at it like he can’t believe it’s right there in his hand. he’s frowning. ah! but there are other things! kagami leaves the bed and grabs the bag from the desk. it’s the magazines he’s after. he pulls out all three of them at once.

     “momoi helped choose, ‘cuz you know i’d be useless.” the magazines are spread where kagami had been sitting. 

     aomine still isn’t saying anything, which is fine, and he can’t expect him to if he’s feeling like shit! but he doesn’t know what to say to fill the silence, and he doesn’t know if he should just leave! maybe that would be best! however, in his panic, he’s disregarding the point of a gift bag and taking everything out instead. snacks of all sorts crinkle in their packaging. to get a better picture of kagami derailing, aomine has shifted up to sit with his back against the headboard. watching. he opens up one of the packets of banana milk cartons to give to him in an act of that panic.

     “well, that’s it,” kagami says in defeat as he meets the end of the bag. “sorry for making a mess. i can go now, if you like. momoi’s just downstairs so i can get her if you wanna talk to her about anything.”

     he shook his head. but... to which part?

     “you-- you don’t need to worry about cancelling on us, you know. we can always meet another day.”

    “or you could come to my house.”

     “yeah, sorry. i wanted to help, but i hadn’t thought about what i was gonna say, i guess.”

     “come here,” he gestures with his head, but kagami looks instead at the pile of dumb gifts on the mattress where he would have sat. so he starts putting things back in the bag. aomine huffs ( but it sounds almost like it could have been a chuckle had the circumstances been different ), and pushes everything, including the magazines, off the side of the bed.

     “careful! what about mai-chan?”

     “come here,” aomine demands, reaching over and tugging his sleeve closer. is this good? kagami has no idea. he just does what he’s told and climbs over to sit beside his boyfriend. “you didn’t have to do all of this.”

     “yeah, i know that. i hoped it might help.”

     “were you mad at me when i cancelled earlier?”

     “no, i understood you weren’t doing great today. i-- i dunno, i just wanna say i don’t, like, expect anything from you when we meet up. we don’t have to do anything. if you wanna be alone, i get it, but i just-- i wanted to say you don’t have to be alone either. ‘cuz i wanna be there for you, if you’re okay with that too. i’m not trying to------”

    kagami’s sincere, if lengthy, statement is interrupted by a kiss to his moving lips. it’s short, but shuts him up nonetheless. aomine stays close afterwards, leaning on the hand resting just behind kagami’s folded legs.

     “do you wanna do nothing with me?”

     a little dazed, kagami can only nod. aomine piles the two pillows together and sorts the blanket out. he pushes kagami’s chest to lie down against the pillows, and aomine slides himself under his arm, head on chest. they lie like this quite comfortably. it’s warm-- no, it’s cosy. this feels just right. after a few minutes of steady breathing, with kagami smoothing blue hair ever so gently, aomine is asleep. kagami texts momoi a quick update, and she tells him that she’ll let herself out.

     maybe doing nothing isn’t half bad.

♥

iv) they’re at a vorpal swords reunion. it’s more of a meet-up than practise, because the hall they were going to use to practise had flooded and they weren’t able to go inside, and it’s too cold outside to play. so they’re standing with hot drinks in the park. ( kagami isn’t, he’d finished his and aomine’s ages ago. aomine will just have to turn up first. ) akashi managed to get a reservation at this nice, not too pricey restaurant, so they’re waiting a few minutes for noon when they can head over. it takes a little more planning than usual to seat, what? a dozen or so people? 

     kagami’s talking with kise and kuroko, waiting for his cocoa. to be clear, he’s standing with them, and kise is going off about something. then kuroko says something to shut him down and it makes kagami laugh. he’s so abrupt! and people say kagami’s blunt! kise pulls a tragic face, asks why kagami’s laughing, and kagami calls him lame. it’s fun everyone hanging out together!

     “taiga,” it’s a half-assed shout from a little way off, but he knows who it is without looking.

     kise’s saying something to him, but kagami’s attention is immediately drawn to the boy in the big puffer jacket, followed inevitably by his pink-haired friend. kagami glares at him. “you’re so late! what’s up with that?”

     “i was sleepy,” still shouting.

     “don’t say sleepy like you’re cute!” kagami is, unsurprisingly, still shouting.

     aomine stops walking and breathes a deep sigh into the air, dissipating in a cloud. “come here then.”

     the redhead turns, balling his hands into fists. his cheeks are heating up already, because he accidentally yelled that aomine sounded kind of cute just now... and in his stupid fucking beanie, he looks it too. they have a silent stand off, but aomine wins. kagami can’t resist going over to see what the hell he wants. can’t resist being near.

     “come here.”

     so he does, and he stalks over like it’s a great effort, or he’s about to end a fight. he’s not, of course, and the balled fists show discomfort and not aggression. he’s still embarrassed. it’s about to get worse. as soon as he’s near, aomine reaches forward with gloved hands and grabs onto the fluffy hood of kagami’s red parka.

     “what the hell do you mean looking so cute today?” he said like it’s an insult, kagami yelps and grabs his wrists. “you dress up just for me?”

     “it’s cold, how else am i gonna dress!”

     “what are you wearing under it?”

     “like, three layers,” he grunts, “get off my hood, asshole!”

     “aw, your face looks cold, though,” aomine is completely ignoring kagami, except that he decided, probably separately, to put his hands on kagami’s face. that’s actually super nice, and if there weren’t, what, a dozen or so people around that he wanted to look cool for, he’d have just stood still.

      “daiki!” he is shouting, once again. their best and only method of communication is to make as much noise as possible. kagami gnashes his teeth, threatening to bite. maybe he just will and teach aomine to: “quit being a pain!”

     “quit making it fun, then.”

     and quit looking like that so close! kagami isn’t about to kiss him, but he really would if they were in private. it��s the twinkling playfulness in those blue eyes that show kagami that he’s really the only thing on aomine’s mind right now. ugh, shut up, stupid idiot! aomine knows what he’s doing, too. you can tell by the shit-eating smile on his stupid, beautiful face. red eyes, as they often do, roll. he wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s waist and squeezes. it’s not a hug, it’s an attack.

     aomine’s turn to yelp. his hands move so that he’s hugging around kagami’s head, which is obviously enough to get him to loosen his grip.

     “careful, my hat!” kagami exclaims, as if that’s more important than the structural integrity of his skull. they’re still hugging, and nothing else exists, and god is aomine warm. so warm. “hi, anyway. how come you’re late?” 

     “satsuki slept in,” aomine nestles his cold nose into kagami’s bare neck. it’s fine if he does this, he doesn’t mind sharing body heat either. and who’s to see if aomine kissed him in that moment? nobody. but everyone will see the wide grin on kagami’s face, worlds away from the irritation he’d displayed seconds ago. 

     “sure,”

     their embrace ended, but aomine still kept an arm slung around kagami’s shoulders. he glances around for aforementioned girl, but she’s already fawning over kuroko. aomine sends his own form of greeting to his other friends and all but drags kagami over to see kuroko and kise. nods over to akashi who stands with midorima, probably talking about how much space there is in the universe, or some other brainy thing nerds discuss.

     “i wanna play ball,” kagami groans now they’re standing together. “it’s not that cold, right?”

     “kagamicchi, it’s icy! i’m not risking my neck for a one-on-one.”

     “i’m getting food then i’m going home.” (kagami’s home, mind you.)

     “yes, it is, kagami-kun.”

     somehow, being turned down by all three of them at once was less fun than he could possibly have dreaded. kagami deadpans and takes to sulking.

     “you’re all just chicken i’d beat you.”

     “big words for the guy who lost our last game.”

     “winter’s a hard season for you, isn’t it?” kuroko! traitor!

     kise puts his hand on his hip, looking at kagami like there’s something WRONG with wanting to play his favourite sport! “he’s really a guy with a one track mind, huh?”

     “shut the hell up! don’t gang up against me! we all met to play ball, didn’t we? i got excited about it, alright! winter sucks for everyone, that’s normal!”

     poor kagami. if the others have any sympathy for his plight, they’re pretty good at hiding it.

♥

v) six months, is it? kagami spends perhaps too long trying to figure it out. he came over to the states after graduation in march, and it’s september now... but then, daiki came over to visit in may, only staying for a fortnight because that’s all his job would allow. so really it’s only been four months. but those have been hard. lots of facetime, and phone calls at awkward times. but kagami always thinks to check what time it was in tokyo before he called, and it seemed that aomine has been similarly considerate. all the same, kagami has missed his boyfriend more than anything. it’s only after high school is behind him that he’s really appreciating that his youth ( as he thought of it ) is now over. he’s in the nba now. well, it’s kind of complicated, but he’s on his way!

     basketball is at the back of his mind now, though. aomine’s plane was due to land at 2am, but was delayed by half an hour on both ends. then there was an issue with the bags which aomine called and raged about. they’re so close. in the same building, even! but despite this, and kagami’s irrepressible nerves bouncing his legs and tearing at his heart, the fatigue gets to him and he falls asleep on an uncomfortable chair opposite the waiting area for arrivals. an unopened can of iced coffee sits loosely in his hands. to make an excuse, kagami hadn’t slept a wink the night before in all of his excitement. he’s fully and completely asleep. 

     he won’t hear his phone as it rings several times through. he won’t hear the suitcase roll and come to a stop beside his leg. he doesn’t feel the can get plucked from his fingers. the vague sensation of someone touching his hair doesn’t even bother him, but in the depths of his dreamless sleep, he hears a voice:

     “taaaiiigaaa,”

and it’s enough. crimson lashes flutter open sleepily, slowly. eyes focus on the dark face before him with the delay that only the deepest slumbers could provide. his head spins. is he still asleep? before he can question it any longer, he jerks forwards and wraps his arms around aomine in the tightest hug. kagami buries his face into his boyfriend’s warm neck, feeling the embrace returned. 

     it’s a desperate cling. the kind of hug that says more than words could. i missed you so much, i love you so much, please do not let go - i’ve been thinking about this since you got on the plane to fly back to japan. just in case this is a dream and he’s about to wake up. kagami inhales deeply. aomine. right here. in his arms.

     “don’t do that,” he says, “i smell bad.”

     “no, you don’t,” it’s mumbled, inaudible.

     “what was that?”

     “i said,” kagami pulls his head back so that he can see his boyfriend’s beautiful, gorgeous, perfect face. it mirrors his own. both hold the teary, tender expressions of lovers parted for too long. his words are long lost. he couldn’t remember what he’d said, what aomine had asked, what day it is. all he has to ground him in reality is a pair of blue eyes staring deep into his, and the arms wrapped tightly around his body.

     they move in unison. the kiss is soft, and sweet, and everything he could have hoped it would be. one of kagami’s hands leaves its place on aomine’s back to hold his face. is--- is that stubble he can feel under gentle fingertips? in six months? man! that’s so cool. and hot. god! his boyfriend is so beautiful! the kiss ends as kagami breaks into a wide grin. aomine chuckles. they press their foreheads together.

     “tell me what you were thinkin’ about just now,”

     “you, daiki,” he holds aomine’s face in both hands, now, smiling so much that it hurts, “i’ve been thinking about you ever since you left.”

[lynn-writes-things]

I loved the soft Tech smut! I want to request soft Hunter smut but I also want more Tech smut...why not a threesome? If you're ok with that, that is. I just feel like TechxYouxHunter isn't a common pairing and I'd like to see that

Thank you for the request!! Hope you enjoy!! 

Warnings: nsfw, soft smut, sex with LOVE

When Hunter and Tech proposed the idea of sharing you, you had your apprehensions, though you had agreed. Turns out, that was the best decision of you life, and now you had not one, but two very dangerous, very protective boyfriends who each had soft spots just for you. Currently, you were all on shore-leave, and you had been spoiling them with fancy home-cooked meals and massages every single day of it. The boys were very thankful for your kindness, though they found themselves wanting to return the favor. Except they couldn’t cook. But, they did have other plans to make it up to you…

They had blindfolded you, taking you to the bedroom, where they laid you out on the bed. They spread your legs and you felt them tie them to the bed posts. You felt hands that you recognized at Tech’s grab your wrists and hold them together, and you felt a familiar fabric wrap around them in a tight knot – but not too tight. You knew the feeling of Hunter’s bandana around your wrists all too well. Finally, they took the blindfold off, and you squinted as your eyes adjusted to the light of the room, which wasn’t much – it was dark, only being lit by candles spread around the room.

“What’s going on?” You ask with a smile. Both boys are already stripping, and you can’t help but marvel at their toned bodies.

“You’ve been so nice to us,” Hunter says, caressing your cheek. “We thought we might return the favor.”

“We want to make you as happy as you make us.” Tech added.

“You guys already do—oh,” You gasp when Hunter’s knife tears through your shirt, exposing your bra-less body to them both.

“Hope you don’t like these clothes too much.” He smirks. You knew better than to wear anything you actually valued around Hunter during leave – you knew him.

“No, sir.” You reply. “What did you guys have in mind?” You ask as he cuts the fabric of you pants, revealing your naked body.

“Don’t worry about it, mesh’la.” Tech says, leaning down to kiss your lips. “Just let us take care of you.” You sigh in contentment, a soft smile on your face. They share a look, and you know they actually have a plan for you tonight. Hunter nods, and Tech gets down on his belly between your legs and licks a stripe up your folds, causing you to let out a small moan. If Tech was eating you out, you knew you were in for a fun night – the man could do wonders with his mouth alone. He licks again, this time applying pressure to your clit, making you moan.

“You’re so beautiful.” Hunter says, gently stroking your cheek. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone who looks as stunning as you do.” He says, and Tech starts sucking on your clit.

“I—”

“Shh,” Hunter interrupts, kissing you. “Keep that pretty mouth shut, let me do the talking, okay, princess?” He says, and you nod in response. “Good girl.” He says, and tech slides a finger inside of your aching slit, curling it just right and leaving you whimpering, his lips still wrapped around your clit.

“Isn’t she sweet, Tech?” Hunter asks, and you feel Tech hum in agreement around your clit, making you cry out. He pulls back for a second.

“Just like candy, Sarge.” He replies, lips returning to your core. He removes his finger and his tongue dives in, making you moan his name loudly. You struggle against your restraints, and Hunter chuckles darkly.

“You’re stuck right where you are, baby.” He says, smoothing the hair out of your face. “Such a pretty little thing. So good for us.” You whimper at his words. “You want to know what we’re gonna do to you, little dove?”

“Yes, sir.” You pant, close to your first climax of the night. Tech goes back to sucking your clit, this time inserting two fingers into your dripping core and curling them just right to make you cry out.

“First, Tech’s gonna make you come like this,” He explains, and Tech gives an exaggerated suck to your clit for emphasis. “Then it’ll be my turn to taste that pretty pussy,” He says, kissing your lips quickly. “Then, we’re gonna take turns fucking you until we can’t go anymore. Hope you didn’t have any plans tomorrow, kitten, because I don’t think you’ll be walking too well.” He says with a smirk, and you can’t help the gasp that leaves your lips. You try to buck your hips up into Tech’s mouth, trying to get him to speed up, but he holds your hips down instead and continues his slow lavishing of your core.

“I—”

“We know you’re close, baby,” Hunter says, hushing you. “We know your tells. Go ahead, kitten, come for us.” He says, and with the prompting, Tech speeds up just enough to push you over the edge, crying out his name as you come on his tongue. He licks up all of your juices, not wasting a single drop of your slick as you tremble when you come down. Hunter’s caressing your cheek gently, tenderly, helping you come back to reality.

“Good girl, baby, good girl.” He coos. “My turn now.” He says with a wink, and he and Tech switch places. Tech now sits beside you, kissing you hard, allowing you to taste yourself on hips lips and tongue while Hunter starts up where Tech left off, two fingers pumping in and out of you while his tongue laps at your clit.

“He’s right, you’re absolutely radiant like this,” Tech says, admiring your body. “All breathless- so needy for us.” He says and you whine. “You want us to make you feel good, love?”

“Yes, please,” You pant, Tech smiles down at you, his eyes have a hunger in them that send a shiver through your body.

“Don’t worry,” He coos. “We’re going to take real good care of you.” He says, kissing you again, and you keen, Hunter starts sucking on your clit with more roughness than Tech had, and it sends you close to the edge again. Between the two of them, you knew that Tech had more restraint, where Hunter barely had any. He tried to be a tease, but you know that the smell of your arousal alone gets him harder than he’d ever admit.

“You dirty little thing,” Tech chides with a click of his tongue. “You’re close again already, aren’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” You pant, a thin layer of sweat already coating your body. The boys were very attentive, and knew every single thing that made you come unraveled.

“Well, what are you waiting for, kitten?” He asks, and Hunter continues, groaning into you as he eats you out like his life depends on it. “Your come tastes so sweet, you don’t want to deprive Hunter of it, do you?”

“N-No, sir,” You whine, Hunter picking up his pace, losing what little restraint he had. You cry out, on the verge again, and when Tech kisses you, his hands finding your exposed breasts and tweaking your nipples, you come with broken cry. All you can hear is Tech praising you and Hunter slurping up your juices as you come back down. When you’re done coming, Hunter forces himself away from your core, sitting up and leaning across your body to kiss you – allowing you to taste yourself for the second time that evening.

“Let me take care of you now,” You say weakly. “Please?” Hunter and Tech share an amused look.

“And how do you propose you do that, kitten? You can barely speak.”

“Use me,” You say. “One of you take my mouth, one of you take my pussy – please, I want you to ruin me.” You beg. Hunter growls.

“Well,” He says, hungrily. “If that’s what you want…” He trails off, giving Tech a look that he seems to understand. They maneuver your body so you’re on your hands and knees in the middle of the bed. Tech is behind you, with Hunter in front. You’re practically shaking with anticipation.

“Ready, mesh’la?” Tech asks.

“Yes.” You reply, looking up at Hunter with wide, innocent eyes – a look that you know drives him wild. They share a look above you, and in the same moment that you feel Tech start entering you, your mouth is open, waiting for Hunter’s cock, which he wastes no time in delivering. They both ease into your holes, taking things slow until you let them know you’re comfortable with a double-blink up at Hunter. They both speed up their pace, Hunter being conscious not to choke you too badly. His hand was in your hair, Tech’s hands on your hips as he rammed into you. They kept things relatively slow and sensual, their thrusts in perfect harmony with each other. One of Tech’s hands comes around to rub your sensitive clit, and you moan around Hunter’s cock, leading him to groan at the vibrations. With another shared look and a nod, they speed up, and you’re tumbling over the edge of bliss before you can even tell them that you’re close – they know, though. They always know. You’re clenching around Tech and moaning around Hunter, which sends them both over the edge as well—both of them already close from watching you get off twice already. They each shoot their loads in your mouth and core respectfully, taking their time in recovering before they each pull out. You’re panting.

“I love you both,” You say, voice wrecked.

“We love you too, mesh’la,” Tech says from behind you.

“You don’t think we’re finished with you yet, do you?” Hunter asks, stroking your cheek lovingly. “Oh, kitten, we’re just getting started.” He says, chuckling darkly, before they switch places and start up again.

You’re stuck between them for hours that night—not that you’re complaining.

-fluffy aftercare part ii coming soon-

[builder051]

Cup of cheer, part III

Powers/No Powers, Bucky vs. Depression storyline.  Catch up with these:

Cup of cheer (Laura B saves the day again, this time at Christmas-decorating time)-contains vomit

Cup of cheer, part II (a continuation of the above)-contains vomit

___________________________

When Steve enters the hall bathroom, Bucky’s sitting curled in the corner like a frightened child.  A wounded animal.  Steve isn’t sure which.  He’s reminded strongly of when Bucky first came home, unable to eat or speak and barely able to move without spooking.  

“Bucky?” Steve whispers as he crosses the threshold and not-quite closes the door.  He knows Laura’s still out in the hallway, and her presence somehow gives him the confidence to make this move, even though he should’ve done it himself hours ago.  Possibly months ago.  He wonders if this is what Bucky feels when he comes to spend an hour or a day or a weekend out on the farm.  Support. Relief.  And now, in Steve’s case, massive amounts of guilt.

Bucky doesn’t respond.  The top of his head twitches, so Stteve knows he’s heard, though his face stays buried in his knees.

“Hi,” Steve says softly, hoping he’s chosen the right non-offensive word to announce that he’s here to stay.  He eases himself onto the floor a foot or so away from Bucky so the toe of his sock can rest gently against Bucky’s heel.

“Hmph,” Bucky sighs as soon as Steve initiates the contact.  The sound is emotionless and hollow, so Steve can’t tell if it’s meant to be an affirmation or disinterest.  Steve breathes slowly, staying as still as he can, intending to wait Bucky out until he’s ready to talk.  He can feel the heat radiating off Bucky’s skin, and he wonders how he could’ve missed the fever earlier.  They hadn’t been more than a foot further apart in the car or across the breakfast table before that.  But perhaps it’s that last foot, the last few inches, that make all the difference.

Steve decides he can’t take even this distance anymore, and he brings his hand up and rests it on Bucky’s shoulder.  “Feeling rough today?”

Steve phrases it as a question, though the damp warmth of Bucky’s shirt under his palm provides all the answer he needs.

“D-don’t touch me...” Bucky chokes out, jerking his shoulder away and leaning closer to the wall.  He lifts his head an inch, and Steve gets a view of pink fever spots and tear tracks marring his otherwise ghostly white face.

“Ok.  Yeah.”  Steve retracts his hand, and his foot for good measure.  “Of course.”  

Bucky uses the hem of his shirt to mop at his eyes.  “I--” he mutters.  “I just--”

It��s ok, Buck.”  The guilt in Steve’s chest spills down toward his stomach.  Of course Bucky doesn’t want him.  His behavior’s been sickening lately.

“I just--” Bucky tries again, his voice cracking with the pressure of either illness or tears.  “Hold me?”

Steve blinks, momentarily unable to put the contradictory directions together.  But then Bucky sinks forward, pushing himself over his knees and sideways toward Steve.  

“Ok,” Steve says, quickly stretching out his legs so he has a lap for Bucky to clamber into.

Bucky moves jerkily, tremulously, but he plants himself atop Steve’s thighs and slings his arm around his neck.  He buries his face in Steve’s shoulder and breathes wetly in and out, except when the rhythm is punctuated with sobs.

Steve keeps his arms by his sides as he murmurs, “Ok, it’s alright,” into Bucky’s ear. 

A few seconds pass, and Bucky gulps.  “Not,” he says.  “Not ok.”

Of course he’s right, and Steve feels like an idiot all over again.  “Buck...”  It’s his turn to sigh.  “Yeah.  I...”

He shuts his eyes and searches for a way to express himself that isn’t too sharp or blunt or cold to be handled by one running such a high fever.  

“Today was...” Steve starts.  “Today was bad.”  He fidgets with a loose thread at the corner of the bathroom rug.

Bucky nods into Steve’s shoulder, rocking his blisteringly hot forehead over the ridges of muscle.

“A lot of days have been bad lately, and a lot of them have probably been my fault.”  Steve pauses, unsure of how self-deprecating he needs to be before he gets to the truth.  He takes a breath and looks down at his hand, then cautiously brings it behind Bucky’s back and hooks a finger through one of his belt loops.  

Bucky stiffens for a second, but says nothing, so Steve exhales and decides to carry on.

“I know stuff’s really hard for you right now,” he says.  “Like, with your meds, and therapy.  I know stuff’s just not... working.”  Steve pulls his other hand into a fist.  “I know that.”

Bucky nods again, and Steve feels him swallow.

“But, well, it’s hard for me, too,” Steve says.  “You’re not the only one who served, the only one with nightmares...”

Bucky makes another hollow sound, and Steve thinks better of himself.  He desperately tries to pull the note of accusation from his tone.

“I see you struggling,” he says, “and it, it fucks with me.  It reminds me of places I don’t wanna go.  Not that it’s your fault,” he adds quickly.  “I just, I see you having a hard time, and I want to fix it.  But I can’t.  And the people whose job it is to fix it can’t.  And watching that, it’s hard on me, Buck.”  

Moisture prickles at the corners of Steve’s eyes, and he tries to keep his voice steady and calm.

“Ok...” Bucky says slowly into Steve’s shirt.  “But... Fuck, Stevie, I’m sick.”

“I know,” Steve says.  “I know you are.”  Today.  In general.  It doesn’t matter which he’s agreeing to, for both are true.  “And I need to be more sensitive to that.”

“Just...” Bucky whispers.  “Don’t ignore me ‘cause it’s easier that way.”

“I never meant to do that,” Steve says.  “I love you, Buck.”

“I love you,” Bucky breathes.  Steve can hear strings of mucous clotting at the back of his throat.

“Tell me where you’re hurting, ok?” Steve unhooks his finger from Bucky’s belt loop and lays his hand carefully across his lower back instead.  “I know your throat’s bad, and your stomach.”

Bucky nods, pressing himself harder against Steve’s chest.  “’M cold.”

“You have a fever,” Steve reminds him.  “I’ll get you some meds.  I’ll have Laura tell me where they are.  But, Buck?”

“Mm?”  Bucky shifts slightly so Steve gets a view of his face.  He realizes Bucky looks exhausted as well as ill.

“Tell me when you feel bad, like sad, too.”

“I thought... you didn’t want to see...”

“That’s not true, Buck,” Steve says.  “I said it’s hard, not that I don’t want to.  I always want you to talk to me, or Laura, or your therapist.  Whoever you feel safe with.  But I want to be back on your list.”

There’s a pause as Bucky seems to be processing what Steve’s said.  Then suddenly his body goes stiff, and he gives a pained groan.

“Buck?” Steve quickly pulls his hand from Bucky’s back and tries to get a look at his face.  “What’s wrong?”

“Just--”  Bucky withdraws his arm and covers his mouth with his closed fist just in time to stifle a dry retch.  “Sick.”

“Aw, Buck.”  Steve steers him in the direction of the toilet, though Bucky has little to bring up.  Just a mouthful of clear fluid gone bubbly with acid.

When he’s done, Bucky leans back into Steve’s arms, muttering sorries and thank yous that run together into new, mixed-up words.  

“Hey, shh, it’s ok,” Steve soothes.  And for the first time that day, he thinks it might be.

There’s a soft creak as the bathroom door opens and Laura steps in.  

Steve glances anxiously up at her, but she simply busies herself with finding a clean paper cup, a washcloth, and a bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet.  She sets the items on the counter, then flashes Steve a small smile, and silently leaves the room.

[weirdochick56]

Mr. Evans II- Chris Evans AU Chapter Eleven

Teacher!Chris Evans x Student!Reader

Warnings: Explicit language. SMUT. DIRTY DIRTINESS.

Disclaimers: I don’t condone relationships of this kind, this is for entertainment purposes only. Please be gentle on my word-porn.

Word Count: 5, 347 words

A/N: This shit got dirty REAL quick. As I was writing it, I was so fucking confused by what my fingers were typing lmfaoooo. Also this story is nearly coming to an end and IDK what the hell im gonna do after. PLEASE stay safe and healthy y’all! 

Read Chapter Ten here!!

***

(gif isn’t mine!)

You take a long gulp of the bottle.

“It’s like I’m stuck, you know?” You say looking off into the water. “Like I don’t know how to exist or move forward or hell, even back.”

Noah, the guy you’d met at the pool, nods in understanding, taking a sip from the bottle. “Yeah. I get that, but your situation is hella complicated. I get why.”

“I guess I just have never felt one hundred percent in it, you know? Like I could never fully let myself be happy because at any moment that shit could burn down. I’ve always felt like someone was out to get us, like all the fucking odds were stacked against us,” you mumble, shivering when a breeze swishes past the dark night.

It’s been a while since you had met Noah and he was a pretty cool dude. You just clicked- it was just like that with some people you know? You just get along from the get-go. You got to talking, slowly downing the bottle in the process of course and the more time ticked by, the more your tongues loosened.

You didn’t like to play into stereotypes or anything, but you were almost entirely sure Noah wasn’t one-hundred percent straight. But maybe that was just you.

You were at a healthy buzz right now but that wasn’t gonna last long at the rate you were chugging from the bottle.

“You wanna be with him?”

You sigh, hating that there wasn’t even a little doubt in your mind or heart at the question. “I do. But I don’t know how to go about it, you know? It’s all just so jumbled for me.”

Noah releases a little sigh, laying down on the cold gravel. “I know right? It’s like you love someone so much but you also know that being with them could be dangerous, no only to you but to the life you’ve built around yourselves individually. So it’s hard between choosing everyone else or your own selfish ass.”

You glance at him, raising your brows. “From personal experience?”

He laughs but it’s a bit strained- dry. “Yeah. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly uh- straight.”

“What?! I had no idea!” You mock gasp.

“Shut up.” He laughs, slapping your arm playfully. “Yeah well, he’s actually the most beautiful human being I’ve ever met. But we’re keeping it on the dL. Neither of our parents is exactly supportive. Mine are still a bit touchy even though they’re starting to tolerate the fact that their son is gay and his- well they have no idea. If they did that situation would go awry real quick.”

You sigh, laying your head drunkenly on his shoulder. “Aw, I’m so sorry Nini.”

He laughs, casually wrapping an arm around you. “Oh? Is that my new nickname?”

You nod. “Yep.”

“You know something, Nini?” You suddenly mumble in a slur.

“What?”

“You’re not selfish for loving him- whoever he is. You’re brave.”

“Yeah? And why do you say that?” He hums.

You take the bottle from his grasp, taking a long drink. When you’re done, you sluggishly wipe your lips.

“Because I’m a fucking coward,” you mumble shakily. “I’m so fucking scared of feeling. I just shut down like a robot,” you confess, quietly chuckling. “I numb myself so that I don’t have to face the reality of it all. You face that shit head-on. You’re staying and fighting for your love. That’s super admirable.”

Noah rubs your arm comfortingly. “Thanks.”

You nod, swishing your feet in the water. “It’s true. I wish I could just be with him.”

“Then be with him,” Noah says, simply.

Just like that. As if it were that straightforward.

“It’s not that easy. There’s so many things to consider.“

“Let me ask you a question,” he quickly quips. “Do you love him? Like really truly love him?”

You swallow harshly, gripping the bottle tightly in your hands. “With every fiber in my body.”

Noah nods firmly. “Then that’s it. And listen, I’m going to be honest because it sounds like everyone in your life has been lying to you and telling you basically all you need is love to make it work. It’s not. Relationships are hard fucking work. Especially if it’s one people will have a variety of feelings on. It takes effort, time, sacrifice and you know where all that comes from?”

“Where?” You pout drunkenly.

“From you. You have to be sure you want it you have to be willing to stay and fight. But you also need love. Without love, there’s nothing. If you’re sure you want to be with him, if you think your love is worth it, then I say go for it. It doesn’t have to be this huge announcement either. It’s your relationship- it’s there for no one else but you two. If you feel comfortable later on, then do sure you can tell people.”

You ponder on his words drinking more tequila, before finally speaking in a defeated tone. “I’m scared.”

He shrugs. “Life is really just one big risk you either choose to take or not. Plus, it’s like I told you; relationships are hard work. You have to keep working at it. Even when it gets hard.” He licks his lips. “He gave an ultimatum and from what you told me, you’re not going to be here for much longer. So not to pressure you or anything, but if there was ever a time to act this feels like it’s it.”

Maybe he’s right.

*

Needless to say, by the time Noah walks you home, you’re both absolutely hammered. You make sure to call him a taxi because it was late at night and you also make him promise to text you once he got there.

After he’s gone words keep ringing around in your head over and over and over again. And so do Margo’s. In fact, you felt like you were flying on a cloud of thoughts all whirling and detaching and stringing together back again.

You start replaying everything in your head- your whole relationship. From the start to now. Like a movie.

And your heart breaks even more because you realize right there and then that at some point, the movie suddenly stops.

The movie stops.

It hits you that you’ll have no idea how it ends. What’ll happen with you two. Where you’ll end up.

For some odd fucking reason, it makes you feel sick to your stomach to think about it that way, and your skin crawls. If you let him go, you’ll never him know how the movie ends... the thought tortures you slowly to sleep as it goes round and round in your noggin, pounding you with unbearable guilt and anxious thoughts.

When you do fall asleep, though, you have a strange dream that night. Or more like you have a nightmare.

You’re standing in your room and it’s just like it was when you went to sleep that night, except that on the other side, the usual long hallway isn’t there anymore. There’s only darkness.

Your anxiety kicks up because you know what the darkness is without even touching it.

It’s the not-knowing. The pitch-black emptiness which you’re expected to walk into blind. Fucking alone.

You start hyperventilating when the pressure to walk into it becomes too much, thrashing harshly against the invisible force pushing you into it. Screaming, salty tears, kicking...

It’s all too much. Your breathing is labored and your skin burns with hot tears.

And then suddenly and like a warm blanket- two muscular arms wrap around you from behind, tugging you into a hard chest.

Chris, your mind instantly whispers.

He easily tugs you back towards the room, hugging you to his front tightly.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

And in that moment of terror, with his familiar scent and soothing voice and tight embrace, he’s safety. He’s warmth and familiarity.

...he’s home. Your home.

You just lay there with him, holding each other.

The next image flashes by instantly and suddenly the darkness is back. But this time you don’t panic...because Chris is right there with you, holding your hand. And for some reason, you know -you’re one-thousand present sure- he won’t let go.

He rubs his thumb softly over your thumb, looking at you with those alluring blue eyes of his, that soft yet capturing gaze that made you feel all fuzzy.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’ll always be here.” He repeats his earlier sentence.

You wipe happy tears. “I’ve got you too.”

He smiles adoringly down at you, smile lines crinkling endearingly at the corners. “I know.”

And without a second’s thought you plunge straight into the darkness.

You gasp loudly, sitting straight up in bed. Your heart races, thumping harshly against your rib cage as beads of sweat trod carefully down your temple and side of your face.

Click.

Something in you suddenly clicks and it all becomes clear. 

Was that all that was needed for realization to hit you? A single moment? A single split second in which the fog clears? A split-second where your vision suddenly elevates and the whole landscape is all there? The whole picture is laid out before you? 

It’s early in the morning and you wince when the bright light of an early day hits you in the face, flopping over in bed.

You reach for your phone on the nightstand, quickly unlocking it before checking your contacts. You have a new text message. You click on it.

Hey, Hermosa. I got home okay. Thanks for the taxi, lol.

You smile gently, typing back.

Yeah np, Nini. Thanks for the advice. Needed it.

Your phone buzzes.

Ngl, kinda shocked we still remember that. Lmfao. Ur welcome tho.

You groan softly into your pillow when your head starts aggressively throbbing.

Sobriety sucks butt.

*

“Honey, are you okay?”

Your dad and Kennedy watch you as you haphazardly stuff your face with bacon and eggs then gulf it all down like a dog- brows raised and jaws slack.

Downing your warm coffee in one go, you get up, pushing the chair back with a loud screech and almost trip running over to the sink to put your dishes inside.

“Yes. I’m good. There’s just something urgent I have to go take care of,” you rush out, leaning down over them and giving each a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“I love you guys!” You yell, already half outside and still pulling on one of your sneakers as you clumsily hopped around.

You slam the door shut, running off as soon as you finish putting on the shoe.

Your head pounds inside your skull even having downed three aspirins and having a warm shower and your breakfast swishes inside your stomach with your harsh sprinting but you don’t stop.

Not until you reach his house.

You don’t think. Just feel. Feel how right this was. You’re done being scared of loving who you love. You had what you had and it was what it was, but what you had was him.

Chris.

All this time, he said you were his light. You were his angel.

But really he was your light. He was your angel.

You needed him just as much as he needed you- if not more.

Fuck everyone else.

This was yours. He was yours and you were his and you were done fighting it. Officially.

You had the realization that before, you’d always been just the tiniest bit reluctant. You subconscious put up your own walls to protect your heart, never fully allowing yourself to work on your relationship, never fully giving your energy to it.

But not anymore. No more walls. Just you. Just you, your love and a foundation for a fresh start.

You were exhausted- not of life or him or of the curveballs it keeps throwing your way. You’re tired of fighting yourself.

That’s the real fight you’ve been having this whole time. With yourself. You’re your own damn enemy. And isn’t that fucking tiring?

But you’re done. 

Knocking loudly on the door, your chest inflated with so many emotions and with adrenaline pumping through your veins, you tug at your short shorts, hating that this was the first thing you saw and threw on.

Unfortunately, the next thing you saw was a short ass crop top so you were basically running around in your underwear.

You freeze out the nerves as soon as they start to set in when footsteps pad your way. None of that.

When Chris opens the door, you nearly fall over.

He gives you a once-over, his hair messy, and dark bags under his eyes. “Sweetheart what-“

You stare at him for a few seconds as does he, eyes wide and lips parted.

“Chris,” you breathe.

But you catch yourself and before you know it, you’re spilling all your damn beans right on his front porch.

You needed to. You had to get this off your chest or you would go absolutely insane.

“Chris before you say anything, I just want to apologize. I’ve been a huge fucking hypocrite. But I realize my mistakes and I-“ you laugh incredulously, looking at him. “I just want to be with you,” you mumble meekly, your voice low. 

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because you were terrified of his reaction. 

His eyes soften and he opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. 

“No, stop. I just need to finish what I have to say, okay? You were right. You scare me. What we have scares me. But I’m not willing to let you go just because I’m scared. I-” you swallow tears back down. “Being scared isn’t an excuse to let you go. God, I’ve never felt emptier in my life than these past few weeks. Not even when I was gone for two years. At least then I knew I was faraway from you. That I was somewhat safe from all these...feelings.” You gulp. “But being here-“ you shake your head. “Knowing that you’re just a few blocks away- I just want you to hold me, to make love to me, to love me in the way only you know how to.” You chuckle breathlessly. “God, I am so in love with you. Y-you complete me. You make me better- you’re the best fucking person I know. And I know I’ve been an asshole to you, or well let’s be honest we both have, but I guess mostly me- um anyway. I just- I’m here to stay.” You sigh softly, letting the words roll of your tongue like a vow. 

“I’m here to stay,” you repeat softly but firmer this time, swallowing thickly at the sweet after taste.

You’re panting by the time you’re done, both thanks to the running and the little speech you just gave, but your gaze never leaves his. Not for the whole five minutes, he just stands there, looking at you with glimmering eyes.

“Chris?” You whisper.

“Say that again,” he breathes.

“Say what?” You frown.

“Tell me you love me again,” he mumbles, a single tear sliding down his cheek.

You smile a little, looking him in the eye. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” you repeat breathlessly. “I’m here to stay- if you’ll let me that is,” you add on in a clumsy, sheepish way.

He smirks, instantly yanking you into a hug. His arm wraps around your waist and head and your arms slither their way around his broad back. You melt into him, half with delight and half with relief. 

The embrace says all the things you weren’t strong enough to say, it was passionate, warm, loving, fierce. You slid into eachother like to puzzle pieces. Like you were meant to be there- in eachother’s arms. 

Chris holds you tighter to him, using your trembling body, which you hadn’t even noticed was shaking, as an excuse you stuff his nose into your hair and press your chest to his.

“I missed you,” he breathed into you- easy as air. A breath he’d been holding for far too long and needed to release.

A breath that, once uttered, made you instantly freeze. 

You slowly parted away from him so you could properly peer into his eyes and because you have no idea how much being back with him was going to be for you emotionally. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, tears sprouting from your eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just scared. I’m always scared.” 

He shakes his head at you, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. “I get it, sweetheart. I was scared too. But we’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

He holds his arms out again, but catches himself before wrapping them around you and pulling you to him entirely, the question clear in his eyes; was this okay?

This embrace wasn’t like the one a few moments ago, this one was cautious because you were walking new ground. A ground that was undiscovered but all the same exciting. 

A ground that was the foundation for a new path to happiness. A new beginning. 

You simply nod in response, too tired to try to fight your need for his warmth off.

He wastes no time pulling you to his chest- nice and tight and you instantly hug him back, loving the feeling of safety and warmth you felt there.

You realize that no matter where you go or who you’re with, nothing will ever feel like being in his arms. Nothing will ever feel like home. Not like him.

His hold tightens on you- like he’s afraid of letting you go and you tighten your own hold to signify your own heightened emotions. 

The buzzing in your skin, the racing of your heart, the flush of your face, the fluttering of your tummy- all the emotions that made you feel like there was endless hope and warmth and good in the world- you missed it all. 

You listen to his slightly accelerated heartbeat and nestle your head against his chest. “So we fight?”

He heaves a heavy exhale. “We fight.”

You lick your dry lips, taking a deep breath. “Okay.”

He pushes you back slightly, brows raised. “Really?”

You can’t help but smirk a little bit. “I think I still have a little bit more fight left in me.”

*

You shift in his arms, resting your head on his chest an adjusting the leg you’d hastily thrown over his waist.

After your talk, you’d agreed that a little alone time was in order. So you threw yourselves onto his bed and did what anyone in your position -with unspent sexual frustration and endless simmering desire between your souls- would do and cuddled.

“Sweetheart,” he begins, twirling another strand of your hair in between his fingers.

“Hmm?” you mumble drowsily, drawing a new pattern on his chest with your fingertips.

“Do you love me?”

You pause, brows furrowing. Leaning up on your elbow, you peer down at him. “What?”

He smiles a little. “You heard me.”

“Why do you ask?” You blush bright red.

He chuckles, brushing a hand against your cheek. “Well, I’m not like you, angel. I actually need to hear the words. Again,” he adds cheekily.

You stare at him blankly for a few seconds, contemplating his face. He was perfect. Even the small dips or indents on his skin. Every sharp and soft line, every curve and dip and area of soft flesh.

Beneath you, his muscles strained against his soft pajamas and his warmth surpassed layers of skin and clothing in order to deep into your bones, warming you entirely.

But that wasn’t what made him beautiful. No. 

It was the fact that he was such a dork when it came to Charlotte Brontë and Bram Stroker even when he tried to hide it. It was the fact that for years he put aside his own pain to focus on the futures of his students. The pain of losing his wife.

It was that he looked at you like you were his beginning and his end and everything in between. It was the fact that he was unwilling to relent to everyone and everything telling him he couldn’t have you and that he was willing to forgive you. 

It was that he was still here. Still fighting even when everything could be lost.

He wasn’t just perfect. He was authentic. And he was beautiful just the way he was.

You finally nod, whispering lightly. “I do. I love you more than anything in the world.”

You’ve never meant anything more in your life. And it didn’t matter what would happen next because you’d be together when it happen and you’d take it on together. You’d always have eachother.

He beams adoringly, running his hands through his hair.

You instantly raise a brow. “What?”

He frowns at you. “What?”

You chuckle, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

“Wrong? Nothing is wrong. Why does something have to be wrong?”

You instantly smile, patting his cheek as you hook your leg over him tighter in order to get more comfortable. “You just ran a hand through your hair; something’s definitely wrong,” you say as if it’s obvious before softening. “C’mon talk to me.”

He looks into your questioning eyes for exactly three seconds before breaking. “Dammit, why do your eyes have to be so big and…shiny? I can never lie to them,” he mumbles under his breath.  

You laugh pressing a little kiss to his stubbled cheek. “It’s my secret superpower. Now; spill.”

He sighs, looking down at his hands. “Nothing I guess I’m kind of second-guessing now. N-not of us o-or anything!” He rushes to explain immediately after. “Just-” he sighs again, looking back down. “I dunno. I feel like I’ve been pressuring you. What if this isn’t what you really want?” He gazes into your eyes, concern swimming in his deep pools. “Is it?”

Unable to hold back a snicker you grin lightly at him. “I just gave you an entire speech about how much I want to be with you and you’re questioning it? Bit late, don’t you think?” You joke lightly.

He deadpans. “Y/n.” 

You sigh. “Yes, it is what I want. No backing out this time.” You hold out your pinky with a tiny giggle. “Pinky promise?”

He raises a brow at the small finger, scoffing at the notion. “Angel, I’m a masculine manly-man do you really think that I’m gonna pinky promise you? No.”

You wiggle your pinky with a tiny pout. “C’mon!” 

 He sternly peers down at you (again for exactly three seconds) before breaking down once more, half-heartedly linking your pinky with his and grumbling for a second time about how your eyes were “unfairly adorable”.

You laugh tightening your finger on his, as you gaze into each other’s eyes tenderly. “I pinky promise to always be with you. No matter what.”

He smiles softly, repeating your words back to you with the tenderest look in his eye. “I pinky promise to always be with you. No matter what.”

When you take your pinkie back, he rolls his eyes, chuckling. “I can’t believe you made me do that. I hate you.”

Lightly shoving his shoulder, you place a soft peck on his cheek. “You know you love me. Plus, c’mon, I came looking for you here, I can’t leave without at least a pinky promise.” 

He smirks, wiggling his brows suggestively. “You do realize this means I won, right?”

“Won?” 

He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. This time, you came for me. So I won.”

You snort. “Asshole.”

He chuckles as you suddenly grow serious.

“You know, I hate that you know me better than I know myself. I can never hide from you,” you whisper as he grips your face with his hand.

“You don’t have to,” he says sincerely, looking directly at you. His dark gaze pierced your soul and your breath hitches, forming a huge lump on your throat. “Not from me. Not ever.”

You shiver under his touch, leaning into him. You bite your lip as you gaze at him from under your lashes. “What if what I’m trying to hide is ugly?” You husk.

He simply smiles, like what you’re saying is utterly impossible. “Then you don’t try to hide it. I want to see it all. Because you know what? In the end, I know it’s all going to be beautiful.”

You can’t keep the damn goofy smile from tugging at your lips as you softly kiss his nose. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” you breathe. “I love you so fucking much.”

He pecks your cheek lightly in response, resting his forehead on yours. 

“Who are we without scars, without stories to tell? Your flaws make you who you are, angel. And I’ve fallen in love with you. All of you.”

You smile softly at him, your heart thumping loudly inside your chest. “You make me all crazy, you know that?” you mumble.

He laughs, closing the distance between you two and brushing his lashes against yours. “I’m sorry.”

You giggle against his lips, softly moving yours against them as you peer into his darkened eyes and wide blown pupils. “No, you’re not.”

He rubs his thumb across your cheekbone tenderly, tracing your skin like he was afraid you’d break if he pressed too hard or rubbed too much.

“You’re right- I’m not,” he breathes hotly against your skin, playing with your lower lip.

You press your nose to his, pressure building in your chest as you slowly begin straddling him. “Do you want me?”

His other hands grips your other cheek, gaze pinning yours down with ease. “All the damn time,” he responds without hesitation, voice growing deeper and more primitive.

You smirk down at him, forgetting entirely about everything and everyone else.

“Really?”

He looks at you incredulously. “Are you serious? How do you not know what you do to me, sweetheart?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. What do I do to you, Chris?”

Your pussy begins pulsating rhythmically, panties damp at the implication.

He inhales sharply, clamping down on that plump lip. “Shit sweetheart. You want details?”

He seemed startled but turned on all the same.

You bite your lip, feeling your nipples harden under the soft fabric of the shirt and nearly let a moan slip when it rubs against the sensitive nubs as you move.

“Yes. I want you to tell me exactly how much you want me. I want you to tell me how you’ve imagined me before. What you’d do to me if you’re given the chance,” you rasp all in one breath.

As you speak, you grind your down hips on his, enjoying the much-needed friction it created in your sensitive spot.

He clenches his jaw, eyes ablaze with that fire you missed so much.

“Careful sweetheart,” he grits out through clenched teeth, hands dropping to your ass and hips. “If you get too close I might burn you.”

You look him in the eye, knowing damn well your own unquenchable fire was swaying sensually back and forth in your eyes. You wanted him—bad. In fact, you fucking needed him. You needed him like you needed air to breathe. Fuck, you ached for the feeling of his cock inside you, claiming you as his. Because damn you were his.

“Then burn me,” you say with full intent.

His eyes snap shut, fingers digging into your flesh.

“Jesus Christ, Y/n. If we don’t stop right now I can’t promise I won’t fuck you ‘til you’re screaming.”

Your pussy instantly grows wet at his words, pulsating far more aggressively than before as you move your hips faster.

“Fuck Chris. Have you dreamed about me?” You pant.

He looks up at you through heavy-lidded eyes, dick stirring in his pants. “Almost every night,” he admits without shame or hell- even embarrassment.

Than only makes you more flushed.

You lick your dry lips, his eyes following the movement. “Yeah? And what am I wearing?”

He closes his eyes, hands traveling down to your thighs before rising gradually up to your waist, pushing fabric out of the way. You tremble beneath his fingertips and he uses the chance to guide your movements against him, his long fingers setting a rhythm for you to move to.

He hisses with pleasure. “Y-you’re wearing my t-shirt. Only with panties underneath.”

You inhale deeply, chest rising but not falling just yet at the vivid image. “Mhm,” you hum softly. “And where are we?”

“My bedroom. You’re sprawled out on my bed, sleeping.”

You bite your lip. “Are you hard yet?”

“Hell yes,” he breathes, digging his nails into your ass. “I can see your ass from here. All of that for me,” he moans softly against your chest as he adjusts you and his grip on you so your tits are closer to his face.

You arch back at the sensation of having his hard cock rubbing against you from beneath his pants.

“You’re moving around in your sleep and I’m getting harder because you look so damn innocent but sexy all at once. Like you’re just asking me to ruin you.”

You moan against him, accidentally brushing your nipple against his lips in the frenzy of your dry humping.

You freeze for a second, letting the sensation sink into your cells, warming them with electrifying bliss before moaning louder when Chris lightly opens his mouth to take one of them in over the thin material of the shirt.

Your mouth falls open at the sensation and your finger rake through his hair, tugging on the strands harshly as he gently suckles on the sensitive bud, rolling his tongue around it with expert sensuality.

His eyes meet yours as he does this and neither of your looks away as he flicks his tongue back and forth, causing your whole body to nearly overload with bliss.

“Fuck Chris,” you mewl, digging out nails into his scalp.

He stops sucking, using his finger to play with them instead. Your mouth falls open in a choked-up scream as he continues narrating his dirty dream for you.

“Even from there I can see how soft your skin is. How perfect your tits are and how good they’d fit in my hands. It’s torture until I walk over to you and grab one of your ankles gently in my hands…”

“Yes?” Your breath hitches as he hits a sensitive spot.

“And the other one too. Then I slowly part them. I don’t want to wake you yet. Not like that.”

You bite your lip, holding back a moan.

“When I’ve completely opened your legs, I slowly crawl up your body, kissing your legs as I go. When I reach your inner thighs, I slowly lift my shirt up….” he trails off, his thumb softly grazing your sensitive nub.

Your head flies back at the sudden jolt of pleasure it sends up your spine. “Shit Chris,” you groan.

“I start leaving open-mouthed kisses all over your soft skin. You’re shifting in your sleep, growing wetter, but you still haven’t woken up. Finally, I kiss your pussy.”

At the words coming out of his sinfully soft mouth, you feel your stomach clench, mouth capturing a silent scream and swallowing it back down.

He keeps you moving against him, his fingers gripping your thigh and his thumb working soft circles into your now soaked panties.

You gyrate into his hand rhythmically, fully concentrated in how good he felt.

“Uh-huh,” you finally grit out.

He continues speaking, voice strained and tone nearly drowned out entirely by animalistic frenzy. “You slowly peel your eyes open as I’ve begun flicking my tongue over your clit back and forth.” He copies the motion he describes with his thumb, smirking viciously when you nearly fall over him.

“I’ve been doing it over your sheer lace underwear this whole time, but when you are finally awake, your smell and your taste become too much for me to handle. You intoxicate all my senses sweetheart. I just want you on my tongue. I want you to ride my face until you cum in my mouth.”

And that’s all he needs to add to his jerky thumb movements for you to cum. Hard.

As if he can sense that you’ve reached a climax, he watches you with hunger, drinking in the sight of you coming all for him. “That’s right, sweetheart. Cum for me. All for me. Fuck, Y/n.”

You convulse, cursing like a damn sailor into his mouth. “Fuuuuck Chris!”

When you’re done, you slouch against him.

He hugs you to him and the rumble of his laughter travels through you, causing your sensitive insides to tremble. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You lift your head carefully. “Yes.”

He smiles. “Good. Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to make love to you.”

“Oh.”

Read Chapter Twelve here!!

***

The flashbacks to Mr. Evans I are real. Omfg. 

I’m literally in love with him.

A special thanks to:

@star-spangled-steve

@tomoyaevaans

@pepsicola-is-my-brand-man​

@whereeverythingisbetter​

@fallenoutofrose

@plutonium-m

@beepbeepromanoff

@faithmichaluk

@sincerelytlh

@tomshelbystits

@kind-sober-fullydressed

@emmarogers222

@sashimi-cat

@zofty15

@gemgemswift

@fafulous

@chljmntgy

@thatssograce

@leclerc-stan

@colddsalsa

@evansislife

@chris-butt

@captainchrisstan

@marvels-gurl

@davestridersrightnipple

@agirlcanstilldream

@notbexmader

@ib-ebe

@byrogers

@theangrylizard

@oh-hey-janina

@mannatgalhotra​

And My forevers!

@jessikared97​

@ladyofletters67​

@lilypalmer1987​

@sammykb1994​

@tomshelbystits​

[copias-thrall]

Papa IV in all caps is: PIV

That is all.

[mail-me-a-snail]

Stardust of a Song II

Chapter 2: Midnight Blue Chapter 1 Tag list: @starl1ght-child @toto19-the-exo-hunter @shy911 (it won’t let me tag you) tw: graphic descriptions of injury and blood, swearing

Yor had learned that summer day in Spinam Gorge one thing he had never known about Exos--they bleed. The blood in their bodies doesn’t share the same four components as human blood. In fact, it doesn’t even share the same color. Hemosynth (the correct term for Exo blood, as Avidan had taught him) is a deep, midnight blue color. It flows throughout their body, serving as fuel. For Guardian Exos, however, its use is deemed pointless and serves as nothing more than an indication of damage, to tie together the human-like package that is an Exo.

Yor is not a man with many wishes or prayers. He doesn’t believe much in a higher power, much less the paracausal Traveler. Now, however, he wishes more than anything that the blood on his hands is just that: pointless.

He has never seen so much blue until now.

Avidan falls backwards, his white dress shirt now drenched. The Exo splutters, struggling to speak--there is nothing coming out but choppy barks of static and hemosynth. It gushes from his neck and bleeds into his suit, though it camouflages perfectly. His hands scramble to his neck, grasping fruitlessly. His knees wobble.

Yor dives forward and slides onto his knees to catch him. The Exo falls into his arms, grabbing at his shirt, at his tie, leaving blue handprints everywhere, trying his best to just hold onto something.

“I’m here,” Yor whispers through gritted teeth. He presses his hand against Avidan’s neck, trying to stop the bleeding. It bubbles up through and around his fingers like ink. “I’m here, darling, I’m here, it’s okay...”

What few wires that aren’t stained with blue are singed black. They tangle, having been shot to smithereens. This blood is not pointless, no matter how much Yor wants it to be; Avidan needs it to live and he’s losing it rapidly. The shot had punctured two major fuel lines; what a human would call the carotid arteries.

“Y-Y...”Avidan coughs. Yor knows how much it hurts. Avidan’s forcing himself to talk but nothing comes out. Nothing at all. “Y...” His voice dips into a broken, static filled whimper, and he buries his head into Yor’s shoulder, body convulsing with coughs, each accompanied by a burst of static. Yor holds him close and tightly, shaking with fury.

“Medic,” Yor manages to say, through the building roar in his ears, to the pianist. He repeats it when the man looks at him blankly. “Get a medic, goddammit!” The man scurries off the stage and out the lounge doors into the rain.

The remaining band members leave their hiding place and warily gather around the two in a circle. They’re afraid--armed only with the sharp ends of broken glass bottles--but they do what they can; they protect, even though they’re not truly members of the Hive. Yor, even as his heart beats in his fingertips, takes note of their loyalty.

He looks up through their ranks and to the side where Sero stands, dazed, as if he’s only now realizing what he’s done. He drops the gun and it clatters off the stage. He composes himself, adjusting his tie, but he has since lost all his bravado. His hand shakes, just barely. In this light, he’s just a kid.

“Consider my offer, Yor,” Sero says, deadpan, “Or your beauty will never sing the same way ever again.”

“I’m going to tear you apart,” Yor spits. “Limb from fucking limb.”

Sero’s eyes travel over Avidan’s body, which has since gone still. Yor adjusts him as gently as he can into a sitting position and tries not to flinch when the entire front of his shirt is splashed with blue. Where the hell is the medic? Yor tears his gaze away from Sero and presses his forehead to Avidan’s, who’s optics absently look far up into the ceiling.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, praying to whatever deity is listening that Avidan will be okay, “Help is on the way.” Avidan’s optics flit to him, for just a moment, before gripping his hand tightly. There is hemosynth on his ring. There has to be something to keep him awake. Yor clears his throat, then sings, softly, “Sometimes I-I wonder how I spend t-the lonely night dreaming of a song...” He winces at the croak of his voice. He hasn’t sung in a long time. He wishes it had been under better circumstances. “the melody haunts my r...reverie. And I am once again with you.”

“When our love was new...” Sero continues for him as he walks away and the very action makes Yor’s blood boil. If Avidan dies, Yor swears to the Traveler, to the Hive, to whatever force may be out there, that he will deliver the same pain unto Sero, bit by prideful, arrogant bit.

The doors swing open once more. Sero leaves; the pianist, accompanied by a medic in clinical white garb rolling a stretcher along, come in, trailing water behind them. The puddles swallow the blood like its ink. The bassist puts a hand on Yor’s shoulder.

“Should we go after him?” She says.

He looks at the door, which is still swinging slightly, buffeted by the heavy winds of the storm outside. He looks back to Avidan; the Exo’s grip on his hand has loosened. Yor grabs it again, holding it tightly, even as it doesn’t reciprocate the action, as though the Dredgen’s touch could bring him back from the brink.

“No,” Yor breathes shakily, “you’ll never find him in the rain. Sero Maaviks will have to die another day.”

The bassist’s brows crease in worry and she opens her mouth to say something, but the medic comes barreling through the band. It takes a few moments for Yor to let go--adrenaline is pounding in his veins. The pianist and Yor lift Avidan onto the stretcher.

“I’ll need towels,” the medic says to the band, “as many as you have. Clean, preferably. Cloths will do as well.” The trombone player goes behind the bar to the cabinet with all the cleaning supplies and the bassist goes to the bathroom for the hand towels.

As soon as his head hits the cushion, Avidan’s lights go out. His jaw hangs loosely, a gaping maw. Yor’s breath catches in his throat. “Is he--?” Yor begins, but the medic cuts him off.

“He’s still alive,” She confirms, and his heart slows down a few beats. She snaps on latex gloves and puts her dark hair up in a ponytail. “but just so. Do you have any Exo agents, Dredgen? We’ll need just the one; I can stop the bleeding, but it’s just a matter of getting your friend here the hemosynth he needs to survive. Wheel him into the kitchen.”

Normally, he wouldn’t take orders from anyone, but Avidan’s life is in her hands. He, along with the pianist, rush the stretcher to the kitchen. The medic runs after them. They park the stretcher by the sink, as per the doctor’s instructions. Easier and cleaner that way. Yor mutters his wholehearted, if not hasty, thanks to the pianist. The pianist leaves with a shaken glance towards Yor and without a word

The medic undoes Avidan’s tie, tossing it onto a counter. She unbuttons his shirt next, only one or two, enough to assess the damage to his neck. She’s completely calm and careful, working quickly but not hastily; Yor has no doubt it’s not the worst wound she’s seen, being a medic in the eternal war of the alleyways. Yor watches her work. Her hands don’t even shake; they move with surgical precision as she cuts away wires that are otherwise useless now with a pair of scissors.

 Avidan’s lights remain off. Yor’s feet are rooted to the tiles. Not like this. It can’t end like this for Avidan, not when his last thoughts will be of choking on his own silence and blood. He pads over to the Exo’s side, taking his hand in both of his. It’s cold--the lack of hemosynth is causing his temperature to drop. He thumbs Avidan’s ring, now more blue than silver. He leans his forehead on the bundle of their hands.

“Stay with me,” he pleads, barely above a whisper, “I’m not going to lose you, too.”

He feels the medic’s gaze on him. Her pity hits him in waves. She waits a moment, then speaks. “Dredgen,” she coaxes, “we need that agent of yours. Now.” When he hesitates, her tone shifts to urgency. “Without that transfusion, he’ll die. I can save your friend; you have to let me work.”

“Husband,” he corrects her automatically. “That’s...what he is.” She’s silent for a moment. “Of course.”

He pauses, then nods. He lets go. Avidan’s hand falls to his side and the medic returns to her surgery. She sops up the remaining hemosynth. More and more towels are drenched in blue and tossed into the sink. He walks backwards out of the kitchen, stomach dropping as the doors swing shut and Avidan disappears from his sight.

Yor goes to the phone in his office, stepping over the two bloody corpses and broken glass, and dials a number. Three rings, four. Yor taps his foot rapidly. Why is no one answering? Six rings; he paces. It’s about ten rings when someone answers. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hello?” The Exo on the other end says, sounding exhausted. “Boss? What d’you need?” Yor had taught all his agents to be ready for his call at any time of night or day.

“Romulus,” he says, all too fast, “get over here now.”

Thankfully, the Exo doesn’t ask for an elaboration. “Alright. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Five. It’s...it’s Avidan.” He doesn’t say anything more. The silence on the other end is deafening.

“Shit. What happened?”

“I’ll explain when you get here. Get to walking.” Yor growls then hangs up. He holds the phone against his chest, his heart beating in sync to the dial tone. He notices now that his hands, which are usually steady with an aim that has been perfected over years of battle, are trembling. He can barely hold them straight. He balls them into fists so tight the skin around his knuckles turns white.

The Dredgen leaves his office and just as he comes back out into the main room Romulus, a stocky red Exo with a black bar painted around his yellow optics, comes rushing towards him, sopping wet, in hastily put on clothes. Before either of them can say anything, the medic bursts out of the kitchen and drags the both of them inside.

The medic had opened a panel on Avidan’s arm. A transparent tube runs from his forearm up to under the plates of his bicep. She explains it’s one of several “veins.” The glass is stained blue, lacking the hemosynth it usually transports. A few drops fall into it here and there, but otherwise it’s dry. A plastic tube is inserted into the glass, the opposite end of it hanging outside.

“Here, here.” The medic ushers Romulus onto a stool and wastes no time popping open the same panel on his arm, too.

“I’m no doctor,” Romulus says, fidgeting, “but isn’t it unsafe to just go replacin’ blood like this without some kinda test?”

“No time,” Yor says gruffly.

“You’re thinking of humans,” the medic waves him away, “Dredgen Yor is right; no time. It’s not like you’re going to transmit any sort of virus to him through your blood.” She slips the other end of the plastic tube into Romulus’ arm. “Now, I’m going to need you to pace.”

“...What?” Romulus looks at her incredulously. Even Yor is confused. She looks between the two of them and sighs in frustration.

“Hemosynth is generated through motion,” she explains quickly, “because you Exos were engineered to be soldiers, so you’re always on the move. See, here?” She points to the few drops of hemosynth in Avidan’s arm. “Because Avidan’s chest is moving as he’s breathing, his system is generating small droplets of hemosynth, but it’s not the correct amount of motion we require. If you walk, you’ll be able to produce enough hemosynth for your system to push the excess out--”

“--and into Avidan’s.” Yor raises his brows. The astonishment in his voice is plain. He had known about the hemosynth, but not the way it’s generated. “That’s...not a treatment I’ve heard of before.”

“Neither have I.” Romulus gets up. The tube is long enough for him to walk around the small kitchen, so long as he doesn’t snag it around any table legs.

“You’re an Exo!” the medic exclaims, “How do you not know how your own system works?” Romulus doesn’t answer as he starts his lap. A minute after, blood starts flowing into the tube and into Avidan’s arm. Yor’s tense shoulders relax somewhat.

Yor grips Avidan’s hand. He watches the tube fill up with blue. Slowly, his temperature begins to rise. The digits intertwined with his are warm to the touch. He helps the medic take off the Exo’s jacket, then his shirt. Watching her dissect Avidan and put aside whole panels of his chest to monitor the blood flow and the hemosynth pump (his heart) turns Yor’s stomach over. He’s seen Avidan do this himself a few times before--taking off panels to assess the damage underneath--but never this expertly.

Romulus walks for an hour and fifteen minutes. During that time, no one says a word--the room is tense, just waiting for something to go wrong. All Yor hears is Romulus’ footsteps and the snip snip of the medic’s scissors as she works on Avidan’s throat. Yor has to stop himself from pacing, too. He gives into his nervous tic of tugging at his hair.

After five more minutes, the medic tells Romulus to stop. She removes the plastic tube and puts Avidan back together again. “Stable condition,” she murmurs, “He’s going to live.”

Yor nearly cries with relief, but he keeps himself composed. He’s coming down from the adrenaline and as a result, his head is beginning to hurt. Romulus takes a seat, on standby in case any more is needed from him.

The medic waves Yor over. He fixes his gaze on Avidan’s neck, a horrible patchwork of wires; he grits his teeth to keep himself from averting his gaze. “I managed to get the bullet out,” she tells him, showing him the grimy bullet in a metal pan, “and I saved as many of the cranial nerves as I could.” She points out a few color coded wires on Avidan’s nape. “He’ll still be able to see, hear, feel, and taste. But...”

His stomach drops. “Nothing good ever comes after that word, doctor,” Yor mutters, “But what?’”

She takes what appears to be a lump of coal from the metal pan. It flakes in her hands. “This,” she explains, “is Avidan’s voicebox. As you can see, it was...fried by the bullet. The gun was charged with Solar energy.”

He gapes at it. It’s completely destroyed. Ashes rub the doctor’s gloves black, turning it into a mosaic of dark colors. “There’s nothing more I can do for it,” She continues through his silence, “I’m sorry, Dredgen.”

“Boss, I’ll do it,” Romulus says as he stands, sounding as grim as Yor feels. “He can have mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yor hisses, but softens his tone when he realizes how much Romulus wants to do this. “Your loyalty is appreciated, Romulus, but it’s not what Avidan would’ve wanted.” The Exo looks downcast and sits back down. The Dredgen turns to the doctor. “Shouldn’t a medic such as yourself, especially around these parts, have backup parts? Or, at least, blueprints?”

“With half the population of the Exos in the Last City being Guardians,” she replies, “there’s no demand for the parts. Sure, there are blueprints, but they’re kept under lock and key by the Foundries. I...suppose you could find a viable voicebox on the black market.”

The black market has everything. Organs, robotic and otherwise, guns, machinery, body parts--you name any vile object you can think of and it will be there with a price tag of a few more extra zeroes than its worth. It’s not entirely out of the question.

“I’ve got connections in the black market, boss,” Romulus supplies, “I can ask around tomorrow mornin’.”

“The best thing you can do for him tonight is to take him home. Let him rest; his body will have to readjust itself. His lights will come back on in a day or so. If they don’t, you know where to find me.”

“...Thank you. Both of you.” He means it from the very bottom of his heart. The words surprise Romulus, who has, for years, seen how cruel he can be, but not the doctor. She gives him a tired smile. “You’ll want to be paid, I imagine, doctor...?” An amount of Glimmer with about four or five zeroes tacked on should do it nicely.

She takes off her gloves and tosses them into the trash bin. She takes a card from her breast pocket and hands it to him. “Rembrandt,” she says, as does the neat, minimalist font on the card. “Dr. Rembrandt. We can talk about the details later. Bring him home. Lay low for a few days and help him recuperate. He’s going to need the support when he realizes he can’t talk.”

Romulus stands again and sheds his coat, holding it out to Yor. “Avidan’s not gonna take my voice box,” he says, mouth glowing a dandelion yellow, “so he can take my coat instead. ‘s a little damp, but it’s better than what he had on.” He gestures to the bloody dress shirt and suit jacket folded neatly on the kitchen counter. 

When Yor opens his mouth to decline, he shakes his head. “No, seriously, boss. You’re not gonna want to bring him home in clothes like that. Vanguard’s patrolling around this time. They’ll think the wrong thing and the doc’s time will’ve been wasted.”

The Dredgen takes the coat. It is a little wet from the rain, but it’ll be inconspicuous enough for them to pass by the Vanguard unnoticed. “Thank you,” he says again, and he realizes he’s been thanking quite a lot of people tonight. It unnerves him greatly. He wonders what Avidan will say when he tells him about--oh. Right. He tries to offset his worries by thinking about Sero. 

“Romulus, besides scavenging through the market, I want you to take Diego and Nadir and ask around about Sero Maaviks. He’s the conniving bastard who did this. Find out where he’s hiding. He’s not getting away with this.”

“You got it, boss. I’ll stay here and close up the place.”

“Good man.” He gives Romulus a firm pat on the shoulder, an awkward motion he isn’t used to. Avidan should be the one doing all of this; praising his henchmen, thanking them, and even just talking to them. Yor does talk to them but more often than not it’s in the form of an order.

With Romulus’ help, Yor moves Avidan to a sitting position and puts the coat around his shoulders. It easily swamps him, with Romulus being so much bigger and more Titan-like than Avidan’s lithe and lanky build. He picks Avidan up in his arms, the Exo’s head lolling and coming to rest against his shoulder. He says goodbye, shoulders open the door, and leaves Luna.

It’s drizzling. The storm has calmed. The car is parked out back; as he walks, little droplets hit Yor’s shoulders. He puts Avidan in the passenger seat, buckling him up, then gets into the driver’s seat. They drive off with a low rumble. Every stoplight, Yor cannot help but glance at Avidan, who remains unconscious. They don’t encounter any patrols.

Thirty minutes pass, and they’re home. One of the many apartment complexes in the City, which is nice enough to be considered part of the rich district, but just that much grimy to be on the outskirts. If you live there, you have money, but not enough. He parks. He carries Avidan to the elevator and up they ride. Yor has a bit of trouble unlocking the door, but he manages to get it. It swings open to their apartment; like his office, it’s lived in, but professional. There are photos of him and Avidan on the walls. A few are from the wedding. He locks the door behind him.

He heads straight for their bedroom. He takes the Exo’s coat off, depositing it on the rack, and puts a shirt on him. He buttons every button, except the one on the collar. He tucks him in, drawing the covers up over his chest, which still rises and falls with breath. It’s a motion that fills Yor with so much relief he lets a tear fall from his eye. Just the one.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, voice breaking. The knot in his throat hurts too much to speak properly. The reality of almost losing Avidan--his one nightmare that has haunted him ever since they met--hits him hard. He presses a kiss to the Exo’s forehead and settles at his bedside. “Goodnight.”

In his dreams--nightmares, maybe--it is entirely silent. Mute.

All he sees is blue.

I hope y’all can see why this chapter took so long :)

[bentnotbroken1fanfiction]

Teacher Steve/ Single Dad Billy AU

Part I Part II

The first thing he does when he walks in the door is call out his treacherous sisters name. "Maxine!"

He hears her curse in the kitchen and then Becca asking, "What's wrong Aunt Max?"

"Nothing, your dad is just being silly."

He turns the corner and she's standing at the stove pouring sauce over the noodles in the pan. Becca is on a stool, next to her, watching intently.

Until she sees him and hops down, smiling as she gives him a hug. So she's having a good day today. "Auntie said you went to talk to my teacher after work, Daddy."

"Yeah, I did." He says and glares at his sister. "And a bit of a heads up would have been fu-freaking nice, Max."

She looks like she's trying not to smile. "Huh? Did I not mention-"

"I swear to god-"

"Oh, come on. Stop acting like a baby. If I had told you, you would have hid at home and made me go."

"I'm not acting like a baby, Maxine. I would have still gone, it just would have been nice to not be blindsided." He sighs, "I nearly-" He stops and covers his daughters ears before he whisper hisses, "popped a boner just seeing him."

She loses it, laughs so hard tears are gathering at the corner of her eyes. "Oh my god!"

He lets go of Becca's ears and scowls at her as she clutches her stomach. "I'm so glad my suffering amuses you."

"I just- this is great!" She wipes the tears away. "You should go for it."

"Go for what, Daddy?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing, sweetheart. Your aunt is just being a brat."

"I'm just saying, there's nothing holding you back this time."

He motions to Becca. "Oh really?"

"Like she'd care." She scoffs and goes back to stirring. "She adores Steve."

"Yeah, well. I doubt it would end well, if it even went anywhere to begin with." He replies and pulls some bowls out of the cabinet. "Lucas gonna be home soon?"

She sighs. "No, he's helping his dad with some stuff, so he's eating there tonight."

He can tell she's disappointed. Lucas had been busy with work and helping his dad renovate the kitchen and living room for two weeks. "It will be done soon. Then you'll have him all to yourself again."

"Nuh uh. She has to share Uncle Lucas with me." Becca interjects.

"Oh. Well, it looks like you've got some competition Mad Max." He laughs.

"I'm afraid I've already lost. Who could win against that cute face?" She says, fondly pinching Becca's cheek.

He opens the fridge to find the parmesan cheese and frowns when he can't find it. "We out of parmesan?"

"Oh, shi- shoot. Yeah. Sorry." She apologizes and starts helping the little girl with her bowl of spaghetti. "I really need to go to the store."

"Don't worry about it. Me and the little lady can go tomorrow after I get off work." He doesn't mind doing the grocery shopping. Becca likes to help pick things out.

He sits down to eat but before he can even get a bite Max smirks at him and he stops with his fork hovering. "What?"

"Just thinking about your crush and how much fun I'm going to have messing with you."

"You're such a bi- brat." He growls and shoves his fork in his mouth before he says anything vulgar. He's trying to cut back on the cursing. Set a good example or whatever.

It's annoying though.

Almost as annoying as his stupid sister.

"Don't pout, Billy." She laughs. "What kind of sister would I be if I didn't stick my nose in your business and give you hell?"

"A better one?" He suggests.

"A boring one."

Yeah, well, two can play at that game. "Does your mom know that you're thinking about marrying Lucas at the courthouse?"

All the mirth vanishes from her face. "That's not funny. You know how much mom wants to plan a ridiculously girly wedding. If you tell her that, she'll guilt trip me into letting her."

He'd never really tell Susan. He just likes to make her squirm, so he shrugs.

"Billy."

"Alright. I won't say anything." He relents. "If you promise to let up on the.. crush thing."

She sounds very put upon but agrees. "Fine."

Becca, who had been watching the two of them talk, speaks up. "What is a crush?"

Billy inwardly sighs but looks right at his sister. "Ask Aunt Max. I'm sure she'd love to explain it to you."

He gets a murderous glare from her as Becca asks for her to explain it.

He's nearly finished eating by the time she's done.

-

It's a little later, after dinner is over and the dishes are done, after bath time is finished and good night hugs are passed out, that he tucks her into bed. "Hey, I wanted to talk to you about school for a second."

She pulls her stuffed bear to her chest and tilts her head. "Ok."

"Your teacher said that sometimes you get upset and don't want to talk during class. He was worried," He pauses because she's having a good day, and what he says next could possibly spoil that, "so I told him about mom. I hope that is ok with you."

She gets a little misty eyed but blinks it away. "Yeah. Mr Harrington is really nice. I don't care if he knows."

"Ok." He's relieved when she doesn't cry. He hates it when she cries. He feels like he can't do a damn thing to help her when it happens. "So, which story do you want me to read tonight?"

She looks thoughtful before deciding, "The one with horse and the princess, please."

"Sure." This was something he'd had to get used to because Mommy always reads to me at bedtime at home. He wasn't really a read out loud kind of person, but he'd had to learn to be. Becca slept better when he would.

He pulls the right one out from the bookshelf and settles down beside her, starting off with once upon a time. Because all of her stories start that way.

As he reads he does different little voices. The first time he'd attempted that, she had dissolved into a fit of giggles. Don't worry, Daddy. You'll get better.

And maybe he's still not like the best, but he thinks he's come a long way since that first night. Becca's never complained anyway, and he'd found that despite how awkward it made him feel sometimes, he actually enjoyed it. It was something even he could do, something he could do for her that made her happy, that made the sting of losing her mom lessen a bit.

He hates that she's hurting, that he can't do much more than this, but you can't control what life throws at you, you can only duck or hit back. And neither of them have the energy or focus to hit back right now.

So he reads to her. Plays dolls with her. Makes Max sit down to have a pretend tea parties with her. Anything to make this easier, to make her smile. Because he loves her and that's all he wants.

For her to smile and be happy.

He just wonders how long they'll make it before he fucks it all up.

He hears a yawn and that's a sign that she's drifting off, so he puts the book away,makes sure she's covered up, and strokes her hair a couple of times.

She looks up at him and quietly yawns out, "Night, Daddy. Love you."

Yeah. It still gets to him, that she's his, that he loves her so fiercely, because he never wanted to be a father. He didn't want the responsibility, didn't want to take a chance that he'd end up becoming Neil.

But he's not his father and never will be. The proof is softly snoring with a teddy bear under one arm.

He smiles again and whispers, "Love you too, sweetheart," then shuts the door behind him.

Part IV

[talesofstyles]

Half A Heart II

Here it is, folks! Thank you for all the love for the first part. Hope you like this one as well!

“What the fuck are you on about, exactly?” Harry snarled. You could tell that he was raging by the vein that popped out in his neck. Harry had come a long way of controlling his temper so it was rare for you to witness him in that state. A little part of you was scared but you didn’t let it show.

“Not once I ever said a word whenever you’re being a dick to me because I know that you’re just overwhelmed with work. You’re stretched too thin. I know that you’re stressed but you just crossed the line by coming after my children.” You went on.

Harry’s voice kept rising in volume. “Yes, I yelled at them but I’ve got my reasons why. I’m not a nutter who goes around yelling for nothing.”

“Then why?” You challenged him.

“Your daughter was being a brat. You’ve failed to teach her to listen to others. She’s got absolutely no patience at all. She always has to have her own way and-”

You cut him off mid-sentence. You just simply couldn’t bear to listen to more. “Oh God is that how you talk about your own child? Listen to yourself Harry, she’s bloody three for fuck’s sake!”

“It doesn’t mean that she can act like a spoiled brat. I know a lot of three year olds who’s got better manners than your dau-”

“Stop saying your daughter as if she wasn’t yours!” You yelled in frustration.

His face crimsoned. “You literally just referred to them as your children,” He let out a huff before he continued. “Besides, you do it all the time!”

“Yeah, but I always say that in a playful manner. It’s usually when I’m joking or I’m teasing you about the kids taking after your habits or something like that but this,” You let out a harsh breath. “This doesn’t sound anything like that.”

“Argh!” Harry groaned in frustration. His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated. You were certain that that was the most cross he had ever been at you, but frankly, you weren’t much better. Your jaw clenched and if look could kill he would’ve been dead for fifteen minutes by then. “I’m never right with you. Being with you is so hard sometimes, it’s not worth it!”

As soon as his lips snapped shut, you left the room without saying another word. You were too cross to even form a sentence. You were boiling with rage that you swore that if you spent another minute in the same room as your husband you were going to poke his eyeballs out. Or whack him in the dick. Whichever more convenient. You didn’t realise your eyes swam with tears until you felt something cold rolling down your cheeks. You wanted nothing more than just to take a shower and cry your eyes out in there or curl up under the blanket and cry on your pillow. But you promised your littles for a little outing to the park and surely you could use the fresh air. You needed to step away from that cactus of a husband of yours for a second to breathe. You needed to calm yourself down because even though those words still hurt nonetheless, you knew for sure that deep down he didn’t mean anything he said.

You knew George and Eleanor had been listening to the whole exchange when they ran to you to give you a hug as soon as they spotted you walking into the kitchen. You looked down and smiled at your children, your fingers running through their hair.

“Don’t cry, mummy. S’alright, you’re alright.” George mumbled on your hip. You let out a wet chuckle realising that that was the exact same thing you usually tell your littles when they cry. It hit you that the way you talk to your children becomes their inner voice, and the fact that Harry just yelled at them made you feel worse because you didn’t want your children to think that was acceptable. But in that moment, knowing how much empathy they’ve got at such a young age made you realise that you did a good job raising your little ones, and if Harry couldn’t see that then it was his sodding loss.

And you were smarter then than when you first got together with Harry, or even than in the beginning of your marriage. You knew it was best to just let things go unsettled for a time sometimes, and you realised that space without resolution wasn’t a bad thing. In that moment, space was taking all three of your littles to Kensington Garden so they could get their wiggles out and enjoy the fresh air before stopping by your favourite Italian restaurant for dinner. You relied on your littles to distract you because they are the sweetest distraction until things at home settle back down, which you know they always do. You knew taking three children aged five and under on your own to a restaurant was going to be tricky but you weren’t ready to come home yet. Besides, after all the tears and shoutings and harsh words that had been said, your children (and you) deserve a nice stone baked pizza.

The deafening silence at the empty house finally knocked some much-needed sense into Harry’s head. He had been craving the silence so that he could work, but when he finally got what he wanted, he didn’t even last more than five minutes on his chair let alone to actually work. He paced around the house like a bloody nutter, it was as if he was lost and he just didn’t know where to go. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. He couldn’t stay still for longer than a minute because he felt like someone just punched him in the gut if he did so. After nearly half an hour of that walking around nonsense, he finally chose the kitchen as his safe place and sat down on the floor, before he broke down and cry.

He recalled everything he said and felt even sicker as the words went around his head. How could he yelled at his little girl just because he couldn’t be arsed to just get up and walk to the kitchen to make her some tea and give her some bloody biscuits? Who was that twat back there in the kitchen who acknowledged the mess in front of him, yet failed to see his children who were trembling with fears? Who was that scunner who talked about his own daughter like she was the most terrible human being on earth? Didn’t he promise her when she was born, to always lift her up? Didn’t he promise her to always speak to her as if she’s the wisest, kindest, most beautiful and magical human on earth, because he knows that what she believes is what she will become? And who was that prick who told his own wife that she wasn’t worth it? Honestly, he was surprised that she just left the room instead of whacked him one.

He knew that crying on the floor wouldn’t help anything, so he got up and began to prepare dinner so you wouldn’t have to. He thought that was the least that he could do. Whilst he was waiting for the lasagna to bake in the oven, he cleaned the entire kitchen and didn’t stop until it was spotless. He was doing his best to make it up to his wife and children the way he knew how.

But it was already half seven and he began to worry. He immediately ran upstairs to check on yours and the kids’ clothes just to make sure and sighed in relief when he found everything was still there. He fished his pocket to grab his phone and just when he was about to call you, he heard the front door being opened and a fit of giggles came from downstairs.

“Hey!” He greeted you and the kids as he walked down the stairs. “Did you guys have fun at the park?”

You couldn’t believe that he was acting like nothing happened. You gave him a dirty look and began unbuttoning the kids’ coats and hung them. On any other day, the kids would run to him and tell him every little detail of their outings because they knew how much he loved to hear it. The little details made him felt like he was there and that he didn’t miss out much, but in that moment none of them seemed to care.

Harry walked towards you and the kids but the kids hid themselves behind your legs instantly. He frowned at the sight of the kids hiding away from him, hurt clouded his features. He crouched down in front of them so he could be on the same level as the kids.

“Daddy’s sorry, yeah?” He spoke softly. “T’was really mean of ’im t’yell like tha’.”

Eleanor hid further behind you, tightening her grip on the hem of your jumper as she whimpered “mummy” and George was fidgeting, playing with his fingers impatiently and didn’t even spare his dad a glance. None of your kids paid any attention to Harry. You knew that must break his heart, but you also knew that you couldn’t blame your children either for reacting that way. Not once had they ever heard their parents raised their voice at them before that day so it was shocking for them.

You looked down at your husband before you cleared your throat to get his attention. “S’almost past their bedtime,” you reminded him. Your tone was flat, not showing any hint of emotion. You were just exhausted and you wanted to bathe your kids and put them to bed as soon as possible so you could go to your own bed too. “C’mon my loves, let’s get you in the bath.”

“I can help with the baby,” he offered, knowing that his nine months old was the only one who wouldn’t scream bloody murder if he tried to come close.

But you shook your head. “No need. You were busy, right? Need t’get things done?” You were just being petty but you couldn’t care less.

So you went upstairs to Eleanor and George’s shared nursery. You put the baby down to wiggle around on the rug for a bit whilst you got the water running in the ensuite for your kids and took out their pyjamas and put them on the bed. You disappeared for a second to the baby’s nursery next door to get her things before you came back to put all three of your children in the tub. You don’t usually bathe them together because good lord your bathroom looks more like a water park when they’re done, but that night was an exception. The day sucked and you just wanted to get into your bed as quickly as possible.

You sat on the wooden little red chair next to the tub, keeping an eye on the kids as they played a bit in the water. The sound of giggles filled the room as the kids made a beard on their faces with the bubbles, even your littlest let out a proper belly laugh at her silly big sister and brother.

Suddenly you heard a footstep coming closer before Harry appeared on the door frame. You glanced at him for a second before turning your head away and looked at your children instead, taking one of the coloured cups that were floating in the tub and pour the water on your baby.

“Hey,” he greeted and the kids looked up to him for a second. “Daddy just put your PJs and blankets in the dryer so they’ll be warm for you.”

George turned his head to his littlest sister, completely ignoring Harry as he raised his hand and ask for a high five, something that the baby had just learned to do a couple weeks prior so it was still exciting for everyone.

Meanwhile, Eleanor tensed. She immediately looked at you and you could see fear crossed her face. She whimpered for you again. She raised her hands, asking for you to pick her up.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright.” You rubbed her cheek and tried to calm her down without picking her up because she wasn’t done yet.

But her little body trembled in fear and she yelled “no!” repeatedly as Harry walked closer to the tub. Her yell got louder with each step that Harry took towards her. You could see her breath getting heavier before you fully noticed that she was hyperventilating.

“Harry, get out!” You yelled at your husband when you realised that your three year old wasn’t just throwing a tantrum, she was having a panic attack. Harry ran out of the room like a bat out of hell and you quickly took her out of the tub before wrapping her in the towel and brought her close to your chest. You kept whispering “mummy’s here,” in her ear to help her to calm down, which thankfully she did within minutes, but that was without a doubt still the scariest three minutes of your life.

After Eleanor had calmed down, you drained the water in the tub and quickly rinsed off your other children before herding them back to the nursery. When you were back, you found their PJs and blankets piled on George’s bed. The warm PJs reminded you how much Harry truly loved your babies and that’s the kind of father he is. He’s the kind of father who pays attention to the littlest detail that doesn’t even cross your mind sometimes, like warming up their pyjamas and blanket and triple checking their shoes to make sure that they’re wide enough not to crush their pinky toes. He never forgets to make sure that there are no monsters under the kids’ bed every night after he kisses them goodnight. He always makes sure that the baby’s nighttime soother, the one that glows in the dark, is clean before bedtime. You swore that the amount of dummy your baby has cost you could pay a small country’s debt, so it never really matters to you which one she uses but Harry thought the one that glows in the dark would be easier for her to find it in the middle of the night.

After you put their lotion and put their PJs on, you read them stories on George’s bed and tucked the big kids into their own bed. You cuddled Eleanor extra tight before you kissed her goodnight.

When you exit the nursery, you found Harry sat on the floor outside of their door. His back leaning against the wall, his head hung low. He jumped up when he saw you, you could see clear as day the sadness that clouded his features and you couldn’t help but feel bad for him.

“How is she?” he asked. You had known the man in front of you for a little over eight years and you could count with your fingers how many times you had seen him cry. He was never the one to wear his heart on his sleeve, so you were quite surprised when you saw that his eyes were glistening with tears.

“She’s alright now.” You mumbled as you walked towards the baby’s nursery with your littlest on your hip.

“Can I put her down?” He murmured before he went on. “Please?”

As much as you wanted to whack him one in that moment, you also knew that you couldn’t say no to that. After what happened he just needed his baby. “Sure, but she needs to nurse first.”

“I’ll wait for you to finish.”

***

Harry furrowed his brows when he entered your bedroom and found it empty, but then sighed in relief when he heard the sound of hairdryer from the ensuite. On any other day he would just waltz in without even thinking twice, but this time he knew he better wait for you to finish.

His heart thumped loudly when the ensuite door was opened and you appeared from behind it. When you walked into the bedroom, it was the first time both of you being in the same room after your fight earlier. The tension was so thick it was suffocating.

Harry hated the silence because he knew it wasn’t the good kind of silence. Both of you quickly learnt early in your relationship that silence isn’t always a bad thing, so you quit trying to always fill the quiet gap and embrace the silence. You loved knowing that you were comfortable enough with each other to just sat together without the pressure of having to entertain one another.

But this silence was nowhere like that. Harry felt like he could cut the tension with a knife. You could feel his eyes glued on your every move, staring at you intensely as you took a clean white nightdress from the wardrobe and slip into it. Your creams were left untouched on your dressing table, you simply couldn’t be arsed to put them on, knowing you would just mess it up anyway with Harry staring at you like that. You knew that he was desperately trying to come up with something to say. You caught him from the corner of your eyes opening his mouth like he was about to say something but he quickly sealed his lips tight again. It was when you took your pillow and began walking towards the door that he finally said something.

“Where are you going?” He rushed to stop you from going towards the door. You were certain that he knew exactly where you were going but you answered him anyway.

“Spare room.” You replied coldly.

He shook his head. “Absolutely not. You’re sleeping here tonight, with me. Not once in nearly nine years we’ve ever slept apart under the same roof.”

“I can’t stand you right now.” You could feel your expression hardened and you began to get frustrated at your husband who just wouldn’t let you go. To be honest, you were doing him a favour there, because if you slept with him on the same bed you were almost certain that you would kick him off the bed at some point in the middle of the night.

“I’ll sleep on the floor. Just… please, don’t leave this room. I’m sorry for everything I said.” He pleaded.

You looked down, twisting the wedding band on your finger instead of looking at him because you knew the second you looked into his eyes, you wouldn’t be able to stand your ground. “I can’t do this anymore, Harry.”

Harry felt as if someone just knocked the air out of his lungs. That was the five words that he never thought would hear from you. “W- what?” He choked a response.

You went on. “It really pains me to say this but I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t think I’m worth it.”

“Love, don’t say that.” He begged you to stop. He couldn’t hear more of that coming from you.

“No, don’t love me and I will say whatever the fuck I want to say.” It’s rare for you to curse so when you do, he knows that you’re really upset.

“You know it isn’t true.” He spoke lowly. “I didn’t mean anything I said.”

You seethed. “No, I don’t know. I hope it isn’t but I can’t shake the thought that it might be true. The way you said it, it was just very conv-”

Harry cut you off. “It isn’t true. Please don’t let that idea get into your head. I was a complete twat, I didn’t even know what I said. M’sorry.”

You still refused to look up into his eyes, not only you knew it would melt your heart in a second, but you also did it out of pettiness because you knew how much he hated it when someone didn’t look at him in the eyes when they were talking to him.

“Love, say something.” He pleaded again. The silence was killing him and he couldn’t bear it anymore.

“What d’you want me t’say?” Your tone was flat and it sounded cold but he was glad you still at least spoke to him.

“You’re not leaving me, are you?” You were still upset at him, but you couldn’t ignore the pang in your chest at the vulnerability of his tone.

You sighed. “No, but I’m fuming at you right now.”

“I know, I was horrible. M’surprised you haven’t put me in the bin yet.”

Your brows snapped together. “That’s not funny, I’m really pissed.”

“M’sorry.” He apologised again. “Got panicked for a second when you hadn’t come home around seven. I thought you left.”

Knowing that he wouldn’t let you sleep in the guest room, you turned around and walked towards your side of the bed, placing the pillow that you’d been holding back to where it belonged. “Went for dinner.”

“Where did you go?” He asked. You knew that he was trying to make a small conversation, hoping it would distract you and made you forgot that you were pissed at him because most of the time it worked. “I made lasagna. Even put extra cheese because I know the kids love it.”

“Tha’ pizza place in High Street.”

He mused. “Oh, tha’s really nice. They’ve got the best pizza.”

You didn’t reply. You turned your back and closed your eyes whilst he took a pillow and placing it on the hardwood floor. “Night, love.” He mumbled before he closed his eyes. He was dying to give you a proper goodnight kiss but he knew you wouldn’t like that. Not in that moment at least.

***

“Ow, ow ow ow. Ow…. ow ow,”

The sound of your husband groaning in pain woke you up from your deep slumber. You tried to close your eyes again to go back to sleep but it didn’t work, so you sat up and looked down at him. “What’s wrong with you?” You sounded a little annoyed.

“I can’t get up. M’back hurts.”

You tried not to laugh at the sight of him wiggling around the hardwood floor and moaning in pain with his every move. “Come up here and get tha’,” you tilted your head towards his bedside table, referring to the bottle of almond oil in the drawer that you usually use for massage.

The thought of getting a back rub was enough to motivate him to hold onto the bed and finally pulled himself up. He opened the drawer and blindly looked for the bottle and took it out and put it on the bed when he found it.

“No, not the lube you prat!” You scolded him. “The oil!”

“Sorry sorry! Didn’t see it. It hurts.” He moaned again as he looked for the right bottle.

You mumbled, trying to bit your lips to keep yourself from laughing. “Such a baby.”

When he finally found the right bottle, he got up and sat on his side of the bed before laying down on his stomach. “If this doesn’t prove my love for you I don’t know what will.”

“Shut up, m’still ticked at you.” You deadpanned.

He let out a moan, a good moan this time, but not that kind of moan when you began rubbing his back. “I was going mad when you left with the kids yesterday.” He started.

You furrowed your brows. “We left for three hours.”

“Felt like there was half an arrow in my chest.” He went on.

You tried to stifle your chuckle. “Did you just quote your own song?”

“Oh shoot, you still remember. But s’true.” He replied.

“Course I remember,”

“Tha’ was your jam, wasn’t it? 15 year old you must be so cute singing around to tha’.” He was bashful and you loved the shift in the mood.

“Ha. You wish.” He was right but there was no way you would admit that. Absolutely not.

“Oh no, I know your favourite. T’was the other one, hold on-” he hissed as he took a second to think. “Ah, Through The Dark! Oh I will carry you over, fire and water for your love.” He began singing.

“Yeah, go on, keep taking the piss. Tha’ really helps me to dissolve my anger towards you.”

He ignored your comment and kept on singing. “And I will hold you closer hope your heart is strong enough.”

You tried to control the 15 year old girl inside of you who wanted nothing more than just to scream because who would’ve known that even after three babies later with one of the singers, the song still had that effect on you.

He reached for your arm and pulled it down. You squealed as you fell on your stomach next to him.

“I love you,” he blinked. “M’completely besotted. Absolutely enamoured. Hopelessly in love wi’ you. Best thing tha’ ever ‘appened t’me, yeh are. T’is Harry talking, your husband, so y’av to believe me. The pillock yesterday wasn’t Harry.”

“Oh, was tha’ Henry?” You joked.

“Thought Henry was m’cock’s name?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re right. The bloke yesterday was a cock.” You cackled and he continued. “M’sorry for what I said about Eleanor too. I’m disgusted at myself. Can’t believe I said those words about m’own baby girl. I don’t deserve her, I’m a shit father.”

“You were a shit father yesterday, but you’re a great father any other day, H. Always have been.” You affirmed him.

“You’re just saying that cause y’av to.”

You shook your head. “No I don’t. If you’re a shit father rest assured I’ll tell you that on your face. But you’re not, I’m telling you the truth. Just please don’t ever take it out on the kids and I again if you’re stressed or frustrated with work.”

“I promise. I’m sorry.” He apologised again.

“You need to apologise to them.” You reminded him and he nodded.

“I will. Absolutely. I’ll try to make it up to them today.”

***

George and Eleanor ignored Harry all morning. Thankfully Eleanor was better, she didn’t want to talk to Harry but at least she didn’t freak out whenever he was close. Harry tried to get on their good side by offering toast and nutella for breakfast, which rarely happens in your house because you don’t normally allow chocolate for breakfast. They munched on their toast happily but they didn’t say a word to Harry except a simple “thank you” when he handed them their plates. You chuckled because they might be pissed but they were still polite.

After breakfast, you put on some Sunday morning cartoon in the living room for the kids. You were sat on the sofa, sandwiched between your two babies whilst Harry sat on the armchair with your littlest on his lap playing with his wedding band because George and Eleanor didn’t let him sit on the sofa.

“My loves, do you wanna make some choquettes for snack later?” Harry asked the kids when Fireman Sam finished on the telly. George shook his head but Eleanor completely ignored him.

“Daddy’s asking you a question, poppet.” You turned to your little girl. “S’not very nice to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, is it?”

She mumbled. “No, thank you.”

“Alright.” Harry sighed. “I’ll make them for you, I know how much you like it.”

Harry stood up and placed the baby on your lap before he went to the kitchen to make the kids’ favourite pastry. Cooking had never been his forte but you knew your husband could bake even though he only worked as a cashier in a bakery years ago.

The kids still pretty much ignored him during lunch and you could tell that Harry was getting a little frustrated. He tried everything but the kids hadn’t warmed up to him just yet. They’d been glued to you nearly all day so you knew you had to leave for at least an hour so they could warm up to Harry. You took the opportunity to leave when they were napping so they, especially Eleanor, wouldn’t throw a fit when you left. You needed to go shopping anyway because now that it was getting warmer, you needed to get some new spring clothes for the kids and your littlest baby had outgrown most of her onesies and bodysuits.

Again, Eleanor was the first to wake up from her nap and she immediately went looking for you but when she went down, she only saw Harry in the living room with his laptop on his lap. Harry smiled at her as soon as he saw her.

“Ello, poppet. Did yeh av a nice nap?” He greeted her. The little girl hesitated a bit before she walked into the living room, which took Harry by surprise because he was almost sure that she would just run back upstairs.

The three year old nodded before climbing up onto the sofa and plopped herself down next to her daddy. Harry wrapped his arm around her instantly and brought her to his lap after he put his laptop away. “Daddy’s really sorry, poppet. I didn’t mean to scare you yesterday. I was very mean, wasn’t I?”

She nodded again. “You weren’t nice, daddy. You need a time out.”

“A time out?” Harry chuckled.

“Uh uh.” She insisted. “Y’need to sit on the stairs.”

The last step on the stairs had always been the designated spot for a time out for the kids whenever they’re being cheeky in your home. If they don’t listen to you or Harry or if they fight too much they’d have to sit there for three minutes. Harry never knew that would come to bit him in the arse.

“Alrigh’,” Harry agreed. “But will yeh forgive me when I’m done?”

She nodded vigorously. “Of course! But three minutes, daddy.” She held up three of her fingers.

So Harry sat there on the last step of the stairs whilst Eleanor stood in front of him, holding his phone as she waited for the timer to went off. Before Harry finished his time out, George appeared from the top of the stairs.

“George! M’puttin’ daddy on time out!” Eleanor squealed excitedly, making Harry chuckled. “No, don’t laugh, daddy! S’not funny. Y’need to think about what you did.”

Harry bit on his lips trying not to laugh at his little girl’s stern face. She might be a carbon copy of himself but goodness she did sound like you. “M’sorry, m’sorry.”

“We don’t yell, daddy. S’not nice.” George chimed in.

“I know. M’really sorry.” Harry apologised again and the timer went off.

“Time’s up!” Eleanor shrieked. “Y’can get up now, daddy!”

“Can I get a hug?” Harry opened his arms wide for his babies.

“That depends, daddy. Can I get some choquettes?” George gave him a cheeky smile and Harry nodded.

“Wha’ a cheeky lad!” Harry squeezed him tight before pulling Eleanor closer to his chest to wrap her into a hug as well.

***

Eleanor and George were glued to Harry for the rest of the day, even after you and the baby got home. They were his sous-chef when he prepared dinner and insisted for Harry to bathe them. After you put your littlest to bed, you peeked inside Eleanor and George’s nursery and saw Harry sandwiched between his babies on George’s big boy bed. You could see the pile of books on the floor and you were certain he read them not less than ten books. You could feel your eyes welled up as you listened to the things Harry was telling your babies.

“Daddy loves you so much, both of you. I’m so grateful that you are my son and that you are my daughter. You both make me and mummy SO happy. You’re a good boy and you’re a good girl and you’re the best big siblings for your baby sister. You two are smart and funny and kind and I wouldn’t want anyone else to replace you. You make mummy and I very proud every day.”

Tag list:

@all-things-fic @sushiabby @beautybeanie92 @omgdani17 @styleswritin @celestial-aries @hellofanfiction @harryisalittleshit @barikawho @allamerican-betch @mrspeacem1nusone @waitingfortwilight @why-are-all-the-teens-gay @njhbuzzin @harrysdimplles  @thefireisgone  @sleepybesson

P.S. Tumblr didn’t let me tag a lot of blogs, I’ve got no idea why so sorry if I didn’t tag you!

[waiting4inspiration]

Be Ruthless VI : Her Cheek

Summary: The day of your wedding ceremony and all you can do is dread the oncoming night. Ivar promises himself to find out more about that mark he saw on your cheek

Warnings: arranged marriage, strong language, mention of abuse, angsty (if I missed anything, please let me know) 

Be Ruthless Masterlist II Vikings Masterlist

It is as if the moment the ship docked in Kattegat, people were frantically preparing for the wedding. Ivar wants it done within the week. He wants to get it over with just as much as you do. But you also want to get used to your new home before having to be a queen to it. Nonetheless, you just let things happen in a frantic state around you.

You don’t share many words with your intended husband during the week. Not after the incident on the ship anyway. You only speak to him when needed and it’s no more than one sentence. The only reason you know what was going on was because of one of his brother’s wife, Torvi. She explains things to you as they happen and tells you what you can expect during the ceremony. You are thankful to have her by your side. It was as if she was the calm amidst the chaos surrounding you.

Torvi explains that the ceremony will take place on Frigga’s sacred day as she is the Goddess of marriage. She mentions that everything will be done in their language and even goes as far as to teach you the words that will be said and what you will have to say. It’s a long, tedious process and you have no real chose but to go through with everything.

Though you don’t know it, Ivar keeps a close eye on you throughout the week. Since you won’t tell him that secret you’re so desperately clinging onto, he tries to figure it out himself by watching you closely. But nothing leads him closer to figuring it out. All he’s seen is you trying to understand this new way of life, learning what is expected of you at the ceremony. And he can’t help but smile at your attempts at speaking his language.

When he sees you the day of the ceremony, it’s almost as if you are a completely different person. The fear is still in your eyes but it’s masked by the concentration of what you have to do. Compared to when he saw you the previous day, you no longer look like an English princess but like a Viking woman. Ivar suspects that it’s the braids in your hair - the work of Torvi no doubt - that have to do with this change in appearance. 

From last he heard you reciting the words you have to speak, today your pronunciation is slightly better. Though there’s room for improvement. Ivar has to hide the chuckle in his chest when you flinch as the matriarch flicks the blood-soaked fir twigs towards you, sprinkling your face with blood. 

Throughout the feast at the end of the ceremony, you only spoke when you needed to. Otherwise, you would just sit in your seat with your hands neatly folded in your lap. Ivar knows that you’re preparing yourself for what will happen at the end of the night. Just like every Christian virgin, you’re probably dreading having to consummate your marriage with a ‘savage brute’ like him. 

In truth, you are preparing yourself for what you know will happen. But not because you’re terrified about the actual act, you’re dreading the memories you know will flood through your mind. And just thinking about that now already causes you to remember the time that man...

Shaking your head to get prevent the thought from going any farther, you sigh loudly and lower your gaze to your hands. Focusing on the sounds of the drunken men around you seems to help ease the memory away. But there’s still that pang of anxiety every moment when your concentration of not thinking about it breaks. 

A man says something, stirring up some cheers and laughs of the men crowding the room. When Ivar grabs your hand, you know that the time has finally come. Standing from your seat with him, you walk towards the door with him, keeping your gaze fixated on the ground as men wolf-whistle when you pass. 

Because your eyes are on the ground, you don’t notice Ivar glaring coldly at the men whistling. Behind you follows six witnesses to make sure that the marriage is official. You can hear their steps behind you and it makes that anxiety inside of you grow again. Ivar, noticing your fear, stops walking and harshly turns around to the people following you. 

Your gaze snaps between them as he sneers something at them. They seem to hesitate whatever order he’s given them but with a few words, they simply nod their heads and walk away from you before Ivar starts to lead you away from the feast again. 

So he managed to get rid of the witnesses. But it didn’t mean that he wasn’t planning on forgetting his duty, right?

You never thought that you would be so intimidated by a simple bed. But there it is. Staring directly into your soul and making your body shake in fear. Ivar’s hand left yours sometime when you walked into the room, but you don’t remember when. Jumping when his hands land on your shoulders, you let out a shaky sigh that mimics your trembling body. 

The reason Ivar places his hands on your shoulders is to steady your shaking body. What he doesn’t know is that that one gesture broke that dam you built to stop those memories from flooding your mind. It was the first gesture that man made all those years ago when he... 

“You’re afraid,” he whispers, his lips touching your ear as tears start to brim your eyes. “Why? Because I’m a heathen?” he questions, digging his fingers into your arms when you try to pull away from him. “Because you fear the sanctity of your chastity being taken by a brute like me?” 

Shaking your head vigorously, you shut your eyes to hide the tears. “No, it’s not like that...” you weakly whisper, giving up on trying to pull out of his grip as your head drops between your shoulders. “I didn’t mean to offend you, my lord.”

“Ivar,” he says, your head lifting up to him. “No more of this ‘my lord’ shit,” he orders, his hands falling away from your shoulders as he walks away from you and towards a chair close to the hearth with a burning fire inside it. 

Staring at the back of his head in confusion, you glance over at the bed before back to him. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, looking back at the bed. 

He lifts his head up at you as he falls down in his seat. Noticing you staring at the bed, he laughs loudly making your head snap back to him. “Do you want me to fuck you?” he questions, the crudeness making your body shake again as you drop your gaze to the ground.

Ivar chuckles at your action and moves to undo the braces around his legs, grunting as he struggles to reach some of the straps. Hearing him struggle, you turning toward him and watch him stretch over his legs. “Do you need help?” you ask, his eyes glaring up at you. 

“No, because I love struggling to get these damn things off my legs,” he sneers, giving you a sarcastic look before glancing down at his legs. You don’t move from your spot and just stare at the ground. “Are you going to help me or not?” he snaps, glaring back up at you.

Swallowing hard, you move across the floor to kneel in front of him. You run your eyes over the braces and slowly bring up your hands to undo the straps. Ivar keeps his eyes on your face, watching as you examine the braces. Glancing over at your infamous cheek, he starts to wonder if your fear for tonight is linked to the bruise he’s determined he saw there. 

He groans when you pull the mechanism off his legs and he digs his fingers into the armrest of the chair. Your eyes snap up at the sounds of his discomfort and run over his face that tries to hide his pain. Shaking your head, you glance back down at the braces in your hands. “Why do you wear these,” you begin to say, looking up at him as he stares down at you. “if they cause you pain?”

Ivar narrows his eyes at you making a breath catch in your throat and you to drop your eyes to your hands. You didn’t think that it might have been a personal question and by his reaction - that muscle tensing in his jaw - you know that you might have hit a nerve. 

But he knows that sooner or later, he’ll have to talk about his deformity. Might as well get it over and done with so that you don’t bring it up again. “I wear them so that I can walk like a normal man,” he simply explains, thinking to himself that it’s a good enough answer. 

“You hide what makes you different from everyone else just because you want to fit in?” you question, glancing back up at him as he bites his lower lip.

He takes in a deep breath, slightly shaking his head at you. “People will respect me if I’m not dragging myself around on the ground,” he firmly states, leaning closer to your face.

You keep your eyes on his as you frown. “People will respect you if you give them a reason to respect you. Regardless of whether or not you can walk like them,” you whisper, keeping a steady gaze up at him. 

His eyes fall to the cheek again. He doesn’t know why, but every time he stares at your face, he finds his eyes always landing on the same spot. It’s not because of the bruise he saw that draws him to it but rather the secret behind it that you keep so deeply hidden. 

When he brings his hand up to touch the cheek, you involuntarily flinch away, your mind expecting a more harsh action than just a touch because you probably spoke out of line. Ivar, of course, notices the action and quickly withdraws his hand. 

You thought he was going to harm you? That he intended an action more menacing than just a simple touch? Is that how you see him? Shaking his head to himself as he watches your eyes open when nothing happens, you stare up at him in confusion and slight fear. 

“You must be tired,” he bluntly says, nodding towards the bed. “Get some rest, wife,” he orders and you don’t say anything against it. 

You obey his words because you’re brother’s demands ring through your mind. “Make him happy” repeats over and over again like a cruel motivation. But when you glance over at your new husband, you notice that he has no intention of joining you. Well, not anytime soon. 

Ivar pays close attention to the rhythm of your breathing. When it gets deeper and tells him that you are asleep, his head snaps over to you before he lowers to the ground. Crawling over to the bed and pushing himself up onto it, his eyes - once again - find their way to the side of your face. 

He doesn’t know what you had done to receive that mark that night he saw it or why you are afraid to talk about it or why you’re afraid of his touch... But he knows that he will do everything in his power to find the answers to those questions.

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