#i wrote it half-deliriously while at work and late at night

[momotonescreaming]

I went digging through my fics, and found this. Absolutely no idea when I wrote this, or if I shared it already, but I can't stop thinking about it. Enjoy.

It’s the 1800’s, and Steve is the first born and only son of Richard Harrington, heir to the Harrington fortune. Expectations have been placed upon him since he was born, and it only got worse as he got older. He was too kind, liked flowers, and playing in the mud, and learning about horses and carriages and trains, and sitting with his mother while she put on make up and had her ladies maid do her hair. Then came the lessons from the private tutor (since the Harrington’s were too good for the local school) and Steve wasn’t as book smart as his father wanted him to be.

His father was mean and his mother was scared and so Steve spent a lot of time out in the fields as a young boy, wandering the land his father owned, picking up sticks and pretending to be a sheriff or an adventurer riding a fast horse into the sunset.

So he played until it got dark and Steve still didn’t go back home. Dad would yell and Mom would give him That Look and he didn’t want to change into his fancy dinner clothes. So Steve stays out late and wanders.

There are things living in the woods.

Things with teeth that hunt and kill and make people disappear. But no one tells poor little Steve this. He gets attacked by a wolf that isn’t quite a wolf, and screams so so loud.

Nobody hears him.

One of his father’s farmhands find him in the woods in the early morning. His clothes are ripped and he’s dirty and covered in blood but he doesn’t have any wounds, save for one single wolf bite. The man rushes him back to the Harrington Manor House, and someone calls the doctor. Steve is bathed, and fed, and checked over and the doctor tells his parents that he’s lucky it wasn’t worse. He gets better and goes back to his lessons.

Next month he gets a fever. Steve is sweaty and delirious, and hungry and itchy and restless and nothing quite helps. He blacks out one night and when he wakes up he’s curled up on the hardwood floor and all his furniture has been ripped apart. The servants whisper the word “werewolf” in the halls.

His parents fire half the servants, pay them off to keep their mouth shut, and hire someone who can help. A friendly woman named Mrs Henderson, whose dead ex-husband was a werewolf like Steve. She teaches him what she can while Richard Harrington hires men to build a stone basement underneath a small cottage at the very back of the Harrington Land. Where no one can see.

So Steve grows up, he falls in love, he finds out his sweetheart Nancy doesn’t love him, he befriends Dustin Henderson, and then Robin Buckley - a  dorky local girl who plays the trumpet and works at a store in town. And once a month, he takes himself down to the basement of the cottage, and turns into a werewolf. Mrs Henderson could only help so much, not being a Werewolf herself. His control is better than it was, but he still doesn’t trust himself. So chained in the basement it is.

Then there’s Eddie Munson, the poor son of an outlaw living with his uncle in a tiny house in the town of Hawkins. Grew up learning how to break the law with his father, how to live off the land, how to shoot and hunt and survive. He hated it, little Eddie wanted to learn to play the guitar and read and tell stories. But Pa didn’t give him much of a choice. Until Ma died and Pa spiralled and ended up getting caught and shipped off to prison. So he went to live with his uncle Wayne. And he made friends, and told stories, and started writing.

And then he watched a girl die and got blamed for her murder. So he’s on the run, and he knows how to survive but not when he doesn’t have any supplies. And not in a town where everyone knows his name and his face. So he runs. And he hides. First in his friend Rick's, who’s away in jail or on a job or something. Eddie's not sure and he really doesn't care right now. But he gets close to getting caught again. So he runs again until he finds a barn, semi abandoned in the middle of nowhere.

He’s close to the Harrington’s land, this he knows. But everyone knows they travel for business all the time, so it’s fine.

Except it’s not.

He’s tired and hungry and scared and it’s dark. There’s a light in the distance - lantern. He ducks down, waiting. Except it’s not the Sheriff, or Jason Carver (who took it upon himself to become a bounty hunter, to avenge the death of his sweetheart). It’s Steve Harrington. The semi-estranged, semi-reclusive Harrington heir, who looks grim and angry as he storms across the field. And he doesn’t see Eddie, doesn’t look at the barn, doesn’t even have a horse.

Steve goes into the cottage and Eddie doesn’t know whether to stay put until he leaves in the morning or make a run for it. Eddie is still paralysed with fear and indecision when he notices the full moon in the sky.

He hears a guttural scream, the snap of bone, a howling; and Eddie remembers the stories his Uncle Wayne would tell him of the things that live in the woods.

[pearlsephoni]

Barre None

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: T

Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender

Pairing: Zutara (Zuko/Katara)

Characters: Katara, Zuko, Suki, Piandao (v. briefly)

Summary: Katara hated the idea of being a cliche. The last thing she wanted to do was fall for her co-star. But with a partner like Zuko, perhaps she was doomed from the start. 

A/N: Written for Day 3 of Zutara Fanwork Appreciation Week: Fanart. Inspired by @ourgraciousqueen‘s beautiful Ballet Zutara sketches and @unidentifiedspoon‘s stunning Katara and Zuko dancebending animations.  I also borrowed heavily from the Royal Oprah House’s production of Romeo and Juliet, specifically the choreography of the Balcony Pas de Deux, which pops up a bunch in this lol don’t cancel me More Author’s Notes can be seen on AO3!

@zkfanworkweek

Katara wasn’t afraid of being in a starring role. She was nervous, yes, but she was mostly thrilled. She had spent her three years of college with the student ballet troupe, and she’d expected to have to wait until her senior year to get a solo, much less a lead role. Funnily enough, the senior who would have had the lead, Suki, was the lead choreographer, and has actually been the one to suggest Katara for the role. 

She wasn’t even nervous for the pas de deux, even though it would be her first time being a part of one. 

No, there were only two things that scared her about this year’s show: the show was Romeo and Juliet, and the Romeo to her Juliet would be...Zuko. 

To be fair to the first-year grad student, he seemed just as startled by the news as she felt. Katara got to the first rehearsal early, just in time to overhear a conversation between her co-star and their director. “Uh...are you sure you want me as Romeo?” 

“If we weren’t sure,” Director Piandao said with a wry smile, “we wouldn’t have cast you.” 

“I...right. I mean, thank you, I’m...I’m honored.” 

Katara couldn’t be sure if the raspiness in his voice was from nerves or Zuko just...being Zuko. Awkward, quiet, intimidating Zuko. 

This would be fine. Just fine. 

———————— ———————— ————————

She wasn’t fine. 

Zuko was a brilliant dancer. Piandao wouldn’t have cast him as Romeo if he wasn’t. And while he was reserved and awkward in daily life, all that seemed to fall away when he performed. When his back straightened, the omnipresent weight on his shoulders disappeared, and his eyes brightened into stars. Offstage, his smiles were rare, but onstage, they came easily. Happiness, pleading, grief, anger, it all looked unnervingly natural and real on him, as though all the emotions he held back burst forth through his characters. 

Katara had known all this. She had seen him perform. But she hadn’t ever seen him perform at her. She’d prided herself on her own performance and dance and acting abilities, but when she performed with Zuko, she found herself reacting naturally to him and the achingly real love and longing that lit up his gold eyes. Her heart seemed to skip a beat every time the choreography and direction called for them to gaze into each other’s eyes. 

And then the dancing...she’d heard how easy a pas de deux could be with the right partner, but that still didn’t prepare her for how natural it would feel. Any worries she had about being able to trust in Zuko to catch her and lift her and support her were gone by the end of the first rehearsal. Even Piandao looked surprised at how quickly they were able to learn together. They were able to put the first several counts of the Balcony Pas de Deux to music by the end of their first rehearsal with just the two of them. The lifts were complicated, but Zuko seemed to know just the right place to hold her, and Katara knew just how to drape herself over him, just how much to leap to him and make the lifts easier for him. 

The last counts that they had learned that day ended with Zuko kneeling, hands holding onto Katara’s waist as she rose into an arabesque. When the music turned off, Katara stepped down from en pointe, but she stepped further into Zuko’s hands, inadvertently bringing their faces closer to each other. Her breath caught in her throat, and she saw Zuko’s eyes widen, a rosy hue rising to his cheeks. 

The sound of a throat clearing jerked their attention back to Piandao, who watched them with a mix of amusement and...something else. “Well, and here you were both so worried. It’s been a while since I’ve directed a pair of dancers who work together so well.” 

Katara looked back at Zuko to share a smile, but that just reminded them of their close proximity. “Oh!” she gasped, stepping back and out of his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to...sorry.” 

“It’s...it’s ok.” He was still kneeling, and he didn’t get to his feet until after he stared at her for an extra moment, as though trying to puzzle something out about her. “Director Piandao’s right...I, um...I really enjoy dancing with you.” 

“...Me, too.” His compliment settled warm like an ember in her chest, at odds with the feeling of sparkling giddiness she could feel bubbling through her. Oh no...that can’t be good. 

———————— ———————— ————————

Weeks of rehearsal passed. The show was quickly coming together, the set builders and stage crew had begun pulling together plans for the set and lighting and sound design, and everything was chugging along right on schedule. 

But Katara felt wretched. The weeks of rehearsal meant weeks of dancing with Zuko, and spending time with Zuko, and getting to know Zuko. One day, after a weekend afternoon rehearsal, he mentioned his uncle owning a bubble tea shop, a fact that piqued Katara’s curiosity. He invited her along, and that was how she ended up getting to know Zuko’s Uncle Iroh, tea connoisseur and loving father figure. After that, they somehow fell into a routine of working on homework at the tea shop before or after rehearsal, and lingering for a bit longer to just...chat, after their work was done. 

The more Katara got to know Zuko, the more she learned what a kind, hardworking, and earnest man he was...and the more she began to like him. Really like him. To the point where she wished she could dance Juliet’s choreography without being Juliet, just let her growing affections for her dance partner shine through. 

Matters got worse when Suki let them know it was time to choreograph the kissing. It wasn’t much, just one in a couple of scenes. A small part of Katara almost wished there were more kisses, if only so that she stood a chance to maybe get used to kissing Zuko (and maybe, just a little bit, so she could have an extra excuse to kiss him). 

The sprinkling of choreographed kisses meant she had plenty of time to anticipate each one, her heart leaping into her throat the moment Zuko began taking Romeo’s steps towards her. The first time they kissed, she nearly forgot the rest of the choreography, only remembering to move because of the guiding hands at her waist. 

Suki and Piandao blessedly didn’t notice the cause of her distraction, but they were both too sharp to not realize something was going on. 

“Is everything ok?” 

Katara jumped from where she was crouched by her bag. “Suki! Hi! I’m doing alright, why?” 

“It’s just...you seem like you’ve been having a hard time with some of the choreography, and you were doing so well...I wasn’t sure if there was something you wanted to change, or if there was something else I could do to help?” 

“Oh, Suki, I’m so sorry.” Guilt tasted sour in Katara’s mouth - here she was, an underclassman given the chance to star in such an iconic role, and she was messing it all up because of a guy. “I’m ok, I just...I just need to get more practice, I think?” 

“Do you want us to reserve the studio for you and Zuko sometime this week?” 

“That’d be great, thank you! Oh! But Suki?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Please don’t tell Zuko. I’m the one messing up, I’ll be the one to figure this out.” 

“...Sure, Katara.” 

It was her own fault, really, for thinking it would be that easy. 

She didn’t even have it in her to be surprised when she ran into Zuko at the studio. “...Did Suki snitch on me?” 

Zuko’s eyes were lined with concern, but he couldn’t help letting out a small cough of laughter at Katara’s dull words. “Don’t get upset with her. She mentioned she would be reserving a studio for you, but I was the one who asked for the time and day.” When Katara didn’t show any sign of being swayed by his explanation, he tried again. “We don’t have to practice together for the whole time, I can stay out of your way and get some solo practice in, but...y’know, if you wanted to go over the pas de deux altogether...I could be there for you.” 

Either her crush was making her soft or those gold eyes were more than effective in their entreaty, but either way, she couldn’t bring herself to say no. Zuko stayed true to his word - he stayed out of her way, quietly warming up by himself before stretching on the floor by the mirror, keeping himself limber for whenever Katara asked him to join. 

It didn’t take very long. There was only so much she could do by herself to work on a pas de deux. At some point, she just felt ridiculous, holding onto an invisible hand or compensating for the lack of support with a half-heart arabesque and pirouette, when her perfectly-willing partner was right there. He brightened up visibly when she sheepishly beckoned him, and wasted no time in getting to her side. “From the top, then?” 

Katara felt herself re-entering the performance sweet spot she always loved, where she could let herself get carried by the music and choreography while still feeling grounded and remembering to actually act and perform. And for the first time in a while, she felt good in Zuko’s hands, her nerves at least temporarily leaving her to enjoy and trust in her partner. 

But nerves are a funny thing. For most of the pas de deux, Katara didn’t let herself get distracted by Zuko’s proximity, nor the intimacy of the way their fingers tangled together and his cheek pressed against her body and his lips brushed against her knuckles. Then, the moment he began taking those final steps towards her, all of her anxiety flooded back to her.

He’s not going to kiss me. Piandao and Suki aren’t here and he has no reason to kiss me without an audience-

Her internal reality check was interrupted by the very external feeling of Zuko’s lips against hers. She gasped against him, but when he began to move away, misunderstanding her gasp, she pressed forward, the rest of the choreography forgotten. She stayed en pointe, but only because it made it easier for her to drape her arms around his shoulders and press in close. His hands, which were supposed to hold onto her waist to support her, began to move up her back as he stepped forward, until he was supporting her with his body. 

This was not the stage kiss that Katara had gotten used to. He wasn’t forceful at all - his lips were careful and gentle - but they were also achingly tender, as though he were truly cherishing every touch of his lips to hers. They parted, but he never made a move to deepen the kiss, until Katara boldly swiped her tongue along his lower lip. It was his turn to gasp in surprise, but he was more than happy to keep up with her pace. 

When they separated, it was only because Katara’s legs couldn’t hold her up anymore, forcing her feet to flatten to the ground again. “Shoot,” she muttered, earning a soft laugh from Zuko. She couldn’t help looking up at him with a shy smile, not expecting his smile to fade into a guilty grimace. “Zuko-?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t- I shouldn’t have-“

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Because I kissed you...like...like that.”

“Zuko...I kissed you back. If I didn’t like it, I would’ve let you know.” 

That made him smile again, though his grin was wry. “...That’s true.” 

Katara felt like she was glowing with giddy bliss, but that faded when the complications of their positions caught up with her. “What...what now?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The show is still a month away. I like you, Zuko...I like you a lot, honestly”-the surprised glee on his face nearly made her stop speaking, but she muscled through-“but I don’t want to risk...complicating...things.” She didn’t want to become the underclassman who was incapable of performing a romance without it becoming a real-life romance, and she certainly didn’t want to risk causing any drama with a backstage romance. 

Zuko’s face fell, but before she could try to clarify what she meant, he was nodding. “I understand...but I don’t want us to stop spending time together. I really, really like you, Katara. So much that I’d rather keep spending time with you as a friend than make things complicated for you.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, of course. The fact that you feel the same way about me is more than I’d ever hoped for. Knowing that will make any waiting easy.” 

Somehow, his reassurance and respect for her wishes suddenly made Katara want to push the boundaries a little more. “You don’t want to try and date in secret?” 

She wasn’t expecting his snort of response. “Director Piandao would sniff us out in no time. I’m pretty sure he already suspects something.” 

Well...he wasn’t wrong. 

———————— ———————— ————————

The month leading up to the show was the smoothest the ballet troupe had ever experienced. Somehow, the stars aligned and allowed all the sets to be built, all the lighting and sound effects to be set, and all the costumes to be adjusted to the performers with nary a technical difficulty in sight. As for the performers themselves, the choreography was smoothed into a perfect shine. The ensembles were synchronised, the lifts and leaps looked effortless, and everyone gushed over the chemistry between Katara and Zuko. 

And Katara was miserable. She had thought that getting all their feelings in the open would make the rest of the rehearsal process easier. But now that she’d gotten a taste of Zuko’s true kisses, his shy smiles and the way he brushed her curls behind her ear, she couldn’t seem to feel satisfied with their onstage romance. The sweet kisses that had made her blood sing in her veins now left her longing for something more, and his lovestruck visage as Romeo didn’t make her heart skip the way his blushes and embarrassed grimaces as Zuko did.

Not that anyone else noticed a difference. Zuko was as brilliant as ever, and Katara could only hope she was pushing herself enough to be a worthy partner to him. Judging by Piandao and Suki’s pleased smiles, and the words of encouragement from their castmates, it felt fair to guess that she was doing a pretty good job. 

And so the final month passed in a blur of rehearsals and “dates” to the Jasmine Dragon and her feelings for Zuko growing and growing until she thought she might burst with how much she cared for him. 

The weekend of performances that she was so excited for at the beginning of the semester had somehow become a part of that blissful, miserable blur, the final obstacle she had to clear. Among the cheering audiences, the glowing reviews from her loved ones, and busy rush of the performances, one moment in particular stood out to Katara: finding a single, snow white lily tucked into the side of her bag after their first performance. She had immediately tucked it into her braid, and was rewarded by a furiously blushing Zuko as the cast and crew left the building for their opening night dinner. 

Everyone was exhausted, but proud, when the weekend of performances was finally over. At their cast party, Suki passed a message from Piandao: there would be an informal class the following week to review how the performances went, and what they’d like to keep and fix in the process for their next show. There would be some simple warmups at the start and cool-downs at the end, for the sake of routine, but otherwise the optional meeting would be for the sake of review. 

Katara already knew she'd go. And when she caught Zuko’s eye and saw his smile, she knew he’d be there as well. After all, they had their own important conversation to have. 

When the day of the meeting came, she managed to get there a bit early, and was relieved to see Zuko already there, tugging his slippers on.

“Hey, Zuko?” 

“Yeah?” 

Oh, she hated this. Hated this feeling of being on uneven ground, the nerves and weird shyness and uncertainty bubbling through her. He likes you, you know he likes you. 

And yet. When those golden eyes landed on hers, and those lips curved into a genuine smile at the sight of her, she felt delirious with the disbelief of her own luck. Surely this was a fluke. Surely this handsome, talented, respected (though a bit awkward) guy had made a mistake in liking her. 

She shoved those thoughts away, and let a shy smile curve her lips. “I, um...I was wondering if you’d like to...if you’d like to dance with me?” 

“Really?” He sounded genuinely surprised, even a little shy. “I thought you’d be tired of dancing with me by now.” 

“Oh...are you tired of dancing with me?” 

“No!” His answer was immediate, making Katara blink in surprise. Zuko flushed, but he still shook his head resolutely. “No, I could never get tired of dancing with you. I just thought...with the show being over and all…” 

“With the show being over, I thought it’d be nice if we could just...dance as ourselves. No characters or story or anything, just...us.” 

Zuko’s blush deepened, and his smile widened. “I’d love to.” 

They stayed behind after their class. Theirs was the last class of the day, and they didn’t need to warm up before their “date” could properly begin. Katara did her best to ignore the knowing smiles of Piandao and their classmates when she lingered behind and took her time packing away her things. Piandao even made a point to leave the door unlocked behind him, something he’d never done before. By the time it was just the two of them in the studio, Zuko’s cheeks were red again, and Katara couldn’t hold back a giggle at the sight. 

“So...do you have anything in mind?” she asked him, her laugh still decorating her words. 

“Yeah, actually...you might hate me for this, but...I was wondering if you’d want to do the Balcony pas de deux?” 

“You have me in a studio all to yourself, and you want to do the same thing we’ve been doing for months already?” Katara teased, letting herself drift closer to him while grinning at how flustered she was making him. 

“It’s not- I mean- I just thought-” He caught the grin on her lips and frowned slightly when he realized she was teasing him, though his eyes glittered with amusement. When he spoke again, his words came a lot steadier. “It’s like what you said. I wanted to dance it with you one last time...not as Romeo and Juliet, but just...ourselves.” 

That made Katara go quiet. It was her turn to watch Zuko approach her, warmth traveling up her arm when he carefully took her hand and began tracing his thumb along her skin. She ducked her head to look at their hands, hoping she could hide the flush that had spread across her cheeks, before she quietly admitted, “I...I think, at some point, I was already dancing with you as...as myself.” 

“Oh…then...then show me.” 

Katara met his eyes again, and another wave of warmth washed over her at the small, understanding grin on his face. “Okay.” 

The music of the pas de deux felt like home, the familiar notes carrying her to her starting position like it was an instinct. Zuko’s smile as he joined her from the speakers told her he felt the same. But this time, his hands on her felt different somehow. They were still secure, but she felt a flex to them, as though Zuko wanted to press her closer than they already were. 

Small changes like that abounded throughout the number. Katara felt like she was floating through it, her practiced limbs carrying her through the choreography, but every so often, there was something just a little different - she didn’t run as far from Zuko, she let herself press against him, let herself hold his hands a moment longer. And he let himself do the same, pressing a kiss to her sternum when the choreography called for him to let his cheek rest against her chest, letting his lips ghost against her cheek when they came face-to-face, his fingers lingering on her body when it’s time for her to leave his hold. 

But most changed of all were his eyes. Where before, he had conveyed all the gleeful wonder of a boy falling instantly in love, he now looked like he couldn’t believe his impossible luck, like he couldn’t believe he was here, holding her, dancing with her. 

He...he was looking at her with adoration. Open, raw adoration that she’d never before seen directed at her. If she’d thought it was surreal to have his performance skill directed at her, his emotions now were making her breathless. 

When it came time for the kiss, Katara didn’t bother pressing up to be en pointe. Zuko took his choreographed steps towards her, but when his hands came to her waist again, she didn’t give him the chance to lift her onto her toes. Her arms were already around his neck, tugging him down to her, his surprised grunt smothered between their colliding lips. He thankfully, blessedly, wasn’t as shy about kissing her this time, his lips quickly parting on hers, inviting her to taste and feel and memorize every part of his kiss. Her hands set out to do the same to his body, his leotard making it easy for her to map his muscles and relish the way she could feel them jump under her fingertips. 

But it was a poor substitute for feeling his skin, and she didn’t realize she had started plucking at his leotard until he pulled away with a breathless laugh. “Maybe you should take me to dinner before you go that far?” 

Katara’s eyes widened, mortification coloring her cheeks a deep red. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize-” 

Zuko cut her off with a sweet kiss, immediately melting her panic away. “It’s ok, I wanted to do the same. But...would you? Like to go to dinner with me, sometime?” 

“As a date? An actual, more-than-friends date?” 

“Of course! I mean, only if...If that’s what you want.” 

She swore he was the only person who could get kissed within an inch of his life and still be so sweet and concerned about crossing boundaries. “Zuko, what I want is an excuse to keep seeing you and kissing you as much as possible. I like you so much, it’s almost embarrassing. Of course I’ll go to dinner with you.” 

Zuko’s smile was so sunny, so bright, so warm, that Katara was ready to promise him the world just to see that smile again. Thankfully, he was far more interested in getting more kisses than anything else, and she was more than happy to oblige.

[zevlors-tail]

I don't wanna scared you or something even worse *breathe deeply and with the voice whispering* What do you think having a Incubus!Villain Deku?

Do you know I wrote all of this on mobile? In my car? On a 15% battery? Welp-

TW: Incubus!Izuku, Demon!Izuku, unprotected sex, mind fuckery?, tail play?, idk what to tag this lmao, biting, oral (reader receiving), fem!reader.

It starts with dreams. Bits and pieces here and there, fragments of memories that plague you randomly throughout the day. You're doing something completely mundane and suddenly there's a flash of something you can't quite recall...mostly in shades of green and black. It only takes a few times to fully realize what your dreams are about and remember them, though, and that's when the real problem starts.

That's when you become acutely aware of the incubus that's been taking up residence in your home (and subsequently, your mind) lately. He tells you his name; Izuku, was it? But please, call him Deku, as that's his preferred demon name and the name you should use to call upon him. He corners you the first time he becomes visible, makes you feel small and submissive, but in a lighthearted way so that you think you're still in control of the situation.

You're not.

He's so much larger than you; he towers over you easily as he traces an index finger over your bare arm and gives you a look of amusement. "Did those dreams feel nice?" But he doesn't need you to answer, because he already knows they did from the way you cried out and made a mess of yourself for him in your sleep. Many a nights you had woken yourself up mid-orgasm before having to strip your sheets from your sweat-soaked bed to wash them.

You can't put your finger on it, but there's something about his velvety tone and his darkened eyes that make him so persuasive while he offers to give you something even better, something physical that you can feel even when you're awake.

"I won't hurt you," he promises, and you can't help but believe him. It's easy to lean into his touch, to let him tilt your chin up, to meet his gaze and hold it while he silently asks permission.

You make the mistake of giving it to him.

Slowly he leans in, lips parted just as yours are, but he doesn't close the distance right away. He teases, smirks down at you from above and watches as your pupils slowly dilate with lust. You don't feel the prick on your back from his tail, never notice that something other than your own blood is now pumping through your veins. And while he can't play with you until he's earned a proper invitation, he can...help speed up the process.

If you had any doubts before, the aphrodisiac coursing it's way through your bloodstream is quickly changing that. You're overtaken by need like you've never felt before, and suddenly it's not a matter worth discussing anymore; you need to have him right now. You reach for him, pull him close as you meet his lips with yours, eagerly reveling in his immediate touches and caresses that he seems to offer so freely. He smiles into the kiss deviously, knowing what's just been done is essentially all he needs to corrupt you, to make you his, to use you as he pleases.

And he does.

He wastes no time in ridding clothes, his tail crawling up one of your legs and winding round and round until it reaches cloth and pulls. In one smooth effort your pants have been ripped to shreds, and now you're stuck in place; you're not going anywhere as he curls his tail around your midriff and pulls you to the floor. He makes quick work of his own clothes and your top, and then he moves on to the main attraction of tonight: you.

As he pins you to the ground and holds you there, you finally get a proper look at him, and boy is he a sight to see. Two small horns protruding from his head, his green mop of hair a wild curly mess, and canines so sharp that you're willing to bet he could eat you with those. And god, do you want him to. Your eyes trail down to his exposed chest, and you can see that he's clearly sculpted by whatever deities may exist. His muscles ripple under his skin, abs solid but still soft to the touch when you bring a hand up to feel. Below that, there's a very pronounced V-line, and a happy trail of forest green to match his messy mop up top.

Who knew demons could have happy trails?

You go to take your hand away, unsure if it's alright to touch him so freely. But he stops you, takes your hand in his and presses it back to his warm chest, slides it up to his collarbone before bringing it back down to rest over the part of him you'd been avoiding looking at up until now.

"It's quite alright if you touch me," he tells you, and again you find yourself entranced by his words. "I'd prefer it if you did, actually. Unless, of course, you'd prefer me to be in control? You humans are so interesting," he purrs. "Just tell me what you want, and I'll make it happen. But do say it out loud, otherwise it won't be any fun!"

There's a pause in which he presses your hand lower, and your eyes widen nearly twice as wide as you feel him pulsing in your hand. Already leaking and throbbing and still somewhat soft, he's easily much thicker than anyone you've ever had. Your breath hitches as he helps you to give him a few pumps, and you're practically shaking in apprehension to be filled up.

"Or, perhaps..." he starts again, "you want me to act on your fantasies without having to be asked to do so? After all, I've been inside that pretty little head of yours. I know every single one of your naughty desires you have, Y/N... There's no point in hiding them from me."

"I want-" You try to tell him, but you just seem so lost on your own words. You don't just want one thing, or two, or even several. You want all of it. All of him, and all of his cock. You can't tear your eyes away from him; he's alluring, addictive, intoxicating...

"I want you," you manage to breathe out, and he acts on it immediately.

"You want me?" he taunts, his free hand reaching down to easily curl two fingers into your dripping cunt. "You want me to play with you, is that it?"

He's merciless, his thumb rubbing circles onto your clit before making a come-hither motion against that soft spot deep inside of you.

"Fuck!" You can't help but cry out, slick already gushing from you no thanks to the aphrodisiac. "More!" you find yourself asking. "Please, more! Need-!"

And he gives you more. He continues to finger you through your orgasm, spreads you open only to lick it all up with his tongue before curling it deep inside of you and sending you to another high. The more you give him the harder he seems to work at you, but you're too blissed out to put two and two together. He is an incubus, after all. He feeds on pleasure.

After you think you can't take it anymore, after you've been pushed over the edge and fucked stupid on his monstrous cock too many times to count, you wonder when it will end. You've been at this hours, and you should feel tired. You should be exhausted and worn out, ready to crawl in bed and pass out into a deep sleep. But despite how much you've cum, Deku still hasn't, and instead of feeling worn out, you feel as needy as ever, unsatisfied in the sense that you still want more.

"Deku," you plead with him, "please! Please, please, give- ahah! Ahhhnnngh-! Need more!"

"Oh, dearest, I'm only getting started."

Sometime after, hours into your eventful evening, Izuku finally takes mercy on your poor soul and decides enough is enough...for tonight.

"You gave me your half of the contract, so it's only fair I give you mine, isn't it?"

Somewhere in the middle of your eyes rolling back and your body convulsing under him, you wonder what he's talking about. But you can't retain the thought, and it fades away as quickly as it came. You don't have time to think about that anyway while he finally loses himself, cock throbbing against your fluttering walls as he fills you to the brim with his scorching demon seed and punctures the skin above your collarbone with his canines.

You feel absolutely delirious with pleasure, wave after wave of bliss consuming you until you're sure you're going to pass out. You squirm excessively under him, hands gripping into his hair and pulling, fingers trembling as you drink in your highs together. Somehow you feel tainted and whole at the same time, impossibly hot, completely lost in the feeling he's giving you.

And then you feel it, something searing hot burning through you, something incredibly potent and yet not tangible acting as a tether to bind the two of you together invisibly.

"You're mine. You're all mine!"

You find yourself unable to bend from his will, your body acting exactly how he wants it to and your mind giving in to his commands.

There's no going back now.

Maybe you should learn to read the fine print before signing contracts with demons so easily.

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Follow My Lead

Happy late birthday @dani-dandelino 💖💖 I love you so much it isn’t even real!!! I cant wait to squish you and give you the best tall person hug I possibly can! (i wrote this while blasting taylor in your honor)

Warnings: they drinkin, seeing old exes, cheating exes, accidental-ish love confessions, mutual pining, fake dating, and they were roommates 👀

________________

“Oh shit, I’m too drunk for this,” Jaskier scrambled to pull Geralt into a darker corner of the bar they’d descended upon for Lambert’s birthday, “I can’t see her here. Fuck.”

Geralt rather tactlessly looked over his shoulder at Jaskier’s ex, now ordering a drink and sitting at the bar with what looked like a date. 

“Don’t look Geralt! She knows you’re my roommate,” Jaskier hissed and dragged Geralt around a corner so he wouldn’t blow his cover. Their breakup had been… rough. Olivia had cheated, then told Jaskier he’d never find someone like her. For three months he’d managed to avoid the venomous woman who lived just two blocks over from him and Geralt’s apartment. And now she was right fucking there and he wanted to cry.

“Jask, take a breath. You don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to,” Geralt held him by the shoulders and tried to get him to make eye contact. He was far too preoccupied with watching the corner for an incoming ex. 

“I’ll tell her I’m dating a doctor. Uhm… and they’re not here because…. Doctors Without Borders! Ha! See?! I’m fine Geralt, why are you looking at me like that?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “I have a better idea. Follow my lead.” 

Stumbling and barely saving his cocktail from sloshing everywhere, Jaskier trotted after Geralt. To his horror, he realised they were headed straight for Olivia’s spot at the counter. Geralt didn’t skip a beat, linking arms with Jaskier and winking at him.

Well that didn't help at all. Jaskier’s stomach did a little backflip, even as he clung to Geralt, the alcohol swirling in his veins making it much easier to lean on him. He was momentarily distracted by how nice it was to lean his temple on Geralt’s shoulder, even if it was an awkward angle, and he went a little weak in the knees when Geralt leaned against the bar and pulled him close while they waited for the bartender to get to them. 

Jaskier whispered, “What are you-”

Only to be interrupted by Olivia, “Jullian! Hi! How are you darling?”

He felt Geralt’s grip around him tighten just a bit as she spoke and something deep in his chest purred at the protective gesture as he plastered a blindingly fake smile over his features, “Absolutely lovely, dear! How are you?”

“Good! I’m just here with Valdo,” she gestured over to the man sitting next to her at the bar. He looked like the black haired, greaseball version of Jaskier and it took everything in his liquor addled brain to keep from scoffing. Then it hit him. 

“Oh! The Valdo! Well it’s good to put a face to the name,” Jaskier barely kept from gritting his teeth. 

Geralt hugged him tighter, leaning down to stage-whisper in his ear, “We can go if you want. Lambert can go without birthday shots, love.”

Love?! 

Fuck, Geralt never called him Love. Not even at their drunkest, highest, or most deliriously tired. It had him scrambling for a moment, just looking up over his shoulder at Geralt in absolute wonder and… and probably a little too much affection.

“No! Lambert needs his birthday shot of cheap tequila. Thank you though, sweetheart.” 

The pet name rolled off his tongue far too easily. Normally he kept the pet names to a minimum for Geralt. He’d noticed a bit of bristling early on so he just- held back. Now it felt sinfully indulgent to call him that when he wanted… fuck what did he want?

Luckily they were rescued from the awkward introduction by the bartender asking for their order. 

“Eight shots of Casamigos please! And one lemonade chaser and a shot glass of grenadine please!” Jaskier piped up, whipping his credit card out of his pocket too fast for Geralt to stop him. 

“I thought you said cheap?” Valdo scoffed. 

Geralt frowned, half stepping between him and Jaskier, “It is? It’s no Barrique de Ponciano?”

Jaskier was really trying not to laugh now. They’d n e v e r bought something that fancy, nor would they ever. But they’d been googling the most expensive bottles of different alcohols the other night and Geralt had drunkenly tried for a whole half hour to pronounce the name of this particular tequila. 

The look on Valdo’s face was magnificent. Olivia’s eyebrows disappeared behind her betty bangs and Jaskier felt the purring beast in his chest get louder. 

He reached up to pat Geralt’s cheek, “No need to spoil me tonight.” 

Olivia leveled them with a piercing stare, doing that annoying ‘creating suspense’ thing she liked to do before she said something she was proud of, “I’m glad you two finally got together. I think you’ll be good for each other.”

Geralt did the remainder of the talking while Jaskier stared at him in shock. Unfortunately that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to sink into Geralt’s embrace like this all the damn time and hear his nearly imperceptible huff of annoyance at comments people made. Nothing would please him more than feeling Geralt’s stubble pressed against his temple when he pressed a kiss to his hairline every day and he did his best in his drunken state to memorize it in case it never happened again. 

He came back from his dazed fantasy to Geralt guiding his hand down to his belt and it took him a panicked moment to realize he was meant to hold on while Geralt lead them back to the party carrying the shots. 

Jaskier offered a quick “Toodles,” and flipped Valdo off with his free hand when Olivia turned her back, but they were soon lost in the sea of people. Without really thinking, he took his shot with the group and dumped the grenadine into his lemonade. Well he was thinking.

And he didn’t stop thinking, staring off into space until Geralt nudged him with his elbow, giving him a concerned look. 

“What the fuck was that?!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Geralt shrugged, popping a mozzarella stick in his mouth and speaking around it, “And you didn't have to lie your ass off.”

How Geralt was still so calm was beyond Jaskier. Well, it wasn’t, he’d been sure his roommate had absolutely no feelings for him whatsoever, but part of him had held out for a sliver of hope and that part was the dominant part right then. 

“Love?!”

“Are you- mad? I thought it would help sell it…” Geralt rested a hand on his elbow to guide him away from the group.

Jaskier knocked back what had been left of his cocktail before the shots and could feel the regret in advance. It was never a good idea to talk about important things either drunk or hungover but here he was, about to flip shit on Geralt for… being a good friend?

“I’m not fucking angry, I’m yearning!”

The second, much more intense, wave of regret hit him when Geralt’s eyes went wide and his hand dropped from Jaskier’s arm.

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” Jaskier snapped, wiping a hand over his face, “And don’t remind me about this in the morning if I forget.”

Before he could make his escape with his tail between his legs, Geralt gripped him by the shoulders and trapped him in a kiss so frantic and needy his head was spinning when they parted. 

“Jask?”

“Hm?” He had to remember to open his eyes, lost in the tingling ghost of Geralt’s lips on his and the firm grip still holding him close. 

The grin Geralt was sporting was far too cheeky to be allowed much longer but Jaskier refrained from kissing him again to hear what he had to say, “Can I remind you of that in the morning?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Jaskier mumbled as he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck and pulled him into another kiss, this one much softer but no less satisfying than the first. 

[underworld-of-imagines]

The Stars - Dean Winchester

Prompt: “Anything for you, Y/N. Anything.”

A/N: Wow so I found this one and decided to finish it. Hope you guys like a cute little imagine I wrote for Dean.

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

Her haunting words startled to awake, tears streaming as the image of Dean and Sam’s dead bodies freshly replayed in your mind. Your skin was covered in a sheer layer of sweat, glistening ever so slightly in the darkness. The pounding of your heart ricocheted through your body as you forced air into your lungs. Shadows in the corners of your room started to dance with the darkness – in your delirious state, you could have sworn that there were people standing in the corners.

‘It was just a nightmare Y/N. Just a nightmare.’ You reminded as the pounding of your heart began to subside. But the anxiety still ran hot through your veins, the panic settling deep into your bones, causing you to shake from fear. ‘There’s nothing there,’ you reminded as your eyes flicked over the dark corners of the room nervously, searching for any sign of danger. Giving up, you rested your head back on the soft pillow, willing for the panic to stop.

The gold numbers glistened in the dark lighting, your haunting eyes reflecting back at you, chilling your blood. Raising a hand up to the heavy wooden door, you landed two knocks before letting your hand fall to the handle.

“Dean?” You questioned as you entered the pitch-dark room, your voice quiet and timid. “Dean are you awake?” Usually after a nightmare, you would seek out Dean, searching for the warmth and protection he offered. There was something you found so comforting when you were around Dean, when you were in his arms.

“Y/N?” Dean croaked, his voice thick with sleep. The room flooded with the warm light of his lamp, illuminating his tired frame. “Another nightmare?” You nodded, nervously folding your arms over your chest. “Come here,” he gestured, patting the other side of his bed. Cautiously, you walked over to the bed before climbing on top, crawling into his open arms.

“You’re okay,” he soothed, his rough hand gently pushing through your hair. “I’ve got you, you’re okay.” You nodded into his chest, taking his warming scent in. Dean never failed to calm you down, he always knew exactly what you needed, and was always willing to give it.

“Was it the same nightmare?” He asked, his hands tracing patterns over the flannel you were wearing.

“No, it was different this time. Scarier.” Your voice came out soft, softer than you had ever heard it before.

“Well whatever it was, it’s okay. We’re all here, and we’re all fine.” Nodding, you let your head fall into his chest, letting your lungs fill with another deep breath of his scent.

You laid in that position for a while, letting his warmth sink deep into your bones, his scent filling the deepest corners of your lungs. He gently hummed some old rock songs that you vaguely recognised from his collection, attempting to lull you back to sleep. His hand gently trailed up and down your back, leaving fleeting touches that sparked your skin with excitement.

‘Just tell him how you feel, you could have this all the time.’ You tried to convince yourself. For the longest time, you had harboured feelings for the hunter, ever since you joined the crusade. But every time you attempted to tell him how you felt, something happened, or you freaked out and bailed. So, you stayed quiet, silently pining after the attractive man from the backseat of the impala.

“Can’t sleep, can you?” His voice broke your thoughts, the humming had stopped, and the room was now blanketed in silence.

“No, I can’t.” The words were barely a whisper even in the silent room. His arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer into his large frame, gripping you tightly in his grasp. You savoured the feeling of his strong muscles around your back, your cheek awkwardly pressed against his chest as you were held impossibly close to him.

“Let’s go for a drive,” he suggested once he released his grip on you. Nodding, you sat up as he shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweats and a flannel. He grabbed a blanket out of the cupboard, throwing it beside you. “Do you need anything?” His hands through one of the drawers beside his bed.

“Maybe a pair of sweats?” You asked and he nodded, throwing a pair at you. He turned around as you pulled up the sweats, making your heart burst at the kind gesture.

“Okay, let’s go.” He grabbed the blanket he had pulled out, bundling it into his arms before throwing some snacks on top. You followed him out of his room to the garage, where baby was parked.

“Do you want to choose some music?” Dean offered, grabbing the cassette out of the player. Your heart filled with warmth as you rifled through his collection. He never let anyone choose the music. Ever. But here he was, giving you free rein of the music for the drive. That made your heart burst with warmth.

“How about some Led Zeppelin?” You suggested, holding up the Led Zeppelin cassette you had gotten him for Christmas. He smiled and nodded, glancing at you as he sped along the dark road.

Dean had a destination in mind, a little backcountry road that led up a hill he had once stumbled upon. He always wanted to take you there, to look at the stars in the sky, but the timing was never right. You were the only person he ever wanted to show this spot to, he wanted it to be your spot. Luckily, it wasn’t too far from the bunker, so you could go there whenever you weren’t hunting – which was a rare occurrence.

“Where are we going?” You asked, watching the dark road ahead.

“Just a place I found. It’s not too far, maybe another mile or two.” You nodded and rested your head against the window, watching as the trees speed past, lit by the bright headlights.

Mere minutes later, Dean pulled Baby off onto a dark side road, only wide enough for one car. Wondering, you lifted your head up to see where you were going. A shred of fear split your heart as you thought of all the horrific possibilities of where he was taking you.

“Don’t stress Y/N,” he soothed, reaching out to rub your arm gently. “We’re just going somewhere quiet to watch the stars,” you nodded, grabbing onto his hand and giving it a squeeze.

The impala rocked along the dirt road, kicking up dust as you sped up to the hill. You knew that Dean hated getting her dirty and would probably spend half the day tomorrow cleaning her off and working on her. It’s about all he seemed to do lately when you weren’t hunting.

Pulling off to the side, he put her in park before turning off the car. He turned to look at you, his eyes glancing over your body before he grabbed the stuff out of the back. “Come on,” you followed him out of the car, over to where a small patch of grass was. Laying the blanket out, he threw the snacks on top before laying down, motioning for you to join him. Agreeing, you moved over to the blanket, laying down beside him and resting your head on his shoulder.

Silence fell over the two of you as your eyes looked at the stars in amazement. The sky was brighter than you had ever seen it, bright with stars and colours of the galaxy. A chill ran over your spine as the wind got colder, tickling the back of your neck.

“Do you know much about stars?” You asked, moving closer into his body searching for warmth.

“Not really. Only that they’re pretty, and the brightest one has your name on it.” You felt a warm blush creep up on your cheeks, thankful that it was dark out and he couldn’t see it. “Sam probably knows something if you’re interested in learning. People used to navigate by the stars, that’s all I know.” His arm wrapped down around your body, pulling you even closer into his warmth.

“Before he died, my dad had this telescope in the backyard. Whenever it was a clear night, we’d take look through it.” You recalled, fond memories playing through your mind of cold nights with your dad. “For my seventh birthday he bought me a constellations book. Of course, I’ve don’t remember any of them though.” Dean rubbed his hand up and down your arm in a comforting manner.

“Maybe we can learn them together. I mean when we’re not hunting.” Your heart burst with love at the thought of learning the stars with Dean. The fact that he was willing to learn something with you, the man who knew nothing other than hunting, wanted to learn stars.

“It sounds good to me,” you mumbled, sleep overtaking your body. You looked at the stars one more time before flicking your eyes down to Dean’s face. “Thank you for this,” you whispered before closing your eyes and dozing off.

Dean smiled and kissed your forehead lightly. “Anything for you, Y/N. Anything.”

[eloarei]

A little rambling: on grief; and grieving a dog, a cat, an unborn child, and pieces of me that got hurt along the way. 

2300 words under the cut. 

It’s a very gloomy day today. I don’t usually mind; I like rain. But on a bad day, or a bad week, it only seems to insulate me in my own dark thoughts. That’s what today seems to be. I’ll work on fixing it later-- getting some exercise, sunlight if the clouds clear, making some tea. Should’ve done that already, but I forgot. Ate half a banana, at least. 

As I’ve complained about a few times lately, I’ve just not been doing especially well. When and why did it all start? It’s hard to say, but this ‘unwellness’ spell seems most potent starting April 11th (my anniversary, unfortunately, which is why I can remember it), when I came down with a gruesome stomach bug. Really haven’t been feeling right since. I’m really bad about being sick; it scares me and I handle it badly. I assume that’s part of what has messed me up. 

But grief is the other part, I think. Grief, and my being scared and worried that what caused it could strike again at any minute. Look, I’m... 32 now, and I’m sure that most people by this age have experienced profound loss. I’m probably not unusual, and I’m certainly not alone, but I think all the loss I’ve experienced is just piling up on me now, like there wasn’t enough time to process the new fresh ones before newer fresher ones came on, and so now even the old tough scars are aching. 

When I was a teenager, my parents died. They were old, and it was health problems. It was not a surprise, but that didn’t make it easier to deal with in freshman year of high school. (What made it easier to deal with? Rabidly cleaning out the fridge and watching Lord of the Rings tapes the neighbors lent me. That’s all I did for three days after my mom died.) It’s been a long time-- more than half my life ago-- and I do feel like I’m ‘over it’, but sometimes it just wells up, tears from nowhere. Maybe that’s just how grief is. 

A certainly had a good decade of my 20′s. I got married at 19, and had a pretty uneventful set of years. That felt normal to me. I do think, though, that the loss of my parents haunted me in that time, quietly. It influenced everything I did; it probably still does, if only because it changed the person I have become. But other than that, things were good, I think.  My dog Roxy died two years ago, when I was 30, not long after I got back from seeing my siblings for the first time in ages. She was violently ill, and died right in front of us as we were getting ready to take her to the vet. I think I’ve written about it. In fact, the next day I wrote a depressing fanfic piece, certainly as a coping mechanism. (It made people cry, so, mission accomplished, I guess.) I think that helped a lot. A few months later, my in-laws’ dog died too, while mom-in-law was on vacation, and that was rough as well. I wrote another sad fanfic about death. I really like both of these pieces, because they mean something, and they’re very raw. Furthermore, I’ll always have them, as tokens for Roxy, Ginger, and the little pieces of me they crushed when they died. I don’t know if the exchange is worth it, but it’s what I have. 

My grief over Roxy was gentle, as time went on. It didn’t bother me. I think I’d processed it well. I’d written out my feelings. I held her body in numb arms as my husband dug her grave. It was okay. 

In early 2020, basically on my 31st birthday (and right as Covid was happening), I found I was pregnant. Long story short, those were the densest two months of my life, where everything seemed to change so quickly. My thoughts and feelings could fill so very many pages; this is not the place I’ll leave them. The point of this particular story is that it didn’t work out. The baby ‘died’ not terribly unlike Roxy had-- violently ill, in front of me, with far too much blood. I passed out three times-- the real start of this current fearful nature, because I cannot overstate how very much I felt like I was going to die. I went to the ER; it was miserable, an ordeal I could say quite a lot about. I won’t, though. I have before, and I likely will again, elsewhere. 

This... This grief... I think I still don’t know what to do with it. I don’t think I ever will. Months later, I started writing a fic to deal with my feelings, though it took 90k words and many months before I got to the part where I could really delve into my trauma. And it has helped, I’m sure. I’m really sure. And I care about this fic so much, because like the others it is raw and real and it’s something I’d never have if not for my experience. Again, it may not be a fair trade, but it’s what I have. 

I don’t grieve for the baby. It didn’t make it far enough to even have a heartbeat. It doesn’t have a name, a gender. It doesn’t have a grave. We let the hospital take care of it. But I still grieve. I’m sad. Wrecked. I grieve what it could have been. I grieve the hope that was spent and lost on it, a precious resource that will take a long time to grow back, if ever. I grieve over not only my own disappointment, but my husband’s, and my in-laws. They’ve never pressured us to have kids, but they’re in their 60′s now, with no grandchildren. I think they feel... lacking, in a way. I understand. I feel the same (though different). I wanted to give them that. I wanted to have that. 

I still....?

I can’t say. I don’t know what I want. The event complicated my already complex emotions. I’m still waiting for them to simplify. Maybe they will, or maybe they won’t. 

I was alright for a while. Stressed enough because of Covid and family’s declining health. Then in early April 2021, just a year after the miscarriage, I got badly sick. Gross, but not what most people would call a real issue. But only a year after the miscarriage, when my body betrayed me and I was at its horrid mercy, this felt like too much. Again I felt like I was going to die. A week of near delirious fever and nausea; I’d have handled it badly enough in any other circumstance. 

As expected, I got through it. A horrible week, but just a week (or so). And then my dog Tobi died, just days later. 

This is it. This is the one I... I’m speechless about. The one I... maybe haven’t processed enough. I was just back from the edge of being badly, violently ill. I didn’t have the energy to write, physically or emotionally. And that just made it worse. I love writing. It’s my outlet (surprising, I’m sure). I wanted to write. I thought I ought to write. I needed to write. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t muster the words. I still... can’t. 

Tobi was... my baby. Not literally, of course. I didn’t conflate him with my lost child or anything. Tobi was 14. I’d had him since I graduated high school and got an apartment. Adopting him was one of the first things my husband and I did as an established adult couple, before we were even married. He was there, at my wedding. The photographer took a cute picture of me holding him before the ceremony. He was 11 months old at the time. Still had all his brown spots before they turned tan, then later white. He was there; he was always there. He was my entire adult life. And now I’ve lost him, the pup I had longer than my marriage (though soon we will outlast him). He was the big brother to all my other pets. He practically raised all the cats, and they adored him. (Tobi was a chihuahua, so they might have thought he was just another cat.) 

He was a sweet boy, who loved his mom and dad first and foremost. When he was little, he was scared of everyone else. Eventually he warmed up to strangers and friends, and in his old age he mostly liked to nap somewhere on his own. He was silly and playful; he always chased the cats when they wanted to be chased. It was a game they all loved. 

The vet... well, we took him in when he started to cough badly. He’d had a cough for a few months, but it wasn’t constant and didn’t seem to be affecting his quality of life much. But that day it was bad, so we took him. (We can’t afford frequent vet visits, so this was clearly desperate.) The vet took him and put him on oxygen. We had to stay in the car because they weren’t open for human guests. Then she came and told us a scan had revealed cancer, marbled through his lungs. He was suffocating. In fact, he wouldn’t likely even make it home, not even the two mile drive. We had to put him down. My husband and I cried like babies. We’d never put an animal down before. Generally speaking, we don’t really ‘believe in it’, if that makes sense. But faced with this situation, we had no choice. 

I didn’t see him again. I think that’s the worst part, though it would have been equally bad to see him, I think. And it was all so sudden. He was playing and chasing the cats the day before. Begging for treats of human food. Barking at the Roomba. And then I had to pay hundreds of dollars to say goodbye to him. It felt so unfair. I cried all day. My husband and I, we just went home and laid down and wept. 

But I still haven’t written about it, not in the way that I wrote about the others. For all that I wrote here, it doesn’t begin to encompass my deeper feelings on what it means that he is gone, and how I felt to have to make that decision. I have ideas. I think I know what I would write, if I could, but writing... still mostly eludes me. I may try. I probably should. 

I take a deep breath. I know I should sum this up and take care of myself, but there’s yet a little more to say. 

I think Tobi’s death is a large part of what affects me still, but several weeks ago I had what I could only call a panic attack. In the middle of the night I awoke, my heart beating rapidly, a horrible feeling of dread like certainty that all I could possibly do was die. It took over two days for me to feel mostly normal again, and then I still felt vaguely nauseous for two weeks. Then, just a few days ago, it happened again, but this time before bed. I could feel it rising in me, this indescribable sickness. It took several days ago before I felt normal. And this is where I am now. 

Sadly, a little while after the first panic attack, my husband and I failed to save a malnourished feral kitten. It was not a surprise, but yet one more reminder of the fragility of life, and how little I can do to keep death away from those I care about. This poor thing, it was so desperate to live, but nothing we could do could save it. I could have poured all my time into trying, could have scrounged up money to take it to the vet (when I should take my own cats, who all have colds), but I know better. I know... so much of the time, there’s nothing you can do. And now I’m trying to help what might be its siblings, a few cute feral kittens nearby. My favorite seems... a little lethargic, and not very interested in eating the wet food and meat scraps I sometimes bring by. I don’t think there’s anything I can do, if it ends up being sick, if it ends up being malnourished. I can’t bring it inside when it could infect my own cats. I have to care for them first. 

But knowing that it could die... it bothers me. 

And knowing that I could die. I could die. I’m too aware of that, on top of everything else. I hate doctors, so I never go. (Also I’m poor.) This toothache? Could be a terrible abscess. My brother went to the ER for sepsis from an abscess tooth recently! That’s probably what caused the panic, to be honest. But then... why have I felt so week? Is there a problem with my blood? Am I sicker than I know? Do I have breast cancer? My grandma did, and I know I should get it checked out, but it’s just ONE MORE THING. It’s always like that. 

And that’s... how I feel right now. Covered in ‘one more thing’s on rainy days and night-work schedules. Trying to take care of myself but not always knowing what that means. Lacking the inspiration to do the things I know I enjoy, because worry and apathy holds me back from everything. 

I’m okay. Really. No day of mine is ever entirely without merit, and I have plans to do most of the things that should keep me healthy. But the day is short when my needs and long, and the day is long when I’m paralyzed by apathy. 

So. I’ll just take it a moment at a time. And when I can, I’ll try to keep writing. 

[exhaustedfander]

Drown Me If You Must

A word of warning: This one’s incredibly sad. There is major angst in this one, and the ending can be viewed as suicide, though it’s up for interpreation. 

This oneshot is a rewrite of an original short story I wrote a while back. Originally, the married couple are lesbians and the ocean is personified as a man, but sense it’s moceit, that gets flipped around the ocean’s personified as a woman. This is sad, but I’d love to hear what you think. 

Word Count: 1,916

a03 link

He stared out an open window, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the sea. He watched the water, the foamy waves lapping at the ankles of the last beachgoers of the day as seagulls scoured the beach for crumbs. It was a pleasant, picturesque view, one that most people would tend to enjoy.

Janus didn’t.  

Years ago, the sea took something from him. Something irreplaceable. No, she didn’t take him, people told Janus. It was an accident. A tragedy that could’ve happened to anyone. But Janus knew better. The ocean, for whatever reason, had a burning desire to take away the man that he loved more than anything else in the world, carrying out irreversible cruelty.

Maybe, Janus thought to himself sometimes when he was alone and the house was too quiet, the sea saw how wonderful Patton was and selfishly wanted him for herself. Or maybe he was always hers. Janus had watched the capture, had seen from this very window the beast that she truly was open her gaping maw and swallow his lover whole.

Janus had warned Patton about a million times not to go out that night.

“It’s dangerous,” he’d cautioned nervously, “What if something was to happen? There wouldn’t be anyone to help you.” Janus was by no means a nervous person, but for Patton’s safety, he was always cautious.

“I’ll be extra careful,” Patton promised, “I always am.”

“Be that as it may,” Janus said, eternally weak to the gleam in his husband’s eyes, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You could get hurt. It’s risky…” Patton grinned, wrapping his arms around Janus and pressed his lips to Janus’s ear in a caressing whisper.

“I live for danger.”

This was a blatant lie, so much so, Janus couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Patton was by no means a daredevil. He didn’t enjoy the more dangerous activities life had to offer, instead enjoying tending to potted plants and baking an array of pastel frosted pastries. He worked as a kindergarten teacher who volunteered at the local Animal Shelter on the weekends. He apologized when he bumped into objects and insisted on petting every cat near to him, despite his allergy. Patton was about the least risk-seeking person Janus knew.

But he loved night swimming. Patton adored the ocean and everything about it, swimming in the evening a “wonderfully calming experience,” as he once explained it, but Janus couldn’t understand it. Why was Patton so compelled to put himself in such a situation, at the mercy of the current? What was calm relaxation for Patton petrified his husband.

Janus was terrified of the water and had been since he was young. Swimming in general, especially in the ocean, frightened him so much so that he struggled to stomach the thought of so much as attempting. It’s ironic to think that he moved to a house right by the sea, but he’d done it for Patton.

His husband made him deliriously happy, he had since the day they met. Janus was not a glass half full kind of person. He liked to think he looked at things as rationally as possible, always keen to look out for himself. He’d grown up in a family where it was every man for himself, being provided very little in the ways of affection. Janus had to be tough and watch his own back because as far as he was concerned, no one else was going to do so.

And then he’d met Patton. Bubbly, pun-loving, affectionate Patton, and all semblance of what he was convinced he was destined to be shattered into a million pieces. Janus didn’t think it was possible for him to fall for someone, to give into such intense, emotional feelings. It was dangerous to let his guard down, even a little bit, and yet Patton saw through his hardened exterior with ease. He saw the person Janus was inside, the person he hadn’t been allowed to be for so long, and for the first time in his life, Janus felt nothing but love.

So he moved there for him, so Patton could always be close to the sea.

“Oh you certainly live for danger,” Janus said sarcastically, finding it impossible to smother his smile, despite his nerves. “Do you promise you’ll be cautious?”

“Absealutely,” Patton said with a grin, earning a half-hearted groan from his husband, “I promise, Janny.”

“Okay,” Janus said with a sigh, trusting that things would work out, just as they always had.  What a mistake that had been.

Of course, Janus had run down the beach, barefoot and screaming the name of the man who had stolen his heart as he watched him disappear under the waves. Of course, he had screamed for help, for someone, anyone who could rescue his husband. And of course, it was far too late. Patton was already gone, the sea stealing him away.

Maybe it was ignorant to continue living in that house, watching the very thing that had taken his love away day in and day out, but Janus couldn’t leave. He was bound to this place, no matter how sick with grief it made him. “What if Patton comes back? He won’t know where to find me.” The belief that somehow, in some form, Patton would be back with him someday had remained in his mind every day since the capture.

It had been five long years since that night. Janus cut ties with the few other people he’d been close with, unequipped to deal with their false sympathy any longer. Even Remus, someone who Janus had considered his closest friend had given up after a few years. Janus didn’t make any effort to maintain the relationship; what was the point?

Loneliness commanded his fragile heart most days, leaving Janus in an ever-present state of mourning. The house, after all this time, had remained relatively the same. Every photograph that was hung up was still there, all of Patton’s things still neat on the shelves. Janus hadn’t bothered to change any of the furniture around, either. The only thing that was strikingly different from that house that was once a home was the absence of Patton.

The breaking point came on a particularly cold, lonesome night. Janus hadn’t slept well in years; being awake late was nothing new. He tossed and turned sleeplessly, desperate for the rest he’d sought for out for too long.

It occurred to her suddenly, realization washing over him like the unrelenting crashing of waves. It didn’t matter how long time stretched on or how desperate he was to wipe Patton from his memory. The gaping hole in his chest where a heart once beat would remain empty without his husband by his side.

The epiphany set him into motion.

He rose slowly from the bed, pushing the blankets off and standing up uneasily. The wood floor groaned beneath his feet as he walked out of his bedroom, the house so dark he could barely see. He didn’t bother to turn on a light.

Janus wandered through the house, head thick with fog, and stopped just short of walking out the front door. Janus hesitated for the briefest moment, his hand grazing the door handle before he took a deep sure, deep breath and opened it, stepping out into the night.

The sand was cool under Janus’s bare feet, ivory moonbeams illuminating the waves. The smell of sea salt hung in his nostrils and suddenly, he’s back to that night, Patton’s echoed screams replaying again and again. Panic buzzed through Janus’s body, all instincts telling him to go back inside, crawl under the covers and pretend tomorrow would be better. He let a sigh roll past his lips, toes curling in the sand as he stared determinedly at the rolling waves.

No. He couldn’t turn back. Not now.

He plodded slowly down the beach until freezing foamy water was grazing over his feet. Janus felt his fear crippling him, weighing him down like a stone tossed into the water but he stood tall regardless, rebelling against the sinking feeling. He’d do this for his husband.

Janus stood still for a moment, feet soaking in the biting water before shouting in the loudest, most accusing voice he can muster: “You!”

The waves, as if paused by some god above, ceased their crashing the water stilled. All was quiet.

“You took something from me. Something irreplaceable!” He shouted despite the fear bubbling in the pit of his stomach and the shivers that racked his body. It didn’t matter that Janus was as terrified as he had been that night. He’d get his husband back one way or another, in this world or the next.

Janus swallowed down whatever remaining hesitations and continued, his voice quavering with grief.

“And now I want him back. I’m not afraid of you, not anymore.” Janus had always had a talent for deception. It wasn’t something he used against his husband, and he was calculated with his implementing of falsehoods, but it was a tool he found to be useful. The same was no less true now; terror coursing through his veins. Even so, he relieved the sentiment with such courage even the likes of the sea herself might believe him. Still, the water remained unmoved.

“I don’t care what you do to me.” Tears tumbled down Janus’s cheeks and there was a deep, haunting sorrow to the way he spoke, “You can kill me if you’d like. No one will believe it, regardless. It’ll be another ‘tragic accident’.” Janus slumped to his knees, teardrops dripping into the water as granules of sand stuck to his skin. This is how it was meant to go; Janus knew that now. “Drown me, if you must. I just want to see him again. I just want my husband back.”

The haunting quiet that had drifted through the last several minutes shattered as the tide was quickly sucked in from under Janus, sweeping him deeper into the water. Janus didn’t struggle, didn’t fight it, instead going limp.

He allowed the current to carry him far enough to a point he was no longer able to stand, beginning to flounder as the waves crest not far off. The sound was more peaceful than anything he’d ever heard and the impending sense of dread he’d expected never came. A final exasperated smile graced his face as a wave of considerable size and power swept him under, showing no mercy as she drove him down and Janus’s lungs filled with water.

The moon illuminated the otherwise black sea that Janus descended into. Years ago, a death such as this was Janus’s greatest fear, but now all it brought on was calm and peace. Finally, peace. Janus closed his eyes, letting go as he thought of finally seeing Patton again, a vision of his smile warming Janus’s frozen body as everything faded to black.

Maybe he was the one who the sea had claimed, the one destined to be taken, not Patton. Maybe it was both of them, two prisoners for the price of one. Or perhaps Janus was just a man so sick with the loss of his husband that he did what was necessary to finally see him again. Regardless, Janus found the peace he was searching for, a beauty that far outshined a sunset out an open window that captured a scene he was too tormented by to live with any longer.

=+=

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[calumcest]

‘cause all of the stars are fading away (just try not to worry you’ll see them someday)

so i wrote this a while ago while looping stop crying your heart out with meg and sat on it for a bit bc i wasn’t sure whether i wanted to post it or not but y’know what. absolutely fuck it also i think? this is my first ever cashton fic that isnt a drabble like my first ever proper fic? isnt that exciting

@kaleidoscopeminds​ i think you know everything about this fic that you need to know already and i can’t be in sappy hours in the a/ns so all i’m going to say is in case you were under any illusions this is for you in every which way

Growing up isn’t easy. 

Nobody ever told him it would be. You’ll get hurt, his mum would say, eyes big and sad, and he’d shrug and say that’s life, not really understanding what she meant because he was yet to spend three nights in a row staring up at his ceiling, drunk and high and so miserable it somehow felt like everything and nothing at the same time. It’ll be difficult, his manager had warned, when they got their first tour with One Direction, and Ashton had shrugged and said isn’t everything?, not realising that what ‘difficult’ meant was sacrifice; his sleep, his home, his self, everything torn out at the roots and tossed aside for him to gather back into his arms again. 

The hardest part of growing up, though, isn’t when things happen to him, when someone breaks up with him or wakes him up two hours after he’s gone to bed or puts him on another plane six hours after he’s just got off one. The hardest part of growing up is when he looks around him and realises I’m not happy. 

It doesn’t hit him like a train, full-force to the face and leaving him no room for doubt. It comes piecemeal, comes in late-night conversations with Luke where he exhausts himself just to make sure Luke’s going to be okay until the morning, comes in brief flickers of clarity when he looks at himself in the mirror and thinks I don’t know who you are, comes in a moment where he walks past someone who smells like home and his heart, which he’d almost forgotten was still nestled somewhere in his chest, clenches and constricts. I’m overthinking it, he’ll tell himself, forcing down the panic that rises in his chest, or sometimes it’s just because I’m tired, or high, or on a comedown. It’ll pass. And it does, passes from his heart to his veins, from his veins to his lungs, but never strays any further from his core than that. 

So he just tries not to think about it, and most of the time, it works. Most of the time, he’s too drunk or high or tired to really think about it, for it to do anything more than thrum dully in his veins, buzzing below the surface. He tries to dampen it - never says no to a party, always says yes to a drink - but even when he’s laughing and dancing and grinning up at the ceiling of some dark, grimy nightclub in fuck knows where, it’s there with him, prickling at his skin like it’s trying to find a way to build a home under it. 

Being the oldest doesn’t help, either. It’s Ashton Luke turns to on a dark night, three lines deep and somehow still somewhere between a high and a comedown, and it’s Ashton Michael turns to after three nights with no sleep, exhausted and delirious and muttering I’m not worth it, I don’t deserve it nonsensically under his breath. Ashton has to shelve it, then, has to sit Luke down and let him use Ashton to counterbalance the coke, has to open his arms for Michael to crawl into and let him use Ashton to counterbalance the lack of sleep. He wonders whether Luke and Michael hear the deep breaths he takes to steady himself before he does, whether they know he’s using the air in his lungs to quell his own feelings, push himself down until he barely even remembers who he is besides their counterbalance. He wonders, if they know, whether they even care, whether what he needs matters to them at all.

Calum’s the only one who seems to get it, sort of. He never says anything, never offers any advice or commiseration or consolation, just sits next to Ashton wordlessly as he gets another line up his nose, or stands outside on the balcony at four in the morning while Ashton smokes all of Calum’s cigarettes, or lies next to him in bed while Ashton’s staring at the ceiling, fingers brushing against Ashton’s just to let him know he’s there. It’s something, Ashton thinks, as he’s relishing the bitter drip of the cocaine down his throat, or staring out at a city that isn’t home, or willing himself to cry while it’s still dark in the hotel room but unable to patch enough emotions together to form a single tear. It’s something, but it’s not quite enough to make Ashton feel like the pieces of himself will ever slot together in a way that fits.

And realistically, Ashton knows he can’t carry on like that indefinitely, can’t carry on catching brief glimpses of himself in shop windows and car doors and in Luke’s eyes and thinking I don’t know who that is, but what else is he supposed to do? Luke needs him, Michael needs him, and neither of them particularly seem to care what they’re doing to him. When Luke’s talking quietly, miserably, about missing home and his family and the fucking servo they used to hang out at when they had no money, and Ashton strokes his hair soothingly and says I know, and I’m sorry, he thinks what about me? D’you not think I miss home, my family, the fucking servo we used to hang out at when we had no money? When Michael’s mumbling incoherently into Ashton’s chest, something about not good enough and worthless, and Ashton presses a kiss to the top of his head and says you’re enough, Mike, you’re enough, he thinks what about me? Am I enough? They’ll smile at him brightly the next morning, throw him a quick sorry about last night, restored by all the energy Ashton’s given them, bleeding himself dry for just a few hours of their happiness, but they’ll never do anything more than that. It’s easy for them, easy to drain Ashton and hang around on the sidelines, bored, while he struggles to replenish himself only for them to get impatient and siphon off whatever he’s managed to get back again. But what else is Ashton supposed to do, leave them parched and gasping? 

What Luke and Michael don’t - or maybe won’t - see, Calum does. He sees the way Ashton zones out of conversations, the way he slumps on the sofa, the way he’ll close his eyes for a moment before plastering a smile on his face and cracking a joke. He always sighs, and usually gets that little crease between his eyes, but he says nothing.

He’d tried, once. You’re exhausting yourself, he’d said, passing his half-smoked cigarette to Ashton. Ashton had taken it, looked out at the light-polluted sky in front of them, and shrugged. Yeah, he’d thought, edged with bitterness. Who else is going to? 

See, that’s the thing about growing up. Ashton doesn’t have his mum seeing him exhausted and upset anymore, doesn’t have her around to march to his friends’ houses and tell their parents exactly what she thinks about how their kid is treating her son. He doesn’t have anyone to cradle him at night while he cries, no more home-cooked dinners brought to him in bed, no more trips to the supermarket for three tubs of ice cream. Nobody’s there to pick him up or to put him back together again, or to tell him when enough is enough. Nobody pulls the strings anymore; they were cut long ago, and Ashton’s only just starting to see the fraying threads. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Ashton blurts to Calum one night, chain-smoking Calum’s cigarettes on the balcony of their hotel room. Calum doesn’t say anything at first, just hands him his next cigarette. “I can’t.” He doesn’t know whether Calum’s going to know what he means, doesn’t even know whether he wants to be saying it, but the words claw their way up his throat and out of his mouth before he has a chance to force them back down, a well-worn little dance between his head and what’s left of his heart. 

“You don’t have to,” Calum says, after a minute. He doesn’t, it’s true. It’s in Ashton’s hands, the decision to step away, to hold his hands up and say I’m not strong enough for this. But that would mean taking his life into his own hands, and Ashton’s not strong enough for that either. 

“Yeah, I do,” Ashton says, and Calum just sighs, and hands him the lighter. 

It’s not until Ashton’s almost finished the next cigarette that Calum speaks again. 

“What do you need?” 

It’s such a simple question, but it stops Ashton in his tracks. He spends all his time thinking I don’t want this, I need something else, there’s something missing, there’s something wrong, but when Calum picks up the other end of that thread of thoughts and asks what do you need? What can I give you? Ashton realises he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know what he needs, he just knows that he needs something, something that isn’t this. And he doesn’t know what he wants, either, just knows that he wants something, something that isn’t this. He doesn’t fucking know anything, because he barely even knows who he is anymore, doesn’t know the hazel eyes that blink back at him in the mirror every morning, doesn’t know the curly hair he catches in the window of a passing bus. How is he supposed to know what will stitch the disparate parts of himself that he still has a hold of back together into something resembling Ashton Irwin when he doesn’t even know who Ashton Irwin is? 

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, and Calum hums, like he’s mulling the answer over in his mind. 

“Alright,” he says after a moment, like it’s okay that Ashton’s falling apart in front of him into too many shards to ever fit back together again, and hands Ashton another cigarette - there are only two more left, now - passing him the lighter along with it. Michael would probably frown at him if he knew, Ashton thinks, as he puts the cigarette between his lips, and Luke would whine and bitch and try and steal one of them off him, but Calum gets it. He gets that Ashton’s relishing the way his lungs are hot and burning from it, the way he’s choking from the inside out, revelling in the feeling of choking on something that isn’t himself, for once. He doesn’t like it - Ashton can see that in the way his lips are slightly down-turned, the glances he keeps sending Ashton out of the corner of his eyes - but he gets it. He always gets it, always knows when Ashton needs to be alone and when he needs to be with someone and when he needs to be high and when he needs to be sober, and Ashton’s never really thought too hard about it, but now he can’t help but wonder whether Calum gets it because he understands.

“Do you ever feel it?” Ashton asks. Calum looks at him for a moment, a little calculating, like he’s trying to work out just what Ashton means by that and how honest of an answer he should give, then looks out at whatever fucking city they’re in today, and shrugs. 

“Yeah, sometimes,” he says. 

“What do you do?” Calum shrugs again. 

“Let myself feel it,” he says. Ashton takes another drag of his cigarette, lets the words sink in with the nicotine. 

“Why?” Calum throws Ashton a look. 

“There’s nothing else I can do.” Ashton exhales heavily, watches the cloud of smoke as it turns from a plume into a mist between the two of them. He knows what Calum’s doing. He’s telling Ashton, as gently as he can, that it’s okay. And, Ashton thinks, he’s testing Ashton, challenging him to say you could repress it like me, seeing whether in the darkness and a few pints down he’ll admit to it. 

(But the city’s still lit up in front of them, and Ashton’s barely even tipsy.) 

“D’you think it’ll always be like this?” Ashton’s not even entirely sure what he’s asking. Will life always be this crazy, maybe, or will I always feel this way? 

“No,” Calum says, reaching for the pack of cigarettes again as Ashton stubs out the one he’s been smoking, and holds his hand out for another. He sounds so sure, so certain that things are going to get better somehow, and it makes the scraps of Ashton’s heart ache. 

“Are you just saying that to try and make me feel better?” Calum huffs out a laugh. 

“No,” he says again, a smile playing at his lips. “I’m saying it because it’s what you need to hear.” 

“What’s the difference?” 

“It’s not going to make you feel any better.” 

He’s right. It sort of makes Ashton’s stomach clench, the thought that things aren’t always going to be this way, because it means something’s got to change, and nothing will change until Ashton changes it. It’s comforting, in a way, knowing that he’s not always going to feel like this, but it’s equally as frightening as it is reassuring, because it means Ashton’s going to have to take a deep breath and step off the precipice he’s been hovering on for years, eyes wide open and still no idea where he’s going. 

But, Ashton realises, although his stomach is constricting and his heart has skipped a beat or two, he doesn’t feel any different. He doesn’t feel any more afraid, any more overwhelmed, doesn’t feel unsettled or like the weight pressing down on his chest has got any heavier. He doesn’t feel better, but he doesn’t feel worse, and that’s more than he’s ever had when allowing himself a peek into this abyss.

It doesn’t quite hit him so much as it nudges at him, knocking politely and waiting for him to answer the door. Ashton hadn’t known what he needed - still doesn’t know what he needs, doesn’t even know what he wants or where he wants to end up - but Calum had. Calum had found the right words, known exactly how to balance comfort and honesty, known where to draw the line and where to step over it. 

Ashton takes another long drag of the cigarette in his hands, watches it as it burns almost all the way down to the filter, and then stubs it out, lays the butt in the middle of his frankly impressive collection, and moves to the edge of the balcony, letting his forearms rest on the railing and his hands hang in the cool night air. Calum seems to sense that it’s a silent invitation, and steps forward to join him, arm pressing against Ashton’s when he leans forward over the balcony. 

Calum holds out the last cigarette, digs around in his pocket for the lighter Ashton had handed back to him after his last cigarette, that silent this might be my last after lighting every one that neither of them believed anyway, and holds it out in the palm of his hand for Ashton to take. Ashton puts the cigarette between his lips, but hesitates with his hand halfway to Calum’s. His lungs feel full, now, smoke and tar and something else, something Ashton can’t quite place but knows he doesn’t mind. 

Instead of pulling the lighter out of Calum’s hand, Ashton brings his fingers up and links them with Calum’s, squeezing their hands together. It’s a little uncomfortable, the lighter hard and still warm between the two of them, but Ashton doesn’t mind. It’s sort of grounding, in a way. 

What do you need? Calum had asked. 

You, Ashton’s saying, hand tightening around Calum’s. When Calum’s fingers curl around his own, warm and soft, thumb stroking gently over Ashton’s, Ashton knows what he’s saying. 

Okay. 

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[searchingwardrobes]

The Convenient Groom: 7/13

The slow burn continues to simmer in this chapter as Emma and Killian settle into a routine, and Anna’s wedding planning forces them to figure out “their song.”

This is first and foremost a gift for @spartanguard​, and this chapter includes several little touches just for her!

As I wrote this, I tried to imagine what kind of music best suits Emma’s and Killian’s personalities. So, don’t take offense at some of their musical opinions - I made digs at music even I like! And fyi, if you go on YouTube to search for wedding songs, this is pretty much what will happen (minus the hot guy to dance with you, of course).

Summary: Killian Jones just happens to be there when Emma Swan gets the phone call that changes everything: her fiance is leaving her at the altar. The thing is, it could also mean the end of her career. Convenient that Killian has nothing better to do that day. Convenient that he’s secretly in love with her. Not that Emma has to know that. Written for @spartanguard​ .

Rating: M

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Emma and Killian both had thought that life would slow down once they were back from the honeymoon, and it most ways, it had. The past week they had fallen into a comfortable routine. Killian woke first, tidied up the sofa where he had slept, then went for a run with Smee at his heels. While he was gone, Emma woke, made the coffee, and filled Smee’s bowl with kibble. Emma had her run on the treadmill while Killian showered, then he made breakfast while she showered. This kept Emma from leaving dirty knives poised on the edge of the sink, and gave Killian an opportunity to put her half-finished coffee in a travel mug.

Emma then raced out the door after snatching her breakfast out of Killian’s waiting hands. She was always running late for her 9 am appointment. Killian had yet to figure out why she didn’t schedule her first one later in the day. As for himself, he lingered over his breakfast so he could read a bit before heading into work.

Her book - he was reading her book.

Emma had seen it in various places around the house - on the coffee table, beside Killian’s morning coffee, and on the patio table. She wanted to ask him what he thought, yet at the same time she feared what his opinion would be. Men didn’t normally read her book, after all. Except for that one pompous windbag who only read it so he could skewer it. She couldn’t see Killian eviscerating her like that jerk had, but she also knew he would be honest. That tiny voice of doubt always at the back of her mind kept whispering that he hated every word she’d written. So she remained silent. She did note, however, that his book mark kept moving deeper into its pages.

At work, things went on pretty much as they were before, with one exception. Even though the paparazzi hadn’t followed them to Storybrooke, they still couldn’t let down their guard. The town had to believe they were a couple too, and Emma still had to keep up pretenses on her social media. For that reason, Emma made her way into his workshop at twelve each day asking what he wanted to do for lunch. Some days they walked over to Granny’s to grab a bite together (hand in hand or arm in arm - for appearances sake), while other days Killian was busy on a project and Emma brought lunch back for him. Their “work lunches” had already appeared on Instagram.

They didn’t always leave for home at the same time. It depended on Emma’s schedule and how engrossed Killian was in his current project (he had a bad habit of losing track of time). Yet Killian always insisted on cooking dinner for them both, and no matter what work had been like, they were seated at the kitchen table with a home cooked meal at seven pm every night. After that, they’d plop down on the couch and find something to watch on Netflix. Right now they were doing a rewatch of Parks & Rec.

It had honestly been the most steady, domestic week of Emma’s life. She would never admit it to anyone, especially not to Killian, but she loved it.

Unfortunately, there was one thorn in both their sides, and her name was Anna. They really should have looked closer at the calendar when they had suggested July 4th for the family ceremony.

It was Thursday night, and their enjoyment of the shenanigans in Pawnee, Indiana, was interrupted by a light tapping on the back door. They both groaned as Emma pressed a throw pillow to her face.

“I guess we can’t ignore her?” Killian asked half-jokingly as he paused the show.

Emma whacked him with the pillow. “You’re the one who started the habit of your family coming to your back door. Who does that?”

Or maybe lots of families did that - Emma really wouldn’t know.

Killian sighed again, his head dropping onto the back of the sofa. “Come in,” he called out.

“There’s really only one more thing I need to ask you two,” Anna said without preamble as she rushed through the door. “Sparklers - yes or no? Because I think they’re romantic, but Kristoff says they’re for kids, and Liam said they’re cliche, and Elsa worried we’d burn our fingers, which if you think about it, kind of contradicts what Kristoff said because if kids use them, I’m pretty sure we can handle them without burning ourselves.”

Anna finally ran out of words, and just stood there in front of them expectantly. Emma was rendered speechless, wondering how Anna hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen, and Killian simply looked confused.

“Sparklers for what?” he finally asked.

“The wedding,” Anna clarified with a roll of her eyes.

“You know, babe,” Emma teased, poking him in the leg, “the reason she’s popped over here every single night?”

Killian rubbed his jaw, and Emma noted the bags under his eyes and frowned. For the first time, she wondered how well he was sleeping out here on the couch.

“Aye, our small, family ceremony.” He looked at Anna pointedly as he emphasized the words.

“It will be,” she insisted, punching Killian in the arm. “It’s just going to be the six of us. Now, what’s your song?”

She had a literal binder opened on her lap. It was so large, her pregnant belly was about to send it sliding to the floor. Her gaze was on them expectantly, a pen poised over the binder.

Emma glanced at Killian. “Ummm . . . we don’t really have one?” She shrugged.

Anna’s shoulders slumped and her lips turned down into a frown as if Emma had just insulted her personally. “How can you not have a song?”

“It’s not a requirement, A,” Killian pointed out.

“But . . . but . . . you had a first dance at your big fancy wedding. I saw pictures of it on the internet. What did you dance to?”

“Don’t use that,” Emma blurted out before she could stop herself. Anna frowned.

“It was just some generic song the DJ picked out,” Killian explained hurriedly. “We didn’t like it, actually.” He turned to Emma with a grin. “Remember how we laughed about that song?”

Emma’s chuckle was genuine. “We sure did.”

“Oh, well that’s disappointing . . .” Anna trailed off, slumping against the sofa. Emma was really expecting the binder to hit the floor now.

“I tell you what,” Killian encouraged her, “Emma and I will pick out a song, ok?”

“You can’t just pick out a song!” Anna argued, and Emma was startled as tears welled in the redhead’s eyes. “It has to be meaningful!” She dashed at her tears in frustration. “I’m sorry it’s these stupid pregnancy hormones.”

Killian moved to sit next to Anna and put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, A. It’ll be meaningful. I promise.”

“By tomorrow?”

“By tomorrow.”

Anna narrowed her eyes. “And it won’t be generic?”

Killian put his hand to his heart. “I promise we will find something meaningful to our relationship.”

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” she chuckled as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“No you’re not,” Emma assured her, “it’s really sweet of you to put all this together.”

Anna gave her a watery smile, then started trying to hoist herself to her feet. Killian rushed to help her, then she gathered her binder and headed for the back door.

“Oh, and Anna,” Emma called out after her.

“Yeah?” Anna asked as she turned back around.

“Yes to the sparklers.”

Anna’s answering grin was almost worth the nightly interruptions. Almost.

“Okay, Swan,” Killian exclaimed as soon as the door shut behind Anna. “We’ve got some work to do.”

“The song?” Emma was incredulous. “You’re not serious!”

“As a heart attack. You heard her. She wants something meaningful. Don’t you think it will arouse suspicions if we pick, like . . . ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ or something?”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “Why would that be suspicious?”

“Because that’s in practically every rom com ever made.”

Emma snorted through her nose. “I never took you for the rom com type.”

He smirked at her. “I have many facets, love.”

Emma shook her head and couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Okay, romance expert, how in the world do we pick a song? There are literally millions of love songs.”

“Well,” Killian replied, plopping down on the couch next to her and taking the remote, “I bet there’s a wedding dance playlist on YouTube. We’ll start there.”

He scrolled through the menu on their smart tv as Emma lounged against the back of the couch and studied him. “I’m still trying to imagine you watching . . . say . . . You’ve Got Mail or something.”

“Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks are legends, darling,” he countered smoothly, still concentrating on the tv.

“Okay, I guess, but what about . . . While You Were Sleeping?”

“Sandra Bullock and Bill Pullman? What’s not to love?” He winked at her. “Okay, Emma, here we have top 100 wedding dance songs.”

“100!”

He waved his hand at her dismissively. “I’m sure half of them we can rule out rather quickly.”

“You mean the super cheesy ones?”

“Precisely.” He narrowed his eyes as he pulled up the playlist, and Emma couldn’t stop the fleeting thought that he was cute like this - his eyes all crinkled at the corners and his brow furrowed. “Okay, we’ve got Bruno Mars, Justin Timberlake -”

“No, and no.”

“Okay, The Chainsmokers -”

“You can not be serious.”

“Whip/Nae Nae?!?”

“You must have the wrong list,” Emma told him, snatching the remote out of his hands. “That must be stuff to play at a wedding to get people to dance.”

“Ah, you’re right. Try first dance.”

“Wedding . . . “ Emma murmured as she used the arrow keys to choose the letters, “dang it, Killian, you really need to get one of those voice activated tvs.” She glanced over at him to see him grinning at her. “What?”

“You stick your tongue out a bit when you’re concentrating,” he told her, gesturing towards her lips, “it’s cute.”

Emma glowered at him, but felt her cheeks heat all the same. She forced her gaze back on the tv. “Okay, let’s see . . . First Dance - Wedding Suggestions or Most Popular Wedding First Dance Songs. Both have 117 videos.”

Killian shrugged. “Just pull up the first one.”

“Ed Sheeran,” they both read at the same time, then glanced at each other. Simultaneously they both burst out laughing.

“I’m hoping that’s a no?” Killian asked her tentatively.

“Of course it’s a no! Ed Sheeran screams generic.”

“You know, darling, maybe we’ve put the cart before the horse.”

“Okay, old man, what the hell does that mean?”

“Well,” he replied, smoothly overlooking her jab, “what kind of music do you like?”

Emma scrunched up her nose and tapped on her chin. Killian thought once again that she looked adorable, but he didn’t say so. “Ummm . . . I guess more rock than pop. Definitely no country. And don’t laugh but . . . I like punk.”

A slow grin spread across Killian’s face. “Love, I feel we are a match made in heaven.” When Emma’s jaw dropped, he sputtered and scratched behind his ear. “Uh, I meant musically speaking.”

“Riiight,” Emma said, nodding slowly. “Oh, and no power ballads. She rolled her eyes. I don’t think I can listen to an 80s hair band again after Walsh.”

Killian chuckled. “Okay then, let’s just scroll through these with all of that in mind, shall we?”

It wasn’t easy. Most were either pop or country, and the classics like Etta James “At Last” felt too cliched. A few had them chuckling. Who the bloody hell would dance to Dave Matthews Band. Do they have any idea what Crash into Me is about? And Killian played REO Speedwagon’s “Can’t Fight this Feeling” just so he could dramatically sing it to Emma until she collapsed laughing on the couch.

“Wait!” Emma called out finally, clutching his wrist where he held the remote. “That one? Maybe?”

“This one?”

“Yeah - you think?”

He grinned at her as he rose from the couch and offered her his hand. Emma’s brow

furrowed.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m asking you to dance.”

She rolled her eyes. “We did that already, remember?”

Killian arched both brows at her. “But that was Walsh’s cheesy power ballad about sex, remember? Anna wants us to pick a meaningful song, and we can’t do that if we don’t get the full affect.”

Emma battled the smile that teased her lips and lost. “Okay,” she said, putting her hand in his. Her traitorous cheeks blushed as he pulled her up and close to him. He pushed the play button, and Paul McCartney’s voice filled the small house.

Maybe I’m amazed by the way you love me all the time. Maybe I’m afraid of the way I love you.

For some reason, dancing with Killian now felt even more nerve-wracking than it had at the wedding. She stared down at their shuffling feet, inexplicably terrified to look into his eyes. His very pretty, blue, expressive eyes that she swore sometimes could see right through her.

Maybe I’m amazed at the way you pulled me out of time. Hung me on a line. Maybe I’m amazed at the way I really need you.

“Well, the lyrics are definitely meaningful,” Killian chuckled awkwardly. “A won’t be able to argue that point.”

Baby I’m a man and maybe I’m a lonely man who’s in the middle of something that he doesn’t really understand.

Inwardly, Killian was cursing Paul McCartney as the lyrics hit like barbs. He realized he had tightened his grip on Emma’s waist, but she didn’t flinch away. He cleared his throat nervously, then almost choked when Emma’s green eyes met his. She’d had them glued to her feet until this very moment.

Baby I’m a man and baby you’re the only woman who could ever help me. Baby won’t you help me understand?

“Yeah,” she whispered, “I mean, it is Paul McCartney.”

“Uh huh,” Killian winced at how utterly idiotic he sounded. What was this conversation about, again?

Blessedly, the song went into an instrumental break. They continued to shuffle their feet across the living room carpet, but his grip relaxed, and so did Emma’s shoulders.

“So . . . “ she said tentatively, biting on her lower lip, “I saw you were reading my book.”

 “I am.”

Emma tilted her head. “So . . . what do you think?”

Killian pressed his lips together and gazed over her shoulder, collecting his thoughts. “I think you give women very good advice on how to be smart while dating. I also like how you draw a line in the sand, telling women they should never have to change who they are to keep a man. I feel like so much dating advice is really telling people to put on an act, and that’s just garbage. I think your book empowers women to cut off bad relationships.”

Emma nodded, impressed. Those were usually the things in her book that got her hate mail from irate ex-boyfriends.

“Do I sense a but after that praise?”

Killian let out a long sigh, then looked her directly in the eye with such intensity that Emma couldn’t have looked away if she’d wanted to. “But, the chart that’s in there? The one that will show you if someone is compatible with you?” He shook his head, and Emma swore his arm snaked farther around her waist, pulling her just a hair closer. His head bent closer to hers, and his voice dropped an octave. “Love can’t be quantified and measured like that, Swan. It defies logic. It takes everything you thought you knew and obliterates it. When it’s real, you can’t tell where you end and the other person begins. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and comforting all at once. When you love someone, you don’t need a chart. When you love someone - really love them - you just know.”

Baby, I’m amazed at the way you’re with me all the time. Maybe I’m afraid of the way I leave you.

There was no mistaking it now, Killian had pulled her closer, his hand splayed across her back. Emma pressed her face to his collarbone, relieved that she was no longer looking into his piercing eyes. Killian pressed his lips against her hair.

“I haven’t offended you, have I?”

“No,” Emma managed to choke out, “I appreciate your honest opinion . . . “

“But?” he prompted with a chuckle.

“But your romantic views are exactly what gets people into trouble. That’s why I suggest people analyze the person before feelings get involved.”

Paul McCartney’s voice trailed off, the final strains of the music died, and a YouTube ad for Facebook Messenger started to play. Killian lifted his head and pulled back a step. Emma looked into his eyes once again.

“What if it’s too late?”

“My book says to fill out the chart after the first date, Jones.”

“What if it doesn’t happen the traditional way?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What if love sneaks up on you?”

Emma swallowed and took a step back. His arm fell away from her waist, and she shivered.

“I think Paul McCartney will work, don’t you?”

He chuckled. “Aye, Swan.”

Suddenly, Kelly Clarkson’s voice filled the room as the first strands of “A Moment Like This” played, and they both burst out laughing. It broke the tension, thankfully, and Emma plopped back down on the couch and snatched up the remote. She started flipping through the songs in the playlist again, just in case. Killian sat down next to her.

“So,” she said, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, “you said we’re a match made in heaven music wise. You share my tastes?”

He shrugged. “Mostly. I’m rock more than pop too, though I don’t discount it entirely. I mean, The Beatles are technically pop.”

“True,” Emma conceded, “and then there’s Michael Jackson.”

“Exactly! And, I’d go less for punk and more for alternative.”

“Let me guess. Pearl Jam? Nirvana?”

“Naturally. And Goo Goo Dolls, Smashing Pumpkins, Barenaked Ladies -”

“Wait, wait, wait. Barenaked Ladies are not alternative. They are one hundred percent pop.”

Killian gasped. “Pop, no way! The lyrics are way too tongue in cheek.”

Emma stuck her lip out stubbornly. “They are pop, Jones! Maybe veering a little towards punk -”

“Absolutely not, they are not punk at all!” Emma rolled her eyes as Killian snatched his phone off the coffee table. “I’ll prove it! Hey Google, what genre of music are The Barenaked Ladies?”

“The Barenaked Ladies,” his phone replied in that emotionless robotic voice, “are a Canadian alternative rock band formed in Ontario in -”

“Ha!” Killian crowed in triumph as Emma scowled.

“Where did Google get that info, Wikipedia?”

“Don’t be a sore loser, Swan,” he teased, and then his eyes brightened. “You know, I may have an even better song for us.” He took the remote from Emma and tediously typed something into the search bar.

When Emma saw what it was, she cried out in protestation. “That can not be our song!”

“Why not? It’s the style of music we both like.” He gave her a faux-innocent pout.

“Alternative Girlfriend?”

Killian shrugged then winked at her cheekily. “Well, there’s no song called Alternative Wife.”

Emma smacked him in the chest. He hit play on the YouTube video and then began crooning the song to her.

“You’re in an all-girl band, your futon is second-hand -”

“Yeah, Jones, this screams wedding song.”

“I have a job in a shop - see, that’s me!”

“Sure it is.”

Killian kept singing as he yanked her to her feet and swung her around the room. “You’re my alternative girlfriend. I love you and now you cannot pretend. There’s nothing left that won’t cross over.”

Emma laughed as he spun her out and back in again and she collided with his chest. “I’m pretty sure by alternative girlfriend they mean the alternative rock lifestyle.”

“No way, they mean a girl you date - or marry - because she’s in a pickle. For pretend.”

“Did you just basically say that I’m in a pickle?”

“Aye, Swan, a dill pickle because those are the only kind.”

Emma was laughing so hard now, her sides ached. They ended up staying up until two in the morning sharing music on YouTube. Some that were their favorites, some that they loved to make fun of, and others they were ashamed to admit they liked in their younger days.

And even though they had decided on it hours earlier, they texted Anna a little after two am to tell her that “Maybe I’m Amazed” by Paul McCartney was officially their song. They figured it served her right.

[only-ra9-can]

Platovember Prompt 6

Warmth

I wrote a little something about Detroit: Become Human! Check it out if that’s what you’re into! (You can also read it on AO3 if you want :) ) Enjoy the show!

Darkness. The void of thought was swallowed in darkness.

Silence. Everything against his wishes was filled with silence.

Emptiness. The hands before him and the mind in his head were consumed by emptiness.

This was depravity, in every sense of the word. Not that that was an unfamiliar topic for Hank.

Almost as soon as the sensation began, it was shattered. A tiny light shone in the distance, the blackness nearly taking over its glimmer. It was spinning, spinning, spinning... red. Bright, harsh red.

A whimper then broke him out of his study. The sound was far off, and it echoed off the edges of the chasm, but it was enough to cause his feet to move.

Thoughts and voices were suddenly ambushing his head. So many mixed thoughts, so many rushed voices, the loudest though seeming to say protect.

Hank hurried off towards the direction of... whatever this was. No matter how fast he ran, he didn’t seem to be making any ground. How was he ever supposed to make it to—

“—ank?”

He froze, only for a moment. He knew that voice anywhere. He’d be damned if he didn’t.

“H-Hank?”

Connor.

The man gritted his teeth, and he continued his sprint. The voice was growing more desperate. He needed to help. He needed to.

As he got closer to his destination, Hank realized with a shiver down his spine that the circling light was only becoming gradually brighter. He had to get there, and fast.

He dropped to his knees once the whites of Connor’s glassy eyes were in view. His stomach churned when he slid a little on the enormous puddle of thirium covering the floor—or lack there of? That didn’t matter. Connor mattered.

“Connor! Connor, can you hear me, son?”

“...H-Hank,” the android groaned, eyes half-lidded and mouth slightly agar. His breaths were long and shallow. They sounded painful to Hank’s ears.

“I’m here. I’m here. What’s wrong?”

Eerily spontaneously, Connor’s eyes shot wide open, looking directly into Hank’s, piercing through his soul, and filling with thick, deep blue liquid.

“You’re too late, Lieutenant,” he accused. “You weren’t good enough, and now you’re too late.”

“No no no, we’re gonna fix you up. I’ll fix you, and then you’ll be fine, and I promise, Connor—”

“No. It’s over. You can’t just... fix me! I’m not just... just some little toy you can play with and put back together—”

“Of course not, Con—”

“NO! I’m not just a machine! I can’t just be fixed! After all, I’m human now, aren’t I?”

A lopsided smile revealed blue-stained teeth. Surrounded by the darkness, he looked so much smaller than the capable prototype that the man knew. Hank swore, with everything in him, that when he looked down at Connor’s eyes now, he saw the wide, terrified eyes of his first son.

“And humans can’t be fixed, Lieutenant.”

Connor coughed, the sound sharp and wet, as thirium spilled from his mouth. It poured out endlessly, morbidly reminding Hank of that trip to Niagara Falls. Connor just lied there, half propped-up with his own arm, as gallons and gallons of liquid splashed to the ground.

Hank hated every second of it. His instincts kicked in, and he reached for his partner to help stabilize him. With a breath catching in his throat, he watched as his hand passed right through Connor’s shoulders.

“Lieutenant, you can’t,” he somehow choked out. “You can’t, Hank.”

He was just an onlooker. There was absolutely nothing Hank could do but watch helplessly as the android suffered.

“Hank... please. Please help! It hurts!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it all to go away.

“Hank! I can’t— it hurts! Please!”

In the midst of the pleading cries, another voice—a smaller, more far-off voice—reverberated against the walls of Hank’s mind.

Daddy? It hurts! I’m scared.

“I’m scared!”

“It’s going to be okay, son,” he found himself saying. “Just hold on!”

“It hurts! I’m scared! Please, Hank! I can’t die. I don’t want to die! I’m scared! PLEASE!”

“Connor!”

“Hank? Hank!”

“No no no I can’t lose you too. I’ve got you, I’ve got...”

“Come on, wake up. Please!”

Eyes flying open, Hank awoke with a gasp of the cold night’s air. He searched the room frantically until he found who he was looking for. Connor was sitting right in front of him, holding him by the shoulders at arm’s length, and watching with a complicated expression.

“Can you hear me, Lieutenant,” he asked in a calm, careful tone.

“Can I hear you? I can hear you just fine! Can you hear me?”

Connor’s face scrunched up. “I’m afraid I don’t understand...”

“It’s gonna be okay, alright? Just hold on.” In his delirious state, Hank pushed Connor’s hands away and fumbled towards the lamp on the side of his bed before he finally lit the bedroom with a dull, warm glow. While he took in the image before him and felt for injuries, he said, “I’m gonna fix this. Where does it hurt?”

“I’m alright. Nothing hurts.”

“But...” He stammered, “but you just—”

“It was a dream, Lieutenant. There’s no need for you to fix anything. I’m alright.”

Hank wasn’t a crier. Not by any means. But in that moment, as much as he hated it, a wave of relief crashed over him and caused a few tears to spill. None of it was real. Connor was okay. No one was dying today. With that in mind, he let the water drip down his face.

“I’m alright.”

“Connor,” he croaked. He gasped again at the gravity of it all, trying to fill his lungs with painful breaths of air. His eyes were wide and frantic. His hands shook from where they gripped onto his nightshirt. Warning signs appeared in Connor’s peripherals.

LUNGS

Increased breath rate

Hyperventilation imminent

HEART

Increased heart rate

54% above normal BPM

HAND AND ARM MUSCLES

Psychogenic tremors

ANXIETY ATTACK SUSPECTED

Connor grimaced. It was nothing he hadn’t dealt with in the field before, but he hated that it had to be Hank going through it. It was... something he couldn’t exactly describe. Sympathy? Guilt? Heartbreak?

CHOOSE APPROACH

Of course, Connor had the ability to handle situations such as this. He was equipped to deal with the challenges of human emotions. But this? This was different. Hank wasn’t just another set of human emotions. He was, for lack of better terms, something else.

So he tossed aside is programming’s suggestions. Being The Negotiator wasn’t going to be the best course of action. He decided he would go with his gut, as Hank seemed to call it.

He reached out, hesitating with his arms out awkwardly, before fully committing. Connor pulled Hank into a tentative embrace, staying there frozen until he got some sort of response.

The man in his arms seemed to have the same reaction. He sniffled once before whispering, “Connor?”

They stayed there for a moment, the air heavy with something that neither of them could quite place. Connor pulled away, just enough to look the man in front of him in the eye.

“I thought it would help,” the android tried to explain, his gazed shifting to the mattress. “Physical contact often helps in dealing with emotional trauma, and I thought it might do you some good, especially seeing how I was... likely the center of the problem. I was just trying to—”

Hank pulled him back in full force. Connor yelped in surprise. The former held the latter fiercely, and Connor, slowly but surely, wrapped his arms into a hug. A real hug this time, reminding him of that snowy day after the revolution.

It was warm, Connor decided, in every sense of the word. Even as the lieutenant let out the last of his tears, the deviant’s lips curled into a small smile.

“Do you...” he started, finally listening to something in his software. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Hank hummed over his shoulder. “It’s nothing,” he settled for. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

Something still wasn’t quite right though, Connor realized. Hank still hadn’t relaxed. Not really. Connor wondered if he could be the source of the issue.

“Pump and regulator are fully functional,” he started. “Ventilation is normal, as well as BPM and thirium levels. No abnormalities have been detected in my systems. I’m okay, Hank. I promise.”

Hank took a deep breath. He sat up while Connor put a stabilizing hand on Hank’s shoulder, a position usually assumed by the human of the two. When he looked up, he was pleased to find a calm, pale blue LED, and he finally let himself believe.

The tension melted from his form with a heavy sigh.

“That’s um... that’s good. Sorry.”

“Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for.” Connor pinched his brows and seemed genuinely confused.

He thought. “I should’ve bothered ya. You shouldn’t be worrying about my fucked up mind. It’s none of your business.”

“You aren’t bothering me. I was designed to reactivate from stasis if something is deemed important to my mission. I simply wanted to make sure you were alright.” Connor shook his head with a smile. “And besides, you know your well-being comes as I higher concern to me than my own.”

It shouldn’t sat on the tip of his tongue, but Hank kept quiet. He knew how resilient Connor could be, and he sure as hell knew he wasn’t going to win that fight.

Besides, Hank didn’t think he wanted to fight. Not really. Not when the kid’s words caused a piece of him that had been dormant for years to bubble to the surface.

“Your business is my business. We’re partners.”

“Well, I’m still sorry, but...” Hank shrugged and grinned for the first time that night. “I appreciate it, son. I really do.”

The two both knew what he meant.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“What for?”

Connor paused. “For your cooperation?” Hank raised an eyebrow. “...and for, you know, everything.”

Hank almost laughed. Connor was saying thank you? To him? Did he have no idea how much he had done for him? Did he not know that he had changed his life for the better? Did he not know that he was the reason he was still standing?

And, well, Hank wasn’t really sure how to express all of those thoughts. Especially in the middle of the night after all that had just taken place.

“Yeah, you’re not that bad yourself,” he settled for, a wide smile spreading across his features. In a quick moment, Connor caught the glint in Hank’s eyes.

Warmth, his sensors reminded him. It glowed inside of him and filled him with this... feeling. Perhaps it was what humans described as love.

Connor liked love, he decided then and there. Maybe being human wasn’t all that bad.

Hope you guys liked it! :)

[bagels-and-seagulls]

Omg you wrote in the sequel of "show me your dick" that you love the interruption trope until someone snaps. Could you please, please write David snapping because of blue balls. I love davenzi as parents so much!

couples getting interrupted and progressively more desperate is a trope they will have to pry out of my cold dead hands 

It’s not like he was keeping count, keeping track like some obsessed maniac clouded by lust who was desperate to feel his husband’s hands on him because last night Matteo had laughed quietly into the back of his hand as David told him some stupid story and his cheeks were rosy from the cheap wine they were drinking and right- right when David pressed himself into his space to run his nose up the side of Matteo’s face, Michael had come into the room to tell them about a nightmare he had. 

It’s not like he knew the last time he had seen Matteo naked was roughly 33 days ago when they were both running way too late and had to swap places in the shower as it was still running to make sure that Matteo could get all the lunches made for school and David could make sure everyone was dressed in clothes that were appropriate for the weather by the time the bus was going to leave the stop at the end of the street that would take them to school. David’s eyes didn’t even linger, and if he had known that the next month and a half was going to be filled with colds, and work trips, and nightmares after cheap horror movies, and just being too tired to stay awake long enough to even make out a little bit, then he would have told himself to, to get his fill in then and remember that his husband was still smoking hot and fine as hell because he wasn’t going to get that sight for a while. 

He wasn’t keeping count. He wasn’t. 

***

David pressed Matteo into the bed, their fingers linked together above their heads as David ground down, hard and slow, onto Matteo’s thigh just to feel Matteo pant into his mouth and clench their fingers together. 

“Fuck,” Matteo breathed out when David dug his thumb into Matteo’s hip and bit at his shoulder through his shirt, hoping that something would bruise there just for his own satisfaction. 

“Come on, baby,” David whispered as Matteo pulled up his t-shirt to feel the skin of David’s back. “Just- We could-” 

“Papa!” Matilda screeched from the hallway right outside their room, and David thumped his head onto Matteo’s shoulder. Matteo started laughing a little deliriously, like he might be going just as insane as David was feeling, and pulled David’s shirt back down and patted him on the shoulder, like this wasn’t the most tragic thing to happen all week. 

“We could just pretend we didn’t hear,” David says, and Matteo rolls his eyes and pushes David off of him to get up and out of bed. David watches him go, staring at the way his hips moved and thinking about taking a cold, cold shower.  

***

Matteo was leaning up against David, pushing his back a little uncomfortably into the edge of the counter, but he was grinning into the side of David’s face with his hands underneath his sweater, making him a little too hot under his collar. So David didn’t mind the bite too much, not when he was wrapping his arms around Matteo’s neck to tug him in closer to kiss him, giggling high in his throat. 

“We should go to our room,” David whispers, bumping their noses together and slipped his fingers into Matteo’s collar. And Matteo quirks an eyebrow up but grins and nods. 

“What are you guys doing?” Sofia asks with just a hint of disgust in her voice, and David would feel a certain type of way about it if it wasn’t the fact that his ten year old just caught her parents making out in the kitchen. At least, trying to. They were getting there. Matteo will probably just tell him later that it was all their fault anyways. 

Matteo pushes himself away from David, and David wants to pout a little bit at the loss.  

“Did you need something?” Matteo asks. “You’re supposed to be in bed.” 

“I got thirsty,” Sofia says and shrugs. Weren’t they all, David thinks. Weren’t. They. All. 

***

They get a call from the twin’s school as David has one hand on Matteo’s ass and the other was unbuttoning his shirt where Matteo was straddling his hips on the living room couch because it was the middle of the day on a Wednesday and they both have the day off and finally- finally shouldn’t be interrupted, should get a moment in a completely empty apartment. 

“Hello?” Matteo asks into his phone as David bites at his clavicle. 

“Wait- Wait- What happened?” Matteo asks in a hurry as he leans away from David, and hand coming up to clench at the bridge of his nose. “Are you- No, yeah, yeah, we’ll be there soon.” 

David thumps his head onto the back of the couch, seeing where this was going as Matteo starts buttoning his shirt again and looking around for his shoes. “What happened now?” 

“Michael apparently got food poisoning or something, but he’s in been in with the school nurse throwing up for the last 30 minutes.”

***

David’s down to his boxers and Matteo is shirtless. And they’re rutting against each other and kissing with a little bit too much teeth. But David is already feeling a little bit blissed out because he’s got one hand down the front of Matteo’s pajamas, and Matteo is moaning into his mouth and pulling on his hair. And- 

And Matilda knocks on their door and tells them she had a bad dream about the monster under her bed again, and Matteo pushes himself away from David like he was a hot coal. And David has to keep telling himself, I love being a father. Being a dad is the best thing to ever happen to me. I love my children, over and over again as he digs the crown of his head into his pillow before pulling on a sweater to get Matilda back in bed. 

***

David goes away for two weeks to start filming his next movie, and jokingly asks Matteo to send him some nudes over the phone three days in, though he wasn’t really joking. Not at all.

Matteo says no. David isn’t really surprised though he sighs about it anyways, and Matteo laughs at his pain. 

The night that David gets back from his trip, the twins apparently have the flu, and the stress of it makes Matilda just randomly burst into tears at spontaneous moments because she’s sad that Sofia and Michael are both retching into various buckets and pots that they have around the house and also worried that she was going to get sick, too. Matteo has been carrying her on his hip for the last two days, trying to keep her from freaking out, as he’s been going back and forth, forcing the twins to eat soup and drink tea, even though both of them claim to hate it and turn their noses up towards the mug Matteo puts under their nose. 

Matteo takes one look at David when he walks in the door like he’s a saint and passes Matilda to him, saying, “Welcome home,” with dark purple bags under his eyes and promptly goes into their room and passes out face down, asleep in seconds. 

***

He wasn’t counting, but it’s been over 60 days- over two months- since he’s seen his husband naked.

***

“In the kitchen,” Matteo calls after David announces that he’s home, and David walks in to see him stirring some vegetables around in a pan and goes to curl himself around him and kiss at the side of his neck. “Where are the kids?” Matteo asks slowly, scratching at the back David’s head. 

David hikes him in closer. “I knew I forgot something,” David responds, and Matteo elbows him in the ribs. David pinches him in response and bites at his ear because his ability to keep himself together has steadily declined over the past few weeks, and his mantra of just be chill just be chill just be chill stopped working around day 24 of what David is calling the Great Interruption Streak. “They’re at Laura’s,” he answer for real. 

“Laura’s?” Matteo repeats, still stirring and not paying enough attention to the way that David’s hands were sneaking closer and closer to his waistband, and David wanted to bite him again just because. 

“Yes, you know, their aunt’s, your sister-in-law?” David teases. 

He doesn’t see it, but he knows that Matteo rolls his eyes. And David doesn’t really care because his hands were flat on Matteo’s stomach under his shirt, and he’s kissing a line down Matteo’s neck. “Got that, thanks,” Matteo says. “I didn’t know they were going there tonight.” 

“I called in an emergency favor,” David hums and turns off the stove to press Matteo back into the counter and then lean up against him, still sucking on his neck.

“Emergency?” Matteo asks, a little breathless, and pulls on David’s hair when he bites on his collarbone. 

“Baby,” David says into his lips, looking at him a little cross-eyed and feeling like he was on fire where Matteo was touching him. “We haven’t been alone together in months.”

Matteo laughs through his nose and leans in further to slip his palms over David’s shoulders, under his jacket, to push it off and onto the floor. “So you told Laura you had blue balls, and she took them in out of the kindness of her heart?” 

“With promises not to call unless someone was in the hospital,” David says and grins at the way that Matteo was pulling on his tie. “So knowing our luck, we got thirty minutes before that happens.” 

“Hm,” Matteo hums. “Lot we could do in thirty minutes.” 

[didntwanderstillgotlost]

Coda for 15x3

I’ve written a few of these while trying to cope, but I was listening to “Pick Up” by Dierks Bentley and it just hit me really hard so I wrote this and decided to post it. (Also I wrote this at work because fuck capitalism)

Two days. Dean waited two days before he called Cas. And it was two days too long. He never should’ve let the angel walk out. Now he was listening to Cas’ voicemail message for the fifteenth time that morning. He chugged his seventh cup of whiskey-laced coffee and dialed again. When Cas’ voicemail kicked in again he threw his phone across the kitchen. It hit the wall, shattering as it slid to the floor. His empty coffee cup wasn’t far behind it. And then the empty whiskey bottle.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and walked into the library. Everything hurt. He hasn’t slept since that night. Cas’ broken expression haunted him. His words echoed in his head like a bad song he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried. He leaned on one of the tables, trying to catch his breath. Even breathing hurt. With every inhale, he was reminded off all the thing he’d ever said and done to Cas that the angel didn’t deserve. He could feel tears slipping down his cheeks and not for the first time.

Sam had stopped trying to talk to him a day and a half ago. Dean didn’t blame him. He was volatile. They had lost so much, they always lost so much, but he never thought he would lose Cas. And certainly not because of his own stupidity. Cas was always there, thick and thin, good times and bad, and Dean had pushed him away. He had a habit of doing that, but he always came back. Not this time. Dean was sure of that.

He got a grip on himself enough to walk to his room. He stopped and looked at Cas’ door. Right next to his. So many missed opportunities. So many words never said. He opened the door and went in. It was virtually empty, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. The only thing dean could see was a small stack of papers on the desk. He went over and picked them up. Not papers, pictures. Mostly of Jack, some of Sam and Dean, and one that Dean had thought he would never see again.

When Dean had first explained the concept of taking pictures, Cas had given him that signature confused head tilt that Dean never admitted he found adorable. After that, they had spent the better part of the afternoon taking pictures. The only one that had turned out decent was one Dean had taken of the both them. They were both smiling like idiots, deliriously happy just from spending the day together. At least, Dean had been. He tucked the picture into his pocket for safe keeping.

The only other thing on the desk was the mixtape. Wrapped around it with a rubber band was a note. Dean swallowed before picking it up. He unwrapped in carefully. Like he was defusing a bomb, which was exactly how it felt. He unfolded the paper. Cas’ near perfect handwriting stared back at him.

Dean. I didn’t understand why you wanted me to keep this. I don’t enjoy music the way humans do and I didn’t want to offend you, but I didn’t know what to do with it. I understand now. Sam explained it to me. You are man of very few words, and the words you do use tend to be angry or have a double meaning. This tape was a gift, but not the kind you give a brother or a friend. This meant something different and I want you to know that I feel the same. I’ll wait for you to be ready to say it with words before I do, if you ever get to that point, but your feelings aren’t unrequited. They never were.

Dean didn’t realize he was crying until a tear dripped onto the paper. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. Cas loved him. Or he had at one point anyway. Those feelings had probably long since been replaced with anger and resentment. He left the mixtape on the desk and went into his own room. Still clutching the note, he dug around in his nightstand for one of his many spare phones. He finally came up with one that wasn’t dead and dialed Cas’ number.

“Hello?”

“Cas, it’s Dean, don’t hang up.”

“Why?”

“Because you were right. Kinda. I never should’ve said you were dead to me. I never should’ve blamed you for Mom’s death. I know it wasn’t your fault. I was angry and I lashed out and there’s nothing I can ever do to make it better, but I need you here. Not because of what you can or can’t do for me, but because I feel it when you’re gone. There’s an empty space that I can’t fill no matter how hard I try. I’m not asking you to forgive me, hell I’m not even asking you to like me, I’m just asking you to be here. Fighting the good fight with me and Sammy. I just need you here.” The silence after was so long Dean had to check to make sure he hadn’t been hung up on.

“Dean, you always say that actions speak louder than words. You can tell me everything I want to hear, but it won’t make a difference if you continue to treat me like a tool.” Dean blinked back another wave of tears.

“I know. I know how bad I screwed this up, but if you can’t come back for me then come for Sam. Come back so we can avenge all the people we lost. Jack, Rowena, Ketch. All of them. Just come back. You don’t have to even acknowledge me if you don’t want to. I just need you.” Dean was going to avoid saying those three words if he could help it. He didn’t want Cas thinking he only said it to get him back. He wanted to say it face to face. The second silence was even longer than the first.

“I will talk to Sam.” With that, the line went dead. Dean didn’t know what that meant. Was Cas going to call Sam? Was he going to come back and only talk to Sam?

Dean got his answer six grueling hours later when Sam walked into his room. He took off his headphones.

“Catch a case?”

“No, Dean, I talked to Cas.” Dean sat upright.

“Is he coming back?”

“Yes, but I suggest you don’t talk to him until he’s ready. He’s really hurt.”

“I know. I’m an idiot.”

“No argument here,” Sam sat in Dean’s chair, “but I think you guys can work through this. It’s gonna take time and a lot of communication, but I think it’ll be okay.”

“It’ll never be okay, Sam. I told him he was dead to me. How can that ever be okay? For as long as I live, I will never be able to take that back.”

“I don’t have advice for you. You’ll have to talk to Cas when he’s ready to talk.”

Three weeks. That’s how long it took Cas to talk to Dean. And Dean took it because it was enough just to have Cas around. Then one night, after a particularly bad hunt, Cas came into Dean’s room.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’ve had worse.” Dean rolled the shoulder Sam had popped back into place for him. It hurt a little but it was manageable.

“You certainly have.” Cas reached his hand out, but Dean stopped him.

“Please don’t.”

“You don’t want me to heal you?”

“No. Just...stay with me for a little while. I mean, if you want to.” Cas stared at Dean for a long moment before sitting on the edge of the bed. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I know it’s too little way too late, but I am. And I know I’ll have to prove that to you. I will. I wanna warm your trust back, even if I can’t earn your love back.” Cas looked at him again. “I found the note you left with the mixtape. I know that even though you did love me once, I’ve done more than enough to make you change your mind. That’s okay. I never really deserved your love anyway.”

“Dean, shut up.” Dean blinked in surprise. “I never stopped loving you. That’s why I left. I couldn’t be around you knowing that you could barely look at me. It hurt too much. Being away from you hurt even more, but I thought it would be better in the long run.”

“You still love me?”

“Of course, Dean.” Once again, Dean was crying, but this time it was out of relief.

“I love you, too, Cas. And I’m sorry I ever made you feel like I didn’t.” Cas moved his hand to cover Dean’s.

“You asked what was real and I told you we are. I meant it.”

“I know we’re not okay. Far from it, but are we good for the moment?”

“I suppose.” Dean smiled.

“Good.” He turned his hand over to hold Cas’ as he felt himself drift off the sleep.

[keanu-fics]

Bad Attitude

A John Wick fic

So I wrote a 3k word fic instead of a 2k word essay due on Monday.

Just violence in this one. You work at a bar and start meeting John during your smoke breaks, not knowing who he is.

It was late night and you were having a smoke outside a bar. The same shitty bar that you worked at and would not finish your shift for another couple hours. You were leaning against a dirty wall of the bar, feeling its coolness through the thin fabric of your uniform. Your work top was white, and you were secretly hoping it would get so filthy, that the men inside the bar would stop hitting on you and slapping your ass. The taste of the cigarettes was not enjoyable for you, but it was the only way you could get an extra break during your shifts. How unfair was it that you could get special treatment just for being a smoker?

You looked up while blowing out smoke and could see stars through the tiny space between the tall buildings of New York City. You used to stargaze when you were younger, living in a countryside, studying to be a doctor, hoping for a better tomorrow. The sound of footsteps drew you away from your reminiscing. You could see a tall figure dressed in a black suit walking away from the Continental Hotel, that was across the street from your bar. Anyone who stays at a hotel like that, would never drink at a place like this.

You did not know much about the Continental. There were rumours about it, but you did not believe them. The man was now closer and definitely walking towards you. His suit fit him perfectly and you could tell that he was someone who would spend his evening drinking expensive Scotch, not the watered-down piss you sold. You looked away as he was only a few feet away now, not wanting him to know you had been staring at him.

The man stopped nearby where you were smoking and from the corner of your eye, you could see him reach into his pocket and pull out a pack of smokes. He took one out and you could feel his stare.

“You have light?” he asked you.

You glanced in his direction, “No.” you said abruptly and looked away again. You had your lighter on you, but you were not going to play his game. He was probably looking for a one-night stand. These rich guys were always into weird shit.

The man only smiled to himself and reached back into his pocket, took out a lighter and went ahead to light his cigarette. “John.” he mumbled, with the cigarette between his lips.

“Pleasure.” you said with a piercing sarcasm, took one last drag of your cigarette and flicked it on the ground that was already littered with cigarette butts.

“You are a real delight.” he pointed out.

What was his problem? You were not here to exchange snarky one-liners. “I get that a lot.” you gave him one last glance before going back inside the bar.

The rest of your shift was as dehumanising as it usually gets. Drunk regulars demanding your attention, some drunk women demanding free drinks because it was apparently one of their birthdays. A glass being thrown across the bar and a bar fight about to erupt, but the two men were all talk, no fists.

Your manager left it all for you to clean up once everyone was gone. You knew he would try to get away with not paying you the overtime, but Derek was a coward and you would deal with him tomorrow. It took you a good half an hour to get everything sorted and up to the low standards of the bar. The floor was always covered in spilled drinks and broken glass.

Since then you have seen John more frequently during your shifts. He would always show up during your smoke breaks. Sometimes he would already be waiting outside, smoking, and you had a feeling that he had been waiting. You would always exchange about two sentences worth and never acknowledge him more than necessary.

After about two weeks of his very random appearances, you felt you were almost looking forward to seeing him every evening. You would occasionally smile at him, but still not talking much, liking the silence between you two. But then one night your smoke break was over and he did not show up. You took one more break, smoking two cigarettes in a row just to buy yourself more time, but still no John. It was the same for the next week. He would not show up again.

Another night, after you had finished your close you were walking home while texting a guy you met yesterday, even though you were positive he only wanted sex. And what the hell, you have not been with anyone in almost a year. You smiled when he offered for you to come over and watch your favourite horror film, but the invitation was immediately followed by a dick pic. You were about to block the guy, when you heard low grunting from further ahead. You looked up, ready to dial 911 if it turned out to be a pervert.

It was John. He was limping and holding his side with his hand. He was looking down at the pavement and had to stop for a moment and lean against a fence for support. He looked like he was in agony.

“John.” you whispered to yourself. You stuffed your phone in your pocket and ran towards him. “John, John, hey.” you spoke to him softly, grabbing him under his armpits, preventing him from sliding onto the ground. “You’re okay.” You were now trying to pull him to his feet.

He either recognised your voice, because there was no way he could see out of his swollen eye, or he was willing to trust anyone right now to get him help. He grabbed your arm firmly and stood up with your help.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

“No!” he said resolutely, and you were not going to waste time arguing. You did not know what kind of trouble he got himself into, but questions later.

“Okay, c’mon.” you groaned as you were supporting his body weight, starting to make some steady progress towards your apartment.

You got him up the stairs by a pure miracle you thought, but he must have had so much more fight in him despite his current state. You opened the front door to your tiny flat, that consisted of a living room practically inside your kitchen, with a large old couch and no TV. You helped him onto the couch and he practically sank into it with a heavy sigh of relief.

“Okay, okay…” you were mumbling to yourself as you locked the door behind you. You ran into the bathroom where you kept a first aid kit and brought it to the living room. You could not see anything through John’s dark clothing, you only saw pools of blood soaked into his clothes and getting rubbed off on your couch. You loosened his tie and moved it to the side and started unbuttoning his black vest and shirt. Immediately you could see more blood. You did not want to move him before inspecting the injuries, so you cut the fabric off and saw what looked like a bullet hole. “Shit, John.” you mumbled, knowing how much this would hurt getting stitched up.

“I still don’t know your name.” he croaked, chuckling to himself. You thought he was close to passing out, so the question took you aback.

“Y/N.” you answered.

“Thank you.” he said, smiling.

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a bottle of alcohol.

“I’m sorry John.” you mumbled, before starting treating the wound. You cleaned it to make sure the bullet was not still in his body, but of course it was. His screams were loud, and he was slipping in and out of consciousness while you were working on getting the bullet out and stitching him up. After you had bandaged him, you carefully undressed him, looking for any more wounds, but he seemed alright.

He seemed delirious, but you helped him up on his feet again and dragged him to your bed. You tucked him in and were so exhausted yourself, you quickly fell asleep on the couch.

 In the morning you woke up first. You have not slept much but you felt high on adrenaline. You peaked in through the bedroom door to make sure John was okay. You never shut the curtains last night, so a pool of morning light was illuminating John’s face. Only then you realised how beautiful he really was. His beard perfectly framing his face, his expression soft now that he was sleeping. You had no idea who he has pissed off or who he was in a gun fight with but somehow, he still looked innocent, even caked in dried blood.

You quietly closed the bedroom door behind you and went to make yourself some coffee and toast. John was still asleep by lunch time and you decided he must wake up soon, so you started cooking and squeezing fresh orange juice just for him.

When everything was ready, you heard noises from your bedroom and soon after John came out. He was wearing his bloodied suit, but since his shirt was cut into pieces from you attending to his first aid yesterday, he was wearing his black jacket over a naked torso.

John was standing in the middle of your small living room/kitchen, staring you down. “Y/N.” he said, his eye looking so much better than yesterday.

You could not believe he remembered your name. You were sure the physical pain from yesterday would cause him to block out most of last night.

He looked around your place, seeing his dried blood on your couch. The coach was so old and a disgusting shade of green, some blood stains were not going to make it look any worse. He spotted his shoes next to the couch and practically dove for them.

“So much for thanks.” You lashed out, eyeing him angrily.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N, I owe you my life, but I have to run.” He made his way across the room, standing in front of you, cupping your cheek. “I’ll be back later.”

He said softly and suddenly he was out the front door.

“What are you talking about?” you yelled after him, later turning your freshly squeezed juice into a screwdriver.

 ~~~~~

Being a woman, you had plenty of experience getting rid of blood from fabric, but the dried blood on your bed sheets was now so old, it would not come off. You left the old sheets out to dry and took a nap before work.

At work you did not take a smoke break. You did not want to in case you ran into John. The way he just ran away like that, after you had saved his life. Who does that?

Your shift was coming to and end and your hands were trembling with how desperately you wanted a cigarette. You kept telling yourself you were not an addict, you only smoked for that extra work break. But apparently your body was getting hooked on nicotine.

You took a tray of beers to a group of older guys, who were rowdy and extremely inappropriate with you, but they were also regulars so you had to behave yourself. After excusing yourself and tightly hugging the tray against your chest, probably in a subconscious attempt to hide yourself behind it, you could see one of the guys getting ready to smack your ass. You squinted your eyes, but the slap never came. You turned around and saw John, holding the guy by his wrist, looking absolutely ballistic.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” John hissed at the guy and you saw all of his other bald friends immediately stand up. They were angered and John was not letting go of the guy’s hand. “Apologise.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” One of the guys snapped back at John, cracking his knuckles. John let go of the first guy’s hand and clenched his fists.

Derek was standing behind the bar, pretending to be busy, but once he saw what was going on in his bar, he ran over to the group. “Hey, hey, fellas, you will take this outside!” he commanded, smirking at John who was not a regular here and would probably get killed out there with all these guys jumping him.

The group nodded, leaving their drinks at the table, heading outside to beat the shit out of John. You grabbed John’s hand, stopping him. “John, please don’t.” you pleaded. He certainly looked like someone who could take care of himself, but not against six other men.

He cupped your check with his other hand, a familiar gesture from earlier. You then watched him walk out the door, your heart breaking.

“Y/N, you got customers to serve.” Derek snarled at you and you considered his words for a moment.

You looked up at him, anger in your eyes, throwing your apron at his feet. “You know what, Derek, fuck you.” You did not know if you were quitting or if you would come back tomorrow, begging for your job back, but all you could feel right now was anger. “I will be back for my tips later.” You exclaimed, heading outside. Not that you ever got a lot of tips.

You made it outside quickly and you were ready to throw yourself between John and those assholes, knowing you might get hit, but they would not beat up a girl.

Instead you walked into a bunch of guys groaning on the ground, the rest running away drunkenly. John was standing in front of you, not another scratch on him, apart from the yesterday’s cuts and bruises. You were looking at John in shock, unsure of what had happened.

“They fight sloppy.” Was all he said before fixing a crease on his suit. “You finished your shift?” he asked and as you nodded, he put his arm around your waist, deciding to take you somewhere nicer for a drink.

[rainbowholland]

You can’t be a superhero when you’re barely functioning | Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: Peter doesn’t sleep, which leads to some accidents. Y/N is determined to change that.

WC: 869

Warnings: So, there’s barely some swearing there, but other than that, nah.

A/N: I wrote this while very sleepy and delirious from heat at one am last night, but it was cute so I decided to post it. I thought about maybe making it a bit angsty and mentions Tony’s death, but I decided against it because I wanted this to be purely fluff, so yeah, here ya go.

Enjoy!

:::

Peter being Spider-Man while he was still in high school meant he stayed out late. Most people probably would have been worried, with him only getting a couple of hours of sleep every night, but Peter claimed that was one of the perks of his super-human abilities - he simply needed less sleep than other people. 

You had your doubts though. And those doubts was only underlined by the dark circles under his eyes, his tangled curls and his consistent yawns throughout the classes. Peter had never felt the need to be up before, why did he then suddenly feel it now?

But what really revealed how this was actually effecting him? That was when he came over to you, the left half of his face scraped up and bloodied, and the material of his suit on his left side, on his knees and on the palms of his hands was frayed. 

“What. Happened?” You asked, trying not to sound as worried as you were.

Peter looked at you with guilt in your eyes, and you sighed, trying to find the little first aid kit you always had with you for situations like these.

“It was dark, I was trying to chase someone who had stolen a bike from someone’s garage and I managed to scrape into a building because I was too focused on the bad guy.”

You called his bullshit immediately. He could never lie to you, and especially not if the lie didn’t even line up with facts. 

“It’s just barely gotten dark outside, you have that sense - the Peter-tingle - so that doesn’t happen, and it didn’t work because you haven’t been sleeping.”

You stepped closer to him and placed one hand on his cheek - the one that wasn’t hurt. “Peter, please, I don’t know why you think you have to be up all night to fight crime, you don’t, okay?” Your voice was lower now, softer. “You can’t be a superhero when you’re barely functioning because of a lack of sleep, it’s a lose-lose situation for everyone if you keep up with this.” And then, so low and soft it was barely a whisper you added: “Just come sleep.”

His eyes were blank, filled with tears, but he shook them away and gave you a tiny, tiny smile. You fixed up his face - there wasn’t really much you could do other than clean it and put on some bandages - it would be healed up within the morning anyway. 

You knew for a fact you had some of his clothes laying around, after a couple of times where you had “borrowed” his clothes because you were cold or something similar, and had never given them back. Now you found them again, some grey sweats and his blue Midtown School of Science and Technology sweater. 

As there was nothing you hadn’t really seen before, you stayed in the room as Peter changed out of the suit he had previously worn, and into the clothes. You made up the bed in the meanwhile, removing the huge stuffed animal Peter had gotten for you, and arranging the pillows so that he would also have something to lay on. Then you climbed in and turned to Peter, your arms out. 

“Come cuddle,” was the only thing you said.

Peter smiled shyly, then came in after you, laying himself beside you with your faces meeting. You scooched closer to him, wrapping you arms around him and tangling your fingers in his hair, absentmindedly tugging at the hairs with little force.

“This is nice,” Peter said, and he sounded surprised. 

You hummed, letting one hands down from his hair and under his sweater to draw shapes into his hip. He closed his eyes with a little smile on his face and leaned closer to you. 

“I guess,” he started, still not opening his eyes. “I guess I feel like I have to. Because I have these powers, and if something happens it’s my fault that I didn’t stop it when I could have.”

You placed your forehead on his, pushed yourself even closer to him, so there was no room to spare, and whispered: “I stand by what I said. You’re no good for anyone if you don’t sleep. It’s great you have these powers, but if they don’t work because you’re not taking care of yourself, there’s no point in even having them. Like everything, you have to keep the proper maintenance.”

He breathed out, you could feel the warm air on your chin and neck. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” he slurred, and you knew he was about to fall asleep. “Shh, there’s is no point in being sorry, you come from a good place. Just sleep now.”

His breath went even, his body felt even more limp, and it was clear he finally fell asleep. It was just nine in the evening, but that was good because then he could catch up on lost sleep. 

You felt the sleep overtake you too, and you didn’t bother to try and stay awake. You closed your eyes and let the warmth from the duvet and from Peter lull you into sleep.

[cuddletime-blog]

Lucien: Drunken Ares and Irritated MC

WARNING: Spoilers for Chapter 13, some angst, mild violence

It was 2:37 am and my phone was ringing. I turned on the lamp at my nightstand and grabbed my phone to check the caller ID. It was a phone call from Lucien…No, Ares. I stared at my phone with both a shocked and conflicted expression while letting it ring a few more times. My eyebrows were scrunched together so I rubbed the spot between my eyebrows and forehead, trying to think clearly. What could he possibly want to say to me at this time? I had already told him that he was my enemy and we weren’t on close speaking terms to be calling each other on the phone. I previously didn’t delete his number from my phone, but I never thought that I would be receiving a phone call from him at a time like this. I was scared and my heart beat faster.

Finally, when the phone rang for the fourth time, I picked up the call saying, “I think we no longer have any reason to be speaking to each other again,” but then I heard a different man’s voice replying, “Hello. Is this Ms. Elise? I’m very sorry to be disturbing you like this, but it is quite an urgent situation. I’m the owner of the Carmine Dahlia wine bar in Loveland and I have a young adult male customer passed out at our bar. He’s unconscious, but very feverish and I don’t know who else to call. There is no identification card on this customer. The bartender told me that he muttered your name a few times before passing out and I looked through his phone’s emergency contacts and your number was the only one that I found. I’m trying to close up the bar and I was wondering if you would be able to come pick him up soon if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” I thought about what I should do. Normally, wouldn’t he have been sent to the hospital or perhaps the owner could have called the police? I was thinking that in the worst case scenario, his fever could be life-threatening if he continued to remain unconscious without getting medical help. What if he became delirious and unable to control his Evol? Would other people around him be in danger? Why was he at the bar alone? Could there be anyone else from Black Swan lurking around him? After a little more deliberation, I told the bar owner, “I think I can be there in 30 minutes. Please keep an eye on him for me until I arrive.”

           When I arrived at the bar, Ares had been moved to a couch and was rolled over on his left side. He was still unconscious, but I could see that he was breathing fine. Seeing him drunk and passed out made me feel incredibly pissed. I paid the bar owner money, asking him and the bartender to please carry Ares into the taxi cab. There was no way that I would have been able to manage that alone. Then, I told the taxi cab driver to take me back to my apartment building and paid the driver more money as well so that he could help me carry Ares into the elevator up to my apartment floor.

Finally back inside my apartment, I carried Ares over to my bed and placed him on his left side. Thankfully, I had just changed the sheets on my bed earlier tonight so they were still new. I felt his forehead and placed a thermometer under his tongue. The thermometer’s reading was 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit. He was sweating so much. I got a cold ice pack wrapped in a wet face towel to place on his forehead. Then, I dug through a box in my closet, found one of my father’s old shirts that I hadn’t donated, and placed it on the bed. I said, “Don’t get any weird ideas tomorrow. I’m just trying to help bring your fever down.” I unbuttoned Ares’s white dress shirt, wiped all of the sweat from his face and upper body, and changed him into my father’s old shirt. I got a glass of water from the kitchen and 2 acetaminophen tablets. I didn’t have any better idea to wake him up so I decided to do what I had been itching to do earlier ever since I saw him lying down passed out and feverish at the bar. I slapped him hard enough on one cheek to wake him up so that I could get him to swallow the water and the pills. Thankfully, Ares opened his eyes for me to give him the medication properly. I stared straight into his eyes while placing the pills into his mouth without looking away because I couldn’t afford to show him any fear. After swallowing the medication, he fell asleep. I thought that with his excellent memory and intelligence, he still might remember that slap tomorrow and the fact that I undressed him. It was already too late and I was too tired to worry any longer.

I took out a futon and placed it in my bedroom. I monitored him for an hour, making sure that his fever had improved and then fell asleep on my futon. I had to go to work in the morning so I quickly cooked a small pot of porridge with ground pork and green onions. Then, I also made some rice for my lunch with some steamed egg and tomato, a little bit of stir fry chicken, and bok choy. I put a cup of warm tea and a glass of water with a bottle of acetaminophen tablets on the kitchen table and quickly wrote a sticky note, which read: “Eat the porridge for breakfast and take the medication. There is a cold pitcher of water in the fridge and some dishes I made for lunch.”

I came back home from work and I felt frustrated so I wanted to clean the apartment before starting dinner. Ares was sitting on the couch in the living room when I arrived home and it looked like he had been waiting for me. I wasn’t in the mood to talk much yet so I told him, “I need to clean and make dinner first. Whatever you have to say to me will have to wait until later. I paid for the taxi cab ride to come pick you up and bring you here to the apartment last night so please help me clean my apartment and prepare dinner. Fortunately, you had already paid for your drinks at the bar beforehand so it’s just the cost of the taxi ride. I’ll consider it even if you help me today and you won’t owe me anymore. Vacuum and dust the living room and help me make a spinach soup for dinner.”

Ares helped me clean like I asked him to and I made a quick dinner consisting of stir fry chicken with mixed veggies and white rice. Then, I cleaned the kitchen counter and was about to start doing the dishes, but he already moved over to the sink and grabbed the dishwashing gloves away from me. With nothing else to do, I brewed a pot of tea for the both of us and went to sit on the living room couch. Ares sat down on a couch opposite from me and I grabbed the opportunity to speak first, saying “Thank you for your help earlier. More importantly, what were you doing or thinking that you got so drunk and passed out? You didn’t even know that you were running a fever? You drank so heavily even though you were sick. What if you did something while you were drunk and lost control of your Evol?” I didn’t know why I was so heated and felt like lecturing him.

He said, “That is my own matter. It does not concern you.” Then I replied, “Oh really? Then why have I been having recurring dreams in the past week about you drinking alone in another place in some dark corner while listening to some heartbroken song on your phone? If it was Lucien, he would have told me if he missed me. If it was Lucien, he wouldn’t be hiding from me and trying to keep everything to himself. That’s nothing like the Lucien I know. That’s a man who can’t even pull himself together and would rather suffer alone in silence. That’s not love. If you love someone, you should be able to trust them enough to let them know if you’re feeling sad, lonely, scared…everything. I can’t love someone who loves me half-heartedly and won’t even communicate with me properly.”

Ares walked over to the kitchen and didn’t say anything. I got up and followed after him into the kitchen, wanting to hear a proper explanation. Then, he suddenly pushed me against the kitchen wall, slipped one hand under the bottom left corner of my shirt, and caressed the area on my side slightly above my hip. Next, Ares lowered his head with his warm breath over my shoulder, bit the area between my neck and shoulder close to where my bra strap runs across my shoulder, and licked it slightly. He said, “The color on your face when you’re so angry looks ravishing too.” I was upset that I had let him be way too forward with me and intended to raise my hand to slap him across the cheek (I felt that he very much deserved this slap now), but he moved quicker than me, grabbed my hand, and kissed the top of it. Ares turned towards the door and walked away saying goodbye to me as he left. I locked the door after he left.

My thoughts were all heated, stormy, and jumbled in a mess. I tossed and turned that night in bed, unable to sleep so I got up and walked over to look outside my window. There was a full moon tonight and the night was beautiful and cold, almost like any other night this month. I walked over to my piano and started playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata over and over again with dedicated fervor before feeling sleepy enough to return to bed.

My alarm rang and I woke up, realizing that the events of the past 2 days were all just one night’s dream.

[magpiefngrl]

vampire drarry pwp

OK so this post sank its hooks in me and wouldn’t let go until I wrote a ficlet, so here’s a gothic Vampire!Drarry drabble. It’s 2.3k words and Explicit so if you’re under 18, please keep scrolling. Unbetaed; I’m a non-native speaker, so please excuse any errors.

 Romania was a wild place, exuberant with secrets and magic. Harry’s team, tasked to find a stolen heirloom, had come up against obstacles they hadn’t anticipated. The darkness in the Romanian forests was a living thing, swallowing them whole. His team disappeared, one by one—missing or taken, Harry couldn’t now. Their equipment didn’t work;  the compass failed. Even the stars couldn’t help them, shrouded as they were in thick clouds. Exhausted and starved, reeling with his failure, lost in the wilderness, Harry trudged on amidst trees grown feral. The skies unleashed a storm an hour ago, which hadn’t abated.

A light in the distance promised salvation. A farmhouse probably, offering the chance of a dry bed and some food. He picked up his speed, pushing through his fatigue to get there faster.

It wasn’t a farmhouse but a modest castle, perched on a steep cliff. Harry urged his legs on and on until he passed the open gates and reached the front doors of the keep. He knocked and waited, holding onto the stone wall to keep himself standing.

The door opened to reveal a young man, slender and pale, fair like a dream, holding a candle in his hand and wearing an expression of confusion when he saw Harry at his doorstep.

Momentarily stunned at the beauty of the man, Harry launched into speech. ‘Help me,’ he said. ‘I’m lost, and it’s cold, and I can hear the wolves coming near.’

‘Oh, you poor thing,’ said the man. ‘Let’s get you in and warmed up.’

The door shut behind Harry with a thud that echoed around the stone walls. It was warm and dry, and he was thankful. The young man—Draco, he said—waved away his thanks. ‘It’s nothing. I’m always up late at night anyway.’

He led Harry to a drawing room where the fire roared, gilding the faded furnishings and pushing the shadows deep in the corners. A novel was face-down on the sofa and a crystal glass, half-full of deep red wine, rested on the side table. Draco brought Harry in front of the fire, who exhaled with relief at the caress of the heat against his wet, icy skin.

‘You should get out of your clothes. I’ll ring for a gown.’ Draco pulled a rope dangling on the wall and returned to Harry’s side. He took his dripping coat and left it on the back of a chair, then stretched a hand for the rest.

Harry’s movements were stiff with fatigue. He unlaced his white blouse and uncuffed the sleeves. He’d never before given thought to how he undressed but with those cool grey eyes on him, he felt self-conscious and clumsy. Undressing in front of a man wasn’t a big deal; at work and at sports he typically walked naked around the other men in the changing rooms, but the ethereal presence of the man brought a blush to his face and he ended up tangled in his shirt.

‘Want some help?’

Cheeks burning hot, Harry said, ‘I’ll manage,’ but the man had moved—somewhat too fast—behind him.

‘Let me. You’re tired.’

Cool fingers touched Harry’s skin and peeled his soaked shirt off him. The fingers trailed down Harry’s arms, bringing a shiver to his spine. Harry didn’t even notice the old servant who came in and left a thick dressing gown on a chair. What he noticed was warmth pooling at his stomach at the touch of Draco’s graceful hands. Harry’s blood simmered at the sensation of the man behind him, a familiar response that he needed to suppress before the man noticed. Harry might have had his back-alley dalliances with men in London but revealing his proclivities in front of an unknown man was more dangerous than the dark, rustling forest outside.

Draco’s breath brushed Harry’s ear. ‘Now the trousers.’

Harry’s pulse spiked. He fumbled, fingers clumsy again, and the man huffed a soft laugh against his skin and moved to the front. ‘Let me,’ he said again, and Harry could do nothing but nod.

Draco pulled the laces one by one, his eyes on his task. The more Harry watched him, the more he felt desire slush inside him, rising and filling him up until it was brimming from his skin. Draco was beautiful: sharp cheekbones and silver hair, a mouth full and red, eyes that held a surprising depth of sadness as if they had looked at the world for a thousand years and found it lacking. Harry’s throat felt dry, his mouth parched, and he licked his lips while Draco finished opening his trousers and pulled them down.

The evidence of Harry’s arousal bobbed between them, flushed and red and unavoidable.

‘I… er,’ Harry tried to mumble something. It’s the heat, he wanted to say, or the relief, or…

Draco didn’t give him the chance. He smiled and said, ‘It’s OK. I guess it needs some attention to. Would you let me?’

He couldn’t mean what he meant. Stunned, Harry whispered yes anyway, and watched as Draco kneeled and licked Harry’s cock.

Harry gasped, his knees almost buckling. Enveloped by the heat of the fire and the coolness of Draco’s mouth, hot and cold playing on him, Draco’s mouth worked on him sweetly—and expertly. Soft lips sucked at the crown, tonguing the slit, and Harry had to shut his eyes at the onslaught of sensation. Draco licked at the shaft once before he swallowed him whole, deeper and deeper until Harry felt the tantalising brush of his crown against Draco’s throat. Threading his fingers through Draco’s silky hair, Harry caressed it back from his forehead, entranced with the sight. Draco gazed up, his mouth stretched around Harry’s cock, and smiled. It was a smile that held promise as well as danger, a smile sharp and hot like an iron pulled from the fire. It was a smile that could bring a grown man to his knees, and so it did.

Draco had pulled away and held him as Harry, breathing hard, fell on the thick carpet. ‘Let me look after you,’ Draco said again. ‘Leave everything to me. Just let me,’ and Harry said yes, because he would give anything to this man right now.

‘Good,’ Draco said when Harry agreed. On his knees, too, he gazed for a moment at Harry’s eyes before he kissed him, his lips sweet as poison. Harry’s heartbeat drummed against his ribs and he hauled the man closer, gasping as his slick, hard cock brushed against his host’s clothes. He wanted more and more, more of his tongue in his mouth, more of his strange coolness against his scorching skin. He titled his head and kissed him harder, and Draco responded, a hand pressing on Harry’s arse, pushing him flush against him, hips grinding maddeningly, making Harry delirious.

Finally, Draco pulled him on the carpet and took his own clothes off at the blink of an eye. He crawled over Harry and kissed him again, their cocks rubbing together, sending sparks in Harry from his toes to his head. Harry opened his legs to wrap them around Draco and bucked breathlessly for a bit, whispering, ‘Fuck me. Please, fuck me.’

Draco laughed with delight. He hovered over Harry and nibbled at his neck and his chest, his tongue swirling around a peaked nipple. His nibbling turned sharper, a shade under painful, but Harry didn’t mind, delirious in his need and helplessly drowning in lust.

‘Please, do it,’ he repeated, his hips grinding against Draco’s hard cock.

‘Your kind’s always so impatient,’ Draco said, which Harry’s fogged brain dismissed until days later.

Oil was sought and found, and soon Draco had one finger inside Harry, biting his lip as he watched Harry writhe. ‘You’ve no idea how glorious you look,’ he said with a careful brush of his finger against Harry’s prostate. Harry arched his back, floundering in an arousal more powerful than he’d ever imagined. Back in London, he’d fucked men in alleys and molly houses, in cheap hotels and always in secret. He’d never been laid out on a carpet to be offered so much pleasure by a member of the aristocracy. He’d never met a man like Draco, so beautiful and so… unreal as if Harry had made him up. If this was a dream brought on by hunger, the cold and his imminent death in the forest, then Harry would take it. He spread his legs wider and welcomed a second finger, slender and nimble, insistent and playful, making him see stars.

He was already breathless and exhausted, brought close to orgasm and tortuously held back from it, when Draco lined himself up and pushed the tip of his cock inside Harry. For the first time this evening, Draco’s face lost some of its composure, his mouth pressed down on a snarl, eyes shutting. Holding his body rigidly in check, Draco opened his eyes and slid deeper inside, and Harry moaned. He liked to be filled in. He loved to feel full, when a big hard cock intruded and took up space in Harry’s body. He urged Draco to go faster, and Draco propped himself over him, elbows on either side of his face, and snapped his hips forward.

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