#instead of just not touching paints for four months again

[grimdarkfandango]

spending this weekend hobbymaxxed. enjoymentpilled. whatever the kids are saying that I can make sound uncool

actually managed to paint for a couple of hours yesterday after an early call with friends!!! threw out a thing I've been meaning to toss for months and it being gone makes me feel better!!! (rip monstera plant I killed, you did not deserve that) watched more young justice!!! read some book!!! played two different types of viddy game!!! did my chores!!! went out and got a coffee!!! maybe I'll go watch a movie and knit!!! maybe I'll sew a little doll outfit or finish some bookbinding!!! i'm unstoppable!!!!!

[peachesofteal]

Light on - single mom/neighbor fic Simon Riley/female reader This will make the most sense if you read this first

Simon is chopping vegetables when the power goes down.

It happens in slow motion. The lights waver, warm yellow glow from the living room lamp trembling before it goes out with the television, along with the bright white glaze of the bulbs in the kitchen. They flicker, they flare, dipping his world into darkness.

Months ago, he might have panicked. His anxiety might have peaked, he would have considered checking the locks, ensuring the shades are drawn, validated any weak points of entry. He would have gone for closest stashed handgun.

But things are different now. His mind doesn't jump to a security breach, or an imminent threat. He doesn't consider his consider his "go bag", he doesn't reach for his "work" phone.

Instead, he only thinks of you.

He raises his voice to ensure it reaches you through the flat. "Think we lost power."

"Simon!" Your voice is drenched in fear, the two syllables of his name dripping in it, white flash of panic just on the edge, and the knife goes down easy on the cutting board, carrots and celery nearly finished, electric burners on the stove turning from red to black. Candles. There are candles in here somewhere, aren't there? And flashlights.

"Sweetheart?" The flashlight on his cell clicks on, and he double checks the knife is safely away from the edge of the counter. He calls your name, waiting for a response, for an acknowledgment from Emma's room, where the door is open with his girls inside, one of them fresh out of the bath and hopefully, nearly asleep.

There's no answer. He sweeps the flashlight across the ground, hoping to avoid blinding you or Emmaline, working his way closer to the pitch black doorway. The space in his mind that was calm a moment ago, now begins to spiral. Why aren't you answering him? "Honey? You alright?"

Emma begins to cry. It's not her hungry cry, or her full nappy cry, or her attention cry, but something else, something scared. Distressed.

He's in the room with the flashlight pointed at the ceiling to ensure it bounces off the white paint and around the four walls within a second, heart now hammering in his chest, and when he finds you, spine stiff, eyes peeled wide in terror, something in him breaks.

You're standing in front of the crib, Emmaline cradled tightly in your arms, rapid rise and fall of your chest too fast, too uncontrolled, your usual whimsical, effortless beauty marred by a grim absence, your body frozen into a cage around the baby, empty gaze locked on the floor.

He recognizes it immediately. Knows it too well, knows it in himself better than anything else, a cursory reaction pushing him forward- his touch over yours, his hands supporting Emma's weight. You gasp into him, wild, staggered breaths that make his stomach twist, and he rubs a soothing palm down your spine. "It's okay." He coos. "You're okay, just breathe. I'm here. You're safe, mama, I've got you." Emma hollers, confused and scared, and he pulls her into his chest, holding her there with one arm, another still tethered to you, trying to jog you back to yourself, to your body. To him. "Just breathe, sweetheart. You're alright, take a big breath."

It doesn't work, and he can't do both, so he makes a split second decision, one he hopes doesn't make everything worse. "I know, baby girl. I know. Mama's alright, she's okay." He bounces Emma, relaxing a fraction when her crying settles, and then leans in to cup your cheek, tipping your face up to his. "I'm going to put her in the living room, honey. In the pack and play, okay? I'll be right back. Jus' keep breathing." You give him nothing except for an attempt at a deeper inhale, and he soothes Emma with a close cuddle, finding your phone and pulling it from the dresser to make sure the baby isn't left alone in the dark.

She goes into the little pen in the living room so easily, already nearly asleep again, and he pats her back for a moment, ensuring she's comfortable before running into the room, back to you.

You're blinking now, cheeks wet and shining in the dark, breathing a bit less haggard, and it kills him, haunts him, to see you so terrified, so lost in your own head. "Hey sweetheart. Can you hear me?" He touches you carefully, intentionally, the lack of resistance encouraging to the point he feels confident enough to hold you, cradling your head against his chest, curled over your body like a shield.

"Si-Simon." Your fingers tighten into his side.

"It's me. I'm here, I've got you."

"Em..."

"She's in the next room. She's okay." He smooths a palm over your temple, into your hair. "Let's take a look at you, sweet girl, can we do that? Can you look at me?" You tilt back, eyes and lids sluggish, but with it, conscious, and the anxious knot in his heart relaxes slightly.

"The lights." You stammer, and he nods.

"The electric went out. Did it scare you?" You give him a confused look, like you didn't hear him, or didn't understand. He strokes a thumb across your tear stained cheek and repeats himself. "It's okay, did the dark give you a fright?"

"N-no. Not..." You shake with the denial. "It's... is there a fire?"... what? He cocks his head. A fire?

Oh.

Oh.

His sweet, sweet girl. Not afraid of the dark, only lost and tormented by your grief. Terrified of losing again, trapped in a nightmare that is all too familiar to him.

"No, there's no fire, angel. I'm right here. I'm here, with you." He uncurls your frozen fingers to splay them flat against his chest, over where his heart thumps steadily, covering it with his own. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

"You promise." You croak, and he hums, rocking you slowly, gently swaying in the dim light of the phone's flashlight.

"I promise." He swallows the shiver in his voice, burying his nose atop your hair, holding you as tightly as he can. "I swear. Nothing could keep me from you, nothing. Remember?" You rasp out a yeah, feathery soft and feeble, and he kisses the crown of your head, sweet and slow, rubbing your back, your shoulders, kneading the tension from your muscles until the glaze of your panic fades, somber expression tightening across your face. "None of that." He whispers, because he knows what you'll say, he know how you'll try to apologize, try to explain it. "I know, sweetheart. I know."

He gets you folded up on the couch in his arms after locating and lighting most of the candles, setting up a few flashlights in the bathroom and bedroom, collection of mix matched scents littering the coffee table. You're weepy and exhausted, watching Emma sleep in the pack and play, her blissful little face sugar plum sweet as she dreams, and he tucks you into his chest, laying you down, facing her, mouth pressing little kisses to your temple, your cheek, your ear.

"Close your eyes." He encourages when you yawn. "You can sleep. I just want to hold you." The fireplace pops, and you crack an eyelid wide.

"She might wake up." You mumble.

"I know, I'll get her." He soothes, and you wilt, easily reassured by him, something that makes his chest swell with pride. He keeps his fingers moving, stroking across your skin, settling you into twilight, and just as you slip into your own dreams, he whispers a final testament, something he carries with him, every second of every day. "I've got you. I've got you both."

[rad-batson]

Headcanons of Tim and Damian’s Love/Hate/But-Mostly-Begrudging-Love Relationship (They’re My Babies)

They will take EVERY opportunity to be a little bitch to one another

Tim: “Don’t get too close to me. You probably have rabies.” Damian: *actually bites him*

Damian tripped Tim once, which started an all out prank war that lasted several months. It only ended when Bruce walked into a glue trap and couldn’t reach his phone to call for help. But he couldn’t figure out who put it there so they were both grounded. (It was Tim.)

Tim teaches Damian to finish his vine references when Bruce tells them they need to “bond.” They proceed to try and speak in exclusively vine references and TikTok sounds during patrol. Bruce benches them for his own sanity.

Damian: “I’m not touching you” *gets pushed down the stairs*

Tim: “I’m not in your room” *gets hit in the face with a book*

Tim calls Damian short even tho he’s only like two inches taller for quite a bit of time (and Damian never hears the end of it after Tim’s growth spurt)

Family Game Night could go in one of two ways: they’re opponents and spend the whole night one-upping each other OR they team up and wipe the floor with everyone else’s pieces

Damian: “Just trust me.” Tim: *remembering that one time Damian tried to kill him* “Okay.”

Tim: “Don’t ask questions.” Damian: *recalling the multiple genocidal Tim variants* “Whatever.”

During one Wayne Gala, they make up this game called Freestyle Checkers where they choose guests as their “pieces” then subtly manipulate them into walking to their opponent’s side of the ballroom without talking to someone from the other team or they’re out. No one can know that they’re part of a game or their opponent wins by default.

Bruce is proud of them at first for being more sociable during galas until he realizes what’s going on and immediately loses five years from his lifespan.

Both have attempted to fake their deaths to get out of the same school project

They’re both notorious for stalking people to get information instead of just…ya know…asking like a normal person. So they’re bound to team up one day.

Like maybe it’s Bruce’s birthday soon and both are like “No, I’m getting him the better present,” but then they run into each other in the vents trying to find out what he wants and they end up trading secrets. Just brotherly things

Tim: “I need you to follow this guy for me. I think he’s our culprit.” Damian: “I would rather die than take orders from you.” Tim: “I’ll buy you that fancy oil painting kit you want.” Damian: *already changing into his Robin gear* “Where is he?”

Tim makes Damian play the dumb, helpless kid in all of their covert operations, which pisses Damian off until he gets so good at it that he uses it to his advantage and annoys the hell out of Tim when they’re paired up for public appearances

“God, he’s so annoying.” “Yeah, totally.” “What the fuck did you say about my brother?”

Damian is the only person who can get Tim to actually sleep for once. No one knows how he does it, but the strongest theory so far is blackmail

Tim “I’m ignoring Bruce’s instructions because they failed the vibe check” Drake and Damian “I can totally do this mission that requires four people on my own” Wayne teaming up behind Bruce’s back and immediately getting into deep shit but somehow making it out alive with the bad guys behind bars.

During one of said missions, they thought they were going to die and said “I love you” to one another. After they survived, they silently agreed to never mention it again.

Damian gifts Tim a new board that he designed for his birthday. It took weeks. Tim cries

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

Great Balls Of Fire

Bradley Bradshaw x fem!reader 9k words (ik. i did it again. im sorry)

summary: It’s been four months since you last saw Bradley Bradshaw. Today's the day he finally comes back from his mission and you have more than one ace up your sleeve to surprise him with.

a/n: smut ahead. 18+ im serious theres smut theres a lot of smut. okay. as usual i will now list everything you may have to look out for

fancy ass lingerie, oral sex fem!receiving, unprotected sex (dont be like them, just know theyre in a committed relationship theyve had the talk and all), a lot of begging, hair pulling, good girl's because yes, in general again bradley is a talker, otherwise that's it

top gun masterlist

It had been so long. It had been too long.

With the sun beating down hard on the pavement of the parking lot, the sunglasses on your nose doing their hardest to protect your eyes from the worst of the light, the sound of your heels clicking against solid ground as you took a few steps into the shade of the tree next to Bradley's Bronco. You had been waiting for ten minutes now, checking your phone what seemed like every five seconds, too nervous to actually pay attention to it but too nervous to keep calm either.

You had been so scared you would crash into a grandma on the way over here that you had honestly considered taking your own car instead of the Bronco - but Bradley had trusted you with it, had trusted you to keep his lady running, you, even though he never let anyone else as much as touch the steering wheel, and you would be damned if you didn't pick him up in it.

You hadn't seen him in four months. Four months.

You had been by yourself, had been on your own, had been lonely for four fucking months.

But today was the day you would see him again. Today was the day his oh-so-secret mission would finally, truly come to an end, the day that you would finally, truly see him again. Not over some low-quality video call in the middle of the night, with only your kitchen lights on in the background and your mind hazy and tired because he was nine hours ahead of you and seemed to be at the other end of the world - no, today you would finally, finally, finally see him in the flesh.

You'd been anticipating this moment for the past four months.

So this had to be perfect.

This would be perfect.

You had done everything possible to make this the most perfect day of his goddamn life. You had spent the last four months moving things from the old apartment to the new house - those things that you and him hadn't already moved anyway - and the past week, you'd been cleaning, decorating, anticipating.

He had told you so often how much he missed you. How much he wished he had been there for you, to help you pack the things, to help you take them apart and put them back together, to do more than just the paperwork and set up the bed and the couch.

But he couldn't. And now you were bubbling with nervous excitement, with the joy of sharing all of it with him, to show him the desk you'd put up in the bedroom, the pillows you'd bought for the couch, the paintings you'd hung up on the walls, the kitchen table you'd replaced, the kitchen tiles you'd painted. To show him how much better this new home was than the old apartment had been (even though you'd been very happy there for the past four years as well).

And Bradley would love it. You were sure of that.

You just wanted him to see it so desperately.

You looked up as another car approached - it wasn't Bradley, you knew that, Bradley would come out of that door opposite you, not out of a car, but... There was still some tiny little sliver of hope, the same way there had been every single goddamn time someone had rung your doorbell. It had only ever been the postman or your food.

The car stopped next to you. You watched the engine being turned off and the driver get out because, well, what else was there to do except nervously shift your weight from one leg onto the other and go insane?

So you watched the stranger hop out of their car, nodded politely at them and then refocused your attention on the tips of your sandals. At least you weren't the only one waiting here anymore.

You got out your phone again, checked the time (it'd been a minute and a half since you'd last looked at it) and let out a sigh.

It wasn't that Bradley was late. There wasn't really a "late" anyway, he'd only been able to give you a vague time he'd arrive on, but still. You'd been buzzing with nervous energy for over a week.

You took a deep breath to steady yourself, wiped your sweaty palms off on the sundress you'd put on - the tiny yellow sundress that Bradley had picked out for you on your birthday last year. The tiny yellow sundress that hid the sinful white lingerie under it just perfectly. The sinful white lingerie that you had bought for this very moment.

Bradley would go feral for it, you knew that. He loved white. You thought it was because it looked innocent, chaste. Like something untainted, something waiting to be ruined. Not that you minded. One day, he had promised himself, he would admit to you that it was because it looked like something you would wear on your wedding night.

But either way, you had gone shopping for the perfect set of lingerie and you were more than happy with your final choice.

Bradley could unwrap you like a present. You were desperately hoping he would unwrap you like a present.

You had spent the last four months not doing anything other than hoping. Imagining. Remembering.

So you weren't surprised that you felt like you'd soaked through those pretty (and expensive) panties already.

Your breath hitched. You shifted your weight again.

Bradley would carry you in his big, strong arms over the doorstep, would push you against the wall, would take everything he wanted from you and give everything you needed - he'd pull your dress right off and, at the sight of your lingerie, would fuck you raw.

You had to bite down on your lip to keep you grounded. Four months away had been a long, long time. Four months in which you'd only had yourself, your fingers, your vibrator to keep you company - four months in which you'd only heard Bradley's moans spill over the phone, had only heard him call you honey and good girl through a low-quality mic, had only seen him on pictures he'd left you, on a tiny screen at best.

You were depraved. And pretty sure you'd fall apart at the first touch.

You were so immersed in your thoughts, in that lovely imagery you had created in your head, that you almost missed the door opening. Finally. Finally. You straightened up at once.

It wasn't Bradley who stepped out first - it was one of his colleagues, you guessed, with blonde hair and much shorter - but it was Bradley who stepped out second. You'd know him from miles away.

He strode out of the door and into the sunlight, all familiar brown curls and broad shoulders and Ray-Bans on his nose and an Hawaiian shirt on and his bag lazily slung over his shoulder and that moustache - by god you'd have killed him if he'd shaved that off!

He turned his head and looked at you and a grin broke out on your lips, so wide, so incredibly wide that it felt like it'd split your face in half and before you could think, before you could form any coherent thought you were already moving, your legs with a mind of their own. You were sprinting towards him. Sprinting all through the parking lot, your heels click-clicking on the pavement, and Bradley grinned, grinned and let his bag fall to the ground carelessly, opened his arms instead. Wide, so wide. He was so tall. So broad. So inviting as you ran at him, as you jumped at him, as you wrapped your arms and your legs around him at the same time, as he caught you effortlessly, as your lips landed on his.

As you crashed into him, completely, and he didn't even stagger an inch back.

You had missed four months of this.

And now his lips were on yours. Your legs around his waist. Your arms crossed behind his neck. His breath against your mouth. His lips parted. His tongue against yours.

You were desperate. And you could feel just how desperate he was, too.

You could feel all the passion, all the fiery, red passion, all the force and firmness put into this kiss as his tongue ran along yours, as your breaths met and mingled, as his hands dug into your thighs to keep you upright, to keep you snug to him.

You pulled back incredibly reluctantly. You didn't want to let go of him. You never wanted to let go of him ever again. You wanted to have him, all of him, right here, right now, and then for eternity. But you couldn't, you couldn't because this was the middle of the parking lot, and also because you at least wanted to say hello first.

So you blinked open your eyes and took him in and allowed yourself to grin as broad and as wide as you needed to right now.

"You're back", you whispered, just because that realisation still had to sink in. "You're really back."

Bradley nuzzled your nose with his and let out a hum - god, how you'd missed him. The feel of him, the sound of him.

"Yeah, I'm here, honey", he muttered, that smile of his dripping down onto his voice. "I'm here and I won't leave any time soon."

You couldn't help but lean in again, couldn't help but capture his lips again because how else, how on earth would you let him feel all the joy you were experiencing right now? You didn't even know if you could actually feel all of it. You definitely wouldn't be able to put it into words. So you dug your teeth into his bottom lip and sighed into him and pulled him closer, closer and closer, even further into you.

"I missed you", you breathed against his mouth. "I love you and I missed you, Bradley."

He chuckled, kissed you again, drew back just enough to still touch you somehow, to still have his lips on your skin somehow and be able to talk at the same time.

"I love you so much, honey", he muttered. "And I missed you so much."

And then his lips were on yours again, his fingers digging even harder into your thighs, his breath and his tongue and his moustache scratching against your skin and you moaned, because there was no more anything you could possibly have done, because you couldn't help yourself, because you couldn't stop yourself, because you didn't want to either. You wanted to let him know just how goddamn fucking much you'd missed him.

Bradley had to bite back a laugh, pulled back and looked at you through his sunglasses.

"Sounds like we should get home, honey", he said, his eyebrows raised and his smile deepening with every word. "Been waiting for that for four months."

You let out another soft moan, pushed yourself even closer to him, dug one hand into the back of his hair and scratched the other down his shoulders, down his shirt. You wanted to feel him. All of him. God, the ride home would take ten minutes. Ten minutes. How were you supposed to survive that?

"Please", you whispered onto his lips, and you didn't think you had ever meant it as much as you did now.

Bradley groaned and kissed you again, quickly, heatedly, his tongue running along your bottom lip and then pulling back again. This wasn't enough. This wasn't enough.

He set you down on the pavement again softly, your legs a bit wobbly, unsteady, and trailed one hand from your thigh to your back - anything to keep touching you as he bent down to pick up his bag again. You smiled up at him, smoothed down the front of your dress and beamed as his eyes traveled down your body.

When they snapped back up to catch your gaze, the grin on his face had turned into a much more intense expression.

"You look gorgeous, honey", he muttered, tugging you further into his side, letting his eyes drop down to your chest again. You had to bite down on your lip to keep from jumping at him right this second. He should not have been allowed to just look at you if you couldn't have him touch you too. "Did you pick out new nail polish just for this dress?"

Your grin broadened. Of course he'd notice. Bradley Bradshaw was the only man in the whole universe who would notice. And he was yours.

"Yes, I did", you smiled, looking up at him as he walked with you back to the car. He hummed softly.

"It works great together", he said. Your breath hitched. He was gorgeous and he was here and he had noticed your nail polish. He was perfect. And you wanted him to fuck your brains out. "Reminds me of your burgundy silk dress."

You had to bite down on your lip again - god, you hadn't done that nearly as often when he'd been away! - to keep yourself grounded and to keep your grin in check before it could truly split your face in half.

Your burgundy silk dress was the one you'd worn to Penny and Mav's wedding two years ago that you had spent three weeks hunting down matching lipstick and matching nail polish for. Bradley had worn that lipstick on the base of his cock for most of the night.

"You're incredible, do you know that?", you asked, your voice a bit breathy. Bradley stopped in front of the Bronco, turned to you and pulled you close again. You brought your hands up to his chest.

"I've been told", he muttered, tilted his head down to look at you and then leaned down even further to brush a kiss to your nose. "Open up the Bronco so I can put my bag in the trunk?"

You let your eyes flutter close for just a tiny little moment (he was close, so close and you would literally die if he didn't start touching you any time soon) and breathed in as Bradley chuckled. You'd put the key in your pocket and were scrambling to get it out now, taking one, two seconds too long before you heard the familiar click of the car unlocking.

"Thanks, pretty girl", Bradley mumbled, letting go of you to pull open the trunk and you had to push down a sigh of disappointment, even as anticipation rose up in your stomach. You hadn't heard him call you pretty girl in months.

When he turned back around to you, you were still frozen in spot, still smiling dumbly at him, still waiting for him to touch you, to kiss you, to fuck you. He smiled back and you knew that he knew just what you were thinking. But you couldn't even begin to care. You wanted to get him home as quickly as possible.

"You need to stop looking at me like that, honey", he said, his voice an octave deeper and you just so managed not to let another dumb, pathetic moan slip. He closed the trunk and took a step back to you. "You know I can't help myself when you look at me like that."

At that, you did let the moan tumble from your lips after all.

He'd been away for four months. And he was looking at you with his eyes all dark and his jaw clenched and his chest rising and falling heavily. How on earth were you supposed to be normal about this? You were falling apart already and he hadn't even got you home. Four months had been a long, long time.

His hands were on your waist then, forcing you against the side of the bronco, the door handle digging into your back, the metal warmed up by the sun and your arms crossing behind his neck as his body crowded yours, one leg between yours and no more space to touch, to feel, to see anything that wasn't him - he turned his head to check if the other car had driven away and then his lips were on yours, his knee pressing against your centre.

"Bradley", you moaned into his mouth, before his tongue brushed yours and rendered you speechless. You rocked against his knee, bare skin against your thighs and you wanted to sob, you really actually wanted to sob, because this was the most contact you'd gotten in four fucking months.

Bradley pulled back an inch.

"You're soaked", he groaned against your lips, his breath on your skin, his hands on your waist and you thrust your head back against the car, against the window, squeezed your eyes shut, kept on rocking against his knee.

"I know", you whined. "Been soaked for months."

Bradley let out another groan and pulled back, pulled away from you and you whimpered, blinking your eyes open again because you'd been so close to finally getting what you wanted and now he was taking that right away from you again. You looked up at him and the only reason you didn't straight up voice your disappointment was that he looked just as debauched as you felt - running his hands through his hair, running them over his face, his curls all messed up and a considerable bulge already visible in his jeans.

"Get in the car", he rasped, taking another step back from you as though he had to physically put distance between the two of you so he wouldn't give in and take you right in this parking lot. Not that you would've minded. That other car was long gone. But that he had to restrain himself so much, that he looked so positively exhausted, that his voice was so hard and so rough and so raw, that he had already, so easily begun giving you orders drove you crazy. Orders that you knew you had to follow because this was him, this was Bradley, and if he wanted something from you.... he'd get it. You'd give it to him no matter what. You'd give him everything.

So you pushed yourself off the car with a hard breath and trailed around to the passenger side, keeping your eyes on the ground even as you heard Bradley shuffle and open the driver's door because you knew that if you looked at him, no matter how much you wanted to follow his commands, there was a high chance you wouldn't be able to help yourself.

It wouldn't be the first time.

The seat felt hot and your skin sticked to it immediately and you would have cared in any other situation, but not in this one. Not when Bradley put his hand to your thigh, to your bare skin, to just below the hem of your dress. You could have cried.

He was here, finally, and he was touching you, finally, but he wasn't touching you enough, not nearly enough. This would be a long ten minutes. You pushed your sunglasses up into your hair, turned your head and rested it against the head rest, smiling at the image before you - Bradley in the driver's seat of his Bronco, the steering wheel in one hand, the sun on his face, his curls longer than when you'd last seen them. Had he got more tan? Was that possible?

God, how you'd missed this man.

And he was here now, here, next to you, with one hand on your thigh and a grin playing on his lips and you couldn't help but smile. Big and broad and all-consuming because he was here again, this man that you called yours, he was right here next to you after four months. You loved him. You'd missed him so incredibly much.

His hand moved a little higher up on your thigh, his thumbs brushing, stroking over exposed skin, raising up your dress the slightest bit. Your breath hitched.

"Bradley-", you sighed, jaw clenching as you melted, melted at every little touch because you didn't have to only remember it anymore. You could just push up into him, watch him, breathe in his familiar scent, run your fingers along his arm. This was no more imagining, no more picturing, this was real, this was happening.

"God, I missed you saying my name like that", he groaned, tightening his grip on your thigh and you bit down on your lip, wrapped your fingers around his biceps, his wrist, forced yourself to keep your eyes open so you could keep watching him. You wouldn't miss out on a single second of watching him.

"Bradley", you repeated softly. "I'll say your name as often as you want me to."

His fingers dug even harder into your thigh as he let out some strangled sounding moan.

"You're gonna be the death of me", he muttered - how often you'd thought the same about him! "I'm lucky if I can hold out these ten minutes."

You watched him quietly for a second. You could sense the heat radiating off of him, could see his clenched jaw, could feel his deathgrip on your thigh, could hardly ignore the blazing arousal in your own veins. But if he'd wanted to fuck you in the back of his Bronco, he would've. (As picky as he was about who drove his car, he'd never had a single problem railing you into oblivion in the backseat.) There was a reason he was holding out. You could only guess that he wanted to do this properly - with time and room and no risk of getting caught by the authorities. Should you have minded? Should you have begged him to take you as quickly as possible? You were sure he would have, if you'd pleaded prettily enough. But you were quite alright with time and room and no risk of getting caught. At least for right now. The both of you would manage a ten minute ride, right? You had managed four months. Ten minutes were nothing in comparison.

"Okay", you said, trailed your fingers down to his and intertwined your hands. "I'll help. I'll tell you something. Distract you."

"You can try, honey", he chuckled, sneaked a quick sideways glance at you. "Tell me about the house."

You lit up at that. You had been dying to tell him about the house. So you pushed your arousal deep, deep down (which was easier said than done) and smiled up at him.

"I don't even know where to start", you said honestly, giving yourself a second to think about it. You had ten minutes, after all. And you had to fill them all if you wanted both of you to survive this drive.

So you told him about everything.

The short version, of course.

He'd heard some of it over the phone already, but he hadn't been able to call often and you'd spent most of your time crying and telling him how much you loved and missed him when he had answered, so...

The ten minutes went by more easily this way. You went on and on and on and on about the house, his fingers between yours, your eyes locked on his, with the occasional comment about how sorry he was that he hadn't been there to help. It had been unfortunate, of course, but at the same time it had given you something to put all your time and effort into, which had greatly helped you through his deployment. Plus, there had always been help when you had needed it - Penny and Amelia and Mav, Phoenix and Bob and Jake. The rest of the squad had been scattered, called off to their own missions, but those six you had been able to count on whenever.

Bradley's hand on your thigh was still highly distracting. He moved it up and down a few times, and each time your breath hitched, each time you stumbled over your own words, each time he grinned again.

At one point, his fingertips brushed so close to your underwear that you pushed his hand forcefully back down to your knee. He had been the one so worried he wouldn't manage a ten minute ride and now he was the one teasing you.

Not that you really minded.

But you truly felt like going insane.

Then, finally! you caught sight of your driveway. Bradley was out of the car the second he'd parked it, pulling his hand from your thigh and the key out of the ignition and you had barely unbuckled yourself when he was already opening your door, taking your hand and tugging you out, sending you stumbling into him, into his arms.

He pressed his lips to yours as he pushed the door close, pushed you up against it again, pushed the hem of your dress up to grasp at your bare thigh. You wrapped your arms around his neck, forced him even closer.

"Bradley", you gasped softly. You hadn't moaned his name like that in four months, you'd do it so often today he would get tired of it. Even though you knew that he wouldn't, of course - he would never get tired of you whispering his name into his mouth, into the nothingness of an empty room, into his ear, into the pillows.

He didn't pull back from you, even as he took a slow, careful step away - making sure you'd catch on, making sure you'd follow, making sure to keep you safely, steadily against him. Not that you'd have done anything else. You trusted him with your life, you would trust him to keep you upright. So you did just what he wanted, followed, stumbled with him, eyes closed, lips on his, fingers brushing along his shoulders.

He did pull back then - just an inch or two, to turn you around, to look over your shoulder once, to tear his hand from your thigh and wrap his arms around you instead. And then his lips were back on yours again and his tongue running along yours. He pushed and you followed his wordless command, your legs working quicker than your mind, stumbling, tripping backwards, backwards, backwards and you barely cared, barely even acknowledged the ground beneath your feet because you were wrapped up in his arms, because you were tugging at his curls, because he was here, kissing you, finally.

You weren't needy.

You were desperate. You were depraved, frantic, starved. He was the air you needed to breathe and you hadn't taken a single breath in the past four months.

So you weren't pretending in the way you pulled him close, closer, closer, or in the frenzied way you kissed him, or in the desperate way you sighed, groaned, moaned against him, into him. You needed him. You needed more of him. All of him. You needed to get inside so you could have him.

You bumped into the door then, just short of digging the doorknob into your spine - Bradley pushed you right up against it and you gasped into his mouth, into the kiss. He crowded you against the door much like he'd crowded you against the Bronco, pulling his arms from around you to grasp your waist instead, to press your hips up to the door as well, and used one hand to fumble for the keyhole. He did so blindly, with his eyes still closed, his lips still on yours, with one of your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, your heels digging into his shorts.

Needless to say, he needed quite some time to turn the key.

You didn't mind. Not in the slightest.

You were making out with Bradley Bradshaw right on the doorstep of the house you shared with him, in the bright afternoon sunlight and truly, you couldn't have minded less. You didn't give two fucks about any of your neighbours or any passerbys spotting you - should they, by god! Bradley had come home from deployment after four months, you would make out with him on your doorstep for as long as you wanted to. You wouldn't ever stop making out with him ever again.

Not when he was here again, in your arms, with your fingers tugging at his hair, brushing along his neck, stroking along the collar of his shirt, sweeping along his shoulders. Not with your leg around his hips. Not with your lips on his. Not with anticipation, with arousal in every fibre of your body, of your soul. You were going mad with it. You were getting drunk on it.

You were euphoric when Bradley finally opened the gods damned front door.

He kept you safe and steady even as the support at your back broke away, as you almost crashed onto the floor of your own hallway. He walked you back into the pleasant cold and for once, for the first and probably the only time, you were the one to break away. You gave yourself a second to catch your breath. Then you pushed off of him completely. You took a step away, pulled the key from the door, pushed it close and when you turned back around, Bradley had set his sunglasses down on the little table you had put next to the coat rack a few weeks ago.

And you looked him in the eyes for the first time in four months.

He motioned at the table.

"Looks great, honey", he said, his voice a little too rough to sound quite normal. "Nice touch."

You shook your head softly.

"I couldn't care less about the table right now", you muttered, and with that, you were on him again. Actually, truly, fully on him again. You pushed yourself right up onto him, into him, pried his shirt off his shoulders, off his arms, let it drop down to the ground and then reached for his jaw to drag him further down, to deepen the kiss even if you knew that was impossible. So you bit down on his lip and allowed him to finally push your dress up over your hips, over your chest, over your head - you had to let go of him for a moment then, had to pull away from him so he could drop your dress on the floor and before you could even come close to reaching out for him again, he was taking a step back.

You could feel his eyes raking down your body. You could feel him taking in the white lingerie on your skin - the strings of the thong high up on your hips, intricate lace around your waist, the small bow right in the centre of it, the bra cups almost transparent, the floral white pattern covering up your nipples, the other few, small bows sown onto the straps.

You sucked in a breath at the look on his face. You hadn't seen that look in far too long.

"God, honey", Bradley groaned, reached for your waist, brushed his thumbs along the lace, ran his fingertips along the lingerie. You bit down on your lip as he pulled you, slowly, carefully, into him - gave you enough time to rest your hands on his chest, your palms against his tank top. "You look sinful. Did you buy that just for me?"

You nodded, swallowed.

"Just for you", you admitted. "Wanted to surprise you."

Bradley tugged you another inch closer, so close that your chest bumped into his, your breasts pressing against him. He let out a hum, his eyes dropping down to your cleavage.

"You did that, pretty girl", he muttered, his fingers digging into your sides. "You're incredible."

Then his lips were on yours again and you were melting, becoming putty in his hands, turning to goo in his arms. Your breaths met, lips parted. You couldn't quite believe you were finally touching him again.

He walked you back to the bedroom, narrowly avoiding the doorway, his hands on your hips, his fingers digging into your bum. You reached for the hem of his shirt, forced him to stop right on the threshold so you could get rid of it - get rid of that one layer of fabric still in the way. You drew back for a second to pull it over his head, to drop it to the floor, to let your eyes travel all over his bare torso.

God, how you'd missed this man and his broad shoulders and his washboard abs. How you'd missed his touch and the sound of his voice.

"Bradley", you gasped softly, your fingertips trailing over his naked skin, down to his shorts. "I need you."

He let out a groan.

"I've waited four months for you to say that again", he muttered. You could hardly take another breath before he was on you again - lips on yours and hands on your hips and your back hit the bed a moment later, the cushy mattress, the fluffy pillows softening your fall.

You raised yourself up onto your elbows so you could watch him as he stood in front of your bed, the sunlight dripping down him like drops of water hitting the floorboards, his torso bare, his curls messed up, looking down at you with a heaving chest, his fingers on his belt, unhooking it, opening the button on his jeans, pulling down his zipper - you swallowed hard as you watched him drop his shorts on the floor, step out of his shoes.

A whine rolled off your tongue.

"Bradley, hurry up", you whimpered, your fingers cramping in the sheets, your legs pressing together all of their own accord, trying to get some kind of friction as he undressed himself in slow motion while you just lay there, your panties long soaked through and your fingers itching to trail down your own body.

Bradley chuckled.

"Don't worry, honey", he muttered, kneeling down on the ground to drop kisses to your calves before pulling off your sandals. "I'll make sure you forget about the past four months, alright?"

Your breath hitched as your heels hit the ground.

"Please", you begged softly. "I've missed you so much."

He wrapped his hands around your hips, pulled you to the edge of the bed - his breath ghosting over your underwear, over that tiny white piece of lingerie you had bought for him, for him to take you apart in. His fingers dug into your skin, spread out wide, to touch as much of you as he possibly could. He pressed a kiss right to that wet spot on your thong.

You let out a moan. God, how had you survived four months without him? You were barely surviving fifteen minutes of not having him fuck you.

Bradley grinned, raised his head to meet your eyes and seriously, you were close. Too close. He hadn't touched you yet, not really. You'd die today, you were sure, die and go to heaven.

"You look almost too good to undress, honey", he muttered, brushing his thumbs below that lace around your waist, not making a move to pull it down your legs.

"Bradley, please", you whined, your hands brushing over your own chest, running over your bra cups, tracing the flowers, desperately holding back from just ripping everything off yourself, pushing him onto his knees and riding him into oblivion. "Don't tease. I need you."

He groaned into the skin of your thigh.

"Anything you want, honey", he muttered - and then your thong was gone and he was burying his tongue inside you, dipping, tracing, licking, circling your clit, breathing you in, devouring you. Taking and giving everything. It had been four months since he'd had you like this and he wanted everything, every inch of you he could get. He wanted to taste you, every last drop of you, wanted to eat you out until you couldn't think anymore, until you had truly, fully forgotten all the time he had been away, all the time you had been forced to be on your own, alone.

You thrashed, moaned above him - your fingers clenching around your bra, brushing over your nipples. You were close. Close after the entirety of three seconds, close to tears, close to coming.

"Bradley", you choked out, tearing your hands off yourself, burying them in his hair instead - tugging him off, tugging him away from you. You took a deep breath as he let go of you, as he loosened his grip on you, looked up at you with desperation in his eyes.

"I need you to fuck me", you whimpered, already too sensitive, too tense. "I need you inside me."

You hadn't had him in four months.

Four months had been enough goddamn foreplay. As much as you loved when he ate you out, you needed him, you needed his cock, you needed to feel him inside you, you needed him to take you apart and make up for all the time lost.

Bradley nodded, nodded because he knew, he understood - he saw the frantic look in your eyes, had felt the desperate drag of your hands at his clothes, his arms, his shoulders, his hair. He'd give anything to you. Everything. He would do whatever you wanted of him.

Maybe in another situation he'd have made you beg more, would have teased you more, would have edged you a few times. Maybe in another situation. But not in this one. Not after four months of being away from you, not when you were so beautifully, so desperately spread out beneath him, looking up at him with wide eyes and rosy cheeks, your lip pulled between your teeth, your gorgeous white lingerie still concealing too much of your skin.

As he'd said, you were almost too gorgeous to undress. But just almost.

So he rose up from the ground, pulled you up with him, pulled you in, his fingers brushing along your sides, your spine, your bra clasp. He let it fall open. You worked fast, worked your bra down your arms and off your hands and drew back from him to fling it against the wall and lay down on the bed, lay down all pretty and waiting.

You needed him to fuck you. Now.

He let out a groan, closed his eyes. The look on his face had you pressing your legs together again. Wetness was coating the inside of your thighs now. It glistened on his moustache. And you were sure you could have tasted it on his tongue too.

He was making you go insane.

"How do you want me, pretty girl?", he asked, pressing his knees into the side of the mattress. "Tell me how and I'll do whatever you want."

Your breath hitched in your throat. Your nerves were bubbling up. Four months. You'd waited four months for this one question.

"Behind", you whined. "Need you from behind."

Bradley had known, of course, because that was what you always said when he stood at the front of your bed and asked you this question. His hands were on your waist, grasping, grabbing, turning you over before you had fully finished speaking, your cheek pressed against the pillows, your breath coming short and shorter, adrenaline pumping through every single one of your veins. You felt hot and sticky and needy and nervous.

Nervous because Bradley stilled.

Nervous because he sucked in a sharp breath.

Nervous, even though you had been here a million times before, in his bed and in yours, bent over desks and bars and couches, with the heat of him behind you, arousal flowing through your body like oxygen, anticipation clouding your mind.

"Shit, honey", Bradley breathed.

You closed your eyes and clenched your jaw.

How you'd have loved to see his expression. But you had known you wouldn't. You had prepared yourself to be satisfied with the sound of his voice, with the feel of him so close to you.

"Shit", Bradley repeated. He took another deep breath in. "You got a tattoo?"

A tattoo.

Your tattoo.

You nodded into the pillow, scraped your cheek against the fabric, so eager, so quick to agree. Four months you had waited for this. Four months since you had begun planning this - the very day after he'd left, in a conversation with none other than Phoenix. Four long, lonely months.

Bradley ran his thumb along the soft expanse of your skin. Along that strip of skin right above your hips, just where they met your back - right above your ass, right where he could see so very perfectly.

He was gentle. Almost not touching you at all. As though he was afraid he could somehow, even after all this time, hurt you, as though he was afraid he could wipe it away.

"It's healed", you whined, breathlessly, trying your hardest not to squirm, not to push back further into him even though you felt like you were going insane. You'd known he'd take his sweet time staring at that inked expanse of skin. But you hadn't known you would be so goddamn desperate for him to fuck you into delirium while he did so. "It's fully healed."

Bradley was quiet, silent behind you. His thumb stilled, stayed still. You sunk your teeth into your lip.

You would truly go mad here. For more than one reason now.

Bradley was always loud. Always moving, always doing something. He was forward and honest and loud and it was a miracle, really, when he wasn't. When he was calm and quiet and still. It didn't always mean something good.

It surely didn't always mean something bad, either.

But it didn't always mean something good.

And you hadn't been nervous. You hadn't been nervous about showing him, because you knew he loved you and he'd love this - this show of him, this show for him. Just for him. But you had still been fidgety. You had still been excited, flustered.... nervous, after all. In a good way. Now, good was turning to less good because he was quiet, for once, quiet and you didn't know what to do, what to say. You had expected him to go feral, had expected him to fuck you raw, to go absolutely ballistic. You had imagined, pictured, visualised it, four months long. Every night that you hadn't been remembering him, you had been imagining this - this moment right here, where he read the words inked forever into your skin, and every time, again and again, your fingers hadn't been enough, your vibrator hadn't been enough, nothing had been enough. Not in comparison to him, to his fingers and his tongue and his cock.

And every time, again and again, when nothing had been enough to replace him, you thought to yourself just how right it had been to have lain on that leather table bed in that tattoo parlour four months ago. Just how right it was to have him marked on your skin like that. Forever.

Great Balls Of Fire.

"Bradley, please", you whimpered, your fingers closing around whatever piece of fabric you could manage to grab at - the covers, the sheets, the pillows. "Say something. Please"

Bradley let out a long breath.

"Great Balls Of Fire?", he asked quietly, his fingers brushing over your skin again. Some kind of reassurance, at least.

"Thought you'd like it", you mumbled into the pillow, stumbling, tripping over your words a bit, still breathless around the edges. You couldn't be expected to talk now. Not when he was so close to giving you what you needed.

"Like it?" His hands wrapped around your waist, his left thumb still stroking over those unfamiliar familiar letters on your skin - Great Balls Of Fire, in his handwriting, taken from one of his sheets of music, from his piano. His song. His father's song.

Your song.

Your song.

Your song.

"Honey", Bradley rasped, pulling you an inch back to him and you let a whine fall from your lips. You were soaked, you were dripping, you were desperate and still so very unsatisfied. "Do I like it? I love it. I love you. God, you got a tattoo. You're incredible. You're-"

He stumbled over his own words, trailed off, left his sentence hanging unfinished in mid air. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss right on top of your tattoo. Right on top of those letters, on top of that song, on top of your song. On top of the very reason you had met, six years ago in a stuffed navy bar.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me", he muttered, dropping another kiss onto your skin.

You whimpered again.

"You've been so good to me, honey, haven't you?", he went on, as though he wasn't hearing those little whines, those little moans rolling off your tongue. He was. You knew that. "You waited so prettily for me to come back, didn't you? You were so eager for me to be home again, so eager for me to be with you again that you even got a tattoo?"

You nodded along, nodded and nodded and kept on nodding because yes, yes and yes - yes to everything, yes to him.

"You got a tattoo just for me, honey. You can't even see it. Probably had to twist and turn in the mirror every day to take care of it, didn't you? And all just for me."

You nodded again - never really stopped nodding, not with his fingers brushing along your back, over your skin, with his voice so deep and rough and real.

"Just for you", you whined.

Bradley chuckled.

"Just for me", he repeated, his voice deeper than before - if that was even possible - his fingers stroking along your sides, roaming over your back, your spine. "Such a good girl."

A shiver went through your entire body at that - through your legs, your arms, your shoulders, through every single one of your fingers and toes. He knew just what he did to you when he said that.

He knew.

"Bradley", you moaned, unashamed now, the nerves in your veins long subsided, replaced once more by that all-consuming heat that you could never get enough of.

"Yeah, honey?", he asked. You could hear the grin on his lips. "What do you want?"

You let out a sort of sob that sounded pathetic even to your own ears. It wasn't that you minded begging. Because you didn't. You really didn't. But you had already done so, had already begged him miserably, had told him so prettily how you wanted him to fuck you. And he was starting all over again.

"Just once more, honey", Bradley whispered, dropping kisses to your spine, climbing higher and higher. "Tell me once more and you'll get whatever you want."

"Fuck me", you cried out, burying your face in the pillow, not letting even half a second pass by. Bradley always made good on his promises. And you needed him more than anything right now. "Please fuck me."

He was on you within a heartbeat.

One hand around your waist, pulling you into him, as the other one guided himself into you. He pushed into you in one smooth movement, pushed his hips right to yours, stretched you out like he hadn't in four goddamn months.

You were clenching around him, moaning his name, tears brimming in your eyes at the feeling of him again, finally. He was grunting, groaning behind you, his hands clasping around your waist as he settled deep inside you and let out a breath.

You hadn't felt so stretched out in so long. You hadn't felt him in so long. You needed more. You needed to feel more of him.

"Bradley", you whimpered. "Move."

His fingers dug even firmer into your sides. You bit down on your lip. He felt so good, so heavenly with his hands on your skin and his cock deep inside you, but you needed him to move, you needed him to move now, you needed him to fuck you and make you fall apart for him.

"Need a second, honey", he grunted, running his thumbs along your skin - along your new tattoo, just for this, just for him. "God, pretty girl, you're so tight. Missed you so much."

You whimpered underneath him, whimpered as you forced yourself to keep still for him, even as your thighs burned with the need to move, the need for more, the need to finally come undone around him. You knew you were close already. You could feel it, had been feeling it, dancing around the edges of your perception, melting in your blood, scorching in your stomach.

"Missed you too, Bradley", you moaned into the pillow, breathless and desperate for him. "Want to be good for you. So good."

"God, honey, you are", he groaned. "So good. Perfect."

And then he was moving, finally, and you let out a sobbed kind of prayer, your eyes falling shut, your fingers digging into the sheets as he thrust in and out of you in a slow, steady rhythm - enjoying the feeling of you around him, letting you enjoy the feeling of him inside you.

Just that you couldn't enjoy this.

You couldn't enjoy this because you were wound so tightly, wound so goddamn tightly that tears were pricking in your eyes, threatening to run down your cheeks and drop onto the covers. You needed him to make you fall apart, to make you come, you needed more. Just a little more.

You were teetering on the edge and he had you spiralling with how slowly he was fucking you. You needed him to send you over that edge, not build it higher and higher and higher up.

"Bradley", you whined, stumbling clumsily over his name as he ran a hand up your back. "More."

"Dunno if I can-" He broke off, his breath hitching, his fingers resting on your neck, brushing through your hair. "Fuck, honey, dunno if I can do more without coming."

You bit down on your lip at that, let out a moan so absolutely filthy that you were sure you would have been embarrassed of it if you'd had any more capacity to think - to think of anything other than him, anything other than how this god, who could fuck you for hours on end without tiring once, with so much stamina he could have you sobbing, coming for him four, five times on his cock alone, how this god was so desperate for you after four months that he was worried he'd come if he went any faster.

You were almost pushed over the edge just by that alone.

"I don't care", you cried, because you really didn't. "I don't need long, I need you. I'm so close."

Bradley grunted, his fingers brushing even higher up on your scalp.

"You're gonna be the death of me, honey", he muttered, just before he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you up onto your knees - into him, into his arms, your back flush to his chest. You dropped your head against his shoulder with a moan, let your eyes fall shut again.

He thrust up into you with vigor then, with more urgency, with less fear of coming undone, less fear of cutting this short. His hands smoothed over your sides, over your chest, holding you up against him, brushing along your breasts, along your stomach.

And all you could think was yes, this, this was it. This was what you had been imagining, what you had been picturing in a cold, lonesome bed every night, what you had been so desperate for.

His fingers trailed down your thigh, trailed up again, caught on your clit, drew a circle against that little bundle of nerves and you fell forward, doubled over, only held up by him, by his arms around you as you came undone, as you clenched around him.

Four months.

Four months and a tattoo.

And he hadn't even had you there for two minutes, had barely touched you, and now you were falling apart for him, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut, legs burning, fingers cramping. You'd waited four months for this.

You could feel him spilling inside you, noticed it somewhere dancing around the edges of your perception as you gasped for breath, tears stinging your cheeks and your nails digging into your own thighs.

This.

Him.

Bradley's finger had stilled on your clit. You blinked your eyes open, refocused on your green wallpaper, on the pictures, the old vintage polaroids of you and him right above the bed until you could see them all clearly again, until you could see them and realise what they were, until you could manage to tilt your head back and rest it, once more, against Bradley's shoulder. Until you had come back to reality again.

"I missed you so much, honey", he muttered into your ear, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss onto your exposed neck. "Missed this so much."

"Missed you so much too", you mumbled, reached for his hands. He pulled his finger from your clit, let you intertwine your hands with his, rested them carefully on your stomach. "Love you, Bradley."

He pressed another kiss to your neck, his lips warm, oh so warm on your skin, soft and warm and you needed him to kiss you now, to press his lips to yours.

"I love you too, honey", he whispered, halfway to brushing another kiss onto your skin when you turned your head, met his lips with your own, cut him off by surprise.

This was a weird angle, you had to strain your neck to even slot your lips together somewhat well and you were sloppy with it, too, your chest still heaving and your mind returning to clarity just now, but you didn't care, couldn't care, not when he'd just made you come, when he was holding you in his arms, when he was finally here, right behind you again, as though the last four months hadn't happened at all.

When you pulled back, you were feeling more normal again - as normal as you possibly could feel, with him behind you, with him inside you still.

"You got a tattoo", Bradley breathed, a grin dancing around the corners of his lips. You chuckled.

"Just for you", you nodded, brushing your fingertips up his arms, up to his elbows.

Bradley kissed you again, all parted lips and breathing into each other. You felt almost melancholic when he drew back. But he was smiling - and when he smiled, you had to smile too.

"I'm never letting you go again", he said, loosened his grip on you to trail his hands slowly, softly down your body, giving you enough time to steady yourself without him holding you up anymore. "And I'm not letting you leave this bed until the sun comes up, alright, pretty girl?"

You had to bite down on your lip to keep from grinning, anticipation already bubbling in your veins again. You knew he could make good on that promise. And that he probably would.

"Yes, please, Bradley", you muttered, already bending down again, splaying out your hands to catch yourself on the mattress as you showed him your tattoo again, just for him to see, just for him to touch. Just for him. "Whatever you want. As long as you want. I love you."

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

eye for an eye

pairing: leon x reader

cw: noncon, angst, p in v, degradation, victim blaming, mentions of past noncon, light allusions to possible csa, leon is both the abuser and the abused (same w/reader)

summary: after experiencing SA as leon's subordinate at the DSO, you decide to get "justice" by giving him a taste of his own medicine

a/n: if noncon is a trigger for you, do not read! not putting noncon in the tags bc i fear it will get filtered out of other tags, so please note the warnings above!

wc: 1.8k

thank you to @d10nyx for beta reading <3

Leon has you bent over his desk, hands sliding under your skirt, snarling filth into your ear. You’ve learned to bite the bullet and take it. Breathe – in… out… in… out… – it will end, like all pain. You keep ice packs in a cooler in your car, you still end up sore whether or not you choose to put up a fight. You eat your sandwich in the passenger seat with your feet on the dash. You do not cry anymore. You grab the sweatshirt from the backseat, scream into it once and walk back in. The routine works well for quite some time.

It’s worse when there aren’t any other women in the office, or at least, women of Leon’s status who would be able to report him. He’ll fuck you against your will in the privacy of his office, but not outside those four blank fucking walls – you’ve memorized the way the paint chips – if he thinks he’ll get caught. The sick bastard still cares about getting in trouble.

If there’s no Hunnigan, Sherry, or Helena in sight, Leon follows you into the women’s room. You’ve thought about pissing in the men’s room instead – you’d be more likely to have a witness if Leon dared to touch you there. You’ve thought about pissing in his fucking trashcan just out of spite, but he’d probably like that because he’s pure 100% pervert.

He pushes you up against the bathroom sink so hard the automatic hand dryer goes off. Once, he kept his hand under it the whole time to make sure no one heard the sounds of your struggle. You don’t struggle today. You don’t comply either, you just stand there limp, the only muscles that work are the ones that crinkle in disgust – you have to watch yourself in the mirror as he fucks you. You don’t cry for your own sake. You watch the lines in the corners of your eyes. They haven’t changed. Your pupils do, they’re emptier now, black voids. Eyes are not the windows to the soul, at least not to yours. You painted those windows shut. Not Leon’s either, you doubt he has a soul.

His hands wrap around the column of your neck as he jackhammers his cock inside you. The tip doesn’t kiss your cervix, it fucking punches it. Your IUD – you got it earlier that year in case Leon ever “forgets” to pull out – pokes the head of his dick and you have to stifle a laugh as he winces. Fuck you. Fuck you for fucking me. He buries the pain and shoves himself deeper, hits the little string again and a drip of blood falls from your uterus. Whatever. It does that once a month. Funny, he can’t hurt you as much as your own body can. Well, he could, but he hasn’t tried yet. He could kill you. You consider that fact all too often – what you’d be willing to do for him if he held you at gunpoint.

When he’s done, he hands you a wad of toilet paper to wipe his cum off your ass. He thinks its a courtesy. He leaves the bathroom before you do. Aftercare, for you, means five minutes of peace and quiet. He can’t get his dick back up immediately, he won’t come back and fuck you again, not yet. Aftercare means relief. Deep breath.

You allocate two to three minutes for crying. Your waterproof mascara is worth the twenty five dollars you paid. You cover your mouth with your hand and sob. You check the clock on the phone, times up. Look in the mirror, pull yourself together. You mouth the last three words to your own reflection. You have sympathy for the woman who stares back at you, but it’s tough love now. Nothing about you is soft anymore. You made the mistake of being kindhearted. It’s what led you here.

The next couple of minutes are peace. The post-tears state is orgasmic, truly. You feel sleepy, a tired smile graces your face. You capture it and keep it in a bottle for safe keeping. You run your fingers through your hair, wipe up any smudged makeup and return to business as usual.

You come to find that your indifference to his actions bothers Leon tremendously. It feels like you’re winning. You don’t like what he does to you. If you liked it, he could call you a whore and embarrass you. You don’t struggle, and force him to hold you down, a situation wherein he wins. You remain as silent and still as possible and it pisses him off to no end.

His only victory comes when you refuse to meet his eyes when you come into his office looking for something to do. He can see how he’s broken you down. He’s winning.

You find a solution. It’s sadistic, it’s sick, it’s morally reprehensible- illegal, too. But the other things you tried never worked. HR? No, Leon told them you lied. Putting up a fight? He’s stronger than you. Trying to get yourself to enjoy it? It’s something you can’t force. You looked up “how to induce Stockholm syndrome” and couldn’t find anything.

It’s an eye for an eye, baby.

Leon’s an idiot for getting wasted in front of you. You already have the upper hand, especially since he slurs out pathetic apologies while he throws himself a pity party.

“I’m sorry. You must hate me,” he says, “I’m a terrible person.”

“Yes, you are.”

You take him by the collar of his shirt and force him onto his living room couch. You rip his shirt off, making sure the buttons pop off to inconvenience him later.

Fuck your nice shirt. I hate you. I hate the way you look in it. I hate seeing you behind me in the mirror of the bathroom with the top button undone.

At first, he seems to enjoy it. Until you bite his neck too hard and his eyes well with tears. You overheard him telling someone once that he hates the feeling of anything touching his neck, so you make sure to choke him a bit while you do this. You don’t physically injure him ‘cause you’ve still got at least half a heart left.

You tear his pants down and shove his dick inside you. He likes it. You hold his wrists down and spit in his face. You can’t tell if he likes that or not.

Something in his face changes when you reach around to grab his ass. You haven’t fully committed, even mentally, to the act – it’s more of a scare tactic.

“You look fucking pathetic. At least take it like a man.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m fucking you, dumbass. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Not like this…”

“You don’t get to choose,” you say with a wicked grin, “you remember when you told me that?”

He doesn’t respond. He winces when he feels your finger enter him.

“Look at what you’ve made me into,” you whisper.

His lip quivers. “I’m raping you Leon, and you like it. I can feel you inside me.”

You promptly remove him from your hole. You scrutinize his dick. You could tell him it’s small, but it almost hurts more to not hear you say anything at all. Your sigh hurts worse. Pity.

You stroke him, lazily, pretending to be indifferent to the existence of his dick, when in reality, you find it repulsive. It’s the weapon he uses to penetrate you. You think about taking a knife to it, but you’re afraid. Of so many things.

You watch as his tip leaks. “You gonna cum?” you ask, sounding excited.

“Uh-huh,” he says. You can’t tell if he’s enjoying it. He fucks up into your fist. He’s almost there. You’ve memorized the sounds he makes when he cums, you’ve studied him.

You retract your hand. He looks like he’s going to cry. You laugh, really laugh.

“You think I’d let you cum?”

He looks genuinely surprised.

“You don’t even deserve to see me cum.” You pause, then add, “Not that I could. Not with you.” You frown at him, making sure it looks genuine.

“Feel free to take care of it yourself, but I’m going to leave now.”

“I’ll-” you know he wants to say he’ll call the cops, he’ll tattle on you, whatever.

You walk back over to him, stare him in the face, and echo his words, “No one will ever believe you.”

You turn around and leave.

Leon doesn’t meet your eyes on Monday. You’ve won.

Only half of Leon wants to do this to you. The half of him that still exists. The vile, horrid, fucked-up part. You remind him of himself and that’s precisely your mistake. You have a certain hope, an innocence he wants to tear away from you. He can’t steal it for himself, but he can force you to empathize with him. A victim, just like him.

When you squirm, he holds you down tighter. “Take it like a man,” he hears it loud and clear, after all this time. You’re not a man, so he tells you to take it like a “good slut” when he forces you down on your knees.

Tears prick in your waterline.

“I bet you like this,” he says, though he doubts it’s true.

Your answer is muffled by his cock down your throat anyhow. Whatever protests you have are null and void.

“You look pretty when you cry,” he says as he smacks you on the cheek with his cock, wet with your spit. Pretty boy, they called him. Shoved up against the lockers, held down on the turf, gun to his head once.

For the first time, he’s the one in charge.

“Please, stop,” you cried the first time. You stood between Leon and his desk.

“You don’t get to choose,” he said because he’s the boss, and despite how fucked up reality is, you don’t get to choose. You wouldn’t have chosen this.

Leon chose you on purpose. You looked like the type of girl he could break in. The dress you wore to the interview reminded him of one his mother use to wear when he was little, and she was young and pretty, and alive. He didn’t make that connection until later.

When you come to his house that night, he’s sorry, really. The part of him that he lost all those years ago lives at the bottom of the bottle. He, idiotically, takes you fucking him as a sign of forgiveness. Until your hands are around his throat and your finger is in his ass. When you’re rough, it’s boot camp, but when you’re tender it’s his mother sitting atop him. Your hand is soft like hers and he can’t decide if he likes it.

It’s easier to think about her when you touch him like that because at least he can pretend she loved him. In her own fucked-up way. He knows all those guys back in the barracks didn’t think of him as more than two holes plus a dick. And you, you fucking hate him and he can’t ignore that anymore.

He tries to ignore it, tries to ignore you entirely. He doesn’t lock eyes with you on Monday. He eats lunch in his car. Alone. Just like you.                     

[shalotttower]

The Art of Disappearing (part 2)

Title: The Art of Disappearing Fandom: Resident Evil Village Characters: Lady Dimitrescu x Reader (female) Summary: Lady Dimitrescu enjoys wine; you enjoy living. You pray to god those don't overlap. Word count: 1900+ Notes: Implied violence, implied death (not reader), tension, topics of disillusionment and loss of faith, WINE Part 1

You don't forget.

The small tube remains in your apron pocket for the rest of the day and the next, and every time you touch it ─ a gesture done without thinking ─ you're reminded of where it came from.

It's not that hard. Just a walk to the Lady's chambers. Just returning an item to where it's supposed to be. And if someone sees you, then you've simply found the mistress' missing lipstick.

In six months you've only seen Lady Dimitrescu when serving meals. Her shoes sometimes would pass by while you were cleaning the floors. You've never spoken a word to her before, or even looked directly into her face for more than a second. The idea of being in her private quarters, uninvited and out of place, is nerve-wrecking. But you promised. You gave your word, even though it was the only option possible.

At five in the afternoon, just before dinner is served, you go.

Lady Dimitrescu's chambers are located on one of the higher floors. Everything smells like jasmine here; sweet, heady perfume in the air with a faint trace of something bitter to balance it out. The red rug under your feet absorbs sounds, making each of your steps almost silent. You take a turn at a vase filled with wilting roses, then another near a painting of a woman who looks like Lady Dimitrescu herself but much younger.

To knock or not to knock? Your fist hovers over the door. What if she hasn't left for dinner yet? What if she's taking a nap? To wake her up seems like a grave mistake. You stand, awkward and quiet, with a tube of red lipstick in your pocket.

After another few minutes tick by, you decide to knock.

Nobody answers.

With a sigh of relief you enter, shutting the door.

It's spacious here; high ceilings, tall windows. The curtains are drawn back, allowing the sunlight to flood through.

Her vanity table is a beautiful wall piece, carved from dark mahogany and polished to a shine. Your reflection in its mirror is clear as day. A maid with tired eyes and hair styled in a braided bun. You're not here to gawk though. The faster you're done, the better.

You put the lipstick back where it belongs ─ there, done ─ and turn to leave.

She has a massive bed, you think in passing. Must be comfortable to sleep on; it looks like it could fit four people and have space left. A canopy of heavy curtains hangs from its frame, slightly open.

It wasn't open when you entered.

You didn't open it either.

Two golden eyes watch you in mild interest through that gap. Oh no.

"My lady," you croak out, and manage a curtsey. "I didn't know you were resting. Forgive me for the intrusion."

The words tumble out of you in a rushed mess of vowels and consonants. Lady Dimitrescu does nothing to acknowledge your apology, instead she studies you, in silence, in a way that makes thin hairs on the back of your neck rise. She's dressed for bed, you notice ─ a nightgown of dark silk and delicate lace. Finally, you snap out of this staring contest and bring your gaze to your feet.

"You're not one of mine."

The comment is so soft that you barely catch it.

"No, my lady. I work in the halls and dining room, mostly."

"And yet," she says. "You are here. Do you have any business in my chambers, or were you simply lost?"

It sounds like a joke but you're sure she isn't smiling. You curtsey again ─ deeper this time, anything to make amends and live yet another day under this roof with all your fingers intact.

"I found something that belongs to you, my lady. And only-"

You hear a gentle rustle. A scratch on a matchbook.

"Lift your head. I can't understand you if you're a puddle on my floor."

Slowly you do.

You've seen her while waiting, seen her while bringing out drinks and standing near walls, served her meals with hands that trembled and a bowed head; never for more than one second, never for more than half a breath.

Lady Dimitrescu sits at the edge of her bed with one leg crossed over another. A cigarette in a dark holder is perched between her fingers; she blows out a cloud of smoke which drifts towards the window. It smells expensive, unlike what your dad used to smoke. Your throat burns at the memory.

"Well?"

"I found your lipstick, my lady, and came to return it."

You're not stupid enough to mention Daniela. Something tells you this is a secret between you and her alone.

"Where?" Lady Dimitrescu asks.

Your brain scrambles for an answer. "In a... a corner of a hallway. Near a window, second floor. East wing."

You wonder if she believes you. The tip of her shrinking cigarette glows brighter as she takes another drag.

"Was that all, then?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Dismissed. Refill my glass before you go."

There's a bottle on a nightstand, and it's the prettiest you've ever seen in your life. A pattern of intricate metalwork decorates its sides and top, like vines curling around stems or branches woven together, so delicate that they'd look real if not for their color.

"...yes, my lady."

It takes forever to pick it up and pour.

The rich wine flows ─ a viscous syrup ─ dark like late July cherries meshed together in one liquid drop. It makes your head spin a little. You're too aware of yourself. How heavy the bottle is, how clumsy your fingers feel when handling glassware like this one, worth more than your body weight probably; how much gold is it alone? Five thousand lei? Ten thousand?

You try not to think about it, where it comes from. You don't want to be sick all over her floors, because then you're dead for sure.

"That will be all."

Happiness in castle Dimitrescu is short-lived and fragile, but you've learnt to cherish these few seconds when you can.

When your hand twist the doorknob, she adds as if in afterthought: "I rarely visit the east wing this time of the year. I wonder how it ended up there."

"I'm not sure either, my lady. Have a pleasant evening."

The door shuts close.

You've done everything in your power to keep your presence as faint as possible in these walls, so that you're forgettable in every single way, but still useful enough to keep around.

It's a simple formula which worked so far. So far.

You hope Daniela is happy with herself, now that her mother knows you exist.

---

There's not much to her.

Not many things to say, not many experiences to share. All that's known about her is what she wears: a maid's outfit, standard issue.

And her eyes, of course. She has very expressive eyes that convey more than she thinks. They hold a certain kind of weariness to them ─ not just physical exhaustion from labor or lack of sleep, but emotional fatigue which seeps deep into one's bones until they ache at night, when there are no distractions left. When there're no chores, no conversations, nothing except a room with two beds (or four) and another girl trying just as hard to sleep.

Is it going to be like that? Yes.

Will she never leave this place? Yes.

Does anyone miss her? If there's anyone left. She hasn't got a letter from the village in a while.

Does she still believe in god like her mother (they had a small altar at home, decorated with simple things like a fresh bun and candles in various colors), then her father, her grandparents? She wants to, but he's stopped listening long ago.

Is she afraid? Sometimes. But mostly she's just tired.

Pretty maids with expressive eyes aren't a rarity in Dimitrescu castle.

Most of them have a similar story: born in the village, a father who works in a field, a mother who stays home, maybe a sibling or two. The oldest girls in the family who always end up here. Their fathers couldn't provide for them, the harvest was poor, and so on until their mothers send them off to work for 'someone rich', because 'at least you won't starve, at least there's a bed and a roof, and you get paid'...

...but money stops coming one day; there's no word, no letter, and their mothers cry in the kitchen.

Poor, scared, desperate things.

---

"How did it go? Did you put it back?"

You're not surprised to find her in your room. She's sitting on one of the beds, flipping through an old journal you've hidden under the mattress. It's a book full of silly poems you used to write in your spare time, back when you thought those were important enough to preserve on paper.

Daniela's fingers slowly leaf through the pages.

"I did."

"And you didn't tell it was me?"

"I didn't."

Her face lights up. "Good. Now I don't have to eat you."

You stand in front of her, two hands clasped together over your apron.

Is there a code of conduct which applies to your mistress being in your room? Or do you just wait until she leaves? You're not sure; Daniela doesn't seem to be in a rush. She continues browsing through your private thoughts instead with intense interest.

Your handwriting is messy, untidy scribbles in pencil; you see her struggling at times to read them. There are smudges of graphite here and there where your hand rubbed on paper by accident.

You wonder how much of yourself is revealed there without any filter or censorship, or self-restraint.

"I like this one." Daniela says after a while.

She points at something. It's a poem about a girl who lives by a lake, and goes looking for rocks and pebbles along its shore every morning. She keeps them lined on her windowsill, and her family laughs at her because what is she doing, collecting trash.

It's a sad one, you realize. You've forgotten you even wrote it until now.

"Thank you, my lady."

"Is it about your home? Where you grew up?"

Her eyes flick between you and what's written down on the yellowing paper.

"My mother didn't let me near the lake," you reply. "She was too afraid that I'd drown."

That's not really what Daniela asked; she wants to know if this is about your life before the castle, your family ─ parents who gave birth to you (and sent you here), brothers or sisters who played with you when you were little. But it is also as honest of an answer as you will give.

You don't understand why she even asked. Curiosity, maybe. Yes, that's a feature constant enough in her personality. Curiosity which pushes her to poke around and wiggle herself into every corner just to see what's there. She'll find out, absorb and then move on.

There's something very innocent about it.

She can also kill you without a second thought, you think grimly, watching her.

Daniela gives you a funny look. Then huffs, apparently deciding that it's not worth getting upset over.

The poems stop around the mid-point of your journal, sometime during spring. The rest are blank pages from then on, it's been at least six months since you last wrote anything new. She shuts it close and places it on top of your folded blanket.

"You're no fun today," she comments while standing up.

You've never been a great conversation partner, that's true. But again, what is the exact definition of 'fun' here?

Before you can apologize for not being entertaining enough, Daniela waves: "Good night!", and then leaves through the door like any other guest would.

The journal lays on your bed, unassuming. You tuck it back underneath your mattress.

[ladykailitha]

The Magic of Christmas Part 2/8

You know how in the first part I told you Steve's experiences were a lot like mine? Well his opinions on alignments in D&D are also mine.

Just the best friends looking out for our boys. They'll come around.

Part 1

***

Eddie came bounding up the stairs to his loft, contract clutched in his hand. He threw open the door to see Chrissy on their sofa munching on leftover Chinese food right out of the box.

“Sir Edward the brave!” she greeted. “How went the meeting with the dragon?”

Eddie tipped over the arm of the couch, landing face first next her, his legs bent at the knee straight in the air.

Chrissy ran her fingers through his hair. “That bad?”

Eddie held up the paper and she took gingerly. She set her food down on the coffee table and began to read the contract.

“Shit, Eddie,” she whispered. “This is insane. He’s basically offering to pay for all your bills for the next six months so you can work on his commission without worry.”

“Aswllasexpnses...” he mumbled into the sofa cushion.

Chrissy’s eyebrows shot up. “All your paint, brushes and canvases?” Eddie nodded. “Is this guy touched in the head? Like more money then sense?”

Eddie brought his knees underneath him like a worm and sat up. “No. He’s really sweet. I looked him up on the way to the meeting. He inherited the business and his money from his dad. The business actually lost money for the first two years he took over because he made the company private again. He bought all the stocks and closed it on the stock market. Then spent those two years doing away with all the shady business shit that his old man had built the business on.”

“An ethical business man?” Chrissy asked skeptically. “Isn’t that like an oxymoron or something?”

Eddie shrugged. “I guess. But seriously he was super sweet and like is my biggest fan. Like unironically.”

She blinked at him. “And he doesn’t want anything...well sexual from you?”

“We joked about that,” Eddie said with a huff of laughter. “But no. He’s just painfully earnest.”

“Oh my god,” she hissed. “You’re already half in love with this guy, aren’t you?”

Eddie blushed. “I’m trying hard not to be. Like really, really trying.”

Chrissy sighed. “You better take it. You know you won’t be able to live with yourself if you turn this down. What’s the subject matter?”

“D&D.”

“Christ!” she spat. “If there was a honey trap designed especially for you, this would be it. Hot guy, because he is, isn’t he?” Eddie nodded, pursing his lips. “Hot guy, rich, willing to pay for everything for six months for you to do a major D&D piece. The only thing that would make it perfect is kids or your NSFW shit.”

Eddie blushed. “It’s not exactly kids. But the painting is for these guys he used to babysit when they were kids and they’ve had these characters since they were fucking twelve.”

Chrissy sighed. “Are you should you’ve never met this guy, because hot damn, Eddie, he’s got you all figured out.”

Eddie barked out a laugh. “I think I would remember that face if I had. He is too good to be true, sure. But like you said, there is no way I’m going to get a better offer this year. This lifetime even.”

She grabbed her purse from the side of the couch and dug around for a pen. She pulled it out and handed it to him.

Eddie nodded and signed the contract. There. It was done.

*

Their next meeting was a bit more formal. As in it was actually on the books instead of Steve trying to get around Robin so she wouldn’t tease him about hiring his favorite artist to paint something for his little nuggets.

Eddie had pulled his chair up to the desk so that he could put his notepad on it. He cracked his knuckles.

“All righty,” he said cheerfully, “whacha got for me, Stevie?”

Out of another leather folio Steve pulled out four pieces of paper and slid them over.

“These aren’t the originals,” he explained. “I got Dustin’s mom who works at the library to make copies while he was in class.”

Eddie picked up the papers and gasped. “Their character sheets! Holy hell, man. These are like the holy grail. Why did Dustin have all four?”

“Lucas has the habit of losing his and Mike tends to forget his at home,” Steve explained, “and Will has never done anything wrong in his life, but they all agreed since they play at Dustin’s house all the character sheets are kept there.”

Eddie laughed. “Fair enough.”

This would make it easier to design the characters. By a lot.

Steve bit his bottom lip. “I have something else that might help you, but I don’t know how you feel about basing your art on other people’s work.”

Eddie frowned. “What do you mean?”

Steve pulled out another piece of paper, this one showing four characters fighting a beholder. It was good, but not even on the level of Eddie’s earlier work.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“Will,” Steve replied. “But I didn’t want to ask him to do it because it was partly for him, too.”

Eddie nodded. “No, actually this will help.”

Steve lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a big smile. “Knowing what they think their characters look like will help makes sure I don’t fuck it up for them.”

Steve relaxed. “Oh that’s great. I’m so glad. I didn’t want to step on anyone’s shoes with this. I really want everyone to be happy.”

“I will do my best,” Eddie promised. “But you know, I have to ask...why a purple dragon?”

“Oh,” Steve said with a blush. “It’s because they can shapeshift into human-like creatures.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you play D&D, Stevie?”

Steve shook his head. “No, but I like to read the handbooks. They’re interesting. Plus, I like looking at your artwork.”

“All chromatic dragons are chaotic evil, you know?” he said with a smirk.

Steve scoffed. “I always thought that was bullshit. If other sentient beings like elves, dwarves, humans and gnomes can be any alignment then so should dragons.”

Eddie laughed. “Only the handbook says that other than humans each race tends toward neutral, chaotic, or lawful.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Which is also ridiculous. It’s like saying only humans can be of any alignment because they don’t live long enough to be set in their ways. Like a dwarf who had lived for a couple centuries couldn’t be chaotic? Or an elf?”

“You certainly have a lot of opinions for someone who doesn’t play,” Eddie said with a smirk.

Steve flushed. “Dustin is one of those people that will steamroll over top of you if you can’t keep up with the conversation.”

“Ah.”

Eddie knew several players that were like that. Most of them were insufferable know-it-all rules lawyers. He had a feeling that Dustin was like that too.

“He’s their wizard,” Steve said. “Mike is a paladin, Lucas is a ranger, and Will is their rogue.”

Eddie nodded as he shifted through the papers Steve had had given him.

“What’s your favorite color of dragon?” he blurted out.

Steve blinked at him for a moment. “It’s really stupid.”

“Hey.” Eddie kicked the desk and he startled. “No limiting yourself. That includes thinking your favorites are dumb.”

Steve blushed deeply. “Yellow. It’s my favorite color. Plus it’s super rare. Then I found out chromatic dragons are all evil...”

“And suddenly your favorite is considered sus,” Eddie said with a nod of his head.

“Also how are metallic dragons the good ones?” Steve asked. “Like wouldn’t they be the greedy ones?”

Eddie smiled. “How many people told you picking the gold dragon was the same as picking the yellow one?”

Steve’s jaw dropped. He licked his lip slowly and then bit down on it.

“All of them, huh?”

Steve nodded. “It’s ridiculous. But I just don’t think that gold and yellow are the same color.”

“Oh they absolutely aren’t,” Eddie said, his smile growing wider. “And if anyone gives you hell about it send them my direction.”

Steve clasped his fingers together and leaned on his forearms. “That’s something else. They are going to find out that I am meeting with you on reg.”

“So what’s the cover story?” Eddie asked.

Steve ducked his head and Eddie’s eyebrows shot up.

“I was thinking of your charity, Roll for Initiative,” he admitted. “My kids...I can’t keep calling them that, they’re adults. But anyway. Having a large empty house for them to play D&D in when they kept getting kicked out of places to play. First their high school and then Mike’s parents house.”

Steve shrugged.

“But I know they were lucky because they had me. And I know that kids just like them would be kicked out their schools and libraries in the most conservative parts of the country. If they were allowed at all. I want to help you branch out more than just local.”

It was Eddie’s turn for his jaw to drop. “You want to help my charity?”

He had been wanting to take it on a national level, but never had the manpower to do it. And here was Steve offering to do just that.

Steve nodded. “Yeah,” he said with smile. “Just let us handle it. And we can combine meetings to go over the charity and you can show me your progress on the paintings.”

Eddie nodded back. He didn’t have the words. He squeaked his goodbyes and left.

Chrissy was going to freak.

*

Robin watched the flustered Eddie head to the elevator with more than a passing interest.

She calmly got up and walked into Steve’s office without even a knock or any notice she was coming in.

Steve raised an eyebrow at her.

Robin slid into one the chairs into front of his desk. “You gonna to keep blowing that poor man’s mind or are you going to ease up at some point so that he has the capacity to do this painting of yours?”

“I did my homework when it comes to the guy,” he huffed, “so what?”

Robin’s eyes went wide. “You put less effort into wooing your dates then you did trying to get this painting done. You have to see that’s a problem.”

“Only if you make it one,” Steve groused. “I admire this work.”

She scoffed. “I’ve seen his work. My personal favorite was female elf getting pegged by the female orc barbarian.”

Steve blushed. “Shut up. You know it’s not like that.”

“Do I?” she pushed. “This isn’t lord of the manor fucking his live-in artist.”

“I’ve already made that joke,” he sniffed. “He found it funny.”

Robin snorted. “He seems like the kind that would. Only it’s not funny if he hollers sexual harassment.”

He had been facing to the side and he turned his chair to face her directly. “That implies two things. That I’m trying to get into his pants and that he would be against it.”

“It wouldn’t matter if he consented, Steve,” she hissed. “You literally own him. He is a kept man.”

“You can’t have it both ways!” Steve snapped. “Either I’m paying for all of him, including sex or he can’t consent because I’m his boss.”

She threw her arms into the air. “Why are you even doing this?”

He glared at her. “I don’t have ulterior motives. I just wanted to do something nice for the kids. They’re going to be spreading far across the country after they graduate from college. Some to get advanced degrees, others to start their careers. I just want something special that they could take with them to remember everyone by.”

Robin sighed. “Okay. I get it. You’ll miss them, too. I keep forgetting they’re not the little twerps that used to beg for rides.”

“Yeah.”

She reached over the desk and took his hand. He gave hers a squeeze.

“I’m going to miss them something fierce.”

“I know, dingus,” she murmured. “I know.”

***

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Tag List: @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @emly03 @bookworm0690 @itsall-taken @vecnuthy @bookbinderbitch @redfreckledwolf @littlewildflowerkitten @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @scheodingers-muppet @mira-jadeamethyst @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @genderless-spoon @anne-bennett-cosplayer @irregular-child @carlprocastinator1000

[ginnsbaker]

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (3/?)

Chapter summary: Wanda finds you again after months of estrangement.

Chapter word count: 5.5k

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader

Chapter Warnings: None

Author’s Note: Decided to post this early in celebration of Love & Death's final episode.

AO3 | Masterlist 

Next Chapter: Four

Taglist: @blackluthxr | @esposadejoyhuerta | @secretbackrooms | @justgotlizzied , @casquinhaa | @marvelwomen-simp | @sunsol-22 | @wandanatlov3r - let me know if I missed anyone

-

Three

At two in the morning, Wanda’s insomnia is at its worst.

Sleep doesn’t come despite doubling her usual dosage of sleeping pills, and she considers taking another, just so she can stop thinking about what Pietro said–about you moving on with someone new. Because despite her confidence in your love for her, her faith is waning with each passing day that you continue to leave her messages seen and her calls unanswered. 

She wonders how love–a resilient but tainted one–can survive in the dark. If it can survive at all. 

Wanda remembers reading somewhere on the internet that the human epidermis continually makes new cells every second, so that in just 30 days, one’s skin is entirely new. In months of being apart, it meant that there’s no longer an inch of her that has ever touched you. All that remains of her in you are memories. And what a fragile thing they are, when people are always forgetting. 

Wanda doesn’t want to be forgotten. Least of all by you.

She knows it’s within your rights to fall in love again, and she’s adamant for it to be with her. Her stubborn nature makes her cling to your wedding vow: that if you don’t end up with her, then you end up with no one. Maybe she’s delirious to still believe that you’d fulfill those promises, especially with how hard it is to reconcile those promises with dead silence.

Nevertheless, Wanda tries. She continues to send you mundane messages like a restaurant discovery or what she had for lunch, or a comment on the weather, telling you how nice it’d be to go outside for a walk. 

Tonight, she sends you a text about Sparky’s visit to the vet, hoping it provokes a reaction from you. It immediately gets read. Wanda’s breath hitches when she sees three dots appear right after her message. However, they soon disappear, leaving Wanda to stare at another unanswered text.

Tomorrow, then. And if not, the day after. Wanda won’t let you forget about her.

-

Agatha helps her with the finishing touches on her café, which happens to be unsold paintings donated by her colleagues from the gallery itself that Agatha manages. She’s informed Wanda that she’s considering early retirement to find something else to do, and when Wanda mentioned that she’s opening up a business, Agatha suggested she’d volunteer to help out on weekends in exchange for free coffee and dessert any day of the week. Wanda didn’t think twice to accept the proposal, and they shook on it.

“You have an eye for design, Wanda. You can make a career out of it once your cafe takes off and can hire someone to manage instead of doing it all by yourself.” Agatha says, dusting the final frame they hanged on the wall.

“Thanks. It’s just not me though. I had a lot of help from friends in NYU.” Wanda says, going behind the counter to make sure everything’s set for the big day, two days from now.

“Are you worried about the opening?” Agatha asks.

“A bit, yes.” Wanda admits with a sigh.

“Don’t be. Your pastries alone will keep this adorable thing afloat.” Agatha assures her, admiring the aforementioned pastries currently cooking in the oven.

Wanda smiles graciously, a little unsure if she’d take it as a compliment. With her former boss, it’s hard to tell sometimes. Agatha has the tendency to toe the line between maternal and condescending.

“That’s what I keep telling her.” Pietro, who Wanda didn’t notice entering the shop just now, chimes in. Her brother taps Agatha on the shoulder, making the older woman turn her head in an unnecessarily coquettish manner. Wanda lifts an eyebrow as she observes the two.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Pietro says, before running a hand through his hair and letting his textured, angular fringe fall dramatically back over his bleached eyebrows. “I’m Pietro, Wanda’s twin.”

“It’s nice to meet you, dear. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Agatha says evenly with a smile, turning around to face him fully.

Pietro stands unnecessarily closer to her and says, “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.”

Wanda’s never heard Agatha giggle like a schoolgirl, and shoots him a murderous look. Her oblivious brother merely carries on staring at Agatha like he could see through her clothes. 

Squeezing into the narrow space between the two, she starts pushing her brother away from his prey. She can already sense him scheming, and she’s not going to let him potentially ward off the free help she’s gonna get on weekends.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Wanda hisses at him under her breath as soon as she’s positive Agatha’s no longer within earshot.

He raises his hands in front of him in defense. “I was being friendly.”

“No, you weren’t. You were literally eyefucking my ex-boss back there.”

Pietro shrugs. “Maybe she was eyefucking me.”

“I swear, you’re going to–”

“Excuse me?” Agatha interrupts, and they both whip their head towards her–Wanda with a stricken look, and Pietro with a cheshire grin. Agatha can’t help but think how they’re both very attractive.

She addresses Wanda first. “I’m sorry but I have to go. Call me if you need anything, sweetie.” 

“Thanks again, Agatha.” Wanda says.

And then she turns to Pietro and winks at him. “I’ll see you around, handsome.”

“Oh, you will.” Pietro answers in a sultry voice that has Wanda harshly digging her nails into his forearm.

He only reacts to the pain after Agatha stepped outside. “Ow! Let go of me!”

“She’s off limits you pig.” Wanda chastises, landing some weak strikes on his arm. 

“Fine!” Pietro throws his hands up in surrender.

Wanda lets him go with a triumphant smile. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought I’d see you on Monday.” she says.

“My friend invited me to this club tonight, and I want you to come with.” Pietro says. 

“I’m not really in the mood to party.”

“You really have changed since you’ve been married to Y/N.”

“Thanks.” Wanda says curtly, and it’s not even sarcastic. If there were changes about her that were of your influence, then they could only mean the good kind. Wanda has long ago learned that she likes herself best when she’s with you.

“Don’t you at least feel like celebrating this?” Pietro gestures at the tiny confines of the cafe. 

“My idea of celebration is just steaks and wine,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders. “Lots of wine.”

“Wands, you can’t keep punishing yourself. You deserve to have a good time once in a while.”

Wanda scoffs. “Punishing myself? Believe me, I haven’t started.”

“Wanda, come on,” Pietro pleads earnestly. “The thing is, I’m planning to bump into this real estate dude, and having my sister to make me look like a decent guy is going to help my chances in my investment pitch, okay?”

Wanda considers the new information. “Why didn’t you start with that in the first place?”

“Because I didn’t want to flat-out ask my heartbroken sister for help. Cause I know you’re… You’re half the person you used to be. You’re not whole, and here I am, needing your help when there’s nothing I can do to help you back.” 

It’s the most vulnerable she’s seen her brother, and it makes Wanda want to gather him in his arms and be children again. 

“Piet..”

Pietro assumes back a sturdy posture. “I’m sorry. I just need you. But if–”

“I’ll be there. Just text me where and what time you need me.” Wanda assures him. 

“I’ll owe you one, sis.”

“Try twenty.”

-

Pietro deserts her as soon as she serves her purpose, and he gets invited to the VIP floor of his prospective investor. Wanda doesn’t hold it against him, seeing how important this deal is to him. Besides, thirty minutes of blaring techno (it’s a crime to call it music, Wanda muses) and seizure-inducing lights are too much for Wanda to bear. She just happens to have four drinks in front of her (bought by different strangers), and there’s just no way she can let perfectly crafted Negronis go to waste. Really, she’s left with no choice but to stay and savor her prized cocktails. 

At least two men–and one woman–have taken up the courage to approach her by the bar, and Wanda only has to show them the ring she still wears on her left hand for them to leave her alone with a polite apology. 

On her own (and despite you being unaware of it) she wants the world to know she’s still yours.

Heaving a deep sigh, Wanda finishes her drink. One down, three to go. She’s already swimming in a pleasant buzz, and when her eyes drift to the center of the dance floor, she sees the last person she thought of seeing tonight.

It’s true what they say about experiencing everything around you slowing down to a stop when your life flashes through your eyes. It’s closest to how she’d describe seeing you in the flesh after a long stretch of only seeing you in her dreams. For a split second, she thinks she might be mistaken, but it’s definitely you when you start doing that dorky mannequin move that never fails to send her into fits of laughter. And that’s exactly what Wanda does; she half-laughs and half-sobs into her drink as you stiffly move your limbs, wearing a blissful smile of your own. 

You seem…okay. Happy, even. Against her will, a deep sense of insecurity settles heavily on her chest. 

And then, as if on cue, a blonde girl mirrors your dance moves, stepping into your space too close for Wanda’s liking. She looks much younger than you and Wanda are, and she recognizes the captivated look on her face. It’s the same look Wanda is giving you right now, the same look you used to give her everyday for more than ten years. Wanda helplessly watches you take her hand and spin her around goofily. And when the girl stops and loses her balance, she leans on your side for support. You let her, putting an arm around her shoulder as both of you continue to laugh at the silliness of it all.

Wanda feels her heart fall and crash into pieces. And the guilt of falling apart at seeing you happy like you deserve to be, comes to her in rolling waves.

She downs the rest of her drink–all three of them–and then weaves through the crowded club, bumping against sweaty bodies to find her way out.  

-

Wanda ends up waiting for you from across the street. She wraps her jacket tighter around her body and fights off the cold by blowing her breath into her hands and rubbing them together. It does little to keep her warm, but she’s too enthralled to see your face again to care. She couldn’t simply walk away and wait for another opportunity like this to come. 

Eventually–after nearly two hours of waiting–you come out of the building. You’re not accompanied by anyone, and you’re peering down at your phone. In the distance, she can clearly see how unfocused your movements are, which makes her wonder why you’re all by yourself.

She’s about to cross the empty street, when you unexpectedly look up and Wanda’s eyes lock with yours.

Her eyes glisten at the sight of you: somber eyes and flushed cheeks and the beginnings of a dazed smile at the corner of your lips. You were always a doe when there’s alcohol in your system, and Wanda could take advantage of that.

She could. But she won’t, even as you seem transfixed as she is.

Wanda tests the waters by taking a small step in your direction. You don’t move an inch from where you’re standing, but Wanda still holds her breath with each step. She keeps her eyes trained on your figure in case this is a hallucination–in case this is all just a result of standing for hours in the cold. But you gaze back at her, equally awestruck, and she thinks perhaps you’re also figuring out the same thing: if all of this is real. 

Wanda takes another careful step while you shift your weight, working out the best way to keep your balance. And then another, until you’re within reach and she can hear your shallow breaths, can smell your scent mixed with your favorite perfume, can see your baby hairs sticking to your forehead. Until she can look into those eyes that always held kindness she doesn’t deserve. 

Until finally, she’s standing right in front of you.

It’s been too long, the words keep repeating itself in her head.   

Without thinking, Wanda stretches out her arm to cup your face, but–despite your semi-drunken state–you backpedal on instinct. Dispirited, she drops her hand to her side and chews on her lower lip to stop it from trembling. You must have sensed her dismay, because you force a smile, before her name falls from your lips.

“Wanda.”

There's no doubt that you can break her if you want to just by saying her name. 

“Y/N,” she whispers your name back, greedily drinking you in an openly brazen manner. 

“H-Hi…”

“You… uh,” you fumble with your sentence, trying to come up with something to say, before settling on what you really just wanted to know. “What are you doing here?” 

Wanda actually considers lying, until she remembers that it’s what destroyed everything in the first place. 

“I was at the same bar and I saw you. I thought about going home, but I couldn’t leave knowing you were just there.” she says.

“Oh,” is all you manage to reply as you assess how you feel about your ex-wife waiting for you outside and possibly catching a cold in the process. Inclined to blame it on the alcohol later, you don’t think you hate the idea that she stood there for hours just to talk to you. It’s so disparate from the time when you two were together, and you were often the one to wait. 

But the truth is, it mostly just hurts. After all this time, it’s the same wound that just refuses to heal. Only now there’s more guilt on your part for ignoring her for months even though you know you shouldn’t feel bad for trying to move on the way you have to. 

“It’s good to see you.” Wanda says after a beat. “I’ve missed y–”

Suddenly, your head is filled with images going down on a stranger at the gym. You shake your head harshly in a feeble attempt to shake off the memory. 

Wanda is quick to assume that you don’t want to hear any semblance of how much she aches for you. 

“I don’t feel–” 

You feel violently sick, but you fail to say that out loud because the next second, you hear Wanda shriek in shock and you find yourself bent over your stomach, emptying its contents next to her stilettos. Wanda hovers above you as she gently pulls back your hair on one hand and rubs soothing circles on your back with the other. 

Your throat burns and you grimace as you stagger back on your feet. 

“Wanda, I’m so–” 

“Shhh… you need to sober up,” Wanda explains softly. You don’t know you’ve been leaning onto her for support until you saw her left hand wrapped tightly around your arm. 

Her left hand, that is anything but bare. 

“Why are you still wearing it?” The question abruptly falls out of your mouth, losing the ability to filter the thoughts that you would rather stay in your head if you weren’t in such an inebriated state. 

Wanda tenses up at the question, surprised that you still noticed. 

“You know why.” she mumbles, struggling to keep you upright. She doesn’t say more, just silently directs you to the pavement where you both sit next to each other.

“Your hair. It’s too brown.” you speak in a slow drawl, still having enough cognitive function to change the topic. Wanda grimaces at the comment, despising her new hairdo more than usual. 

For a while you and Wanda just sit there, basking in awkward silence. 

“I need to call an Uber but my phone is dead.” you whisper into your knees, talking to no one in particular. You look and sound so small, so far from when you were dancing earlier. Wanda tries not to think that maybe she’s the reason for it. She worries at her lip, contemplating if she should call a ride for you. But with your current state, she’d be on the edge all night wondering if you got home safe. And knowing you probably won’t update her, she’s probably going to lose her mind over it.

Rising to her feet, Wanda makes a decision and offers a hand for you to take. 

“Hey. I’ve got an idea.” 

-

Wanda watches you dip a fry into a plain sundae and pop it into your mouth. Her cheeks redden a little when you moan in appreciation, eyes closed as if you were sampling a gourmet dish. She’d never understand your weird taste for putting together two of the things that should never be put together.

“Feel better?” she asks, disinterestedly picking at her nuggets. 

“Much.” you say, licking your thumb with gusto. At this point, Wanda makes the right decision to look away before her thoughts become anything but innocent. You’re starting to recover from your intoxication, and she’s careful not to make you feel the slightest discomfort.

“How’s Sparky?” you ask all of a sudden, remembering Wanda’s text the other night about a visit to the vet. 

Wanda takes a sip of her coffee, then says, “Something about a low platelet count. They just prescribed him some meds. He’s doing better, I think.”

“That’s good to hear.” you say. 

Both of you fall back into another period of quiet.

Wanda’s head is sifting through the many topics that she had mentally filed in advance for this moment, but all she wants is to ask about you and your dance partner. The way she fell into you and the way you caught her with ease wasn’t at all friendly. The girl was obviously smitten, and Wanda can’t blame her. She can’t blame anyone but herself.

She peeks at you through her lashes, taking in your solemn expression as you suck on the plastic spoon.

Are you dating her? 

Have you already slept together?

Has she been replaced?

Instead, Wanda says, “He misses you though”, because she couldn’t risk saying the wrong thing. 

“I miss him too.” you say, and Wanda detects a hint of softness in your tone for the first time tonight.

It’s pathetic how she’s internally begging for you to say the same thing about her. 

(How she’s envious of her own dog for it.)

“You should see him some time.” Wanda says, and at the skeptical look in your eye, she adds, “I don’t mean you visit him at my place. I can bring him to you. Maybe he can stay at yours for a weekend.” 

You nod like you understand what she’s trying to do– what information she’s trying to get out of you. She expects you to dismiss the idea, but you surprise her by saying, “That can be arranged.”

“Great! We’ll–”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Right.”

The stillness and lack of words return for the third time. Not that Wanda is counting. But it doesn’t last as long as the other two, when you surprise her again by offering her what’s left of your sundae. “Want some?”

Wanda smiles at the gesture and scoops some with her own spoon. She misses the little things, like sharing food and killing time in a place as mundane as Mcdonald’s. 

“Are you still using your old number?” Wanda asks, a subtle tremor in her voice. 

You wince, aware of what she’s actually asking. You let it slip that your old number is active when you asked about Sparky. 

“Not as much as my current one.”

“Oh, that explains it.”

Something about her reply rubs you off the wrong way.

“Explain what?”

Wanda is taken aback by your snippy tone. She used to be able to read you so easily, and now she can’t pinpoint exactly what set you off. 

“What I mean is,” Wanda starts as gently as she could. “I’ve been trying to reach you for months. And you weren’t entertaining any of my attempts to communicate.”

“Well. Imagine that.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Wanda asks, voice thick with unshed tears. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”

You heave a sigh, and Wanda frowns at that. In such a short time, she’s managed to exasperate you without even trying. 

You pause to gather your thoughts, and then regard her with an apologetic look.

“Sorry…For being a bitch to you, not for avoiding you.” you say.

Wanda wipes a single tear that has escaped her eye with a finger. “You did say goodbye. I’m just too delusional to accept it.”

“You’re not.”

Wanda lets out a hollow chuckle in response.

“I’m delusional for thinking that I can erase you if I pretend long enough you don’t exist.” you say.

She knows it’s what you’ve been doing, but it still hurts for you to lay it out in the open.

“Did it work?” she asks, picking at the skin around her nail until it bleeds.

“No,” you answer truthfully. You don’t elaborate on it and give her the satisfaction of knowing that you’re still miserable without her. 

For Wanda, those two letters give her first, real taste of hope since the night you confronted her about Vision. She knows better than to jump at the earliest sign that things may start turning around, but she couldn’t help herself from speaking the words that are most important for you to hear.

“I love you,” she feels every syllable of them in her tongue, and she cries further when you shake your head.

“We can think we’re in love, when we’re really just in pain.” you say to her with a mournful smile. 

“I don’t believe that. Sometimes they go together, because it’s just how it is. Love’s supposed to hurt.”

“I don’t want to talk about this with you. This is something we have to resolve individually, exclusive of each other.”

A look of resignation registers on Wanda’s face. It’s the most meaningful conversation you’ve had since separating, and she’ll willingly let go of the things you don’t want to discuss any further.

“What happens now?” she asks, placing the decision in your hands once again.

“I don’t know,” you say more with your shoulders than anything else. You steer the topic away from Wanda’s persevering feelings for you, and continue with, “I just want to enjoy this meal with… a friend.”

Wanda’s breath hitches at the apparent rejection. 

“You want us to be friends?”

“Honestly, I don’t know yet.”

“Friends....” Wanda trails off. It’s better than nothing, right? Being friends again is a good start. Friends fall in love all the time, don't they?

“I can do ‘friends’.” she says with newfound determination.

“I need to think about it.” you say because in spite of everything, you’re never one to make promises you can’t keep.

Wanda nods meekly. You stare at each other for a few moments, having reached an impasse, before Wanda remembers a major detail in her life she hasn’t shared with you over a text. 

“I have news. I’m opening a café in Queens on Monday. It’s, uh, where most of the alimony went.” 

Your face considerably brightens, as if the past several minutes didn’t happen at all. Wanda falls in love with you just a little harder at your organic reaction to her accomplishment.

“That’s amazing, Wanda. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” she says and blushes at the way you look so proud of her. 

“Wanda Maximoff, Cafe Owner.” you state her new title wistfully. “You make the best coffee though, so I’m not surprised by that…”

Wanda is no longer listening as a sense of déjà vu creeps underneath her skin, recalling how you had said something similar when she accepted a teaching position at Westview Institute.

Wanda Maximoff, Professor.

And when she got that job at the gallery.

Wanda Maximoff, Art Curator.

And after sharing your first kiss as wife and wife.

Wanda Maximoff, my wife.

Wanda comes to, just before you’re done speaking.

“…Is there anything you can’t do?” you say, good-naturedly.

Love you properly. Wanda broods over her regrets. 

She gathers all her verve, only to come up with a paper-thin smile. “You forget I’m a terrible dancer.”

You laugh. “Oh, yeah, that.”

“And I’m also terrible at self-control because,” Wanda admits before she loses the courage for what she’s about to say next. “Because I want to invite you to come to my opening.”

The laughter dies in your throat but the corner of your lips stay upturned.

“I haven’t even gotten my head around ‘friends’ yet.” you remind her softly. “But… I’ll make sure to drop by.”

Wanda exhales in relief. At least she knows when she’ll get to see you again.

“Now, about that Uber?” you say.

“I got it.”

-

Today’s forecast promised clear, blue skies–and yet, the feeling of dread wouldn’t leave Wanda.

She’s never been a fan of boats (and all sorts of transportation for bodies of water), but she couldn’t come up with any other meeting spot where she wouldn’t accidentally run into you. It’s ironic because for weeks, she’s scoured the places you’d normally be for a chance encounter.

Not this time. 

Not when she’s with this person.

Wanda boarded the ferry from Astoria, and it made a quick stop in Roosevelt where Vision was waiting to board the same vessel.

“Thanks for meeting me.” he says as he approaches Wanda who’s standing in the rear viewing deck. The amount of people onboard and the noises of the drafty wind should give them both enough privacy. Wanda doesn’t look up to acknowledge him. She merely continues to observe how the water churns and foams as the ferry picks up speed to leave its dock.

“Threatening to put Y/N in jail if I don’t, didn’t exactly leave me a choice.” Wanda says after a long time. 

“You didn’t leave me a choice either. It’s the only way you’d see me,” he argues, and not for the first time, Wanda sees him for what he really is; a mere school boy whom she dragged into her bed, and indirectly scarred for life. “Plus, you know I wouldn’t do that to her. Not because she doesn’t deserve it, but because I made a promise to you.”

Wanda finally forces herself to look at him. His appearance isn’t that of a healthy person. His gaunt cheeks clearly signifies how much weight he’s lost. There’s an ugly scar that runs from the left side of where his hairline starts, all the way down to his nape. And because of the wound, his previously vibrant blonde is all gone, leaving a dull, sandy color of a shaved head.

“What do you want, Vision?” Wanda whispers, feeling more sorry for him than anything. 

“You.” Vision states obviously. “I know you’re no longer married.”

“I told you it’s over,” Wanda says mutely. “Back when I was still married. Nothing has changed.”

“When this thing between us started, you knew the worst that could happen. You took the risk. That can’t be for nothing.” Vision’s impassioned plea makes her want to throw up. Wanda wants to deny each of his points, but she’d only be fooling herself. 

She did know that there’s a chance you’d discover the affair on your own, and yet she did it anyway. And that’s something she’ll never forgive herself for.

Wanda studies Vision for a moment. She can’t fathom how she ever made the mistake of using him to fill a gap that she couldn’t put a name to–a gap that is deeper and larger in the aftermath of her extramarital affair. 

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for doing this to you. I’m the worst thing to happen to you and Y/N. I’m sorry for this,” Wanda allows herself to lightly trace the wound on his head as a gesture of sympathy. “Don’t blame her, please. I put her through unimaginable pain for her to have done this.”

Wanda allows him to remove her hand from his face and clasps them in his. It’s the one last thing she can do for him.

“You’re so beautiful.” Vision murmurs, trying to keep his emotions at bay. “I don’t mind having my skull smashed a thousand times if it means I could have you all over again.”

Wanda gasps and promptly backs away, effectively freeing her hand from Vision’s hold.

“Don’t say that. You could’ve died!” 

Vision smirks and Wanda sees a flash of arrogance he held when he was still her student.

“It’s not so different from what you’re doing to me right now.” he says, and Wanda resists the urge to purse her lips.

“You don’t want me, Vision. You’re young and you have so much to offer–”

“–so much potential, so much capable of great things. Yes, Wanda, I know because you made me see it. You believed in me when no one else would. You saved me from being… worthless.” Vision slides down to the deck, leaning against the railing. He groans in pain, massaging his temples, as if rubbing it hard enough would make all of his problems go away.

Wanda crouches beside him, and then says, “I didn’t save you. I used you. And for that, I’m sorry.”

Vision keeps his eyes closed in an effort to avoid the tears threatening to spill. “Are you… are you back together?”

“No.”

A flicker of hope flashes in his eyes. It glows brighter than the sun as he asks, “Did you ever love me?”

Wanda dares to meet his gaze, and there’s no hesitation in the way she says, “No.”

Vision swallows hard and firms his jaw; a showcase of blind resolution that Wanda doesn’t know how to extinguish. 

“I don’t believe you.”

Wanda says nothing. She merely stands up and puts more distance between them.

“You don’t fuck someone like you’ve fucked me and not have feelings.” Vision insists, clinging to the memories of intimately knowing the woman in front of him.

It’s then that Wanda loses her patience.

“You’re a kid,” Wanda snaps, her fingers tightening around the metal rod she’s holding onto. “People lie all the time: with their words, their actions, their bodies. You’re naive to assume you know anything just because you had the best fuck of your life.”

Vision is drawing heavy breaths the second she’s done speaking, as if the weight of Wanda’s words were enough to sink him to the bottom of the sea, desperate for air. Wanda, on the other hand, is equally shocked and simultaneously disgusted at her cruelty towards someone who’s begging for love–begging like she is for yours. What she did to you warranted a punishment that’s ten times greater than he had gotten, and yet you never spoke ill of her, never tried to hurt her as sharply as she did Vision. 

Vision–this charming, brilliant, handsome young man who didn’t do anything wrong but succumbed to his boyish desires. Who she just maimed with her words. 

The ferry arrives in Long Island. People start gathering their belongings before they head towards the exit. Wanda glances at her wristwatch. She’s late for her first staff session with Agatha. 

“Vis,” Wanda croaks. “I wish I could give you what you want, but I can’t. I just can’t, okay? She’s everything to me.”

Vision is quiet, gazing at the sea with a faraway expression.

“It’s more than presumptuous of me to ask you this, but I’m going to ask anyway: forgive Y/N. Please don’t come after her for what happened. I’ll… I’ll pay for the damages.”

Vision lets out a humorless laugh, and then, without looking at her, says, “Just go, Ms. Maximoff.”

-

Monday

It’s nine-thirty in the evening, and Wanda ushers out the last of the customers to grace her opening day. 

You didn’t show up.

“Thank you so much, please come again!” she brightly exclaims with just a hint of tiredness from being all over the place for hours. It wasn’t a blockbuster where the lines would reach the next block, but it didn’t fall flat either. Her pastries were all sold out, and she hadn’t expected the need to place orders to her suppliers so soon.

For all that, as she flips the door sign from ‘Hi, We’re Open’ to ‘Sorry, We’re Closed’, the rush of today’s triumphs also leaves her. 

And then she sits alone in one of the barstools facing the window and patiently waits.

The gap widens some more.

[krirebr]

Because I’m an ass another what if ask for your Kris-mas:

In More than This - Steve deserves the world. That’s a fact. And I will not be taking questions. So my what if:

What if readers mom and Steve’s dad didn’t get together until they were adults?

If you don’t already know where I’m going with this…what if Linda was actually onto something about Steve and readers relationship (again they did not grow up together, etc.)

😘

Ok, first off, I'm answering your 2nd ask before your first and just ruining all continuity. 😂 I just love this question so much and couldn't wait to get it posted!

So, I thought very long and hard about this and I knew I wanted to rewrite a scene from More Than This with this alternate alternate universe in mind. I considered doing their Ch 2 conversation together right before the wedding with Linda as a kind of looming specter, but Steve let me know that in these circumstances, he would have taken control long before then. So instead, here is a rewrite of their first scene in Ch 1. This happens right after Joseph makes her sign the contract. I hope you like it!

This is also about 1.2k and really pushes the limits of the definition of a drabble.

Tell Me One Thing

Pairing: Steve Rogers x f!reader

Warnings: Explicit language, angst, hopeful ending

You let yourself into Steve’s apartment, using the key he’d given you on the day he’d moved in. He wasn’t in his front room, so you moved all the way to the back, to the spare room he used as an art studio. As you entered, you lightly knocked on the doorframe, trying not to startle him. He was standing with his hands on his hips, staring at a half-finished painting, but looked over his shoulder as soon as he heard you. There was a warm, loving smile on his face, but it dropped as soon as he took in your expression. “What happened?” he asked as you stepped into his arms.

“I think we might be really fucked, Steve,” you muttered into his chest. You knew you shouldn’t be taking comfort in his body right now; you should be starting the process of pulling away, putting distance between the two of you, but you just couldn’t. He was all you had and you didn’t know how you’d survive losing him.

He took your face in both hands and made you look at him. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded seriously, as his eyes searched your face. You were freaking him out.

You sighed. “Your dad–” you blinked away tears as Steve’s face darkened. Another sigh. “I’m engaged.”

He dropped his hands and stepped back, looking at you carefully. “You’ve been engaged before,” he said, his voice purposely measured, trying not to show he was upset. “Nothing ever comes of it.” 

“I think this one is real, Steve.”

“What makes you think that?” his voice was harsh, but you knew it wasn’t directed at you. Never at you.

“They set a date.” His eyes widened and he pursed his lips. You took a deep breath and continued, “A month from now.”

“A month from now?” he almost shouted, and your resolve finally crumbled, unable to hold back the tears anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you shook your head while you tried to wipe the tears away. “I can’t– I–”

You were in his arms before you realized what had happened. “Hey, hey,” he soothed. “You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“How?” you asked. “How is it going to be ok? I’m getting married, Steve!”

He gently sat you on the couch and then pulled a chair from the corner to sit across from you, close enough that your knees touched. “I’ll talk to my dad. Buy us some time at least.”

You shook your head, remembering the most damning detail. “It won’t work. Everything’s already signed.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I signed. They made me sign, Steve. I’m so sorry!”

You felt him grab your hand and you reluctantly opened your eyes, afraid of what you’d find on his face. But when you made yourself look at him, all that was there was concern for you. How had you been so lucky as to find this man? Four years ago when your mother had finally been desperate enough to accept another arrangement, you’d only expected more of the same. Just another old man with a say as to what your future would look like. Joseph was exactly who you’d thought he’d be. But Steve, you never could have dreamed up Steve. Kind, attentive, generous, and so beautiful. The two of you quickly became very good friends, and then, after a drunken night out, something else. As you found yourself repeatedly falling into his bed, you knew you should stop. You both did. But you couldn’t. How were you supposed to resist him? He was your one good thing. So you kept it between the two of you, knowing your family would never stand for it. And before you knew it, you’d fallen in love with him. You’d kept that a secret too. 

His voice brought you back to the present, his thumb gently moving over the back of your hand. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“What are we going to do, Steve?” you whispered. “I don’t think I can lose you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” he said, in his most serious voice. “Not ever. No matter what.” Neither of you said anything for the next several moments, Steve seemingly lost in thought, while you just tried to remember how to breathe. Then, finally, he spoke again. “Maybe nothing really has to change. We’ve kept this a secret for so long. We can just keep doing that.”

You took a deep breath, still not ready to confront the worst part of this. “He lives in Boston,” you said quietly. “I’ll be moving to Boston.”

 Steve’s face fell, his hold on your hands getting tighter. “Who.” he said, without any inflection.

“Ransom Drysdale.”

Steve stood up so fast that the chair tumbled over behind him. “No,” he growled. “Absolutely not!”

“Steve,” you sighed, suddenly so tired, looking up at him from the couch. 

He didn’t say anything, just stood there with his hands on his hips, shaking his head, his jaw ticking, staring into the corner. 

You sank into the silence, holding your head in your hands. You couldn’t believe how quickly everything had fallen apart. You should have been more prepared. Of course, this day would come.

Finally, after you didn’t even know how long, Steve spoke again, still staring into the corner. “We could just go.”

Your head shot up. “What?”

He turned his attention back to you. “We could go. Tonight. Why not?”

“A thousand reasons why not!” You were suddenly shouting. What was he thinking? Where had this come from? You couldn’t keep up. “I– What? Where would we even go?!”

He shrugged. “Somewhere. Anywhere. I have a little money put away, don’t you? Anywhere we want.”

You wanted to shake him. “Steve, that’s not–” You shook your head. “That isn’t a plan!”

“You want a plan?” he asked.

You stood up, throwing your hands in the air. “Yes! At minimum!”

“Ok,” he nodded and then grinned at you. “Come back in an hour and I’ll have a plan.”

“Steve,” you breathed, helplessly. 

He stepped back into your space, taking your face in his hands. “I love you. More than anything. Do you love me?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment then looked back at him. “Yes. You know I do.”

He nodded as a genuine smile lit up his entire face. He was so beautiful. “I think, I’ve always known we might have to do this. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it’s always been there. I’m not losing you. Especially not to Ransom Drysdale,” he growled the name. “Go home, get Lola. Maybe an overnight bag. Then come back here and I’ll have a plan for you.”

You searched his face, for what you didn’t entirely know. He was confident, resolute. Sure. Despite yourself, you nodded. “Ok.”

You started to pull away but his hands on your face wouldn’t let you. You looked at him in question and he shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve been in my home all this time, and I haven’t kissed you yet. What’s wrong with me?” He leaned in and kissed you, gently at first, but as soon as you started kissing him back, he made it more passionate, filthier. It felt like he poured everything he wanted you to know into it. How much he loved you. How sure he was of a future together. This, of all things, had you believing, too, that maybe it was possible.

Join my Krismas Party!

Tag lists are open

@stargazingfangirl18 @drabblewithfrannybarnes @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv@texmexdarling @ladyvenera @she-wolf09231982 @citronbun @rebeccapineapple @alexakeyloveloki @dancer3205 @i-can-do-this-all-dayy @thecrandle @lokislady82 @thedazzlingburglar @23skidoosteven @arbesa-mind @samfreakingwinchester @blackhawkfanatic @emerald-writes

[xx-craftycreep-xx]

Thank you for answering! I’m back into my morgue files craz, so I wanted to ask if you could write Jeff Mason with a male reader that’s just like him, aesthetic wise. Dyed black hair, likes metal music, horror stuff, little bit moody and sarcastic. Expect he’s more open about showing his soft side. So instead of Jeff coming to Liu’s defence against Spencer, the reader does. Got no problem popping that guy in the mouth. Originally him and Jeff don’t exactly get along at first, cause reader doesn’t like how he acts with Liu as he has younger siblings. But then they eventually bond over metal music. And then one night they are having a movie night, and the reader, having no problem with their sexuality, jokingly dares Jeff to kiss him, but then he does. Could possibly lead to nsfw? It’s up to you. Thank you for clarifying again!

•A beneficial Friendship•

Warnings: Male x Male, reader and Jeff have been

aged up to 18, Masturbation(m receiving), Oral sex (m receiving) ,cussing,blood,

violence,strained relations,facial.

Interact if comfortable with warnings.Minors allowed if they are comfortable & don't attack me.

Having a peaceful walk in the hallways of your highschool,talking to your friends was a rare occurrence. You barely got time for this. But of course,you cherished moments like these. Sure, recess took place everyday,but having hardworking,yet sweet toppers as your two best friends was kinda hard. Not saying you weren't smart,you were somewhat of a topper too.

And today was the Same. After sitting together & eating lunch,four of you went in class. After sometime,you heard some commotion outside.

"Yo,I'll go check it out." You told your friends. All of them gave you a nod. You went outside and the scene that painted in front of your eyes made your blood boil to a 100°C. It was this spoiled kid,Spencer Riley, bullying the new kid,Liu Mason.

"Ey Spencer!" You yelled. "Stop it,you douchébag!" But of course,do spoiled brats listen?You looked around to see Liu Mason's elder brother,Jeffery Mason looking at the scene,frozen. 'Oh! Isn't he the best fucking brother?!'

You looked at Liu,and the look in his eyes increased the anger at Spencer and Jeffery as it also increased the pity and protective attitude towards Liu. Seeing no way to stop it,you lunged at Spencer. "___What the fuck?! Get off of me you bastar-AGH!" He was cut off by your fist colliding with his jaw. You could feel people gathering around,some even yelling at you to stop,but for you? The room was getting blurred. As the only thing you could see was a red liquid staining your hand and the feeling of it's warmth. You felt someone touch your shoulder.Looking back,you saw it was the brunette that you had stood up for. "___,enough."You looked at him,then at Spencer. The asshole's nose broken. You smiled,proud of your artwork and prepared for the consequences.

You were taken to Mr.Webb,the principal of this highschool. On the way there,you didn't stop glaring at the elder Mason child. He on the other side,stared at you with An unreadable expression on his faces,with an unexplainable emotion in his eyes. In the office,Mr. Webb had suspended you for a week. He would have definitely sent you for counselling, but you having the population of a good,righteous student saved you.

The next day,you Sat in your bed,listening to some metal music. You heard the doorbell ring. Your parents had gone out of town for a month,leaving the house to yourself. They had thankfully understood your decision of punching Spencer.

You went to open the door and TADAA!

The Mason bothers! 'What a pleasant surprise' you mentally rolled your eyes looking at the elder brother. Smiling at the younger face,you asked,"Any help required,Liu?You alright?" He gave a nod. "We wanted to thank you." He gave a look to his brother,to which he nodded. "Come in." The door now completely open, you motioning them to come inside. Your parents had gone away, but your younger sister,your little munchkadee had stayed. And of course, the sweet,curious bunny would come out of her lilac bedroom to see who's come. "Hi!" She chirped from above as the Mason brothers Sat in the living room. Both the Mason's waved,Liu with a smile and Jeffery with his blank-ass stare.

You smiled at her and went in the kitchen to prepare Liu some tea as Jeffery had refused. You heard footsteps going towards the living room and some coming towards you.

"Need any help? My brother has a Peculiar way of wanting his Tea." This was the first time you had heard the elder son speak. "Uh,sure." You took out the ingredients and prepared tea as the black haired boy instructed you. Once the required aroma filled the kitchen, both if you said in unison, "Perfect." And like an idiot,your dumbass blushed. Thankfully,Jeffery didn't notice,probably focused on carrying the tea cups. The duo made it to the living room,only to see the younger siblings bonding over their favourite types of paints.

Liu looked at the both of you,immediately darting his hand to take the tea cup from his brother's hand. "Thanks.." You nod. After taking a sip,Liu's eyes slightly widen. "You remember how I like my tea?" He asks,looking at his elder brother.Jeffery just nods,waving his hand in a 'not a big deal' mannerism. 'Defo a strained relationship' You think. After a bit more small talk,you realise Jeff [something he allowed you to call him] are quite similar..and so are your siblings. Both you and your little sister bid them farewell,not before Jeff giving you his phone number and instagram account ID.

You followed him. And you realised that he loved the things you liked,of course,not all were the same,but around 60% was same. Day and night you found yourself chatting and after some weeks even facetiming with him.

You would meet up with him in highschool and talk. You gave your friends time aswell. You weren't sure, but Jeff would always get annoyed at one of your friends who was a girl,glaring at her every time she held your hand. You never understood why.

You and him got closer. H could be quite grumpy at times,but it's alright. You both would dare eachother the most random yet bold things ever. Being the brave teens you both were,you would always complete them and rub your victories into each other's faces.

One day,you received a text from him.

Jeff🔥

Hey,my parents allowed me to come to you. Pick a movie. I'll be there at 8pm.

You smiled.

You

Yea,sure.

You picked this stupid 1990's film that you knew was idiotic. You and Jeff would definitely take out all the flaws,insult the actors,the acting and laugh about it. You took out some energy drinks and looked at the time.

7:55pm.

You sat in the living room,waiting. The bell rung at 8:00. You opened the door and saw your close friend. "Wassup'" "The sky" you rolled your eyes.

Both of you plopped down on the couch as you switched on the T.V,Jeff already reaching for the energy drink. The movie began and almost 15 minutes in both of you cackling,criticising the actors. "Who the fuck does that?! Your wife's getting killed and all you're gonna do is yell 'stop!'?!" You facepalmed as Jeff shook his head,chuckling.

After sometime,you got a devious idea. "Yo,Jeff." You called. "Hm?" You smirked.He raised an eyebrow. Suspicion all over his face.

"Kiss me."

Silence. You repeated. Silence. You started laughing,absolutely losing it over his shook face. You laughed so hard your stomach started hurting. You closed your eyes,trying to gain composure,until you felt something. His lips on your lips. Jeffery Mason was kissing you. Your lips were timid initially,but then you kissed him back. What felt like an eternity were just 5 minutes. Both of you pulled back,panting. Jeffery smirked. You knew you were dying as he pushed you off the couch.

"Kneel."

So you did. You hadn't even realised that big-ass bulge he had. Looking at it made you realise the tightness in your own pants. "You know what to do." He said, eyes half-lidded. You unzipped his pants,surprised at him not wearing underwear.His cock sprung out,standing proud. Completely pale,the tip blushed as precum Ran down and blue veins ran up. He tapped your head,clearly impatient. You spat on his dick,using your saliva as lubricant. You smeared his precum on his tip,earning a pleasured hiss from him. You looked him dead in the eye as you opened your mouth and showed him your tongue. Then you completely took his cock in your mouth,gagging due to his length. His thickness was average..oh but that length? Long as fuck.

You started bobbing your head,faster and then slowing in order to tease him,which was working."Just like that,pretty boy..Yeah..Keep on suckin'. Good boy"Emphasis on 'good boy' had made your own dick twitch. You immediately took out your own cock,stroking it. You felt warm. Fuzzy as you sucked his dick and jerked off at the same time. Every suck resulting in contact of your nose and his trimmed,white pubes. You kept on going,as he kept saying praises whilst also simultaneously degrading you."So good, baby...so fuckin good. " He gave out a gutteral grunt. And you swore it was the hottest thing ever.You felt his cock twitching, your own responding to the lust.

"'M close baby,fuckk" he dragged the last part,making you shoot out ropes of cum on the floor,as your muffled moan sends a wave of vibrations through his body. He cums in your mouth. The hot,salty milk of his making you cum again. Mid cumming,he pulled out. The remaining cum now started painting your face as he gave you a creamy facial. "Look so much better,boy." He said. You just hummed in response. He tucked his dick in. You placed your head on his lap,too tired to clean your face. Just like that,you tapped out.

You woke up in your bed.. In darkness.You looked beside you and saw your phone. You sat up,rubbing your eyes. You looked down and smiled. 'He changed my clothes.'

You unlocked your phone and saw the time.

10:00pm

'Not too long' you thought. You looked at your whatsapp and saw that Jeff had sent you some photos. You downloaded them and they left your mouth agape. They were photos of your fucked out face with his cum all over your face. 'That bastard.' You smiled. And when you finally started looking around the room,you saw the bastard lying next to you,fast asleep. You sighed.You'd wake up again later on. Thankfully,tomorrow was Sunday.

You laid once again,eyes fixated on his peaceful,sleeping face. You then closed your own,sleep finding you immediately.

A/N: divides by @cafekitsune

[kinetic-elaboration]

May 16: Daria/Jane, Kiss

Daria/Jane, ~900 words, ~35 minutes

In the same 'verse as this fic, but it also takes place before so like, post-canon, basically. This was inspired by a comment from/conversation with @riotsquirrrl on that fic about how D and J might have gotten together. I really liked it, so I decided to play around with it.

How can it be that Daria thinks it's cold enough for snow and yet Jane's not wearing anything as heavy as a real jacket? It's because Daria is from the South and doesn't understand what cold is or what almost-snow feels like either. So.

*

The forecast says snow flurries but the air feels like incipient heavy snow, as bitter-cold as it is when Daria opens the door and steps outside. These are the last flickering days of the year, the in-between time, the neighborhood dark by 5pm and illuminated only by streetlights. She stands in the cone of light from the Morgendorffer's front-door light and shrugs her shoulders up toward her ears, crosses her arms against her chest, and Jane pulls the sleeves of her red BFAC sweatshirt all the way over her hands.

She'd volunteered to walk Jane out but not all the way home, so there's no reason now to linger out here in the cold, breathing out faint misting gray breaths, thinking about how it won't really snow, not in Lawndale in December. It never has.

But Jane just shifts her weight from one foot to the other, glances out in the direction of the sidewalk and then back. "Hey--so." She mimics Daria's posture, crossed arms to hold in body heat. "Thanks for letting me hang out all night and avoid my house."

"Thank you for distracting me from having to spend time alone with my family." A half-joke, and Jane half-smiles at it. They're not so bad, really. She's just not so used to being home, as if she'd traveled back from Boston in a time machine and now she's in high school again, Quinn telling stories about the same teachers, the same gossip, the same football team. As if Daria's four months at Raft never happened. As if time had shifted in some jarring, abrupt way, but only for her. Only somewhere in her body, in her consciousness.

"Could be worse," Jane answers. Could be her place. Wind's moved back in, half-taken over. Trent won't last the year with him, though he hasn't admitted it yet. And Jane's mom has been away for six months now, the sort of absence that must make even Jane wonder if she'll ever come back, and as far as Daria has ever been tell, Mr. Lane has never really lived there at all.

Maybe familiarity is better. At least she has somewhere to come home to.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" she asks. She means it as a lifeline but selfishly, too.

Jane shrugs. "Sleeping. Painting."

"Busy schedule. Do you think you can find time for pizza?"

"I might be able to pencil that in." The corner of one side of her mouth lifts up again, a smirk but, because it's just them alone, there's softness to it. "I should go."

"Yeah."

For a while now, maybe a couple of months, Jane's been in the habit of kissing Daria on the cheek when they part ways. The reason why has never been obvious, and Daria has stopped trying to remember quite when it started, or what she thought of it then. Maybe Jane does it because separating always feels so much more weighty now, when they won't see each other for days or possibly weeks, instead of hours. Maybe the gesture comes from how much more often they touch, now: jostled together on the subway; falling asleep in each other's dorms; leaning on each other sometimes, when they study side by side in the same bed. Or maybe it's an art school thing, or just part of Jane changing and growing, in some more abrupt or sudden or meaningful way than she did in high school--some change in her that somehow Daria can't see in its entirety or fully understand.

She likes it, though, this new sort of ritual. Never knows how to respond, never initiates, but likes it. When Jane doesn't do it, she always thinks, well that's over now, and then is pleasantly surprised when the habit picks itself up again. Last time, she reached out after and squeezed Jane's arm, just before they parted at the train station in Boston, which was her attempt at speaking the same language back.

But this is Lawndale and it's different here. They're nineteen; they're fifteen; the world is very small, the neighborhood familiar even in the darkness. Flakes of snow too light to even count as flurries are getting caught in Jane's hair.

Somewhere in the direction of the neighbor's lawn, some sound like the movements of an aggressive squirrel rattles through the stillness. "I'll see you tomorrow," Jane says, and Daria turns away from the noise just as Jane leans in to kiss her cheek, and the kiss lands on the side of Daria's mouth instead.

She turns very slightly to her left, like a correction, but doesn't otherwise move. Doesn't pull back, doesn't press forward.

Interesting.

Jane steps back again, blinks a few times; her eyes are unusually wide. "Sorry about that," she says.

Daria shakes her head. "Don't be."

And then Jane's shoulders fall back down, and she laughs like she's letting out some coiled-up nerves. "All right. Tomorrow, then."

"I'll stop by."

Maybe she should be doing something else now, saying something else. Jane leans in one more time and this time kisses her cheek, like she'd meant to, and then she sticks her hands in the front pocket of her hoodie and starts off down the front walk. Daria stays outside and watches her, moving in and out of the brightest lights, until she disappears at last down the street.

[whumpsday]

Kane & Jim #48: Basement

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: whumper turned whumpee (turned caretaker), whumpee turned caretaker, vampire whumpee, recovery, comfort, nightmares, starvation

sorry this took 10 thousand years. tbf, it’s my longest chapter ever! enjoy!

-

Tonight, just like every night, Jim led Kane back downstairs before sunset. Kane never seemed to have a problem with it. He honestly seemed happier now than he ever had back when he was free, when their positions were reversed. It was weird to think about.

The door swung shut behind him. It’d been doing that lately instead of staying open, but this time it was even louder than it had been the past few days, like it was insisting that Jim remember to fix it. He made a mental note get to it tomorrow.

He unlocked Kane’s ankle cuffs, letting him free of the restraints for the night. “See ya tomorrow. Sleep well and all.”

Kane smiled back at him. “You too.” He went over to sit at his desk, picking up a book and humming pleasantly.

Jim walked back up the stairs, keys in hand, and pushed the door.

It didn’t budge.

Jim stood there for a second, unbelieving. The door had closed behind him every morning and night for the past three days, and it’d always just opened right back up at a push, because it wasn’t locked.

The lock. The lock on the outside. The metal bar that made the sound of the door closing extra loud when it swung down from the force of the door snapping shut.

Leaving him stuck down here with Kane, and no way to get out.

He pushed on the door again, more insistently. But this door was made to contain someone far stronger than him, silver or no silver. He felt his throat tighten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe. Like when he’d said something that made Kane angry and he picked him up by his neck and-

“Jim? Is something wrong?” Kane asked. Jim spun around to see the vampire’s face painted with confusion.

“Yeah,” Jim squeaked, his back pressed against the door’s silver lining. “Yeah, I uh, I can’t get the door open.”

Kane closed his book, setting it down softly on the desk. His brows creased in concern. “Oh. Um, you mean... at all?”

Jim nodded, eyes wide with steadily growing fear.

-

This was bad. Kane liked his routine. He liked his half-half balance of spending the day with Jim and the night to himself in his nice, comfortable basement. Getting blood in the mornings and helping with chores. He liked his life.

But an essential part of his new life over the past four months had been that Jim deigned him fit to be treated well. Jim was kind and caring, but sometimes, it was apparent that being around Kane was too much for him. And at those times, Jim would excuse himself, or send Kane back down to the basement, where he was happy to be. Whatever he had to do to help Jim feel safe. To minimize the damage he’d caused.

Jim couldn’t excuse himself now. Not for lack of trying: he turned back around and continued fussing with the door, pushing and pounding and trying the handle. He let out a sob as the door held fast. “Kane?” he called, his voice pitched with fear.

Kane didn’t dare move from his seat. Not without permission, not while Jim was so scared. “Yes?”

“Can you try? To open the door?” Jim asked.

Kane had never tried to open it himself. For one, he had no desire to escape. For another...

His heart sank. “But... it’s silver.” It was hardly a protest. His voice came out small.

Jim said he wouldn’t be hurt anymore. No more burning. No more silver.

“No, I didn’t mean, like, touch it,” Jim clarified nervously. “You could use the blanket, maybe?”

“Oh.” Kane started to calm down. Of course. “Yes, I can try. If- you’re sure it’s okay?” Fringe nightmare scenarios of him busting down the door and being punished for escaping ran through his mind, as little sense as they make.

“Yeah, go for it.” Jim descended the stairs and stepped out of the way, hugging the wall. Kane didn’t miss the way Jim seemed to shrink back away from him.

He grabbed his blanket and ascended the stairs to approach the door, looking back nervously to Jim before ramming into it full-force, using his blanket as a shield. The entire room seemed to vibrate with the force of it.

The door didn’t budge.

Kane looked back again, and Jim looked much more scared this time, to his despair. Jim backed himself up into the far corner, shivering.

He drew his blanket around himself. “I’m sorry. I- I can’t break it. It’s silver. I was just doing what you said to, please don’t- please.”

“No, it’s uh, it’s all good,” Jim said shakily, arms clutched protectively to his chest the way he always used to do back at Kane’s house. “I mean, you. Not- this situation.”

It was starting to sink in. They were trapped in here together. Jim was trapped down here with him. And...

Kane was strong now. He didn’t need to worry so much that Jim would hurt him, and his tentative trust in Jim had grown enough by now that he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t anyway.

But it was apparent that Jim was really scared. Jim had never hurt him, but Kane had hurt Jim. Over and over and over for years. It was different here because Jim was the one in charge now, he could always get away if he needed to, but now... he couldn’t.

Kane sat down on the steps, hoping to make himself less intimidating. “It’s okay. It’s just like upstairs except... continued, right? I can put the cuffs back on, if you want.”

Jim hesitated, thinking it over. “No, it’s okay,” he decided, his voice squeaky with fear. Kane supposed that made sense: the restraints were to keep him from running, and they were pretty useless when he was locked in the basement anyway. Jim took a deep breath. “Liz’ll realize something’s up when I don’t pick up the phone. It might just... take a bit. Like a few days, maybe.”

“Okay. Um, I know this has to be scary for you. I’m a little scared too?” Kane’s always scared. “But you always make me feel better when I’m scared, and I know that- that I probably can’t do that so well, but I’m not going to hurt you, Jim. Ever.” He tried to emulate the kind of thing Jim always said to him when he was extra scared.

Jim nodded slowly. “Y-yeah. Thanks.” His face reddened a bit, clearly embarrassed for needed to be comforted.

“Usually after you leave upstairs, I spend a couple hours reading and listening to music. Then I wash my face and brush my teeth and go to bed,” Kane recites. “Would you like to, um, do that too? I have- I mean, you know what books I have, obviously.”

“I think I’m just gonna sit in the corner for a bit and try to cool off,” Jim said quietly. His hands were shaking a bit as he slid down the wall in the corner of the room.

It might not have even been him, Kane realized. Maybe it was just the feeling of being trapped again. Kane never had a break in between- he’d just gone from being imprisoned by the hunters to being imprisoned somewhere infinitely better. He’s locked down in the basement every night. But Jim’s been free this whole time.

“I’m sure Liz will realize something’s wrong soon,” Kane assures him. “And it’s not like- you’re still in your own house, right? You’re home.”

That seemed to get through to Jim a bit. Kane could see his shoulders relax slightly with the thought. “Yeah. That’s true, I guess.”

“I’m just going to go to my- to the desk. Let me know if I can, um, get you anything,” Kane said awkwardly. It was his space, but it was Jim’s house to begin with. His home in Jim’s basement.

Hours passed, the evening surprisingly normal despite the tension in the air. Jim stayed firmly in the corner. Kane could see his hands anxiously worrying at his sleeves through the corner of his eye. It reminded him of back then, in the later years after Jim got quiet. He held back a wince of guilt at the thought.

When bedtime rolled around, he took one of his blankets from the bed. “You should take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Oh, uh, that’s okay. It’s your bed. You don’t gotta do that,” Jim said. “I can take the floor.”

“I’m used to it,” Kane assured him. “You’re the one who’s scared this time. You should take the bed... um, if that’s okay.”

Jim hesitated before nodding. “If you’re sure. At least take the pillow.”

Kane took it, suppressing the Yes, sir that he always instinctively wanted to say after an order. “I hope you sleep well.”

“Yeah, you too,” Jim said as he lied down in Kane’s bed, facing the wall.

Kane dragged the rug to the other side of the basement, giving Jim the space he was clearly desperate for, and set up his little sleeping arrangement on the floor. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the bed, but he would still describe it as comfortable after years on his cell’s cold, hard floor. And it was certainly more comfortable than knowing Jim was sleeping on the floor instead.

It was hard to fall asleep with Jim in the room, he soon realized. He’d grown so used to startling awake when he heard a hunter approaching down in his cell that the smell of a human so close was keeping him awake.

Well, it wasn’t like he had plans tomorrow. No rush to sleep, Kane supposed. Jim might even appreciate some alone time if he were to wake first tomorrow.

After a bit, Jim’s sleeping form began stirring with obvious distress, whimpering a bit. He was having a nightmare, that much was clear.

Kane bit his lip anxiously, a drop of blood welling where his fang met skin. What should he do? Letting him stew in the nightmare didn’t feel right. He was probably the one tormenting Jim in his dreams.

“Jim?” he called softly.

He didn’t wake up. Kane hesitantly stood, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and took a few steps closer. “Jim?”

Nothing. Jim whined pitifully in his sleep, and now only half a room away, Kane could see a tear running down his face in the dark.

My fault.

It was possible that Jim could be having a normal nightmare unrelated to him, but he seriously doubted it.

Kane approached further, kneeling beside the bed. Better that Jim doesn’t wake to his tormenter looming over him. He gently laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder, the same way Jim would do when trying to comfort him, and shook lightly. “Jim, you’re having a nightmare.”

-

Jim woke in the dark, The bright-red eyes in his dream fading into the exact same in reality, no more than two feet from his face.

He jerked back immediately, pressing himself back against the wall. His good arm went up to protect himself- never to fight back, that only made things worse, just to be in the way so Kane didn’t hit tender stomach or easily-cracked ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, cowering against the wall, murky with sleep. The dream was fading, the details melting away, but he knew Kane was angry with him. “I’m s-sorry, Master. I’ll be better. I’ll behave. Just gimme another chance.”

Kane didn’t look angry. He looked... horrified, honestly, which was confusing. He shuffled backward without standing.

“Jim,” Kane’s voice came out gentle. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not- I’m not your master anymore. It was just a dream. I know it’s terrifying, I get them too, but it’s not real. I’m not... like that anymore. I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you.”

Jim blinked the sleep away, starting to come to his senses. Kane was letting him off the hook this time. No, wait, what was going on?

“You’re home,” Kane reminded him. “You’re not at my house anymore. We just got accidentally locked in the basement. You had a nightmare.” His face took on a tinge of fear. “I- I’m sorry for touching you. I just thought it would be best to wake you since you seemed distressed, and I know if it was me I’d want- I shouldn’t have, I’m so sorry. You can, um, you can punish me if you like.” He bowed his head down, shivering.

Right. Kane. This was who Kane was now.

Jim smoothed his hair back, the curls bouncing back into place as he did, starting to calm down. “No punishing. ‘M gonna go back to sleep. Thanks for waking me.”

Kane sighed with relief. Jim was glad they’d gotten to this point: it’d have taken ages to calm him down if something like this happened just a few months ago. “Okay. Good night, Jim.”

“G’night.”

...

His next dream was back at Kane’s, again, his mind unable to drop the subject. Unlike the last dream, this one wasn’t violent. Kane wasn’t mad this time. It was a normal, peaceful night.

Kane fed from him, and they lounged in Jim’s quarters for some reason, his dream discarding the fact that Kane wouldn’t do that. There was no hurting or threatening, and though Kane was his usual pompous, aggravating self, it was okay.

Jim hated those dreams the most.

He woke with a grumble, reminded once again all how content he’d been at times to be Kane’s property. How he’d gotten stuck in that rut. Learned helplessness.

Kane was already awake, sitting quietly at his desk. Jim felt a pang of guilt for stealing his bed, but, well, the guy offered. It was weird, to feel like a guest in his own basement. Like it was someone else’s home and not his.

Kane’s home.

Jim pushed the thought aside immediately. Semantic bullshit, his brain making connections where there weren’t any. It wasn’t the same.

“Morning.” He stretched and sat up in bed, at least a little less freaked out than last night.

Oh God. Last night. It was a little fuzzy, but he remembered freaking out. He remembered calling Kane Master. His face grew hot with shame.

Kane looked over. He shrank back a little, obviously a bit scared. “Good morning, Jim. Are you feeling any better? I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. S’okay. You were just trying to help. You don’t gotta worry.” This was better, being the one to reassure Kane. He didn’t want to need to be taken care of, especially by him.

Kane relaxed a little. “Okay. Yes, I just, I just wanted to help. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

“Can I ask you kind of a weird question?” Jim blurted out.

“Yes?”

He twiddled his fingers. “You ever get these dreams, like... you’re back at, like, your cell or whatever, but nothing bad’s happening? And you’re kind of just chilling there.”

Kane nodded. “A lot, actually. You... also get those?”

“Yeah.” Jim didn’t know where he was going with this. It just kind of felt nice to know it wasn’t just him, that he wasn’t broken for having dreams where he’s content with his captivity. Kane went through literal torture and he gets the same thing.

They were still stuck down here for the time being. All the games were upstairs, since Jim didn’t hang out in the basement, but luckily, it turned out Kane had brought a deck of cards down for solitaire a couple months ago. He’d almost forgotten Kane asking for permission for that.

While they were in the middle of their third game of gin rummy, Jim started to feel hungry. He’d missed dinner last night, and it looked like he wouldn’t be getting any breakfast today either. He had water from the half-bathroom’s sink, but there was no food down here for him.

There was food down here for Kane.

His hand stalled as he went to draw a card, frozen. There was no blood draw kit, not even a small knife like he’d used before he got the kit, and no bowl to collect it in even if there was. And besides, he’d get dizzy after if he couldn’t eat, and that meant that the only way for Kane to have his breakfast was to-

“Jim?” Kane asked, taking on that timid, concerned tone again, like he couldn’t decide if he was in trouble or not. “Is- is something wrong?”

“Uh, no.” He quickly drew his card. “Just- you know. Spaced out.”

“Oh.” Kane seemed to accept the lie at face value, taking his turn.

-

Kane could tell something was wrong, but he didn’t want to push it. It was probably just that they were trapped, but Jim seemed off.

It finally clicked when Jim’s stomach growled a few hours after they stopped playing, a soft sound that his acute hearing nonetheless picked up despite being on the other side of the room. Of course. He himself was a bit peckish, not that he’d ever think of bringing it up to Jim, but he’d had much worse.

But Jim was human. He’d missed three meals by now, dinner last night and breakfast and lunch today. Humans needed to eat so often, that was the equivalent of three days without blood for a vampire.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, worried. “I- I’m sorry there’s no food for you down here. You must be hungry.” It wasn’t fair. If anyone deserved to never ever have to go hungry, it was Jim.

Jim dropped the pencil, the sound of it clattering to the paper he was drawing on ringing out. He looked up with fear in his eyes, scooting back in the chair. “I’m okay,” he said quietly, trembling a little.

That wasn’t the reaction Kane had been expecting. Jim would get scared of him sometimes, but usually when he’d done something to-

“I know you’re hungry too. Please don’t.” Jim’s hand went to his neck, where his turtleneck covered twin impressions of Kane’s own fangs, holding it protectively. “I just- Kane, man, I can’t. Liz’ll realize I’m not answering the phone and come to let us out in a day or two, and I’ll give you blood then, okay? Please.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

“Oh- no, no, I wouldn’t.” Kane paused the CD player, sitting up with his knees to his chest on the bed. Did Jim think he was going to attack? A flash of panic surged through him. “I wouldn’t attack you, I mean- I wouldn’t ever again, I swear! I wasn’t going to, please believe me! Jim, you, you know I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t. I promise.”

His panicked insistences seemed to calm Jim down somewhat. He removed his hand from his neck, though it still hovered close-by. “You mean it?” he asked, his voice small.

“Yes. I will not touch you,” Kane promised confidently. “It’s okay. You’re- you’re safe.” It felt backwards, his heart still thudding with his own panic, given how many times Jim had repeatedly assured him of the same. But Jim was the one who really needed to hear it.

Jim let out a long, shaky breath. “Okay. Thanks.” He was clearly still on-edge, but starting to relax.

“But- you never answered, are you alright? You’ve missed too many meals,” Kane brought back up.

“I’ll be fine.” Jim wiped his eyes, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Remember that little hunger strike I tried back at your place?”

Vaguely. Kane hadn’t thought about that in a long time. A smaller rebellion, overshadowed by Jim’s ill-conceived attempt to run him through with a knife a few weeks prior. “Um, yes, I think so. That was- the first year, I believe? You were alright after that.”

“You waved a chocolate bar in front of my face and I caved immediately. I was nineteen.” Jim gave a soft chuckle. “I was terrified at the time, but looking back on it now, it’s a little funny when you think about it like that. Oh man.”

Nineteen. So young. Kane had known he was, he looked it, but hadn’t learned just how much until Jim told him on the eve of his twentieth birthday. He was a mere teenager when Kane stole him away from his life. How could he have been so horrible?

He nodded along to Jim’s observation, throat thick with guilt.

They did what they could to pass the day, hunger gnawing at the both of them. Kane was sure that whatever he was feeling, Jim must have been feeling it at least three times worse, maybe more since he was unused to it.

He wished he could alleviate it, somehow, like Jim had done for him. That he could offer Jim his own blood to alleviate his pain. But he was the vampire, and Jim was the human. There was nothing he could do but fetch him a cup of water.

-

It had been three days.

Jim didn’t get out of bed today. He’d gone hungry before, on many occasions. Skipping meals as a kid trying to make sure Liz had enough food on her plate when things were tight. That little hunger strike. The two days he ran from Kane, he didn’t eat until he woke up in the hospital, but he was much more worried about water, then. At least he had that, now.

Three was pushing his limit in terms of comfort. He knew he’d survive it fine, Liz would catch on before he got anywhere close to dangerous, but it was turning out to be a stay-in-bed day.

Kane had taken to doting on him, oddly enough. Brought him refills whenever his water got low. Kept asking him if he was okay. It was... kind of sweet, honestly. His fear slowly lessened the more time they spent down here. If Kane were going to attack him, he probably would have by now.

It only made him feel more guilty for not feeding him. He knew Kane was hungry, too. He’d regretted starving him that first month because he couldn’t work up the courage so much, and now he was doing it again. Kane said it was fine, but Jim was pretty sure Kane would say anything was fine.

He took a deep breath. He’d been agonizing over this since yesterday, and he knew he had to do it.

“Kane?”

Kane was by his side in an instant. “Yes? Do you need anything? Are you feeling okay?”

Jim pulled down his sleeve and held his arm out shakily. “You can feed, if you want.”

He was going to panic. He knew it. There was no way he could feel fangs sinking into his skin and not panic. But he could hold it inside and let Kane feed. He was trained for it, after all.

“Oh.” Kane’s eyes flickered from Jim’s face to his wrist. After a long, long pause, he continued. “No thank you.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?”

Kane slowly reached for Jim’s sleeve and pulled it back up. “I can wait.”

Jim pulled his arm back to his chest, relief flooding through him. “Oh. Um, if you’re sure.”

Kane gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t let his fangs show. “I’m sure.”

...

It was hours later when Kane perked up. “Phone’s ringing!” he proclaimed excitedly, hearing its soft tone from upstairs.

“Is it?” Jim listened carefully. “I don’t hear anything.”

“It definitely is. It has to be Liz, right?” Kane asked.

“I’ve made damn sure reporters can’t get my number anymore,” he grumbled. “Yeah, gotta be her. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Kane kept informing him each time the phone rang, the spaces in between getting shorter and shorter. Finally, Kane informed him the front door was opening. Both of them ran to the wall by the stairs, to pound against it for Liz to let them out.

Liz watched in astonishment as Jim leaped out of the basement and wrapped his arms around her. “Finally! Am I glad to see you!”

“Jim? What are you doing down here? What happened?” Liz gave him a quick hug before pulling back to check him for injuries.

Kane backed up until he was all the way down the stairs. Liz had never hurt him, but this was an unusual situation. Best not to be in the huntress’s space.

“Door’s fucked. Been locked down here for three days.” Jim walked past her. “If you’ll excuse me, I have got to get something to eat.”

“Shit! Are you serious?” Liz opened and closed the door experimentally as Jim raced past her to the kitchen, Kane watching apprehensively.

Liz looked down at him and sighed. “Guessin’ you haven’t had a lot to eat either?”

He shook his head.

She held the door open. “C’mon. Let’s get you some blood.”

“I think, um, I don’t mean to contradict you or anything,” Kane said nervously, “But I don’t think Jim is-”

“Yeah, Jim’s not bleeding for you today. I’ve got it covered. C’mon.” Liz motioned for him to follow.

Kane’s heart felt warm as he followed her upstairs. “Thank you.”

-

K&J extra content posted between #47 and #48:

Kane & Jim drabble: Spilled Blood

Crossovers K&J x MMSS and Kane & Raiza continue to update!

not K&J related but i also posted a one-shot, Tomcat Disposables

starting a new thing where i add the taglist in a reblog because i think having it in the main post is breaking my links on desktop somehow, so hang tight for that in a few minutes!

[cvlutos]

HE WHO OWNS, THE COURT WINS IT ALL!!

✡︎ May.06.2023 | 6.0K| Commissioned by @pinkskybelle

✡︎ Vil S. | Rook H. | Male OC

✡︎ Bridgerton AU | Angst | Fluff | Poly | Slowburn | Courting | Hierarchy | Oblivious | Mentions of Alcohol| Etc

✡︎ Synopsis: This is a time for all the rich nobles and bacheors gather for six months to find a love, to grow their name, to make a fourtune. So shall you play along.

| One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six |

ACT ONE

“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” - Shakespeare

The Huntsman gently closes the book, leaning against the rough bark of the pine tree, basking in the few sun rays that gently touch his skin. Emerald eyes flutter closed as he lets out a low amused hum.

“Something will change. C’est assez excitant~”

══════ •✦• ════════════ •✦• ══════

“Vil. You know I am quite disappointed.”

The tip of the fountain pen taps against the pristine white documents, each paper in some way tied to the never-ending business and work that’s conducted by the small Schoenheit Family, made up of the Head of the House, his new wife, and his two sons.

His eldest son, Vil Schoenheit, stands before him. Dressed in a simple button-up and slacks, his blonde hair in a low bun except for the purposeful loose strands that frame the sides of his face. Lilac eyes express nothing, as pink-painted lips press tightly together. The room was dimly lit with little light filtering in through the large violet window shades. A thick, dark oak desk was placed in the furthest part of the room, separating the two.

The silence between them grows more tense with each passing moment, as the head of the family lets out another annoyed sigh. Wishing to be occupied with signing papers alone, then having to deal with the son of his late ex-wife. The shadows prevent the head’s face from being seen, but Vil knows—his father has his always disappointed face engraved into his memory—he knows that his father is scowling. Like he always does. Scowling with disappointed eyes and disappointed lips.

The air, thick and cold—frigid upon Vil’s elegant skin, forcing him to remain present, then allowing his mind to wander to more savory things instead of listening to his father’s long lectures. The pen taps again, showing a bit of his father’s impatience, which is always short. Since Vil was a child, his father has never been patient. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

“I apologize,” Vil bows, placing a hand over his heart, “but there was not much else I could do. Time got away from me...”

The chair beneath his father creaks as he leans forward with a scoff, “The time got away? You—who is insistent upon keeping track of all things I do. Ready to undermine me at all chances.” Vil’s father lets out a tired sigh. “Just like your mother would, always trying to correct—” He speaks under his breath, placing his pen down, his hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yet time got away from you.”

The blonde brows of Vil’s face scrunch, his glossed lips pulling into a deep scowl, standing straight once again, his arms crossing. “Leave my mother out of this. You tormented her enough when she was here.”

“Do not get smart with me boy!” His father’s hand slams against his desk, creating a firm and echoing sound that seems to shake the very room, Vil bites back any words, watching the multitude of books, pens, pencils, and décor topple off the desk. Vil does nothing. Keeping his posture straight and unamused, eyes firm and staring. His father’s hands clenching and stretching, fixing his wedding band subconsciously, breathing heavily.

“Pick my things up, boy.” Vil’s father’s voice is firm, watching with glaring eyes as Vil’s shoulders drop, slowly sliding down and onto his knees and picking up the multiple objects and placing them back on his desk. Vil’s father proceeds to speak, staring down at his son.

“If time has gotten away from you—then you simply force my hand Vil.”

The chair creaks. His father rises from his seat and pulls out a black envelope with gold writing. He flicks the envelope from his hand, watching it flutter before landing on the wooden flooring, forcing Vil, on his knees, to reach for it, on all fours. Like a dog.

‘Vil Schoenheit’

Written in beautiful gold cursive, Vil recognizes exactly who the letter is from immediately having received a letter occasionally from the family. The Royal Draconia family. He rises to his feet, placing the objects back in place and returning where he stood. Looking over the letter in silence.

“Because I cannot trust you to act reasonably and properly, you will host this year’s courting season.” His father speaks again, straightening his hair and clothing. Vil’s gaze moves up to his father, scowling deeply.

“The courting season is in less than three months. Everyone has already made preparations for the Al-Asims to host. And I have talked to the head of the family, and he is more than happy to let you host.” Vil’s father sits back down, before waving his hand in a shooing motion, “Now go. I’m tired of looking at you.” Vil gives another curt bow, biting back any vile words that wished to escape his lips. Turning on his heel and walking out of his father’s office.

Closing the heavy oak door with a hard slam, keeping his displeased scowl, any servants were quick to move out of his way, keeping their heads low. He walks the lavish white halls quickly, steps muffled by the thick violet carpets, he holds the letter tightly. His huntsman appears beside him in stride, a small smile across his lips. Unbothered by Vil’s scowl and furrowed brows.

“Bon après-midi, mon Seigneur, pourquoi un air renfrogné orne-t-il le beau visage d’une personne?” Vil stops immediately in place, turning to his huntsman, holding up the envelope, and watching his personal guard nod in immediate understanding.

“He has not only forced me to my hands and knees like a dog but has also saddled me with preparing this year’s courting season. Even went so far as to ask the Draconia family, he has absolutely made a fool of me.” Vil’s voice is low, dripping with venom, before resuming his walk, his steps long and fast, his guard follows easily. Dressed casually in his familiar brown feathered hat upon his head.

“How would you like to begin planning?”

“Have letters sent out—Courting with take place at the Pomefiore Manor. I’ll have father regret ever forcing my hand.”

══════ •✦• ══════

“Master Robyn!”

The wind blows softly through the sunlit manor grounds, rustling the vibrant green grass and forest leaves as two figures crouch in the bushes, out of sight and view of the frantic middle-aged maid who was shouting for them. Trying to rush down the stone stairs, but also afraid to fall, leaving her to grip the ends of her black dress and white apron as she sidestepped down the steps. Swatting away at the two large dogs that yap and bark as they bound up and down the steps, messing with her as she tries to shoo them away.

There’s a handmade animal target made of hay and cloth that stands unmoving, placed in the very center of the grassy field. Something the maid is utterly oblivious to, as small hands grip the wooden bow, a hand-crafted gift made for the young brother of the Locksley house, with his name elegantly engraved along the handle.

“Ignore her.”

The master of the house’s voice is quiet, with a hint of playfulness as he tucks a strand of rose-red hair behind his ear, crouching low as he adjusts his brother’s aim. Once again, the maid shouts, which earns a snicker from the younger boy, as the Head of the house grins. Both the brothers are quite used to her panicked shouts, having grown to know the difference between her actual urgent calls and her simple faux panic that she at times sends herself into over the smallest changes.

“Do I shoot now, brother?” His brother’s voice is playful, glancing up at his brother with eager eyes, waiting for the release command. A moment passes before the eldest looks at his younger brother, giving a short nod.

“Shoot.”

The young brother does, the arrow zipping through the bushes and shooting straight into the fake deer’s neck, sending the puppet flying over. The maid shrieks in fear and surprise, nearly dropping whatever she was holding, as the dogs bark happily, rushing over to the straw dummy and pouncing on it. The younger brother immediately jumped with a cheer, revealing his hiding spot as he rushed over to the puppet.

“That was like 15 yards away, brother! And the arrow went zoom!” The young child holds out his arm, pretending it was the arrow and how it flew, nearly falling over from the extra momentum and the dogs that jump and bump into his small frame.

“Master Jay, please be careful!”

The maid, a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and white streaks, holds the ends of her skirt as she rushes across the field, her plump peach-colored face flushed. Jay ignores her completely, entertaining himself with the dogs and the straw deer, chasing them around with it.

“Marjorie, he is alright.”

She nearly jumps 10 feet in the air, turning around and coming face to face with the master of the house, Robyn Locksley. Who has a small smile, resting a firm, gentle hand on her shoulder with an apologetic grin and laugh. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” She presses her palms against her fast-beating heart, and he gives her a moment to gain her breath as he fixes the runaway strays of her hair, watching his brother from the corner of his eyes, watching Jay play happily with their two black and white hunting dogs.

“You called for me earlier. Was something wrong?”

Robyn holds out his arm, allowing the maid, one he’s known since childhood, to interlock their arms as they walk around the grassy field. She was the main maid in charge of Robyn’s everything, making sure that he had everything he could likely need, while his parents spent days away from the manor. Leaving their young son alone for days on end, a habit that didn’t change at the surprise arrival of Jay Locksley, who was born when Robyn was only sixteen.

So, while Marjorie took care of him, Robyn took care of Jay. Even after the Locksley name was ruined, all due to his father’s negligence and his mother’s embarrassment, who fled the moment it was declared by the Draconia Family that Robert Locksley had ruined their wealth and discarded their name and found dead in an alley in the next town over. Though his mother, Jane, died six years ago in a carriage accident.

Neither of the sons of Robert and Jane attended the funeral, at the request of her third husband.

“Goodness me! I almost forgot! Well, news has it that the courting season has changed from the Al-Asim Family to the Schoenheit Family, at the last minute’s notice—”

Robyn nods, giving an occasional hum as he listens. Knowing that it was better off to simply ramble on about whatever news and or drama she gained, speaking about all the speculated drama behind the sudden decision. Cause to her, quick and unusual change is never good.

Though Robyn is curious. A sudden change three months before courting season, he can imagine quite the mad faces of some of the more prominent families. Having to rearrange everything to fit the more regal attitude the Schoenheit’s had, instead of the more freeing vibe that the Al-Asim’s conveyed.

“It could possibly be tied to Kalim Al-Asim and his secret lover?” Robyn holds back a laugh but is not unable to stop a sly smile from spreading across his lips.

“I assume it is another story from the market?” Robyn watches her face go slightly pink, making Robyn know immediately that he’s correct. He laughs, watching her wave him off in a playful fashion. “All rumors hold a bit of truth.”

“That they do.”

They continue walking, Marjorie going back to her conjectures, Robyn adding input here and there, his bright blue eyes gazing along the gardens located on the side of the house, the grassy ground shifting into gravel, crossing past a flowery hedge into the fruit and vegetable gardens. His eyes surveyed each plant, silently searching for any growing berries and fresh, vibrant tomatoes. After finding nothing of interest, his gaze moves to the thick tree line that surrounded the entire Locksley Manor. Located on the furthest outskirts of the large bustling town, hidden within the green land forests. Marjorie continues,

“And it is to be held at the Pomefiore Manor!” Robyn turns to her, his full attention, his brows pulling together in shock and surprise. The Schoenheit family had two famous manors, the Schoenheit Manor where all events are held in relation to the family, and the Pomefiore Manor.

“The one in the Northern Mountains?” The maid nods, stopping in her tracks and pulling away as she rummages through her pockets, retrieving an elegant letter, and placed it in Robyn’s hands.

Pomefiore Manor is a manor of pure and utter elegance hidden within the towering northern mountains and shielded by flurries of never-ending winters. No one except the Schoenheit Family to be allowed that deep into the mountains. Others have tried, but none ever returned alive.

“Such an odd location... And so last minute...”

Robyn mutters under his breath, he’s spent time reading about the mountains and the mysterious snowstorm that follows, some say it was caused by a jealous queen who lost her love to another, and her cold bitter hurt would make those that once stood in her way suffer. While more logical, researchers blamed it on a strange influx of magic that forced the storm to never end. His gaze moves down to Marjorie, watching her anxious-filled expression. Robyn gently presses a hand against her head, his lips curling into a smile.

“I’ll be alright. I was invited, so there should be no worries.”

“You’ll be away for six months. Oh dear,” She leans against Robyn, leaning her full weight against him like a mother would her very own son. He allows her, indulging in the slight smell of honey that surrounds her. Marjorie continues to ramble as she pulls away. Robyn watches her talk aloud, speaking to herself, then to others.

“How would I ever—you’re off to getting married? I need to prepare. We only have three months—Dear Seven—” You watch her walk from the garden and towards the back of the house. Robyn follows behind her, slipping the letter into his pants pocket, as he watches her climb up the stone steps, still speaking to herself, stepping into the manor, clearly in her own world.

“What’s courting season?”

Jay pops up beside the young master of the house, holding a long stick, watching Marjorie before wide blue eyes look up at Robyn, dirt, and grass decorating his clothing. Robyn lets out a low hum, roughing up his brother’s hair, ignoring the gentle ‘hey!’, as Jay tries to duck away.

“It’s like a long party. I’ll be looking for a spouse—Though,” The master of the house trails off, a grin spreading across his lips, watching Jay try to fix his short messy red hair, that’s always messy, even after Robyn spends 15 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to style his unruly hair before giving up. Watching Jay try and slick his hair back, squinting his eyes to look cool, making Robyn laugh when the hair practically bounced back into place.

“—I’ll be away for six months.”

The two siblings walk side by side. Jay, with similar bright blue eyes, bounds happily beside his sibling, attracting the attention of the playful hunting dogs, who zip and dart between the two.

“For six months... That is a long, long time.” Robyn’s brother sways as he walks, purposely bumping into his brother, who uses his hand to entertain the dogs, feeling them playfully nip and bite at his fingers, and chasing the siblings as they walk.

“It is—You will be alright; Marjorie and Arthur will take of you.”

Marjorie and Arthur are the only two remaining maids and butlers to the Locksley Estate. The two manage everything within the large, empty manor. Marjorie is in charge of the inside of the manor, while Arthur handles all outer duties. Occasionally, the two siblings help in secret, dusting and sweeping, maintaining the gardens, and handling the large dogs.

“But it’ll be lonely without you—”

Jay wraps his arms around his brother’s waist, stopping the two in their tracks, Robyn gently combing his fingers through his brother’s hair. His lips pulled into a frown, the last few years, since the fall of the Locksley name, everything has been nothing but hectic, meaning Robyn missed his other courting season, leaving him with only this year and the next before he’s considered ineligible, which could possibly leave the two homeless. And though every fiber in his being wants to remain with his brother—nor does he truly desire a spouse—this is one of his ‘noble’ duties.

“I’ll visit. Once a month, if possible... Our situation is no secret.”

Jay is aware of their social standing. Aware of who exactly their parents were, Robyn had no reason to paint his parents in a good light. Sparing no expense to hide the truth in bits and pieces. Jay knows they’re nobles with no riches, nobles alone in status, merely because King Draconia pitied them, and swore that they could properly regain their title if Robyn worked and proved that the Locksley family was worth helping.

Though becoming a proper noble matters little to none to the Head of the Family, it’s merely a title that comes with a following never-ending headache, and if Robyn could—he very well would rid himself of it. Yet, he crouches to his brother’s level, his hands gently squeezing his shoulders. Jay’s eyes look glossed over in worry, his bottom lip poking out as he frowns.

“You’ll be in my thoughts. Always.”

Robyn Locksley has a brother to protect, to care for, whom he loves more than any other. His only family—besides Marjorie and Arthur—and closest friend. Jay nods, his pouting lips curling into a small mischievous smile as his hands tug at the bottom of his shirt. “Then—Can you help me shoot some more?”

Robyn gasps, clearly being tricked by his brother, “I knew those tears were fake!”

Robyn attacks his brother in a flurry of tickles, bringing his sibling into his embrace, wrestling Jay in his arms, causing him to giggle and laugh, fighting back and losing terribly. “No! No! Robyn! Please!” He shouts in between giggles, the dogs barking and yapping happily, knocking over both Robyn and Jay as they practically pounce onto the two, sending them all to the floor, giving Jay a chance to wiggle and squirm away, darting away in a fit of laughs and giggles. Robyn kneels in the grass, green blades coating parts of his clothing, hair, and face, hands resting on his knees. Jay sticks out his tongue, urging the dogs to come get him, leaving Robyn alone for a moment.

Courting Season.

It’s six months long and, unlike any of the other bachelors and bachelorettes, who flaunt and flounce, wearing their name proudly, the Locksley family cannot. ‘If not for myself... then for you,’ Jay darts around with the dogs, smile large and blue eyes happily wide. Robyn can’t remember the last time he’s seen his brother so happy, the last time he’s been so present. Not simply sparing a glance, but spending a moment with his brother after his long trips, to only leave again.

Trying to undo all his father did. Trying to prove his worth to the ever-reigning Draconia Family, who at any moment displeased with Robyn Locksley, could take everything away. Robyn pushes off the ground, wiping off the dirt and grass, his gaze turning to the large house. Whatever connection Robyn felt, whatever love for the manor—whatever love for his Locksley name ceased to exist years ago. It’s nothing but a house within his name, but to Jay—even as he knows the truth, the manor means something to him. That represents something that Robyn is quite unsure of.

“Master Robyn! Master Jay! Lunch is ready!” Marjorie’s voice shouts aloud, carrying a tray out and to the sitting area located at the top of the stairs, Arthur helping her keep the glass doors open.

Jay immediately is on his feet, racing towards the garden stairs, the two hunting dogs yapping and running after the young boy. A short happy huff lips past Robyn’s lips, walking towards the manor with a small smile.

══════ •✦• ══════

Courting Season.

A season in which all elegant bachelors and bachelorettes take a break from the pressures of society, gathering together to expand their family name and grow their riches by finding a spouse. There are no expectations of love, but connections. That is the goal, to connect and grow. Win it all or lose everything. Failure results in shame, and the Draconia refuses to have shame attached to them.

Courting Season is divided into two, the Spring Court and the Summer Court.

The Spring Court [March, April, May]:

The Court of Spring is the beginning of all festivities and gives a chance for everyone to scope out potential suitors and enjoy the fun without absolute commitment.

For most of the spring, the bachelors and bachelorettes remain separate. Getting to know one another and gaining companions. The more socially accepted you are, the less likely you’ll have competition in finding a good partner.

The Summer Court [June, July, August]:

The Court of Summer, this is the latter half of all festivities. During this time, one should already have mutually picked their suitor for the last three months, spending this time to bond more, whether romantically or for future business endeavors.

At this point, most have selected their main interest and attempt to spend the latter half trying to know them. While others, pleased with their connections but have no desire for romance, spend the last three months enjoying the festivities, but must show a sign that they are out of the running and uninteresting.

Origin of Courting Season: Created and in placed by one of the great kings of Briar Valley, as a way to keep the rich with the rich and keep the poor with the poor.

This idea has changed very little over time, due to the expansion of how many noble families exist beneath Draconia’s control.

ACT TWO:

“This above all; to thine own self be true.” - Shakespeare

The Huntsman can’t help but smile, turning his gaze to the growing crowd, as carriages of different sizes and colors move in staggered lines, traveling up the rocky dirt road, lined with elegant floral bushes, filling the air with the gentle scents of lavender and jasmine, guiding them towards the gleaming manor of violet, white, and gold. Feeling the cool spring air bite at his cheeks, he slides off the towering tree branch, falling to the ground in simply ease. Emerald eyes subtly memorized each landau that stood out before landing on a bright red and gold wooden carriage, pulled by two elegant black stallions.

“J’aime bien celui-là.”

══════ •✦• ════════════ •✦• ══════

This is the beauty of the Pomefiore Manor.

It is a celebratory night, the first night of Courting Season, the first night before everyone is separated for the first three months. Yet that is the farthest thought from everyone’s mind. For some, it is their first time away from home, away from the suffocation of their titles. For others, this is a usual scene and a moment for them to take a break from their hectic life and bask in simplicity. For others, this is business, not a vacation.

DEAR ROBYN LOCKSLEY,

Greetings from the Draconia Family.

We hope all is well and wish you a very joyful and eventful courting season. May the odds be in your favor, and you find the perfect lover. We have written to you to speak gaily and thank you for all of your dedicated help, but we are also afraid that even after years of service, it is simply not enough. Your father was quite the foolish man and was built quite the debt, one you must repay. So sadly, I’m afraid that if you do not find a spouse of higher rank, you will be stripped of your title and all assets. Now don’t fear, this courting season is quite an extraordinary one, so have fun, be merry. For this might be your last time.

Best Wishes,

THE DRACONIA FAMILY

The words of the letter remain heavy upon his brain. Any formalities slipped out moreso on instinct than purpose, and barely remembering the faces of the different women and men that introduced themselves. Doing well to speak to the noble, only in name, rather than earned purpose. Which Robyn knows, aware of his name being spread across the ballroom like an uncontrolled wildfire, as others send him curious looks.

Looks he does well to ignore.

This had been on his mind for the last three months, in between preparations for his long journey, and making sure finances were in order. Making sure that Jay, Marjorie, and Arthur had all they needed while he was gone. He spent the days spending time with his brother, promising that six months would pass quickly that before they knew it, they’d be together again in the fall. While in the late night, he remained glued to his desk, furiously writing letters to different nobles and businessmen, trying to build any sort of safety net if he did fail in the task appointed by the Draconia Family. Spending nights within his bed, rereading the letter over and over.

Half of him wanted to make the unprompted journey to the Draconia Castle, demanding to speak with the King. Urge them to give him more tasks. To let him find some way to at least make sure his brother and the only two servants that he had were all right and cared for.

Though Robyn is certain that their solution would have Jay work for them. Not only does he lose the title of noble, but becomes a poorly treated servant. That thought alone forced Robyn to remain in the manor, doing well so as to not frighten the others.

He shakes the thought from his head. Suddenly very aware of his facial expressions, he forces a relaxed smile. Turning his gaze upon the crowded ballroom. Spotting some familiar faces and some not. Each and all dressed in the finest of silks and jewels, all wanted to show off to the Schoenheit heir, who has yet to make himself known.

Robyn stands against the towering white marble walls. As flickers of white and gold flames give way to bright light, placed upon hanging crystal chandeliers, as shoes tap and float against the polished floors. Dancing away with whoever filled their fancy, away from prying, judgmental eyes, with hands entwined and bodies close, dancing to the lovely orchestra.

Everyone during courting season has something to gain and something to hide.

The musicians, people that Robyn is sure that they have been alive far longer than him and have more than mastered the dark oak string instruments. The Locksley Head is certain that the orchestra is most definitely a gift from the Draconia Family. Seeing as no noble would accept less than the best, though Robyn is unsure of the last time he’s heard a live orchestra.

He holds the crystal flute glass, one practically forced into his hand the moment he stepped into the ballroom, occasionally sipping its sweet savory flavor that sends tingles down his tongue after every taste. There’s a subtle underlying flavor of alcohol. Yet the sweet flavor overpowers it greatly. He’s sure that there will be a few who make the mistake of drinking downing drink after drink.

Robyn softly sways to the music, far more interested in the different people, each seemingly comfortable in this environment. Not to say he hates dancing or even festivities, but it’s more enjoyable with someone, is it not?

Robyn’s blue eyes shifted across the enormous crowd that formed around the ballroom dance floor, mingling and gossiping—laughing at their own jokes and discussing the future events. Each within their own right, amazed with how elegant the first night seems to be, when Vil Schoenheit only had three months to prepare. While others knew that the moment Vil Schoenheit sent out invitations with a bouquet, that this year’s courting season—Vil Schoenheit's final courting season would be extravagant.

“Such a shame to only watch and never mingle—Though one can find beauty in simply people watching.”

The voice is like a cool summer breeze and has Robyn shuddering—once for the sudden cold and another out of pure surprise. A man, young, with short blonde hair, pulled into a low ponytail, and deep green eyes that betrayed nothing of his thoughts nor actions, but only showed his curiosity and amusement. He wears simple clothing, tight black pants, a white button-up shirt, and a black corset vest with green lace embellishments, with a simple black belt and a bow and quiver attached to his back.

Robyn glances over his form once more, before landing on his face. He’s watching the crowd. He can tell the strange man is a huntsman. The ends of Robyn’s lips curl. “People are the finest works of art.”

“Ils sont vraiment,” the huntsman says nothing more with a merry hum, occasionally glancing at the young nobleman, but keeping his gaze focused on the smiling faces of the people.

“From the way you’re dressed, you do not seem like a noble?” Robyn’s words make the man chuckle, earning his full attention, unlike before. He wears a bright smile, pressing a hand over his heart as he bows.

“That I am not. I am Rook Hunt, personal guard and huntsman to Vil Schoenheit.”

Robyn’s eyes widen at his words, watching Rook stand straight, a still amused smile upon his lips. “May I ask what gave me away, Mr. Robyn Locksley?”

“You know who I am?”

“Who would not? You arrived in such a crimson carriage. Such a red is quite beautiful.” Emerald eyes dart up to his hair, before resting back on Robyn’s face, unafraid of eye contact. Robyn lets out a low huff like laugh, crossing his arms, and tilting his head to the side. “You asked how I knew—”

“Oui.”

“You are simply underdressed.” The words make the huntsman laugh, a few eyes turning in their direction for the sudden loud laugh, unaware of the two.

“Such a simple fact and yet gave so much away. Tu es vraiment fascinant.” Rook wipes away imaginary tears, giving another shallow bow, as if apologizing. “Forgive me of my outburst, it is not often one speaks to me so freely.”

“Freely?” Darting past Robyn’s curiosity, his smile unfaltering, “You spoke as people being art, then we stand in a museum of moving pieces.”

A museum of moving pieces. Robyn follows Rook’s gaze, watching the crowd move and dance. No one is in the same position as before, some with their arms crossed when they once talked animatedly, some who drink when they once were eating.

“So much passes in so little time. How can one truly appreciate it without a photo?” How can one fully enjoy a moment when a moment so quickly passes? Robyn’s gaze moves to his flute glass, watching the bubbles form and pop, before turning his gaze back towards the crowd.

“That is the beauty of it.” Rook tears his eyes away, green eyes filled with so much honesty. For a moment, Robyn swears he sees Jay’s honest eyes. It has been so long since he’s met someone who’s so true to themselves.

“You speak of…” The words come out heavy, and weigh heavily upon his tongue, “beauty quite often… Why?”

Rook takes a moment to answer, though Robyn is certain that the huntsman doesn’t need a moment to think of response, but moreso for affect. “That is my life pursuit… To find beauty in all things.” Robyn’s eyes move towards the orchestra, watching them happily play, caught up in the melodies of their own music. He thinks back to the letter, one he folded and shoved into the deepest parts of his temporary dresser, unable to swallow the bitterness of it all. Robyn lets out a soft sigh, taking a large gulp of his drink, before speaking.

“In theory that would be easy… To find beauty in everything… Yet how do you look past the negative to see beauty?”

“You do not.” The Huntsman answers with ease, rocking on his heels with a smile, laughing at Robyn’s confused expression. “You take all for how it is and how it will be. Negativity is a fluid emotion—no one can avoid it, so you must learn how to see it for what it is. People will always have negativity—that is one of life’s absolutes. Yet that is not all people can be…”

“So, you find beauty in those that experience it and move past it?”

“And those who cannot—il y a de la beauté dans l’angoisse.”

Robyn finishes the bubbly drink, placing the crystal flute glass on the tray of a passing by servant, before turning to Rook with a grin. “I quite enjoy your company,” Robyn face slightly flushed, feeling the gentle buzz of alcohol in his system, yet he doesn’t stop, offering out a hand.

“May I ask you to accompany me to the gardens?”

══════ •✦• ══════

“Master Vil, many are awaiting your arrival.”

A short maid bows deeply keeping her face hidden as the Schoenheit heir finishes his hair. Pulled into a simple bun, adorned with crystals and jewels. His pink painted lips pressed together, fingers elegantly fixing the golden chain of his necklace.

“Tell me, has father said anything about the courting season?” His voice is low, while the elegant makeup brush is carefully dragged across the lid of his eye, unbothered to even look at the shuddering maid, who’s dressed in simply black and white, keeping herself in Vil’s shadow.

“He—um—The Master spoke of annoyance and disappointment, yet has said nothing else, Master Vil.”

Coating the purple eye shadow across his eyes, before switching to black eyeliner, he speaks again. “That is good, I suppose,” he moves to his other eye, “And have you seen Rook? I give him a moment to see all who has arrived, and he takes the time to simply go missing.” Vil speaks to himself before letting out a sigh, switching from the black eye shadow to a deep purple. He speaks directly to his maid.

“I am aware he has been mingling with guests, yet has yet returned, where is he?”

“Um, the gardens, I believe. He is entertaining Master Robyn Locksley.” Vil pulls the brush from his eye, staring at the two perfectly matching eyes, before placing the brush down and for once, turning to fully look at the maid. His blonde brows furrowed and lips in a low grimace.

“Robyn Locksley… If I am correct, he is a noble in name and of nothing else.” There is slight venom in his words, standing up from his vanity and towards the full-length mirror, once again checking to make sure his outfit is in order. The maid makes sure to stand behind him, keeping her hand over her heart and legs crossed in a low curtsy.

“Yes, that he is. But many say that the reason is due to Robyn Locksley having close ties to the Draconia Family. Which is why he is able to retain his title. Rumors say that it was Lord Malleus himself who gifted the Locksley with the crimson red carriage. Which has caught a lot of attention, I am certain that Master Robyn will have quite many who seek him.”

Vil clicks his tongue, heels clicking as he returns to his vanity, picking up the black eye liner, “I do not like rumors, yet if there is any truth in this—I assure you, Robyn Locksley has caught my attention.” He speaks under his breath, adding the wings onto his eyes, before clearing his throat.

“Prepare for my arrival. I want not a soul missing.”

ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.

[andiwriteordie]

omg??? congrats!! so well deserved <3

hmm. what abt wheelclair friendship where Mike has his “oh” moment while Lucas is talking abt how he feels abt Max? maybe they have a chat abt it? I j love them <3 ;__;

ahh!! hi, thank you so so much!

i got carried away with this one, WOOPSIE. can you tell i love wheelclair friendship? like HELLO I LOVE THEM.

hope you enjoy! (also. highly recommend listening to this song it is very byler coded!)

—

wherever i'm going, i'm going with you

Today’s Mike’s day to sit at the hospital with Lucas and Max.

It’s been nearly six months now that Max has been in a coma—nearly six months since Vecna nearly killed her and ripped open the gates in Hawkins. Nearly six months since the Upside Down first began bleeding into Hawkins and nearly six months Will’s nightmares, caused by his growing connection to Vecna, first began. 

It’s been nearly six months, there’s no end in sight, and Mike feels completely useless.

Seriously. There’s nothing that he can do right now—nothing that any of them can do but sit and wait until Vecna strikes. The only good thing about Will’s connection to this asshole is the fact that they can somewhat monitor him as well and at least get a basic understanding of what Vecna’s state is. He’s still injured, according to Will. He’s not in any condition to strike and to come after them again.

So, now… all they can do is wait.

Talk about the world’s slowest apocalypse. 

In the meantime, Mike tries to keep himself busy. Things… don’t really go back to normal, but he tries to find normalcy in any way that he can. He goes to the makeshift shelters often and volunteers with Dustin, Steve, Robin, and Robin’s friend, Vicki. Will tags along sometimes, but a lot of days, he’s exhausted from being unable to sleep well at night, so Joyce makes him stay at home more often than not.

(Will hates it, but he doesn’t ever say anything to Joyce about it. Instead, he rants to Mike about it on the nights when neither of them can sleep—sharing his thoughts about how this type of thing makes him feel so pathetic and like his life will never be normal. Like… like he’ll always be different because of what has happened to him.

His words feel hauntingly familiar, and some night, after Will does manage to fall asleep, Mike finds himself staring up at the painting that had been gifted to him just six months ago.

He doesn’t dare fall down that rabbit hole though, lest… lest he find himself with many, many questions he doesn’t wanna deal with.)

On top of going to the shelter, the Party also takes turns sitting with Lucas and Max at the hospital. They have a schedule planned out, and between the four of them plus Steve and Erica, they always try to make sure Lucas isn’t alone at the hospital. 

He shouldn’t be alone. He shouldn’t. 

And so, that’s exactly why Mike finds himself sitting in the chair opposite from Lucas and listening to him read the newest novel he’d chosen to read to their comatose friend. He’s reading The Two Towers—one of Mike’s personal favorites, actually.

“'Master, dear master!' said Sam, and through a long silence waited, listening in vain,” Lucas reads, and Mike looks up, a pit growing in his stomach.

He knows this scene. Oh God… Mike knows this scene, and judging by the way Lucas’s hands are clenched tightly around his books, he knows it too.

“Then as quickly as he could he cut away the binding cords and laid his head upon Frodo's breast and to his mouth, but no stir of life could he find, nor feel the faintest flutter of the heart,” Lucas reads, his voice getting quieter as he continues the paragraph. “Often he chafed his master's hands and feet, and touched his brow, but all were cold.”

“Lucas,” Mike starts to say, his own voice soft, but his words are lost to the sound of Lucas continuing the passage of the book.

“'Frodo, Mr. Frodo!' he called. 'Don't leave me here alone! It's your Sam calling. Don't go where I can't follow! Wake up, Mr. Frodo! O wake up, Frodo, me dear, me dear. Wake up!’” Lucas reads, and his voice breaks.

The room goes impossibly quiet, and Mike holds his breath, watching his best friend carefully.

He… he doesn’t have the right words to say. It feels like a common problem nowadays. Back when he was younger, Mike always felt like he knew what to say to make his friends feel better. He’s a writer, a storyteller for God’s sake. Words are kind of his things.

But nowadays, he never seems to know what to say to help anyone.

So, Mike just swallows the lump in his throat, and he whispers, “I… I’m so sorry, Lucas.”

It’s the first time he’s said those words aloud, but God, Mike has been thinking them. He’s been thinking about them ever since he first heard about what happened to Max from Dustin. He’s been thinking about these words every single day he’s come and sat with Max and Lucas, and he’s been thinking about these words every night that Will wakes up, breathless and terrified from another nightmarish encounter with the monster tormenting everyone’s lives.

"Don’t go where I can’t follow," Sam had said—desperate and pleading and terrified.

Oh, how Mike knows what that feels like.

And Lucas does too.

Lucas looks up hesitantly. There’s a watery look in his eyes, and he meets Mike’s gaze, before taking a shuddered breath. “I miss her,” he admits, his voice impossibly soft. “God, Mike… you have no idea how much I miss her.”

Though he doesn’t actually say it, Mike knows from talking with Dustin and with Will that Lucas… really hasn’t opened up to anyone. The person who has had the biggest breakthrough with him has been El, but even then, Lucas really has kept most of his pain and grief to himself. 

It feels like bitter irony, considering the fact that this is exactly how Vecna had been able to target Max.

“I know you do,” Mike whispers back. “God… I know, Lucas. And I… I’m so sorry.”

The words don’t feel nearly big enough, and that sucks. But somehow, they must help, because Lucas manages a shaky breath and wipes his arms on his sleeve. 

“I keep thinking about what I could’ve done differently that week, you know,” he confesses, looking down at Max now. “About… how maybe if I’d been just a little faster, or if I’d made one different decision… maybe I could’ve prevented this. Maybe… maybe she’d still be here.”

Mike can’t help but flinch. The lump in the back of his throat grows, and he… he can’t help but think back to his own regrets—ones he’s had all the way back since 1983. An old memory replay over and over again in Mike’s mind—haunting him and reminding him of how his own mistake could’ve prevented so much pain.

“It was a seven.”

“Huh?”

“The roll, it was a seven. The demogorgon… it got me.”

…

“Well, see you tomorrow!”

“I get that,” Mike finally manages to say, and he swallows the lump in his throat. “I… I think I get that.”

For a moment, Lucas is quiet, like he doesn’t know what to say. Then, finally, he murmurs, “Right… I… I bet you would think about that stuff a lot when El was missing that year… after the fight with the demogorgon.”

The words are a gut punch, and Mike’s breath catches.

Why…. God, why hadn’t he been thinking of El? Obviously… obviously, Mike felt guilty about that instance too, but… that hadn’t been his first thought, even though El used to be his girlfriend and everyone still expects them to get back together someday.

But the truth is… El is rarely the first person that Mike thinks about… in any circumstances nowadays.

It’s always Will.

…

Why? something in the back of Mike’s mind wonders, and he can’t help but look at Lucas and Max curiously. There’s a gentle gaze on Lucas’s face, and he reaches up, brushing some of Max’s hair from her face.

Why is it that Mike always thinks about Will? Why is it that Will takes up so much space in Mike’s mind and heart—to the point where Mike had noticed the difference in that year that the two of them barely spoke? Will’s his best friend, sure, but… but so is Lucas. And so is Dustin. But Mike doesn’t think about them this much, and… and he can’t imagine himself doing the same things for Lucas and Dustin that he would for Will.

If Will was ever in Max’s position, Mike knows he would be just like Lucas—faithfully sitting by Will’s side and waiting for him to wake up. Hell, it was only for a couple days, but Mike did that, just a couple years ago when Will was suffering through his possession. Mike would’ve stayed for as long as Will needed him. He knows he would’ve.

But why?

You know why, that voice in the back of Mike’s mind whispers, and Mike’s breath catches as he watches Lucas press a gentle kiss to Max’s forehead. You know why.

…

Oh.

Oh.

…

Oh, shit.

The lump in Mike’s throat grows, and his heart pounds inside his chest as this newfound revelation begins to sink in. Suddenly, it feels as though the blinds have been opened, or like he’s finally seen the light, or like the last piece of the puzzle has finally slotted into place, allowing him to solve the mystery of why things have always been different with Will.

…

Mike is in love with Will.

…

Mike is in love with Will.

Holy fucking shit.

“Lucas,” Mike blurts out, before he can stop himself. His heart continues to beat nervously—thump, thump, thump—and Mike forces himself to take a deep breath… in and out. In and out.

Lucas looks up, a confused expression on his face. “Um… yeah?”

“I… I wasn’t talking about El,” Mike whispers, watching as a confused expression forms on Lucas’s face. “And I… I think I just realized something, and to be completely honest with you, I am freaking out right now, and honest to God, I should just shut up before I say something I regret, and—”

“Mike,” Lucas interrupts sharply, and Mike closes his mouth, still staring at his best friend with wide eyes. “Dude, okay… first of all, breathe. Second of all… what are you talking about? If… if you weren’t talking about El, then who were you…”

His voice trails off. Mike can pinpoint the exact moment that Lucas makes the same realization he did, and Lucas stares at him with wide eyes. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, ‘oh shit,’” Mike echoes, the panic still rising in his chest. His face feels like it’s burning up, and he runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. “Lucas, I don’t… what do I… I’m not supposed to…”

The words fall flat again, and as tears sting Mike’s eyes, he looks away, lest Lucas see him cry over this. Fuck. This is bad. This is bad, and Mike has no idea what he’s going to do here. He’s officially fallen down the rabbit hole, and there’s no turning back now.

“Hey,” Lucas says softly, and Mike looks up, tentatively meeting his best friend’s eyes. “Let’s just… let’s not freak out or anything. I mean… there’s nothing wrong if you do feel that way for Will… but… but let’s just try to figure this out first. Okay? Nobody has to know but you and me.”

“Right, right. You’re right.” Mike takes a deep breath again—in and out. Okay. It’ll be fine. Maybe he’s just overthinking all of this, or… or maybe he’s not. But for better or for worse… this is happening. He’s down the rabbit hole, and he’s dragged poor Lucas in with him. 

“What makes you think that… that you might feel that way for him?” Lucas asks gently. 

It’s a loaded question, but then again, it’s not. It’s really, really not, especially when Mike stops to think about all the moments in his own life—staying by Will’s side through thick and thin and doing anything to make sure that Will is protected and safe and cared for. All those moments… they parallel exactly what Lucas is doing for Max right now. The similarities are undeniable.

Mike glances away from Lucas to look at Max, then back at Lucas again, and with a shuddered breath, he whispers, “Because I’d follow him anywhere, Lucas.”

Just like you’d follow her anywhere.

“Don't leave me here alone,” Sam had cried, in the passage of the book Lucas had just read. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Mike doesn’t have to say anything else.

Because better than anyone else in the world, Lucas gets it.

[foundress0fnothing]

Summary: Elain runs a sex cult. She’s looking for something new. Lucien is new.

~5.3k words, rated E (explicit)

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

This is just PWP, so be warned (and enjoy)!

Written for @elucienweekofficial Day 7: AU.

Title from “Project for a Fainting” by Brenda Shaughnessy (I’m currently obsessed with this poem and it’s a banger and you should definitely read it).

Lucien POV

“What the fuck kind of bar is this?”

Lucien stared incredulously at the scene unfolding before his eyes. The room itself—what he could see of it, anyway—was innocuous enough. It looked the part of an upscale bar: dark wood furniture and walls painted a blue so deep they were almost black, softened by warm light spilling from lamps scattered throughout and low, plush couches in jewel tones that lined the outer perimeter of the room. There was greenery everywhere—ivy climbing the walls, monsteras arching out of pots in the corners of the room, philodendrons dripping off of the bar that was tucked into the back corner of the room. Music, something pulsing and rhythmic, played in the background, not quite loud enough to distinguish words or melody. 

And the scent of the space—a heady mix of jasmine and honey that Lucien could feel twist around him as he stood on the threshold, inviting him to step inside, to linger, to lose himself in the promise of the evening. 

But he resisted that pull, tempting as it was, instead standing frozen at the sight of the bar’s clientele. They gathered in groups of two or three or four, most draped intimately across each other, touching and fondling and teasing their partners, not caring who might see in the public space. They were all in various states of undress as well, some wearing regular street clothes that were haphazardly hanging off their bodies after one of their partners’ ministrations, some wearing what Lucien could only imagine was niche fetish wear. 

Tearing his gaze away from what he was pretty sure was seconds from descending into a full orgy, he turned to look at Vassa and Jurian who stood a few paces behind him, “I’ll ask again,” he said, flicking his eyes between the two of them. Only Vassa had the grace to look slightly apologetic. “What the fuck kind of bar is this?”

“Their drinks are really good,” Vassa started, but Lucien cut her off. 

“That’s not what I asked, Vas.” 

“It’s what got Jurian in the door at least.”

Jurian offered a lazy grin. “And who wouldn’t want to stay for the rest?”

Lucien glared at him.

“And we figured,” Vassa continued, drawing his attention back to her, “that after Jes and everything, it might be good. For you.”

“It might be good for me?” Lucien raised an eyebrow skeptically, even if, on some level, he could see the appeal of a night of debauchery, of throwing himself into the throng of bodies and free-flowing booze. And it’s not like Vassa was wrong about Jes. Lucien had been ready to propose, had even picked out a ring, until she unceremoniously dumped him a month ago, deciding that she was looking for something different, something—how had she said it?—“more interesting.” 

And he had been wallowing in that loss ever since. He didn’t go out anymore, didn’t reach out to friends, instead moving between work and his apartment and ghosting anyone who tried reaching out. For good reason apparently, he thought to himself, daring another glance into the room where he saw a short woman wearing only a bustier and sheer tights plant herself in the lap of a man wearing an identical outfit.

Vassa clarified, drawing his attention away from his efforts to make sense of the dynamics of that relationship. “You know—to meet someone new.” 

“And,” Jurian added, “you’ve fucking sucked this last month. So. This is for us too.”

Lucien flipped him off. “Thanks, asshole.” He paused. “Look, guys, I appreciate what you’re trying to do—”

“Good.” Vassa grinned devilishly. “So stay.”

“But.” He gestured vaguely into the room, trying not to let his gaze linger for too long on any single thing. People notwithstanding, the room itself seemed determined to draw him in, the light and the music and the perfume and the heat all conspiring to make him take that first step over the threshold and find something—someone.

He shook it off. “I don’t think your little…club, or bar, or whatever it is, is really gonna fix the Jes thing.”

“It’s not just a club though,” Vassa argued. 

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“It’s—oh, what’d they say our first day here, Jurian? When we joined? ‘A place to get in touch with both the mental and physical self, and to meet others on similar journeys of self-discovery.’ She parroted the phrase, and Jurian nodded.

Lucien looked at them incredulously, waiting for one of them to burst out laughing, to tell him it was all a prank and that they put out some sketchy ad on Craigslist to cheer him up. When neither did, he clarified. “So…it’s a cult.”

“Cult is such a strong word, Lucien,” Vassa said with a frown.

“Yeah, but is it the right word though?” Not a prank then, he thought to himself, bewildered by the fact that his friends were apparently participating members. In a cult. In this cult.

“Lighten up, Lucien,” Jurian said, rolling his eyes. “Get a drink. See if anybody catches your eye.”

Lucien laughed in disbelief. “I’m not about to join your sex cult, assholes.”

Both of them ignored his protestations, giving him a slight shove and pushing him further into the room. He could feel its pull even more strongly now, teasing and promising, and wondered for a moment how bad it could be if he just spent one night here.

“No one’s going to make you join, Lucien. It’s not that kind of group.” Vassa smiled over his shoulder at someone she recognized, holding up a finger to let whoever it was know that she was on her way over.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, super glad you didn’t bring me to the join-or-die kind of sex cult.”

“Besides,” she continued. “The head gets to make the final call about members anyway.”

“The head?” He repeated. “Sorry—are you telling me there’s an application for the sex cult?”

Vassa winked at him. “It’s a very thorough review.”

Lucien snorted, imagining it must be. He looked around the room again, trying to guess who the head of a group like this might be. Not that he was about to join. But, as he ran his eyes over the people in the room, no one stood out to him as an obvious leader—they all touched and groped and moved between each other with apparently little regard for hierarchies or rules.

Vassa put a hand on his arm. “Stay for a drink at least. They are actually really good.” With that, she released Lucien and grabbed Jurian’s hand, pulling him into the room and aiming for a hideous pink couch where a beautiful woman with long black hair sat waiting for them.

Not wanting to linger awkwardly at the front of the room, Lucien began moving toward the bar, letting the atmosphere envelop him and guide him through whatever this night was about to be. 

Everything felt more somehow, as if each step forward was turning a dial up tick by tick. The lights were warmer, the music more thrilling, the perfume more heady—and Lucien took it all in, giving himself over, at least slightly, to the magic of the room and the eroticism it promised. 

He had done this—well, something like it—before Jes. He could do it again. And a drink would help. 

“What’ll it be, handsome?” 

Lucien glanced up at the voice coming from behind the bar, honey-smooth and sweet, only to lose himself in the beauty of the woman to whom it belonged. She had wide brown eyes the color of chestnuts and golden brown hair that framed her face with soft waves that stretched halfway down her back. And her dress—Lucien felt his mouth gape slightly as he took in the tight green satin bodice lined with lace that softened into something more loosely flowing as it hit her hips.

She was easily the most stunning woman Lucien had ever seen, and he felt any lingering irritation with Vassa and Jurian bleed away. 

“So—are you going to order something?” The woman was still smiling up at him, although something mischievous danced in her eyes, clearly pleased by his reaction. 

He cleared his throat, glancing at the menu written in neat script behind the bar and willing himself to focus on anything but the sensual curve of her lips. Each drink was artisanal, the ingredient lists long and propriety and brimming with herbs and berries in addition to the liquor. One glance at the bottles lining the wall told him that his usual bar drinks—an old fashioned or a scotch and soda—would be out of place here, would mark him even more as an outsider to the little world of this bar that he was increasingly interested in the longer he spent in the presence of the pretty bartender. 

“I’ll have a Like the Fox.” It was gin and orgeat and falernum, tempered with berries and lime and bitters—and hopefully a suitably impressive order. 

The bartender beamed up at him. “That’s what I would have chosen for you too.” She started to gather bottles in front of her. 

“But,” Lucien said, leaning slightly over the bar. “I’ll only have it on one condition.”

She huffed a laugh. “And what’s that?”

Giving her what Vassa and Jurian called his ‘panty-dropping grin,’ he said, “If you have a drink with me.”

She held his gaze for a moment and then deliberately began looking him over, taking in every detail from the bright red hair he had gathered in a loose bun to the scar bisecting his eye from a failed biking stunt as a kid to the way his wine-red dress shirt hugged his chest. And then her gaze moved lower. He stood still, not wanting to fidget under her scrutiny. Everywhere her eyes landed burned, and Lucien found himself basking in that burn, the painful pleasure of it like midday August sunlight—longed for and too much and slightly sweet, all at once. 

He watched as the bartender flicked her eyes back to his from where they had been lingering on the long line of his legs as if she could somehow see what was hidden underneath the gray slacks. He almost hoped she could. 

And then she winked, grabbing a rocks glass and placing it alongside the coupe for his drink. 

Lucien grinned, pleased that she was willing to play along. “And what is my drinking companion’s drink of choice?” 

Reaching for its ingredients—whiskey, berries, honey, sage—she grinned right back. “Resist the Temptation.”

Elain POV

Elain had seen him the moment he stood on her doorway with Vassa and Jurian. Lucien Vanserra, Vassa had told her: tall, with rich brown skin and vibrant red hair and a scar across his left eye. He was dressed well, his clothes expensive and tailored to fit his broad frame, and he held himself with an ease that belied how uncomfortable he must have been at his first sight of her club.

She could kiss Vassa—and maybe she would later—for bringing him. Late one evening last weekend, spent and sweaty and draped over the pink couch that Vassa and Jurian seemed inordinately fond of, Elain lamented how bored she was, how familiar everyone and everything was, how she wanted something new. 

And Vassa had smiled as she ran her fingers idly through Elain’s hair, a fire lighting in her eyes when she promised that she had the perfect something new in mind. 

Looking up at Lucien now as she mixed their drinks, Elain suspected that Vassa had been right.

Not wanting the silence to stretch too long between them, she said, “I should have made you guess my drink.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” “Yes,” she said, humming slightly. “I would have found it terribly impressive.” Elain tossed her hair primly over her shoulder, smiling to herself as she watched how Lucien’s eyes glazed over slightly as they tracked the movement of the honey brown waves. “You’ll just have to find another way to impress me then, Fox,” she said, placing his drink down in front of him. 

Blinking rapidly as he came back to himself, he picked up the glass and hit her again with one of the rakish smiles that she imagined got him anything he wanted. “And why do I get the sense you’re not easily impressed?” 

He was right. She had been easily impressed once, had almost married a man straight out of college who listened to alt-right podcasts in his parents’ basement and refused to get a job, all because he had a sweet smile and told her he loved her. But he didn’t like that she didn’t want kids right away, that she wanted to travel first or open her own business, and he dumped her, expecting her to come crawling back. She didn’t.

No—instead, Elain mourned the loss of the relationship for exactly twenty-four hours before packing up and setting off on a backpacking trip around the world, eating good food and meeting new people and learning what it was she liked. And she found she liked people. And love—but not exclusivity. So when she got back, she opened the Larkspur Room, named after a flower that could mean both strong love and fickleness, and slowly began to gather its members. They came from all backgrounds, from all walks of life, but they were hers, and she was theirs. And she liked it.

But he didn’t need to know all of that. Not yet, at any rate. So she only smiled, letting a hint of mockery bleed into the expression. “Are you not up for it?”

“Are you?” He raised his glass to her in cheers, and then, holding her gaze, took a long, slow sip. 

Elain watched his throat bob as he swallowed. Yes, she definitely owed Vassa. He would do very nicely. Even if he was far too cocky—that could be fixed. 

She held out her hand. “I’m Elain.”

“Elain.” He repeated her name as he took her hand, shaking it once. He didn’t let go, and she didn’t pull away, savoring the feeling of his hand, large and warm and sure.

“And you?” She asked, even though she already knew, before raising her own glass to her lips with the hand not currently bound up in Lucien’s.

“Lucien.”

“You came in with Vassa and Jurian?” Lucien nodded in confirmation, following her gaze to find the pair locked in an embrace with Nuan, one of their usual partners if Elain was busy. And sometimes if she wasn’t. 

He glanced back at her, flushing slightly. “Old friends. They…left out a few key details about this bar.”

Elain laughed at that. “Based on your blush, I imagine they did.” 

Lucien bristled. “I don’t blush.”

“You don’t?” She challenged, turning her laughter on him. “The pink on your cheeks is just a trick of the light?” Setting her drink down, she reached up with her free hand to trace the side of his face. 

He started slightly but didn’t move away, instead leaning into the contact. “I’m used to a little more privacy when I take my lovers to bed.”

Lucien’s voice was low and full of promise, and Elain smiled to herself, feeling her own heart rate pick up ever so slightly. 

“What if I could offer you some privacy?”

“Well then, Elain,” he said, releasing her hand and winding his fingers through her hair and pulling it ever so slightly to tilt her face up to look at his. “Then I could show you all the things I’d like to do with you.”

She bit her lip and watched as his eyes tracked the movement. Good. “There’s a room in the back.”

“Lead the way,” he said, releasing his grip on her hair and polishing off the rest of his drink.

As she moved out from behind the bar, she surveyed the room, taking in the groups milling around, chattering and embracing. Nothing had really started yet, despite Lucien’s reactions, and it wouldn’t—not until she gave the word anyway. 

As she walked over to his side, having to crane her neck slightly to meet his eyes, she asked, “They really didn’t tell you anything, did they?”

“Is there more I need to know?” He had drawn close, and she breathed in the spicy smell of his cologne, a mix of apples and woodsmoke and bergamot that reminded her of crisp fall days.

Elain smirked but didn’t answer him, instead turning out to the larger room to address her friends, her partners, her family. “Have fun tonight, all.”

As if a switch had been flipped, the groups of people stopped their idle touching and fondling and teasing and began to reach for each other with an urgency and a desire that Elain felt rush through her and settle in her core. 

“Come, Lucien,” she said, turning around and walking down the hall to her office. He followed after as if in a daze.

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” Lucien asked as he stepped into the room after her and closed the door. She didn’t use it for this often, but it would do—amongst the desk and the papers sat a low bed, framed by diaphanous lilac curtains and fairy lights that softened the administrative air the room would have otherwise carried.

Elain hummed contentedly. “For a few years now.”

“You run the sex cult.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

“I run the Larkspur Room. That’s the actual name. Not “the sex cult.” And it’s more a place for personal journeys and self-discovery anyway. Sex is just part of it.” She walked over to Lucien but didn’t reach out, didn’t restart her seduction. The next step was his to take.

“Yes, so Vassa told me,” he muttered, looking around the office.

“You disagree?”

He shifted his attention back to her. “A fancy motto doesn’t make it any less of a sex cult.”

“Are you complaining?” Elain could argue the semantics of the word cult with him later. After. Assuming he stayed.

He gently gripped her chin between his finger and his thumb, titling her face up and ghosting his thumb over her lips. “No. Not right now.”

“Good.” She smiled up at him. Time for something new.

He leaned down as if to kiss her but then stopped himself, pulling back slightly. “What does this mean? If we…”

She waited for him to finish the sentence, but when it was clear he wasn’t about to, she rolled her eyes. Still hung up on the cult thing. “It can be nothing more than a night if that’s what you want, Lucien.” Disappointing as that would be. Her chin was still caught in his hands, giving her the perfect view of the effect that her saying his name had on him.

“And if I want more?” Slowly, still looking at her face, he began to run his hands down the sides of her body, rubbing teasing circles into her ribs, her hips.

“Then consider tonight your application for membership.”

“Into the cult?”

She looked at him disapprovingly. “Into the Larkspur Room. You could at least try to say the name.”

“And you’ll decide?”

“Who else?”

Lucien laughed sharply at that. “Vassa said it was a thorough review process. I assumed…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the door and the bodies thronging outside.

She raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Why, Lucien, perhaps you’re more adventurous than I thought. But,” she continued, seeing from his scowl that he was about to start arguing about logistics and throwing around the phrase “sex cult” again, “I don’t share on the first night.” She began tracing her hands across the muscles of his chest before slowly reaching up to pull loose his hair tie, allowing the crimson waves—almost as long as hers, she noted—to messily frame his face. “Is that acceptable to you?”

He nodded, running a hand through his now loose hair, and asked, “What’s so thorough about this review, then Elain?”

She liked the way he said her name. It was as if he was offering up a quiet prayer, like she was something to revere, something to cherish. “It’s a test. All you have to do,” she said, “is make me come three times.”

He raised an eyebrow, so she clarified.

“Once on your fingers,” she listed, drawing his hand to her mouth and holding his gaze as she delicately sucked two of his fingers into her mouth, watching as his nostrils flared.

“Once on your tongue,” she continued, releasing his fingers and leaning in so she could lick up the broad column of his neck.

“And once on your cock.” Still kissing his neck, she ghosted her hand down until she could grip him through his pants, delighting in the groan he let out. He was already hard and, she noted with an involuntary whimper, impressively long. 

Releasing him and stepping away, she smiled in challenge. “Do you think you can manage?”

“Perhaps.” He grinned back at her as he answered, cockily adding, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Elain huffed a laugh. “We’ll see.” But she hoped he was right. “Questions?”

“One,” he said as he started to unbutton his shirt, allowing her glimpses of his sculpted chest as the two sides slowly parted. “What does membership into your ‘Larkspur Room’ get me?”

Her mouth opened in shock. “Greedy already?”

“I just want to know if the effort is worth it.” His smug smile at the way her eyes kept catching on the planes of his chest was infuriating.

The fucking nerve of him. But Elain had an idea, smiling wickedly as she sank to her knees and  said, looking up at him as she unbuttoned his pants, “You tell me.”

Lucien POV

Lucien was fucked. And probably about to join a sex cult. 

Because if the way Elain was sucking him was any indication of how the rest of the night would go, he realized that he would do anything, would say anything, would join anything just to have another moment like this with her. He would worship at whatever altar she offered if it meant that she would invite him back to her bed.

Her mouth was impossibly soft and wet, and Lucien groaned at each new pass, willing his body to slow down, to let his mind catch up, to savor the experience.

But it—and Elain—had other plans, and he looked down to see the glint in her eyes as, without warning, she stopped the rhythmic bobbing of her head only to swallow him whole, the tip of her nose brushing against his stomach.

“Fuck, Elain—” he gasped out as his hips stuttered forward and she made a small choking sound at the force of the intrusion. She didn’t stop, although she glared up at him, only widening her mouth and relaxing her throat to allow him more space.

Wrapping fistfuls of her hair around his hands, Lucien began slowly thrusting, fucking her mouth as she braced herself against his thighs, still covered by his gray slacks. He laughed half-deliriously at the realization that he hadn’t even gotten fully undressed, although his laughter quickly turned into a moan, embarrassingly loud and desperate, as she hollowed out her cheeks.

He was going to come embarrassingly quickly, could feel his rhythm start to falter and his balls tighten and then—

It all stopped. Dazed and pleasure-drunk, Lucien looked down to see Elain pull away from his cock, wiping at her lips delicately.

“That,” she said, slightly out of breath, “is one of the things membership in my ‘sex cult’ gets you.” She gave a bratty tilt of her head. “Worth it?”

“Yes,” he breathed out, grabbing Elain’s face in his hands and kissing her. His cock screamed at him, begging for release, but he ignored it in favor of continuing to pepper Elain’s lips with kisses. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m—yes. It’s worth it. You’re worth it.” He couldn’t lose this, couldn’t lose her. 

She rewarded him with a smile. “I am. And now,” she reached between them, once again taking his cock in her hands, and Lucien gasped at her touch, overly-sensitive, the sensation almost enough to send him over the edge. “We’ll see if you are, Lucien.”

“Elain, I—”

“—have work to do. Because if you finish before you’ve completed your test,” she said, false sympathy in her voice as she continued to slide her hand absently up and down his cock, “I’m afraid you won’t be invited back.”

“Then stop that,” he said, reaching to still her movements, hoping that a reprieve from her maddening touch would give him a chance to get himself under control, to regain some kind of upper hand in this exchange.

“I was just answering your question.” She widened her eyes and blinked at him in false innocence.

He laughed at her performance, reaching behind her as he did so to find the zipper on her dress and tugging it down. “I’m not fooled by your act, Elain. In fact,” he said as the dress slipped off her frame and pooled at her feet, revealing the light green lingerie set she wore underneath. “I think you might just be a brat.”

She reached out for his clothes as well, rapidly undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt as he kicked off his pants and tucked himself back into his underwear. “Let’s hope you get to test that theory in the future, shall we?”

They stood there staring at each other. If Lucien thought Elain was stunning in her dress, it was nothing compared to how she looked now: still slightly flushed from her exertions before, her nipples hard and visible through her bra as she waited for him to make the next move. 

“Oh, Elain,” Lucien said, stepping forward to close the distance between them, “that is a privilege I can’t wait to earn.”

And then he kissed her, hard and demanding. He felt her smile against his lips as she arched into him, and he slid his hands up her body to unhook the clasps of her bra, groaning into her mouth as he cupped her tits. “Fuck, Elain.”

“That’s the hope, Lucien.” Breaking the kiss, she shucked off her underwear and walked over to sit on the bed, leaning back slightly to give him a view of her cunt, bare and gleaming. “So what are you waiting for?”

“Brat,” he said, just to say something. Not that it had any bite—he had no control here apparently, no smooth words left, no final tricks, nothing but a desperate desire to see her head thrown back in pleasure, to hear her call his name, to spend the rest of his life doing nothing but this.

“Like what you see?”

He hummed appreciatively, mesmerized at the sight of her spread out like a feast before him. With a reverence that surprised even him, he asked, “Are you wet for me, Elain?”

“Come find out.” 

Lucien followed her over the bed and knelt down in front of her, gently dragging a finger through the clear evidence of her arousal. He groaned at the wetness he found there as she arched into his touch. “Elain.”

And with her name on his lips, he began to circle her clit, teasing the bundle of nerves as he felt her begin to writhe against him. “That’s it, beautiful.” He kissed up her neck, sliding his finger lower and into her, pumping in and out.

“More, Lucien. I need more—” she gasped out, and he redoubled his efforts, sliding another finger into her and feeling her clench around him.

“Lucien, I—”

“Are you going to come for me?” He sucked a kiss into her neck, and her moan was like the sweetest music. “Come for me, Elain.”

And she did, clamping down on his hand so hard he swore he could feel it on his cock as she shattered, and he rode her through wave after wave of her climax. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, and nothing he had ever seen could match the sight of her like this.

And he wanted—needed—to see it again. Lucien slid down her body and plunged his tongue into her cunt as her walls continued to pulse around him. Elain moaned at the invasion, still sensitive from her first orgasm, but didn’t pull away, and he groaned at the taste of her, somehow musky and floral and sweet all at once. 

He devoured her like a man starved, wet and messy and wildly lost in her. Elain, for her part, thrust her hands through his hair, wrapping it around her fist and using her hold to grind herself against his face, chasing her pleasure. Before long, Lucien could feel her start to tighten again, her climax rising higher and higher until it crested and she followed it over the peak, arching her back and crying out loudly enough that he was positive that everyone in the other room knew exactly what the two of them were doing. 

She panted as she came down, blearily lolling her head against the pillow as she rode the aftershocks of her second orgasm. Her hair was messily haloed around her head, and Lucien, pleased with himself, dragged his hand through the tangled silken waves. 

She turned to look at him. “Are you done, Lucien?” 

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and he looked at her skeptically. “Can you take one more, Elain?”

“Yes, Lucien. Of course.” she breathed out, throwing him a look that was probably meant to be scathing but only came across as pleasantly sated, her eyes lust-drunk. “Make me come on your cock.”

She reached out a hand to the table next to her bed, pulling open a drawer and grabbing a condom that she handed to him. Lucien pulled off his underwear and unwrapped the condom, rolling it over his length and he pumped himself once, twice to the sight of Elain, still naked and breathless beneath him.

He looked at her and she nodded, and without needing any more encouragement, he plunged into her. She was dripping wet and tight and hot, and Lucien groaned at the sensation.

“Christ, Elain,” he moaned, his hips snapping forward as he thrust in and out of her perfect cunt. “So fucking perfect. You are—”

She finished the sentence for him. “Mine, Lucien. You are mine.” 

“Yours. I’m yours.” She was a dream, lurid and perfect, something he wanted every day for the rest of his life. He felt his pace stutter at the thought. “I’m not going to last long, Elain.”

She smiled up at him. “Then make it count.”

He drove deeper and deeper into her, reaching between them to find her clit and rolling it over with his fingers until he could feel her breathing hitch, her walls tighten.

“One more time, Elain. Come for me. Let me be yours.”

And for the final time, she shattered against him, and he let the strength of her climax carry him along with it as he came with a shout.

Spent and panting, he rolled off the condom and threw it away, turning to gather Elain into his arms and close to his chest. For now, nothing else mattered—only him and Elain and the absolute bliss of the moment.

She nuzzled into him and smiled. “Welcome to the Larkspur Room, Lucien.”

“Honored to be a member.” 

“Want to tell your friends?” She asked sleepily.

“Later.” He gently kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, letting the room—the warm lights, the soft pulse of the music from outside that he could just make out, the sweet smell of jasmine and honey—lull him to sleep.

[bloodsalted]

@qapsiel || oh this is coming. i told you. || no i'm not sorry.

[AGONY] - Dean rescues Cas from the hands of the enemy, and finds him in terrible shape. 😇

the room where cas was taken from him? it's one that he's avoided taking every damn precaution he can to turn a blind eye to the slimmest chance he might see those four walls ever again. all but one night. the next one. where he tricked himself into thinking that, maybe, if he showed up and called for him enough--the previous night would simply go away and like some fucking magic that doesn't exist in his world (because why would it? why would he get even that much of a god damn BREAK?)--cas would be standing there. coughed up by the ink and black and NOTHING that he willingly let take him shattering every piece of dean and what they had in the process. because why? because he loved him. as much as dean loved him back.

he can't get the feeling of cas's skin off his hands. he doesn't want to. the last touch. the last whisper of i love you, too against the angel's mouth as the worst nightmare he could think of happened in front of his eyes and he was powerless to stop it. even his hands that gripped cas's face, that desperately clawed for and missed his shoulders. felt like they betrayed him. THEY KEEP FEELING THAT WAY. even now. in all the time it's taken him to figure out HOW. in all the time's he's gotten down on his hands and knees and prayed or screamed until his voice was raw and torn and sam heard and came running to JACK that he give him some sorta sign. some sorta power to take that day back! that he'd give up the rest of his decades on earth (if you could count that high..who knows how much time he's got?? OR WHAT IT'S WORTH) for just another week. another month. another YEAR (just one) to have cas back. where he belongs. back WHERE HE BELONGS.

to all the people we've lost along the way.

only he couldn't accept that. he couldn't rest. he couldn't sleep. tried to have his own sorta funeral that was bullshit come a few hours later. he trashed his room. he threw insults, in his mind and outloud, at the boy he loved if he isn't going to fucking LISTEN then what good was ANYTHING FOR? until he thought his heart couldn't break anymore. and that's when it came to him. what to do. where to go. and that he'd bleed for it if he had to. so? that's where he is now. standing in that room. staring at the empty spot where cas was dragged off to with a blade in his hand that feels so heavy, he doesn't know if he can keep hold of it for long. dean drops to his knees. 'maybe not today... but someday.. TODAY IS SOMEDAY.' like some force outside of himself is in control. the blood that swells out of his cut palm puddles freely from the cut as the blade hits the floor. he paints in his own shades of reddish black brown markings that come to him without even a thought as to what they might mean. he doesn't know. but there's a warmth in his chest and a glow to his eyes that illuminates the floor in a shade that only reminds him of their son.

the same light begins to fill the room. and there's a warmth on his shoulder that pulls him up and pushes him forward towards it. it's so bright that he has to squint his eyes. so blue and white and that guiding hand simply pushes him FORWARD into it. and past that? BLACK. thick air so heavy he can barely move his limbs. he drips blood as he walks. a steady trail that bursts with color instead of rotting into brown in his wake. it follows him. step by step. even as the muddy dark battles against him. he smells of ozone and honey. beer and pie. and that scent reaches out like a coil around the angel trapped in the dark. it curls around his mind and soothes him as if it's a touch beckoning him to seek out the source. a voice in castiel's mind. not dean's.. but someone else he loves. 'you don't deserve to be here, castiel. go.' and that's when dean's steps can be heard. little puddles of light bead behind him still. brightening cas's NIGHT like the stars of the big dipper. "CAS?!" dean's hand clasps his shoulder. marking it as he was once marked. glowing brilliantly bright. all the warmth and love and LIGHT of family there to bring him HOME.

HE FOUND HIM.