#leaving permanent marks on the surface that he can come back and stare at

[mostlyghostlyy]

Just a thought: going down on Dale while he sits at his work table?

I think it's something that he would constantly fantasize about. Having a hot chick suck his dick while he made dolls for the devil. But when it actually happens, I don't think he could do anything but sit there and moan. All concepts and thoughts leave his mind. He couldn't even be able to describe the dollmaking process even if you asked him to.

Come up behind him, trailing your arms across his shoulders and squat down near his side. His attention immediately dropped from his workspace, and his eyes now locked on you. You tell him to continue what he's doing, you're just bored, so you're going to watch. He seems excited at this, starting to narrate his actions and talk through his thoughts on the process.

You shimmy your way under the desk, head inches away from his crotch. You reach up to undo his belt and he jolts. Sitting bolt upright, he's frozen under you. Eyes blown wide and staring as you start palming him through his pants. "Go ahead, baby. Continue, or this doesn't go any further."

he's trying to focus now. Doll making is an oh so delicate procedure, one wrong move could ruin the finished product. Dale needs to keep his hands steady, one hand gripping the head and the other trembles slightly holding a precision tool. He goes to make a move, then stops when your teeth graze over his girth. His elbows and forearms dig into his desk, his head is hung inches above them.

You have to use your hands to keep his legs open for access. His breath is hot and heavy. He bites down on his arm to muffle his whimpers. It will leave a bruise later, but he doesn't care about that now. He would totally start bouncing one or both legs, occasionally thumping them on the bottom of the desk.

[lunar-years]

oh, ”Stay awake.” for the prompt list if you want?

uhhhh. Undoubtedly this was not the fic fill you were expecting for this prompt. i used it very loosely and I am truly sorry for this result...something consumed me.

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

Roy sits on the balcony of his posh fucking rental, staring out at Marbella’s shore. He’s got private beach access here, a boardwalk that leads to the sand and then down to the swirling deep blue, where a person can float and maybe, if they're lucky, forget themselves for a while in its depths. But the waves are too high to swim today, and anyway, it’s getting dark now. 

Beneath him, there’s a massive pool he could swim in instead, if he wanted. Dive in and spend a moment breathless beneath the water. It might do him good, that chance to briefly cut off the oxygen, to move around for a bit underwater, then feel the relief of the first lungful of air when he breaks back up through the surface. He’d do it, if he wasn’t feeling so fucking…stuck. Stuck to this chair, stuck to his stupid life. In need of permanent fissure, that's him. If he could only force himself to walk down to the pool, he thinks, and not look back. Maybe he could drown himself in it, and make it look like an accident. 

He's twirling an engagement ring around in his right hand that's meant to be on Keeley’s ring finger. 

The diamond is light pink and oval and massive, set into two narrow, curved bands of smaller yet still brilliant diamonds. It’s fucking perfect for Keeley. Showy, but not grotesquely so. Colourful and chic. Fun. Roy had it custom made for her. Let the jewelry consultant talk his ear off about settings and carats, then signed his name on the dotted line for the most expensive options on the list. 

Fuck, he’d even showed it off to Rebecca, weeks and weeks ago, before he booked this trip. How fucking embarrassing was that? He’d only just gotten it in from the jeweler, the rock freshly nestled in its deep red velvet box. His boss cooed over it convincingly and agreed that yes, it looked just the ring for Keeley, and yes, the subtle pink hue was awfully inspired, and yes, Keeley would undoubtedly love it. Roy had left her office feeling rather proud of himself, totally oblivious to what she’d probably been trying to tell him between the lines, given the way her eyes went all narrow and her forehead pinched tight right after he’d told her where he was planning to propose, and when. The extravagant trip he envisioned that would end with him down on one knee. 

Rebecca had blinked at him and clucked, with a smile like plastic, Wow. Well, I imagine that will come as quite the surprise! Which at the time felt like praise for his careful planning skills and in hindsight seems more like her small way of warning him. Like she’d known all along Keeley was going to say no. 

Had everyone? Roy had only told Rebecca and his sister about the ring, but maybe everyone else had guessed it, or assumed it was coming. Assumed, possibly, how it would end, because who in their right mind would want to marry him? He was just the sort to do something this pathetic, to propose in a last ditch attempt to save what was already broken. Maybe they all saw it. He swallows down the rising, unpleasant rush of bile in his throat and thinks back to Keeley spreading stories about him around work, how clingy he was and how needy and how he never left her alone. So this wouldn’t be the first time everyone else knew more about his relationship than he did. 

For one fleeting, wild moment, he envisions himself flinging the ring right off this balcony and watching it make its way, impossibly, all the way out to the sea. Gets brief satisfaction at the thought of the ocean swallowing it whole, entrapping it below the waves where he never has to think about it, or look at it, ever again. In his hand, the ring stills its incessant twirling and Roy crushes it under his fingers instead, pressing it so hard against his skin he’s sure it’s going to leave a mark on his palm, and hopes, ludicrously, that it will somehow be permanent. A reminder.

Behind him, inside the villa, Keeley’s asleep on the bed he had covered in rose petals while they were at dinner. Roy thinks he might stay up all night, sitting out here as it gets too dark to see the water below, just to avoid the awkwardness of joining her. Or is he meant to sleep in one of the guest rooms? What, exactly, is the protocol for when your girlfriend turns down your proposal but tells you she does in fact still want to be with you, marriage conversation aside? He’s the only person he knows that that’s happened to; he hasn’t even read about it books.

Roy’s spent the past three weeks alone here, missing her terribly. Has he now ruined their one glorious weekend together on the first night, before it’s even properly begun?

She’d flown in just that morning. Roy took a car to the airport to meet her, feeling jittery and excited in equal measure, happier than he’s felt for days. It had been a long fucking three weeks on his own, hardly able to find time to even FaceTime with her, what with how busy she was with her new firm. The whole time, her parting words before he left her for sunny Spain—You never know, maybe the time apart will do both of us good, babe—looped through his mind on constant repeat, curdling in his gut like sour milk. 

Realistically, he knows they’ve been on two separate trajectories for a whole now, like rockets shooting off to two different edges of space, nothing but gulf and galaxies between. This weekend was meant to be their way back to one another, the anticipated culmination of their big compromise: Roy would still go to Marbella, alone, and Keeley would make the time to come join him halfway through, just for the few days she could manage with her new job. 

His original proposal plan, the one he told to Rebecca involving a gorgeously romantic six-week couples retreat, had gone out the window the moment she’d turned this trip down, but even so, he’d adjusted it accordingly. Fitted his plans around hers, because that’s what suitable, well-adjusted couples did, wasn’t it? Convinced himself he could be flexible. Convinced himself he could wait. It just needed to happen, he just needed to present her with this ring, and she just needed to slip it onto her finger and say yes—and everything that felt wrong would be fixed. 

He’s a fucking idiot. 

He should have seen this coming. Even their reunion had felt off. She’d stepped through the baggage claim pulling her cheetah-print suitcase behind her, and subsequentially dropping it at the sight of him in order to run over and leap grandly into his arms. When they kissed, it felt just as good as it always did, like puzzle pieces sliding into place, soothing over the open wound inside of him he hadn’t quite realized he’d been nursing, all this time. But the wound didn’t close just because she was there. As soon as she stepped away again, retracing her steps back to retrieve her suitcase, the gulf only seemed to widen. 

So then he'd taken her back to the villa, carrying on about the itinerary he’d spent the first half of his time here perfecting. He’d show her around the place first, give her time to get settled, and after that they��d still have plenty of time to get ready for dinner. He’d booked a private dinner on the water. A romantic, candlelit feast of seafood and drinks and dessert, after which he’d just go for it. He had what he wanted to say all lined up in his head: I love you Keeley. I want to spend forever with you. Then back to their room, which by then would be decked floor to ceiling with rose petals and heart balloons and champagne, ready for their exuberant return.

The first part went even better than planned. As soon as they made it through the front door, Keeley pounced on him, locking her fingers against his back, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer with all the hunger and passion and desperation they’d had in the beginning; that thing he’d been chasing for months. Passion got pushed aside when there were emails to check and businesses to run. Sex became a bit of a chore, maybe. But not now. Not anymore.

She let him carry her bridal-style to the master suite, setting her reverently down in the king-sized bed, stripping her adoringly, in between frantic kisses. They fucked hurriedly, Keeley’s suitcase abandoned in the entranceway and all thoughts of unpacking and giving a tour through the house abandoned with it. Then they fucked again, with much less haste. Like they’d finally managed to convince themselves the moment wasn’t about to be ripped away from them and were now letting themselves enjoy the thing proper. She was here now. It was all going to be fine. 

After, though. Lying tangled up in the sheets, sweaty and naked and satisfied, Roy said something innocuous about getting up in time for a long shower together before they had to ready themselves for dinner, and the mood in the air shifted. Keeley frowned, “Oh I don’t know babe. Can you still cancel it? It’s just…” she exhaled and flopped her head back onto the pillows, hair splaying everywhere, “I am so fucking tired. That plane was an absolute misery, there was loads of turbulence and this one crying baby who I seriously think might have been possessed by some sort of crying demon, and…God, it really was awful. Also, before I left I had a meeting with my new employees. They hate me, Roy, I really think they hate me. How am I supposed to run a firm if all of my employees hate me?”

She stopped just long enough to breathe, or maybe she’d caught the look on his face. “Sorry, I know I swore not to talk about work on this trip.” A quick peck of her lips to his cheek, a little plea for forgiveness. It felt cold. “Just us for the rest of the weekend, I promise. So…dinner. What if we order in, just for tonight? We’ll spend the whole evening in bed, it’ll be fantastic. We can take a lazy nap, and then eat whenever we wake up, fuck again, midnight skinny dip in that fucking amazing pool out back—"

Of course she didn’t know about the candles and rose petals and the ring burning a hole in the safe deposit box in the closet, but Roy still stiffened. “No, we can't nap. We have to stay awake,” he bit out quickly. “We have to go to dinner. It’s already set up.” 

Keeley kept talking mindlessly, even as Roy’s brain seemed to be burrowing itself in the sand, taking his sanity with it. “Well can’t you just call and postpone it? We can do the fancy dinner tomorrow, babe, once I’m more rested.” She was smiling. Her face seemed to say, this isn’t a big deal, babe. 

But it was. Because Roy didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. He loved her today. He wanted this to happen today. The room felt unstable, like the bed was spinning in the opposite direction of the walls. It felt like something was slipping from him that he couldn’t name, even now. He was desperately trying to grasp at it with too-slick fingers even as it evaded his hold. “It has to be tonight, Keeley. There’s a different dinner planned tomorrow,” he snapped. 

She stared at him in alarm. 

“I have different dinners planned all weekend. I’ve put a lot of time into making this fucking—nice for you. For us. I’ve had a lot of time to put it together, since I’ve been here all the fuck alone.” It was much harsher than he'd intended, but he couldn’t take it back once he'd said it, and he didn't try to. The thing he was trying to save dipped further from his grasp. Keeley’s mouth snapped shut. The words hung in the air between them, heavy in the silence. 

“Fine,” Keeley snapped back, eventually. Even her voice sounded more tired than angry, and the guilt gnawed at his chest. “Heaven forbid I want to relax on my bloody holiday. We’ll do it your way, then.” Then she rolled off the bed, shoving aside the sheets as she untangled them from her form, then angrily stomping towards the ensuite. 

He made to get up and go after her, but she looked back at him with steely eyes, stopping him in his tracks. “I’m showering, Roy. Alone.” 

//

Of course it went terribly, after that. How could it not? He should have called the whole thing off, should have agreed to lounge around and eat takeaway in bed and do nothing but fuck in the pool. He should have forgotten about the ring for the evening. 

(He doesn’t think it would have made any difference. That’s almost the worst part.)

At dinner, the tension between them dissipated on the crests of bottomless cocktails and conversation. On laughter. Keeley looked fucking incredible in a flowery sundress. The food was divine. And the first thing they did was apologize for biting one another’s heads off, agreed that it had just been a long day. A mutual peace offering. Roy fingered the ring in his pocket until the time came to sink to his knee. 

When he did, her face shattered. Not in the way he’d wanted it too, the way he’d pictured. Not the kind of shattered that happens when the joy gets so full it could burst. No, this was the same kind of shattered way she’d looked at him when she told him she couldn’t spare the time to spend six weeks with him in Marbella. Like she pitied him, almost. Like she was hoping he’d stop or say it was all a joke. That he’d take it all back. 

“Roy,” she started softly, already shaking her head. 

Already shaking her head. 

“I love you, Roy,” she promised, eyes glistening. The words were a buzz in the background.

(The worst part, by far, is how much he loves her in return. He loves her so much he doesn’t know quite what to do with it. If a proposal isn’t the right place to put it, where is? He doesn’t understand why the love can’t fix them. Why it isn’t enough.) 

“We’re not ready for this,” she continued, openly shedding tears by then. Somewhere off to the side, their waiter was probably alarmed, holding the cake with congratulations! swirled onto its plate in dark chocolate that Roy had paid extra for, unsure what to do with it, waiting for instruction. Roy was too humiliated to check for certain. He was still down on one knee. It was starting to throb. Carefully, he raised himself back up. 

She was watching him with a look of great remorse as she repeated, “We can’t get married right now, baby. It isn’t…I don’t think it’s the answer, yeah? Maybe eventually, but not now.” It sounded exactly the way we’ll be fine had sounded the day she’d packed up her office in Richmond. Like they definitely wouldn’t be fine. Like her answer to marriage wasn’t not now but quite possibly never.

He’d nodded. He’d lowered himself back into his chair, feeling clammy and numb. He’d waved the waiter over to close the bill. 

//

Staring out at the sea that’s gone dark, he tucks the ring back into his pocket with the startling, crippling, clear realization that he's got to break up with her. He feels like his heart has been wrenched out of his chest and stomped on, then shoved back in for him to live with. He feels like she’s right, and it wouldn’t have worked even if she’d said yes. 

He’s such a fucking mess, he thinks, and she deserves better. She’s on top of the world, and here he is dragging her down into the water. Maybe they both know they’re broken beyond repair, just waiting for the other one to call it off. He’s not sure he can do it. These days, he misses her even when she’s in the next room. 

Fuck.

He slides open the door to the balcony and steps back inside after one last glance at the ocean, which he can hear even if he can’t see. Fuck the guest bed. He makes his way into the bedroom and crawls in next to her. A couple more rose petals flutter to the ground. 

“Roy,” she breathes, as soon as he’s settled himself under the thin sheet, the air too hot and humid, even with the AC cranked, to sleep under anything heavier. Her voice is quiet and sad and cracked and small. It sounds like she’s been crying the whole time he’s been outside. 

He shuts his eyes and says, “I’m sorry,” to the air. He doesn’t know quite what he’s apologizing for. Asking her to marry him? Assuming she’d say yes? Even just thinking about breaking up with her just now? Her, the best person to ever happen to him? The best anything, end of. He draws himself closer and wraps his arm around her torso, just to feel her—her skin, the smell of her hair and the dip and fall of her stomach as she breathes in and out. 

It’s its own familiar kind of self-torture, holding something in his hands as he loses it slowly. Like the last year of football, magnified by ten. Waiting for the final hammer to fall as he cradles the thing he loves in the palm of his hand and feels it drip through. 

“Are we still okay?” she whispers, cupping her fingers over his own clasped ones. Maybe he’s not the only one desperately clinging on. 

He tells her yes, but the truth is that he doesn’t know. 

The deeper truth, the one he can’t face, is that he doesn’t think so. 

He thinks it’s already over. 

[csial]

@delusionaid asked: ❛   company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. (from Zhongli. And whether comfort is needed I'll leave up to you. He might just be looking at the waves in Osial's presence)

There is a sharp sense of discomfort that sits atop his spine as he hears the footsteps approaching the space he occupies, gaze cast upon the rolling waves and the city that looms behind it, the sign of a defeat that still sits deep in his chest. He does not need to turn to know who approaches, he would know that presence whether in the dark or in a soundless void, that creep of ancient power that permeates every inch of this ancient land. He swallows, throat bobbing but does not turn, keeping his back straight as he sits upon the rocks that line the edge of the land, the remnants of his shattered realm.

Waits as that man, that ancient being, comes closer still until there is nary a hair's breadth between them, joining him upon his primative seat.

The thrum of a storm fills his ears as that heart in his chest pounds with the sound of a rowing drum upon a ship keeping the oars in time. He forces his breath to be even, the flush of blue skin creeping from beneath sleeves as his human appearance falters fractionally, but he curls fingers and draws it back, forces himself to calm.

For a long time, there is nothing. Just he, once Osial, now Haitao, and him, once Morax, now Zhongli. Two ancient enemies, divine creatures, relics of a time no longer here, staring up at the victor's city.

The silence continues between them, a silent pulse of the waves the only noise as he considers whether to break it. In a sense the silence brings a comfort, a peace that he might not need to endure worse, that there is nothing to be addressed yet. Each time he feels the other near he hears the clock tick and his back aches with the crystallised wounds that are embedded into his vary being. Golden fissures marring the azure surface, a permanent mark of his pinning, and with them the knowledge that to be imprisoned once more, sealed away, will be his undoing. There is only so much even a god can endure, he'd rather not anticipate such a fate.

In the end he sighs and keeps his gaze on the twisting, rolling waves, twisting his fingers into fists at his sides to control his turbulance. "It is rare the land chooses to meet the sea..." he comments idly, his speech slow and thoughtful so he might keep his tone steady. "What purpose have you to seek me, old friend?" The words come with a weight, one of bitterness and twisted resentment, akin to a photo frame left to shatter on the floor. Before him the waves churn with a sense of foreboding, even now his emotions a hairpin that might bring about the storm should he allow himself to feel too deeply.

He resists. There is a curiosity in knowing that he has been sought out. What does he want? There must be more than just crossing paths...

[nachosncheeze]

Nothing Else To Think About (Blindspot 3x12 fic/extra scenes)

Also on AO3.

I want love back in my life. So do I.

Jane owes her husband an apology, and they're gonna have to work on it. Beginning with the final Jeller scene of 3x12, this post-ep is the third and final part of my mid-season 3 Jeller stories following on from my 3x11 fics "The Company You Were Keeping" and "A Pretty Good Reason", but it can also be read as a stand-alone. It's an attempt to fill in some of the blanks that canon left behind, in a manner that hopefully makes the growing strength of their bond through the rest of the season feel a little more natural. Contains mild spoilers through most of the rest of season 3, but nothing that'll ruin any big twists.

A note on timelines can be found below the cut for the curious, before the story.

Thank you once again to the lovely @lurkingwhump for encouraging me to explore and write out my take on Jeller's midseason drama. Hopefully this addresses some of the gaps in canon in a way that feels honest, and I hope everyone enjoys it. Let me know what you think. :)

Content warning for mentions of infidelity.

~~~~~

A note on the timeline: This story can generally be taken as fitting within canon, with the caveat that the canon timeline of events for when Jane was on the run is muddy at best, with a lot implied or open to interpretation and very little shown with certainty. In order to make this story happen I had to get pretty specific about developing a workable headcanon/interpretation built from the breadcrumbs provided on-screen.

I expect the most unusual aspect of this version of events for many will be that for my purposes Jane and Clem's association lasted only 3 to 4 months after Paris, and ended shortly before her close call in Switzerland and subsequent trip to Berlin. The money on the bed was all Clem's in this interpretation; some of it earned before he learned her name in Paris, making his "6 months" comment part of a sales pitch to convince her to form a more permanent partnership. That also places their tryst right around the lonely milestone that is the one-year mark since Jane left home, though you won't catch her explicitly saying so or using it as an excuse. Hopefully everything else will come through well enough in the story, but if anyone wants to know the details or where I got any of it, I can make a separate post.

Everything I've used does all technically fit into the spaces that canon left behind, but I realize it will differ greatly from some headcanons, so if it doesn't work for you please feel free to treat this as "canon divergent" instead.

~~~~~

Jane stood outside the door to the apartment she shared with her husband. Or… had shared with him, until she had walked away from him and out of this same door, furious and sad to the point of numbness, leaving her wedding ring behind. She stared at the numbers on its surface, breathing deep, trying to stave off a rising wave of panic. She had left the hotel, packed her few things and checked out, planning not to return there. She knew it was the right call to deprive herself of an out, but now that she stood outside what had been her home, her mind was a silent cacophony of anxieties and discordant thoughts. Her head said ‘just open the damn door,’ her heart said ‘you need to see him,’ but her feet and her stomach said ‘run,’ so she simply stood, trying to quell the noise inside her.

It had been one hell of a day that had brought her here. She thought listening to Kurt jumping out of a plane not that long ago had been hard, but he’d had a chute. She knew he did, he had to. He’d known what he was doing. And she was still angry, Avery was still dead; it was a near miss but it was a miss, so there was no need at the time to make haste in processing what she was feeling. It had turned out Avery was alive though, and she was safe now under the watchful eyes of Jane’s FBI colleagues. So when Reade revealed the significance of the location the militia was taking Kurt and his undercover partner to, suddenly all she could think about was her husband trapped in a bunker, underground, outnumbered and overwhelmed. She’d nearly panicked then, too, fighting to push away a rush of mental images of that bunker becoming a tomb. Her heels and knees had bounced as she sat, twisting her hands in her lap, chewing her lip throughout the brief helicopter ride to be his rescue.

When they landed and grabbed their gear, she took the grenade launcher. If those assholes managed to take him down, there would be no arrests; she was going to make sure every single one of them went down with him.

And now, standing before nothing more than a wooden door, that resolve was nowhere to be found. She was absolutely terrified.

She took a last deep breath to steel herself and knocked, then fitted her key into the lock without waiting. She knew that if his mood was anything like hers had been lately, he wouldn’t answer, hoping that whoever was there would just go away.

She stepped over the threshold and bumped the door shut behind her. He was on his feet at the sight of her, a glass of scotch in his right hand and the other hidden in his pocket. “Hey,” was all he offered.

“I’m not letting Roman win,” she responded without preamble.

He looked to the side, shuffled his feet, then leaned his shoulder against the door frame from the lounge. He’d been wishing for this, to see her back in this place where she belonged. But then he’d learned about Clem, and now that the moment had arrived, he didn’t know what to say. Somehow it felt like neither of them belonged there. You have to try, he reminded himself unnecessarily. “What happened? Everything alright?”

It was her turn to look away, again grasping for the courage that always seemed automatic when looking down the barrel of a gun but was shredded to straws under his guarded expression. “No, uh… and it might not be for a while.” She walked further into the apartment, giving a helpless shrug. “Look, I know that you have a history of being let down by the people you love.” He shifted again, half turning from her as though he wanted to leave and escape the conversation. But he stayed. “Your father, your old partner… me. But knowing why you lied about Avery doesn’t make me feel any less betrayed. And that… hurt… may never go away.” He looked at the floor, nodding his resignation. She didn’t stop. “But all of this has just made me feel so… lonely. Afraid to trust the people I should believe in the most.”

He met her eyes then and straightened from the door frame, Allie’s words echoing in his ears. She was out there alone for a long time, but that doesn’t sound like the Jane I know. Trust had been at the heart of them from the beginning. She'd given it to him, unwaveringly, from almost the first moment they met, and he had returned it from the moment Chao's blade met his skin at the top of the Statue of Liberty. They'd bruised and broken and mended their trust more than once since, but… even at its lowest, he had always loved her. And she'd always loved him. It wasn't easy. It was absolutely worth it. That, at least, was something he knew. He started moving toward her.

“And that is exactly what Roman wants,” she was continuing, “I’m not gonna give it to him. Because I wanna trust Avery. I wanna work this out with you. I want love back in my life.”

He finally found his voice. “So do I.”

She blew out the breath she’d been holding and nodded, her chin quivering slightly, and they both stood staring, glassy-eyed, at one another.

It was Kurt who broke the silence, stepping a little closer and extracting his left hand from his pocket. Things weren’t right between them, and she was right, they wouldn’t be for a while. But she had come home, and maybe that was enough of a starting point for the minute. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head back toward the lounge. For a moment, she didn’t move.

It could be all too easy. She had no idea what he was thinking or what he wanted now, but he at least seemed willing to let her back into their home. She could feel the tension in him, and his pain matching her own, but also his relief at her presence and her intention to stay. Maybe he meant to leave their sleeping dogs to lie, just for tonight, and spend the rest of the evening simply easing back into the idea of sharing space. He was reaching for her hand, and she gave it to him, feeling his fingers gently closing around her own.

He turned and began leading her toward where he had been sitting, and she watched his back, his feet, their hands as she followed in numb silence. And suddenly all she could see was his wedding ring; the way it dully reflected the dim light feeling like a blinding glare.

She’d been hiding behind the icy wall she’d put up between them, scrawling messages to herself on its surfaces, assuring herself that his transgressions were the greater, his lies the more dire, her injury the more grievous. Even as she had stepped through the door to their home, having rehearsed precisely what she wanted to say, she braced for disaster by telling herself over and over that between the two of them, she had nothing more to apologize for. She had to believe it, because if he threw her out - and she had half-believed he would - she didn’t know how else she could survive it. But now that he hadn’t, she realized that what she was left with was less a wall or a shield and more a cold, hard brick of shame lodged somewhere behind her navel.

She stopped and pulled her hand from his, looking at the floor so that she didn’t have to see the hurt and confusion on his face as he turned to look back at her. Not talking about things was what had brought them here, and maybe this wasn't the best time, maybe neither felt ready for this conversation, but she didn’t want to repeat that mistake. She didn’t want any more misunderstandings, didn’t want him thinking for even one more moment that her foolish indiscretion had been a rejection or any other kind of comment on him. He was worth so much more than that; he deserved to know the truth. And she knew that they could never be ready for something like this. Whatever either of them intended, she owed it to him to do it now, if he would hear it, rather than risk that morning light and the crazy realities of their days might bury it all under other people's crises again.

“We… we should talk,” she stuttered. She saw his expression crumble, the relief seeming to abandon him, and suddenly she realized that in that moment, he was afraid of her. Afraid of what she might say, or maybe of how much more she might ask of him. “I mean… I should talk. I mean, I owe you… an explanation.”

His jaw flexed, and he glanced back and forth between her and nothing in particular a few times as he considered her offer. At last he nodded and turned his back on her, stepping back through the double doors into the lounge. She was frozen, wondering if the reminder of what she’d done had been too much for tonight after all, if he was going to keep right on walking, close a bedroom door behind himself and leave her there. Instead, he pushed aside the footstool with his knee and dropped back into his chair with an exhausted sigh, then gestured vaguely to the room in front of him.

“Okay,” he said, “then explain.”

She moved tentatively toward him and settled gingerly on a spot on the floor, in front of him, but not too close. “I’m not… even sure where to begin,” she confessed. She had known since that heated moment on the plane that this had to happen sometime, but she was so scared that he’d never give her the chance that she had doubled down on her anger, never allowing herself to consider what she would actually say. After several long moments of watching her mouth work soundlessly to no avail, he finally put her out of their misery, clearing his throat as he leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging limply between them, one still loosely holding his glass of scotch.

“You knew I wanted to go with you, but you took off without me. I’m thankful that you put Bethany first. But you took off your ring.” He stopped short and swallowed down hard on the bile that suddenly seemed to be rising in his throat. She reached out gently as if to touch him, but withdrew her hand when he flinched. The action seemed to give him the push necessary to say what he needed to next. “I don’t want to know. I really, really don’t. But I think… I need to. We were happy, Jane. So… what happened?”

“I thought…” she hesitated. “No,” she corrected, then started again, stronger. “I left my ring for a reason. Part of it was about blending in, hiding the things I love. I left to keep you both safe, and if someone made me, if they saw that ring and saw that I was still…” still in love with you - she swallowed the words, “I had to keep you safe. I thought I’d be able to finish it, and come home.

“But… I knew there was a chance that it wouldn’t work. I didn’t want to hide that from you. I left it where I knew you’d find it, so you wouldn’t have to wonder what I’d done. And if I couldn’t make it back, for whatever reason… I didn’t want you stuck with me. My past just keeps coming back to haunt you, and that's not fair. I don't want that for you. I wanted you to know that… even if I wasn’t there, even if it wasn’t with me, more than anything… I wanted you to be happy.”

“I made a vow, Jane,” he said quietly. “And I meant it. There was no ‘happy’ for me without you.”

She glanced away, trying not to let her entire world crumble at the word 'was'; past tense. “I made that vow too,” she offered weakly, unthinkingly. And I broke it, she admonished herself silently. She heard him give a single, humorless little snort. He no longer had the energy to say it aloud, and she didn’t have the strength to, terrified that if she did, the sober reality of it would be the death of them. The silence hung heavy between them.

“I fucked up, Kurt,” she said finally, her trembling voice little more than a whisper. He glanced at her in surprise - she almost never swore, especially since Bethany had come into their lives - but he looked away just as quickly, knowing that if he continued looking his tears would spill over and never stop. Or worse, he might reach out to hold her and tell her it was okay.

It wasn’t okay.

“I fucked up,” she said again, louder but no less broken, “so badly. There’s no excusing it. I can’t undo it. I’d say I don’t know what I was thinking, but really, I just can’t believe how foolish I was.” She went quiet again.

He didn’t want to know what she had been thinking, leaving him behind and getting that close with another man; couldn’t imagine any line of thought that wouldn’t cut him to the bone. He halfway wished he could stop this and pretend the whole thing was just some terrible dream. But he understood what she was trying to do; trying to come to account so that whatever way things resolved, they could walk forward and away from this nightmare with something of their senses of selves intact. It was the same thing he’d done the night he’d finally told her the truth about Berlin. He knew there would never really be any going forward for them, not as individuals and definitely not together, if he didn’t ask. Allie was right. His imagination was running wild, and even if he didn’t want to hear it, it was information. Information he needed.

Finally, he gently cleared his throat. “So what were you thinking?” he asked, the subdued sound breaking her heart with the vulnerability it showed. For all his gruffness and all his walls, Kurt had always been strong, and had always worn his heart on his sleeve for her, even if he sometimes liked to pretend it wasn’t there. This quiet reservation, a man hidden back behind walls she couldn't scale… she didn’t know how to deal with it. She wished he would meet her eyes, but knew she didn’t deserve to ask that of him. She didn’t know where to start, or where to finish, or what to put in between. So she just let the words flow, throwing her crimes out on the carpet along with their fate. It wasn’t up to her anymore. Maybe it wasn’t up to either one of them.

“It wasn’t… a relationship. At least, not like you were implying, on the plane. We worked together. When I started doing K&R, I did it alone. We crossed paths a couple of times on jobs. On one job, we got to the hostage at the same time. There was no one I could trust out there, and I sure as hell didn’t trust him. But he didn’t fight me; he agreed to split the reward. Unfortunately he was still using Dwire for backup then, so you can imagine how that went. That ass knocked us both out and stole our pay.

“Clem…” she paused, almost choking on the name. “We backed each other up on a few jobs after that. After those first few, he admitted that he knew about the bounty, and he'd known for a while. He'd kept working with me in spite of it. It seemed like I could at least trust that he wouldn't sell me out for that, so I kept working with him. He became... a friend.” She paused, trying to gather herself again, trying to find her voice for the confession they both knew was next.

“It had been a few months since we started calling each other for backup, and after one really tough rescue I stayed to celebrate instead of just taking my cut and leaving. I thought it would be like our team does after we close a tough case. It would just be… nice, to be around another person for a while. But then he made a pass, and I thought…” she closed her eyes and took a big breath, “I thought about all that time. About how long I’d been gone, and how I’d wanted you to be happy, how I left my ring so that you could be in case... in case I didn’t come back. And for a minute, I fooled myself into thinking you were. It had been so long, you must be. You must have moved on.”

She saw him very subtly shaking his head.

“I know,” she said sadly, answering his unvoiced protest. Kurt Weller was loyal to a fault; he would have been right to scoff at her, to scream it in her face. But he didn’t. “I know,” she repeated, “…and I knew it right away then, too. I’ve made a lot of mistakes since we met. So many. But that…” she trailed off, shaking her head as the tears that had been gathering in her eyes thickened, blurring him from her sight. She couldn’t say it was the worst of her mistakes. Her mistakes had gotten Mayfair killed; they’d nearly robbed her brother of his whole life and condemned him to the CIA. Instead, she’d let him go and gotten her team, her husband, even the daughter she hadn't known she had, all ensnared in this mess of revenge or whatever the hell else Roman was playing at. They were all terrible mistakes. But Clem was by far her most foolish. She’d given up her faith in the person she should have believed in the most. That wasn’t Roman’s doing. She’d done it all on her own.

“There’s no excusing it,” she stated again. “I was lonely, but it just made me feel even lonelier. It was a mistake, and I felt so foolish. I think some part of me knew that you were still out there, somewhere, waiting for me. Keeping your vows. And I failed.”

She could have stopped there and let her ownership of that failure stand on its own, but she knew there would always be unanswered questions and doubts if he didn’t have the full story. She needed him to believe, to understand, that it had started and ended in a single, stupid night. She pressed on.

"I didn’t wait; I left that night. I never spoke to him again, not until I called him about Avery. That was before you told me about Berlin. Finding people is his job, and he’s good at it… he can do things the FBI can’t, things you and I couldn’t do without risking our jobs and our future. I just wanted to know she was safe.” She realized she was starting to spiral into trying to justify herself again, so she closed her eyes again to breathe through it. “I never expected that he would come to New York.”

“But once he was here, you thought you’d get back in touch,” he said flatly. Given the short notice on which Clem had arrived at the airstrip for their rescue mission to Berlin, he had already suspected the man had come stateside before Patterson found Avery, and he had a hunch that meeting up on the plane wasn’t their only recent encounter.

“Well…” she said awkwardly, knowing that she had to be completely honest, “no. Before Patterson found Avery, he got in touch. It was the day we rescued those Camp Iko refugees. I told him that Avery had died, and he wanted to come see me that morning, at the NYO. I hung up on him. But… I was so confused. I went to see him after work; I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I just… wanted someone to talk to, someone who wouldn’t feel caught in the middle between you and me. Nothing happened, but it wasn’t right. He doesn’t want to be friends. I’m not sure he ever really did.”

No fucking kidding, Weller found himself thinking, but he stopped himself from voicing it out loud. He tried to put it in context again - the Jane I know, as Allie had said. Jane, who was brave, and fierce, and boundlessly empathetic towards those in pain, but had very little clue about romance and almost no experience to build on. She had dated precisely one normal guy, for a long and rewarding few weeks, before choosing her husband. Zapata and Patterson had taken her out sometimes for drinks back in the early days, but he didn't know if she'd ever gotten a date out of it. Had she ever even really spoken to any guys before Oliver? Apart from him… and Oscar.

He needed to refocus on the subject at hand, make sure there was nothing else he was missing. “You said you left him that night, in Europe. What happened?”

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face in frustration. “I fucked that up, too,” she admitted. “I guess by working with one crew, turning up with the same partner on multiple jobs, I made myself predictable, too easy to find. Until that day, I mitigated the risk by not sticking around a moment more than was absolutely necessary. When I realized how badly I'd messed up, I left him in a hurry, but I was distracted. The bounty hunters must have been watching, waiting for me to be alone. When I bolted, I played right into their hands. I didn’t get very far before they caught up with me, and I barely made it out. That was how I ended up in Berlin, like I told you; I lost my go-bag.” She chewed on her lip for a minute, looking somehow frustrated and lost at the same time.

“I knew I had to leave Europe, so I picked up my stash, bought new papers from Max, and ran. I didn't really know where I was going, but I had more than enough to get by, so staying off the radar and getting as much distance as I could was more important than anything else. I headed east, alone, as quickly and quietly as I could. Then there was an accident. When I woke up, over a week later, I was far away from where I had been... and somehow, the money was still there. It made no sense at the time, but I guess that was when Roman tattooed me, and he must have been the one to leave me with the monks. They were kind, it seemed safe, and things there were simple, so once I recovered I just… stayed."

He thought about pointing out that she could have come home, but it didn't seem like a useful time to rehash that argument. It wouldn't change anything, anyway. What was done was done and all they could control was what they each chose next.

“I needed to be alone. Somewhere I could leave my mistakes behind, but still keep you and Bethany safe,” she explained, as if she could read his thoughts. “And even if I could somehow keep the bounty hunters off my tail, I felt like… I’d lost the right to come home. I don't know if it was guilt or grief or just… fear, that drove me up the mountain. But once I was there, I stayed because it was so far off-grid that no one would find me, and if I couldn't be with you… at least I could live a life that wouldn't have hurt you more.

"And then when I saw you there, still wearing your ring… I was so overwhelmed. I didn't deserve that; you don't deserve what I did. And I shouldn't have kept it from you."

He nodded solemnly, staring into his drink as he processed everything she’d just told him. “Would you ever have told me?” he asked.

She glanced to the side, drawing a deep breath. “Honestly? I don’t know,” she answered. “I regret it; of course I do. I'd like to say there's not a day that goes by that I haven't been eaten alive by my guilt, but the truth is… after a while, I sort of started to forget about it.” She shuffled closer to him on the floor, trying to catch his eyes, silently begging him to see her sincerity. “You, Kurt… here, in front of me, beside me… there's nothing else to think about. You're… everything." He sniffled at that, and she saw him quickly swipe a single tear from his cheek with his thumb, but he still wouldn’t look at her. She feared he never would again.

“Life has given me so many reasons to doubt myself,” she said, and that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? She doubted that she was worth it; had always doubted that she was enough for him, enough to deserve or keep him. For a brief, crazy moment, she’d let her self-doubt expand and fill her until she’d doubted him. But right now this wasn’t about her – or at least, not about her pain and insecurities. He’d been trying to apologize, trying to reach for her while she’d been keeping a secret of her own, only to throw it in his face the moment he was within arm’s reach. This was her turn for coming clean. “But ever since we finally got together, you never gave me a reason to doubt you.”

“And now we’ve both given each other reasons,” he said.

She nodded sadly. “I was wrong,” she said simply.

“So was I.”

“And Kurt… I’m–” her breath caught in her throat as he finally lifted his head to meet her eyes – “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he whispered, “me too.”

They sat staring at each other for a long, long moment, remorse and pain so thick in the air that time seemed to stop.

“So what happens now?” she asked.

He leaned back in his chair, looking lost in his grim thoughts. "We’ve both made terrible mistakes," he started slowly. "This is going to take time. We have to learn how to stop… protecting each other, with little lies and half-truths. I think the betrayal of keeping those secrets has hurt us even more than the secrets themselves ever would have."

She nodded agreement at that.

"But… I want to work on it, with you," he finally said. "As much as it all hurts right now… you're it for me, too."

She pursed her lips to the side in what could have been a ghost of a smile, if she hadn’t been working so hard to blink back tears. She wanted to reach for him, but didn’t quite know how. She wasn’t sure he would welcome her touch just then. Truth be told, despite what he’d said, she feared that the image of another man’s hands on her would drive his touch away forever.

But despite the chasm between them, it still seemed as if he could almost read her mind. Or maybe they just wanted the same things. Her eyes were drawn to his lap as his hand slid forward to rest on his knee, as if he, too, wanted to reach for her but couldn’t quite find the courage. She tentatively lifted her own hand, silently asking for permission as she slowly bridged the gap. It was a stuttering dance between them, an old engine shuddering to life - his fingers alone lifted from the denim of his jeans, her hand moved a little closer through the empty air, and they both watched as her fingers finally found the spaces between his. They laced together, his palm at last leaving his knee to press into hers. It wasn’t quite like the opening of a floodgate, but her motion was smoother and less hesitant when a moment later the rest of her followed, just a little closer, to rest her head lightly on his knee. The back of his thumb found her cheek and she exhaled, feeling him exhale with her. A moment later he set down his glass and placed his newly freed hand on the side of her head, stroking her hair.

Then she went very still. That gentle touch was the final straw. He felt her tears on his thumb, one, then another, and she heard his sharply indrawn breath as he tugged lightly on her hair, coaxing her to look at him so she could see his tears start to fall, too. Not leaving her alone; showing her that he was right there with her, even in their pain.

She raised up on her knees between his feet, tugging his hand towards her heart. As soon as she was sure it would stay there she moved her own hand to his, and the two sandwiched those hands between them as they finally embraced. His body shook with a single, heavy sob, and he turned his face into her neck. She held him there, murmuring again and again how much she loved him as they both let the pain flow from their bodies to soak each other’s shirts.

After a while their sobs subsided to shaky, hitched breaths, and gradually to quieter sniffles. Kurt turned his palm from her chest, curling his fingers around the back of her hand to keep it over his heart while his other hand eased her back a bit so he could look at her. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked with a fragile, watery half-smile.

She regarded him intensely and brushed her fingertips down his cheek, wiping away a lingering tear. “Yeah,” she nodded after a few heartbeats, sniffling with a fragile half-grin of her own.

“You’re gonna have to reach the glass, though,” he motioned to the other side of the small room. “Someone’s got me pinned.”

She rewarded his attempt at teasing with a look before she extracted herself and reached out on her hands and knees to pull a second glass off the low shelf and pass it to him. He poured and handed it back to her, then picked up his own glass and raised it a little. “To truth?” he suggested, then added, “Whole truths.”

“No matter how painful,” she agreed.

“And never, ever giving up,” he finished, and she smiled a little more genuinely as she clinked her glass with his and took a sip. After a moment, she turned, settling again on the floor and leaning back against the chair between his knees. He set the record player going, soft music filling the air, and he brushed his hand just once through her hair. She leaned into the touch, then reached up to take his hand over her shoulder, and they sat quietly sipping their drinks, sharing the air with each other and their own battered thoughts.

After a while, he found something more to say. Her fingertips were idly stroking the back of his hand, lingering from time to time to toy with his wedding band. “It’s where you left it,” he murmured, knowing without a doubt that she was thinking about her own ring. He was, too. “I… couldn’t touch it.”

“What do I have to do? To earn it back.” She knew that there was more to do, and after the hurt she'd caused him, she wanted to give him the choice. She held still while she waited for his answer.

“It’s your ring Jane, you can do what you want with it.” She frowned. They’d made a little progress, but he still sounded so fragile. She turned her body halfway toward him, looking up at him with an earnest expression.

“But it’s more than a ring. It was a promise, and I broke that trust. It’s not in your pocket this time. You haven’t been waiting to give it back.” There was no judgment or accusation in her voice, only truth.

“I wasn’t sure I could.”

“And now?”

“Now… it belongs with you. At least, I want it to. I kept wearing mine because… I still want to belong to you.” He hesitated, knowing that despite the progress they’d just made, they were both incredibly raw. He’d hurt her, badly, but she’d hurt him, too. The sight of her hand without the silver jeweled band he’d put there made his chest feel hollow any time he stopped to think about it. He didn’t like the contrast of her pale skin and dark ink without its crowning sparkle. His wishes and feelings weren’t the only things that mattered, though. This one had to come from her. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. We’ll keep working on it. But… I need you to be sure you want it, too. I just… can’t watch you leave it behind a third time. I can’t. So what do you want?”

She nodded thoughtfully, sadly; her expression was not unlike the one she had worn in Nepal, the last time she found him still wearing his ring while her finger was bare. “I'm not sure I deserve to even say it, but it’s never felt right, being without it,” she said. “I was angry, so angry I felt numb… but underneath all of that it just hurt, and taking it off just made it worse. So much worse.” She caught his eye, hoped he could see the truth - the whole truth; her sadness and regret for having left it behind again. “I don’t think I could do it again. It felt all wrong. I don’t ever want to feel that again; I don’t want you to feel that. I don't want that kind of pain in our lives ever again.”

“We’re still gonna have pain in our lives, sometimes. No one gets through life without that.”

She turned to face him more fully. She had come home looking hard yet frightened, and throughout her confession looked so sad and ashamed, but now he could see that Jane, his Jane, was beginning to return. Her face was pink and puffy from crying and he was sure his own face matched, but her expression was determined and her voice was growing stronger. “But I can’t be the cause. I can’t be the reason you look like that again. I couldn’t bear it.”

He still looked reserved, and took a swig of his drink in lieu of speaking. She abandoned her drink on the floor and reached up to stroke her hand down his stubbled jaw, then stood and made her way to the breakfast bar. She returned a minute later and knelt in front of him, holding up her ring between her thumb and index finger. “It’s not going to get better overnight. I know it’s not. But I know that I want to belong to you. No more secrets, and no more lies. No more running. We’re better together. I want to be in this, together with you.” He stared at the ring then looked into her eyes, long and hard, searching for any trace of uncertainty. She gazed back at him with absolute conviction. At last he put down his glass again, leaning forward, and took the ring from her.

“Then we do it together,” he said.

She nodded her relief, the certainty in her expression never wavering. “I’m yours, Kurt,” she told him, more softly but no less firmly. He glanced at her in acknowledgement before he slipped the ring back on her finger and joined their left hands together, their twin rings finally reunited and exactly where they belonged. He stared at them as if in a trance, his posture relieved, but a shadow of apprehension remained on his face.

“Kurt,” she said softly, trying to draw his attention. She paused and waited for him to meet her eyes again, and when he did, she smiled gently. “We’re gonna be okay.” A heartbeat later, he squeezed her hand, and smiled softly back.

That night they slept on their own sides of their bed, facing away from one another. When he woke in the middle of the night, her feet were together, her toes lightly pressed against the backs of his calves. When she woke in the morning, he had rolled over and stretched his arm toward her, his fingers ever so faintly brushing her ribs, just below her shoulder blade, each time she inhaled. A handful of days passed with an awkward sort of friendship, stilted hugs or chaste kisses, and the occasional joining of hands. And nights passed just like that first one, with each tentatively reaching out for the other in their sleep.

The way Jane looked at him, up and down, unabashedly checking him out after she recovered the Nergal device from Sho Ahktar became something of a turning point for matters at home. He looked great in that suit, and she knew exactly what working undercover together did to him - what seeing each other pretending to be someone else and yet still so unmistakably them did to them both - and she was done playing slow and safe. She was pretty sure he was, too. She hit pause on those thoughts as they changed and debriefed and she went to meet up with Avery, but in spite of the nerves she felt about an unstructured visit with her estranged daughter, the wink her husband gave her when she left the office had her grinning most of the way to the coffee shop.

She was tired when she got home, emotionally drained and ready to shelf anything else for another day. When she saw him stand from the sofa though, looking adorably apprehensive, so ready to be lovingly supportive no matter how her visit had gone, her fatigue went out the window. Seeing Nas had brought up some things; Jane liked the woman well enough as a workplace colleague, and appreciated all she’d done for the team, but Nas had always been just a little bit too patronizing toward Jane and was still just a little too comfortable in her husband’s presence for someone who had in times past threatened to return her to a dark, dark hole. Never mind that the woman had been sharing Kurt's bed while holding those things over her, or the easy way she’d walked back into what was long since Jane’s home.

It started with a slow, lingering kiss that was as much a question as a greeting, and which quickly evolved into an answer. Their reunion was a little rough at first - possessive - and soon they were breathing words like 'yours' and 'mine' into each other's skin. They didn’t quite make it to the bed, but that suited them just fine. Their last reunion had taken place on the floor too, and while this time there was an aggressive edge to the way they reclaimed each other, it ended similarly, with gentle smiles, interlaced fingers, and murmured affirmations of love.

Things weren't better overnight, even after they climbed under the covers to finally sleep curled around each other for the first time in weeks - and woke each other in the dark hours of morning to confirm those things they'd already worked out on the floor. The now-crumbling walls they’d erected around their hearts still made reading each other outside the office more challenging than they were accustomed to, interrupted by hiccups of insecurity and niggling fears. It helped, though, that now they were calling them fears, not anger or blame; and so too did the fact that they spoke about them regularly rather than suffering them in silence.

Some of the lingering hurt was smoothed by the discovery that with the bulk of their anger released, they still functioned as an unstoppable team at work. They read each other as well as ever in the field, and in the office they still looked to each other first, asking questions and giving answers, or sharing thoughts and opinions, all through silent exchanges that they would only occasionally voice to the team. Those daily reminders that they were still better together than they were apart became a salve against any doubts they might feel about whether they could get through it.

Jane was surprised but pleased to find that Kurt was relaxing a little more into his tactile nature throughout the day, deliberately instigating casual little displays of affection that he had been more restrained about before. It was subtle, not at all like the desperate way they had always grasped each other after a close call, and nothing so overt as to make their colleagues regularly uncomfortable. His hand was simply finding her own, or the small of her back more often, and sometimes he would step up behind her to embrace her for no reason other than she was sitting by herself at a workstation and he felt like it. She knew how much those little check-ins meant to him, and with each little touch, she felt surer. Weller was similarly surprised when Jane caught him in the hallway outside the lab one morning to ask what he thought about inviting Avery to live with them. The prospect itself delighted him, but the fact she had come to him about something so important as soon as she decided she wanted it, even though they were busy and at work, filled him with a warm sort of certainty.

They were both practicing not waiting, because they were keenly aware - especially after the date Rich had sent them on was cut short by assassins - that 'the right time' wasn't something they could necessarily count on in their line of work. They also practiced opening themselves, volunteering more of their inner worlds than either was used to, and no longer taking for granted that their comfortable place on each others' wavelength would be enough on its own to keep all misunderstandings at bay.

It was taxing at times. The days at work flew by while their evenings were slow and deliberate, but gradually, with each spontaneously voiced thought, each unsolicited touch, each difficult conversation that turned out simpler than expected, they built something; something unlike what they had before. They had always believed their bond to be unshakeable, but now it was being reforged in the certainty that came with a proven commitment to work at it no matter how hard or painful; to accept that they would sometimes mess up or let each other down, but safe in the knowledge that they would never stop reaching for each other and they would never, ever give up. Because they were in love, they were everything, and they decided again, every single day, that that mattered. More than anything.

[whosjunglejim4322]

Bramosia | J.Seo (m)

Genre: pwp, knight!au, smut, fluff, he is, and I can't stress this enough, madly in love with you

Warnings: loss of virginity, pussy eating, mutual pining and longing, it's forbidden but who's gonna stop u??? Exactly. Inaccurate descriptions of the time period probably, inappropriate use of the word princess, he fucks you to tears, this is so self indulgent I gotta blast

The moons unearthly luminescence bleeds through the windows that sit directly above your wing of the old castles corridor, a reminder of why he bears the heavy sword that hangs off of his hip, of why he's here in the first place.

He rolls his aching neck, blinking his dry eyes a few times in an attempt to dampen them. He's usually not so worn by now.

Perhaps the two of you had gotten too carried away last night, it's too easy when you're with eachother. Effortless, like that of a flowers perianth traveling wistfully through a summers breeze. It's easy to forget.

He's here to protect you, nothing more, as he is was a proffesional in all that he does. He is a knight, after all. One of the best. Your father wouldn't have requested him from a province so far away if he weren't damn good.

Six months ago, it seems like a lifetime away and yet the memory of seeing you for the very first time is so vivid behind his eyelids, tangible as if he could reach out and hover his palms over the warmth the halo around you seemed to emit.

He smiles to himself, the image keeping him sane and distracting him from the ache in the soles of his feet. He knows you're probably not sleeping, he wishes you wouldn't worry about him. He's doing it to himself, really.

He is a warrior but he is only so strong, so resilient. He has never been stricken by such a force as to have his bones feel as weak as they do when he looks into your eyes, when you cup his face in your hands like he is the most delicate thing you have ever seen. 

Sure, he hadn't been the most nonchalant. His eyes barely left you even during the brief moments in which his life is not sworn over to do so, and you being you, caught him almost every time. You'd smile, fleeting enough for only him to notice.

You never get the credit you deserve, he had come to find out over the past several months. Being a princess, as fawned over the title may be, it wasn't meant for you.

You'd scowl at the name of every prince your father mentioned might come visit, which he'd take pride in secretly. You wouldn't even scold him whenever he'd been clearly protective in a manner than suggested that it was more than just the job that inclined him to act that way.

Perceptive, and clever you are. And to think, you might feel even a fraction of what he feels, it causes his heart to thunder loudly behind his sturdy ribcage, momentarily reducing his fatigue.

You are the only one in all of his twenty five years of life that has threatened to shake his very foundation, like you've found a way to wind yourself through every ridge of his skeleton like vines of Wisteria.

Sundays are always the hardest, you're still so fresh in his mind, on his skin. It's like every inch of him has been permanently marked, he can still feel the weight of your body against his and the warm puff of air from your lips against his earlobe as you sing his name.

His sigh is quiet in the vast, empty space around him. He shouldn't be thinking of you so late, when he's so tired. It makes him ache for you all the more, make him wish life was anything but what it is now. That he could be with you unabashedly.

That he could be your protector, and not just in a way that could be be permanently devastated if anyone were to find out about the two of you.

He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes, not until he has to peel them open and search for the source of the soft voice he's just heard whisper his name into the dark.

He furrows his brows as a stream of warm candlelight spills through the crack in your door from your room, your form coming into a few just a moment later, as if beckoned from his dreams.

"You're really going to stay out there, John?" He foresees your incredulity, smiling at the hand thats propped up on your hip.

"Those are my orders, princess." He has a hard time not staring at you, even in such poor lighting you are still the most beautiful thing he's ever witnessed.

He's always stubborn about breaking the made up rules you two have put in place, like only meeting in private on Saturdays. Despite his inability to resist you he still needs to keep you safe.

"My father is a whole wing away, don't you know," you emphasize your point by stepping out past your doorframe, tiptoeing at an almost imperceptible pace towards him. "and if danger were to arise, how much more convenient need it be, than for you to be right there with me?"

You're standing right in front of him now, weaking his resolve eith each syllable that passes those pretty lips of yours. It's strange, how he still wonders if your feelings for him are resolute as his are for you, when you're the one always asking for trouble. Eager to have your way.

When you reach out to grab his waist, he breaks.

"Princess, if someone were to see that I'm not outside of your room guarding as I'm supposed to,"

You interrupt him, pressing yourself closer until he can feel your chest against his, the barrier of his clothing suddenly a burden far heavier than before.

"Who? Who might see? Everyone is asleep, you should be."

You stare up at him and he can't seem to resist the pull, meeting your eyes and unclapsing his hands from behind his back to stroke the apple of your cheek with his knuckles.

You heel into his touch, beaming as you realise you've already gotten your way, evident in the way he sighs your name as if the word fills him with oxytocin.

"You really are trouble," he cups your face, calloused fingertips swiping a fallen lash from underneath your eye. "trying to lure me in, like a siren. I'd be willing to go, anyways."

You lift yourself to the tips of your toes, pressing a brief, featherlight, kiss to the surface of his lips. Just enough to bring forth warmth to his cheeks.

"You're silly, I'd be too selfish a siren to do any damage. I'd have to keep you all to myself."

His arms are strong and steady as the encapsulate you, the fears and worries of outside intruders fading with each second spent in eachothers presence. It's like nothing else exists.

"Please, Princess. It's hard enough already, to be away from you," he's on the verge of losing any bit of hope for his sanity, but as anticipated, you won't have it.

"And you don't think it's hard for me? You think that I enjoy knowing that it is prohibited for me to be like this with you? I am many things but I am not selfish, so if you don't want to come with me then I won't force you."

He has to bite back a laugh, or maybe a scream of frustration and agony all at the same time. Here you are, so close he's sure you can hear how his pulse pounds beneath his skin at your presence, actually accusing him of not wanting you. It's preposterous.

You glare up at him when his arms don't loosen their grasp.

"You must be mistaken, sorely mistaken. If you think that any moment spent without you is even the least bit pleasant for me, you're wrong. So wrong it's a bit humorous," he kisses your cheek, and then the other. Your skin tingles where his lips grace.

"You may not be selfish but I am. So selfish that I'd give into my own desires even if it meant that one slip up could ruin it all. Don't you see that?" You sigh blissfully, in spite of his words, when he kisses your nose.

"Well I think that's stupid, I'd never let such a thing happen. I've lived here my whole life, I'd be able to predict the likelihood of someone coming up here during such a late hour."

He doesn't miss the pitch of sadness that comes with talk of the castle, he knows that there is so much you still have yet to experience. So much you'd like to do, so far away from here.

Still, he can't deny the truth in which you speak. You're right, and he knows that you're as careful of these things as he is. He trusts you, as you trust him. And what is he going to do, say no? He'd never have the willpower.

His broad shoulders relax, his hands suddenly engulfing yours.

"Alright, you don't have to pout anymore. You know I'll end up kissing it from that pretty face of yours anyways."

You suppress a giggle of elation, squeezing your fingers around his as you turn to quietly pull him into your room, peering into the the hallway once more to make sure the coast is clear, before you ease your door shut.

And then at once, he is what you taste on your tongue.

His lips always leave you breathless. The way he kisses you, it's as of you are his only source of oxygen and his lungs burn with the need for air. He is fierce, but so very concise. You almost forget that he so ruefully pretended to put up a fight.

Your arms mold around his neck as he slouches the slightest bit in order to make the reach easier for you, knowing how you like to bury your hands in his hair and tug at the strands whenever he does something that you'd like more of.

Your eagerness is a bit more exuberant tonight, normally you'd still be a bit bashful, giggling between pecks and having to turn your face away before kissing him again.

But you haven't pulled away from him yet, not even for a breath and suddenly his skin is sweltering towards what feels like a hundred degrees. He's pretty sure you've just whispered his name.

He's already gone, helplessly lost in the way you're clinging onto him with all your strength.

"John." Just his name falling from your lips in the form of a sweet sigh has his knees buckling.

He's careful, hesitant even, when he cups the back of your knees and allows you to fall atop your bed, the sight almost too much to bear. He can never catch a break.

But he has to look at you, has to see the look in your eyes, the gleam that shines in your blown out pupils as your fingers tug at the clothing hanging loosely on his body. He fights back a groan.

Of course things have gotten intense between the two of you, but nothing more than over the clothes petting. And, even then, that drove him to the brink of insanity. He didn't think he could ever be putty in someone's hands until he met you.

It feels like everything is happening so fast yet not slow enough, it seems as if you're blooming like a lotus before his eyes and he wants to capture every little detail. Just incase one day his memories are all he has of you.

You pull him back down to your mouth, legs suddenly looping around his trim waist, knees locked on either side. You practically purr as his hands, large and tender, grace your thighs only to be met with bare skin where your nightgown has risen up.

He's breathing heavily when your mouths depart momentarily, his doe eyes an onyx pit of desire and emotion as he stares down at you, lips ruby red.

You nod, as if reading his mind and answering the dozens of unanswered questions that sit unmoving at the tip of his tongue. Still, his eyebrows are pulled together in concentration, in tentative restraint.

"You can touch me. Please, touch me."

Your skin is heavenly underneath his trembling touch, from the soft hair atop your thighs to the way you so perfectly mold around his fingers. You're a gift of the most ethereal kind, here in front of him.

You coo at him with a voice of an angel, pulling at his face in an attempt to have him kiss you again. He's been too busy ogling, and repays you with the press of his mouth against the crook of your neck.

You lift your chin to allow him more access, eyes fluttering closed and thighs tightening around his middle when you feel the warmth of his open mouth against your throat.

"You're so sweet, so pretty." He mumbles, practically floating.

He nips at your collarbone, and you can't stop your hips from bucking up against him, your clothed center meeting his hardened length through the material of his bottoms.

The air is thick with tension now, you can feel it buzzing through the both of you like ths thrum of a thunderstorm. He sucks in a breath, lips ghosting over yours.

"I want to make you feel good, If you'd allow me." He tries to control the shake in his voice but he's not sure he's succeeded. What a mess you've made of him.

You kiss him for what seems like the hundredth time but feels like the first, still sending jolts of electricity through your body and causing heat to swirl in your loins. You can barely speak.

"Y-Yes, yes I'll allow you."

Your voice is foreign to your own ears, clouded with desire and a desperation that is as overwhelming as it is strange and new.

But having him here, knowing he's the one whose hands are touching you, it's comforting in a way that leaves no room for doubt that he is nothing but kind. Nothing but adoring.

It's hard to tell with just the luminosity of a single candle on your bedside table, but you're almost certain you can feel him shuffle. At least, his weight seems to have shifted, his arms suddenly caged around your waist, upperhalf between your legs.

And then you feel it, the plushness of his lips just above your knee as he lifts your legs by your calves, placing them over his shoulders. You're not sure you can focus on anything else now, breathing suddenly heavy.

"You're so beautiful, you know that?" His voice is so close, yet far away in an unfamiliar way. It has butterflies swarming your belly.

"I'm so lucky, so so lucky..." He trails off between kisses, shifting from one thigh to the other, slowly but surely making his way towards your center.

It's only now in your bird brain that you're beginning to realize what exactly he's about to do, and it's like some switch inside of you has been flicked on, toes suddenly curling in anticipation, wetness soaking into the fabric of your underwear.

The desire isn't just in your belly now, its everywhere. All consuming, when he pushes your nightgown up and bunches it around your hips, the air cool against your skin. You shiver, and his cheek brushes against the crease of your thigh.

"Have you ever been touched like this, princess?" He's curious but not pushy, just wants to know. When you shake your head, he swallows.

He's slow and steady, pulling your underwear off your hips and down your legs, allowing the garment to fall to the floor. You don't clamp your legs shut, despite the instinct to shield yourself. You've never hidden yourself from him, and you know there's no reason to.

Esepcially not when he's looking at you like he is right now, like a man starved whose just been presented with a meal of his favorite kind. He glances up at you, with eyes that shine with gratitude, and awe alike. You reach out to stroke his hair.

And then, suddenly, his face is gone from your view. You feel it, first, before you register that it's happening. A gasp leaves your lips the moment your back arches ever so slightly off of your mattress, his hands keeping your thighs apart as his tongue licks another flat stripe through your folds.

You feel exposed in a way that only feels as intoxicating as it does, because he's the one with his mouth on your cunt, suckling your bud between his lips and swiveling his head side to side. You tug at his hair.

A guttural groan resonates in his throat and the vibration serves as direct stimulation, a mewl leaving your mouth as you buck you hips up against his skilled tongue.

"Shhh baby, stay quiet for me," you furrow your eyebrows, looking down at him with stars in your eyes. "I know, I know sweetheart." He reads the pleading in your eyes, soothingly rubbing your hips as he delves back in.

It's not easy to stay quiet. Not at all.

If you'd thought him rubbing your clit through your clothes was something to be noisy over, nothing prepared you for this.

He's so good at it, so generous with every lap of his tongue. The sounds are lewd and loud in the shared space, and his tongues pace only increases when you reach down to find his hands. He intertwines your fingers before you give him the hint.

You try to keep your volume low, your whimpers almost inaudible but loud enough to spurr him on, to have his hips rutting against the bed while he kisses your cunt with passion only a lover could have.

Bliss overcomes you faster than you expect, and swallows you whole like a vicious, unmerciful hurricane.

Your thighs tremble against his strength as he keeps them parted when they threaten to close, your fingers twisted in the comforter as tears well in your eyes.

You're not sure if you're making any noise, the light too bright behind your eyes, bones suddenly weightless as his tongue licks you clean. You twitch, aware that you've let out a whine. The feeling is agonizingly pleasant.

You're still throbbing when his hands suddenly grasp your jaw, head lolling in his direction as he presses his lips to yours. He's serene, slipping his tongue into your mouth, humming.

You're certain, now. Certain that you need to have him in every way there is to have someone, for your heart may forever be unsettled if it doesn't get to taste what it's like to love him wholly, completely.

"I want to-" you've got his rapt attention, as you always do, and he stares down at you with a lovesick expression as you struggle to find the strength to say it out loud.

He's grown accustomed to reading your countenance, only time allowing him to grasp the meaning behind every crease and line that forms on your face, he's certain you could give him one look and he'd instantly know what it is that you're trying to say.

One perk to having a secret rendezvous, though he still needs to hear you say it. He'd only take your word for it regarding something like this, something that he's dreamt about more times that he'd like to admit.

He can't hide his surprise, thumbs stroking your face.

"You want me to..." he quirks an inquisitive brow, nearly becoming distracted when your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip. "you want me to be your first?"

Even the words have you latching onto him tighter, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin against yours.

"Yes, I want that very much...do you...also want that?"

He grins, widely and for a moment you forget he was born to be made of steel, that he's fought all of his life and has bruised his skin for the sake of his kingdom. You want to kiss away every bad memory in his head.

"How could you even think you have to ask? I want nothing more, just you. You're all I'll ever want."

The veracity in his voice, suddenly hoarse, makes your skin feel like it's being tickled by a million, tiny feathers. You never knew anything could feel like this.

A heartbeat later, your hands are slipping underneath his top to make an attempt at pulling it off, your excitment not a good match for your lack of coordination. Of course, he doesn't mind helping.

He slips his sword from his hip while you stare up at him with wide eyes of reverence and desire, so much of him being exposed at once causing a swelter of heat to boil underneath your skin.

Your hands are hesitant, hovering around his lithe hips as he sits back on his haunches, chest rapidly rising and falling as the atmosphere begins to soak into his pores. He can't believe he gets to make love to you.

"You can touch me, princess," he's the one reassuring you now, knowing that beyond your headstrong personality when you're with him, you're still so timid; trembling like a leaf in autumn.

His dexterous fingers gently grasp your wrists, placing your palms over his abdomen, keeping your gaze all the while, head nodding in encouragement.

He's soft, soft on the surface at least. The soft down that covers his honey colored skin is like silk underneath your fingers, a juxtaposition to the rigid muscle underneath that flexes as your fingertips move upwards towards the broad planes of his chest.

You hook your fingers around his shoulders, and pull him down to your mouth, determined as your heart bellows inside of your body.

It's wilder this time, the wet sounds loud in your ears, his tongue waltzing with yours. You rake your nails down his sides, and he damn near growls.

It's a blur, the way he slips the straps of your gown from off of your shoulders, before removing the garment completely and throwing it behind him. Somewhere in between he pulls the covers out from underneath you, sensing the chill that runs through you like a tremor from the exposure.

It's during that brief moment when you're too drunk on adrenaline, that your fingers begin pulling at the buckle of his bottoms, too eager again and not being able to unfasten it correctly. Always the gentlemen, he does it for you, again.

He's careful now, not completely planting himself against you yet when he kisses your neck and takes your breasts in his massive palms, squeezing indulgently.

You pull him up by the ridge of his jaw, wrapping your legs around his middle as you had previously, letting out a small gasp as his hard length suddenly comes to lie heavy between your legs when you beckon him closer by your heels on his back.

"You're sure you want me?" He slips his hand that's not cupping your cheek, down in between your bodies to rub your clit with his middle finger, actually expecting you to be able to speak coherently. He supresses his gasp upon feeling the abundance of your essence.

It's hard to focus, when he's looking down at you like that, when you can feel every ridge and curve of his naked body against yours. Perhaps it's being able to to tell that he's feeling the same way just by the way he speaks, that makes it so intoxicating.

"You're all I'll ever want." You echo his earlier words, and his laughter fills your ears like a lullably. You reach out to push his dark hair out from in front of his eyes, his lips catching your palm and placing a kiss to the center.

"It'll hurt, I'll go as slow as you need me to." You see the worry creased between his brow, and you soothe it away by clenching your thighs around his waist, silently beckoning him.

"Please, please fuck me."

It takes him by surprise, cock twitching against your sex. You sound so sweet, so angelic even when you're requesting something so filthy.

He lifts himself on his forearms, reaching down to grasp his shaft. Your hands are in his hair a the while, fingers tracing shapes across the nape of his neck. You suck in a breath when he rubs the tip against your clit, arousal leaking from your slit.

He rubs his cock against you like this, through your silken folds and back up to your sensitive nub, until your head is thrown back against the pillows, face turned to the side and canorous mewls slipping past your lips.

Your eyes flutter open when he kisses you, finally prodding your entrance, readying you. Your teeth gently sink into the plush surface of his bottom lip, as if urging him to continue.

Your mouth falls open when he begins to push himself inside of you. You have to brace yourself by clinging onto his biceps, reminding yourself to breathe.

If you weren't as wet for him as you are, you're sure it would be more painful. It still stings, even more so as he begins to bottom out, using every bit of self control he has as to make sure he doesn't accidentally rut into you with too much force.

He meets your eyes when he's fully sheathed inside of you, your fingernails leaving crescent moons in his skin. He doesn't mind it one bit.

"Are you alright?" The tenderness in his voice is accompanied by his lips across your cheeks, down your jaw, over your eyelids.

"Mhm. J-Just stay like this, for a second, please." Your walls flutter around him and his eyes fall heavy. He stays as still as he can for the moment, fingers massaging your soft hip.

"I never thought...never dreamed we'd get to do this." He speaks in an irrevocable way, swelling your heart over two times its size with how he talks about you. Like you're truly something magical.

You wiggle your hips, his gaze searching for yours and lighting up with newfound determination when you give him conformation to move. He slowly drags himself out, before pushing himself back in.

"If you only knew...how much I truly think of you." You speak steadily despite the wave of pleasure that ripples through your body, from the pit of your stomach outwards, touching every nerve.

He's big, bigger than you expected, but curved in a way that has you fighting a cry. Your lungs ache with the need to make noise, to express how it feels to have him inside of you like this. You squeeze around him, and he smashes his lips against yours.

You never thought it would feel like this, you'd heard mixed reviews but clearly none of them had ever experienced what it's like to have someone like him demonstrating their skill.

He's precise, a little shaky but only because he's concentrating on not literally cumming after two minutes. You're everything he's ever wanted and more, you're soaked and warm around him, chest pressed flush against his. Your hardened nipples threaten to distract him.

His hair tickles your forehead as he begins to create a steady pace. He's got one hand behind your right thigh, cupping it and hiking it up just the slightest bit while he fucks into you, curling his hips.

He swallows your moans, tasting the sense of surrealness on your tongue. He feels it too, groaning when you tug a tuft of his hair.

"You're mine, all mine, fuck." His voice is hoarse, hips stuttering as he begins to rock into you, not completely pulling himself out of you before nudging your cervix again. His mouth catches the edge of your jaw, then your earlobe.

He buries his face in your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips against his hair as you keep yourself quiet. He can still feel the way you're shivering, the whispers of cries that are audible when you breathe.

"I'm yours, I'm yours." You're not sure you could ever feel this way about someone else, and not just because he is all that every single one of your senses seemed to be attuned to.

He's deep inside of you, reaching places you never would be able to by yourself, and still holds you like you're the entire world. Despite the need that consumes you both, he takes his time.

You feel him everywhere. On your neck, your throat, down to your clavicle where his hot tongue soothes over the mark he's just made.

You can almost feel him in your belly, the tip of his cock nudging the sweet spot of nerves deep within you causing your body to jerk in his hold. He takes note and is determined to drive you over the edge, knowing he's not going to last much longer.

He's yearned for it too long, and nothing his mind could have conjured up would ever compare again.

He lets go of your leg only to bring his hand to where your bodies are connected as one, your face contorted into a mask of pleasure as he begins to rub at your clit, in circular motions, with the same rythym as his thrusts.

"John, ohhh, you f-feel so good." You're slurring your words, high off of his affection. Your belly feels hot, a pressure just behind your navel leaving you writhing, trying to match his pace.

"Yeah? Feels good to have me inside of you?" He's being cruel now, already knowing the answer by the way tears are swelling in your eyes for the second time tonight, irisises shining back at him.

Your hands roam his sides, settling on his hips as you turn your face to hide it against his bicep. He kisses any expanse of skin that he can reach, till the wet spots leave a trail of chills along your body.

You're close, and he knows it. You're already leaking onto the bed, dripping down his shaft.

"J-John...p-please." You're blubbering now, and his fingers circle your clit faster, just enough to have you breathless and unable to speak as his strokes become inconsistent, cock throbbing.

"Shh, I got you baby, gonna make you cum okay? Want you to let go."

Looking up into his eyes, it's hard to resist. Suddenly it's the first time you've met and you're awestruck by his beauty all over again, by the sharp planes of his face that you'd come to realize are soft underneath your touch.

You're kissing him again for the first time, and his lips are as plush and pillowy as they look, his hands big and wsrm as they hold your face steady against his mouth.

You realize you're in love with him for the first time again, staring into honey colored irises and listening to his velvet voice, aware that when he's gone it feels like a piece of you has been taken along with him.

Your body suddenly stills, save for your back arching and his body, sturdy and whole, there to anchor you while you forget you breathe. Your orgasm is all the more powerful this time, with him inside of you, and it's like once youre unraveling it doesn't stop.

He holds the back of your head and allows you to muffle your cries against his chest, fingers latching onto any part of him you reach first, as if you might fall of the face of the earth. He's still rubbing your clit, whispering sweet encouragements in your ear.

You don't pick up all of it, only vaguely aware of the tremor in his tone as he says your name.

And then he's locked against you, every muscle in his body rigid and hard as a strained, muffled whimper resonates from beside your head. He's biting into a pillow, as warmth fills you to the brim and he sloppily fucks it into you.

You're still reeling, when he kisses you like someone who hasn't seen their lover in years and is finally getting the chance to touch them again, to wordlessly express how enamored they are. Wholeheartedly, and irreversibly.

He says it first, which surprises you, considering in your dreams you're always the one professing it to him, stroking his skin or petting his hair and whispering it in between kisses.

But you're sure this is real, you can feel ache in your bones, the throb of your centers where they're still connected.

"I love you." His voice is even more beautiful when he's speaking in such a simple, yet profound way. There's a quiver, but not because he's not being honest. He'd swear on his life, for his conviction.

"I love you too." You reply, looping your fingers round the nape of his neck, toying with the soft hair there.

Maybe he shouldn't be so shocked, but he is. His face can't hide it, the quirk of his full lips, the furrow of disbelief in his brow. You want to kiss his stupid face a thousand time over.

"I love you." He repeats it, as if the words bring forth sunshine on a day shrouded by the darkness of rain clouds.

He repeats it again, when he's hovering over your lips, breath warm against your skin. He repeats it again when he's placing kisses to your forehead, when you giggle and stroke his cheek.

"And I love you, silly silly man." You remind him, willing him by the longing in your voice, to believe it as you believe him.

He repeats it again, when a tear cascades down your cheek like a diamond shaped declaration of your honesty, and he kisses it away, claiming it for himself.

You love him, and he loves you.

And maybe, no matter what happens, that'll be enough.

[velvetcloxds]

IT’S POETIC| D.H.

Pairing: Derek x Reader

Warnings: none that I can think off, reader gets bit so there's blood

Summary: Reader is fighting with Scott and Stiles after Scott bit her by accident and in the panic of the situation the reader goes to Derek's loft for help.

"Call Derek!" I shout looking down at my stomach. Feeling the warm liquid drench the shirt in my grip. I look up to see Stiles and Scott staring at me bewildered. "Call him!" I repeat with the same urgency.

"We don't need him. We can handle this on our own." Scott replies carefully.

"Really, Scott? Can you really?" I step forward and Scott steps back as soon as I do. "You bloody bit me!" I yell angrily lifting my shirt to reveal the remnants of the bite-marks.

"Not on purpose!" He shouts back, lifting his hands up in defense as Stiles just looks out of the window, amusement in his eyes as he conceals a guilty smile.

"That seems to be a recurring issue for you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, well we didn't call him last time either." Scott replies with a shrug as he looks to Stiles who simply shakes his head.

"Yeah and that went marvelously well," Stiles chimes in, catching my eye as he walks towards me. He bends down to look at the wound and looks away immediately. "Maybe she's right." He mumbles while covering his mouth to force down a gag.

"I can't call him in for a favour in the middle of the night, what if we wait until tomorrow and I can take you to see Deaton?" He questions, although the stern look in my eyes leaves no need for reply. "Y/n..." He groans pulling a hand through his hair.

"What? Am I being difficult Scott? Am I being a bit dramatic over the fact that you accidentally made a decision that could change my entire life?" I demand bitterly and I see Scott hover as he searches for an answer. I sigh grabbing my jacket and pulling it over my shoulders to hide the blood before turning to face the boys. "Screw it, I'll go to him myself." I push passed them and ignore their objecting opinions as I rush out of the house and into my car.

The ride to the loft seemed to take forever as my mind spun in a continues circle, trying desperately to come to terms with what just happened. Not that it would come easy at all. I only found out about all of this a few months ago and now I'm being thrown into this world head first with no clue how to land on my feet. There was no part of me that ever for one second liked the idea of being a werewolf, partly because the second you get the bite you step onto a permanent battlefield. And realistically speaking I wasn't ready for any of it. I'm not willingly going to put myself in endless danger in order to protect everyone and the sharp pain settling in my stomach won't change that.

I pull the jacket tighter around my body forcing the sides together with one hand while the other furiously bangs against the metal door. "Derek!" I shout stopping the knocking briefly before continuing when there's no reply. "Derek!" I repeat with less volume and more desperation as I see blood staining my jacket as well. I pull away from the door and throw the jacket to the ground to push pressure onto the wound. My hands digging against the ripped flesh without any results, but I force down even harder, needing to catch my breath as the pain deepens.

"Y/n?" A voice asks and I look up to see the door wide open with a confused Derek looking at me.

"It won't stop bleeding," I comment quickly, looking down at my hands. "It won't stop-" I feel my hands start shaking and it only makes me try harder to keep them still. "It won't stop bleeding." I repeat and I hear his feet shuffle towards me before his own hands come into view, covering mine to take them off of my stomach.

"Breathe," He whispers as my hands drop to my sides. I do as I'm told, focusing on inhaling slowly to let the sudden urge of panic fade. "What happened?" He asks when I finally look up at him.

"Scott." I reply dryly, shakily lifting the shirt to reveal the settling marks of teeth. He nods quickly before turning to walk into the loft and I follow him eagerly. My hands slip over the red button to rearm the alarm before I sit down on his bed.

"Take off your shirt," He demands and I hover momentarily before he kneels down in front of me with a new shirt and a bunch of towels in his arms. "It'll heal eventually, but we need to clean you up." I nod slowly before briskly bringing the shirt over my head.

His actions are delicate as he silently clears the blood from the wound, lightly pushing onto the surface of my skin to soak up most of the dampness. He does this for a while until the bleeding finally stops, leaving nothing but a fresh wound in view. His fingers move over the spot slowly, stopping only when our eyes meet.

"It's healing," I state lifting my hand to his, feeling the muscles tighten when our fingers brush against each other. I scoff softly. "I can feel it." He simply nods before leaning forward to help me pull one of his shirts on and a sense of familiarity fills my mind as the scent surrounds me.

I allow the strange comfort to embrace me for a brief moment before I feel the bed tilt beside me. He sits down quietly, leaving a small amount of space between us as our shoulders timidly rest against each other.

"You're going to be okay." He says suddenly, surprising me.

"Depends on your version of okay." I retort and I bite down at my lip to hide the bitterness begging to escape pass them.

"You're not dying," He turns to me and an unexpected urgency sparkles in his eyes as he looks at me. "You could be dying and you're not. You're going to be okay." I turn my body against his, folding my legs under me as I move onto the bed more.

"But I'll be like you. I don't want to be like you." I say softly and he turns his body as well.

"Well I won't be like that for much longer." He whispers and I watch him close his eyes, opening them to reveal pools of gold sparkling in the darkness a clear contrast to the drowning sapphire they used to be. A small gasp leaves my lips at the sight and my mind screams with thousands of questions. But instead of asking any of them I reach up to his face allowing my fingers to faintly hover above his eyelashes.

"What does this mean?" I question in a hushed tone keeping my hand still only for him to nimbly take hold of my wrist restraining me while also sinking both out arms to his lap.

"Alone it could mean nothing. But paired with the loss of my sense of smell, the human like healing and the inability to shift completely..."

"You're losing your powers," I complete and he nods. Guilt rushes into my heart as soon as the realization sets in. Here I was making a big scene because I've been forced to become a werewolf all while Derek is losing something that's been part of him for his entire life. "Derek..."

"You didn't know."

"What will happen if you lose it. Will you be a human?"

"Or I'll be dead," He states bluntly and I inhale sharply at the lack of emotion to which he looks at me. His hand slips from my wrist to my palm and I soon feel his fingers tangling with mine. "Why did you come here, Y/n? Scott's been through this before, he knows what to do."

"I don't know," I answer honestly my eyes remaining focused on our entwined hands. "Maybe a part me just knew I could trust you," I trail my gaze to meet his. "Maybe part of me knew you shouldn't be alone."

"You barely know me. "

"But I'm here and you're here," I bring my other hand up to his chest feeling the slow movement of his breathing. "And neither of us needs to be alone. It's almost poetic." I comment willing my heart to settle as he leans forward in a subtly movement.

"Like death..." He adds and a smile plays with his lips when he looks over at me. His fingers abandon mine and in a rapid gesture I'm pulled onto his lap with my body pressed against his.

"Like kissing." I add feeling the hand on my back securing me in a soft yet strong hold. My breathing quickens as a respond to his touch but also slows as soon as I feel his lips connecting with mine. A rush of electricity spins into my body creating a trail of cold shivers along my spine. I grasp onto his shoulders when his lips leave mine and he watches with a smirk as a shade of rose tints my cheeks.

"Like your lips," He comments using his other hand to turn my head back towards him looking up at me due to my position. "I'm glad you came here." His fingers trace over my lips gently before he slowly guides me back onto the bed adding a good amount of distance between us with emits a groan from me due to the sudden coldness filling my body.

A steady smirk remains on his lips while he grabs a pillow and a blanket from the bed before getting up and walking over to the couch where he settles himself with ease.

"No more poetry?" I question pulling my legs against my chest.

"Maybe tomorrow," He states quickly glancing down at my stomach before locking eyes with me. "Definitely tomorrow."

I nod to myself, understanding what he means and suddenly the fear from earlier streams back into my mind reminding me why I'm here in the first place. But at the same time a new unfamiliar ease fills my heart. I crawl to the top of the bed pulling the blanket over my legs as my head sinks into the pillow, the same sweet scent surrounding me.

"Derek?" I question and he hums in reply. "I think you're going to be okay too." He laughs softly making me smile slightly before I close my eyes.

Hi there, more of my work can be found on Wattpad under @mjoubertt. Mxx.

Masterlist

[bokutoslittlebird]

Regrets

Alpha!Ushijima x Beta!Reader

Author’s Note : This took longer to get done than I expected I’m so sorry ; do be warned, this is angst. It ends angsty. Do not read if you cannot handle angst (like me) ; in most of my Omegaverse stories, the bonding mark is considered to be permanent once it has been placed and there is a lingering scent of the Alpha that placed it, which never goes away ; I listened to My R and thus, the ending was born ; yes I like teeth how did you know

Warnings: rut cycle, reader’s at Shiratorizawa, best friends to lovers (kind of), teeth, biting/marking, cunnilingus, somnophilia (kinda), breeding, pregnancy, unrequited love, angst, ruined friendship, suicide (via roof), mentions of loneliness, alcohol

When you woke up to your phone buzzing beside you, you didn’t expect Ushijima to be calling you with such a desperate tone in his voice.

“I need your help,” his voice crackled over the phone. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you glance at the clock on your phone. You did have a break from school around this time, but you thought you could sleep in.

“Um, sure, what do you need, Wakatoshi?”

“I’m,” his hesitation scares you. “I’m experiencing my first rut,”

The ride to his house was filled with anxiety. An Alpha going through a rut meant he needed to be taken care of. Some Alphas were fine just having them without help, but Ushijima’s mother had him on strong suppressants from a young age. Ushijima probably didn’t even know what a rut was until he began to experience symptoms, and that worries you. Alphas go through their first ruts at a younger age, able to learn about their body and understand it. A grown Alpha, however? They would need someone to relieve the stress and tension from their first rut, which is where you come in.

Apparently, his coach had told him to go home and take a break to wait out his rut, but Ushijima has never had one. So, the coach advised him to call his girlfriend to help him, or even a friend, which is why he contacted you first. His other friends were male Alphas and Betas, all of whom would probably be horrified if he called them. When he woke up, his rut had begun and he could barely think straight, able to only focus on the overwhelming desire to breed an Omega. Although not an Omega, you were able to simulate the same scenario, being a female Beta and all.

“The fuck is this?” your murmur is lost to the wind, footsteps stopping in front of Ushijima’s house. It was large, fancy, and you could probably get lost in it. The fact that Ushijima lives alone on the property stuns you. Despite your hesitation, your desire to help your friend has you going up to the door and ringing the doorbell. Ushijima doesn’t answer, so you decide to knock. Without another answer, you decide to call him. When the phone rings thrice, you begin to panic. Twisting the doorknob, you find it’s unlocked for your convenience. Gently pushing into the house, you glance around and try to locate the large male. Since you’re not an Omega or Alpha, you can’t smell his rut, but you can hear the pained groans from upstairs.

The floorboards creak under your weight, you slowly and carefully going up the stairs. You know an Alpha in a rut can go absolutely feral, but you don’t know if Ushijima will attack you. The noises get louder as you creep to what you think is Ushijima’s bedroom, the door cracked open a sliver to reveal part of what is inside. Indeed, there is Ushijima, his large back rippling with muscles as he hunches over something. A growl comes from him, head snapping to the door where you’re standing. You find your feet frozen as his olive eyes set on yours. A beat passes with no noises, only the wind from outside brushing against the windows and the walls.

In a flash, the door is banging against the wall as it’s ripped open and your back is shoved to the floor, Ushijima’s naked body looming over you. His face is against your neck and your pulse is rapid, adrenaline high from the sudden movement. Hesitant hands go to his sides, a calming movement of you patting his skin to let him know you’re here. Despite the intense stare, the force of getting to you, he doesn’t move anymore. Inhaling and exhaling against your skin, you’re suddenly at a loss of what to do. His tongue flicks out and runs along your neck, going up to your ear before he gently bites on the lobe. A simple action that has you yelping, back slightly arching. His growl from your slight movement has you whining, feeling his hard cock against your leg.

Due to the circumstances, your attire consisted of a skirt for easy access, which you’re grateful for when your legs are pushed up and spread. Strong hands keep you pinned, the position suddenly new and giving you a feeling of lightheadedness as Ushijima puts hi face closer to your clothed cunt. Hot breath fans over the slightly damp material, his movements and noises sending you into a state of arousal.

There’s no words spoken, his body giving into his instincts as he uses his teeth to remove the cotton material and access the glistening mine underneath. His tongue flicks out once more, thick and flattened against your slick skin as he collects the droplets of nectar that dribble out. With eyes lidded, they occasionally glance to see your head twisting and turning, moans and heavy pants leaving your mouth as his tongue laps at your folds and everything it can reach. The feeling of his lips closing around your clit has an automatic response of clenching your legs, but his hands keep you in one position as he sucks and licks on the sensitive bud.

The feeling is intense, the sudden hurling over the edge as your muscles tense, head lifting from the floor as your eyes roll and Ushijima groans right into your cunt. The slurping noise that accompanies his grunts and groans is obscene, something you wouldn’t think him to be capable of. Yet, when his head moves from between your legs, the shimmer of your excess juices is being swiped up with his thumb, pink tongue darting out to drink it all. Eyes find yours once more and the same feeling overwhelms you, the feeling of your blood turning to ice and a feeling prickling at your skin. Unmoving, Ushijima decides to take it upon himself to spread your legs once more, his hard cock pressing against your thighs.

He doesn’t move.

Your confusion is evident in your face, you think, as Ushijima clears his throat, words straining as he gets them out. “Am I..” He takes a deep breath, restarting. “Am I allowed?”

“I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t, Toshi,” your kind smile and eyes full of love has him pushing into you, your eyes soon screwed shut as your back arches. Even if you could have prepared for this moment, nothing would have compared to the feeling of his cock slipping into your walls. Squelching noises come from where he’s entered you, hips rolling as he rocks himself deeper into your heat. The feeling of being split in two finds to be true as he continues to push in further, cock twitching as it forces your walls apart to take it all in.

Ushijima forces your legs into the same position from before, a scream coming from you as he somehow reaches your sweetest spot from the change. He moves your legs to go over his shoulders, planting his fists beside your head as his arms bend. You’re allowed only a moment to prepare, his hips moving only to slam against your skin that has your breath being ripped from your lungs. Nails grasp at his shoulders, red lines forming on the tanned and sweaty skin as you hold on, body jostling with each thrust. As he continues to ram his cock into you, you find your mind filling with pleasure as your second orgasm rises. The release comes quicker than anticipated, cunt clenching and sucking him in. Ushijima growls, loud and feral, in your ear as you do, that has your walls creaming around him once more. The creamy fluid drips down your ass and to the base of his cock, the squelching and squishing noises becoming louder and more obscene as his pace picks up.

Your muscles tighten once more, cunt squeezing tightly as Ushijima forces his knot inside of you. The feeling of his cock pushing past your walls could not compare to the force of which his knot slipped into you, plugging your cunt up as his cum fills you. With his seed gushing into you, the hot sensation of it painting your walls that has you sucking him in deeper, milking him for all his worth. But he’s not satisfied, rutting his hips against yours as he grunts and growls, keeping you close to his chest with his head in the crook of your neck. His lips press against your feverish skin, hot and sweaty from the activity. Your mind is hazy and your vision is blurry, feeling overly sensitive from the short hair brushing against your clit. Another orgasm comes from his continuous rubbing, walls constricting around him as your visions dots to black.

The last thing you feel is a sharp pain in your neck.

The week continues to go by, similar sessions which concludes of Ushijima forcing you to have your legs pinned to your chest or over his shoulders. Each time his seed spills into your cunt, you question if he’s gotten you pregnant. Every time you wake up, you’re on a different surface than what you passed out on with Ushijima looming over you. Once your eyes meet his, he’s either diving his head between your legs or he’s pushing his thick cock into your swollen pussy. It isn’t until the last day do the remnants of your friend come shining through, his libido much less than it had been at the beginning of the week. Together, with momentary breaks for him to fuck you, you both clean up around the house from his first rut. Jokingly, you take pictures to remember your adventure of being split open on his dick.

When the rut is over, you feel well rested as you prepare breakfast for Ushijima. He’s back to sleeping in his own bed, alone, so you slept downstairs on the couch. The floor creaks under the weight of the man himself, seemingly also well rested after his feral and instinct leading week. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Thank you for your help,” he bows, then sits at the table. You set down a plate of steamed rice and tamagoyaki in front of him. “And thank you for breakfast,”

“Well, I’m your best friend, doesn’t that mean I should be there for you?” You giggle, setting down a plate for yourself. Upon sitting across from him, you feel Ushijima’s gaze on you. “Do you need anything else?”

“I feel like I need to apologize if I put any rifts in your relationship,” his words easily come out, making you cough as you inhale some rice. After drinking water to help it down, you ask him to clarify. “Your mark. You’ve bonded to someone else, have you not?”

“Um, oh, no! This is from you, I think,” you say, unsure of when it happened. The week went by in a blur and most of your time was focused on how good you felt. “Don’t know who else it could be,”

“Then I am sorry for that. Bonding marks are supposed to be between lovers who plan to stay together for life,” he moves to bow once more, but you stop him.

“Please, don’t worry! We could always, um..” you trail off, unsure of how to confess to him. Even though he’s railed you all over his house, that was because of a necessity. This was much different.

“I should have told you before, but I called you because I didn’t want to scare away my fiancée,” he says, going back to his food as you feel your heart, your entire world, shatter with that one word. “She is an Omega, the daughter of my mother’s friend. It was arranged for us to marry shortly after graduation, but she has been busy with her family business. I was worried she’d be scared away if I asked her to take care of my rut. I am sorry if,” he pauses, looking at you with regret in his eyes. “I am sorry if I lead you on, by any chance,”

“No, that’s fine! It’s just.. marks are permanent. I won’t be able to be with anyone, because I’ve been claimed,” you can feel the tears as your words come out. Ushijima doesn’t do anything. “Wakatoshi, this is a big deal. With this, maybe your fiancée would understand?”

“I cannot cancel the marriage for a girl I accidentally bonded to. With this new development, maybe it would be better if our friendship ended here,”

“No! We can be friends!” Your lack of hesitation seems to startle him, your outburst startling yourself, even. Clearing your throat, you continue. “My friendship with you is more important,”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” he smiles, then goes back to his breakfast. You smile, sitting back down in your seat, yet your appetite is gone.

Another week goes by, but it feels much longer and slower than the past week each day you feel worse and worse, remembering Ushijima and his words. It isn’t until you have physical symptoms that do you go to the internet to see if a broken heart can do such things. When pregnancy is recommended, you panic and look further into pregnancy and symptoms. Then, you’re running to the store to buy three of them to make sure or to prove you wrong. They determine your fate.

When each test reads positive, you tell Ushijima. Instead of a response, you get nothing. He’s read your message, but it hasn’t been answered. No apology, no responsibility, no yelling, no phone call. It just makes you feel worse, knowing not only did he bond to you, but he laid his claim to your body with his seed. Nobody wants someone who’s been used up, never mind that his scent permanently lingers on you from the bond. When it gets harder to hide your symptoms, you confess to your close friend about what you did. Instead of being on your side, they turn their nose up at you.

“You should have been prepared for this. You willing accepted to help him during his rut. Take responsibility for your own actions, he has better things to do than deal with a child he never wanted,” they say. It doesn’t help your mental state at all, finding all your friends who you expected to take your side turning away.

With the society, abortions are unavailable. An Alpha’s child is as important as an Omega’s child, while Betas are forced to conform to the rules. Every doctor you go to tells you that unless there is a serious health risk, you will carry the child to term. Even with that rule, your family tells you that you should have thought it through. The feeling of being alone in the world breaks your sanity, obsessing over what could have been with the friend you’ve been in love with.

On the roof of your school, you listen to the match playing. The Schweiden Adlers versus the Black Jackals, a common rivalry in the Division 1 league. The stadium isn’t far from where your school is located, easy to find on the roof. The night air of Miyagi fills your lungs, but the stinging in your eyes isn’t from the wind. As Ushijima goes to serve, his team only needing one more point to secure the win, the commenters mention some trivia about the player.

“I believe Ushijima is expecting to be a father in- what was it?” One of them begins, looking to his colleague to continue.

“A father, yes! I believe his mate is currently one month pregnant, conceiving right after their official marriage,” he says.

The roaring of the crowd can be faintly heard through the earbuds, lying on the concrete roof. Your phone continues to play the match, live, as it sits beside your shoes. Yet, you aren’t wearing them. Looking out across the rooftop, you find where the stadium is through blurry eyes, tears streaming down your face. Holding onto the railing, you climb over it and situate yourself on the edge, staying on your tiptoes as you take in a deep breath.

With the wind, the stars, and the moon as your witnesses, you confess to the man who stole your heart. “I love you, Wakatoshi.”

The last thing you feel isn’t the coldness of the air, it isn’t the burning of your throat and eyes, it isn’t even the sting in your lungs from crying so hard.

It’s the feeling of being free as you fall against the night air.

[bratkook]

like a peach. kth.

pairing. taehyung x reader genre. fluff, established relationship warnings. mentions of alcohol, oc is sloshed and clumsy while drunk but otherwise cute word count. 2.5k note. this was requested by @pars-ley​ under #14 #57 #60 from this prompt list, i know the numbers were listed under angst but somehow this became fluffy so im sorry asksjak

The hallway in your complex is completely quiet besides the metallic clanks of your keys jingling against the door knob that echo out, your double vision making your hands miss their target as you once again try to unlock it. With a small laugh you rest your forehead against the door, lips pressed together tightly to hush your drunk giggles. 

A shaky breath leaves your mouth as you press your palms flat against the door, refusing to look at the keyhole since that hasn’t been going well, instead you feel it out, index finger guiding the key against it until it finally slides in. 

“Hell yeah,” you cheer in a whisper, turning the lock and smiling as your front door gets pushed open and reveals the interior of your dimly lit apartment. The creek of your floorboards makes you grimace, only being made worse when you lose the grip on your keys and they clatter on the ground in a sound you swear is deafeningly loud. 

You were doing an absolute horrible job at keeping quiet, clamping a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughs as you bend over and grab them, wobbling around ungracefully and unintentionally slamming the door shut once you stepped inside. 

Taehyung groans from his spot in bed in the room a few feet away, having heard you the minute you rammed into the front door ten minutes ago as you failed to unlock it, trying to block it out in order to get his eight hours of sleep needed before his shift tomorrow morning. He remains in bed though, trusting you enough to know you’d be able to get from point a to point b on your own.

Just as he flips over and tugs the sheets above his head, you enter your shared bedroom, going in totally blind in order to not turn the lights on to prevent disturbing him further. His eyes are shut as he listens to your movements, a small smile on his lips when you start to mumble to yourself as you attempt to recall the layout of the bedroom in your inebriated state. 

“Okay,” you whisper as you inch forward, mentally calculating how many steps it took to get to where you wanted to be, hand outstretched to swat in front of you to help guide you in a fool proof method. “That's the nightstand,” you decide when your palm smacks the hard surface, a small giggle filling the air before you hush yourself once more, finger pressed against your lips. 

If you were right then your bathroom door should only be a few feet to the right, close enough for you to be able to enter with ease, but seeing as you decided to throw back two more shots before leaving the bar you’re not as coordinated as you’d like to think. 

With a confident step, you’re ramming your knee into the corner of the nightstand, the pain flashing up your thigh as you bend forward to clutch the area that throbbed. “Ow fuck,” you wince, loosing your footing and tumbling onto the ground with an even louder thump, unable to conceal the laughter from escaping you full force. 

Taehyung can’t pretend to be asleep any longer now that you’re laughing in pain, sitting up in bed and flicking on the table lamp on his own night stand, the room flooding with that warm familiar glow and it grabs your attention. With a muffled yawn he’s rubbing at his eyes before looking to the side where he sees you laying on the ground in a heap of limbs, absolutely defeated as you continue laughing to yourself. 

“You okay?” His voice is laced with sleep, deep and gravely but you can hear the hint of a smile that you know is on his lips and as you lift your head up to stare back at him you see that much is true. He looks tired beyond belief, eyes squinting at you but the curl of his lips makes you smile back at him, sitting up to rest on your butt instead of sprawled out on the carpet. 

“I think my knee is broken,” you slur with a tilt to your head, eyes looking down at the knee in question, the dull throb still felt from earlier pulsing through the joint. It aches as you stretch it out, wiggling your toes to make sure you weren’t somehow paralyzed now from the force of the impact.

Taehyung chuckles at that, shuffling out of bed and stretching his arms out as he does so, his shirtless upper body out for you to ogle at without a care. If you thought your knee was broken that just wouldn’t do, not on his watch. You observe him quietly as he rounds the bed, his grey sweats hung dangerously low on his hips, bed head leaving his curls fluffed and nearly covering his eyes, looking just as beautiful as he always did.

“Did you have fun?” Taehyung wonders as he approaches you, smelling the alcohol from you now that he was closer. The glazed look in your eyes spell it out for him, the cheeky smile on your face despite the tumbles you have taken entering the apartment alone not putting a damper on the small buzz coursing through your veins, you had clearly had an amazing time.

He sighs gently as he crouches down to your level, knees bent as he softly cradles your face in his palms, thumbs soothing your face when you lean into his touch. “No,” you surprise him with your answer, bottom lip pillowing out as you bite down on it, eyes falling shut briefly as you enjoy finally being with your boyfriend.

“No?” He repeats, leaning forward until his lips met the skin of your forehead in a sweet kiss and you swear your heart squeezes in your chest at the action, more so when he takes it upon himself to start helping you get ready for bed, smiling when he hears the cute way you mumble about him being too good for you under his breath. His hands are tender as he unclasps the hooks to the necklaces you have layered on, your earrings and rings being next to slide off and be placed on top of the nightstand that was the reason for your tumble.

“I missed you too much, couldn’t stop thinking about you.” It comes out as a whine, knowing that although you did have a great time with your friends on a much needed outing, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, wanting to text him every hour to see how he was doing at home, desperate for any update despite how mundane it was. He appeases you always, sending you selfies as he rewatches episodes of Criminal Minds, answering your drunk phone calls just to hear you ramble about how good the salted tortilla chips you were eating tasted before abruptly hanging up when your friends handed you another drink.

“Yeah, I think you sent me around fifty I miss you texts,” he teases you, kissing you quickly before standing up to grab one of his shirts from your shared dresser for you to change into. Taehyung would never mind the abundance of messages he’d get on your nights out, preferring that to radio silence and wondering when you’d be home, the love spelled out in typo filled texts leaving him excited for your return home.

“I always miss you.” You breathe out a sigh, smiling wide when he reaches his arms out for you to grab onto, hauling you up onto your unsteady feet once more. The throbbing from your knee was long gone but the wobbling remained so he wraps one of your hands around his shoulder so you could keep yourself steady, not willing to let you tumble once more now that he was around.

“I always miss you too baby.” His admission makes those same butterflies swirl in your tummy, wings flapping so hard you think you might pass out, choosing to grip his shoulder tighter to prevent that from happening. You feel like a love sick puppy whenever you’re around him, sporting permanent heart eyes that are crystal clear despite the beer goggles strapped tightly to your face.

Taehyung has to hold in his teasing when he sees the way your eyes stay glued on him despite how your head lolls to the side the longer you stand there, allowing him to tug up your simple black dress up and off your body, unhooking it from the hand holding onto him before it fell to the floor in a pile.

With the new exposure of your skin, his eyes zero in on the slowly forming bruise on your hip, a splotch of red that was sure to blossom and spread out into shades of purple and blue tomorrow morning. He can’t stop himself from reaching forward and allowing his fingertips to prod at it, apologizing when you wince at the small flash of pain.

“What happened here?” He wonders, knowing very well that you didn’t have that on your body before you left. The only purple specks that coated your skin were nestled in between your thighs, victims of his wandering mouth, but he knew that his lips hadn’t traveled this high up.

With a confused pout you stare down at the area he was now circling softly, eyes widening in realization before you begin giggling. Taehyung simply watches in confusion as you break out into a fit of laughter as you recall how you had gotten that nasty bruise, having rammed your drunk self right into the metal pole outside of the bar. “Tequila happened.”

He just smiles in understanding, unhooking your bra for you before sliding the top of his shirt over your head, he knew very well how clumsy you were without alcohol in your system, witnessing first hand how many times you’d taken nasty falls with the help of Don Julio.

“What, were you ready to square up with someone because I bruise like a peach?” The flash of possessiveness in his face as he spotted the bruise was evident enough, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks with a dopey smile when he tries to play it off with a huff and roll of his eyes.

Taehyung doesn’t fool anyone though, the creeping smile on his face calling his bluff when his eyes meet yours once more. “You know I’d hurt anyone who left a mark on you.”

“Oh yeah?” you giggle, pressing a loving kiss against his lips, feeling him smile through it, not minding the way you taste like tequila. “Well there’s a pretty sturdy light post outside of the bar that you’re more than welcome to go punch for me you macho man.”  

Taehyung laughs now, that hearty laugh you love so much and it warms your chest as he pulls away fully, large hand coming up to cup under your chin, fingers pushing into your cheeks until your lips pucker out obnoxiously. “I’ll do that first thing tomorrow morning,” he presses a rough kiss against you, the wet smack making you snicker in his grasp. “But for now it's bedtime.”

Your lips attempt to pout in the pursed position he has them in, only cheering up when he kisses you once more, releasing his grip and continuing to help you get ready for bed now that it’s been established that your knee was in fact not broken. 

This had to be your favorite part of going out, getting to come home to your boyfriend and being taken care of like a spoiled princess, he knew how much he personally enjoyed it when you would baby him when he came home wasted and giddy, so he always took the time to ensure you were comfortable enough to not go to sleep feeling gross. You’re pliant in his grasp as he hauls you onto the bathroom counter, allowing him to peel off your fake lashes and set them aside with care, removing your makeup with a wipe as carefully as he could, taking the time to not yank at your skin because he knew you’d lecture him about wrinkles.

He only gets a small noise of complaint from you when he brushes your hair, bristles catching onto a knot that he attributes to dried up alcohol that was surely splashed onto you earlier in the night. He decides then to call it quits with that, setting the brush aside and getting your toothbrush ready for you to use, something you were adamant on doing on your own.

Taehyung can just watch you with those same heart shaped eyes you wore as you brush your teeth, eyes droopy as you stare at your reflection, foamy toothpaste escaping from the corners of your mouth and dripping down into the sink as you stick your tongue out to be brushed next.

“What?” you mumble after spitting it all out, eyes narrowed at his own reflection in suspicion before gargling water.

“Nothing, you’re just really pretty.” You don’t fight him on the compliment, always loving how he confidently shot them out to you so often you had no other choice but to accept them even when you felt anything but. He smiles as you avert your eyes and dab at your mouth, mumbling a cute thank you out to him before swiftly exiting the bathroom, cheeks burning from the alcohol and flutter of your emotions.

He allows you to escape without teasing you further, cleaning up the splash of water you had left around the sink as you make yourself cozy in bed, breath minty fresh and face moisturized. Just as you’re about to complain about him being missing he slips into bed beside you, shuffling under the sheets until he feels your skin pressed beside his, wasting no time you nuzzle against Taehyung’s body, arm slung across his stomach with your leg hooked over his hip to keep him close. 

“So, tell me again how I’m a macho man.” The laughter that bubbles out of you makes him smile as he stares down at you through the dim light the moon provides, seeing the way you bury your face into his chest to conceal the giant smile. 

“You want an ego boost at 3 in the morning?”

“Hey you started it,” he shrugs, a yawn escaping him, showing you just how tired he was, not once complaining about being woken up by your drunk antics despite desperately needing sleep. 

“You’re right,” you sigh, tightening your hold on him and pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder, “love you my macho man”

Taehyung hums in appreciation, wrapping his arms around you and bringing you even closer, a kiss pressed to your forehead making you smile the way it always did. “Love you more my little peach.”

[todoscript]

lilies & lilacs pt. i

SUMMARY: A dilemma with his grand charity gala brings Todoroki Shouto, CEO of Todoroki Enterprises, at your humble flower shop’s doorstep.

pairing: ceo!todoroki shouto x florist!reader

genre: eventual smut. fluff. slow burn. no quirks au.

word count: 5.6k+

warnings: none in this part, but expect sexual content in the future.

author’s note: this has been rotting in my wips for a couple of months now, but i finally decided to post it with the decision of progressing the story into parts. thank you to the lovely rosie aka @shoutogepi for initially betareading this and keeping the hype up for the fic in our chats together (love you <333)! feedback is welcomed and before you ask, im opening a taglist for the next 2 parts so just ask if you wish to be included

lilies & lilacs is copyright 2020 todoscript, all rights reserved. i do not allow my creations to be published or translated anywhere else.

The uneasy padding of her boss’ dress shoes across the floor of his office made the secretary restless. She knew the bad news she delivered would cause some displeasure to stir within him, but never would she expect his tough bearings to falter, his troubles conveyed in hasty steps and frayed skin skewing those handsome features.

During the past two years she’s worked for him, she always thought his expression was nearly unreadable. When it came to his high position, her boss was forward and direct at conducting business—calm, stoic, and a perfect representation of efficiency and strong work ethic in his field. So while she witnessed the man’s uncharacteristic distress before her eyes, she wasn’t sure how this could end well for her.

Sweat began beading her forehead at the tension creeping between each tap of his feet against the hardwood below, coming to an unnerving halt behind his desk. When her eyes found his, all she could gather in those gray and turquoise clouds was annoyance toward their current predicament.

“What do you mean we don’t have a florist booked yet?” he repeated the dilemma she relayed to him merely moments ago. Hearing the agitation in his voice caused a nervous gulp to drop in her throat. She clutched her clipboard firmly in her arms to keep herself anchored in the wake of her boss’ growing frustration. However, she was still unsure how to continue as the words remained sealed in her mouth.

“Well?” Noticing his secretary’s lack of response, he pushed forward, hands leaning against the edge of his mahogany desk. The woman urged herself to endure the obstacles by first breathing through her nose before swallowing the lump in her throat, responding quickly.

“Um, Mr. Todoroki, sir, it seems all the florists on our list have all been booked for other events for the rest of the month,” she said, but mentally scolded herself when she heard herself sputter in such an unprofessional manner. Despite that, she prayed the explanation was enough to sate even a fraction of her boss’ inner turmoil.

Shouto approached her answer with silence before that foreseeable sigh left his lips, spilling with exasperation. He turned, his back facing the secretary, gaze lined to the windows gracing him with sunlight behind his desk. Stuck in contemplation, he pinched the bridge of his nose, mouth pursed in a firm line.

Where am I going to find a florist in time for this damn charity gala? He internally griped, closing his eyes as if that would help him uncover the solution to this untimely mess.

His esteemed company, Todoroki Enterprises, had arranged a plan to hold a widely anticipated charity gala by the end of this month. The event was conducted to raise funds for all manners of different charities that would vary in the level of grandeur on display. And given that the organizing for the event would be under his very name, Shouto had the critical responsibility of ensuring nothing but peak quality to those that would attend.

His staff had long procured the venue and were managing the layout of the gala. They sought out some suitable entertainment, booked catering, and scheduled for the charity auctions and raffles to take place throughout the night. What was still needed were the decorations, and right now that was where they hit their deadend with no florist currently reserved.

And here’s the real kicker: the gala was two weeks away.

Two. Weeks.

How he allowed for such errors to occur was beyond him at this point. All that really mattered was that he found a way to correct those mistakes and fast.

As much as Shouto figured he could skip past the flowers and substitute them with some other kind of flashy decorations, he already had a clear idea of how he wanted the gala to look. The floral arrangements would compliment the theme of the event exceedingly well. Turning back on the plan would be an insult to everyone’s prepared attire for the evening, with the dress code already sent out to all the distinguished guests invited to this grandiose ball. No doubt in his mind, he needed that florist, and needed them stat.

Sure on his resolution, he finally shifted to face his secretary. The anxious expression plastered on her face greeted him, and at that, Shouto bit his lip. His guilt surfaced for allowing his emotions to affect his workspace. He knew better than to take out his frivolous thoughts on his staff, who very well had no control over the situation. So he eased the atmosphere, attempting to lift the tension surrounding his office in the dreary gray of his temper.

“Nishiyama, I’m sorry for my behavior just now,” he apologized. The secretary, in turn, was taken aback, eyes widened. Her anxiety slowly whittled away as she scampered to return his kind gesture.

“Oh no, sir, it’s fine! I’m sure you were just feeling stressed hearing the news. I surely would be if I were in your shoes.”

“No, it’s not. I was acting childish despite how much you and everyone have done so far for the event,” Shouto said, “I should be thankful for your time, considering you also have a family to take care of at home.”

While the woman stared at him, abashed by his sincerity, Shouto swiveled his chair around to take a seat. A much-needed seat to be entirely honest. His secretary was not kidding about how the bad news seemed to harrow some stress in his body. But, being accustomed to having this weight pushed on his shoulders from the very moment he was announced the head of the company many years ago, he more than anticipated the stress to come with the job.

Shouto spared his secretary one last glance before his eyes darted down between the important papers sprawled on his desk. “If that’s all the news we needed to address today then you’re dismissed, Nishiyama. Carry on with the rest of the organizing as planned,” he ordered. Nishiyama lowered her clipboard to her hip.

“R-Right. Thank you, sir.” She parted his presence with a curt bow. Shouto picked up on her heels clicking toward his office door until they suddenly stopped altogether, looking back at the man midway. “What about the florist, sir?” she asked, concerned at the unresolved predicament lingering in the air. Her question wasn’t met with an immediate reply, but Shouto eventually gave her an answer he deemed adequate of a response. His words were coated with as much reassurance as he could muster in this situation.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it myself.”

.

.

The task was easier said than done.

Usually, when it came to booking a florist for special occasions like this, you’d want to contact them months ahead of the scheduled date to ensure maximum efficiency and work out any problems that should arise. But there were only two weeks left until the awaited charity gala.

Shouto was certainly pushing his luck at this point and to a dangerous degree. If he didn’t find someone to arrange the flowers for the ball soon, the venue might be absent of all life and mood, essentially flopping from missing such a key element. Shouto could not allow for that to happen.

Given his word, he took it in his hands to rectify this mistake. For the entirety of the day, he sifted through the aforementioned list of florists his secretary had provided him—extended thanks to his team’s desperate search for more options.

All he had to do was narrow down the lineup. Unfortunately, those efforts may as well have been all for naught.

“Hello, is this Himawari’s Garden? I’d like to speak with the head florist there about arranging the flowers for a gala my company has been planning—”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we’re currently busy preparing for a big wedding coming up next week. If you’d like, I can try and book our services for you toward the next month or so when we’ll be available?”

Shouto’s brows tightened during the exchange—a gesture he’d been repeating as of late while he dwindled the line of florists. If he kept it up, those wrinkles might be embedded into his skin permanently. He was at least grateful he managed to thwart the heavy breath of air that threatened to leave his lips and reveal his frustration to the woman on the phone.

“No, that’s fine. Thank you for your time.” With that, he hung up.

Shouto leaned back in his seat in exasperation, his weight pressed into the cushions as his eyes situated themselves toward the ceiling. The consistent taps of his fingers on his mahogany desk were all he heard amidst his deep contemplation. His eyes lidded shut in an attempt to seek a moment of refuge from the stress, but his conscience began eating at him.

Of course, what was he thinking? The beginnings of spring to late autumns were the mark of wedding season—the time where florists and other businesses specializing in decorative arrangements thrived and busied themselves with eager clients. Not only that, but it was also the month of June. The sixth month of the year was undoubtedly the most popular month among couples to hold their weddings, and he had witnessed this fact firsthand through his myriad of fruitless phone calls.

Shouto had thoroughly wrung through his rope and teetered on the edge of complete defeat. He sealed down his most recent loss at the hand of another busy floral business by striking a line across Himawari’s Garden on his list. At that, the total tallied to thirty whole flower shops. Thirty unsuccessful attempts.

That sigh he contained during the phone call found its way out of his throat in dramatic waves of displeasure

“You alright, sir?”

His administrative assistant, Midoriya Izuku, heard his huffs when he entered the threshold of Shouto’s office. He noted his boss’ hunched posture and the rare crease crinkled between his nose bridge, pressed against his hands that were clenched together above his desk.

“I’m guessing the new list of florists was also a no-go?”

Shouto didn’t offer any words, instead sliding said list—now fully crossed out—toward his assistant as his reply. Craning his head for a better look, Midoriya feigned a smile, not wanting to let the man’s defeat consume the mood entirely.

“Well... I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised… Wedding season is upon us after all.”

Oh yes, Midoriya. Shouto knew that very well. So much so that he sunk further into his desk at the reminder, head practically drooped with a gloomy rain cloud hovering atop him. The green-haired assistant fervently shook his head back-and-forth upon realizing his remark had thrown salt into his wound. “Oh, I-I mean... Don’t worry, sir! I’m sure we’ll still be able to sort out this problem in time before the gala!” he sputtered to help alleviate the despair that crept in, but it came to no avail according to his boss’ silent sulky demeanor. That was when Midoriya remembered the two cups of hot coffee held in each of his hands.

“Ah, right, I made you some coffee! I figured you could use one considering you’ve been cooped up in your office all day.” Setting one in front of him, Shouto perked up at the nutty aroma that slowly slipped into his senses. He eyed the fresh cup of coffee tentatively, the steam flitting above it in wisps.

Lifting the cup, the rich smell wafted further into his nostrils, imbuing him with that familiar peace he usually reveled in. On any ordinary day, he’d be accompanied by his classic roasted blend perched on his desk, with no problems threatening to disturb his peaceful routine. Not anything like today. Not anything like this dilemma of a desperate time crunch for a florist.

Perhaps that was what he needed. A filter of caffeine to wash away the ordeal like it was a bad morning plaguing him with baggy under-eyes and fatigue from a previous day of hard work. Though he’s sure not even caffeine could erase the headaches he developed throughout his day so far. If anything, indulgence would just make those headaches worse.

Nonetheless, he welcomed the smooth blend of flavors that ebbed down his throat through modest sips, rejuvenation quickly oozing in his veins. Headaches or not, the stimulation from the caffeine was essential if he wanted to combat the rest of the day with some drive.

“Thanks, Midoriya. I needed that,” Shouto acknowledged. He nodded at his assistant, who rubbed the back of his head modestly, saying how it was no problem at all, but the way his boss suddenly got up from his seat interrupted his words.

Shouto already felt the strong coffee going to work as his steps picked up in long strides around his desk that had the assistant’s brows knitting together, confused. “Where are you going, sir?” Midoriya asked, his voice sounding more distant to Shouto, who continued his way past him and toward the door.

“A quick drive,” was the blatant answer he gave. He downed the last of the cup before tossing it in the trash bin near the exit of his office. “Something to clear my head a bit. I’ll be back soon, but until then, keep reaching out to any businesses that could potentially be available to help us.”

“Yes, of course, sir! You can count on me!” Midoriya was prompt in replying. As expected, being Shouto’s right-hand man at the company.

With that, Shouto took to the parking lot below his building, twirling his keys over his index finger before hopping into his Mercedes and driving off.

The withering sunlight cast its glare over his car during his ride through the city. By now, the skies splayed vibrant red as the sun gandered above the horizon. He drove down the narrow and busy streets that kept the place bustling at these hours. It was likely the time when people finished up their workday and were eager to arrive home for much-needed rest.

During a particularly long wait at a red traffic light, he pondered over his predicament again. His thumb rapped against the steering wheel while he bit his bottom lip, that ugly feeling of regret seeping into his thoughts.

Maybe he placed too much faith in these flowers after all. Sure, he mentioned the vital role they played in aligning with the theme and complimenting the guests’ attires. But was it worth all the trouble he put his team through, searching through a throng of businesses already busy with their own events to organize? In a way, this could’ve been sorted out had he recognized the current times and planned accordingly to avoid the mess. But now they were trapped in this bind, crunching for anyone that could help them within only fourteen short days.

Just as he weighed the idea of calling Midoriya over the bluetooth in his car to drop the floral arrangements altogether, something caught his eye at the last second.

Shouto peered through his window, squinting at the corner, where he spotted a cart of flowers in front of a shop of some sort. His grip tightened around the leather of his steering wheel as he leaned in for a better look. Some kind of spark in him roused his anticipation the more he shifted forward in his seat, like the hope that was slowly fading inside was igniting once again.

Another inch further and he attained a better look of the shop. Its sign came into view just below the small boundary of his window—letters brushed in calligraphy on a long board of canvas with lilies painted on the edges that seamed together into a bouquet.

N… Neigh… Neighborhood Lily.

He deciphered the words, but didn’t give them much thought. All that enveloped his mind afterward was the fact the name wasn’t any of the list of thirty shops he phoned today. So the very moment the light overhead flickered to green, Shouto’s hold on the wheel tightened. His foot gradually stepped on the pedal with much more purpose.

He decided to take a brief detour from this casual little drive of his.

.

.

It was about six o’clock when you waved off your latest customer, who was leaving the shop with a basket of vibrant tulips swinging on their arm. The smile on their face was an adamant indication they were more than happy with their time here, something you always delighted in, being very passionate about your job as a florist.

“Thank you, and please come again!” The bell overhead gave a gracious chime at the customer’s departure.

With them gone, you drew your attention back to the flowers laid out on the small wooden table in the corner of the shop. Before the customer came in, you were at work arranging and crafting the blossoms you purchased from the flower market that morning into bouquets.

You’d be closing in about an hour and thirty minutes or so, but for now, you basked in the silence and the calming aroma of the flowers that surrounded you while you continued your work. A modest hum naturally sang past your lips and soothed its way into the shop that was devoid of all souls except yourself.

“Hm, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” You made some small talk with the rose in your hand. It was a habit of yours to spill a few words out within your own little world, imagining the flowers were keeping you company whenever you were alone.

“And there, now you all look even prettier.” An adoring smile embellished your lips as you finished off another bouquet by tying it with a silk ribbon. Looking over the bundle one more time, you thoroughly admired the shades of pinks and reds that complimented each other in the ensemble.

Then two more bouquets down, and you already made a good amount of progress. You figured that if you kept up the pace, you’d likely finish the rest of the batch and have them ready for display tomorrow. But just as you clasped three more flowers in your hand, the bell atop the door chimed, alerting you to a new patron.

You nicked off a thorn from one of the stems before turning around and giving your attention to the visitor. When your eyes found their way to the shop’s entrance, you were surprised to meet a man of slicked white and red hair. The few strands that found their way out of the gel must have been tussled from a long day of work considering the fatigue plain on his handsome face.

Despite the few wrinkles here and there, his attire was still surprisingly pristine. He wore a simple yet compelling suit, the fit seeming tailored to the contours of his body that rendered you a tad speechless at how good he looked just standing there. The sight almost made you feel underdressed.

You hadn’t realized you were staring for longer than you deemed appropriate. You couldn’t help it, being that the stranger was a stark contrast to the regular customers you were used to. The fanciest you’ve encountered since you opened your shop were the young boys that rushed in with nicely fitted tops and jeans, frantically inquiring about what kinds of flowers were right to give to a girl for a date they had later that day. Not anything like attractive businessmen in immaculate suits and shining silver wristwatches that surely cost more than all the flowers you tended here.

Noticing you were gawking, you blinked thrice to knock yourself out of your trance and properly greet the man.

“H-Hello, welcome to Neighborhood Lily,” you said, mustering the politest tone you could give to make up for the awkward moment of wordless eye contact. You must have kept your eyes on him for what felt like a good five minutes at least. The man, in turn, acknowledged you with a small grin, much to your relief.

“How may I help you this evening?”

“I’m…” he hesitated, seeming wary of how he wanted to go about his next choice of words, “just looking for now,” he decided.

Not paying much mind to his hesitation, you nodded. “Oh, well, if you have any questions or need any help on anything, please let me know. I’ll just be around the corner!”

Allowing him to go about his business, you returned to your table of flowers and oversaw the blossoms again. However, it was difficult for you to busy yourself with the task at hand. The mere thought of the other presence in the shop was enough to hammer you out of your concentration.

He was already a compelling figure on his own, what with his good-looks accompanied by his classy ensemble that felt more than out of place here. But what you were especially curious about was what business he had at a humble flower shop like yours during this hour.

That curiosity led your eyes straying to the side, where you peeped the man walking through the small aisle of flowers. He examined the bouquets and vases on display, even showing interest in the more decorative pieces hung in pots from the ceiling.

You tried to determine what his motives were. He was showing some considerable intrigue at your arrangements, though perhaps it was pure admiration for your work, and you were letting your self-consciousness get to you.

Well, spying would just get you nowhere, you thought. One way or another, he’d answer your curiosity by either coming to you directly or leave the shop altogether. You had to admit you hoped more for the former.

Until then, you tore your gaze away and resumed gathering flowers in your hands. You assessed their compatibility with one another while you fiddled around with their placement in the bouquet. The white lilies and the blue lilacs went very well, along with another set of light violet lilacs you couldn’t help but string into the bundle. As a result, the beautiful balance of cool tones made for an exceptional well-made bouquet. You finished the piece with a matching white satin ribbon and then let the arranged flowers thrive inside a glass vase.

“Those are very pretty.”

Startled at the voice, you whipped your head around, hands braced behind you against the edge of the wooden table. Your untimely lack of words were a result from realizing the owner of the voice was closer than you anticipated.

The businessman went from lingering around the aisle of flowers in the middle of the shop, to appearing in your proximity.

“E-Excuse me?” you asked, wondering if you heard correctly to which he pointed at the bouquets laid finished on the table. “In fact, all the flowers here are exceptionally beautiful.” He gestured to the entirety of the shop. His eyes quickly roamed across all the decorative flourishes before they came back to you.

“You do excellent work here in your shop.”

Words coming from a man like him made you bashful. You subconsciously played with the hem of your apron, eyes drifting to anywhere but his face at the compliment. However, the sliver of heat fluttering to your cheeks didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Oh, um, thank you. It’s nothing really, I’ve been arranging flowers for quite some time while at the last floristry I worked for so I have a fair amount of experience.”

After another second of fiddling with the fabric, your hands ended up falling to your sides. You sauntered toward one of the flower vases that were already set on display, dawdling around the conversation. His eyes followed you, watching you nurture the blossoms. “I opened this flower shop of mine just recently actually. Been getting a decent amount of business here and there, but I’m just glad that the people who’ve visited so far like my work,” you told him, twirling a strand of your hair. The pads of your other hand brushed against the soft, abundant petals of a yellow chrysanthemum.

The man observed your actions, analyzing your face. He distinguished the devotion hidden in your eyes as you looked upon the flower with a luster. Despite your humble character, it was more than clear to him you were very passionate about what you did, relishing in the ambiance and admiring the modest appearance of this little shop of yours, covered in the wonderful aroma of flowers.

You didn’t detect that deep breath of air he earnestly drew in as he stepped closer. So close that his proximity broke your stupor to meet his rigid expression.

“How would you feel about an… opportunity to let more of your work be known?”

“An opportunity?” you echoed. “Wait… do you maybe have a wed—”

“No,” he interjected, so abruptly that you couldn’t help but quirk a brow. Catching himself, he took a moment to clear his throat, mindful of his behavior. “I mean, it’s not a wedding. Rather, a charity gala that my company has been planning for some time.”

“A gala?” Your mouth worked faster than your mind, accidentally blurting out your thoughts. The astonishment was evident in your tone; it made the man question your reaction by leaning in.

“Yes, a gala,” he said again like you didn’t just hear his words from a foot away, without even realizing the lengths behind his baffling offer. “Is there something wrong about that?”

“N-No. It just wasn’t the kind of opportunity I expected it to be is all… A gala…” Your voice hushed around the utter of “gala”.

What the man presented so blatantly was unexpected to your ears. Galas meant a pompous party full of people decked in lavish attires, drinking quality champagne from tulip glasses. Sizing up the man again, you could only imagine this gala would only include the most important and wealthiest people in attendance.

You had to ask something, “Um, about this gala... How many people will be there?”

“Maybe about... five hundred or so? I’ll have to check in with my assistant to confirm the full count again.” He shrugged nonchalantly and yet on your end, hearing the number almost reduced your head to a dizzy mess.

Five hundred guests? It was a number you couldn’t fathom. You hadn’t even been booked for an occasion as ordinary as a baby shower, but this man wanted you to arrange flowers for his big charity gala?

As oddly enticing of a job it was to you, there had to be anyone else more experienced and capable for this.

“Sir, I’m not su—”

“The pay, of course, will be more than generous, and I’ll even provide you funding for any necessary materials for this project,” he chimed in before you could voice your protest. It was then that you began to distinguish something laced in his voice and exhibited on his face.

Desperation.

This man seemed desperate for some reason.

“May I ask when the event will take place?” Your arms crossed against your chest. A gulp formed in his throat at the question, unsure if he wanted to unveil the news or risk scaring you off. Either way, if you were working for him, you’d learn eventually. A sigh came out.

“Two weeks,” he answered.

Oh yeah, that explained it. It also answered any questions you had over the tension rigid in his shoulders. At this point, you were bound to join him in his stress because, goddamn, organizing a whole assembly of flowers for a grand ball within fourteen days? The idea was beyond daunting.

While you reflected on the intimidating pieces of information, he was gauging your reaction. Would you say yes? No? Laugh at the idea that he thought he could find a florist to work for him at such late notice? There were a slew of uncertainties twisting in his head—an act unbecoming of him, but you were his last hope. Whatever you responded with next would either be the nail in his coffin or the wings that made him soar.

You would be treading on uncharted waters at a chance like this, having never sailed anywhere beyond your little island of floristry where people came and went with your humble little arrangements. But you also thought of this as a daring opportunity to find new land. See what the world had in store for you outside of selling the general bouquets and vases you had on display. Plus, when would a chance like this ever come up again?

Though it meant encountering difficulties along the way, taking on such a big challenge right off the bat, you figured you’d be able to keep your boat afloat. You were also sure the journey toward bigger regions would be worth the struggle in the end.

“So do you have your answer?” he pressed forward when your silence became unbearable to his nerves. He thanked the fact that his voice managed to sound steady enough not to give himself away. Your arms remained crossed in front of you, your hand coming beneath your chin the only sign that you were taking his offer to heart. It kept the flickering flames of hope blazing inside him.

“I just want to ask you something,” you replied. He nodded, allowing you to continue.

“I know you’re under pressure with this gala coming up in only two weeks,” you began. Your arms unraveled, and your fingers ran to your apron again. You formed the next bit of words with uncertainty, “but are you sure I’m the right person for this job? I mean, I don’t have much to offer you in terms of skill other than what I have here.” You nudged at the range of your shop, plain as can be though with a generous amount of flourishes on display. Yet nothing you thought special enough to be graced by him and his grand proposal that evening.

“I just don’t want you to regret your decision.”

There was a pause of silence after that. The man seemed to give your words some thought—a quick reflection on the situation. You couldn’t decipher much in his face, but you happened to take some time to admire how pretty his eyes were. The individual blue and gray shades were mesmerizing to you, resembling glaciers glittering beneath the moon high in the north. Another detail you jotted in his long list of attractive features. Before you could marvel at them any further, he whisked your thoughts back to earth with his response.

“It’s true that I’m coming to you because I’m in need,” he admitted, hands slowly closing into fists like he was reluctant to confess this, “but from what I can see, I genuinely think you’re more than capable for this job. So yes, I’m very sure I won’t regret this decision.”

It was clear to you that he was sure on his stance. But to reinforce his statement, he bent his head low into a bow, weight added to his next words.

“Please be the florist for our gala.”

The gesture briefly overwhelmed you, not something you were expecting, but you managed to acknowledge it by returning the bow.

“I’ll be in your care then.”

With all things said, you were soon tidying up the exchange and trading business cards. Yours was a standard card with your number, name, and business attached with a picture of a lily printed across the paper. His, a premium slip of stainless steel engraved with his information and then some, the fancy card reflecting off the lights hanging from the ceiling. You read the name etched in ebony black over the gray material.

Todoroki Shouto — CEO

“You’ll likely receive a call from either one of my assistants or me within the next day or so about when to meet up to plan for the arrangements.” Shouto’s voice brought your head up from the card, where you watched him glide toward the door.

“R-Right, I’ll leave my cell on,” you stuttered. The fact that this whole exchange had just transpired was still kicking in for you.

Shouto nodded, extending a wave out that you mirrored while he opened the door to the shop, the bell chiming above him.

“I’ll see you then.”

After that, the resonating tinkles of the bell were the last you heard.

You stared at the entrance aimlessly, mouth gradually gaping open at the mere prospect that you were really about to arrange your flowers for a grand charity gala in two weeks!

A mixture of elation and jitters erupted in your body all at once, uncontained as you whipped your head around and strode across your shop in giddy steps. Your eyes lit up at the steel card gripped between your fingers, clenched so tightly like you were worried the card would turn to dust when you woke up from this dream. But at the wide smile that bloomed on your lips, you knew that this was reality. This man, Todoroki Shouto, was giving you the opportunity to have your true potential shown at this big gala.

Meanwhile, on his way back to his Mercedes, Shouto was clicking open his phone. The screen beamed at him in the low light of the evening turning to night while he punched a number from his contacts list. It took only the cusp of the second ring for the person on the other line to pick up his call.

“Midoriya, call off the search,” Shouto commanded into his phone. He rested his back on the door of his car, leaning against it with his phone still attached to his ear. His gaze found its way back to the flower shop he had just departed, eyeing the light emitting from the windows to the sign hanging above them. Grinning, he took in the sight of the flowers dancing in the wind around the shop’s vicinity before finding your silhouette standing in the benevolent light inside.

“We have our florist.”

[queridopascal]

Oh crikey please can I request a lil 57 and 58 dealers choice on the character 😘💘

Well hello there my sweet anon and thank you so much for this request! The thirst is real and I'm here to quench it 😏

Personal Apology (Javier Peña x DEA Agent F!Reader)

57. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”

58. “Strip.”

Warning: 18+, SMUT with no plot, explicit content, nsfw, language, unprotected sex (p in v), fluff at the very end

Prompts taken from this list

JOIN A TAGLIST!

Your fists clench as you mull over every single word of the speech Messina delivered only minutes before, when she gathered all of the DEA in the conference room and lectured everyone on how they should pay the utmost attention in studying and planning their next moves.

Everything had sprung up after the last mission in Medellìn, when somebody had fucked up the last part of the plan and, as a consequence, the Ambassador and Messina had decided to create a new team, excluding you and some of your colleagues from the action and segregating you in the smallest office of the building to organize the archives.

“Fuck! There’s not even an inventory!” you frantically run your fingers through your hair, exasperation already seeping through your whole body as you start rummaging through the dusty folders and papers.

“Looks like you’re having fun.” Javier leans against the doorframe and watches you with his arms folded, a cigarette hanging from his lips and an amused expression painted on his face.

“Are you kidding me?” you look up from the stack of folders and glare at him, your nostrils flaring at his cockiness.

“God…” he sighs, exhaling a thick puff of white smoke “You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.” he walks over to you and puts his cigarette into the crystal ashtray positioned on one of the shelves.

Your breath hitches at his words and, all of a sudden, the temperature inside the office becomes incredibly high.

“I’d like to make a personal apology…” Javier traces his fingers on your exposed forearms, the touch so featherlight it makes you shiver “I somehow feel responsible for their decision. See, I was one of the men who fucked up the plan, hence the reason you’re here now.”

His fingers continue their path, ascending slowly until they settle on your neck and move your hair to the side.

Javier’s lips are kissing every inch of your exposed skin, licking and sucking from the base of your neck to just below your ear, covering it with beautiful patterns that you know would soon turn purple.

“I can’t believe they did you dirty.” he whispers in your ear and you feel his breath fanning over the wet skin of your neck “You’re the strongest woman I know, even stronger than Messina. You’re a badass. And I can’t believe they decided to lock you in this awful office. They don’t know what they’re doing.”

Those words are oddly reassuring and a smile tugs at your lips as he takes your earlobe between his teeth and pulls lightly, sucking on it before releasing it with a pop. His other hand slides expertly under your skirt, the long side slit over your right leg making the task incredibly easy for him, and his fingers get closer and closer to where you need him most.

“Javi...” you whimper in his arms once you feel his thick fingers glide between your folds, moving back and forth with deliciously deliberate touches and gathering some of your juices.

Biting on your lower lip, you arch your back as soon as he circles your clit, your hands reaching behind you to grab at his neck, holding onto him as warmth starts to build low in your belly.

Javier continues his ministrations, one hand buried between your thighs while the other rests just below your breasts, keeping you pressed to his body as he works you through your first wave of pleasure.

Before you are even able to come down from the high, he turns you around and crashes his lips to yours, kissing you hungrily as his tongue presses and licks into your mouth with so much impatience and want that you feel even dizzier.

You moan into his mouth and he pulls you flush against him, your hands tugging desperately at his hair as you lose yourself in his touches and his breaths.

“Strip.” he instructs once he pulls away from your lips.

His soft, brown irises are almost entirely covered by his blown wide pupils, and he is looking at you as if you are his long awaited prey after a period of famine.

You quickly remove all your clothes and he does the same, touching you every now and then as you undo the buttons of your shirt, grabbing at your sides and digging his fingers into the soft flesh.

With a swipe of his arm, Javier knocks everything that was on the desk down to the floor: folders, pens, notes, everything is now scattered on the marble tiles, completely forgotten.

Guiding you towards the desk, he lifts you onto the smooth and cold surface as you scrape his tanned back with your nails, marking it with long, red lines. He dips his head to kiss you again, this time more feverishly and passionately, while he presses his whole body against yours and you feel his cock twitch between your legs.

“Don’t… don’t keep me waiting.” you pant between your mouths and he groans at your words, grabbing you by the hips and pulling you towards him.

Javier takes himself in hand and pumps his length a few times, from the base to the tip, twisting his wrist as he watches you with lust filled eyes. You take his other hand in yours and tug on it insistently, urging him to satisfy your needs. Anticipation is eating you alive as you look him straight in the eyes.

He lowers his head and stares back at you, the intensity of his gaze penetrates your body and soul, then, he purses his lips and spits on your already soaked core.

A long thread of saliva hangs between his lips and your pussy, and your mouth falls open at the sight before you, undoubtedly one of the hottest things you have ever seen.

With a devilish grin, Javier dips the head of his cock into the spit and drags it up and down your slit a couple of times before finally pushing himself inside you.

The stretch is mind blowing and you immediately reach for the edges of the desk, grabbing onto them for dear life until your knuckles turn white as he thrusts into you, slamming his hips against yours while the sound of your combined moans fills the small room.

"Give me another one hermosa." he encourages as he pushes inside of you with a long, deliberate thrust that makes your elbows tremble, and you collapse on the desk, unable to support your own weight.

Your back is now pressed to the wooden surface and his hands keep you there, squeezing your sides as he continues pistoning in and out of you with a relentless rhythm.

"Oh my… God... " you whimper as your eyes squeeze shut.

His thrusts turn erratic, faster and you throw your head back as tears pool at the corners of your eyes. Javier tilts his head down and nuzzles your cheek as your walls tighten, squeezing his length when your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave.

"Fuck… oh fuck baby…" he hisses and closes his eyes, his jaw clenches as he thrusts even more rapidly, making your body glide against the smooth surface of the desk.

"Come inside me…" your voice is broken by pleasure and you watch him, tanned skin covered in sweat and a frown on his face.

He's fucking handsome like that, with his hair all messy and his eyes half closed.

With a final thrust, Javier pushes himself as deep as he can and stills inside of you, pulling you impossibly closer. His body shudders and you feel him twitch within you, covering your walls with his warm cum as he cries out your name.

You cup his cheeks and draw him back to you, claiming his mouth with your own into a searing kiss. He grazes your lower lip with his teeth and you move your fingers through his hair, gently scraping at his scalp as he touches and explores every inch of your body for the uptenth time.

"You have no idea what you do to me." he whispers once your mouths part "Want you every fucking day of my life." he adds as he moves to your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses on your heated skin.

"I'm yours Javi. Only yours." you reassure him as you cradle his face in your hands and look deeply into his eyes.

He stares back at you in complete silence, his brown eyes shining with something different, not lust or passion or want, something that he never thought he would experience again: love.

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @sleep-tight1 @mssbridgerton @imcalledflorence @withakindheartx @emmy626 @greeneyedblondie44 @myguiltypleasures21 @pedroverse @donnaa @snow30285 @computeringturtle @sugahunnynoicetea @lilpopizzle @hnt-escape @sara-alonso @darnitdraco @larakazzer @carstwirs @agingerindenial @heythere-mel @phoenixhalliwell @tobealostwanderer @radiowallet @evelynseventyr @thatgirlselectryc @princess76179 @hb8301

JAVI TAGLIST: @xjsteph

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra Dimitrescu x Maiden ----Valiant pt.2

Part 1

You don’t think you could catch a wink of sleep if you tried.

Your mind is just too busy to shut down. Nerves buzz across your whole body. You feel like you’re suspended in time, trapped in a loop endlessly replaying the previous night’s events. Your mistake was getting involved in affairs that didn’t concern you. In this village, that can very well be one’s undoing. You know it. You knew it.

Yet you still intervened. 

Like a fool.

If you close your eyes, you can still see her. The brunette Dimitrescu. A living painting of a woman in a background of howls and pitch-black darkness, who spoke with a lilting voice and prettily pronounced vowels –and complete disregard over human life.

Earning her amusement was the only reason you and the shopkeeper got to see another sunrise, although you have a sneaking suspicion it will be his last. Nobody disrespects a Dimitrescu and gets away with it. It may as well be law in the village –and the sentence for breaking it is very clear.

The man doesn’t remember what he did. It may be for the better, bitter as it feels to you. Either way, you try not to stare at him too much –nor the bruise on his face in the shape of your knuckles— when you enter his shop and ask for the brunette daughter’s order. It’s under the initials C.D. No name has been given and no address. He hasn’t realized who she is. Perhaps being permanently intoxicated has to do with it.

The box you receive weighs heavy in your hands, for more than one reason. Seeing it springs forth in your senses the expensive scent of her perfume, the tickle of her hair against your nose when she leaned in. Her lips were soft as a wildflower’s petals and cold as snow.

The “Thanks, sweetheart.” she said plays on repeat in your head.  

Of course, such is your luck that you couldn’t pine over any normal girl. It’s human nature, you suppose, to desire what’s forbidden, but that’s not the only adjective that describes her;

She’s lethal.

A certain part of you was aware the moment you looked into her blueish amber eyes. Like a snake being stared down by a hawk or a deer caught in the gaze of a wolf, your place in the food chain wasn’t quite the same. Part of you was –is— attracted to her beauty. Part of you was petrified.

The stories your mother told you about her family don’t help in that department. Maidens who have been taken as maids into their castle never came back. Nobody who passed that threshold ever returned. There are rumors about dungeons filled with wailing. Warnings, to avoid bloodied steps should one come across them in the forest. To fear the mark the three daughters bear on their foreheads.

Hours pass. The sun begins its descent down the plane of the sky.

You can’t help but wonder if you’ll see it rise again.

You tell your employer you aren’t feeling well and need to take the evening off. You’ve worked non-stop so many days he doesn’t get to voice anything other than a grumble of acknowledgement.

It’s… a daunting experience, being alone after sunset.

You aren’t used to it, which makes it all the more jarring when the distant howling begins. You’re sitting in your couch with the nicest button-up shirt you have on –might as well look good dying, you figure— waiting.

And waiting.

Night has completely settled in. The cold penetrates your skin. You busy yourself with lighting the fireplace, pretending not to hear the sounds from outside. The cracking of wood helps, if only for a little bit. It gets a tad warmer, though you’re still chilled to the bone.

Perhaps she won’t come. you’re beginning to think.

But then, a peculiar sound comes from the other side of your door. Like the buzzing of insects, followed by a rush of air. Followed… by a knock on the wooden surface.

Your lungs suddenly empty of oxygen. If it was possible for a heart to jump right out a person’s chest yours would be doing just that. You have to answer but you’ve lost your voice. Every instinct screams at you to stay as far away from the door as humanly possible.

“It’s me.” you hear her muffled huff.

You summon all the courage you possess to walk to the entrance –and turn the handle. The brunette Dimitrescu is standing there in all her black-clad glory, eyes gleaming in the dark like gemstones. The very edge of her lip curves up upon seeing you. You move aside to let her in and waste zero seconds in closing the door behind her.

Her hood is pushed off in one graceful motion, revealing her waterfall of rich brown hair. “It’s cold in here.” she states, then turns to you. “Aren’t you freezing?”

You are, but that’s the least of your worries. “Kind of.” you say as you hover there awkwardly.

Your breath leaves a hint of smoke behind. Hers does not. You’re moving towards the box before your nerves cause you to break down in front of her.

It’s one thing to have a pretty girl in your house for the first time.

It’s entirely another when said pretty girl can also very easily kill you.

“Eager to get rid of me, beautiful?” she asks. There is obvious teasing in her voice but also an undertone of… something else. Disappointment, maybe. Whatever it is it strikes straight at your heart.

“I—no.” you reply, quickly. “Can I offer you something to drink, uh…” you still don’t know her name.

“Cassandra.” she smirks. A name as beautiful as the rest of her.

“Can I offer you a drink, Cassandra?” The offer makes her smirk widen, almost to the point of a grin. It’s cute but you’re not sure you want to know why the question amuses her so greatly.

“Depends.” she retorts, taking off her gloves. “My choice of drink is very… singular.”

“Well, there’s wine. It’s… good.”

She eyes you for a moment. There is hunger in her gaze, something deep, as it lingers over your collarbones. Then she averts her head in favor of looking about the house. It can’t be anything like the castle she lives in, but it’s quaint, at least. Her heels click against the wooden floor. They come to a stop in front of the small table your sketchbook lies upon.

“You draw?” she questions, curious as a child.

Please, don’t look inside. you pray. The rough sketches of sheet-clad brunettes will surely give your tastes away and your heart can’t take that embarrassment on top of everything else right now.

“Landscapes and stuff. When I’m bored.” you lie to save your dignity.

“I’m a bit of an artist myself.” she grins proudly. “I paint.”

“…acrylics?” you ask.

Cassandra gives you that secretive smile again. The one that is both hot and scary at once. “You could say that, yeah.” If any of the rumors have basis in reality, you don’t want to think about what she could be painting with. Some things are best left unsaid.

“So. I got your order.” you say, taking the box in your hands.

Cassandra walks to you and takes the object between her pale fingers like it weighs nothing. You’re left staring. At her hand, then her eyes, looking into your own with that same curiosity from earlier. “I’m sure mother will like it.” Then, after a pause, “She’d like you, too.”

You’re not sure what to say to that.

“You’d look good in the castle. But then I’d have to share you and I don’t think I’d like that.” Her fingers absently toy with the hem of your shirt while she speaks. It’s terribly distracting, to the point you almost miss what she says. It’s not fair that everything about Cassandra is just so damn attractive…

You like her, you realize. You already knew that you’re weak to her looks and her grace and the way she talks, so it’s not a startling revelation. But what is surprising is the mirror of what you’re thinking in her eyes. She likes you back.

She could just turn and leave, yet she doesn’t.

Instead, she lifts her hand to your chin. Traps it between thumb and pointer… and leans in. You think she’s going to kiss you goodbye on the cheek again, like the last time. Instead, her lips find the corner of your mouth and leave you breathless.

For a heartbeat, you don’t move.

Cassandra lingers, almost unsure but unwilling to let go.

A certain part of your brain is triggered and the sense of danger and reason keeping you back evaporates. You turn your head to kiss her fully, sucking on her lower lip, running your tongue over its softness until she opens her mouth to let you in. She tastes like strawberry lipbalm and wine and oh God you’ll die right there with that little moan she gives.

You end up holding her sides and she the back of your neck until you have to pull back or you’ll melt into an aroused puddle on the floor.

She looks as dazed as you feel. Her nails dig into your skin but your warmed body only draws pleasure from the slight sting.

Cassandra’s hooded eyes drop to your throat like a woman left thirsty in the desert far too long. “…does the offer for a drink still apply?” The breathy quality her voice has taken does things to you. You can only nod and trust she won’t kill you. She did ask, so your chances are probably decent.

Brown hair tickles your nose. She’s wonderfully close, the length of her cool body pressed against yours. You can feel the swell of her breasts and the firmness of her thigh almost as if there are no clothes between you. Your body is alight, heart pounding. You want her.

“Keep still for me, beautiful.” she says with a little growl to your ear and—

Pain comes.

Sharp. Biting.

You don’t expect it. A harsh gasp leaves your throat. You can feel twin needles embedded in your skin, breaking open your vein. The corners of your eyes prickle. Something thick and wet trails down your collarbone while she swallows mouthfuls, keeping you tighter in place. It’s agonizing, at first, but the area begins to numb, then fill with a pleasant tingle.

You can’t tell when Cassandra stops drinking from you, but you feel her tongue on your neck, following the red trail down before it ruins your shirt.

Your brain can’t comprehend what just happened, yet something about it is just so raw and erotic you know you won’t be able to sleep for days without the thought of her haunting you.

“You’re delicious, darling.” she breathes, eyes brighter than before, licking her lips like a lioness.

You want to reply, but you nearly wobble on your feet. “Ugh.”

“Take it easy and dress your wound.” she smiles, fingertips tracing the slope of your jaw. “I’ll come by again, sometime.”

Your hands tighten on her sides, but she only gives a little laugh –and steps away too easily. Her hood is pulled back on. A last molten look is sent over her shoulder.

Then, your mind halts for the hundredth time that night as you watch her figure disperse into a swarm of insects and black swirls. The door closes behind Cassandra.

Your hand slowly reaches up to your neck, where the imprint of her teeth in you –her mark left on you– yet throbs.

Ko-Fi

[voidcat]

— fangs dipped in wine

characters: chuuya nakahara, you

info: vampire au, lowkey suggestive, 2.3k

a/n: let's all pretend for a hot second bram stoker was an actual author in bsd and that instead of abilities, there are vampires<3 I'll probably do a p2 to this in a timeskip way so itll b more fun yay,,

Several days ago, it was just an idea. A laughing matter. A ‘what-if’ to build scenarios on and giggle.

Several days ago, it was night time too, the taste of alcohol fresh, her laugh right beneath your ear, it was warm, and bubbly and there was a sense of direction, a certainty.

Several days ago your friend hadn’t suddenly announced dropping out and moving out of the shared apartment you two had yet. Maybe she had been considering for a while now but in that very moment, it hadn’t happened yet, your world wasn’t upside down.

“Just imagine!-“ her breath fawned over your ear, glasses clinking against one another. “So I’m talking to this guy, right? Like music stuff, and movies, and all. No feelings whatsoever,” you found it hard not to roll your eyes and was met with a shove. “Not like that!” she protested. “He tells me about his boyfriend, I even helped him plan a surprise party once.”

“You cannot know if he’s faking…” you remember saying, in that knowing tone, smooth like silk and lecturing. “Yea whatever. Anyways! Get this:” placing the glass down in concentration that was foreign to her, you were intrigued.

“They don’t have vampires.”

“No way.” Slowing taking another sip from your drink, it sounded like a fantasy almost. Sure, there were rumors of not every country having vampires but it was numbered, there were so little, and the vampires? They were ever present.

“So he says: ‘Hey, aren’t they all rich peeps always wanting fresh blood? What if you have lots of blood already, and make a deal? You can trick them to pay you loads for it and you’d not even have to have them near your neck!’-“ she paused to let out a bark, you’re sure she’s been doing it since she first saw the message.

“And-“ another pause, to shed a tear, “and he says, ‘and if the vampire is hot? Bonus points! They got those fancy houses, you’d no longer pay rent either.’” The mocking of the voice comes to an end. “Can you believe? A deal, with a Vampire of all people! And he says rent fixed!”

You had to admit, for someone who claims to not met any vampires, it sounded charming on paper, but in Yokahoma?, not so much. At a moment of weakness, you looked at one another, daring, and next, breaking into a fit of laughter and downing the glass in one gulp.

How many days has it been since that night? Five? Maybe seven? It was long enough to miss her presence now, but too short to be threatened by the landlord.

One night you’re at your favorite pub with your dearest friend downing drink after drink. You can remember the stars in the sky that night, you thought it was just your brain imagining it, as well as the crescent moon hanging so delicately.

And next thing you know, you’ve just left this bar, despite the temperature it was cold on your bones, and here stands the redhead, his breath fawning over your neck, mouth open, but not to tell a story for the laughs.

He didn’t bother to hide the fangs and you didn’t bother to leave the place.

An idea you called stupid few nights ago just happened to make sense in that sad sulking state. And then he had to appear, with a glass of expensive wine, locks covering his face just fine, a vest that fits his body perfectly and fangs shining under the dim lights of the bar.

“Oh-kay, that’s enough.” You push his face off with your palm in one go. The ‘thump’ of his hat falling on the floor and the yelp coming from his lips fill the air.

“You’re no fun.” he pouts as he picks up his hat.

“So, how we’re doing this? And no, you cannot drink straight from my neck!” you finish before he can raise a finger.

A moment of silence follows the two of you, it’s a nice place. Expensive looking furniture though it’s more like a house from a catalogue than a home. Still, impressive –he, ‘what was his name again?’, definitely has a taste. The empty crystal glasses sit on the table, next to the bottle, a candle close to burning out completely flickers its flame lazily as your eyes wander.

Your gaze moves onto his sapphire eyes then, watching your every move and breath carefully, but not patiently. You can hear him vibrate with every molecule in his body, trying so hard not to lunge forward or speak up, maybe grab your arm and pull you back towards his chest.

“So? Hello?..” you drag the the ‘o’ and wave a hand in front of his face, “Anyone home?”

Like someone hypnotized stepping out of a trance at a snap of fingers, he jolts, pupils narrow, then widen and focus on your face. “Ah, sorry-“ he starts walking away.

Then he fakes a cough, as if you didn’t catch him staring already… Just how the hell did you find this guy in a city filled with vampires?

He stops, turns back, reaches for your hand and you let him. “Did you drink the wine?” he walks a step ahead, still hand in hand.

“If you ask me one more time, I’ll start suspecting you added some sort of drug.” This seems to get to him, obvious from the way he almost trips on his foot and turns back in a hurry, both hands up in defense and shaking his head like crazy.

“Wh- No- No, no no! It’s nothing like that- I-“ if he didn’t look so embarrassed, you’d even say he looks flustered. His rambling stops when you snort and decide to take pity on the guy.

“Relax I was just joking.” His shoulder drop in relief. “Besides, if you put anything, it’d have kicked in by now.”

“Ah, yeah, right…” he looks down, to his right, and that’s when you see the velvet couch there. He extends his hand, in an offering manner and follows you right after.

Reaching for a pocket in his vest, he whispers to himself, you barely hear. “I just like the taste of wine in blood...”

“Weird, not what I expected, but could be worse. I’ll take it.”

Another silence follows, he avoids your gaze while your eyes never leave his eyes fumbling with his vest and cape. Maybe it’s like one of those cape like jackets, certainly matches the vibe he carries.

Under the shivering candle light, he looks so different from the bold smug suave guy who brimmed with confidence, flashed his teeth like nothing, as if the world belongs to him and anything that does not care for him simply does not exist.

And now with the same face, sits besides you someone else, eyes cast down, hands fumbling, there’s comfort in knowing this is as awkward for you as for him.

(You wonder for a second if there’s something you can do to clear the atmosphere.)

“Maybe you should be having another glass instead of asking me.” You try to say nonchalantly and it takes him a second to get what you mean. Then he smiles, and the hint of a small giggle comes out and his body seems to calm down.

“Give me your hand.” He holds out his, the palm facing the ceiling. “Well? This is the easiest way to do it without leaving permanent marks.” He sounds irritated.

“Or noticeable.” You say and he repeats, a little impatient.

Giving him your less dominant hand, you eye the dagger for as long as you can. When the cold blade meets your palm, you can barely feel its weight.

“Okay, I’ll be honest here.” He stops midway, the dagger in the air. You raise an eyebrow, signaling him to continue. “I’ve never done… this before.”

“So- uh- whatever’s the standart payment, or the whole, you know,” he waves the hand holding the dagger in the air “etiquette for this.” He sounds to be relaxing with each word. And with him, so do you. Then comes back that familiar confidence from the earlier, decorated with a hint of threat and a dare. “Just- Don’t ever try to scam or fool me.”

And goes away the determined face, replaced with surprise, as you start laughing loud, one hand over your stomach.

“Look, listen-“ you stop as you’ve begun. “Chuuya.” He fills the gap for you.

“Listen, Chuuya.” You test his name on your lips. “I’m a broke college student who can get kicked out of their flat any day now. Crossing a vampire is the last thing on my list, trust me.”

Eyes soften, a genuine smile blooms and the silence to follow isn’t heavy anymore.

When he slashes the dagger over your hand, it doesn’t sting. The blood soon reaches the surface, red thick liquid glistening in the candle’s flame, ‘life’ it says.

This is what they want, why they want it, drink it, kill for it.

Hidden in the blood, is life, with all it has seen and will see, warm, moving, trusting.

You watch in a daze as he brings your hand to his mouth. Cold lips make content with your skin, how cold and lifeless they feel against you, you see in clear contrast. The sinking of teeth doesn’t come, you don’t flinch. You can tell he’s making an effort not to bite too hard into your giving hand. Drinking the blood slowly, trying to contain himself from getting greedy, there’s no sound in the air except for your loud heartbeat, echoing in your ear and fastening with each move of his back.

The glimpse of a smile you catch in this scene before you tells, he can hear it too, and probably relish in it.

With each flicker of the flame, his lips start to feel warmer and soon he straightens up. Not a single speck of blood on his frame, he offers you the same smug smile from earlier.

Blood makes place for itself on his face, like roses blooming under the sun. His skin gains color, you didn’t notice just how dull and gray he was up until now. Life spreads so fast in his limbs, soon you can feel his warmth near you, in the air, in your hand, on the spot your knees touch. Once the base color is done, pink decorates his cheeks faintly, most likely an after effect of all that wine.

Maybe if he intervened his fingers with yours, it’d feel warmer, and in a weird way, safer.

Watching your eyes on him with amusement in his crystal ones, he seems to enjoy this, that is until his eyes focus on a spot of yours and cannot stop examining every other spot, every single pore, mark, hair and color you have, memories you carry.

The flicker of the light blends in, the warmth pulls the two of you in, time feels gone, like it never existed, maybe nothing every existed except for the two of you sitting before each other.

A sudden crash, from the outside and the magic is gone with a snap.

Noticing your hands, you pull it back to your chest fast.

His goes back to his head and he looks away, anther shy smile on his face.

“What- How should we proceed next?” he breaks the silence first, attempting to gather back a sense of seriousness to his voice. In a way, he should too, this is technically business, isn’t it?

Glancing at your palm, you open and close it few times. Not a speck of pain is there.

“Once every week maybe? If that’s alright. Although we may cancel few weeks, you never know what comes up last minute.”

The dagger nowhere in sight, probably returned to a pocket of his already, he looks pleased with your reply. “Sounds good to me.”

Without further ado, you get up to look for the door you first walked in.

“Wait!-“ he follows in a hurry, almost slipping, again, and trying to find something in his jacket.

Go you! For forgetting why you agreed to a vampire’s house in the first place. “Is- uh- is this alright? Or is it so little? We never discussed payment, y’know.” He holds out a lot more than you expected, but then again, vampires live for thousands of years. He must have quite the amount lying around somewhere after all.

Unsure what to do with the money he slips into your hand, you meet his eyes. “That’s… more than enough actually. Thanks.”

He rests one hand on hip, taking in your surprised face. “Don’t mention it. I’ve got plenty.” Touching your elbow lightly, he guides you to the door, dragging his feet. By the time you reach the door, he makes no move to open it, not that it was ever locked in the first place.

Turning of the knob, you take a step ahead, motions limited on both sides; dragging, waiting for something to happen, something to be said, for the air to be broken.

By the time you’re one foot outside, he clears his throat with a fake cough, covering his mouth. “Same time, same place, next week?” his gaze cast on the floor, stealing glances to see what you will do next.

You turn to him with a smile. “Works for me.” And tilt your head “but what if one of us cannot find the other?”

“Oh I’ll find you alright.” He chuckles with a grin. Truly a sight to sell the whole vampire image he got going, even if he hadn’t been one.

Feet standing next to each other, you’re out now, furrowing your eyebrows with a look of disapproval to match his grin, unimpressed.

“You sound like a creep. Don’t do it again.”

And with it, you turn your back to him, already on your way. The ginger left behind, an unfinished “okay” hanging on his lips, eyes focused on your form, swallowed by the shadows, waiting for the next night to be spent with you, already impatient.

[thesightstoshowyou]

Literally anything from that prompt list with Bo would send me over lol.... but specifically 26, 24 and 48 together 💀💀💀

-the-slasher-flies 🔪💕

I also got, "You look real pretty when you cry,” for Bo so I’m going to combine all these into one, filthy fic. I went off the rails with this one. Please thank my husband for all the beautiful ammunition for this story ;)

~~

Territorial

Bo Sinclair x F Reader (NSFW)

Warnings: Dubcon, violence, blood, minor character death, heavy degradation, slapping, daddy kink, biting, marking, spanking, belt, hair pulling, choking, spitting, possessiveness, creampie

~~

             The second the laugh leaves your mouth, you know you’re fucked.

             Bo had asked you to meet one of the travelers at the gas station, to keep them busy while he delt with the others. The guy who sauntered through the door had proven to be funny, charming, and handsome; a horrible combination when Bo’s ego was added to the equation. Shamelessly, he flirted, and you couldn’t help but smile at the attention.

             Then…. Then he’d made a joke the second Bo had strolled into the shop and you couldn’t stop the surprised giggle that bubbled up your throat. The color drains from your face when you spot the blue mechanic’s suit out of the corner of your eye. Bo knows when you’re faking a laugh and this wasn’t one of those times.  

             He fixes you to the spot with that furious stare you’ve come to know so well, so intimately. You bite your lip, apologizing with your eyes, but he’s having none of it. The young man catches sight of your terrified face, turns to you, asks you if you’re okay. He reaches for your arm, maybe to give you a comforting squeeze. He doesn’t see Bo stalking up behind him.

             Steel sinks into the man’s neck so easily you would think his skin is made of butter. Thick crimson wells up around the blade, pours down his chest, spills from his lips, parted with shock. His eyes go wide and he drops to his knees, clutching fruitlessly at the lethal wound. You slap your hands over your eyes, turning away, but Bo clicks his tongue in disapproval.

             “Uh uh, baby girl, yer gonna watch,” he growls, wrenching your hands away from your face, spinning you around, holding you by the jaw, and forcing you to look as the life drains from the man’s sweet, hazel eyes. Cigarette scented breath wafts across your face as Bo whispers in your ear, “Yer gonna watch what ya’ done, yeah? This is all you, baby.”  

             The man chokes on his own blood, coughs, splutters, then lands face down with a soft thud that hangs heavy in the air. Crimson pools around him as he finally falls still. You can’t breathe, your chest heaving, but refusing to pull in oxygen. You’ve never seen anyone die before.

             Bo shoves you up against the counter, forces your eyes to his, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. You try to apologize, stumbling over your words, anything to save you from what comes next.

             “B-Bo—

             “Shut up, slut. I don’t remember askin,’ huh? You were gonna let that little prick fuck ya’, looked like.”

             “N-No! I wouldn’t—

             “Oh, no? Ya’ wouldn’t? Does this stupid little whore actually remember who owns her?”

             “Bo, please—

             You gasp when he delivers a stinging slap to your cheek, hard enough to leave your skin angry and red in its wake. He growls, low and dangerous, “Maybe if I punish ya’, it’ll help ya’ remember who ya’ belong to next time.”

             He doesn’t wait for a response, instead gripping you around the waist and tossing you over his shoulder. Bo heads toward those dreaded basement steps. You haven’t been down there again since your first days in Ambrose. You’d hoped to never see it again.

             Bo kicks the door open, drops you unceremoniously on the filthy mattress. The sent of blood, fear, and Bo’s musk billows up around you as you shrink back against the wall, memories of how you’d met brought to the surface by the metallic reek clinging to the walls.

             “Do not fuckin’ move,” he orders, pointing a finger at your face. Without a backward glance, he strides across the room. Your eyes dart to the open door, but you squash down the desire to flee. He will catch you. He always does.

             A noisy clatter draws your gaze back to the other end of the room. Bo turns, another knife clutched in his palm. He chuckles, relishing in your dread when you visibly tremble. Crossing the room, he kneels at the edge of the bed and beckons you over with a wave of the blade. Obediently, you crawl to him, sitting back on your heels and awaiting further instruction.

             “That’s a good girl fer not runnin’. Kinda dumb though, I mean, I gave you an openin’.” He laughs, drags the chilly point of the blade down your cheek, across your jaw, down your neck, pressing it lightly to the exact place he’d buried the other knife into the man upstairs. He hums quietly, strokes your other cheek with his bloody fingers.

             “I can’t wait to put bruises all over that pretty skin.” You shiver at his whispered words, moisture pooling between your thighs despite the terror gripping your throat. Your heart beats frantically against your ribs, pleading at you to fight, to flee, something, but you remain seated on your knees as is expected of you.  

             Bo uses the knife to saw through your shirt. When you’re bared to him, he wraps an arm around your waist and leans down to sink his teeth into the soft flesh under your collarbone. You wince, suck in air through your teeth, whimper when he sucks a deep purple mark into your skin. He grunts, does it again under your jaw, drags his tongue across your tender flesh until you moan.

             “Ohh,” he coos in response, viciously biting your shoulder and making you hiss, “Does that slutty little cunt get wet when I hurt ya’, baby girl?”

             “Yes, daddy,” you whisper, choking on a gasp when Bo shoves your face into the disgusting mattress.

             “Ass up, whore,” he orders, cutting into your shorts and underwear enough so he can rip them off your hips. “Jesus Christ, look at that,” he murmurs as he drags the flat of the cool blade along the lips of your dripping pussy. You clench your eyes shut, icy fear surging through your veins. Oh god, oh god, please don’t….

             “Look, fuckin’ look,” he growls, fisting a hand in your hair so he can wrench your head off the bed and shove the glistening steel in front of your face, “Look at how fuckin’ wet y’are. Just achin’ for any cock to fill that whore cunt, huh?” As well as you can with how hard he grips your hair, you furiously shake your head.

             “No? No, yer not a filthy slut?” You shake your head again, wondering if you dare speak.

             You risk it, “Yours,” you whimper, gritting your teeth when he shoves the knife closer to your lips.

             “Oh, so now ya’ remember, huh, now that ya’ have a knife in yer face?” You nod and Bo shoves you back into the mattress. The knife clatters to the ground and you hear the clink and slip of his belt as he jerks it off his hips. You clamp your eyes shut when he snaps the leather, knowing exactly what comes next.

             The first slap of leather across your skin makes you jump and shriek. Sharp, stinging pain follows each noisy smack, the sound bouncing off the walls and ceiling until all you can hear are the blows, your yelps, and the blood rushing in your ears. You wriggle, flinching as much as you dare as leather connects agonizingly with your skin again and again. You wish the pain didn’t make you burn with need, but Bo’s conditioned you well after all this time.

             “Fuck,” he groans under his breath, warm palm smoothing over the angry, throbbing skin of your ass and thighs. He drops the belt, leans over you, tips your head to the side, and brushes his thumb through the tears you just now realize are staining your cheeks.

             “Oh, baby girl, ya’ look real pretty when ya’ cry. Roll over.” You do, flopping onto your back as quickly as possible. Bo spreads your slick thighs wide, settles between them, pops the button on his pants, and slides the zipper. He pulls his painfully hard, flushed cock from his pants, sighing in relief and lifting you hips to line up with your damp entrance. With a grunt and a groan, he slams home, plowing through tight, slippery muscles and tearing a scream from your throat.

             Bloody, calloused hands wrap around your neck and silence your cry. He jackhammers you into the mattress, indifferent to your own pleasure, intent on permanently imprinting himself in your cunt for all time.

             “That’s right, baby, that’s right.” You choke on nothing, twisting your hands in the sheets, face feeling like it’s going to burst with how hard he squeezes your throat, “Sure, yer a cock hungry slut, but yer my cock hungry slut, got that? This. Is. Mine.” You nod and he lets off so you can gulp in air and cough.

             “Yer nothin’ but my stupid little fuck toy, yeah? Say, ‘Yes, daddy.’”

             “Y-Yes, daddy!” you shout, moaning loudly when he tilts his hips and batters that perfect spot he knows will make you scream. Bo spits on your chest, smearing the saliva over your breasts and rolling a nipple between thumb and forefinger. He slides his wet hand up your neck, over your chin, and shoves three spit-covered fingers in your mouth.

             “Suck on my fingers, get ‘em nice and wet fer me.” You suck as well as you can, laving your tongue along the pads of his digits until he groans. Bo rips his fingers from your mouth, spits on them, brings them to your clit. He mashes the sensitive bud until you’re keening and meeting each punishing thrust.

             “Ya’ think you deserve to cum, slut?” You shake your head and Bo laughs, “No? That’s right, ya’ don’t. Only good girls get ta’ cum.”

             “P-Please, daddy,” you whine, “Please, I’ll-I’ll be g-good.”

             “Ya’ wanna be good now?” Frantically, you nod, heat building in your core, muscles fluttering around the cock assaulting your insides.

             “Who-f-fuck-who do ya’ belong to?”

             “You! Bo, daddy, please, you, I’m yours, I’m yours, please, fuck, I’m, I have—

             “That’s right, bitch, yer mine. Mine. This filthy fuckin’ cunt is mine.”

             “Yes! Yes! Yours! Please, daddy, PLEASE!” You’re going to implode, shaking from head to toe, poised right at the brink but terrified to fall.

             “Cum for me, slut, cum on my cock, fuckin’ do it.” You scream, vision whiting out, back arching off the mattress, every nerve in your body alight with beautiful sensation.

             “Fuck, god, fuck, ‘m gonna fill that dumb cunt up with cum.” Bo wraps his hands around your throat and buries his cock as far into you as he can get. With a broken cry he spills warmth into your belly, his face twisted with pleasure as your twitching muscles milk him dry.

             Bo slumps, catching himself with hands planted on either side of your head. Breathing hard, you meet his gaze under your teary lashes. The anger burning in his baby blues has dampened to a smolder. There’s more lust there than anything else now.

             “Say it again,” he rasps, dry throat cracking when he speaks.

             “I’m yours, Bo.”

             “That’s my girl.”

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

Would you please give me headcanons about how shigadabi caught feeling for each other? Loosely sticking to canon if you can🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

That "loosely sticking to canon" is a little tricky for me. Why? Because in the canon I see them as two guys that find comfort in knowing that someone understands them and they are free to do as they please because the other won't stop them.

This is gonna be a long one and I apologize for it, but I love them so much. I can't help it.

Still, here are my headcanons 😈:

In the beginning, Dabi is never around and when he is, he's being mean and annoying in the background. Shigaraki doesn't tolerate him, but he respects him. Since they met, Shigaraki knew that boy wouldn't stop to achive what he wanted, just like himself.

There was a moment between them, the seed of something. Before the summer camp attack, Shigaraki called Dabi apart so he could set the nomu to respond to his voice and his voice only. You can imagine Shigaraki walking up to him, telling him to follow and Dabi being a piece of trash about it.

Shigaraki them tells him why he's needed out loud and turns around, already walking. The rest of the League complains or comments in the background but Dabi leaves them without a word. He's too busy thinking Tomura must be really stupid to trust him when he barely knows him. Or well he could— He could be smart enough to see through him?

With the years, Dabi has learned to be careful of those guys. He doesn't trust people, no exceptions. He prefers to think Tomura is an idiot.

Being honest, that was the minute Dabi decided he would try to read Tomura. He was he new boss, Dabi was only only being careful. Nothing more.

Let's keep the imaging.

Tomura sits and he unceremoniously calls the nomu, gives him some commands and tells Dabi to use his voice to give him the same commands. They do it a couple of times until Shigaraki is satisfied and Dabi is free to go.

For someone else watching, it was cold and professional. For them, it was kinda weird. There was a little tension than neither of them was acknowledging and there was a quietness, a silence Tomura was used to. It was weird because it felt like they were alone, because they were used to being alone, but somehow they were being alone together— with the freaking nomu. It felt like visiting the vet. Dabi didn't like it.

Time goes by. Things happen.

They have a silent agreement that marks Dabi as one of Shigaraki's commander. He's a special one tho, because apparently he can do whatever the he he wants. He says he's gonna recruit? Tomura approves it with a simple nod and that's it.

Since we have only seen Twice's apartment, I'm assuming here that the rest of the League lived in the bar with Kurogiri and Tomura. Which makes sense because they wouldn't have anywhere else to go.

The only times Shigaraki and Dabi are together is when Dabi occasionally return to their base for whatever reasons. It is loud and crowded so they don't get the chance to interact that much. What they can do is observe the other.

None of them is ashamed of doing it. They stare and stare back. The League plays it off because that's probably two idiots trying to assert dominance or some shit.

It's stupid and they only find out about useless things. What they like to drink, how they walk or react to certain things, what throws them off, what makes them happy... Things you'd know about your classmate.

Their interactions change after what happened in Kamino and the night Magne died.

Dabi was taken by surprise when he saw Tomura walking in. He was calm, collected, even more honest than usual. When he took the hand off his face, the whole room held their breath.

His features were delicate, even beneath all the scars and dry skin. He's eyes were gentle, which was scarier than his maniac look. They held blood and the promise of danger, but not to them. Dabi brushed it off later.

Dabi keeps being his sarcastic self. Shigaraki doesn't react that much. Their barriers are tight closed as ever. Except when...

Well, those nights. The ones they don't talk about. The ones when Dabi is drunk and Tomura is way too sleep deprived and they find themselves insulting the other in hushes. They're normally out of the League's hearing range, alone in some abandoned part of their actual base.

Catching feelings for the other is a good expression. It's like they're catching a cold or something viral by accident. You just have to be in the wrong place at the right time to get yourself infected.

Their minds are blurry and their hearts are feeling raw the first time they interact like that. It's like Dabi is nothing but a young man trying to find his way back home from some bar because he was done with his working week. Or maybe Tomura is a tired student who's been dealing with a lot of stress and it's feeling bare and naked with his hair floating around with the wind.

They look at each other like they always do. Like trying to solve a mystery. Like trying to put together a puzzle. Like trying to decipher a code you shouldn't be worried about, but it distracts you from the world so why not.

Tomura is the one who notices Dabi is bleeding. He points it out. Dabi shrugs and then Tomura just shakes his head and starts walking, Dabi following him, recognizing that face from being a silent command.

For the rest of the night, Dabi teaches Shigaraki how to fix his staples and Shigaraki does so, taking the hand away from his face for better care.

They wonder about the other. How can Tomura know so much about fighting when it looked like he always lived alone? Why was Dabi drinking something stronger than usual? Where his scars always there? Had he patched someone else before? Was Dabi used to other people patching him?

They go to sleep. When they wake up, the only think in their heads is this can't happen again. They got distracted. Distraction means getting softer. That's a no no for them.

Except it happens again. And again. Until it starts happening when they're sober and they know they're screwed. They shouldn't be feeling safe enough with each other to don't feel the need to say something. They shouldn't be on the non-verbal stage. They shouldn't be taking turns what the other sleep to keep guard. Shigaraki shouldn't know where Dabi is most of the time, in case he wants to go and visit him in secret. The League doesn't know where they go most of the time, anyway.

If you're looking for a phrase to prove they have caught feelings for the other, you have no luck. They don't trust words, because most words are lies. But they can't lie when they look into each other's eyes

And against all odds, it changes nothing. No one suspects a thing, no one can sees them. Of course, what is there to see? Nothing at all. Just a king and his commander. Or maybe, just two guys sharing what's not there.

Because there's nothing there. If Dabi craves Tomura's fingers on his back, it's only because he's hurt again. If Tomura longs for waking up to the sound of Dabi's smoking by the window, it's because that means he doesn't have to sleep for a least a while now.

Dabi looks at Tomura across the room and thinks It's like catching a cold. It's gonna go away. A cold won't distract him from his revenge. When the time comes, he won't think about Tomura. And he's right. It's just a cold. Tomura is happy is just a cold too.

Ah, there's a problem, one we know but they forgot. It is too easy to catch a cold. They come back with the season, when we're vulnerable and cold. And if you catch enough colds and you don't cure them properly, it can become something worst. More permanent. More deadly.

For what they want, I hope they're being careful. Sure, they're fine right now, healthy, they talk and laugh and plan and murder. Do they sleep well at night? When they're hearts are freezing and they are too drunk or too sleep deprived, do they still go to each other? When their brains won't stop working, would the miss those nights? Would they wonder? Would they wish? We see only the surface, but beyond their walls...

Are they badly sick? Oh. Are they... Maybe.... No, of course not, but... When no one sees them, when no one talks, when they don't have to be something else, when they can just exists... When the remember their voices echoing in that room, that time, first time alone, just a nomu and their stares...

And sometimes, they'd look into each other's eyes just to make sure they still know how to do it. And they go crazy, becuase they must be doing somethinf wrong.

It is not an I won't see you die under my watch, so don't die until I'm back and it is not an I'll be taking care of myself too, so don't complain and it is not an prove it, come back safe and sound, come back to me.

That's not what they say. That's not what it means.

And still.

Red eyes.

Blue eyes.

And silence.

[dinner-djarin]

Next To You (Bucky x reader)

Just a little one shot I wrote after watching FATWS on repeat. (I tried to make it gender neutral but I may have missed something so I'm sorry if it's not!)

Rating: Mature

No use of Y/N

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: Bucky is having nightmares, and you're there to comfort him. Based on the Julia Michaels song If You Need Me. (so if the ending sounds dumb go listen to the song you'll understand why lol)

Warnings: Fluff & angst I guess idk, kinda dark themes, because well it's Bucky. Just two people who have definitely been through some shit. Oh ya that reminds me swearing. Suggested that intercourse has happened but nothing descriptive. A little (a lot) about trauma but mostly about nightmares. If I missed something pls lemme know, I don't want anyone to feel triggered reading. But if you can watch the show and be fine, you'll probably be okay with this.

Also just letting you know if I put ~ its cause I switch the focus from Bucky to reader, but I'm not switching POV completely its all written in reader POV.

Every night brought pieces of the past. He never knew which memory would be dragged to the surface once he let his subconscious take over - clawing and scrapping against the walls he put up, begging to be let out; to be confronted.

Some nights were worse than others of course.

He wasn’t sure how he was ever going to out run the monsters of his past. For a while he just stopped sleeping. It may not have been a permanent fix, but he thought some relief was better than none at all. He used to go days, even weeks, without sleep during the war, so he figured it might be the best way to silence the past.

Dr. Raynor, however, caught on quick.

A lot of her methods seemed like bullshit to Bucky. He could tell she was genuinely trying to help him, but he doubted anything she had anything to offer him that would prove to be effective.

But at the end of the day she was definitely no fool. He had a tough time lying to her. She didn’t take anyone's crap, and that might have been the only reason he trusted her, even a little. It may have been the only reason he actually gave it a sincere try (besides the fact he’d be arrested if he didn’t).

So he probably shouldn’t have been surprised when she caught on to his sleep strike. In fact she called him out on it only three days in. He thought he’d get longer than that. Even so, he was almost relieved. After only 72 hours he already felt the nightmares slowly creeping into the day. Every time a door slammed or a car horn blared his body tensed. Every time he turned a corner he’d reach for a knife he no longer carried. So maybe it was better to let his past haunt his nightmares. That way he’d be alone when the memories took over. That way he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

But he made a mistake. He did what he told himself he could never do. He let you get too close.

Falling asleep in your arms felt better than any therapy session he could ever imagine. It was the first time in forever he could remember what it was like to be his younger self. The version of him that marvelled at the idea of flying cars; who thought he could save the world by enlisting. The dreamy eyed boy who was hopeful for the future, who thought he had a future.

Lying next to you made him feel in control, like his problems didn’t matter. He was there to keep you safe, and warm, and comfortable. He never thought he’d feel like that with anyone. He didn’t think he was allowed.

You didn’t question his metal arm for starters. When Bucky took off his jacket, after the hundredth time you insisted - “It’s like 100 degrees in here Bucky, please take it off, you’re gonna melt” - he thought he’d instantly regret it. But you simply looked at it with wonder for only a moment, before returning your eyes up to his own. Staring back at you, he saw the wheels in your brain click into place. He could almost hear your thoughts as you decided what your next move would be.

In the blink of his eyes you tore your shirt off and stood completely still in front of him. For a moment his emotions were mixed, and he worried where your sudden advancement came from, but then he saw it. A thick white mark slashed across your torso.

You took only one step forward before speaking. “It’s not exactly… I know it’s not the same thing at all. But the scars - the marks we carry - they’ll be with us forever, whether we like it or not. Even if they remind us of the worst pieces of ourselves, or the worst moments of our lives, it reminds us that we can move forward. And it reminds me that there’s something to move forward to. I don’t know…it doesn’t really make any sense but somehow it’s almost comforting.  To know that something will always be with us, till the end”

His mouth was on yours in an instant.

He had been hesitant to let anyone in. After coming back - after going through everything he’d been through - he felt like damaged goods. He worried that the minute he let himself be happy, everything would come crashing down again, and he had good reason to believe it. It just kept happening over and over. It seemed like every time he found even a small amount of peace, the battle made its way back to him.

But when he found you, when he felt you, he felt peace. The softness of your skin, the gentle wave of your hair, the light scrape of your fingernails against his back and chest, your quiet moans muffled by his own mouth on yours. Being with you made the horrors of his past melt away. Even when you clamped down around him and bit into his shoulder muscle, even when he knew you’d left marks all over his skin. Knowing they came from you made all the difference. They didn’t remind him of the wars he fought, or lives he took, or the atrocities he committed. The sting of your nails and teeth weren’t pains from his past, they were reminders of his present, of the possibility of a life he could have. With you.

But in the end he knew that it was all wishful thinking. He knew he wasn’t cut out for that type of future. He knew you deserved better.

So he decided to let you off easy, to disappear from your life, leaving your shared experience to the confines of your bedroom. A memory, nothing more. He knew he’d have to sneak away once you fell asleep, because that way it might not feel real. Everything that happened between you might disappear with him.

But then he fucked up.

He was waiting for your breath to even out, a sign he would take to mean you had fallen asleep, but after listening to the air rush out of your body, and watching your bare chest rise and fall, your hypnotic essence overpowered his will, and he fell asleep alongside you.

Only he wasn’t asleep for long.

Eventually the past caught up, as it always had a way of doing. Images, and sounds, and smells all came flooding back to his uninhibited brain - sleep made him an easy target. He was vulnerable to every torment he caused, and every mission he was forced to carry out. Tonight was no exception. His brain managed to sift through every wall he thought he had up, and trudge yet another painful memory to the surface. The image of himself taking life after life, cruelly and viciously. There was no remorse, no stopping him. He saw every crime lord and politician he was made to terminate. Until his brain moved away to a new idea. The image of a young woman. Innocent and pure. But in the way of his mission. The Winter Soldier spared none.

He woke up in a blind panic. His surroundings were unfamiliar. Something was wrong. Was he being held captive or-

~

“Hey,” you made yourself known to him, and he twisted his head back to see you sit up beside him. You were quiet, and a worried expression blanketed your face.

Is he angry, you thought for a moment? No. Your brain was tired, and it was slow to process. Not angry, scared.

You knew from the minute you saw his arm that there was more going on. You already had some suspicions, nevertheless you expected there to be something like this.

For a moment, the two of you stared at each other in silence. You watched him regain his breath, and you carefully shifted your legs to sit crossed underneath you.

His steel blue eyes cut through the darkness, pinning you down. You wondered what was going on in his mind, what he might be doing to regain his grip on reality. You knew this moment too well. The quiet. The darkness. The fear. Not sure of how to move forward.

You were scared too, but not of him - more like you were scared for him. You knew he must be going through something, and you wanted to be there to help, but you also knew that was easier said than done. “Being there to help” was a nice concept, but in reality - well things were generally more complicated. You didn’t know if it’d be alright to approach him, mainly because you were unsure of your role in all this. Were you really someone he wanted around when he was so obviously vulnerable? You’d never seen him so raw and exposed, like a wound you wished you could tend to, while also fearing that your interference could make things worse.

You knew he wasn’t going to ask for your help, you could see he wasn’t that kind of man, but maybe if you made the first step, and let him choose - maybe he’d let you in. So, you held out your hand and waited. After a moment, you saw him move, only slightly though. His eyes darted down towards your hand and he subtly lifted his fingers off the bed. But it only lasted a second. He froze again, hand hovering near yours, and that’s when you realized he had been reaching for you with his left hand. You had been wary to touch it before, you thought it was probably a sensitive subject. Something about the idea of touching his metal arm seemed more personal, if that was possible. Like only the most trusted people in his life might be allowed to… and maybe not even then.

You felt your own eyes drop to your lap, an almost nervous energy now emanating in the space between you. But just before you could drop your hand too, his fingers hesitantly entwine with yours.

You shot your eyes up to see his right hand grazing the palm of your left. As your gaze slowly elevated, you found your way to meet his own eyes, only to notice the very sudden change in them. Whatever fear or darkness hid their before had now melted away. You couldn’t place it, but whatever emotion he now held sent a chill from your core to your fingertips. A lump in your throat formed and for a moment, you thought you might never be able to breath again. The look in his eyes was almost soft, but with a hint of yearning. Fire was blazing through every nerve in your body, while a chill kissed your skin, making every hair stand on edge.

Feeling outrageously brave, you took your free hand up to his jaw and held him there, gently swiping your thumb over his cheek, and allowing your fingers to reach slightly past his hairline and to the back of his neck. You wondered if he could feel the raging storm of your emotions through your touch.

“You okay?” you managed to whisper to him.

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before” his answer pierced your ears with a hard tone, refusing to let any vulnerability resonate in his voice.

You shake your head at him, wishing he wouldn’t play pretend. “Okay then,” you mumble, letting your hand drop from his face. But as it fell, Bucky was quick to grab it, and hold it with a gentle squeeze. When you looked at him again, you knew he meant it as a reassurance, trying to tell you that he was okay.

~

He couldn’t handle the way you looked at him. Like you could see every thought in his head. A knowing gleam in your eyes told him that you didn’t believe him, and you’d be right not to. He wasn’t okay. He never really was. There was so much darkness surrounding him, poisoning every inch of his life. But you. Your touch was gentle and your voice was kind, and even though he had just seen your scar, he couldn’t help but think your world must have been so much brighter than his own. Looking in your eyes, he almost wished he’d never met you. He was so afraid that his pain might infect you too, the only good thing he had left. He wouldn’t ever be able to forgive himself if he let that happen; if he let his past ruin your future.

He wanted to leave, he needed to get out, before any of that could happen.

He slid off the bed quickly, and made his way to grab his clothes, but before he could you grabbed his hand - his left hand.

“Please Bucky don’t.” was all you could say. But the way your voice broke, on the verge of tears, fear of being rejected, of being left alone in the dark by the only man you ever wanted to let in - it was enough to stop his heart. He stood there, frozen from your touch. You kept his hand in yours, and for a second you worried it was too much. You worried you betrayed whatever trust you had built with him. Just holding his bare metal hand felt more violating and revealing than the fact that both of you remained completely naked. But you didn’t want to pull away. You didn’t want him to think you were afraid of him, afraid of the fact his hand could pulverize yours in a second - because you weren’t. You’d felt his touch. You knew how gentle and caring he could be. And you wanted him to see it too. That he wasn’t defined by his worst fears.

You pulled your body towards him, kneeling at the edge and facing him, “You don’t have to leave.” you spoke softly, as if he might be spooked and run off if you were any louder. “You don’t have to push everyone away. Please don’t push me away… I-”

Before you could finish, he was crashing into you. His tongue invading your mouth, like he was trying to soak up your unsaid words. His hands held your waist in place against his, steady and strong, but there was still resistance in his fingers; a hesitance to use too much force with you. You could feel how he feared he might hurt you.

Slowly you leaned back, feathering your fingers over his shoulders to guide him with you, and when he hovered over you, you let them slide into his hair, grabbing what you could and leading his head down…

~~~~

You lay there in the dark with your head on his chest, listening to his steady heart, feeling the crisp sting of metal graze your back. And even though you knew it was ridiculous, all you could think about was how you wanted to keep him safe. The man was stronger than any other human being, and probably thought you were fragile and helpless, and needed his protection more than anything. But still, you wanted him to be okay. You wanted him to know he could be safe.

“I’ll fight them for you.” you whimper quietly, suddenly worried that Bucky may have already fallen back to sleep.

“Huh? Who- what do you mean?” his words stuttered and tripped over his tongue. His half sleeping brain was suddenly running a mile a minute trying to decipher your statement. Who were you fighting? Why would you need to fight them for him? Surely he was more capable of fighting anyone off. He should be protecting you-

“The monsters” you said a little louder. The words feel childish and awkward in your mouth, and once you said them, you wished to take them back. But you decided to push forward, “if you want me to… if you need me… I’m here”

[billyhargrovebabe]

Thank youuu for the tag!! @lovebillyhargrove 💞💞💞 I love reading everyone’s pieces!!

WIP TAG GAME

Rules: Share the latest line however much you want from your work in progress and then tag as many people as there are words in the line as you want.

I’ve got about a hundred half-written Harringrove pieces bc I have commitment issues apparently lol. I also hate my writing but that’s besides the point…

Anyways… here’s one.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Steve knew it was his fault.

The last time he and Billy had been together, he had said the word — blurted it out when their skin was flushed together.

He's in love with Billy Hargrove. Had told Billy so much himself.

And Billy had just gone rigid beneath him, his bright eyes fading into something reserved, something Steve hadn't understood as he pulled himself up from the blond's chest, stricken with panic.

"I'm not— I didn't..."

Billy never responded, not really. He hadn't said those words back, he had just said shut up, pretty boy, and pulled him back down to his body, pressing his lips to Steve's blazing cheek.

He hadn't seen Billy since then, after he had vomited his feelings at the poor guy, when they weren't even official. He knew he was the reason Billy had just disappeared — scared of commitment, not feeling the same way, blah, blah.

It’s been a month. A whole ass month. No golden curls or baby blues in sight.

And sure, he’d noticed the bruises now and then, dusted across Billy’s ribs or occasionally his face, but he’d never thought anything of them other than Billy being Billy. He liked to fight, whether it be Tommy H or some nameless stranger on the other side of town. Billy came with bruises — that was just Billy.

Except he storms into Hopper’s office, ignoring Flo’s protests about it being too early, that the chief’s having his coffee time, and slams the door shut behind him.

“How has a teenager being missing for over a month and you’ve not done a damned thing about it?!” He spits out, not bothering to sit in the chair opposite Hop, that he gestures to.

Hop drinks his coffee so scalding hot that the steam escapes his mouth, blinks sluggishly, and says nothing but a grumpy, “Huh?”

And Steve wants to shout, to scream, why does nobody give a fuck about Billy?! Instead, he stares down the older man with narrowed eyes.

“Billy. Billy Hargrove. He’s been gone an entire month to the day. He could be dead for all I know! And you— you’ve just sat around drinking coffee and eating donuts!”

Hopper sends him this calculated look as he sets his giant mug down on the wooden desk top. Steve’s expecting something — an excuse, a lie — but he’s met with the smoke of the cigarette Hopper plucks from his breast pocket and lights up instead.

He slams a hand down on the desk, the coffee mug jumping at the impact. “There's a loving family back at home for him, who you told there was nothing you could do to find him! What excuse for a chief are you, Hopper?!"

The older man, calmer than a dove floating in the wind, rises to his feet. He yanks open his top drawer, empties the contents on the desk in front of him. Spreads the small squares across the glossy surface.

Steve furrows his brows, seeing the polaroids Hop was spreading out in front of him. He leans closer.

“Does it look like this kid is from a loving family, Steve?”

The smoke he huffs out is sour in Steve’s nostrils, knocks his stomach queasy and leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It sours more when he picks up the first of many and eyes it carefully.

Billy.

He’s looking away from the camera, baby blues focused on the floor, with a bloody and bruised face. One of his arms is held close to his chest, bent at an ungodly angle and his t-shirt is stained, soaked in several places, notably from his dripping nose.

Steve’s stomach violently lurches.

“The kid’s lucky to be alive if I’m being damn honest.”

He picks up another, sees a trail of marks stomped into Billy’s ribs, skin broken in some places and swollen. Blood is etched across his chest, trailing down his neck.

The next is a close up of his face. His bright blue eyes behind splats of bruising, one eye almost closed off entirely as he stares directly into the camera. And his lips — those soft lips that Steve knew well — were cracked with bloodstained teeth poking from behind.

There was still maybe half a dozen more.

He’s never felt so dumb in his life. Being a kid who’s parents were distant to him entirely and permanently disproving of him, he should have spotted the signs. Billy’s dad was a cold-blooded abuser.

The date printed in the corner of each square makes his breath catch in his lungs, that night. The one where Billy fled in the middle of the night after Steve confessed his love for him. He probably got caught sneaking in by his dad because Steve couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut.

“Not convinced? Take a look at the damned report." Hopper jerks, flops down this thick file that claps against the wood of the desk and sends the polaroids flying.

Steve reaches for it, flips it open with a harsh swallow past the lump in his throat.

William 'Billy' Hargrove described the assault against him by his father after coming home late at night. He says he was pushed to the floor and landed on his arm. His father then proceeded to inflict more damage to his body — specifically using the force of his boots against Billy's ribs. Billy explained how the injuries to his face came after his father had picked him up from the floor by his collar, and verbally assaulted him. Finally, Billy left their family home and drove off in his car, to which he was met by Chief Jim Hopper less than an hour later.

His heart thunders in his chest. If he had known— he would’ve done something about the bruises earlier. He would have told Hopper or… shit, he would have even given Billy a key to his house to keep him away from his dad.

“That's no loving family, Steve.”

“I didn’t know,” he confesses to the older man. He lets out a shaky breath, wills the tears in his eyes to stay put. “Is he okay?”

Hop grunts. “He’s fine. He’s safe now.”

“Where is he?”

“That I can’t tell you just yet — for his protection and for the sake of the case. I’m working on the case day and night to get the kid’s old man behind bars. And before you start— he doesn’t appreciate being kept away from everyone either. Especially you.” Hop points his burning smoke pointedly at Steve, his cheeks burn instantly.

“Here…” The older man scribbles on one of his notepads, tears the sheet off before handing it to Steve. “One phone call a day, alright? That’s it.”

Steve nods immediately, catches sight of Hopper’s phone sat on the desk.

“Nuh-uh. You can use your own landline, kid. Don’t want you blocking up my line all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Hop.” Steve spins on the spot, heads for the door with a rush in his steps. He needs to get home and to dial the number, needs to apologise and maybe tell Billy he loves him again now that he’s safe.

“And remember— one call a day only!”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Polaroids will forever be one of my favourite prompts for these boys… this one just went a different way to usual? Don’t hate me lol.

Steve’s an oblivious bean, a little dumb too… but that’s okay — he figures it out eventually. Also, I think y’all can kinda guess where Billy is, no?

Tags:

Everyone who made it this far, this is my personal nomination for you to participate!!