#my final straw is going to be making my own suit blazer BY HAND

[a-la-la-llama]

Officially a twenty-one-year-old today, Damian was being dragged out to a run-down bar by the many annoyances that he was forced to call brothers. “Baby bird’s finally able to have a drink legally! It feels like yesterday when you threatened to stab me.”, he clapped his hand on Damian’s shoulder who immediately shrugged it off, with a far off look Dick sighed. “He did threaten to stab you yesterday.”, Tim corrected. “Tt, not my fault he decided a happy birthday was needed at midnight.” Damian crossed his arms as the group walked in. Jason had frequented the place enough to know the bartenders, who were now giving him crap because of the last time he came and started a bar fight. “Come on Larry, it’s Demon Spawn’s birthday! You can’t kick me out yet?”, trying to persuade the bartender into serving him, Jason threw an arm over Damian’s shoulder. “The infamous Demon Spawn is old enough to join the big boys, eh?”, the bartender asked, cleaning a mug before filling it up with a yellow substance. “Would you believe me if I said I was brought here against my will?”, staring at Larry with a deadpan expression he was handed a cup of beer. “First one’s on the house. It’s gonna taste bad but you’ll get used to it after a couple of rounds.” As if Damian hadn’t tasted alcohol before, it wasn’t hard to go to the middle of Jason’s stashes and fill them with water. After the second bottle of vodka, he was usually too drunk to even notice the difference. Taking a gulp, Damian could hear the cheers from Dick as Tim poured a suspicious amount of whiskey into his coffee mug.

Damian couldn’t be more content that he could now drink, or he would have already been annoyed at how loud and noisy the place was. Or the fact that a group of men were desperately trying to convince a group of girls to join them on the dance floor that was severely crowded and failing pitifully by not taking the hints. Don’t even get him started on those who were on the edge of blacking out and were making a fool of themselves on the dance floor. Tim and Dick had been the first to catch a buzz, one being a light-weight and the other having terrible health choices. Jason had grabbed the two on a mission to see what crazy plans he could pull while they were under the influence. This had not been Damian’s plan, he was spending his birthday sitting alone on a barstool when he would much rather be at home with his beloved fur family members than the human ones. But, he soon found himself on his own personal mission.

She had caught his eye first. He was scanning the crowd trying to locate his brothers in an attempt to convince them it was time to head home. Damian had to do a double-take when he saw her midnight sky hair in the faint yellow glow of the bar. She sat directly across the room from him on a tall table with her head down in what seemed to be a book. He didn’t register how long he had been staring but was pulled back to reality when a drink was placed on the counter. “She’s your age. Real sweet and has been coming here alone for the past two months.” It was none other than Larry the bartender that gave him an all-knowing smile that eerily reminded him of Alfred’s. “Tt. This is going to Drake’s tab, correct?”, jeering his head to the drink. Larry shook his head at the topic change, “I’m just saying you should go talk to her, that’s all.” Damian grumbled, he was an Al Ghul and Wayne, he would never succumb to the embarrassment of pinning after a girl in a bar like some others did around him. Then again, she didn’t have to know that, did she? He doubted he would ever see her again, what harm could come out of it? Damian, no last name, mused about the next following steps he would take.

She felt the presence of a pair of eyes on her. Keeping her head low she hoped the lack of interest in the setting was enough to throw them off. It was a common occurrence actually, what did she expect to happen coming into a place like this by herself. But this felt different somehow, the aura coming with the gaze made her distracted. She fiddled with Plagg’s ring, located on her right hand’s pointing finger, spinning it around. She adorned the leather as it was much more suited for the dark city of Gotham than her spots. The night vision was an added bonus that came in handy when traveling around at night and the sassy talks she had with Plagg. She had felt the eyes travel off her for a moment before they were right back on her. Now she couldn’t even focus enough to remember what she was just about to write. Frustrated, she tapped her foot impatiently on the chairs stepping stool. That she hated to admit she used to get up and her foot barely reached it. To her wit's end, she snapped her head up only to meet the most beautiful emerald green eyes she had ever seen. With newfound inspiration, she drowned herself back into her book.

Damian hadn’t expected her to snap her head up so quickly as she did, nor did he expect her to stare right at him when she did. Though, he couldn’t have been happier that she did, especially taking into account the lovely pair of doe eyes he was able to stare into at the moment. Her eyes were similar to a clear sky’s baby blue color but not as dull. It was almost like they had a certain electrifying touch to them because they seemed to glow in the dimly lit area. As if on the verge of catching fire at any given moment, holding a world of secrets and passions that he desperately wanted to uncover. Her eyes left him as quickly as they came leaving a void in his vision. The strange girl that captivated all of his attention in a blink of an eye without even knowing it, dove her head back down. He gave himself a sly grin.

Step One: Catch her Eye. Check

“I’d like-“, before he can even turn and ask Larry he already pulled two drinks out of nowhere and they were resting on the counter. “Good luck! Don’t make me regret this.”, lectured Larry. Mustering up his courage, Damian took a drink in each hand before making his way across the bar. Thankfully, his brothers were nowhere in sight and couldn’t possibly ruin this for him, yet that is. He set the drinks down with two little clinks, drawing her attention from her book to him. “Mind if I sit here with you?”, implored Damian gesturing to the open stool next to her. “I assume you brought me offerings to bargain with?” Damian almost short-circuited with how cute her voice sounded. “O-of course!” He mentally cursed himself at the small stutter but covered it up by handing her a drink. Damian noticed how one cup held a pink bendy straw and gave that one to her. She didn’t take a drink until she got a nod from Larry behind the bar. It wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last time someone offered a drugged drink, but Larry always kept an eye out for her and said it was safe. “I’m Damian.” She nodded, “Marinette.” He felt a smile creep onto his face,” Nice to meet you, Marinette.” The name gracefully rolled off his tongue.

Step Two: Catch her name. Check.

Once out of his stupor he realized she had once again returned into the book. Peering over her shoulder (out of curiosity not to get closer to her, never!) , he noticed it was filled with intricate drawings with French notes written in the margins. “Isn’t that French?”, he questioned, “Are you not from Gotham.” She scribbled something down before looking up and answering. “It is and nope! I lived in Paris all my life until four years ago.” He pondered for a moment, “Any reason why?” The girl squirmed in her seat, ‘Dammit Damian! Now you made her uncomfortable, she hates you!’ She twirled her ring a couple of times, “I needed a change of pace and couldn't take living there anymore. So I packed up and left.” Damian could tell it wasn’t something she shared with most people and wondered what made him different. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, he relished in the fact he was able to catch some of her secrets though it wasn’t what he was after at the moment. Taking another glance at what she was doing he realized that she was drawing in a sketchbook that seemed to be filled with countless articles of clothing. “Is this a hobby of yours?”, he asked pointing at a model sketch. She looked up at him and seemed to beam, “I’m an up and coming fashion designer! I come here every day to find inspiration! You won’t believe how many different styles you can see here!” Damian had found what caused the spark in her eyes and listened to her ramble about it happily.

Step Three: Start a Flame. Check!

She excitedly explained all the little details in her most recent designs and provided reasons and meanings behind each one. He hadn’t meant to read the margin notes of the dark green peacoat that was drawn with intricate gold embroidery. “Is this one from me?”, he questioned with a sly grin and side glance. Damian noticed how the color of her cheeks and the tips of her ears, that were now exposed as she tucked her hair behind them, turned a dark pink compared to her pale skin. The contrast helped him realize how her face was dotted with freckles that resembled constellations in his mind. A smile crept upon his face again, “I had already drawn the jacket but couldn’t decide on a color scheme. When I looked at you earlier, I concluded that you had really pretty eyes.”, she admitted mumbling the last sentence. Marinette was tense now and caused Damian to be determined to lighten the mood. “You know what they call a jacket on fire, right?” The random question threw her off as she furrowed her eyebrows together before raising one. “A blazer.” Nonchalantly as possible, he grabbed his drink and took a swig as the joke settled in. He admitted it wasn’t the best but was still rewarded greatly. A smile graced her lips before she burst into a fit of giggles, hiding her blush behind her hand. He was left catching his breath at the sweet sound of her laughs tinkled like bells in his ears. Completing his final step.

Step Four: Catch a Smile. Check!

Damian had not expected to get this far based on his track record. No matter how much the press gossiped about his looks and mysterious charm, he was never good at the social and relationship points in life. Damian would admit that the main problem was his inability to adjust to the variety of people’s personalities. Yet, this small slip of a girl who was an incarnation of pure sunshine made it feel so easy. His usually cold, harsh, and stoic demeanor vanished once in her presence. Damian felt like an entirely different person but found himself liking the new one better. His mind raced a million miles a minute on what else he could possibly do as they continued to talk. ‘Would it be weird if he tried to hold her hand? Maybe he could get a dance with her? What was a good way to catch her number? It’s dark he should definitely offer to walk her home. Getting a date didn’t sound bad either.’

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

Damian realized the girl sitting next to him was already five steps ahead of him on her own mission. She had already caught all of his feelings and his heart in the hour they spent together. He knew she knew it too as she gave him a pleased smirk. Damian Al Ghul Wayne had his heart stolen from him right under his nose.

And he had no intention of taking it back.      Next!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aged up Daminette that I wrote about at 12 am....Enjoy?

[deathonyourtongue]

You Mean the World to Me

Summary: The house feels like a tomb. Three years to the day, you stand in front of the mirror, smoothing out your black silk blouse and spraying down a flyaway or two with a touch more hair spray. Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader Word Count: 4K Warnings: HEAVY angst. Non-fappable Smut. A/N: Remember when I said this one would get better? I lied. The song for this one is: Freya Ridings - You Mean the World To Me

The house feels like a tomb. Three years to the day, you stand in front of the mirror, smoothing out your black silk blouse and spraying down a flyaway or two with a touch more hair spray. You double-check that your mascara is waterproof, and that your lipstick isn’t on your teeth. 

With a deep, shaking breath, you force yourself to look in the mirror, knowing appearances matter today. It’s why you asked Henry to tie his hair back and trim his beard, if only a little. Though the gathering itself is private, you know better than to think your husband won’t be photographed on the way there and back, despite all effort being made to keep things secret. 

After all, Henry hasn’t been photographed since landing at Heathrow all those years ago, and the public is voracious in its curiosity. 

You give a soft smile to his reflection as he steps up behind you, looking dapper in an all-black suit. Nearly back to the size you remember him being, the only indicators that things have changed for Henry, are so subtle most wouldn’t even notice. Fine lines map the grief on his face, connecting seamlessly to the fetching swaths of gray in his hair, and ink stains beneath his azurite gaze mark the innumerous sleepless nights and long, taxing days. It’s the emptiness, however, that shows the true extent of the damage. Smiles no longer reach his eyes, if they manage to present themselves at all. Words are carefully selected and thoughtfully spoken in a soft, hushed tone that lacks any true animation. 

The man you knew, the one who brought light to every room he entered, has been extinguished and all that remains are the pieces of a heart battered to a pulp by a cruel fate.

No matter how barbaric life has been towards him, however, one thing it has never taken is his gentility. Though Henry goes through the motions in every other area of his life, with you he is painfully tender, doting, and attentive. He goes out of his way to ensure you want for nothing, and he’s never short on the little gestures that move mountains. Each morning you’re awoken with a kiss, and each night he makes sure the sheets are wrapped up around you just how you like. He does everything around the house, leaving you free to heal in your own time, never once so much as asking for help. 

For all the gentleness he exudes, below it lays the torment, and each day it rises, drowning Henry slowly. Just as you notice the tenderness with which he treats you, it’s hard to miss the way he neglects himself. Aside from maintaining his physique (something you’re almost certain he does solely for the benefit of friends and family), he’s given up on almost everything he had a passion for. Figures sit in their original packaging, waiting to be painted. The TV is rarely switched to something he enjoys, forever tuned to your channels instead. Books gather dust, and his riding gear has long been stored away in the recesses of a closet somewhere in the house, never to be seen again. The only thing he still takes a smattering of time to enjoy are his games, and you don’t need to ask to know the ‘why’ behind it. Even a drowning man needs to shut his brain off, and slipping into another world is the easiest way to do so. 

“Ready, my love?” He whispers, your heart breaking all over again for him as you take in the thin line of his lips, pressing tightly into a smile against what you know is a clenched jaw. Henry’s always on the brink of tears and it’s more than evident how hard he fights it for you. 

Today will be harder on him than anyone else, as he never got to say goodbye. Never got to hold the daughter he helped create. Never truly got to grieve her loss. It makes you feel selfish in comparison, though he would never accuse you of such. 

He holds up your black blazer for you to slip your arms through, his hands careful and gentle as they smooth the material over your shoulders. You close your eyes as he opens his mouth to speak again, knowing what’s coming. 

“You look beautiful, darling.” 

It’s hard to understand why he even still cares for you after everything you’ve put him through and the guilt threatens to cut off your air as you turn and gaze up at the man you love more than anything. Straightening his tie, you shake your head, frowning. 

“You don’t need to say nice things to me. Not today.” Lip quivering, you rest your hand over his heart for a moment before walking out of the room, giving Henry the privacy you know he needs to compose himself. His tell is the small vein next to his eye, one that only strains when he can no longer bear to fight. You wish you could make it disappear forever, but you don’t know how. He won’t let you in, won’t let you carry even a pocketful of the load he’s been hauling for years; the weight that’s slowly sinking him past the point of no return. 

Clutching your own heart as you hear him turn on the faucet to mask the sounds of his tears, you wonder, not for the first time, if this gathering won’t be the straw that breaks him for good. Breathing deeply, you fight your own heartbreak, willing yourself to be the rock for once. 

Henry grips your hand tightly in his as you and the rest of the attendants walk briskly through the gates of Brompton, ignoring the cries of photographers, all clamoring to get their first pictures of Henry in three years. His brothers shield you both from the brunt of it, but it still leaves you feeling dizzy and out of sorts, even when you reach the relative privacy of the chapel. 

After regrouping, your small gathering of friends and family head towards the gravestone Henry’s mother had dutifully commissioned and overseen the installation of. Neither of you had any input, you because of the condition you were in, and Henry because he couldn’t even bear to hear it spoken of without having a full panic attack.

Though appropriately small, the onyx headstone brings tears to your eyes immediately, due to the detail in the angel that lays atop it, the artist having mixed the gray stone statue seamlessly with wispy clouds at the top of the polished black granite. It’s the first time you’ve seen your daughter’s name written anywhere, and it instantly knocks the wind from your lungs, leaving you wobbling. 

Henry’s strong arms hold you up until you can find your footing again, tucking you in close to his side as any hope of being the strong one, of fighting against the painful memories is lost. Crying softly into the lapel of his jacket, you wonder how he’s able to hold it together, until you remember that he’s had three years of practice, three years of putting his pain dead last in the list of priorities. Still, it’s impossible to miss the tremor in his hands and the subtle rocking of his body as he valiantly picks up the fight you’ve already lost.

None of the speeches reach your ears, your eyes focused entirely on the gravestone, your mind replaying the sole image of your daughter in your thoughts over and over again. Gripping Henry’s suit tightly, you remember how serene her face was, how perfectly formed in every way she had been; how much you yearned for her to take her first breath and let out a cry. 

As the ceremony ends and the small crowd begins to disperse, you feel Henry pull away, handing you off to one of his brothers with an encouraging nod and words you can barely make out. You don’t fight it, no matter how much you wish he’d let you stay, let you into his grief. If nothing else, he’s earned the right of saying goodbye to the daughter he so longed for, the one he never got to meet, in private. Looking over your shoulder, fresh tears stream down your face as you watch your husband fall to his knees. His scream is silent, one hand gripping his own head in a vice, the other clutching the headstone as though it were a life preserver in a raging sea.  You’ve never seen a man more broken and for the first time, you wonder if Henry will survive this at all. One thought runs through your head on repeat as you’re ushered into one of the black sedans in the small convoy.

He didn’t deserve this. None of it. It was all your fault. 

In the days that follow, Henry’s doting becomes almost unbearable. You walk on eggshells around him and he cares for you like fine crystal, both of you terrified that the other will shatter, never to be repaired. Yet, despite your reticence to be looked after, your growing anger that he won’t let you help in any way, you can’t, in good conscience, keep him from carrying out his daily rituals, knowing it’s all he has. 

Henry treats each kiss from you as though it will be his last, lips lingering on yours just a little longer than necessary. When you hug, it’s as though you’re imbuing him with just enough energy to make it through another day. You quickly realize that aside from you, he has nothing tethering him to life. Despite his family being ever caring and concerned, despite friends doing their best to rally around him, it seems as though Henry is simply waiting to draw his last breath, waiting for his heart to finally give out under all the pressure. The only reason he doesn’t let go is because you’re still here. You wish once more that he would just give over some of his pain, allow himself some small relief, no matter how quickly it came and went.

You catch him crying silently at his computer one morning, his favorite game paused in favor of gazing out the window. Breaths shallow and scratchy, it’s as though each inhale lacerates his windpipe. It’s an image you know will be burned into your memory forever, and before you can stop yourself, you’re pulling him into your arms, holding fast as he does his best to wrestle out of your grip in order to wipe his eyes and pretend like everything is fine. 

“What’s the matter, love?” He asks, his voice that of a drowning man, Henry managing to push you far away enough to see your face. The fear and shame in his eyes startles you, but it’s the smile, so tender and compassionate that plunges the knife straight into your heart. 

“Stop this.” You beg, your own tears falling furiously as you cup his face in your hands, despairing when his eyes soften and the kindness in them focuses directly on you. 

“I’m okay, my love. I promise.” Even as he says the words, Henry’s face crumples and the floodgates finally give way. All the fight leaves him and his body goes limp in your arms before every muscle tenses back up as though made of stone.

You hold him tightly as it all comes rushing out, Henry’s keening wail muffled against your sternum, his anguish palpable in a way you’ve never experienced before, even on the night your memory came back to you. 

“Why?” The question leaves his lips like a mantra and at first, you think he’s just asking rhetorically, but when he manages to look up at you, it’s clear he wants an answer. 

“Why did you go through it all alone? Why didn’t you have them call me?” Henry says between gasps for air, his chest heaving as the hurt comes through full force. The realization that he went through three years’ worth of suffering without ever truly knowing why, hammers the knife back into your heart and leaves you momentarily speechless.

“It was my responsibility to keep her safe and I...I failed,” you whimper, the pain simmering through every inch of your chest. “It was the one thing you wanted more than anything, Henry, and I fucked it all up. It was my fault. It was all my fault!” 

He crushes you to him, shaking his head, unwilling to accept the answer as fact. You sob into the crook of his neck, the same panic you’d felt that night coming back in breathtaking speed. Henry’s tenderness radiates in waves, and while his own tears don’t slow, his body relaxes some, secure in the new knowledge he finally possesses. You feel his lips press to the crown of your head, one hand squeezing the nape of your neck gently while the other does laps up and down your spine, Henry putting himself on the back-burner yet again. 

“It was never, ever your fault, my love. The doctor said it would have happened regardless of how closely you’d been monitored. Sometimes life is just cruel, but it was never your fault. I will never blame you for the loss of our child. Never. I just wish...I wish I could have b-been there to h-help you th-through it.” 

The ache in his voice pulls another whimper from your lips and as you finally get your wish and take on some of his burden, you realize how grave an error in judgement you’d made that night. Trying to keep him from the pain of loss had only amplified it exponentially for both of you. 

Days turn to weeks, and little by little, you move back into a familiar comfort with one another. Gone are the eggshells, replaced with wine, movies, and the occasional dance in the kitchen while dinner is cooking. You’re healing, falling in love all over again, but Henry...Henry’s lagging behind. 

Though he no longer hides his bad days from you, and they do indeed get less frequent, you can’t help but notice what seems to be a permanent change in the man you love. Like a soldier after an arduous tour of duty, Henry seems to let life just come at him without any reasonable reaction. Good or bad, he remains placid, eyes always holding the sadness you’re now certain will never truly leave him. Though his smiles get brighter, they still don’t reach his gaze, at times leaving you uncertain of whether he’s genuinely experiencing happiness or just watching it pass him by as though it were a paper boat on a lazy river. 

It's most apparent at night when he watches you get ready for bed. You’ve grown comfortable enough with him that changing in front of him is no longer something to blush about, and though it took a while to get back in the habit, you now do so every night without a second thought. It was silly, really, when you considered that he’d been solely responsible for your care for two years. You were horrified to learn the details of said care, having never wanted to put Henry in such a position, but he’d merely shrugged it off as though it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“It was never a question in my mind, love. You’re my wife. My responsibility is first and foremost to your care and happiness. I couldn’t leave that in the hands of anyone else.”

Disrobing in front of him is about as intimate as you get nowadays, but not for lack of trying. Every little spot you remembered from before has been kissed and caressed in the hopes of rousing him to attention. Each time, Henry will gently stop you, his eyes filled with shame and regret despite the tender smile of understanding. Logically, he knows you want to be intimate again, wants that part of your relationship to come back, but he can’t bring himself to do it, fearing a repeat of history. You know, because it’s the same fear you tamp down each time you try, hoping that this time will be different. 

So when his soft voice breaks through the otherwise-silent room one night, it catches you off guard. 

“Let me see you,” Henry whispers, his expression holding something different in it as you turn to face him. Brow somewhat furrowed, his eyes carry a mixture of awe and longing as he lets his gaze slip over your nude form. Your heart clenches when you see his eyes shimmer with tears, Henry’s mouth parted softly, as though he’s breathing his last. 

Sitting up against the headboard, hands folded in his lap, he smiles fondly as his gaze meets yours once more. You don’t dare speak, letting him have his fill, knowing this the most he’s tried to do in a long, long time. Henry lets out a shaky sigh, and the tears slip down his cheeks, making your heart ache. 

“You’re breathtaking. Simply breathtaking, in every way.” 

Your own lip quivers as you take a step forward, hoping against hope that this is what he needs to heal that much further. 

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” you murmur, cupping his face in your hand, your fingers scratching gently at the beard that’s become more familiar than the once-smooth face you remember. 

Henry laughs softly, and it’s as though the heavens have opened up. Gazing into each other’s eyes, you find the courage to say what’s been on your mind for the last few days. 

“I miss us. I miss making love, Henry. I miss feeling you inside me. More than anything though, I miss us not being afraid of each other like this. I want to try again, Henry. I want another chance at…” You can’t finish, the words turning into the faintest of whispers as you wait for his reaction your own tears sliding down your face. 

“I’m scared. Scared of things going wrong, scared of not being there again.” Henry admits, his voice pinching as he looks up at you helplessly. “Scared that I’ll lose you.” 

“I am too, Henry. But I’m more scared of losing us than anything else. I can handle anything fate wants to throw in our faces if I have you by my side. I know that now. But I can’t sit by and watch our love die because we’re too scared to nurse it back to life after a storm.” 

You’re taken by surprise when Henry reaches up and cups the back of your neck, bringing you down for a tender kiss so filled with desperate yearning, it leaves you breathless. Without hesitation, he pulls you into his lap, deepening the contact. Blindly, you reach up and undo the band holding Henry’s hair in place. You want every part of him to be free, including the wild mane of curls he normally keeps pristinely tied back. It seems to release something inside him because before you know it, you’re on your back and he’s shimmying out of the lounge pants he wears to bed. 

His lips light a path all along your body, desire mixed with a deep-seated longing for the physical intimacy he hasn’t experienced in years. Where most men would have tried to get back at it at the first opportunity, Henry was saintly in his patience, waiting for you to be comfortable, to be ready, to initiate. Turning you down had never been his intention; just a knee-jerk reaction to an overabundance of pain that he’s still trying to cope with. 

Your hands card through his curls as you let him learn your body anew, let him come to terms with his fears as he kisses, licks, and sucks every inch of you. Sounds of relief escape between panting breaths, relief not only that he can still be with you in this way, but that he’s not as broken as he’d assumed. Your own hand sliding down slowly from his hip confirm that at least one of his fears has been assuaged and you don’t miss the flicker of excitement and arousal in his blue eyes as he feels your touch. 

Henry comes back to your lips, kissing with more energy and passion than you’ve felt since waking, each physical display of love mending your heart a little more. Finally, the man you remember is returning. Little by little, your husband, the other half of your soul, is coming back to you. It’s enough to bring fresh tears to your eyes, tears you blink away quickly, not wanting them to ruin the moment. Henry doesn’t miss it however, kissing them away and making you whimper. 

Meeting your gaze, he poses a final question silently, and you can only manage to nod, unable to so much as think of saying no. 

It’s different than you remember; better. He takes his time, his sole focus on your pleasure, even while you’re focused on his. The kisses amplify every thrust, your hips moving as one, connected mind, body, and soul. It isn’t long before your both coated in a thin sheen of sweat, eyes locked on one another as you move towards release together. 

The heated ache at your core only grows as Henry slips your legs over his broad shoulders, intentionally deepening every movement he makes inside you. Mouth parted, you can only watch your husband in awe as he works your body from memory, knowing exactly what feels right. 

It doesn’t take much for either of you to reach your peaks, time away from the primal act causing every sensation to be intensified, and it’s not until your gazes lock once more that you realize you’ll both fall over the edge together.

The gravity of what’s happening hits the two of you immediately after the first wave of pleasure, but it’s too late; there’s nothing to be done for it. You squeeze Henry’s hands, begging him to meet your gaze once more, but his own eyes are tightly shut. 

He keeps them closed as he lifts your right leg over his head, bringing it to join your left at his shoulder. Your tears come unbidden as you realize what he’s doing. 

“Henry!” You squeak out, gripping his hand tighter, beside yourself with the amount of love you feel for your husband, the fear of the future, and the hope that this time, it’ll work out better than it did the first time. 

Henry finally opens his eyes, his gaze meeting yours for a moment before he closes them again, sobbing. His free hand strokes your calf gently, his other shaking in your grip, and when he finally speaks, you can hear the release of his heart as clearly as you’d felt the release of his seed moments earlier. 

“I love you so much! You mean the world to me.”

[vaingloriosa]

dulce bellum inexpertis

Summary: War is sweet to those who have never fought.

Word count: 1.7k

Characters: John Wick, neutral reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence (not too gore-y aka my haemophobia (fear of blood) keeps me at bay), fatal attraction perhaps?

Author’s note: this was requested by @bikuai!! and HELLO! this is my first story written under my new username. i know it has been a hot minute since i’ve written something for y’all and i thank you 3000 for sticking by my side! i do have some more tricks up my sleeves so i hope you stick around for that :) be sure to check out my masterlist link in my description!

Deep breath.

Nothing that you do can alleviate your racing heart from pounding against your chest. Even after a few gigs like this, you still haven’t honed in on your skill of being a professional assassin. Not many people hire such a liability since you have only been in the game for a few months now. Low-level kills were more within your comfort zone thus why you were freaking out right this very minute, this very second, this very moment.

Sitting across the bar sat John Wick, the Baba Yaga himself.

Rumor has it that he could kill a man by just merely staring at them.

Your blood runs cold, sending a fresh goose flesh in its wake. You stir your drink with the straw provided, watching the cherry bob in and out of the liquid. The music coming from the orchestra drowns out most of your heartbeats but you can’t seem to focus much on anything but. However, you remember the money reward for his head and with the tight rut that you currently found yourself in, you weren’t going to go down without a fight. Even if you thought you were weak, you know you are not a quitter.

Your eyes catch your reflection on the mirror behind the bar and observe the rest of the crowd. Nothing too out of the ordinary except everyone in the room is an assassin looking to seek out revenge on the excommunicated Wick along with that cash money reward. You take a sip out of your drink after you were done playing with the maraschino cherry in it. The drink does little to take the edge off but you enjoy the sensation you get from just one sip. You lick the seam of your bottom lip, savoring the taste of cherry. You look inconspicuously through your peripheral vision and catch another sight of the man of the hour. The way his suit snugged in all the right places, how the worn and battle-torn face looks good on him, his hair reflecting against the light of the chandelier...

The blade and the handgun concealed against your garment reminds you of the reason why you’re here.

You take a bigger gulp of your drink.

Just as the orchestra pauses for a second to move onto the next selection, you hear shuffling behind you. As you look up to check in the mirror, there’s a loud declaration in a language that you aren’t familiar with that rings through the hall. A tall man in an all dark suit raises a gun fixed with a silencer at the barrel towards John. Others draw their own weapons from their blazers and jackets and all crowd around the bar. You watch as the orchestra members begin to scatter out the room and flee to somewhere far, far away from the shit that will soon unfold.

Ever unwavering, John continues to stare down at his glass of whiskey that has remained untouched when he got here. Slowly, he brings the glass closer to his lips then takes a modest sip. You spin slowly from your stool to stand up and raise your own handgun towards his direction and join the others.

“Now,” says the assassin who first started the commotion in a thick, heavy accent, “shall we begin?”

Without missing a single beat, a bullet pierces between the man’s eyes. Then, all hell breaks loose.

You have one advantage in this fight, you aren’t as cocky as the rest of them.

As the others pay attention towards the man of the hour, you dive behind the bar. You had noticed the bartender slip away earlier for he knew the tension was becoming overwhelming at best. The glasses that lined the bar shatter as bullets fly almost everywhere but the main target. You peer over the bar as cover then try to get a hit of your own. Of course you bullet whizzes behind John’s head while he tackles another man to the ground. You duck again when you hear the sound of bullet coming then colliding with the mirror, causing it to break into several million pieces. In a small window of clarity, you wonder if all this fighting is worth the money.

Then again, you remind yourself of the status this can bring you and how your life can finally improve after this. You take another deep breath then join the rest of the mob. It’s significantly smaller from before but at least you made it this far from being strategic.

Maybe being a coward does have its perks.

You recognize some of the faces of the rest of the assassins, some of legendary status within the organization. You’ve heard stories about them, wondered if you would leave such a legacy if you really applied yourself to your job. You could almost admire them if you weren’t after the same target and money. You draw your gun once more and fire at John but as quick as your bullets may be, he’s quicker and dodges them effortless all the while being with another opponent.

Even you have to applaud such skill and technique where need be.

You’re nearly blindsided as a man near your right shoves you right into a wooden cocktail table. You wince at the pain but bury the pain as you deliver two bullets to the unfamiliar assailant. Perhaps they may have been on your level, thirsty for a big game kill as yourself.

Though you may be weak, you are not a quitter.

You do what you have to do to get to the prize.

Now there are only five people left standing. John looks unfazed by the situation, continuing to throw blows and bullets in each of his attackers. Each assassin seems to drop like flies until it’s just you, another, and him. The other, a woman, begins to deliver blows to his chest with her heavy boots, making John walk backwards until he is pinned up against the bar. You know the woman isn’t going to let you have this kill at all but you still try and take a shot while she reaches for the gun holstered on her belt

Click. The sounds of an empty chamber.

You toss the empty gun aside then grab the blade you packed beforehand. You feel almost uncomfortable with it in your hand, preferring your gun over this any day but sometimes you have to improvise.

You give it a twirl in your hands then securely wrap your fingers around the handle like your life depends on it.

The sound of a bullet rings through the room and you watch as the woman’s body limps on the floor, making a disgusting sound as it makes impact on the tile. You chest rises then falls as your breath quickens once you are face-to-face with the man you are tasked to kill.

He’s dangerous, he’s hell, he’s every nightmare and haunting lore from your childhood. He stands tall with his shoulders squared to you, intimidating, intriguing. Your lips part slightly at the sight of him, how the room smells of copper and death yet here you are, wondering if the money is still worth the pain.

You let out a deafening scream then charge forward into war.

A hero’s harrowing journey.

Perhaps you may have always been predictable but this level of forethought on John’s part is otherworldly. Every blow you deliver is blocked by his quick reflexes and you wonder if you are even tiring the man out. You try to elbow John to strike at that chiseled jaw of his but, lo and behold, his arm pushes you away from him. You slightly stumble yet you don’t give up just yet. You weren’t the last one standing for no reason.

You get a slight running start from the stumble then wrap a leg on his shoulder, using your upper body strength to spin him around towards the bar. You drive your knife into the blade of his shoulder yet he still doesn’t go down. You release the tension from your muscles as you predict that John will slam your back against the counter top. Some of his blood splatters on your face as he attacks you, shoving his arm to your neck in an attempt to knock you out. You struggle underneath the overwhelming power he has over you, in both strength and experience. You try to fling your legs across John’s waist but he pins you down even harder at your attempt. With the near body slam, your knife slid across the counter top away from you.

You were now defenseless.

Yet you still carried hope.

The tiny glass shards begin to tear into your body as John presses your back further and further. You can taste the familiar copper twang inside your mouth, feeling yourself become lightheaded as John constricts your airways. Maybe this is how you die, at the hands of your side job that no one in your family knew about, in the hands of a rather handsome fugitive you were tasked to kill.

Perhaps this is destiny.

Your eyes meet his as you struggle for breath. His eyes are dark, in the shadows of his rather long jet black hair. Some strands are matted to his face from the lacerations that the others gave him. You can tell he is struggling to keep his composure with his arm slightly wavering from the jabs of your knife. John almost growls when his eyes lock into yours.

The stars begin to dance in front of your line of vision.

Then the pressure is off your neck.

You gasp for air, your hands instinctively wrapping themselves around your neck to make sure nothing is off. You grip the edge of the bar, nearly clawing at it as you try to lift yourself away. The sound of heavy leather shoes hitting the tiled floor is the only thing that echoes besides your straggled breathing.

“Why...?” Your raspy voice is barely above a whisper and you know the man clearly can’t hear you.

Had this been an act of mercy or something out of pity?

You slump down until you are seated on the floor with your back against the bar. The double doors shut close behind John as he makes his escape with his life.

You take another sharp breath in.

The stars begin to dance in front of your line of vision.

Tagging: @kwaiky, @cura-posterior (on SPIDER-MAN dori you are a keanu reeves stan now)

[s-horne]

25. National Wine Day

It had been one of those days. The kind that had seemed like it was going on forever and ever and that it would never end. There had been meeting after meeting in the morning, an investors meal with a bunch of dinosaurs that had spent the entire afternoon making snide comments towards Tony that he wasn’t allowed to snap back to, and then he’d ripped one of his favourite shirts on his way to meet Steve. 

The whole day had been a disaster and it was a reminder of why Tony used to drink. The slight tremor in his hand only got worse as he got more frustrated and the urge to throw himself off the wagon with an insane amount of strength was getting harder to control. 

Eighteen months sober and he was still struggling with remembering why when the resignation started to set in. It would be so easy to just give in and pour a bottle down his throat. Any stress he’d had, any worries or angers that had built up throughout the day would all vanish for one blissful evening.

The only thing that kept him going was the date that he and Steve had planned. 

The whole thing had blossomed out of the blue. Steve and Tony had known each other for years, had always moved in the same circles thanks to mutual friends, but they’d never clicked particularly specially. Until one day when Tony had seemed to wake up and seen what had been staring him in the face. 

 *

“Can I get you any drinks?” 

Tony couldn’t help his flinch. Six days out of seven, the question didn’t bother him, but on that final one, it was the worst one of all. 

Steve reached out across the table top and took his hand. “No, thank you,” he answered the waiter, perfectly casually as though nothing was wrong. His thumb soothed over the back of Tony’s hand. “Just water for the table at the moment.”

When the waiter had left, Tony slumped. “I’m sorry. You can have something if you want.”

“I’m debating it,” Steve said and before Tony could feel too betrayed, he carried on. “My options are a cola or a lemonade. Tricky decisions to be made.”

Tony’s lips curved into a grin, relief crashing over him. He squeezed Steve’s hand and relaxed. “I’d go lemonade; it’s a little lighter. I think I’ll get some sort of juice.”

“Good choice. Orange?”

“I’m feeling frisky tonight. Maybe grapefruit.”

 //

“Oh, shit!” Tony froze in horror as he felt liquid pour down his back, ice cubes bouncing to the floor and goosebumps prickling over his skin. “Cold. That was cold. Holy shit; it’s so cold.” 

“Oh my God!” The voice from behind Tony was more like a shriek, terrified and wobbly. There was no movement for a long moment, the restaurant suddenly silent around them. As an entire tray of drinks soaked through his blazer, Tony sat perfectly still in a weak attempt to lessen the impact. “I’m sorry. Oh, god. I’m so, so sorry. I tripped over the chair leg – I couldn’t see over the tray and… I’m – oh, God.” 

Tony winced as the cold liquid dripped down his spine, shirt sticking to his back. He let his eyes fall closed and tried desperately to count to ten instead of just leaping into the air and yelling.

“It’s okay,” he managed to stutter out. The suit was an old one and he didn’t particularly care about it. What Tony did care about was the smell of alcohol thick in the air and dancing up to his nose. “Let me just…”

It was all he needed on a day like the one he’d had.

Tony felt rooted to the spot, anger burning in the pit of his stomach at his rotten luck, even as Steve jumped up from his chair to help.

“No, Sir,” the waitress hastened to say, springing into action. “Please sit down. One of the glasses broke – I can’t have you hurt yourself on it. It’s okay, I can manage.”

“Look at this mess. Ugh, this shit is going to stain.” Tony plucked at the wet material sticking to his shoulder and crinkled his nose. Disappointment set in, curling its way around his shoulders just as the alcohol was doing. It seeped down to bones, the coldness more pleasurable than the taunt of the booze. It was an assault on his senses as dozens of unique scents twisted together and beckoned Tony in. A siren’s call. “Just the perfect end to my day.”

“I’m so sorry, Sir.” The girl quickly threw her empty tray onto the table with a loud thud. She bent down and started to pick up the fallen glasses, pieces of fruit, and straws that littered the floor. Her hands shook as she did, glasses chinking against each other in an almost deafening symphony. “I really didn’t mean to do it.”

Tony’s head was spinning. The stench of booze was almost overpowering and the image of spending one-too-many nights in the same drenched clothes sprung to his mind. He had been doing so well to not end up back in that state and yet, of course, it had happened. Perfectly innocently, but it had happened nonetheless.

On a date with Steve, even, which was the very last place that Tony would have ever wished to have a panic attack. One was definitely starting; he could feel it in the way his breathing changed pattern and the pricking at the back of his neck. He was either going to be sick or start crying.

Neither of those options were attractive, but they were also a damn sight better than turning around and licking his own shoulder.

“No, seriously it’s fine. It’s only a bit of alcohol,” he said, any anger he felt softening when he looked down and saw the expression on the waitress’s face. He swallowed thickly and forced his next words out. “It never hurt anyone.” 

“I’m going to get fired,” the waitress said, sniffing loudly, down on her hands and knees. “I really didn’t mean to, Sir.”

“Oh, hey.” Tony got off his chair quickly and bent down next to her. As harsh as it was, her pain gave Tony something to focus on and he tried to channel his energy into comforting the young girl. “Don’t cry. It’s fine! Come on, you won’t get fired. I won’t let them fire you.”

She sniffed and wiped her nose with her forearm, shaking her head. Before she could protest, Tony shook his arm, little droplets of sticky cocktails flying out, and plastered on a smile he didn’t feel.

“It’s just liquid. It will come out.” Tony paused and squinted, twisting to look up at Steve. “It will come out, won’t it?”

When Steve nodded slowly, clearly a little stunned, Tony turned back to the waitress. “See? We’re all good. Hey. Come on. It was just a mistake. They happen. Not to me, granted, but they happen.”

Even as he gave a cheeky smile, Tony shivered as the cold of the drinks started to set in. He was going to needed at least seven showers with the water turned as high as it could go in order to scrub himself clean. Not only did he need to get rid of the sticky juice that made up the cocktails, but he needed to never smell those tell-tale scents of booze on his body again.

Just being that close to the mixture of smells was making his heart pound and his stomach churned threateningly. Concentrating on their waitress hadn’t helped him enough and Tony could still feel the burning threat of a panic attack. He could also feel Steve’s worried stare boring into the side of his head.

“You’re fine,” Tony said to the waitress, trying to convince her as much as himself, refusing to look back. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

It was true. It wasn’t as true as Tony would have liked, but it wasn’t a complete lie either.

Because it was only alcohol, after all. Tony could do it; he could manage a little shot of booze trickling down his back. As long as he didn’t fall back into that trap, so long as he didn’t turn his head and poke out his tongue. He shook his head sharply and stood up. When Steve made to follow him, still eerily silent, Tony held up a hand.

He needed to be on his own.

“I’m just gonna go clean up and dry off. It’s fine. Have you got this clean-up?”

The young girl sniffed loudly and nodded. “Yes, Sir. Again, I’m really–”

“It’s not a problem,” Tony said with a calmness he was nowhere near to feeling. “It never hurt anybody.”

 //

 As Tony walked back to their table, he noticed that Steve was staring up at him with a soft smile on his face.

“What?” Tony asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He’d been gone for a while, scrubbing desperately at his back to try and remove as much of the alcohol as he could. Though probably not the best thing for the material, Tony had dumped his shirt in the sink and wet it through before doing his best to dry it under the hand-dryer. It had worked quite well, but he’d discarded his blazer completely. It was far too thick and he didn’t have a chance of getting the stench of booze out in a restaurant’s bathroom with cheap hand soap and not much else.

“Nothing,” Steve said lightly, not losing his smile as he lifted his water to his lips and took a long sip.

Tony squinted at him in disbelief, but gave in without fighting. As he pulled his chair out slowly and sat down, he was relieved to see that all traces of the accident had been cleaned up. His chair was dry, there was no debris of fallen drinks on the floor, and their tablecloth had been changed.

“Seriously,” Tony said when he looked back up to see Steve still smiling at him. “What?”

“You handled that so well.”

Tony swallowed and looked down at the candle flickering in the middle of the table. He watched it for a long moment, concentrating on the way it danced and twisted. “I nearly lost it. Really. Felt myself going pretty drastically, actually. Wasn’t sure what I was going to do.”

“It was perfect,” Steve said, voice impossibly soft. “I mean it, sweetheart. You could have screamed and yelled.”

“I was tempted.” Tony pressed his lips together and shrugged. “I thought about it for a moment. Thought it might have made me feel better, until I decided that nothing would make me feel good in that moment. It was hard.”

Brutal honesty. That was one of the steps in Tony’s recovery course and it was something that was still taking some getting used to. There was so much that Tony wanted to keep to himself and never admit, but he was learning that it was okay to open up.

Especially with somebody like Steve.

“I’m so proud of you.”

That was something else that had taken a long time to get used to. Tony wasn’t used to people being proud of him. Ashamed, sure. Angry, nearly all the time. But pride wasn’t an emotion that Tony was used to having directed at him. Until Steve had come along and changed everything.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied, honesty colouring his tone. “And I love you.” 

Tony stared at him in shock for a long moment, but the soft look on Steve’s face didn’t change. Thinking that he’d give Steve a chance to get out of it, Tony kept his eyes on Steve’s and furrowed his brow. “What did you say?” 

Clearly not taking the bait, Steve reached across the table and took Tony’s hand. “I love you.” 

Tony squeezed it back and swallowed, knees suddenly week and a whole different kind of shiver fluttering down his spine. “I love you too.”  

[babyboyoonie]

I started this prompt a while ago so I wanted to tell you I hadn’t forgotten it~ nor the others in my box, I’m just v v busy!!

Hope you’ll enjoy 💜

.

..

...

“To be honest, I didn’t know you’d go through with your big talk.”

Yoongi peers up at Jin from behind the straw of his drink. It’s pink, obnoxious, and not really what Yoongi would go with every day. Just like this place. But it’s cute, though, and perhaps Yoongi has a soft spot for cute things.

Just like the man in front of him.

The laugh Jin lets out is something dancing with nervousness and confidence. A strange mix, that Jin makes work anyway—because he’s, because he’s him. Because he’s a total flirt but his laugh never fails to make Yoongi relax. “Yet here I am.” The man makes a wide gesture around him, around them. Around the way too luxurious restaurant he deemed necessary for a first date. Their first date. Yoongi’s pretty sure Jin had quite the number in his book. Pretty sure that he’s one of the many conquests this lovely man wants to get in the pants of.

The thought doesn’t upset him as much as he thought it would. Yoongi’s not that pretty, actually. It was probably a dare, one he didn’t think Jin would go through, as he muttered out loud just a minute ago.

He sucks languidly on his straw again. Wonders why Jin eyes his gently puckered lips and the movement of his throat like he wanted to devour Yoongi here and there. That was—strange. “Yet here you are,” he ends up saying, once his lips leave his drink. Let his cheek rest on his fist as he gazes at Jin flustered chatting. The way he’d tug on his shirt, laugh too loudly even for himself, let out a flirty sentence once again before biting his lips and retracting just as fast.

Quite confusing, all of this. Amusing, too. “As pleasant as all of this is, hyung, don’t you have real preys to chase right now? I’d hate for you to end up alone tonight.”

Jin gasps, wide-eyed. “But...! I, I only want you, Yoongi-yah!”

Red cheeks and sincerely offended pout, hand reaching out to grab Yoongi’s. Warm. Grip desperate. Well, Yoongi would be desperate too if a simple dare took three months to finally accept a date with him. Jin’s a really, really good actor. Yoongi tells him so, because he’s a nice person, you know? “I understand how they drop their pants the moment they see you.” He nods, sincerely in awe. “If you want, I have this friend—“

Yoongi doesn’t finish his sentence. Blinks at the hands that just slammed on their table, recognize them immediately. The bracelets on the wrist, the watch, too. Bit of a quirk for the blazer-loving man, when he’s not decked in supreme and balenciaga. Hoseok’s cocky grin meets his gaze when he looks upward. “Pretty as always, angel.”

“Haven’t changed since the last time I saw you. Which was,” he checks his phone, pretends to be deaf to Jin’s complaints turned toward a still grinning Hoseok. “twenty minutes ago. You stalking me, Hoseok?”

“How could I not?” The man intones, quick to take a hold of Yoongi’s hand and hoist him on his feet. Yoongi barely manages to balance himself and not fall in the man’s arms—that would be way too cliché and he really isn’t in the mood for clichés. Isn’t in the mood for Hoseok’s sleaze either, yet that doesn’t stop the man’s appraising gaze on his body. “Look at you. That waist, those legs...driving all the boys around crazy.” He seems to stop short of saying other, dirtier things that wouldn’t be appropriate for the setting they were in. But his heated eyes say it all, the vague movement of his other hand as he gestures to Yoongi’s all-black outfit a statement enough.

Yoongi spies Jin looking too. Shakes his head with a vaguely amused grin. For, really, the prize of the bet must be high for them to be so damn insistent. He didn’t know fuckboys had that much time on their hand. “It’s becoming old,” he drawls, takes his hand away from Hoseok’s grip to grab his bag and saunter behind him. “You’ve been telling me this every day since I met you, maybe you should change disk. You’re not going to win if you keep this old tactic up.”

“But it’s not a game!” Hoseok whines; looks just as dumbfounded as he does when Yoongi rejects him. Which is really sad, because Yoongi’s been doing that for quite a while now. He gathers his composition quite fast, though. Hurried behind him with this pleading glint in his eyes that make all the girls go crazy. Too bad Yoongi’s not all the girls.

Too bad, nothing but a vague wave of disgust washes over him when Hoseok pursues Yoongi on the way to his class, as he mutters, voice like sex in a bottle, that Yoongi’s every gesture turns him on and that he spent his nights just thinking about him. Yoongi’s not interested in knowing what those thoughts were about, thank you very much.

He leaves them to bicker on his trail. Something about Jin playing dirty that he doesn’t really pay attention to. Too busy thinking about the assignment he has to complete for tomorrow, and too pretty fuckboys he wishes were more serious. But then again, they couldn’t have it all, heh? He would have sent them crying in their mom’s skirts with well-placed insults, but the thing was—the thing was they were good guys. Kind. Helped grandmas cross the streets and carried pregnant womens’ groceries. Kind in playing with cats behind the school’s gymn building and discussing candid video games, all boyish, all adorable.

But. They also ran after Yoongi at least once a day with innocent to downright dirty propositions. Why, he had no idea, but after three months he thought they would have given up already. Yet here they were.

Yet here Namjoon was, casual, nice suit on and biting his full lips as he looked at Yoongi. Appraised him from head to toes, before his eyes snapped upwards in guilt. Yoongi couldn’t figure out for the life of him why Namjoon insisted on being in this fuckboy crowd. Sweet Namjoon who, daily, liked to thank Yoongi for his existence. Paid him dinner and spent hours on the phone painting a breathtaking portrait of Yoongi’s being. Namjoon was corny. A total nerd. Shouldn’t be in this crowd.

Namjoon was also quite the pervert. Yoongi had never blushed harder than when the man decided it would be a good idea to share in precise details what he would do to Yoongi if the man agreed to date him.

So, perhaps Namjoon was a fuckboy after all.

“You stole my sight again, hyung,” the man says, rubbing the back of his blonde hair sheepishly. “You’re too gorgeous for your own well-being.”

“I never heard this one before,” Yoongi answers. Smiles, sweet and a bit fond as he passes him by. Pretends he doesn’t hear Namjoon’s sharp intake of breath when their hands brush, just so. “A bit corny. I like it, though.”

“Joon you lucky bastard!” Hoseok bellows behind them; and if Yoongi giggles when Jin hit Namjoon’s arm with a loud “Yah!”, then it’s probably because he kinda likes them, those silly fuckboys.

Even if—

Even if they like to walk in tightly-knitted crowd. Where there’s one, five other shouldn’t be too far behind.

And so, he doesn’t take more than a step or two before he’s met with Jimin. Red pants white shirt, gorgeous smile and puppy gaze, deadly spell to make Yoongi weak in the knees. He fucking hates this one dongsaeng. How’s Yoongi supposed to keep rejecting him when he’s—when he’s like that? When he’s all about knowing gaze and not-so innocent smiles? When he drinks in Yoongi’s every touch of attention like a starved man?

He knows Jimin’s shameless, had the displeasure—really?—to encounter the more forth-coming side of this one man. The side that likes to crowd Yoongi’s personal space and devour him with his eyes so hard, Yoongi looks away with burning cheeks and a sudden difficulty to speak.

“Hyung,” the boy says, hand reaching forward to touch Yoongi’s cheek softly. A bit more insistent, afterwards, when Yoongi doesn’t bat his hand away with a scowl. When Yoongi leans into it, just a little, just this one, just the way he pretends every damn time. “Why won’t you let me get close to you? How am I supposed to do that when you’re this beautiful?”

This is such a fuckboy thing to say, Yoongi screams, only for him to hear; wishing desperately his body would stop betraying him this way. But it’s been months and they’re still so damn insistent. It’s been months and Jimin doesn’t stop the love-sick puppy gazes, and, and none of them pursue anyone whose name isn’t Min Yoongi.

Yoongi retracts from his grip like he’s been burned, the moment he hears the others stalking closer. Jimin has his head cocked on the side. Eyes glinting, understanding dawning on him at the same side as a victorious smile stretches his lips.

So. Yoongi does what he gotta do. What any sensible prey would do when confronted with four (4!) predators.

He runs. Runs even though he hates running, knows he has to, this time. His facade is wearing off, and it won’t be long for them to realize he’s not as unaffected as he likes to pretend. Which—which would be a disaster, okay. For all their pretty promises, Yoongi doesn’t think they’ll stick around after they were satisfied with Yoongi spreading his legs just the way they liked.

That’s what fuckboys did, after all.

(Yoongi dutifully ignores the little voice that tells that—maybe, just maybe, they were different. He couldn’t afford a broken heart right now.)

He stops abruptly. Looks up like a deer caught in deer light, eyes wide, clothes disheveled and breathing cut of the blue. By the quick dash he took, or the sheer beauty of the man who gently caught his arms, Yoongi’s not sure he wants to know. Yoongi’s not sure about a lot of things, lately. Thrown in an sea of what’s right and what he desperately burns to do.

Sometimes, when confronted to one of those boys, Yoongi wonders if those two weren’t the same.

Quickly shakes his head at the nonsense. Because fuckboys, remember?

But Taehyung looks nothing like that in this instant. Taehyung’s burning gazes, staring intently in Yoongi’s eyes. Undiffused attention. He doesn’t blink and barely moves, looks and sounds like a man whose only reprieve could be found in watching Yoongi like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than by his sides. Fuckboys couldn’t look like that. Shouldn’t look like that. Had no right to make Yoongi feel like he was the only one on earth—melt happiness in his veins and color his cheeks red with only a glance.

Then Taehyung gets his tongue out. And, suddenly, Yoongi thinks it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to start running again after all. Watches disapationately as the man licks his lower lip, slow and tentalising. Pink tongue, eerie smirk that’s not really one; because Taehyung doesn’t need any of this shit to look sexy as fuck.

Taehyung’s genuine in everything he does. Intense in an out-of-this world kind of way. If only he wasn’t—

“God, hyung, have you looked at yourself? From your front to your back...”

—such a freaking fuckboy.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. Bites the inside of his cheek in a desperate attempt to control his body. Its reactions. The sudden, pleasured shiver that wanted to takeover his body at the sound of Taehyung’s voice.

Like—his voice. That shit wasn’t real.

He doesn’t tell Taehyung that. Only sidesteps the man and hurry on his way, knowing he would stop the others from pursuing him. He was a fuckboy, but a considerate one. Knew when he said enough. Still a fuckboy though. “And from my head to my toes, yes yes, I’m gorgeous everywhere, yadda yadda. Goodnight.”

Taehyung lets out a chuckle. Short, deep, and latching in Yoongi’s blood like the strongest aphrodisiac.

Goodness gracious.

“I mean, I haven’t checked everywhere so if you give me the opportunity—”

“Goodbye, Taehyung-ah.”

Taehyung laughs again. And Yoongi, Yoongi doesn’t turn around. Even if everything in him yells at him to. Even if, at this point in the game, Yoongi might just be a stubborn motherfucker.

His dorm’s not too far now, he realizes, as he flicks his eyes around the familiar and dimly-lit streets. Thoughts of his comfortable bed and gentle roommate nudge at him in comfort. But, realistically speaking—he knows it’s not over. Whatever this might be. His heartbeats pick up, those traitors, as do the swearing of his palm, the strange heat vibrating under his skin because—

“Baby hyung.” A voice crowns just beside his ear. Just as his back hit the wall of narrow alley. Gently, it doesn’t hurt, but something in the grip on his shoulders possessive. Just like the voice, just like the young-faced man whose big eyes take in everything of his body.

Yoongi belatedly realizes he stopped breathing. Tries to do so again, clumsily. Upset at having been taken by surprise again. But what should he expect anyway, coming from a guy like Jungkook? He’s still wondering about what this man cannot do, and to this day, doesn’t have a single thing to add on the blank page. Jungkook’s just good like that. A little shit that grew up too fast and alternate between deep and full of wisdom moments, to redoing vines in the middle of his classroom without any care in the world.

Not that—not that Yoongi knows him well or anything like that.

But there are firm hands gliding down on his waist. Keeping him pinned to the wall. Big, dark eyes, so intent and full of heat Yoongi thinks he starts breathing funny. Pushes his own hands on Jungkook’s chest but only manage to weaken himself because hello, Jungkook was fucking built.

Jungkook all shy-like at the beginning, slowly turning into this dangerous specimen that has all the people at school dropping their pants for him. Jungkook all about tongues out and suggestives look, keeps to closed ones the fact he’s still a total and complete dork. Lame pick-up lines, obscure references and meme-master kind of dork.

But—

Toward Yoongi—

He showed an ardent and almost obsessive kind of interest. No simple flirting and trying to get into his pants; but the soft, breezy autumn leaves interest that colored with the need to know what made Yoongi happy. What he did when he day-dreamed, what made him laugh, what made him sad.

And so, Yoongi’s walls may or may not have broke for him. A tiny bit.

Because Jungkook knows. Knows Yoongi still draws the sun in the corner of his paper, that he never stopped drawing a smiley on it either. Jungkook knows. Jungkook smiles and nudges him. Beams at him as he proudly waves his drawing, adorned with his very own smiling sun.

Jungkook knows. He’s a fuckboy in the making, more nerdy than anything—

And maybe that’s why Yoongi lets himself be kissed tonight. Goes pliant under the fingers digging in his skin, the teeth nibbling on his lips and the hot tongue fucking into his mouth.

It’s one kiss, two, goes on three and Yoongi doesn’t count anymore. Feels a hand snake under his shirt to tease the pale stretch of his skin, the pink and hardening nub of his nipple.

Yoongi knees Jungkook in the crotch. Hard and swift.

Goes on his merry way after straightening himself up, cheeks heated, heart throwing a party in his ribcage. Not a look behind him at Jungkook’s surprised and pained groan, because mama ain’t raised no easy bitch.

...

Mama did raise a sentimental bitch though, so the day after, Yoongi relents and accepts another date.

Fuckboys will be fuckboys, it’s just a matter of time before they give up on him, right?

Right.

(Three months later, Yoongi finds himself with six new boyfriends.)

[iamsonyeondone]

heir!seventeen // joshua hong

♥  fluff and angstz (warning: mention of blood and bullying)

♥ 1.6k words

♥  summary: when the humble prince of Pledis saves the infamous ice princess, an unexpected relationship blooms

Joshua as an heir still doesn’t change the fact that he’s still very much extremely humble

he will go out of his way to ensure that he doesn’t go to school with any of his mother’s collection of cars

and he prefers going to school by bicycle with his guitar behind him because he gets to see the blossoms better in spring!!

one time he had no choice but to use the car to school because the snow wouldn’t let him live liKE it was flippin march and a snowstorm hits

and everyone was like???? we’ve never seen that car roll up to school before waiT isn’t it limited edition?????

and Joshua steps out of the car, all blushy and embarrased as everyone has their jaws hitting the floor

because they thought humble king Joshua was a middle class heir or something but nOOOO

even after that day, Joshua still denies it with a soft smile and tries his best to ride his bike to school at all costs poor shy baby

you on the other hand knew him i mean who wouldnt?? this boy is made of honey and everything sweet-

but your case was entirely different

everyone knew you as someone stuck up and even called you a name that was overused

“the ice princess came to school with a new car? does she ever take a break and try not to flaunt her parent’s money???”

although their words sting, you kept the facade of being unfazed and calm while you continued on with your day

it’s kind of sad that you got used to these kinds of comments, like it doesnt affect you a much as you used to

but that was just you bottling up your feelings until someone had taken the last straw

you were minding your own business as usual, heading towards your locker to prepare for next class until letter fell out, all of them from an anonymous sender

it didn’t seem unusual at first from the outside, but when you took a little peek into the insides, you screamed your lungs out, while you fell to your knees from the immense shock

there before you was your pictures covered in something that looked almost like???? blood??

everyone around you heard your ear-piercing scream as they scrambled to see what was going on

you couldn’t take it any longer, you couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer as you cried relentlessy, your blood-stained hands trembling before your eyes

your vision began to blur and the cold air hitting your body seemed to cease

what was this warmth enveloping you?

you tried to lift your head to get a better gist of your situation, only to be covered with something soft?? fabric?? it felt like the school’s uniform had been placed onto your head

while a pair of gentle hands brought you to your feet, your knees still slightly wobbly from the traumatising experience you had to handle

“Please make way and call a teacher, we’ll be at the nurse’s office,”

and you recognise that sweet voice anywhere

was it really him??

and in a few minutes, you were welcomed by the scent of rubbing alcohol and all things alike, while you were carefully seated down onto the white mattress

the blazer was lifted off of you to reveal Joshua, a small worried smile adorning his face while you desperately wiped your damp cheeks

“The nurse is having her lunch right now and I thought you needed some space,”

his soft and alluring voice calmed your panicked state while you turned your head away from him, sure that your bloodshot eyes would deter him

“I hope you’re feeling better. I saw what they did back there,” he trailed off, taking  a seat on the opposite bed while you sniffled

“...thanks for saving me back there,” you mumbled

and to be frank, Joshua seemed more attractive now that you actually talked to him one and one

and omg this guy was way nicer than people assumed him to be

“no problem, I’m just doing what’s right. The things...I saw back there was definitely not something anyone should experience,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair

and from your peripheral vision, you couldn’t help but question why he was so worried when,,, the both of you never actually talked

Joshua catches you staring from the side and you nearly snapped your neck from turning your face away from him

if only you saw the small smile that curled on his lips when he caught you

“You’re not as cold as people call you to be, or at least that’s what I think,” Joshua attempts at starting a conversation while he accompanies you in the nurse’s room

“what do you mean?” you asked him out of curiosity

“I saw the way you acted around the cat on the way to school- I’m not a stalker! I just happened to pass by because we kinda take the same route to school and I-”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing, your palm flying up to cover your sudden outburst as he looked towards you in bewilderment

but his shocked expression turned into a smile as he giggled along with you

“it’s nice to see you smile, (y/n),”

just at those words, your cheeks turned bright red the hues reaching your ears as you began to feel warm

“are you feeling better now? we can head back to class if you want, no rush,”

you nodded your head slowly, getting up from the bed as he followed suit

Before he could reach the door knob, the door swings open to reveal the nurse holding her daily dose of caffeine

“I never thought I’d see you here with ms (y/n), Joshua,” she smirked, sipping on her beverage as she casually took her seat at her table

“U-uh  it’s nOt what you thiNK, I- WE-”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, kid. It’s about time you actually made a move,” She chuckled before shooing the both of you out of her office

maDe a MoVe???? are you hearing things right??

“I-It’a not a crime to like someone right?”

and you shook your head from your thoughts as Joshua looked back at you,,, with a hint of worry in your eyes

without thinking, you nodded your head as he looked back at you with a delighted smile, that his wide smile crinkled the end of his eyes

“let’s go then, we don’t want to be late for class,” he chimed, taking your hand in his as the both of you ran through the hallways, laughter bouncing from the walls 

within a week, the both of you had become inseperable

and your schoolmates finally realized you weren’t giving the cold shoulder intentionally

especially after Joshua made you burst out laughing in the middle of lesson and the both of you had been sent out of class

because Joshua???was friends with you??

it got the entire school buzzing for the news

and ever since they saw you in a new light, you were actually really nice!! you were just shy and all those new cars were because your father was one of the big bosses in a car company

but after awhile of the school warming up to you, they couldn’t help but ship you and him together because you guys are the literal cutest

“Why don’t you put the bunny keychain on your bag?? :(( I got it from a crane game and lost a hundred bucks because of it >:(((”

“stop pouting, it’s on my guitar bag you dummy,”

because our boi really protects his guitar with his life and he wants to protect the bunny the same too uwu but dont tell him i told you that

LIKE you see!!! the nicest people in school deserve each other!!!!

and it’s only when he got into an accident that your feelings were beyond being friends

Joshua had accidentally rode his bike over a pebble on the way to school and twisted his ankle

and for the rest of the week, you walked to school alone because poor bb had to be driven to school

and for every period you had the time, you always tried to check up on him and eat lunch with him in class

and he finds it so endearing to see your worried face - your eyebrows furrowed and a small frown trying to resurface but you held it back because you didn’t want him to see you like this

and on friday, you greet him as usual in class for lunch with bento boxes in hand and he couldnt help the thoughts that rampaged through his head

seeing you sparkle when your mother packed your favourites or when you pouted because she sneaked herb tea into your thermos for HIM and not you

and the words just slip out of his mouth

“gosh i like you too much,” with a dreamy sigh until his eyes widen from his sudden confession like he couldnt keep it in!!

and you casually reply back with an “i like you too” when your cheeks are heating up so rapidly and you could already tell your face was tomato RED

and the both of you are a blushy giggling mess as you bashfully fed him food and poured him his herb tea

once the both of you walked into school with interlaced fingers, the school cheered and its so cute because youre so shy!!!!!!

and as much as he’s shy too, Joshua pecks your cheek and the school just roARS

“now that I think about it, you’re the prettiest whenever,”

yall are so cute WTF

A/N: WHAOW 3 updates in a week?? hopefully I keep this up for the rest of the year :O hope you guys had/is having a nice day!! love yall bubs :] also this is a little similar to Jeonghan’s because their inspired by the ton of kdramas that I watched OOPS