#n then i gotta buy tobacco at some point

[29121996]

.

[sailorhyunjinz]

SAW THAT DRUNK FLUFFY HEADCANNON. NOW DO A ANGST SMUT VERSION OF IT OR WHATEVER SIS. LEZ GET ETTTT SKRRTSKRTTTTT

Please. 🥺

LEZ GET IIIIIIIIIIT SKRTSKRT (I CANT)

some of these are both smut/angst and others only smut or only angst OK? ok

SMUT AND ANGST VERSION WOOP now we’re talking bby

warning; SMUT/ANGST. gn!reader x skz. subxdom, use of alcohol, sex under influence, minor injuries, penetrative sex, degradation, punishment, nicknames, choking, mentions of blood, slight dacryphilia, mentions of tobacco

Bangchan

he’s more pouty but seeing you with scraped knees makes him mad

mad because he cares so much about you 

“y/n you’re being stupid”

you fall into his arms, just as mad back at it

“if im so stupid then leave” 

he looks at you, dumbfounded but then mad

“fine, then i’ll leave” he says, clearly hurt by your words but holding tightly to his pride, storming off.

as the door closes you panic, feeling lonely and paranoid at the same time

you never really being good with alcohol anyways

so him leaving you in this vulnerable state made you feel,,, bad :((

you run after him and eventually catch up 

right as you get to him you stumble, scraping your knee and your hand

he turned around quickly, filled with worry but also pure rage

“you’re so stupid y/n” he says leaning down and looking you into your glossy eyes

“h-help me channie” you say, your voice frail

he sighes, picking you up and the two of you going back home

Minho

be scared be real fucking scared

you aint walking for a week nuh uh

fucks you DEEP 

deeper than ever

boy is mad as fuck, he just lashes out on you for being so stupid as to walk home alone in the middle of the night. 

he complains and scolds you whilst he’s railing you oop

“fucking stupid, walking like that all alone”

you are practically crying underneath him, not sure if it’s from him scolding you or from how DEEP this man goes 

pounding some sense into you LMAO

lots of choking OOF

denying your orgasm until you’re crying

“yeah thats right, cry for me” (lmao cue twice)

NAH BUT A SWEETHEART AFTERWARDS I PROMISE 

Changbin

“what if you get injured y/n?” he says, holding your hand on your way home

“i didn’t!” you say confidently 

“then whats that?” he says, pointing at your bleeding knees

“n-nothing” you say, limping forward

“should listen to me more” he says quickly, puffing his cheeks in frustration

“i do listen, just,,, just let me have f-fun!” your head spinning. 

“but thats not having fun y/n, thats called being stupid and destroying your health” he spits on the ground

“alright then let me, not like it’s affecting you in any way” you slur out, changbin looking at you through hooded eyes as he exhales loudly

“maybe if you’d stop being drunk all the time you’d actually see how it is effecting me” he says, letting go of your hand causing you to stumble over your own legs

you hit the cold concrete in the dark as he walks home

“come back when you’ve thought about your actions”

Hyunjin

he paces back and forward in the hallway, waiting for you

the door creaks open and you, looking like a mess, appear infront of him

“where were you? i was worried sick y/n! you cant just do-”

“shush,,, i want a,, a hug” you stammer out, getting closer to him and smelling of cigarettes and alcohol

he pushes you away, glaring at you through dark eyes

“do you even care about me?” 

you tilt your head, feeling more unstable for every second that goes by. 

“of course hyunnie!” you smile lazily at him 

but he’s not buying any of it

i feel like he holds grudges for a long time??? idk just me??

“i’ll sleep on the couch, dont come close to me”

bruh his voice and tone is so cold, it send shivers down your spine

you nod, tears bubbling up in the corners of your eyes. 

Jisung

“im not helping you!” jisung says, you rubbing your thighs together, always feeling needy when drunk

“pl-please sungie, i-i wont drink ever again i-if you help,,, me”

he cocks his eyebrow at you, licking the inside of his cheek

“mhm.. you think im stupid enough to fall for that? what do you really think of me babygirl/babyboy”

you scratch the back of your head, not knowing what to answer

“y-you fell for it last time~”

he scoffs, pissed at the fact that you came stumbling through the door in the middle of the night

him waiting for you and being filled sick with worry

he leans closer to your ear, feeling the smell of liquor 

“why should i help you? sluts like you dont deserve me”

you whine at his words, not helping with your neediness

“please,, jisung i,, just help me!” you were started to get pouty to which he chuckles

“beg nicely”

Felix

“where were you”

his voice is like LOW low

he sits with his legs spread apart

bruh his gaze?!??”! its like black, just blank

you try to ignore him, shuffling around awkwardly but only stumbling from being drunk

“sit” he pats his lap you gulp, having no other choice but to listen

you sit down on his lap

your eyes are running all over the room, looking everywhere but at felix

“was my slut out drinking?” 

BRUH YOU JUST STARE AT HIM

he only says that when he’s mad, ONLY

so now you’re scared but you nod, barely having your eyes open

he hums, his voice vibrating through your ears

“you agree, you’re a slut?”

you nod again and before you know it theres a hand wrapped around your throat, pushing on the sides and making you feel even more lightheaded. 

his mouth gets close to your ear

his warm breath desending down your cheek

“dont make me do this kitten”

Seungmin

frustrated 

he gets a call from one of your friends that tell you that you’re passed out on the street

he picks you up, you barely standing on your own two legs and the entire way home he didnt say a word

as soon as the door to your home closes he starts yelling at you

“dont you have any thoughts in that dumb head of yours?”

you start tearing up from his loud and stern voice, leaning against a wall. 

“i-im sorry minnie” 

that being the only sentence he understood, the rest sounding more like blabbering

“are you really sorry y/n, are you??!”

“y-yes,,, just tired~”

without saying anything more he grabs his jacket and leaves

slamming the door behind him

at first you dont understand but then the silence takes over, leaving you wrapped with a lonely blanket as tranquility

“m-minnie?” you call out as if he was still there but being met by nothing but pure silence

you slide down against the wall, crying as seungmin peeks through the door, feeling bad for making you cry 

Jeongin

“enough”

he grabs the bottle from your hand, placing it beside him as the two of you were drinking at home. 

“but whyyy?~ we were just getting started innie~”

he looks at you with a puzzled expression

your cheeks flaming hot and your eyes drooping down

“cant you just stop y/n?”

you meet his brown eyes, not understanding what he meant

“hm? whatchu mean~?

he sighs loudly, seeing you roll around on the floor

“why can’t you just control yourself? why do i always have to take care of you?”

you laugh, your thoughts gone with the wind

“thats funny innie!”

poor boy gets frustrated and lays down, hovering above you

“is it funny if i do this?”

he kisses you, slowly trailing his fingertips downwards

OK I HAVE ONE REQUEST LEFT IN MY INBOX SO GOTTA DO THAT!! and after that im gonna start posting/working more on fics even though... i feel shit about writing fics because they never turn out that good huh.... AH WELL at least im trying T-T 

hard/soft thoughts are always welcome ><

[joannasteez]

𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: EZ Reyes x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: Mature Themes.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4.7k

Credits to who made the gif @angelreyesgirl

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @my-rosegold-soul @appropriate-writers-name @est1887 @xladymacbethx @blessedboo @brownsugarcoffy @elektriknachosss @queenbeered

Let me know if you’d like a tag!!!

✞

Your annoyance was simmering, daring to merge into the depths of some irreversible state of agitation. The engine of the classic Dodge Charger RT in your possession had, with incredibly poor timing, began to knock. The unsavory noise resonating into the thick air of the street, stilled heat of the day pushing back the regular ebb and flow of the Santo Padre streets to make way for the obnoxious sound of your engine. Your head was spinning, dazed by the bitter humidity and a steady brew of fear trembling in your fingers to dance just under the surface of your skin. The classic car was given by your father, who'd gotten it from his father, the mass of glistening matte black metal of significant value. If the engine failed, you'd be reduced to tears, wading in the dread of some existential crisis.

Your grandfather had had this car for twenty years, the imprint of his essence etched into the leather seats, and when he became grey and withered, he relinquished it to your father for another fifteen years, till finally, it was yours.

You pulled over just as the last knock sounded, the tremble in your fingers worsening. Your eyes welled, sure to leave a soft red glassiness. The need for air consumed you, the space to walk freely about, a puff of smoke or two maybe.

The pavement was hard under your feet, slam of the door accented by vexation. You picked behind your ear, that nicely rolled spliff safely kept and waiting to be lit. The lighter in your front pocket an easy grab, the flicker of orange a short friendly blaze as it singed the paper. The pull you took was slow, measured, as if to savor this minuscule moment of stillness that lived among others not so still. Not so peaceful. With release, you blew into the air, dried eyes taking in the vast blue of the sky. The never ending expansion blurring your vision as your mind sifted through slim courses of action. If you could just get the car to your garage, then you could figure the battery out on your own, saving time you didn’t have on a mechanics trips you couldn’t afford. All you needed was a—

"Need a boost?"

"Yes". The answer was so quick, it nearly gave you whiplash. The tension in your bones dissipating as you got rid of the sizzling flame around your spliff.

The stranger spun his car from its position just beside yours, the hood of it now facing yours head on before he turned it off and got out.

"Thanks so much for this".

"No problem. It's a nice ride you got, don't really see too many classics rolling around Santo Padre much", he said, eyeing the shine of the paint job. His fingers skimming the hood before he lifted it. "Where'd you get it?"

You step closer to him, a grin stretching your lips at his admiration. The RT was your pride and joy, the height of your ego bursting through to rise above some invisible ceiling whenever folks gave it compliments and stares of approval. "My dad had it for a while, gave it to me when he couldn't keep up with it anymore".

With a nod, he retrieved the cables from his trunk, the wide stretch of his back shifting just under the white fabric of his t-shirt to reveal the curve and ripple of muscles. They traveled down his arms, the bulge of them mixing with defined veins that ran across thick powerful looking fingers. He stretched one of those hands out toward you.

"Ezekiel Reyes".

You considered his hand for a moment, slipping it into your own as your eyes racked him with all the subtlety you could muster. It mustn't have been enough because that innocent friendly smile he gave you had turned into something more knowing. He knew you were checking him out but he didn't mind much. "Y/N".

His thumb skimmed the back of your hand just before letting go, turning his attention to attaching the cables to both cars properly. You minded his movements with the cables closely, triple checking the order in which he connected them with a hawks eye, a concentrated intensity that your dear old Charger RT deserved. Abruptly then, like the quickness of a blink or some single strike of lightning, a thought came to you. "Wait, not Reyes as in Carniceria Reyes?"

"Yeah it's my pops shop",

"Felipe's a real sweet guy. It's not everyday you can look through a deep book collection while the butcher cuts up your dinner". You paused, giving the beauty of his face another glance. "He should've warned me though, never told me both his sons were so handsome".

"You met Angel", he stated, a low dip in his tone. Was it disappointment?

"A couple of weeks ago. He was passing through when I stopped by to pick up somethings. He's a real charmer your brother, but I wouldn't worry. I don't think he's messed up your chances just yet", you flirted.

The assurance produced from him a toothy grin. "I'm not worried".

Silence took ahold of you then, anticipation of the moment charging the pressure in your chest to fall straight to your gut. ‘Please work' you whispered while swinging the door wide to slide into the warm leather of the drivers seat. With the key in the ignition, you twisted your wrist forward, a huff of relief puffing from your chest when the engine roars to life. You close the door quick, that relief bubbling under your skin, your head sticking out the window.

"Thanks again Reyes".

He stepped to the window, those warm endearing eyes taking in the summer glow of your face. His tongue slipped just over the plump flesh of his bottom lip. It was a rosy color, the curving dip of it enticing. He liked the way you said his last name.

"It's no problem".

You put your RT in reverse, backing away from his broad body. "See you around?"

"Maybe", he called.

You speed off, the rev of the engine blending into the ebb and flow of the town once again. Existence dipping into the horizon.

✞✞✞✞✞

You'd saw him again at some hole in the wall you frequented at. The smooth slow tempo of some classic 70s song strumming through the stereo to seep into your ears richly like fresh honey. The atmosphere was subdued, the short clinks of beer bottles and incomprehensible murmurs of frivolous conversations sating the air. It was the perfect place to think, to allow your mind to wander directionless through the never ending abyss of happenings and circumstances that had presented themselves down through the week. You made idle chitchat with the bartender about a laundry list of things of no particular significance, small smiles and light chuckles ringing from you both every now and then.

The night was going good, till you felt a creeping touch just at the low end of your back.

"Let me buy you a drink". The voice was rusted, withered by too much tobacco.

You held up the beer in your hand. "I've got already, I'm good".

This guy was tipsy, blood red creeping into his eyes, body swaying just the slightest bit. "Don't be like that, let me buy you another".

"I said I'm good", you asserted. The coolness of the bottle creating a tingling sensation in your hand. You'd crack it over his head if he touched you again.

"Sorry I'm late, everything alright?", another voice asked, but this one you knew. That deeply textured tone wrapping sweetly around your senses. You tore your irritated gaze set on the almost-drunk guy, softening it as you took Ezekiel in. He looked slightly different, refreshed it seemed, or maybe it was just his barbered hair. A Mayans kutte rested over him, comfortable like a second layer of skin, the black leather accentuating the swell of his muscles. You'd have to figure out later why your eyes diverted to them so often, they were becoming a hindrance to your thinking.

"Everything's good now", you played. Giving him a light peck to the cheek to sell the story. His arm wrapped around you in what appeared to be some reflexive reaction, all natural like he'd done it countless times before. When he realized Ezekiel wasn't leaving, the guy swayed away in true tipsy fashion. Mumbling incoherent things with a griped attitude. Ezekiel took his chair, the proximity of it in regards to yours making the point of his knee knock and slide the smooth plain of your jeans. You watched him take a glance over the bar before he called for a beer.

"Thanks for that".

"No problem", the corner of his lip turning up. "Seems like you've been needing my help a lot lately".

"Don't flatter yourself Reyes, this is just a coincidence".

"Any reason why you're at a bar alone?"

Your face screwed up in a show of confusion, but you could guess quickly the reason for the question. "Any reason why you're at a bar alone?"

He sipped at his beer. "Outside gets loud sometimes y'know, hectic. It's quiet in here. Good place to think".

"Exactly".

"A little unsafe for you though no?" And there it was.

"Everywhere's unsafe for me Ezekiel, I'm a woman. I mean I couldn't guarantee safety in my own home if I wanted to, but that's just how the world works". You paused, mischief rising in your face. "Don't worry though, I've got a little surprise for anyone who wants to test their luck".

"Oh really".

"Yeah, you men are dangerous out here. I gotta be prepared always".

His brows furrowed. "That's a bit of a big generalization to make".

"But if it's true it's true. Name one thing a man doesn't get dangerous about. Doesn't even have to be rejection", you say, turning to fully face him.

He considers the question for a moment, staring into the color of your eyes as if he'd find the answer in them. "Love".

"A man who loves, whose in love, would do any and everything, no matter how mad the shit is. He'd risk lives, his life even. If that's not dangerous then I don't know what is".

A speck of something lit in the hazel of his eyes. As if your words had brought to the present some memory buried deep within the grave of his soul. What you said hit rather close, closer than expected. "Who is she?"

"Doesn't matter, it's in the past".

"Humor me".

His jaw ticked before he spoke. "Her names Emily, but that shits all just history now. Doesn't matter". He turned the focus from himself. "What about you. Whose going all reckless about you".

"Who says he exist"

"You just did, I never specified who in particular".

So much for playing dumb. "His name is Jason".

"Sounds like an asshole".

You snort, the teasing of a headache coming as you thought on the insufferable man that was Jason. "He is. He's got that weird alpha male thing about him. Has to be in control of everything, doesn't know when to leave well enough alone".

The muted energy of the bar rose between the two of you, each taking quiet sips of your beer. You took notice of the way he surveyed the room from where he sat. That golden gaze sifting through the space and over bodies with quick ease. He was assessing, the gears in his head turning, calculating and considering every and all the possibilities of danger. It reminded you of someone.

"How long were you in for?", you ask.

"How'd you know?"

"You've been on the defensive since you sat down, lookin’ everywhere like someone's gonna up and shank you for no reason. My cousin was the same way when he got out, always looking over his shoulder". You shrugged. "Grew out of it eventually.

His eyes were a bit sullen, as if the truth would scare you. "Eight years".

"He was in for fifteen, and that prison shit is unbelievable, I mean the stories he's told me are crazy". You laugh suddenly at a memory, the resonance of it making him smile in admiration of the sound. "He did this thing for a while when he got home where he'd only have one knife, one fork and one spoon in his kitchen and I swear it was the funniest shit".

The smile falters, his body shifting awkwardly in the bar stool, embarrassed. 

"Oh my God Reyes don't tell me you've been doing the same thing".

"In my defense I live alone".

"But what if you have a special guest over, you'd be a sorry ass host", you tease.

"If you wanted to have dinner with me then just say that".

You force away the heat daring to rise in your cheeks. "We have to take a trip to home goods before I even consider a dinner with you”.

You both give hearty laughs, till the vibration in your pocket pulls your focus. With a quick slip of your phone, you realize how fast time had gone on. “Shit I gotta go, but it was real nice seeing you again Ezekiel".

"It was good seeing you too".

You press your hand against his patch, laying a sweet lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Make it home in one piece for me yeah".

"I have to. You might need me again".

"I'm counting on it".

✞✞✞✞✞

You were a joke it seemed, the universe and fate in a gaming mood, as they were using you as a source for their own amusement. Commissioning their faithful associate to do the heavy lifting of masking their scents. The two of you were at the right place, at the right time again, what a damn coincidence. Before the present week, you'd never even seen Ezekiel's face, just learning of his existence a week or so before that, and now you'd seen him twice in a matter of days. This night being the third.

He was surrounded by men who donned the same kutte as him, curious eyes swimming through the sea of bodies as they did in every other setting, till they met yours. He came to you without a second thought, eyeing the tight leather of your pants and how they clung to your thighs. The cropped cut of your vintage top revealing skin he longed to touch. Since the first time he saw you his mind raced with thoughts of your voice, visions of your lips touching his skin again, plaguing his body with the desire to have you.

You stepped away from your group of friends, meeting him half way. "You're just stalking me at this point. Not that I mind".

He clutched the openings of his kutte, that signature grin lighting his face, even with the casting over of the nights darkness. "Something told me I'd see you again. How's your RT?"

"Good, resting in my garage. I've been kinda scary about replacing the battery".

"Why?"

"I'm good with cars don't get me wrong, but something about fucking it up just makes me sick. It's a lot of history behind that car. I don't wanna destroy it".

"Understandable", he nodded. Noting the caution behind your words, the way you spoke with such passion and care about the thing you loved. It was endearing.

The heavy crunch of gravel and sand tore through the beginnings of some silent stare, an undeniable enticement brewing. It was Angel.

"I see you met this asshole already", the older Reyes said.

"I'm not an asshole Angel, just 'cause I turned you down".

He sent a smirk your way. "You didn't turn me down, we made a mutual decision that you couldn't handle me remember?"

"Right. That's exactly how it went".

A call sounded through the dewy air of the night, signifying the start of a race. You started toward a cherry red car.

"That's me", you said. In regards to the call.

Ezekiel was confused, intrigued. "You racing?"

"Yeah, the mustang", you called, strutting over to your 1970's Mustang, adding the slightest dip to your hips. Giving the brothers something to admire, before dropping low into the leather seats.

With a quick twist, the mustang roared to life, the rumble tearing through the air, growling like a fierce rolling thunder through hazy storm clouds. Another car pulled up on your right, the blue electric color of it dazzling, clashing against the fine cherry red of your own to deliver a sweet contrast for the eyes that watched on in excitement. A woman, with a dangled bandana in her hand, set herself between your car and the other, whistles of admiration thrown her way as she gave the summer evening crowd an alluring smile. At the point of her finger you revved your engine, adrenaline pumping through your veins, rushing from your chest to pulse under your skin. The leather feel of the steering wheel was smooth, the grip you held to it steady. With the downward pull of her hands she set both cars to race and you pulled your mustang swift into the night.

The road before you was a muddled darkness, the outward spreading glow of your headlights stabbing it and tearing it apart as your wheels took a glide against the smooth road. At the mark line, you shifted your car into reverse, whipping left, back into drive, soaring back down the road to where the crowd watched and waited. Their rigid bodies of anticipation lit by your headlights, bellowing screams waning under the busting sound of your revving engine. Your mustang tore through the finishing mark, the tingle of victory surging through you.

Pulling back up to the crowd, you rolled your window down, a slim roll of hundreds placed in your hand by the guy who’d set the race up. You showed up to win and now you were done.

Ezekiel and Angel were a little ways away from your car, your voice carrying over to them. "A little party at my place. You and your guys are cool to come".

They both nodded, heading to their bikes when Angel answered after you. "We'll follow you".

Ezekiel swung his leg, resting on the seat of his bike as he buckled the helmet over his head, his fingers gripping the ape hangers, feeling the vibration of the engine as he followed the sleek vibrant red of your car. The afternoon he met you, he'd been turmoiled, plagued with the natural uncertainties that came with being a member of the MC. That new patch stitched into the upper corner of his kutte had bought a sense of pride and belonging he hadn't felt in forever, it gave him drive, fueled his determination, but as the saying goes, all that glitters is not good. Expectation deceived him, the reality of all things made clear. And that reality was shoveling makeshift graves for men whose names he couldn't even remember, but he remembered yours. Committed himself to it like the loving kiss he gave to the jar that held the remnants of his mother every time he stepped a foot into his fathers house.

He found you flustered, out of yourself with anxiety in the dimming light of the afternoon, and then at the bar, body rigid, eyes wired and ready to do your worst to a guy who could barely keep his posture straight, and now he was following behind you, backing his bike toward the sidewalk that laid just in front your home.

Upon entry, the knock of the speakers bled a thumping bass that pulsated through the floors. Your home had seemed to expand with every new corner that came into view, the walls pushing back to make room for the swell and scatter of bodies. Sweet smells mixed with more pungent ones, the hazy aroma of weed slipping past him as he walked further into the house. A hand placed itself at his side. It was you.

"Can I get you a drink? A beer or something".

"Yeah a beer is cool".

You intertwined your fingers with his, leading him to the kitchen where the sound settled some. Beer bottles clinked, the air releasing as you opened them, handing one over to him.

He gave a quiet "thanks" before sipping, eyeing the way your lips wrapped around the top of the bottle to taste the liquid. They looked soft, full and alluring. He redirected his gaze before the temptation overtook him to do something impulsive that had the prospect of unnerving you. His eyes flitted to the side of your face, an illustration about two inches or so etched into your skin. He hadn't noticed it till now.

You could feel him staring as you tasted the beer, the heat of it tingling your skin. "It's a dagger".

He reached forward, thumb skimming over the finely crafted design, it was a professionals work. With the simple touch of his thumb, your nerves were riling, heat rushing to pulse under your skin, he could feel it. It drew him closer, lured him in. "Did it hurt?".

"Like hell, but when you've felt more painful shit, tattoos like this don't really compare". You lifted the hem of your top some, bringing his fingers to feel the raised skin there. Four inches or so worth of a healed gash rested under his considerate touch. "Got it when I spent a year and a half inside. Grand theft", you admitted.

The reasoning behind telling him wasn't sound in the slightest bit, but what was reasoning when Ezekiel had awakened such dormant feelings inside you. With those beautiful, sunny colored eyes and the warm hand caressing your side, you were liable to tell everything. Truths you hated and dark secrets that laid deep inside your past. You reached up to lay a kiss to those pouty lips, the feel of them mesmeric, dazing. Fulfillment burdened itself onto you, finally you'd got a taste of that rosy pink bottom lip, and now your body was calling for more. Begging for it with such longing that you licked your way through his mouth, his tongue acting in kind. It was slow and all consuming, his body pressing you into the counter to surround you.

"Come with me", your voice airy. Breathless. You lead him to the back of the house. Your room first on the right. A gasp left you when your feet left the floor, body in his arms as he laid you against the fresh feel of the sheets. You kicked your shoes off with ease but the discarding of other pieces left behind a sinking feeling, a pressure forming in your chest to push down straight into your gut. He was glorious, the plains of his skin bound by rich thick tanned muscles and long veins. The dilation of his pupils darkened the air around him, physique imposing. This is what you’d wanted, Why were you feeling so anxious all of a sudden?

"What's wrong?"

Your body had raced miles ahead of your mind and now you were trying to catch up. "I don't know, I just... I feel..."

"Nervous".

"It's sounds so stupid when you say it out loud".

"But it's not, It's natural, and I'll do whatever you want me to do. Whatever makes you feel comfortable baby".

He sounded so sure of it, it made you believe him. You laid against the pillows, beckoning him with the outstretch of your fingers. "C'mere".

He obeyed, body atop yours, your legs wrapping loosely around his waist as your head tilted up to give those lips another kiss. It was messy this time, fueled by desperation, your tongues slow to lick as they tasted each other's. The remnants of beer still there. He took hold of your lip, sharp teeth pulling before he kissed his way down to the heated flesh of your neck. There he sucked, bombarding your skin with pressure causing your hips to grind against the coarse fabric of his jeans. The thin cotton layer of your underwear leaving you to erupt with a fresh wave of need. He feathered kisses down your body, pushing your legs up and apart to open yourself for him. A shudder drove down your spine, that soft wide tongue of his licking so close to where you needed him. He peeled away your underwear leaving you bare before him.

"Talk to me baby. What do you need".

You could hear the pulse of your heart in your ears. "Take care of me Ezekiel, make me feel good".

He hummed, loving the airiness of your voice. So drenched with need for him you were. He was methodical despite the desire boiling in his blood threatening to burn through his skin, so he'd settled with toying with you for now. Giving that sweet glistening clit teasing licks. They were measured, the constraint of them existing solely to wreck you, to kill your resolve completely till you were reduced to in-apprehensible words filled with air. The wide-ness of his tongue felt so good, your nails running over the faded part of his head as your hips drew tight circles.

The teasing, the game of it all. He didn't know but you loved it so much. "That feels so good baby, so good", you praised.

Your words were disembodied, wandering in another plain of existence as they rolled off your lips. Your senses were bursting at the seems, and then reborn again to erupt on impact when he sucked against your sensitive nub, lapping your slick salaciously. As if he'd been starved for years, only just finding you now. The line of your spine arched, waist swiveling, grinding to meet his wet tongue. A low "fuck" fell in the air as your felt the rise of your impending release. With taut, rough fingers he hooked at the back of your knees, pushing them into the sheets. The action opened you completely to him, no choice but to surrender to his will and the feel of his lips as he drew you closer to the edge.

"Please, I'm so close", you whimpered. Vision splotchy, thump in your ears intensifying.

He sucked at you again, holding his lips still as your body shook. Quivering against the sheets. He reverted back to soft licks, tasting as you rode the high.

He rose when you settled, eyeing the heavy rise and fall of your chest as he did away with his jeans. "You Ok?"

It took you time to register the question but when you did, you threw a pillow at him. "You just sucked the soul out of me, don't ask me that damn question".

He laughed, watching your eyes dim in bliss. You hadn't noticed, but he'd done away with his underwear as well, the weight of him causing the bed to dip as he came up to where you laid. His thick fingers rolled you over, setting your face to rest against the pillows as your hips raised in the air to rest against the hot flesh of his length, the veined skin laying along your slit. You moaned in anticipation, pushing back against him.

He gripped your cheeks, spreading them to see the quivering flesh of your opening, the flushed pink shinning in the dim light of the room. His tongue slipped against his bottom lip again, reveling in the taste of you as he pushed in. He groaned, and you gave a single fleeting "yes" , the thickness of him giving a delicious stretch, rigid length hot as he pushed and pulled in and out of your depths in a slow manner. Wanting to test the waters same as he did moments ago before building you back up again. The squeeze of you made his chest tight, head swimming with delirium.

"You feel so good mama, so tight around me", he groaned.

His thrust were dizzying as they picked up to set a steady pace, your hips rolling and pushing to take him deeper. To reach that place in you that would force your vision to blur and be replaced by disfigured stars. You reach to lay a finger at your overstimulated bundle of nerves, rubbing the soft slick flesh with lazy pleasuring circles that spurred the knot in your gut to grow. A single tear fell to dampen the pillow, your depths tightening at how full you felt, at how unrelenting the stimulation of his strokes were.

The sharp drive of his hips made you go rigid, the vice like grip you formed around him causing him to fall into his own high. Pace going all slow sloppy to ride out the blissful feeling.

He pulled from you, both your body and his collapsing against the bed. His face formed with satisfaction, a beautiful buzz running through him. "You know what this means right?"

"What", you asked.

"We’ll have to see each other around more often now".

[noladyme]

Chess. Chapter 1

Y/N never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. She only took what she needed, or what she felt others needed. She’d stayed out of sight for a long time, avoiding anything that could get her in to too much trouble. But for some reason Rick Flag shows up in her life, and in an instant, everything changes.

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

Thuesdays were never good for earning at Sammy’s. The small burlesque club, with the unfortunate grammatically incorrect name, smelled like it always did. Of old tobacco, cheap alcohol, and even cheaper perfume. The regulars were seated in their usual seats, eyeing me, as I – with as much enthusiasm as I could muster – smiled at them. Not the smile. Disappearing from the stage in the middle of a dance wouldn’t exactly earn me extra tips.

I blew a kiss at the patrons, and leant over the chair, resting my hips on the back of it, before I put my hands on the seat, lifting my legs into the air, into a perfect mermaid position. Shimmying my shoulders, I then lowered my chest onto the seat, folding my hands under my chin. I winked at the patron straight in front of me – a skinny middle aged man, with a tan suit, two sizes too big for him – I then sighed, and sent a longing look at his pack of cigarettes. God, I wanted a smoke. Mr. Tan Suit saw the look, and giddily put a cigarette between my lips, lighting it for me with a shaking hand. I pretended not to mind that he almost burnt of my eyebrows, and lifted my torso in to the air again.

Cigarette in mouth, I spread my legs into a frog position, and slid my butt under myself, down the front of the backrest, finally landing with a bump on the seat.

Scanning the room for potential income, I locked eyes with a stranger, seated with his back against the wall. He looked different than the regulars. For one thing, he looked like he’d actually showered that morning; but what really caught my eye, was the way he seemed completely at ease in the dark rundown club, relaxing in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Nice looking arms, I thought to myself. I wonder what else on him is nice.

The usual patrons, even the regulars, would always have some sort of nervous twitch, bouncing their legs, pulling at their shirts, looking like they felt they were doing something naughty; sitting here, looking at men, women and everything in between, dancing and grinding across the stage.

This guy was a regular Ken doll – scratch that, G.I. Joe – sitting perfectly still, watching my every move. Not a smile or a lifted brow, to reveal any kind of arousal or nerves. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or aroused by his look. I decided to go with annoyed.

I stood up, and finishing with a twirl around the folding chair, I picked up the tip-bucket, and sauntered of the stage with it in hand. I walked past Mr. Tan Suit, smiling at him. He seemed sweet, probably spent his last change on the entry fee, but even if he hadn’t, I would leave his purse alone. As a thank you for the smoke.

With a last look at G.I. Joe, I smirked and bit my lower lip. He looked me straight in the eyes. Nothing. Not a smile. Just big, light brown eyes, over chiseled cheekbones; staring at me, as if goading me to make a move.

Fuck him, I thought, and went to get a drink.

Sammy was behind the bar as usual, as I sat down on one of the stools. Free, though watered down, drinks were part of the deal, when you performed here.

“Tip alright today, cher’?”, he drawled at me, not meeting my eyes. I riffled through the bucket.

“15 bucks, and what looks like a stick of gum”, I retorted, reaching for the glass of scotch he handed me.

“Jackpot”, Sammy joked, scratching his armpit. “Look, honey”, he started, before I interrupted him.

“Yeah, I know. Times are hard. You just had to pay one of your suppliers. Your dog ate your homework… I know your spiel”. I winked at him. “Pay me next week, yeah?”, I said, and put the 15 dollars in my bra.

Sammy reached over and pinched my cheek. “You’re my favorite girl, Y/N”.

Yeah, me and every other of the dancers who’d let him of easy. Sammy was a good guy, but running a burlesque club in The Narrows in Gotham wasn’t the most lucrative decision he’d made since leaving New Orleans. Had he opened a stripclub, he might have made some money, but Sammy had a strict “no nipple”-policy in his club.

“I’ll manage, Sammy. I have my ways”, I smirked at him.

“I know you do, cher’”, he answered. “Just be careful”.

“Always am”, I said, already of the stool, walking towards the backstage door.

Walking past a table of men, who looked like they’d had one too many, a hand grabbed my wrist; pulling me into the lap of a sweaty man in his 40’s. His hand groped at my thigh, as I tried to get up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw G.I. move. He was leaning forward, eyes even more intense.

“Not so fast, sweetheart”, the sweaty man said. “Gotta get my moneys worth”, he whispered in my ear, as his hand travelled further north, trying to reach the inside of my legs. I pressed my thighs together hard, and slid my fingers across the table, towards his money clip. It was his own fault really, leaving money around like that. I looked at the man, and gave him my smile, as my fingertips reached the bills on the table, making them vanish from sight.

Looking at G.I., I saw his eyes had moved from mine, towards my fingers, and the now invisible money clip.

Shit, I thought, chills running up my spine. Not good. G.I.s eyes locked with mine again, his lips parting for the first time, into something other than a smile. More like a sneer.

“Hey!”, I heard Sammys southern drawl from behind me. His fist was firmly clenched around the mans shirt collar. “No touching the performers!”. The man instantly let go of my thigh, and I got up, sliding the money clip into the front of my shorts.

I kissed Sammys cheek. “Thanks”, I smiled, trying to hide the sadness from my voice. I wouldn’t see him again. I knew that.

Walking calmly towards the backstage door, I was very aware of G.I. following my every move. I had – maybe – 30 seconds. Closing the door behind me, I locked it, and put a chair under the doorknob. That might buy me a few seconds more. My backpack was still on the table, always packed, always ready. There was no way I was going anywhere inconspicuously, dressed in a red glittery bra, and bootyshorts. I quickly put on my ripped jeans and thin black, off the shoulder, sweater. Sammys trucker cap – a memento from his days as a truckdriver in Louisiana – hung on a nail by the door. I mentally apologized to him, put it on my head, and grabbed my leather jacket. With a final look across the small dressing room, I blinked away a tear, and stepped onto the wobbly dressing table, opening the small window above it.

There was a knock on the door.

“Miss Y/L/N”, a voice rattled me. He knew my real last name. Not the one I had given Sammy and everyone else this last year.

I hoisted myself, sliding my torso out the window.

“Chess!”. The doorknob wiggled, not opening the locked door. My foot slid on the mirror, making me scratch my belly on a rusty nail by the window.

“Shit”, I gasped, hearing my sweater rip, as I proceeded to climb out the small window. You’d think I’d be able to get through this fucking thing, having lived on cup noodles and stale coffee for months.

There was a loud thud at the door. He was trying to break through it. In the background I heard Sammy yelling at G.I..

“Move back, Mr.”, G.I.s authoritative voice roared. Shit. Shit. Shit. Another loud thud, followed by what sounded like gunshots. Please don’t hurt Sammy, was all I could think, as I finally got my legs through the window, grabbing at the edge of it, hanging, legs dangling, over a 10 feet drop down to the ground. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to land on my feet this time.

I heard a final crash – the door finally giving in – and let go.

The fall seemed to last forever, though I knew it was but a second. Spreading my legs, preparing for a pain, I landed on my feet, before instantly tumbling forward, scratching my knee on the concrete pavement.

I stood up, carefully trying to stand on my hurt leg. I could walk, even run; I was sure.

Looking up, I saw G.I.s head sticking through the window. “Back alley”, he yelled into a radio. He looked pissed. Good.

I couldn’t help but laugh as I started to run, but I only got to the corner of the alley, when I heard tires screeching, and angry voices yelling. A military looking van had stopped right in front of me.

“Freeze, lady!”, a soldier boomed at me, pointing something that looked like a gun from some video game. I stopped in my tracks, raised my hands above my head, putting them on the top of Sammys cap. G.I. appeared from somewhere, looking strangely impressed with me. It made me hate him even more.

“Chess”, he said.

“You’ve got the wrong person”, I answered, trying to look innocent.

“That stunt you pulled in there, with that guys money, tells me I’ve got exactly the right person”.

A second soldier, came up behind me, pocking me between the shoulders with his gun.

I sighed, and looked G.I. in the eyes, defeated. “Would you mind asking Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum here to lower their guns?”.

G.I. laughed. Asshole. “Those guns are the only thing holding you in place right now, so that’s not happening, kitten”.

What the fuck was that? Kitten? If I’d worn my claws, I’d show him kitten. No. I was done.

I slowly lowered my hands from my head.

“Keep your goddamn hands up, lady!”, the second soldier boomed from behind me.

A second vehicle pulled up, a window to the back seat, slightly open, showing me the face of the passenger. I’d seen that face before. Dark brown eyes, and dark hair above it; and an expression that read nothing but contempt. This was not good at all. There was no way I was going anywhere with these people.

I stretched out my arms to each side looking from soldier to soldier, to the woman in the van; finally meeting the eyes of G.I.

“You know there is no way out of this”, he said quietly, slowly stepping towards me, his hands in front of him, showing me his gun was in its holster. The soldier behind me, had moved next to his “twin”, still aiming at me. The woman in the van leaned back in her seat, looking almost challenging at me.

I could hear my heart beating, and I was sure G.I. could too. He raised his eyebrows. “Just, make it easy for yourself ok? I don’t want to hurt you”. Continuously stepping towards me, slowly, as you would towards a cornered animal, he lowered one hand towards his belt, to his gun. “I don’t want to use this”.

I looked behind me. There was a wire fence blocking my way in that direction. No way over it, as long as I wasn’t wearing my claws. I wasn’t that nimble, the scratch on my belly reminded me. When I looked down at myself, I saw that my sweater had a rip, and I was bleeding through it. The cut wasn’t deep, but it might need stitches. Looking up at my antagonist one final time, I made the decision. He knew; they all already knew, so I might as well.

He stepped forward one last time. He was close enough to touch, and I could smell his aftershave, something subtle, but expensive, I thought; and I felt the heat from his body. Then, making myself focus on the task at hand, I closed my eyes, exhaled, and felt the purr move through my body, vibrating.

I opened my eyes again, and looked deep into his. “Another time and place, we might have had some fun, G.I. Joe.”, I half whispered to him. He blinked, and his lips moved. There it is, I thought.

“Flag!”, the woman in the van yelled. “Now!”.

I smiled, and – purring – I felt the light bend around my body, making it disappear before them, as in a mist. G.I. blinked again, grabbed his gun, and raised it; aiming pointlessly around, looking for me. I giggled, and got ready to run.

[spacesnail3000]

Brooklyn’s Sweetheart Chapter 15: Big Fucking Trouble—With a Capital T

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Chapter Summary: Steve has some real Anger Management Issues (capitalized for emphasis). Perhaps he should try some coping techniques, like deep breathing, or restorative yoga, or a hefty glass of straight whiskey.

Word Count: 4,660

Warnings: Language, violence, anger issues

A/N: So I know it's been quite a few weeks, and I'm sorry for taking so long to get the next chapter out! i've been swamped with assignments, and then Thanksgiving happened, and it's just been a hectic time so you'll have to forgive me. Big thanks to my beta, @jessieray98​ --she's AMAZING!!

Masterlist / AO3

“Do you think this is normal?” Bucky muttered to Steve the next night. It was dinnertime and Y/N was sitting at the table, staring blankly at the pizza in front of her.

She had been like this all day. Silent, brooding, sad. She had stayed in bed until noon; although Steve had wanted to wake her up earlier, Bucky convinced him to let her sleep in. They only woke her up when it was time for lunch, which she barely touched. Now at dinner, she still wasn’t eating, although they had ordered from her favorite pizza place.

Steve, who was at the counter with Bucky dishing up their own pizza, frowned, replying in a quiet voice that she couldn’t hear, “She’s gotta eat some time.”

“She’s grieving. If she doesn’t want to talk, we shouldn’t make her.”

“We can at least make her eat,” Steve grumbled, irate at the entire situation. They went to go sit next to her at the table.

“Ready to eat?” Bucky asked, trying to keep his tone cheerful. After Bucky and Steve had already finished their first slices, she still hadn’t taken a single bite of hers.

Steve was fed up, and of course, he had never been the best at controlling his temper. The tension had been building all day, and Bucky should have expected things to blow up soon enough. “Eat your damn food, Y/N,” Steve barked at her.

“I’m not hungry.” Her voice was hoarse from not speaking all day and from all the crying she had done when they weren’t looking.

“Can’t you just eat one slice?” Bucky coaxed, his voice soft. “Please?”

She clenched her jaw, a rush of anger towards Bucky surging through her. Stuffing it down into the depths of her chest, she tightened her hands into fists, trying her hardest to contain the rage within, body tense with the effort. “No,” she answered him shortly, afraid if she opened her mouth for any longer, she would let everything out, every vile thing she wanted to say to them.

Steve had just about had it. “Y/N,” he snapped, “You’re gonna eat a slice of that fucking pizza. Right. Now.”

“Or what?” The petulant girl before him maintained eye contact with him. Steve’s eyes flashed, the vein in his temple pulsing. She couldn’t help but challenge him. Maybe to show him that she wouldn’t bend to his will, maybe to see just what he would do about it.

He and Bucky were both on their feet at once. Steve started towards Y/N, hands ready to grab her by the hair, but Bucky stood in his path, stopping him from touching her.

“Steve,” Bucky grunted, using all his strength to hold Steve back, “Steve, think about this. Now is not the time!”

“The little brat needs to learn her place,” Steve snarled. Meanwhile, Y/N watched on, shocked. It was the first time Bucky had ever intervened in Steve teaching her a lesson. Even before that summer, back when Steve’s punishments didn’t involve sexual misconduct, Bucky had always allowed Steve to rebuke her and scold her to his heart’s content. But this wasn’t a matter of her disobeying little rules or being a brat. She wasn’t going to let them control her anymore.

“Go to bed,” Bucky ordered her in a low growl. She obeyed, not for the sake of following his orders, but because she couldn’t stand to be around Steve anymore. Scurrying to Bucky’s bedroom, she shut the door and locked it just as she heard the front door open and slam closed. The noise made her jump, and she rushed to get into Bucky’s bed,  curling up in his comforter. It smelled like him, his cologne, sandalwood and tobacco.

Despite her anger towards him now, her disgust at the man who helped kill her father, the scent brought back so many memories, and she let herself sink into them.

Snowy days curled up together watching movies, naps taken after school when she didn’t have swim practice, warm hugs and tender touches that didn’t mean anything more than friendship at the time. She and Bucky had always had fun together—he always seemed to encourage her rowdiness, her competitive side. Racing him downhill when they went on skiing trips, or competing who could do the most laps at the pool, or who could build the biggest sandcastle at the beach.

But Bucky was more than just that. Bucky was always her solace, not just a protector or guardian, but a source of comfort, peace. Memories of Bucky comforting her when her father yelled at her, distracting her while her father held tense mob meetings downstairs, keeping her safe when strange men came to their house, their predatory gazes pinned on her whenever she would enter the room. Not just safety, but security, especially when Steve wasn’t available to be that role for her.

Steve, on the other hand, had always been that rule maker, the one to lay down the law, to keep her safe at the expense of her happiness. At one point, he had been a friend, too, sweet and kind and coddling, albeit overprotective to a fault. But he certainly hadn’t always been angry and mean. She was 14 years old when his mother died, and that’s when Steve grew cold—not just with her, but with everyone.

Her memories of Steve before that were different. He always made sure she was fed, and warm, and safe, and happy. He used to pick her up every day after school and buy her food—hot dogs, or pizza, or ice cream, indulge her in whatever she chose. The only time he wasn’t kind to her was when she was a brat, and even then, he would reprimand her and then make it up to her afterwards with gentle words and hugs and treats to make up for it.

After his mother died, Tony took Steve under his wing, focused on him more than the other young men in the mob, groomed him to be cold and calculating and emotionless, just as a mob leader should be. The only emotion Steve was allowed to show was anger, all of his sadness bottled up inside him, waiting to be released as rage and violence.

Occasionally, she still saw glimpses of his old self. Those moments of softness became few and far between, and Y/N cherished them whenever they came. The locket he gave her for her birthday, the time he taught her how to paint, the morning cuddles they had shared just the other day—those rare moments of affection and kindness that she missed dearly, that she yearned for.

As sudden as the thought came, she berated herself for it. Steve had helped kill her father. She wasn’t supposed to want him, just like she wasn’t supposed to want Bucky. Her heart broke for the thousandth time as she recounted how sweet they could be. How could she ever reconcile that with their despicable actions?

Unable to help herself, she cried silently into Bucky’s pillow, until she fell into a light sleep.

Steve came back home a few hours later, knuckles bloody and bruised. In the meantime, Bucky had stress-eaten the entire pizza, half a tub of chocolate ice cream, and he was just considering whether to make a Cubano or a Reuben sandwich when the lock turned and Steve walked in.

Shiny with sweat, dirt all over his clothes, knuckles bruised and bloody, Bucky could tell that Steve had been beating something up. Or someone, based on his split lip and the cut above his eyebrow.

“Steve—”

Before Bucky could get a word in, Steve sent him a sharp glare, stormed into the bathroom, and slammed the door shut. By the time he heard the sound of the shower running, he had all of the ingredients out for both sandwiches and was hastily slathering mustard onto bread.

He craved the sandwiches of the deli down the street, but he felt wary about leaving Steve alone with their girl.

The entire situation made Bucky unbelievably anxious, especially since Steve had been such a menace the past few days. Sure, the man had a temper—anger issues, definitely—but it wasn’t usual for him to be so cross with Y/N, even when she was acting petulant and obnoxious. Now, though, the mob was in danger. The tension was so high, Steve’s stress was peaked, and it bled into his mood, making him much more volatile than usual.

Another component was that they had begun this relationship with her. Now that Steve felt a broader sense of ownership and responsibility over her, it was different; her anger and defiance and deliberate disobedience felt more personal somehow.

Her behavior annoyed Bucky, especially the night she had gone to Manhattan with Wanda, putting herself in danger so carelessly. However, for the most part, he was just concerned about her, and frustrated that he couldn’t do anything to help. He knew what it was like to lose parents, and he knew she would be going through the stages of grief. His mood had bounced all over the place in the immediate time after his parents died—until he had discovered unhealthy coping mechanisms, like sex and drugs and suppressing his emotions.

That had been years ago, and it had taken him a long time to get back to some sense of normalcy. He knew that she would be changed forever by this turn of events.

It broke his heart to see her like this. He hadn’t been with her for long—it had only been a week or so since their illicit relationship had begun, but Bucky already felt so strongly for her. He had only ever been in love with Steve—had never fallen out of love with him, to be honest—and he couldn’t help but think it felt much the same with Y/N.

Now wasn’t the time for that issue, though. He would only scare her away during her time of crisis and make everything worse.

By the time Bucky had made both sandwiches and mulled over the entire situation, the water in the bathroom turned off, and Bucky held his breath, waiting for Steve. He exited the bathroom along with a cloud of steam, a towel slung around his waist.

He looked miserable. The anger had worn off by then, leaving a sense of helplessness for the situation.

Steve sat on the couch, not bothering to put on clothes. “She’s never going to trust me.”

“Steve—”

“We did all of this wrong. Now I don’t know how to get a hold of her.” He couldn’t control her, and that’s what scared Steve the most. It scared him to the point of rage, to the point of violence.

Manipulating her had always been so easy. What had changed? Was it him? Had he lost his touch? Was he so terrifying now with the storm of uncontrolled anger and tension within, that he had lost her completely?

Or was it her? Was she old enough now to see him for who he really is?

And if that was the truth—well, no wonder she wanted nothing to do with him. Steve didn’t deserve anything as good as her.

Bucky sat beside him, sensing Steve’s self-doubt, his anger, his sadness. Steve always worked so hard to suppress the emotions, but Bucky could read him better than anyone. He couldn’t hide anything from Bucky.

“Here,” Bucky said, handing Steve the Cubano. “Eat up.”

And they ate the sandwiches, side by side, while the girl who owned their hearts slept in the next room.

The next morning proved to be even harder than the previous night.

“Darling. Honey. Sweetheart.” Bucky was given the task of waking Y/N up for the funeral. Steve stood in the doorway, observing, determined not to get involved. “You gotta wake up. You need to get ready.”

She grunted and shoved his hand away from stroking her hair. “No.”

“The funeral is in an hour. We need to get ready to go.”

“I’m not going.”

Bucky released a breath through his nose. “Honey, I know you’re mad at him. I know he did terrible things. But this is the last time you’re going to be able to get any closure with him. You need to go to the funeral.”

“I’m. Not. Going.”

“You’re gonna be mad for a long time, that’s not gonna change, but in the long run, this will help with—”

“Bucky, I’m not fucking going!” she yelled, smacking his hand away from her. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

Rage boiled through Steve, a dangerous drug, a familiar old friend. He couldn’t stop it. “Y/N,” he seethed through clenched teeth, “Get up, you are going to the goddamn funeral.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Everyone is expecting you to be there!” he shouted, losing his temper once again.

Well, Y/N had a temper of her own, and after stewing in her rage all night, she was ready to yell at Steve for any reason. “Fuck you! You can’t make me go, Steve!” she sneered his name with so much disrespect, and Bucky only blinked once before Steve was on her, hand in her hair, dragging her out of bed. Her shrieks echoed throughout the apartment as Steve pulled her into the bathroom, and she scrambled behind him every step of the way, nails clawing at his wrist, trying in vain to keep up with his long strides.

He tossed her in the tub and twisted the shower knob with enough force to yank it off, and once cold water started to spray down on her, her yells only increased in volume, curse words and rude names sprinkled in liberally, language that they had rarely heard her use before.

“You fucking asshole, stop it! Let me go! I’m not going to the—"

Steve ignored the verbal onslaught, crouching down and trying to pull her clothes off. “Help me out, Buck,” Steve grunted when her flailing limbs became too much to handle. Bucky held her down, thwarting each attempted punch and kick, while Steve managed to get all of her clothes off. By the time she was nude, her face was flushed and angry tears began to well up in her eyes.

“Fuck both of you! You’re both bastards! I can’t believe I ever liked you—”

Steve silenced her by aiming the detachable showerhead directly at her face, making her cough and splutter as she got a lungful of water. It provided enough of a distraction for Bucky to start shampooing her hair while Steve scrubbed a bar of soap over her skin. All the while, her tears fell, but her tirade did not lighten between her sobs.

“This will be good for you in the long run,” Bucky said evenly as he washed her hair.

“No it won’t!” she growled, thrashing in their grip until Steve held her down with soapy hands, a bruising grip on her wrists.

“Calm the fuck down,” he grunted, “You’re going to the fucking funeral, you little brat, so help me—"

“You’re horrible!” she wailed, chest heaving as she gulped in more air. “You’re horrible, and despicable, and degenerate—and—and—and your mother would’ve been so disappointed in you Steve—”

Wasting no time, Steve silenced her with his fist against her face, something in between a punch and a slap that left her collapsed at the bottom of the tub, ears ringing, vision blacking out for a moment while she regained her wits.

Bucky pulled her back up, not to comfort her, but to continue bathing her. Rinsing his hands, he swiped his fingers against her aching cheek where Steve had left milky suds against angry red flesh, then continued scrubbing conditioner into her hair. “Tip your head back,” he instructed her, an impassive expression plastered on his face, guiding her head back with utilitarian movements. Not too gentle but not rough, either.

Towering above her, Steve met her gaze. She had never seen him look at her like that before—not just anger, but wrath and disgust written across his features. “Don’t you ever talk about my mother again.” His tone was low, threatening, and his eyes shone with hatred or tears or something else she couldn’t tell.

He stormed out of the bathroom then, and she resumed crying, silently this time.

Bucky didn’t have much sympathy for her, not when she delivered such a low blow. He continued his soothing actions of rinsing out her conditioner, then grabbed the bar of soap to continue washing her body. “You shouldn’t have mentioned his mother.”

I know, she thought. “I don’t care,” she replied with a sullen sniffle, taking the soap bar from him.

“Can you do this yourself?” he asked.

“Yes,” she gritted. “You can leave.”

“Don’t take too long.”

As she scrubbed her skin with the soap, shivering from the frigid temperature of the water, she thought about what might happen at the funeral.

The Catholic traditions her family subscribed to mandate a wake, which was to take place that morning. Then the hour-long Mass to follow, and then the funeral afterwards. There would be so many people from the mob there—they would probably be the only ones in attendance, in fact.

Her father’s parents were no longer alive, and he had no siblings or other family. Her mother wouldn’t be there, of course—and her mother had no family left that cared about Obadiah.

Aside from the mob, who else did Obadiah have?

She didn’t want to see any of the mob, especially not for these funeral proceedings that would take hours. Her father had somehow betrayed them, and then they arranged for his death. Where did that leave her?

It was sure to be long, and tortuous, and painful, and…

Well, she had no intention of going either way.

She turned up the hot water and sat back, letting the stream warm her up and relax her muscles.

Twenty minutes passed and she still hadn’t come out or even turned off the shower, and Bucky was starting to get anxious again. Steve, on the other hand, was seething as Bucky tied his tie for him, a half-Windsor knot tied to perfection.

“Some nerve she has,” he hissed, every muscle in his body tensed up in the effort not to punch something—again. He had put a hole through the kitchen drywall after exiting the bathroom. “What’re we gonna do with her, Buck?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky sighed as he tightened the knot up to Steve’s throat. “But now is not the time. We just need to get through this funeral—that’s it.”

“Well if she doesn’t come out soon, we’re going to be late.”

“I’m sure she’d be pleased with that,” Bucky muttered, leaving Steve’s bedroom and approaching the bathroom door. “Honey, time’s up,” he called, knocking gently on the wood. When he tried to open it, it was locked. There was no answer from her.

“Tony’s on his way,” Steve said, coming out of his bedroom, tapping on his phone. “She ready?”

“She locked herself in.”

Steve’s phone might have cracked from the force he gripped it at that news, face flushing again with anger. With how many mood swings he was having in that morning alone, Bucky wondered if he should be worried for Steve’s blood pressure. Steve stormed up to the bathroom door and practically pressed himself flat against it. “Y/N!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door, the wood rattling against the doorframe. “Open up this door, now! You’re in big fucking trouble!”

Still no response.

Big fucking Trouble—with a capital T.

A stifling panic began to creep over Bucky, a fleeting concern that maybe she had done something—something thoughtless, although she had never had a propensity for self-harm, these were dire times and God knows what was going through her mind—

Steve was yelling again—had never really stopped. “Answer me or I’m gonna break this fucking door down and—”

“Leave me alone!” came her despaired cry. “Go to the funeral without me, I’m not going!”

Relief flooded through Bucky’s mind, thankful at least that the worst-case scenario hadn’t happened.

“You little bitch, you are not going to ruin this today!” Just as Steve reared back to burst through the door, Bucky placed a calming hand on his back. “Steve, let’s just wait for Tony. Maybe he can talk some sense into her.”

“He can try…” Steve grumbled, turning around and storming into the kitchen. “I need a drink…”

“Yeah you do,” Bucky said under his breath. Steve didn’t hear. Bucky felt like he needed a drink, too.

It was only 8:30 a.m.

About ten minutes passed before the buzzer rang, and Bucky let Tony up promptly.

Tony let himself into the house. “How’s she doing?” he asked in a hushed voice. Then he registered the sound of water from the bathroom. “Wait—is she in the shower? She’s not ready yet?” Steve handed Tony a glass of scotch and poured himself another glass. Tony glanced between the glass, Steve’s expression (which could only be described as royally pissed off), and the bathroom door. “What the fuck is going on?”

“She’s being uncooperative,” Bucky said.

Steve snorted. “Uncooperative is putting it lightly. She’s a downright nightmare.”

“She’s being a little combative, using some vulgar language—”

“A little?” Steve rolled his eyes.  “Listen, she’s refusing to go to the damn funeral, and she locked herself in the bathroom.”

“Oh boy.” Tony sighed, drained his scotch, and rubbed a hand down his face. Then he moved towards the bathroom door, muttering to himself. “It’s only eight in the morning and I already have to deal with this shit. Should’ve known Obadiah Stane’s funeral couldn’t go smoothly. He always manages to fuck something up, even in the afterlife.”

Then he knocked gently on the door. “Hey kid, it’s Tony.”

“Go away!” The girl inside shouted, and something thumped against the door, like she had thrown something against it. Bucky thought it sounded like a shampoo bottle.

“Jesus,” Tony muttered, glaring at the other men in the room. “You really worked her up, didn’t you?”

Steve pointed his finger accusingly at the door. “She’s a fucking brat. You try to control her and see if it turns out any better.”

Tony rolled his eyes, then knocked again, harder. “Listen, you’re gonna turn the water off and put on some clothes and then we’re going to have a nice long chat about your behavior. If you don’t come out in the next two minutes, I’m busting this door down and I know you don’t want me to see you naked. So hustle.”

Much to the surprise of all the men in the room, the running water ceased, and a few minutes later, she came out, hair wrapped in a towel and body wrapped in Bucky’s flannel robe. It was way too big for her, the hem dropping to the floor, the sleeves encompassing her hands. Bucky would’ve thought she looked cute if she didn’t look like a tea kettle ready to boil over.

“I’m not going to that man’s funeral, and you can’t make me.”

Tony sighed. “Can we skip all the ‘he’s not my father’ bullshit and get straight to the point? There are people from the mob expecting you there to represent your family. This funeral means more than just you, so you’re going to stop being an insolent brat and get ready to go. We’re already going to be late for the wake.”

She laughed, mean and cruel and so unlike the girl they knew. “I’m fresh out of fucks to give about what the mob expects from me. I expected both my parents to be here for me as I’m growing up, but that’s not possible anymore, so.”

“You think you’re the only person in the mob with a tragic backstory? Abusive, absent parents? Parents dying? Read the room, kid.”

She glanced at all three men, anger flowing out of their eyes.

Tony continued. “You have a responsibility to the mob. We’re your family and we always will be—you can’t escape it, so put on your big girl panties and your funeral dress so we can get to the church on time!”

She sneered. “You’re not my family. And I have no responsibility to you.” Then she retreated into Bucky’s bedroom. Tony followed quickly and caught the door as she tried to slam it shut.

“Get out!”

Tony was getting desperate. “What will it take to get you to go to this funeral? I’ll literally give you anything you want.”

Her eyes lit up with something, and Tony knew he was speaking her language. Spoiled and pampered her entire life (with mob money, Tony restrained himself from pointing out), bargaining was the only way to get her to cooperate, especially with such a large-scale tantrum as this.

“I want to go to NYU.”

Well, Steve and Bucky didn’t like that.

“That’s completely out of the question!”

“How the hell are we supposed to protect you if you’re off in Manhattan?”

Her retort was sharp and bitter, “Oh and you’ve been doing such a good job of protecting me now? I’m gonna have a bruise on my face from your fist, Steve, or did you conveniently forget about that once Tony arrived?”

Tony groaned, rubbing his temples, then ushered her into the bedroom. “Can’t fucking think with you children shouting at each other!” He forcefully pushed her on the bed and she bounced a little as he began to pace around the room. “So they’ve been hitting you? That’s why you want to go to NYU?”

She swallowed down her nerves and glared at him. “I have a scholarship, Tony—I’m not just going to throw it away!”

Tony shook his head. “Your father was never going to let you go. He was going to marry you off to someone in another gang.”

She smiled, bitter. “I’m not surprised. But now he’s out of the picture. I’m 18, Tony, I can do whatever I want.” When Tony didn’t answer, she frowned. “Unless you were planning on doing that exact same thing?”

He shook his head. “Not to just anyone. You already seem to get along with Steve and Bucky. What about one of them?”

She shook her head, vehemence leaving her tone and desperation taking its place. “No, Tony, please don’t make me marry them! I couldn’t live with that!”

“That’s a little dramatic. You know, a few slaps and punches are less than what a lot of mob wives get. Your own mother included.”

“It’s not just that!” She exclaimed before she could think better if it and shut her mouth.

Tony waited for her to elaborate. “What else could it possibly be?”

She shook her head, then laughed. “I know they helped kill him. My father. I can’t marry the men who did that.”

Tony sighed and sat next to her on the bed. “You know, they technically didn’t kill him. They were just the lookout—“

“Oh, don’t try to rationalize it, Tony! They participated in the murder of my father—“

“Oh, so he’s your father now? What happened to all that crap about your biological father?”

Fed up, she jumped up from the bed and faced him, yelling out, “I refuse to live with murderers, Tony! That’s where I draw the line!”

Then it was quiet, and they both knew that Steve and Bucky likely heard her outburst.

Tony finally broke the silence. “NYU? Really?”

“Yes. I want to go to NYU and live in Manhattan. And if you don’t accept these terms,” she thought for a moment, “I’m going to make such a big scene at the funeral that you’re going to wish I had just stayed home.”

Well. He didn’t really have a choice, now did he?

[insane-control-room]

The Sketch

Chapter four, segment one

Full chapter on ao3 here

Previous Chapter Part One

Previous (segment) - Next 

...

But I’m stuttering.

Henry hated seeing Joey like that. Hollow eyed, jittery, harsh breathing. Still, it was a reality that had to be faced, every now and then. The way that Joey would spill his tea in shaky hands, the way his eyes welled with blazing tears. Henry wished he could just hug him and will it all away, but he could not, so there he sat in front of Joey, his thumb rubbing the back of the younger man’s hand. Joey stared directly in front of them, not looking at their hands or at Henry, rather at a black stain on the table. Henry hated that it was his fault Joey was acting like this, restless and nervous. ‘Something’s wrong in the world, I can feel it,’ Joey had told him over and over. ‘Something is very wrong.’

Joey could not sleep when something was wrong. Henry always joked that of all the members of the studio, Joey should have been the one who slept the best, but it was never so, unfortunately for the lanky chicano. Too much kept him up; stress, memories, worries, inventions, family problems, money issues, so much, too much. Henry was one of those worries, but everyone Joey met became one of his worries. He worried for those he never even met, at that. A sweetheart with the biggest soul Henry had ever met, scattered in the stars and spread through whispers and will o’ wisps, a hushed secret of immeasurable power, the most gentle giant ever. 

Anyone could see it, and yet, he still, somehow, had enemies, those sworn against him by blood. Even his own step father fell into their number. But Johan had a new family now.

Bertrum joined them in the pub room, chatting with Allison. They poured themselves coffee and sat beside the doctor, making idle conversation. Joey had not slept enough to understand the words flowing from their lips with such ease, such grace. His own words were marred by an ugly stutter that chased after his tongue, tripping his syllables and bashing his own melody of noises. So he often preferred to stay silent, though words burned at his throat, shrieking to be let out. Most of the time his will lost against his desire.

He hated the sound of his voice coming from his mouth, and would much rather hear it played back through a recording instead of himself. Not that his voice was bad, no, it was… wrong. Something about it just seemed so very wrong. He, at one point, had attempted to correct it with cigarettes and coffee. The first time he had a cigarette he was very young, what, five or six? Atabulus had offered it to him, and the young boy had taken it out of curiosity, and found he despised it. Atabulus had laughed softly, patting his head, telling him that he might like it one day. And no, he never did get used to it, nor did he ever like it, but he would rather pay twenty five cents for fifty staved off meals than two full days of work for one meal. Yet the same thing that saved him was a vice, his body craving the nicotine within the folds of tobacco, demanding it, forcing him to keep buying until he locked himself in his office for two weeks until the cravings dropped, and by then he was so hungry and sun sick that Henry had to drag him up to his garden where he absentmindedly ate nana as he lay in the heat of day until Henry brought him real food.

And so he sat there in front of his friends and family in complete and utter silence, merely staring at the table as he wished he had a cigarette between his fingers. He flinched, and took a draught of his overly sweetened tea, the honey within bringing him back to the present. He forced himself to calm, then. It was okay, nothing was wrong. Nothing at all. Nothing. At. All.

Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

Johan jolted, looking over his shoulder to see if he could catch a glimpse of… whatever that was. Henry gave him a Look, and Joey shrank back in his seat. Bad look. Questioning look. Questions were bad. They meant something was wrong. 

No, no, no, calm down there. It’s fine. Just a little nerve wracked. Just a little bit.

There was a rumbling in his chest, an ache in his hands. He had to build.

It was an insatiable urge, he had to build it. But Henry! Henry forbid him!

At the thought of Henry’s order, the rumbling in his chest turned into a shocking pain lacing through his lungs.

He calmly realized he could not breathe. 

How very interesting.

His free hand rose to his lips, under his nose, as if to check if he really was not breathing. How odd! No flow passed through them, and his eyes watered slightly. The rancid taste of bile clung to the back of his throat, and he rose, and quietly left to the bathroom, and prompt expelled the contents of his mouth and stomach into the toilet.

Ink.

Huh.

Joey’s head felt very light.

What was happening? Why was he on his knees? Did that come out of him?

Seemed like it.

He shook, but only a little, and rested his head against the rim of the toilet, lest he feel the urge to vomit again. When the need fell still, he got up again, spruced himself up in the cloudy mirror (he would remind one of the Franks to clean it), and made his way back to the conversing others. He sat heavily, Henry’s hand and his meeting silently in the middle. Henry’s expression was nearly unreadable, but Joey could see concern. Then Susie spoke up (when had she gotten there? Probably while he was in the restroom), her voice a tranquil melody. So different to Joey’s, he wondered how she even beard to pretend to date him. And Henry as well, how could he stand to hear his record scratch tones while his lovely baritone ran deep and true?

“We need an organist, Mr. Drew, Dr. Stein,” she told them, something Joey knew very well, something he knew would be addressed eventually, but he had always dreaded the moment when the topic would arise. Henry pondered it for a moment, and then spoke, “What about Johnathan Derekson agai-”

“NO!” Joey did not know when he got to his feet, eyes wide and wild, teeth bared, shoulders arched forward in defense. Those around stared at him, and he felt his neck burn with warmth as he sat back down slowly. “S-sorry. No. Not… him. Never.”

Bertrum’s rusty gold eyes pierced Johan’s skin, digging into him, silent questions asked a million times with the mere raise of a thick, dark eyebrow. Johan closed his eyes, breathed in, counted to five, and let the air out. Best not to think of him. Best to remember that… the incident never occurred. It was in the, in a past life. Not this one. Here, now, he could start fresh. No fear in his veins at the thought of going to the music department. For there was no Johnathan Derekson there to prey on him. 

‘I do not mean to interrupt,’ Jameson signed to them after tapping Henry’s shoulder for all of their attention. ‘I know this one young lad, he works at a church as an organist, and he is looking for a better job. His name is Doe. Johnny Doe. An orphan. Good natured. Gentle. Not mute like me, but very quiet. Know how to sign very well. We enjoy each other’s company.’

So, Johnny Doe was called in for an interview, and he played beautifully. Joey was smitten by his stunning melodies and he and Henry hired him on the spot, to which they received a little bow and a grin from JJ. 

Nothing happened for a week, though there was an icy bridge between himself and Henry. They bumped into each other in the hall, and Joey nodded, about to head upstairs, but Henry’s hand caught Joey’s, pulling him into a different room.

“Why didn’t you want to hire Derekson?” he asked, puzzled. Joey felt bile rise in his throat, and his hands trembled. He shook his head. “Jo, you gotta answer me. We’re a team, right? And teams talk things out, together. What’s buggin’ you?”

“N-nothin’,” Joey lied through his teeth. Henry frowned at him, teal eyes roving over him sharply, so scrutinizing, Joey felt completely bare before the angel before him. His eyes were wide as Henry examined him. Be honest, Henry’s eyes chided him. Come on. Be honest. “D-Derekson… he….”

At the gentle but confused look in Henry’s eye, Joey felt a dam in his heart shatter.

Words spilled out of him faster than he could think.

Johnny first locking him in one of the art rooms, the fear that hung around him since that encounter, the meeting before that day, the day Joey broke. The last straw being Johnny on top of him, and he fighting.

Henry listened to Joey’s spill of emotions and sounds and record scratched stories, soaking up every word without a single sound of disgust or hatred for Johan.

Joey stared at his hands as the tirade ended, looking at the scars criss crossing them. He instinctively put a hand to his belt, confirming it were there. He shuddered as he felt Henry’s hand join his on the belt. But it was flat and warming, not gripping and chill. A hand came to the underside of Joey’s face, not quite his cheek, not quite his jaw. Henry guided him to meet his eyes, those gorgeous spheres of earthly glory. 

“I’m so sorry,” Henry somberly apologized, and Joey could see the regret in his eyes. “I never should have hired him in the first place without asking you. And you paid the price. He… he tried to… God, I’m so sorry, Joey.”

Henry could not bring himself to finish the sentence, and he shivered. Joey shivered right after him, but not a full body shiver, but a shudder that ran from where Henry’s hands rested on his body and foghorned outwards.

“Honeybee,” Henry crooned, leaning to rest his forehead against Joey’s. “You work yourself far too hard, darling. Why don’t we take some time to ourselves, yeah?”

“Too much t-to do,” Joey protested, but his body betrayed him, arms wrapping around Henry’s shoulders. Henry smirked, and Joey blushed. “In all seriousness, doc, there really is a lot to do. Paperwork f-for Johnny, storyboards for the next episode, and bills to s-sort thro-ooh, oh, ah, Hen, c-cut that o-out.” 

“Cut what out?” Henry asked innocuously with a smile pressed against Joey’s neck, where he placed little nipping kisses. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You v-very well are doing something!” Joey snapped back, then a hand flew to his mouth to keep himself quiet. As low as he could manage, he hissed into Henry’s ear. “S-stop that or else!”

“Or else what?” Henry questioned, his hands roaming all over Joey’s sensitive arms, making the dark man stiffen. “You’ve got an empty threat there, Jo.”

“I will suspend you in the e-elevator shaft,” Joey seethed, red and squirming. Henry only laughed, and continued. “For three hours!”

“Better make it six,” Henry’s voice so close to his jugular  sent shockwaves through him. “So that I’ll get out when work ends. Mmm, that would be pleasant, and then I’d spend the whole night getting some sweet, delicious revenge.”

“You’re a perverted bastard,” Joey grumbled, wiggling in Henry’s tight hold. Henry chuckled again, “That may be so, but you’re my muse, my sybaritic muse.”

The door burst open, and Jack and Wally ran in. 

“What is it now?” Henry asked with annoyance. “If you broke something, don’t care.”

“No, it’s, uh,” Jack seemed at a loss, turning to Wally, who gravely said, “It’s Sammy. He’s sick.”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Hey, can you please write something for Icy/Ogron? I dont know where that comes from...I just though of it and idk really liked it. Maybe their first kiss?

Sorry for the wait lol. Warning for drug abuse mentions. 

Also sorry for the formatting issues; idk why some letters are bolded lol.

The lights cut out and the final echos of a wailing guitar lose themselves in a fair sized crowd. They are lost further beneath a round of cheers and claps. It is an exhilarating energy. Yet Icy can’t say that she shares it. In fact she is the first to leave the stage. She takes her guitar and heads off. She is certain that Darcy and Stormy aren’t particularly pleased with this new habit of hers. 

It is better than her old habit.

Perhaps if they knew then they would understand. But she has kept things under wraps.

She probably shouldn’t have come along on the tour at all, she can hardly last a full setlist, by the end of it she is physically shaky and exhausted.  

She leans her guitar against the wall and runs a hand through her hair. God, her head hurt. She can hear Darcy making their closing statements and Stormy promising an acapella encore. The third one of the tour.

The crowds are probably getting aggravated with her for leaving the stage so early. She wonders if she should even be in the band anymore. 

Icy rummages through her purse and picks out a stick of peppermint. It does a decent job of stimulating the feeling of a cigarette between her lips, but it lacks the kick she craves. That her body craves. 

The withdrawal symptoms are tapering off, but not enough to alleviate the longing. She tries to focus in on the taste of peppermint. It is strong and potent and somehow soothing. She leans back in her chair and stares at the ceiling. 

“Hey.” 

Icy’s head snaps in the direction of the voice. 

“Sorry.” Ogron mutters. 

“I thought that you went back to your tour bus.”

“I left my wallet here somewhere, I think.”  

“And here I thought I’d get to keep it.” She reaches into her pocket and holds it up. 

“How’d your show go?” He asks as he takes the wallet. 

“Not as well as yours. Perhaps your band ought to headline instead.” 

He pulls out a chair. “Eh…” He shrugs. “Wizards Of The Black Circle isn’t as well known as The Trix.” 

“True.” She mutters her agreement. “Our band is the greatest band in the magical dimension.” But she wouldn’t mind passing the headline act to the Wizards if it means a break from the headache inducing flashing lights. “You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Heard what?” Ogron inquires.

“That the quality of our shows have been declining and that it’s my fault.” She shrugs.

“No, I haven’t heard anything of the sort. I feel like your shoes have been excellent.” He replies.

Icy gives an indignant sniff. “They have been subpar.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have a tendency to leave stage early. It’s hard to have an encore with no guitar.”

“Why don’t you go back on then?”

“I probably shouldn’t be performing in the first place.” Icy shrugs. “That’s what my doctor says. My addiction therapist says that I should leave the rock scene entirely.” She takes a small bite if the peppermint stick. “Too many drugs here or something like that.” She is well aware that Ogron reeks of tobacco. Whether it is from his own cigarettes or the perfume of his tour bus, she can’t say.

“How long you been clean for?”

She twirls the peppermint stick between her fingers, “about a month and a half.”

“Oh so pretty recent then…” He trails off. “Gotta give you props for going on stage at all. Been a little over a year for me.” He nods. “Gantlos doesn’t make staying that way easy. I know he means well when offering me a light, but I’m worried that one of these days I’ll say yes.”

Icy nods. She supposes that Stormy’s offers have the same effect. It helps even less when Lucy and her crew blow smoke in her face and ask when she’d become such a buzzkill. “Sex drugs and rock n roll.” Lucy quoted. “You used to be fun. You used to be the most badass rocker in the industry.” Icy is almost certain that this is what her therapist meant by the rock scene being detrimental to her progress.

And perhaps Lucy’s commentary was justified after years of Icy mocking her for being new to the industry. Not that that had stopped Icy from snapping at her. She snaps at Darcy when the woman suggests that she tries to last a full show.

She goes off on most everyone for the simplest things. Her hair stylist had quit some days back.

“It gets easier the longer you’re clean.”

It sounds about right, but at the moment Icy isn’t so certain, “sure, if you say so.” She rolls her eyes.

“It does.” He insists and she decides that he is probably right. She has gone through the worst of it; the sleepless nights of sweating and inexplicable anxiety. The nausea and the unbearable headaches.

Her concentration still wavers and sleep is still hard to come by, especially when the headaches persist; even if they aren’t so intense as they were the first few days. She is irritable and edgy on most days but at least the sickly feeling has gone. At least she can take care of herself again.

“Lucy is a pain in the ass.” She grumbles.

“The front woman of Draconian Era?”

Icy nods.

“I’m sure she won’t be as unbearable when her voice is hoarse while yours is still strong.”

“I don’t do vocals.” Icy mutters, “that’s Darcy’s job.”

“Still.” Ogron shrugs. “I feel like it’s some kind of display of strength and power to resist the cravings.”

Icy almost laughs. So the man knew what to say to get her to see his point. “I do like power…”

She isn’t sure why she hasn’t talked to him more before tonight.

“I’ve heard.” He chuckles. “Weren’t you trying to take over the world before this?”

Icy nods.

“So how do three witches go from conquerors to rockstars?”

“The same way that evil fairy hunters do, I imagine. Honestly having a large fandom is close enough to having subjects.” Icy finishes her peppermint stick. “They do what I tell them to; I say sing along, they do. I say clap, they clap. I’ve gotten my fans to buy my drinks and carry my guitar. That’s close enough to taking over the world for me.”

“Brilliant.” Ogron laughs, “I wish I thought of that.”

She catches him looking at his watch. She can feel the headache coming on anyhow and realizes that she is well overdue for a cup of tea. That usually helps with the pounding.

“Hey, well, we can chat more before the show tomorrow” he offers, “maybe go out for drinks…or lunch.”

“Sure.” Icy says.

He leans over and kisses her forehead. “Night.” He gives her a small salute and begins walking away.

She lets him walk a few paces before deciding that she doesn’t want to spend another night alone–not that she hasn’t requested such and left Darcy and Stormy in a separate hotel room. “Come to the tour bus with me?” She requests.

Ogron pauses. “I guess I can use a break from cigarette smoke and Duman’s sexcapades. "Let me just tell the guys.”

“Works for me.” Icy replies. “Going to the hotel separate will probably spare us some headlines anyhow.”

[aquacure]

KORK!!!!

What they smell like: something earthy n smokey, like patchouli incense, and maybe some underlying florals like lily of the valley or tobacco flower

How they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): they sleep on their side with their arm tucked underneath their pillow or their head. they either go to sleep early and do their meticulous nightly skincare routine for like two hours beforehand or they go to sleep at 5am because they’ve been up all night researching and reading and just don’t care at that point. 

What music they enjoy: hmmm thats hard… i think they make themselves listen to as many different genres n artists as possible to learn patterns in sound and themes that might be present in em, but they like music that can double as ambience, or has a bunch of symbolism n sounds dark. all that or like. marian hill. they like dancing to that. 

How much time they spend getting ready every morning: TOO MUCH TIME. in the game apparently they wake up two hours early and take an hour to prepare, but i think it’d take even longer in a more normal setting.  their skincare routine is looong. and they gotta put on makeup n make sure their hair is maintained. it’s a process.

Their favorite thing to collect: oh my god they collect too much shit but you know they love katanas. catch kork at the local flea market with a fake id buying a shitty katana from some random guy who probably should not have been owning a katana

Left or right-handed: right handed

Religion (if any): they’re endlessly fascinated with religion and belief systems but ask them which one they prefer and they will keep changing their mind, sometimes while they’re still answering the question

Favorite sport: even though they exercise, i really don’t think korekiyo is a sport person. the most they’d probably be willing to participate in is kemari

Favorite touristy thing to do when traveling (museums, local food, sightseeing, etc): everything. everything touristy. local historical spots are the first place to hit up but rest assured they’re gonna do and see everything they can

Favorite kind of weather: cool foggy mornings

A weird/obscure fear they have: hmmmm…. its canon they’re terrified to get their hair cut without mental preparation/consent… but its kinda hard to think of other things they’re afraid of… it’s a mystery i gotta think about

The carnival/arcade game they always win without fail: they’re scarily accurate at darts. with all that talk of tearing out nerves, i guess that’s not an unexpected skill!