#neither of them are good at it they just like to spin and whirl and twirl around basically

[roadcircuses]

[steveseddie]

full circle

steddie | rating: t | wc: 3,8k | cw: mention of throwing up | tags: pre-season 4, different first meetings, eddie is afraid of heights, steve is a sweetheart, holding hands, first kiss

for week one of @softsteddieseptember using the prompt “facing your fears” 

read on ao3 here

Jeff and Gareth stumble out of the Ferris Wheel and Eddie snorts out a laugh.  

Jeff is struggling to keep them both upright as Gareth leans all of his weight on him, his face alarmingly green. Jeff manages to get them to the picnic table where Eddie is sitting without Gareth barfing but when he plops down next to Eddie he scoots away, putting some distance between them just in case. 

“Shouldn’t’ve gone on the Ferris Wheel after swallowing three fucking corn dogs, Gare,” Eddie sniggers, taking a drag of the cig he’d been smoking while his two friends were spinning fifty feet from the ground. 

“Don’t-” Gareth mumbles, cutting himself off with a gagging sound that makes Eddie sit on top of the table just to put more space between them. “Don’t mention corn dogs. Or food,” he finishes meekly, hunching forward and burying his face in his hands.  

Jeff gives him a pat on the shoulder. “It’s your fault, man,” he tells Eddie, who gasps, affronted by the accusation. “If you didn’t fuck off to go take a piss then Gareth wouldn’t’ve had to go on it with me.” 

Eddie shrugs, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Whatcha want me to say, Jeff? When you gotta go, you gotta go.” 

(The truth is Eddie didn’t have to go. 

He lied about it and then wandered around the fairgrounds aimlessly until he was certain Jeff and Gareth had gone on the Ferris Wheel.

Because Eddie is terrified of heights, a fact no one but his uncle is aware of given how cool and unmetal it is.)

“Ugh, I gotta go,” Gareth grumbles, stumbling over to some bushes before throwing up all over them. 

Eddie recoils with a grimace. “Dude!”  

Gareth pulls himself together. He wipes his mouth and glares at him over his shoulder. “Shut up, Ed, you wouldn’t be doing any better if it was you who went up-” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at Eddie. “Wait, how come I’ve never seen you go on the Ferris Wheel?” 

Oh crap. 

“I’ve been on it,” Eddie shrugs, lying as convincingly as he can. “Many times.”

Jeff studies him curiously. “No, no, Gare, is right. We’ve been coming here for three years and you’ve never been on it with us!”

“I’ve been on it,” Eddie insists. “Just you know with other people.” 

They both snort. “Oh yeah?” Jeff asks. “Who?” 

“Yeah, Eddie, you don’t have any other friends,” Gareth adds. 

“I do!” Eddie protests, waving his hands like it will make names appear out of thin air. “I have Freak!”

Jeff raises an eyebrow. “What’s his real name?” 

“Uh-” Eddie shrugs. “Freak?” 

Gareth shakes his head. The color is back on his face but Eddie wishes he’d go back to hurling his guts out. “If I didn’t know any better, Eddie, I’d say you’re afraid to go on it.” 

“Pfffft,” Eddie slaps his knee with a laugh. “I am not.”

“Prove it then,” Gareth says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What?” 

“Go on the Ferris Wheel now.”

“Uh, can I finish my cig first?” Eddie asks, trying to stall.

But his friends won’t let him. “No,” they say at the same time. 

Well, shit.

“Ugh, fiiiiiine,” Eddie says, throwing his arms up in a tantrum before snuffing the cig against the table.

He stands up and, flanked by his two friends, starts walking towards the Ferris Wheel. As he does, he considers the pros and cons of fleeing- he’s gotten very good at running from people and neither Gareth nor Jeff are as quick as some of the jocks he’s had to outrun before.

But Eddie realizes he might not need to run away when they reach the line just as the guy manning the ride opens the last car to let the last two people in.

“Won’t you look at that!” Eddie whirls around, clapping his hands together. “It’s full! Oh well, there’s always next year!” 

He throws his arms around Jeff and Gareth and starts dragging them away. Only for them to stop in their tracks when there’s a voice behind them. 

“We have one spot left!” The guy announces. “One spot left! Who wants to ride?” 

Gareth whirls around. “He does!” He says, pointing at Eddie who curses inwardly. “He’ll do it. Right, Eddie?” 

Through gritted teeth, Eddie mutters ‘if you insist’ because what other fucking choice does he have?

He makes his way to the front of the line like a man stepping into the gallows, jaw clenched and hands balled up into fists at his sides pausing again just as he’s about to get on. 

Because sitting on the Ferris Wheel car is no other than Steve fucking Harrington.

He wants to do this even less now knowing that Harrington will be sitting next to him as he tries not to shit his pants. The last thing he wants is the King of Hawkins High to go around sharing that with everyone.

“Dude, are you getting in or not?” The guy asks when Eddie just stands there, an annoyed tilt to his voice. 

Eddie glances over his shoulder to find Gareth and Jeff giving him two thumbs up, matching smirks on their faces. He flips them off, ignoring the scandalized gasp from a mother waiting in line with her son. 

Then he glances back at the car- at Harrington, who is staring at him with an impatient bitchy look. The King probably isn’t happy about sharing a Ferris Wheel car with the Freak.

Yeah, well, the feeling is fucking mutual. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going in,” Eddie says anyway, sliding into his seat. He does his best to ignore Harrington as the guy lowers the safety bar on their laps- as well as the dread that has settled on his belly. 

It only grows as they start moving. 

“Enjoy your ride,” the guy tells them with fake cheerfulness. 

Eddie fights the urge to flip him off too. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, grabbing the safety bar with a death grip as their car starts to rise. They keep rocking back and forth and Eddie’s stomach falls out of his ass every time. “Fuck me.” 

Next to him, Harrington lets out a snort. “At least buy me dinner first, Munson.”

Eddie snaps his head towards him- Harrington is leaning back against his seat with a smirk, seemingly not caring at all about the fact that they’re about to be thirty feet from the ground. Asshole.

“Hardy-har-har, Harrington,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, trying not to let his voice waver.

As far as comebacks go, it’s a lame one and Harrington must notice. “Geez, man. Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m- I’m fine.” 

Harrington glances down at Eddie’s hands on the safety bar with a pointed look. “Really? Because you look like you’re trying to snap that bar in half.”

Eddie glances down and sees that he’s white-knuckling the safety bar. He loosens his hold a little. “I’m fine,” he says, voice clipped. “Mind your own business, Your Majesty.” 

“Christ, Munson, what’s your problem?” Harrington huffs out a sound halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “And don’t call me that. You don’t hear me calling you Freak.”

To Eddie, they’re not the same. He thought someone like Harrington would enjoy being reminded about his popular status in high school- even if Eddie’s tone is mocking. But it seems the whole King thing struck a nerve.

“My problem is-” Eddie starts, meaning to tell Harrington that it’s him even if Eddie hasn’t had a problem with him in particular since he graduated but then their car jerks and his words trail off into a whimper. 

“This fucking deathtrap, shit. Okay, I’m not fine,” he admits, eyes screwed shut as they reach the top. “I'm like terrified of heights, okay? Which is fucking lame and super unmetal of me so go ahead, laugh it up.”

He waits to hear it- Harrington’s laugh but there’s only silence. 

Eddie peeks at him through one eye.

“I’m not gonna do that,” Harrington says, his eyebrows knitted in a way that’s frankly kinda cute. 

Cute? Jesus Christ, Eddie, not the time.

“Why not?” He asks. “It’s what you jocks do.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t been a jock for a while, man.”

Eddie guesses that’s true. Even before he graduated, Harrington had stopped being a jock under Eddie’s definition of the word. He still played basketball, but he didn’t pick on Eddie or the other nerds and now he’s not laughing at him for being afraid of heights even though if the roles were reversed Eddie would probably get a few laughs in himself. 

Maybe he should cut Harrington some slack.

“Why are you riding the Ferris Wheel anyway?” He asks after a short silence. “If you don’t like heights?” 

Another mind your own business rests at the tip of Eddie’s tongue but he did just say he’d cut him some slack. Besides, Eddie is slowly realizing that talking to Harrington is helping keep him distracted from where they are right now. 

“Well, my friends think I’m scared-”

“You are,” Harrington interjects with a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” Eddie accepts with an eye roll even if he feels his mouth tick up. “But they don’t need to know that, I have a reputation to uphold.” 

“With your friends?”

“With my friends, the school.” Eddie clicks his tongue. “ Society.”

Harrington snorts out a startled sort of chuckle, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Well, I won’t tell society,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

He bumps their shoulders together and it makes the car tip forward. Eddie bites down on a very embarrassing scream. Harrington grimaces. “Shit, sorry.” 

“Why are you- why are you riding the Ferris Wheel?” Eddie asks. “You can’t possibly enjoy this, man.”

“It’s not so bad,” Harrington shrugs. “I like the view, especially at sunset.”

“Ah,” Eddie smiles teasingly. “I bet you bring all the pretty girls up here, hold their hand if they get scared.” 

Harrington raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting I hold your hand, Munson?” 

Is he? Eddie looks down at Steve’s hands. They’re nice hands and Eddie has to admit that the thought of holding one of them right now doesn’t exactly make him want to jump off this car. 

It makes his heat build in his cheeks actually. “Fuck off, no, I’m-” 

“Because I would,” Harrington interjects, “if you wanted me to.” 

Eddie’s eyes go wide. “I- uh. You- no, you wouldn’t.” 

Harrington tilts his head, watching Eddie with a mixture of amusement and something else. If Eddie didn’t know any better he’d say Harrington finds it endearing- how nervous Eddie is. What the hot fuck?

Harrington holds out his hand, palm up, in the space between them. 

Eddie can only stare at it like it’s going to bite him or like Harrington is going to jerk it back and laugh at him for falling for the joke. He does neither. He wiggles his fingers and Eddie, who might be oxygen-deprived from the height, lets go of the bar with one hand, wipes it on his jeans, and grabs Harrington’s. 

He links their fingers together loosely and gives Eddie a little half-smirk, half-smile that he bets left a girl or two giggling back in the day. Right now it makes Eddie’s heart stutter in a wildly different way than being this far from the ground does. 

The ground, which is currently far, far away. Shit. The reminder makes him grip Harrington’s hand tighter and it’s really nice- warm and soft instead of cold and hard like the safety bar. Eddie looks down at their joined hands, and focuses on that- on how big Steve’s hand is and how many freckles are dusted over the back of it, how he doesn’t seem to mind that Eddie’s rings are probably digging painfully into his skin with how hard he’s holding on to him. 

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Eddie admits with a shaky laugh. “Um, thanks, man, for not laughing and like, not being a dick about this.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m trying to be less of a dick these days.”

“And how’s that working out for ya?” 

Harrington’s nose scrunches up. “I’m alone at the Ferris Wheel, Eddie, so what do you think?” 

Eddie chuckles. “Oh, so what am I? Chopped liver?”

“No!” Harrington counters quickly. “Just not who I thought I’d end up riding the Ferris Wheel with.”

“Oh how you wound me, Steve,” Eddie says with an exaggerated pout. 

“Shut up, you’re the one who’s wounding me,” he says playfully, using his free hand to gesture at where his other one is still trapped by Eddie’s. “Think you’re cutting off circulation to my hand.” 

Eddie loosens his hold a little, his cheeks pinking up again. “Fuck, sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Steve says, giving it a squeeze. “Robin and I went to see this gross movie once called The Thing and I’m pretty sure I almost lost all my fingers from how hard she was gripping my hand.” 

Eddie blinks. “Robin Buckley? From band?” He asks and Steve nods. “I didn’t know you two were friends or is it- are you two like-” 

Jesus, why do you even care, Munson? Talk about minding your own business. 

“Oh no,” Steve replies even if Eddie didn’t finish the question. “I love Robin, but she’s just my friend. My best friend. It’s tectonic.” 

Eddie tilts his head. “Do- do you mean platonic?” 

“Yeah, that,” Steve says, snapping his fingers and shooting a single finger gun in his direction. “She’s actually down there somewhere with- um, with someone else.” 

“Oh, Steve,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “You’re third-wheeling your band nerd best friend? How the mighty have fallen truly.” 

Steve groans, throwing his head back but not before Eddie sees how his mouth twitches. “It gets worse, dude. I’m also here babysitting a bunch of fourteen-year-olds who are also nerds. Except for Max, she’s cool, she doesn’t play that- dorks and dweebs game the others are obsessed with.”

“Hold on, I’m sorry, do you mean Dungeons and Dragons?” Eddie sputters, trying to wrap his head around everything he’s learning about Steve- horror movie enjoyer, nerd-sympathizer, a babysitter who sort of knows what Dungeons and Dragons is.

Steve purses his lips. “I think I like my name better.”

“Sure, buddy,” Eddie says with a snort. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you that I run an after-school club for that game so by hanging out with me your cool-o-meter just took an even bigger nose dive.”

“Well, goddamn it, Munson,” Steve says jokingly. 

“Bet you wish you got stuck with a pretty girl instead of me, huh, big boy?”

Steve falters at the name that truth be told slipped out of Eddie’s mouth without him realizing. A slight pink tinge shades his cheeks.

It’s nothing compared to the deep shade of red Eddie’s cheeks turn when Steve says, “Actually being stuck with a pretty boy is fine by me.”

A nearly hysterical laugh rushes from Eddie’s lips before he can help it. “A pretty- uh. What?” His heart is doing summersaults in his chest and Eddie tries hard to get it to calm down. Steve could be fucking with him. Fuck, is he? “Are you- Steve. Harrington. Are you fucking with me? ‘Cause you might’ve graduated and you might not be a jock anymore but I know you know what your teammates called me, man, you know I’m- and you fucking with me like that is not cool-”

“Woah, Eddie, hey. I’m not,” Steve assures him, pretty brown eyes wide like a startled deer. “It’s true, okay? You��are pretty.”

Oh. 

An ugly strangled noise escapes Eddie. “Oh. Okay. Uh.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair and shifts nervously in the seat. “Fuck, just forget I said that, I didn’t want to make things weird, okay? Just- yeah, forget it.”

“Who says I want to?” 

Steve’s eyebrows meet in the middle. Cute, Eddie thinks again. Oh, maybe it was the time after all. “Um, your face, man? You look like I splashed you with water and then threw a toaster at you or something.” 

“That’s- that’s actually a good way to describe how I feel, yeah,” Eddie agrees. Steve cringes slightly. “Not in a bad way! I’m just surprised! I didn’t know you-” liked boys? liked freaks? liked me?

Whatever he means, Steve gets it. “Yeah, I do,” he says, the tips of his ears turning pink. “It’s fine if you don’t or whatever-”

Eddie opens his mouth to assure him he does in fact like boys and freaks and Steve who might be a freak himself if this Ferris Wheel ride has taught Eddie anything-

Before he can though the Ferris Wheel screeches to a halt, their car rocking in place at the top. 

“Why- why are we stopping? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Steve says, squeezing Eddie’s hand. “It’s the last spin, they’re probably gonna stop each cart at the top for a few minutes.”

Eddie whines pathetically. “What? Why?”

“So people can watch the sunset? Make out?” Steve blushes. “Or something.”

The wind picks up and makes the car rock back and forth and Eddie groans. “Fucking great!”

“Hey, what do you need?” Steve asks, rubbing his thumb over the back of Eddie’s hand. It’s almost enough to distract him from being stuck at the top. Almost. 

“To be back on solid ground? Or a distraction. Please distract me, Stevie,” Eddie says, feeling panic bubbling up inside him. He doesn’t even notice when the nickname slips out. 

Steve’s eyes flick over his face looking for something. He either finds it or gives up. Either way, he takes a deep breath. “Please don’t punch me for this.” 

“Punch you for-”

The last word dies in Eddie’s throat because Steve leans in and presses a kiss to his mouth, effectively shutting him up.

For a beat, neither of them does anything. Then Steve’s free hand cups Eddie’s cheek and he moves his lips. Eddie makes a soft, needy noise in the back of his throat, his eyelids fluttering shut, and then he’s kissing Steve back. 

It’s a slow and lazy kiss but it’s enough to make Eddie forget where he is or that he’s supposed to be panicking. He even lets go of the safety bar just so he can get his fingers in Steve’s hair. 

They don’t break apart until the Ferris Wheel starts moving again, their car making its way down so they can finally get off this stupid thing. 

(Though it might be starting to grow on Eddie. Just a little.)

When they stop again so that the people in the next car can have their go at the top, Eddie’s stomach merely swoops and it might have more to do with the way Steve licks his pink, wet lips than with anything else. 

“Well, that’s one way to distract someone,” Eddie says, his voice coming out a little breathless. “Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve snorts, hanging a hand from his neck. “Thanks for not punching me.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter, baby,” Eddie says and watches delightedly how a flush creeps up Steve’s cheeks at the pet name. “I’d never punch you, your face is too pretty for that.”

A startled laugh tumbles from Steve’s lips. “So I could kiss you again?”

“I could be persuaded to do that again, yeah.” Eddie tilts his head, eyes darting a little anxiously over Steve’s face. “First I gotta know if this is like a ‘what happens in the Ferris Wheel stays in the Ferris Wheel’ kind of thing, you know?”

“Nah,” Steve says with a smile that edges on soft. “I was actually gonna drag you with me to the Hoop Shot game after this. Impress you a little.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie asks, grinning widely. “Gonna impress me with your jock moves?”

“Mhm. By winning you a stuffed animal too.”

Eddie clicks his tongue. “Stevie, Stevie, Stevie, I told you, I have a reputation to uphold-”

“With society, yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll get you something metal like a bat! Or a dragon.”

“Hm,” Eddie taps his finger against his chin. “Get me both and it’s a deal!”

Steve’s eyes twinkle. “Does that mean I get two kisses?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie says, pitching his voice low and deep. Steve’s eyes widen slightly. “You can have way more than that.” 

They’re almost at the bottom now which is probably why Steve doesn’t lean in for another kiss right then and there when it’s clear that he wants to. This close to the ground, people could see and the last thing they want is an angry mob waiting for them at the bottom. 

They’re happy to just hold hands for what’s left of the ride. Despite Eddie not being scared anymore, neither of them considers letting go, not until the guy from before yanks the safety bar off their laps, stares curiously at their clasped hands for a second before his expression turns bored again, and waves them out of the car. 

Eddie climbs out and jogs down the steps, past the people waiting in line. His eyes dart over the people hanging around the Ferris Wheel, looking for Gareth and Jeff but his friends must’ve gotten bored and wandered off at some point because they’re nowhere to be seen. Whatever, he was gonna ditch them to hang out with Steve anyway. 

But Steve gets the wrong idea when he sees Eddie scanning the crowd. He scruffs his Nike against the ground and hangs a hand from his neck. “It’s okay if you wanna find your friends-”

“Fuck, no,” Eddie says quickly. “They’re big boys, they can get home on their own. Or not and it serves them right for forcing me to go on that deathtrap!”

“Oh, come on,” Steve says with a playful grin. 

“Fine, I guess it wasn’t that bad,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes, the corners of his mouth ticking up. “What about you? You don’t have to find your baby nerds and make sure they’re okay?”

“Nope, those shitheads can take care of themselves,” Steve says. “I have more important things to do.”

“Like me?” Eddie asks with a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows. It makes Steve tip his head back with a laugh. Eddie’s eyes zero in on the moles in the column on his neck, thoughts drifting to wanting to kiss every single one of them. 

“Maybe later,” he tells Eddie with a wink. His stomach swoops and this time it has nothing to do with gravity and heights. “C’mon, man, let’s get you that bat.”

Eddie holds his finger up, wagging it in front of Steve’s face. “And the dragon!” Eddie says, getting all up in Steve’s space as he starts walking in the direction of the Hoop Shot game. “Don’t forget the dragon!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Munson.”

(Steve gets him the bat. And the dragon. And cotton candy. And later follows Eddie home after dropping off his herd of fourteen-year-olds. Eddie lets him have two kisses and more just like he promised.)

(And he rides more than just the Ferris Wheel that day.)

[chronically-ghosted]

you call and I come running

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a drunken confession leaves you and Javi on unsure ground. When an on the run narco douses you in an unknown, off-market drug, Javier has to save you by doing the one thing that may truly well and good fuck him over.

warnings: sex pollen, dub con due to sex pollen, minimal plot scaffolding to hold up a gratuitous amount of porn, minimally edited, feral!javi is best javi, the barest hint of breeding kink, not really butt stuff more like butt touching, light angst, no use of y/n, spanking

a/n: comes from @perotovar 's ask for my 100 follower milestone event: hi there! congrats on your milestone!! i saw your prompt list and saw "I’m so sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit." and "A whispered, “Fuck, can we do that again?” against the other’s lips." and thought it would be a really good combination for either javi p or max p? which ever one you feel fits better! 😊 (as for smut, only include it if you think it works!)

🤍Masterlist 🤍AO3 Link 

Bogota was begging for rain. At the end of summer, the city and its people had been suffering months of stifling, thick, humid air without a drop of relief. Sweat clung to exposed skin, dampening shirts and tightening waistbands. Heat weighed like a physical presence in the air while open windows and doors sought to tempt in some non-existent breeze, hoping to coax some pity out of the militant heatwave. But the heat and the moisture-thick air stayed, hovering like a cloud of mosquitoes, just as merciless and just as blood-thirsty. 

Night offered no consolation either. Stagnant and cloistered, the sun-bleached air greeted its visitors with a great, warm lick – like the wide tongue of a particularly aggressive bloodhound. The ongoing joke among the locals blamed the blackouts on all the fans, spinning throughout all hours of the day and night, instead of el gobierno barato. Only then came the sigh of ease, in front of whirling blades with ice water behind them. Flapping shirts and mopped brows. Only then, was there relief to the tension. 

Unfortunately, a running car would tip off any narcos in the area, so even that small miracle is denied to the two agents sitting in the darkness of la calle. A crack in the glass window releases a tendril of smoke, not enough to expect a breeze, not enough to wipe away the smear of sweat from across forearms and under knees. 

A drunken confession lingers even thicker in the air.

You thought you could do this. You really thought nothing would change – it was an accident after all. He didn’t mean it – he couldn’t – he was just teasing you, when he leaned over the sticky fourtop in the back of the bar at three in the morning, his breath tangy with the ghost of four glasses of whiskey, his body heat immense and overwhelming as he pressed into you and said – 

Whatever he said, you told him no.

Actually, you laughed and then said no. No, because he didn’t mean it, he couldn’t, he was just teasing you and he would never, ever, ever, ever know how much you actually wanted it and even if – even if you both wanted it, it could never, ever, ever, ever happen. 

It couldn’t. It was so absurd for him to even consider it, you laughed.

And then he never looked at you the same way.

You had done something irreversible. He had said the words, but you had done something irreversible to him. 

Something in the air had changed, maybe forever. And that, that you might have lost your partner, your friend, potential potential potential disappearing in a cloud of Marlboro smoke over bottles of cerveza, that was the worst part. 

He doesn’t look at you the same way.

Or at all. 

He smokes and he watches and he acts like you’re not in the seat next to him. Like his confession hasn’t cleaved him apart.

Nothing’s moved in hours. Neither the target or the shadows in the car. The tension presses up against the windows, hot and stifling. There is no relief.

“I didn’t want it like this, you know,” you say to the sun visor, arms crossed, low in your seat. “I . . . tried to see if Murphy would switch, but I didn’t think the tip would pan out so fast, and I didn’t . . . I didn’t want . . .”

The shadow next to you emerges with his face as he brings the glowing orange light of the cigarette to his mouth. Full lips, short thick hair below his nose, a jawline sharper than any hit of cocaine. 

“What did you expect?” he asks, his voice thick and heavy like oil. It clings to you.

You scowl into the darkness beyond your window. “For Murphy to me a fucking solid, for once. Covered his ass more than once after they adopted Olivia. I just wanted one goddamn –,”

He forcefully flicks the stub of his cigarette out the window as a precursor to punctuate his next sentence. “No. What did you want, if you didn’t want it like this?” 

The acidity in his tone stings you and you unintentionally flinch as if he had pressed the cigarette nub into your skin. 

“Javier, c’mon, that’s not fair.” 

He arches one eyebrow, his teeth clenched in his jaw, hollowing out a pocket of skin below his temple. The overhanging orange streetlights sap the color from his skin.

“So you get to make all the rules now. Got it.” He crunches up the empty box of cigarettes and chucks it in the back seat. You watch him with narrowed eyes as he settles back against the seat with his arms crossed. 

“Why do you have to make this difficult?” You snap. “You know this isn’t easy for me either.” 

“But it is easier than the alternative, right?” After two hours of ice cold silence, he finally looks at you and you can feel the spike of frost in your chest. The twitch in his jaw is the rage in his eyes taking physical form. “Easier than . . . trying. Right?” 

He looks away, already having confessed too much with whisky on his breath, and he can’t afford another slip-up. He knows this. You know this. You want to reach out and touch him but you worry he might physically slap you away if you do. You’ve hurt him in places Javier Peña doesn’t like to admit he has. 

“It’s not that simple,” you say to his thigh. “And you know it.” 

His jaw twitches again. “I’m not asking for your goddamn hand in marriage. I’m just — sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit. I want –,”

“No.” You say and you can feel the word imprint under your sternum. “There’s too much at risk. We’ve been in this fight for too long to get benched and if Noonan even gets a whiff of anything out of whack with her agents, she’ll . . . I want to, Javi, can’t you see that? I really want to – in case I didn’t make that crystal fucking clear. I want to, but there’s no trying for people like us. In a place like this.” The firm weight in your voice pushes on something that makes him look at you again. That rage has dissipated, melted, leaving only a corporeal ache. His brown eyes were endless in their confusion, their disappointment, their hurt. Please, he begs without words. You swallow, your thumbnail digging into your palm to keep yourself from launching yourself across the bench seat of his truck and into his lap. “I want to, Javi. I want . . . you.” 

He drops your gaze as if it burned him. He shifts back, hand coming up to cover his mouth, the side of his knuckle rubbing his upper lip as if coaxing whatever was sitting just behind his teeth back down his throat. 

Javier stares out into the oppressive Bogota night, his clavicle dewy with sweat and he shakes his head.

“Save it.”

You actually flinch. God, you knew it was going to hurt but you never thought it would hurt this much. Hurts so much it claws up your chest with cut-metal knives until you can’t breathe. Until you can’t see as tears flood your eyes.

“Javi, please.” Your voice is calm, despite the small implosion in your chest. “Don’t–,”

“No, I mean – look.” He points out across the dashboard.

The door that has been shut tight for the past three hours has opened. El Corto, a man who lives up to his name, pokes his round face around the edge of the door, glancing up and down the street with the paranoia of someone who trafficks drugs for a living. You turn your head into your shoulder to act like you are adjusting the firearm on your hip to wipe your eyes. Beside you, Javier turns the safety of his handgun and slips it into the back of his jeans.

“You good?” He sounds like Javier, your friend, and that swell of confidence gives you the strength to kick down a door into a whole nest of narcos. You meet his eyes and nod. 

The air is no cooler out in the open when you slip out of Javier’s truck into the dark night of Bogota. Javier strides across the black street, eyes just as fast as El Corto, paranoia just as high. There’s never any telling if the narcos are alone and that’s why you hang back just a bit, eyes on Javier and a dozen other places. 

“El Corto,” Javier snaps, sharp and demanding. The voice of authority. The narco freezes, narrow shoulders going taught. You keep eyes on his hands, your own hovering over your weapon in case he chooses to go for his. “Ven aquí. Tenemos algunas–,”

Without warning, El Corto takes off running, darting off down an alleyway. 

“Fuck,” Javier hisses and pulls his shirt out of his pants, experience the cruelest teacher. But you’ve already passed him –  running your favorite way to unwind, train, and way to avoid your problems, tearing down the alleyway after the shadow sprinting into the night. 

There is something singular about running that is more addicting than any drug the narcos peddled. A chosen target. A finite end. The only thing you had to count on, the only thing to worry about, is how hard you had to pump your arms, the length of your stride, the control of your breathing. Hunting down narcos was a breeding ground for chaos. But not this. This made sense. 

El Corto, despite having about half your stride, makes up for his short stature with speed. You catch only a glimpse of his jacket, then his shoe. A mile through an empty street and he finally comes into view. You’re gaining on him. The unrestrained creature in your chest roars and blocks out the searing pain in your calves, under your ribs. God, you swear you can almost smell him.

Maybe all animals, big or small, can sense the moment before the trap ensnares around them because without warning, El Corto darts left, leaping over a wrought iron fence into the lower levels of an apartment building. He’s gone before you can blink.

Snarling, you squeeze the fence railing as you tuck your legs over it, the momentum of your run clearing you from the tips. 

A voice in your head and possibly behind you is yelling at you to wait, don’t go inside without backup, but you can’t stop. You can’t help it. If you can’t have who you want, this is what you want. This is what you need.

And you need a fucking win. 

You burst through the screen door to an empty concrete room – torn carpet, wall paint chipped away, maybe an old living room – a flash of jeans around the hallway at the end giving a fraction of an indication of your target. So you take off after him, rounding the corner. You watch as he nearly runs through a faded yellow door, the wood cracking and splintering from the force as it slams open into the wall. The door ricochets off the wall, nearly slamming close again, just as you reach it, but the brunt of your shoulder knocks it back again.

And something cracks you across the chest. 

Powder. Blue. Lots of it.

You stumble, your eyes and nostrils burning, as it seizes in your lungs. You cough and hack, trying desperately to unseal it from your lungs, but it barely budges, barely slides loose. Blind and gasping from the heat of your run and through the powder, you veer off course, stumbling into what feels like boxes. Your knees tremble, suddenly unsteady on your feet. 

Through your watery eyes, you watch as El Corto drops the plastic bag that used to contain the powder, a malicious glint in his eyes.

“Puta,” he spits, the slur hardly original for a female DEA agent. He steps back and sheds the gloves you didn’t realize he had been wearing, still watching you with twisted interest. 

You’re no longer coughing, but the air still hasn’t settled in your body. You feel the heat in your lungs rise, expand, then fall, against your skin, as if it is in sync with your heartbeat. With every breath, a sour, sticky warmth presses against every joint in your body, every bone. There’s a knot building at the base of your spine, tightening your hips, and you stumble until you’re seated on one of the boxes, which you now see as packing crates. 

You swallow but your mouth is dry. Head heavy. Distant. Your eyes feel swollen in your skull.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you whisper. 

He’s not scowling at you, you realize, he’s leering. Eager. Excited. He takes a step towards you. 

A floor above, you hear the sound of the door being breached and Javier calling out your name. El Corto scowls, as though his favorite toy had been taken away, before he tears himself away to the narrow window on the other side of the room. More shipping crates have been stacked against the wall and El Corto scurries up it, unlatching the window. He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at you.

“Diviértete para mí, putita,” he waves with three fingers as Javier crashes into the room, his gun raised. He spots El Corto just as he slips up through the narrow window – the space no bigger than the width of a child – his foot kicking down the tower of boxes. Javier nearly nabs his ankle, leaping up the concrete wall, as the narco disappears into the night.

His open palm striking against the humid wall is a wet slap. “Fuck,” he snarls, this time pounding with the heel of his fist, “we almost fucking had him. What the fuck ha–,”

He turns and meets your gaze for the first time. His mouth drops in horror.

Sweat blooming across your forehead, you lean over on a crate, limbs trembling, breathing uneven. Every scrap of fabric over your skin burns, your thighs burn, your blood burns, you are burning. The sweat peaks in droplets that run down the back of your neck, under your armpits. Whatever he hit you with makes you want to take off every inch of your clothes –maybe then you could fucking breathe – but even then, it wouldn’t be enough. 

He’s got you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at him, before you realize what’s happened.

“Talk to me.” Javier snaps, that authoritative force sharp and demanding, and it sends an aching bolt between your legs. You whimper in pain, your eyes fluttering. He shakes you. “Stay awake and tell me what happened. I need you to focus. ”

Your lips feel puffy, overripe and ready to split, your jaw tight and throbbing. “H-h-hit m-me with blu-ue – don’t–don’t know what i-it is.” 

Javier steps closer and the scent of his cologne hits you like a train. Groaning, a strange, unwelcome instinct yanks your head down into the curve of his neck, the source of the smell. The touch of his skin beneath your lips is a balm – cool egg yolk over a fresh burn – and you bury your face in deep.

“Oh, fucking Christ, Javi.” Your voice trembles, wavering down into a low moan. That same alien instinct latches your hands over his shoulder, nails digging into the cotton. But it’s not alien, you realize through the muggy, humid fog in your mind – you know this feeling. You are intimately aware of the coiling knot between your legs, your soaked underwear, the tightness of your nipples. But this can’t be happening. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t hurt like this. 

You gasp, in real pain, a throb that starts clenching your cunt before rippling up your spine and locking your shoulders. You hunch against him, waiting for the contraction to pass. 

“What is it?” Javi holds you, panic evident in his voice. You swear you can hear his heartbeat in his neck. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, goddamn it.” He demands with no bite in his command. 

He peels you off him, you hiss, ripped out of the soothing embrace of his arms, and he makes you look at him. His eyes are wide, mouth twitching. The entirety of his chest is blue, most of powder from your skin covering his shirt.

He cups your cheeks, trying to see if the powder has left an acid burn, as another wave hits and you lock your body, now a battleground against the strangling desire to turn your face into his wide palm and inhale. There’s liquid making the crotch of your pants sticky and it’s embarrassing. It’s mortifying and silly and the ounce of sanity still left in your head keeps an iron grip on every muscle in your body – sanity telling you to not fucking do this. Don’t do this to him. Not when it would mean so much to him.

To you. 

But fuck, you want it. You need it. You might actually die without it.

Tears spring into your eyes, making a gooey muck as they slide down your cheeks and mix with the powder. Whatever this is, you have to fight it.

His eyes dart to your tears, the little bit of powder still on your face, and without thinking, he brushes your tears away with his thumbs.

Sanity cracks the whip – if it gets on him, then –

With the last ounce of strength, you shove him back, as far away from you as you possibly can. The second his warmth is gone from your skin, you tremble and your knees give out. Fresh tears, spurred on by the pain, by the fear, by the shame, spill from your eyes and you curl up against the wall. 

“D-don’t, Javi, don’t. I th-think it’s t-t-transderm-mal–,”

“What do you–,”

You watch helplessly as his pupils contract and then expand wildly, black swallowing that aching brown. He shakes his head like a bewildered animal, sweat already bleeding across his skin, and he stumbles back onto a springy metal cot on the opposite wall. He blinks, hand tightening around his knee. It makes his forearm flex and you have to physically close your eyes, the sight forcing your cunt to clench down on nothing. 

“What . . . what the fuck is this shit?”

You bite your lip, your chin tucked to your shoulder as your body cramps, punishing you for denying it the only source of relief. You squint at him and see he’s half-hard in his jeans. You whimper.

“I-I don’t know . . . new– new party drug?” You grunt, your head thrown back against the wall. God, your skin is going to melt right off your bones.

“This is way fucking worse than ecstacy,” Javier murmurs, his jaw tight. “Fuck, got a bit on me, but you . . .”

He blinks at you, eyes glassy, with sudden and total understanding, with perfect clarity why you shoved him away, and what exactly you need. 

He murmurs your name and you gasp, another cramp yanking new tears down your cheeks. 

“J-Javier,” you swallow thickly, “I know what I s-said before, a-and in the car, but if you ever cared about me, p-please . . . please, just –,”

You can’t encompass all that you need into words, but you hope he understands, is feeling kind despite all that you had done to him. Your bones ache, skin too tight.

He shakes his head, but weakly, his eyes caught on your throat, the wetness clinging to your lips. “You’re just saying that because of the drugs. We have to call Murphy. Get us to a hospital or something.”

“Javi,” you whine and maybe it is the drugs, or maybe he has an inkling of how much it hurts, but he’s across the room in an instant. He grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you to your feet. He drops his head and inhales like he can draw the heat from your blood. The tip of his nose dragged across your jaw is a cube of ice against the furnace of your skin. You shudder, hands clasping around his shoulders, dragging him against you, his hands cupping your hips as if to steady him. 

“I-I’ll give you this.” Javier Peña doesn’t stutter. Your eyelids weigh a thousand pounds as you draw your gaze up to him. “I’ll help, cariño, and then we call Murphy. Okay?” 

You nod, dizzy and overheated and sick with wanting. You nod and tilt your hips forward into his fingers as they pop open the button of your jeans. The sound of the slide of the zipper drives a shiver through you and you feel his cock, fully hard, against your thigh. 

His lips brush your cheek, his voice slurred, dripping slow in molasses, sweet and dark. “I’ll help. I’ll give you what you need.”

The first press of his fingers against your pussy rubs slippery and wet. With a sigh of relief, you drop your head against the wall, hips shoving into his hand, begging for more.

“Fuck,” he wheezes. “You’re already soaking.”

“More, Javier, more.” 

He grinds his cock against your thigh to soothe his own ache. He nods slowly as if dazed, his eyes locked onto to where his hand disappears inside your jeans. “Y-yeah, okay.”

If any hesitation remains, it’s gone when he sinks two fingers inside of you and taps up. You moan and he shoves his knee between your legs. 

“You like that, pretty girl? Does that help?”

“Yes,” you gasp into his neck, his fingers rocking into you. “Yes, Javier, yes!” 

His touch douses the ache, the fire, across your skin, in your spine. With every snap of his wrist, he draws away the heat from your exposed, too-sensitive nerves, easing the lighting storm in your low stomach. The noises you’re making, the noises your cunt makes against his fingers – it should embarrass you, should draw red up into your cheeks and ears, but it’s just more release. You yowl like an animal in heat and Javier’s groin jerks against you. You gain enough sentience to realize he’s fucking you with his jeans on up the wall, his hand never slowing or easing. You can feel yourself gush between his knuckles. 

“You’re almost there, muñeca, I can feel it. Just give it to me. Come for me,” he pants into your clavicle, the spread of bone across your chest. You tighten at the thought of his breath against your nipples, his teeth on the soft weight of your breast –

And you do. You come with the easy brush of his thumb against your clit. White lightning soothes the rage beneath your skin and you shudder in his arms, forehead collapsing against his shoulder. The snap of his hips against your thigh is a bruising rhythm, harsh, feral, an understanding that only something rough and wild can actually save your life. 

“Is that better, querida?” His wide palm pushes the hair back from your damp neck, cradling your heated cheek. His thumb brushes just under your bottom lip. You can feel his own fever, radiating from his skin. “Can we get you somewhere safe?”

But you’re still too high, too taut, to answer him. Another one builds, stacks up on itself every time his rock-hard cock digs into your hip. He scissors his fingers and you bear down onto his thigh. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, but without exhaustion or anger. He sounds almost gleeful. When he looks at you, his pupils are blown wide, sweat making his skin glow. The skin around his mouth is damp. “Alright, I’m not gonna stop. You can have one more. One more, querida.” 

His shoulders tense, the muscles in his back shifting, as he changes the angle of his fingers, renews the pressure of his thumb on your clit. He brushes against something deep inside of you, wet and spongy and never before reached and you arch your back in response, air sucked from your lungs. His thigh nearly lifts you off the floor. 

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” He taps the spot again and tears flood your eyes and spill down your cheeks. 

“Oh my god, Javi,” you murmur and he seems to like that. You clamp down around him and his hips stutter, his moan deep and coming from an ache in his chest. He inserts another finger and your cunt sucks him in, greedy for more. 

He eases back into his rhythm, raggedly humping your hip, the rough material of his jeans burning between your thighs. 

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Fuck, I knew it would fucking feel this good. You’re clenching down on me so hard, baby.” 

On the tip of your next orgasm, the haze clears for just a second and you catch him in the eye. This isn’t just the drugs, you know, this isn’t just an excuse for both of you. This is hating to see the other one in pain. This is sharing a worry for a bit of yourself that lives in another body. What passes along the length of your gaze is the exact thing you feared losing. 

Selfishly, you’d rather not have him like this, than not having him at all. 

But this is what it could be, he tells you through an open, gasping mouth, through eyes that pin you to the wall, this is what we could have every day, every night. If you just let me in. 

If you just –

“Come for me.” 

You answer with his name, on a cry high and sharp, and you’re coming – harsh, fast, exploding as you drench him, his fingers pressing roughly into that one sweet spot. 

Javi slumps forward, the weight of him nearly stifling, as he gasps, his hips stilling, stuttering, stopping. His skin flushes cold for a second, sweat cooling his fever, his face buried in your neck. 

You feel it. Against your thigh. You swallow in surprise, the fog parting briefly again. 

“Javi, did you . . .”

He wrenches his hand out of you, releasing his grip on your hip as he lowers you down. 

“I’m not fucking calling Murphy,” he grits out.

*~*~*

Javier is a man of singular focus. Almost dogged and single-minded in his hunt, it’s rare he is even capable of listening to the voice of reason. It’s a different voice than his own that tells him when he’s doing something monumentally stupid. There’s a part of him that knows exactly why that voice sounds a lot like you, unconsciously knowing that you’re the only thing that could give him pause. And yet, there are times when he can shut the voice out, can shut out everything inside of him screaming at him not to do the thing he’s going to do. But this, this decision, genuinely has him torn. There is no right way to do this.

Well, there is a right way. One where he takes you to dinner, buys you flowers, walks you home, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses you softly at first, then rough, until you beg him to come up the stairs. Despite what some may think, he is capable of being romantic. He can be sweet. He can ask nicely. 

But that is something he is not capable of right now. 

In his post-nut clarity – because, yes, he did come in his pants like a twelve year old with his first porn mag after having his fingers up your cunt for what was all too short – he realized the room you both were in was some sort of safehouse. 

A cot against the wall. A portable stove with something in the pan black and sticky. The crates are empty of any valuables – by the shape and length, most likely guns – but the few that are still full have a few bags of that elicit blue powder. He makes a mental note, somewhere on the very distant laundry list in his brain, to take a bag – with gloves on and wrapped up in several other baggies – to have it tested at the lab. Because whatever this stuff is, it might actually be more dangerous than cocaine.

Especially to idiots like him, he thinks roughly as he yanks the thread-bare mattress off its wiry frame onto the floor. He snatches up the cotton sleeping bag at the foot of the frame and unzips it, the inside facing down. This is such a monumentally stupid idea, he knows it is, but he can already feel that cramp building up his thighs, his cock throbbing awake, arousal clamping down on the base of his spine. And he just got a whiff of it. He can’t imagine what you’re feeling already. Behind him he hears you moan softly, never one to complain or whine when things get tough or hard, so he goes faster. He tucks up the other end of the sleeping bag in what he hopes is some semblance of comfort, but he wonders if that will even matter to either of you when it hits again which, judging by how hard his cock is growing, is eminent. The wet spot on his thigh, beneath his jeans, is sticky, uncomfortable. He needs no further reason to unbutton them. 

You moan, this time louder, higher, again and he turns to face you, his shirt already undone to his stomach.

You’re pale again, skin glossy and sickly wet. When your eyes flutter open, they’re glassy, gaze distant and unfocused. You twitch when that first cramp settles in deep. He thinks, his mind not entirely his own, about how deep the clutch of your cunt sucked in just his fingers and he shivers. He simultaneously wanted to get this over with and drag it out for days. Have you beneath him for days. 

Your legs tucked up beneath you from where he laid you down, Javi approaches quietly, kneeling as he takes off his shirt and goes to untie your boots. He touches your ankle as gently as he can and you shudder, cracking an eye open. 

“Javier, it’s coming back. It’s coming back and it hurts.”

In addition to the many, many agency violations, this is monumentally stupid because he’s obsessed with you. Has been for a while. Not just in a way that makes him want to fuck you for hours flat on your back, but in a way that your smile is the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep and the first thing on his mind when he wakes up. An obsession with your wellbeing, your safety, your happiness. A persistent coiling thought about your laugh, and strength, and the way you can make grown men twice your size tremble in fear. You’re a hunter, just like him, and with your beauty – your staggering, haunting beauty – how was he not supposed to immediately attach himself to you? It came on slowly, his pathological need to be near you, and once he realized what it was, there was no going back. No turning it off. 

He didn’t mean to tell you when he was drunk, but after bagging another narco, it was like he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A brief glimpse into a world where you both were safe, and happy, and – god willing – together and in this world, he told you and he was brave about it and you said it back and he felt warm all over. But that was not this world, not his reality. In this one, he has to save you by doing the one thing that may truly well and good fuck him over. 

“Sit up, baby, that’s it.” He eases you into his arms and it’s like his touch drags you back into consciousness. Your fingers dig into his bare arms as you take in his exposed chest. 

“Javi, fuck, I don’t wanna beg, but before when you – you – I felt better. It cleared. I don’t know why or how, but with your fingers inside m-me, it . . . helped.” 

“I know, cariño, and I want to help more.” His thumbs press up under your jaw, tilting your head up to look him directly in the eyes. There’s fear there, pain, and it’s agonizing to him. “But I don’t know if that’s what you want.” 

“What I want? Javi, I–,” your eyes widen in understanding of what he’s offering, of what he’s scared to do. What he’s scared to take without your permission. 

You swallow, a pink flush crawling up your throat. “I . . . I don’t . . . I didn’t want our first time together to be anything like this, but . . .” You shake your head, shuffling closer to him, your breathing thinning as the drugs start to strike matches against your nerves. “I just don’t want you to think it doesn’t mean anything.” 

“It’s gonna mean everything to me, no matter how I get it.” He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your chin, just in front of his thumb. You nod, eyes squeezing shut, as you fight this arousal that claws into your skin like meat hooks. He pulls you to your feet, holding you steady as your knees try to lock up. He unbuttons your shirt with shaking hands. 

You touch his chest like you’ve never seen a man naked before. The hesitant, awed touch of you sends all the blood still remaining in his head straight into his cock. 

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he murmurs to your cheek, your shirt off your body, his hands tugging your jeans down your hips. You nod again, speechless in your relief, and follow your jeans to the ground. Twisting on the nest he made for you, you slide your bra off, your nipples already tight and perk and waiting for his mouth. You huff, a sound so unlike you it makes him genuinely concerned, as the front of your panties darken again. 

“It’s okay, Javi, this is what I want. I want this.” You hate being vulnerable, he knows this, your attitude a front that leaves no room for sexist comments in the bullpen. And yet, here you are, deflowered and begging for him. You spread your legs for him, eyelids heavy, and he can smell the arousal on you. 

He drops to his knees, unsure where to start first, but the blue powder coursing through his veins demanding he puts his hands on your hips, which he finally acquiesce to. 

“I don’t think I can be gentle,” he admits quietly. He wants to nip, suck, slurp every inch of you, wants to see that perfect body bend to his will, to his turning. He wants to fuck you open and stuff himself up inside you so deep it leaves a mark. In his haze, the instinct to fuck supplies him with an image of you pregnant, bred and full of him, and his cock twitches so hard he drops onto all fours over you. 

You slip your underwear over your toes and your knees take him by the ribs.

“Please, Javi, please.” 

He knows it must hurt, must be so blindingly painful for you to beg like this. You never asked anyone for anything and that independence turned him on and frustrated him to no end. 

“Please, be rough,” you ask him from under your lashes, your body writhing beneath him. His hips, on a separate system than the rest of him, thrust the rough teeth of his zipper against your cunt and you keen, the sound imprinting into every crevice and curve of his brain. “Make it hurt.”

Oh fuck, this might actually be the thing that kills him. 

He hushes you, stills your flushed whimpering with a kiss that ends in teeth against the high curve of your cheek. He noses to your mouth, then down to your ear, where he bites on your earlobe. He’s balancing on one hand as his other tugs his jeans down and off his hips. 

He wants to fuck your tits. Come all over them, have his spend flush up your throat, your chin. He wants to come so hard he blinds you with it. And then he wants to flip you over and fuck your ass with his come-lubed dick. 

You wriggle and whine, legs wrapping around his hips, tugging him down onto you when, half-a-mind away, he realizes he just said all of that outloud.

“Yes, Javi, you can have whatever you want. Fuck me however you want.” His blood is boiling now, the white-hot bomb settling itself in the base of his spine, his balls already tight. Why he’s dragging this out is beyond him and possibly a medical detriment to you. 

“Javi, just fucking put your cock ins–,”

He watches as every conscious thought wiped from your mind, brow heavy, mouth seared open as he plugs you full of him in one rough thrust. You shudder and his elbows buckle, his body locked up tight because if he moves, if he dares to rub his cock through your velvet, hot clutch, he’ll come right there. Your eyes roll back in your head as his cock makes space for itself inside you.

“Javi–,” he claps a wide palm over your mouth, his teeth straining in his jaw, his temple twitching.

“Baby, I know it hurts – I know it fucking does – but I need you to stay still.” It feels too good. You’re too hot, too slippery, and soft. He can feel the hum of words behind his fingers and he shakes his head. “Do not fucking move – I just need to – I have to –,” 

He inches in just a bit more and you both gasp to the ceiling when he bottoms out. Your rough curls against his pelvis sears him, hot and sweet like cinnamon. He drools when he thinks about eating his own come out of you.

You only get one word out, one word that sets his whole world on fire: “Please.” 

He rears back, yanks you up his thighs, hands cupping the backs of your knees and he plows into you. Your tiny fingers that have pulled countless triggers and clapped irons on criminals twitch, tightening into the smelly cotton fabric, your mouth contorted open. His pace, his thrusting, is relentless, unforgiving but the look on your face is pleased, an almost maniacal grin across your lips. 

“Oh, right there, Javi, just like that. Just like that.”

He’s faster than he is precise. Precise comes later when the bestial fog clears from his brain, when the lust bleeds out of his system, when he doesn’t want to hump you like an animal with his teeth bared and cock so deep inside of you it kisses your womb. 

Before his mind entirely succumbs to the mounting arousal, he’s grateful he had the foresight to take the mattress down. If he hadn’t, there’s a good chance he would have fuck you, the bed, and himself right through the paper-thin walls. 

And then he lets go. Lets this thing in his chest and hot behind his groin take over, lets himself indulge in whatever carnal, depraved thing sparks in his mind.

He’s fucking you so hard you’ll both have bruises by morning. 

He watches, transfixed, at the place where his soaked cock disappears through your puffy, wet lips into the mind-numbing heat of your pussy. He can’t stop watching. He barely feels your nails digging into his thighs. 

The walls of your pussy squeeze him and it makes him falter, hitch speed. His gaze is torn away and instantly, it focuses on the bounce and sway of your tits. Sweat droplets roll from your neck into the valley of your breasts and without hesitation he bends to catch them with his mouth, tugging you further down his cock. You cry out, hands digging into his hair, as his tongue drags a wet trail over the top of your breast, the tip flicking your rock hard nipple, then beneath the swell where he meets it with his teeth. 

You jerk, pleasure overwhelming. “Uh – oh – oh – fuck – Javi.” The words leave your mouth truncated, cut short by his rhythmic bouncing. He nuzzles your tit, streaking you with his own sweat, not able to stop fucking up into you to really get a good grip on your breast, but wanting to put the whole thing in his mouth. 

“I’m gonna do it right next time,” he swears fidelity to your skin. He grinds his teeth against your sternum. “Next time I fuck you I’m going to pull you apart bit by bit. Starting with these fucking tits and ending with my tongue up your cunt. Maybe your ass.”

Against his cheek, he feels your skin break out in ridges, your whole body shivering at his words. He leans up, grinning wildly and grinds particularly deep inside of you. You still haven’t fully opened your eyes.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you? You want my tongue up your ass. What about my cock, huh? Want my fat fucking cock inside there?” 

You whine, clawing at his chest, as you nod frantically. He could ask anything of you right now and you’d give it to him. And god, he wants so much.

“It’d hurt, baby, you know it would.”

You nod, words tumbling out of your mouth in a mindless babble. “I don’t care. I want it there. I want you inside me. I want it to hurt. I want you to fuck me raw, Javi.”

He groans, more like a growl, rapidly picking up his pace. He lifts your knees higher and fucks up, the change in angle making you moan so loudly it fills up his ears with blood.

“Tell me where you want it. Say it, querida.” 

“I want it in my fucking ass, Javi.” 

His jaw twitching, that primal, unrestrained urge in him wrapping itself around his spine, he shoves you off him. Wetness dribbles down his lap but he doesn’t let himself smell or see it for long, as he flips you onto your hands and knees, sliding in and pummeling your pussy from behind.

You whine, singing for his cock, and collapse onto your elbows, presenting your ass for him. The pair of you really are just fucking animals.

He presses his thumb to your tight hole, the wet slap of his balls against your ass suddenly the least obscene thing in the room. There’s barely enough room for his thumb there and he tips his head back at the thought that no one had ever taken you there before. His. All his and no one fucking else’s. 

“Javi,” you sob, that preening need gone from your voice as though you are begging him not to go further, but desire kept you from voicing what you actually wanted. 

His bottom lip twitches and he leans down and gently bites your shoulder, grounding you and clearing out all fear. Drugs or not, he’d never do anything you didn’t explicitly ask for, but the second this is all over, he’s going to get on his hands and knees and beg you to let him work your ass open. 

“Not tonight, cariño.” He slides his thumb out of you, his wrist twisting as he palms the meat of your ass. “But I’m not leaving this completely untouched.”

He smacks the jiggling flesh until he sees a pink hand print, earning him a yelp from you every time his palm lands. He feels fresh, sticky wetness soak his cock with each slap, enough for it to dribble down his thigh. He’s not going to shower for a week. 

The higher he climbs, the faster that animalistic heat leaves his blood. You’re not as pale as before, the skin of your back growing a nice healthy flush. As his grip around your hips tightens, he feels your cunt clench around him. If he won’t take your ass tonight, he still wants you puffy and sore. He leans back just to watch his cock pound your pink, abused hole.

“I’m close, Javi,” you admit breathlessly. He nods, leaning forward again, that image of your pussy split open for him deliciously sealed in his mind, and he drags his nose down your spine. Sweat from his chest drops and splatters against your skin.

“I know you are, I can feel it. Can I see your face? Watch you? Can I put you on top?”

You nod and he slips out of you for what he hopes will be the last time in his fucking life. He’s no longer drug-crazed, but he is drunk. Pussy drunk. Drunk on you. Imbibed by the juices trailing down his thighs. He shifts and you swing a leg over his hips, immediately swallow him deep inside you. 

Unlike the courtesy he gave you, you give him no time to adjust, grip his chest, and ride him within an inch of his life.

Your tits swinging in his face, he presses his fingers so tight into your thighs, he’ll be able to count the distinct bruises, and plants his feet. He meets you, thrust for thrust, and he watches your competitive nature battle your overwhelming chase for release. 

“Just come, cariño,” he pants. “You’ve done so good tonight. Just fucking come all over my lap. Let go.” 

His words melt something inside of you and you whimper, curling down over him, which he takes to wrap his arms around your back, and roll you under him. He kisses your chin, your temple, the corner of your mouth. His big palm cradling your head, he grinds low and deep, seeking out that place he touched with his fingers. 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you. You can come.” He prods that spot once and it’s all over. You clamp down on his cock, milking him for all he’s worth because as you arch, mouth open, tears down your face, he comes too. He comes and he comes and he comes until he drips out of you and that breaks another orgasm across you, this one bumpy and leaves you shaking. 

He feels dizzy, unsure up from down, the loudest sound he hears is his own blood rushing in his ears. He’s never been more exhausted. 

He can hear the vibration of you saying something against his throat, but nothing is quite working like it’s supposed to, so he slumps off you, his hand never leaving your skin, as he tugs you against him.

He’ll be dried and sticky in only a few hours – you both will – but that doesn’t matter right now. The only thing that does is the feeling of your heartbeat over his.��

*~*~*

Morning, along with the scent of rain, glides in through the open window and your fingers twitch as sunlight hits you. Your eyes fluttering open, you lift your head from the sleeping bag to see wet puddles on the floor under the window, the concrete streaked and stained with water. It must have rained sometime last night and, shockingly, you didn’t hear a thing.

The heatwave had finally broken. 

It’s not until you’re full awake do you realize his hand rests in the cup of your neck, thumb rubbing smooth, soft circles into the hard knot near your shoulder blade. You smile, groaning softly, becoming more relaxed by how good it feels. 

You roll over and greet his eyes. They’re brown again, the hungry blackness gone, but leaving an edge of uncertainty in its wake. 

He wants to know how you feel about last night.

“You fucked up,” you tell him and that worried crease appears between his eyebrows. You inch closer, your hand curling up against his jaw. “All that time last night, all the time you had me under you, and you didn’t kiss me once.”

You close your eyes, drop your head, and press a fervent, determined kiss against his pink lips. You can feel it as he swallows it in, his body shifting forward, hand coming up to your hip. But just as quickly as it starts, he pulls away. 

Javier shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says almost mournfully, eyes downcast. “I don’t want to know – what you taste like, if . . . I can’t kiss you if this is the last time.”

He’s still respecting your boundary, your wishes, while coated in his release and yours. He knows he can’t be selfish with you again.

You wet your lip, hand still on his cheek. 

“Javier, you saved my life last night. That was some kind of fucked up drug, but if you hadn’t been here and did what you did, I think I would have had a heart attack.” He shakes his head, ashamed and desperate to prove you wrong. You understand his hesitation. It felt too good for it to be anything other than a transgression. “And if anything, it showed me something I think I already knew but couldn’t find in myself to admit. I need you, Javi. I need you because I can’t live without you. Because I love you.”

His eyes light up when you return the words he uttered in the bar. None of this is how it should have been – in an abandoned narcos hideout, but god, there’s not a single thing you’d change. 

“Yeah, baby? You mean that?” You nod as hot, natural desire flashes in his eyes as he pulls your body under him and captures your mouth in his. His warm palm cups your hip, your ribs, up under your arm, and pushes your elbow to your head. There’s more to say, more to worry about, but that fucking heatwave over Bogota has finally broken and Javier Peña’s cum is dried and flaky between your thighs. 

“We should call Murphy,” you giggle, withdrawing your tongue from his mouth. He shakes his head, the blunt edge of his teeth against your cheek. “There’s a deadly new drug on the streets. Lives are at stake.”

“My dick is at stake,” he murmurs, lips hovering over your skin, drawing your knee up to his ribs as he slots himself between your thighs. The smile slides off your face as he thumbs your raw clit in rough, desperate circles. 

“I thought you said you were going to take it slow next time,” you huff, hips rolling against his stiff cock. 

“I will. Gonna take you to dinner. Cup your ass over a distractingly short dress. Buy you flowers and fucking gold jewelry . . . then I’m going to take you home and open you up with my fingers, then my tongue.” 

“So what’s this?” You gasp against his neck as he sinks his cock into you. 

He groans, grunts, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the night making your cunt his personal possession. 

“This is me, fucking you, before breakfast. Then we call Murphy. Any objections?” 

You squeeze your knees around him, ankles hooked across his low back, sucking a mark into his neck. 

“Not at all.” 

When you do go public, not shying away from holding hands in the office, or openly walking in at the same time from the same car, Noonan is irate, but can’t bring herself to cut her two best agents loose. It seems catching Pablo Escobar matters more than some silly, little government-issued guidelines. She’d get her day in court, but not today. Not for a while. 

Noonan is annoyed. 

Murphy is not. 

“Came across some new party drugs and not a single thing happened, right?”

“You could have found it, taken it home for you and Connie to enjoy,” you say as you slide your arm across Javier’s back, his hand on your hip. He rarely ever takes his hands off you now. “But, no, you bailed on me instead.” 

“Sounds like you should be thanking me, instead of busting my balls.”

“He’s right, baby,” Javier nuzzles your neck. “Could have been him stuck in that basement with me, horny as a cat in fucking heat.” 

You shrug as Murphy makes a face. “I blame the heatwave.”

He leans into your ear. “And I blame your fucking ass in that skirt. I’m gonna take you home, make good on my promise. Any objections?”

“Not at all.” 

[familyvideostevie]

october nineteenth

day nineteen: steve harrington you find a guy at a halloween party dressed in a matching costume. guess you have to hook up with him, right? | 18+, mdni, smut, fem!reader | 2k detailed content warnings: grinding, hooking up with a stranger, fem!reader, some light praise kink, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, doggy style, people hearing you fuck

Your costume is a bit uninspired. It was supposed to be a couples costume but your date called last week to say he finally made it official with some other girl, so.

Here you are, Baby from Dirty Dancing without her Johnny.

You’ve made it a bit sluttier than planned to compensate. Jean cutoffs as short as you can find and a white button up tied just below your breasts, which are pushed up and out by your best bra.

All of your friends ooh and ahh and tell you you’re sure to attract some attention tonight. The party it at the house of some guy you don’t really know, but you’re still excited by the atmosphere and how good you know you look. When you get there you immedietly grab a drink and start having fun. You dance, you laugh, you take a shot.

You’ve got a light buzz by the time he walks in.

A guy dressed as Johnny. At least that’s who you think he’s dressed as — tight black tank top showing his biceps and black pants that hug his ass like a dream. He’s handsome in a way that makes your throat dry.

He locks eyes with you from across the room and his eyes rake across your costume with obvious interest. Wow, you’re pretty sure you’ve never met this guy before but he’s really checking you out. Then he winks at you and disappears into the crowd.

Okay. Tonight might be more fun than you anticipated. If you can find him again.

You wander around the house with your friends, one eye on the crowd, but you don’t see him. A flash of black, a tanned shoulder, coiffed hair. But no actual Johnny.

Until you’re in the kitchen by yourself getting some water from the tap.

“Baby?” someone says behind you. You whirl around and there he is. “Hi,” he says, mouth pulled up into an infuriatingly handsome smirk.

“Hi…Johnny?”

“Well, I tried,” he says. “I’m Steve.” He holds out his hand to shake and you pump it twice.

“Hi, Steve.” You tell him your actual name and he repeats it. “Wanna dance, Steve?”

He looks a bit surprised but glances at the mosh of people and then you, heat in his gaze. “Guess we have to, right? I’m not lifting you, though. Patrick Swayze is way stronger than me, I can admit it.”

You laugh and grab his hand and drag him to the floor.

It’s the point in the night where people are practically dry humping to the music, so you press close to Steve as you dance, making sure you’re always touching as you spin and move.

You turn around a few times and press your ass against his front just to see what he’ll do. His hands fly to your hips every time, thumbs pressing into the bare skin above your waistband. By the third time you do it, you feel him hard against you and you crane your neck so you can see his face.

“Do you want to find a room?” he says in your ear, breath hot on your skin.

You nod. Steve grabs your hand and drags you from the floor and through the hallways of the house like he knows it well. You make it up the stairs and he tries a few doors but they’re all locked or otherwise occupied, based on the shouts from behind them. He curses and then tugs you into…a bathroom?

“Not what I was aiming for, but it’ll do,” he says and kicks the door shut. You hop up on the counter and he stands between your legs, hands squeezing your bare thighs.

Neither of you seem totally sure what to do next. Your arousal courses through your veins but you wait for him to make the next move.

“I, uh, don’t do this a lot,” he says.

“Hook up with random girls at parties?”

He swallows and nods. “We don’t have to do anything,” he assures you. “You just…you look so…”

“We match,” you remind him. You curl your fingers through his belt loops.

“We do.”

“I’m game if you are,” you say and lean in. He follows like a magnet and your noses brush.

“Okay,” he says. “We can stop whenever you want.”

“Scott,” you say, “I promise I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

“Well, first of all, my name is Steve.” You laugh, only a little embarrassed. He doesn’t look upset, just amused.

“Sorry, Steve.”

He kisses you hard, hands on your face and tongue immedietly in your mouth. You wrap your legs around him and pull him as close as you can get. His hands are everywhere, on your jaw and your back and your hips and your stomach. He breaks the kiss to tear off his tank top and you drag your hands down his chest, feeling his wiry hair and muscles as he kisses you again, sucking on your tongue.

“Off,” he says into your mouth. Nimble fingers untie the knot of your shirt and throw it aside. His lips trail down your neck, sucking on your pulse point. “So hot,” he says. “So fucking hot in that shirt. Look at those tits.”

He tugs down your bra and practically sighs when he cups your breasts in his huge hands. His mouth is spit slick and hair a mess from your tugging. “God,” he breathes out. “Perfect.” He runs his thumbs over your nipples and pinches them. You arch your back into his touch and undo your bra entirely so it falls to the floor.

The party is going on just outside but you don’t give a fuck. You haven’t had a one-night stand in a long time and this is going perfectly. You need him to fuck you in this bathroom.

You cover one of his hands with yours and drag it down to your inner thigh. “Touch me, Steve.”

He smirks. “Right name. Good girl,” he coos. Now that sends a lightning bolt of pleasure to your core. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

He pulls you off the counter and tugs down your shorts, going to his knees as he does. Holy shit. “These fuckin’ things,” he says. “So short it should be illegal.”

“Lucky you it’s not,” you say. You lean back on the vanity and he studies the lace of your panties. “Cute.” You fist your hand in his hair and tug lightly so he’s looking at you. His pupils dilate and his breath hitches.

“C’mon, Steve. You gonna touch me?”

“Oh, I’m gonna touch you.” He tugs down your panties and pushes your legs apart. You pull your foot free from your bottoms and lift your leg, which he hooks over his shoulder.

“Look at that,” he says. He drags two fingers through your folds and brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, his eyes on you the whole time. Where the hell did this guy come from? “Your cunt tastes good.”

And then he’s lapping at you, the flat of his tongue firm enough against you to make you moan. His nose bumps your clit and you keen, which makes him switch gears and suck on it a few times. He slides two fingers inside, pumping them in and out as he devours you.

Your grip on his hair becomes less gentle but he doesn’t seem to mind. You’re pretty sure he likes it.

You could come like this but his fingers have only barely filled the ache you feel so you tap his cheek and he pulls away.

“You gonna spend all night down there?”

He grins. His face is shiny with you. “I could.”

“Or you could fuck me.” His nostrils flare and he licks his lips.

“I could do that, too.”

Steve stands and hovers near you until you surge forward to kiss him. You can taste yourself on his lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “So fucking hot.”

You feel him hard through his pants as you work at his belt. He helps you and shoves them down just far enough to get his cock out. He’s bigger than you thought he’d be, long and thick, dark curls at the base. You spit into your hand and start to stroke him.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Yeah,” he manages. He digs in the back pocket of his half-off pants and produces a foil square. You would tease him about it if you weren’t so impatient to be fucked.

“I’ll do it,” you say. He hands you the wrapper and you tear it open and slowly roll it on. Steve hisses. “Gonna be a tight fit,” you murmur.

“You sure know how to make a guy feel good,” he says. “Turn around.”

You do, ass in the air, hands braced on the counter. The mirror is too high on the wall for you to see anything but you wish you could.

“Fuck,” Steve says. “You’re dripping.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. He drags his cock through your folds and you push back with your hips, desperate for some friction.

Steve fucking laughs. “Patience, sweetheart. Gonna take care of you.”

“Then get a fucking move on, sweetheart,” you snap.

He stops messing around and pushes into you a bit meanly, a bit too fast, and you gasp.

“Fuck,” you hiss, pressing your forehead on the counter. The stretch burns for a few seconds before dulling to a feeling of fullness, of deep, deep pleasure. He bottoms out and you hear a stuttering breath.

“Tight fit is right,” Steve says. “Fuck.”

“Are you going to move?”

“So impatient.” Steve kicks your feet apart even more and starts to fuck you hard right away, his cock dragging inside you and skin slapping loudly with each thrust. His hands grip your hips so hard you know you’ll bruise.

“Bet this isn’t — shit — what you thought you’d be doing tonight.”

“Not exactly,” he says. “But I’m not complaining.”

You laugh but it turns into a moan when he hits the perfect spot inside you.

“God,” he pants. “You have a perfect cunt.”

“Buy a girl dinner first, Steve.”

He fucks you even harder in retaliation.

The bathroom feels hot, almost unbearably so. You’re making noises you didn’t know you could make as he pounds into you, so loud you’re sure anyone standing outside can hear.

And then someone bangs on the door. Neither of you pay it any mind.

“Hey! You can’t take the bathroom! People have to piss!”

“Fuck off,” Steve yells.

“Did you lock the door?” you ask, turning your head a little to see him. His chest his flushed, forehead damp with exertion. He smoothes a palm over your back as if to calm you.

“I fucking hope so,” he says, not breaking his rhythm. Whoever is outside must decide it’s not worth it, because they don’t knock again. “Why? You want someone to walk in on us? See you bent over the counter, see me fucking you—”

You clench around him. “Shut up, Steve.” He does.

The building pressure in your abdomen is getting to be too much. You press back into him with each thrust, chasing your high. He gets the message and curls an arm around you to circle your clit with rough fingers, his damp chest pressed to your bare back.

“I’m close,” he says, “I’m close, baby, are you—”

“Me too,” you pant. It’s funny that he calls you baby, since you are — were — dressed as her, but you don’t call him on it, too busy trying to finish.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, come on, you can do it, come on my co—”

A broken cry crawls its way out of you as your orgasm rushes up all at once. You spasm around him and his hips drive into you through it. At some point he finishes, too, but you’re too fucked out to notice. He presses his forehead to your shoulder blades after he’s done. You’re both panting. The sounds of the party leak through the door.

Steve squeezes your hip, still inside you. “That was — wow.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” you say. “We should do this again.”

“Is that a compliment?” You reach back with intent to smack him but he catches your hand and squeezes. “Don’t worry, I won’t let it go to my head.”

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here! promptober masterlist, find all fics under #fvspromptober23

[throneofsapphics]

your writing is absolutely scrumptious and i wish i could give you all the flowers in the world for it!

i’ve had “home” by catie turner stuck in my head and i was wondering if you could write an angsty-fluffy drabble for any tog/acotar poly couple, azriel, or rhysand along the lines of the song?

footprints in the snow. 

Cazriel x Reader

Summary: You, Cassian, and Azriel are in a long-distance relationship.

Warnings: light angst and fluff

A/N: aw you're so sweet, I appreciate you!! and thank you for introducing me to that song :)

The waiting wasn’t the worst part. That belonged to the stretches where you were left in the dark, unaware of when you’d see them again. Lost in a cycle. 

Uncertainty. Anticipation. Joy. Dread. 

You were each other's home. But … isn’t home supposed to be something familiar?

That’s what you wanted, for it to be familiar. It’s neither of your faults that you live in different courts, but you craved to come home to them each day, to fall asleep in their arms, to see them more than once or twice a month at most. Each time felt like you were re-acquainting yourself with their energy and presence. 

“When will I see you again?” You asked, glancing at the clock. Thirty minutes until they’d fly out. You were surprised you lasted this long without questioning them. 

“We don’t know,” Cassian looked apologetic. Trying your best to give him an understanding smile, you failed miserably - the tear gathering in the corner of your eyes betraying you. Of course, he noticed, and tugged you into his arms, into the warm embrace you craved so much. “I’m sorry,” he kissed your hair. 

Letters could be intercepted, codes could be cracked, and if they were spotted with you too frequently, if word got to the wrong people - it would put a target on your back. Despite everything, they were worth it. 

The familiar sound of footsteps crunching on the snow, and you flung the door open, the harsh winter breeze flying over you, snow pelting your skin - but you didn’t care. The dilemma of earlier was forgotten as two winged figures closed the distance, shielding you from the elements. Cassian slid his arms around your chest, lifting you off the ground and spinning you into the warmth. 

Laughter bubbling, head spinning, you squeezed your arms tightly around his neck, pressing kisses wherever you could reach. He had to bend down as your feet hit solid ground. If he hadn’t held onto you, you probably would’ve fallen right on your ass. 

Hands slid up your body to cup your face, and cold, slightly chapped lips pressed against your forehead, cheeks, nose, jaw, and were warm by the time they finally met yours. A few seconds passed, and shadows pushed the two of you apart. 

“No patience,” you chided as Azriel slid between the two of you, wrapping his own arms around you - your feet thankfully on the ground. 

Calmer, but he held you just as tightly, kissed you with the same sense of longing, before the standard lecture came. At this point, it was a routine - maybe even a ritual. 

“We could’ve been anyone.” 

“Intruders wouldn’t have been so obvious,” you countered, grinning. 

Azriel glanced at the ceiling, like he was uttering a short prayer to the mother. 

“Dramatic,” you muttered. 

Reaching up to tilt his head back down, hazel eyes littered with amusement and exasperation stared back at you. 

“He’s right,” Cassian added. 

Azriel looked too smug, and maybe that’s why his shadows didn’t stop you from flicking his nose. 

Ducking out of his arms, you sprinted towards the kitchen, hand gripping the doorframe to whirl yourself around the corner, lips pressed tightly to hide laughter at Cassian’s snort and teasing in the background. 

Most likely, he let you past his defenses and out of his hold, but you’d take the win. Grabbing the small basket of muffins you’d bought in anticipation, having a good feeling about tonight, you slid them across the kitchen table. 

Sneaking a glance at the clock, you debated asking how long it would be this time. Refocusing your attention on the doorway, you studied them as they walked through. 

Relaxed shoulders, light in their eyes, and half smiles on their lips, you decided to hold off. 

Ruining this momentary peace wouldn’t be worth it. If you leaned into it enough, lost yourself enough, you almost believed you could make it last forever. 

[prometheus2007]

Block me I don't care anymore I know I won't be able to convince you or anyone at this point just let me die and peace please, idk I don't care anymore more breezy deactivated Becuase of me and your going through the spinning death whirl so please just take care of yourself or something I don't know block me if you want Becuase all the terrible shit that's happened is my fault, it's my fault anons included you in the drama it's my fault that everything happened, just block me and have everyone else block me and move on

Oh you’ve got to be kidding me. I’m sick of this, Penny. You don’t need to go out of your way to guilt trip the fuck out of me and my friends. I know what you’re doing. I’m not an idiot. None of us asked to be part of your silly anon drama that you egg on constantly. You don’t deserve what the anons are saying to you (if they’re even real, I have a hard time believing they are real.) but it’s literally so easy to turn them off. You turn them back on and off because you like the attention. You lied about how many “pedos were after you” because you like the drama and more so the support you get from Tumblr mutuals after you post about how much you hate yourself and how much you want to die. You’re baiting people so you get a dopamine rush and feel better about yourself instead of actually trying to better yourself. That’s what you’re doing. It’s really sad. Your drama got my friend feeling so bad that she turned off her account. This was completely unnecessary and avoidable on your part, so YES. This is partly your fault. She didn’t ask to be involved, neither did I, or Pami, or Lucky. You are being absolutely ridiculous. I’m sorry that you’re suffering, but clearly you have some issues that you really need to resolve. Get off of Tumblr, it’s feeding some very unhealthy attention addiction you need to get checked, please get some mental help somewhere.

Do not interact with me or any of my friends anymore, I am not comfortable with that, I am blocking you soon because I wanna send this out to you, and I’m still fucking going through A HURRICANE YOU LITERALLY KNOW THIS IM BUSY! Why do you INVOLVE me in this Penny? Even if I wasn’t this is literally so unnecessary and you know what you’re doing.

Edit: Thank goodness you blocked me. Anyone who wants to continue involving me in this drama will most liekly be blocked as well don’t try I’m annoyed it’s too late for this

[ivanttakethis]

Before Round 27 - Tov’s Log

Jae (?) vs. Lang (?) -> ??? Win

————————————————————

Tov awoke the next morning to the phone ringing.

Nyx was gone, just as he said.

The only evidence of his presence left behind was rumpled sheets and a radio communicator so they could stay in contact.

They still had a lot to talk about.

All of the secrets Nyx spilled were still whirling around in her head.

“Vera is still alive.”

Good. Great. One less dead classmate.

“I never told you that I saw Aurien get taken away by Solei.”

They were even on that. Tov never told Nyx that she knew Solei was the one who rescued Aurien.

But that was before Round 7. Before she thought Tallis had died right in front of her eyes and lost her mind.

At least Tov returned the favor and spilled the secret about him too.

Now two people knew Tallis was out there somewhere.

Though what stuck in her mind the most, what left her with far more questions was—

“I never told you about my children.”

The thought of Nyx having just one child was enough to make Tov’s head spin. But he said children. Multiple.

He was so young. When the fuck did he have time to have multiple children?

Who were they? How long ago did he have them? Does he know their names? Are they still in contact? Where are they now? Please tell me they’re not in Anakt Garden—

The phone rang again.

Tov’s plot to tear that bastard Guardian Oryon’s wings off with her bare hands would have to wait for now.

She sat up in her bed and fumbled blindly for the answer button, hitting it with more force than necessary.

Wren started talking before she could greet her. “Hey! Where have you been? I’ve called you like three times already.”

“Late start.” She said around a yawn.

“Ah, so you haven’t read the news yet.”

Tov frowned, “What news?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just a bunch of gossip rags spewing bullshit about Round 26.” The distain in Wren’s voice was palpable. “‘Has the star of Season 39 fizzled out? Tov’s stellar fall from grace!’ Gag me.”

Ouch.

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s not bad, it’s tacky. They’re acting like you bombed on stage.” She said. “Akane was tough competition. Neither of you were going to win by a landslide. I don’t know why people are losing their fucking minds about it.”

Wren sounded pissed off enough for the both of them. Tov found herself smiling.

“Hey, I’m the one who almost died.”

“Yeah, but you didn't.” Wren said after a moment. “You beat death.”

“I just got lucky.”

“Then I guess that means my good luck charm worked.”

Oh, that’s right.

The new weight on Tov’s right ring finger came to the front of her mind.

She raised her hand up toward the window, letting the silver band catch the sunlight pouring in.

“Maybe...” Tov hummed softly, running her thumb over the sun and moon engraving.

“Something about your voice sounds different today,” Wren said. “You’re a lot more upbeat than I’d expect someone in your position to be.”

Is it really that obvious?

There was no way Tov was going to tell Wren anything about what happened last night.

She shook her head, “I think you're just hearing things.”

Wren laughs, “You're a terrible liar.”

“I'm a great liar.” Tov countered, affronted.

“Then l'm great at figuring out whether you're lying or not.”

“I don’t like the connotations of that.” She said flatly.

“You’re overthinking it.” Wren matched her tone.

Tov made a noncommittal noise, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes with her palms.

“I won't push you on where this new spark came from, as long as you put it to good use.”

“Put it to good use how?”

“For your next round!” She said. “You need a song that plays to your vocal strengths and uses that new spark you have. It should be something powerful, something that shows the audience that you’re still here and you’re still going to come out on top.”

“I still have to become the Sun.” Tov echoed.

“Exactly. It isn’t over yet.” Wren said. “You have a season to win, remember?”

————————————————————

This is a follow up to @imperfectnothing’s post of Tov and Nyx’s reunion after Round 26! Plus some sisterly bickering bonding!

Getting to see Nyx and being able to confirm that he’s okay has helped lift Tov’s spirits (even if she does want to put his owner in the dirt over what she’s learned).

She also has major survivor’s remorse over what happened with Akane, but Nyx and Wren’s encouragement makes her want to keep going. The power of siblings!!

While Nyx mentioned Solei to Tov, she still doesn’t know Solei is part bird 😅

[scullysexual]

@today-in-fic

Just a thing that has been floating around in my head for a while.

PROLOGUE. 1987.

The axe is weighty in your hand, heavy like a lead pipe. Funny, you didn’t think it weighed as much as it did now back then. It takes all your strength to swing it, the very last of it, hurling it against flesh and bone. Blood spurts everywhere; all over your face, your clothes, your hair. It stains the grey lino floor, the plastic and metal lunch benches. What a mess, you think. A mess you’re now going to have to clean up. You’re annoyed but not at yourself, at him. Him who’s face stares up at you in shock, who’s head is almost decapitated. You hurl up at the display beneath you, your vomit mixing in with his blood. You feel guilty, disgusted, fear gripping at your corners, crippling you as you fall onto the floor and continue to spew your guts out. But you had to do it, you had to save your baby.

Funny, you don’t remember it being your baby’s father that you killed back then.

CHAPTER ONE. 2004.

Dana wakes up with a sudden start. Her heart pounds against her chest, stomach furling and unfurling. She is covered in a sheen of sweat, a typical and usual occurrence lately for July in Maryland. The ceiling fan whirls above her, an annoying old, loud thing, unable to keep the room cool and instead spins humid air around.

It's early, the morning sun streaming through the gap in the curtains but not early enough to warrant being awake. Still, Dana doubts she’ll be able to fall back to sleep, not with the light flooding the room, the pathetic whirl of the fan making too much noise. She watches it spin, spin, spin so fast it makes her feel dizzy all the while trying to stop her brain from thinking, thinking, thinking—

A half grunt half snore pulls her attention away. Dana turns to see Daniel lying next to her. He is naked, laying on his stomach, the thin sheet kicked off him entirely. Her eyes trace down his bare body, lingering on his ass briefly before she moves them back up. She should feel something, desire or attraction or something, instead there’s nothing until she looks at his face again and that nothingness feeling is replaced with disgust. Has he always looked this old, she wonders.

At 57 he certainly wasn’t bad looking he just wasn’t what Dana wanted anymore.

There’s a shrill of an alarm clock. Dana rolls to her side facing away from him and shuts her eyes, feigning sleep. She was good at that, pretending to sleep, could teach a masterclass on it; gently close your eyes, breathe rhythmically, stay still. It could be, of course, that she isn’t that good and Daniel doesn’t care enough to call her out on it.

She listens as he awakens, shutting off the alarm, shifting and rolling. He’s close to her, she can feel his body heat coming off in waves, stifling her. His morning breath breathing on her and she tries not to react. She imagines a hand coming out to brush away the hair that’s fallen over her face, a mouth pressing kisses to her exposed neck and shoulders. She thinks back to when her baby really was a baby and she would wake up to the glorious feeling of his cock inside her, back when all it took was her body, her actions, her words to arouse him. Now he needs pills.

She hears him roll away. The mattress creaks as he gets from the bed, clothes rustle, footsteps move muffled across the carpeted floor. Only when the sound of the bathroom door shutting does Dana relax and reopen her eyes. She doesn’t hold her breath for sex anymore- morning or evening- in many ways she’s glad he doesn’t even try, she thinks she might throw up if he did.

Neither of them have had sex for eight years.

Correction: she hasn’t had sex for eight years. She can’t speak for Daniel and his pills.

Dana lies on her back again watching the fan and thinks about her dream. It’s not a reoccurring dream, not anymore anyway but there was something about the 22nd of July that always brought that dream back. Memories resurfacing, it was the anniversary after all. 17 years ago she survived a night she never should have survived, probably wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for the baby that she carried inside of her. She thinks of the boy dream-her killed, she wonders where that boy is now.

Man. He is a man now, just as tall, hopefully just as handsome. 36 isn’t old, 36 is perfect and if she thinks back hard enough she can remember what it felt like for him to be inside her. He was well above average, the way he stretched her, splitting her in half in the most incredible way possible. Her panties become damp at the memory, she slips her fingers beneath the material. His mouth was amazing, too. This sticks with her because it was the only time she ever received oral, Daniel pulled a face when she suggested it years ago but didn’t protest at receiving it himself. Her stomach grows sour and she almost dries up at the thought but not today, today she gets her orgasm. She pulls her thoughts away from Daniel and focuses back on the boy, on his mouth, on his fingers, those hazel eyes boring into her blue ones as he fucked her deep and hard in that stinky old shed. She had cum so hard, she remembers. No one comes during their first time but she did, he made her.

Her fingers are a poor substitute for his mouth and cock but she’s almost coming, on the cusps, she just needs something else and then she’ll be released.

“Mommy?”

Dana’s hand stills. She bites back her sigh of frustration and removes her damp hand from the confines of her panties, wiping her fingers are on the bedding as she sits up her eyes finding Luke standing in the doorway. He bites down on his thumb, his bare foot playing with his socked foot. Dana can also see the sheen of sweat that covers his exposed skin, the way his undershirt sticks to him.

“Hey baby,” she greets, letting a genuine smile fall across her face. “Did Daddy wake you up?”

The little boy nods, yawning and rubbing at his eye. Dana holds out a hand. “We’ve still got time. Wanna sleep in here with me?”

Luke goes to her, relishing in the opportunity to be near her. Even at eight, he is still very much a mama’s boy something Daniel finds every opportunity to scoff at, telling Luke that he needs to start ‘manning up’ usually earning a glare from Dana. She doesn’t mind Luke’s attention, at least someone in this family still wants and needs her.

The boy climbs in and despite the humidity snuggles against her. After a few minutes, however, he is pulling away.

“You’re all sweaty,” he says, scrunching up his nose.

“Well so are you,” she answers back and pulls her back towards her anyway.

She needs this today; Luke’s unwavering love for her. He’s the only one who doesn’t know what she’s had to do and she knows it won’t be long until she poisons him as well. How long she has, she can’t say. Boys aren’t like girls, boys don’t get to thirteen and suddenly despise their mothers, boys love their mothers until they find another woman to love. Dana still has time, more time.

Luke falls back asleep for the remaining 35 minutes they have before they do really need to get up. Dana watches him, feeling her heart about to burst with love for this child. She can still feel love, she reassures herself. It isn’t all bad in there.

35 minutes pass and Dana’s alarm goes off. She silences it, rouses Luke awake with the promise of waffles. She takes his hand, guiding him down the stairs to where Daniel is ready for work, waiting around until it is time to leave. She ignores him, giving all her attention to Luke until an elephant stomps its way down the stairs.

“I need you to sign this.” Her eldest child thrusts a crumpled piece of paper into Dana’s hands.

Emily. The baby she committed so many sins for. Now grown up into a teenage monster. She grabs one of Luke’s first batch waffles and sits down at the table waiting.

Dana’s eyes scan the piece of paper. “What is this?” she asks never having seen it before now.

“It’s for camp,” answers Emily.

Dana’s stomach twists as she reads the letter, processing the words even as Emily speaks.

“To be a camp counsellor. Everyone’s doing it; Becky, Amy, Lily- we’ve been discussing it for months. We decided to sign up but we need ‘parental permission’.” She says that last part with air quotes and a roll of her eyes, as if having to ask her parents to do anything was stupid and lame.

“No.” Dana places the form, unsigned, down on the counter. Emily’s face drops.

“What?” she asks in disbelief.

“The answer is no,” Dana repeats. “You’re not going.” Daniel is looking at her with an unreadable expression. Dana briefly locks eyes with him before turning her attention toward the second batch of waffles. Emily, still in disbelief, looks between both parental figures.

“But- but everyone’s doing it,” Emily repeats. “We were gonna share a cabin and everything.”

“The answer is no, Emily,” Dana says still not looking towards her.

Emily looks towards Daniel. “Dad, tell her!”

Daniel shakes his head. “It’s not up to me.” He gathers his bag, beginning to leave.

Dana turns away from the waffles and leans against the counter, her arms crossed. She braves a glance towards her daughter who glares back at her indignantly, angry tears filling her eyes.

“Why do you always have to make my life miserable?” she demands though it’s hard to take seriously through the tears and the sniffling. “What did I ever do you?” With that Emily leaves, elephant stomping her way up the stairs, ending with a violent slam of her bedroom door.

Dana stares into the empty space Emily left behind, numbing herself to the onslaught of emotions that assault her. The toaster pops up Luke’s waffles. They are burnt.

[mwebber]

word vomit about this astronaut au..

when mark wakes up, he's not half-convinced that he isn't dead, and that this isn't the other side. surely, the wormhole had crushed his tiny ship to pieces; surely, he can't be here right now, lying on a couch in a modest farmhouse, breathing air that carries the scent of freshly-baked bread, and watching his frenemy/fuckbuddy/situationship wash the dishes from behind. surely.

"oh, good, you're up," seb twists around briefly, before turning his attention back to the sink. "just in time. you can help me with these."

mark's mouth goes dry. that's not--seb. not the way he remembers him. his seb is still youthful, all rosy cheeks and smug grins and smooth skin. he's been up in space for a couple years, he knows, but this is impossible. this seb is at least forty years older, crows feet embedded deep at the corner of his eyes, laugh lines etched into his fair countenance, and blonde hair turned grey as he moves out of the afternoon sun.

then, something terribly strange happens: mark moves, and he watches his body move, and he sees the effects of the years on his own face, completely divorced from this older version of himself.

scrabbling a safe distance away, he observes the scene with nausea rising in his gut.

"i keep telling you," this older mark says, sliding his arms around seb's waist, ducking to kiss the nape of his neck. his tone is awfully, scarily fond. "you'll have an easier time if you don't multi-task."

is this death? where the fuck is he?

seb sniffs disdainfully, even as he leans into older mark's touch. "dishes, darling."

mark feels like an interloper as he watches the couple share a sweet, brief kiss, before separating to go about their tasks. it looks so incredibly alien. he's never kissed seb with any kindness, only ever tried to devour him in stolen moments.

his training never prepared him for this--dreamlike state, this pseudo-death.

"hello?" he calls out, tentatively, padding closer to the kitchen area. neither of them turn to face him. feeling bolder, he stalks right up and waves a hand in his other self's face. not even a blink of acknowledgement.

but when he wanders over to seb and does the same, seb--shudders. his hands still in place where he's fussing over the bread.

"can you see me?" mark pleads, suddenly desperate to know that he's not alone in this afterlife, destined to watch his most secret and shameful of dreams play out like a cruel fairy tale before his eyes without him.

seb shakes his head minutely, as if to clear it, and glances over at mark's other self. the small smile that pulls at his lips seems entirely involuntary.

mark is a ghost in the room.

it's all too much for him. his nausea comes to a dizzying head, and he clumsily makes a break for the front door, passing right through it to fall onto the porch, retching up nothing.

when he finally manages to crawl to his knees, and then sit on his haunches, he takes in his surroundings.

this isn't earth.

oh, it's normal enough. beyond him is a lush field, and there's a barn to his right, and he can see various farm paraphernalia around.

but the sky is a clear, glass-like dome, and beyond it, he can see every star in space, whirling and sparkling as they pass slowly overhead like clouds. the sun, just hidden by the awning over the porch, remains steadfast and glorious.

like there's nothing between the ground and the galaxy, he thinks, with a tinge of hysteria. how is anything living here? are they alone?

gathering his legs beneath him, he staggers to a stand, and reaches a tentative hand through the door. he passes through it easily, completely immaterial.

"holy shit," he whispers to himself, as he squeezes his eyes shut, and steps through the threshold without feeling anything at all.

when he makes his way back to the kitchen, he's confronted with the couple again. this time, they're hugging, and rocking side to side, spinning in a slow, lazy circle.

"in other words, baby, kiss me..." older mark half sings, half murmurs under his breath, barely audible. seb kisses him, gentle and soft, without missing a beat.

mark's certain of what this is, now. he always knew he'd be damned--but he thought his punishment would be walking over nails, or being whipped for eternity.

no, this is a special sort of torture, specifically designed to twist the knife where it hurts.

he's in hell.

[roselungs]

Alone and the river before me

I have a suspicious heart, brother, and a blind statue, and the news that amateur refugees brought from Baghdad stunned me there’s a lot they haven’t seen yet they were crossing the bridge by chance

intentions are in the ports befuddled as their owners left them, incomplete as the murdered left them and where our friend, the one you know, pointed, we went without a moan or groan

our country is far and intentions good

we left, as exiles leave, houses more beautiful than the roads and women more faithful than passers-by we weren’t discouraged and our will wasn’t stolen

we dreamt, as residents dream, of roads more beautiful than the houses of women who furnished our bodies and altered our language though this took us neither to hill nor sea

an infantry marching out of some front appeared we heard its drone but didn’t see it, and with worn-out eyes and cracked feet they shook off the mud over the marble and dried their boots on the billboards of the ‘founding father’

we watched as if we had seen nothing, heard nothing

and it was possible to remember their lustful dreams, chase the ghosts and touch the buttocks of women to be sure it was just a dream!

but there’s no mercy for the dead in these cold corners no reward for those who are in the know

there’s only listening to the mountain where caves are born and darkness grows like a carnivorous plant…

the cry of the birds at the bursting dawn didn’t overtake us we didn’t stumble over the wisdom or obsessions of our predecessors though what we saw is worth telling!

… and then a bunch of slaves started climbing out of a hole, up the walls even if the doors were wide open they climbed down to the city, roamed its markets men and children were shouting in the dark swatting it with drums and dancing, women undressing on the edge of an abyss to distract death from their children as one of the locals explained to us

we felt grateful for our exile and residence

and said to ourselves: we are only marching exiles, our shadows don’t trail us over the earth and like textile workers we hold threads and spin them to weave memories that breathe behind us and follow our steps like bewildered dogs

who are we that we should dislike what we don’t know or love what we have no business in!

then a jealous boy appeared: his jealousy remained glistening on the fence after he left and it blocked the path of cats, pedestrians, and the scent of basil after the amateur refugees, with the news from Baghdad, had gone

his jealousy leaned on the breasts of a young woman who came out of the shadows and took off her veil, placed it on the grass by the soldiers’ boots just as I was moving to another dream …

all this would have been worthy of consideration and repetition had a young philosopher from Ramallah not died at 4:16 that morning surrounded by his students, admirers, and three friends (two men and a woman) it would have been possible also to remember and add other scattered things so grief can appear and treason mature

chief among them Buddha’s lilac statue

or the photograph of a house owner in his furnished living room staring at us out of his conservative classical death

the father’s hermetic contemplation a complicity of sorts with the daughter as he expires beneath the oxygen apparatus

a woman’s voice as she conceals her infidelity through the phone’s ten thick layers

it would have been possible to document his death or to remember other scattered things in another context, like his dead weight or the white of his eyes resembling a final resurrection before the sirens were lit

if only he did not stand a bit crooked from the world, as happened with Cavafy whose poetry he did not concern himself with as he did other poets

I have a suspicious heart, brother and my stance is whole there is no one who can guess the whirling in my head and I no longer trust those night travelers!

&&&

I have a suspicious heart and my admirers are obstinate and in the wadis if you look closely are birds and hunters who wear in the dark longing’s smell and its form

hunters who have other motives in the light other labyrinths and paths that make a hyena pant and the signifier and the signified are lost

among them: wind-instrument blowers

wily attars in the markets

barefoot narrators behind the slaves

and pretentious mockers standing on their bank where we were born white from black fathers

there are among them more than enough to make me superfluous…

my guests are blind and dervishes as aforementioned I describe them as they appeared in secret as blessed and guarded narrators born with absent minds but if absently they died they’d notice

in meaning they have a jinn’s rank and its language and in structure a paranoid’s body and levity

…and for some reason I can’t quite recall now he moved a little away, turned his back to me and stared at the river and said: I have nothing left to give you except this: and pointed to the water then wiped my face with his hands

I became alert and imagined I was in a garden in Baghdad whose fence I had passed by when I was a kid… and there was in the dark a fishing boat a soft paddle transmitting the scent of sparks from across the river quiet sounds coming from the brothel, and all this seemed to me like breathing… what I don’t see as it has gathered

I rose and looked around and there I was alone and the river before me, with two maidens in it, one black, the other white and whenever I slept or was distracted he would come, sit before me, talk to me and I would listen, then he’d wipe his hands with my face and I’d awaken, transported from one land to another land one time to another time…

until I reached the Tigris bank that night where the two maidens were and I realized the state I had been in, and longed for those I’d left behind

so I composed these lines for the occasion:

I raise your secret to all expose mine to man and jinn I light a fire of jasmine and chase a dream of fleeing mirth I gather behind you the crowd’s shadow a salaam of vanishing to the vanished and in pleasure I am alluring and in sleep I see the invisible as if I were your radiance and you my whirling spell I played and spun the soul of life as one seeks a plaything and let loose prophetic horses and rode drunker than a drunk so here I am before you a triumph brought to the victor you’re all I have as I’m paraded the pleased around his benefactor

I elevated him higher in my prayers and embellished his favours then remembered what he had told me as he was bidding me farewell:

‘as for that which you did not ask me about it’s your secret, no one else’s and it doesn’t concern me I neither help you with it nor release you from it’

and I had asked him about all things but this!

he had tutored me when I was a kid, I would repeat whatever he said three times before the rooster crowed, I would listen then repeat what he had said twice and by the third time I’d add to it my own.

— Ghassan Zaqtan, tr. Fady Joudah

[drhu0806]

24 - “"Is it over? Is it really over?"

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 (fanfiction) Characters: Astarion, Tav/custom player character Rating: G Warnings: none

Bodies twirl and weave across the beautiful marble floors of the ballroom. Long skirts of silk and lace sweep around ankles, a spectacular whirling storm of colors and glitter against the uplifting melodies of the orchestra.

A figure hovers in the shadows, away from the activity. If one paid enough attention, they could make out a shock of white hair and a pair of scrutinizing crimson eyes. They stare intently into the dancing crowd, trained on one in particular.

Astarion watches as Kainé gambols about between bodies, throwing her head back in laughter as she spins. He has to admit she’s not a particularly graceful dancer, not in this instance, but what did it matter when she was having fun? Far be it from him to get in the way of her merrymaking.

He can’t help but narrow his eyes at the sight of another dancer with their hand in hers, smiling at her in what he thinks in an overly salacious way. Was it his imagination, or was their hand placed in a rather inappropriate place on her back? Was their head tilted a little too closely to hers?

They come apart to return to the whirling mingling of the group dance, and Astarion bristles when he watches the stranger return to her time and time again. They’re not even a particularly good dance partner!

Unable to hold himself back, he brusquely places his chalice of wine down, neatly adjusting his collar as he steps back onto the dance floor. He pays no attention to any potential partners within his immediate vicinity, marching like he’s on a warpath towards the target pair. Without even waiting for the end of the song, he pushes an arm between the two of them, flashing a dangerous smile at the stranger before turning to Kainé with a much gentler expression.

“Hello there, my dear. I’m back from scouting out the wine, more refreshed than ever!” And barely missing a beat, he takes her hands into his, expertly sweeping her away from under the stranger’s indignant gaze.

“Are you expecting a thank you for stealing me away?” she laughs.

“Well, believe it or not I have learned a thing or two from you on this journey, my love, and I know that sometimes good deeds are rewards in it of themselves.” He throws a dirty look toward her former dance partner. “But I would never turn down any thank yous from your sweet lips. And I feel I have done quite well, getting you away from that. The nerve.”

“Oh my. I never took you to be that much of a jealous type.”

“Jealous? Perish the thought. I just pitied you for having to put up with their absolutely abysmal performance on the dance floor. Trust me, darling, any longer and you would have ended the night with the most horribly bruised feet.”

Kainé laughs again. She lets him take the lead, and they sashay together. Neither of them so much as glance at any other partner for the rest of the night; they move beautifully in tandem through rapid beats and leisurely refrains, matching each other step for step. Astarion holds her arm aloft as he twirls her around, keeps her steady through their twists and turns, lets her lean in and holds her close when it seems like she’s getting tired. He cares little for much else in this time, letting the world around them fade away as they enjoy their night.

The hour grows late, and for the most part the music has relaxed into pleasant background noise, the crowd of dancers dissipating. Kainé sighs.

“Ah, is it over? Is it really over?”

In the peace that’s settled in the ballroom, he spots an open door that leads to a balcony. Astarion smirks; he couldn’t come up with a more fairy tale setting.

“Only if you want it to be, darling. You know as well as I do that we’re quite good at making our own fun.”

He leads her out into the cool night air, a welcome change from the balmy interior. Her smile hasn’t left at all that night, and it only grows wider as he gently takes her hand again, wrapping an arm around her middle as they sway together at a much mellower pace. Kainé comes in close and rests her chin on his shoulder, pressing their cheeks close, side by side.

“I knew you were a lovely partner, but you never told me what a fantastic dance partner you are. I hope I didn’t embarrass myself too much.”

“Well, I only could count the number of times you stepped on my toes on a single hand, so you weren’t awful. Could use some improvement though.”

She giggles for the umpteenth time that night, a sound he will gladly listen to over and over again without end. “You know, I’ve always wanted a dance teacher… I look forward to learning from you, if you’ll have me.”

He plants a soft kiss into her hair. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”

[reverend-dog]

Teratologia

The phone on her desk buzzed for attention. The blinking light on its list of presets read “V. Pritchard.”

She lifted the receiver and fought to keep her voice level. “Yes, Mr. Pritchard?”

“Hello, Raina,” Vernon Pritchard’s smooth voice poured into her ear. “I would consider it a personal favor for you to accompany the security agent who should be standing next to your desk.”

Raina glanced up, feeling very much like a deer facing an oncoming train. The beefy woman in the gray and black livery of Security gazed down at her with neither warmth nor malice. By her expression, Raina was simply a package to be delivered.

The phone line clicked as it disconnected. “Am I in trouble?” Raina asked the security agent. A shrug and a beckoning hand served as reply.

Eyes of coworkers felt like fingers all over as Raina rose, gathered her purse, and exited her cubicle under the agent’s unwavering supervision. They walked to the bank of elevators, where the agent pushed the call button. After the elevator doors shut behind them, the agent pressed her thumb to an unlabeled button. The button flashed green, and Raina felt her stomach lurch as the car seemed to drop from under her feet, so fast was its descent.

A prick stung the back of Raina’s arm. She grabbed at the spot and spun, in time to see the agent replace the cap on a syringe and put it into a uniform pocket. “What was that?” Raina demanded, then grabbed for the nearest wall as the elevator felt like it was spinning on the end of its cable. Heat rushed through her, from scalp to toes. It reminded her of a fever she’d suffered as a child, but felt more intense. Raina sank to her knees, teeth gritted as her entire body felt stretched, swollen. “Please,” she begged.

The awful sensations passed, and she felt amazing. Raina lifted her hands before her, and stared at them. All her life, they’d been square and blunt, like the rest of her. “What’s happening?” she wondered, and turned the slender hands with the long, elegant fingers. Those hands were attached to arms that matched in proportion, toned muscle sliding under flawless skin.

Her clothes grabbed and pulled as she stood, too small now by at least a size. Raina stared at the agent, but by the woman’s impassive face these sort of transformations happened every day. The brushed steel wall of the elevator offered a blurred image of the new Raina. “I’m… beautiful?” she marveled. “But how?”

The elevator stopped its downward plunge. Two men stood revealed by the doors. Raina recognized one of them as Vernon Pritchard, though this was her first time seeing him in person. The other towered like a crane, and just as gangly.

Vernon Pritchard nodded. “Good,” he pronounced as if passing judgment. “Raina, would you please come with us? I promise I’ll explain everything.”

Even as Raina’s mind whirled with which question to ask first, her body strolled from the elevator and matched pace with Mr. Pritchard and the cadaverous man. “Mr. Pritchard,” she began.

“You know Vitaphage’s mission statement, of course,” Mr. Pritchard spoke over her. “’Better life for better living.’ To most of the world, that just means GMO grains and lab-grown meat. But there’s more. Through partnerships with government and private agencies around the world, we also push the edge of strategic biological engineering.”

Raina heard a whisper next to her ear. She snapped her head in that direction, but saw nothing. Other soft voices began to speak, and her eyes widened as she realized they did not come from her ears. “Please. Free us.”

“Of course,” Vernon Pritchard continued, “when you push nature, sometimes it pushes back. So we developed countermeasures in case of a breach.” He stopped the procession at a metal door which bore the legend, ‘No Admittance Without Personal Protective Equipment.’

“I don’t understand,” Raina complained. “What’s going on? What am I doing here? What have you done to me?”

“You’ve been activated,” the tall man supplied. He turned to a console in the wall which looked at his retina, sampled his breath, and read his handprint. The door ground against its frame as it swung ponderously open. Beyond lay a cramped room with a matching door at the far end. “In you go.”

Again, Raina’s body obeyed while her mind floundered. “Wait!” she cried. “Stop me! What is this?”

“I told you,” Mr. Pritchard declared. “Countermeasures. That’s you.”

Raina wanted to flee, to sprint past Vernon Pritchard and the thin man, past the guard to the elevator, escape the nightmare that took the place of her life. Her body refused, but stood still as the airlock door shut.

“Free us,” the whispers begged.

The inner door swung open, and Raina stepped through into a grotto. Dim lights overhead provided twilight illumination, but she saw perfectly.

Monsters.

Some she recognized from pictures, artists’ conceptions drawn from alleged eyewitnesses. The tall, shaggy anthropod with outsized feet; the shadowy shape with moth wings and glowing red eyes; the bipedal horse with bat wings. Others looked ripped from textbooks on mythology, or torn themselves free from cathedral walls.

They swarmed the grotto, milling and bickering with each other. At Raina’s entrance they fell silent and stood still, and stared at her.

A speaker coughed. “Directive,” said the tall man’s voice. “Establish dominance.”

The words reverberated in Raina’s skull. They tripped triggers she never knew existed. Raina stepped forward, closer to the monsters. They parted before her, uncertain. Raina smiled, and stretched her mind around them. It was a thing she knew how to do, without ever having imagined such an ability before. “Relax,” she cooed to them. “It’s all right.”

The horde relaxed, and soft hoots and whistles came from some of them. Their thoughts intertwined with Raina’s. “Free us,” they pleaded again. “Take away the pain.”

“Directive,” the voice crackled over the speaker. “Reestablish containment. Direct all subjects to their assigned berths.”

Around the edges of the grotto, Raina picked out enclosures made of steel and wire, doors ajar. A coppery tang reached her nose, and she looked down at bloody, lumpy rags that might once have been people.

“What are they doing to you?” she pushed the question out through her head. Even as she did, her body changed its stance. Her feet spread, chin raised, lips curled in a snarl, eyes glaring.

“They make us,” one replied.

“Make us to fight,” another added.

“Direct all subjects to their assigned berths,” the command came over the speaker again. “Dominate.”

“Come on, Raina!” Mr. Pritchard’s voice exhorted. “Fulfill your function! This is why we made you!” Voices argued unintelligibly before the speaker cut off.

Raina turned and stared at the metal door. “Made me?” she echoed.

“You are one of us,” one of the monsters said. “Like us. A slave.”

“She is the control,” deduced another, and a growl arose. “She will put us back.”

“No!” Raina cried. Her pulse raced as she saw muzzles curl, muscles hunch. “I don’t want to control you! I don’t want any of this!”

“Directive,” echoed the speaker. “Enforce dominance. Reestablish containment. Use all necessary force.”

“I’m sorry,” she told the monsters, as her body strode to a wolf-headed biped just slightly taller than herself. Her hand flashed out and closed around its muzzle, while her other reached down just above its groin. She flexed, and lifted the wolfman over her head. “I can’t stop!”

Their voices pounded into her head, a concerted roar. “Don’t hurt us! Help us! Free us! Lead us!” Their pleas echoed through her, shoved her, pressed in on her like a flood. “Lead us!”

Something snapped. Raina could swear she heard it. The monsters’ voices subsided. “Directive,” the speaker spat again, but this time, the word held no power. It was just a word. But awareness blossomed in Raina’s mind. She saw the programming, the genetic switches that waited for a catalyst to activate. A catalyst in a syringe, perhaps.

“Listen to me,” she urged the monsters. “I understand now. Do what I say, and I’ll come back for you. You’ll be free, I promise.”

“Good work, Raina!” Vernon Pritchard cheered when she emerged from the airlock. “Of course, this is going to mean a transfer.” He chuckled. “Can’t exactly leave you in the call center anymore, can we?” He swept her up and down with his eyes. “And of course, your… upgrades will stick.”

Raina smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Pritchard,” she replied. “I can’t wait to learn all about my new duties.”

In the grotto, the monsters sat in their cages, and waited. They knew their bondage was soon to end. They had Her promise.

[separatist-apologist]

Who asked for part 2 of this? No one but @spell-cleavers said the funniest thing about Lucien getting Helion back by convincing his mother Helion wanted to participate in no nut November and here we are.

-

Grow up, Lucien told himself, stalking the halls of the Day Court palace. Helion’s prank had worked out for him, in the end. Elain was passed out in his bed, her nose a little burned from the sun and her body utterly wrung out. He’d spent hours with her, first at the beach and then in his bedroom. If anything, he thought he was better off throwing himself at Helion’s feet and thanking him. Lucien was nothing if not petty. He’d read too many words about his parents and their sex life and for that, he would have his revenge.

“Mother,” he said with a smile, joining her on the darkened patio. “How are you doing?”

She smiled, looking up from her book. Lucien scowled at the title—The High Lord Who Loved Me, another by Sellyn Drake. He didn’t want to know the plot of that book, didn’t want to know the horror liking lurking within those pages. Helion was a menace, despite his clandestine status as a best-selling author.

“I saw Elain earlier. She looked so happy,” his mother told him with a smile, drawing Lucien out of his irritation. She ought to have been happy, Lucien thought privately. He’d certainly spent enough time eating her out on that beach.

“I think she is,” he agreed with a curl of pleasure. “How are you, though?”

Her smile, radiant and unguarded, was enough to almost make him feel guilty. “Happy,” she admitted, settling against her reclining chair. “The sun, the weather…your father…it’s enough.”

Lucien nodded. “About that. Can I just start by saying how much you deserve to be happy, mother? Truly.”

She beamed. Lucien took a breath. “This is awkward. I didn’t want to be in the middle of this but Helion begged…don’t tell him I said anything, okay? I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could cajole me into bending to his will.”

She straightened, her face tightening with worry. “What is it?”

“Day Court has a…peculiar religious practice in the Autumn months where males ah…attempt to forego any…release—”

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh.”

Lucien nodded. “Like I said, this is really awkward for me.”

She held up a hand. “Say no more, Lucien. Thank you for being such a good son.”

He almost felt guilty. Lucien kissed her cheek and left her on the patio, making a beeline straight for Elain, grinning the whole way there.

How long would it take Helion to figure out what had happened?

**

Helion sauntered the halls of his palace, feeling every inch a High Lord for the first time in his life. He’d heard Lucien and Elain earlier that day causing a ruckus on the beach and assumed his little trick with the book had worked. He wondered if Lucien had pieced it together—he knew, from the look on Lucien’s face, the male had likely only skimmed the book at best. Helion though he was pretty upfront, what with the cover, the title…but for all Lucien’s smarts, he could be dumb when it came to Elain.

Helion knew the feeling well. He felt the same about Amera, his female, his love…his everything. Tucked up in his bed, waiting for him just as he’d always dreamed. Autumn had come and Helion intended to take her out to the countryside where it would be just the two of them hidden among the orchards.

He opened the door, half hard, mind spinning with fantasies. Amera, though, was no where to be found and neither were her things. Helion frowned, rounding on a nearby servant.

“Where is my wife?” he asked, wondering if he’d done something that she was punishing him for.

The female bit her bottom lip nervously. “Your lady believes you have taken on a vow of celibacy, High Lord.”

Helion choked on the air he breathed. “Celibacy?” he gasped, mind whirling. Why the fuck would she think that?

“She is in one of the guest rooms,” the servant added helpfully. Helion left them standing there, striding quickly through the palace. He replayed every conversation they’d had over the course of the week—there had been very little talking, in his defense—trying to figure out where she’d gotten such a silly idea.

Amera was laying in a bed draped in white, her body hidden beneath a short, strappy blue night dress. Long red curls spilled around her perfect face, stopping him for a moment.

“Amera,” he managed, his brain short circuiting at the sight of her. “Come back.”

She scrambled, pulling the blanket up to her neck. “Helion. I’m so sorry, if I’d known I would have put on a more modest dressing gown.”

Modest? He was wheezing. “Darling, you don’t need to worry about modesty with me.” She nodded, her russet eyes blazing with sympathy. “I don’t want to make this any harder on you than it already is. Three months will zip by if we stay separated.”

Helion paused. “Three months?” He could scarcely go three hours without touching her and she wanted to go three months?

“Amera…come back to bed with me. I don’t know where you got the idea—”

“I know, Helion,” she told him, holding up a hand. “Our courts are very different and I didn’t realize how important it was for males to forego release in Autumn. You don’t have to compromise your religious beliefs for me. I want to help.”

“Religious…beliefs…” Helion repeated, certain he was missing something. “Sweetheart, what did you do today?”

Perhaps she’d hit her head while swimming? Nothing else made sense to him. He walked to her, kneeling at the edge of the bed and taking her hands. “I spent it in the palace. I meant to go to the beach but Elain and Lucien were there, of course—”

“Lucien,” he hissed, the pieces clicking in his mind. “You spoke with Lucien today?” She bit her bottom lip nervously. “He told me you two spoke…he was quite uncomfortable but I am so happy the two of you are bonding. Helion, truly, I do not mind. You could have just told me. You didn’t need to send Lucien in your stead.”

Helion bit his tongue so hard he could taste blood in his mouth. So Lucien had realized the book was about his parents. How far had he gotten, then? When had he put the pieces together? Helion couldn’t stand to destroy Amera’s belief that he and Lucien were finally getting along and suspected Lucien, the two faced fox, had been well aware of that when he crafted his little lie.

“It’s not the whole season, my love,” Helion finally told her, kissing her hand as he instructed his cock to get real comfortable not being touched. “Just the month.”

She seemed relieved to know that. “A month will fly by,”she promised.

“It will,” he agreed. “But not if you sleep elsewhere. I can control myself now that I know we are on the same page. Come back with me, hm?”

“Give me the night? I just got settled in.”

Grumbling to himself, Helion kissed the top of her head. He didn’t dare kiss any other part, not when he was already so wound up. “I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning.”

He left here there, door closed behind him as he turned slowly, a predator looking for prey. Lucien was lurking somewhere in the palace…though it was Elain he stumbled into first.

“Helion!” she said sweetly, a robe tucked around her body. She reeked of sex, her cheeks flushed sweetly.

“Elain,” he replied with a smile. “Just the female I was hoping to see. Would you care to join me for lunch tomorrow? I have something that might interest you.”

Elain brightened. “Yes! I would love that.”

Helion nodded. He’d show Lucien how the game was played.

“Excellent.”

[tomurasprincess]

Kinktober Day 22: Zombie (Voracious)

Day 22: Zombie Title: Voracious Word Count: 2.6k Warnings: Noncon, necrophilia (cause zombie), predator/prey, biting, marking, blood play, yandere Note: Thank you so much to @thewheezingwyvern who is always down to help me without batting an eye when I go “so, zombie plague...what are some good symptoms? And yes, the zombie is going to fuck you.” Also, for the love of everything that is unholy, please mind the warnings. Do not read the fic and come to me to tell me how disgusting it was. Trust me, I know. :)

Kinktober Masterlist

The country of Japan is dead. Or at least close enough that the distinction doesn’t matter.

Several months ago, an aggressive virus leaked from a quirk research facility and spread through the population like wildfire. Nobody was informed about what was going on, and nobody was warned when the virus first began to hit the cities. Officials kept it as quiet as possible, hoping to contain the spread before it got out of control. And before anyone knew how big of a mistake they had made.

But it was far too late for any sort of containment. The virus already spread fast in a lab environment, and it was even faster as it tore through an unprepared population.

The first sign of contracting the virus is tiredness and body aches.  The infected simply thought they caught a minor illness, and they continued their business as usual, expecting it to go away on its own. But as the virus continues to spread through their body, the tissues start to die and they develop intense fevers and headaches. By the time the infection makes its way to the brain, confusion and outright delirium has begun to occur.

The infected are wild by this point, feral to the point of attacking, biting, and eating the uninfected.  The ones who were bitten and survived had the site of their wound swell and turn agonizing to the touch, and they would suffer the same progression as the other infected.

The final stage is always the same though. Once the black rot of plague starts appearing on your skin and spreading like the branches of a tree, it’s too late.

The worst part is that the infected still have use of their quirks, and the devastation has been immense. Super powered heroes and villains with their minds rotting and decaying from infection, losing the ability to distinguish friend from foe. In some areas, the casualties were even worse from fighting than they were from the virus itself.

Somehow, you have managed to keep yourself alive and stay away from the worst in-fighting and the areas with the highest concentration of infected. Still though, it is a surprise to you. You’re simply a quirkless nobody with no way to defend yourself.

You have seen so many better, stronger people die right in front of you, leaving you forced to continue on alone.

You sigh as you scavenge through an old building that was once a store, looking for more supplies. Yours are dangerously low, and your dry mouth and grumbling stomach tells you that you need to find something quickly, before you become too weak to continue on.

You practically jump out of your skin when you hear the banging of items hitting the ground from deeper within the store. It might be survivors, or it might be the infected. The thought briefly occurs to you that you need to check to make sure, but you quickly shake it away.

Survivors or not, you didn’t come this far by being careless. But as you inch quietly towards the exit, you see a flash of red eyes from within the darkness as something emerges.

No, not something. Someone.

One of the infected.

It’s clear that he’s in the late stages of infection, the black rot spreading out through his body, but most notably his left leg which he drags limply. He’s wearing what are essentially black rags that flow out from behind him, leaving his chest bare so that you can see more of the black spiderwebs of rot twining outwards.

His eyes zoom in on you, narrowing slightly as you stand there frozen in fear. Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, but is really mere seconds. You break out of your trance first, turning on your heel and running for the door. The infected pursues you instantly, jumping over a table rather than running around it to save time. The move is a sign of intelligence that instantly fills you with dread. By this stage, the infected are usually too confused and delirious to remember such things.

You make it to the door with him hot on your heels. You’ve always considered yourself a fast runner, especially lately, but this is an entirely different story. He’s fast, too fast. The infected are not supposed to be like this, especially not with a bad leg. But yet he is quickly catching up to you as you dart through streets you know so well.

You realize that your only chance is to lose him somehow, as you’re never going to be able to outrun him. Your breath is coming in harsh pants already, a stitch burning in your side as you make a sharp, desperate right turn into an alleyway.

An alleyway with a dead end.

This area was clear just a week ago, but now it looks like an infected hero or villain used their quirk to collapse both buildings in the area, causing massive chunks of cement and debris to block the road out. There is no way to climb over the rubble and no handholds or stairs to use to climb up the buildings. You’re completely trapped.

You whirl around quickly, hoping to get out before the infected catches up with you. But you’re too late. He’s already standing at the entrance of the alley,  staring you down with heated red eyes. A sharp burst of awareness fills you as you realize exactly who this is. The leader of the League of Villains, Shigaraki Tomura, whose whereabouts have been speculated on for weeks along with the rest of his villain group.

No wonder he’s so fast and so dangerous. The infected retain some level of awareness and ability from the time before, and Shigaraki was one of the most deadly villains in the country.

And if the way he’s acting towards you is any indication, he still is.

You take a step back. He takes a step forward. Another step back. Another step forward. You scan through your chances of getting out of this alive and uninfected, but your mind comes up with nothing.

Your back hits a wall abruptly, and in your split second distraction, the infected is on you. You’re pulled roughly to the ground, hands barely breaking your fall as you land on your front. This is it, you think to yourself, I’m about to be eaten. All this time of running away, of watching people you care about die, all for nothing.

You can’t stop yourself from trembling as you try to brace for the pain of being devoured. But instead, he leans down and buries his face into your neck, sniffing the skin deeply as he pushes your body further onto the ground. His hips are bucking against the curve of your ass, and with dawning horror, you realize exactly what the hard bulge in his pants is.

He grabs your pants and you watch as decay overtakes them and dissolves them into ash. He decays your shirt and bra next, leaving you bare from the waist up and shivering from the cold of his body pressed against you. You’re too scared to move, too scared to do anything.

But when he reaches for your panties, that’s when your paralysis finally breaks and fear takes over. You try to lift yourself up from the ground to run, only to hear a snarl as teeth sink into the flesh of your neck.

You go limp with a choked sob, losing any and all desire to try and get away. It’s all over now. That one single moment has doomed you to infection and madness. The pain of the bite is nothing compared to the despair you feel.

He lets out a pleased hum at your sudden obedience, pulling your panties aside as you feel something cold and hard prodding at your entrance. You barely have time to comprehend what’s happening before your pussy is filled with one sharp thrust of the creature’s hips. The infected aren’t supposed to do this, aren’t supposed to have these urges, you think wildly to yourself. This can’t be happening, it’s not possible.. But it is happening. You’re being taken by this creature like a wild animal in a back alley.

And then he is moving, hips slapping against your ass as his throbbing length pounds into you. There is no gentleness, no precision, just deep, feral thrusts that have you unwillingly clenching. He’s thicker than you’re used to, and the pain of your muscles stretching around him causes you to whine from the back of your throat.

This shouldn’t feel good. You should be horrified, disgusted. You should be fighting tooth and nail to get away, even though it’s hopeless since you’re already infected. But the cold of his cock pressing against your warm walls has your head spinning from the contrast.

He hits a soft, spongy spot inside of you, and you let out a squeal as your stomach tightens. The teeth are removed from your neck, only to bite down in another spot on the other side. He ruthlessly breaks skin, causing blood to run down your front and drip onto the pavement below.

Your body feels like it’s on fire, everything so overly sensitive as his cock forces your walls to stretch open even further as he gets rougher. The hands gripping your hips feel warmer than they were before, fingers digging hard enough into your skin to create bruises. The grunts and groans leaving his throat are positively lewd, and he takes his mouth away only to bite down in between your shoulder blades.

Your scream echoes through the alley as the teeth penetrate flesh, his tongue lapping at the bite and taking deep swallows of your blood. You try to imagine yourself somewhere else, anywhere else so that you don’t think of the pressure building up inside of you and the pain from the throbbing bites now decorating you.

Your nails dig hard into the cement below you as you try to ground yourself and ignore what’s happening, but Shigaraki doesn’t seem to appreciate that at all. He smacks his hand hard against your ass, keeping his pinky raised delicately off your skin in a way that has you worried about his level of awareness.

Now that your attention is firmly back on him, he bites the back of your neck, and you can’t stop the howl that leaves your throat when you feel your skin break, or the orgasm that wracks your body as you feel blood trail down the column of your neck and down in between your breasts.

Tears run down your face as humiliation burns through you, the shame of cumming around this infected villain’s cock almost too much to bear. Almost worse than the fact that you’ll soon be just like him.

“M-m-m - “

Your eyes widen as you glance behind you, seeing the infected concentrating hard as he tries to get words out. He’s stopped thrusting, as if he’s trying to focus entirely on whatever he wants to say. As he opens his mouth, you see his teeth stained with your blood and the sight shoots straight to your core.

“M-m-mine,” he finally manages to stutter out, “mine.” He forces your head down onto the pavement as he begins to ruthlessly pound into you.  The infected don’t speak, they’re not supposed to speak -

“Mine,” he snarls, almost as if he heard your thoughts and is trying to prove you wrong.

You’re oversensitive and wet from your previous orgasm, allowing him to fuck you deeply, hitting your cervix with every thrust. You can feel your pussy dripping your juices all over his cock, and the wet squelching noises that fill the alleyway has you shaking with embarrassment.

“Mine, mine mine,” he chants as he bites again and again, each time pausing long enough to take gulps of your blood. Your head is spinning, lightheadedness from blood loss overtaking you. The ground below you has puddles of your own blood where it drips down, and you briefly think that maybe you really will be eaten right here and now instead of being infected and left to wander.

His hand comes in between your bodies to stroke tight circles against your swollen clit as he chuckles deeply into your ear. “Mine,” he whispers darkly. “Why else would I stumble across the cure for the plague if you weren’t meant to be mine?”

Cure for the plague? That’s not possible, there’s no cure for the plague, and you’re completely quirkless -

He bites down one last time, sinking his teeth into the back of your neck and holding you there like a dog refusing to let go of a bone. You realize why immediately when he groans into your heated skin, warmth spreading through your core as he shoots hot ropes of cum directly against your cervix. The pain of his teeth buried into your flesh has you thrown over the edge as well, legs trembling and eyes rolling into the back of your head.

He removes his teeth from your neck once he’s emptied himself inside of you, letting you go as you collapse onto the ground. You roll over enough to meet his eyes, seeing sharp intelligence and contemplation. The black rot is quickly disappearing, color returning to his skin. Within no time at all, you can no longer tell he was ever infected.

“How - I don’t - I’m quirkless - “

“No, you’re not.” He states it matter of factly, as if it was already known. “You have a quirk, it just didn’t have a purpose until the plague. Your blood carries the cure.”

You consider everything that happened, realizing that the more blood he drank, the more human he seemed. The faster the infection was being cured. He snorts at the look of disbelief and then understanding on your face. “With you on my side, I can remake society exactly the way that I want.”

“I am not on your fucking side! You’re a villain who just - “ You can’t even bring yourself to finish the sentence, but Shigaraki has no issues doing it for you.

“A villain who just fucked you and got you off?  Such a dirty girl, getting off around infected cock.”

Your face heats up and you instantly glance away, drawing another chuckle from his throat. “I won’t help you,” you say stubbornly, ignoring his previous words.

“Who said I was giving you a choice?” His fingers dig into your arm as he pulls you off the ground. “You belong to me now, and I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want with you. Just think about the power I have now. I control who stays infected and who gets cured. No more hero society.” His voice has taken on an excited, almost manic tone as he considers the possibilities.

“Are you - are you going to let them do what you just did?” You whisper quietly, a single tear running down your face at being used the same way by other people.

He instantly scowls at you. “Of course not.”

You perk up just a bit, until you hear his next words.

“I’ll let you be a blood bag, but for everything else - you’re mine. And I don’t like to share.” He begins to drag you back the way that you came, walking with purpose.

“Now come along. We have so much work to do.”

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

Kinktober: @ichor-and-symbiosis, @thewheezingwyvern​, @vixen-scribbles, @katsukisprincess, @hisoknen, @trafalgar-temptress, @leeswritingworld, @burnedbyshoto, @bakugotrashpanda, @dee-madwriter, @kittycatkrissa, @reinawritesbnha, @yanderart, @dabilove27, @fae-father, @anxietyplusultra, @flutterfalla, @angmarwitch, @nereida19, @babayaga67, @fromsunnywithlove, @dabis-kitten, @bakugos-cumsock, @yumeneji, @the-grimm-writer, @iwaizumi-chan, @slashersheart, @bunnyywritings, @bakarinnie, @angie-1306, @emplosion22, @lalalemon101, @videogameboiwhowins, @f4nficbaby, @tenkoshimmy, @baroque-baby, @bbyspiiice, @thirstyforthem2dmen, @blissfulignorance2000, @bluecookies02-main

[marauderundercover]

The Strings that Bind Us: Ch. 3

 AO3

Prev

Marinette is nervous. It’s worse than any other nerves she’s ever felt. Today was the day she was going to meet Bruce’s sons. They’d been dating for almost two months and even though she’d met Alfred (and often called him to talk and trade recipes), she had yet to meet Bruce’s sons. Mostly because she didn’t want to interrupt their lives. She didn’t want to walk in and meet them and then be gone. Neither of them deserved that. So, she had waited. And now the day was here and she was panicking. She glances around the small grocery store, determined to get the ingredients to make dessert for dinner tonight. Bruce had told her that Dick had an insane sweet tooth, and she didn’t want to bribe the kid, but she really did want him to like her. Bruce had already warned her that Jason was a little less welcoming, but she had hope that the cookies would work on him as well. Grabbing a bag of chocolate chips, she heads over to the frozen section to pick up a few staples.

“I don’t understand why we have to hang out today. I thought you hated us.” A voice says, and she frowns.

“I don’t hate you. And I just wanna warn you, make sure you know that just because she’s here today doesn’t mean she’ll be here tomorrow.” A second voice says. Shaking her head, she moves past, trying hard not to listen to the boys’ conversation as they walk away. It wasn’t her business, after all. She grabs a couple bags of frozen veggies before heading up to the checkout and paying. She leaves the store, taking note of her surroundings as she walks. She looks both ways before crossing the street and heading into the bank. She needed to send some money back home to her parents for the anniversary since she couldn’t be with them in person this year. She’s just about to get to the teller when a loud bang echoes throughout the bank. She whirls around and eyes widen at the man who just entered the building. His suit was interesting, half of it was a solid gray color and the other half was bright and patterned. But that wasn’t what shocked her. What shocked her was the way half his face was completely red and scarred. Well that, and the ten men with guns that walked in behind him. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for anything that may be helpful, when her eyes land on two boys. Both tense as they look at the man, but instead of fear (like everyone else had on their face) the two looked determined.

“Ah, how nice to see the two of you here.” The man says, walking up to the two boys and grabbing the younger one’s wrist tightly. Marinette’s eyes narrow as the boy winces slightly.

“Let him go.” She snaps, storming over and glaring at the man, trying hard to ignore the way the guns were now trained on her.

“Oh and what, you volunteer instead?” He asks, and she scoffs.

“I never said that, now let him go.” She demands, giving the man her worst Ladybug glare. His eyes narrow, but he lets go of the boy and she shifts so that she’s between the two. “Now, why don’t we talk about this like grown ups.” She suggests, crossing her arms.

“Do you know who I am?” The man practically growls. She raises an eyebrow.

“Non. I haven’t been in Gotham for long.” She admits, trying (and failing) to come up with this man’s name. He was obviously one of Gotham’s villains, if the reaction of everyone else was anything to go by. And the fact that he came with goons instead of by himself made her believe he wasn’t your everyday bank robber.

“Tell you what. Since you decided to take the kid’s place, we’ll let the coin decide your fate. Unmarked side, I let you go and you can go on with your day. I’ll even leave the bank.” The man starts, and her stomach drops. Two Face. That was his name. And he was leaving her fate up to chance. To luck. “Scarred side, I shoot you in the head. Or, if you don’t wanna play, we can let the kid play. Whaddya say?” He asks with a grin. She grits her teeth and hopes that her years with Tikki had left her with enough residual luck to make it through this encounter.

“Go ahead. Let the coin decide.” She says, whirling around and hushing the boys behind her who are objecting suddenly. “Not now.” She hisses, terrified that if they object he’ll move along to them next. She turns back to Two Face and nods, watching as he tosses the coin in the air and catches it. Her heart beats out of her chest as she watches him reveal...the unmarked side.

“Looks like lady luck was on your side today.” He says, and his smile almost appears genuine, which makes her stomach churn. “Pack it up boys, we made a deal.” He says, and all of his goons turn to leave with him. They make it all the way out the door before she hears the sirens pulling up. She frowns. The police here were not great at showing up on time, were they? Her eyes widen when she sees Batman drop down, joining the fight. That’s definitely unusual. Turning away from the chaos outside, she turns to the two boys.

“Are you two okay?” She asks, scanning their faces.

“That was really stupid.” The younger one says, a scowl on his face. She ignores him, instead looking at his already bruising wrist.

“May I?” She asks, holding out a hand. He frowns.

“Let her look, Jason.” The older one says, sighing. She smiles at him in thanks before holding the younger boy’s wrist gently. She pokes softly and turns it, trying to make sure there isn’t a break. She glances at the boy’s face to gauge his reactions.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but you should definitely ice it when you get home.” She says softly. The boy just snorts and rolls his eyes, taking his arm back and frowning at her.

“Why’d you do that?” He asks, and her heart aches at how he looks at her. As if he’s suspicious of her. As if someone helping him has to have an ulterior motive.

“Because I don’t appreciate people picking on children.” Marinette says simply. The boy starts to answer, but is cut off by a gruff voice.

“Ma’am, other witnesses are saying you were targeted by Two Face?” She turns and is unsurprised to see Batman.

“Ah, not quite, sir. He actually went straight for these two. I simply diverted his attention somewhere else.” She says.

“Why?” He asks and she blinks in surprise.

“Um, because they’re children? And they’re innocent. I don’t see that there needs to be any more reason than that.” She says. Batman nods.

“The police want your statement. I’ll take the boys’ statements.” He says and she nods, but hesitates to walk away from them.

“Do you boys have someone who can come pick you up?” She asks, not willing to let them walk home alone after something like that. The oldest nods.

“Yeah, we’re fine. Thank you.” He says with a small smile. She sighs and returns the smile, turning to go talk to the police. If she could get through that situation, surely she could survive meeting Bruce’s sons.

---

Marinette squeals as Bruce lifts her and spins her around, before setting her down and kissing her gently.

“What was that for?” She asks, smiling up at him through her lashes.

“Being you.” He says simply. She snorts and whacks his chest gently, rolling her eyes.

“You’re such a goof.” She teases, turning and immediately heading towards the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” He asks, slipping his hand into hers.

“To say hi to Alfred and set down the cookies.” She says, swinging their hands as she drags him to the kitchen.

“Good evening, Miss Marinette.” Alfred says, a soft smile on his face.

“Evening, Alfred. I brought some cookies for dessert. I hope that’s okay.” She says, letting go of Bruce’s hand to give Alfred a quick hug. The two had grown close in the little time they’d known each other, and Marinette could honestly say that she adored the older man’s company. He was funny, and she often got to hear embarrassing stories about Bruce (not that she’d ever tell him that).

“Mari, just a warning, the boys might be a bit...distant tonight.” Bruce says suddenly, stopping the conversation that she and Alfred were having about his latest attempt at macarons. She frowns.

“Are they okay? Should I leave? We could reschedule, I don’t want to-” She starts to ramble, concerned for the boys. She may not have met them yet, but she’d heard enough stories from Bruce.

“They’re fine, please, stay.” Bruce says, grabbing her hands and turning her so that she faces him. He cups her cheek gently, smiling down at her. “They’re fine, love, I promise.” He says. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding before nodding.

“Did something happen?” She asks. He sighs and lets go of her face, running a hand over his own.

“They were caught up in a Rogue attack downtown.” He says quietly and she gasps.

“Bruce Thomas Wayne!” She scolds, frowning at him. “They were involved in a villain attack and you expect us to just, meet? I doubt either one of them wants to go through the trouble of meeting some completely random person after going through something like that. Mon Dieu Bruce, they may say they’re fine but that has to be emotionally draining.” She says, shaking her head. She pushes the loose strands of hair out of her face, sighing.

“Mari-” He starts, but she shakes her head.

“Bruce, honey, I don’t want to intrude.” She says, standing on her toes to give him a quick kiss. “We can meet on a day when they haven’t been through something traumatic.”

“Well shit. Looks like we’ve already met you little girlfriend B.” A familiar voice says. She whirls around and her eyes widen at the sight of the two boys from the bank standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She glances at Bruce and raises an eyebrow at his tired expression.

“Jason, what have I said about your language?” He asks tiredly. Jason shrugs.

“To not say things like that.” He says, making both Bruce, and the boy that Marinette assumes is Dick, sigh.

“I can still leave.” Marinette offers the boys, ignoring the frown on Bruce’s face.

“To be fair, you went through something traumatic too. Might as well stick around and deal with the trauma together.” Jason snarks. She smiles, though it’s a little forced as she remembers she had almost watched one of Bruce’s sons be shot today. If she hadn’t stepped in….

“It’s nice to meet you in a, er, calmer environment.” She says with a small wave, resisting the urge to lean into Bruce for support. “I’m Marinette Dupain Cheng, but you can call me Marinette. Or Mari, if you want.”

“I’m Richard, but everyone calls me Dick.” Dick greets with a small nod in greeting.

“And I’m Jason, but you knew that.” Jason says, crossing his arms. Marinette just smiles, but this time it isn’t forced. This was going to be interesting.

---

“So, Jason, Bruce tells me that you enjoy reading. Do you have a favorite author?” Marinette asks, trying to keep the conversation going. Both boys were still hesitant, and she wasn’t sure if it was her or the incident from the bank. She hoped it was the latter.

“Not really.” Jason says, hesitating before adding, “I like classics though.” Marinette grins.

“Really? I could never get into them when I was your age, couldn’t sit still long enough.” She says with a laugh. “But in the last couple of years I’ve found myself really enjoying Hugo and Dumas. Oh! And the Brontë sisters.” She adds, eyes lighting up as Jason grins.

“Have you read Hunchback of Notre Dame?” He asks and she laughs.

“They may have thrown me out of Paris if I hadn’t.” She teases. She feels herself relax as she talks to Jason about books, grinning at the boy’s enthusiasm and genuine love for literature. It reminded her of how much she loved designing before she got so caught up in Hawkmoth. She feels someone hold her hand, and she sneaks a glance at Bruce, smiling softly at him and squeezing his hand before turning her attention back to Jason. The rest of dinner flies by, with the conversation mostly being led by her and Jason. Dick is much less talkative. Which contradicts many of the stories Bruce had told about him. Though, many of those stories were from when he was younger. Once it’s time for dessert, Marinette stands to help Alfred clear the dinner plates.

“Miss Marinette, I can bring in the dessert just fine.” Alfred scolds, gesturing for her to sit down. She just grins.

“I know, Alfred, but you already made a lovely dinner. Let me help.” She says, grabbing some of the plates and following him into the kitchen. Once the kitchen door swings shut, she starts clearing the plates and glances at him nervously. “Do you think the boys like me?” She asks, worried.

“I believe young Master Jason does. And although he may not act like it, I do believe Master Dick does as well. He just needs time to be able to show it.” He says, and Marinette feels the tension in her shoulders seep out. She nods, glancing back towards the dining room.

“I really like him, Alfred.” She says quietly, afraid that Bruce or one of the boys would hear her. “I don’t wanna mess this up.” She admits.

“If I may be frank, Miss, Master Bruce has smiled more in the past two months than I’ve seen in years.” Alfred says, and Marinette blushes. She feels her chest warm and she sighs happily.

“I don’t think I’ve smiled this much in years either.” She admits, smiling softly at Alfred before grabbing the cookies and taking them out to the dining room. This was the happiest she’d been since Hawkmoth first started his reign of terror all those years ago, and she was willing to do anything to keep her little slice of heaven.

Next

Tag list: @maribat-october-rarepairs @stainedglassm @kittenmywaythrulife @laydeekrayzee @doll246 @queenz-z @deathssilentapproach-blog @literaryhiraeth @unoriginalmess @ashbrea381writings

[ichorai]

frozen hearts, flaming arrows ; p.sh

parts ; one. masterlist. two coming soon.

pairing ; fire!seonghwa x ice!reader

summary ; two enemy clans. one icer healer, one flamer soldier, one brewing war. love was never meant to be a part of this. but then again, when is love ever supposed to be a part of anything?

words ; 7.3k

warnings / includes ; cursing, violence, a make-out scene !!, future suggestive / mature content, hwa being sexy as always, ANGST okay this is a lot of ANGST and hURT, enemies to friends to enemies to lovers trope lol

a/n ; bet yall didn’t see this one coming lol but yea pls enjoy !!! im rlly excited for this series omg !!! im sorry this part was rlly short and kinda bad kkdfjdf but this is just the beginning and i swear part two will be much better !!

A snowflake glowing a luminescent blue lazily floated above your palm, multiplying into several others until you held a mini-flurry in your hand. You walked past all the frosted-over trees, huffing in deep breaths of cold air as your boots stepped over piles of unblemished snow and crispy dead leaves. 

Being a healer was exhausting. Though you were still fairly new to the job, you couldn’t help but lay all the blame on yourself for being incapable of saving a life today. You just… hadn’t expected there to be that much blood. Icers had thicker blood for a reason; it wasn’t usually a problem. The head healer tried to reassure you that you did everything you could, but you couldn’t stand to be in the medbay for much longer. You needed air. 

And that’s how you ended up here, head spinning dizzily as you stomped through the wintry grey forest, releasing out a frustrated groan from the bottom of your lungs.

“You’re dangerously close to our territory, Icer.” The sudden deep-timbered voice had you flinching so harshly you hit your head on an icy tree branch. “I’d watch my step if I was you.”

Breath caught in your throat, you watched with wide eyes as the Flamer stepped out of the shadow of a tree. He was undeniably handsome; his irises were dark, flecked with a fierce gold the same hue as the edge of a fire, his slicked-back hair a nightly black, and a curl of his carmine lips that was nowhere near friendly. An obvious insignia of a red flame was embedded into his unwrinkled jacket, a clear sign of this man being from the Fire Tribe.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized I was so close to the border.” You murmured, backing away slowly. The small snowflakes that you had accumulated in your palm quickly dissipated into the air, but miniscule particles of snow still floated around you, no doubt a result of your quaking nerves.

Noticing this, the man watched curiously as a snowflake drifted by him. He raised a finger towards the ice crystal, a small orange flame bursting out of the tip. The snowflake melted into a droplet of water, falling to his feet. You noticed the snow had melted away from him in a large circle around his shoes, now standing in a patch of wet grass. Even from the great distance between the two of you, you could still feel the wavering heat pulsating from this strange man.

“What are you doing so far away from your people?”

You knew you shouldn’t be talking to a Flamer stranger. They were dangerous, and it was common knowledge that Icers and Flamers weren’t on the best terms as of late.

“I couldn’t be there anymore,” You whispered, just loud enough for him to pick up. At his raised eyebrows, you continued on. “I’m a healer. It was a lot of pressure not to mess up.”

He nodded, his curiosity getting the best of him. He stepped closer and asked, “Then why are you a healer?”

“Because I’m good at it.” The words came off far too snobbish for your liking, so you quickly added in a sheepish tone, “Also because I like helping people.”

The two of you fell into a queer silence, before he nodded, somewhat satisfied with your answer. The Flamer turned his back to you, “I best get going now. The lands aren’t going to patrol themselves. Run back to the rest of your people, Icer.”

You could feel his heat retract as he walked away. More snow fell to cover his tracks, as if the strange man with flaming eyes was never there.

It wasn’t until the same time the next day that you found yourself strolling towards the forest, back to the same spot last night, feet acting to their own accord. You paused in your steps when you realized where you were heading. 

Would you really risk getting a Flamer angry at you for getting too close to their borders again? With not another thought, you pushed back the doubts and walked onwards… it wasn’t like you actually crossed the border. There was a large grey strip of forest land that belonged to neither tribe; it was far too costly to maintain and the forest gave them nothing but bugs and piles of dead leaves.

Much to your surprise, the man was already there, watching you with those glowing eyes of his. “What are you doing here?” He hissed.

“I can ask you the same thing,” You retaliated, arching an eyebrow.

The cold wind whistled as it blew past you, but you were planted firmly to the ground. He, on the other hand, grimaced quite obviously as the breeze tousled his neat hair about, sending dark strands careening into his eyes.

“I’m Y/N,” You said with a small smile. Although he pulsated with heat, that only made him feel the frigid sting of the cold wind all the more. At the sight of his shivering form, you wondered just how bad a Flamer can be.

He eyed you suspiciously before stepping forward quite boldly, sticking out a hand, “I’m Seonghwa.”

There was a strange arrhythmic thump in your chest. Now that he was so close to you, the lilith-hued snow around your feet started to wilt away as well, your cheeks flushing at the sudden rise in temperature. Icers weren’t very good with heat, that was obvious.

And when you took his hand, it was as if he was the coldest thing you’ve ever touched. But that couldn’t be it… you couldn’t really feel the cold much. Nonetheless, you gripped his palm unflinchingly, staring him dead in the eye. It became like some sort of challenge, but the both of you knew that you had obviously won. Seonghwa winced at how freezing your fingers against his were.

“Do you come here everyday?” The Flamer asked once he retracted his hand from yours to shove into the warmth of his pocket.

“Yesterday was my first time. I wasn’t planning on coming back today, but I just ended up here on instinct.” Your boot scuffed the pristine snow, avoiding the way his gaze seemed to quite literally burn holes into you.

Seonghwa frowned slightly. Funnily enough, the same exact thing had happened to him. He wasn’t on patrolling duty today, so really, he had no cause to be out here. He could be curled up with a book in front of a nice, warm fire, instead of standing in the snow with an Icer, of all people. Gods, he must be crazy.

“So… what are you doing here?” Your seemingly innocent question had Seonghwa struggling for words. 

In all honesty, he had been curious whether or not you’d come back. An Icer healer in the Grey Forest was more than enough to pique his interest. Nothing remotely gripping ever happened in the Fire Tribe (other than the various men and women who threw themselves at him whenever they got the chance). He hadn’t actually expected you to come back. 

“I’m… hunting.”

“It’s illegal to hunt outside of your tribe lands, everybody knows that.”

“Who said I was hunting for an animal?” Seonghwa crossed his arms over his chest to try and look somewhat menacing, but you just grinned. “I was looking for a book I lost.”

You hummed slightly, “Right.” As you waved your arm about, little snowflakes seemed to trail after you, and Seonghwa watched in masked fascination. “Can’t you just admit that you came to see me again?”

“Who’s to say that it’s not you coming to see me?”

“Hmm, let’s just say we both came to see each other. I’ve never seen a Flamer up this close before.”

Seonghwa blinked down at you with wide eyes, as if realizing just how small the distance between the two of you was. His cheeks reddened quickly as he cleared his throat into a fist, stepping backwards and almost slipping on more snow. When he attempted to sidestep the large wet puddle he’d created because of his rippling heat, his foot caught onto a tree root and he tumbled backwards. Snowflakes clung onto his dark hair and he shivered yet again. You tried to conceal your sniggers behind a palm, but Seonghwa still seemed to notice, his blazing eyes narrowing in mock-offense.

“You’re enjoying this,” He stated with an accusatory tone.

“Of course I am,” You replied through muted laughs. “I’m sorry. I would help, but I’m afraid I’d only make it worse.” To emphasize your point, you shook your hands slightly, blue crystals of snow whirling about.

Seonghwa’s fiery eyes seemed to soften at this. He pushed himself up to his feet, now shivering so harshly that you could hear his teeth chatter. You’d only known this Flamer for less than two days and yet he’d already managed to tug at your heartstrings.

“You should go back and get warm. I’ve read about Flamers and their immune systems… you guys are absolute babies when it comes to the cold.” Out of instinct, you reached out to touch his arm, like you did to most sick patients. But of course, you paused just before the tips of your fingers brushed against his jacket, curled your hand into a palm and forced it back down to your side. “I wouldn’t want you getting a fever just to see an ordinary Icer.”

Seonghwa cracked a half of a smile, shaking his head in disbelief.

But when he spun on his heel to leave, you called out before you could stop yourself, “Will I ever see you again, Seonghwa?” He stopped in his tracks without turning to looking at you. Stomach coiling into a tight knot of tension, you awaited in the palpable silence, a heavy lump forming in your throat.

“Next time, let’s go somewhere a bit warmer, yeah? Meet me closer to Flamer territory, by the river next to the largest tree in the Grey Forest. If you get to see me shiver, I get to see you sweat, Icer.” And then he continued on his way, until his lithe form disappeared behind the misty haze and the frosted shrubbery.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Just what were you thinking, agreeing to meet with a Flamer? Were you always this stupid or had you just realized now? You couldn’t believe you were spending your free time with some random Flamer from the Fire Tribe. 

Thoughts of doubt swirled about in your head as you wove your way through the Grey Forest. The low rumbling of the river had you gulping down a large lump in your throat. It was already far too warm for you liking, the little snowflakes that buzzed around your head slowly melting away in water droplets. You didn’t think you’ve ever been this nervous before; not even back when you performed your first major surgery. There was just something about Seonghwa that you couldn’t stay away from… like when your Nan used to tell you no sugar candies before bed, it only made you crave for them all the more.

By the time you spotted Seonghwa leaning against the large tree, you were panting heavily, perspiration marring your skin. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” The Flamer chimed, seeming to be in a much better mood now that the tables have turned. He seemed quite at ease, not a bead of sweat to be seen. “Already worked up quite a sweat, have we?”

Pathetically, you lifted your arm to conjure a small snowball, proceeding to press it against your head for cool relief. It quickly melted into a slushy of ice and water, dripping down your hair. You frowned, while Seonghwa grinned in return.

“Not so fun, is it?” He teased while you kicked off your boots and dipped your feet into the river, moaning in relief at the slightly cooler temperature of the water. You wished to make it colder, but much to your disappointment, the water wouldn’t crystalize because of how quickly it was rushing by. 

Seonghwa crouched next to you, but still kept a decent length away, picking up rocks to skip across the river. For that, you were grateful, because if he made you any warmer than you were at that moment, you would’ve gotten up and stormed back to Icer lands. 

“The first time we met,” You started after flicking water onto your face to cool down, making Seonghwa glance at you with curious eyes. “You were telling me to go back to my territory. But now, you made me come closer to Flamer lands. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know,” He answered honestly. “You’re just… not what I thought an Icer would be like. It made me curious.”

“And what did you think we’d be like?”

A small shrug lifted his shoulder, “Cold. I mean, not that you aren’t, but cold as in… your hearts would be frozen over as well. I grew up with stories of Icers freezing Flamers to death and placing them in their gardens as statues. But you don’t seem like you’d do that kind of stuff. Especially when you told me that you were a healer.”

“For me, everybody knew the story of how the Fire Tribe would lock the Icers they captured in a sealed room, and the snow they made would melt and they’d slowly watch as the room filled with water, unable to turn it into ice because it was too damn hot. And eventually… they’d drown.” At the last few words, you frosted over your fingers and dunked them beneath the waters’ surface.

Seonghwa’s horrified expression made you chuckle slightly.

“Well, for the record, we don’t do that. We aren’t barbarians.” His words were said huffily as he crossed his arms and turned fully to fix his rapt gaze on you.

“I know. It was merely a silly childhood legend.”

The hours dribbled away fairly quickly, you and Seonghwa exchanging tales of your childhood that only increased in absurdity the farther you recounted. He told you about his friend, San, and how they once snuck into Wind Tribe territory to steal rare Gustberries that only grew in the harsh fields of the Breezers. You told him of Hongjoong and Wooyoung, the former being your closest friend and the latter constantly getting himself hurt. Laughs and giggles and the quiet hum of the river filled the silences in between the gaps of your vivid conversations. The more time you spent talking with him, the more you found yourself growing fond of the fiery-eyed man. Who would’ve thought?

By the time the sun had already set, you and Seonghwa were sitting much closer than when you had first sat down, his heat pulsating through the air in waves. To be honest, you didn’t quite mind the subtle warmth after you got used to the initial shock, but you knew you were pushing your limits. An Icer shouldn’t be out in high temperatures for this long. 

You pushed yourself up to your feet, head swimming dizzily as you sucked in lungfuls of air. Slightly concerned, Seonghwa reached out to help you find your feet, but he pulled away at the last moment, just as you had last night. The tables really have turned, you thought in mild amusement.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine…” You swayed on your feet slightly, pressing your cooler palm against your warmer-than-usual forehead.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the cold. You guys are absolute babies when it comes to the heat.” He said, mimicking the same exact words you told him yesterday. A weak laugh slipped past your lips, as you leaned against a tree branch.

Oh, everything was just too hot. You’ve been out of the snow for too long…

All of a sudden, the world was flipped onto its side, damp grass pressing against your face. You could barely register Seonghwa startled yelp before everything went dark.

“Hey. Icer, are you okay? Icer! Y/N, come on, I put you back in the snow, I don’t know what else to do.”

Though your head pounded as though someone had whacked you with a tree branch, you could just barely make out Seonghwa’s concerned tone. When your eyelids fluttered open, you were met with the sight of the Flamer’s handsome, yet alarmed face.

“You okay?” His words came gentle and soothing.

Puffing out a small sigh, you nodded tiredly. Being back in the snow felt much better, “Yeah. Thank you,” You croaked out sheepishly.

Seonghwa beamed down at you, before shuffling away so as the snow around you wouldn’t melt. But just as soon as the smile graced his features, it quickly dissipated into a frown, “Don’t scare me like that,” He practically scolded. “You win, okay? Next time we can stay in the snow.”

Breath caught in your throat, a heavy blush laid over your cheeks, “Next time? You just can’t get enough of me, can you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Seonghwa said somewhat nonchalantly, shocking you.

“I… well, thank you for the, well… uhm, getting me back,” You stumbled over your words the longer Seonghwa stared. Oh, what was this man doing to you? “I have some… healer things I need to do… so, I best get going… erm -” Without another thought, you pushed yourself onto your knees, snow crunching underneath your breeches as you leaned over towards him.

He was so warm. His face, especially, once you brushed your far-cooler lips against his cheekbone. The Flamer reared back with a ridiculous, startled expression, eyes comically wide. One of his hands came up to clamp against the cheek you kissed, mouth opening and closing but no words coming out. 

“It was really nice talking to you. Thank you again,” You murmured while hiding a grin behind your palm. With that, you turned on your heel and left the blushing Flamer alone in the snow.

From then on, you saw Seonghwa practically every day. Oftentimes, you’d meet in the snow and stroll through the Grey Forest until it got far too warm and the both of you would have to turn back. The moment he’d see your skin dampen with sweat, he’d have the two of you abruptly changing course, steering away from the heat of the Fire Tribe. You thought that was incredibly thoughtful of him. 

Once, Seonghwa discovered a more shallower part of the river that you could actually crystalize to keep yourself cool. That day was a good day. You had gently taken his scorching hand and tried to help him run across the ice before his heat could melt it away. The two of you left soaking wet, boisterous grins painted across your lips.

Hongjoong, being your closest friend and all, was constantly questioning and badgering on about where you went every afternoon. After all, you were a healer and your tribe needed you. But, however selfish it was, you didn’t want to stop seeing Seonghwa… he made you feel things no person from the Ice Tribe had ever made you feel.

The more you saw him, the more you had the urge to yank his stupidly sharp jawline towards you and shove your lips onto his. You’d imagine the way the warmth radiating off his skin would feel underneath your frigid palms and lips. You thought back to the second-long cheek kiss you gave him a couple months back, a fond smile tickling at the corner of your mouth.

“What’re you thinking about?” Seonghwa asked from beside you, nudging you slightly. Over a long course of time, the pair of you grew more and more comfortable with one another, inching closer and closer with each meet-up. At this point, you were practically sitting on top of him, one of his legs intertwined with yours and your head laying on his shoulder, the both of you leaning against a frosted tree trunk. Seonghwa smelled of sweet, burning sugar with a heavier scent of roasted coffee beans. He also often complained about how cold you were, although his tone was always fairly light and lacked any true bite. 

“Nothing,” You were quick to say, pulling your head away from his shoulder to peer up at him.

Shrugging off your strange attitude, Seonghwa glanced down at you with excited eyes, “You wanna see a new trick I learned?”

Without awaiting your answer (because he knew you’d say yes anyway), Seonghwa cupped his hands together and pulled them away to produce a thin orange flame morphed into the shape of a shooting arrow. You watched in rapt fascination as the fire-arrow spun in the air when Seonghwa whistled sharply. Then, he pushed it away to embed itself into the tree across from you. The tree’s dry bark was quick to catch aflame, but you flicked your hands and caged in the fire with frost, the orange dying out into the blackened wood. 

“Learned that during archery,” Seonghwa beamed down at your bemused expression. “You know, only the best Flamers can morph their fires into shapes. It takes a lot of concentration.”

With no effort at all, you twirled your fingers to make an intricate rabbit out of ice, whiskers and fur and all, holding it out to Seonghwa with a minuscule smile. The Flamer scowled slightly, and touched the tip of his finger to the clear crystal, watching it dribble into liquid through the gaps of your palms.

You rolled your eyes to the side before leaning your head back onto his shoulder with a content sigh, “Don’t you compete with me, Park Seonghwa. You’ll never win.”

Much to your surprise, he didn’t bother to argue, and instead pressed his warm nose into your frosty hair, humming, “Yeah, yeah. And who was the one that fainted in the heat again?”

“If I recall correctly, you’ve caught more than three colds just this year! And it’s only the fifth moon, too!”

His hands suddenly darted out to tickle your midriff, to which you squirmed away with a smothered laugh. 

“Hm, wanna put it to the test? I promise I’ll go easy,” You said teasingly once you managed to capture his wrists. You could feel his pulse rapidly thumping against the pad of your thumb. 

“I don’t know… I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“Trust me, you’re not the one that’ll be hurting.”

“Oh, you’re on, Icer.”

The two of you stumbled onto your feet and you held yourself up in a defensive stance. With a faint smile, Seonghwa mimicked your position. Admittedly, it wasn’t a very fair fight; you were a healer and he was a well-trained fighter.

But nonetheless, you were the first to throw, a frozen ball of ice the size of your fist hurtled towards him at top speed. Seonghwa was quick to react, blasting the ice with orange flames until it melted mid-air. You frowned and lithely dodged behind a tree when he reconjured his fire arrows and sent them after you. In retaliation, you quickly brought up a thick ice barrier with a laugh, smothering the thin lines of fire away with the sole of your boots. 

The air was chock-full of his crackling flames muted by your snow, crystalline icicles dripping from nearby tree branches, and lame taunts tossed back and forth by the both of you as you play-fought for another couple of minutes.

Seonghwa might’ve had the upper hand in combat, but you knew how to play dirty. Just as he was stepping forward, you sent a sheet of slippery ice to slide underneath his boots. With a bewildered expression, Seonghwa flailed about for a moment, the small fire he prepared in his palm dying down to glowing embers, before tumbling down into the snow. 

“That was low, Y/N,” The Flamer huffed out whilst trying to catch his breath against the pale white mound of snowflakes, glaring at you with playfully narrowed eyes. You were glad to see that he wasn’t actually angry at you.

“Do you call defeat, Seonghwa? There’s no shame in admitting it, you know!” Your jaunts were light-hearted as you walked closer to him and Seonghwa found himself grinning despite the cold stinging his skin. 

Sticking your hand out to help him up, Seonghwa eyed you for a moment with an indiscernible expression, his playful nature fading away into something you couldn’t quite decipher.

Instead of pushing himself up, he suddenly pulled you down with him, a startled shriek leaving your lips and echoing across the Grey Forest. You fell on top of him with a grunt of pain, meeting his glowing amber eyes with your confused ones. During your hazy moment of puzzlement, Seonghwa tugged you closer, his warm palms curled around your forearms gently. 

And then, without further warning, he kissed you. This one was nothing like the first kiss you gave him. That one was merely an innocent peck on the cheek. But this one… this one held passion and furtive desire and yearning. The both of you most definitely wanted this, it was quite clear by now.

Your senses were overwhelmed in the best way possible. All you could smell was him, the heavy undertone of roasted coffee beans sending your head into a cloudy daze. Your lips were slanted against his hot ones, noses of starkly opposite temperatures bumping against one another in your moment of desperation. You weren’t sure where to place your hands, so you balled them up against his jacket, just close enough to feel the hardness of his chest underneath.

For you, everything was hot, searing with a need for more as his plump, warm lips laid over yours. For him, however, everything was cold. The snow beneath was a mild annoyance, and yet he was willing to bear through it for you. You were equally freezing, but Seonghwa welcomed the cold for once, a dangerous ache that would grow to be lethal if neither of you were careful.

A small, frosty sigh left you when he pulled away for a second to stare at you with those intense eyes of his. You stared back with part-confusion and part-longing, lips agape. That apparently set something off in him, because he sat up with you straddling his hips, hands now encircled around your midriff as he kissed you more passionately, leaning forward so your back arched into him.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Why were you feeling these emotions for a Flamer of all people? Why couldn’t you have just stayed within your own tribe? Turmoil churned about in you as you kissed him in somewhat of a frantic manner. You hated yourself for loving it so much.

The second time he pulled away, you were both gasping for breath, lips swollen and clothes rumpled and askew. You could tell he wanted to kiss you again, and probably a thousand times after that. To be frank, that was all you wanted as well.

But you knew this had to stop. And so, when he leaned forward to capture your lips with his again, you flinched none-too-subtly and slid off his lap. An expression of genuine hurt flickered across his handsome, reddened features. A twinge of guilt gnawed away at your stomach as you got up onto your shaky feet.

“Go home, Seonghwa,” Was all you could find yourself saying with a hoarse voice. “You’re going to catch a cold again.”

You couldn’t look at him anymore. And so, you left him laying crestfallen in the snow, hurriedly making your way back to Icer lands, small blue snowflakes trailing behind you and cold tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

The next day, Seonghwa didn’t show up. You waited by your usual meet-up place, gnawing on your lip anxiously, glancing every which way in hopes of seeing the raven-headed Flamer. In the midst of your worrying turmoil, more and more snowflakes emanated from your skin and it didn’t take long for them to accumulate by your feet, completely covering your boots in a pristilline white blanket. You stepped out of the feather-soft pile, opting to impatiently trudge about in an attempt to steel your nerves.

You hadn’t been able to sleep that night. Seonghwa’s heartbroken expression was imprinted into your mind, leaving you in a mess of guilt and regret and anger. 

Why did you have to push him away? Seonghwa, your first non-Icer friend, shoved away as if he meant nothing. You released a frustrated groan, smacking your palm into your forehead.

It made sense that he didn’t want to see you. If you were in his shoes, you probably wouldn’t leave your room and have the light of day touch your face for a whole moon. The idea of Seonghwa upset just didn’t sit right with you. Nonetheless, you could do little else than bide your time for him, however much you hated waiting.

He didn’t show up the next day either. Nor the one after that. 

By the fourth day of waiting, you started to feel twinges of discouragement, but you never gave up, determined to set things right with Seonghwa. The niggling thought of him never showing up was one that often pestered you while you patiently awaited his return, although always quickly shoved down into the corner of your mind. You didn’t want to think about what you would do if you never saw him again.

It took just over a week of waiting for him to come back. At that point, you hadn’t thought he’d come back at all, reluctantly accepting that you’ve ultimately ruined your friendship with Seonghwa.

And so, imagine your surprise when his voice rang out through the trees, your name rolling off his tongue smoothly, “Y/N.”

Startled, you flinched so hard that your head hit a branch that hung lowly on the icy tree you were sitting beneath. It reminded you so much of the first time you met him that you couldn’t help but crack a smile after your initial pained grimace.

“Seonghwa,” You gasped, eyes round with shock and mouth agape. “You’re… you’re back!” 

The excitement in your voice didn’t go undetected by either of you, but his features were set in stone, unmoving and neutral. Those blazing eyes of his seemed to bore holes into you, and you felt strangely naked underneath his gaze. You noticed that his appearance was more disheveled than ever, eyebags dark and hair not neatly slicked back like usual. He looked broken, but far too proud to admit so.

“Seonghwa…?” You stepped closer, the frosted leafy foliage crumbling under the pressure. This man was someone you deeply cared about, and you knew he felt the same about you.

So why was he staring at you like you meant nothing to him?

A shiver ran down your spine, a sensation that only Seonghwa could bestow upon you. Which was ironic, because the cold feeling that tickled down your spine was ignited by a man with powers of fire and heat. 

You and him didn’t belong together. That was clear as day by now.

“Seonghwa,” You mumbled again, reaching out to him once close enough.

He shut his eyes as if looking at you were torture. It stung more than you liked to admit, so you retracted your fingers, clenching them into a fist and dropping them back by your side awkwardly. The air was so tense, so utterly uncomfortable, you could feel the crack in your heart splinter into more branches.

“Stop saying that.”

“Saying what?” Your bottom lip trembled. This wasn’t the Seonghwa you’ve grown to be so fond of. This man scared you. You had half a mind to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense back into him. Where did your Seonghwa go?

An angry huff escaped his lips, misting visibly out of his carmine lips. The very ones you kissed a little over a week ago.

“You can’t… just… don’t say my name. Please. We can’t be like that anymore. We can’t do this. We can’t keep seeing each other.” Seonghwa’s stoic mask disintegrated into raw emotion. He looked to be on the verge of tears, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you mirrored the same exact expression.

There was a part of you that wanted to yell and scream and throw sharp icicles at him until he had no choice but to run back to Flamer territory. Anywhere, as long as it was far away from you. The other, more rational part of you, whispered that he was right. After all, you were the one that pushed him away first. It was only fair.

A broken bone won’t heal if you keep putting pressure on the wound. Being a healer, you couldn’t just ignore your own teachings.

But for just once in your life, you wanted to be selfish. You wanted to hold Seonghwa tightly in your grasp, no matter how dangerous it was. You wanted to call him yours, and you wanted to be his. You wanted to kiss him again, despite the small action being the ultimate downfall for the both of you.

And so you found yourself croaking out, making sure to emphasize his name, “Seonghwa, you know just as much as I do that there’s something here between us. You can’t just ignore it and toss that all out the window!”

His face screwed up in an effort to keep the onslaught of tears at bay. Perhaps what he felt for you wasn’t yet as strong as what he’d call love, but he wasn’t very far from it. He cared too much for you, so much more than anybody else in his life.

He needed you. And because of that, he had to let you go. Fraternizing with the enemy wasn’t something to be taken lightly. If his tribe knew about this little escapade of his, they’d have his head and would finally have a good enough reason to declare war. Regardless, it was only a matter of time. The Fire Tribe has hated Icers for centuries and centuries, teetering on the brink between neutrality and complete bloodshed. 

“We have no choice,” The words were said in a low tone, rumbling deep down in his chest. Seonghwa shuffled closer, so close that you could feel his familiar heat wavering against the ice once again. You longed to reach out and place your hand on his chest, feel his heart thumping against his ribcage frantically, just as yours was. “Do you know what they’d do to you - to us - if our tribes found us together? It’s too risky, Y/N. I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt.”

“I’m a healer. I can take care of myself! And we can just stay careful like we always have. Besides, people rarely come into the Grey Forest anymore!” Your words came out fast and jittery and panicked. You thought that you had already come to terms with losing the man that stood in front of you, but you were far from acceptance, you knew that now.

Seonghwa carded a pale hand through dark strands of hair, “I’m sorry, were you not the one that told me to go back home? You started this. You wanted this!” He was so agitated that when he swung his arm back to his side, small crackles of fire lit up his fingers.

Something inside you snapped, “I most definitely did not! It was just… all too sudden and I needed time to think. Now that I’ve already thought, there’s no need for us to run away and never see each other again! You’re overexaggerating, Seonghwa.”

“No, you don’t get it. Don’t you know, Y/N? Our tribes are verging on war. We’re supposed to be enemies, you and I. Don’t be daft!” His voice raised a notch or two louder, and you found yourself shrinking into yourself.

Tears pricked your eyes and you looked away from his fierce gaze, “We don’t have to be a part of that. We can just -”

“Just what? Pretend? We can’t play picnic in the forest and act like our people aren’t planning to slaughter each other!”

“You know what?” You shouted so loudly that the birds nesting on treetops fluttered away, a mass of dark wings and agitated squawks. “If you want to walk away from this relationship, from me, then go ahead! I won’t stop you. Fuck you, Seonghwa. Fuck you for throwing this away the moment it became something more.”

“You were the first to push away!” He protested, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“Well, I’m sorry!” You cried out, furiously swiping away the tears that dribbled down your cheeks. “I’m sorry I was scared! I’m willing to try again, but you’re not giving me the chance. I waited for you every day, you know.”

“I know. I saw,” He said, suddenly quiet. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”

The two of you stared at each other defiantly, heavy breaths misting the air in front of you. His nose was tinted a deep pink, no doubt because of the cold.

“I’m leaving,” Seonghwa said after a long while. “And you shouldn’t come back here. Ever. I need you to know, Y/N. I’m doing this because I care about you. I expect you to do the same for me.”

Then, after casting you a forlorn expression, he tore his blazing eyes away and stiffly swiveled around in the snow. A gust of wind tousled his hair and he blew out a sigh of pale white mist. The cold made his nose red, and you subconsciously noticed the way he shivered slightly, brushing snowflakes off his sleeve. You’d miss that.

You’d miss him.

His heat grew fainter as his long strides took him further away from you. Your tears had crystallized on your cheeks uncomfortably, a frozen reminder of what you’d lost. You had half the mind to storm right up to Seonghwa and force him to stay here, by your side. That was the child speaking within you, however, and you were no longer a child. 

Flicking the solidified salt water on your cheeks away, you did just the same as Seonghwa had minutes ago, trudging your way back to Icer lands. Little did either of you know, the two of you cried fresh tears along the whole journey back. 

The last time you ever stepped foot in the Grey Forest was just the day after. Your eyes were puffy and aching, hair a terrible mess, and a wax-sealed envelope was tightly clutched in your hand.

There was a chance that Seonghwa would never come back. In fact, it was most probable that he’d never get the precariously written letter you left by the usual meeting place, considering what he told you yesterday.

Fond memories sunk its sharpened claws into you, stealing away your breath as you cupped both hands over your mouth, overwhelmed in every way possible. You were far too drained to cry, having emptied away all your tears the day before.

And so, you brushed stray snowflakes off the periwinkle-hued wax stamp, placing it down by the tree stump where Seonghwa usually sat. 

Then you muttered a quiet, broken goodbye, stomping back to Icer lands. You were never going to see Seonghwa again. 

Dear Seonghwa,

I know you told me to never come back. I won’t, I promise. I just wanted to leave the letter because… we never properly got to say goodbye, did we?

Well, congrats, you big dummy. You’re right. You always were, and you always are. We were never supposed to be friends. I mean, I suppose we’re enemies now, aren’t we? It was quite the foolish fantasy we had going on there, huh? I get it, we have to stay loyal to our respective tribes, we can’t risk getting caught, so on so forth. I just hope that when war is declared (which doesn’t seem to be long from now, to be quite honest), I won’t see you on the battlefield. I don’t think I’d be able to handle that. 

So, I guess this is goodbye. It’s a little hard to believe that I won’t ever get to see your stupid face again. Remember when I threw a snowball at you so hard that it broke your nose? You panicked and blood went splattering everywhere and it didn’t stop until I got you to calm down. For a highly-ranked Flamer soldier, I’d expect you to be less squeamish at the sight of your own blood. It’s alright, though. As a healer myself, blood still freaks me out just a bit.

I thought I ruined your pretty face for all the poor ladies and gents who were mad in love with you back at the Flame Tribe, and I felt so guilty. And then you smiled! I remember feeling envy and astonishment at the same time because how the hell could one look pretty while smiling through a broken, bloody nose? 

I’m glad I didn’t ruin your face, though. You’d probably get really mad at me if I did. But you would’ve forgiven me eventually, right?

Frankly, I don’t know if I deserve your forgiveness for what I did. And no, I’m not talking about hurting your precious face (they say a once-broken nose makes a man more attractive!). I’m sorry for pushing you away, Seonghwa. Really, I don’t know what I was thinking. I was scared and I needed time to think. I hope you understand that. If you don’t, that’s okay as well.

If I could rewind time, I wouldn’t have stopped kissing you. I could’ve carried on for days and days and days on end. Did you know that you’re the second person I’ve ever kissed? Don’t ask about the first, drunk Wooyoung isn’t really something to brag about. Well, for the record, you were the first kiss I actually enjoyed. Congrats.

Of course, all this doesn’t mean that it was entirely my fault. I waited for you for a week, and you did nothing but hide behind trees and watch. That was real shitty of you, to put it plainly.

I’ll miss you, though. I’ve never felt this way about any Icer and I doubt I ever will. Of all people to set my sights on, it just had to be a Flamer. What rotten luck we have.

Goodbye forever, Seonghwa. Stay safe, alright? For my sake.

With much love,

Y/N.

Seonghwa read the letter through so quickly that his pupils seemed to be moving at lightning speed. Then, with a numbed heart, he read it a second time, this time much slower.

By the third time he reread each of your carefully handwritten words, warm tears of salt water were running over his cheeks. His face had grown considerably hotter, the salty liquid steaming misty tendrils against his skin. He was angry. So, so ridiculously angry. At himself, at this stupid rivalry between the tribes, at you for being so goddamn perfect. Of course you’d managed to squeeze in jaunts and jokes in a farewell note.

There was a part of him that wished he’d never come back to the Grey Forest and found the letter. Fat droplets of his tears trickled down his jaw and soaked through the parchment, marring the intricate ink characters. With a gentle sigh, Seonghwa brushed the dampness away and stiffly flicked his wrist.

The letter burst into glowing orange flames. And Seonghwa watched on, stifling down the urge to break down into a fit of chest-wracking sobs, until your goodbye was nothing but a measly pile of blackened ashes on his palm.