#one bad flare up and my entire routine that i worked so hard for goes to shit

[stormyrainyday]

the tweakfest continues

[yeojaa]

come over, pt. i

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  this is pwp.  smut in the forms of:  kissing, oral (m/f), fingering, deepthroating, hickeys, protected sex.  use of the pet name shy girl.  wc. 6.2k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif and @snackhobi aka the loves of my tiny life.  author note.  this is an adaption of an rp with my beloved @velvetwicebang​.  while the writing is all my own, i owe so much to loma for inspiring me and being such a wonderful partner. 💛 if you enjoy this, feedback goes a long way.  tysm for reading!  (and yes, there will be a second part.)

You’ve been friends for thirteen months, classmates for another three before that.  You’ve worked on countless projects together, watched him fall off a roof, and have had to bail him out of campus security’s grubby little hands. Your friendship is easy, based on mutual suffering in Professor Kim’s class and long study dates spent in the library.  He smuggled you chocolates in his pockets and you brought iced coffee to the 8 a.m. lecture you shared.

You’re not sure why you’re riddled with uncertainty now then, every nerve ending shot, lit up bright like the still-up mini Christmas tree sitting in the corner of your dorm room.  (You know you should take it down but it’s so cute, slouched ever with a tiny gold star-shaped bell hanging from the end.).  

Spending time with Jungkook was normal - a part of your weekly routine - but then again, you hadn’t somehow developed a weird little crush on him until recently.  

(If you think hard, you could probably pinpoint it to a night a few weeks ago when he looked particularly good, fluffy powder puff of hair stripped of shadow and gleaming gold beneath the warm lecture lights.  You’d never had a thing for blonds but he made it look good - surprising you when he’d dropped into his seat beside you and winked in response to your surprise.) 

(It’s something you can't tear your thoughts from now, that infuriatingly charming smile burnt into your retinas.  It sits at the forefront of your mind, stealing your attention from the movie that's playing on the television hung across from your bed.  One of those blockbuster flicks, because who didn’t love gratuitous action and lens flares?)

A hand reaches for the chip bowl propped between you - homemade chex mix, because you’ve been obsessed with the recipe since discovering it a few weeks ago - and you flinch away when it brushes the hand that's already in there.

"Sorry!"  You squeak before coughing, a quick-witted (but not altogether believable) attempt at hiding the sudden heat that flares across your cheeks.  The same hand disappears between your knees, fingers curling into the soft throw laid over your legs.  You tell yourself to relax at least three times before speaking, peeking at your companion from beneath a fringe of sleep-tousled strands.  “Stop stealing all my chips.” 

The boy beside you only grins, tosses that lazy smile in your direction before turning his attention back to the explosion on the screen, entire expression lit up by the fireworks that explode in flashes of colour.

You think you’ve gotten away with it - that he hasn’t noticed - and then he’s speaking again, pointedly staring forward, seemingly unbothered.  (You know better though.  Jungkook’s infuriating like that, picking up on all the little things despite the fact that he’s a dumb boy, too good at reading between the lines when he barely studies.)

“You’re blushing.”

The callout is, well, uncalled for. 

You choose to ignore him at first, opting to shove two chocolates past your lips.  They’re unbearably sweet, minty and cold - your favourite - and the richness spills across your tongue, eliciting a soft hum as your teeth buzz from the sugar.  (Note to self:  thank Jungkook for the chocolate later.)

“You’re blushing,”  you retort once you’ve swallowed, cheeks puffed out and a dent gathering between your brows.  “I’m just—“  Hand waves wildly - nearly hits him in the face with how wobbly it is - and you pretend-glare at him, faux affront laid in spades.  “—hot.”

It comes snappier than you mean it to, spoken in something close to a pout.  You aren’t actually.  The campus is notorious for having garbage heating, floorboards more akin to packed snow in the dead of winter.  It’s just annoying.  You refuse to be another one of those girls.

(Not that there’s anything wrong with said girls.  It’s more an issue with Jungkook, stupidly handsome and charming and far too popular for his own good.  People already told you all about Jungkook’s escapades - even though you often heard them from him firsthand and in gruelling detail.  One of the downsides to being friends with someone who, for all intents and purposes, carried the title of campus heartthrob.) 

“Pay attention to the movie.”  The same hand reaches for the mix again, careful to avoid brushing his this time.  You think you’ve succeeded, snatching up a piece of pretzel, morsel halfway to your mouth when it drops to your lap.

The same lap that suddenly has a hand on it, palm warm over your knee.  

If you’d thought your nerve endings were shot, now you knew they were.  Every inch of skin was on fire - heat shooting up your spine and over your neck the moment his hand comes in contact with bare skin.  Damn your need for comfort, damn your choice to wear shorts, damn his freaking hot tattooed hands—

You almost yell at him.  The sound’s on the tip of your tongue when you bite down, stare trained wholly on the movie and the blood that splatters across the screen..

Really, you shouldn't be surprised.  You’ve known Jungkook for nearly two years - okay, not quite.  You’ve heard all the rumours about him, the whispered words that sound something like playboy and flirt and be careful.  You know and yet you’ve found yourself in this situation, desperately trying to figure out what the hell is going through his mind as you stare straight ahead, refusing to move a muscle.  

His profile is picture perfect from your periphery;  he's focused too, acting like he's done nothing wrong.  Sly as a fox, as always.

“Still blushing,”  he repeats conversationally, as if he’s commenting on the colour of the sky or how cold it is in your room.  Not as if he’s got a hand where it shouldn’t be, ink spilling over his skin in pretty patterns, burning the shape of it where he touches.

"I didn't blush.”  It’s a retort made for only argument’s sake and even then, without weight.  Feather soft and feeble in an attempt to keep your voice level.  It's hard when you’re burning up, a livewire settled where you feel him.  "I'm not blushing."

It's a lie - you can feel the flush, embarrassment flooding from your cheeks all the way down over your chest.  It’s an inferno beneath your skin, lava coursing through your veins.  

It spreads further and further, blooms somewhere new when his hand drifts lower, tracking across the soft inner of your thigh.  Doesn’t cease even when his hand does, palm firm over your leg, the ghost of a touch passing so close to your core you can’t help but jolt.  It’s as if he’s rearranged your pieces, mixed them all up.  A brush of his finger over your clothed entrance feels like it hits you right in the chest, snaps your heart to attention.  It roars to life, thundering madly, pulse erratic when he repeats the gesture, with that much more pressure.

You’re dripping, you realise to your horror, cotton of your thong sticking to your skin, grey of your shorts made darker by the arousal that spills over the one not-so-innocent digit. 

A part of you wants to run from the room.  Nearly do, heart hammering in your chest when Jungkook's face is suddenly too close, the warmth of his breath stifling against your neck.  It feels good, anticipation and desire fizzing in your stomach like fountain pop.  (The movie theatre kind, that’s somehow flat and too bubbly all at once.)

"Kook."  You mean to say it reproachfully, with a hand pushing his wrist away.  Instead it comes out like a whisper, a soft sigh of his name that sounds almost needy, laced with worry and anticipation that makes you want to tear your own hair out.  Fingers remain locked around bone, other hand digging into the blanket and the linen beneath it, searching desperately for some form of composure beneath the material.  

For the first time, you hazard a glance - know it’ll be bad for your own well-being - dropping your stare to where his hand rests.  (You have to admit - you like the sight of those tattoos, a stark contrast to the unblemished softness.)

Like it almost as much as his kisses, the first of which lands exactly where you want it most.  Delicate, polite, right on the junction of your jaw.  A sigh escapes before you can help it.  "Shy girl,”  he coos, teasing in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. 

“I’m not shy,”  you huff - try to, anyway, around the kaleidoscope of butterflies that are threatening to choke you.  "We're watching a movie."  You’re trying to redirect his attention, even as you’re desperate for it, even as you think you’d give your whole heart for it. 

You’re this close to combusting, eyes widening the moment he extracts his hand and tucks it back into the bowl of chips.  A part of you wants to yell at him - for starting this in the first place but mainly for leaving you high and dry, turned on and soaking through your underwear. 

(It’s not fair, but then again, you’d never expected them to be.  You’ve seen the rules Jungkook plays by - namely those of his own creation.  Term paper due the next morning?  He’d somehow pull it out of his ass that night.  Break something at a house party?  He’d be let off with a smile and a wave, those doe eyes of his utterly lethal when paired with his pout.)

“Watch the movie then.”  He sounds almost bored, utterly unbothered as he seamlessly slips back into the proper role of friend, classmate, study partner.

"Let's."  Without tossing another glance in his direction, you stare straight ahead, own hand delving for snacks.  So what if you very purposely brush your fingers against the pieces he's just touched, popping the pieces into your mouth before slotting your thumb against your tongue, cheeks hollowing around to suck the last bits of salt and butter off.

Despite your nerves - you’re hoping he's watching - you readjust, bringing knees up, crossing legs until one is resting atop his own thick thigh.  The full of your bottom lip disappears between your teeth, worried to within an inch of its life as you shift beside him, seemingly manoeuvring your shorts into their rightful position.

(You’re not.  They’re hitched higher than they were, barely worthy of the title of shorts, more akin to a belt.  So revealing it’s almost uncomfortable, wet of your arousal sticking them to your skin.)

(Two could play this game.)

(Maybe him better than you, but still.)

You know what you’re doing and yet you’re somehow surprised when he’s suddenly disappeared from your side and situated himself in front of you, eating up too much of the space on your small double bed.  “What’re you—“  The question disappears in the same moment he does, unable to track his movements when Jungkook slips forward, pressing his mouth over yours.

You’ve kissed a lot of people.  (Okay, not a lot, but enough.)  You were a senior in college, where kissing was like talking and fucking happened more often than dating.

You’ve never kissed Jungkook before.  

Why hadn’t you?

His lips are terribly soft, pink and pouted, slanting across yours as if he’s trying to devour you.  There’s no semblance of delicacy, nothing gentle and sweet like those brushes against your neck.  They’re forceful, demanding payment in full when his tongue glides over the seam, seeking entrance despite the fact that you think he might’ve slipped in anyway.

There’s not a single wall he couldn’t break down, not a lock he couldn’t pick.  Not with how he moves, purposeful and reassured, tongue sliding over yours, sucking it into his mouth as if it’s something he does every day.  (Which it very well could be - just not with you.)

“Shy girl,”  he repeats with a mouth filled with affection, praise that pours over you honey sweet and sticky.  “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

The thing is, you’re not pretending.  You’re half-afraid this entire moment is going to explode into a thousand pieces, a dream shattered by reality.  You hope it doesn’t.  Couldn’t bear it when he feels so nice, hand spanning your waist, tucked beneath the safety of your shirt and the fleece blanket between you.  

“I’m not.”  

“Oh?”  There’s something in his eyes, something that coils heat in the pit of your stomach.  You swear you can see the devil sitting on his shoulder, gleeful little smile rearranging his features.  “Do I make you nervous, ____?”

Did he?  Of course he did.  Had, even before you’d known him.

(You’d grown comfortable, though.  Found a way to separate the popular heartthrob from your friend.)

But you’ve lost your marbles, gone certifiably insane when you make a noise that sounds nothing like you.  Because you’re once again far too interested in the way Jungkook’s touching you, manhandling you as if you’re some sort of puppet.  It really shouldn’t turn you on so much, slick coating your bare thighs when he guides you onto your back, pushes you back against your too many pillows.

He’s your friend and he’s told you all about the way he fucks girls until they can’t walk.  

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want the same treatment, though. 

The moment Jungkook’s mouth finds your skin - sensitive and soft and so close to your soaked core - you keen, hands immediately flying into his silky head of hair.  It threads between your fingers like fine silk, filaments of gold overlaid in colour by the movie that still plays.  

“Oh my god,”  you gasp, entire body arching off the back of the bed in an effort to bring some form of  relief.  You can’t help the heat that burns your cheeks or how you sound, begging and pleading as you tug gently at his blond roots.  “Don’t tease me.”

You’re not asking very nicely but you figure Jungkook will give in.  It’s his fault, after all.  

His fault - which you don’t mind when he hooks fabric aside and drags his tongue across your slit, the flat of his tongue arching your back from the bed.  Can’t mind when he does it again, rounded nose bumping against your clit.  You’re trying to stay just a little bit decent, moans soft and caught between your teeth.  You’re practically biting a hole through your lip in an effort to stay quiet, hands curled into fists.  Gold spills between them and you imagine it hurts but he doesn’t stop, only works harder to drive you crazy.

Of course he’s good at this.  Too good, if you’re being honest.

You’re dripping, legs trembling in his firm, unyielding grip.  There's molten heat building in your stomach, creeping up your spine, and with each pass of his tongue over your sensitive core, it only expands.  You want more - need it - and almost beg when he catches your clit between his teeth.  A breathy baby spills out on accident when your eyes meet, gaze half-lidded.

It’s bad for your health, how good he looks right now, chin slick, lips rubied and pretty like jewels.  “Shy girl sounds so pretty.”

There's something about his praise that completely ruins you, the words dragging a delighted, sexpot moan off your tongue.  You want him to tell you how pretty you are now and later, over and over.  

You want to be his pretty girl. 

"I want you.  I need more,"  you whine, hips rutting desperately, slick messy across your thighs and shining across Jungkook's mouth.  He smiles then - brighter than the sun, utterly radiant, so devastatingly handsome you swear your brain short circuits - and then he’s doing exactly as you’ve asked. 

He eats you out like it’s an art form, flicking his tongue over your clit with practiced precision, sucking the pearl between his lips.  When he grazes his teeth over it - just the lightest pressure - you jolt, the feeling of a finger sliding into you stealing the breath from your lungs.

He’s always had nice hands, big broad palms and long fingers.  They reach places you could never hope to, stretching you deliciously when he sinks another in alongside the first, exploring you with ease.  The sting is slight, the fullness overriding any pain, further dulled by the suction of his mouth on your clit.  

He even hums when he finds the spot he’s been looking for, hooking his fingers against it and pressing.  (You swear you see stars;  you know you feel him smile, lips spread like butter over your skin when you sob.)

You can’t help yourself, writhing and moaning, trying to ride his face with a desperation that has your chest heaving.  It feels so good to have him between your legs.  You almost miss the appearance of his other hand - in view for but a moment before it disappears past the waistband of his sweats.  Dark as they are, pitch black like most of his clothing, it’s impossible to miss the way he touches himself.  It has you even needier, pussy clenching at the thought of him fisting his own hard cock.

“Do you want a hand?”  You ask as if you’re doing him a favour and not salivating at the prospect, eyes wide, blinking down at him from behind thick lashes.  

“Fuck.”  He’s sin incarnate, undeniable when he sheds his sweats, kicks them off with just one hand, other still slotted snug against your pussy.  He never ceases his movements, fucking you on his fingers even as he sits upright, leaned back on his calves.  “You want a taste?  Shy girl wants a big fat cock in her mouth?”  

There's something about hearing him so turned on, the expletive shooting a dizzying bolt of desire straight between yours legs.  You’ve seen Jungkook worked up - he was awfully competitive, after all, dominating most intramural sports, breaking PR records in the gym - but it's something else completely when he's making you drip cum all over his hand.

"Wow.”

Jungkook's cock is pretty, flushed and glossy from the pre-cum he spreads with his thumb, massaging over the tip like it owes him something.  

You want to taste it.

A contented hum rolls off your tongue at his question, though you don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.  His ego's big enough without it and you’re much more interested in stroking something else.  Still, you lean into his palm, nuzzling your cheek against the warmth of it when he threads his hand through your hair, gathering it in his fist.

Then without looking away, your mouth falls open, tongue peeking past your lips to lick a fat stripe up the length of his cock, from base to tip.  It's hot and heavy on your tongue, the salty taste of his pre-cum better than candy.  You hum again, swirling your tongue around the head, and keep your gaze locked with Jungkook's, almost smirking when you drag your tongue over his fingers, gently grazing the edge of your teeth against the pad of his thumb. 

“Please.”  You’re usually far more reserved, not the kind to ask for more until you’re three months into dating and certain of where you stand.  You simply can’t help yourself now, the feeling of your own wetness painting your skin, making you clench around nothing.  "I need it."

The groan that comes sounds more like Christmas, a gift given by Santa Claus himself.  It filters into your ears and has you grinning up at him, not even bothering to hide the pride that flutters your lashes and has you pursing your lips around the head of his cock.  

When he speaks again, it’s dangerously quiet, low in his throat, laced with whatever same emotion that seems to shackle your limbs.  “Open up, ____,”  he instructs, though he offers little time to adjust, guiding his cock forward, stuffing your mouth full.  “Show me how bad.”

You don’t mind.  If you were to speak, it’d practically be a prayer, tongue tracing the veins that run the length.  A chorus of yes please more when he takes just as much as he gives.  You love the power that comes with Jungkook speaking so filthily, drunk on it when he continues, spewing filth in time with each rock of his hips.

Lips seal around the swollen head each time he withdraws, cheeks hollowing around the tip.  Tongue passes over his fingers again before your hand rises, fingers curling around his wrist to pull his own away.  (You probably shouldn't - it's too romantic - but thread your fingers through his in the same instant you sink down upon his cock, taking him halfway before pulling off with a pop!)

"Do you think you'll last long enough to fuck me?"  You’re pushing his buttons on purpose, just like he had yours during the movie. 

Something close to a snarl comes, a growl that reverberates out of that big cavernous chest of his, and he grips your hair tighter, tries to hold you still as he grins down at you.  The expression is so at odds with the warmth in his eyes, the boyish tilt of his head.

You repeat the motion again and again, taking him a little bit deeper until the head brushes the back of your throat, reflexively swallowing around the intrusion.  He's still so long and thick you haven’t even taken him all, drooling around his length, breathing through your nose and pushing past the desire to gag.  Then you relax your jaw just a little more, humming when your nose brushes the neatly groomed patch of hair at his base.

Your free hand slinks across his thigh, nails digging into the meat, delighted by the flex of muscle and sinew beneath your hand.  He's so hard, both on your tongue and beneath your touch.  It prompts you to shift forward just a bit more - you can feel the slick on your thighs, dripping down onto the sheets with each movement - and trace across his thigh to gently palm his balls.

If you could speak, you’d probably ask for more.  For Jungkook to use and abuse your throat as much as he wants.  As it stands, you can only moan around him, spit and his pre-cum smeared over your lips.

“Look at you.”  He’s talking to himself, lost in his own world as he fucks into your mouth, soothes the pad of his thumb over your cheek.  You adore the way he sounds now, dazed and a little messed up.  “Look so pretty with my cock in your mouth, ____.”

You can’t do much more than look up at him, batting your lashes when he compliments you, dragging your tongue everywhere you can reach as the head of his cock batters the back of your throat.  It's not an easy feat, drool all the way down your chin, trailing down your neck and staining the silk of your camisole.

At some point, you’ll need to pull off - get a proper breath of air - but not now.  Instead, you swallow around him, savouring the feeling of him filling your mouth, and squeeze gently at his balls.  When you wink up at him, it's half-hearted and with moisture in your eyes, lining lashes in the form of little gemstones.

You do it again and again, moaning lewdly around his cock before it gets too much, pulling off of him with a gasping breath and tears down your cheeks.  “Is it my turn yet?”  You’re only half-joking, made needier by the soreness in your throat, the same you want to feel so desperately between your legs.  Pressing a sweet, chaste peck to his head, tongue dipping into his slit to gather the pre-cum that leaks out, you offer the sweetest smile you can, saccharine sweet and soft.  

“Your turn?”  The way Jungkook snorts is derisive, playful.  It pulls straight off his tongue - which finds yours, swapping spit as he guides you back to the bed.  Teeth collide, lips grown swollen by the intensity of your kiss, and you startle when he nips hard at the bottom petal.  “I thought you were shy.”

“I am,”  you retort, returning the gesture, biting into the curve of his jaw with surprising repose.  Colour blooms beneath the edge of enamel, a smattering of colour that makes you smile, eager to leave more.

Which you would do, if Jungkook weren’t stripping before you, peeling his shirt from his front, tugging it over his head in that weirdly hot way that somehow all boys did.  It reveals skin in a single fluid pull, clothing discarded to the side before he levels you with a smile of his own, one that stirs to life the dimple in his cheek, eyes squinting with the intensity of his delight.  He looks deceptively sweet this way, nothing like the demon who’d just stuffed his cock down your throat.

You’re not sure which version of him you like best.

Seeing him now, dressed in nothing but that absurd, devilishly handsome grin of his, you’re not prepared.  You’re unsure where to look, gaze bouncing between the tattoos that crawl up his arms and span over his left pec, down the neatly defined ridges of his abs, and all the way back to his swollen, shiny cock.

“You’re drooling.”  Of course it’s something he’d say - because he always knows what to say, plucking perfect words from thin air.  The casual banter calms the rattle in your chest and refocuses it on his face that’s too close, looming over yours as his hands make quick work of your clothes, shedding the fabric from your form with deft, measured movements.

You’re ready to say something teasing - anything to distract from the fact that you’re still ogling him - when he catches you in another kiss, softer this time, infinitely sweeter.  Suddenly, you’re shy - which really makes no sense, given what’s transpired.

"Don't make fun of me,"  you mumble, as bashful as you were during the movie, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.  Arms rise to cover what little of your chest you can, folding around his broad palms that encompass them whole, tweaking at the straining buds.

“I’m not,”  Jungkook reassures against your lips, face dropping into the crook of your neck.  He nuzzles against you, sucking affection into the column of your throat, shamelessly laying a wreath of lust into the delicate skin.  You wonder whether he can hear the stutter of your pulse, the reaction his next words elicit.  “You’re pretty when you do it.”

You can’t quite pull your eyes away from his face, shrouded in lemon tart, so good-looking it’s unfair; his broad back and the muscle that threads it, undulating with each movement;  or the way his thighs flex between your spread knees.  You’re dragged through heaven and hell by the brush of his lips, each glide overstimulating your senses to the point of no return.  You’re still burning up, all the foreplay leaving your legs like jelly, cunt dripping with need.  "I bet you say that to all the girls."

Probably not the best thing to say with the position you’re in but the reality of the situation is hitting you and you’re feeling a little vulnerable.  Want an answer that’ll soften the sharp edges of his teeth, the intoxicating glint in his stare.

“No, just you.”  Whether it’s true or not, you can’t say for certain.  You hope it is - wish upon a star for it, laying all your hopes and dreams into the constellations in his eyes.  They’re lovely, winking down at you from the darkest depths, guiding you home.  

You don’t mean to scoff - really, you don’t.  It comes of its own accord, spilling forth like a glass too full.

“You don’t believe me?”  He sounds almost offended, the picture of innocence when he reaches down, hand scrambling about for pooled black fabric.  Comes back up with a packet between his index and middle finger, held aloft like a prize.  

How can you when he’s ready to devour you whole, primed to feast as he rolls the condom over his length, stroking himself once, twice, gaze never wavering from where it rests between your legs.

“Always prepared.”  It’s scathing but somehow tender, too mesmerised by the way he fucks into his loose fist.  You’d say more - maybe make a flippant comment about his reputation - but can’t find the words when he’s teasing you, swollen head tapping teasingly over your core.  It feels like too much, leaves you breathless when he hikes your legs up and nearly folds you in half. 

When he presses into you, the sound you make is sinful, a moan you can’t help.  Jungkook’s so fucking big you’re sure you’re about to split in half, pussy clenching tight around the sudden intrusion.  “Oh my god,”  you whine, hands coiling into his hair, trying desperately to relax, the sting of the stretch battling the pressure that builds as he sinks further in.  “You’re so big.  I c-can’t—”  You’re starting to babble nonsense and he hasn’t even begun moving yet, lips hot over the sweat-slick column of his throat when he bows, burning his presence into the grace of your neck.  A hickey of your own creation blooms right where your mouth is, right over his shoulder.  The salt of his skin distracts you, makes it easier to accommodate the fullness.  “You feel so good, Kook.”  You rock experimentally beneath him, clenching tight as if to draw him deeper.  “Please, move,”  you beg, aiming to form another bruise beneath his skin.

The first thrust chases all the breath from your lungs, a gasp ricocheting off your tongue and into the minimal space between you.  He's absurdly big, stretching you out so well that every stroke feels like heaven.  When he pushes back in, snaps his hips in that easy, effortless motion of his, you’re making the most obscene noises, words lost to his hair as he lavishes your tits with attention.

B-big! is all you manage to squeak out.  It sounds like that, anyway.  With how he's filling you, it's hard to speak coherently;  you can practically feel him in your throat.  (Or maybe that's just from choking on him earlier.  You’re not really sure.)

Hands find their way around his neck, over his shoulders, periwinkle-painted nails leaving light etchings in their wake.  They bloom colour over his back - not too hard, careful still, motor skills barely functioning - before you tangle your fingers in his hair, holding him recklessly close as the pressure builds and builds, flooding your abdomen in heat. 

There’s slick all across your thighs.  You can hear the wet sounds each time Jungkook slips almost all the way out and then rocks back in.  It's terribly messy and so hot but you’re greedy, drunk off the feeling of having this Adonis break you in half.  "Harder, p-please."  Eyes wide, you tug gently at the soft strands at the nape of his neck, meeting his with a flutter of your lashes.  "Please?"

He acquiesces without hesitation, fucks you harder, deeper, like an animal in a rut.  Grinds against you with each thrust, pushing you to your limits.  Even has the audacity to push further, until the strain in your hips conflicts with the pleasure skipping up your spine, melting you into a boneless mass.

You’ve never felt like this, stretched out and used.  You’re used to gentle lovers, sweet - if not boring - lovemaking.  The way Jungkook's pounding into you is unheard of and you’re loving it, his name whimpered on a feedback loop.  A steady Kook, Kook, Kook that twinkles in your ears, inarticulate and pleading as you rock shamelessly against him.

“You like that, ____?”  It’s a question for his own ego, something he knows but asks anyway.  (It’d be impossible not to know the answer when your cunt’s sucking him in, coating his cock in a pretty sheen.)

You’re nodding dumbly, breathless, eager to meet him each time he snaps forward.  (It’s not easy like this, practically prone beneath him, twisted into a pretzel.)  "Like it so m-much.  Feels so good.”  You can’t stop smoothing open mouthed kisses over his fluffy hair, basking in the sunshine that radiates off him. 

There's an ache starting between your legs, pussy swollen around his thick length.  You’re grateful for your natural flexibility, the hot yoga sessions you’d entertained on-and-off for years.  You’re sure you’d feel it in your legs too, knees pushed all the way up by your ears, if not for that.  

But still, you’re defenceless, made to experience each and every thing he has to offer:  every vein and ridge, the head of his cock reaching so deep it's almost too much.  With each stroke, Jungkook��s brushing against the sensitive spot that has pleasure skyrocketing, blossoming like a rose garden in spring.  "R-right there,"  you manage, rolling your hips purposefully, nearly crying each time he brushes against your g-spot.

“Right there?”  He parrots it back, infuriating and adorable, the teasing tenor dripping over you like raindrops.  They settle beneath your skin, sinking into your bones as he rears back just enough, enough to steal a kiss that’s far more tongue than it needs to be.  

It’s almost as if he’s trying to drown you, sink you beneath high tide.  

Spit descends down your chin, trails over your neck and it’s a little gross but you don’t care.  The attention he’s giving is shameless, passed over your cheeks, your throat, your breasts.  He gives and gives, both with his lips and the praise that comes unfettered.  “Perfect,”  he hums, sucking your nipple into his mouth, worrying the bud until it’s straining and puffy, too sensitive when he kisses you again and your own thigh brushes against it.  You whimper at the feeling, pulling softly at his hair, unsure whether you want less or need more.  “So sensitive.  Such a shy girl.  Such a pretty girl.”

Every word of praise has you beaming, nearly purring with delight despite the pain that comes when he puts you through the same once more, laving over the other bud with abandon.  He's sweat-slick, beads of it running down his neck, over the mosaic of bruises you’ve left behind.  It's almost embarrassing how dark his throat is coloured, a dozen reminders left all over his skin.

(You wonder how long they’ll last, how many days will pass as the colour shifts, changing like autumn leaves.  Whether they’ll still be there at your next lecture, if he’ll wear them with pride or cover up beneath one of his big baggy sweaters.)

(You hope it’s the latter.)

(Maybe he’ll let you give him more.)

(Maybe he—)

There’s a change of pace and you’re crying out, hiccupping with each thrust, the head of his cock finding your g-spot with unbearable, unrelenting precision.  Clawing at his arms, long nails digging into the firm muscle of his biceps, something between a sob and a plea rolls off your tongue, over and over.  "So big.  It's too m-much.”  And yet you don’t want him to stop, punch drunk from the way he reaches deep and pulls you tighter against him, hips risen off the bed. 

You’re begging again, eyes rolled so far back in your head you can hardly focus, the coil in your stomach pulled so tight you know it's about to snap.  When Jungkook laughs - a sweet giggle that proves his duality - you clench almost painfully, tears finally spilling over. 

One last brush against your most sensitive spot, one last thrust of that monster cock, and you’re peaking, coming so intensely you feel as if you’re soaring. Everything's suddenly so much more wet, release soaking into the linens beneath you, coating your thighs and his legs and dripping between you.

You’ve never come like this before, without some sort of direct stimulation on your clit.  It’s pleasurable in a different way, severing all your sensibilities, explosive in its magnitude.  It tingles beneath your skin, flooding all your senses. 

"Kook—please—come for me.”  You’re rocking up, forward - trying to, at least, folded as you are - singing his name, pleading for him to fuck his cum into you (momentarily ignorant to the fact that you’ve been responsible, a thin wall of latex separating you from your fucked out fantasy).  

Despite the sensitivity, you’re clenching around him, eager to bring him to his own high.  You want to feel him come apart above you, eroded into a mess like you are.

He’s just as pretty reaching his peak as he is at any other time, handsome face screwed up as if he’s reached nirvana, bliss slacking his features the longer he rides it out, bucking into you as he fills the condom and still doesn’t stop.  It’s almost unbearable, oversensitivity spilling into pleasure until he leisurely grinds to a halt, stops the inconsistent pressure against your bundle of nerves, the assault on your fluttering walls.

When he collapses against you, whole face squished between the valley of your breasts, you can’t help but laugh, the sound breathless and endeared.  “Are you okay?”  You don’t mind where he is, weight comforting, skin sticky on yours.  He’s unbelievably warm - a blanket fresh from the wash and yet so much better, lulling you into a sense of security.

“Better than okay,”  he murmurs against your chest, smothering open-mouthed kisses over skin, snickering when you jolt at the feel of his teeth over your nipple one last time.  “You’re welcome.”  It’s an indulgent, facetious expression of gratitude, one that you haven’t asked for.  You laugh all the same, ducking your head into the crown of spun gold atop his head.  

“You too.”

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @codeinebelle​

[yan-twst]

Hello! May I request hc for the dorm leaders finding out that their female crush is only attracted to girls(female mc as a lesbian I stan-)? If you don't feel comfortable writing this then feel free to delete! I hope this was intresting ;-;

hell yeah lesbians rise up!!!! i included some of my own headcanons of how gay and lesbian stuff is in twst because i think it’s nice to have that there!

riddle rosehearts

riddle is immediately mortified- not because it turns out his crush is a lesbian, but because he’s now horrified all his “courting” may have come off as a bother or inappropriate. he’ll go beet red and apologize for that. he- he didn’t know! he didn’t mean to impose himself- argh!

is he heartbroken? a little. but he’s more worried that he may have come off as pushy. the queen of hearts may have been overbearing, but she never went out of her way to specifically bother anyone, and riddle feels the same way. he really really wants to make it clear he didn’t mean to bother her oh god-

once he calms down a bit, he’ll just, kinda... compose himself and apologize once more. if he had known, he’d probably not have made any advances (even though his “flirting” was more along the lines of inviting to unbirthday parties and sharing trey’s baking. it was nothing too invasive- hell, riddle’s crush wasn’t even aware he was flirting with her)

riddle will also bashfully ask if... well, even if he has no chance with her, he hopes that they can still remain friends. romantic or platonic feelings, he still really gets along with her- hell, everyone’s grown used to having her at the unbirthday parties, and trey already bakes extra for her every time.

he’ll take the title of being her friend with pride. riddle will quickly swallow down his heartbreak: this is something that has to be this way, and the fact that she likes girls simply means he’ll just be the best guy friend she possibly can have

leona kingscholar

leona ��woman respecter” kingscholar takes the information well. he just kinda goes ‘oh’, nods, and takes a nap.

welp, there’s nothing to be done, so why get all sad and mopey? if the little herbivore likes girls, more power to her. welp, women are pretty and powerful. he understands why they like women. makes sense

leona is a bit sad, sure, but it’s only natural. he doesn’t dwell on it for long, though. if something can’t be changed, there’s no sense in thinking it over and over: he’s a man and his crush likes women, so that’s the end of that

despite it being so clear cut for him, he will take some time to talk everything out with her. he wants to make it clear: he was pursuing her romantically before, and he won’t anymore. he didn’t know she was a lesbian before, and now he knows

still, leona’s got a soft spot for the little herbivore. even though he might not be pursuing her anymore, it doesn’t change the fact he still feels like he’s gotta watch over her and help her. 

he’s just gonna be his usual grumpy self, really. he’ll still invite her over to practice magift, he’ll still tease them and call them “herbivore”. is he still in love? leona won’t ever mention it, really. does it matter? she’s his friend now, even if he calls her “annoying herbivore” whenever she wakes him up, and that’s pretty much all he could ask for

azul ashengrotto

fun fact did you know octopi have been seen displaying homosexual behaviours out in nature

which is to say, this isn’t anything new to azul. same-sex relationships are more common in his home than what he’s seen in the surface, but it’s not like lesbians are a new concept to him

oh don’t get it wrong he does cry when his darling tells him she’s not into men. he cries and then he lets her hug him until he stops. he then proceeds to be so mortified over it all he wishes he could go hide in his octopus pot

after apologizing for... that ordeal, azul will return to his usual composed self. it’s almost hard to tell he was a sniffling mess just a few minutes before if it weren’t for his puffy eyes

he composes himself quickly because, well... when he pictured himself getting turned down, it was always painful- old insecurities flaring, being told he wasn’t enough- but this was... not painful? it’s not as if he wasn’t good enough or something. his crush was just a lesbian! it’s not his fault, so it’s hard for him to feel sad over it

azul might even feel a bit bad for her. she’s... stuck in this all boy’s school, huh? the only girls here are probably the fae that control the weather... and the talking portraits...?

even though there’s really no girls for her to talk to, azul will still take on a protective attitude over her, giving the “if any girl breaks your heart tell me and the twins and we will avenge you” talk. azul doesn’t know why any girl would hurt her heart, because in his eyes she’s precious, but hey, he’s gotta protect his friend, right?

kalim al-asim

“wait you like women? oh me too!”

kalim takes it... so well. like, almost shockingly well? it’s like he processed the information in record speed, sorted out his own feelings immediately, and made peace with it all in a matter of seconds

kalim has many sisters around his age. one in ten people are gay. what i am getting at is kalim has lesbian sisters and so this revelation that his crush is lesbian doesn’t shake his world too much

he’ll admit it stings a little- love is a powerful thing, after all! but he thinks people who pursue others who are clearly not interested are scummy, and he’d never do anything like that

in his mind, it’s an easy ordeal. he trusts and likes her. she sees him as a close friend, and that’s the most he can be. so really, he should just be happy he’s as close to her as can be! he’s already at the top rung of being close to her, so he’s hit the goal, right?

kalim, god bless his heart, is that friend who will present his lesbian friends to any other lesbian friend he has. he has good intentions, but it might get a little tiring? and a bit overwhelming too when he brings up that he has sisters right around his age who are also into girls and suddenly he’s making plans for a big mixer party and oh god jamil please help and put a stop to this before it gets out of control please help he’s already planning a menu-

vil schoenheit

ooooh so she’s a lesbian ooooooh ok that makes sense. that makes sense. 

vil is like “oh! of course my incredible efforts into my appearance and into our friendship and in wooing her weren’t working. she is just not into men”

he’s almost surprised at how getting turned down like this just... didn’t bruise his ego at all. his efforts weren’t useless, he wasn’t doing things wrong, it simply couldn’t work! honestly, vil would have been more hurt if he’d put all this effort and his crush had been straight and still turned him down

hmm, so she’s into girls... then being here, in an academy full of men (who are, in vil’s opinion, horribly unrefined and ungraceful) must be rough.

just because he’s no longer trying to pursue a relationship with her does not mean that he’ll stop inviting her over for skincare or for trying on clothes. absolutely not. the fact vil even was attracted to her in the first place is because he saw her as someone with potential and that has not changed

he will immediately position himself as a big brother / best friend. just because he’s her friend doesn’t mean he’s gonna let her slack, though! he’s still gonna be checking she follows the skincare routine he set up for her, and that she’s eating and sleeping well- as much as he says it’s because he “wants to make her potential shine” or whatever, it’s just... overwhelmingly clear he just cares about her as a friend

idia shroud

out of all the ways he imagined getting turned down this has to be the one that he had NOT pictured and at the same time, it’s kinda the best one? crush was a lesbian so it wouldn’t work out, 10/10 turn down, didn’t make him go into a self deprecating vortex

once again, it’s the age old relief of “yes, i got turned down by my crush, but it wasn’t my fault, because it turned out she was a lesbian”. idia had ran so many scenarios of being turned down, of his crush being disgusted at him, that it all being resolved into her not liking men at all is... almost relieving?

and you know what. he gets it. when he sees his figurines and posters of his favourite idols and anime girls it’s like well duh of course she likes girls because girls are cute? 

he’s gonna have her rate his waifu tierlist. what? it’s not- it’s not weird, is it?! he’s just trying to bond, and- urgh, he kinda wants to know what her opinion on his waifus is. because his waifus are cute girls and she likes girls so ?? it makes sense? right? (idia might cry if she says his waifus aren’t That Good)

this whole ordeal might also result in the almost hilarious scenario in which ortho just straight up goes “Hey niichan, what is a lesbian?”

learning that his closest friend likes girls opens pandora’s box, the box being idia making his friend review every anime girl and gacha or visual novel girl that HE likes

malleus draconia

did you know reptiles are also quite gay? there’s even a species of lizard that’s just, entirely female. dragons are reptiles.

malleus, bless his heart, is not good at reading people. his crush will need to be Direct. trying to use metaphors like “I swing the other way”, or “I play for the other team” do nothing but further confuse him- when his crush finally cracks down and just goes “what I’m trying to say is I’m a lesbian” he finally, finally, understands what this is all about

malleus just... nods in understanding

he feels a little sad- it does sting, a bit, to know things can’t work out, but he’s also... happy. if she told him, that means she trusts him, right? 

malleus is happy enough to just have A Friend in general, even if he’d never admit he’s usually lonely. most people tend to run from him or be so intimidated they shiver when they hear his name. and yet, against all odds, he’s found a friend who likes being by his side, someone who didn’t know all the baggage that comes with his name. he’d be a fool to tear down that friendship just because he’s learnt it’ll stay platonic

also, as mentioned before, it’s not like homosexuality is some sort of taboo or odd subject. it’s actually quite common amongst the fae, especially those in Malleus’ kingdom. although he does say he can’t introduce her to any cute fae girls. he.... is not friends with any. (he just doesn’t have a lot of friends in general, but he refuses to say that because he... doesn’t want to sound “mopey”, lile lilia says he is)

[northcarolinanative]

𝐈𝐟 𝐈𝐭 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮 - Boxer!JJ

Requested by anon: Can you write about boxer!JJ, with or without the outer banks’ plot. JJ enjoys boxing and you can’t go to matches because they scare you. But you always prepare with him before and he always comes to see you after. One night something happens and they confess their feelings whatever you want haha I just thought it would be a cool idea (:

Description: After the disappearance of their best friends the pogues all search for different ways to cope. Some working too hard, some fighting, some just blocking it all out. JJ puts himself in danger too often for Y/N’s liking. She finds him an alternative, but in typical JJ fashion he moves too much too fast and gets out in a tricky situation. 

A/N: This is so different from what I normally write. I got a bit carried away per usual:) I chose to put it in the OBX plot, this is all after 1x10 because we all know that I am a sucker for that at this point let's be honest. I tried to do my research but the more I read the more confused I got so I am sorry if it is inaccurate. I have ZERO experience with boxing and stuff. As I said this is so different for me so ANY feedback would be FANTASTIC!! MY asks/requests/messages are always open! ALSO, italics are flashbacks. // TW: This talks about character death, panic/anxiety, abuse, and violence.// 

*pic courtesy of pinterest*  

After the disappearance of John B and Sarah, each of the pogues had their own unique way of dealing with the major loss. The unknown ate them from the inside out until it was turned to grief, washing over them the moment the pair was presumed dead. Over the next few days, they went into denial, finally understanding why John B had been so desperate to hold onto clues about his father when the group had thought that he was grasping at straws. They understood why John B led them on the hunt for the gold because he thought it would lead to his dad. They understood because now they too would follow any lead, risk anything, or go anywhere to find John B and Sarah. 

Each of the Pogues were dealing with their feelings in its respective way. Pope was trying his hardest to prove to his parents that he had not messed up his chance to get off the Island. He applied for every academic scholarship on the east coast. Pope was scared. Kie, while the two of us helped Pope when we could, worked countless hours at the Wreck. After running from her parents and being brought into question with the police she was in hot water with her parents. She allowed herself to stay focused on her work and earn back the trust and respect of her parents so that when the time came that John B and Sarah needed them, we could help. Kie was hopeful. JJ was starting fights with everyone that looked at him wrong. He threw punch after punch at the one boneyard party that we tried to attend in an attempt to make things feel normal. He kept going home and picking fights with his dad, he said that he deserved the torment for letting John B get on that boat. JJ blamed himself for pushing John B to his death. JJ was Angry. I let myself get swept up in my art, going to the docks, or sitting in the dunes, drawing. This where the other Pogues found me when I was not working my shift at the Wreck. When I sat down to create I let my thoughts go and wander to whatever I needed to try and process. This was the only time I let myself think about the things that happened between the pogues, or what was ahead for us. I let myself think about both the options, whether they were dead or they were alive somewhere. Outside of that, I shut it off and tried to help the other pogues, as much as I could, to get back to something normal. I was numb. 

Kie and Pope had a lot to figure out between the two of them. It took them a while to actually begin to talk about what was going on between the two of them since they kept defecting. That left JJ and I alone rather often. Not that I was complaining. The two of us had never been super close when it came to the group. I was always Kie’s best friend first, pogue second, until now. The disappearance had brought all of us closer. Though I appreciated the closeness with JJ, I was worried about him. He showed up on my doorstep night after night bruised and broken. More often than not it was a fight with some rando that has looked at him on the side of the road. JJ didn’t care who felt his wrath anymore, he would fight anyone, kooks, and pogues alike. The worst nights were those that he came back from his house. Those nights were always the worst because the injuries on his body and the way that his soul sat shattered in front of me told me that he didn’t fight back. 

JJ was sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes not daring to look up at me. His face covered in red splotches and bruised from the other fights he had gotten in over the week. Tonight was different though. Normally JJ talked about the way that he handed the Kook a can of whoop-ass or the guy had it coming and that he had ‘totally won’ the fight. Every other night he would boast saying “Y/N, don’t worry about me! You should see the other guy.” He would try to soothe my nerves, but tonight there didn’t seem to be another guy. Just JJ fighting himself, the thoughts raging war in his head, making him beat himself up. 

I moved to sit beside him. Finally deciding to break the rooms heavy silence. “JJ, did you go home again?” 

His breath caught in his throat as he slowly nodded his head. I saw his jaw clenched as he fought back the urge to let tears fall down his face. He rested his head in his open palms. I wrapped one of my arms loosely around the boy before laying my head on his shoulder. “Why do you go home JJ? Every time you come back you end up so broken?” 

“It’s just a few bruises and split lips Y/N, nothing I’m not used to.” He said shaking his head. 

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” I spoke. I moved my hand so that I could rub his back. I moved softly up and down his spine, trying to comfort the broken boy in front of me. 

“I deserve everything he says to me.” He started, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Every time

 I go I know he’s ready for a fight.” 

I took a moment to collect my thoughts. I took a deep breath before speaking. “JJ, getting into fights with your dad like that, the things he says to you.” I paused, looking over his face, trying to figure out what was going through his mind. “You know that they aren’t true right? He’s saying those things to hurt you?” 

“I know that, but deep down I’m so scared that everyone else sees what he sees.” He signed leaning back and falling onto the bed. “I’m just so angry. I am angry at the system for screwing up so bad that they ran JB away.” My breath caught in my throat as he began his rant. “I am mad that we couldn’t do anything to help him after his dad left. I’m mad that we lost him and have no way to contact him or even know if he’s alive!’ He stood up beginning to pace, and raising his voice. “I’m mad that I pushed him on that boat to sail straight to his death Y/N!” 

I stood up on my feet, moving so that I can be in his direct line of vision. “Hey!” I called to him, even though he was right in front of me, he felt a thousand miles away. “You did not push John B to do anything that he would not have done on his own! You have got to stop blaming yourself for all the unfortunate events that lead to John B’s disappearance. This on Ward Cameron and you know it!” I said pointing at him. He locked his eyes with mine for a moment. 

He ripped his glance from mine, his jaw still clenched and nostrils flaring as he tried to even out his breathing. It took a few moments and several paces across the length of my room, but he seemed to calm down. “I’m-” He started, looking around the room and taking a deep breath before continuing. “I’m just so angry. All the time.” He confessed. “I’m honestly scared, it’s like all I can think about is how pissed off I am and the smallest things just add on top of it until I explode for what seems like no reason.” He stopped rubbing his hands over his face. “I just don’t know how to channel it, make it die down.” He confessed, moving to join me back at the end of my bed. 

“You know, whenever my brother is upset he goes to the gym-” I started 

“You are not seriously telling me to work out right now, are you?” He huffed rolling his eyes.

  “Let me finish.” I scolded him before continuing. “He’s a boxer, the have matches and fight, but it is in a safe environment. One where you can let your anger out with out going home or exploding on some rando on the side of the street.” I said. I laughed awkwardly, trying to fill the silence as I gauged his reaction. 

“You really think that would help?” He said, the softness in his eyes returning. 

“It helped my brother” 

It had become routine over the past few weeks that JJ came to my house so that I could help him prepare for whatever match he had lined up for that night. When he first started all the Pogues were supportive of JJ’s new interest, but after the first match, Kie and I decided that we would support him from afar. Neither of us could stomach the blows that JJ took in his first fight. I was happy that he was able to find a more acceptable outlet for his anger, it was still just as painful to clean JJ up after, or to hear from Pope about the hits that JJ landed or had taken. Pope always attended, Kie and I chalked it up to him being a boy and into that stuff, but we both know that he watched because he wanted to be there in case something went wrong. 

Tonight was one of JJ’s biggest matches. He had been talking about it for weeks. The guy was from the mainland and was supposed to drag in a huge audience with him. He was being scouted as a professional, bordering on going pro. That bothered me because it had only been a short time since JJ had started boxing. While he had grown up his entire life fighting, boxing against people like this was much different than landing a few punches on Topper. 

JJ was sitting on my kitchen table, I was right in front of him with his left hand in my own. I wrapped the sticky red tape around his hands, knuckles, and wrists. I pulled it tighter after each pass around his hand. “Please be careful tonight. These guys got a really good record.” I spoke softly, but the concern coating my voice was evident. 

“I think I’ve got it though Y/N!” He said, happiness coating his voice. I just shook my head and switched his hands, beginning to wrap the right one. I was weary when JJ first mentioned the idea of the match, and still am, because the guy was well known and it just did not make sense that he wanted to come down to the OBX to fight a Newby. Things didn’t add up. Of course, none of us dared to tell JJ, because he was so happy, and he finally seemed to be getting back normal, no one wanted to set him off. 

I finished wrapping his hands and handed him his gym shorts. I had got him some with his name on the waistband for his birthday the week before. While I couldn’t stomach to sit through the fights and watch them, I wanted him to know that I was supportive of him finding a healthy outlet for his feelings and grief. I had washed the shorts for him so that they would be fresh for him. 

“All done.” I smiled, handing them to him. He took them into his newly wrapped hands. “So you look all spiffy when you win the fight tonight.” 

“Spiffy?” He questioned causing us both to laugh. He reached forward pulling me into a hug. Whenever I touched JJ I melted into the warmth that his body gave off. He smelled like pine, I assumed it was from his deodorant, but it captivated me every time. He let me go after squeezing me tighter. “Thanks for, you know.” He said scratching the back of his neck. “Helping me with all of this. I wouldn’t even be doing this if it weren’t for you.” He said with a smile. 

“Stop being so sappy Maybank!” I said and I turned him to the door. I put my hands on his broad shoulder pushing him softly towards the door. “Now go! You don’t want to be late.” He made his way to the door opening it and standing for a second to look back and smile. 

“I’ll see you after right?” He questioned, the hope in his eyes was hard to miss. 

“Wouldn’t want anyone else cleaning you up would we?” I joked, before answering him. “Yes I will, just make sure Pope tells me when you're finishing up and I’ll head that way to pick you up okay?” As I finished the car horn outside honked. It seemed to reverberate off the walls. “Now go! You know how Kie gets when you're running late!” I shooed him out the door. I stood watching them back out of the driveway as I waved to Kie and Pope in the car. 

I walked to the TV, flipping it onto a random TV show before grabbing my sketchbook and settling into the couch. I had been working on a piece of a deer skull and a floral pattern. I was using ink to draw it. I got lost in stippling the dots on the paged, shading in the sides of the skull, and forming the cracked texture of the bone. I barely noticed the buzzing that came from my phone beside me. When I looked up the sun was setting, almost disappearing behind the horizon. The name flashed across my phone and sent me into an immediate panic. “Popey” was read across the screen, my stomach dropping when I set my eyes on the time. It was way too soon for the fight to be over. I quickly slide my finger across the bottom of the screen, seeing it click open. 

I held the phone to my ear, “Hello, Pope? What’s wrong?” I could hear the panic in my voice. My body was moving so fast as I swiped my keys across the counter with a screech, and started through the garage to my car. 

“Y/N.” I hear him say on my way out the door. There was pause filled with chants and yelling in the background, signaling that the fight was still happening. “Things don’t look good, Kie’s on her way, but JJ needs you to be here when he gets out.” I was nodding my head, but Pope couldn’t see me. “If he gets out.” My breath stopped in my throat, making me choke slightly on my own air. “ Y/N it’s bad, I don’t know why they won’t call the fight.” 

I let out a shaky breath as I pulled myself into the driver seat of my car, slamming the door behind me with a thud. “I’ll be there as fast as I can Pope, Promise.” 

“Hurry!” was all he said before the line went static. I pulled the phone down slowly, looking at it. JJ was really hurt. It was my fault, I wanted him to do this professionally. I snapped myself out of my guilty haze, picking my keys up from my lap with my shaking hands. I struggled to get the key into the ignition, before turning it to start it up. I turned out of the driveway as quickly as my mind would let me, leaving a cloud of dust behind me as pulled from the driveway. 

I tapped the steering wheel with my thumb, my eyes flicking between the road and the number growing on the speedometer. The words of JJ and I’s conversation from just hours before replaying over and over in my head. “I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you.” Over and over again. I felt a warmth fall down my cheek. I touched my hand to my cheek only to find the warm wetness of tears falling from my eyes. I was shocked at the reaction that this event had on me. I felt like I was back to the night that we watched John B drive off on that boat. I felt that same sense of panic wash over me. What if this was it? “I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you.” JJ was a fighter, literally, no matter what punches were thrown at him, he was always able to fight back. Part of me wanted to think rationally that Pope was overreacting and when I got there JJ might have a concussion and a bruised ego. “I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you.” If it was that bad why had they not stopped the fight, right? Pope had to be overreacting, it was Pope. He likes to be careful. 

My fingers kept tapping a quick pace on the back of the I kept telling myself that over and over in my head. I was driving but everything around me was a blur. I was glad that I had the roads of the cut memorized so that I could get there in my haze of worry. “I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you.” I know what he meant by this, he meant that I had helped him, but I just didn’t feel helpful at that moment. I was the reason that he was fighting and trained a skillful fighter. This guy hardly ever lost a fight, but none of us wanted JJ’s improvement with his anger to stop, so we let him continue. 

I hit the pothole in the gyms driveway, jolting me out of my thoughts. I fell back into the seat from the rough jump and dirt that was kicked up around me once again. I pulled into a spot at a dangerous speed. I practically threw the car in park and yanked my keys from the ignition. The sun seemed to paint the air around us a beautiful shade of orange, but my worry made me look past the beautiful sunset that was illustrated in the sky. Instead I approached the gym. I hadn’t stepped foot in for months now. The one that was seemingly making my worst fears come to life. 

I scanned the parking lot looking for Kie. When our eyes met, I started making my way toward her. I broke into a jog, but quickly came to a halt, when I looked behind her. The red and white lights behind her become blinding. I stuttered stepped, coming face to face with her, but I could not look at her face. I was focused on the broken boy that was laid in front of me on a gurney. The blood on his face made him almost unrecognizable. I clenched my teeth so hard that I hurt. Pope was by his side, struggling to keep up with the boy on the gurney. Pope’s worried eyes met with mine that barely held back the tears. He said something that I couldn’t make out before pointing to us. I followed my eyes down to JJ, who’s eyes I met. Even from this distance, I could see the spark still in them. I felt my stomach drop and a wave of nausea hit me. I felt myself physically fall back and feel weak. He weekly raised his hand to wave at me weakly before they began wheeling him into the emergency vehicle. “I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you.”  My arm felt like my shaking hand to wave at him, The barrier broke and the warm tears fell down my face. I felt the sob make it way up my throat, catching Kie’s attention once again. Her expression was a little shocked at my reaction but wrapped an arm around me pulling me into her. I glanced over to see her worried expression as she watched Pope.

Pope quickly made his way over to us after talking briefly with the medics. As soon as he was turned away from JJ, his expression turned to anger. Kie and I looked at each other, both silently questioning the boy’s actions. He got to us, visibly angry, his breath was heavy as he started walking back and forth. He threw his hat on the ground and ran a hand across his head in distress. 

“What happened there?” Kie said being the first to break the tension. 

“We shouldn’t have let him fight that guy!” He said, raising his voice making me visibly flinch. “There’s a reason that he always wins! He knocked JJ out in the 7th round!” He spoke looking me straight in the eye. I felt two inches tall and wanted nothing more than to disappear in that moment. 

“I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you.” 

“I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you.” 

I stepped back, it felt the air had been knocked out of my lungs. I heard the conversation that Pope and Kie continued to have, but they still felt miles away. I tried to listen and regain the ability to breathe. 

“He had plaster in his gloves” Pope spoke loudly, as people walking outta the gym snickered, only making Pope’s anger grow. I snapped my head up at the tall boy, before looking at Kie, whose face held a confused expression. I knitted my eyebrows looking at Pope who just nodded, silently reinforcing his last statement. 

“They caught on, but I’m gonna go back to talk to the fight manager, but y’all should go and meet him at the hospital.” He said, looking between me and Kiara. 

Kie was quick to act, while I felt like I was still frozen in place. “Here,” she said, holding her keys out to Pope. “I’ll ride with Y/N and you can meet us there after you talk to whoever you need to?” She questioned, but she had alright dropped the keys in his hand. Pope nodded at the two of us before turning back to the gym. 

I looked at Kie just as she placed her shaking hand on my wrist pulling me to the car. “Are you okay to drive? I mean do you think-” He started to mumble on. 

“Yea, yea. I can. I think I got it.” I said send her a tight lipped smile. I could tell in her eyes that she knew neither of us believed me. Nonetheless, we both got into the car and made our way to a small emergency hospital on the Island, both of us praying that they had enough space for JJ. The entire car ride was filled with silent, sad, tension. The two of us stuck in our own thoughts, filled with worries about JJ’s health. Kie was the first to break the car’s heart-wrenching tension. 

“What did Pope mean, when he said that he had plaster in his gloves?” Kie asked. She hadn’t been privy to the boxing world, much like me. My brother had told me that it was illegal. He knew a kid that got kicked out of his gym for doing it and had told me about it. 

“It’s when boxer’s wrap plaster in their wraps and gloves and stuff.” I started, I stuttered over my words a bit, because I was unsure of what I was talking about. “As they sweat it makes the plaster harden or something,” I said shaking my head. The image of JJ getting hit over and over without a chance to fight back made me push the accelerator down and speed up on the long stretch to the hospital. “It essentially makes their hands like stone,” I said recalling the words my brother had used to tell me. 

Kiara looked over at me with wide eyes. “That’s seriously fucked up!” She exclaimed. She let out a deep sign before falling back into the passenger seat. The rest of the ride remained silent, except for the news that was faintly being spoken from the radio. 

When we pulled up to the hospital, it was all a blur from there. Kie could tell that I was worried and in a state of panic. She seemed to be rather calm about the situation, because of this she took the lead on speaking to the front desk. They pointed us to a waiting room saying that the doctor would come out after they examined him. 

We sat in the cold metal chair in the waiting room. I tried to blame my shaking on the chill air that seemed to always be contained in hospitals, but I knew it was nerves. Kie placed her hand on my bouncing leg to stop it before looking up at me. 

“Hey, It’s JJ.” She said moving to hold my hand in hers, giving me a soft smile. “He’s got the survival instincts of a cockroach, alright?” 

I laughed slightly at her joke, looking up to her with a hopeful smile on her face. “You’re oddly calm.” I stated, looking over her relaxed figure, slightly laid back in the chair, her hand resting still on the chair handle, the other firmly grasped in mine. 

“Eh, like it said, JJ’s gonna be fine.” She smiled. She leaned forward a bit, resting her weight on the armrest that sat between us. “I am more interested in what is going on inside your head?” She said nudging me with her shoulders. 

I took a deep breath, my eyes lining with tears once again. “Over the last few months JJ and I have gotten so close, and after everything with John B and Sarah I just-” I was cut off by a sob, which came out more like a cough. Kie was quick to move her hand to my back, rubbing small, comforting circles on my back. “I am scared to lose him too.” I said quietly, tears falling still, but at a much less rapid pace. Kiara pulled me into a tight hug. I took a deep breath, letting the scent of her coconut shampoo ground me. I closed my arms around her tightly before we split. Kie pushed a piece of hair out of my face softly. 

“You’ve got it bad.” She said with a soft chuckle. I looked at her knitting my eyebrows together in confusion causing her to laugh. “You and JJ are so blindly in love with each other that neither of you can see it.” She spoke. Suddenly, things started to make a lot of sense. The way that my stomach dropped whenever JJ was getting into a fight or how I wanted to end Luke Maybank for the things that he did to his son. The most important thing that I had become accustomed to was the way that my stomach erupted in butterflies every time we were close to each other, the way my skin broke into goosebumps when we bumped into each other, or the way that I smiled every time he cracked a joke or showed up at work. I played with my fingers letting a smile spread across my face.I looked up at Kie sheepishly. 

“I told you.” She smiled at me, causing me to roll my eyes at her. 

We were taken from the serenity of our moment by the doctor calling for those that were here with ‘Maybank.” She informed us that JJ took a lot of hard hits but managed to leave fairly unscathed from such a brutal fight. She let us know that JJ had had a lot of minor injuries, a broken lower rib, and that he passed out due to a pretty serious concussion. It took Kie and I a moment to soak in the abundance of information. “With his current state, we think it would be best if you all went in one at a time.” The doctor spoke, looking between you and Kie. 

Kie pushed my shoulder lightly. “I’ll wait here for Pope and fill him in. “She said, a cheesy smile plastering her face. “Go get your man,” She joked causing me to roll my eyes before following the doctor back through the long hallway. The fluorescent lighting made the hallway look and feel more daunting than it should have. The doctor stopped in front of the room letting me know that he was inside. 

I smiled and nodded at her. I took a deep breath before preparing myself to enter. I walked through the doorway to see JJ playing with the IV cable that was hooked up to his arm. I was wrapped and tangled around the opposite hand. I laughed involuntarily at the blonde boys antics. He looked up at me, smiling when he realized that it was me. I felt a tsunami of relief wash over me, just seeing that, while he wasn’t completely unharmed, that he was going to be okay. 

“There you are, come here!” He said patting the bed beside his legs. I walked into the room slowly, making my way to his bedside. I sat down and turned to look at his bright, smiling face. He scanned over my face, his smile quickly fading. “Wait, are you crying? “ He asked, reaching up to wipe the stale tears from my face. 

“Yes JJ,” I said laughing at the boy's oblivious nature. “You looked terrible when they took you out on that gurney at the gym,” I said looking down at the crinkled white bed sheet in front of the two of us. “You scared me. I can’t lose you too.” I said quietly. 

JJ hand came up once again cupping the side of my face, pushing me to look at me. “Hey now. You know better than anyone that it's gonna take more than some cheating ring rat to take me out.” Both of us laughed at the statement. I met his bright blue eyes, and instantly felt drawn in. 

I didn’t think much about it before I did it. I leaned forward and pressed my lips into JJ's. The kiss started off still and innocent. JJ’s hand moved from my face to the back of my head pulling me in closer. I moved my hands to his shoulders, placing them softly trying not to hurt him. The kiss was passionate and heated, our lips molding together, allowing us to melt into one another. I felt light headed just from the kiss itself. I could feel JJ’s emotion poured into the way that he kissed me back and the way that his hands caressed my sides and the way that he held me close to him. 

We were interrupted by the loud beeping of the monitor beside him. I pulled away looking at the machine that ruined the moment. The warning flashing “High Heart Rate”. I looked at JJ and saw the same warning causing us to laugh slightly. 

“What was that about?” JJ asked, a blush creeping up his cheeks. 

“After John B and Sarah I thought I would have learned that time is finite, but I guess it took you, at least in my mind, almost dying for me to realize that I should just say something,” I said, laughing nervously. “Oh and Kie made me realize just how in love with you I am” I spoke rolling my eyes before realizing what I said. I felt my face heat up, as I looked over at JJ with wide eyes trying to gauge his reaction. 

JJ grabbed my hand. Struggling slightly because of the awkward tangled IV that was stuck in the back of his hand. He huffed as he tugged at it trying to pull it out of the way. His hand was wrapped around mine when he started speaking. “You know, I’m glad she did because I’ve been in love with you all summer.”

Masterlist

Tagging b/c I asked:) @tomfreakinghollandneedsaoscar​ @write-from-the-heart​ @jjmaybanksbaby​ @kikifromtheblock​

[serendipitywrites]

Deceptions and Daisies (3)

sorry this took forever. my boyfriend and I are currently packing to move out of state at the end of this month. I hope a longer update makes up for it ♥

words 2,137 this chapter is pure angst. (more smut and semi fluff soon). 

chapters (one, two)  and if anyone is curious, this is Yunhos’ choreo song. ♥

After leaving Wooyoungs apartment that night, you woke up later to find several messages waiting for you. The sad part was that most of them were from San, since he had woken up early to see you gone he couldn’t help but panic. After reassuring him that you were fine you opened up your messages from Wooyoung.

Woo ♥ Where did you go?

Then another message from a few minutes ago

Woo ♥ Never mind, San said you’re home. I’ll call you later 😘

God. why did these messages feel so fake? Then again, at this point, your entire relationship felt fake. You didn’t feel like replying to his messages, not that he’d even reply anyway, but you truly don’t have the energy right now. 

Even if you were able to get a short amount of sleep after coming home, it wasn’t by any means good sleep. 

You decided since you were home, you might as well try and be a proper adult and pick up your apartment before your shift at work, and also feed clementine, your goldfish. You aren’t home enough for an animal that needed more attention, but you were perfectly happy with Clem. she makes your apartment feel more like home. Wooyoung would always tease you for referring to your goldfish as your baby, but he’d always be the first one to feed her when he was over and coo at how quickly she ate with pure excitement. Come to think of it, some of your best memories are just being here with Wooyoung. He had also made your apartment feel like home. It’s such a little and almost dumb thing but it all added up to one of the many reasons why you love him. If only loving him just didn’t feel so bittersweet at the moment. 

After a few hours of attempting to ‘adult’, you dab on some tinted chapstick and put your hair up in a messy bun (which hair spray could not even save) and start heading to work. you chose to walk since it’s only a short fifteen-minutes away. The scenery always made the trip feel so quick, anyways. Walking along the river always feels so serene and comforting and that’s the kind of positivity you need in your life right now.

Your shift at the café has been pretty standard so far. Not too busy, but not too quiet. it‘s only a four-hour shift anyways, and the extra money is nice.  You have a little less than an hour left when you see two familiar faces walk-in. 

San and Yunho both spot you and wave with a smile, Yunho gives you his toothy smile and reaches over Sans’ shoulder to wave at you, San just nudges him off and waves again sheepishly. You grin at them, watching as they choose a table to sit at. 

After serving a few more customers, San is next in line. he looks almost nervous, or shy? He fiddles with his hands for a few seconds.  You shake the thought, it’s San. he’s clearly not shy. This is the same man who flexes in the mirror and brags about it.

‘Is your shift almost over?’ he asks. ‘Yeah, just a half-hour left.’ you reply hurriedly and distractedly while taking his coffee and muffin order.  ‘Sit with us when you’re done? We can all head to the studio together after’ he offers.

God, just the thought of going to the studio leaves a knot in your stomach. You haven’t been there since you stumbled upon a conversation you wish you didn’t even hear.

‘I’m sure everyone is busy. I can come another day’ you answer, trying to change the subject.

San narrows his eyes, a strand of his blonde hair among his black hair covers one of his eyes. ‘Nonsense, you’re coming. Yunho has been dying to show you his new dance routine too. You pretty much have to come now’ he says hopefully.

You look over at Yunho and back to San. Feeling guilt. They’re your friends just as much as they are Wooyoungs. ‘Alright, alright. I’ll go, but for Yunho.’ you smile softly.  ‘I'll see you in a little bit?’ He looks relieved that you agreed. ‘We’ll be here’ he grins and heads back to his seat.

This is all… so new. You and San went from acquaintances to friends in a little over a week. It’s not that you two weren’t friends, it’s just that he usually kept to himself. You’ve always been closest to Yunho out of Woo’s friends. But San has been a better friend to you lately than most of your own friends.  

The rest of your shift goes by quickly, so you head to clock out and grab your bag.

When you make your way to their table, San and Yunho are still drinking their coffees. 

Yunho offers you the rest of his muffin, while his face is covered in crumbs and you politely decline and giggle at him wiping his face. ‘So what’s this dance I need to see?’ you glance at Yunho. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little flustered. ‘Well, uh, it’s just something I thought of. San is the one who helped me really put it together, though’ 

San shrugs ‘it was nothing. You did all the work, I just helped’ 

‘Well, I’m excited to see it’ you say then gently nudge Yunho’s shoulder.

‘Well then, shall we?’ San offers. 

It’s another quick walk to the studio, you three just talking about work and university. 

The studio was surprisingly empty.

You and San sit down as you wait for Yunho to set up the music

‘So, how have you been?’ he asks

‘I mean, we talked this morning. I’m fine’

‘You’re just fine?’

‘I’m good’ you correct yourself. Which doesn’t really matter, because he doesn’t look at all convinced. 

He sighs ‘look, I know Wooyoung has been an oblivious ass lately.’

You want to retort but honestly what he just said is true. 

‘San.. who is Hana? Should I be worried?’

He slightly stiffens at your words ‘I know of her but I’ve never met her. As far as I know, they’re just old friends’ he offers ‘but she doesn’t seem like a good person, y/n. The only reason they started talking again is… well, she’s single now.’

You feel irritation well up in your chest ‘what does that have to do with anything? Why does that matter?’ you ask seriously. You’re desperate at this point. You don’t really care how you look you just want answers.

San sags his shoulders ‘this might sound bad.. but she only talks to him when she’s single. It’s been that way since they were in high school.’

God, you feel sick. Your stomach feels queasy. Is that what this is, some cheap distraction for her? For him?

‘So, she’s a bitch’ you say flatly. San chuckles at your bluntness ‘basically’. 

You two were about to talk more when Yunho got his music to play. 

You and San just sat there completely enamored with the other dancer. Even the song is perfect for him and you can tell he knows that too. He’s so fluid with his movements, you can’t help but sit and watch him with stars in your eyes.

Both cheering him and seeing him try to hide his smile while dancing, you three don’t hear the door right away, but you do hear an unfamiliar high pitched giggle.

When you see them, you see this girl holding onto your boyfriends arm. She has short black hair and is taller than you. You really hate already judging her, but she looks like a cliché mean girl. Also, she is wearing one of Wooyoungs work out shirts.

Wait? What. the. Fuck.

San and Yunho glance at each other in confusion and worry before they stop his song. Wooyoung barely even notices the world around them and any other time you would have found it endearing, but now? It just bothers you. 

The two new people in the room startle, yet she still clings onto Wooyoung.

‘y/n, hey!’ Wooyoung says a bit shocked but quickly gathers himself seeing the others in the room. Her arm falls away from him and Wooyoung and makes his way over to you for a hug. 

You barely respond to his hug, just staring over his shoulder at this mystery girl, who you are pretty positive is Hana. Wooyoung doesn’t notice that anything is off and that’s the part that hurts the most. 

San is the first to speak up. ‘What are you guys doing here?’ he asks, not hiding his irritated tone.

Wooyoung has a small smile on his face ‘oh, well Hana has asked for help with her dancing, so we’ve been practicing all day’

Well, that stings. Wooyoung always had a hard time helping you dance and after a while, you both just stopped trying.

Hana giggles, which sounds grating to your ears. ‘Wooyoung-ie is the best teacher’ she gleams and grabs at his arm to hold onto. Is this really happening right now? Really?

‘And who are you? Wooyoung has never spoken of you’ you speak up, your voice firm, not wavering. Wooyoung looks at you like you’ve done something wrong and at this point you’re close to leaving, to screaming. 

‘Oh! I’m Hana. we grew up together, high school sweethearts and all that~ but no worries, that was forever ago’ she giggles at you.

San looks irritated ‘I'm teaching y/n to dance too, actually’ he says.

Wooyoung looks at both of you confused ‘really? Since when?’

‘Since now’ you blurt. Going along with his lie. Wooyoung has the audacity to look jealous at this, to look visibly irritated ‘oh, well if you need a better teacher, I’m always here, love’ he tries joking.

San looks done at this point. ‘I can take care of y/n just fine’ he stares at Wooyoung, as if making a challenge. Woo’s nostrils flare and he comes up to wrap his arm around you ‘still, I’m always here, I always will be’ he says sweetly into your hair. This would feel sweet if other people weren’t in the room and you weren’t aware of your boyfriends’ need to always win over others.

‘I’m leaving.’ you are done with this, this entire situation. You feel like you need a shower, you feel used. ‘Your dance was amazing, Yunho! I want to see all of it next time’ you try to sound cheery. He comes up and ruffles your hair in thanks. San sends you off with a small wave. 

You really need to thank San later, he’s been on your side so much lately. You feel so undeserving of him.

walking out of the studio you hear footsteps, turning around you see Wooyoung jogging after you as you make it out the door. ‘Wait!’ he stops you. ‘I missed you this morning’ he reaches for your hands and tries to lace his fingers with yours.

A surge of anger courses through you. ‘Did you? Really? Because I’ve spent all day with San and Yunho. Which, San spent the entire morning making sure I was okay and home safe’ you snap, not caring at this point.

He looks surprised at your outburst ‘what are you talking about? Of course, I did. Is everything okay? Things were fine last night. I thought we had an amazing night.’ he’s staring at you in confusion.

‘We did. Our night was nice.’ you say timidly. 

‘Then what y/n?’ he pleads. Instead of responding, you ask ‘why is she wearing your shirt?’ you know you look pathetic right now, you know you look desperate. You want to care, but more than anything you just want an honest answer out of him.

He looks lost for words for a moment ‘ oh.. Uh, her workout clothes got dirty. She asked if she could wear mine and I thought I was just being nice.’

You sigh ‘okay‘ 

‘Okay?’ he asks. ‘What are you even thinking right now? We’re just friends.’ he says with irritation. ‘I’m gonna go’ you say quietly. His normal caring look is back on his face, irritation suddenly gone. ‘I’ll call you later, okay? I love you’ he plants a soft lingering peck on your lips. ‘Get home safe, okay?’ you nod and both say your goodbyes.

Eventually, you reach home, only to collapse on your couch. Feeling nearly hungover from everything that happened today. then your phone pings with a message.

Woo ♥ I’ll drop by after work tomorrow. We’ll have all day together, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you. 

Even if things are as awful as they are, you can’t help but smile and feel your heart warm at his words. 

Why is being in love so painful? 

[libsterslobsters]

The Battle of Evermore

A Bucky Barnes fanfic

Summary: Set during the events of Captain America: Civil War. Bucky and the reader's worst nightmare has come true: they're captured, and there's nothing even Steve Rogers can do... or is there?

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem! enhanced! reader

(reader sees shards of the future, can understand every language, and processes information quickly)

Warnings: Violence, angst, fluff, self-loathing, Civil War spoilers, language

Author's note: The female character's name is never given so that this can be read as a self-insert, but at this point, I've written so much about her and Bucky that I've named her Violet. Still working on a last name. If you have any suggestions, comment below.

*************************************************

It’s not exactly unexpected, them having to fight their way out. Steve always hopes for the best, but prepares for the worst, especially when it involves The Winter Soldier, or as he knows him, Bucky Barnes. But still, the last thing he’s expecting when his best friend crashes through the door of an apartment several storeys below is to barely catch (and if it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, it’s guaranteed he would’ve missed it altogether) a woman hiss,

“Buck, what the hell-”

“Get out of here. Now.”

Again, he’s known the guy for years, had him bust up enough back-alley fights in their day, so he knows Bucky tends to have a flare for the dramatic when it comes to any sort of altercation, but it still seems a little overboard, the moves he’s pulling out to kick these hostile’s sorry tails. That is, until he’s out of the building and sees a hooded figure, small enough that his first guess would be female, waiting in a dark corner. That’s when it clicks: a diversion. But how did she manage- She takes off running, cutting his internal questioning short, and when her sweatshirt rides up, he sees a harness around her waist, carabiner still attached, and rope burns on her hands. That answers that.

All thoughts of whoever the strange woman was are pushed aside in the pursuit that follows. In fact, Steve’s almost forgotten about her until they’re being loaded into armored cars like criminals (which, he supposes, they are now), and as they’re leading Bucky away, he freezes on the spot, not budging for a full ten seconds despite his guards doing their best to get him moving again. Steve follows his line of sight to yet another car window, and then he realizes why Bucky suddenly looked so defeated. They got her too.

On the ride back to base, Bucky’s separated from the rest of them, but the woman is thrown in with him, Sam, and T’Challa, since apparently, Rhodey’s decided she’s not a threat. Either that, or he’s hoping being stuck with the men she was trying to escape will rattle her enough that, once they’ve landed, she’ll talk. If Steve had to venture a guess, he’d say that won’t work; if the way she keeps her eyes down and ignores anyone speaking to her wasn’t enough to indicate that she’s not playing ball, his knowledge that her escaping the building wasn’t a matter of chance (no, his bet’s on both of them having prepared for something like this in advance, how else can you account for the diversion and her rappelling down the side of the building) would do the trick. Just before they’re led into the building, he slides past her, and murmurs, “Steve Rogers. Don’t answer their questions. I’ll find you later.” It’s brief, but her eyes flick up to study him, then back down again, and he takes that as acknowledgment.

It’s a lot of hassle, a lot of questions, and a lot of paperwork. He’s half-way expecting to be put in a cell, but after a good two hours, he’s remanded to a room to wait. About an hour later, Sam is escorted in as well. After the routine questions (are you okay, what did you say to them, what did they say to you), Sam finally lands on the immediate issue at hand.

“Cap, who the hell’s the girl?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

That’s not entirely true. He’s had a good amount of time to think it over, and he’s narrowed the possibilities down. The first thing he considered was, as unlikely as it seems at first blush, the girl is Bucky’s daughter. Who knows if they’ve sent out the Winter Soldier for things other than assassinations. He could’ve been asked to extract information in ways that don’t include the use of excessive force. Steve almost immediately rules that one out. She doesn’t look enough like him for that possibility. Age wouldn’t necessarily be a factor considering Bucky’s been on and off ice for the past seventy years. Still, the dynamic felt… off, somehow. His bet’s on not related at all.

His second thought is a partner. Someone else who’s escaped Hydra and is now hiding out. Well, considering that she got caught (and if the rope burns are anything to judge from, she’s no expert at quick escapes), that seems unlikely as well. They get along, obviously, and she has to be important, or else he wouldn’t have risked so much to give her time to get away, so possibly a friend. Still, that level of devastation upon seeing her captured? That seems a little more intense than an average acquaintanceship.

That leaves only one possibility; a romantic entanglement. A part of Steve is happy for Bucky. He’s had a whole lot of miserable in his life so far. He deserves to find some joy. Another part of him is rolling it’s eyes at the fact that, even in hiding when he really should be keeping to himself, his best friend managed to find himself in the company of a pretty girl. The biggest part, however, is scared. If this is serious (and all things considered, it’d be foolish to think otherwise), this girl is yet another liability, another complication in vindicating Bucky.

As he’s discussing things with Sharon, he realizes that he can see the feed from the girl’s cell as well as Bucky’s. The volume is turned down low, but if he concentrates, he can hear her.

“Please, if anyone is listening, you have to stop that doctor. He’s not who he says he is!” Steve brushes it off as hysterics. That is, until it dawns on him that she’d have no way of knowing about the doctor interviewing Bucky.

“God! You people! I’ve been hiding from this fucking government since I was eighteen years old! Now that you’ve got me behind bars, the least you could do is listen! I’m telling you, he’s not who he says he is! Don’t let him in the room with Barnes! It’s a mistake! People are going to die!” That makes him wonder…

“Sharon, do you have a file on the girl?”

She shakes her head.

“Not that I know of, but I also haven’t looked. She’s just some random Romanian woman, right?” That’s what he thought, but now he’s not so sure. Her accent… she sounds American. “Couldn’t even get her name out of her. My guess would be that she’s insane. All she’d tell us is that we’re making a big mistake and people are going to die because of it.”

He’s about to say something more, but that’s when the lights are cut.

The battle that follows leaves little time to think of anything other than capturing Bucky before the other side does (oh, and trying to survive themselves), but in the brief lull after they come out of the river, he manages to tell Sam,

“Spring the girl.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it. I have a hunch.” One that admittedly doesn’t make much sense, but then again, that seems to be the way his life works.

___________________________________________________________________________________

“It was a mistake. I told them so.” Sam’s inclined to believe the same as Sharon when he approaches the high-security cell with a pacing woman inside. “A fucking mistake. And now there’s a bunch of dead people topside and Barnes is who knows where, probably either with a couple bullet holes in him or else a couple bullet holes in the other guys.” She has to be crazy. She’s talking to herself. But how does she know- “I see the damn future, for fuck’s sake!” Well, that explains that.

It seems like she’s worn herself out because, her back against the wall, she slides down slowly to the floor as if her legs have given out from under her.

“I see the future, and I still couldn’t save him.” Great. He’s been sent to extract a homicidal maniac’s fortune-telling girlfriend. Awesome.

“Yeah, well-” She startles, cracking her head on the glass wall. “-unless you want a really bad headache, I’d get against the back wall right now if I were you, because I’m about to bust you out of here.”

“Who are you?” If he blasts the control panel… as a last resort, he could quite literally blow out the wall.

“A friend of Steve Rogers.” Sent to collect her crazy ass. The least she could do is stop glaring at him. “And I meant what I said about that headache. Get back and cover your ears.”

Finally, she moves, but not before shooting back,

“If you’re lying, just be aware that I won’t hesitate to kick you in the family jewels so hard, you’ll sing soprano.” Well, that’s comforting.

For a high-security facility, the locks go down fairly easily. Still, he hesitates before opening the door. “I’ll let you out so long as you promise to keep your hands to yourself and your crazy away from me, deal?”

She snorts.

“Can’t promise anything about the crazy because it comes and goes, but I won’t touch you. Good enough?” Can he really say no?

“Yeah. Whatever.” He allows the door to open, jumping out of the way just in case.

Now that she’s out of her cage, she looks considerably less nuts. Still, he’s not taking any chances.

“Rogers told me to spring you while he rounded up your boyfriend. He’s gone psycho, by the way.” If he was expecting a reaction, he’s disappointed. She just sighs.

“I was afraid of that. They turned a good man into a weapon.” Alright, ignoring the fact that he wouldn’t exactly call Barnes a good man…

“What’s your name?” She just raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll tell you mine when you tell me yours.” Sam doesn’t have time for this.

“Well, whatever your name is, stick close. If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide. If I tell you to shut up, you shut up. Got it?” Not waiting for an answer, he starts making his way out of the building.

He’s halfway expecting her to make a break for it the second his back is turned but, five sharp turns and a handful of sudden stops later, she’s still right behind him. Well, at the very least, her crazy hasn’t affected her ability to follow directions.

Trouble finally finds them when they attempt to sneak out the proverbial back door. Sam doesn’t even have a chance to shout at her to hide or run between incapacitating various guards, and by the time he remembers he’s supposed to be looking out for Barnes’ girlfriend, there’s an unconscious man laying by her side and she’s got the business end of a gun turned on another, who’s kneeling in front of her with his hands up.

“Don’t shoot him!” As he says it, her foot makes contact with the man’s chin, and he drops.

“Wasn’t gonna.”

She still hasn’t let go of the weapon. Alright, he needs to defuse this situation as fast as possible (oh, and without getting himself killed).

“You wanna put the gun down, What’s-your-face?”

“Nope. I’m hanging onto it.” As she says it, she checks the bullets. “Don’t worry. I know how to use it.” How is that supposed to keep him from worrying?

“Yeah well, keep it pointed away from me.” Is she rolling her eyes? Great. He’s dealing with an overgrown teenager.

“Safety’s on anyway.” He’s starting to think that between the knocked out cold super soldier and the awake and definitely dangerous crazy lady, he’s wishing he had Steve’s job.

“Come on.”

He only manages to run a few more steps before she asks,

“Where are we going?”

He’s not entirely sure, but he goes with what he’s almost certain will bring her along.

“To Barnes.” Sure enough, she doesn’t say anything else.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Once she arrives at… wherever the hell they are… she’s instructed to wait where she is and keep her mouth shut. Normally she’d inform whoever’s telling her that to stick it directly up their ass, but Bucky warned her time and again about what he could inadvertently do to her if he was activated, and considering Steve Rogers has the same capabilities, she’s not going to chance it. That, and Mr. “Keep your crazy away from me” seems a little testy, even if she does still have her gun (the fact that they haven’t taken it from her says more than enough about how secure they both feel in their ability to overpower her). No, she’ll bide her time. For now, it’s enough that she knows where Barnes is and that he’s mostly okay, if having a long snooze.

Eventually he does come around, and the conversation that follows both chills her to the bone and breaks her heart. He’s matter-of-fact about everything, calmly explaining to Steve and Sam (she finally overhears his name) what they’re up against, what those terrible people have made of him and so many others, but the guilt he feels is clear, at least to her. Alright, that’s it. She’s not going to sit still and be quiet any longer. She’ll just have to be smart about it.

Once Sam steps out to call whoever it is he knows that can help him, she starts to creep forward, slowly, deliberately, careful to avoid making noise. She’s almost there, about to leave the refuge of hiding behind a piece of broken down heavy machinery, when she hears something that makes her stop short.

“Who’s the girl, Buck?” This ought to be interesting. It was necessary to have a conversation about what they would do if one or the other of them was captured at any point in time, have a plan in place, but since this is Steve Rogers, she has no idea what the answer will be.

“Call her a personal attachment.” It’s a good answer. Vague, not giving too much away.

“Yeah, I figured that much out myself. Wanna give me a little more information?”

There’s a long pause, then-

“She’s important. The same way Peggy’s important to you.” That makes no sense to her, but it must appease Steve.

“I’m glad. You deserve that.” She’s definitely missing something here. “What’s her name?” That’s when she chooses to step forward.

They both turn towards her as she gives her name. “You should also know that I only give people one opportunity to tell me what to do. You and Sam already used yours.”

Steve glances back at Bucky, who shrugs, smirking.

“Don’t look at me. I used mine up two years ago.” A wave of relief courses through her. His sense of humor is still there, at least.

Steve nods. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I still have a question, though.” She indicates that it’s okay. “Are you gonna be as much of a pain in the neck as he is?” A joke, or at least she thinks it is.

“Only if I can’t be a bigger one.” If the laugh is any indication, she was right.

“I have a question too.” This time Bucky’s the one asking as Steve sets about freeing his arm. “Doll, where’d you get the gun?”

She decides to go with the truth, but a lighter version of it.

“A nice guard gave it to me.”

“Oh, he gave it to you, huh?”

She nods, slowly approaching him.

“Yes. It’s amazing how accommodating people can be once you’ve elbowed them in the ribs and kneed them in the groin.”

With a groan of metal, he’s free. As Steve helps him to his feet, he asks,

“What exactly did you teach her?”

“A few things. The rest she’d learned before me.” Yeah, well, you don’t spend your life running and hiding without learning how to defend yourself. Although, from the look of things, the company she’s fallen into could crush her without breaking a sweat.

After exchanging a few more words, Steve excuses himself, leaving her alone with the man she’s been so worried about. The atmosphere immediately changes, all attempts on both of their parts to seem unaffected, strong, gone to the wayside as he opens his arms and she folds herself into them.

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head, not lifting it from where it’s buried in his chest.

“No. I was locked up the whole time. Sam sprang me loose.” She can feel some of the tension leak out of him as he heaves a sigh of relief.

“I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. If you’d stayed-” Not waiting for him to finish his thought, she reaches up and taps the back of his head.

“Shut up. If you’d left without me, you know I’d just have gone to find you and gotten myself into even more trouble.”

He chuckles.

“You do have a way of doing that.”

Neither of them say much for the next few minutes, just concentrating on, in this brief moment, being together. Finally, with a sigh, Bucky separates himself from her and holds her at arm’s length.

“Look at me.”

It’s an abrupt segue, and she frowns.

“I need to make sure this is getting through that pretty and incredibly hard head of yours, because it’s important.” Swallowing down a lump in her throat, she meets his eyes. “If they activate me again, drop any weapons you have, get on your knees, and put your hands up.”

“What-”

“I don’t know much about how all of it works, but I do know that when I’m like that, I’ll ignore you if you don’t present a threat. It’s a shitty solution, but it’s the only way I can think of to half-way make sure you’re safe.” She’s about to protest (he’s with Steve now, whoever that not-a-doctor was is gone, no one’s going to activate him, and even though she knows what he can do, she refuses to be afraid of him), but it’s an old argument, and he cuts her off before she can even get started. “Promise me, Doll. Please.” He’s pleading with her, she realizes. As much as she hates it, the only thing she can do is agree.

“I will, but only if you promise to come back in one piece.” She begs her mind to memorize that smile, every single detail of it, just in case this is their last goodbye.

“It’s a deal.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

He’s drained, utterly and completely. That’s not a way Bucky is used to feeling, but after the past few days and all they’ve held (not to mention going in and out of being the Winter Soldier, never knowing who he’s hurt this time), he has to admit that he’s beat, even if it’s just to himself.

It’s all a blur: captured, activated, back to normal, battle, another battle, and now on a hellicarrier, waiting to go to a small African country he’d never heard of a week ago. If he examines each event closely, he can remember it in full, but why in the hell would he want to do that, especially after the encounter with Stark?

The one bright spot in the maze is that he knows she’s safe, holed up in what used to be a SHIELD safe house (he balked at the idea, as did she, but Steve assured them both that it was abandoned, completely safe), waiting for the all-clear to return to Romania. He’d wondered, with everyone except Steve and himself locked up who would tell her it’s safe to leave, but when Natasha helped them escape, she looked him dead in the eyes and informed him, “I’ll look after her, too.”. He still wonders how she knew where Steve chose as a location, but his best friend told him it’s best not to question how the spy gets her information.

The doors open once again, but he doesn’t look up.

“You look a little worse for wear.”

Even with the super serum, it’s a wonder he doesn’t get whiplash, turning his head towards the familiar voice.

“I thought I told you to come back in one piece.”

No, he’s not kidding himself. His senses aren’t fooling him. It’s her. She’s here.

“I did.” She chuckles as she settles into the seat next to him. “More or less.”

Completely ignoring the fact that he’s filthy, covered in at least ten different kinds of muck, she takes his hand in hers. He allows himself the comfort of having her next to him, enjoying the warmth, not just of her body but her presence, before asking,

“Doll, what are you doing here?”

“What I’m usually doing.” She stretches out her legs in front of her as far as they’ll go, then toes off her shoes. “Following you around like a lost puppy.” No, that’s definitely him. Can’t bring himself to stay away even though she’d be safer if he left and never came back. Once upon a time, he fooled himself into believing that so long as he stayed hidden, nobody said those key words, he wouldn’t hurt her. She’d be safer with him to protect her (she can defend herself, sure, but there’s far nastier things out there than just common criminals) than on her own, and besides, she wants him to stay. Now he knows the truth: it doesn’t matter that the Winter Soldier never laid a finger on her. He’s hurt her just from being who he is, sure as he left bruises in the shape of his fingerprints the first night they ever spent together doing something more than sleeping. Well, that ends now. He has to be strong, for her sake.

“I’m not going back to Romania.”

“I know.” She nods. “We’re going to Wakanda.” Here comes the hard part. He can do it. He has to.

“Not “we”. Just me.” It takes a moment, but recognition dawns on her face.

“Are you telling me to leave?”

She says it calmly, but he can tell that inside, she’s already starting to crumble. He should say yes. He’s absolutely telling her to leave. He loves her, god, does he ever, and you don’t hurt the people you love. You protect them, even if that means keeping them away from you. But, even as he prepares to tell her that, he knows the truth.

“Would it do any good if I did?”

“If it was because you truly didn’t want me around, then yes. If it was some self-sacrificing bullshit, then no.”

And there’s the crux of it. He can never tell her to go and truly mean it, just as he could never leave her side without her telling him she wants him gone. He’s simply not that strong, not that noble. Still, he has to try.

“You saw what I did.”

“Yeah, I did.” He feels her sag against his shoulder. “And my opinion hasn’t changed. I’m not afraid of you, Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier? Okay, he’s a scary guy, and I’ll be cautious around him, but I trust you.” Her fingers tighten around his. “I love you. That stays the same.”

He swallows hard, trying to get control of himself. There will be a time to put down all his armor, show her how damn tired he is, how if he’s being honest with himself, he just wants to let her take care of him, but not while they’re having this conversation.

“I’m going on ice as soon as we reach Wakanda.”

“Figured as much. I’ll be standing by, pestering them to make sure they do a good job getting what Hydra put in your head back out again.” She tugs gently at his hair. “For now, just relax. It’s only the two of us here. You’ve had a hard couple of days, so just rest.”

He starts to protest that he’s fine, she’s the one who should be decompressing, but then her fingers start working through the hair at his scalp. “You’re safe, Buck. It’s all going to work out.”

“Did you have a vision?” The last thing he sees as he closes his eyes and lets his head fall into her lap is her smile.

“No. Some things you don’t need to see the future to know.”

[saxxxology]

What Goes Bump in the Night - 8

PAIRING: Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics, Victorian social dynamics, allusions to non-consent and dubious consent, dominance/submission, slow burn with eventual smut, suspense/horror/gore themes.

THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.

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SIX MONTHS LATER…

Life goes on. 

You and Sam steadily acclimate to your new bond. It’s rough at first; you never want to stop touching each other and John often raises his voice at the newly mated Alpha for trying to sneak up to bed before whatever study they’ve been working on has concluded for the evening. As the weeks go by, however, you settle into a routine. Now that you’re claimed, Sam can take you into the city without the fear of you being taken. On Saturdays, you get lunch at a little café, and afterwards go for a walk in Central Park before heading back home. 

Sam’s grown considerably less irritable and controlling, something you thought might only increase due to his claim over you. Truthfully, he does grow angry after arguments with his father and brother, but he hasn’t thrown an insult your way or mocked you for your weaknesses. 

However, nearly half a year into your new lifestyle, Sam’s awoken by the sharp rapping of his brother’s fist on the bedroom door. He carefully slides away from your sleeping form and opens the door. 

“What?” he asks, almost irritably. He doesn’t like being pulled away from you longer than necessary.

Dean holds a rumpled copy of the morning newspaper out for Sam to read. “We’ve got a case. It’s bad, there’s at least five other hunters on it.”

Sam rakes his eyes down the short column. A girl’s gone missing from the slums in the city, and bodies are being found completely drained of blood. All from immigrant families that surely won’t be investigated by the police.

“What the hell is it?” Sam wrinkles his nose in confusion. “Vampire?”

“Yep.” Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It’s working fast. People have been reporting bodies for days, but last night…”

Sam scans further down the article. An entire apartment of thirteen people had been found mutilated in the same way.  “Who’s on it?”

“Gabe, Cas, almost everyone within two hundred miles.” Dean casts an eye past his brother’s shoulder. “You know how these bastards work, Sam, you need to hide her.”

Sam issues a low growl at the thought of anyone other than him touching his Omega. “I will. Any news on when the others are arriving?”

Dean nods. “Gabe and Cas sent a telegram an hour ago, they should be here within an hour or two. Everyone else is in town, we’re meeting here at noon to plan where this thing might be. They hunt at night, and the body count is rising. We need to take of this as soon as possible.”

Sam turns and casts a worried glance at you. “The last time we had a gathering—”

“She’s claimed,” Dean hisses. “Now is not the time for you to worry about her, you need to worry about the people that are dying. We’re the only ones who can stop this thing.”

Sam’s shoulders dip as he exhales. “Fine. Just… let me talk to her.” He closes the door in his brother’s face before he can reply and strides back to the bed, where you’re stirring beneath the sheets. He dips his head into the crook of your neck, planting a warm kiss there as your eyes flutter open.

“Mmm,” you moan and press your fingers into his bare shoulders. “What was that about?”

“We have a case.” Sam lies down next to you and nuzzles the side of your neck. His tone is stiff, and you rake your fingers through the wispy ends of his hair.

“Bad?”

He sighs heavily, then nods. “We have a lot of hunters coming to the house.” When you stiffen, he quickly moves to console you. “If we had another place to meet, believe me, I would choose there, but we’re closest to the activity and we have room for everyone here.” He strokes a lock of hair away from your neck. “I won’t let them hurt you, but you do need to be involved.”

You frown. “How?”

Sam smirks. “We’ll need someone to serve tea and coffee. And maybe some of those biscuits you make so perfectly.”

You balk. “I’m not a servant—!”

“I never said you were.” Sam hovers over you, watching your eyes flare with indignation. “But it’s a good idea to give the others the impression that you and I live in a way that is to be expected, with you serving me.” He presses a kiss to your lips, stopping you before you can protest. “And before you ask,” he continues, pulling the covers off your body and slowly kissing his way down your bare body until his head is between your thighs, “I’ll make it very worth your while.”

***

After making your way out of bed, you set yourself up in the kitchen, preparing dough for the sugar biscuits Sam’s requested and cleaning the expensive set of china teacups stored away for special occasions. Sam, Dean, and John busy themselves in the basement, apparently cleaning weapons and organizing ammunition. You have no idea what it is they’re going to hunt, but from the preparation and Sam’s earlier tone, you take a good guess that it’s not going to be easy at all. 

The hunters trickle in over the course of several hours. When you emerge from the kitchens to set the dining table with cups of tea and coffee, you can hear many voices coming from the library, where they all seem to be gathered. Sam’s scent punches through the noxious cloud of Alpha and Beta, giving a slight comfort to the anxiety that shoots cold bursts of adrenaline through your stomach.

Sam answers almost immediately when you knock on the door, balancing a pot of tea and coffee on a tray. You carefully step inside, keep your eyes on the floor to pretend that Sam’s beaten you into submission. You hear the other Alphas hum with approval as you set the tray on the coffee table and murmur something about being back with the biscuits and cups before scurrying away. After the table is entirely set, Sam waves his fingers dismissively, and you play a small curtsy before leaving.

A couple of hours later, Sam finds you at your dressing table, running a brush through your hair. The sun’s gone down, and the house is quiet. Everyone must have gone to bed. Sam saunters up behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders and staring at your reflection in the mirror. 

“You look exhausted,” he murmurs.

You let him pull the brush from your fingers and run it through your already combed locks. “I did spend the afternoon cooking… I suppose I’m just not used to that much work. I feel like I should be.”

“We have a cook for that,” Sam covers, “we just don’t allow her to know what we do.”

“How do you manage that?”

“Very carefully.” Sam chuckles and runs his fingers over your hair. “Come here.”

Obediently, you stand and turn to face him. He looks extremely strained, and you can’t help but allow an urge to comfort him wash over you. “What is it?”

“This thing,” Sam pauses, his eyes closing for a second before fluttering back open, “this thing that we’re going to hunt… it’s dangerous. More dangerous than what we usually hunt, and…” he takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily, “what I am trying to say is that the likelihood of me not coming home is higher than usual.”

At the mere implication that your Alpha could die, you shake your head, face twisting into a grimace as you fight tears. “No,” you say firmly, “Sam, don’t say that—”

Sam interrupts you, ignoring your distress. “I’ve made provisions for you in my will. If I should die, my share of my father’s inheritance will go to you, and my claim over you will place you in Dean’s care. I understand that he is not your ideal mate,” he continues over your near outburst, “but he will keep you safe.”

“He wanted to rape me.”

“Yes, he did.” Sam’s eyes darken. “But my claim mark on you won’t let that happen. He can’t take the guilt of claiming another Alpha’s mate and he knows it. Now…” he brushes his fingers under your eyes, his expression softening, “will you let me take you to bed?”

You nod, letting him lean down to press a soft kiss against your lips. His hands drag your nightdress up, and you lift your arms to let him pull it over your head. His fingers scoop over your ass, and he lifts you up with a soft groan, carrying you swiftly to the bed and laying you down on the mattress. You scoot back, watching him undress. When he’s standing naked, his cock thickening between his legs, he climbs onto the bed, hooking his palms on your thighs and dragging you roughly down underneath him. 

“I love you,” he whispers.

You blush even though you’ve heard him say the words several times before. “I love you, too.”

Satisfied, he claims your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss and nudges your thighs apart. You moan when he ruts his cock through your folds, letting the heat and weight of it tease you until you’re slick and ready for him. You shift when he lines up at your entrance, and he reaches for your hands, pinning them by your head as he rolls his hips. Your sighs mingle as he fills you, sinking deeper and deeper until he feels the entrance to your womb pressed against the tip of his cock. 

His first thrust is deliciously drawn out and makes your thighs quiver around his hips. He grins against your cheek when you try and pull him back in with your heels against his ass, and only frustrates you further by giving a series of short, slow thrusts that barely push the tip of his dick into your drenched pussy. 

“Stop teasing,” you whisper, trying as hard as you can to push your hips up into his. 

Sam obliges, planting his knees against the mattress and shoving forward with a brutal thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head as he fills you almost painfully. “Like that?” he asks, smirking down at you as you sink back to the present.

“Yes.” You squeeze his hands and bend your knees back until your knees are at his ribs. 

Sam settles into a steady rhythm, grinding his pelvis against your ass in a way that makes you gasp and squirm as warm waves of pleasure crash over you. Pulling his hands from yours, he wraps his arms underneath you, lowering himself until you’re almost entirely wrapped up in him. His thrusts grow more and more passionate, and he reclaims your mouth in a warm, wet kiss. It’s rare that Sam’s ever this gentle with you; when he does crave intimacy, he’s rough and dominant, only slowing when you’re begging him to. 

It’s almost like he’s trying to savor it as if he knows he’ll never experience it again.

“Stop.”

Sam pauses mid-thrust, raising his head to look down at you. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No.” You swallow thickly. “You’re acting like this won’t happen again.”

Sam closes his eyes. “Omega, please try and understand—”

“Understand what?” You push him off and roll away, tears brimming in your eyes. “That you might die? I can’t just hear you say that and pretend that everything will be okay. If you die I’ll have nothing, Sam, I need you.”

Sam watches you burst into tears, unable to help yourself. All matters of lovemaking forgotten, he sits up and reaches for you, desperate to provide some form of comfort. He curses himself for upsetting you; he knows that he’s still got to work on being more sensitive to your feelings, that you process certain scenarios differently than he does.

“Omega,” he tries again, running a palm over one quivering shoulder, “please, look at me.”

You raise your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. “What?”

“I don’t want you to feel this way,” he explains, picking his words carefully lest he upset you more, “I hate seeing you upset, you know that. But I do need you to understand that my… profession… has certain risks and there is a reason why we have a dozen hunters on this one alone.”

You stutter through your words, trying to keep from dissolving into sobs. “I just don’t want to have to see you… or know you suffered…”

Sam presses his lips together. That part he can’t argue with—if he does perish on this hunt, you’ll be forced to see his body at one point or another, and the odds are that a Vampire won’t leave him in once piece, much less identifiable.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Do you want to just go to sleep?”

You shake your head. “I want to finish this… just… please don’t act like this is the last night we’ll be spending together.”

Sam presses a tender kiss to your forehead and pulls you close, issuing a primal growl as he lays you back down on the bed and eagerly situates himself between your thighs. He has to work to get himself hard again, but once he’s ready, he slides himself in easily, watching your tearstained face flush with pleasure. 

“That’s it,” he coaxes, “don’t hold back, ‘mega, I want everyone in this goddamn house to know how good I’m makin’ you feel.”

His next thrust is hard enough to make you whimper, and he leans back, placing a hand on your lower belly so he can rub your clit with his thumb. You shudder and let out a desperate moan, and Sam grunts in response, quickening the speed of his hips. Fingers curling into the covers, you toss your head back and allow a high-pitched cry to escape, and Sam matches you in volume with his own groan. 

It doesn’t take long to work up a rough yet passionate rhythm. If the bed was less sturdy, you know that the frame would be rocking with the force of Sam’s thrusts. His hips slap against your ass, and you can’t be bothered to hold back the sounds you’re making as fresh tears—this time of pleasure—flow from your eyes. 

“You’re gettin’ close,” Sam mutters, “I can feel you squeezing me, you’re gonna cum all over this big cock, aren’t you?”

You nod desperately. “Yes, I’m gonna cum, Alpha…”

Sam’s hips jolt as he nears his own ending. “Me too, shit… yes, ‘mega, keep grippin’ me like that…”

He falls over you, pinning you shuddering body to the mattress as you cum, the heat of your climax spreading through your body hot enough to make your head spin. He doesn’t knot you, just shoves forward with a bestial groan and spills himself into you in several hot, thick spurts that you feel dripping down the cleft of your ass as he thrusts sloppily through the aftershocks of both your orgasms. 

Sated, he sinks down over you, pressing a messy kiss to your lips. You shudder against him, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him inside you.

“God, you’re shaking,” he runs his lips down the column of your throat. “I can feel you, ‘mega…”

You hold him tight, letting him settle over you. “I don’t want you to go,” you whisper, voice still cloudy with emotion.

“I don’t want to go either. But I have to… it’s my duty.” He lies with you, breathing softly into the crook of your neck until he goes soft and has to pull out. You moan when his seed drips between your legs, and he scoops you up before it can ruin the comforter.

“We really should put something down before,” he jokes, attempting to lighten the mood as he sets you in the bathtub and reaches for a washcloth. When you can only offer a small smile, he drops it, cleaning methodically between your legs before turning the taps on. Climbing in and pulling you down into the tub, he holds you against his chest, running his fingers through your hair as the water slowly rises to fill half the tub. 

“You do know that I’ll do everything to come home,” he murmurs, looking down as you rest your head on his shoulder. 

You nod stiffly. “I know. I just hate the idea of you leaving and… not coming back.”

Sam presses a tender kiss to your cheek. “I promise that I’ll have the others watching my back. They don’t have families or Omegas to go home to, but I do, and they know that.”

Tilting your head back to gaze up at him, you brush wet fingers over the light stubble on his jaw. “I’m sorry for crying earlier… I hated stopping making love with you.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Sam heaves a sigh. “I should know by now that you and I process differently. It’s my fault for pressing it.”

It’s late by the time you finally slip into bed, snuggling together under the warm covers. Sam holds you close, his nose tucked into the crook of your neck.

“Sleep well, Omega,” he whispers, “I’ll wake you in the morning.”

[whentommymetalfie]

Breathe Again -Chapter one

-The truth, the glow, the fall-

Prologue

Chapter summary: Alfie wakes up to find a guest on his doorstep. It throws  a wrench into his plan of being dead in peace. 

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy 

Warnings: suicidal themes, mental instability, mild violence, 

Wordcount: 5100 

Alfie is none too fucking pleased to be awakened by such a rude thing as knocking. And loud knocking, at that, on his bedroom door. If a man can’t get out of bed in his own fucking time even when he’s dead then what does that say about the state of the world?

”Mister Solomons-” More bloody knocking. ”Sir, I’m sorry to wake you but-”

Alright, Esther keeps fucking talking and he can barely hear it because he’s still half asleep, floating in a blissful kind of deep water and there, far below the surface all the sounds are muffled. But when the godawful knocking just continues, he’s forced to open his eyes and try to reconnect with his body. Always an unpleasant experience. Granted, it’s getting better (which truly is a strange turn of events because who would’ve thought?) and everyday his joints feel a bit less achy- but mornings are still difficult. Not to mention that most mornings half his face feels like it’s somehow stiffened throughout the night, and like he’s wearing some kind of mask made of wax on top of his own, real face.

All in all waking up is an altogether unpleasant experience and it’s not made better by that bloody knocking.

“Alright, alright, fucking hell woman-“ He sits up and rubs his one good eye as the sun pierces through the curtain to add insult to injury. “I’m awake-“

And then the door opens on top of it all. Truly no limits to overstepping boundaries today apparently-

“Bloody hell! Can a man get one moment to make himself fucking decent around here?” he grunts as if his sorry state will somehow shock her. Few things will do that once you’ve had to spend the first months of your employment helping someone in and out of a bathtub. But still, it’s a matter of principle really.

Esther, predictably, is entirely unfazed in that way only a woman closing in on sixty who’s already seen most things the world has to offer, can be.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but this really can’t wait,” she says. “There’s- Well, I don’t quite know how to say this but there’s a… man. Outside.”

Alfie blinks at her.

“A man?”

“Yes. And he appears to be in pretty bad shape-“

This is too much information to take in at this hour and during these circumstances. Unacceptable really. Alfie has half a mind to just lie back down and go back to sleep and see what happens.

“Is he some drifter eh? Some poor sod who’s just wandered off the road and ended up outside my house? Because if so, and not to sound crass here, but if so, then I think that we’ll just leave him be and see if he decides to wander off again, yeah?”

“No, he’s- There’s something wrong. I think he might be injured. Or sick.”

Alfie says a silent prayer for patience, and takes the opportunity to ask his God why he’s decided to gift him with this on this particular morning.

“Right, alright, I’m fucking coming. Just let me get some bloody clothes on first, eh? Reckon a minute or so won’t hurt him.”

With a curt nod, relief washing over her features, Esther leaves the room.

Alfie does get dressed. He just doesn’t do it particularly fast. So when Esther’s steps approach in the corridor outside, he’s just gotten his waistcoat on. But he opens the door before she can knock again, leaving the cane behind and instead shoving his revolver into the waistband of his trousers. Because fuck knows where his holster has gone. Neither Gods nor dead men have any use for a holster.

Alfie Solomons, however, might just have use for a gun when there’s a strange man apparently taking a nap outside his fucking house.

Esther takes the lead through the house to the living room. Or rather, one of the living rooms. His preferred one, with glass doors opening up towards the sea and a staircase leading right down to the beach. Esther moves out of the way when he lets out a noncommittal grunt. Then he opens the door and goes to assess the damage.

First of all, it’s a lovely day outside. Or about to be. It’s the bloody crack of dawn, innit? But the sky is a warm, pinkish orange, and the wind is just quietly rustling through the grass, leaving the sea a glossy mirror.

And at the foot of his steps lies the barely recognizable form of none other than Tommy Shelby.

He’s slumped over the last few steps, curled on his side close to the wall of the house. Dressed in nothing but an undershirt and trousers. Even his feet are bare. And it could be that Alfie’s never seen him dressed in anything but a three piece suit, but he looks absolutely tiny. Impossibly small and fragile, cheeks sunken in and with dark circles colouring the skin under his eyes. The long hair on top of his head falls in tousled curls over his face.  

“I tried talking to him but he didn’t seem to hear me-“ Esther says from behind him, clearly concerned. “Should I call someone?”

Call who? Yeah sure, Alfie could potentially call some of his men in London to have them take care of it, but it’d be hours before they’d arrive. Could call Tommy’s fucking family, but then he’d have the premises swarming with Shelbys and that would be a fate worse than death.

“Nah, just go put the kettle on,” Alfie grunts and steps outside. Esther hesitates but then disappears into the house.

Tommy remains motionless.

“Tommy?” Alfie says as he approaches, gaining no reaction. “Oi, Tommy! Fancy calling before you just decide to drop by like this?”

He halts on the steps where Tommy lies and kicks him. Not hard. Not at all, he’s not cruel. Well, not when it comes to Tommy at least. That does the trick, though. Tommy lets out a pitiful little whimper which for some strange bloody reason sends a pang right through his chest. Won’t do anyone any good to look further into that, so Alfie just kicks him again. But it’s more just a prod with his toe.

“Go on sleeping beauty. Do you mind waking up and telling me why you’ve decided to crash on my doorstep?”

Finally Tommy opens those ice blue eyes. Just a sliver. But Alfie gets the pleasure of watching the long eyelashes flutter and he’s not ashamed to admit that it’s a lovely sight.

Tommy looks up at him. Just looks. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just gazes listlessly at him. And that, that unsettles him, doesn’t it? Because even when Tommy stood in his doorway all those weeks ago, with that look of absolute dejection at having a gun pointed at his face, there was some semblance of… somethingbehind his eyes. Perhaps not that sharp spark that usually resided in them, but at least there was more than this complete emptiness.  

“If you wanted to come visit you could’ve just said so,” Alfie says. “No need to be so dramatic about it. Then again I do suppose you have a flare for that, don’t you? Trying to assassinate someone on stage- Figured that wouldn’t work, you silly boy. Is that why you’ve been hiding from everyone this past month? Yeah, don’t think I haven’t heard about it-“

As he talks he stares Tommy straight in the eye. Or at least tries to, because after just two sentences or so, Tommy’s gaze slips down to the pillars bordering staircase instead. Perhaps he’s looking out at the sea?

Alfie throws his hands up in defeat.

“Alright, since you’ve made it perfectly clear you’re not planning to move, or even fucking answer me, I suppose I’ll just go inside. Because I don’t really feel like standing around out here.”

That’s a lie, he absolutely doesn’t mind being outside. Quite prefers it actually. His best past time these days is sitting in his armchair with the glass doors open and read.

He fully expects Tommy to follow him. Or say something. Or just… do anything.

But Tommy doesn’t follow him. Alfie goes inside anyway, because he’s got to at least attempt to keep up appearances.

Esther enters the room carrying a tray with tea, her eyes instantly drawn to the door.

“How is he?”

“He’s just fine,” Alfie mutters, seats himself in his favourite armchair and reaches for his book. “Just sulking a bit, isn’t he?”

Esther furrows her brow and sets the tray down in front of him, before going to look out the door.

“Mister, there’s tea if you’d like some?”

“Just leave him be,” Alfie huffs and pours himself a cup. “Go do something useful instead. He’ll come inside when he feels like it.”

Esther furrows her brow, a huffed breath escaping her. But she leaves.

For a long while, Alfie just sits there waiting. Admittedly there’s some element of excitement to this whole thing. Being dead is peaceful but can get a bit boring at times. So for now, he views this as simply a little break in his daily routine, waiting for Tommy to come inside. Perhaps reveal he’s had some kind of plan all along, that for some reason involved putting on this show…

But Tommy doesn’t come inside.

Alfie drinks two cups of tea and reads not two but three chapters of his book. Or rather, tries to tell himself that he’s reading, while actually just sitting like on pins and needles waiting.

If this is some kind of game, it’s a strange one, but he wouldn’t put it past Tommy…

But then he thinks about it. Really thinks about it; The fragile appearance, the dishevelled clothing... Tommy wouldn’t let anyone see him like that, not even if it was part of some elaborate scheme. The bare feet somehow bother him the most. Those, and the empty look in his eyes.

So once the third chapter is finished, he finds himself closing the book and getting out of his chair without having consciously made the decision.

And Tommy… Tommy is still on the fucking steps. Curled right where Alfie left him, close to the wall, gaze fastened on the opposite pillars. He’s shaking now. Fuck. It’s fucking cold outside, and for some bloody reason Alfie feels guilty for not having considered that.

Leave it to Tommy fucking Shelby to stir up those kinds of strange emotions by merely existing on his steps.

“Alright, enough’s enough, Tommy,” Alfie grunts and ambles towards him. “How about you come inside for a bit, hm? While I call and get a car to come pick you up. How the fuck did you get here by the way-“ He looks up and down the beach, scratching his beard. Not very likely that Tommy would’ve left his fucking car on the beach now though, is it? “Can’t have walked all the way from fucking Birmingham. Or is this some new idea you’ve had? Make a pilgrimage on foot to the newly instated deity, eh?”

Tommy just keeps staring at- yeah at whatexactly? The sea? Granted it’s a nice view, but Tommy isn’t the type to stare at the sea for two fucking hours straight.

Suddenly Tommy’s head jerks a little and he shakes it erratically, eyes wide… Alright, either he’s putting on one hell of an act, or something is seriously wrong. And Tommy may be a scheming little cunt -a scheming little cunt with eyes men could drown in and a face chiselled by God himself, but a cunt nonetheless. But Alfie would like to think the two of them have some kind of understanding. And included in that understanding is that they’re upfront about their schemes and betrayals. This -the bare feet, the haunted look in his eyes, the fucking… sitting on Alfie’s steps for two goddamn hours without moving- this doesn’t seem like something Tommy would do.

Which leaves Alfie with the conclusion that something truly is very wrong. And it’s not very nice conclusion.

“Alright, Tommy, up you go,” he says and crosses his arms over his chest hoping to signal finality. “Get that scrawny arse inside and onto the sofa and I’ll have Esther make you a cuppa. Get you warmed up a bit. And then, like the truly saintly person I am, I’m going to call one of my men and get them to drive you home-“ That word, home, seems to register, even if none of the others do. Tommy shakes his head again, that erratic little shake. Still without looking at Alfie. “Yeah, sweetie, home. To that batshit crazy family of yours-“

That does it. Tommy’s entire body jerks as he stares up at Alfie, terrified. Clutches the arms tightly over his  chest.

“No.”

So he can in fact still talk…

“Sure. Bet they’re wondering where you’ve run off to-“

Tommy shakes his head so fervently that Alfie loses his train of thought. And then he grabs onto his trouser leg which, yeah, just seals the deal alright, something’s definitely wrong with him.

“No,” he repeats, “Please, please- they’ll- let them- Please I can’t- can’t be somewhere like that-“

Alfie decides that he’ll stop trying all together to make sense of what Tommy is saying. Besides, at the moment he’s thoroughly distracted by the fucking scar on the side of his head. He’s kept that side hidden, pressed close to the steps, but now he sees it. A red, angry line. Ridges and rivulets all along it. His hair has grown but that somehow just makes it all the more jarring.

Tommy grips harder onto his trouser leg and continues shaking his head and the thoughts about the scar will have to wait.

“Alright, alright, fucking hell I won’t call,” Alfie says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “ Let’s just go inside. How about that? You just come inside and sit there for a bit?”

God, why does he bother?

Because he’s bored.

And because he’s always had a week spot for pretty men, with pretty, blue eyes.

And empty, haunted blue eyes are still blue.

Those blue eyes are staring straight at his knee now, glazed over again, as Tommy keeps mouthing the word ‘no’ over and over. A cold gust of wind passes right through Alfie’s waistcoat and that settles it, he’s done standing here waiting. None to gently, he grabs onto Tommy’s upper arms and hauls him to his feet. He couldn’t have done that a year ago, but it’s a miracle what doing fuck all, getting plenty of sleep, and just generally being dead will do to a man. And Tommy was small to begin with, and has by now turned into the size of an injured bird. He sways precariously so Alfie pulls one of his arms over his shoulders. Tommy goes along with it as some kind of puppet with its strings cut.

“In we go, come on. Do you remember how to walk eh?” Alfie mutters and starts walking up the few steps to the front door. Tommy looks back at that spot again, between the two pillars. Because apparently two hours of staring at it wasn’t enough. But he does follow without a fight.

After a worryingly easy walk into the living room, Alfie deposits his precious cargo onto the sofa. Tommy pulls his knees up to his chest and curls himself into a corner, looking almost provocatively vulnerable. Alfie digs out several blankets from a chest he only now remembers he owns, and spreads them out over him without gaining much of a reaction at all.

He pops his head out in the corridor to get an excuse to look away from the unsettling sight, and calls for Esther. She appears moments later at the end of the corridor, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

“Make us another cuppa if you don’t mind, Esther. Strong and piping hot.”

With a nod she goes to carry the order out, and Alfie is forced to turn and face Tommy again.  

Tommy is looking right at him, eyes large and feral. They follow him warily as Alfie goes over to his armchair and slumps down in it.

“So, while we’re waiting, do you mind telling me where exactly you got that?” he says in obvious reference to the scar. He grins and gestures to his own, objectively much more gruesome one. “Did you feel a sudden urge to get a matching one, eh?”

Tommy blinks and his eyebrows draw together -second to his outburst a minute ago that’s the first sign he’s given of hearing Alfie at all. His eyes slip to the floor as he reaches up and runs the tips of his fingers over the scar. Patience isn’t Alfie’s strong suit and these interactions are quickly beginning to grate on him. And the thing is, usually this abject vulnerability would fucking provoke him. It doesn’t do to turn up at someone’s house in this state, least of all if that someone is a man like Alfie. Clearly Tommy has stopped viewing him as a possible threat. Silly boy should know better after so many years of this life -you can’t show weakness like that. People will exploit it.

But most of all, Alfie feels some bone deep fucking urge to… hurt whoever did this to Tommy. The list is long so finding someone to pin this on wouldn’t really be a problem.

The problem is that it’s entirely possible he did it to himself.

Tommy is still running his fingers along the scar. Over and over again, the same movement.

His eyes however have turned to one of the corners of the room. Alfie turns to look, it’s a in instinct really, but all he finds are the bookcases and the globe. Then again the bookcases are full of books and objects so there’s no trouble finding something to rest one’s eyes on. He thinks that Tommy might be looking at the stuffed crow.

“Yeah, got a funny story about that crow, don’t I? See that bird, that fucking bird had taken to waking me up every single morning by cawing real bloody loud,” he says and ignores that Tommy isn’t listening. “Drove me near mad. So one day I opened the window and shot it. Mind you it was an impressive fucking shot. Had a friend of mine stuff it to remind me that sleep’s important and all that, and that anyone who disturbs it might meet a quick and violent fate.“ It’s a lie of course, the thing about the crow. It belonged to a departed friend who thought it’d be funny to leave it to Alfie. “Which you have done by the way. Disturbed my sleep. So do you mind at least having the curtsey of answering my question?” He tries catching Tommy’s gaze but it’s hopeless. “Where did you get that scar?”

“I know,” Tommy mumbles to the crow. Or to the corner. Still touching the scar. “I’m sorry. I tried- I did-“

Alfie feels fucking queasy now. He should be used to seeing displays of human fragility, but this is making even him uneasy. When Tommy suddenly takes to violently scratching the scar, he shoots out of his armchair quicker than he’d like to admit, crashes down on the sofa and grabs his wrist. Staring at him with those wide eyes, Tommy fights him, weak as a kitten.

“Fucking hell, enough of this bloody nonsense, Tommy!“ He grabs onto his other wrist and holds it without much struggle, but Tommy just continues squirming, making terrified little noises behind closed lips. His breathing grows erratic, coming in quick bursts and Alfie can feel his pulse race underneath his fingertips.

“Tommy, no, fucking enough!” he barks and tries to somehow latch onto something in those terrified eyes. Tommy keeps fighting him, more of those little noises bubbling up his throat. It’s all wordless and feral and his breathing is so quick and shallow that he must be close to fucking passing out. He knows it’s physically impossible for a human heart to burst through a ribcage but still-

When Tommy pushes a foot out in a badly aimed kick at his ribs, a burst of hot rage swells behind Alfie’s temples- And he lets go of the bony wrists in pure shock.

“Enough!” he roars and when the growl does nothing except elicit another whimper from Tommy, he slaps him across the face. Hard. Seems to do the trick though. But instead of fighting and making those godawful noises, Tommy flings himself off the sofa and scoots backwards over the floor until he’s backed into a corner. There, he curls up into a tightly wound ball of limbs, arms over his head and head tucked in behind his knees.

Alfie just sits there on the sofa. Waits. But Tommy doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to hurt himself, but his entire fucking body is trembling and- Yeah, that’s… that’s not right, is it? Scratching his beard, he tries to swallow down the feeling of guilt bubbling up in his stomach. It’s as unexpected as it is unfamiliar.

It’s at that moment, Esther choses to show up with the tea.

“Oh dear,” she says, as she sets the tray down, eyeing Tommy with wide, worried eyes. “He’s in a bad way, isn’t he?”

Alfie only grunts in response.

“Would you like me to call the doctor? I could call Mr. Adelman-“

He shakes his head and staggers to his feet. “Nah, no fucking doctor. Don’t want to be dragging people out here until-“ Until what? Until he’s figured out what the fuck to do with this broken mess of a person who’s just decided to show up on his doorstep? Until he’s figured out what’s wrong with him? How he even got here… Why the fuck he’s here… Fuck, this is all together too much for one person to handle.

“Tommy? You planning on joining us anytime fucking soon, mate?” he asks and eyes the pitiful figure curled up in the corner. “Oi, I’m fucking talking to you.”

It’s useless, of course. It’s obvious Tommy can’t hear him, that he’s not all together there.

Not there at all.

“Oh for fucks sake!” Alfie exclaims. “All I fucking wanted was to live in peace and quiet, yeah? It was all going fucking brilliantly. And I let you into my house one fucking time and this is what happens? You just decide show up here like some kind of lost fucking dog-“

Esther hushes him. Fucking hushes him. But it takes him aback enough to quit yelling and stare at her instead. She takes a step back, eyes growing wide and he reckons he makes for quite a terrifying sight- the scar and hazy eye has added to that look. But then she squares her jaw.

“Apologies, Sir,” she says firmly. “But I really don’t think you should be yelling at him. That has rarely helped anyone calm down.”

He just stares at her. Bites his teeth together so hard that his molars fucking creak. And she stares back.

“May I?” she asks after several tense seconds have passed, nodding in Tommy’s direction. Tommy, who is still curled up into his protective little ball in the corner, trembling and now back to making those terrible little whimpering sounds again. Fuck, Alfie could shoot him right then and there for walking into his house and overturning everything.

For making him feel… whatever this feeling is.

But all he does is throw his hands up in defeat at Esther’s question and stomp across the room to retrieve his pipe just to have something to occupy himself with.

Esther meanwhile wastes no time, but slowly walks up to Tommy’s quivering form.

“Wouldn’t get too close if I were you,” Alfie mutters and shoves tobacco into the pipe with unnecessary force. “Might not look it but he’s a violent little thing.” And Esther has the guts to fucking huff at him, before she crouches down in front of Tommy.

That woman is all together insane.

Then again there was a reason he hired her out of all people.

“Hi there, love,” she says, gently, without touching him. “Did all that yelling scare you? Well, I promise that his bark is worse than his bite.”

Alfie rolls his one good eye -can’t really tell if his bad one rolls too, it tends to do whatever it pleases. Which Esther obviously can’t see so she continues, undeterred.

“You seem awfully cold. How about we get you over to that armchair, and I’ll give you a cup of tea…”

Alfie holds his breath when she reaches out and gently touches Tommy’s shoulder. He twitches, but does nothing else.

“You poor thing… Seems like you’ve been through enough as it is. But I promise you’re safe here. And I’ve told mister Solomons he can’t be yelling at you like that, so he won’t do that again-“

The fucking nerve. Why does he surround himself with these people willingly?

Esther has started rubbing Tommy’s shoulder and lo and behold, the shaking seems to subside. For some reason it incites more of that guilt, because clearly it’s not fucking impossible to calm him down, it’s just impossible for Alfie.

Underneath it there’s something else. Some unidentified feeling he refuses to acknowledge or put a label on right now, but it’s dangerously close to jealousy.

He focuses on lighting his pipe and looks out at the sea for a while, dreams of calmer, less complicated times when he was just a dead man minding his own business. Times like just yesterday.

Over in the corner, Esther has helped Tommy up on his feet and is now leading him to one of the armchairs. The softest one, with big plush cushions. Tommy’s eyes are flickering around the room, never in one spot for too long, but he obediently sits down and pulls his feet off the floor.

It’s strange, that. Tommy’s always had this rather reserved body language, preferring to cross one leg over the other instead of putting both feet on the floor in that wide stance and lean back in his seat as most men tend to. Not that Alfie pays any extra attention to Tommy or the way he likes to sit, but it’s impossible not to notice things like that and one must always be observant in this business… Point is, even though he always sits like he’s got a stick up his arse, Tommy never consciously makes himself smaller the way he is now.

“Here you go, dear,” Esther says and holds out a cup of tea for Tommy to take. “I don’t know how you take it, but I put a bit of milk in. And it’s not too hot, so you shouldn’t burn yourself.”

Tommy just stares at the cup, blinking. Esther waits patiently, but when he just keeps staring at it, she gently puts it down on the table next to the armchair.

“It’s alright, love, you go ahead and drink it in your own time,” she says softly, but there’s a concerned wrinkle between her eyebrows. “I’m going to go see if I can find you a pair of socks. And a jumper of some sort, you look awfully cold…” And with that she hurries out of the room with a somewhat admonishing look in Alfie’s direction.

Alone with Tommy again, Alfie finds himself at a loss. Clearly he doesn’t know how to handle this, so what is he supposed to do? But gentle and firm seems to be the route to go and he’s fucking capable of that isn’t he?  He’s not an animal. He takes a drag of smoke and watches Tommy, trying to figure out what to do now.

Tommy’s gaze has caught on something on the sofa and Alfie realises he’s staring at the blankets.

“You want them back, hm? Yeah, figure you do, you seem to be fucking freezing.”

He picks up the lot of them and goes over to the armchair. Of course Tommy doesn’t reach out for the blankets. Seems like he’s incapable of making decisions of his own if they don’t involve huddling in a corner. So Alfie picks out the softest one and unceremoniously drapes it over Tommy’s lap, trying to not get too close. But when Tommy doesn’t flinch, he actually takes care to drape the second one over his shoulders with a bit more precision. The last one he drapes across him too.

“There we go. Bet just warming up a bit will help. Never does anyone any good being that cold.”

He goes over to his own armchair and seats himself there; Tommy has gone back to emptily gazing at nothing in particular in that unsettling way, but his shoulders have dropped a bit.

Alfie decides to go back to the book he’s currently working on in an attempt to distract himself from this whole situation for a moment. There are about a million things he should be doing right now: Figure out what the hell is wrong with Tommy, where that scar came from, how he ended up here, why he ended up here... The list goes on, doesn’t it? But just thinking about it all makes him question this whole thing. What right does Tommy have to just fucking show up here and create all these questions? Granted, Alfie could call some people. Try to get some intel about what the hell has actually been happening in Birmingham this past month. But the thing is he was perfectly fine with just being dead. Sure, it may not be the most exciting or riveting of lifestyles but at least he got some fucking peace and quiet…

He’s honestly about to give up and demand that Tommy gets out of his fucking house. And he looks up to tell him that.  

Tommy is asleep in the armchair, blanket pulled up to his nose, bony fingers grasping the fabric. That fit must’ve drained the last bit of energy out of him. Not that he seemed to have much to begin with.

Alfie should wake him up. He should wake him up, drag him out of that chair, out the door and tell him to go back where he came from. So Alfie can go back to being a dead man in peace.

Long, dark eyelashes flutter slightly over the pale skin marred with dark circles. Tommy shifts the tiniest bit under the blankets and sinks a bit further into the cushions.

Alfie should wake him up.

Should throw him out.

But instead he just sits there watching him.

Fucking hell, what’s he gotten himself into... 

[alcego-writes]

Writing With ADHD

Writing is hard at the best of times, but when you have to add your brain to your list of obstacles, it gets exponentially more difficult. That doesn’t mean you can’t do it! Like most things, it just means you have to find a way to write that works for you.

I am notoriously ADHD. For the majority of my writing experience, I have done nothing but write short snippets of something and then disappear into obscurity because that was all I could manage to do. However, recently I’ve been able to spend time trouble-shooting my writing experience and that’s been a godsend. I’ve been writing consistently (at least four days a week) since mid-September of this year, something that was previously unthinkable. In that time, I’ve written roughly 82,000 words across several projects, which is more than I’ve written in my entire life, let alone over such a short span of time.

I’m not saying this to brag, although I am certainly proud of this, but to say that it is possible to write with ADHD. It is possible to write a lot with ADHD. And it is possible to write without being in agony with ADHD.

It’s not an easy process, as what works for writers without ADHD may not work for you, or may need to be tweaked considerably to work for you. So here I’ve broken down a few issues that I struggled with, as well as some ways to overcome those issues. (Note: These may not work for you, or may need to be changed to work for you. Don’t worry about that! All that matters is you’ve found a way to write that works for you.)

Inspiration Overload

You know what I’m talking about: when you’ve got one great idea, but before you can make any real headway on the project you get another great idea, but before you can get started on that you get yet another great idea, and so on and so forth. It happens to the best of us, and it doesn’t have to get in the way of progress!

Obviously there are a ton of ways to overcome this, but for this post I’m just going to focus on these three:

Idea Dumps

Multiple Projects

Work It In

1. Idea Dumps

It’s not exactly an attractive name, so apologies for that, but it does mean roughly what it says. Personally, I have two idea dumps: one is a Scrivener document where I jot down loose lines of inspiration or basic ideas. The other is a notebook where I loosely outline ideas so I can appease the side of my brain that demands I work on it right-now-immediately.

Obviously, there’s more options than just that. You may find that sticky notes or a legal pad or a Google Doc or the notes program on your phone works better. That’s fine! Just get the idea down, so you won’t have to worry about forgetting it and you get a little bit of satisfaction knowing you’ve gotten some work done on it.

2. Multiple Projects

If you can manage it, pull up several documents. Write down the idea and bounce between the docs as your inspiration shifts. This does require some self-control, namely knowing how many WIPs you can actively work on at the same time (and when you need to shift something onto the back-burner). 

This will look different for everyone. For me, I can work on two projects at a time when time and energy allows, but as soon as mid-terms/finals/holidays come into play, I have to shift my focus to one WIP or risk burning myself out.

Play with it! Look at your history of WIPs. When has it been the easiest for you to write? The hardest? Apply that to your writing routine and tweak it as needed until it works for you.

3. Work It In

This doesn’t work for all ideas, but finding ways to include a heist narrative in your vaporwave novel can be an incredibly rewarding feeling. To do this, consider your active WIP and the new idea you have. What does the new idea have that the other is lacking? Can the new idea be shaped to fit into the active WIP? 

For example, I developed the concept for my sci-fi novel from two different ideas. One was a young woman who doubled as a superhero trying to take down a corrupt government, and the other consisted of three clearly defined characters who lacked anything resembling a plot. By merging the two, I gave that WIP a well-rounded cast and ensured that those three characters didn’t waste away in my idea dump doc without ever getting a plot.

It’s trial and error, but it can work!

What the Fuck is a “Routine”

I don’t know about y’all, but I cannot function without a routine. I also struggle to establish anything resembling a routine without a lot of struggling. It’s hard! It’s difficult to do anything, let alone create a method of going about your day that leads to consistent productivity.

The biggest thing that helped me get a routine was to stop thinking about it as a rigid, immovable thing. Routines can be that, yes, but for me it was impossible to create a routine without trying to track my every task down to the minute. Which, if you’ve ever tried a routine like that and started falling behind, is a slippery slope.

Instead, make a list of the things you want to do every day, or every week, or every month. Look at the ones you want to do right now, and focus on doing those on a regular basis. Once you’ve worked that one thing into your day and can do it without struggling overmuch, you can start focusing on adding another.

For example, I wanted to write consistently. Not every day, but at least every week. And I wanted to have something to show for that, so I would be able to look back and say, “Hey, I’ve been doing good!” So I grabbed a sticky note, wrote the date on the top, and listed every day of the week on a different line. Each day I wrote something, I wrote the word count on the sticky note. At the end of the week, I totaled up what I wrote for the week and then stuck it in the front cover of my writing notebook.

I’ve spoken with people who take their planner/calendar and put one sticker per thousand words on the day they wrote (e.g. on November 28, I wrote 2,000 words, so I would put two stickers on November 28). You might grab a clear jar and some cotton balls/marbles/little rocks and put one in for every thousand words, or enter it into a writing program that tracks that for you. Whatever works!

The point of this is to give yourself a reward system. What I outlined above is a form of reward system, where you can see your efforts clearly and on paper. This is more effective for me than telling myself I can’t get on Tumblr/read/listen to a podcast until I’ve written x number of words, but there are different strokes for different folks. Play around with it, and find a way to reward yourself for your work! (Your brain will appreciate the dopamine boost, I guarantee it.)

Once you’ve added a few things to your daily/weekly/monthly tasks, you’ll have a routine! I like to break down my tasks as little bullet-points on a notepad so I can cross them out when I get done. (Right now my lists look like 1. Write, 2. Algebra HW, 3. Sociology HW, 4. Eat, if that gives you any idea of my priorities.

Burnout

This shit sucks!! You write 5k in one sitting and then nothing for the next eight months (I’m totally not speaking from experience... that would be.... ridiculous). It’s really disheartening, as it feels like you’ve lost all creative ability. You go to write but words Won’t Happen. The ideas don’t just turn stale; they disappear entirely.

It happens. Unfortunately, it does. Some people may call it writer’s block (which I could do an entire post about on its own, as it comes in so many different shapes and sizes) but in the end, all that matters is you Can’t Write.

Before you decide that writing just isn’t for you, take a moment to consider why you’ve burnt out. What external factors (school, work, social obligations) affected you? Were any internal factors (mental health, illness, bad break-up, etc.) getting in the way of your work? Is there anything you can do to ease those challenges?

You might be surprised to notice a few patterns. For example, I always struggled to write during a flare-up, or when my mental health got bad, or when school and work collided in disastrous ways. There isn’t always something you can do to fix those things, but just knowing that there’s a reason can be helpful.

Also, take note of when you start getting your mojo back. When do you notice the first ghostly shape of an idea taking form? When do you start itching to write? Music, relaxation, and days off can have a significant effect on your creative cycle.

In fact, your creative cycle will almost definitely insist you take days off. There’s a reason I don’t hold myself to more than 4 days of writing a week, and that’s because I know my limits. My idea-brain needs time to recharge, even if I can occasionally go weeks at a time without taking a break. (Which, for the record, usually results in burnout.)

Be kind to yourself. Take note of your patterns and play into them. Take time off, force yourself to write on the days when you know it’s just hell-brain throwing a tantrum, remember to eat and drink. You’d be surprised by how often burnout coincides with a decline in self-care.

Consistency

Routines aren’t all that matter. Consistency is key, and not for any of those bullshit “you’re not a real writer unless you write every day” reasons. Momentum is incredibly helpful, and you can’t build that unless you’re also developing good habits.

Routines can help build momentum, but the crux of it all lies in self-discipline. AKA ADHD hell.

Reward systems can help, as can accountability systems (like posting your writing progress every week...), but the biggest change for me was not any of that.

It was letting myself write badly, and celebrating those words anyway.

Sounds odd, right? Why would I celebrate what is objectively bad? It’s because a combination of ADHD-brain and my upbringing led me to develop a paralyzing case of perfectionism. What’s the point of writing it unless you do it perfect?

It’s better to write it badly and make sense of it later. As the saying goes, you can’t edit a blank page. Write badly. If you need to, turn the text the same color as the background so you can’t obsess over the quality. Write in Comic Sans (which is a very good font, but also incredibly difficult to take seriously) or something that you can’t read easily. Find a way to write garbage and then celebrate it. Celebrate the number, or the fact that you’ve gotten the dumbest version out and it can only get better from here.

By doing that, you allay fears of perfectionism. Practice makes perfect, and practice means several drafts, many of which will hurt to read. You’ll get better the more you write, and the more you write the easier it will be to push through the scenes that aren’t working. Hell, get into the practice of using brackets when you can’t think up the scene, or need a name, or need to do research, and just keep writing. No matter what, keep that momentum going.

If you need an outline to avoid getting lost, do that. If you need to feel free to explore the story without restraints, do that. Just write. Keep writing. It’s bad? Keep going. Your ideas will change; adapt to the new concept and make a note to yourself to fix the earlier aspects later. Keep going. 

And there’s obviously more I can go on about, but these are the main things that helped me. (Apologies if the text gets thick at times. Writing is one of those things I can talk about forever when the mood strikes.) Please let me know if there’s anything else you want to know! If you have any questions, feel free to pop into my ask box! I’m happy to chat.

[viridian-angel]

Black Pearl [Chapter 1]

Series: Original [Sara]

Genre: Thriller

Characters: Original [Rights Reserved]

Wordcount: 2,306

Prologue to this chapter here 

“Boss, you’re back!”

A round of cheerful hollers rose from the room as Sara entered, followed by a few confused mumbles and curious glances.

Held close to her chest, a frazzled-looking, skittish, scruffy black cat trembled in her arms, eyes darting around the room. Everybody gave it at least one look before returning their gaze back to Sara, who was currently more stone-faced than her typically charismatic and cool self.

“Uh… Boss? What’s with the cat?” one of her yakuza clansmen asked, scratching the back of his head.

“Ain’t that typical, goes out on a hit, comes back with a stray,” another joked, laughing to himself and stretching in his chair. The man behind him scooted closer in his chair, letting out a not so quiet whisper of “Isn’t that how she found you, dipshit?”, prodding him and laughing.

A massive man, about as tall as her and twice as wide approached her, reaching his arms out with palms open. “Here, I’ll take it, Boss. You still got blood on yer hands, you outta wash up.” Sara stared him in the eyes, conveying a silent message that he nodded in response to. She carefully offloaded the cat into his arms, the man holding it close to his shirtless, tattooed chest.

Sara took a deep breath and took a moment to stretch, clearing her throat. Everyone else in the room immediately fell silent and all eyes fell on her.

“Matano’s dead. Be on the lookout for retaliation– anyone loitering around the building, cars parked a little too long outside with no one coming out of ‘em. So on and so forth, you know the drill. As far as a lot of people are concerned, we’re even now. He put out the hit, he got hit back, no extra collateral racked up in the process. It’s about as cut and dry as you can get, we should be good– but you never know.”

Everyone in the room began to chatter quietly to themselves, picking straws as to who would be doing what and when. One of them spoke up above the rest, idly flicking the toothpick held between his teeth.

“’Grats Boss, but where’d the cat come from?”

“Heard it mewling from a janky old abandoned lot after I finished my business. It’s way too cold and wet out there right now for a stray to survive, so…”

She scratched the side of her head, just sort of ending the sentence there.

“Anyway, I need to wash up.” she continued, preemptively rolling up her sleeves. “Kentaro,” she addressed the large man, “Bring the cat to my room and just take care of ‘em for a little bit. As soon as I’m not covered in dry blood I’ll pay a visit to a convenience store and get some cat food for them.”

He nodded without another word, letting the cat have some wiggle room and shift back and forth between his massive hands.

Sara scrubbed her hands thoroughly in her bathroom, the dried blood on her hands flaking off and falling down the sink drain. She splashed some water into her face for good measure, drying her eyes with a hand towel and staring into the mirror.

“You’ve been dealt a real shitty hand–”

She shook her head. What could he have even meant by that? The implication was that something big was about to go down– but she hadn’t heard so much as a little blip on the radar regarding anything huge in the works. Then again, her clan was very much detached from any huge alliance– she was on her own, an outcast followed by punks. No one to answer to– but no one else on her side beside the people who pledged their loyalty to her. So, no one tended to give her friendly tidbits advice. Mainly, they just flung lead and shrapnel her way.

Cupping her hands, she gathered and poured water down her thick, silver hair. She worked little specks of red out of it the best she could, meticulous in her cleaning.

“All eyes are on you now, kid.”

More than usual? She was always going to be viewed as an unstable upstart to every other clan, and that much wasn’t new to her. What could she have possibly done? Something that he was going to do instead of her… something that he was sure of. What could he possibly be sure that she’d do?

She did a quick comb through her hair, pulling a hair-band from her pocket and tying it up into a neat ponytail.

“Guess I’ll just have to bide my time and find out…” she muttered quietly, stepping outside and walking into the main room again. Quick count– two, four, eight, sixteen… and Kentaro makes seventeen, in her office with that cat. Everyone here. Two of them were on relaxing back in their chairs while watching multiple camera feeds set around the surrounding streets and buildings. Five of them were playing cards and laughing together, waiting for their turns to do the basic tasks the others were currently taking care of. Three were doing routine check-ups and tune-ups on their small cache of weapons, four of them had taken point at the only reliable ways to enter the building, just out of view. The last two were hanging out in the kitchen attached to the main room, cooking a large meal for the rest of the group.

She couldn’t help but smile a little at it all. Despite not having any real instructions from her, they always managed to settle into the natural rhythm of work to keep the place safe. Sara knew she could trust each one of them, and it was the kind of peace that she always doubted she’d ever really be able to have.

“Boss!” one at the table shouted, reaching to the ground and flinging a raincoat up at her in one smooth motion. She instinctively caught it in her hands, earning a little dramatic “Ooooh!” and applause from the rest of the table.

“Figured you’d want to actually be a little dry when you go out there this time.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Michiya.”

The woman stepped into the rainy streets, now properly protected from the downpour the weather had turned into. Not cold enough for snow, but cold enough that this would turn pretty dangerous for anyone just trying to hang out outside. It was really late at this point, so most anyone would simply be sleeping at home. Anyone with a more… typical job, that is.

Sara looked around, eyeing the surrounding area for anything suspicious. Almost like clockwork, she saw a car parked across the street start up, lights flaring up.

She didn’t flinch, merely walking forward with an unsettling, unblinking glare focused on the car’s tinted passenger window. Within a few steps, the car’s tires begun to spin and screech against the street, quickly speeding off into the wet roads.

“Great. That’s real reassuring.”

Sara put her raincoat's hood up, taking more relaxed steps out into the rain. Whatever the case for someone to be watching her currently, she’d have to trust her crew to be able to handle themselves for now. She did have a hungry cat she needed to take care of right now.

There were few times in her life she had been happier for 24-hour convenience stores. It was a true boon to the people who didn’t typically get to live out their lives during the day– such was true for her now, and it was back when she was a temporarily homeless teenager. It didn’t take long for her to pick out a decent amount of cat supplies, pay for it, and get out.

From the crowd of people waiting for her outside, it looked like getting back home would be another matter entirely.

A large group of fourteen men formed a semi-circle a couple of meters away from her, all equipped with a range of close-range weapons from bats to katanas. Her eyes narrowed, observing all of them and making mental notes to herself.

“I don’t suppose you guys came to help a lady carry her groceries, did you?” she commented, forcing a laugh and shrugging her shoulders.

The most nicely dressed one of the bunch attempted to light a cigarette, not offering a response as much as his frustrated noises over the rain.

“Tsk. Real shitty weather tonight, huh?” he said dryly, giving up and tossing his now soggy cigarette onto the ground.

“Yeah.”

A tense silence fell over them before the man started to speak up again.

“So, Matano finally bit the dust, huh?” he muttered rhetorically, leaning against his car and sighing. “Well, I suppose that’s what he gets. Not really a smart idea to go starting shit when we got more important things to be doin’.”

Sara remained silent, keeping her eyes trained on everyone she could to be ready for an attack at any moment. The man straightened himself up, walking with a casual pace up to Sara. He stopped about half a meter in front of her, hands in his pockets. Looking her up and down, he let out a short whistle. Sara’s left eye twitched.

“Well, they weren’t kidding when they said you were big, huh?”

“Am I supposed to know who you are?” she said, an unsettling grin spreading across her face.

“Nah, not really.” he replied, looking past her at the bag of cat supplies she was holding. “Just Matano’s soon to be replacement. You really opened up a spot for me on the ol’ corporate ladder. Say, what’d you got there in the bag–”

The second he began to reach for the bag, Sara’s free hand lashed out and tightly wrapped around his throat. He let out a startled sputter and wheeze, his hands instinctively latching onto Sara’s to try and pry it free. No matter how hard he attempted to, he didn’t get so much as a budge.

The men behind him stumbled a bit in place, quickly readying their weapons and inching closer.

Sara squeezed tighter, eliciting another pained grunt from the man in her grasp. “Name.” she commanded, her eyes hard at work keeping tabs on each yakuza as they moved forward.  

“N… Noboru…” he managed to choke out, relinquishing his grip on her hand and waving hurriedly at the men behind him. “F-Fucking stop moving you idiots! She could break my throat right now…”

“Okay, Noboru. I’ll fill you in on any details you might’ve missed. Matano died because he tried to kill me. I’m not looking to start shit, but when people try to hurt me, I can’t help but lash out. I don’t care if you’re his replacement, or you end up being the big bad boss of your clan. You don’t piss me off, stay out of our turf, and leave us alone, we’ll get along just fine.”

“G… Got it…”

Sara stared at him in silence for a few moments, before unceremoniously letting go of his windpipe. He sputtered and coughed, massaging his throat with a hand and stepping back. “J-Jesus, alright then… you really outta loosen up, lady. I thought you were supposed to be the goody-two-shoes pushover of the patriarchs around here…”

“I’m nice to those who deserve it. People who come up to me with their entourage of goons to small talk don’t really fit that description.”

“Fair enough,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t come here for a fight anyway. They’re just protection, really. More specifically, we’ve been searching around her for something…”

He scratched the back of his head, a knowing smirk on his face as he eyed Sara’s bag. “More specifically, Matano was around these parts looking for a little stray cat… it was pretty important, actually. I don’t suppose you happened to see one after you, uh… offed him, right?”

Sara kept a calm poker-face and shook her head. “No. Do you think I’d be looking for a cat in this weather?”

“Nah, I guess not. Just, you know… you happened to have a bunch of cat food and whatnot in that bag, and it seemed a little late to be going shopping for that kind of stuff.”

“I ran out of food. My cat’s hungry and yelling about it, so I went out.”

“Oh yeah? What color is it?”

“White.”

“What kind of cat?

“Persian.”

“What’s his name?”

“Yuuto.”

The rapid-fire exchanged paused for a moment, and he scratched his chin.

“Huh… so, a white Persian cat named Yuuto… how old is she?”

“He.”

His smirk widened, scratching the back of his head again and laughing. “Ah yeah, I’ve got a bad short term memory, sorry.” he said, casting Sara a cold glare despite the smile plastered on his face. “But you’d remember that for your own cat, of course…”

Sara returned the glare, but any trace of a smile was absent on her face. “Yeah. Are we done here now?” Sara hissed between clenched teeth, gripping her bag tighter.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to hold you from you cat any longer. Youta, was it?”

“Yuuto.”

“Right, right, sorry, sorry. I’ll getting out of your hair now.”

He opened his car door, taking a step inside before stopping. “Oh, and Miss Reighs…”

Sara didn’t offer a response, merely staring him down instead.

“… Might want to get indoors soon. Heard this weather was going to get even worse later tonight. Heh.”

He stepped fully into his car, sitting down and shutting the door as his crew begun to wander in different directions, offering her silent scowls.

Sara waited in place until all of them were out of sight, then let out a long, deep sigh. She tilted her head up, staring at the stormy sky and blinking through raindrops.

And then, a quiet, almost inaudible,

“What the fuck?”

[carryonmyswansong]

Mother’s Day Introductions - a Sterek Oneshot

This blog publishes works of fiction that contains adult themes and subject matters. Please do not read, like, reply, or reblog, from this blog, if you are under the age of 18.

Summary: Stiles visits the cemetery, on Mother’s Day. Derek finds him there, but not where he was expecting. Word Count: 2696 Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Talia Hale, Claudia Stilinski, Noah Stilinski, Peter Hale, Melissa McCall-Argent, Chris Argent, Pairings: Stiles x Derek Warnings: Sneaky Stiles, Mother’s Day, Fluff, Established Relationship, Love Confessions, Sterek, Meeting the Parents, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Good Peter Hale, Mention of Tragic Deaths, Future Fic, Stiles Is In His Mid 20s, Pack Mom Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah A/N: I wrote this for Mother’s Day. My own mom is alive but I haven’t seen her in a very long time. Life and circumstance. We are in contact but I miss her very much.

POVs change from Stiles to Derek, and merge in the middle of Derek’s POV without a label. All POVs are written in second person. Past events are in italics.

Beta’d by @arrow-guy. Thank you so much! <3

Fairy Lantern Flower Info and Meaning

Angelic Symbol Chart

Snapdragon meaning, under “ANTIRRHINUM”

Link on AO3 Mobile Masterlist

All page dividers were created by me. If you’d like to use them, please message me. I make these to sell and offer sets of two for $3.

Stiles’s POV

Stiles has done the research. He put in the hard work. He is ready. A little nervous, since today is the big day, but it isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Probably has something to do with the fact that he is going to go see his mom, after he is finished.

When the town of Beacon Hills was established, a very large dedication monument was placed in, what is now, the very center of the cemetery. Under which, what changed to a memorial to the Hale Family, was a vault. Not many people were buried in this vault. Those that aren’t, still have their names and birth and death years chiseled on its base. There are a lot of names, but some are missing.

Stiles had visited his mother a couple of months after he and Derek became official, and true to his nature, Stiles’s curiosity got the best of him. He went to lay a rose at the base of the Hale Memorial, and found that all those lost in the tragic Hale fire, were missing. He vowed to have them added, even if he had to do it in secret.

It would be two years before he was able to master the spell to permanently carve words into stone. The hard work would pay off, though.

Stiles talks to his dad about his idea and, good man that he is, Noah helped him figure out the names and birthdays of everyone lost. Stiles even asked Peter, who was reluctant to help, though he did, eventually. Peter filled in the blanks of those the police couldn’t identify. Sadly, there was a life lost that hadn’t had a name yet and Stiles’s mood had darkened when he added the final entry to the list of those lost in the fire, as simply “Baby Hale”, with the year of the fire. Under that name, Stiles added Derek’s sister, Laura, since she was the most recent death.

It is the name at the top of the list, that he is focused on today. He is gifting his chosen family with the proper memorial they deserve.

Stiles exhales a shaky breath as he adjusts his tie and runs his fingers through his hair. He takes another deep breath, steels his nerves, and walks to the large monument. It is very early in the morning and he knows he won’t be caught.

Stiles stands on the short path leading to the monument. Concentrating, he wakes his magic to full charge, silently reveling in the way it lights up under his skin and flares in his eyes. He feels the power start from his chest and radiate out. Once it reaches his fingertips, he sweeps his hands in the air and cleans the walking path until the concrete looks like it was freshly laid. Next, he does the same for the entrance to the underground tomb and the stairs leading down into it. He doesn’t think it appropriate to enter, so he leaves it alone.

Once everything but the monument itself is clean, he lays out a towel he brought with him, and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. Kneeling on the towel, Stiles sets the piece of paper on the ground in front of him. He concentrates, allowing his magic to fill him, once more. It pulses with anticipation, waiting for his instructions. Taking a deep breath, he holds his hands side by side, palms facing the stone, thumbs touching. Lining up his hands, and looking down at the paper, he lets his mind and magic meld for the task at hand and power flows from his palms.

He is at it for over three hours, before the final name, Laura Hale, is carved in the stone. It is time consuming, delicate work, and he wants to ensure the monument doesn’t get damaged by accident. The magic begins to take its toll and sweat is trickling down the sides of his face, and down the center of his back from the effort. Once he is finished, the magic flowing from his hands dissipates and he looks up, a smile bubbling up from his belly and warming his face.

He catches his breath and sits on the towel, trying to regain feeling in his legs. Once he feels he has enough strength built back up, the last thing he does is clean the monument itself, and blanket the ground around it in several rows of Fairy House flowers. Satisfaction shows on his face, as the monument looks as new as it did the day it was installed, with the addition of the new names. Exhaustion starts to seep into his bones, but he knows he can’t sleep here, even though everything in him wants to.

He sits in quiet contemplation as he builds his nerves back up. He is actually here to introduce himself to the Matriarchal Alpha, who just so happens to be his boyfriend’s mother. He knows she isn’t actually in the vault or buried anywhere on the grounds but this place is symbolic, and he can still feel the power of it. He knows that if her spirit were to visit Beacon Hills, this is the place she’d pick.

Stiles takes a deep breath, while his eyes are closed, and clears his mind. He focuses on what he wants to say and begins.

“Hello, Alpha Talia Hale. I am Mieczyslaw Stilinski. Most people just call me Stiles. I am the Spark of Beacon Hills, and I am in love with your son…”

Derek wakes and stretches, spreading his whole body across the bed. Without thinking, he sweeps his hand along the side of the bed that isn’t his, and scrunches his face. He opens his eyes and blinks a few times, remembering that Stiles slept over at the Sheriff’s house so that they could have breakfast together. Today is Mother’s Day and both men would be honoring the women they miss the most.

He gets up and goes through his morning routine, then makes his way to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. He hums in appreciation, noticing that Stiles set the timer on it, before he left last night, so Derek would wake up to fresh coffee. He smiles as he fills his cup.

Once he’s had some coffee, and something to eat, he gets dressed, and heads out the door. Today, he’s decided to visit the Hale Memorial. Since rebuilding Hale House, and living on the grounds that his family died on, his feelings towards the space changed from one of sadness to feeling whole again. It feels more appropriate to visit his mother, where the rest of his family is honored, even if the most recent Hale deaths aren’t cataloged there. He thinks that maybe he can begin to finally plan to add the missing names.

Arriving at the cemetery, Derek parks his car and makes his way along the winding path. Halfway to his destination, he smells a familiar scent in the air. Stiles is here. Derek assumes he is visiting Claudia’s headstone and makes a beeline in that direction, hoping to see his love.

Disappointment crosses Derek’s face when he reaches the headstone of one Claudia Stilinski and there isn’t even a sign that Stiles has been there. Stiles’s scent is still on the wind, so he knows that the man is nearby. He continues to walk to the Hale Memorial, stopping short when he sees Stiles kneeling in front of it. He moves closer when it looks like Stiles is going to speak. Derek is very curious as to what he’s going to say. What he hears next, has Derek standing there, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Hello, Alpha Talia Hale. I am Mieczyslaw Stilinski. Most people just call me Stiles. I am the Spark of Beacon Hills, and I am in love with your son. Derek is such a good man. I didn't know you, but I have a feeling you’d be proud of him. He has come a long way from being the kid who first took the Alpha spark. He eventually gave it up to save his sister, and then became a True Alpha, after dying and coming back in a fully shifted Wolf. The Pack is stable, even if it is full of a bunch of misfits who love each other enough to kill and die for each other. I know Derek was never meant to be the Alpha, but I honestly couldn’t imagine anyone else keeping this town safe. I’m so proud to call him my boyfriend, my partner, and my Mate. One day I hope to call him my husband, but that is a different conversation entirely. What I want to do, today, is introduce myself to you and your family, and to thank you. I know you didn't have Derek as a gift to me, but I am so thankful he is in my life. I would have died, so many times, if it weren’t for him. My hope is that I can be a man that you’d be proud to call Pack, as well as your son-in-law.”

By the time Stiles finishes saying his peace, he is sniffling. Derek is was actively trying not to let the tears in his eyes spill down his face. He decides to back up from where he’s standing and act like he was walking up, as he clears his throat. This gives Stiles a chance to stand, and fold the towel he brought. He stuffs the list of names in his pocket and turns around when he finally hears Derek.

His expression sinks as he takes in the blank face of his Mate. “I’ll just..” and he makes a vague motion in the direction of the small path and starts to walk away, embarrassment making his face hot and red; rejection making his heart heavy.

“Stiles! Wait!” Derek finally shouts, coming to his sense. What Stiles thought was anger or rejection, is just shock. Derek had no idea Stiles felt the way he does. They hadn’t talked about being Mates. Taking the step from being normal human boyfriends, to crossing the cultural barrier into werewolf mating rituals. Which is basically a marriage contract.

Stiles puts his hands in his pocket as he’s walking and then he hears it.

“Misha Stilinski, you get your ass back here, or so help me!”

Stiles stops walking and winces at the nickname, but slowly smiles as he realizes the tone is playful, not angry.

He turns around and faces Derek, an expression of shyness on his face. Derek motions for him to come back, with his arm out like he wants to hug Stiles.

And that’s just what he does, when Stiles gets to him. He slings he arm around Stiles’s waist and pulls him close. “What are you so afraid of? You smell terrified.”

“I… uh..” Stiles stammers and then just gestures wildly to the monument and surrounding space.

Derek follows the direction of his boyfriend’s flailing hands and the look of complete shock sweeps over his face. “You cleaned it! And put flowers in.”

“I did something else” Stiles mumbles, almost too quiet for Derek to hear.

They walk closer to the monument and Stiles tries to squirm out of Derek’s grasp. He doesn’t let him and just squeezes him tighter. Stiles goes stiff once he hears Derek gasp in surprise.

Derek lets Stiles go, as he falls to his knees, hand outstretched, running his fingers over the new text adorning the stone. He crushes some of the new flowers, but doesn’t pay them any attention. His eyes are swimming with tears as he traces each letter and number reverently his fingers.

“You did this?” he asks Stiles, not really expecting an answer.

“Yeah, Sourwolf, I did it for you. I wanted it to just be here when you next visited. I didn’t expect you to show up here. I assumed you’d just think Peter did it or something.”

“Oh Stiles, you beautiful idiot.”

He gets to his feet again, as he says this. He grabs Stiles and hugs him tight, tears silently falling down his face. Stiles brings one of his hands to Derek’s hair, toying with it reassuringly, and holds on to Derek’s middle as tightly as he can with his other. They stay like this for several minutes.

“Hey, before we go, I have someone I need to introduce you to”, Stiles says, as he slowly ends the hug and steps back a little. He looks down at where Derek crushed some of the flowers and fixes them with a sweep of his hand. Derek looks at him curiously, but nods his head. They hold hands as they walk down the path and through the rows of headstones and end up in front of the one for Stiles’s mother.

Stiles kneels in front of it and uses his magic to clean the stone and clear the space of any fallen leaves or stray grass clippings. In the attached vase, he adds a bunch of snapdragons in assorted colors, his mom’s favorite flowers.

Stiles grabs Derek’s hand and pulls him down so that Derek is kneeling next to him. Stiles gives him a warm smile before turning back to his mom’s headstone.

“Hey Mom. I know it’s been a while. I miss you so much. The Pack is doing great. No new disasters, but Dad finally accepted that he has been Pack for at least the last few years. The Pack spend a lot of time at his house now. It’s actually really sweet how they all started calling him “Dad”. Anyway... Today is Mother’s Day and I wanted to come see you. You know how I go on and on about the Alpha of our Pack, and all the brave things he’s done? Well, he’s here with me now. Mom, this is Derek Hale. The love of my life. Derek, this is my mom, Claudia.” Stiles takes Derek’s hand and places it on the headstone, in the center of her name. As soon as Stiles lets go of Derek’s hand, a spark of light flashes under his palm for a brief moment. Derek looks at him, questioningly.

“Wasn’t me, Der. I think that was Mom. I can feel her here, sometimes.”

Derek pulls his hand away and on his palm is a rapidly disappearing symbol. It is a heart with three dots under one of its sides. Derek knows this symbol, because of the books Stiles has scattered around their home. It is an Angelic symbol that means “universal love”.

“I guess that means she accepts you.” Stiles smiles wide at Derek and kisses him, deeply.

Derek and Stiles linger for a moment, before they both stand. They walk hand in hand until they have to separate to get to their own vehicles. They kiss before they depart, and both drive back to their shared home.

Once they both arrive, Derek waits for Stiles to climb out of his Jeep and join him on the porch, before he opens the door. When he does, Stiles is greeted with a very loud shout of “HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, PACK MOM!”

Stiles stands there in shock. The whole house is full of people. Melissa, Chris, and Noah are there. The entire Pack, including spouses and children, extended family of the main Pack, and even Peter is there, with a genuine smile on his face, no less.

Derek guides him into the dining room, to table full of food and a large tower of plates. Everyone else follows in behind them and lines up. “Let’s eat!” he declares.

After everyone has gotten a plate and sitting on whatever chair or surface they can, Stiles looks around at his giant family and he can’t help but feel his eyes get a little misty. A single tear slips free and Derek catches it with his thumb. No words are exchanged because the whole house has the sweet scent of love and happiness floating in the air. Derek leans in and Stiles meets him halfway, in a tender kiss.

Today is a very good day.

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[cleansingbrushblog-blog]

Debunking 12 Myths About Cleansing Brushes

LET’S DEBUNK 12 MYTHS ABOUT FACIAL BRUSHES They’ve been on the market for quite some time now, but facial cleansing brushes are still trending in the world of skincare (and for a good reason). When it comes to exfoliating, polishing and improving your complexion, there’s just no competition. Here are just a few reasons why a facial brush is the pinnacle of skincare: 1 . Offers a deeper and more thorough cleanse than just using your fingers or a washcloth. The bristles penetrate further into the surface of your skin, getting rid of more dirt, debris, and oil.

2 . Your skin renews itself every 28 days and exfoliation from a cleansing brush speeds up this process. 3. Exfoliation tightens skin, shrinking the appearance of pores over time. Learn more info. check out here: face cleansing brush 4. Using a facial brush stimulates the surface of your skin, making it more radiant and smooth. 5. Your lymphatic system collects cellular waste and delivers it to your blood for elimination. Facial brushes stimulate this process and help your skin “detox”. 6. You’ll be prepped for the rest of your skincare routine. Your serum and moisturizer, for example , will be easily absorbed so you’ll see better results. Don’t forget to always follow up with SPF. Despite these amazing benefits, there’s a lot of misinformation and confusion about these must-have skincare tools. So , let’s start by debunking 12 of the most common misconceptions about them. 1 . “They’ll irritate my skin and make me break out. ” It’s all about knowing your skin type, prepping it for cleansing and using the brush the right way. Whether you prefer a makeup remover wipe, micellar water or an oil cleanser, remove your makeup before using a cleansing brush. It can’t completely remove makeup by itself. In fact , it can actually push makeup deeper into pores, causing breakouts. Use plenty of cleanser and water on the brush head to avoid irritation. It’s normal to experience an acne flare-up after using a cleansing brush for the first time. This is called the “adjustment period”, “transient acne” or “skin purging”. Generally, your cheeks, temples, and chin are the most prone to breakouts. The reason for this is that your skin is shedding dead skin cells at a faster rate than normal and all the underlying bacteria are coming to the surface in the form of pimples. You should see an improvement within 2-3 weeks. Just stick with your usual routine and your skin will begin to look better than ever. If it continues or gets worse (like redness, dryness sensitivity), it’s okay to take a break until your skin calms down and goes back to normal. After you’ve given it some time, slowly reintroduce the brush again (once a week is good). 2 . “I have sensitive skin. So , I can’t use them. ” That’s not necessarily true. You just need to use caution and make sure you don’t go overboard. Stick with a cleanser that you already know your skin can handle. Use the brush 1-2 times a week and think of it as a treatment for your face. Make sure to use a light hand and don’t use it on your face for too long. Finer, thinner bristles, like a silicone brush head, will be gentler on your skin and won’t be so abrasive. 3. “I’ll just spread bacteria around my face. ” This will only happen if you don’t cleanse your brush head properly (which you should do after every use). Rinse it under warm water and use an unscented liquid soap to remove dirt and makeup residue. Then, massage the bristles clockwise with your clean fingers for 1 minute, switch to counterclockwise and repeat. This prevents breakout-causing bacteria from building up. Once a week, soak the brush head in a bowl of rubbing alcohol for 1 minute (and don’t rinse). This will kill any remaining bacteria. Make sure to always let your brush head air-dry on a clean towel in a well-ventilated room. To remove residue or buildup on the handle, clean it at least once a week by removing the head attachment and wiping it thoroughly with a damp, soapy towel. For the best results, replace your brush head every 3 months and never share it with other people. 4. “I’ll exfoliate too much. ” Too much exfoliation can lead to red, irritated, dry skin that feels scratchy or tight. No matter your skin type, start off slow (1-2 times a week) to see how your skin reacts. Then you can slowly work up to the usage that’s right for you. Dry and sensitive skin types should stick to 1-2 times a week, while oily skin types can work up to once a day. You might even consider getting a two-speed brush so you can start on the lower speed and work up to the second speed gradually. No matter the brush, avoid the delicate eye areas. 5. “They’re too expensive. ” While cleansing brushes can get pricey, there are plenty of affordable options out there (like ours). Think of it as a long-term investment for your skin--it’s worth the cost. Consider that you might spend as much (or more) visiting your dermatologist, esthetician, going to a spa or fixing a skin problem that could’ve been prevented. Using a cleansing brush is a proactive approach to skin care. 6. “I have acne. So , there’s no way I could use one. ” Cleansing brushes can actually help treat acne by helping to eliminate excess sebum, which contributes to acne breakouts. You just have to pick the right one and the right cleanser to go with it. Anything that’s too harsh can exacerbate acne. Try slowly working up to using the brush 2-4 times a week and pay attention to whether pimples become aggravated. If they do, scale back or take a break. Note: Use caution around cystic acne, which occurs deep below the skin and is often painful. Brushing can irritate the cysts, leading to more irritation and allow more bacteria to enter the pores. 7. “They’re all the same. ” There are plenty of brands that have their claim to fame or declare their cleansing brush the “best”. But , not all brushes are created equal. Find one that’s right for your skin’s specific needs and your lifestyle (i. e. rechargeable vs . battery powered). First, quality varies and this is reflected in the pricing. And, some--including ours--are cruelty-free. Second, different cleansing brushes serve different purposes. For example , some increase collagen production to target fine lines and wrinkles, while others aim to diminish the appearance of pores. There are even waterproof ones available. Third, brush heads are unique. Some come in kits and for some brushes, you have to buy them separately. They also can be interchangeable. Also, they can spin in different directions (i. e. clockwise/counterclockwise). For example , some rotate, some pulse and some oscillate a certain number of times per second. They usually come with multiple speeds. Brush heads are made out of different materials, like nylon, latex or silicone. They can be natural or synthetic. And, depending on their purpose, some are finer and others are more thick and coarse. 8. “It doesn’t matter what cleanser I use with the brush. ” Choosing a gentle cleanser that works well with your skin will give you the best results. A cream, foaming or gel formula will work best with the cleansing brush. Don’t use a physical or chemical exfoliant when using a cleansing brush (i. e. a scrub with little beads or nuts, or a cleanser with glycolic acid). That’ll provide too much exfoliation and can cause a range of other problems (like breaking down skin tissue). We recommend our Main Squeeze Daily Cream Cleanser. It goes on like a cream and begins to lightly foam when wet, giving you a gentle (and therapeutic) cleansing experience. 9. “They’re not worth the hype. ” There’s no arguing, cleansing brushes have become a staple in many skincare routines because they deliver noticeable, positive results. Your skin is the largest organ on your body and it needs to be cared for. And, when you consider you can get professional results without having to go to a dermatologist or esthetician, it’s hard to see a downside. They’re also portable and extremely efficient, surpassing most other cleansing methods. Even better? They come in different colors and sizes, depending on your preference. 10. “They’re hard to use. ” They may look intimidating, but they’re actually fairly easy to use. In fact , they are far less work than traditional methods like your hands or a washcloth. Before buying one, it helps to do research and read reviews online. It’s never a bad idea to ask your dermatologist or esthetician for their recommendations and advice. Just make sure you read the instructions carefully and don’t be afraid to reach out to the company if you have any questions. Some of the best advice? Make sure you’re not pushing the brush down on your skin too hard. Wet your face and brush first and apply a nickel-sized amount of cleanser to the side of the brush (not the center). Let the bristles glide across your skin and use gentle, circular motions. As a general rule of thumb, cleanse your forehead, nose, and chin for 20 seconds each and cleanse your cheeks for 10 seconds each. Don’t do more than 1 minute. You’ll get the hang of it after a few uses. The only thing you have to remember is to charge it or replace the batteries and change out the brush head. 11. “My skin type doesn’t matter. ” This is far from the truth. For example , a person with acne-prone skin has different needs than a person with dry skin. Your skin type will determine what kind of cleanser and brush head to use and how often you should use it. Normal and oily skin types can eventually work up to using the brush once a day, while dry and sensitive skin types should stick to 1-2 times a week. In the end, you know what’s best for you. 12. “I can use the same brush on my entire body. ” This is strongly not recommended. If you use the same brush head on your body as on your face, you’re transferring bacteria and dead skin cells. This increases your chances of a breakout. Not to mention, the skin on your face is thinner and more delicate than the skin on your body. So , body cleansing brushes are designed differently. The bristles are firmer and cover more area. They can also be too harsh for your skin and can cause redness and irritation. The Honest Truth Cleansing brushes are some of the best tools for anyone’s skincare routine. Don’t be intimidated by them. Just remember to do your research and ask questions. With time and effort, you’ll notice a visible change in how your skin looks and feels. If you’re looking for a cleansing brush that’s right for you, check out our best-selling facial brush and get a secret discount. To know more details visit here: facial cleansing brush

[lalainajanes]

I hope you’re still doing these: ❤️ 24. Soulmate AU + 95. Sleep intimacy

Technically a sequel (to Everywhere With You) which might be cheating but shhh. It just worked too well!

When he hears the crunch of tires on gravel, Klaus makes a sharp turn, heading for the stairs. He briefly considers taking a detour to his room for a shirt but decides against it

It’s possible he’d just be ruining it so why bother?

Klaus hopes his visitor is trouble, someone he can hurt. Perhaps Caroline had finally informed The Salvatores he’d returned and they’ve come to huff and puff. That could be amusing. Caroline’s more fond of Stefan so Klaus will leave him be. Damon, however, he can probably get away with maiming.

It’s been twenty days since he’d left Caroline at Whitmore and he’s only had himself for company. Elijah had gone back to New Orleans as soon as they’d been sure Klaus could maintain his human form, with strict instructions to visit the witch who’d advised them and check that she’d not breathed a word of Klaus’ predicament.

To guarantee that she never could.

It’s not the longest stretch of solitude he’s ever endured, far from it, but circumstances have made it challenging. The first day he’d felt better that he had since he’d first left Mystic Falls, clear headed and able to concentrate. He’d plowed through a number of emails and reports - business and property matters Elijah had been nagging him about, only fair since his brother was keeping things tidy for him - and then shut himself up in his studio.

Produced work he didn’t hate for the first time in ages.

His ease had only lasted a few days, had begun to leach away until he was once more restless and easily aggravated.

He’d have to order another dining room set, the last one was now little more than kindling. All because Klaus had gotten a splinter.

He’s been told Caroline’s not faring better. He’s got guards stationed near her, tasked with ensuring she stays safe and that no one else was watching her. He won’t have her hurt to get at him. They report that she’s going to class, then back to her dorm, that she looks tired and unhappy.

Klaus doesn’t receive the news gladly, but there’s a grim sort of satisfaction to the knowledge that he’s not suffering alone.

The impulse to go to her has become a steady pulse, a knot of pressure that rests heavy at the base of his skull and leaves his skin prickling. It’s nearly impossible to ignore. He thinks it might start to hurt soon.

If so he’ll grit his teeth and bear it. Caroline will have to come to him. It’s why Klaus hasn’t turned. His wolf is harder to control, less reason more instinct, and he’d be loping off to Whitmore as soon as his paws touched the earth.

He doesn’t bother with lights as he stalks towards the foyer. He’s been pacing the house for days, could navigate around the furniture even without his enchanted senses.

He’d heard the vehicle roll to a stop. It’s engine had been cut but there had been no telltale creaking of metal to indicate a door opening, no footsteps either. Klaus is poised by the door, listening carefully for movement, ready to spring.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket and Klaus deflates, his fangs retracting.

If his guest is calling ahead it would be bad form to kill them. He only hopes he’s not being roped into some disaster because he really doesn’t have the patience to wade into whatever peril Mystic Falls is facing this week. He knows Caroline is perfectly safe, her mother too. Her useless friends aren’t his concern.

Caroline (1:46 AM): It occurs to me that you might deal with late night visitors creeping up to your house violently.

Caroline (1:46 AM): So don’t this time, okay?

Caroline (1:46 AM): Midterms start Monday.

He hears her car door open and Klaus’ control frays and he’s flinging his front door open and bounding down the steps before he can marshal it. He forces himself to still at the bottom, rocking back on his heels and grinding his bare feet into the stones of the driveway to center himself.

Caroline leans back against her car, shutting the driver’s side door. Her arms are crossed, banded tightly against her stomach and she’s looking at the ground. Klaus takes the opportunity to study her and what he sees makes him ache a little more.

He wants to touch her, and not just to soothe his own discomfort. Caroline’s too pale, her eyes visibly shadowed even in the dim moonlight. Her hair’s pulled haphazardly back from her face and she wears an oversized sweatshirt, ragged at the cuffs and hem, and not a speck of makeup.

She glances up at him, takes a faltering step forward. “I… I don’t know…” she trails off helplessly, her hand extended towards him.

That she’d come here, of her own volition, is enough of a balm to his pride. Klaus closes the distance between them, until her hand presses to his chest. Caroline’s fingers twitch at the skin to skin contact but she doesn’t push him away. He moves slowly, lifting his hand and resting it on the back of her neck, his thumb brushing her jaw.

Caroline’s spine loosens, her lashes fluttering as a sigh gusts from her parted lips. She drifts another step closer, pressing her other hand to him. “Huh. I was kinda hoping last time was a fluke.”

He tamps down the flare of anger ruthlessly. It won’t do to chase her away, not when she’s finally talked herself into coming to him. Klaus knows it’s only temporary, assumes she’s treating him like a fix, the midterms she’d mentioned looming.

Klaus can work with that.

“Sadly, this is not a brilliant plan to get closer to,you, sweetheart. We’re mates, there are side effects. I trust you’ve had a rough few weeks?”

Her eyes narrow, the fingers of her right hand curling until he feels the edge of her nails. The left remains a steady pressure over his heart, negating the threat somewhat. “Try to sound less pleased about my misery, okay?”

“It was entirely of your own choosing,” Klaus reminds her.

Her face falls, settling into tired lines, “Can we just… not?” she asks, sounding weary. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“Why did you come, Caroline?”

She closes her eyes, shoulders slumping. “I haven’t slept, like at all, in four days. I haven’t slept properly in… god, I don’t even remember.”

“Fifteen or sixteen days, I’d wager.” He says it gently, brings his free hand up to cover hers. He doesn’t sleep much as it is, a habit ingrained over centuries on the run, so the lack of rest isn’t as much of a hardship to him. Caroline likely still keeps to human rhythms.

She nods, swaying on her feet. “I still don’t get whatever… this is. Bonnie’s trying to track down her mom for me, to see if she can find anyone who knows something, but she’s not having much luck. I’ve been trying so hard to stick to my routine and I just can’t anymore. Every muscle in my body aches and my textbooks don’t makes sense and my notes from all my classes are crap and…”

Her breathing is coming quickly, her heart racing, and Klaus  applies just the smallest hint of pressure using his hand on her nape. It’s all the urging Caroline needs, moulding herself to him, arms wrapping around him so her hands can dig greedily into the muscles of his back. Her flushed cheek comes to rest on his shoulder and Klaus winds his hand into her hair, the other slipping under her shirt to rest on her curve of her waist.

She hums softly, the tension in her easing until her rests heavily against him. “I’ve had every book that even mentions mates sent to me here,” Klaus murmurs. “You can take some back to school with you.”

Caroline agrees with a small sound, but makes no move to leave his embrace. She speaks so softly he might not have heard her if he wasn’t a hybrid, “Can I sleep here tonight? I don’t think I can drive home.”

“With me?” Klaus asks, needing the clarification.

He can feel her face heat, hear the slight hitch of her inhale. “Yes,” she finally manages, the word muffled in his skin.

His grip on her tightens but she misses his reaction, caught up in her own turmoil and drowsing as she is. Just as well. His elation is likely inappropriate. “Of course, sweetheart.”

She makes a small noise of protest when he pulls away but Klaus maintains contact, bringing the hand he has on her side rest on the small of her back and guiding her to the steps. “Wait, I brought my books,” Caroline mutters, stopping once they’ve crossed the threshold.

Well, that’s certainly an interesting revelation. Klaus makes a note to bring it up when Caroline’s more coherent. She wouldn’t find him pressing her when she’s like this, so unguarded, endearing.

He sees no need to handicap himself, not when it seems like he’s managed to make progress.

“They’ll be fine in your car for the night,” Klaus assures her.

Caroline relents, stepping out of her shoes. “Yeah, I guess breaking into the sheriff’s daughter’s car outside of the local serial killer’s house would be pretty dumb.”

“Technically,” he points out mildly, “there are many local serial killers.”

Caroline laughs softly but she doesn’t argue and he steers them towards the stairs. She leans more heavily on him as they make their way upstairs, seems half asleep by the time they reach his bed. He tugs at the bottom of her sweatshirt, “Are you wearing anything under this?”

“Tank…” a yawn has her mouth opening wide and she shudders with the force of it. “Top,” she finishes. She reaches down and begins to pull it off. Klaus helps when it gets stuck halfway, pushing her arms up so he can get it the rest of the way off. She climbs in when he turns down the blankets, her hand grabbing his forearm and towing him after her.

Klaus can’t resist teasing her, “My, my, what a turn of events.”

“Shut up,” Caroline grouses. “I’m committed now.”

“To a good night’s sleep?” Klaus asks. He receives no reply and he’s not sure if Caroline’s ignoring him or if she hadn’t heard him, too busy getting comfortable. She rolls to her side, dragging Klaus with her (he goes willingly, of course) until he’s curled around her, his forehead resting on the back of her shoulder. Caroline gropes for his hand and leads it under the flimsy shirt she wears, presses it to her bare stomach with a sigh he thinks is content.

She’s soon soft against him, sleeping deeply. Klaus feels his eyes growing heavy with some surprise. He fights it for as long as he can, wanting to store this experience in his memory. He wants to be able to recall the texture of her skin, the scent of her hair. To learn the little movements and sounds she makes as she sleeps.

He’ll need them, he’s sure. Caroline’s committed to this night, to quieting her brain so she can conquer her coursework. He’s not sure what tomorrow will bring though Klaus suspects he can coax her into spending the day.

There’s a plush sofa in his studio, under a window. If she studies there while he paints, her powers of concentration will be at their peak.

At least that’s the hypothesis he’ll present tomorrow.

[eudaimonic-writes]

Whisper Your Love - Chapter 5

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14005500/chapters/32703936

Chapter 4

Masterpost

Despite what many may think, fitting in didn't come easy to Eddie Kaspbrak. As a kid he was better at dance and gymnastics than he was at football and basketball, and that made him the target of many bullies and rumours. Even before he knew what the word meant, he was being called a 'homo' in the halls and had other boys running away from him as if he had something they could 'catch'. This, of course, wasn't helped at home with his mother's constant worrying and over-protectiveness; not a day went by where she wasn't shoving pills down his throat and making up some new disease that Eddie must have because he sneezed twice in a row. 

The day Eddie realised the medications she had him on were all fake was both the best and worst day of his life, so to say; the worst because he realised that his whole childhood was wasted on sugar pills and missed field trips, birthday parties he couldn't attend because he was 'too sick' and clothes he never got to wear because they'd flare up his imaginary eczema. He remembered crying for hours on Chris' shoulder that day, ranting about all of the ways his mother had ruined his life, and then once he'd finally calmed down enough to take a breath, Chris had said something that completely changed his perspective. 

"But at least now your future can be your own."

And oh, was it going to be alright.

As soon as Eddie entered freshman year, he was signing up to every extra-curricular activity he could squeeze into his timetable. Track, Chess, Birdwatching, World History, and Cheerleading. 

He'd dropped out of track pretty quick, his short legs not much help in that department - not to mention the phantom asthma he was (at the time) still trying to get over - and, after a couple short months, Birdwatching had slowly gotten so mind-numbingly boring that not even Stan's presence could help it. Chess was a dud too, because he didn't like how the people in the club looked at him like he was an idiot just because he hadn't been playing since he was five - or something. The other two, though, the other two had been a success. 

Firstly, World History is where Eddie Kaspbrak met Ben Hanscom, and he may have not stayed in that club for very long either, but their friendship easily transcended the realms of after-school meetings in the library with the other history dorks into lunches, group projects, movie trips, and eventually a full-blown friendship. It helped that Ben got on so well with his other friends, and with Ben being the new kid, it was easy to fit him into their group. 

Secondly, Cheerleading. 

Eddie didn't think he'd be good at it; all of the boy's he'd seen on the squad were tall and muscular enough to hold up all of the girls, they were at the bottom of the pyramid, all tense muscles and lean backs and Eddie? Eddie wasn't. Eddie was small, muscled but not overly so, and even shorter than most of the girls on the squad who all somehow resembled supermodels. Eddie was better suited for the fancy tricks than the heavy lifting and, luckily for him, the captain at the time had seen Eddie's try-out performance and known. She'd smiled at him when she posted the team list a week later and that had been that - Eddie learned that he didn't need to be like the other boys, because boys can be on top of the pyramid too. 

His popularity had skyrocketed after that, and even more-so a year later when Chris made the football team, and they became Derry High's 'It' Couple. 

He made new friends- the Gretas who act like they're sisters with their rivalries but hard-core protectiveness of each other. Darla, a sweet girl with wild natural curls that she braids during game season, twisting ribbons that match her uniform and beads for good luck into the strands before tying it all back with a gigantic scrunchie. There's Audra, their captain, who dyes her naturally red hair black and denies it, even though they've all known each other since kindergarten and everyone knows. He met Mike through Chris, who he knows used to be home schooled before transferring in middle-school. 

You could say he's pretty lucky, to be where he is, all things considered - but luck has nothing to do with it. Eddie did it on his own, despite his mother's constant wailing and his own self-conscious setbacks, he did it all anyway.

And he's damn proud. 

Well, sort of.

"Your boyfriend bet me I couldn't convince you to come to the rager on Saturday." Eddie slams his locker shut, fixing Stan with as much of a glare he can muster when he really just wants to roll his eyes. 

"And you took that bet? Come on Stan, you know I hate parties and besides my-"

"Your mom won't like you staying out late, yes, but listen-" Eddie groans and begins walking, holding his Algebra book to his chest like a shield against whatever diatribe Stan is about to throw at him to convince him to go to the stupid party everyone has been talking about for the past week or so. "- you can say you're studying at mine and that you're staying over because you don't want to walk home late in the dark."

Eddie grunts noncommittally, and Stan sighs. "C'mon, Eddie, I really can't afford to give your boyfriend twenty bucks and if I can't convince you then-"

"Twenty bucks?" Eddie halts, pressing his arm into Stan's chest to stop him from walking too. He raises his eyebrow sceptically, taking in Stan's apprehensive face, and shakes his head. "Okay, no, what else?"

Stan goes red, "um, what do you mean?"

"Um..." Eddie mocks, "Stanley. Stan. I know you better than anybody else and I know for a fact that you don't care about parties, and that you definitely do not care about a dumb bet you made with my boyfriend."

"I do care." Stan mumbles, but Eddie waves him away. 

"So what else is it?" He asks. "Why is it oh so important to you that I attend this party-?"

"Rager."

"-and why are you trying to hide it."

Stan crosses his arms, and Eddie smirks, leaning back against whoever's locker they've stopped by and making a come-on gesture with his free hand. Eddie knows what the answer's going to be already, Stan is an open book by design, abhorrent of secrets of any kind - no matter how bad they may be - and there's only one topic that can make Stan break that rule of his because, if there's one thing Stan hates more than lies, it's crushes. Eddie just likes to torture him. Their staring match continues for a few moments before Stan relents with a deliberately bored sounding sigh. 

"I overheard Bev Marsh talking to Bill-" Eddie smirks, Stan ignores him, finishing his sentence in a breathless rush like it physically pains him to admit it. "And that new kid about it and they both said they'd be there."

"Aw." Eddie croons. "Stanley you're blushing!"

"Shut up." Stan grumbles. Eddie cackles delightedly. 

"You know, I think I will go. If only to watch you stare at Denbrough from the farthest corner away from him for the entire night."

"You know, I actually don't want you to come anymore." Stan deadpans, scowling lightly. 

"Too late." Eddie singsongs. The warning bell interrupts anything Stan might have said, and Eddie takes it as an opportunity to make his escape before Stan can eviscerate him with his glares. 

  *

 The Rager, predictably, is exactly the opposite of anywhere Eddie would choose to be on a Friday night. He'd much rather be at home, coming up with routines while listening to his own - good, if he does say so himself - music, and not standing in a freezing cold clearing, wishing he'd worn a heavier jacket, and listening to a drunken Chris ramble on about some football move he's trying to perfect. Chris is well on his way to drunk, and Eddie lost Stan some time ago to the crowd, the little shit. 

Ben had disappeared too, mumbling something about finding a bathroom (as if there even were any this far out at the Quarry), but Eddie had just rolled his eyes at the obvious lie and let him go. 

Chris seems to have realised that Eddie isn't really listening, because he presses his thumb into the crook of Eddie's elbow to get his attention before nodding down to the empty cup Eddie had been holding since he finished his first drink when he first got there. "Do you want another one?" He asks, already veering off towards the drinks table. 

Eddie's eyes widen, grabbing Chris by the back of his letterman jacket - that definitely needs to be washed since Eddie doubts he's let his mom touch it since he first put it on two weeks ago - and pulling him back and away from the overflowing 'bar'. "Nope." Eddie says, "No more, you're trashed, and I'm not dragging your ass home again. How about we go dance?"

Chris pouts, but Eddie pouts better, and he's soon getting his way, pulling Chris to the dance floor by the hand smugly. They're dancing to a song Eddie doesn't recognise when he spots Stan shuffling his way through the crowd. Their eyes meet and Eddie smirks as he trails his gaze pointedly to the corner he'd seen Denbrough standing in about a half-hour ago. Sure enough, the quiet boy is still there, staring down at his phone with a quizzical little tilt to his brow as the lanky looking boy next to him chugs at his cup. Stan's gaze follows his own and, when Eddie looks back, he's got an expression on his face that Eddie considers Stan's form of blushing - something between stony, scared, and like he just ate something exceptionally sour. 

Eddie laughs to himself, just as Chris decides to pull him even closer. "What are you laughing at?" He asks, and Eddie chuckles as he stands on his tippy-toes to peer over Chris shoulder. Stan is looking anywhere except at him - his gaze mostly flicking from Bill's dark corner to the bonfire a few feet away where the stoners are sitting. 

"Oh, nothing." Eddie sighs, "Just Stanley's insane crush on Denbrough..."

"He's still into that guy? Isn't he a little emo for Stan's tastes?"

Eddie rolls his eyes, "Bill's nice, Chris, just quiet."

Chris hums. "Yeah, I guess. I'm going for another drink." This time, Eddie doesn't bother trying to stop him, knowing it'll just end in an argument. Instead, he ambles over to Stan who scowls at him harder and harder with every step he takes until Eddie is right next to him and Stan is outright glaring.

"Don't. Say. Anything." Stan greets him with, and Eddie chuckles, raising his hands in surrender. 

"Wasn't going to, just wondering how the bird watching is going?"

Eddie really is lucky Stan is a pacifist, or he's pretty sure he would've been toast by now. Eddie laughs at the half-pained, half-amused expression on Stan's face before glancing over to the drinks table where he'd left Chris. "Jesus... can't even go two fucking minutes." He mumbles. Stan's eyes follow his before he's raising his eyebrows.

"He's really drunk, huh?" 

Eddie nods. "I should go and get him home before he punches that guy in the face."

 *

 Eddie has never been so cold in his life. The cold in his bones and soaking into his skin takes up the larger part of his thoughts until there's no room for any anger, fear or even hurt. He just feels cold. 

He's vaguely aware of someone talking to him, sitting him down on the shore of the Quarry as warm hands grip onto his shoulders, but all he can do is stare and shake. He feels himself shaking, feels his teeth chattering, but his eyes continue to linger, unblinking, on the guy before him. 

He's gorgeous.

Even in the darkness, with his hair plastered to his face from the freezing water, Eddie can still see how beautiful this boy in front of him is. He feels a weight land on his shoulders, and another voice joins the first but Eddie can't look away from the guy in front of him. This gorgeous being that saved his life - or is this the afterlife? And this man is the angel sent to greet him at the gates. 

"-alright? Eddie?"

Eddie wants to nod but he can't, he's too cold, his body feels like it's frozen in place. All he can do is think.

I can hear you. I'm so cold. Thank you, thank you. Please don't leave me in the cold.

 *

 Eddie learns the boy's name is Richie Tozier. Richie wears crazy print sweaters under leather jackets and jeans that are ripped all to fuck. He wears muddy converse and has the dorkiest Ralphie Parker glasses when he forgets to wear his contacts. His hair, when it's not plastered to his face with freezing cold quarry water or tied up into a bun is long and curly and Eddie wants more than anything to run his hands through it, see if it feels as soft as it looks. 

Eddie wants to do a lot of things. 

But, mainly, Eddie wants to know who Richie Tozier is.

He knows he's from California, he knows he sits with Bev Marsh and Bill Denbrough at lunch and he knows the guy shares several classes with him, including study hall. He wants to know what kind of ice-cream Richie likes, what music he listens to when nobody is around, if he prefers beer or wine and whether or not his socks match (he's willing to bet they don't). He wants to know what he smells like when the overpowering smell of Quarry-water isn't clogging his nose, and he wants to hear his voice when his teeth aren't chattering and his ears aren't ringing. 

For the first time since Eddie found Cheerleading, Eddie feels like he's found something worth-while again. 

He just needs to be sure.

They're talking in the Butterfly Garden, sitting under the waterfall on Eddie's favourite carved bench about their likes and dislikes. Eddie feels a little sad when Richie brushes off saving his life like he doesn't deserve the recognition, like it was nothing, because it wasn't nothing- not to Eddie - and while it may have been something 'anyone would have done', it was something Richie did. And that's important. 

So they talk, and as they talk Eddie finds himself staring once again at Richie's face - the way his wide mouth curves around every word like each one deserves their own smile, the way he laughs easily when anything is even the remotest bit funny, and the way he watches Eddie right back. He does all of this, and all Eddie can think about are the butterflies and that stupid quote from that one movie - that when a butterfly flaps its wings in New Mexico, it has the power to cause a hurricane in China. Eddie figures Richie is sort of like that - he's Eddie's butterfly. 

Eddie has always been careful, always been pressed by his mother and the town to present the perfect image, always felt like it was his job to change the way people like him are viewed - or were viewed, before Adrian happened - in a town like Derry. He's always been sure to follow the rules, pander to the expectations of everyone around him so they have no reason to hate, to go back to the way things were. With Richie, he feels that weight lifting. 

He feels like Richie might be something special, like, because they've met, something somewhere in the world is shifting to accommodate the force of what's to come of it.  

Because Richie flapped his wings, and now there's a hurricane tearing through Eddie's carefully constructed world. 

 *

 When Richie leaves the day after Eddie first slept in his bed, his mother immediately begins a tirade of abuse against him - that he's made Eddie sick, that he's not the right sort (as if Eddie himself would be considered the right sort if he didn't put every ounce of his being into pretending to be something he's not). Eddie only half listens to her shouting, ignoring the way her nails dig into the tender flesh of his shoulder, right where the collar of Richie's shirt has fallen down to expose his collarbones. She starts crying when he doesn't respond to her taunts, and this is where Eddie's insides really start to twist. 

Thirteen year old Eddie would've done anything his mother asked to stop the fat tears from rolling down her face, collecting in the lines around her mouth and her double chins. He would've fallen all over himself to make her happy but eighteen year old Eddie doesn't particularly care about that, he just wants her to stop. 

It's not that he wants his mom to be sad, quite the opposite, he's just learned over the years that making Sonia Kaspbrak happy equates to making himself miserable. 

"Mom..." He tries soothing her, listening to the sound of Richie's car driving away. A part of him wishes Richie would've stayed, another wishes he'd taken him with him, and the last part of him wishes he'd never come in the first place and seen what Eddie's life is really like. Sonia turns away from him, her wails getting louder and louder as she brings her chubby hands up to cover her eyes. Eddie breathes for a second, tamping down the urge to just scream back at her and see how she likes it. She'd probably have him sectioned if he did that. "Mom please stop crying, I'm not sick, I'm perfectly fine."

Sonia's sobs cut off suddenly and she whirls around, Eddie stumbling a little with the force of her suddenly angry gaze. Oh, here we go. "This is that boy's fault isn't it?!" She growls. "He's the one turning you into this... this delinquent!"

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Okay, first, he's called Richie, and second, he's literally only been here like two months so he couldn't have possi-"

"Oh!" She cries, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead, raising her eyes to the heavens. Eddie grimaces, the sour taste in his mouth that had been there since she started ranting at dinner making it hard to swallow. "What has he done to you?! My baby, lying, staying out all night, disobeying your mother!"

"Mom, really, I-"

"He's corrupted you! What else has he done, Eddie? Has he touched you?! Have you let him touch you?!" Sonia hisses, and Eddie feels every argument die. He feels sick all of a sudden - he can handle it when his mother is spewing bullshit, when she's ranting out of her ass and Eddie can ignore her. When she's right, though? When she's right, or even just close to being right, it's hard to block out that little voice from his childhood that tells him he should listen to her, do what mommy says and be a good boy. When she's right, he feels himself wilting. 

He begins to sweat, and Sonia Kaspbrak notices. Eddie doesn't see the slap coming, the sound of her hand hitting his cheek ringing in his ears as he begins to cry silently. Sonia's hand flies to her mouth, and for a moment Eddie think's the distraught in her eyes is because of what she's done, but then she's grabbing at him, and opening her mouth and Eddie feels himself sinking. His mother just hit him. 

"What has he done? How far have you let him corrupt you?" She demands, shaking him. "Are you still pure, Eddie?"

Eddie chokes on his words, still too numb from being hit to really feel the embarrassment of what she's asking him. "Y-yes!" He stutters. "Mamma, please!"

Sonia releases him, sighing in relief as she brings her palms together in front of her lips. Eddie crosses his arms in front of his chest protectively, his tears cool on his stinging cheek. When Sonia looks at him again, she looks calmer, less likely to snap, but Eddie can tell she's still worked up. Her hair is wild, a single curler clinging to a lock at the back of her head and her eyes are bright and red-rimmed. Eddie feels like he probably looks no better at this point. 

"I never want to see him again, Edward, do you hear me?" She seethes. "Christopher is a good boy, a Godly boy, and I will not have a son of mine gallivanting off being a... a faggot and a slut!" Eddie flinches at that, and suddenly he's fifteen again, standing in a rainy graveyard and listening to his mother gossiping quietly with one of her church friends. 

He deserved it if you ask me... a faggot and a slut... this is God's punishment. 

"Don't say that, mamma." He whispers, hating how small his voice sounds. He can feel tears blocking his throat at the harsh memories, can feel panic forming in his chest. "Please don't say that."

Sonia coos at him, wrapping her arms around him and crushing him to her chest. She's shorter than him, but Eddie feels about two feet tall in the wake of her venomous words. "Sweetie, I'm just saying what everyone else would say! You don't want to end up like that other boy, do you Eddie-bear?"

Adrian. His name was Adrian. 

Why can't anyone else seem to remember that?

"I just want what's best for you... and that ruffian is the wrong sort for my little Eddie-bear." She pulls him tighter, and Eddie can't find the words to object. "Just look what he's made you do! He's turned you into an adulterer." Eddie feels himself sob, but he can barely hear himself over his mother's words ringing in his head. He wants to disagree, tell her she's wrong - but she isn't. He is a cheater, and a liar, and it's wrong. "Hush, baby, it isn't your fault. God sends us temptations every day, and now you know to avoid him."

Eddie's tears continue to fall as his mother begins to pray.  

 *

 When Eddie finally makes it upstairs, he immediately goes to the bathroom to throw up. The sounds of his mother's prayers ringing in his head to the backdrop of Richie's smiling face. 

He feels dizzy thinking about it, like the hurricane has finally reached him and is wreaking havoc in his mind - his vision swirling as he flies out of control. He's losing control, his world is in shambles. 

And he's going to do absolutely nothing to stop it.

It's too late, mother, it's already done.

 *

 Stan is probably Eddie's best friend. He's not his oldest friend - not like Chris is - and he'd never tell Chris that he isn't his best, but Eddie truly feels like Stan understands him better than anyone else in the world.

Stan understands what it's like to have to mould yourself into this idea of 'Derry perfectness' in order to fit in; as one of the only Jewish families in Derry, and the only Jewish kid in their school, Stan has always striven for the same image that Eddie has; clean, nice, and penitent. Chris, on the other hand, is the son of the most respected man in Derry - the priest - and, because of this, his sins are forgiven with little fanfare. It's not fair and, over the last few years, Eddie has built up more than enough resentment over it. Resentment over how easy it is for Chris to just be while people like Eddie and Stan have to walk on eggshells. 

That's why Eddie prefers Stan, because Chris never got it when Eddie mentioned it - never even tried to - but Stan and he didn't even need to talk to communicate with one another. Stan gets it all on his own. 

Some would argue it's a little strange, the son of the Rabbi and the son of the Priest in the same social circle - and they'd be right. Stan and Chris definitely would not be friends if it wasn't for Eddie. Stan hates Chris more than he hates liars because something Stan hates more than liars and crushes combined are hypocrites. 

And it's all a little hypocritical, the way Derry treats and alienates the people who don't fit the mould. The subtle way they marginalise people, with smiles and false pity. Chris doesn't fit the mould, being anything but straight is not part of Derry's mould - unless, of course, you're not visibly queer. Chris can press himself into the mould because, for all intents and purposes, he's a straight man in Derry resident's eyes. It's like their eyes just glaze straight over Eddie when they pass the couple in the street.

Chris is big, muscled, his cuticles are overgrown and he's not afraid to break a bone. He doesn't wear enough layers in the winter, and he spreads his legs wide when he sits down on the bus. He's a man, no doubt about it. Derry can see it and it's like they see Eddie's feminine physique, short stature, and soft small hands clasped in Chris' and think hey, close enough. They gladly overlook the only gay part about Chris if it means they get to keep their fancy ideas of the perfect Priest's son. It was the same with Don.

And Chris is perfectly fine with letting them think that. 

But then their eyes do find Eddie and they see a boy who looks like a girl, wears girls' colours and uses girls' shampoo, and they see wrong. They aren't willing to overlook the fact that it was Eddie who fixed Chris' car when it broke down last summer, and it's Eddie who got a score of 100 on his theology essay in ninth grade because he knows the bible inside and out. They aren't willing to overlook Stan's manliness, or his good morals. 

The simple fact of the matter is, Eddie isn't the right sort of gay, and Stan isn't the right sort of religious man.

So it's not really a surprise when Stan is the first to notice Eddie acting out. He sees the mould for what it is, so he sees it also when Eddie's shape shifts further away from it, rather than trying to squeeze in, like he used to do. He sees it, and he doesn't like it. 

He first brought it up on Thursday, the day Eddie went to the bar to watch Richie sing - and not because Chris asked him to go like he pretended. He'd glared at Eddie until Eddie had told him the truth, and Eddie felt it when Stan called him a hypocrite. Eddie had realised in that moment that, in trying to break away from the restrictive role he'd been playing, he'd unintentionally become everything his best friend hated most in the world. He'd given in to his crush, he'd lied to do it, and he'd become a hypocrite. 

He felt it in the look Stan gave him when Richie came through the door to the bathrooms, he'd felt it when he'd gone back over to Richie's house that night - lying again - to beg for Richie's forgiveness. He'd felt it at school on Monday, and again later that night when he'd gone home once more with Richie.

He'd rested his head on Richie's chest as the other boy had slept, his body shifting underneath Eddie's with every deep breath. His hand resting heavily on Eddie's lower back where he'd been rubbing circles until the pull of slumber had dragged him in, and Eddie felt it when he turned his head, pressed a kiss to Richie's bare chest, and closed his eyes, following him down. 

He felt it the next day too, after school, lying on Chris' bed with papers strewn around him. They'd been doing homework for a few hours now, and Eddie had had to scribble out the word a few times as his brain had wondered while his pen kept writing. Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite.

He sighs and puts his pen down, picking up his phone instead. Chris shuffles at the desk, half-turned away from Eddie, and Eddie reasons he's far enough away that he couldn't read his phone even if he tried. 

He pulls up his messages with Stan, greeted by a slew of blue text bubbles from Saturday through Monday left opened but unanswered. 

 To: Stanley<3

are you still mad at me?

 He doesn't expect an answer, so he places his phone down back on the bed and picks up his pen once more, crossing out whatever he'd written last and re-writing it. A few moments later, he's surprised by the little ding that signals an incoming text. Over on the desk, Chris jumps, his eyes flicking to Eddie before migrating back down to whatever he's working on. 

"Who's texting you?"

Eddie checks his phone and, sure enough, "Stanley."

"Oh." Chris hums. 

 From: Stanley<3

Yes.

 Eddie frowns, a little downtrodden, but before he can begin begging for Stan's forgiveness, he receives another text. 

 From: Stanley<3

But I understand. 

 Eddie feels a little thrill go through him, quickly typing out a response. 

 To: Stanley<3

you do???

 From: Stanley<3

I guess. Do you like him?

 To: Stanley<3

yea

 There's a pause, and Eddie bites his lip. He's underselling it a little bit, he really likes Richie, but he knows Stan wouldn't appreciate a monologue so he keeps it to himself. He can hear Chris shifting over by the desk, papers rustling. His phone pings again. 

 From: Stanley<3

Okay, then you need to break it off with Chris. 

 Eddie frowns, resisting the urge to groan. 

 To: Stanley<3

i knowwww

 From Stanley<3

I mean it, Eddie. Chris is an ass but he

doesn't deserve this any more than you did. 

 Eddie bites his lip, trying to figure out how to word a response to that that doesn't sound whiny or like it's filled with excuses - Stan hates excuses - but before he can, Chris lets out a loud yawn from over by the desk and slams his book closed, swivelling in his chair to face Eddie. "Babe, I'm so bored, let's take a break."

Eddie locks his phone, picking up his pen and scribbling a few more nonsensical words onto his page, trying to look busy. "If we take a break now, you know you won't finish later."

Chris groans again, pulling himself off his chair and falling face first onto the bed next to Eddie. He lands on a book Eddie wasn't really using, but he feels annoyed anyway as Chris carelessly pulls it out from under him and flings it onto the floor. "Oh, c'mon, it's not like you're really working, you've been texting with Stan for the past ten minutes." He smirks, shuffling over and wrapping an arm around Eddie's waist, pulling him in. "I know something better we could both be doing."

Not this again. Eddie feels sick all of a sudden but hides it with a strained laugh as he removes Chris' arm from his waist. "No, Chris."

Chris pouts, Eddie hears his phone go off again but doesn't even try to check it. Chris raises his eyebrows, taking this almost as an invitation, and suddenly Eddie feels a hand tracing up the back of his thigh. Eddie shivers as the hand reaches his ass, and Chris grins in triumph before bringing their mouths together in a heated kiss. He places his other hand on Eddie's hip, rolling him over before moving to straddle one of Eddie's legs, his knee firmly pressed up against Eddie's groin.

The sick feeling doesn't go away as Eddie allows Chris to kiss him, and it gets stronger when Eddie realises that he doesn't feel this way when he's kissing Richie. He feels a little dizzy at the realisation, so dizzy that he doesn't notice when Chris starts grinding softly against his leg, his half-hard erection pressing insistently into Eddie's hip and his kiss becoming sloppier as he moans into it. Eddie barely feels it, too lost in his own head and the realisation that it no longer feels like he's cheating on Chris. 

It feels like he's cheating on Richie. 

Eddie snaps out of his thoughts when one of Chris hands shifts Eddie's legs until he's between them, and then Eddie feels something similar to what he felt when he fell into the Quarry. Cold, confused, and most importantly, like Richie is all he can see. 

"Stop." He mumbles, turning his head away from Chris. Chris just begins kissing bruises down his neck so Eddie repeats himself, a little louder, his words punctuated by a small shove. Chris gets the message, pulling back with a groan that's more of a frustrated sigh and falling down into the bed beside Eddie. 

"Eddie, come on, we've been dating for years, when are we gonna do it, huh?"

Eddie huffs, sitting up onto his knees so no part of his body is touching his boyfriend's. Chris looks perplexed at this, clearly frustrated with Eddie's behaviour. Yeah? Well me too buddy. "Is that all you want? Sex?"

Chris' mouth falls open in clear offense, his eyebrows furrowed. "Obviously fucking not or I wouldn't still be here would I?"

"You're only here because I fucking let you stay." Eddie counters. He feels a surge of hurt at his own words, the harsh reminder of that time. 

Chris, however, apparently feels no remorse. "Oh, not this shit again - it's ancient history Eddie!" Eddie growls, throwing himself off the bed and collecting his things, shoving them into his backpack. Chris huffs. "Babe." Eddie ignores him, casting about to find his shoes and trying hard not to let any frustrated tears slip down his cheeks. He hears movement behind him and figures Chris must've stood up too. "Babe, come on!"

"No!" Eddie whirls around, shoving Chris hard in the chest. He barely moves and Eddie just feels all the more angry for it. "Do not tell me to get over this, Chris."

"It's been three years! Everyone else is over it - it's just you, holding this over my head for no fucking reason."

"'No fucking reason'?" Eddie seethes. Shoving the one converse he's found onto his foot without bothering to do up the laces, he huffs out a single bitter laugh. "You cheated on me, Chris!"

The truth is, Eddie is over that part. He doesn't particularly care anymore because, over time, he began to care less and less about Chris and with that, his ability to care about the rest of their issues disappeared. He's not sad, he didn't lie to Richie. He doesn't want a rebound or revenge, he's just so angry because Adrian was his friend. Adrian was the one who told him it was okay to feel the way he felt, he was the one who held him while he cried after telling his mother he was gay. He was the one who told him that being gay doesn't make you a sinner or a bad person. 

He was the first person to know when Chris and Eddie went on their first date, and second, and third, and when Chris kissed him for the first time. The only person up until a year ago, when Eddie found out that Adrian had gone straight from holding Eddie - as he cried over his mother's harsh words - to his boyfriend's house, where he'd found his boyfriend's little brother, his friend's boyfriend, alone, and betrayed them all. 

And Eddie didn't even have time to hate Adrian for it - because he never found out until two years after Adrian died. He never figured out how he was supposed to feel. He was caught somewhere between grief, anger, and fear. He loved Adrian because that's all he'd ever known. He hated Chris but stayed with him, because Chris was once his best friend, and he naively believed that he could get over the betrayal the same way he got over it for Adrian.

He did get over it, the hate, but he also got over the love, the trust, everything except the betrayal because what he failed, or refused, to understand is that he never got over it for Adrian, he just pushed it aside because hating him made him feel guilty; so, instead of hating everyone else, he hated himself for still loving everyone who has ever betrayed him. 

Chris tries one last time to pacify Eddie, grabbing onto Eddie's hip as Eddie nearly stumbles trying to put on his second shoe. Eddie pulls away from the touch like he'd been burned. "Eddie, relax, he's dead now anyway."

Eddie freezes, the nausea in the pit of his stomach returning tenfold, replacing all of his anger from the past few minutes. Relax. How could he? He's dead now anyway. Eddie looks at Chris and he sees a stranger, he doesn't see the boy who sobbed into his hands as he confessed, spurred on by a family meal gone wrong just before his brother left Derry for the last time. He doesn't see the boy who had held Eddie whenever Eddie had cried, speaking words of comfort and wisdom. He sees a man, standing in his once best-friend's now boyfriend's clothes, saying things that send chills down Eddie's spine. 

He sees someone who is careless with his words, who will hurt you and then say he didn't mean it. Eddie knows it’s true, Chris never means it, but he does it anyway.

It's cruel, the way people speak about Adrian now. As if all he is is the dead homosexual of Derry, Maine. He was more than that; he was kind and he was funny, he was also cruel, and deceitful. Death was no light subject, especially not Adrian's death, and especially not to Eddie, and Chris had just completely disregarded that. Trampled all over Adrian's impact like it was nothing - like Adrian dying didn't change literally everything about Derry. Like his actions with Adrian before his death didn't change literally everything about their relationship.

What's worse is that it feels not only like he's disregarding Adrian, but he's disregarding the broken trust Eddie still harbours between them. Like Eddie's trust means nothing to him, because Eddie is just a secondary role in the hierarchy of this sham they call a relationship.  

It leaves Eddie feeling weak.

"You're right." Eddie mutters, his hands clinging to the straps of his backpack, fingertips turning white from how hard his fists are clenching around the fabric. "He's dead. You fucked him, and then he died - maybe I don't wanna follow in his footsteps."

 *

 While Eddie is walking home, his untied laces dragging along the rainy sidewalk, he checks his phone and see's one last text from Stan. 

 From: Stanley<3

You don't need him anymore.

Chapter 6 coming soon

Masterpost

[winchesterprincessbride]

Whatever It Takes-Part 2

This is for the “Alpha for Hire” square on my @spnabobingo card. Beta’d by the fantabulous @kittenofdoomage

Part 1     My Master List

Characters: Alpha! Dean Winchester, Beta! Sam Winchester, Omega! reader, Beta! sister Terri (OC)

“Lead the way, princess,” he said, giving me another flash of that cocky grin. “Damn you smell good. I could smell you from the lobby.”

I gritted my teeth in frustration. This guy was making an already embarrassing situation worse. “Did you look at my profile, Dean?” I asked quietly.

His shoulders loosened in a lazy shrug. “I glanced at it on the way over, why?”

“Because it says I want to get this over with as quickly as possible. So how about you do what I’m paying you for and stop talking?” I paused at the entrance to my bedroom, gesturing into it with one hand. “In here.”

The burning sensation in my belly worsened, as my heat started to flare uncontrollably in me.  There was no holding back a groan as my stomach clenched in pain.

I looked over at Dean, and his eyes were dark with arousal.  Taking a deep breath to calm my raging nerves, I stepped towards him until our bodies were just barely touching. I could feel his hard cock pressing into my belly.

I stared up at him, trying to ignore my body’s response. If I was going to get through this with my spirit intact, I had to look at this as a business transaction, nothing more.  My stupid medical condition might be forcing me to pay for this Alpha, but I was still in control here, and I needed to make sure he knew it.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I said impatiently, “Do I need to draw you a diagram?”

“You’ve got a really smart mouth for an Omega,” Dean commented in a hard voice.

I rolled my eyes. “Good thing you don’t have to like me to fuck me then, huh?” I knew I was being a colossal bitch right now, but I needed someone to vent my frustration on, and he was the only available target.

Something flashed in his eyes, and his big hands closed around my upper arms, pulling me against him as he leaned down to kiss me. When I realized his intent, I turned my head at the last second.  “No. Don’t. No kissing.”

“Why not?” he asked curiously.

“I just don’t want you to. Don’t touch me more than you have to, okay?” He was entirely too attractive, and he smelled way too enticing. If I had any hope of getting through this, I needed it to be as impersonal as possible.

“Fine. Have it your way.  Present, Omega,” he ordered in a commanding Alpha voice, unbuttoning his flannel and dropping it on the floor. I turned away and began to remove my clothes in silence. Once I was completely bare, I got on my hands and knees on the bed as I heard the sound of a condom wrapper being torn open.

The smell of my heat was heavy in the air, and I was becoming more feverish by the second. His large hands grabbed my hips, and I tensed as I felt the round head of him enter me. “Relax,” Dean grunted, and slid inside me. He was big and thick, and the stretch of him was incredible. I arched my back involuntarily to take him deeper, and he began to fuck me hard and fast.

“Harder, please!” I panted, ashamed that he could make me beg, and I heard him groan in response. I was so wet I could hear the slide of him through my slick, and I felt my pussy start to clench around his length as my orgasm approached.  When his knot popped, I came with a hoarse scream and he followed a moment later, collapsing on my back and knocking the wind out of me.

We were locked together until his knot deflated, which was fine because I couldn’t move anyway. Finally, I felt his knot give, and I hissed, “Get off, your heavy,” and when he rolled off of me I headed to the bathroom and shut the door.

I cleaned up very quickly, not fighting the hot, angry, tears pouring down my face. I splashed water on my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I had been crying.  Throwing on a robe, I opened the door, and he was already dressed, waiting. “Will you need me again?” he asked.

I nodded, without speaking.  “When?” was all he said.

“Eight...ten hours, maybe,” I said stiffly. Were we really making an appointment for sex? Really?

“I’ll be back in nine. Call the service if you need me sooner,” he said conversationally as if we were discussing the weather.

I couldn’t look at him. “Fine. You can let yourself out?” I asked as he stood up.

“Y/N?”  I looked up at him when he said my name. “You could let yourself enjoy it, you know.”

“I’ll see you later,” I say, not bothering to answer him.

Dean shows up every eight hours for the next three days, fucking me through my heat.  This is the first heat that doesn’t land me in the hospital.  By the third day, we had the routine down pat.  I hadn’t exactly warmed to him by the end, but I had toned down the bitchiness. After all, it wasn’t HIS fault I was in this situation.  He was just doing the job I was paying him for.

And let’s be honest, if I had to pay an Alpha to knot me, it might as well be one that looks and smells as good as Dean.  And he did have a point, sort of. While I wasn’t thrilled I had to resort to hiring an Alpha I might as well make the best of it.  As soon as I found an Alpha of my own I would be done with Alpha4 anyway.

When I realized my heat was ending, I call the service and tell them I no longer need him to come. And I breathe a sigh of relief. The doctor was right. This crazy plan may just save my life.

Terri, of course, is fascinated and wants to hear all the details of my time with Dean. “I’m not telling you anything, so you can stop asking,” I snap when she presses me for information again.

“Come on, Y/N! If it was me, I would tell you!” she says over coffee.

“Do I ask you intimate details about your sex life?” I comment back to her.

Terri’s been dating this Beta named Chris for over a year now. He’s okay, but he’s no Dean, that’s for sure. “Don’t forget, you were the one who pushed me to do this!”

“Because I don’t want you to DIE, idiot!” she says, blowing on her cup of coffee to cool it.  “When the doctor talked about it, it all sounded very sterile and clean, like getting your car serviced. You look way too smug. He must have been an animal in the sack.”

“Shut UP!” I said, laughing.

Two months pass and my heat doesn’t come, so I think I may have a normal cycle this time.  I still don’t have an Alpha in my life, so I’m going to be forced to use Alpha4 again in a month when my heat hits.  And as I tend to do with everything in my life, I start to overthink things.

Should I just go with whatever random Alpha they send me, or should I request Dean again? I want to keep this as impersonal as possible so it might be better to have a different Alpha each time. On the other hand, I like the way Dean looks, and his scent, and I know he can get the job done.

I make a decision, and then I change my mind, and then I change it again.  But when I feel the familiar pain of my heat,  I call Alpha4, the first thing I ask  “Is Dean available?”

The person on the phone responds, “Let me see if he is available.  Please hold.”  I wait impatiently as some truly horrible music plays while I am on hold. Finally, she returns to the line. “I’m sorry, he is not available at the moment, but he will be available in a few hours.  Would you like us to send someone else, or would you like to wait for him?”

My heat has just begun, and I still have some wiggle room.  I can wait.  “I’ll wait for Dean,” I tell her.

“He will be over as soon as he is available,” she tells me in her business-like voice. I thank her politely and hang up, but inside I am seething. He is with another Omega.

I decide to try and sleep, but I am so hot that I toss and turn, I just can’t get comfortable.  Then the pain starts, like a knife twisting my insides. I can’t stop thinking about Dean with that faceless Omega, touching her, knotting her, while I am here suffering.  What is taking him so long?

After what seems like an eternity, I hear a knock at my door, and I rush to answer it. The fever has gotten bad enough that I have stripped down to just a tank top and panties in an effort to stay cool, but it’s not working. I am sweating and shaking so hard I can barely see straight.

He takes one look at me and rushes inside, shutting the door with his foot. “I’m sorry I’m late. Are you okay?” he asks me, already taking off his jacket.

“You smell like her.” I snap as I grab his hand and pull him toward the bedroom, yanking at his shirt as we walk.  “I bet the other Omegas just fall at your feet, don’t they?”

“Someone’s eager. What’s wrong, Y/N? Jealous?” he asks as he grins at me.

“You wish, asshole,” I mutter, but I am so hot and dizzy now, I begin to sway on my feet. “Please, Dean. Hurry….please.” I whisper weakly.

“You know I love it when you, beg,” he tells me, but then he realizes that I am not fooling around. His arms reach out for me, and he winces when my scorching skin touches his. He pulls me into his arms and leads me to the bed. “I got you, Y/N. I’ll take care of you.”

Afterwards, my temperature drops rapidly. Dean pulls on his pants and goes searching in my kitchen for a bottle of water, he returns with it and holds it out to me. “Drink this,” he orders me. “You look like you need it.”

I take the bottle from him and drink half of it in one long swallow. “Thanks,” I murmur.

“What WAS that?” he asks, looking at me intently. “You were burning up. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

“You ask a lot of questions, Dean.  You can go.  I’ll see you in eight hours.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? Your heat is bad this time, I can tell. Are you gonna be able to last eight hours? Maybe I should…..”

I sighed. “Just go, Dean. Please.”

Dean leaves reluctantly, and I hold it together until he is out the door. As soon as the door shuts behind him, I collapse to the floor, sobbing.  I didn’t know that Dean stood on the other side, just staring at the closed door, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white, for several minutes as he listened to me cry.

(Part 3)

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[australiandentalschools]

5 life lessons I’ve learned from pulling teeth

Greetings from the sunny shores of Sydney! My name is Tyler and I am a dental student at the University of Sydney with less than a year to go until I am finished. Having been in school for a few years now, I’ve dabbled in all the dental disciplines. Though I’ve enjoyed endodontics (root canals) and prosthodontics (dentures and crowns), I have to say my favourite specialty is oral surgery so far.

While it is our last resort as dentists, sometimes an unsalvageable tooth requires an extraction and there’s something incredibly rewarding about removing an offending tooth, delivering this treatment pain-free and ultimately relieving the patient of discomfort at the end of the appointment. It is often one of the scariest things to have done to you, but I enjoy making the worst outcome a pleasant experience.

Today, I want to share with you some bite-sized lessons I’ve learned during my time spent in extraction clinics.

1. Do as you think, not as you’re told I’m not suggesting to be rebellious, I suppose a better way of saying that is to have a healthy dose of curiosity and objective skepticism.

I was once scheduled to extract a tooth from an older man whose hearing and English were not so good. Something didn’t add up as I was doing my tests: The tooth indicated on the notes to be removed was actually perfectly fine, which made me question whether I was somehow messing up my examination. That’s when I realized the radiograph was actually backwards—we were looking at a mirrored image of the x-ray, so essentially what we thought was the left side was actually the right. Someone wrote down the wrong tooth in the notes and it didn’t get picked up until I noticed it.

I always ask myself: Why should this tooth be removed? If I can agree, I continue. If I don’t, I question the instructions I’ve been given.

Even the best of us are prone to making mistakes, but that’s why it’s important to be judicious for even the most routine of decisions, especially when there’s no going back. Think twice, cut once!

2. Fake it ’til you make it No one ever feels truly confident starting something brand new. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either exceptionally gifted, a little bit delusional, or just straight-up lying. My extensive experiences as a kid pulling out my own baby teeth somehow did not prepare me adequately for the first few times I stepped up to my patient forceps in hand, about to pop out one of these chompers in our dental hospital’s exodontia clinic (exo = take out; dont = tooth).

If you didn’t know, the numbing “local anaesthetic” solution we give you only takes away the pain. But you still feel pressure… and the vibrations. The same kind of vibrations my patient is feeling as their head is rumbling as my forearms are visibly shaking from muscular fatigue as a result of gripping these instruments so hard trying to maintain the appropriate angulation, pressure, and technique as I’m coaxing this tooth out of the bony socket it’s called home for the last 50 years.

As I’m rehearsing in my head all the movements I need to do, memory runs wild trying to recall every bit of information I’ve learned to help me make it through the next few minutes as beads of sweat start trickling down my face like teardrops on Taylor’s guitar. I’m legitimately not even an anxious person, but in that moment, the panic is real. Not the most confidence-inspiring situation for the patient, let me tell you from second-hand experience. The seconds felt like minutes and the minutes felt like hours.

That was my first ever extraction, or an “exo” as we call it for short, and though it only lasted about 8 minutes, man oh man, it was the longest decade of my life. It didn’t help that my first-ever patient came in with dental anxiety, which made everything even more nerve-wracking from the start. But fortunately, every exo since then has been much better because I’ve learned that the patient panics when they see you panic. So the secret, whether you’re removing teeth, giving a speech, or coaching high school track kids (all true stories from my life by the way), is just pretending to know what you’re doing until you actually get there: Just fake it ’til you make it.

3. Plan for success but prepare for failure You have to have a plan. I always tell my patients that we need to do something called “treatment planning,” which is a fancy way of saying we need to take the entire first appointment to figure out where we’re were starting from and planning all the treatment they need to resolve their problems and fulfill their needs. It’s like planning a road trip with friends—you need to establish a roadmap of all the places we need to visit on our way to our dream destination. Yes, it’s important to hit all the tourist attractions, but there’s also necessary checkpoints like gas stations and Macca’s (Australian slang for McDonald’s) breaks if we want to survive the journey. It also doesn’t do anyone any good to set out without an idea of what direction you need to head in because driving fast in the wrong direction sets you back more than it propels you forward. Furthermore, despite our best intentions, things inevitably go wrong.

The reality of patient care (or life in general) is that almost nothing goes to plan. I am known in my cohort for being meticulous for my appointment plans. My treatments are always tailored to every individual patient with my procedures scheduled down to the minute. I take great pride in my preparation for clinics, and though I am getting much better at anticipating the unexpected twists and turns of healthcare, it’s not uncommon for appointments to not go to plan.

As you can imagine, there are a number of points during a surgical procedure where things can go wrong. The patient might fail to attend (FTA); the patient may have skipped their medications that day (resulting in excessively high blood pressure or blood sugar levels beyond what is safe to treat); maybe there’s a global pandemic shutting down the entire hospital for months on end. In short, you can’t do the procedure. Tough luck. The anaesthesia might not work (due to infection, due to natural resilience or desensitization due to drug use, due to operator error, due to accessory innervation). Maybe the tooth won’t come out; perhaps it’s trickier than the x-rays suggest. Maybe the roots flare too much, or perhaps the roots are ankylosed to the bone. And when you finally pull the tooth out, maybe a piece breaks off, or maybe a part of the floor of the maxillary sinus comes along with it and now you have an oroantral communication (OAC).

Of course, 💩 happens, but if you know the possible ways a plan can fall apart, you’ll be better prepared to handle things if and when that happens.

4. With great power comes great responsibility I think Uncle Ben said it best, but there’s an enormous amount of trust given to dentists because we’re specialists in a field and making judgment calls to proactively treat our patients. When this treatment comes with a high cost, there’s a natural tendency to question why a currently asymptomatic tooth requires preventative treatment when there’s nothing perceptibly wrong with it.

But there’s often a lot of problems we’re unaware of in our own mouths, and by the time you detect there’s something wrong (e.g., you’re experiencing pain or sensitivity or maybe you see/feel a hole in the tooth) it’s often far too late. In our quest in detecting and preventing problems, there is often a fine line between being reasonably cautious and overprescribing treatment. Even in student clinics, obviously there is no money involved, but I still try to educate my patients on why they need a filling replaced or a tooth removed.

Have you ever seen a radiograph of a tooth? Ever notice how the dentist always shows you this black and white image and explains it to you as though you can understand what’s going on? I really try to do my best to explain to my patients, but the reality is for a field that literally operates in black and white, we’re actually dealing in a lot of grey area. What one clinician may deem as being a cavity to drill and fill, a more conservative dentist may opt to wait and see. It’s a fine balance, one that I myself am trying to master. I strive to be the kind of dentist who is conservative, informative, and acting in the best interests for my patients as they can’t reliably decide for themselves what the best course of action is because they didn’t spend four years in dental school. I made myself a promise to do only what I think is needed and not more than what my patient requires—I promise to pull the tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth.

5. Loss is a part of life Sometimes even despite our best intentions, things just don’t last. Whether we’re talking about relationships or our dentition, there comes a time when certain circumstances just don’t allow us to keep the things we hold dearest to our hearts (or our jaws). I’ve seen perfectly good teeth need removal just because of an unlucky accident. I’ve seen some pretty bad teeth hanging in long past their “expiry date.” There are always examples either way you look at it, but the reality is that we are doomed to lose that which we do not put the effort in to maintain.

Teeth are lost for a number of reasons, but the big ones are trauma, erosion, periodontal disease, and decay. These are natural processes for the most part, but they are indeed avoidable if only we put in a small effort every day to be diligent with good oral hygiene habits. Floss between your teeth before brushing. Brush your teeth twice a day (ideally 30 minutes after eating/drinking) and most importantly before going to bed. Use a fluoridated toothpaste. Spit—don’t rinse your toothpaste with water after brushing.

If you hate your dentist, do these three simple tricks to put them out of a job! It doesn’t take much, but for some reason, it takes a lot out of us at the end of a long day to invest just 5 minutes doing the simple stuff for our teeth. Missing a day here or there is not the end of the world, but missing a day here or there regularly, however, will indeed add up.

At some point, the teeth that have been neglected will come around to me to have to pull out in order to prevent further pain or infection. Prevention of the problem is always better (and less expensive) than treating the problem! By the time you notice there’s an issue, it’s generally getting to be too late.

Other things like watching what you eat (keep sugars and acidic foods/beverages low), snacking less, and drinking plenty of water will help save your teeth down the road. There are so many things we do on the daily that are bad for our teeth that the average person wouldn’t expect to have such drastic effects on our dentition… but we’ll save that info for another time.

OzTREKK Student Ambassador: Tyler Nguyen University: The University of Sydney Program: Doctor of Dental Medicine Follow Tyler on Instagram: @dmd.toothpics