#sharp-eyed patrons will recognize something

[evil-robot-cat]

I know I said it was too much to draw, but I didn't realize how much people would like Reeve talking about his second/third/fourth jobs. So here you are, the whole thing in comic form!

(patreon)

[bonefall]

BB!MALICIOUS ENTITY: Ancestor Rats

A cruel fate that can befall a shattered pantheon, and the enemies of Firestar's Quietus

With SkyClan homeless and exiled at the end of the Skyfall Era, StarClan itself was in chaos. 1/5th of their ranks broke from the sky to walk with their descendants into exile, with only some of the most powerful ancestors staying behind.

Skystar himself, Patron of War, was one of them. He scoffed that a Clan that couldn't hold even a sliver of land had failed his teachings, and deserved nothing.

Scores of cats died in exile, starved, exposed, killed by predators. Cloudstar desperately tried to keep his cats together as SkyClan dwindled. Soon, there were barely enough cats to maintain a Clan, let alone such a large pantheon.

When Cloudstar died, his successor Spiderstar found herself facing a new threat. One she couldn't defeat.

Over and over, there were rats who would attack the camp. Horrible, twisted creatures of many colors, with sharp claws like a cat and jaws full of needle teeth. They swirled like a storm around a central point, wound so tightly that it was impossible to see what lay at the eye.

While watching baby spiders fly away from their mother on little silk balloons, Spiderstar devised a Great Plan. SkyClan would live apart but connected, loosely, like a web. The Rats could not kill what they could not find.

As she watched her Clan disperse, some to humans homes, some to live as rogues, the blood roared in her ears. It pounded, throbbed into a rythmn, until the words of a prophecy became overwhelming,

"EEK SHARRARRAM SSARSHAIWO!"

[Rat ancestors disastrous-they-will-kill]

Could this be true? Would their ancestors save them from the rats, someday?

(Below the cut; a guide to Ancestor Rats and how they are dealt with in Firestar's Quietus. CONTENT WARNING: BODY HORROR, GORE.)

Firestar's Quietus; The Secret of the Rats

Exactly as before, when Firestar and the spirit of Brokenstar gathered the SkyClan web together, the rats had one point of attack. They washed over the soon-to-be warriors in a wave, but they were able to fight them off.

Skywatcher laid on his side in the clearing, trembling and wide eyed, covered in horrible bites. At first they could barely get a word out of him, too shaken to speak. When he was finally able to force a word out, he could only mumble;

"I saw Lowbranch. That was my mother..."

And then, someone else came forward, sharing that one rat had the same stripes as their brother. Another recognized their son's tufts on another's ears. The camp buzzed with tension as the stories bubbled forth.

Everyone recognized something in the rats.

Something had happened to their ancestors. Something terrible. It became clear why they had never answered their prayers or sent a hero to save them. Brokenstar tried to reach them, but he could only hear a command echoing in the darkness.

"Neek urrspeekorreen urrsnyarhak, karrl urrsnakochya." "THAT WHICH CANNOT BE FIXED, MUST BE BROKEN"

It was only later, when they went to confront the rats once and for all, that they realized what those words meant. Stumbling out into the dim light out of the barn, they saw them.

Those weren't just rats!

And the most horrible thing of all was the atrocity behind it all, the creature at the center of the swirling, agonized mass, the eye of the storm...

The Rat Leader; Cloudstar

He promised to keep his Clan together. So he did.

As each life wasted away and his Clan dwindled, smaller and smaller, as their heaven crumbled above them and became too tiny to hold their ancestors, Cloudstar kept them in one piece.

When he died, that mission continued. Trapped as this cursed creature, Cloudstar was mindlessly commanding his cats like a storm around him, dragging in both the dead and the living in a desperate attempt to save the Clan he'd vowed to protect.

SkyClan could not mend until this curse was broken. These fallen angels needed to be released, by force, to rejoin a new heaven of modern making. Slipping into the body of Firestar, Brokenstar was able to lend all of his talents for one final fight. It was just like being back at Carrionplace.

With his purpose as the fallen 5th tree, a guardian spirit, fulfilled and the rats freed from their prisons, Brokenstar's soul grew sleepy with peace. Firestar buried the acorn necklace that he had used to channel him overlooking the gorge, where it quickly sprouted into a new oak.

Rat Ancestors; Tome of Beasts

When an afterlife is destroyed, through mass death or supernatural attack, and the spirits within it cannot peacefully fade away or join a new pantheon, all of its souls can become earth-bound.

There are many types of entities and curses in this world, each one completely unique. Ancestor Rats are the form that this pantheon took.

From a distance, an Ancestor Rat could be mistaken for an odd, escaped domestic rodent. Their faces were an unsettling mix of rat and cat, with teeth laid out like a cat's but endlessly growing like a rat. They had the blade-like claws of a Clan cat, tearing through the skin and laying at various angles.

They had no physical needs, but were unable to handle being separated from their leader. Cloudstar himself, however, did need to rest in some way, returning to the barn where he died every day.

When one was killed, it would flash blue as if briefly turning into a shard of the sky, before leaving a completely standard rat corpse in its place. As long as Cloudstar was alive, the pulsar of each spirit would simply be dragged back into another rat after some time.

There was no escape until he was killed.

After the defeat of the Ancestor Rats, the spirits moved on to SkyClan's special heaven; Skypelt. Even after moving to the lake, Skypelt maintains its independence from Silverpelt, judging its own souls and staying separate (but connected) to StarClan-Prime.

With an abundance of rat bodies on their paws, SkyClan started a morbid tradition for a very special celebration. "The New Day" is celebrated every year with a grand feast, where a traditional rat meat dish called "Roasted Grandpaw" is served.

[sliptohk]

Prompt# 28: Deleterious

Ellory needed no liquid courage to draw her up to the counter. A quick leap up to the sticky surface, jostling a pair of drunken factory workers, before she spun about to project her voice into the rowdy crowd clamoring for song. Half-emptied mugs spun off to splash some poorly positioned patrons as her feet shifted to knock them off the bar.

"Raise a pint or toss a shot, we got a legend in our midst! Ol' Wilhere there's got tales galore of the prowess of his fists! Best I recall was a hunt last fall, When at a feast, a mighty beast, Burst clear right through the wall! His wife screamed out a piercing cry in search of some deliverance! He leapt into the fray and his great strength made all the difference! To defend his beauty he did his duty, At the very least, he'd see danger ceased, To protect that shapely booty! The fight raged on from night to morn until the sun did rise! All those still in attendance could scarce believe their eyes! The sight was awful scary and the fight got downright hairy, But for lovely wife, he'd risk his life, Shame tale and girl are imaginary!"

A burst of laughter erupted as the bearded mercenary hurled his mug across the room at the singing woman, him roaring with laughter most of all. She nimbly skipped to one side as it shattered a glass against the backbar. Her feet knocked several more tankards into the laps of those seated before her. It only drew more peals of mirth from the other crews drinking the night away.

Another target in the audience gestured to her, jabbing a thumb to his chest several times with enthusiasm.

"Do your worst, Sparrow!" The Hyur shouted over the noise.

"I'd recognize that face, who could forget that handsome lad! Voyce slept across Eorzea, he could be anybody's dad! He'll buy a drink and make you think, None can compare, no man so fair, You're in bed in just a blink! No lad or lass unsatisfied, at least the way he tells it! Rumors of great stamina and no counter that dispels it! His one true wife's his trusty knife, It gets such care, you see it there, It ends most any strife! But I know one thing more that Voyce plays close to the chest! And often finds it gets him into all sorts of awful mess! One look at his prize I would surmise, The blade is short, before you snort, His prick's less than half the size!"

The man threw up both hands, hurling foam and ale across the room as he motioned his denial of such an accusation. But the cheer on his face made it clear he could take the taunting. Sliding further down the bar, past patrons that had learned to lift their drinks if they didn't want them spilled, she saw her final victim for the evening. A dark-eyed miqo'te woman that caught her attention with a slow smirk.

"We have P'wabati here, time for us to get serious! Else my words may prove for me to be quite deleterious! I will not harp on claws so sharp, Lest patience lost, good-will exhaust, She guts me like a carp! Fear not she's no mad Seeker and my fate is truly earned! Look at these angry faces who my words have surely burned! How can she be so lovely, With highest cost, resistance tossed, She turns me right to putty! So enjoy this final verse 'fore I embrace my looming fate! Each jibe coaxing out your laughs instead of burning hate! Her lust I'll stir and hence we'll skirr, And answer soon, with sweetest croon, How loud miqo'te purr!"

Grinning broadly, Ellory leapt from the counter to the Seeker's table even as the crowd cheered loudly for more entertainment. Something a musician was happy to provide as they launched into a jaunty tune for a widely known drinking song. It wouldn't be long before they were howling along with it. The table shifted, wobbling as the hyurgadyn managed to get her legs under her, before crouching down with a wink.

"Was I too subtle?"

The miqo'te hooked a finger through an undone buttonhole in Ellory's shirt to tug her closer, "Not a word I would ever associate with you."

[diskaywrites]

Whumpuary 2025 Blood in the Cut

𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟏: 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐖𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠------𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐀𝐔------𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐝 𝐱 𝐓𝐞𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐢𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐲. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐦, 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏, 𝟎𝟓𝟔

Gabriel Kidd's hands had been stained red for as long as he could remember. He had grown up poor on the streets of London, an orphan who had found himself tasked with caring for two younger men he had met on the streets, men he considered his brothers. It had been a tenant he learned early on, if you didn't fight then you didn't survive. Not only that, Gabriel had come to find that he was good at it. There was a voice in the back of his head, slick and slimy and cruel, that made him want to fight and hurt and destroy.

That voice had gotten him in trouble more than once. The law had been involved, but even morse so, it had landed Gabriel amongst the patients of mad houses. He wasn't mad. It was something he told himself again and again. That voice wasn't who he was. That voice was a part of him, a part that begged to be fed so that it could flourish. Most of the time he could ignore it. Most of the time he could hold that voice back with a good fight.

It was why he had come to this bar, the War Dog, with his younger brother Teoman. The two were hungry and to make enough to eat for the day, Gabriel knew he had to fight. They had made their way through the smoke-filled pub, Teoman's nose turned up in disgust as a patron splashed a bit of their beer on his dingy shoes, "What sort of place is this? Why here?"

"I told ya, T," Gabriel grunted as they reached a door barely hidden at the side of the bar, knocking in the pattern that had been relayed to him, waiting for the door to open, "best place to do what I do is here. You didn't have to come."

"Ya needed a corner man," Teoman huffed as the door swung open and the duo made their way down the creaky stairs to a basement area even more raucous than the pub above it. Men and women stood around a circle in the center of the room where a man was knelt on top of another, fists raining down at his opponent. "Seems…kräftig. Are you sure?"

Despite growing up on the streets of London, Teoman still used the language of the country he was born in. Even his voice had a sharp bite of his mother tongue to it. Gabriel's eyes were trained on the man who had been proclaimed the winner. Shaggy black hair matched chocolate brown eyes perfectly, the hair on his head matching the dark beard on his face. An earring shone from one ear, silver matching that of the cross around his neck and hanging down his bare chest, "Seems like a man who needs t' know how strong I am."

As the man in the makeshift ring had his hand raised, he let out a roar of triumph, thumping a hand against his chest, "Who's fookin' next, huh!?"

Teoman sighed, holding out a hand to catch the shirt that Gabriel had removed before entering the circle. He knew his brother well enough by now to know he could never back down from a challenge. "Careful with this esel, Gabriel."

Gabriel rolled his eyes at his brothers protectiveness as he moved to stand across from the last winner, "Come on, lad. I ain't afraid of you."

As soon as the dark-eyed man met his gaze, Gabriel gave a smirk. He recognized that fire, that look of vehement rage. It was the same sort of look that filled his own eyes when the voice took hold. Gabriel cracked his knuckles as the psuedo official relayed the one rule of the upcoming fight. The two men would go until either they could anymore or until their corner men gave up the fight.

The two men circled, weaving back and forth in the dirt circle, the other reaching out with a fist to make the first strike. It rung Gabriel's bell, the knuckles of the other man catching him straight in the nose hard. Gabriel could feel it shatter, confirmed by the few droplets of blood that landed on the floor. The stranger moved in again, catching Gabriel with another strike. This one connected just above the eyebrow. Gabriel shook his head, bringing up a knee to catch the stranger in the solar plexus. It pushed the other away so that Gabriel could get a moment to breath.

Gabriel dodged the next blow, catching the stranger in the jaw with a hard punch. The other man stumbled, seemingly struck as if he had a glass jaw under his ear. Gabriel hit a second punch to the jaw and the man went down, falling backwards onto the floor. Gabriel dropped another knee to the center of the man's chest. After that, he didn't let up. His hands rained down on the other's face, until the stranger caught Gabriel above the eye with a hard elbow. He could feel the skin split, the blood running down his face. He screamed, rage evident from just his eyes alone. He grabbed the other man by the face, thumbs pressing into the stranger's eyes until the makeshift referee pulled Gabriel off of him, raising his hand in victory.

Instead of cheering, the crowd seemed to fall into a hushed stupor. This, their golden boy, had fallen in such short time. Even the corner of his eyes, the ice blue the only part of his face that wasn't red at this point, he could see two men enter the ring. The first was his Teoman, who handed Gabriel his shirt, who used it to clean some of the blood from his face. The other had to be the downed man's cornerman. HIs hair was a dark brown, slicked back into a bun. Unlike the man who had given Gabriel such a good fight, the other corner man was dressed in a fine three-piece suit. "Boy. What's your name?"

Teoman turned to the stranger, teeth bared and hand clenched as he asked, "Why do you wanna know? Huh?"

"My name is David Finlay," the cornerman gave an amused smirk, "and this is my brother, Cal. And your friend there? I could use a man like him in my ranks."

[kaijuscientists]

Company

My fill for the SFW day 2 prompt: Hurt/Comfort of @dincobbweek

Title: Company

Cobb's supposed to meet Din at a seedy bar in Mos Eisley, but he’s running late and a group of regulars are giving him trouble.

Cobb sits at the bar of a dive in Mos Eisley, waiting for Din. He’d contacted him the day before, on short notice, but he was going to be in the sector and stopping on Tatooine, and Cobb was not about to pass up spending a night with his Mando.

So, Cobb had hightailed it all the way from Mos Pelgo, excitement simmering in his belly at the prospect of seeing Din again.  Unfortunately, it seems Din is running late. Cobb checks his chrono for the fifth time, an hour and a half past when Din had said he’d be there. 

He’s already had a few drinks waiting, and he’s just minding his own business, enjoying his liquor when a rowdy group of humans walk in and situate themselves at the bar. It doesn’t take them long to single Cobb out of the slim crowd, 

“Never seen you here before.” one of them asks. A skinny looking, nerf herder of a guy. 

“Ain’t never been here before.” Cobb says, swirling his drink in his glass. 

“What brings you in?” “Meetin’ someone.” 

“Who ya meetin?” “A friend,” Cobb says, feeling his temple start to flare. “That ok with you?” 

“I dunno.” A second guy chimes in, with a bigger build to him. “Depends on who’s comin’ doesn’t it.” 

“Well, I don’t personally see how that’s any of your business.” Cobb says. 

The last guy, big and bald, starts now. He’d been sizing Cobb up, looking him up and down.  “You’re not from around here are you?”

“I’m about as tatooine as you get.” Cobb says, pushing his empty glass across the counter. The bar keep refilling it, looking like he wants to say something, maybe tell these guys to behave, but it’s not worth the effort or what it might cost him in tips. 

“Based on that accent of yours.” The big guy says, “I’d say you are from some out skirt moisture farm.” 

That makes Cobb’s hackles rise instantly. 

“What business have you got here, really?”

“I told you” Cobb says, tenuous grasp on his temper slipping. “I’m just meeting a friend. Leave me be.” 

“Why don't you just get out of here.” The bald one says, Cobb guesses that he’s probably the one in charge. “This is our bar, and I'd personally like to drink in peace.” 

“Then just leave me alone, partner.” Cobb says, every hair on the back of his neck bristling as one of the guy's lackeys starts to circle him where he sits.  Cobb bows his head, breathes deep. Last thing he needs is to start a fight. He should at the very least wait for Din to arrive before he does that. “I’m not lookin’ to start anything.”

Cobb rolls his shoulders when the guy leans in close, breathing down his neck and it takes all of his self control to not throw back his head and break the guy's nose right there.   

“Hey,” Skinny says, motioning at Cobb’s scarf. “I think this guy has a brand under there.” 

“Oh, you’re a slave, huh.” The leader says, his interest suddenly piqued.  “That sure explains a lot.” 

“I ain’t been a slave in a long time.” Cobb says through grit teeth, his knuckles white as he grips his glass. “Now i’m only gonna ask nice one time — back the fuck away from me.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think so.“ Leader says. “You got any papers?”  

“Maybe we oughta take him in, just in case,” Skinny says, still hovering around Cobb’s back.  “Might get a reward.” 

Cobb slowly pushes away from the bar, ready to cut his losses at this point and leave the bar, maybe he could try to find out what’s keeping Din. 

“Hey you ain't going anywhere, lemme get a good look at that brand.” The leader guy says, finally reaching out and trying to grab Cobb. 

Cobb doesn't like that one bit, his arm shooting out and knocking the man's hand away before he can make contact. “Do not fuckin’ touch me.” 

That’s when the guy behind him decides to grab him, and this time he does throw his head back, hearing and feeling the sickening crack of cartilage as someone's nose breaks. Followed by some muffled cursing as he’s let go. 

“I did warn you.” Cobb says, losing no time before launching himself at the leader, throwing a punch that lands on his jaw and knocks him back.  He quickly spins, throwing another punch at the bald guy, and kicking back to land a kick in the skinny guy's stomach. 

Cobb kneel’s, laying into skinny, punch after punch, until the big guy throws his arms around Cobb’s neck, pulling him back and off his friend. Cobb, reacting on pure instinct at the point, sinks his teeth into the man's forearm, making him let go with a furious scream. 

“You little shit.” The leader yells, grabbing Cobb by the back of his shirt and throwing him to the ground, where he lands sprawled on his belly on the dirty floor, gasping as the wind is knocked from his lungs. 

He’s flipped on his back, and before he can wiggle free, he’s pinned to the ground, knees digging harshly into his chest. 

“Lemme go.” Cobb growls, fighting against the hold, kicking out with his legs, 

“Oh shut up.” the guy says, drawing back his fist, slamming home into Cobb’s face several times in quick succession. 

Cobb is left dazed with his ears ringing when the weight holding him down suddenly relents. He tries to get up, only for sharp pain to explode in his side, as heavy boots collide with his chest over and over. He rolls onto his side, trying to curl into a fetal position to protect his middle. 

Until everything goes quiet and stops.  

Cobb forces his eyes open, uncovering his face to find everyone's attention is on the door. He lets his head fall to the side, and sees a blurry figure standing backlight in the entrance. 

A silhouette he’d recognize anywhere. 

“You’re fucked now.” Cobb groans.

“Is that who you were waiting for?”

Cobb just smiles, blood on his teeth. 

Din walks into the bar, approaching the group with his hand resting on his blaster.

“I think it would be wise if you took your leave.” Din says. And when no one moves a muscle, only staring wide eyed, Din unholsters the blaster and points it right in the man's face who’s holding Cobb down. “Now.” 

The three run, leaving just Din, Cobb, and a few other patrons. 

“For your trouble.” Din says, tossing a few credits on the bar.

“I’m glad you showed up.” Cobb says, as Din lifts him to his feet, he sways until Din gets a hand on his waist to steady him. “I… I coulda taken‘em though.” Cobb mutters, clenching his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness, leaning into Din.  

“I’m sure you could have.” Din says, placatingly. “Maybe if you hadn’t been drinking.” 

“M’not drunk.” Cobb sighs, his head aches and his face is throbbing, and each breath burns his against his ribs. “I’m injured.”

“I know.” Din says, slipping his arm around Cobb's waist. “Let’s go, I’ve got a room.”

They make their slow way through the streets of Mos Eisley, to the little hotel Din has a room at.  Cobb leaning heavily on Din as they walk, each step jarring his chest, he knows he’s going to have some bruised ribs tomorrow, if not, some cracked.  

“Wait here.” Din says, depositing Cobb on the single bed to return just a moment later with a damp towel.  He sits next to Cobb, cupping his cheek to hold him in place as he gently cleans the blood from his face.  “You want to tell me what happened back there?” 

“They didn’t like how I looked.” Cobb sighs, hissing when Din presses against his split lip. “Started talking shit, saw my brand and threatened to turn me in since I don’t have papers.” 

Din cringes under his helmet, that would certainly be a great way to get a reaction out of him. 

“If I hadn’t been late,” Din says, folding the towel over to a clean clean, dabbing blood from Cobb's nose. “Maybe this could have been avoided.” 

“Those assholes woulda gave me shit regardless.” 

“Maybe.” Din says, moving to clean the dirt smudged on his temple. “But you wouldn’t have ended up in a fight alone.” 

Cobb laughs, regretting it as pain bursts in his chest, gasping as he presses a hand to his ribs. 

“How are your ribs?” Din asks.

“Feel like I got stepped on by a bantha,” Cobb says tightly, gingerly letting out a breath.  “I'm afraid I am not going to be up for any sort of strenuous activity you mighta had planned on tonight.” 

“Do you think I came here just for that?” Din frowns as he runs his fingers though Cobb’s hair, checking for any hidden bumps. “That I see you as what? A convenient fuck.”

“Can’t see any other reason.” Cobb says, letting his eyes fall closed at the feeling, almost asking Din to keep stroking through his hair when he pulls away all too quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you, if it was.”

“Maybe I just enjoy your company.” Din says, gently taking hold of Cobb’s face in both of his hands. Cobb should probably feel intimidated, having the undivided attention of a mandalorian staring him down. But he just feels… cared for. Din presses his thumbs in along his eyes, seemingly satisfied with the lack of response from Cobb. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Cobb shakes his head.  “You could get company anywhere though.” Cobb says, watching as Din stands, removing his armor piece by piece, placing them neatly on the small desk in the room.

“I don’t want anyone else's.” Din says, unzipping his flight suit, stepping out of it. He’s left in just his helmet, boxers and an undershirt when he turns to face Cobb. “I just want yours.” 

Cobb wants to crack a joke here, about how Din looks ridiculous in his under clothes and helmet, but he can’t find the words, can’t do much of anything under Din’s gaze, except feel his cheeks go suddenly warm. 

“Ok,” Cobb says quietly, following Din as he crosses the tiny room, and starts to undress him with the same care he showed to his armor. Slipping Cobb’s shirt down over his shoulders, he can already see the first bruises forming along his ribs, dark purple and mottled. 

“I can get you something for the bruises tomorrow morning.” Din says, letting his fingers trail lightly along Cobb’s ribs and down to his belt.  Cobb lifts his hips when Din asks, letting him pull his pants down, leaving him in just his underclothes too. 

Din lifts the blankets, tucking Cobb underneath before sliding in behind him. He slips his arm around Cobb’s waist, and pulls him gently flush against him, handling him with more care than Cobb thought he was capable of, compared to their usual rough tumbles.  Cobb sighs, relaxing back against Din’s warm chest, resting his arm over Din’s, drawing his hand up to rest over his belly, lacing their fingers together. 

“Hey, Din?” Cobb whispers, smiling when he feels a rumbling hum in response against his back. “Thank you.” 

“Go to sleep.”

[seekingseven]

Another drabble request: how does Four find out about Twilight's wolf form?

Linked Universe Prompt Requests #8!

Oh, that's a great question! Here's one possible way it could have gone down...

⚠️CW: Alcohol Mention! ⚠️

(You can also read the fic here on Ao3!)

~~~~~~

Four was not the kind of person who spent his evenings in a places like this, and he knew Twilight and Time weren't either.

Maybe that was why he was so uncomfortable.

Music pulsed through the floor, amplified by the tavern's high ceilings and the patrons' warbling voices. Drinks clinked, beer frothed, and lantern light clotted over polished countertops. Across the room, a red-lipped waitress tossed a red-faced patron a pinched smile, the kind that crinkled at the edges with professional, faux patience, and the man let out a wheedling chuckle. A group of boys howled at each other as glossy cards splashed across their table. Behind the bartop, a tenderfaced bartender dropped a stack of glass mugs, and a nearby group of tipsy women had begun to crackle out the Hylian national anthem.

Four pressed his hands over his eyes and tried to cough out the smell of vomit and rotting sweat. No use. Spirals pulsed at the edges of his vision--he was pressing too hard--and he let his hands slide into his lap. The muscles in his neck tensed as he slipped deeper into Twilight's pocket.

This was not what he had in mind when he had decided to follow Time and Twilight on their "quick, fifteen minute errand." He had been right in deducing it was more than that, of course; reports of local children going missing near a known monster hideout hadn't inspired confidence in Four that grocery shopping was all on the two's minds.

But, a tavern?

To each their own, he supposed, but he couldn't entirely stifle the little flame of disappointment in his chest.

Adrenaline gushed through his throat as the world swung around him; Twilight was moving again. Vibrations thudded through the cloth around him. The overhead lanterns flickered crazily, blocked by Twilight's shoulders one minute and blazing down his backside the next. Four shielded his eyes under his hands and stared at his knees. This whole shrinking thing had been a bad--terrible--idea. He could only hope that Time and Twilight had a lower alcohol tolerance than they appeared to.

The movements stop, and Four sighed as the acid in his throat slipped back down. A booming echoed from overhead, and Four couldn't help but wonder if this is what the Minish had to deal with whenever he came to visit.

"Is Mr.Garto here?"

Four's ears perked up; that was Twilight's voice, and that was the name of the man who had first begun reporting the disappearances. Interest piqued, he righted himself until he as peering just over the small slip of space between the pocket and Twilight's tunic. If he turned just enough, he could catch a glimpse of Time's legs and the mahogany bartop behind them.

"He's not here right now," a voice whispered. The muscles crisscrossing Four's chest cinched. That wasn't the sound of a bored bartender, or a dolled up waitress, that was...

"A child?" Time asked, voice thick with its typical lack of tack. "Where are your parents? A tavern is no place for a boy your age."

Silence--at least, between the three parties. The debauched din around them showed no interest in smothering itself for the sake of dramatic tension.

"My parents work here," the voice replied. It was soft, but there was a bristle underneath it; a boy, Four would bet, and a frightened one at that. "My dad's Mr.Garto. Amerigo Garto. He's out right now. If you have questions, then you can, uh, demect them to me."

"Cute," Twilight murmured, voice lowered so that he was its only listener. Four would have rolled his eyes if he didn't happen to also find the childish mispronunciation endearing.

"Very well then," Time cut in. Whatever spell the boy's subtle stutter had cast on Twilight was lost on him, judging from the clipped words and serious tone. "Please tell your father that we would like to speak to him about the abductions. If he has any information, he's welcome to contact us. Here's the postal address of the inn my teammates and I are staying in."

A shuffle of cloth, and the faint sound of a hand bumping a counter. Four pulled his arms over the pocket and strained his neck to the side. The cloth around him dipped under his weight, threatening to give, and Four flinched so hard that he slipped back inside.

"You're looking for them?" the voice came again. "The lost kids?"

Time chuckled. The paternal sound felt oddly out of place in the drunken supernova around them. "Of course we are. We have an idea of where they might be, so we wanted to get in contact with your father to see if he had any more information."

Twilight leaned forward, letting both his pocket and his pocket-sized stowaway swing along with him. "We'll find them for sure. Don't worry."

"You will? Do you think you can find them? My sister and my puppy, I mean."

"Your sister?" Time asked.

"Your puppy?" Twilight added.

The boy's voice seemed smaller, now, lighter, and it took little imagination to envision the pale faced, blue-eyed seven ear old that was undoubtedly cowering under the others' combined stares. "Yes. They were the first to go missing, sir. Sirs. I hope you can find them. Let...let me know if I can help."

Across the bar, someone threw a bottle of wine against the wall. Glass powdered around the purple stain in the wood. Twilight flinched. A gaggle of teenage laughed in their testosterone-saturated way, unabashedly amused at the adults making spectacles of themselves, and Four stifled the urge to slap all of them.

"We will," Time said. His voice was a breath's distance from inaudible. "Take care, little one. We'll speak to you soon."

A mumble of agreement, muffled, and Four clutched the fabric of Twilight's pocket as the world spun on his heel. Left, right, left; he was swaying with each pull and pinch of movement, and he caught only a heartbeat's glimpse at the boy before Twilight and Time exited the tavern.

He looked exactly as Four had imagined him to.

"That's so sad," Twilight murmured, letting the tavern door close softly behind him. "I hope we find them."

"We will. Hopefully Garto gets in contact with us soon. For now, we'll just need to brief the others and see if there are any other locals who might have more information."

"Yeah, yeah. That sound about right."

This time, the silence was real. Only the sounds of feet squelching against mud and dirt interrupted their thoughts.

Twilight stopped. Four gripped the back of his head and hissed as it bonked against the raised metal of Twilight's scabbard.

"Hold on," the rancher began, "I forgot something back there."

"Forgot? What?"

"...something. I'll be back. Don't wait for me."

"Sure. Try to not stay out to long, though."

Twilight assured he wouldn't, then turned heel. Feet against the floor, night air, cold, and then a flush of heat. The air is stuffy again, and the quiet is gone, and Four is peering precariously between gaps in the pocket stitching. He thumps against the back of Twilight's leg as the rancher makes another sharp turn. It's a wonder that the rancher hasn't grown suspicious of the wiggling in his pocket yet.

But perhaps he was too occupied to grow suspicious, because Twilight slowed to a stop and leaned forward on what Four assumes to be the bartop.

"Is the kid still here?"

A grainy voice responded with a huff and grunt. "No, he went outside. Just through the hallway. Something about wanting to play hopstoch."

"Ah, okay. Thank you."

Another snort. "If you find him, tell him to come back inside. It's too dark to be out alone."

Twilight made a sound that could have been construed to be somewhat affirmative, then hurried out the door. The evening breeze, greased with the steam and sweat spilling from the tavern's backdoor, greeted them again. A clink of metal and the cloth ruffling; Four furrowed his eyebrows. What was Twilight up to?

It was the last cohesive thought he would have for a good minute.

The cotton confines around him popped out of existence. Air rushed against his head and through his air as he fell, weightless, and he had barely processed the fact that Twilight had vanished before he thumped against a tree stump. Dazed but unharmed, he sat up, eyes widening.

In the place where Twilight had stood mere moments ago was a massive grey wolf.

A wolf...

Wolfie?

"Who's there?" someone whispered. A figure on the other side of the backyard inched forward, and Four's throat tightened when he recognized it as the boy from earlier. His eyes were red. Little hopstotch stones dangled between his fingers, shining and unused.

The wolf--Wolfie--barked. The boy flinched, squeezing his elbows to his sides. Wolfie barked again, insistent, and wagged his tail furiously. Blue eyes watched silently as Wolfie rolled on his side, then chased his tail, then made an impressive show of chasing a terrified chipmunk through the yard. Gradually, the boy's eyebrows slipped downwards. Wolfie let out another bark. A whisper of a smile pinched at the boy's mouth.

"Where did you come from, big guy?"

Wolfie barked again, advancing further and, when the boy didn't recoil, butted his head against scabbed knees. The boy laughed again. Wolfie's tail wagged harder.

"You're so big! Who's your owner? They must take really good care of you. And you look really strong, too. Look at these muscles!"

The boy carefully closed a hand around Wolfie's paw, then lifted it upwards. Strength roiled beneath an oily coat, and the boy let out a small gasp of awe.

"Wow! You look even tougher than my sister! Hey, wanna play hopscotch with me? I think you would be good at it."

If Wolfie licking the boy's face wasn't confirmation enough, him hopping towards the dilapidated hopscotch court was. The boy laughed with delight and rubbed Wolfie's snout, giggling harder as the wolf licked a wet strip across his cheek.

"Huh," Four murmured, picking stray wood chips out of his hair and grinning to himself. "Looks like we both have a little secret."

~~ Fine ~~ I hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading! [Previous Request] - [Next Request!]

[yeojaa]

( GHOST IN MY BED. )

Sometimes, hating someone is the only thing you can do. 

pairing.  jjk x (named) f!reader.

genre + rating.   rockstar!au.  e2l (exes n enemies!).  angst.  general.    

tags / warnings.  the angst is heavy in this chapter.  there’s also mentions of drunk driving, a reference to drug use, and really, just a lot of sadness.  proceed with caution! 

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ and @periminkle​ i lob you both! 

wc.  2.8k

chapter one.

You’ve barely moved an inch, rooted to the spot by fear and sadness and three long years of distance.  It feels far too strange to be so close, to see him somewhere other than an illuminated screen.  You know you should say something, do something - anything - but every tired bone in your body is telling you to run and that’s something you can’t do.  Not after you’ve come so far. 

So you take a deep breath - deep as you can manage without bursting the dam that packs itself with flimsy sticks and stones - and step forward.  It feels monumental, far more than a single footfall. 

He’s watching you, carefully, as he’s always done, with awe written into every line still visible beneath bandages.  You see the way his jaw tenses, how the muscle works in agitation and hopelessness.  He’s holding himself back, much to your surprise.  You think you only recognize that because you know him so well.

And then you remember - you don’t know him at all.  Not anymore.

Because he might seem like the same boy you’ve loved for most of your life, but he’s nothing but a ghost now.  A figure from your worst nightmares, draped in white linen and gauze.  

His hair’s far longer than it’s ever been, sweeping over the sharp contours of his cheeks, past the singular scar he’d gotten in third grade.  It curls over his ears even in its dishevelled state, looking in desperate need of a cut and yet endearing all at once. The way he stares at you remains the same - intense, achingly familiar - and his smile - a little battered and bruised now - stretches like pavement, concrete and grounding.  

You hate that it does something to your heart, the delicate frame of your rib cage rattling with the way the organ nearly launches itself out of your throat and into his hands.

You take another step.  Jungkook doesn’t look away.  

“I missed you,”  he says, as if you’re an old friend, someone who’s come to hold his hand.  As if he hadn’t broken your heart into a million pieces and this isn’t the first time you’ve seen him since you managed to piece it back together.  

How you’d managed to rebuild yourself after that, you’re not sure.  You’d collected the broken bits, filled the cracks with gold, and mended it into something different.  A bit flawed and imperfect, but whole - stronger and illuminated.  You’d done that all on your own.

That doesn’t mean it doesn't still beat for him, just a little.  

A part of you aches to return his words.  It’s halfway off your tongue when you cut it off, severing it with a bite of your teeth and a resolve that just barely holds on.

You reach his side - still a good foot from the edge of the bed - and settle into the worn leather chair to his right.  It’s comfortable, surprisingly so, but you can’t find it in yourself to relax.  You’re ramrod straight, line of your spine strung like a bow.

It’s hard to look at him directly - to recognize the parts of him you’d once called yours - so you don’t, instead allowing your gaze to bounce across the room.  There are large bouquets of flowers against the few surfaces, all larger-than-life arrangements that look at odds with the barren body that’s laid up beside you.  You wonder, idly, who they’re from.  Friends?  Family?  Your heart stutters.  Fans?

There’s a bag and personal effects on the couch.  Black leather, exorbitantly expensive, embossed with his initials on the interior pocket.  The gift you’d gotten him for your last anniversary - the same one he’d nearly lost on tour despite the fact that it cost you more than you’d have cared to admit.  Something like anger simmers in your stomach at the sight of it.

When he speaks again, you’re still glaring at the bag, unable to tear your eyes from the supple material and all the memories it carries.  

“Pumpkin?”  

The nickname tears you from your reverie.  You can’t help the way you suddenly stare at him - all wide-eyed surprise.  “What?”

Something close to relief floods his expression, spilling like wet paint over the curve of his mouth, the corners of his eyes.  It spreads delight into every inch, unrelenting and unrepentant.  “I said I missed you, Pumpkin.”  He repeats himself not because you haven’t heard him but because he wants that reaction again - the one that tells him everything he needs to know.

You resent him for it.    

“Please don’t call me that.”  You wish it were stronger - that you were stronger.  It’s hard.

You know you shouldn’t love him anymore and that none of this should affect you.  After all, he’d thrown your heart into a blender with three shots of vodka and chased it down with some pills and cigarette smoke.  He’d filled all the space you’d given him with other things - riches and women and thin white lines - and he’d had the audacity to be surprised when your own sadness had slipped in, too. 

He’d always imagined you’d keep it locked up, held so closely he’d never have to face it.  You’d thought so to, really.  Hadn’t expected the way it spilled out regardless, too much misery to be kept in a little glass house. 

There was only so much you could take before it all came crumbling down. 

So, it’s hard.  You love him because he’s him and you’re you and that means more than you can possibly put into words.

“Don’t call you what?”  It’s almost patronizing, like he can’t quite believe his ears.  

“You know what.”

He scoffs - a low, broken sound that catches halfway out, muffled by chain-smoking and not nearly enough sleep.  “You never used to have a problem with it.”

“We were together then,”  you retort quietly, sandpaper grit and burnt coffee bitter. 

“Just tossing me aside then?”  

You’re not quite sure where he pulls it from - the sheer, idiotic confidence he somehow fits into his words, framing them like you’re in the wrong.  You wonder if it comes from years in the spotlight because it certainly wasn’t there before. 

“Don’t say it like that.”  What’s meant to be reproachful comes almost pleading, soft and sad and stained with saltwater.  

“Then don’t tell me what to do.”

The silence that falls is paradoxical, miserable and fulfilling all at once.  

It hurts in the worst of ways, sparking from the tips of your toes to the tops of your ears.  It feels like being outlined in neon - vivid pain in shades of pink and green that burn through your veins.  Proverbial I told you so’s curl over your ankles and around your heart, little reminders that this is who he is now and every path would’ve led you here anyway.  Parallel lines meant to converge only once before diverging once more.

“I’m sorry.”   His apology feels infinite, as if it’s meant to make up for multitudes.  “I just���”

Nothing further comes.  You don’t know what you’d expected. 

“It’s fine,”  you say, even though it’s decidedly not fine.  Absolutely nothing about this was even remotely fine.  You weren’t even really sure why you’d agreed to come.  You were still working through all your reasonings, turning them on their heads in hopes of receiving an answer other than the glaringly obvious ones that spilt out like salt grains. 

“Is it?”  Something about how he speaks, how the question seems so small, prompts you to meet his eyes.  You wish you hadn’t.

There’s an infinite galaxy swirling in his irises, a million words he hasn’t spoken.  They beg to be loved regardless, to feel even a semblance of the warmth your smile had once offered.  It breaks your heart all over again, splitting it into pieces where the cracks and crevices haven’t quite fused together fully.

“I missed you, Pumpkin.”  You don’t have it in you to rebuff him.  Not when he reaches for you - a feeble gesture that pulls his figure close, entire bruised frame reassembling like a shuddering skeleton.  He’s starry-eyed and intoxicating, drawing you into the Jungkook-shaped supernova you’re helpless against.  “I missed you so fucking bad.”

“Jungkook.”  

His name sounds like it’s about to break apart just like your heart, shattering wide open into a thousand splintered fragments.  

“Please don’t do this.”  Not again, you think.  Not after all this time.

“I can’t,”  he says and it’s shipwrecks and car crashes, misery in the form of broken teeth and battered bones and endless blue in his eyes.  “I need you.  I need you.”

It doesn’t escape you that you’ve heard these words before.  You’d tucked that memory into the furthest corner, up and above your head in a shelf that you’d never touch.  You’d folded it away into the box labelled JEON JUNGKOOK and tried to forget about it.  You haven’t been able to.

It bursts out now, bouncing around your skull and in your ears - a feedback loop that won’t stop.

“Please.”  You try again.  

He’s gripping your hand so tightly - with a strength that feels far too much for someone only a day past a terrible accident - and it feels white hot and alive.  Where his skin touches, he burns candle wax and coaxing - honeyed and warm.  You imagine you’ll peel the drippings off later and be left with scars in the form of his hands.  You wonder just how much more you can take.

“Please.”  You try a third time.  It’s feeble, frayed from holding on too long and too tight.

He hears it just as well as you. 

“Stay with me.  I don’t have anyone else.”

A part of you wonders how true that is.  Surely, he had his family - his lovely parents that you’d practically considered your own.  You can’t imagine they’d leave him here to rot. 

Your resolve still crumbles, just a little, from the topmost pillar. 

Ever the opportunist, Jungkook watches the fall of your Roman empire with rapt attention, hopeful as a new god.  If only you weren’t so easy to read - full hand laid out on the table. 

“What happened?”  You pose the question in place of an agreement, words offered in the same instance you remove your hand - or try to, anyway.  It doesn’t get very far.  He seems adamant in keeping your fingers twined, knuckles stark white and riddled with tension.  You wonder if he’s oblivious to it or if he just doesn’t care.  It wouldn’t be the first time.

So focused on the way he holds you - claims you in the iron shackle that he deems he needs - you almost miss the way his features contort, rolling through a myriad of emotion before settling into a defensive mask.  

You hadn’t expected a bared soul or a confession of all his sins - you knew enough of them already - but you’d hoped for some semblance of honesty. 

By his expression, you wonder if you’ll even get that. 

“I was in an accident.”  It’s short, terse and held tightly between his teeth.  

You don’t mean it in any way but observational.  “I see that.” 

He still takes it the wrong way, scowl fitting like a glove.  It steels his jaw and hardens the line of his mouth, the moulting of purple over and around his eye doing little to hide the storm that grows in his stare.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You can feel a headache coming on - the first pinpricks of it just behind your eyes and at your temples.  It forms in bits and pieces, a silhouette of a man that burns your retinas and makes your grit your teeth. 

“Nothing, Kook.”  It comes far more tired than you expect it to, weighed down by something you can’t quite place.  It feels like you’ve run a marathon in this small room.  You wonder if this is what it’s always like - draining and miserable and reminiscent of the hell of tenth grade gym class.

“I’m sorry.”

How many times has he said that now?  Will it ever be enough?  For him?  For you?

You shake your head, a slow gesture that doesn’t really register at first.  You’re so used to appeasing him - even three years later - and it comes of its own accord, bobbing your neck on your shoulders like second nature.  You could hold it back, but you seem just as intent on repeating yourself as he does.  “It’s fine.”

Maybe this is what the two of you are destined for - two lost lovers stuck on a merry-go-round.  

“It’s not fine.”  He’s released your hand now - you try to ignore the sudden, overwhelming disappointment that crashes into you like a tidal wave - and uses the bruised, bandaged one of his own to scrub down the side of his face.  It’s a surprisingly tired gesture, as if all of a sudden the weight of his situation has settled on his shoulders.  You barely catch the words that fumble out next, hidden behind the palm of his hand and the ink that swirls over his ink.  “I just…”

You’re hopeful for a split second.  Hopeful that he might let you in, despite the fact that you know you shouldn’t even be knocking at that door. 

“I don’t want you to look at me differently.”  It comes so small, your heart clenches in your chest. 

Then you wonder - what had he done?

“I won’t.”  It’s not a promise but it sounds like one, filled with sunbeams and reassurance.  You wish you could offer it any other way, maybe with careful regard and just the right amount of distance.  Instead, you’re committed, poker chips piled high on green felt.  All or nothing.  You can’t help it.

“I fucked up.”  

For the first time, you see him as he was those years ago - full of promise and hope, eager for a taste of the unknown.  You see him as the Jeon Jungkook you’d known and loved, vulnerability threaded through all five feet ten inches of his frame.  

You want to help him.  You shouldn’t, but you do.  “You can tell me.” 

“We just finished the tour.”  Pride colours his answer in glimmering strands of gold, threads that glint as he speaks.  Charisma oozes out of every pore, shimmering like precious stones hidden behind his molars and within his stare.  It’s easy to understand how he’s done so well for himself.  “I was… celebrating.  You know.”  You certainly don’t, but you nod along regardless.  “Things got a little out of hand.”

His attention seems far away, focused on something you can’t see.  He continues carefully, cherry picking his words.  

“I probably shouldn’t have driven.  She—”  Everything comes to a stuttering halt, his doe-eyed stare suddenly finding yours with alarm.  “—I mean, they.  Uh.”  The damage is already done.  You can feel it taking root - that same hurt you’d felt creeping into your throat before you’d stepped foot into this space.  You swallow it down as best you can, tearing your gaze from his to train somewhere on the cotton that rests in his lap.

“Go on.”

He’s stuttering just a bit, because he can’t help it.  He knows he’s been caught.  You know he’s been caught.  Gone is the Jungkook you’d once known.  You see him for all he is yet again - a poor boy dressed in leather and lies.  It hurts far more than it should.  

“Uh.  W-w-we were in, uh, the car.”  The intensity of his gaze feels like two little laser beams.  You can practically feel them burning through the top of your head as you refuse to meet his eyes.  “I was— I was drunk and I didn’t— I didn’t see the other car.”

You’ve heard enough.  

You wonder if the way you’re staring at him now is the way he’d most feared.  It must be by how his face falls, crumples like a house made of playing cards.  

“I’m glad you’re okay.”  You mean it - really, you do - but that’s the only thing you can give him.  

For his and for your sake, you need to leave.  Now.

“Please remove me as your emergency contact.”  Your voice wobbles, falling apart as you speak.  You worry the tears will follow soon after.  You can barely make out his expression, the wetness crowding heavily along your lashes and turning everything into a strange amorphous blob.  

It’s getting harder to breathe the longer you stay.  Each step towards the door feels like your head on the chopping block.  Once you cross that threshold, it’ll be severed clean off.  You’ll leave your heart in this room, with this boy who hasn’t grown a single day in the last three years.

You think he must be speaking to you but you can’t make it out.  Everything’s muffled, like you’re underwater and about to drown.  It fills your ears and steals your senses, narrowing your focus to the polished steel door handle that’s just within reach.

“I’m really, really glad you’re okay.”  It’s all you can manage before the dam breaks and you’re throwing yourself into the hallway and the waiting arms of your brother.  You don’t know how to stop the noise that rips out of your throat, wet and desperate and barely coherent.  

Yoongi was right - you shouldn’t have come.

author note.  this was quite short but it didn’t feel right with another scene added to it.  the next chapters will move the story along a lot more.  ty for reading!  💖

tag list.  @jalexa83​ 

[eatyourchancletas]

SUMMARY |  y/n l/n; the trauma surgeon who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and is taken hostage by the terrifying mafia known as ateez. despite their situations, love arises between the doctor and san; but when an enemy comes in between the group, breaking trust and belief between the members, what will san choose to save; his newfound love or his brothers?

PAIRING | choi san x male reader

INFO/CATEGORY | mafia au, fluff, light angst

WARNINGS | violence, weapon usage/mention, foul language, lower case writing

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AUTHOR’S NOTE | written by alex and edited by monnie! we are so sorry for not updating since the new year! we decided to upload this mini chapter to provide some background information for the following chapters to come! if you enjoyed this, please reblog, like, and leave some feedback! it’s much appreciated!! please excuse any mistakes!

WORD COUNT | 1.4k

TAG LIST :; @jonghoshoe​  if you’d like to be added to the list please say so in our inbox/ask box!

heeseung held his breath as soon as he caught a glimpse of the door that belonged to y/n’s apartment. it’d been a while since he had been remotely anywhere near it, just the thoughts and flashes of memories being enough to make his knees buckle in anxiety. he felt scared—of what, he didn’t know. maybe he was scared of just being back there or maybe he was scared that y/n really did leave.

he inhaled a deep breath before walking along the carpet that led to the door. beside the door was his mailbox, fastened to the wall. what rose heeseung’s suspicion though, was that the mailbox was overflowing—bills, disclosures, notices, and envelopes of different matters splayed out. the oldest (visible) one dated back as far as two weeks.

after multiple failed attempts of entering the passcode to the door, he bent down to search for the spare key, remembering where y/n placed it. he always thought y/n chose the most foolish spot to leave a means of entry into his home—under the doormat—but now he couldn’t help but feel relieved when the little scrap of metal touched his hand. he went to unlock the door when a voice called out to him.

“hey, what are you doing?”

the nurse jumped in shock, dropping the key as his hand flew to his heart, feeling the thrashing of his heartbeat. he looked over, seeing an elderly woman standing a few doors down. “do you know y/n? i’m looking for him, have you seen him?”

“you haven’t seen him either��the last time i saw that young man was two weeks ago!”

heeseung ran past the other pedestrians, not caring about the curses he’d received from bumping so harshly into them. his mind was in a state of frenzy—not even y/n’s neighbors had seen him. where is he?

he suddenly stopped, bending over to catch his breath, hands on his knees and lungs screaming for air. “maybe- maybe he just went on vacation!” he mumbled to himself, but he let out a frustrated cry, “no! y/n wouldn’t just leave like that. come on heeseung, you knew him more than you knew yourself at one point! he wouldn’t just leave,” he made his final decision, standing straight to walk into the police station in front of him.

“i’d like to file a missing person’s report.”

the officer at the desk looked at heeseung before clicking onto a new program on her computer, “what is their name and when was the last time you saw them?”

“y/n l/n and i saw him about two weeks ago.”

“excuse me, but why are you just now filing a report then, sir?” another officer walked up, overhearing the conversation.

heeseung looked shocked, not knowing what to say. maybe he had put too much faith in believing y/n was okay. maybe he should’ve come sooner, but now wasn’t the time to patronize himself.

“he’s a surgeon. we all figured he took a break or something—”

“sure, one second. let me go check if we have him in the system.” heeseung stared in irritation. did the officer not hear him? y/n is a surgeon, why would he be recorded in the system?

he waved down the officer, shaking his head. “nevermind officer, i’ll just go to the next division station and report it.”

he let out a rough sigh as he gripped his hair, kicking his feet as he walked out the station. “please, y/n, please be safe—”

his phone suddenly rang and he fumbled with it in his pocket before pulling it out and looking at the caller id. it was a number he didn’t recognize, so he went to ignore it when a nagging feeling compelled him to answer.

“hello?”

there was some breathing on the other end of the line before a voice spoke up, “hello? hi, yes, is this lim heeseung?”

heeseung didn’t recognize the voice, but if he knew his name, he must’ve been calling for a reason. “yes this is… may i ask who i am speaking to?”

“oh, hello, yes i am changsik. i’m a friend of y/n’s—”

an audible gasp left heeseung’s mouth, his feet carrying him to a less crowded place. “really? do you know where he is—is he okay?”

“oh, he’s fine! i’m actually calling you because he asked me to. he wanted me to let you know he was okay. i’m letting him stay at my house for a bit—he wanted to take a break, he’s turned his phone off. that’s why no one can reach him,” heeseung listened on, each word causing his mind to be put more at ease, “he actually asked me to call you a while ago, but i’ve been so busy with work, so i’m very sorry!”

heeseung frantically spoke a mantra of “no,” telling the man that he was fine and thanking him for telling him about y/n.

“here, how about this. i’ll send you my address and you can come and surprise him with a visit this weekend!”

“of course! thank you so much, i’ll keep in touch!”

“mister hongjoong… sir,” y/n fumbled over his words as he confronted the man. hongjoong looked at him with a raised brow, waving a hand slowly, urging him to continue speaking. “uh, i’m running low on supplies… so i was wondering if someone could come with me to get more from the store…”

the leader stares blankly at him for a moment, causing the doctor to almost become weak in the knees, before he taps his in-ear, “jongho, come here please.”

a few seconds later, jongho enters hongjoong’s office, bowing his head before waiting for hongjoong to speak.

“y/n says he is running out of supplies, so i want you to go with him to the pharmacy down the street, okay?” jongho only nodded his head, bowing before asking y/n to follow him.

as they made their way down the corridor, jongho tapped his in-ear, “i’m going with y/n hyung to get some more medical supplies. san hyung can you bring me my wallet and gun. we’re headed toward the front door.” there’s a hurried yes on the other end, heard in both jongho and y/n’s ears. 

when they reached the front door, san was already standing there, a batman wallet and gun in hand. y/n eyed the wallet, “wow, jongho. who would’ve thought you were into batman—”

san choked on a laugh as jongho just huffed, opening the front door. “oh, one second jongho, please. let me just go get the list of supplies i need!”

jongho nodded his head, shutting the door behind him. y/n went to go get the list from the infirmary when san’s hand landed on his forearm. “i already grabbed it… hyung,” the younger was staring up at him with a worried look, “be careful.”

y/n went to thank him when he noticed a subtle blush painting his cheeks. “are you okay san? you’re not coming down with a fever, are you?” he placed a hand against his forehead and then his cheeks.

“your wounds are probably infected! i told you no sharp movem—” his words were cut off as a pair of lips touched his almost as fast as he could blink. his eyes widened in shock, body freezing as he stared down at the younger whose face transitioned into a burning red. 

y/n bought a hand to his mouth, delicately prodding at the area that was tingling. he remained like that for a few more moments, san’s demeanor slowly becoming more ashamed and embarrassed. san went to apologize and run away when y/n bought a hand to his hair and ruffled it. “we’ll be back before you know it.”

y/n didn’t know how to feel as he followed jongho down the sidewalk. what san did was so sudden—sure they’d grown remarkably closer over the past couple of weeks, but he just couldn’t help but be shocked. maybe it was because the boy was in his younger twenties and y/n was almost thirty. maybe there was some sort of generation gap when it came to the developmental speed of friendships and relationships.

all he knows was he couldn’t shake it from his mind as he walked into the pharmacy, jongho waiting outside to avoid the cameras. 

but what the both of them didn’t and couldn’t have known was that there was someone else in the pharmacy—someone willing to start a war.

[seasonofthegeek]

Chosen: Best Friends

Written for @adrinetteapril 2021

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4:

“My man, you can’t date the vampire slayer.” Nino spread his palms out, clawed nails stretching upward. He nodded at a shout from one of the bar patrons before returning his attention to the other man. “You’re a vampire. She, like, slays you, dude.”

Adrien sighed dreamily and put his hand to his chest. “She really does slay me; she’s gorgeous.”

“Not like how pretty she is! Like in a stakey way!” The demon made a stabbing motion in the air. “It’s just not natural.” He grabbed a glass from the shelf behind him and filled it with a putrid, frothing liquid before sliding it down the bar to the waiting customer.

“Haven’t you been flirting with a witch?”

Nino grinned, a full set of sharp teeth on display. “Yeah. She says she only wants me for my nail clippings and strands of hair for spells and stuff but I really think I’ve got a shot. Besides, witches aren’t, like, the mortal enemy of my kind so it’s not the same thing.”

Adrien slumped on the bar stool. “There’s that, I guess.” He ran his finger along the red stained rim of his glass and brought the excess blood to his lips. “This is cold now.”

“That’s because you’ve been sitting here moping over the same pint of B-pos for over an hour. You’re lucky you’re my best bud. I grab you something fresh.” He grabbed the glass and dumped it in the sink before disappearing into the back storage room.   

Adrien turned on his stool as the bar door opened and widened his eyes in surprise as a human woman strode inside with barely a glance around the room. A clanchin demon snapped its teeth at her as she passed and a flick of her fingers sent a shock of electricity crackling against his face. He howled in displeasure and moved away from the bar and towards the door.

“Nino here?” she asked as she took the empty barstool next to Adrien.

He eyed her up and down. “You’re the witch, huh?”

Alya smirked. “My reputation precedes me.”

“You should be more careful. That clanchin holds a grudge.”

“I’ll take my chances.” She turned on her stool to look around. “Nino in the back? He’s supposed to be here tonight.”

Adrien frowned as he watched her, realization dawning as a muted familiar scent reached him. “Wait. You’re friends with the Slayer.”

“And you’re determined not to tell me where Nino is, huh?” She spun back towards the bar slowly. “I was wondering how long it would take you to recognize me.”

“Your hair was different the last time I saw you. Eyes too, maybe.” He saw Nino reappear, a tall, steaming glass of red liquid in his hand. 

“Yeah, I’ve been playing with some new styles. Magic, ya know?” Alya caught his gaze and looked to the side. “Nino! Here I was thinking you’d run out on me.”

“Never.” The bartender set the pint of fresh blood down harder than necessary in front of his best friend, sending some of it sloshing over the side. “What can I do for you tonight, gorgeous?”

“Two claw tips and some tooth shavings?” Alya’s lips pursed hopefully.

“That’s a big order. Might have to hang around til I can close up,” Nino warned, eyes twinkling. “My teeth aren’t something I can give up lightly.”

“Just some tooth shavings. You won’t even notice.” She leaned a little over the bar with a smile. “And I think I can manage to hang out for a bit if you can promise me the goods.”

Adrien looked between them in exasperation. “I guess I’m just going to take this to-go then.”

“Yeah, dude. Good idea. Bring the glass back later.” Nino didn’t look away from Alya as the vampire grumbled and got up from his stool.

“Oh, you might wanna walk through the cemetery at the corner of Rue Blex and Dentres on your way home,” the witch called out with a sly smile. “Never know who you’ll run into.”

Adrien couldn’t stop the grin that took over his lips. “I might just do that.”

Support me on Ko-Fi?

[out-of-jams]

Rules of the Game || jhs

↠ Rules of the Game ↞ “You didn’t even need to see the tag sewed into the jacket of his suit to know that it cost more than you made in a single weekend. Didn’t need to sit next to him on that leather couch to know that he probably smelled exactly how he looked: dark, rich, dangerous.��

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader

Warnings/Genre/Rating: Set in the Roaring 20s! Mobster!Hoseok. Singer!Reader. Flapper!Reader. Fluff. Strangers to lovers. Law breaking. Alcohol use. Oneshot. PG-13.

Word Count: 2.7k

Fic Theme Song: My Heart Belongs To Daddy -- Marilyn Monroe

A/n: I recommend listening to the song above to set the mood!~

                               | | Masterlist | |

All of my works are purely fiction. Everything I write is my intellectual property and therefore belongs to me.©out-of-jams. Do not copy or repost without permission.

The air was hot.

Humid.

Stifling.

A bead of sweat drifted down the back of your neck and goosebumps broke out on your flesh as it traveled below the top of your dress. It was one of your favorites: black and short with silver embedded jewels that glittered beneath the low ceiling lights. A tight fitting pearl necklace decorating the bare skin of your neck matched the earrings pierced through your lobes. And the heels on your feet made you taller, though not by as much as you’d like.

“You ready to go again?”

You glanced up from the glass of water clutched in your hands to meet the questioning stare of one of your dearest friends. Kim Taehyung nodded his head towards the stage that took up the whole back wall of the joint. Two women in similar styles of dresses to yours and short cut hair side-eyed him as they walked past. Giggled into their illegal cocktails and whispered behind their hands.

Perhaps if you hadn't known the man at your side before he was old enough to be weaned from his mother’s breast, then you would have sighed with them. Would have fluttered your lashes at the unnecessarily handsome man gifted with a sweet face and even sweeter disposition. You couldn’t fault them for double-taking at his warm chocolate eyes and hair long enough to cover his lightly tanned forehead.

Taehyung’s coral colored, cupid-bow lips tilted up as he tried and failed to hide how he preened beneath their longing stares. Rolling your eyes, you slid your glass of water back onto the high topped table and patted his suit clad arm. “Let’s go before you get snatched up again and I lose my saxophone player for the night.”

“That was only one time!” Taehyung’s amused voice followed you back to the stage and up the three short steps. Chatter from the packed speakeasy hidden beneath the restaurant upstairs filled your ears with familiarity.

The space wasn’t very big. Then again, it didn’t need to be. Not when it sold illegal drinks like newsboys sold papers. Molls and Dolls was one of the most popular joints in town and everyone who was anyone tried to get their names put down on the incredibly long list. The interior was ritzy, filled with expensive leather chairs, polished wooden tables, and imported Persian rugs.

At the side of the place, to the left of the stage, was the bar. Already packed with broads and fellas dressed in clothes so expensive that those who looked wouldn’t doubt that they came with enough dough to buy whatever they wanted. They belonged to the type of crowd that you didn’t. 

You didn’t grow up rich, didn’t have all the possessions you owned bought with daddy’s money. Maybe that was why it was so easy to see past the fronts they wore like cheap, plastic masquerade masks. They wanted people to think that they held all the power, when in reality, they did not. Were just like everybody else when you took away their money and it came down to it.

Nodding at your piano player in a silent motion to urge him to put down the whiskey and pick up the tunes, you approached the microphone center stage. It was cool to the touch as you lightly wrapped your fingers around the stand. The ten minute break you’d taken was exactly what you’d needed to moisten your throat and prepare yourself to sing for the rest of the night.

When a familiar melody started up as your pianist danced his fingers across the keys, you felt your eyes slip closed in bliss. While the rest of the patrons were home to mansions and pricey cars, the stage was where you belonged. The eyes of those who came to watch you sing, to hypnotize them with the words that itched to spring free from your tongue, breathed life into you. And the rhythm of the instruments at your back guided the beating of your heart.

You hadn’t been singing at Molls and Dolls for very long. A year ago was when you’d been approached by the mac who owned the place. He’d caught you the moment you slid from the stage at one of the less infamous underground clubs in the city. Had praised your voice and offered you a slot to sing at his joint every Friday and Saturday night. The only catch was that you could work for him and him only.

The one thing that stopped you from turning him down (how could you live off of working two days a week?) was the hefty wad of cold, hard cash he’d slipped into your palm. A downpayment, he’d said, loose change compared to what you could make with him. Something to give you the incentive to accept.

How R.M.--he never gave out his actual name--really earned the money he got stayed a mystery to you. You knew that the safe in his office was filled to the brim with more bills than you could count; more dough than he could possibly make in an evening. But you never asked. Didn’t need to when he paid you enough to keep the questions from your mouth.

You came to sing, to sip at the drinks you were given and bask in the attention from those who envied you. Who wished they could hypnotize a room with only their voice.

Like now.

You could feel their gazes upon you while you sang and you soaked it up. Tried not to let a smirk capture your red tinted lips when you felt heat boring a hole into the side of your face. Instead, you slid your kohl lined eyes open as the band playing behind you transitioned to fast paced, sexier song.

“If I invite a boy some night To dine on my fine food and haddie.”

Across the room, a pair of dark eyes watched you. They were familiar, and yet not. Belonged to an absolute billboard of a man who looked like he fit more on the cover of magazines sold on street corners, than in the basement of a speakeasy. Hair the color of the scotch he sipped on and skin the same hue as molten honey, he met your gaze beneath heavy brows. His high cheekbones, a strong nose, and jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds were enough to catch many a lingering look.

“I just adore, his asking for more But my heart belongs to Daddy.”

You didn’t even need to see the tag sewed into the jacket of his suit to know that it cost more than you made in a single weekend. Didn’t need to sit next to him on that leather couch to know that he probably smelled exactly how he looked: dark, rich, dangerous. Every single weekend, he claimed the same spot across the room with a handful of other, equally handsome men.

You weren’t sure what they did or why they were there. Why everyone skirted around them like particularly frightened railway mice. R.M. would join them occasionally with friendly handshakes and pats on the back. So it wasn’t very difficult to put the pieces together that wherever he got all of his money from had something to do with those fellas.

Words had never been exchanged between you and the man who watched you perform like you were the only two people in the room. Neither of you had crossed that invisible line that drew itself down the middle of space that divided you. It was an unspoken rule in the game the two of you played. You’d sing as if just for him, and he’d gift you with his attention.

“Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy So I simply couldn't be bad Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy.”

Already hooded eyes seemed to darken even further at the suggestive words that spilled from your tongue. And if you looked close enough--which you always seemed to do when it came to him--the slight quirk of his heart-shaped mouth was a sign of his approval.

“So I want to warn you laddie Though I know that you're perfectly swell That my heart belongs to Daddy Cause my Daddy, he treats it so well.”

Not even the crowd gathered around the front of your stage like meerkats, with their eyes trained on you with rapt observation could pull your own from him. One of the men sitting next to him, a petite looking blond with a soft, pretty face, leaned over to say something into his ear. Not even then did he turn away from you. Just answered his companion without breaking the rules of the game.

“If I invite a boy some night To cook up some hot enchilada Though Spanish rice is all very nice My heart belongs to Daddy.”

The hair at the back of your neck stuck to your skin from the heat that perforated the room due to too many bodies and too little air circulation. But you didn’t pay it any mind, too busy trying to stave off the feeling of disappointment when a man you didn’t recognize approached the men. Cut off your line of sight to the man sitting on the couch. Whatever was said was enough to cause him to rise, press his almost finished drink into the hand of one of his companions and follow the stranger out of the room.

Though the look he sent you before disappearing was a message in and of itself. A silent apology for ending the game before time was up.

The rest of your set up on stage didn’t affect you like it usual did. Failed to provide you with the normal high that accompanied a performance. You tried not to let displeasure show on your face when you departed the stage. The night hadn’t ended, nor would it until the first signs of light began to show as the sun rose over the city skyscrapers. But you were exhausted.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t leave even if you’d wanted to because R.M. had yet to pay you for the weekend. If it were Friday, then you would have just shrugged it off and let it go until the next day. But it was Saturday and you didn’t want to have to come back during one of your off days. Molls and Dolls was too far away from your apartment to hike across the city when you didn’t need to.

R.M. was nowhere to be seen, had disappeared a little while ago according to the bartender who poured you a glass of gin. So sadly, you were left waiting for the man when you weren’t even sure if he would return for the night. Sometimes he would vanish and reappear the next day like nothing had happened. Though you supposed that since he owned the place and all, it was more than acceptable for him to do so.

You just wished that he didn’t do it when you needed to get paid.

Sighing, you pressed the martini glass to your lips and took a hefty sip. The alcohol burned your throat as it slid down, but you didn’t mind it. Not when it lit fire to the blaze itching beneath your skin. Taehyung had disappeared somewhere into the flock of tittering women the moment he’d packed up his saxophone and stepped off the stage.

Left to your own devices, you rested your cheek in the palm of your free hand and surveyed the room. It was still packed wall-to-wall, filled with the sound of chatter and the jazz band who took your place performing. They were talented, good even, but you didn’t expect anything less from someone hired to work for R.M.

“Could I get you another drink, miss?”

Blinking at the sudden intrusion of a voice invading your personal space, you turned to meet the shameless stare of a stranger. He had a face that was all angles and sharp lines with eyes the color of the sky at midday. By the way he carried himself, leaned against the bar like he owned it, you could already tell what kind of man he was. One who thought he could have anything he wanted with the snap of fingers because of the weight of his wallet. Who thought he was the absolute bees-knees.

Raising an eyebrow at the way his gaze lingered on the bare skin of your legs exposed by your dress, you took another sip out of your glass. “I’m still drinking this one.”

“After, then,” he winked. “What d’ya say?”

You hummed before looking pointedly away from him in hopes that he’d get the message without you needing to spell it out. “No.”

“No?” Apparently not. The only thing he got was closer to you as he slid across the bar until his arm brushed your side. “Come on, doll. Don’t be a prude.”

Turning back to shoot him a heated glare, you leaned away from his touch. “Are you deaf?”

He didn’t seem at all affronted by your scoff when he reached up to brush your cheek with his pointer finger. “Can’t say that I am. Now accept my offer before I take it back.”

“Take it back, then.” You jerked your head back until he had no choice but to drop his hand.

“You--”

“I believe that the lady said no.” A voice, deep and raspy and accented with a vocal fry, spoke from over your shoulder. Warmth from a hand pressed to your waist accompanied it, and you found yourself looking back in surprise.

The first thought that came to your mind was that he was a lot taller than he looked from across the room. To the point where you had to crane your head up to take him all in; the sliver of his neck exposed by his expensive suit, a mole beneath his right eye, two dimples that indented either side of his mouth as he pursed his lips in displeasure.

He cocked his head to the side, voice pitched dangerously low. “Don’t make her say it again.”

One glance at the fella who’d forced his presence on you had you raising a brow at how quickly the blood drained from his face. His blue eyes were blown wide, mouth opening and closing like he’d forgotten how to make a sound. He let out a squeak that sounded so incredibly unmanly that you were embarrassed for him, before making himself scarce. Perhaps his reaction should have given you second thoughts about the man who’d come to your rescue, but it didn’t.

It only made you all the more curious.

“I could’ve handled that, you know.”

He looked down at you, took in your playful smile and flashed you one of his own. “I didn’t like his hands on you.”

“But yours is fine?” You questioned, referencing his own hand still on your waist.

He hummed, a deep rumbling sound, and smirked. “You tell me, dollface.”

“I think,” you tilted your head towards the bar, “that you should give me your name and buy me another drink.”

You could feel it then, like the room had shifted.

He barely even had to glance at the bartender for him to make his way over. “You can call me Hoseok.”

Hoseok brushed a stray hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear. It took all you had not to let the way your heart raced from the simple gesture. “And you?”

Your name fell from your mouth and something flashed in his eyes as he tasted it on his lips. Gestured for you to tell the bartender what you wanted.

The rules of the game had changed.

[astralaffairs]

how about #23 "Just pretend to be my date.” with our man thomas? 👀 a good ol' fake dating au

oml i LOVE this prompt and had soso much fun writing this

-------

"Fancy meetin' you here."

You turned with a start to the voice behind you, eyes wide, until you saw who stood there wearing an entertained grin, one hand tucked in his pocket and the other holding a red solo cup. You stood beside the table of drinks at yet another frat party, having just cut away from your group of friends in order to grab yourself something -- you were still too far on the boring side of sober.

"Thomas, hey!" you exclaimed, "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"I do live upstairs, sweetheart," he said with a raised eyebrow, and you could feel your cheeks heat. You were both well aware you knew he'd been a member of Sigma Pi since you were both freshmen, but this was still one of few times you'd actually seen him at a party.

"I know that," you defended, and he chuckled as he took a sip of his drink. "I just didn't expect to run into you. It's a big place."

"Oh, so you've been avoidin' me?" he challenged, grin broadening, and you rolled your eyes as you poured yourself another Kamchatka.

"What gave it away?" you said, tone dry, and he shrugged.

"That you've gotten pretty good at makin' yourself hard to find," he said, and though his voice was light, playful, when you looked up at him, his raised eyebrow and piercing gaze had you unsure as to whether or not it was a joke. But then his expression relaxed, breaking your stare as he surveyed the party. "Not that I've been lookin' for you, or anythin'."

"Mhm." His demeanor had fallen flat, his nonchalance more jarring than his teasing. He stood with his back against the counter, and when you turned to join him, you playfully checked your hip against his. Though he chose that moment to take a sip of his drink (a coincidence you suspected wasn't so coincidental), you could see the corners of his lips quirk. "Don't play coy, Jefferson; I know how charming I am."

He laughed outright at that, and though your words had been a joke, you were more than ready to take offense at his reaction. "Hey, no false pretenses here. Wasn't I the one who just said I've been lookin' for you?"

He glanced down at you with that, appearing to be entertained by the skeptical look in your eye. "Last I checked, you were the one who denied having been looking for me."

There was a skip, with that. Your tone was challenging, and he recognized it for what it was. While you stared up at him expectantly, your eyebrows shot up when his eyes roamed down your figure. "Alright, then maybe just a couple false pretenses."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"Aw, what, I'm not allowed to have missed you?" His overly-dramatic pout made you smile -- it definitely wasn't that his words were getting to you, or anything; you just didn't feel the need to hide your amusement at his antics. Regardless, you did turn your head to the crowd before you. "'M not allowed to want you?"

You breath caught at his words. His tone had dropped an octave, was closer to a low, gruff hum, and though you weren't facing him, you could tell by how clear his words were that he'd dipped down to murmur the words to you. Your eyes were almost comically wide, and you couldn't bear to turn back to him, couldn't stand to meet his gaze.

"Excuse me?" was all you managed in response, your voice breathy and clipped, and you could feel his warm breath brush over your neck with his light laugh.

"'M I not allowed to wanna spend time with you?" he responded, as though to repeat what he'd said before. The words almost sounded patronizing. His voice was back to normal; you could feel on the skin of your shoulder that he'd moved back to where he was standing.

You wide eyes then held disbelief instead of unease as you looked up at him. He stood casually, a hand in his pocket as he took another sip of his drink, and the only sign you hadn't imagined his words altogether was the tiny, smug grin he wore that told you he was relishing in his effect on you. He let you look on skeptically another moment before he finally glanced back down, shrugging. "What?"

"You've gotta be kidding me," you huffed, and he pursed his lips to keep his smile from growing.

"Now, I'm just not sure what you're talkin' about," he said frankly, and you scoffed loudly enough for him to hear it over the clamor of the party. "You accusin' me of somethin'?"

"Forget it," you muttered bitterly, averting your eyes from his ever-growing ego.

"Aw, don't be so hostile, now." He jabbed you lightly with his elbow, his stare teasing, and though you shied away from the touch, his smile was unfortunately contagious. "I better not have spent all that time lookin' for you for nothin'."

"Not my fault if you're too obnoxious for me to live up to expectations," you replied.

"No worries, sweetheart; you always do." You rolled your eyes, but he didn't seem to be joking; his sharp gaze burned right through you, and a shiver ran down your spine. A skip passed in (relative) silence -- that is, if you didn't consider the ruckus carrying on all around you. You bit your lip when he didn't look away. "Hey, what d'you say we--"

"Y/N!"

You both looked left, following the strident voice that sounded over the crowd, and as if on cue, you both groaned -- and not for entirely different reasons. Your pseudo-ex, Samuel Seabury, was shoving his way through the crowd toward you. You'd dated him in your freshman year -- it wasn't even a relationship, as you saw it. You'd gone on three dates to try and alleviate his fixation on you. You pinched the bridge of your nose when you saw him getting caught behind the football team. (Your hope that he wouldn't emerge from the other side proved to be futile.)

"Cockblock," Thomas muttered into his cup, and you raised an eyebrow at him.

"What was that?"

"Good luck with him," he continued, ignoring your interjection entirely, and when he began to take a step away from you, your eyes widened.

"Hey, you're leaving?"

"I'm not tryin' to spend my night with that weasel." He tried to continue, but you grabbed him by the arm, doing your best to pull him back. Your strength didn't exactly overpower him, but it did manage to dissuade him from his retreat.

"But you're leaving me with him?"

Amusement shone in his eyes at how panicked you looked, and he took a step back toward you. "And what's it do for you if I stay?"

"I need an excuse to get away from him. Please, Thomas?" He looked at you dubiously, though he was clearly intrigued by your distress.

"I dunno about that."

"Come on, please, just--" Though your grip was digging into his arms as you tried to deter him from leaving, it still tightened when you looked back to see Samuel almost having reached you. However, your fraught history with him gave you an idea. "Pretend to be my date."

"What?"

"Pretend to be my date!" you repeated, your voice then all but a hiss, but he didn't look convinced.

"Y/N, I--"

"Y/N!" It was then Samuel who cut him off as he finally sidled up to where you stood, and if you didn't find his presence so disgusting, you might've found his timid smile endearing. "Hey, where have you been all night? I was trying to find you before, but--"

"I just got here," you said, plastering on a smile, and though you didn't bother trying to hold him in place, knowing perfectly well he could pull away from you whenever he chose to, Thomas stood by you, and you loosened your grip on his arm. Fortunately, with the way you stood, you could've passed for a couple -- that is, assuming Sam hadn’t noticed the growing fury in your body language just moments before he reached you. He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, really?" he asked, and though you rarely gave him the benefit of the doubt, you had to believe the surprise in his doe-eyed stare was in earnest. "Why not? The party started hours ago."

"Didn't have a ride," you replied quickly, giving a shrug that you hoped came off as nonchalant but knew was as stiff as could be.

"But your roommate's been here for hours. Didn't you come with her?" By then, his curiosity had begun to sound more interrogating than innocent.

"Oh! I, uh--"

"She came with me." You let out a sigh of relief when Thomas cut in, placing his other hand atop where yours rested on his arm. You undoubtedly looked as grateful as you felt. "We were out together, before, and I ended up makin' us just a little bit late."

He winked, smiling down at you, and you turned back to Samuel with a shrug. "We might've lost track of time."

"Oh..." He eyed the two of you hesitantly, not quite sure what to make of your dynamic, but Thomas certainly seemed to be enjoying himself.

"'M sorry about that; 's my fault, really." He squeezed your hand, and all the bashfulness in his gaze was painfully contrived, but Samuel seemed to be slowly growing too sour to notice. "I'd apologize for keepin' her all to myself, but can you really blame me?"

"I guess not," Samuel answered slowly, eyes narrowed; he seemed to be searching for anything he could find out of place with the two of you. "So, what, you two are--"

"Really running late," you cut him off, and when he folded his arms, you could feel your smile tighten into a borderline grimace. "So sorry to leave right after running into you, but we promised we'd meet someone."

"Who?" he challenged, and you could feel yourself beginning to tense in fury. You saw Thomas wince out of the corner of your eye when your nails began to dig into his forearm.

"Samuel--"

"'S no one you'd know," Thomas said mildly as he laced his fingers into yours (most likely with the intent of stopping your sharp nails from breaking his skin, but the action looked affectionate nonetheless).

"Oh, are you sure? Because I might--"

"Nah, we're actually only here for a bit. Weren't plannin' to stay long; just promised we'd show our faces at the party, go stop by and see 'em," Thomas reasoned, and despite how annoyed Samuel slowly seemed to be growing, he couldn't say much in response at that point. "Occupational hazard, I guess. Comes along with bein' part of the fraternity."

"Then I guess I won't keep you," Samuel said, voice tentative, and you gave him a stiff smile as you began tugging Thomas away alongside you.

"Thanks, Sam, really." You genuinely gave your best effort at sounding warm as you started on your way past him. "It's always good to see you."

"You too, Y/N!" he replied, and you could hear him growing frantic as you began to push out of earshot. "Y'know, you can always call me if--"

Your eyes widened when Thomas stopped in his tracks, turning back to Samuel, but he ignored your urgent look. "Thanks, but she's got a better offer," Thomas called back at him, and though his voice had been light just minutes before, you could hear the annoyance in it as he wrapped an arm around your waist. You inhaled sharply when he pulled you into him, fingertips pressing into your hip, and your skin burned under his touch. "It'd do you nicely to take a hint, y'know."

You hardly caught a glimpse of Samuel's sullen glare as Thomas promptly pulled you back along with him through the crowd, pressed against his side.

"You're a lifesaver," you sighed, and when he looked down at you, seeing the gratitude written across your face, a grin split his embittered expression.

"I do my best," he replied, squeezing your side playfully. You wore a small, coy smile.

"I'm forever in your debt." Your sarcasm had no bite to it as you walked together, not sure where he was leading you but glad to make your escape, and he raised a playful eyebrow.

"Any interest in repayin' that, sweetheart?"

You laughed when he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Mm, tempting, but I'd really rather just get out of here. I don't want to risk running into dear, sweet Sam again," you huffed, and he chuckled.

"Where are you tryin' to go? Didn't your roommate drive you here?"

You shrugged. "You have any suggestions for me?"

You glanced up just as his smile broadened, but squealed when he turned to you, his other hand meeting your waist as he pulled you flush against his chest. He could feel your pounding heart against his body, could see you swallow harshly, and his smile was shamelessly delighted at your wide-eyed stare. He leaned forward, and you shivered when his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. "I mean, I might've mentioned," he murmured, and you inhaled sharply when you could feel the vibrations of the words against your skin, "but my bedroom is upstairs."

He leaned back after a few moments passed in silence, looking to gauge your reaction, but when you stood perfectly still, hands resting on his biceps, entirely stunned, he raised an eyebrow. Finally, you took a deep breath, and a small smile lurked at the corner of your mouth. You pushed yourself onto your toes to whisper to him, "Care to show me the way?"

Triumph flashed in his eyes. "No need for you to worry about how we're gettin' there." You hardly had time to process the words before he was leaning down to pick you up, throwing you over his shoulder, and you yelped. "Anyway, I think now just became the perfect time for us to get back to discussin' just how much you're in my debt."

[quillingyousoftly]

life is far away from fair

Written for Day 1 of Rumrollins Week! The prompts are: Deception/”The sooner we forget what happened, the better.” "Deception" is only there if you squint 😛

AO3 link for tags and whatnot.

Jack quickly became one of the patrons Brock had learned to recognize from far away. Tall and wide-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones and deep green eyes, he was rather memorable. He first came to The Hydra on last year's Halloween with a group of friends, and Brock immediately noticed him. After that, he would show up every week, alone, take a seat at the bar, and ask for a scotch.

What Brock didn't immediately notice was his scent: herbal and fresh, delicate and clearly omega. It was rare for an omega to not smell like a flower garden or a bakery, but looking at Jack, who appeared so much like an alpha he passed the selection at the alpha-only club, it fit him. Still, it was annoying whenever another patron smelled him, looked around, and then gave Brock a suspicious look. It sucked to be mistaken for an omega with the actual omega sitting nearby, clueless. It didn't bother Brock enough to kick Jack out, though; his job was tending to the bar, not selection. As long as Jack didn't cause any trouble, Brock had no reason to call security.

Despite Jack showing up consistently for a year and spending a night at the other side of the bar, sipping casually on his blended scotch, Brock didn't get much more than his name, approximate age (early thirties) and line of work (IT). Brock had a handful more patrons he knew better though shorter. People tended to open up to strangers about their problems. Jack was the opposite; most of the time, he'd sit turned away from Brock, people-watching. He'd also look at the stage whenever they had exotic dancers over, and Brock decided perhaps Jack preferred other omegas--which still didn't explain what he was doing, drinking in an alpha-only club. It wasn't like he was going to pick up an omega here.

Brock spent months pretending he wasn't curious about Jack, but even when he finally admitted to himself--and his various friends--he was fascinated by his person, it still wasn't enough to actually ask. At the end of the night, all that mattered was he paid for the drinks he ordered. The loud EBM filling the club didn't make it easy to converse anyway.

Things changed one Friday before Christmas; the club would close early, and Brock expected it to be a quiet night. The DJ wasn't in, a softer music seeped from the speakers, and the lights were on. Brock liked those kinds of nights the most, when he could just relax behind the bar and occasionally pause Netflix and take out one AirPod to pour someone a drink.

Only a handful of people came, and Brock wasn't sure if he should expect Jack, but he saw his tall figure soon after opening. He poured him a scotch before he even reached the bar and sat down, ready to go back to watching Prison Break when he heard, "The cheapest bourbon you have."

Brock paused, looked at Jack, his unusually unruly hair, reddened and circled eyes and five o-clock shadow, then at the glass he'd already poured him.

"If it's simply about money, we can pretend this is the cheapest bourbon I have. Just this once," he said, sliding the glass closer to him.

Jack nodded in an awkward thanks and sat down.

"Money's tight before the holiday, huh?" Brock asked, taking advantage of the music being quiet for once. "Want me to open your tab as usual?"

"Yeah, but I have only like, fifty bucks." Jack opened his wallet and gave him the bill. "Here. Pour me all the bourbon you have for fifty bucks."

Brock raised his eyebrows at that; Jack used to leave much more in his cash-box on a night. He tried to convince himself it was more amusing than concerning.

"Wow, you must be a generous Santa," he joked.

Jack snorted mirthlessly. "Quite the opposite; I was fired."

Brock winced in sympathy. "Damn. I'm sorry to hear that."

Jack leaned back with his drink, shrugging. "It happens all the time to omegas in the typically alpha lines of work. I thought it would be a good idea to call someone out on their inappropriate behavior, then was blamed for it and dismissed on disciplinary grounds." He scowled, downed his scotch in one go, then set it down on the bar, hard. "Another."

Brock looked around to see if anyone heard Jack's admission to being an omega, but the only people nearby were the group playing poker at a round table next to the bar. They had already caught on who Jack was and didn't have a problem with it.

Brock took a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and refilled his glass. "You were blamed for someone's inappropriate behavior?" he asked, leaning in so less people heard.

Jack scoffed. "An alpha's inappropriate behavior is always an omega's fault. Don't act like I need to explain it to you."

Brock shrugged. "Sorry if my question was insensitive. I don't really hang out with omegas."

"Yeah." Jack looked around meaningfully. "Could guess as much. No omega to come home to either?"

"Nah," Brock replied and with that their uneasy conversation came to its natural end. Jack turned away to watch the other patrons play poker and Brock went back to watching Prison Break, occasionally pausing to make someone a drink or to refill Jack's glass.

They didn't talk again until two hours before closing when Jack's fifty bucks ran out.

"That was the last one," Brock said, taking Jack's empty glass away.

"Fuck." Jack dug out his wallet, his hands sloppier from the booze in his system, and looked inside. He pulled out another fifty. "Make me another."

Brock eyed the bill and Jack's now empty wallet. "Is that all you have left?"

Jack shrugged and shoved the bill farther in Brock's direction.

"What will you eat tomorrow?" Brock pressed, leaning away.

Jack scoffed. "Fuck tomorrow. Pour me another bourbon."

There were glances thrown at them from the poker table, and Brock finally took the bill. In the end, his job wasn't to worry about his patrons’ personal lives, his job was to pour them drinks and collect the pay. He set the bill down behind the bar, took a clean glass, and filled it with ice. Pleased, Jack leaned back in his stool and greedily cradled the full glass once Brock slid it to him.

They haven't talked again until the closing. The poker club left first, and that was Brock's cue to poke Jack's arm. He was leaning on the bar, his bleary eyes fixed on the empty poker table, the hand that wasn't supporting his tired, drunk face cradling his empty tumbler glass close to his chest.

"I'm closing."

Jack hummed in acknowledgement but didn't move.

"Want me to call you a cab?" Brock asked just before realizing Jack couldn't afford a cab because he'd just drunk all his money. He sighed to himself. "Fuck it. I'll give you a lift."

It wasn't something he'd ever done before for any of his drunk patrons. But then, neither had ever drunk all of their money, and Brock felt partially responsible.

And neither had been an omega.

Brock tried not to think about it, but he wasn't so much in denial not to acknowledge it played a part in making that decision. Jack stirred at his words, and gave him a prejudiced look like he was very much aware of it as well. Or maybe Brock just imagined it.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked. "What a Good Samaritan you are."

"You're welcome to take a walk," Brock shot back, shrugging. "But do so right now. As I said, I'm closing."

Jack stretched his long body and covered a yawn with a back of his hand. His shirt rode up his stomach, uncovering a stripe of tanned skin, and Brock turned away from the sight to lock the cash-box. He would just be giving him a lift. He'd known the guy for a year and he wanted to make sure he'd get home safe. That was all there was.

"Fine," Jack said finally, sliding from his stool and putting his leather jacket on. "I live on 542 Freedom Lane."

Brock nodded, grabbing his jacket as well and turning off the music and the lights. He could come in the next day to wash the tables and sweep the floor; he didn't have any Christmas plans anyway.

A couple minutes into the quiet drive, it became apparent ignoring the fact Jack was an omega would be hard. Locked in a small space, sitting so close to him, Brock could smell him better. His scent still was light and unoppressive, but now Brock could discern sweeter undertones, perhaps of peppermint, and something invigoratingly fruity--grapes? It was all he could focus on, and it took all his willpower not to lean in and scent him. He shifted in his seat, gritting his teeth, and kept his eyes fixed solely on the road. He could feel his body freaking out with hormones, could almost smell the change in his own scent. It seemed it'd always happen to him, no matter if he was seventeen or forty-seven.

Despite that, the drive passed fast, and soon enough Brock was parking at 542 Freedom Lane. He looked out through the window to check out the tall apartment building.

"You okay getting home by yourself?" he asked, feeling his heart beating like crazy. His skin was warm and clammy like he was drunk himself.

Jack raised his head from where he was leaning it against the window to look at him with glassy eyes. "Ya can help me if you wanna."

"Okay," Brock murmured more to himself than to Jack, and licked his dry lips. He was just going to walk him to his door, make sure he was safe. He wiped his hands on his jeans and got out.

The air felt cool on his skin as he trailed behind Jack to the apartment block. Jack punched in the code with a trained hand and let them both in. He led them to the closest door, and Brock suddenly felt stupid when he realized Jack didn't need his assisstance at all. He wanted to say goodnight and leave, but instead he watched Jack pull out a key and struggle to fit it in the hole.

And struggle.

"Let me?" Brock asked finally, and Jack gratefully handed him the key.

Brock unlocked the door and pushed it open. "Here you are," he said as Jack brushed past him inside. "Make sure to lock behind you--"

He reached out with the keys, but instead of just taking them, Jack grabbed his wrist, pulled him inside the apartment and pressed his mouth firmly to Brock's.

Brock's mind went blank for a while, barely registering Jack pushing the door close behind them and pressing Brock against it with the length of his hard, muscular body. The sour scent of his arousal overwhelmed him, the feel of his warm, bourbon tongue prodding at his lips made him arch up for more. Jack's big hands ran down his chest, mapping out the hard muscles beneath his black shirt, and paused at his belt.

Brock wished he could just throw all the caution to the wind and go with it with his conscience clear. But the taste and smell of alcohol on Jack prevented him from it. He grabbed his wrists and pushed him away.

"Jack, I can't. You're drunk," he barely whispered, breathless.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, got it. Yer a real nice guy." He leaned in, reaching for his lips again. Brock stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Jack, I'm serious. I don't know what asshole alphas you've been running into so far, but I ain’t like that. Let's... Let's meet after Christmas and talk, m'kay? Then we can... figure stuff out," he finished lamely. Jack watched him, looking lost. Brock squeezed his hand reassuringly and let go. "Go to bed. Goodnight."

He slipped out the door before Jack managed to stop him. He almost ran out of the building, taking deep gulps of cool air and willing his semi-erection to go away.

The next week, Brock nervously awaited Jack's arrival, and he couldn't tell if he was more disappointed or relieved when he didn't show. He wasn't sure what he really wanted from Jack, and apparently, Jack wasn't either.

Two weeks later, he wasn't the only one who noticed Jack's absence.

"I haven't seen Jack around lately," Sharon pointed out, nodding at the stool that would normally be taken by Jack, but was occupied by someone else. Brock only hummed in acknowledgement as he prepared her drink. "Doesn't it worry you?"

"I'm sure it's nothing serious," Brock murmured, pouring a mixture of vodka, blue curacao and grape juice into a chilled martini glass. The smell reminded him a bit of Jack's scent.

Sharon took her drink, but she didn't get back to her poker table yet. "He's been here every Friday since I can remember," she said, raising her eyebrow slightly.

Brock shrugged. "Here's to hoping he developed a healthier lifestyle."

Sharon rolled her eyes. "Ouch. Anyway, I'd check on him if I were you."

She walked away with her drink, and Brock shook his head to himself. He didn't know Sharon any better than he did any other patron, and here she could somehow tell he liked Jack. He must have been more obvious than he thought.

Her advice wasn't a bad one, though; even if Jack was purposefully avoiding him, it'd be healthier for Brock to just clear that up instead of worrying every Friday. He could handle the truth, however bad it was, but being ghosted? That absolutely sucked.

He drove to Jack's home next afternoon before his shift. He didn't remember his room number, but he got lucky; an elderly lady was just walking out, and kept the door open for him.

"Thanks," Brock breathed over his shoulder, striding for Jack's door. He knocked loudly, wondering nervously what he wanted to say and coming up empty.

The door cracked open and a moss green eye looked at him.

"Fuck, Brock." Jack turned his head inside, presumably to check for something, and chills ran down Brock's arms and chest as he saw an angry red bite mark on the back of his neck. He was almost sure it wasn't there when they... When they last saw each other.

Jack slipped through the door and closed it behind himself. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his words colored by slight panic.

Brock took a step back. "'M sorry... Just wanted to check up on you, after--"

"The sooner we forget what happened, the better,” Jack snapped, laying his hand back on the doorknob.

Wanting to stop him from leaving and unable to help himself, Brock nodded at the back of Jack's neck that was now out of his sight. "I didn't know you had someone."

"I didn't," Jack said bitterly. "I do now. I'm not allowed to go to alpha-only clubs anymore. You should go."

Deep in his bones, Brock could feel there was something very wrong there, that Jack was unhappy. But it wasn't his place to snoop. He wasn't Jack's lover, not even his friend. He was a bartender; his job was to pour drinks and collect the pay.

"Okay," he said soothingly, wanting Jack to lose his guarded stance. He didn't. "I'll go. You know where to find me if..." He shrugged, not knowing how to finish that sentence. He eyed Jack up and down, looked into his eyes that last time. Jack averted his gaze, then opened the door and slipped back inside.

With his shoulders slumped, Brock turned on his heel and left.

[dawnrider]

Well hello! Welcome back to #Fuck it Friday! For your reading pleasure (or not. Whatever floats your boat.) I give you a bit of college AU Bleach ridiculousness.

Thanks for stopping by! 😘

The flames seemed to come from everywhere. The lower windows of all the buildings on the quad were bursting with them, the heat pouring inward. She screamed, covering her head and trying to get away. No matter where she turned, flames surrounded her. “Come on, you can’t stay here,” a deep male voice told her, pushing her to move, pulling her away. Finding she wouldn’t budge, he finally lifted her. She felt the strength of his arms around her, the solid press of his chest against her side. “Rukia, you have to wake up.” She shook her head, refusing his words and hiding her face against his shoulder. She was awake! The heat was real, the flames were real… he was real. “Rukia!”

Bolting upright, the young woman swallowed a scream. She was being smothered, she was trapped. Slowly she realized it was the blankets from her very own bed that held her limbs. Gasping for breath, she tried to calm her racing heart. The voice called again and she sighed. "Yea, Rangiku, I'm up."

"You're going to be late for your class again if you don't get shakin'." Rukia waved off her roommate's concern, rolling out of bed and slipping into the closest pair of pants. She managed to run a brush through her hair while sliding a T-shirt over her head. Luckily her roommate wasn’t in their bathroom and she was able to brush her teeth uninterrupted. “Rukia, there’s coffee left in the pot, I’m heading to work!” She grunted a response as she tried to do something with her hair, then gave up. The front door opened and slammed as Rangiku left in her usual boisterous manner.

Making it to class on time was a close thing, but Rukia slid into a seat near the back corner just as the professor greeted the class. He reminded them what they’d talked about the class before and told them he’d be lecturing on the next period of history. She knew it was going to be difficult to stay awake. This was a requirement class in which she had no interest so it was a daily struggle as it was. The fact that the prof was lecturing on political history during the early 18th century made it even harder to keep her attention on the board.

Thoughts drifting to her dream from the night before, she frowned. She’d been having a similar dream for nearly a week, only it was escalating each time. What had begun as a brightly glowing star as she lay in the quad became the glowing heat of flames of a bonfire. It had only become the conflagration of several buildings last night.

Rukia’s attention was drawn forward again, the chill of something up her spine making her straighten. Someone was watching her. Her first instinct was that the teacher had asked a question and was expecting an answer from her. When she found him paging through a text to look for a quote to share, she knew it wasn’t that. Her gaze shifted around the room to finally land on the boy she’d noticed a few times. He was young, probably a freshman, and he was seemingly a little awkward. He always sat in the far corner of the room and she often found him staring at her. She hadn’t approached him to dissuade the staring yet, something about him making her too uncomfortable.

The class flinched when the professor dropped the book he’d been looking through on the desk in a signal that he was done talking, those who hadn’t been paying as much attention looking sheepishly up at him. Everyone shuffled about putting their things away in order to leave, Rukia included. She glanced around again for the kid with the staring problem, but he was nowhere to be found. She frowned. No one had gone out the door, had they?

~~~~

The bar was not the first place most people would think to study, but for Rukia it provided just the right amount of noise and enough companionship without actually having to talk to anyone. She sometimes got odd looks from other patrons, but the bartenders knew her and just smiled when she came in. Being a Tuesday, it wasn’t terribly busy, so Rukia took a booth for herself and spread out her notes and textbooks to get a start on her history paper. The soft murmur of voices in the background got a little louder for several minutes, then quieted again. Rukia didn’t pay it much attention until she noticed she suddenly wasn’t alone in her booth anymore.

He was ridiculous looking. At first glance anyway. He seemed too tall, his limbs too long, and it was all topped off by a shock of bright ginger hair. He looked like he’d probably had it hard as a teenager and had worked even harder to break the cycle. He was muscular in a sinewy way that told her he was probably a swimmer… or a fighter. Rukia eyed him skeptically as he lounged in the booth across from her. “Can I help you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. She watched a slow, almost predatory, smirk curve his mouth. That alone took some of the ridiculousness out of his image and replaced it with the suggestion of caged tiger.

“Not sure about that, but I think I can help you.”

“Oh?” Rukia gave him a dry look. “You seem very certain. What is it that I need help with exactly?” There was the strong temptation to “accidentally” spill her drink into his lap. I swear, if he says something about sleeping with me, I’ll kick him in the nuts. His smirk grew in a way that made her think she was going to be doing some kicking soon. Or be bitten. He looks like he wants to eat me, she thought with a shiver.

“Been burned recently?” he asked softly, his long fingers catching her hand on the table, thumb pressing against the fleshy part of the heel. Rukia’s violet eyes shot up to his nearly golden gaze even as she struggled to keep a straight face. There was no scarring, no discoloration, no pain. What made him ask that of all things? She pulled her hand back sharply, eying him icily.

“Is that supposed to be a pickup line? It’s pretty terrible.”

The soft, warm chuckle that sounded in his chest made her wary. “It would be pretty terrible if it were a pickup line. It wasn’t.” His sharp eyes pinned her to her seat. “The flames can’t touch you here. That’s why you have to wake up, to be safe.”

Rukia jumped up from the table with a startled gasp. “This… this is a dream…” she murmured. She squealed when she felt the bands of his arms around her, the sound muffled in his chest.

“No. Not a dream. This is real.” The feel of his body against her, the sound of his voice… This was the man who rescued her in her dreams, pulled her from the flames. “I know this is hard, but you have to believe me. You can trust me.”

It took several moments for her to get the breath in her lungs under sufficient pressure to move upward and set her vocal folds in motion. “Wh-who are you?”

“Ichigo. Ichigo Kurosaki.” He sat down in the booth, taking her with him and caging her into the corner. Rukia knew she should have felt frightened and trapped, but instead she felt protected, guarded. "There's something that's trying to hurt you, trying to hurt a lot of people."

She gaped at him. “W-what?”

He grunted, taking a look around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. For all the attention he’d garnered when he came in, no one seemed to notice him now. “There is a - for lack of a better word - phantom trying to fight that he is dead.” Rukia stared at him, her violet irises tiny rings around her dilated pupils. As much as she wanted to ignore what he was saying, she couldn’t deny that part of her completely believed him. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” he asked suddenly, his eyes wide. A sharp intake of breath was her answer. “Rukia, you have to tell me what he looks like. I can only feel him nearby, I don’t know what to look for.”

"I... I thought he was a lonely freshman or something." Ichigo nodded, waiting for more. "He's small, like me. Dark hair, pale skin, slight five o'clock shadow." Golden eyes surveyed the room again. When she saw them narrow, she shrunk into the booth even further.

"Do his cheeks always look a little flushed?" Rukia nodded. Oh god, he's here, she thought. "Rukia, breathe," he murmured in her ear, the warmth of his breath startling her into obeying him. "Thatagirl. Now listen, I know you're scared, but I'm going to get you out of here. He’s probably going to follow us, but that’s what we want, ok?”

“What?”

“There are a lot of people here. A lot of people he can hurt. We need to lead him away from all these people so I can help him pass on and you can be safe.” Rukia found herself nodding, letting him help her gather her things and even paying for her drink. She took a breath to protest just as he swept her out of the bar with an arm around her waist. “Just keep looking forward.” Another protest died on her lips when she felt the chill down her spine. “He’s following. Sorry, you’re probably feeling it too.” She glanced up at him in confusion. “The goosebumps on your back,” he clarified, indicating he knew exactly what she was feeling. “That’s the sensation they give me when they’re vengeful or angry.”

“He’s following us… Where are we going?” she asked him, suddenly finding her voice.

“There’s an empty lot over here.” Ichigo kept her moving.

“Don’t touch her!” Rukia didn’t recognize the voice, but the increased intensity of the chill made it clear who had spoken. “Get your hands off of her!” They both turned slowly, seeing the slightly transparent boy standing with clenched fists at his sides. Rukia could see now that he was not truly there. For some reason, in her class, he had seemed real enough. But here in the natural light, he was quite clearly intangible. “She… she’s my girlfriend,” he said, his hesitation obvious.

“I…”

“Don’t, Rukia, don’t give him anything to latch onto.” Ichigo pulled her closer to him, letting his warmth push away the chill the boy’s presence brought on. “I know it’s hard to understand. One day, no one could see you anymore, right?” Shock registered on the boy’s face. “You couldn’t remember who you were and why you were standing somewhere unfamiliar with no clue how you got there. Does that sound right?”

“How… how did you know that?” His lip quivered slightly, his dark eyes wide in his pale face. He looked back and forth furtively, trying to find something he felt sure of. “What did you do to me? This is your fault!” Rukia gasped at the sudden chill that seemed to fill the air. This was what Ichigo felt? What being the focus of a vengeful spirit felt like? “Give it back! Give her back!” he shouted at Ichigo.

“She isn’t yours,” the ginger-haired man growled with more force than Rukia would have expected. “You need to move on. Let go of your anger and jealousy. That is what keeps you here. If you don’t let it go, you will hurt people, people you don’t want to hurt.”

“No, I won’t go. I won’t. I need her,” he cried, his voice distorting oddly, reaching toward Rukia and taking a step forward. Rukia instinctively curled into Ichigo’s embrace, trying to keep the spirit away from her and seeking the warmth of his body. As his arms wrapped around her, she was suddenly glad of his height, his long limbs. The boy let out a low groan, one that didn’t sound quite human. Rukia peeked over Ichigo’s shoulder to find the boy’s face and body contorting sickeningly.

“No! Release the anger so you can move on to a better place!” Ichigo’s words didn’t seem to reach him. He let go of her with one arm, raising his hand and speaking words she didn’t catch. A ball of light formed around the phantom and his face stopped warping and twisting. Slowly he calmed and then blinked owlishly at them. “That’s it,” Ichigo breathed. “Let go, be calm, go on.” A few breaths later and he began to fade, dispersing into the air. Neither one moved for another moment, waiting to make sure he really was gone.

Rukia cried out when Ichigo collapsed, barely catching himself before he crushed her. “Ichigo?” she called, grasping his shoulders to help keep his face off the ground. He flipped toward his back and Rukia caught him so his head was resting on her knees. “What happened?”

“Damn, I hate using those!” he huffed, his eyes closed and his face pale from the exertion.

“W-what was that?”

“Spell, more or less. I’m not exactly good at them, so they burn me out.” Rukia gathered that his exhaustion had made him so honest. He didn’t seem the type to admit weakness easily. They sat there for some time, Rukia trying to process what had just happened and Ichigo recouping his strength. He hummed softly as he lay there and she eventually noticed that she had been idly running her fingers through his hair.

Rukia pulled her hand back, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Why had that felt so natural? “S-so he won't come back?”

“No. He's ‘crossed over’ if it's easier to think of it that way.”

[jetsetlife138]

Are you still accepting prompts/requests? Could I get #74 or #75 with Alastor x fem reader if you are? Please and thank you in advance :)

Whew! Sorry this took so long! I just kept rambling on, haha. I hope that it’s enjoyable nonetheless! Cheers! xo 

74) “Stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you wanna fuck me and kill me at the same time.”

75) “Touch her again and I’ll rip your heart out through your fucking mouth.”

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature

You just wanted a drink. After the day you had of being Katie Killjoy’s bitch at the 666 News, you were utterly exhausted, both mentally and physically. Being her assistant was your eternal punishment, and it was a fate worse than death.

The sound of the glass hitting the counter as the bartender set the much-needed shot down in front of you drew your attention. Raising the shot to your lips, you toasted the bartender before downing the dark brown liquid that left behind a delicious burn in your throat on the way down. 

Lifting your hand, you subtly asked for another, to which the bartender nodded with an understanding grin.

You downed the next shot, shaking your head at the bartender when he glanced back at you, silently checking to see if you wanted another.

You sighed, turning your back to the bar and surveying the scene. The bar was packed with the usual obnoxious crowd. All of them were repugnant and not worth the time of day to strike up a conversation with. Not to say that you thought too highly of yourself, but if you had to choose between forcing yourself to bear the company of one of those fools, or keep to yourself, you always chose the latter. 

Too caught up in your own thoughts, you hardly noticed a fiendish character approach you, taking a seat beside you, and leaning in too close for comfort. “Hey there, gorgeous. What’s a morsel like you doing over here all by yourself?”

Ignoring your signals that repelled men like him, he placed a hand on your thigh, waiting for an answer. Usually, you would smack it away, but your mind was hazy and your body was compliant due to the effects of the alcohol.

His hand continued to smooth over your thigh as you eyed him with disdain. “Remove your hand, please,” you asked nicely, finally coming to your senses.

He frowned. “Oh, come on, baby. Don’t be like that. I just want to show you a good time.”

You pushed his hand away, glaring at him. “I’m not interested. Please, leave me alone.”

For a moment, the masculine creature looked angry before he smoothed his expression over and made the motion to return his hand to it’s previous placement on your thigh, ready to sweet talk you into allowing him to stay, until a very noticeable and unnatural chill swept over you both. 

The man stopped in his tracks as a dark void seemed to sweep across the entirety of the bar, over the walls, floor, and the patrons, narrowing in on the two of you. 

It was then that you saw him next to you, morphing into a physical being rather than the shadow from which he had formed. 

The Radio Demon.

The demon whose very name brought panic and dread to those unfortunate enough to know of his reputation. His back was arched forward, poised to lunge as his crimson eyes pierced through the dark room, glaring directly at the man next to you, who was practically choking on his own breath at the very sight of the terrifying demon.

The unwelcome bar patron who couldn’t take a hint took a moment to collect himself before straightening his posture and closing his mouth, which had fallen agape due to the initial shock of the Radio Demon’s appearance. “Uhm,” he stammered, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I-Is there s-something that I can h-help you w-with, Mr. Radio Demon, s-sir?”

The tall figure leaned in even closer to address his trembling inferior, showing off his mouth full of sharp, dagger teeth in an unsettling grin. “Touch her again and I’ll rip your heart out through your fucking mouth.”

The man looked tack aback, creasing his brow in disbelief as he acted on instinct, immediately beginning to defend himself against the alpha male. “Excuse me? Listen, I just--”

The Radio Demon’s patience had snapped as he lunged forward, his already terrifying fangs now becoming several rows of fine needles as his jaw unhinged to an unnatural length, the cracks of his bones popping out of place loud enough to echo across the bar. His once round pupils were now threatening slits that could burn a hole through one’s soul. The claws at the end of his fingertips extended, shredding his gloves in the process. Suddenly, from beneath the flirtatious man appeared a void where black tentacles emerged, surrounding the terrified creature who cowered beneath the harrowing stare of the reputable demon. 

“Get out of my sight,” he warned one last time, the static in his voice producing a painful feedback over his barely unintelligible monstrous tone that crawled up from deep within his chest.  

Without allowing even another second to pass by, the man scrambled out of his seat, tripping over the tentacles as he rushed out of the bar through a path that had been cleared for him by the remaining patrons who were awestruck by the scene.

Returning to his former appearance, the Radio Demon turned to address the onlookers. “This is a social gathering, not a picture show for your entertainment,” he snapped. “Go about your business.”

Too afraid to argue, everyone turned their attention away from him, muttering among themselves over what they had just witnessed.

Taking the newly vacant seat beside you, the demon silently requested your hand, to which you hesitantly granted, placing your trembling palm gently in his own. Enclosing his fingers around yours, he brought the back of your hand to his lips as he kissed it lightly, smirking at you with his crimson orbs. “The name is Alastor, dear. I must apologize for that aggressive display, but I could sense your discomfort and wanted to assist you in ridding yourself of that unpleasant company.” 

“Uh… thank you… sir,” you added, earning a smirk from the demon. Grabbing your purse, you turned to leave. “I should, um… I should go.”

“Stay,” he warned, his eyes flashing. “Please, if you would be so kind as to keep me company, I would be in your debt. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s difficult for me to make friends, and you seem like a delight.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you countered skeptically, “You don’t even know me. I could be a complete bitch and a bore to be around.”

Pausing for a moment to allow his crimson gaze to take in your form, he snickered. “I doubt that.” 

You exhaled a nervous laugh. “Uh- yeah. Anyway, thanks for ridding me of… unwanted company.” Your face flushed as your words sounded odd coming out of your mouth. Even though you seemed to be speaking coherently, your words sounded awkward to you, but his presence had you tongue-tied.

“So, dearest… what brings you here?” Alastor asked, his fanged smile beginning to creep into a smirk, and your stomach dipped.

“I just got off of work,” you replied, gripping the edge of the bar and breathing slowly to try and calm yourself. “I-I’m Katie Killjoy’s assistant for the… um... 666 News.”

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze holding you captive as you struggled to remember how to inhale and exhale normally. “You’re afraid of me.” It was just a statement; simple and true.

“Of course I am,” you reply breathlessly, chest still heaving.

His head tilted with curiosity for a moment before he turned to the bartender, signaling him in a silent request for drinks. The bartender swiftly prepared two glasses of what you had recognized as an Old Fashioned.

Sliding them down the bar, Alastor winked at him before placing a glass before you. “Drink,” he demanded, to which you immediately complied with, taking a deep swig.

Your heart was still pounding against your chest even though your breathing had slowed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured you before taking a sip of his own drink. “I am simply here for a chat. That’s all.” 

Finding some liquid courage from the prior shots and the strong drink, you snapped, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” 

“Like you wanna fuck me and kill me at the same time,” you swallow through a parched throat.

“Ha! My, that’s abrasive,” Alastor chuckled, “I said I wouldn’t hurt you, and I’m proving that to you. Nothing to be afraid of.”

You gauged him with a skeptical glare. “Why are you even talking to me? You don’t like interacting with others, especially not in a romantic capacity…” Or so you’ve heard among the many rumors that had circulated, making you feel safe in the certainty of that knowledge.

“Except when I do,” he confided, his smile stretching even further up his cheeks to bare his fangs at your menacingly. “And I find your company to be very appeasing.”

“What… um… why did you single me out?” The tremor in your voice is obvious, but you don’t bother to try and mask it at this point.

He waited several beats before answering. “Darling, think of this as an experiment.” His head tilts again as he waits for a reaction. When you fail to indulge him, he continues. “You see, I’ve lacked inspiration for decades. My work has become… untamed, lacking focus - aimless, if you will. I’ve come to crave a new form of entertainment.” “Excuse me?” You feel your cheeks heat with anger as it begins to dilute the fear. “Am I understanding this correctly? You think I’m just a damned experiment solely for your entertainment?”

His wicked smile doesn’t falter as he inspects you once again. “You will not be a casualty, if that is your concern.”

Chest tightening in rising panic, you struggled to find words. “That’s not… I won’t… what?”

Your built-up courage quickly deflated as he leaned in closer to you, a determined gleam in his eye.

“Relax, my dear,” he urged, his voice low and smooth. “The fun is just beginning.”

[skinsharpenedteeth]

it’s some angst and smut time y’all! You can read it here or on AO3. AO3 includes tags such as drunk sex, mildly dubious consent and smut! I’m too lazy to re-list them all here. Just know everyone’s of legal age to be fucking each other up. 

So without further ado, here’s 8+k of Malex during the interim years between high school and S1. 

                              The sun had been brutal that day. Every time he’d touched a surface besides his own skin, he’d felt like he was being blistered from the heat. It left his fingers feeling raw and all he wanted was some relief from the onslaught of fire and light. It didn’t help that an awareness kept nagging at him, like a lead balloon settling to ground in his stomach, making him cranky and on edge on top of dealing with the sweltering desert sun. The feeling was familiar enough for him to recognize that he’d had it before, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly and that made him irritable as much as the sweat stinging his eyes did. Usually, he’d be able to hide away somewhere during the hottest part of the afternoon to drink a cold one and take some time to meditate on his feelings, but that day Sanders had been around and ready to fire him if he didn’t finish a certain car before end of business. Consequently, Michael felt wrung out and thin skinned by the time he’d stumbled into the Wild Pony to drink himself into a giddy stupor. Maybe he’d find some trouble tonight if he was lucky. Maybe the buzzing in his brain would shut up if he poured enough tequila onto it. Maybe he’d even ask for ice in his whiskey to cool him off.

              Michael felt his feet scrape the packed dirt of the Wild Pony parking lot as he drug himself still grease stained and damp from sweat into the dark, cool bar before the sun had even set. The car he’d worked on wasn’t a hard job, but it was a heavy one that took far too much effort and time and his body felt beat up at the end of it. Once he’d slammed the finished invoice on Sanders’ desk, he’d grabbed his hat off the rack and his truck keys, hightailing it straight to the bar with barely a look backwards.

The bar was almost empty in the early afternoon except for a handful of other afternoon regulars. Drunks that didn’t have day jobs or only worked enough to get money to pay for their place on the bar stool. Michael didn’t ever want to be like them, but he also recognized that a corner stool was open and looked inviting to the mean gremlin in the back of his mind. He shook his head and turned to survey all the open spots in the building, enjoying the blast of A/C that hit him as soon as the door had opened.  It felt like walking into a meat locker it was so crisp and cool. That would change as the bodies piled in for beer and pool and the ever-constant search for companionship, but right now it felt like the North Pole on a winter morning. He waved towards Mimi DeLuca at the bar and sidled over to a booth along the wall where the air-conditioned vent would hit him straight in the face. As he sat down he sighed long and hard, letting contentment wash over him as the anticipation of being pleasantly blitzed later settled in his mind.

              “Long day, cowboy?” Mimi asked, setting down a water on the coaster in front of him and eyeing him up and down. She wasn’t flirting, he knew, but just scrutinizing what kind of drunk he was going to be today. They’d done this dance a lot since he’d become legal and actively self-destructive.

              “The longest. Give me five shots of your cheapest tequila,” he ordered, grinning at her disapproving look. She nodded and walked back towards the bar without a word though. She’d long since stopped trying to mother him over how he decided to destroy his body. He wasn’t worth her time and both of them knew it.

              Michael slunk down on the bench seat and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool air on his face while he waited for Mimi to get back. The pleather of the seat creaked under body and he extended his legs out under the table and propped them on the empty seat across from him. He could almost fall asleep like that, his body ready to forget the tequila and just dream for a couple hours. If he thought that were a real possibility, he’d leave with his money and go back to the Airstream to do just that, but sleep never came easy to Michael. He could be so tired he’d be weeping with the desire to just not be for a little while and his brain would hum along with one mistake or memory after another until he sought an alternative route to Slumberland. He jerked when Mimi came back and set down his shots.  He hadn’t been asleep, but he’d found that meditative half-consciousness that fueled him through most of his life.

              “That’s twenty-five,” she let him know, waiting for him to dig out his wallet from his back pocket. He handed her thirty and picked up with first shot and downed it without much ado. When he sat back, fingers still holding the glass lightly and breath coming out hard from the burn of the cheap stuff, she started fishing in her apron for change. He waved at her without saying a word and she nodded back in acknowledgement. He wouldn’t say it was in thanks because Mimi Deluca never thanked him for anything. She might thank him for not darkening her doorstep again, but then he’d have to find a new place to drink where the staff knew to leave him alone when he was in a mood like the one he was in today.

              “Alex Manes is in town,” she mentioned casually, taking out a rag and making a show of wiping down the seat across from his before pushing his boots off and taking a seat. 

Michael felt his stomach lurch and he gave her a narrow look, picking up the next shot and downing it in response. She shrugged and looked out at the four other patrons scattered around the room. “Maria mentioned it. Just thought you’d want to catch up with an old high school friend. He’s only on here on leave for a couple days. Then he’s getting sent back to the Middle East for another tour.”

              “We weren’t exactly friends in high school, I’m not sure he’d even want to see me,” he replied, knowing he sounded sulky and petulant. Mimi gave him a sharp look, seeing through his shit just like always.

              “Well, you were something. He always looked at you like you were a problem he couldn’t quite figure out and you always looked at him like he was the only answer to any question worth asking.  Maybe you should look him up while he’s in town,” she commented, stacking the two empty shot glasses and leaving him to think about her suggestion. He watched after her, starting to feel the fuzzy edges of warmth from the tequila take hold of his consciousness.

              How did he tell her that he had seen Alex Manes every time he’d come back home on leave? Or that he’d actually visited him once or twice when he was stationed somewhere within a day’s drive? Seven years since that day in the shed and every time Alex came home, he burst through Michael’s heart like a cannonball leaving just as much shredded evidence that he’d been through as a real one would. And Alex would just keep moving forward, not a dent or scratch to show he’d torn through Michael once again. It made Michael feel like just part of the rounds. Alex would see Maria, endure his father, pretend to be straight with his bros and then find Michael, where ever he may be, and crawl under his skin to hide for a few hours while systematically breaking down all of Michael’s emotional defenses and raising another sexual peak for someone else to try and top. Then he’d leave. Michael would mourn like a faithful pet and have to slowly fill in the hollow spaces that Alex had made for himself while he was there.

              He took another shot. Maybe if he was hammered Alex would turn around and go back to his father’s house? Maybe if he drove out to the desert and slept in the back of his truck for the next week he could avoid this round of heartbreak? But then maybe he’d miss his chance to see Alex smile the way he’d only smile for Michael. He’d miss the feel of his skin brushing against Michael’s as he turned over in that sweet sleep they’d find between rounds of pressing themselves into one another. He’d miss giving Alex the chance to say he’d stay and that he loved him and that it was more than some protracted high school fling that neither of them could bear to end.

              But it felt inevitable, this thing between them. Hearing Mimi’s announcement that he was in town clued Michael into what he’d been feeling all day. Inertia. It didn’t matter if he got shit faced, the universe would still tumble his sotted ass into Alex because he was always in a state of heading towards him anyway. The same end always awaited him. All Alex had to do was exist and Michael would crawl over a lava field to press his forehead against the skin of his ankles and when Alex stepped away, Michael would move towards him once more trying to recapture their bond. It wasn’t healthy, this obsession he felt towards Alex, but no one had ever made him feel so needed or so desperate for love. No one could calm the frenetic energy in his bones while winding him up to bursting.  No one else tasted like starlight and infinite possibility the way Alex did. No one knew the seams of all his pieces so blindly and left him quite so torn apart.

              His stomach rolled and he thought maybe he should’ve ordered something solid with his liquid dinner. Michael drank down half the glass of water and looked out across the bar to distract himself with the way the tequila was starting to make him feel floaty. More people were filtering in. The after-work crowd was always loud and brash and high on that feeling of temporary freedom from responsibility. Normally they were his favorite people to hustle for free drinks or Texas rounders in the bathroom, but he no longer felt like seeing or dealing with anyone tonight.  He eyed the last two shots in contemplation.

              Shrugging to himself, he picked them up in quick succession and downed them. He’d paid for them after all. Now he just had to race them home before they made him sleepy or weepy or suicidal.  He slipped out of the booth and waited for Mimi to be busy before heading to his truck. He didn’t think she’d stop him, but he’d never done 5 shots in less than two hours and then tried to drive home. He just couldn’t stand to be there anymore in the steadily more jubilant atmosphere, and he didn’t want anyone to save him tonight. He could go home and pass out and forget about Alex Manes. He could stop chasing a dream.

              When Michael stumbled into the airstream half an hour later, he had no clue how he hadn’t just died. He remembered driving. He remembered feeling like driving was a terrible idea and that he absolutely should not be doing it in the condition he was in. He remembered waiting to see another car on the road or a deer or anything that would spook him into swerving and flipping his truck, but he hadn’t. He’d made it back to the airstream. When he’d opened the car door, he’d fallen out and found himself looking at the everything sideways until he turned his head and looked at the stars swirling drunkenly in the sky. The earth was hard and still hot under him from the sweltering day. The gravel and dust clung to the side where he’d landed, digging into his skin. For as drunk as he was, shouldn’t he be number than this to discomfort?

It had taken him way too long to navigate making himself stand up so he could stagger the five steps to the trailer door. His hand gripped the door handle hard and he’d lurched and crawled up the two stairs into the airstream’s interior. Once inside, he immediately began to undress. He no longer wanted to wear the dirty, sweat stained work shirt. He didn’t want to wear the rough, torn jeans or his ragged underwear. He didn’t want to feel the caked layer of dust, grease, and salt that covered him head to toe. And he didn’t want to think that when Alex found him later he’d be too gross to touch.

That thought had him pause, naked and swaying in the door to the bathroom. Maybe Alex should find him gross. Maybe Alex deserved to see what it did to him to know he was in town, acting normal by day only to find Michael after all the lights in the town had gone out and show his real skin. Maybe Alex should know that Michael was as filthy on the outside as he was being treated. If Michael was going to be kept like a dirty secret, maybe he should just stay dirty. Who was Alex Manes to treat Michael like he was something shameful? He should tell Alex that. Should tell him not to come and see him anymore. Not to expect any further special treatment from Michael.

Making a decision, he turned and tried to grab his jeans from the floor so he could get his phone. He fell, landing hard with his shoulder digging into the cabinet door handles. Hissing, he ignored the pain and scrambled to pull the hard rectangle from his crusty jeans. He opened the screen and debated texting or calling before realizing he didn’t think he could coordinate his fingers well enough to text while this hammered. The tequila was starting to give his body ultimatums on whether it too would stay or go. The pain where he’d fallen against the door handle was stinging and he looked over to see blood running down his arm. Groaning, he reached up and hauled himself off the floor and onto his bed. He surveyed the contents of the trailer for something that he could see to dull the ache. A couple empty bottles of acetone lay on their sides at his worktable. He’d forgotten to buy more. A half empty bottle of Jose Cuervo sat across from him on the stove. He reached over and opened the bottle one handed, unscrewing the top with his thumb. He sloppily poured some over the wound ‘to clean it’ and then took a hearty swallow ‘for courage’. Swaying where he sat, he looked down at the phone again and found Alex in his contacts, hitting Call before he could talk himself out of it.

“Hello?” Alex answered the phone. Michael stayed silent, listening to the music and laughter emanating from the background noise. It didn’t sound like the Pony. Maybe that new gay bar in town? Maybe Alex was trying to replace him, take up another so he didn’t have to put up with Michael’s melodrama. Did Michael want that? Alex sounded good though a little confused as to why Michael was actually calling him instead of just waiting around to his turn at Alex’s attention, but…. Still, so good.

“Michael?” Alex whispered his name into the phone. Michael could almost see him turning and walking away from whoever he was with so they wouldn’t hear him say Michael’s name, wouldn’t know who had called him. Michael was breaking the rules. Alex was supposed to come to him when he wanted and he wasn’t supposed to go looking for him. He was the bad thing that had to be done with no body else’s knowledge so they wouldn’t judge Alex.

“Guerin, are you there?” Alex asked again, voice a little louder but still hushed compared to the environment around him. Michael hoped that was concern he was hearing but decided it must be something more akin to frustration. What was he doing? Why had he called Alex?

“Don’t come over tonight,” Michael finally bit out. Then he waited, silent. He knew he should hang up and make his point. That’s all he’d called to say, right?

“Okay,” Alex replied slowly, drawing out the work and definitely sounding confused. “I’m in town for another couple days. Maybe tomo—”

“NO, ALEX. Don’t come over ANY NIGHT! I don’t want you to!” Michael yelled, hearing the slur in his voice and knowing he’d said too much. When he’d yelled, he’d apparently swung the arm not holding the phone and he heard the resulting crash of beer bottles hitting the trailer floor.

“Are you okay? You sound drunk. Are you at the Pony? Do I need to come get you?” Alex asked, voice sharpening with concern. Michael scoffed.

“Fuck you. I don’t need you to take care of me. And I don’t want you to come here. I don’t want to see you, Alex. I don’t want to know you. I don’t want to love you. I’m fucking over this shit,” Michael babbled, sinking backwards into the worn thin mattress of his bed.  He’d misjudged how close he’d been to the window though and his cut arm scraped against the rough edges of the window pane. “Fuck, Ow!”

“Michael!” Alex’s voice trilled in his ear, sounding alarmed and concerned. Michael heard a muffled male voice ask Alex a question and the muffled scrape of Alex’s hand covering the receiver as he answered ‘It’s fine. I’ll be there in a minute.’

“Ugh, I’m getting blood all over my fucking blanket,” Michael said distractedly, sitting back up and looking around for a towel.

“Why are you bleeding? ARE YOU OKAY?” Alex asked, voice beginning to sound frantic or as frantic as he ever sounded. Disaster didn’t really touch Alex the way it would touch normal people. Not after his childhood. Not after what he’d seen with the military.

“I’m FINE. I just cut myself. It just blood, I’ll be fine. Fuck, why is there so much blood?” Michael asked aloud as he grabbed his dirty shirt from the floor to press against the wound.  There were a few scattered drops on his sheets and he’d have to get the hydrogen peroxide to see if he could get them out.

“I’m coming over there, Michael,” Alex snapped. Michael felt himself jerk to attention. He’d forgotten he was on the phone. Alex’s statement made his irrational anger bubble up again.

“Noooo. No don’t come over here. I don’t want to see you. Haven’t you been fucking listening? I…” he breathed heavily, almost seeing the liquor vapors in the air from where he was huffing out his breaths. He tried to summon up the last parts of him that were sober to keep telling Alex to stay away, but instead he started blurting out whatever came to mind. “I haven’t even showered. I’m disgusting. Don’t come over. I’m fine, I’m fine. My bloods just thin from the tequila. You don’t need to care about me. I’m not worth it. I’m disgusting. I’ll be fine. I’ll either wake up tomorrow morning or I’ll choke on my vomit and die. It’s… whatever, really. Stay with your friends. Have a good night, Alex.”

If Alex replied, Michael didn’t hear him because his eyes drifted shut and he was not aware of anything for a while.

  When Michael woke up, he was still aching from his shoulder and he was still very drunk…and he was alone. He looked around the airstream, hoping to see Alex somewhere doing something…something to take care of him. When he didn’t see him and after lying very still in the dark, didn’t hear him, Michael felt his heart shred and shatter in his chest. He was supposed to come save him. He was supposed to come take care of him. He was supposed to show up and love Michael and then tomorrow! Tomorrow he’d feel this way. But not tonight. Tonight, he was supposed to be loved.

The tears fell first, but the sobs that clawed out of his throat came soon after. He hated himself for calling Alex and telling him not to come over. He hated himself for wanting to see Alex more than he ever wanted to save himself from pain. He hated the weak, high-pitched sounds that pushed past his teeth when he tried to stop himself from giving into this despair and he hated the low, open mouthed howls that echoed into the stuffing of his pillow as he rolled into a ball to try and hold himself together even while he knew he was broken beyond repair.

Hands smoothed over his shoulders and started pulling at him to turn over, away from the muffled safety of the pillow. He fought those hands, trying to shake them off even as he tried to curl further into himself. This ghost needed to let him bleed everything out.

“Michael!” a familiar voice called, breaking through his haze a little. “Michael, stop! STOP!”

He stilled, following the command and waiting for something worse to follow. Something worse always followed. It had every time he’d given in to how much pain he was feeling.

“Michael, look at me.”

He slowly opened his tear swollen eyes and looked up at the shadowy figure above him. He didn’t need the dim lights of the trailer to know whose hands were gripping his shoulders even if he hoped he was wrong.

“I told you not to come,” Michael croaked out, embarrassed when his voice broke on the last word. He could hear the weakness and water in his voice. The creaking dam of emotion he still hadn’t cried out threatening to burst back through at any moment.

“Michael,” Alex said his name again, soft and chiding. One of his hands, the one on the uninjured shoulder, rubbed soothingly up and down his arm.

“I don’t want you here,” Michael said again, trying to ignore the way his body was already loosening its cramped curl in response to Alex’s skin on his.

“I know. I know,” Alex agreed, before crawling over Michael and laying himself down with his back to the window. His body faced Michaels on the bed and his hand never stopped its slow back and forth movement over his tricep. “But I couldn’t hear you like that and not come check on you. Where did all of that come from, babe?”

The pet name felt like a puncture in the last piece of his heart that had been intact. He felt his breath shuddering past his lips as he tried to contain himself enough to answer. He must’ve taken too long, because he felt Alex’s body slide closer and arms wrap around him, pressing him into the warm, herbaceous scent of Alex’s shirt. He rested his cheek against the top of Michael’s head and Michael felt their knees brush against each other.  Michael’s fingers uncurled from where they’d been clenched tight against his own chest and he reached forward, wrapping the fabric of Alex’s shirt into his hands as he felt more sobs break free from his body. He tried to keep them quiet, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone anymore. At least no one in this trailer.

“Hey, I’m here. I’m sorry I’m here if you really don’t want me to be. But you’re obviously hurting right now. I can’t just let that happen and not see if I can help. We’re friends, right? Friends don’t let each other hurt like this without trying to comfort them,” Alex murmured softly into his hair. Those warm, gentle hands were now petting his hair and rubbing his back. He could feel his muscles loosening and the fight going out of him. He just wanted to melt into the man in front of him. He wanted to be the one who carved out a place under his skin and lived there for the few days they’d have together. He wanted to be the one who left the hollow spaces for once.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming back,” Michael murmured into the space between Alex’s shoulder and neck. “Friends keep in fucking touch. You never tell when you’re coming back and when you’re here, you never stay. You find an excuse and disappear. I always wake up used up and alone.”

“Guerin….” Alex started, sighing heavily.

“Don’t call me by my last name. I get it, I’m just… part of coming back here. A chore you check off your list. You don’t have to keep coming here if you don’t want me, Alex,” Michael finished, uncramping his fingers from Alex’s shirt and starting to pull himself away. He was getting a headache from crying and the liquor and the long day. He was ready to turn over and go to sleep. He didn’t want to do this anymore.

“Michael,” Alex started again, his tone softer than before even as his hands held Michael firmly in place, not letting him draw away. “I don’t know what to say here. You’re not a chore. I will never and have never thought of you as an obligation. I always look forward to seeing you, but we don’t run in the same circles. We never have. And this never goes anywhere because I’m always going to leave. I can’t stay here with you, Michael, I’m sorry. Coming back to Roswell always leaves me feeling like I’ve time traveled and gotten stuck in a time vaccuum.”

Michael felt the burn begin again behind his eyes and his throat start to tighten.

“But when I’m here, I’m yours. You’re one of the only good things I get out of coming home,” Alex finished, finally letting go of Michael and drawing back to lay his head down beside Michael’s on the mattress. Michael felt a tear drip off his cheek as he stared at the fathomless brown eyes staring into his. He hoped Alex hadn’t seen the tear because of the shadow on his face, the dark hiding how much he always hurt when Alex was with him. Sometimes it was knives, sometimes it was ecstasy, but always it was pain.

“I’m yours, too. When you’re here, I’m yours,” Michael finally responded in a small voice, sliding his hands over Alex’s chest and up to cup his jaw gently. He’d decided he had all he could handle of the knives for tonight. Now he wanted the ecstasy. He wanted to hold Alex on his tongue and under his fingernails and inside of him. He needed the memories to get through another three years of his heart being caught in a fist of anxious worry over whether he’d get to see Alex alive again. How much of the Alex he loved would be left after more witnessed atrocities in name of his country?

Alex leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, his breath brushing Michael’s lips and chin. Michael didn’t want Alex to remember him like this.

“Let me up, I’m going to take a quick shower. I really am… pretty fucking filthy right now,” Michael admitted, laughing weakly. Alex smiled and nodded, pressing a kiss to his mouth before sitting up to watch him. Michael sat up, noting that while not trashed, he was still a little floaty. He was sober enough to feel embarrassed about Alex having to come rescue him because he was naked, drunk, and emotional. He stood and managed the two steps to the bathroom, turning on the water in the cubicle shower. He walked in and let the warm water wash over him, the thudding of his heart in his ears as he leaned forward, setting his hands on either side of the shower head. He let his forehead rest against the back of the shower stall while he tried to wrap his mind around the night so far. Another fine mess he’d made. A breeze at his back made him look over his shoulder and he saw Alex stepping into the tiny space with him.  

“I’m not sure this shower is big enough for anything athletic,” Michael commented trying to ignore his bodies near Pavlovian response to seeing Alex naked. Alex hummed at him and wrapped his arms around Michael’s wet torso, pulling their bodies flush together under the water spray.

“I’m just helping you wash your back,” he teased, reaching past Michael and pulling the bar of soap down from the inset shelf. Michael closed his eyes and nodded, trying not to feel overwhelmed at how easy this was when it shifted from emotions to sex. How his body was always ready to forgive the sins and slights his mind had tallied up between them. How starved he was for this feast of flesh between them.

Michael groaned as he felt Alex’s hands start to slide over his wet skin, the bar of soap adding a welcome pressure against his abused muscles. His cock which had started to perk up at the view of Alex naked was starting to harden and strain towards his stomach with every brush of Alex’s body against his. It was impossible for Alex to move without some part of him touching Michael’s in the small space of the airstream’s shower. Michael couldn’t even turn around without them having to negotiate intensely so as not to end up with an elbow in someone’s eye or a knee bruising.

While Michael tried to find his focus, he felt Alex’s hands going over everywhere on him. Those well-defined hands were sliding up and down his back and over his shoulders and arms. His square, thin artist’s hands massaged Michael’s sides and then slid down to dig into the muscles of his lower back, and again lower onto his ass cheeks, dipped his thumbs into his crack and back out and around. He’d replaced the soap on the shelf and then his hands were sliding up Michael’s stomach and over his chest, pulling his back flush against Alex’s body. He felt Alex’s teeth settle onto his shoulder, even as his hips ground forward, his hard cock sliding between Michael’s cheeks making him moan loudly. He reached behind himself and grabbed at Alex’s hip, trying to pull him closer and let him grind harder against his backside. He felt Alex push his cock down, angling it low and letting it slip into the space between Michael’s legs. The spongey, hard tip tracing over his tight pucker and perineum, teasing behind his balls before drawing back. Immediately he closed his thighs as Alex started to pump his hips with earnest, water and soap helping slick the way for Alex’s cock.  With every catch of Alex’s cock on his hole, he felt his sanity slipping from him. He wanted to feel him stretching his insides open, pushing his way in and making a home for himself in Michael’s body.

“Fuck, Michael, you feel so good. I want to be in you, babe. I wish I could just slip in,” Alex gasped into the meat of his shoulder, a hand sliding between their bodies so Alex could press and rub his fingers over where Michael needed him most, “right here. I want to be right here with you. Do you want that, babe?”

Even as his other hand drifted down to land on Michael’s achingly hard cock, Michael was grinding back against Alex’s hand, letting the tip of one finger breach him. It wasn’t enough, but it still felt like being on a better plane of existence. Michael groaned, reveling in the slick soapy slide of Alex’s hand on him and the slow thrusting motions that had been taken back up behind him driving him insane.

“Do you want that, Michael? Can I get you out of this shower and lay you down and take you apart? Make you scream for me? Get you nice and dirty again?”

“Alex,” he sighed, body throbbing with his need for this man. His name felt like a prayer and a curse and he could remember all too well how good Alex was at making him come apart at the seams.

“What do you want, Michael?” Alex asked, stilling his movements and just hugging Michael’s body back against his. He didn’t sound angry, just inquiring, as if he cared what Michael really wanted from him. His breath was ragged against the back of Michael’s ear. He sounded as desperate as Michael felt. Awkwardly, Michael turned and maneuvered until here could partially face Alex. The water was starting to cool in the shower and it only heightened how unnaturally warm his skin was in the small space. Michael looked at the water dripping from Alex’s hair and down his glorious, golden body. He took in the intense stare those dark chocolate eyes had pinned on him and could suddenly see what Mimi had meant. Alex looked like he was trying to figure Michael out, like he was waiting for an epiphany to what all of this meant. Michael knew he must be looking at Alex like he was the answer, because he was. He was the answer to all the questions that Michael had.

He leant in and pressed his lips to Alex’s. He tried to give Alex some of the answer he was looking for in that kiss, using his lips and tongue to spell out the words ‘I love you’. Alex kissed him back, equaling his fervor and clutching at his back and neck to keep him close. When they broke for air, Michael reached back to the shower wall and shut off the water.

“Take care of me, Alex. Love me. Fucking wreck me. Do whatever you want,” he gritted out the last words feeling reckless as he was lunging forward to begin kissing again. Alex hummed his understanding against Michael’s mouth and they stumbled, dripping, out of the shower stall. Michael backed Alex up against the small sink and broke away from his lips to start kissing down his chest and stomach. His knees hit the floor hard and he ran his hands up Alex’s thighs while he stared up into his face. Alex looked down at him in hunger, hand cradling his jaw before Michael leant forward and took the head of his cock into his mouth. His eyes fluttered at the clean taste of his skin and the familiar firm length of him sliding over his tongue. He looked through his eyelashes up at Alex to see him gripping the counter and biting his lip as he watched Michael take him down over and over. This is what power felt like.

On a whim, Michael grabbed the back of Alex’s thighs and pulled him slightly forward as he dove his head in, letting Alex’s cock slip into his throat where he swallowed around it. Alex’s hand shot out, diving into the wet curls on Michael’s head, tugging as he groaned at the sensation. Michael pulled back and slowly worked his way back down the next time, letting Alex appreciate his gag control as his nose brushed the other’s pubes.

“Shit, Michael, if you keep that up I’m going to cum down your throat,” Alex gasped out, failing to stop his hips from a small fluid grind into Michael’s mouth as he looked down at him. Michael pulled back, wrapping his hand around Alex’s prick and continuing to jack him slowly while he answered.  

“Better get the first one out of the way, Alex. I want you to be able to fuck me for hours,” he replied.

“Fuck, Michael,” Alex breathed his name almost reverently, tightening his hand in Michael’s curls momentarily. Michael took his hand away from Alex’s cock, letting it jut into the air between them. Then he opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out and looking up at Alex expectantly. Biting his lip, Alex used his unoccupied hand to grip his dick and feed it over Michael’s tongue and into his mouth. He wasn’t truly thrusting, just letting the hot flesh slide shallowly in and out of Michael’s open mouth. “You’re so good at that, Michael. You’re so fucking perfect for me. I love it when you’re cock hungry and needy like this.”

“Make me yours, Alex. I want you to claim me,” Michael replied after backing off for a moment. He stared at Alex, running his hands over any bit of skin he could reach. He’d never get tired of touching Alex this way. The smooth, tan skin showing off the now familiar muscles the Air Force had trained into him. He took Alex back in his mouth, tongue gliding liquidly over the silky skin and lips pulling him closer to orgasm with every deep swallow. Michael reveled in this feeling of giving Alex what he wanted, what he thought he needed, and knowing if he stopped at just the right time, he could have him begging. But he didn’t want him to beg. He only wanted him to keep wanting to come back.

“Shit, Michael. Oh fuck, just like that, baby. I’m so close. Do you want me to come in your mouth?” Alex asked, breathless and desperate sounding. Michael could tell he was close, could feel the tightening of his body and the final swell starting in his cock before he blew his load. He nodded minutely, catching Alex’s eyes and winking up at him. Alex just whimpered and panted, hips started to stutter against Michael’s mouth, losing their rhythm as Alex’s body started to overload on sensation. Then Michael was swallowing, letting the warm, salty spurts from Alex’s body rest only a moment on his tongue before pulling it in.  He held Alex in his mouth until he finished and calmed down, then slowly backed off, licking the skin clean as he went. Alex twitched from the overstimulation, but Michael was fully aware of how much Alex could handle before it become too much.

“Come here,” Alex breathed as he pulled Michael up from his knees. His kiss was sloppy and slightly uncoordinated since his orgasm, but Michael let him take control of it anyway. He liked Alex like this, sated but still hungry for more.

“Go to the bed, grab lube and a condom, and get on your hands and knees for me,” Alex commanded against his lips. Michael felt a shudder go through his body as he met Alex’s eyes. He loved it when Alex told him what to do. Alex held his gaze for a moment before leaning in towards his ear and whispering, “Go on now. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Michael turned and walked back into the main area of the Airstream. He reached into the drawer under his bed and pulled out the half-used bottle of lube and a condom. He threw them onto the bed by his pillow before crawling forward on his hands and knees to wait for Alex to come out of the bathroom. It wasn’t a long wait and it wasn’t a long walk before he felt Alex’s hands on his hips, thighs warm as they pressed against the back of his own. He pressed his hips back against Alex’s, back bowing and putting himself on display to entice Alex to hurry the fuck up already. A hand smoothed down his back, tracing his spine and then further down into the cleft between his cheeks, fingers once again resting against his hole.

“This where you want me, Michael?” Alex asked quietly, fingers rubbing small circles around the tight ring of muscle. Michael moaned and pressed his body back, needing more. “Use your words.”

“Yesss,” Michael hissed through his teeth, hands coming up to grip at his own damp curls. “Please Alex, I need you.”

“Okay, baby,” Alex said, bending hid body over Michael’s to grab the lube and condoms to have closer to him. He kissed along Michael’s back and ribs as he retreated, his teeth pinching small pieces of flesh between them and making Michael cry out softly with the exquisite pleasure-pain of it. He felt Alex’s body heat draw away from his and heard the scrape and shuffle of Alex moving behind him, but before he could glance past his shoulder to see what was happening, he felt Alex’s mouth on one of his ass cheeks, sucking and marking the flesh with his mouth. A wet finger prodded at his hole and he pushed back trying to let it sink in. Alex moved his finger away with Michael’s movement and he heard himself whining in frustration.

              “I’m sorry, I’m being a tease,” Alex chuckled against the skin of his hip. He gave Michael a quick peck there and then Michael felt the pressure of his finger again. This time it didn’t stop, just slowly, inexorably pushed into him. He bit his lip to stop himself screaming in frustration. Alex slid his finger in and out, finger barely brushing over that bundle of nerves that would have Michael howling and feral if worked right.

              “It’s not enough. More, Alex,” he begged. Alex’s mouth kissed the skin of his hip, then the dimple of his ass, and then closer still to where his finger and leisurely moving in and out of Michael’s body. Michael felt Alex’s lips then, a soft sucking caress on the skin stretched around his finger. Then the strange, erotic slide of his tongue. Michael’s body started to shake at the sensation, his cock giving a hard throb between his legs. Alex’s finger moved out of him and away, moved over to where it could splay over his ass cheek keeping Michael’s body pressed open wide for Alex’s mouth.

              Alex’s mouth was a dream. His hot, wet tongue gave wide, long swipes from Michael’s balls to his hole. He felt his lips sucking on the skin of his pucker, his teeth scraping softly and making him cry out against his forearm. He felt the prod and push of the muscle working its way past the tight ring of Michael’s entrance and spearing into him over and over. Alex’s unoccupied hand came up and wrapped itself loosely around Michael’s red, angry cock. He could feel Alex working his pre around the crown, making his hand slick against the skin as he began working it while he ate Michael’s ass. It was almost too much. He could vaguely hear himself moaning and gasping, his body undulating between the tongue in his hole and the hand steadily milking his cock. He felt a tingle in his core, body starting to tighten on him in anticipation of coming.

              “Alex, wait! I wanna come with your cock in me!” he cried out, even as he continued to thrust back against Alex’s face. The hand on his cock left him and he felt two fingers slip past Alex’s withdrawing tongue to start twisting and testing the muscles inside of him. Alex kept biting and sucking on the skin around his fingers, even as he hastily began to push a third on past Michael’s rim. It was a stretch and stung a little.

              “More lube,” Michael gasped, his body hunching away from the invasion slightly. Alex paused and withdrew his fingers most of the way out of Michael’s body. Michael could feel the cold spill of more lube around his hole and onto Alex’s hand. With the next push inward, the third finger slid in easier and while still a stretch, it didn’t hurt. Alex was twisting and flexing his fingers, trying to make sure he wouldn’t hurt Michael when he finally pushed his cock in, and his knuckles finally skated over Michael’s prostate enough to make him seize up and cough out a shout of pleasure. He knew Alex had gotten the picture when he rubbed his knuckles over the same place again, this time with more pressure.

              “Please, please, please, Alex,” Michael babbled, tears coming to his eyes as he fought down his body’s need to come. Alex was pressing on his spot with every thrust of his fingers now and Michael was fucking himself back on it even though it made him feel like he was about to shake apart.

              “You think you’re ready?” Alex asked, his voice registering rough and strained even through Michael’s sex drunk brain.

              “Yes, please Alex, I need you in me,” he cried.

              “Okay,” Alex sighed, sounding grateful somehow to Michael’s ears. Michael heard the crinkling of the condom packet and then the blunt pressure of Alex’s cock pressing at his hole. He moaned, rocking backwards against the pressure and feeling the head pushing past his outer ring of muscles slowly. Alex’s hands came to rest at his waist lightly, not pulling or directing Michael’s movement, but simply resting while Michael did the work. Michael relished the feeling of Alex entering him, loved that first stretch and burn around the other man’s body. When he felt the head pop past the inner ring, he gasped, rocking forward and backwards over again feeling just the tip of Alex pulling at the edges of him. He heard a curse from behind him and glanced over his shoulder at Alex.

              It was the first time he’d seen his face since they’d started this and he was glad it hadn’t happened until that moment. Alex looked wrecked. His eyes were glued down to where Michael was rocking onto him, lips red and swollen,  face flushed, and abdomen muscles jumping as he tried to control his movements so as to let Michael play with him as much as he wanted. He was rock hard, but he wasn’t desperate the way Michael was.

His eyes flicked up and he saw Michael staring at him. He smiled and bit his lip, pushing his hips forward the next time Michael flexed back and Michael lost his breath as another few inches were pushed into him. His eyes fluttered closed and he turned back to lay his head on his forearms, overtaken with how good it felt to have Alex in him. Alex withdrew, leaving Michael feeling empty, until he pushed in again, giving him more. He continued until Michael could feel his hips flush against him and then he stilled.

“Shit,” he heard Alex curse softly behind him. He flexed his muscles around the mass inside of him and felt the responding, possibly unconscious, grind of Alex against him.

“How do you still feel like this? You always feel like you were made for this, Michael. You always feel like you were made for me,” Alex asked in wonder, pulling back and starting a slow, deep rhythm that made Michael feel like he was going to explode. A hand smoothed up his back and hooked onto his shoulder, pulling Michael’s body with Alex’s and making it feel as he were able to push deeper with every thrust. Then the hand was pulling Michael up, pulling him back so he was on his knees, back bowed and gravity helping to push him down harder onto Alex. He felt Alex’s mouth on his shoulder and neck, his arms wrapping around his chest, roaming over his skin, tweaking his nipples and dipping past his navel to stroke at his drooling cock.

“Alex,” Michael sighed, one hand holding Alex’s head behind him, the other resting on Alex’s hip. “I need more.”

“What do you need?” Alex asked, body still fluidly fucking into Michael’s in that slow, deep draw and push. This position was much better for Michael’s prostate, but it just wasn’t enough. He needed more.

“Harder,” Michael gasped on a particularly pointed thrust, “Faster.”

Alex’s hands went to Michael’s hips to steady him and then he was picking up the pace. Michael felt the moans tumble out of him as Alex’s hips started slapping his, cock pistoning in and out of him, running sharply over his prostate and bringing him back to the crescendo of pleasure.

“Oh fuck, like that. Don’t stop, Alex, fuck, don’t stop,” Michael cried, finally putting a hand on himself and jacking his aching cock in counterpoint to Alex’s thrusts. He could hear Alex’s huffing breath and occasional grunts behind him, could feel his fingers starting to dig into the meat of his muscles, could feel his own body tightening around Alex’s cock, trying to keep him inside of him. His orgasm hit him like a freight train. His vision whited out, his body seizing up around Alex and his cock swelling and releasing over his fingers and palm. He felt Alex fuck him through it, thrusts jagged and almost too much against his prostate, but then he too was groaning like he was dying and slowing inside of Michael. Michael felt pulled back onto Alex’s lap and enjoyed the wet pants of breath against his sweat sheened shoulder blade.

Alex was always languorous and tactile after he came. He would hold Michael against him until he was too soft to stay inside and then he would let his fingers play over Michael’s puffed hole. He would kiss all the sweat from his body and murmur sweet nothings into his skin. Then he could get hard again and they’d go for another round until Michael was too sore or the sun came up, whichever was first. After the last time, sleepy and wrapped around Michael like an octopus, Alex would fall asleep with his head on Michael’s chest, breath softly stirring the golden curls of hair, and Michael would try to stay awake as long as he could because if he fell asleep, like with most good dreams, Alex would be gone once he woke up. Alex would leave while Michael slept, texting him later that he was sorry he had to go before Michael woke, and then he’d leave the country to fight some rich man’s war for him. Michael would once again cover up the place Alex had made for himself in his body and heart. He’d once again drown himself in the arms of others or the bottom of bottles, but that place stayed hidden and safe and waiting for Alex to come back home.

[madroxed]

“YOU KNOW THAT YOUR BOOK IS UPSIDE DOWN, RIGHT?” [fic meme. SIMON/RAPHAEL, COLLEGE AU, ENEMIES TO LOVERS. for @hoechlder​. @ao3.]

+

“Okay,” Raphael Santiago’s saying, leaning back smoothly in his chair in a way that would absolutely have Simon unbalancing onto the floor, and offering his trademark smug smile at the poor girl across the table, “but madness as a trope has been at the base of the ghost story at least since Shakespeare…”

Simon tunes him out. It’s probably a really good point and he should be making notes, but he just….can’t. Raphael starts talking and Simon automatically switches off; it’s been that way since approximately nought point two seconds into their freshman year when Raphael had eyed Simon’s ironic Care Bears t-shirt with disgust and asked him if he wasn’t confusing college with elementary school.

Simon hates him.

+

“You don’t hate him,” Jace says later, when Simon’s finishing up rant number 1458 on why Raphael Santiago has been put on this earth specifically to torture him. Clary shoots Jace a sceptical look so Simon doesn’t have to. “He’s part of your college experience. Everyone needs a good nemesis.”

“Um,” Clary says, “who’s yours?”

“Your father,” Jace says, like it’s obvious. “I didn’t say it had to be another student. Izzy’s is the conservative dress code, and Alec’s is every obnoxious heterosexual couple he knows.”

“That’s us,” Clary tells Simon with a smile.

Jace salutes. “It’s worse because he has to spend all his time with us, but better because he can tell us to our face how gross we are.” He wipes away a fake tear. “He’ll look back on those memories fondly.”

“Okay, I get it. You guys get off on tormenting Alec,” Simon says, “but just so we’re clear, Raphael Santiago really is the worst.”

“We know, honey,” Clary says, patting his leg.

Simon feels very patronized.

+

Magnus decides that a Wednesday night is a totally reasonable time to throw a party, which is patently untrue but they all go anyway.

They lose Alec almost immediately, taking up his place at Magnus’ side as his boyfriend holds court, and Izzy disappears shortly after, followed by the eyes of roughly a million admirers Simon can’t fault for a second.

“You good?” Clary asks, and Simon waves a hand.

“Go. Find a corner to make out in. I’ll be fine.”

“Great, thanks,” Jace says, tugging Clary away before she can change her mind.

“You’re blocking the door,” a horribly familiar voice says, and Simon squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment before stepping aside.

“What are you doing here?” Simon asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t care, he really doesn’t, except that he absolutely does and it’s going to drive him crazy for the rest of the night.

Raphael shoots him a look that says he knows exactly how Simon feels. “Unfortunately, I live here.”

“Uh,” Simon says, and wonders if he knew that. He’s ninety-percent sure he didn’t, in which case he and Alec are going to have a serious chat. “Since when?”

“Since the start of the year.” Raphael rolls his eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Magnus is technically my guardian. Was my guardian. Obviously that stopped being important when I turned eighteen, but the damage was done.”

“And by damage,” Simon says, “you mean emotions?”

He thinks Raphael may actually growl. It’s fascinating. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be studying? You looked a little lost in Monday’s seminar…”

“Wow,” Simon says, and wonders where the alcohol is, “A, not all of us feel the need to take over discussions. And B, fuck you.”

Raphael smirks, and Simon wants to scream. No one in the world is able to get under his skin this much, and that’s saying something considering he and Jace accidentally became friends in sophomore year.

“I’m walking away now,” Simon says, and ignores Raphael’s mocking laugh behind him.

+

Simon’s drunk. Very, very drunk. Possibly the most drunk he’s ever been.

“Nope,” Clary says, pointing her glass at him. Half of it sloshes over the rim. “Remember prom? We were wasted.”

“God,” Simon says, scrunching up his nose. “That was bad.”

“So bad,” Clary agrees. “Where’s the vodka?”

Simon passes her a bottle that, actually, may be tequila? Honestly at this point he’s not sure it matters.

“Did you know Raphael lives here?” he asks out of nowhere, and Clary gasps.

“No! Here here?”

“Yep!”

Clary blinks and drinks her tequila. “Wow. So weird. You should go say hi!”

Simon snorts. “I already did. Sort of.”

“Well go say it again,” Clary says, pushing ineffectively at his arm. “With sexy eyes or something.”

Simon’s brain shorts out. “…What? Why?”

Clary laughs. “Because you like him, doofus. You like like him. You want to kiss him and marry him and be shouty about…comic books and that show only you two watch forever.”

“You liar,” Simon says, because all of that is blatantly untrue. Clary has no idea what she’s talking about. Absolutely none. Simon hates Raphael. Hates his stupid smug smile and his expensive jackets and his perfect hair and the way he always makes Simon feel hot and awkward and like he’s the only person in the room.

“Oh shit,” he says, and Clary nods, patting him on the shoulder.

“S’ok,” she says.

“It really, really isn’t,” Simon says and snatches the bottle of tequila back.

+

It’s very possible he’s dying. Everything’s both very loud and very bright even though his eyes are definitely still closed, and it tastes like something’s died on his tongue.

“Fuck,” he croaks and rolls over only to crash promptly to the floor. “Fuck.”

When he finally manages to open his eyes, Raphael’s staring down at him, wearing a heavy brocade robe and holding a truly giant mug. “You okay down there?”

“Your couch sucks,” Simon says, and Raphael shrugs.

“Magnus chose it, blame him.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Simon asks, attempting to sit up and failing spectacularly.

“They, like normal house guests, went home when the party finished.”

“Ah,” Simon says. “And, uh, I…didn’t?”

Raphael frowns. “You don’t remember?”

“Nope,” Simon says with a wince. “Too much…I’m gonna guess tequila based on the throbbing behind my eyes.”

“…Right,” Raphael says, and if Simon didn’t know better he’d say he was upset. He’s probably just mad that Simon’s still there, taking up his couch on a Thursday morning and stopping him reading the entire works of Tolstoy or whatever it is Raphael does for fun.

“I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can, you know, stand up without breaking something.”

Raphael sighs. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

+

The kitchen’s a disaster zone, bottles and empty cups everywhere, and Simon doesn’t want to know what he just stepped in. Still, the smell of fresh coffee manages to take away some of the edge and Simon goes through cupboards until he finds a mug almost as large of Raphael’s.

“So,” he says, when Raphael follows him as far as the doorframe, “did you, uh, need help cleaning up, or…?”

“You really don’t remember anything about last night?” Raphael says, ignoring the question, and Simon frowns.

“I mean, I remember getting here and you telling me you live here, and I remember Jace starting up a game of beer pong, but after that…nope, not really.”

“Do you remember the party Magnus threw for Isabelle’s birthday our freshman year?” Raphael asks, which is completely out of left field, wow.

“Sure,” Simon says carefully. “Not the specifics, but I remember it was a fun night.”

“So,” Raphael says, and Simon’s not so hungover he doesn’t recognize the danger in his tone, “you don’t remember finding me on the balcony and telling me that you, and I quote, found me ‘super hot, especially when I do that smug asshole thing.’?”

Simon blinks.

“And,” Raphael continues, “you don’t remember the fourth of July when you brought me melted ice-cream and told me you liked my voice? Or the time you kissed me in the garden at one of Isabelle’s stupid sorority parties?” He takes a step forward and Simon swallows nervously. “Or last night when you found me in my room and told me you wanted to marry me and have shouty arguments forever?”

“Um,” Simon says.

“I see,” Raphael says. “It was just the tequila, then.”

He turns to leave and Simon finally remember to actually do something.

“Wait,” he says, and Raphael pauses. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Raphael looks at him like he’s an idiot. Which…fair. “Because you didn’t.”

Which—

Fuck.

The thing is, well, okay, yeah. Simon’s had a crush on Raphael since he insulted his Care Bears t-shirt and proceeded to start an argument over the benefits of new media in literary studies. He knows this. Sure, he tries to keep it buried as far down in his own denial as he can, but it doesn’t help when he spends most of every shared seminar they have staring at the sharp jut of Raphael’s collarbone beneath his stupidly expensive button-downs.

It’s a thing.

He just…hadn’t known that maybe it was a shared thing.

“I woke up on the couch,” he says, which isn’t at all what he’d meant to come out of his mouth but at least it’s a full sentence.

“Obviously,” Raphael says. “You were wasted.”

“So I didn’t kiss you?”

The corner of Raphael’s mouth tilts up, just a little. “Oh, you did.”

“So you didn’t kiss me back?” Simon says, piecing events together slowly but surely.

“I never do,” Raphael says, and Simon frowns, feeling confused and a little hurt. “I always tell you to kiss me when you’re sober. You never do.”

Simon, it turns out, is the biggest idiot on the planet. Clearly college is wasted on him.

“Right,” he says, digging the last remnants of his bravery out from his pounding skull. “Right.”

It’s probably not super romantic that he steps in the wet patch again, but as first kisses goes it’s…well. It’s pretty fucking excellent, actually.

Right up until Raphael pulls away.

“God, you really need to brush your teeth.”

“Yeah,” Simon says, backing up awkwardly. “Yeah, I’ll just—”

“There’s spare toothbrushes under the sink,” Raphael says, rolling his eyes, but the flush on his cheeks gives him away.

“Be right back,” Simon says, and tries to remember where the bathroom is.

+

Raphael’s doing the leaning thing again. Simon wants to try it but he’s not going to risk crashing to the floor whilst they’re still in the honeymoon phase. Besides, he doesn’t think he’d look anywhere near as cool.

Raphael’s embroidered jacket is draped over the back of his chair and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and Simon has no idea what conversation the professor’s just struck up.

Which isn’t too different from normal, really.

Raphael catches his eye and Simon’s heart does a truly embarrassing skippy thing in his chest.

“You know that your book is upside down, right?” Raphael says, smirk sliding into place, and Simon sighs.

He can always kiss it away later.

+

[for the au + trope + prompt game. send me one!]