#she’ll tame you certainly but it looks more like breaking….

[rush-the-stars]

i think if you’re in a relationship with caitvi and you’re a brat/have a bad attitude, you’d think cait would be the sweeter brat tamer on the surface but. certainly not. you can’t catch an attitude with cait unless you want swift punishment. cait��s “nice” solution is to let vi handle you first. and vi is wayyyyy easier on you than cait.

[ephemerlskies]

constant craving | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: drabble series, angst, unrequited love, idiot!jungkook, idiot!oc, basically everyone's an idiot

⇢ word count: 1.7k

⇢ warnings: unreciprocated pining, explicit language, themes of hopeless romanticism (!!), (slightly) unedited

⇢ summary: your best friend decided to confide in his best friend on how to win his girlfriend back after a fight. you tell him exactly what to say to her, however he is unaware that what you were saying was a sincere delivery of your once undeclared love.

♪ playlist: constant craving - k.d. lang, bad religion - frank ocean, misunderstood - lucky daye, neu roses - daniel caesar ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 (final)

a/n: hello my little loves!! this was definitely ;) not ;) an impulse write and release ;) ;) sorry for being so inactive lately. i've been focusing on myself (i know how cliche that sounds but it's true). anyway, enjoy this incredibly angsts fic i wrote at 2 am for absolutely no reason at all other than i'm an emotional sadist and a masochist. love u!!!! <3

part one: control

He was coming over for the third time this week. Third time. Three times is two more times than he'd gone over his girlfriend's house, but you did everything in your power to convince your inconvincible heart that it meant nothing. Friends see each other more than their girlfriends, right?

It was making a racket in your chest, that muscle that strained much harder for a man who had his pumping for the girl of his dreams.

But, he was coming over for the third time this week.

The first time he said this visit ranked, in his words, 'out of the question' on the degree of necessary that he come over and show you Star Wars. You played a good game of reluctance when asking if it was the entire series or just one movie, and in your head, you hoped to God it was the entire series. For him, you'd watch the series four times over if it meant you sat through this outrageously nerdy movie next to the even more outrageously nerdy love of your life.

The second time was particularly funny to you. He called while you were cooking dinner, almost as if he was in stride with you in a way that was an ounce too synchronized to be platonic, and asked if you were whipping up a delicious meal that he could mooch off of. Knowing he was a terrible cook, plus the fact that when he begged so politely you felt your posture unbind into to a puddle, you more than happily obliged.

This time, the circumstances made it harder to say yes, but not yet impossible. And it was a second or two before you heard that knock on the front door that had your once pounding heart come to a complete halt. It was still, waiting for you to make a decision.

Since it was Jungkook, of course, you'd say yes. And your heart would continue beating. Beating, as in sending sharp jabs that stained the inside of your chest with bruises. Beating, as in when the time came, the final blow of your constantly craving heart would devastate your entire being.

"Thank you so much, ___. God, I'm such an idiot." He walked in with all the confidence of someone who was a bit too familiar with your company. Jungkook's feet reintroducing themselves to your floors in the same manner as he would the night before, and the night before that, and the countless nights you kept secured in your collection of memories. As if he belonged there; as if he was coming home.

"An idiot with a great friend." That last word nearly withdrew the bile you had been ever so gracefully holding in.

"Yeah yeah." And he was comfortable with that same word, 'friend', that deepened your bruises into scars. He had absolutely no clue. Idiot. "I can't believe I broke up with her. I was so angry and acted on that instead of logic. Fuck, why would I do that to myself? I love her."

"Well, you never know. Maybe..." You hated yourself for not resisting the selfish temptation that was about to fall from your lips. The words you've been internally screaming to him to leave her and fall in love with you instead were diluted to something much more tame when your tongue formed them into sound.

"Maybe it was for the best. Maybe you guys are better off apart? To, um, grow or whatever."

"No." He said that with too much certainty and too little hesitance and just enough conviction to sink another wound in the organ exhausting itself in your chest. "She's the one. I know it"

"Jungkook."

He looked at you with all the earnestness of a man who carved his utmost and unchanging dedication to her. A look that any love-induced sap would kill for. A look he would never direct towards you.

Your eyes weren't under your control as of now. The glue that held them to his eyes, his lips, his hair, and every other part of him you dreamed of was more than a marathoned yearning. It was an adhesive twelve years in the making, not showing the slightest sign of wearing away.

"The way you love is something to die for..." And then he smiled at you, but still not for you.

You were utterly crushed.

"She'll take you back in a heartbeat. I mean, she has a brain, so of course, she will. Anyone would."

I would.

"I hope you're right." The couch was four feet wide at most, but there was an impressively vast space between you and the man who was sitting next to you. "Can you tell me what to say? You know I suck with words."

"Uh... Yeah. Of course. Anything."

If breaking hearts were a crime, then Jungkook would have much to atone for. You'd be convicted as a willing accomplice for holding on this long. Up until this point, you've let every small glance, every shy smile he sent your way, every eyebrow twitch conveying a meaning only you knew well enough to retrieve him from whatever awkward situation he needed rescuing from, every accidentally brush of his hand against yours, every purposeful embrace that lasted so long your tears stained his right shoulder string you into a knot of miserable, unrequited love.

And up until this point, you had hope he would choose you.

Each ring of his phone worked in tandem to reduce your undying devotion to Jungkook into a compressed seed of denial.

I don't love him. He's just my best friend.

Your pulse pronounced itself loudly in your ears, as a not-so-gentle reminder of how much you hated him for loving him. Somehow, your heart beat faster. Then again, anything was possible when it came to him. Anything except the miraculous event of him hanging up, declaring his love for you, and living in the land of happily ever after that only existed in your deluded imagination.

"Hey Irene! I'm so fucking glad you picked up."

He gave you that look. With the arched eyebrow, his widened doe eyes, and the slightly hung jaw, you read each feature better than words and nodded to signal you knew exactly what he needed.

"I'm sorry about what happened." You said, in a whisper, though the deflated volume of your words carried no implication of the unbridled sincerity sealed in them.

"I'm sorry about what happened." He repeated, laying down that same Irene-contrived smile on you that fostered a smile of your own, knowing fully it surfaced as a reflex from hearing her voice.

"It might be crazy to try this, because I don't know how you feel."

If the thing people say about your life flashing before your eyes during encounters with death, then you were sure your heart was about to consume its last pulse of blood. The scenes of you and Jungkook spending your Friday nights when you were a ripe city dweller in your shoebox apartment doing everything and nothing at all had convinced you that you were certainly about to go into cardiac arrest.

"It might be crazy to say this, because I don't know how you feel." Jungkook was so many things, however emotionally perceptive was not one of them.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you." Those words tasted sweet despite fermenting in a chamber of your heart you kept preserved since, as you said, the very moment you met him.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you."

"No matter what, I'd choose you. It doesn't matter how mad I am or how annoyed I am, I will choose you because if I know anything in this damn, cruel, punishing world, then I know that I'd rather be angry, annoyed, or anything else with you than without you."

He repeated your words, but dehydrated all of your sentiment from them. You were left with the remnants of the feelings, and none of the words from him you were so desperately starved of. He took them right from your throat, along with the very breath that seemed to keep returning because of Jungkook, molded them into his own, into a sequence of sounds that were meant for Irene. You were left hungry, breathless, and forever wanting.

"No matter what, I'd choose you. It doesn't matter how mad I am or how annoyed I am, I will choose you because if I know anything in this damn, cruel, punishing world, then I know that I'd rather be angry, annoyed, or anything else with you than without you."

Irene must have been smiling right about now. Who wouldn't smile hearing those things from someone like Jungkook?

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Then, you began to ask yourself another question.

If you make me complete, Jungkook, will my story ever end?

You knew the answer to that. You swore your heart beat in a morse code that told you everything you needed to know.

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Jungkook looked to you, before Irene could form the proper response, and smiled. It was the third time he smiled at you today because of course, you were keeping track. You knew it was his own physically linguistic version of a 'thank you' or a 'you're a life saver' but somehow, to you, it translated to something similar to a 'goodbye'.

Your legs miraculously rose and carried you to the back porch. The sun was just beginning to dip in the horizon, proliferating a warm orange that was about to subside to an indistinguishable and unpredictable dusk. Whatever color came after the sunset, you were ready to accept it, to memorize how it reflected against a world without the possibility of him. And even though the night will always embody undertones of orange, it was time to focus on the colors around it.

It was time to let go.

a/n: i might make this into a drabble series!!! if anyone would be interested in that please let me know :)) thank you for readinggggg <3

[thebadgerclan]

SFW Alphabet: Hermione Granger

Requested by Anonymous

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Hermione shows her affection in little ways.  Brushing her hand against yours at meals, offering her notes when you forget yours, lending you books she thinks you’d like.  But also in bigger ways, kissing your cheek, keeping an arm around your shoulders, surprising you with flowers

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

You bond over a shared love of a muggle book, and the friendship grows from there.  She’s not just the brainy girl to help with homework, she’s funny, she’s kind, she’s dependable, and she’s loyal

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Cuddling is Hermione’s favorite way to show affection. In the common room, she loves to lean into your side, her head resting on your chest.  In bed, Hermione likes to spoon, and she doesn’t have a real preference for big vs little spoon, she’ll do whichever you want

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Hermione grew up with the idea of having a home with the person she loves, so yes, she wants to settle down.  She was raised in a muggle house, so she knows how to cook and clean without magic, and she actually prefers to do it that way

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?) She wouldn’t be able to fight back tears as she ended things.  It would tear her apart, and she’d consider not doing it, even if she was unhappy, because even in the unlikely even she fell out of love with you, she still doesn’t want to hurt you

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Hermione wants to be your wife more than anything else in the world. After the war, about 3-4 years into your relationship, she proposes to you.  It’s a simple ring, a gold band with your birthstone and hers (a sapphire [which is actually my birthstone too lol]).

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Hermoine is like a kitten.  She’s snuggly and sweet, but if you piss her off, out come the claws.  That doesn’t really apply to you, but to people who offend you or her.   She can get angry at you, though, but she tries not to shout at you.  If she does, she’s always very upset about it and apologizes profusely

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Her hugs are like a warm cup of tea, able to energize, relax, comfort you, and everything in between.  Hermione loves hugs, she gives you a long, tight hug before she leaves for work and as soon as she comes home.  When something upsets her, your arms are the only thing she wants.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

About 8 months into your relationship, and it slips out accidentally.  “What did you say?” you ask, a smile on your face.  “I…” she hesitates.  “I love you.”

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Hermoine is a very level headed person, she doesn't get jealous very easily.  But when she does, she sulks, burying herself in a book until you ask what’s wrong

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Short pecks and lingering kisses, the best of both worlds.  Hermione kisses you basically anywhere you’ll let her, hand, wrist, arm, chest, neck, jaw, lips, cheek.  She likes to be kissed on the forehead, and there’s this spot just above her collarbone that makes her knees weak

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Incredible.  Hermione LOVES kids, and she really wants to have them with you.  Biological or adopted, she doesn’t care.  If you don’t want kids, she can live with that, but she will be a little sad about it.  

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

She’s an early riser, so she’s almost always up before you are.  But she’ll make you breakfast or at least leave a cup of coffee/tea/juice on your nightstand for you

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Reading in bed, your head on her chest, her arms around you.  You’re either reading the same book together, discussing it as you go, or reading different books in comfortable silence

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Hermione is very open, she doesn’t hold things back from you.  It’s not an all at once affair, she reveals things as the come up or when the time is right, but she doesn’t hold back

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

She’s friends with Harry and Ron, I think it’s safe to say she’s pretty patient.  It takes a lot to anger Hermione, and even then, she says level headed

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Every single thing, she remembers.  I’m almost convinced she has a photographic memory

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

The annotated copy of a muggle romance novel you gifted her.  In the margins were love notes to her and things like “This quote always makes me think of you.”

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

During the war, especially near the end, there’s little Hermione can do to protect you, but she does everything she can.  After the war, she’s fairly protective, wanting you to be extremely careful anywhere you go.  But as time goes on, she relaxes, realizing that you’re safe and out of danger

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Hermione loves to take you out on fancy dinner dates, buy you jewelry and clothes, things like that.  When there’s something to be celebrated, she spares no expense

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

She can get in her head about things, working herself into an anxiety/panic attack.  But if you help her ground herself, she calms down quickly enough

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Not really.  Hermione thinks she’s pretty enough, and you clearly find her attractive, so beyond taming her hair and basic makeup, she doesn’t do much more.  But she will doll herself up every once in a while, both to impress you and for herself

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes, you’re half of Hermione’s heart, she can’t live without you

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

She has a locket with a magical photo of you: you’re looking at the camera and blowing a kiss at her, and she wears it everywhere

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Hermione needs someone who’s empathetic, both to her and others.  If her partner can’t sympathize, then it’s almost certainly a dealbreaker

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

She keeps her childhood stuffed animal, an otter, in her nightstand drawer.  If she has a bad dream, she’ll pull him out and snuggle him (and you of course)

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Wordcount: 2.7k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm.

Masterlist here

AO3 Link here

Playing volleyball in Milan is everything Atsumu dreamed of and more - the lights are brighter, the crowds are bigger, there are no distractions, no nagging to ignore, no pending errands to run - nothing to detract from the rush of exhilaration when he executes yet another perfect set. His teammates introduce him to the joy of soaking in the sunset over aperitivo by the Navigli canals, and he develops a liking for cheese and cured meat -  prosciutto, salami, bresola, sending pictures of the street markets to Osamu even though he receives no reply.  

But it’s not long before the novelty of living alone in a foreign land fades. He’s never been particularly good with languages, so he’s unable to get across the language barrier preventing him from socialising outside of his teammates. So Atsumu finds himself falling back into habits he learnt at home - buying take-out pizza on Friday nights from the pizzeria down the street, ordering extra because the pizza in Milan is thinner, crisper and infinitely less filling. There are no aquariums in Milan, no museums with dinosaur bones, so he measures his steps on cobblestone streets to the park every Sunday to sit on a bench too large for him alone, watching the birds and clouds in the sky. 

He tells himself to be content with watching his baby grow through the frame of an eleven inch screen, recording every one of her babbled words and chuckles onto his phone until it runs out of space and has to call Suna for technical support. He becomes a regular at the post office, mailing packages of dolls and nutcrackers, chocolates from his favourite sweetshop and handmade baby dresses from wizened oba-chan he learns to air kiss on both cheeks. 

‘Home, Oto-san?’ Shino asks during one of their calls. His voice breaks when he has to tell his baby ‘sorry, darlin’, not yet’. It’s the only time he opens up the webpage to check if he can book a flight back home. 

He starts rushing to the locker room right after matches end to avoid seeing his teammates’ faces light up when their families congratulate them with kisses and warm embraces after every match. When his teammates ask about his family (he drives away the thought that they’re asking out of pity), he whips out his phone to show them his favourite picture of Shino, her little face screwed up in confusion when they loaded her back with the giant mochi for her first birthday- ‘such a trooper, didn’t even cry when she fell down’ he tells them proudly. He’s quick to swipe past any photos of her. 

He doesn't need the memories, he really doesn’t.

Well - he might not  need  the memories, but it’s not as if they disappear. He wakes up to find himself on the other side of bed. ‘Sorry, darlin’ he mumbles sleepily (because he knows he tends to invade her space, and she’s likely to kick him bodily off the bed if he doesn’t apologise quickly enough) - before snapping awake with a thin sheen of cold sweat on his forehead remembering he’s five thousand, nine hundred and sixty miles from home. 

Not that he’s counting. He really isn’t.

He’s ashamed to admit that he heads to the club that night to pick up someone - anyone to warm his bed, but he’s not sure if it’s the burn of alcohol or the flashing lights (or that prick of something in his chest - it can’t be his conscience, he’s pretty sure only Osamu has that) because his stomach churns whenever pigs with their painted faces and false smiles approach him, and soon gives up, returning to his apartment cold and alone. He’s pretty sure it’s the alcohol because he pukes his guts out in the morning and swears off from ever going to a club again.

“MIYA !’ 

He only has time for a brief flash of shock between hearing his coach shout his name and feeling the impact of his teammate’s full weight against his shoulder that sends him sprawling across the floor. There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the sickening snap of bone ringing in his ears as he’s lying on the ground. 

The sharp burst of pain stabbing his shoulder is enough for him to know what the doctors later confirm - a shattered collarbone. Complete rest for at least eight weeks is prescribed for a full recovery. 

‘What were you thinking, Miya?’ his coach asks him exasperatedly when he’s discharged from the hospital. 

‘I goofed’, he replies lamely. ‘Sorry, sir’. 

It wouldn’t do to tell anyone that for a split second, he was distracted by the sight of a dark haired woman with bright eyes cheering at the top of the stands, a plump toddler balanced on her hip. 

It’s close enough to the end of the competition season that his coach figures it’d be better for him to just cut his stay in Milan short and return to Japan early to recover properly. So he lands in the Osaka airport amidst a haze of rain, arm tucked in a sling. The airport staff are kind enough to help him wheel his bags out to the arrivals gate where he’s surprised to find Osamu waiting with a bored expression on his face. 

‘I thought ya weren’t talkin’ to me’, Atsumu says.  

Osamu snorts, taking hold of his bags. ‘Mum made me come and get ya, since you're useless with that busted collarbone of yours.’ Then he turns on his heel and matter of factly adds as he walks off - ‘Besides, you’ll end up stayin’ with me anyway - it’s not like you have a home of yer own.’ 

Atsumu opens his mouth to retort but shuts it with a snap. 

‘You better hide in the kitchen if ya don’t have the guts to show yer ugly mug around her’, Osamu tells him at half past six in the evening, not even looking up from the tuna and spring onion onigiri he’s forming in his hands. 

But Atsumu doesn’t. He tells himself it’s because he can’t bring himself to leave Shino’s side for a second more than he has to, not when he’s still drinking in the sight of her grown so, so big in the span of just a few months. The little girl had been confused at first, when both he and Osamu turned up at the childcare centre to pick her up, but after several minutes of coaxing her to recognise which one of them was Oto-san and Oji-san (the hair colour probably helped) and the bribe of a very elaborate doll (probably the main reason), she’d warmed up to him and refused to let go of his hand. 

She pushes open the door to Onigiri Miya with a gentle smile on her face when Shino shrieks ‘Mama!’ at the top of her little lungs and rushes over to her, though it vanishes the instant she notices that it’s not Osamu playing with the little girl. He tries his best to ignore the stab of guilt in his chest when she takes an instinctive step back to yank Shino behind her legs. 

‘You’re back’, she finally says, glancing at his arm resting in its sling.   

‘Yeah…’ he responds, starting to sweat like he’s standing under the hottest stadium lights. ‘Ya look good’.

‘I know when you’re lying, Atsumu’, she sighs - and if he's being honest, she’s right. To the untrained eye, she looks perfectly put together, dressed in a pencil skirt and heels with her hair neatly tied back, but he knows her too well to be fooled. He can spot the pallor of her skin beneath her makeup, the droop of her shoulders, the downward tilt of her lips. But before he can formulate a response, she grabs Shino’s hand and turns to go, the little girl waving goodbye at him until they’re out of sight. 

‘Wow. That was awkward.’ Osamu quips from over the counter. Atsumu can’t even find it in him to respond.    

Osamu makes him work at his store in between his sessions of physiotherapy. ‘To keep ya out of trouble’ he says, and Atsumu doesn’t really mind, it still leaves him plenty of time to pick up Shino from childcare every day, and it certainly gives him the excuse to hang around Onigiri Miya when she stops by in the evenings. 

He tries to make conversation with her - ‘That’s a new dress you’re wearing’, but is always rebuffed - ‘I bought this old thing years ago’, to Osamu’s endless amusement. She’d always enter the store with a fond smile on her face for Osamu (it makes him want to puke), and would immediately drop it the moment she meets his eyes. 

He tells himself it’s normal, she used to be cold and standoffish to him before they started dating, that she’d come around after a while. But even when he tries a different tack (perhaps compliments don’t work on her like they used to before), asking her ‘how’s yer day’, she shoots him a look of distrust that cuts right through his smile - ‘Just tell me what you want, Atsumu. You’ve never bothered asking me that before’. 

Osamu actually roars with laughter at that. Traitor. 

‘Need help with that?’ Osamu comments after watching Atsumu struggle to reach the exercise tape on his back with his one good hand, stepping in after Atsumu gives a reluctant nod. But he immediately yelps in pain when Osamu decides to abandon all pretense of being gentle and yanks on the exercise tape viciously.

‘Just take off my skin while you're at it, why don't ya’ Atsumu whines. ‘It never used to hurt that much when  she  would help me after physiotherapy’. 

‘She’s always been nicer to ya than ya deserve, fuckin’ scrub’. Osamu retorts, pulling at the remaining tape with increased vigour. 

Atsumu bites his tongue through the pain, picking apart his brother’s words before replying - ‘Hey ‘Samu. She’s still really mad with me, isn’t she? D'you think she’ll ever forgive me?’ 

‘Have ya tried apologising to her, for starters?’ 

‘What?’ Atsumu asks, bewildered, before yelping - 'Wait - ouch!! What the hell that bloody hurt!?!?!' 

‘You know - saying sorry? Owning up to your mistakes? Asking for forgiveness? You abandoned your wife and child for months - but I suppose that concept must be alien to you, shit stain.’ 

Osamu doesn’t give him a chance to respond, shaking his head as he walks away. 

His pride is an ugly, misshapen lump in his throat that's so inflamed it's almost impossible to be swallowed, but he does so anyway, asking her if they can speak for a short while in the alley behind the shop, away from Osamu’s eavesdropping ears. She furrows her brows at his request, but follows him out without complaint. 

It’s only when she’s standing before him in the dimly lit alleyway, the dying light of the setting sun reflecting a halo above her head that it hits him like a blow to the back of his head that he’s a fuckin’ idiot - how did he manage to convince himself to blame her for trying to get in his way of chasing his dreams. This is what he missed when he was living alone in his cold studio apartment in Milan - being able to return after trainings and matches to a cosy flat overflowing with her cheeky banter and his baby’s laughter. 

Gods, he wants his family. He wants to come home. 

But before he can pour out the apology he’d been preparing with Osamu’s help, she interrupts him by slapping a brown envelope into his chest. 

‘Look, I’m not sure what you have to say to me, but frankly, I’m not sure we have much to say to each other anymore,’ she tells him impatiently, as he opens the envelope, a tidal surge of dread overwhelming him. 

‘What's this’, he says blankly, even though the title on the very first page of the stack of papers trembling in his hands sets it out clearly -  Rikon-Todoke. i.e. Divorce papers. 

It spells out in clinical, cold words the terms of the proposed separation - dissolution of marriage by mutual consent, no request for alimony or compensation, legal custody to be granted to her with ample visitation rights for him. He would think it fair, if it were to apply to anyone but him.  

‘But why?’ he rasps, chest burning from the knife that pierces him right through his heart. 

She shifts forward, and the neon lights from the buildings surrounding them melding together to throw her face into sharp focus, her mouth curving upwards into something much harsher than a smile. It’s as if his departure acted as a whetstone, sharpening her edges, shaping her into a woman with hard eyes he can’t recognise. 

‘You and both know it’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it Atsumu? You’ve made it quite clear that this marriage isn’t what you want out of life. In any case neither of us have really been happy even before you left, so we might as well be free from each other.’ 

At this, he shakes his head, parting his lips to object but she continues ruthlessly, her words slicing past his tissue thin excuses. 

‘If anything, my time with you has taught me that it's impossible to stop the storm from destroying everything in its path. You can only try your best to outrun it, and  this' - ’ she stabs a finger at the stack of papers shaking in his hands -  ‘this is my attempt at outrunning you.’

It feels as if his world has somehow shifted, tilted upside down, turned inside out, his assumption that her taking him back would be an inevitable conclusion now disproven by the papers burning in his hands. He knows he’s hurt her beyond measure, but he never thought that his choice to chase what he thought were his dreams would leave him without the ground beneath his feet. 

‘You don’t need to do anything else - just sign it and give it back to me soon. I think it’s better for all of us - you, me and Shino, if we divorce formally and lead our own separate lives’, he hears her say, turning to go. 

Acting on instinct, his hand shoots out to grab her wrist and she flinches, the steel in her eyes crumbling to leave only frozen terror behind. 

I could never hurt you, he wants to say, but doesn't - because he knows it's a lie. 

Numbly, he releases his grip, letting his hand drop to his side. 

He hears the door close behind him. 

Osamu finds him hours later, crouched on the back steps to the shop, papers clenched in his hands. He takes the papers from him and mouths to himself while scanning through it, but there is no spark of surprise in his eyes. 

‘Did ya know she planned on divorcing me, ‘Samu?’, Atsumu asks, swiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

‘I had a pretty good guess it was coming’, Osamu replies heavily. 

‘Fuck’, Atsumu groans, dropping his head between his legs. 

Osamu prods his side with the tip of his shoe. ‘It’s not that I want to kick a guy when he’s down, but she's your wife, not a toy you can toss aside and come back to after a few months, shit for brains. And if I’m being honest, it looks like you’re acting like a brat who only wants his toy back when someone else picks it up’.

Osamu’s response lights a fire in his chest, and he whirls to his feet, grabbing his twin by the front of his apron growling - ‘Whose side are ya on anyway?!’ 

Osamu looks at him calmly, uncharacteristically refusing to take his bait. ‘Well, it's not as if ya don't deserve it. You walked out on her and Shino for almost a year, Atsumu. I’ve been the one cleaning up yer mess like I’ve been doing my whole life - I’ve been the one picking Shino up from childcare, I had to accompany yer wife to the hospital when yer kid was down with a high fever - d'you still have to ask whose side I’m on?’

‘D'you love her, ‘Samu?’ Atsumu asks after a pause. 

The twins stare at each other. 

‘I love her like a sister, you asshole. And I hate that it’s my own brother causing her pain.’ Osamu eventually says, pushing him away.  

The door slams behind him again.  

The dark clouds above him rumble ominously. It starts to pour. 

[spookybreadstick]

Today I feel like reading something sad. Could you please write some little angst headcanons about the creeps? Thank you bby!

-dancing parrot🐦🎶

i decided to go with nightmares as my subject of choice, I didn’t do all of the creeps but I did do the major ones, I hope you like it & it’s angsty enough for you <3 

also a brief warning that it get a little bit intense? maybe? not too sure about it, but better to be prepared than not!

🍬 LJ’s most common nightmare is being trapped in his box and never being allowed to leave. In his dreams, Isaac is there, taunting him about what a horrible friend he is and how he deserves this fate of being locked away forever in a box. The box continues to shrink, smaller and smaller, until LJ can barely breathe at all and he feels like he’s being suffocated. 

🤍 EJ frequently has nightmares that feature his lack of control over his monstrous tendencies. In his dreams, he is forced to watch as a version of himself tears into an innocent person, usually a fellow member of the mansion whom he has a good relationship with, despite their cries and pleas for him to stop. It’s graphic and terrible and EJ wakes up sobbing (although he can’t cry real tears, the feelings behind the sob are still there, it’s a sob without tears) every time it happens. It’s even worse because EJ fears that one day this nightmare could become reality, if he loses control of himself and hurts/kills somebody he cares about. 

🎮 BEN often has nightmares about drowning again. It’s a simple nightmare, but it frightens him every time. Most of the time, he drowns as other members of the mansion watch and laugh and tell him that he deserves this. Because BEN already experienced drowning before, the dream is “enhanced” by his traumatic memories of the event from his actual life. This means that in his dreams, he feels the way he felt during his actual drowning. 

🔪 Jeff gets nightmares a lot, but the nightmare he gets most often is pretty tame. He’s running from something, but he can’t quite outrun it. It’s catching up to him, and he knows that if it catches him, he’s done for. Now, this nightmare is certainly not a fun one to have, but Jeff much prefers having this nightmare over the ones that actually scare him. The two actually scary nightmares he has are when he watches a version of himself actually kill Liu (quite brutally) or a dream in which Liu kills him, whilst claiming that he deserves this fate and so much more. 

🖤 Jane’s worst nightmare involves her running into her childhood home, hugging her parents tightly as she cries tears of relief that they’re okay, only to look up and notice their bloody, mangled, oozing faces. In her dream, she’ll gasp and try to run away, but the zombiefied version of her parents will corner her, blame her for their deaths, and then rip her to pieces. It both breaks her heart and scares her out of her mind every time she has this dream.

⏰ Clockwork rarely dreams at all, and when she does, they’re nightmares. Her nightmares are really fragmented pieces of memory, her trauma from when she was a child. She relieves the horrific abuse she endured as a child. The only saving grace for her is, most of the time, she doesn’t remember her dreams when she wakes up. 

🎭 Tim’s nightmares mostly consist of being betrayed by Hoodie. Hoodie usually shoots him and watches him bleed to death. While he lays there dying, various people come up to him, kick him and tell him that he’s worthless/stupid/ugly/etc. These people are sometimes strangers, sometimes members of the mansion, and sometimes people from his past. 

❓Brian hardly ever has dreams or nightmares, but he does have one that he’ll get from time to time. In his dream, he is killed for refusing to become a proxy. Although, in his dream, Masky agrees to become a proxy and as his first assignment, he kills Hoodie. This dream hits home because, what if he had refused Slender’s offer to become a proxy? He would have had to be killed, of course. But would Masky have accepted if Brian did not? And would Slender have made Masky killl his own buddy? Would he have done it? These are questions that Hoodie doesn’t want the answer to. 

🪓 Toby has a recurring nightmare of the car crash that killed Lyra. He hates that one, and it’s the one he gets most often. His second most commonly occurring nightmare is when where he’s at school, being bullied. The bullying continuously gets worse and worse, with more and more people joining in, especially people who he cares about. The shame and humiliation get more intense, and the insults from the bullying crowd get more hurtful until Toby is begging from them to stop. But they don’t stop until Toby wakes up, heart pounding and tears forming in his eyes. 

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 31 Part I

Buster tried his darnedest to get her a date for the party. He first suggested John Barrymore, apparently forgetting (or not caring) that Barrymore had once been his greatest rival for her affection. Nelly’s opinion of him hadn’t changed since Tempest; hanging onto the arm of a crude drunk all night was not her idea of a good time. She said no. He next suggested Buster Collier. She’d never met him, but he’d been in so many pictures that she knew his face well, though she couldn’t say what the films had been about. Buster Collier had been going with Constance Talmadge until recently. The break-up wasn’t personal; Buster told her the two were still friends.

“Certainly not, then,” said Nelly. “She’ll want to know who I am, how he met me—no. She’ll know something’s fishy.”

The suggestion of Charlie Chaplin followed. She gave more consideration to it. Charlie was charming and easy to talk to. In the end, he was out of the question given the many rumors about his sexual excesses and questionable behavior with women. She didn’t think it was a wise idea and Buster had to agree. The two were friendly but not pals, and he admitted he didn’t know how far to trust Charlie either. In desperation, he floated the idea of his brother, Jingles.

“Are you kidding?” she said. Buster had told her enough about his family that she’d gotten a pretty good picture of Jingles, who lacked his big brother’s confidence in all areas of life and was a hopeless failure with women. “No one will believe that for a second.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas,” said Buster, sounding annoyed on the other end of the phone.

“Let me ask Bradford. He was my dance partner for Tempest. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t go for girls, anyway, so he’d be perfect.”

Nelly didn’t know that her proposition was any better than Buster’s. To his guests, Buster had treated her presence at his party in October as no big curiosity, a matter of course, but she couldn’t help but wonder what he’d say now to them now, what he’d say if Natalie in particular asked why he’d invited two big nobodies like her and Bradford. Natalie might rightfully wonder why they among hundreds of aspiring actors were there. Buster’s quick mind would probably come up with an explanation that passed muster, but Nelly worried. He’d mentioned once, an offhand comment that was far more significant to her than it was him, that Natalie had fits of jealousy over him. Nelly’s instincts told her that attending the party was a bad idea, that she’d be too much temptation to Buster and he’d give their affair away with a look or a word or, worse still, a tender caress. Regardless, she couldn’t refuse even if she’d wanted to. He’d hinted about a birthday surprise and she couldn’t let him down, not to mention she was dying to know what he’d cooked up. Aside from the tabletop phonograph and occasional record, he’d stuck to his promise not to shower her in gifts and she knew he wasn’t about to present her with something in front of his wife and guests.

Uneasiness gnawing, she directed Bradford to the Villa at dusk on Friday night. He was just as keen as she was to break into pictures, so he’d agreed to drive her to the party and be her date without hesitation, especially after she explained she only wanted to go as friends. He’d gotten a minor role in the newest D.W. Griffith, the picture she’d tried out unsuccessfully for, and was happy to tell her about it while they drove, far less stoic than he’d been with her on previous occasions. His chattiness, she guessed, was due to his eagerness to meet and charm as many stars as possible and he was having trouble controlling his excitement. As Bradford recalled how he’d spoken briefly to Griffith on the set earlier in the week, she wondered, as she’d been wondering lately, about her career path in Hollywood. There were murmurs at the United Artists canteen about a Mary Pickford talkie with Sam Taylor directing, not Shakespeare. It gave her mixed feelings. On the one hand, maybe Mr. Taylor had forgotten about directing Pickford and Fairbanks in The Taming of the Shrew. On the other, she’d been relegated to the prop house for Lady of the Pavements, the new Griffith. A niggling fear had begun to creep on her, that her much more mundane talents at management and organization were impeding her career as an actress.

As the long white drive of the Villa became visible in the distance, she asked Bradford the question she’d been dreading, knowing he’d have his own questions in turn. “When we get there, would you pretend like we’re going together?” she said.

“Pretend like we’re going together?” said Bradford.

“Yes,” she said, running her fingers over the thin chain-metal handle of her handbag. “Just, you know, hold my hand or put your arm around my waist while we’re there. Dance with me more than the other fellows. Maybe a kiss on the cheek once and awhile, that kind of stuff.”

“I’ll do it if you really want me to, but why?” he said, sounding mystified.

Nelly weighed whether to tell him the truth and decided she didn’t have a choice. “I’m seeing someone who’s going to be there and I don’t want his wife to get suspicious,” she said, being careful with her words.

Bradford chuckled. “Now I get it. I was wondering why you asked me of all people.”

She felt defensive. “You’re the closest I have to a friend, a friend who’s a fellow. I’ve been too busy to get to know very many people. It’ll be no different than if you were acting.”

“Relax,” he said, leaning over to elbow her in a friendly way. “You think I’d miss this? I don’t care what you want me there for, frankly. I’m at your beck and call.”

Her shoulders relaxed; she hadn’t been aware that she was clenching them. “Thank you,” she said. “I do like you just fine, I just didn’t know who else to invite. You’re the first fellow who came to mind.”

“Relax,” said Bradford again. He continued talking amiably as his Ford crept up the Villa drive. He wanted to know how she knew Buster and she reminded him of her involvement with Steamboat. “When’s that coming out, anyhow?” he said.

“Any day now from what I’m told,” she said, her mind only half on the conversation. Butterflies tickled her abdomen from the inside.

The circle drive with the fountain in the center was ringed with expensive cars, Packards, Rolls Royces, and Lincolns. There was a man leading a woman wrapped in a white fur stole up the steps and into the house. Bradford grinned like a little boy as he drank it all in. He helped her out of the Ford which was dismally out of place, but there was no sense in worrying about it now. She reminded herself that she was an actress and could every bit pretend to be a person who belonged to the ranks of the stars. With this in mind, she ascended the steps with her arm hooked in Bradford’s elbow and let him open the door for her. “Thank you darling,” she said, practicing that acting as he took her arm again. She hoped that the figure dressed in the beaded navy-blue dress and standing beyond the vestibule had heard it. Natalie was greeting the guests ahead of them. Seeing her, Nelly felt a little on the faint side. She’d rented her dress at Carmela’s again, this one $25 and less eye-catching. It was sleeveless and of bright purple damask. It had no beading or ruffles, just modest ruching around the waist. She’d accented it with her own glass amethyst pendant necklace and ivory silk stockings. She had wanted to look less noticeable, but the light in the vestibule made the satin threads in the dress dazzle and flash. She’d done a formidable job of keeping worry about her mistake with Buster at bay the past week, but Natalie’s nearness and realness brought it home. Slim though it was, a chance existed that this woman’s husband had made her pregnant. Before Nelly had time to gather her wits about her on this matter, she and Bradford were advancing to greet Natalie.

“How do you do?” said Natalie, and Nelly and Bradford echoed her.

Bradford answered Natalie’s unspoken question. “We work with Mr. Taylor at United Artists.”

Nelly could only manage a desperate smile as she took in all the flesh-and-blood details of Natalie and remembered how Buster had looked in the mirror as he’d thrust himself into her. She wondered if Natalie recognized her from the party last autumn and was relieved at the sound of the front door opening behind them and the excuse to move on from the hostess so she could greet her next guests.

“Holy mackerel,” Bradford said under his breath, as he led her into the foyer and looked around him.

Nelly took stock of who was at the party already. She saw Norma Shearer, Bebe Daniels, Marion Davies, Pickford and Fairbanks, and before her eyes had gotten any further, Buster. Her heart went at a clip at the sight of him. She’d expected him to be upstairs and make a grand entrance as he’d done at the previous party. He was wearing a smart brown suit and his hair was neatly combed, every errant strand in place. He swirled a glass of whiskey and took a sip, talking with Norma Talmadge and a dark-looking man with Spaniard features. “That must be Gilbert Roland,” she said, mostly to herself.

“Hmm?” said Bradford.

“Norma Talmadge’s boyfriend. She’s married, but everyone knows she’s seeing Gil Roland,” she said, reciting the gossip she’d heard from Buster.

“You’re back,” said someone cheerfully.

She turned and beamed when she recognized Charlie Chaplin. The sight of him reminded her how fun it was to be among the brightest stars in Hollywood and her discomfort about Natalie eased. “Hello again,” she said. She held out her hand to his extended one and he kissed it, his lips soft and cool on the back of her hand. She giggled, thinking she really would have been in trouble if she’d attended the party with him. “This is Bradford. He’s with me at United Artists.”

“Oh, that’s simply heartbreaking. Don’t tell me you’re taken!” said Charlie, his hand going to his heart.

“I’m afraid so,” she said, leaning her head on Bradford’s shoulder briefly to demonstrate. “I’ll still save a dance for you.”

“If you’d be so kind,” he said, his accent rich and irresistible. “But why haven’t I seen you at United Artists?”

Nelly smiled and squeezed Bradford’s arm. “We’re undiscovered I’m afraid, but D.W. Griffith has his eye on Bradford. They spoke just this week. Me they’re keeping locked up in the prop department right now, but just you wait.”

Charlie winked. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Will you be about next week?”

She could hardly believe it. And she’d been so worried about her career. “Of course.”

“Good. It’s settled. I’ll catch you when the band starts, hmm?” he said. “Lovely to see you.” He pressed her hand and turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

Her head whirled. One minute she was worried about Natalie Talmadge finding her out, the next Charlie Chaplin seemed to be promising her some sort of a future in films. And there was a band!

“Drink?” said a butler she didn’t know, stopping in front of them with a tray on which were arranged a number of delectable-looking drinks, all of oranges, deep reds, and yellowish creams.

“Thank you,” she and Bradford said, choosing drinks after a few moments’ consideration. She went for the cream-colored one.

Another butler materialized with hors d'oeuvres. She plucked up one of the bite-sized trifles and popped it in her mouth. She tasted dill and some kind of fish. Bradford sampled one too before returning to his drink. She didn’t recognize the butler. Buster must have hired help for the party. Bradford wound a hand around her shoulder. “Thanks for all this, darling,” he said. The endearment was scripted for anyone within hearing, but he meant the words.

“You’re welcome,” she said, sipping her drink. It had the flavor of pineapples, a California taste if there ever was one.

Her eyes roamed over the guests again. She recognized Constance Talmadge, Harold Lloyd, Buster Collier, John Gilbert, and Gloria Swanson. There were many men she didn’t know, some of middling looks, some downright unhandsome; those were the directors and big shots. Her gaze flickered to Buster just as he looked over at her. He gave a small, unsmiling nod and returned to his conversation. A mild pang struck her at the coldness of his acknowledgment, but she was relieved that he was being careful. She and Bradford kept to themselves, smiling and responding in kind whenever a guest nodded and said hello. She missed Louise Brooks and wished she had a girl friend to keep her company.

They were on their second drinks when attendees began to nod at each other and move in the direction of the living room. Exchanging looks, Nelly and Bradford followed. The living room, fully decorated when she’d last seen it five days ago, had been denuded of all furniture. Against the loggia on the southwest wall, a full orchestra was arrange in a suite of chairs. The members held instruments of all sizes and shapes, violins, saxophones great and small, trumpets, clarinets, a drum kit, a piano, an upright bass, even a huge tuba sitting somewhat uneasily in one man’s lap. There were at least two dozen men in the band at Nelly’s quick count, dressed alike in black tuxedos and bow ties. With the furniture and grand piano moved out, the living room was more spacious than ever.

“Why, it’s Paul Whiteman’s Orchestra!” Bradford said into her ear, voice hushed. He nudged her and flicked a finger in the direction of a fat man with a round face standing to the right of the orchestra.

Nelly was dazzled. The realization that one of her favorite bands in the room burst through her like a beam of sunshine. She couldn’t find words for her awe, but clutched for Bradford’s hand and squeezed it. The orchestra was burbling in a tuneless way as violinists tested strings and trumpets and saxophones tried out notes. A kind of restlessness pervaded the scene, musicians keen to begin, partygoers eager to dance. This went on for a few minutes until Buster threaded his way through his guests and stood facing the crowd with his back to the band.

“Nate and I want to thank you for coming tonight,” he began. “It’s an honor and a—” He looked over the crowd for a few moments as though he were thinking about what to say next. “An honor, a pleasure … you know, that kind of stuff. Anyway, I’d like you to give a hand for this gentleman and his little band here. They’re not very well-known, but if you’ll just, uh, pretend a little I’m sure it’ll make them very happy.” He straightened his tie, took one step forward, and fell on his face. There was laughter. As Buster stood up and brushed himself off, Paul Whiteman took his place. He was even less a man of words than Buster, saying only to the guests, “Thank you very much for having us tonight.” He walked to the left of the musicians and addressed them. “Gentleman …”

Two men assembled at the front of the orchestra near the upright piano. Nelly wondered for a second how they transported it from gig to gig, but forgot the question when Whiteman lifted his baton, held it in the air, and dropped it. The two men and the one at the piano began scatting a capella.

Wot-dot-dot, doh-dot, dot-dot-doh

Wot-dot-dot-dot, dot-dot-doh …

The man at the piano laid his hands on the keys just as one of the singers started in a smooth baritone, “You’ve heard of the Charleston, the Black Bottom.”

“I’ve got a rhythm that’s really got ‘em,” chimed the other singer. “It must be something new.”

“Gonna start it for you,” sang the man at the piano. It goes like, One, there it is.

His companions joined him:

One-two, there it is,

One-two-three, can’t you see where the merit is?

One-two-three-four, everywhere it is,

One-two-three-four, five steps!

At this, the snare sounded a beat and the whole orchestra burst into voice. Bradford grabbed Nelly’s hand and waist and swung her into motion. She yelped with delight. The rhythm was too fast for her to think about whether her feet were doing five steps; she just clung to Bradford and tried to keep up with the foxtrot he was leading her in. Over his shoulder, she could see that all the other dancers were smiling, Marion Davies dancing with Charlie Chaplin, Gloria Swanson paired with John Barrymore. She felt a sudden, uncanny sense of belonging as she and Bradford galloped along. A clarinet soloed, followed by a violin in a high, reedy voice like a grasshopper.

One, there it is,

One-two, there it is,

One-two-three, can’t you see where the merit is?

One-two-three-four, everywhere it is,

One-two-three-four, five steps!

One, got to learn,

One-two, got to learn,

One-two-three, there is not such a lot to learn,

One-two-three-four, aren’t you hot to learn?

One-two-three-four, five steps!

As the singers carried on, it was all Nelly could do to keep her rhythm and her breath. She was panting and laughing when the final note sounded. She and Bradford withdrew from the dancers to get a drink of punch from the bowl on the table in the foyer. As soon as their thirst was quenched, though, she took Bradford’s hand and hurried back into the room. She wasn’t going to miss a moment of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra’s set if she could help it.

The orchestra had begun a sweet, wistful melody led by trumpets. She recognized it at once as “Mary,” one of her favorites. Rather than dancing, she stood on the edge of the crowd with Bradford and watched. The trumpets piped and her heart was overfull as she soaked in the music and her surroundings with all of her might. Dancers kicked up their heels in a slower foxtrot as the full orchestra echoed the trumpets’ melody. She could have watched all the beautiful stars before her in their tuxes and brightly colored dresses, but she had eyes only for the orchestra and Whiteman’s graceful conducting. It was a marvel the way he brought different sections of the band to life with just a flick of his baton.

One of the singers stepped forward as a violin finished off the melody. He was perhaps a little taller than Buster, but slightly husky, with ears that stuck out and eyes as blue as a spring sky.

What are you waitin’ for,

What are you waitin’ for, Ma-ary?

What are you thinkin’ ‘bout,

Who are you thinkin’ ‘bout, Mary?

The bees are buzzin’,

They’re buzzin’ right in my ear,

And they keep on asking,

Hey, what’s the big idea?

He was the one with the smooth baritone like poured honey. All his notes flowed together without a single hitch. She recognized his voice from many of Whiteman’s records.

“He’s incredible,” she said, standing on tiptoes to whisper it in Bradford’s ear. He nodded in return.

Why do you lead me on,

Why do you be so con-trary?

You wouldn’t let my castles

Come tum-tum-tumblin’ down

Think of the things in store,

What are you waitin’ for, Ma-ary?

The violins concluded the melody and the brass took it up again. Her senses were filled with trumpets and the snare, then the orchestra singing as one voice.

She didn’t notice how spellbound she’d become until applause startled her back to reality. She clapped along with everyone else and the singer gave a bow and a modest smile. Bradford was bending to say something about the music when Nelly felt the cloth of a suit on the bare skin of her left shoulder. She turned to see Buster. He looked ahead, nonchalant, and her heart gave a fond trot.

“How d’ya like your birthday present?” he said quietly, still looking ahead.

“Oh, don’t kid me.” Even as she said it though, she knew in her heart of hearts that he wasn’t joking. The band was for her.

Still not looking at her, he gave the slightest of smiles. “Pretty good joke, huh?”

Her eyes welled. “I don’t know whether to kiss or kill you. You’re out of your mind and I don’t know how I’ll ever begin to thank you.” When she looked at him again, he was finally looking back, his brown eyes so affectionate she was in danger of throwing her arms around him in front of all of Hollywood, including his wife.

“Who’s your boyfriend?” he said, but his tone was curious, not suspicious.

She wiped the trace of tears from her eyes and turned to Bradford, who by then had noticed their conversation. “This is Bradford,” she said, laying a hand on his upper arm. “Bradford, this is Buster.”

“How d’you do, Mr. Keaton?” said Bradford, extending a hand. He glanced from Buster to her as they shook hands and she saw him connect the dots. Her insides went hot and cold. In hindsight, her casual introduction of Buster was a dead giveaway.

“Where’s Louise?” she said, moving on and trying not to punish herself for her mistake.

“Brooks? Or my sister? Sis is here somewhere. Probably trying to corner Ramon Novarro by the punch bowl.” He removed his cigarettes from his breast pocket and pulled one out. “Brooks, you know the score. Wife thinks there’s some funny business going on between us and if I invite her to another party I’m dead meat.”

Trying to be friendly or playing an angle, Bradford butted in. “How’s your new picture, Mr. Keaton?”

“Buster,” he said, taking a drag off the cigarette. “Going alright I guess. Can’t complain. You in pictures?”

Bradford chattered away about D.W. Griffith and Nelly looked around them briefly to see if anyone was paying attention to their interaction. None of the Talmadges were near. She spotted Natalie and Norma chatting with Douglas Fairbanks across the room. Constance was standing nearer and speaking to a man Nelly didn’t recognize, but her back was turned to them.

“Wanna dance?” said Buster, fingers curving into her elbow.

She gave an anxious glance at Bradford, worried about him overhearing, but remembered he already knew. She said in an undertone, “I don’t think we ought to. Not for a few more songs at least. You should dance with a couple other girls first.”

Buster squeezed the crook of her arm and dropped his hand. “Alright, if you say so. I’ll be back.”

Half an hour later, he had taken her advice. The band had played “I’m Coming Virginia,” “Mississippi Mud,” and “Grandma.” Her next two dances had gone to Bradford and she’d sat “Grandma” out. Buster had danced with Constance Talmadge, Bebe Daniels, and Marion Davies. The crowd of guests had gotten louder as more cocktails circulated. Nelly had accepted a third drink, but was tempering herself and had taken only a sip. The blue-eyed singer stepped forward and commanded the crowd’s attention.

“We just added this one to the repertoire. It’s from a musical they’ve got in New York right now called Present Arms. Harry and Al and me, we’ll introduce you to it,” he said in a smooth, affable voice. He smiled, showing white, even teeth and snapped his fingers at the orchestra to cue them, eyes on the audience.

She was so focused on him that she was startled when someone seized the drink from her hand. Buster walked away from her and set her drink on a side table on the periphery of the room. “Come on kid, I’ve waited long enough,” he said, setting his hand on her waist when he returned. The orchestra was in full swing, the brass section taking up a melody that the strings underscored and singing out cheerfully. A clarinet butted in every several measures, rich and mellow. Nelly had danced with Buster a dozen times in her apartment and his bungalow, but as he folded her hand into his, she remembered just their first dance at the party in October. She’d been spooked then about her changing feelings for him and nervous lest Natalie think something was afoot. Now that they were really having an affair, the dread and nervousness were like a thousand pin-pricks to her skin. She was sure it must be obvious that Buster and she were more than simply acquaintances.

Buster led her in a medium-tempo foxtrot, his eyes cast upward, as though dancing with her among all the other women was no big deal. Only his thumb massaging her palm gave him away. He smelled like aftershave and cigarettes. She tried to pay attention to the dance, the rhythm of her hips and her feet and not the sensation that every person in the room was staring at them and wondering about the girl Buster was dancing with.

He leaned in, his cheek almost resting against hers. “Loosen up,” he said in her ear.

She put her mouth by his ear in turn. “I feel like everyone’s watching us.”

He gave a calm, closed-lipped smile. “Everyone’s too busy getting ossified and cutting a rug to pay us any, baby.”

“I still don’t feel—”

“Hush,” he said. “Just enjoy yourself.”

The brassy trumpet and an oboe bantered for a while before the full orchestra cut back in.

I’m a sentimental sap that’s all

What’s the use of trying not to fall?

I have no will

Aw, you made your kill

‘Cause you took advantage of me

It was the blue-eyed singer again. In the background, the two others crooned softly. Nelly closed her eyes for a beat and watched herself as Natalie might, were she able to peer inside Nelly’s head. Buster. The Villa. The Paul Whiteman Orchestra.

I’m just like an apple on a bough

And you’re gonna shake me down somehow

So what’s the use?

You cooked my goose

‘Cause you took advantage of me

Her purple dress. A room full of stars.

I’m so hot and bothered that I don’t know

My elbow from my ear

Suffer something awful each time you go,

Much worse when you’re near

Playing billiards in Buster’s game room. Buster enclosing her in his arms on his bed.

Here I am with all my bridges burned

Just a babe in arms where you’re concerned

Buster’s lips and tongue and fingers and hands. His prick.

So lock the door and call me yours

‘Cause you took advantage of me

The shower. The down blanket and the stars sparkling over Beverly Hills. Buster’s body warm against hers.

The brass section sang out again, boisterous, confident, the strings wrapping its melody. Nelly moved her feet, scarcely conscious of the dance. Her head was still planted in the clouds when it ended and Buster’s hands let go. She couldn’t help glance around her, wondering who’d been watching. To her relief, the one person who caught her eye was Bradford, who had just let go of Marion Davies. He kissed Marion’s hand and said something in her ear that made her laugh, then walked back over to Nelly.

“Don’t make me jealous now,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“Look who’s talking!” she said, giving him the smile and all the weight of feeling she would have to Buster had she been able.

“Don’t forget your Orange Blossom,” said Buster, pressing it back in her hand. “I’ll be back for you in a little bit.” He turned away and she saw him catch John Gilbert by the arm and demand something that made Gilbert roar with laughter.

“How’d you enjoy your dance with Miss Davies?” said Nelly to Bradford.

“Oh, I expect I’ll be playing the lead in her next picture,” Bradford said, winking to show that his boast wasn’t serious. “How was your dance with Mr. Keaton?”

“He dances well,” she said, playing along.

A cool hand on her arm made her turn. Nelly blanched when she saw who it was.

“Have we met?” said the blonde woman, her smile warm.

“I don’t believe so. You’re Constance Talmadge.”

Constance smiled. She had a small, prim mouth outlined in a rose-colored lipstick. Her hair was waved and golden, her throat sparkling with a sapphire and diamond choker.

One of the singers was singing, “Baby face, you’ve got the cutest little baby face …”

“That’s right. And you?” said Constance.

Nelly reminded herself that she could act with the best of them. She put a hand on Bradford’s back. “Bradford and I work with Mr. Taylor at United Artists.”

“I’m in the new D.W. Griffith,” Bradford offered.

“Oh, that’s fine,” said Constance, sounding interested. “What’s your role?”

Bradford smiled. “Well I’m just an extra at the moment, but Mr. Griffith said Thursday he’s going to fit me into more scenes. He found out I can play piano and thinks he can use me for a bigger role.”

“I loved you in Breakfast at Sunrise,” Nelly said to her. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

“Why thank you.” Constance was as friendly as could be, but there was something about her appearance that made Nelly uneasy. “Is this your first time at one of Bus and Nate’s ‘dos?” she asked.

Nelly put on her best casual smile. “My second. I was here last fall.” She didn’t offer to explain how she knew Buster and hoped that Constance wouldn’t inquire. Distantly, she heard the orchestra and saw the bodies around them moving in time to the music.

“Oh, then you’re old hat. Have you tried the crab croquettes?”

Nelly said that she hadn’t. She was wondering where the conversation would go next when Bradford broke in. “Miss Talmadge,” he said, his voice brimming with charm. “Would it be too forward to ask you to dance?”

Constance smiled. Nelly could tell she was genuinely charmed. “Even if it was, I’ll say yes.”

“Wonderful.” He palmed her waist which was clothed in blue silk and chiffon. Glancing at Nelly as he took Constance’s small, white hand in his, he said, “Sorry, darling. Don’t be jealous.”

Nelly could have kissed him. With only one thought in mind, she elbowed her way out of the crowd and to one of the butlers, she helped herself to a minty green drink from his tray. She tossed it back, grabbed an Orange Blossom, and gulped that too. To his credit, the butler was too well-bred to react. She would have explained to him if she could that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy another second of the party without being drunk. The encounter with Constance had brought her jitters to a fever pitch. Nodding her thanks to the butler, she took another Orange Blossom in hand and went to track down the washroom.

The blue-eyed singer’s baritone followed her down the hall.

Birds are singing merrily

The sun is shining peacefully

Because my baby don’t mean maybe now

She locked the door behind her and set the drink on the edge of the sink as she relieved herself. Her make-up needed no touching up, and her cheeks were flushed with drink. Buster had engaged the Paul Whiteman Orchestra as a birthday gift to her and she was going to relax if it was the last thing she did. Technically it wasn’t her birthday for a few more hours, but even if they didn’t know it, everyone out there was dancing in honor of Nelly Foster’s twenty-seventh year on earth. She exited the washroom feeling more secure with this thought. Bradford was playing his part perfectly. The Talmadges didn’t suspect anything. It was okay if she loosened up as Buster had urged her to do.

[buckysforeverprincess]

New Plan of Attack Ch. 6

Dark Viking! James Barnes, Natasha Romonoff

Words: 1704

Warnings: None. This chapter is pretty tame but necessary.

A/N: Welcome back! Hope you’re enjoying this series as much as I am. This chapter is pretty mellow, but after the last few chapters, it’s needed. However, James is still dark and things are happening!!! Enjoy!

It’s mid-day when James leaves his home and begins to walk down the road and into the Viking village. He’d spent the morning trying to figure out how to unjumble the mess he made a week ago when he set the plan for Wanda’s death in motion to no avail. How did things get so complicated and what the hell was he going to do to fix his mistake? Gods, he never planned for this and the fact that he’d not is what was frustrating him more.

 James waved to the people as he walked by, all of them smiling at their leader. Their failure as a leader, he thought in his head. He can’t believe his plan backfired on him. Well, it didn’t exactly go badly. Wanda was dead and that was supposed to be the result, but Steven was the one that was to take her life, not the Princess, and because of that he’d have to figure out a new way to get his plan to carry on.

 Natasha is standing on the steps of her home, waiting for him as he gets closer. He can see her staring at him, most likely analyzing him, knowing his mood has been soured as of late, no signs of turning around.

 “What’s with the long face?” She asks when he stands in front of her.

 “Do you really need to ask?”

 She chuckles and shakes her head, turning around and opens the door to her house. James follows and steps inside, the room warm and inviting from the fireplace. Natasha shuts the door and makes her way to the table and sits down, the brunette following suit and joining her.

 “Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you.”

 “Really? As if you don’t know!” He replies and Natasha rolls her eyes.

 The redhead crosses her arms to her chest and shrugs. “I fail to see what the problem is. You got what you wanted, and Wanda is dead. Perhaps you'd be happier about this instead of sulking about.”

 James sighs and sits silently for a moment, trying to will himself to calm down, feeling the frustration growing with each passing moment. “She wasn’t supposed to kill Wanda… It was supposed to be Steven.”

 “So??!!” Natasha scrunches her face, not understanding why the who is important. “You got what you wanted. You no longer have to deal with woman you wanted nothing to do with, and her men are now loyal to you. What more could you ask for?”

 James groaned, putting his head in his hands and stared at the table. Natasha was right. The plan to end Wanda’s life had worked. Once her men learned she tried to kill the Princess while she was with child, they immediately pledged their loyalty to the leader of the Viking clan, not wanting Wanda’s actions to reflect badly upon them. It was a solid victory for James.

 The downside? Well the villagers immediately fell in love with the Princess. That wasn’t supposed to happen. When they heard it was self-defense, it touched their hearts and suddenly she had gained their love and trust. James was baffled by this. How could they love her when her family is the reason they lost everything? To him, it just didn’t make any sense.

 James looks up and runs his fingers through his long brown locks and lets out a frustrated sigh. “It was supposed to be like this.”

 “And why not?!” Natasha is quick to fire back. “So, what if it was her?! Would you rather not know she’s capable of murder?!”

 He opens his mouth to speak but quickly stops before a sound can escape. Thinking back, he knows the Princess had made an attempt on his life not so long ago, but he wasn’t sure if she actually would’ve followed through. The force of the blow he’d stopped told him she might’ve killed him if he hadn’t stopped her, so maybe, somewhere deep down he knew what she was capable of when he set this plan in motion.

 However, something about Wanda’s death felt different… like the Princess was playing at her own game. Was it possible she was beginning to figure out her place in his plot and if she was, how could he throw her off his scent? James couldn’t risk her putting everything into place just yet. It was too early in his plan and he’d already come too far to lose control and have everything come crashing down. There was way too much at stake now and James would have to come up with a new strategy if he was ever to succeed.

 “She can’t be trusted,” James says with a sigh.

 Natasha huffs. “Of course, she can’t. I think you’ve underestimated your Princess. So, what do you plan to do about that?” She sits back in her chair with a smirk.

 That was a good question. He did underestimate his bride to be and that’s probably the one thing that’s got him the most bothered. If she could easily kill Wanda, then she’d have no qualms about slitting his throat in the middle of the night. He’d have to change things up if he wanted his plan to continue forward and that meant he’d have to change his tactics with the Princess.

 “I’ll need to make her like me,” James tells Natasha, “she’ll have to learn to like me, maybe even love me.”

 Natasha erupts in a fit of laughter, making James cringe and shift uncomfortably in his chair. “Oh… my… god!” She choked in between laughs. “Good luck with that!” She barks out and continues to laugh.

 James knows it’s far-fetched after the treatment he’s given her but he’s pretty sure this is his only shot at redemption. “I think I have a new plan.”

 The redhead stops laughing and quirks up her eyebrow, setting her elbows on the table and leaning in closer to James. “I’m listening.”

 “The people have fallen in love with the Princess and want to see more of her. What if I give them what they want?” James grinned and sat back in his chair, waiting for Natasha to chime in.

 “Hmmm…,” the woman replied, her face looking like she was in deep thought. “Okay, so you do that… allow the Princess more freedom. Then what? How’re you gonna make her fall in love with you?”

 James twists his face and swallows hard, the words he’s about to say painful to think about much less vocalize. “I’m gonna give her my undying devotion and attention.”

 Natasha snorts and rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, I’m sure she’s gonna buy that. Excuse me if I don’t give you my blessing because if that’s seriously your plan, I see failure in your future.”

 James lets out an exasperated sigh and lowers his head to the table, banging in into the wood for dramatic effect. “Help me, Natasha!! I’m desperate.” He looked up and found her staring at him, eyes fixated on him like she was digging deep into his soul.

 “Maybe you’re onto something.” She clicks her tongue, her lips curving up into a smile. “Yes… we can work with this.”

 The Viking perks up, raising his head and giving the redhead his full attention. “Go on.”

 “You’ll have to change your tactics. No more cruel and mean James. It’s time to transform yourself into the Prince you’ll soon be, which means you’ll have to pretend to be utterly devoted to her and love her unconditionally. It’s time to place yourself in the game.”

 James nods enthusiastically. “This I can do, but what else? There’s got to be more to this plan than me faking the perfect life.”

 “Oh, there is...,” Natasha reassures him, “...you’re also gonna give her your best friend, Steven, as her protector and confidant. Insert him more into her everyday life. Let her learn to trust him, form a bond. One that you certainly won’t be able to break.”

 “But why?!” James questions, not able to contemplate why Steven would be a key player in this new plan. “If I’m pretending to love and cherish the Princess, why would I want him involved? Wouldn’t that just screw with the entire dynamic?!”

 Natasha smirks and raises her eyebrows. It takes James a moment but then he blinks rapidly and an “ahhh” comes from his mouth, like he finally figured it out.

 “Now I think you understand. While the village sees you being the honorable, doting, loving, husband and father, the Princess will never forgive you for what you’ve done to her. By inserting Steven, there’s a very strong chance that through their time together and the bond they’ve created, they’ll fall in love with each other. Love equals betrayal and once that happens…”

 James stands, grinning from ear to ear. “I can rightfully kill them both!”

 “As the King to her lands, you can kill them both for betraying their King and Kingdom. No one would stand in your way.”

 He begins to pace the room, his smile deepening with each turn, but then he stops and quickly sits back down in the chair across from his friend. “This is a plan that will take time. It’s not going to happen overnight.”

 “You’ve got nothing but time. Besides, the more love you show her and the more kids the two of you produce, the more vile her act of betrayal becomes. You’ll have everyone sympathetic to your cause.”

 James bites at his lip and nods, convinced this was the way to turn everything around and get exactly what he wanted. “She was always meant to die.”

 “And this way, everyone will want her head and you will be the one to serve it on a platter.”

 This new plan would work. He would pretend to love and honor the Princess and when the time came, he’d crush her and make her pay for all the vile things her and her father had done to them and he’d finally have the life he was once promised. All he had to do was play the waiting game, and it starts by pushing the Princess and his best friend together.

 “Revenge and victory will be mine.”

Viking Tags:

@ellallheart @sebastianstansqueen @kaithezaftig

Forever Tags:

@jamesbarnesappreciationclub @kruscht @palaiasaurus64 @breezy1415 @sarahp879 @supernaturaldean67 @averyrogers83 @scarlettsoldier @lovely-geek @titty-teetee @geeksareunique @peaceinourtime82 @leosandbuckysgirl @the-goddess-of-mischief @mychemicalimagines @awkwardfangirl2014 @collette04 @notyourtypicalrose @onebatch--twobatch​ @miraclesoflove​ @kcd15​ @xxloki81xx​ @death-unbecomes-you​ @thatfanficstuff​  @hotoffthepressfics​ @chuuulip​ @unlikelygalaxygiver​ @lancetuckershairgel​ @babypink224221​ @mybabe-buckybarnes​ @shield-agent78​ @the-real-kellymonster​ @caplanreads​

[spookysanta]

online - five. (g.d.)

Summary: everyone warned him about talking to this girl online. but he can’t help but want to fall for her... now he has to meet her. what happens when they finally get together in person?

Pairing: Grayson Dolan x Reader

WARNINGS: as usual, sexy thoughts, nothing major

click here for part one, part two, part three, part four.

UNEDITED

i hope y’all are doing well during this time of quarantine. if you need someone to talk to, i’m always here! :)

He woke up before she did, thankfully. He knew she would be totally asleep after being up in the middle of the night, and lucky for him, she’s a heavy sleeper. So he got the chance to make himself some coffee, run to the store, and have his workout (not necessarily in that order) before going back to his bedroom to wake her. “Honey.” He soothingly rubbed her back to wake her gently.

“No.” she grumbled sleepily. He knew she wasn’t a morning person but that was his clarification. She tried to shake his hand off her but to no avail. “Stop.”

“C’mon, baby. You’ve got to get up.”

“Go away.”

“Fine. I guess you don’t want toaster strudel for breakfast.”

If there’s one thing that she loves to eat for breakfast, he’s learned, it’s toaster strudel. More specifically, the apple flavor. She told him early on in their “conversations” together that she ate them every day and could never get tired of it.

Her eyes opened. “You did not.”

“Oh, I did.” He retorted. “Now get your ass up.”

She sat up, finally. “Alright. You win.”

He moved out of the way so that she could get up, moving quickly to the guest room to get her toiletries. Then she ran back through his room and into his bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. When she was done, she emerged in Grayson’s room where he was sat on the bed scrolling through his phone (as he’s prone to do when he’s waiting for her).

“Took you long enough.” He muttered as he stood, going up to her and snaking his arms around her waist. “You’re so pretty.”

“Seriously?” she asked. “I just woke up.”

“Shut up and let me be mushy.” He took her hand and led her out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. There were grocery bags scattered across the countertops and very clearly she could see the toaster strudel label peeking through the clear plastic. “I also bought you some bacon and eggs, since you still eat animals.”

She wanted to melt. He really does care about her, doesn’t he? “Grayson you didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to, don’t worry.” He ushered her to the breakfast bar to sit while he began to prepare her breakfast. “So…I was thinking today we go somewhere special.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He beat two eggs in a bowl as he talked, sprinkling in cheddar cheese. “Maybe we could go somewhere fun…maybe they’ve got rides…and maybe, just maybe, they just opened a Jurassic World ride that someone has been dying to try.” He shrugged as he poured the eggs in a hot pan. “Just a thought.”

Yes, she was excited that he suggested taking her to Universal Studios Hollywood, duh. Who wouldn’t be? But she was way too busy watching him cook for her—shirtless—to even register the idea. She was way more concerned with the thought of her bent over this counter with him behind her as he wrapped a hand around her throat—

“Hello?”

He snapped her out of her trance. “What?”

Too early, (Y/N). It’s too early in the morning for you to have these sinful thoughts, said one part of her conscience. Remember, teddy bears, waterfalls...

“You zoned out there for a bit.” He plated her breakfast, then set it in front of her. “Does that mean you don’t want to go to Universal today?”

“Yes, I’d love to.” She finally realized that she finally had the opportunity to go to Universal Studios, ride every ride there, and eat fatty and expensive amusement park food until she got a stomachache. He came around to where she was sitting and kissed her forehead before sitting in the seat next to her. He picked up one of the pieces of toaster strudel he made for her and took a big bite, wiping his fingers off on a napkin. “Grayson—”

“You can’t be mean to me today, baby. I’m taking you to check off your bucket list so really, you should be thanking me, hm?” he cocked an eyebrow at her.

“You know what? You’re absolutely right. Thank you, Grayson.” she tried to make it sound as sarcastic and unnerving as possible.

“I’ll take it.” He leaned over and peppered kisses on her brown cheek. “Alright, baby, I’m going to go shower and change. You finish up here, and we’ll get going around one, okay?”

“Okay.”

***

She had to remind herself that she needed to keep her thoughts to a minimum. She wasn’t entirely sure how that would happen because he was so gorgeous and he was so strong—she did not forget how effortlessly he picked her up last night to carry her to bed, and she certainly didn’t forget the tightness in his grip around her waist as they slept.

But even with how strong he was, and how dominating he seemed, he was still so gentle with her. He made sure to talk to her as if he were telling secrets, and he made sure to touch her gently, almost as if she were a porcelain doll.

She could tell that she meant a lot to him by the way that he kisses her forehead and cheeks, but why in the hell has he not kissed her yet? She knows that they both like each other in that way, and he already told her that he wanted her as his girlfriend, so what is he waiting for?

The (not) couple finished getting ready and was out the door before one o’clock—much to his pleasure. She begged him to let her play her music on his auxiliary because she’d just downloaded a song that she had to play. So naturally, he said yes, especially when she gave him the puppy dog eyes. When she played it she couldn’t help but get giddy inside because the song was so good (honestly her favorite at the moment), and they were going to Universal Studios Hollywood, and on top of it all, she was with him and he looked absolutely radiant.

“What’s this?” he asked over the blaring vocals.

“Oh my gosh, it’s called “when the party’s over” by Billie Eilish. Do you listen to her?”

“No, not really. It’s a bit sad, don’t you think?” he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw her completely engulfed in the music.

“Yes, that’s the point.” She replied. “Isn’t it great?”

“It’s alright.” He shrugged.

“Alright? Gray, did you not hear what I heard? The vocals? The harmonies? The piano? C’mon, baby, you’re joking, right?”

Wait.

What’d she just say?

“Say that again.” Thankfully, they were stopped at a red light. He looked directly at her.

“Say what?”

“You just called me “baby”.”

Her eyes widened. She didn’t even realize she said that! “Oh, did I?”

“Yes, you did. And I want to hear you say it again…please.”

He needed to get himself under control because if she plans to call him “baby” all day long, then it’s going to be a long ass day.

“Okay…well, baby, I’m very excited to go to Universal with you today!”

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I’m excited, too. Trust me.”

“You do know now I have to put you on to more amazing music, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “If you must.”

***

The short car ride felt like an eternity to him. Not because he didn’t love having her around, because it’s very apparent that he did; it’s just the damn music would not end. Her music choice was…different. Not in a bad way, he thinks. It’s just not what he listens to and he almost had to plead for her to play Tame Impala before he earned a headache before their day even began.

He’s gained a new respect for Flo Milli, he’ll admit—but not to (Y/N), because then he’ll never hear the end of it.

When they pulled into the parking lot, he sat back in his seat, killing the engine and taking out his phone.

“Hey,” she piped up. “what are you doing?”

“I’m sending you your ticket. Shush.”

She couldn’t help it, and not that she wanted to, but she took her hand and raised it to his head, running her fingers through his hair. His body stiffened at the sudden contact, then relaxed when she felt him scratch his scalp carefully. There was something about the way his hair felt; almost too soft for it to be there. She wasn’t the “hair-smelling” type, but judging by the softness of it, she could tell he took good care of it and it had to have smelled good. She ran her hand through the longer tufts of hair at toward the front of his head, following the span of his scalp to the back of his head, and scratching at the nape of his neck. She soon found herself twirling the hair around her fingers, pulling on the strands accidentally.

He sucked in a breath, saying “ow” but not really meaning it.

“Oops! Sorry.”

Now here’s the issue between the two of them: they want each other. Not just with cute dates and kisses and snuggles, but in the most intimate way possible. But she’s not going to tell him that, and he definitely won’t tell her, because the list of things in his mind that he wants to do her is vast and vivid; he doesn’t want to break her before she’s ready to be broken.

Moreover, he doesn’t want her to see him as a distraction once she leaves. Once she leaves, she has to go back to school and study her ass off, and she won’t have time to call him every hour and tell him how much she misses him. She won’t be able to snuggle him, kiss him, or run her fingers through his hair. And that could be problematic for the both of them.

She’ll admit that she’s the type to fall hard and fast, so yes, the chance of her falling for him is going to be sky high; but that doesn’t mean she won’t do what it takes for thing they’ve got going to be successful and, most importantly, to keep him around.

He put his phone in the pocket of his hoodie, opening the car door. “C’mon.”

***

Of course, they had a blast. She rode rides that she’d only seen in the commercials or on the internet, and he got to witness her joy firsthand. That was his favorite part—besides trying deep-fried Oreos and sharing a glass of butterbeer with her. They walked hand-in-hand back to the car when she sighed contentedly. “Thank you for today.” She wrapped her other arm around his bicep. “You have no idea how much fun I had.”

He chuckled, kissing her head as though it were his job. “I think I have an idea…but you deserved it, okay? Don’t thank me.”

As they approached the car, his mind began to race (more than it already does when he’s around her). You know what? He thought, fuck it.

“Well, I still appreciate it.”

He stopped in his tracks, gently pulling away from her and taking her hands in his.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“So here’s the deal.” He spoke lowly. “All day, I’ve been wondering about what things could be.”

“In regard to…?”

“Us.” He nodded between the two of them to clarify.

“Right. Okay.”

“And I like you. And you like me. So why can’t we try?”

“Grayson, what’s gonna happen when I go back?”

“I—I’m not sure. But we don’t have to think about that right now, okay?” he let out a breath, cupping her jaw with his hands, rubbing his thumbs along her cheekbones. “I just can’t keep looking at you and not kiss you.”

Her heart fluttered again.

Or maybe this time, it actually stopped. She doesn’t know (or care) either way.

Without a second thought, she said, “So kiss me.”

“Huh?”

“Kiss me.”

He nodded, leaning down to her, his eyes locked on her lips. Why was he so nervous? He generally doesn’t act this way. But she was just so perfect, so beautiful—he had to take things slowly so as not to hurt her or break her like he thinks he could (potentially). Their lips brush, and finally, they meet. Her hands wrap around his forearms, and everything that her mind was clouded with was melted away instantly. She sighed into the kiss, relishing in the feeling.

When they pulled apart, he put his forehead against hers, unable and unwilling to hide his grin.

“Ready to go?” he asked her, not wanting to let her go for even a moment.

“Yeah.”

[docholligay]

Requiem for the Grand Consummation

Angstober prompt was: Michiru, breakdown 1900 words, and I hope you....uh, enjoy it? In as much as anyone enjoys Angstober? 

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. It matters little what you feel.The flame might tear and burn, the steam might hiss, but you are a creature of the coldest sea, and to all appearances, you will only ever be calm and shimmering. She had been trained in all of this since she was a young child, the subtle art of composure. 

To compose oneself. She thought of it often, this turn of phrase, this way of putting a smooth coat on the roughness of mortal feelings. One composed a symphony as well, and she could not note that it was too terribly different. The art of taking inelegant bursts of air and furious strokes of string on string, and turning them into something beautiful. Something calming, and erudite, inviting commentary on the art. Perhaps not all people made symphonies of their own emotions, but Michiru Kaioh would note that she was an artist in all things, and perhaps her earliest lesson was in this. 

So Michiru Kaioh dressed in her neat couture, and sat straight as she sipped at champagne in the tea lounges of the upper class, and accepted condolences with that same cool, impersonal affect with which it was given. She composed, and the orchestra played on, and no one could have possibly noted that the young widow was anything other than a perfect example of the stiffly pressed perfection and breeding of the upper classes. 

A sheet of ice covered the sea, and it shimmered and sparkled and did not waver or buckle as the waves churned beneath it. 

But ice can only ever be cold, and be taken as such, whatever may lie beneath, and one can hardly blame those unfamiliar with the sea for seeing little else. 

“Oh, like Michiru even fuckin’ cares.” Mina swigged back a beer, despite being in the middle of what was, ostensibly, a senshi meeting, “since when has she ever kept anything from last season, you know?” 

Mako shrugged and nodded along with Mina, the two guards, one of them telling the truth, and one lying, and both blocking Michiru from a calm exit of the conversation. 

“We need a new Sailor Uranus.” Mako added, though not unkindly. 

The gentleness was meant less for Michiru and more for Usagi, who wailed in protest. 

“We can’t! We can’t let someone else wear her tiara, because, because--” she let out a sniffle and a small sob, “--they won’t be her!!” 

“Indeed,” Michiru added, almost a whisper to herself, “who could be?” 

Rei drew her arms around Usagi. “She wouldn’t be, Usagi.” She kissed Usagi’s temple, “But she’ll be a different Sailor Uranus. But she won’t replace Haruka.” 

Ami touched Usagi’s arm. “Whoever it is already has been given the power. She’s probably scared, Usagi. We can help her. We can teach her.” 

Michiru folded her hands in her lap, and composed herself. Twist the brass into submission. Quell the drums. The strings do not shriek, but sing, in your hands. She softened her eyes and relaxed her face, and her shoulders fell straight and sleek under her silk blouse. 

“So we don’t have a choice anyway.” Mina poured the beer down her throat and crunched the can, “We get to her or the enemy does. Sailor Uranus is dead,” a violin string snapped, “long live Sailor Uranus.” 

Usagi nodded, sobbing into Rei’s shoulder, and Mako rubbed her on the back as the silence settled in, rain falling in the background as the cool wet air sneaked in the cracks old and new, whispering in small holes in sweaters, aching through slender gaps of clothing. 

Michiru rose to her feet, and smoothed her linen skirt. 

“Well, then, it seems decided,” She took her purse from the table, “Pluto, I assume you will have little trouble locating this person, given your affinity with the power of the moon. You certainly located us easily enough.” She nodded to Mina. “If there’s no further business, madame chairman.” 

“Go on,” she shrugged, “be my fucking guest.” 

Michiru did not allow herself to crescendo to Mina’s anger, simply walked to the door where her umbrella sat waiting, the fine leather of her Italian made shoes spattered so lightly with the rain’s cruelties that you would be forgiven for not noticing them. Fine leather blends well. 

She opened the door, only for a small, insistent hand to close it in her face. She did not turn her head, for there was no need, only that same discordant note wishing to throw off all symphonies as she herself had been. 

“I confess the vagaries of being your guest do somewhat bewilder me.” She shook off her umbrella. “May I help you?” 

Mina took her hand away from the door, her eyes never leaving Michiru’s face. 

“You’re so hollow inside, I wonder if her scream’s still echoing there, or if you just...absorbed it.” MIna shook her head, and their eyes met, “Did you ever love her?” 

“You are a cruel person, at heart, Minako Aino. But I suspect you know that.” She opened the door and her umbrella both, in one fluid motion, “Haruka’s taste was always a bit self-flagellating, wasn’t it? Choosing us.” She stepped out into the rain. “Not all of us are so prone to drunken dramatics.” 

“Fucking leave, Michiru.” 

“Oh, are we precisely certain I have your leave?” 

MIna slapped the door in her face, but Michiru did not justify the cymbal crash with so much as the raise of an eyebrow. 

It took her longer than she might have expected to return to that yawning condo in a sparkling building, the rain settling on the windows in a single sheet, beginning to freeze until it weighed to heavy before dramatically cracking and falling to the ground. 

Her apartment was the same as it ever had been, neatly appointed, and her girl had left a bottle of champagne and a plate of olives and cheese in the fridge, as requested. They said good help was hard to find, but Michiru did not agree with this assessment. Good help was very easy to find, so long as one’s wallet was sufficiently open. 

She popped the bottle with its percussive note, the bubbles rising to the surface of the glass in their high accenting chirps. When had she changed into her robe and gown? She couldn’t remember, but it hardly mattered. It was perfectly acceptable for a woman alone in her apartment to lounge a bit in the evening. 

The glasses went down fast, tonight. Mina had not been wrong to say that she was hollow, for no matter how much she drank, Michiru could not fill that deep, dry well inside of her. Or maybe it had always been full, but full only of the sea, bitter and cold, withering everything that drank it. 

MIna had been right about another thing. She was cruel and a liar, but she hadn’t lied then. That well inside her heard the screams, and it echoed high above the elegiac symphony of her own heart and soul, far beyond taming. It dulled the song and it slipped under the ice, and it screamed and screamed and screamed. 

She staggered to her feet. She was conducting, but the players were beginning to falter, playing their own tunes, Mozart against Tchaikovsky, Salieri coming through the back, a note of Monteverdi, the piano player hammering out Chopin’s softness with an indelicate rage. It was too loud for the small apartment, the clashes and bangs of instruments no longer obeying that leader. What a fool she ever was to believe that she could have brought them to heel with a small stick! 

No one had asked the conductor how she tired, how rebellious the woodwinds, how obstinate the percussion, and how difficult it could possibly be to coordinate it all on a bucking sheet of ice. And who could blame them? They had not seen the difficulty, for Michiru never allowed this to be difficult. It was her own perfection that led to this grand revolution, every carefully chosen note deciding its own fate in this moment, in an apartment which once held something killed by cold, a daisy in December. 

Michiru flung wide the doorway to that elegant balcony, the lines of song which had been straight and true twisting themselves into the wrought iron, mocking her composition. Her composure. She stared at them, glass still in her hand, and they rocked and moved and then they were the waves of the sea, clashing against that ice as the rain fell around her. It built and built and it broke, for how could it not break when there was so much underneath it. The wind rose and whipped under that sheet of ice, and Michiru felt a great crack inside of her, a crack like an explosion. Oh, that great sea ice broke indeed, and it broke with the great thunder of bass and timpani, and the waves became a song again, and twisted, and the sea again, breaking, and then they were her face, her face twisted most of all in those final moments, and Michiru looked up to the sky and she cried out in the one and only vocal solo of her life, accompanied by the horrible orchestra of her own great creation. 

She stopped. Everything stopped. The strings grew still, and the sea ice drifted away, and it all simply stopped. 

Haruka called herself the senshi of the wind. It was silly, and it was a lie, but it was a lovely one, and in the years after she had fallen in love, she continued on with it in her teasing way, telling Michiru how the wind whispered she looked beautiful in that dress, or howled over the discontinuation of a candy bar. 

But she wasn’t lying, and she wasn’t joking, for Michiru could feel her, caressing her face, kissing her lips, brushing tenderly against her collarbone. Haruka had quieted it. She had always quieted it, for the wind was not the great enemy of the sea, but its partner, was it not? It is only the wind that allows the ocean to guide and to bring the world across it. The wind caresses the sea in love, and those are not waves of horror, but of delight. The screams all sound the same. 

Michiru took her glass, and drank deep of it, smiling brightly as she flung it over the side of the balcony, a high, bright note of an angel’s bell below. 

She rested a hand on that iron, and felt it lay still and freeze beneath her hand. The ice, returning. So heavy. Impossible to hold on a building like this one. But there was no need, the wind said to her, to hold it at all. Let the sea rage, and let the song die, and I will carry you in the great unwritten song of the wind. 

Her robe fluttered like a petal as she slipped a leg over that useless, ugly, arrogant iron. She held her hand out to the wind, the wind that came from the sea and still carried the water inside of it, and with a close of her eyes and the whisper of Haruka’s name, she released that flower into the wind. 

When they found her on the car in the misting rain, she was calm and shimmering. 

Just as she’d been taught. 

[nevervalentines]

“we can’t go back in time, so stop trying to reverse what you said.” for white rose

For white rose: 

#13  “we can’t go back in time, so stop trying to reverse what you said.”

#23  “well the probability of that is 0, but you go ahead.”

hi!! hope it’s ok that I did two-in-one. here’s a short fill featuring future white rose…………….my favorite kind of angst, and a LOT of gratuitous bumbleby

*******

She hasn’t seen her since the engagement party. Which, if anyone is asking, is perfectly fucking fine. It’s only been six months, and she’s been really busy anyway.

And the engagement party had been a disaster, as far as Weiss is concerned. But it’s not like Yang and Blake would have noticed if an entire Atlas fleet dropped an air raid on their doorstep.

The caterers had been late, and the florist delivered Easter lilies instead of calla lilies, which completely clashed with the color scheme, and Ruby somehow managed to stay a room away from her the entire time, gnawing on her bottom lip, sipping a virgin cocktail and hiding behind Yang every time Weiss got close.

But that was six months ago. And Ruby has been away on a contract for most of it. Or so Weiss has gathered from the sparse texts that hit the group chat every time Ruby allegedly gets service.

They’re living in the fucking digital era, how hard is it to locate a cell tower?

But this is the bachelorette party and, at the brides’ demands, she has nowhere to hide – and Weiss will be hiding hardly anything, for that matter.

“Why do I have to wear this?”

Blake says, “I like it,” at about the same time that Yang says, “It looks hot.”

They share an amused glance over the rim of their drinks, and Yang sidles across the room towards Weiss to pluck at the strap of her dress.

Lowcut and mostly sheer, the hemline only just brushes the tops of her thighs, the bodice dipping low, only a zipper and a prayer holding it in check.

“You said Blake could dress you.” Yang smiles. “You should have seen this coming.”

“What can I say?” Blake sinks deeper into the window seat under the hotel room’s enormous bay windows. “I’m a boob girl.”

The window panes are thrown open, a salty sea breeze ruffles her hair, and her ears flick, eyes squinting shut as she shifts deeper into the sunlight drenching the crushed velvet cushion.

With Yang butting into her space, still tugging slightly at the sheer straps of her dress, Weiss is unfortunately face to face with the proof.

“Apparently.” Frowning, Weiss tugs the top of the dress up, figuring if she adjusts the fabric enough, she’ll get some kind of coverage. “You guys do know you two aren’t technically supposed to spend your bachelorette party together, right? Isn’t that, like, a break from tradition?”

“Since when are we traditional?” Blake asks.

“And I’m not hiring strippers,” Weiss says.

“Who needs strippers?” Yang laughs. “We have you in that dress.”

Blake grins. She drains the last of her drink, and stares at the melting ice sullenly.

Yang moves to take it from her hand, swaps it with her own full glass in exchange for a kiss.

Weiss pauses from wrestling with her dress to watch them – the ease of it, the familiarity. Yang tucks her mouth against Blake’s cheek happily, lets herself be pulled down for a second longer kiss, nipping at Blake’s bottom lip.

Burying her face in one hand, Weiss reaches blindly for her drink, nearly knocking it to the ground in the process. “Okay, knock it off. I scheduled in plenty of time for that tonight.”

Blake pulls away curiously, one hand still wrapped around Yang’s bicep. “Did you block out time during our bachelorette for Yang and I to make out?”

“I just meant that there will be, you know, leisure time.” Weiss presses her flushed cheeks to the cool condensation on the glass, feels water bead on hot skin.

Grinning, Yang bounces to her feet. “Is there enough time for a quickie? Did you dictate exactly where and when I’m allowed to use tongue?”

If this wasn’t a five-star hotel, and if this wasn’t a crystal glass, and if this martini wasn’t hitting the spot right now, Weiss swears she would throw it at her.

“You asked me to help plan, okay? I was just doing my job as maid of honor.” She knows she sounds whiny, can feel the constricting, scratchy pitch in her throat, hates that everything is hitting so much harder right now. She feels on edge, trapped, anxiety that even a beach side resort can’t tame.

She can tell Yang hears it in her voice, watches her face soften, lips pursing in that signature look of concern. Eyebrows bunching, she beckons Weiss closer. Weiss complies, taking small steps with bare feet. Like this, her head barely comes up to Yang’s shoulder, and she has to tilt her head back to look at her.

“You know we’re just teasing,” Yang bullies her into a careful hug, arms around her back, dropping a kiss against the top of her head.

Beside them, still seated, Weiss can feel Blake’s hand reach out to touch her thigh, petting once, careful. “You did a killer job, Weiss.” Then, quieter. “You know, seeing her again, it’s going to be –”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Weiss’s voice is muffled against Yang’s collarbones, and she turns her cheek flat against the warm, freckled skin, inhaling the smell of post-workout sweat, of sunlight and the faint sharpness of her deodorant.

After so many years, it relaxes her more than it stifles, and she feels Yang’s arms tighten, a hand rubbing carefully at the tense knots in her spine.

“You look really good,” Yang says quietly. “And you planned an amazing party.” She shifts, and Weiss catches her reaching for Blake out of the corner of her eye. “And even if everything goes wrong tonight, tomorrow Blake is going to by my wife, so it’s like,” a shrug that ripples against Weiss, still wrapped in a tight hold, “everything is already perfect.”

“Yang,” Blake says, soft, careful. The single word has so much adoration it almost stings. She stands from the bench, wriggles closer until Yang folds her into the hug. Weiss works an arm free to wrap it around Blake’s waist, accepts the kiss dropped against her temple.

“You’re right,” she says, peeling away just enough to look up, to look at them looking at each other. “Everything is going to be fine.”

**

Everything is not fine.

They were supposed to leave the club thirty minutes ago. She had reserved a private cove along the beach for the wind-down portion of the night, had planned to have everything wrapped by midnight so Blake and Yang could get enough rest before the big day, or whatever.

It’s not exactly a night of tantalizing debauchery, but she figures they’ll have enough of those in their future.

Instead, she’s leaning up against a sticky bar top. The floor is tacky under her feet, and her heels keep getting stuck in the refuse of spilled drinks. She’s trying desperately to close the bar tab with Blake fully draped over her shoulders.

She’s practically dead weight at this point, and Weiss can feel the beginning rumblings of a purr while Blake rubs her cheek against Weiss’s shoulder.

“She’s just so funny,” Blake says. To her credit, she hardly slurs. “I mean – look at her.”

Under the pulsing lights of the dance floor, suspended in static-shocks of green-blue-red, Yang and Ilia are half-grinding, half-grappling. The intervals of flashing lights wash them in turn – open mouths, laughing, tosses of long hair, swaying hips.

Blake sighs, breath warm against Weiss’s ear. “And so hot.”

Weiss plucks her lien card from the bartender with a thanks, palms them a hefty tip, and sinks back into Blake’s embrace. Perched on a swiveling bar stool, Blake is holding her from behind, two arms around her shoulders, Weiss leaning back between her knees.

“She is certainly – something.” Weiss tries to wave them over. Yang waves back, enthusiastically, entirely missing the point. “Idiot.”

Spotting Blake, Yang pouts. Mouths something. Behind her, Weiss can feel Blake laugh.

“I’m going to go dance,” Blake says. She squirms off the bar stool, kneeing Weiss in the back in the process. “You want to come?”

“You know,” Weiss says, watches Yang light up as Blake takes half a step toward the dance floor, “I’m going to sit this one out. Wheel’s up in ten.”

Blake hardly hears her, already striding toward the strobing lights, a confident walk belying any inebriation, tossing her short, dark hair over her shoulders. She falls into the beat and sway of the music easily, Yang’s hands palming her hips, stooping to whisper something in her ear.

Weiss turns away. Decides, suddenly, she has to pee. If just because waiting in the snaking bathroom line will give her something to do.

The rest of the bachelorette party is scattered around the bar and, to no one’s surprise, Ruby is nowhere to be seen.

She had met them all at the hotel earlier – let Yang wrestle her into a headlock, and graced Blake with a long hug. She looked – good. Wearing a sleeveless blouse and short skirt, paired with combat boots, it felt distinctly her. But she had cut her hair again, a layered bob falling just under her chin, and a fresh, raised red scar puckered at her shoulder, black stitches visible in another on her thigh, just under her hemline – looking distinctly like an animal bite.

She had hugged Weiss hello, brief and glancing, but even that – the innate smell of her, the cording strength of her muscles – had made Weiss feel sick with guilt.

With a tightly packed itinerary – cocktails at the bar, dinner reservations at a swanky Vacuan hot spot, then a meandering stroll to the club where they are now – Ruby had been able to avoid her easily. Or Weiss avoided her. It was hard to tell.

There was a row of single-stall bathrooms, and the line moved at a crawl. Trapped between other clubgoers, the close-humid air of the bar was thick with sweat, the stink of fruity body spray and the heady sugar of watered-down mixed drinks.

Like this, penned in on either side, trapped between snatches of conversation, between the blurred movement of bodies, the music bobbing heads, tapping feet, she feels entirely distant from the people around her.

It’s like she’s suffocated under the weight of some unseen barrier, her on one side, everyone else on the other. Her drinks rush to her head now, warping sound, blurring her vision, slowing the world to fragments. Beside her a man’s mouth moves as he talks to a friend, she looks at his teeth. Thinks again of the mark on Ruby’s thigh.

She’s at the head of the line now, and is suddenly desperate to escape the dim light, the noise. She lurches for the door, finds it unlocked, hurries inside. The music mutes instantly, like she’s pressed her face underwater, only the tempo of the bass follows.

It’s only after she falls back against the inside of the door, face flushed, breathing hard, that she realizes she isn’t alone.

Of course.

It’s Ruby, mid-motion, drying her hands with a pulpy, brown paper towel. Eyes comically wide, her perfect rosebud mouth dropped open, she looks deer-caught, flighty. Her skin shines with sweat, likes she’s been dancing – which, Weiss knows she has, had watched her spinning Nora on the dance floor about three drinks ago – and her clothes are a little mussed, blouse half-untucked, skirt rucked high on her hips.

Weiss is staring. She’s caught, and she staring.

Ruby tosses the paper towel into the bin without looking, crosses her arms protectively over her chest.

“Hey, Weiss.”

“Hi.” Her own voice sounds embarrassingly quiet.

A beat. They both start and stop sentences at the same time.

Ruby says, “you look – ” as Weiss says, “I should – ” and both fragments strangle away to nothing.

Ruby steps closer. Tries again. “You look really good.” Her eyes flit down, fix on Weiss’s chest, and her cheeks flush. “Did Blake pick that out?”

Softly, “yeah.”

Ruby smiles then – genuine, toothy, at her most Yang when her dimples press deep into her cheeks – “I can tell.”

Breathing a laugh, Weiss presses an arm to her stomach. “She is getting married tomorrow, I thought I should let her have it, just this once.”

Ruby’s face softens further, and she rubs at the back of her neck, like she’s curbing a reflex to reach for her. Crowded between the sink and the commode, it isn’t the perfect place for a reunion. The air smells sharp, like cleaning chemicals, but not enough to mask the lingering scent of vomit. The walls are close and dark, gratified with sharpie scribbles and feathery layers of stickers and posters, corners curling up to reveal the patchwork of histories underneath.

Weiss thinks this is a huge mistake. Weiss thinks this is the best thing to happen all night. Thinks this is the most herself she has felt in months, standing a few feet away from Ruby – close enough she can make out the sleepless shadows her eyes, can see the freckle at the corner of her mouth, can feel the tension, the possibility, of a conversation between them.

“I missed you,” she says.

Instantly, Ruby’s face hardens. It’s unfamiliar on her round, graceful futures. Her lips turn down, and her muscles in her jaw pop. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I can’t miss you?”

“You broke up with me. So, no. You don’t get to miss me.”

Weiss wrings her hands, feels panic rise in her throat like nausea. “We were never together,” she says, voice climbing, knows immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

Worse than anger, Ruby looks sad now, too, eyes glassy with a dangerous cocktail of fury and tears.

“We were fucking for nine months. I don’t know what else you can call that.”

“It was casual – ”

“You told me you loved me. Does that feel casual to you?”

“I do love you,” Weiss says. The metal of the door is cold through her dress. She wonders at the line outside; wonders how much time they have before the others come looking. “I didn’t mean for things to end I just – I just needed some space.”

“We can’t go back in time, so stop trying to reverse what you said,” Ruby says, a harsh whisper. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Ruby lurches forward like she’s going to leave, and Weiss presses back against the doorknob, instinctively, effectively blocking her.

Ruby flinches away, surprise flashing across her face, and Weiss feels her stomach drop at her own action. It feels like the kind of thing her father would have done, her brother. To keep her in there, to keep her caged.  She steps away from the door, vodka messy and drowning.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” She turns her back, presses her face into her hands. “You can go, I’m so sorry.”

There’s silence, then the hush of footsteps. She waits to hear the lock click, for Ruby to slip away, but she feels the press of Ruby behind her, instead.

Ruby brings her hands up to Weiss’s shoulders carefully, like she’s waiting for permission. Weiss leans back into the touch. Exhales slowly, rubs hard at her eyes. She can feel her makeup blurring, is embarrassed when the heel of her palm comes away wet.

She sniffles, chokes out a hollow laugh. “I can’t believe I’m crying in a bathroom at the club. I’m a lesbian cliché.”

“Hey,” Ruby’s voice is gentle. Her hands tighten, rubbing soothingly at her upper arms. “I also cried, so. It kind of cancels out, if you think about it.”

Weiss laughs again, real this time, feels the firm muscle of Ruby against her shoulder blades. The buttons of her shirt press hard into her skin, and despite the situation, it ignites a familiar kind of thrill. “You shouldn’t be nice to me. You should forget about it, go back to the party and let me just, like, cry myself sober in here.”

“Well, the probability of that is zero, but you go ahead,” Ruby says. She dips her head, hooks her chin, gentle, over Weiss’s shoulder. “I’ll have tissues when you’re done.”

“Are you mad at me?” Weiss says, small.

Ruby’s weight bullies into her, her hands drop to Weiss’s stomach, stroke gentle over the near-sheer fabric. “I’m so fucking mad at you.” Weiss’s breath catches. “But we aren’t going to solve anything tonight. And this weekend is about Blake and Yang, it’s not about us.”

Weiss turns in her arms. Ruby doesn’t move, just stands facing her, toe-to-toe. Weiss thinks she had forgotten what it felt like to be looked at.

She feels flushed and caught, the center of someone’s entire attention, the pressure of Ruby’s gaze more familiar than almost anything else on earth. They’ve spent nearly a decade watching each other, protecting each other, and when Ruby leans in, slants her mouth against hers, Weiss kisses back like it’s the first time she’s been seen in months.

Maybe it is.

It’s a careful kiss, chaste, brief. More habit than anything, a careful, telling comfort. Ruby pulls away, runs a thumb under Weiss’s eye, cleaning up running makeup, brushing her bangs out of her face.

“What now?” Weiss breaths. She turns her face into Ruby’s hand, presses a careful kiss to her palm.

Ruby’s eyes are steady and gray, clear, like she’s wide-awake.

“We leave the bathroom, we apologize to the poor people behind us in line, and we follow your ridiculous itinerary.” She pauses to laugh. “I mean God, it’s more detailed than most of my battle plans.”

Weiss laughs, too. Heaves a shaky breath. Takes a step back. She knows enough to give Ruby her space, knows the conversation is long from over. “And later we’ll talk?”

“Yeah, Weiss,” Ruby reaches for the door, unlocks it with her thumb, and starts to turns the knob, “later we’ll talk.”

Weiss follows her out, slipping back into the half-dark of the club, the damp roil of the crowd, the strobing lights. She knows that somewhere on the dance floor, Yang and Blake are waiting for them.

Snaking through the packed bar, trying not to trip on empty plastic cups or wayward, thrashing limbs, she almost misses it – Ruby reaching back, a hand held out for her to take.

[gentlemen-of-lies]

Gentlemen of Lies, chapter 11

An unoriginal pain in the A.S.S

Beginning

Previous chapter

Next chapter

————

It was late when Curt arrived back to America, too late to report to Cynthia, although he was sure she wanted to see him as soon as possible; a hunch that was confirmed when the driver of the car that was taking him back to his apartment handed him a note in Cynthia’s almost illegible handwriting.

See me first thing tomorrow morning, and try not to fuck anything else up :)

She always added a smiley face, and knowing Cynthia, it wasn’t to soften the blow, but if anything, it was to make the note more threatening. It worked. Curt couldn’t shake the feeling that the bullet wound in his leg wasn’t going to be the only injury he received from this case.

The driver didn’t stop right outside Curt’s apartment, for security reasons. Obviously Curt wasn’t well known enough as a spy for the A.S.S to take full precaution as he’d probably be dropped off at a hotel instead if that were the case. But his time in England had made himself known to a select number of agencies, so you couldn’t be too careful.

The walk was longer than Curt had originally thought and he’d been dropped off at a part of town that he wasn’t very familiar with— he’d only moved here a few months ago and hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know the place. It was nearly two in the morning by the time he arrived home to his empty apartment, but if anything, he was glad about it. He would have forced himself to stay up late anyway until he was so tired that he’d naturally fall into a deep and dreamless sleep. Something that was even more pressing now that he’d arrived home. His apartment was small, dark. Certainly a sight nicer than the hostel, but at least the hostel hadn’t been so lonely; here there was no one. Unless you counted the neighbours above and below him, which Curt didn’t, since he’d hardly ever spoken to them save for a quick hello when he bumped into them collecting the mail.

The point was, his apartment was the perfect environment for Curt’s thoughts to run wild, so he told himself he only needed to be here to sleep, and only sleep. Only when he was tired enough. Otherwise he’d have to resort to a stiff drink, and he didn’t think that was an option anymore.

————

The A.S.S building, or at least the one that Cynthia resided in, looked the same as always. The same drab brick on the outside, the brown wallpaper on the inside. Curt didn’t know why he expected the building to look any different, he’d only been gone a few weeks. But so much had changed in that few weeks that it was only natural to assume that everything else in his life had as well.

But Cynthia’s door was the same as ever. Same wooden sound when he knocked, same harsh voice calling “come in!”. She was on the phone when he entered. She was always on the phone.

“Listen, all I said was that her son looked like my aunt Dinah with that haircut, I mean who cares? It’s not like old Bessie’s your first wife...” Cynthia saw him enter and indicated for him to sit down, throwing him the finger for good measure.

“What’s that?” She continued on the phone. “She is your first wife? Well, good luck with that after the election, whatever the result, she’ll either leave you, or you’ll leave her for the White House secretary.” She let out a laugh only reserved for her own jokes, stopping abruptly as the recipient on the other end of the phone clearly didn’t see the humour in it. “Oh get over it like a man,” she ordered. “No wonder Dewey’s beating your ass. I gotta go.” Finally. “Yeah I’ll talk to you later, President Truman.” She put the phone down with a clatter, any smile on her face disappearing instantly into a scowl as she turned to him.

“Now listen-” began Curt, hoping to get in an explanation before she went nuclear. “I did the best I could, and if you look at all the facts I did my job perfectly, it’s not my fault that-”

“Okay first of all,” Cynthia interrupted, which wasn’t a surprise. “Shut the fuck up.” Curt refrained from sighing irritably, and sunk his shoulders into the back of the seat behind him. “Second of all, I hope you’re aware that I now have the entirety of MI6 breathing down my neck, because not only did one of their employees get blown up but so did one of their buildings.”

“That wasn’t my fault! The employee was a mole, and he’s the one who planted the bomb-”

“Susan!” Curt let out a silent groan at Cynthia’s refusal to listen to a word he said. She was now calling for her assistant, Susan. A curly haired woman who hardly spoke and was like Cynthia’s own personal puppy dog. Susan quickly arrived through another door behind Cynthia’s desk.

“Susan, tell Agent Mega about the message we received from Agent Carvour’s superior,” said Cynthia.

“Um, well, the man said that Curt had deliberately disobeyed orders, gone against his partner and had therefore put himself and everyone else in danger, leading to the preventable death of Mr John Lawson.” Susan concluded as if she were reading from a stenographic machine. Cynthia looked back at him, as triumphant a look on her face as was possible for someone who never smiled.

“Tell me again, Mega, how it wasn’t your fault.”

“Look, if I had just been teamed up with someone who wasn’t as stubborn as that idiot Carvour, I never would have had to go against him. Besides, if I hadn’t broken into Lawson’s house, no one would have found out about the bomb in the first place and he would have gotten away with it scott free. I honestly don’t know what you’re blaming me here for.”

“So it isn’t true that you deliberately stayed behind in the building, leading to Lawson attempting to shoot you, and therefore getting himself killed in the process.” Curt said nothing. It wasn’t as if these were new facts to him. God knows he’d played his stupid decision over in his mind thousands of times, driving himself half insane over it.

“Well?” Pushed Cynthia.

“Okay fine, I shouldn’t have done that. But if you think about everything in domino affects then everyone could be blamed for everything.”

“You’re a spy, Mega. Your entire job is a domino affect. One tiny decision can fuck everything up, and that’s not the kind of spies I’m willing to send on missions.”

“So what, I’m here to get demoted? Get fired?” He was saying this a little antagonistically, but truth was he was scared. He really didn’t want to get fired.

“Actually, you’re here to be assigned a new case.” Curt sat up in his chair. Of all the outcomes to this conversation, he hadn’t expected this one.

“Really?”

“Unfortunately yes. We may have found the group that Mr Lawson was leaking information to. Since you knew him and the case better than my other agents, I need you to follow it up.”

“Right.” Curt’s belated feeling at being given a second chance quickly started to disappear. He had been hoping to put the Lawson case behind him for good, not open it back up again.

“The group’s located in Leningrad. You’ll be going undercover as a new recruit, approved by Mr Lawson. We’ve written up some fake documents for you. Kendris will explain your role in more detail.” Adam Kendris, in charge of assigning missions along with Cynthia, although he did more of the leg work.

“Your goal,” continued Cynthia. “Is mostly to find out information that can be used against the group; their informants, employees, networks, stuff like that. But we’ve also gotten wind that they’re attempting to design new plans for nuclear weapons.” Cynthia stood up and tapped the ash from her cigarette into the glass ash tray beside her. She walked to the front of her desk so she was right next to Curt.

“If these plans exist, if this technology exists, your job is to destroy it. Whatever it takes. And if you fuck it up, so help me God, I will personally throw you out of this building with my own hands.” Curt didn’t doubt it. If anything the threat was tame for Cynthia. Which didn’t last for long.

“When am I leaving?” He asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I don’t even get a break before leaving?” Cynthia smacked him across the face. It wasn’t very hard, just a warning slap. But he still- regrettably- said “ow!” out of shock more than anything, and brought his hand to his cheek. Cynthia pointed a finger in his face.

“Secret agents don’t get breaks. We are on the verge of war with the soviets and you want to sit back at home and put your feet up? Those days are over, Mega. You’re leaving tomorrow.” Curt bit his tongue to stop any retaliation.

“Fine.”

“Now get out of my office. Susan, show him the door.”

“I know where the door is...” but he had to trail off as Susan purposefully led him outside the office and slammed the door in his face.

Looks like he was leaving tomorrow.

[siberianoverture]

Don’t You Know - 6

A/N: Hi! Sorry for long wait again! All mistakes are my own, if you happen to find them please let me know! If you want to be added to taglist let me know! Enjoy!

previous: CHAPTER 5

warnings: canon level violence

"You can't just walk in," Sam sighs but Bucky is already in front of the building.

"It may be our only chance to bring her in staying somehow under the radar."

"I think we're already on the radar," Sam says as Bucky steps into the party, much quieter than it should be.

He doesn't even have time to look around when he sees you, in the same outfit he remembers from the highway, but to his surprise still with only two knives.

As soon as he is spotted he becomes the target, and he brings his hands up in surrender.

"Stop," he tries but all hope of being recognized as a friend, or handler even, flies out the window. The room is empty now, leaving only the two Assets. He hears Sam helping evacuate people.

He feels the weight of his gun in his holster but he doesn't pull it out.

His mind goes completely silent, all his attention on the girl in front of him, your movement familiar to his, but at the same time completely different, completely yours.

You throw the butterfly knife, and he sees it fly by him and fall on the ground. He realizes his mistake when he sees you smile at his surprise. What looked like an error was the moment of distraction you needed to lunge at him, landing on his shoulders and placing him in a chokehold. He tries to get free but it's not working so he throws himself to the ground, but you jump off before he can pin you down, rolling and pulling the other knife from the holster and throwing it at him. It hits him right where the metal of his arm meets flesh and locking it in an uncomfortable position.

His lack of fight almost angers you.

"Stop, you know me, I'm a friend," he tries but you do not let yourself show that you heard him, let alone that you know who he is, lunging back at him, collecting the knife thrown earlier and stabbing his leg. As he falls you pull his gun from his holster and stand above him.

“I’m your handler,” he tries again but there’s no response. Your mind screams at you to stop, but there is nothing you can do. Not now, when the conditioning is fresh in your mind. Only mission matters right now. He stares in the barrel knowing safety is already off and the bullet will be fired quicker than he could move. He'd laugh if he had the energy to. Apparently killing the handler was more important than handler's orders. Him 0, Hydra 1.

"You're my mission," you finally say, and he swears he can hear regret in those words. His mind goes back to his fight with Steve so long ago.

He sees the trigger moving, he hears the sound, but the bullet hits the ceiling. He looks up to see you on the floor, unconscious, tangled in web and Peter rushing to him from behind. He helps Bucky up, lifts your body and starts walking to the back exit. Limping behind him Bucky wonders when Peter stopped being the kid that wouldn’t shut up in the fight.

Sam meets them and looks questioningly between the body in Peter's arms, Peter, and Bucky but nobody says anything. Sam sighs and heads back to the jet.

"We should probably head to my place, at least for now," Sam says when they near the plane and Bucky nods.

"Shuri will be waiting for us when we're ready. But we should probably wait until the serum wears off."

"How do you know she's on it? I remember her just fine." Sam questions and Peter looks confused.

"Try looking away."

Sam does as he's told and gasps when the realization hits him.

Peter places you as gently as he can, and Bucky becomes alert when it looks like you're stirring awake.

"The web had tranquilizer in it," Peter explains, "She should be asleep for at least an hour."

"She has some of the Super Soldier serum," Bucky says and Peter looks at him looking almost exasperated.

"Less then."

He sits next to your body and starts picking off some of the webbings that dissolve slower and Bucky's heart aches seeing the girl in front of him and Parker look roughly the same age.

*

You are placed in Sam's bedroom, Bucky thanks Peter for saving his life and slips back into the bedroom. The gala was supposed to be short, so he hoped they have you only one shot. Sam slips behind him and stands close.

“She will be waking up confused, that's for sure, but possibly in psychosis. Maybe we should just tranquilize her again. Someone as strong as you in psychosis won't be easy to tame," Sam suggests and Bucky nods, he doesn't feel comfortable but knows it's safer for everyone included.

"You still have the stuff you had for me?" Bucky asks not looking away from your stirring form, “We shouldn’t even have come here, should’ve just went straight to Wakanda.”

“Yeah. I forgot she’s juiced up when I suggested coming here. She looks so normal.”

Sam disappears and when he comes back with the syringe, he finds Bucky on top of you, straddling your hips, his legs holding down yours and his hands pinning down your wrists above your head. There's pure fear in your veins and when you see another man coming with a drug you try even harder to break free.

"Sam!" the man on top of you yells as he feels your leg slip free. You manage to kick the syringe away and Sam watches in horror as half of the content spills out. He dives for it but not fast enough and Bucky is thrown to the wall and you're in the corner of the room looking like deer in the headlight, looking around you, trying to find an escape route. For a moment you stop trying to fight them away and stand still, listening. And that's when Bucky hears it too.

Peter is not in the room with them, as Bucky wishes he were to help them with his webs, because he is fighting someone in the living room and somewhere in the flat someone is reciting your trigger words.

Bucky curses when he sees you stand straight up and lock your eyes on his form. He is the target again. You lunge at him before he can even stand up, but something distracts you and you look up in fear. He follows your gaze but there's nothing there and he realizes you're both in Winter Soldier mode and having a psychotic episode.

“Sam, take care of the rest, she’ll follow me!” He yells and Sam looks again to the syringe, but there is nothing left. Bucky throws you off him and runs to the kitchen knowing you will follow him. You are angry again, tired of running after him, and the hallucinations making your mission even harder. You wonder for a while why you’re hallucinating, the soldier said you had no powers today, but you’re quickly back on mission.

The boy you saw earlier at the party is fighting Hydra agents and they are losing but that is none of your concern. Your eyes are locked on the man with a metal arm, your handler, your mission.

"The boss is on the roof," Peter shouts and Bucky has an idea. It's really stupid. Unless it works.

He sprints up the stairs only stopping when you're distracted by a hallucination, so you don't lose him from your eyesight.

He is by the door when he looks over his shoulder and throws you his gun. You catch it, confused for a moment before you sprint after him.

You stumble out on the cold roof and see The Soldier holding the director in front of him. To complete the mission you have to shoot through him and you pull the safety off. The objective is more important than his life.

"No, don't shoot. Don't kill me, don't kill him!" the director is as cowardly as Bucky suspected. The plan worked. Him 1, Hydra 1.

"He's my mission, sir,” you say to the director. He is certainly not suited to be a director if he values his life more than a mission, but it’s not your place to say anything.

"No, mission annulled, stop!" you click the safety on and your arm falls to your side. You really want to scream at him, he took you off the ice just to throw your mission away the moment his life’s in danger. That’s stupid but it’s not your place to say anything.

"Awaiting new objective." You say and your eyes are back to your Handler. If he is here, you won’t take orders from the director.

He hits the director over his head, and you watch with silent satisfaction as he falls to the ground. You look around you, you are alone.

“I know it’s not my place,” you begin with the smallest smile that Bucky is shocked to see, like you’re telling him an inside joke,” but I really didn’t like him,” you allow yourself.

He walks to stand in front of you and takes you in. Your back is not as straight as before, and he suspects you'll be falling out of conditioning soon. Maybe with all that happened words from a room away were not enough.

"It's good to see you, Handler." You say with this small smile again and again it takes him by surprise. He clearly programmed you differently. That’s not the relationship he had with his handlers.

"Aren't you afraid of me?" he asks, and you look up at him, into his eyes and he feels his knees buckle under the intensity of your gaze.

"You told me you'd take care of me, don't you remember?" you ask but he doesn't have the chance to respond that, no, he does not remember, because you straighten up again.

“What’s the objective?”

next: CHAPTER 7

taglist: @lozzybowe

[maxskulline]

Although the door closes with but a silent click, and it is her own hand that turns the lock, the sound cuts through her loudly enough to startle - and to worry, no matter how improbable the possibility, that someone might have heard. Doors in this house hardly ever stay shut, and - to the great amusement of those who don’t understand what it is like to live under constant scrutiny, who only see a large mansion with many, many rooms -  privacy is a cherished luxury. It is all thanks to the obsessive need for control and a sprinkle of paranoia her parents nurture so carefully, perhaps more carefully than they had ever nurtured her. It is not out of love that her mother and father keep such a close watch, or out of need to protect their only daughter. It is simply because Maxine Sullivan doesn’t like to play by the rules and they’re terrified that she’ll be the one to burn their status to the ground. 

Because she’s careless. Because they had wasted time and money to try and break her in like a wild horse, only for her to buck and break the reins and run off wherever she wanted to. At the age of nineteen, people share talk as to why she isn’t wed yet, a pretty thing like her, and it always falls back to the failure of her parents. Most suitors don’t like that she isn’t docile, that she can’t hold that sharp and sometimes arrogant tongue, while others tend to see it as a challenge. Taming this wild horse would surely feed their own fragile ego. After all, they believe it is a man’s duty to teach a woman her place.

But it is of no matter. She had learned to dodge these watchful ears and eyes a long time ago, learned to win the servants to her side so that they will not speak of her nightly escapes. Having allies is a good thing - even if it shocked her to find out that all it took was a bit of genuine kindness, gratitude and an extra coin of silver each to win their loyalty. 

Without these nightly escapes, she would be lost. It is the only time she can leave behind her prison and taste a life she might lead if the world was a little kinder to women. It is how she came to meet him  - and the very reason why she stands with her back against her bedroom door, one hand still on the handle, with a thundering heart so violent it might as well stop. Only eventually does Max let go, pry herself from the door and prowl through her room until her reflection catches her eye momentarily - and she stops the restless commotion.

Admittedly, when Max goes out, she hardly pays attention to the garments she chooses, or what her hair looks like, or if she is wearing a smile at all. It is the only time she gets to make that decision. No one else. But the woman staring back at her now, she reminds Max of someone else. Someone she has seen today - someone she maybe shouldn’t have seen, but couldn’t pry her eyes away from either way. 

Max can feel her breath hitch a little when the memories bury her like an avalanche, although it fills her with pure heat. Her own eyes are wide and curious, and a little daring - but that woman’s eyes were shut while her head had rolled back against her lover’s shoulder. She wonders if her reflection is what she looked like as she had watched them, just a moment before Guzma caught her in the act, before-

Her hands fist the fabric of her skirts, because she doesn’t know what to do with them right now. Because there’s the nightly escapades - and then there is this. Threading into a territory that most consider forbidden outside the laws of marriage. Why ever someone would call it sinful is beyond her, not when those lovers from earlier had looked so beautiful and so serene with each other. Max rakes her eyes up and down her own reflection and suddenly decides that she cannot bear the feeling of material on her skin. That she wants - she wants to see herself. 

With steady fingers, button by button the emerald silk peels off and reveals comfortable undergarments instead of the usual constricting cage. These join the pool of fabric by her feet too. Max turns this side and then the other, taking in herself in a way she had not dared to before. She knows her mother hates her freckles. It is for this sole reason Max loves her speckled skin all the more, and in the candlelight, they almost look like dust of pure copper. Unbinding her hair until the fiery locks fall loosely over her shoulders, she notices that her breasts are certainly not as full as she had seen on the woman from earlier. Yet, somehow, they suit her - small and plump and maybe just the right shape to fill one’s hand. Max walks a little closer to the mirror. One hand traces from collarbone to the soft curve below, mimicking the way this woman’s lover had touched her. Although her mind is already painting a new scene, until it is no longer the woman she’s watching. The hands touching her are larger, rough and calloused from reckless nights spent inside the ring, their skin contrasting as if he were the sun and she is the moon. 

Her eyes flutter shut and her breathing turns a little harsher. If he were here behind her, her head would roll back against his shoulder. His hands - just like her own are doing now - would tease her, roll her nipples until he has Max squirming. Then they’d trace lower, over the soft panes of her stomach. Maybe he’d stop and wonder why her ribs feel so sharp, but he wouldn’t say a word because it is Max’s choice to make. His fingers would circle her bellybutton while his lips press kiss after heated kiss into the junction between shoulder and neck, maybe scrape his teeth against her ear just to see her writhe again.

When she returns to her reflection and she only sees herself in the mirror, she buckles under the sudden weight of longing. Of wanting. It is the one feeling she had kept at bay so hard tonight, ever since she had seen Guzma in the arms of a young man while sharing kisses with another woman. She was only stopped from storming out of his mansion by the captivating sight of two strangers entangled in their passion, their beauty so captivating that Max had gladly forgotten the sting of jealousy in her heart. That they didn’t mind her audience filled her both with excitement and heated shame for wanting to see.... more. Frozen in her spot, Max’s wide eyes had followed the way the man’s hand dipped between the blonde woman’s legs, teasing and testing, suddenly ignorant to any watchful eyes, as if they were the only people in the world. If she had thought her heart was racing then, if she thought she felt hot and troubled then, it was no match to the moment Guzma stepped up behind her - silent at first, but Max knew he was there. Putting up a good act of ignoring him, it wasn’t long until the king of mirth and revel began to hate her silence. 

If only he knew how he shattered her, how she wished to give in then. To break free from rules and from constrictions and not care if anyone saw them - but they couldn’t. Max wasn’t ready for the risk it imposed just yet. And what would she do, anyway? She knows nothing of this world - his - world. In the end, she may only disappoint him with her inexperience. 

Now, Max leaves behind the mirror and, naked as she was, allowed the bed to swallow her whole. Her skin felt too hot to be comfortable, haunted by the words he had whispered to her that very same night. She couldn’t crawl under the sheets lest she burn to death, so she lay sprawled on her huge bed instead, a copper halo of hair fanned out to all sides. With knees bent only a little, curious fingers resumed their exploration from earlier, hoping to ease some of the heat by allowing herself to follow his sinful command.

                      ‘Tonight, I want you to touch yourself.’

Oh, and what a command it had been. At first she couldn’t believe her ears, until Guzma ensnared her body by trapping her chin in place, fixing her eyes on the lovers ahead. The writhing woman, now panting softly when his hand picked up pace, bucked into it and left Max beyond flustered. ‘You never touch yourself, do you? You’ve never seen anything like this.’ Guzma’s remarks stung a little, reminded Max all too painfully of her own innocence. Of what she might have missed out on. Of what women were to miss out on if they followed the rules of this wretched society.

So she had jutted her chin forward, shielding a very wounded pride as much as she could. 

                       ‘And what if I do? What do you hope to accomplish from this, my lord?’ 

Despite his touch and the way he held her chin, Guzma did not intend to go any further. He didn’t need to - his voice was effective enough. 

                  ‘When you touch yourself,’ he murmured, his voice so very close to her ear that she could feel every syllable grazing it. ‘Look closely. I want you to put your hand between your legs just like he does with her.’ It was obscene at first, though now, Max can’t help but spread her legs wider. Exhilarated by the knowledge of doing a forbidden thing, she draws in a sharp hiss when her fingers first find the hot and slick flesh between her thighs. Thinking once again that she is the ravished woman in the parlor, and it is Guzma’s skillful hand who all but spreads her to the hungry eyes of a girl who is so ready to break free.

Teeth dig into the flesh of her lip, muffling a moan when she runs two fingers between the soft folds, arching into her own touch. She finds a particularly pleasurable spot she fixates on, her mind suddenly running wild with the idea of Guzma’s mouth on her, or how incredible it would feel if it were his tongue instead of his fingers - although she hates and curses every part of him right now, for making her want so much. 

             ‘When you come back to me, I want you to tell me everything you thought of.’ He can go to hell. She will do no such thing, nor give him the satisfaction of knowing he was with her all through the night. Applying pressure to this sensitive spot has her gasping sharply, suddenly careless about the noises that might be heard down the dark hallway. With her other hand, she circles her nipples again, and her hips find their own rhythm, too - rutting into the palm of her hand now, struggling against the desire to explore further, to find out what it feels like to be filled. The woman had loved it when her lover entered her with two fingers, rode herself on him until she begged for another, a plea he was all too happy to obligue. They had dragged it out for as long as Max could bear it, until she thought she might burn up on the spot. Max was nearly dizzy with need when the woman cried out and he held her against his chest, kissing her face, kissing her neck, stroking her trembling body - if it weren’t for the giddy smile on her lips, she would’ve believed her in pain. 

Now she knows that she must have been consumed by a fire, the very same fire that begins to fill her body and endlessly builds up. Her skin gleams, her muscles are tense and trembling while her hand moves harder, faster, desperate to find relief from it all. She thinks of the sounds this woman made, thinks of Guzma’s breath against her neck, thinks of the times she had seen his body move while he fought, wonders if his muscles would move the same way while he claimed her. Yet it is this one shattering thought that ultimately pushes her over the edge when she comes and cries into the crook of her arm, shaking with the force of a fever, curling up and clenching her fists into the pillow beneath: he was watching her the entire time... while she tried so hard to ignore his presence in her back, while the two people before them looked so beautiful, Guzma’s eyes were on her. 

She can hardly stop gasping. 

‘I want you to tell me how you felt when you broke free from these strings that still hold you. Because, my darling Maxine,’ he had said, reaching for her gloved hand, loosing finger by finger until he slipped it off and kissed the top of her bare hand. She’ll never forget the lilac of his eyes when he looked at her, leaving a mark not only on her skin but her soul - her very being, as this night easily proved. 

               ‘Because if you can’t even allow yourself the right to your own body, how can you say that you truly live a free life?

Eventually, the tremors ease. Although her body feels pliant and soft, and she doesn’t trust her legs to keep her standing. Sprawled on the sheets like a flat pudding, she still finds herself unable to care if anyone heard her - it makes her smile to care so little. In fact, a part of her almost hopes that someone heard and that it brings them terror. The terror to know that their daughter can’t be tamed, nor that she’ll keep herself from finding the pleasure that she finally had her first taste of. If she’ll end up touching herself for every night to come, they can’t stop her - it is her body, and she is the only person on earth who has a right to it. And, if she were to give it to anybody, it’d be her choice.

Though for all the... liberating wisdom he had shared with her tonight, it remains to be seen if she’ll ever grant Guzma this privilegue. He is an ass.

 It would be a most deserving punishment to leave him wanting for the truth, just as he had left her wanting for his touch. 

[hyperion-moonbabe-art3mis]

Caught In Between 11. Windy City

Summary: Athena Dumont has finally found a place to call home after many years of foster homes and traveling. She had finally tamed her supernatural side and just wanted to live a normal teenage life. She quickly discovers that there is nothing normal about her hometown, Mystic Falls and gets sucked right back into the supernatural world.

Post Date: 07.07.20

Word count: 3k

Based off: 03x03 “The End of the Affair

Masterlist

After the event in Tennesse, Klaus had one of his little minions pick us up in a black SUV. We spent the next few days driving to Chicago for some unknown reason to me, “Welcome back to Chicago, Stefan.” Klaus says as we pull into a warehouse of some sort. 

I follow Klaus and Stefan out of the SUV once we’ve parked, “Why are we in Chicago?” I asked confused

“I know how much you loved it here, Stefan. Bringing back memories of the good old ripper days. As for you love, I thought you’d love to see the city.” Klaus says opening a door to reveal a semi-truck backing up. I didn’t respond to Klaus’ explanation considering I was still pissed about what happened in Tennesse.

“Blocked out most of them. A lot of blood, a lot of partying. The details are all a blur.” Stefan responds.

“Well, that is a crying shame. The details are what makes it Legend.” Klaus says back as I stand behind the two shaking my head before sitting on the ground.

Klaus starts to tell a short story before cutting himself off, “Chicago was magical.” 

“Yeh, well, I’ll take your word for it. Like I said, I don’t remember most of it.” Stefan responds before moving away from the door.

“Down to business, then?” Klaus asks as Stefan is clearly not interested in the story.

“Why am I still with you? We had our fun, your hybrids failed. I mean, don’t you want to move on?” Stefan asks.

“Same. I don’t understand why I’m still here,” I say getting up from the ground.

“We’re going to see my favorite witch. If anyone can help us with our hybrid problem, it’s her.” Klaus says getting ready to get back in the SUV.

“Our?” I ask. 

“Yes, we’re all involved in this. Together.” Klaus responds as Stefan and I get back in the SUV as well.

W arrive at our next destination, a building of some sort, “Come on love.” Klaus puts his hand out to help me out of the car.

“Do I have to come?” I ask not budging from my seat. He doesn’t speak a word but instead just giving me a look of, “yes you have to.” 

I reluctantly move from my seat in the car but help myself out. We walk into the building into what looks like a bar, “Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” Klaus asks Stefan.

“I can’t believe this place is still here,” Stefan responds looking around.

“You got to be kidding me,” Some woman says from the other side of the room.

“So a hybrid walks into a bar, says to the bartender--” Klaus starts.

“Stop. You may be invincible, but that doesn’t make you funny. I remember you.” The woman interrupted Klaus and started walking towards us.

“Yeah. You’re Gloria.” Stefan states as she hums in agreement. “Shouldn’t you be…”

“Old and dead? Now if I die, Who’s going to run this place, huh?” She interrupts once more.

“Gloria’s a very powerful witch,” Klaus whispers slightly over to Stefan.

“I can slow the aging down some. Herbs and spells. But don’t worry, it’ll catch up to me one day.” Gloria explains.

“Stefan, why don’t you go and fix us up a little something from behind the bar.” Klaus turns to Stefan, who reluctantly agrees.

“You look ravishing by the way.” I roll my eyes at Klaus’ comment.

“Don’t. I know why you’re here. A hybrid out to make more hybrids? That kind of news travels.” Gloria quickly responds as they sit at a table.

“Athena, sit with us.” He pulls a chair out and I sit down. “So what am I doing wrong? I broke the curse.” Klaus asks.

“Obviously you did something wrong. Look, every spell has a loophole, but a curse that old...we’d have to contact the witch who created it.” Gloria explains.

“Well, that would be the Original witch. She’s very dead,” Klaus says as I look at him confused, having never heard of her.

“I know. And for me to contact her, I’ll need help. Bring me, Rebekah.” Gloria states.

“Rebekah. Rebekah is a bit preoccupied.” Klaus responds.

“She has what I need. Bring her to me.” Gloria demands once more.

“What is this?” Stefan interrupts. We look over to see him holding a photo.

“Well, I told you, Stefan. Chicago’s a magical place.” Klaus says getting up from his seat.

“But this is me. With you.” Stefan takes another look at the photo before holding it up to reveal an old photo of the two looking like best buds. We then leave the bar as we arrive back to the warehouse, Stefan bombards Klaus with questions about the 1920s. But Klaus only responds with vague answers. Until Stefan demands the answers, grabbing at Klaus’ arm. He reluctantly explains how they met each other.

“Your sister. So I knew another original vampire.” Stefan says repeating after Klaus.

“If you can’t handle it. Then don’t ask.” Klaus responds before walking over to one of the coffins. I stay slightly behind staying with Stefan as Klaus opens the lid. I slowly make my way with Stefan to Klaus and the coffin, to find a daggered and desiccated blonde girl.

“I don’t recognize her.” Stefan states.

“Well, don’t tell her that. Rebekah’s temper is worse than mine.” Klaus says quietly before pulling the dagger out of her chest. “Time to wake up, little sister.” He says looking at her. We stand there waiting a few minutes for her to wake up.

“Any day now, Rebekah. She’s being dramatic.” Klaus says standing over her body and I just sit and wait on the floor.

“Look, why don’t you just tell me what the hell is going on? I mean you obviously want me here for a reason, right?” Stefan questions.

“Well, you have many useful talents,” Klaus states not taking his eyes off his little sister.

“Do I?” Stefan says quietly.

“In fact, I learned some of my favorite tricks from you.”Klaus turns towards Stefan. 

Klaus begins to explain how much he adored ripper Stefan’s tactics, “I was your number one fan.” Klaus states as he leads us down a hallway or more like aisle.

“Why should I believe any of this?” Stefan asks as we find our way to a security guard.

“When she wakes up. Tell her to meet us at Gloria’s bar. Then volunteer your carotid artery and let her feed until you die.” Klaus compels the guard and walks off.

“Where are you going?” I ask as Stefan and I follow him.

“You think I’m lying to you, Stefan. You and I knew each other. You trusted me with one of your secrets and now I’m gonna prove it to you.” Klaus states.

“How?” Stefan questions back.

“We’re going to your old apartment,” Klaus responds.

“Do I have to come along? Can’t I just stay here? It’s not like I can go home.” I say stopping the boys in their tracks.

“I need you in my sights at all times. I can’t lose you again.” Klaus says before I drag myself along.

We hop into a car and start to drive to an old apartment complex. We make our way up to some stairs and to an old door, “What a charming little homestead.”

Klaus swings the door open, “Do you feel that? Is anybody here?” Klaus questions Stefan.

“It’s been vacant for decades. People must break in all the time. Why’d you bring me here?” Stefan responds.

“Your friend, Liam Grant, the one who drank his wife’s blood-- I never could figure out why you wanted his name. And then you told me your little secret. It was all part of your special little ritual.” Klaus explains.

“To write it down,” Stefan says under his breath.

“And relive the kill… over and over again.” Klaus finishes before opening the cupboard behind him. “You believe me now?” He refers to Stefan questioning him. Stefan approaches the cupboard as I just stay back not wanting to intrude. I follow behind Stefan to look at what they were both talking about. I’m greeted with a wall of names as well as an Elena Gilbert hiding out.

“Look what I found.” Stefan states. I freeze hoping he wasn’t about to give her up. Stefan then turns around with a bottle in hand as Klaus approached us. I sigh heavily, relieved he didn’t give her up.

“1918,” Klaus says looking at the bottle.

“Single malt.”

“My favorite. Let’s go and find someone to pair it with.” Klaus responds taking the bottle from Stefan’s hands. I back away from the cupboard as Stefan leaves Elena and closes it. We make our way back to a now open, Gloria’s bar. 

We make our way to Gloria as she serves Klaus and Stefan some beer, “Where’s Rebekah?” She questions.

“She’ll be here. I can’t just conjure her on demand.” Klaus responds as Gloria just walks away.

“You know what are you gonna do if she doesn’t show, Klaus?” I inject.

“She’ll show,” Klaus says turning towards me before taking a sip of his beer. “What’s with you? I thought Chicago was your playground.” Klaus says to Stefan.

“So this is why you asked me to be your wingman? Because you liked the way that I tortured innocent people?” Stefan questions.

“Well, that’s certainly half of it,” Klaus responds.

“What’s the other half?” Stefan asks quickly after.

“The other half, Stefan, is that you used to want to be my wingman,” Klaus says pouring a shot for Stefan and sliding it to him. “To friendship.” Klaus raises his shot glass. They clink the glasses together and down the alcohol.

Stefan continues to ask Klaus about their past friendship as that drank, “So I’m confused. If we were such great friends, then why do I only know you and the hybrid dick who sacrificed my girlfriend on an altar of fire? Huh?” 

“All good things must come to an end.” Is all Klaus said.

“Like us?” I say as Klaus turns his attention to me.

“Oh, we never ended sweetheart,” He responds.

“As far as I know we did,” I respond sternly.

“As far as I know, you left. We never ended anything.” He stares into my eyes. I couldn’t come up with anything to say back so I just looked down to the floor. “So, you agree?” He asks in his pippy voice again.

“Were not a thing. You’re nothing to me.” I say coldly.

“Sweetheart, you don’t mean that.” Klaus pulls his hand to my cheek. But I slam it down to the bar before it reaches my face. Clearly getting some stares from people around us.

“You’re nothing,” I say letting his hand go.

“Trouble in paradise it seems,” Stefan tries to stop the awkwardness of him being present.

“Anyways, what I was saying was that we had to leave quickly and I told you to forget us,” Klaus clearly changing topics back to their friendship.

“You compelled me to forget.” Stefan states.

“It was time for Rebekah and I to move on. Better to have a clean slate.” Klaus responds with sadness in his voice.

“But why? You shouldn’t have to cover your tracks...unless you’re running from someone.” Stefan says trying to figure out Klaus’ reasons.

“Storytime’s over,” Klaus responds clearly annoyed.

“I need another drink. A real one.” Stefan says taking a sip of the alcohol before walking off. Klaus just grabs a bottle from behind the bar and pours it into his glass.

 We sit in silence for a few moments before I break it, “Klaus. I’m wondering, what do you want from me? I’m clearly of no help for your situation. You’ve already killed off my family, I didn’t even help you find. Am I here so you can torture me for leaving you?” I ask.

“No. Love. You’re here because you said you made a promise to Elijah right? I’m wondering myself. Why are you so keen on wanting to leave but just as much as you are willing to keep this promise? Tell me, what is it?” Klaus asks turning his head to me.

“I’m keeping the promise because you daggered Elijah. I’m keeping it until you wake him up or I have the chance to. As much as I hate it. I won’t leave until Elijah’s back.” I respond sternly.

“You still haven’t told me the promise,” Klaus says almost teasingly.

“You really want to know? Because I guarantee you’re not gonna like it,” I say.

“Please, do tell. I’m curious.”

“The promise was that if I wasn’t able to keep you somewhat level headed, which I haven’t been. Then I can leave you and Elijah and you wouldn’t bother me either. And before you say anything, I accounted for the fact that you wouldn’t let me.” I explain. 

“Well, of course, I wouldn’t let you. We could never lose you again. Why did you leave anyways?” He questions.

“I needed a fresh start. Away from all of this, which clearly didn’t work. But if I hadn’t left you, I wouldn’t have met the people that you’re so hellbent on destroying.” 

“Well, I can give you that fresh start.” Klaus offers.

“A fresh start with you? That’d never happen. Another reason I left is that I didn’t want to be associated with the Mikaelson name. I could never get a fresh start. It was hard enough to find somewhere, where even one vampire, werewolf or witch, didn’t know me by association with you and Elijah. 

“At least you know, no one would ever mess with you?” Klaus states before I notice Damon sit next to Klaus. “I see they’ve opened the doors to the riff-raff now,” Klaus says to Damons but staring straight ahead of himself.

“Oh, honey. I’ve been called worse.” Damon responds as they both let out a small chuckle.

“You don’t give up, Do you?” Klaus asks.

“Bring me my brother back...my girl…” Damon starts.

“Umm, I’m not your girl. I’m neither of yours,” I interrupt quickly.

“You’ll never have to see me again,” Damon finishes disregarding my comment.

“Well, I am torn. You see, Athena is my girl, she’s staying with me. And I promised Stefan I wouldn’t let you die, but how many freebies did I really sign up for? And clearly you want to die. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, so..” Klaus trails off.

“What can I say? I’m a thrill-seeker.” Damon responds and I eye him confused. Klaus just smiles before quickly grabbing Damon’s throat. He starts to lift Damon off the ground.

“I’m a little boozy. So you’ll forgive me if I miss your heart the first few tries.” Klaus says before stabbing a paper umbrella into Damon’s abdomen.

“You want a partner in crime? Forget Stefan. I’m so much more fun.” Damon says trying to take Stefan’s spot. Klaus throws Damon across the room onto a table breaking it.

He pulls a leg off a chair, “You won’t be any fun after your dead.” Klaus prepares to stake Damon.

“Klaus, don’t!” I yell before the stake catches fire. I look over to see that Gloria was the one who set it.

“Really?” Klaus asks trowing the stake away from him.

“Not in my bar. You take it outside.” Gloria demands pointing to the door.

“You don’t have to negotiate your brother’s freedom. When I’m done with him, he won’t want to go back.” Klaus says before taking his hand off Damon’s chest.

“Come on, love, we’re leaving,” Klaus aggressively grabs me by the arm and pulls me away.

As much as I hated it, I had to go with him. I look down at Damon and mouth ‘I’m sorry’ before allowing Klaus to pull me away. We make our way back to the warehouse. We make our way to Rebekah’s coffin, only to find its empty. Meaning she’s up.

“Rebekah...It’s your big brother. COme out, come out. Wherever you are.” Klaus taunts. The blonde then speeds over and pushes him to the shelving and daggers his chest. I stand there hoping that  I didn’t have to interfere.

“Go to hell, Nik!” She says through her gritted teeth. She backs away but instead of him desiccating, he just pulls it out and drops it to the floor.

“Don’t pout. You knew it wouldn’t kill me.” Klaus says.

“No, but I was hoping it would hurt more.” She responds walking away.

“I understand that you’re upset with me, Rebekah...so I’m going to let that go. Just this once. Brought you a little peace offering.” Klaus follows her pulling me along.

“I guess she’ll do.” She says looking at me.

“No, not her. You can come in.” Klaus tells her and Stefan walks out from behind the wall.

“Stefan?” Rebekah says with a smile on her face.  Klaus walks up to Stefan and compels him to remember their time as great friends.

“Rebekah,” Stefan says and makes his way to her.

“Stefan…” Klaus says to catch Stefan’s attention.

“I remember you. We were friends.” Stefan says under his breath.

“We are friends,” Klasu says to Stefan. “And now the reason you’re here. Gloria tells me you know how to contact the original witch,” Klaus tells his little sister.

“The original witch,” Rebekah says disbelievingly.

“What do you have that Gloria needs?” Klaus asks. 

She feels her chest but her expression falls as she looks down, “Where’s my necklace? What did you do with it? I never take it off!” Rebekah asks starting to get mad.

“I don’t know. I didn’t touch it.” Klaus tells her.

“We need to find it, Nik. Now, I want it back!” Rebekah demands.

“Tell me that’s not what she needs, Rebekah!”Klaus says getting mad and grabbing Rebekah by her shoulders. She pushes him off and starts to rustle through the coffin. She slams the coffin shut and flips it over out of rage that her necklace isn’t anywhere to be found.

A/N: So honestly I feel like this part isn’t great. I really don’t know what to do with it so it’s just a filler. I hope you enjoy it!

Taglist: @tristanacarry | @commentaryfanfic | @april-14-blog​ | @simonsbluee (for some reason it won’t let me tag)

[frizz22]

Hilda loses her virginity to Dr.Cee and Father Blackwood finds out about it before Zelda. (Faustus being protective of Hilda).

Hey anon! Sorry for the delay, hope you still want this prompt and enjoy! Read on ao3

When Zelda let it slip that her sister was dating an incubus, he’d laughed. Because of all the witches in the coven Hilda was the last he expected, or thought, would do such a thing.

Sex demons, even ones trapped within another body, weren’t for the faint of heart. And while Hilda was certainly not weak in character, Faustus could understand, once he stopped laughing, why Zelda was concerned about her little sister.

The types of sex demons who frequented Dorian’s were relatively tame, insatiable, of course otherwise they’d be employed elsewhere, but there was no risk of peril. The one currently inhabiting a mortal in Greendale sounded as though it were a different, more volatile, breed.

“I helped her procure Damascus steel,” Zelda continued to inform him from where she was curled into his side, tracing random patterns on his chest. “So, the demon should be bound. I just worry, Faustus, from Hilda’s account it’s aggressive and the mortal only had a shred of control over it before our intervention.”

Arching a brow, Faustus tightened the arm he had around her waist and pulled her more firmly against him. “From what you tell me, it’s fairly safe now. You wouldn’t lead your sister astray with the steel and I know you wouldn’t risk her if you thought it not enough.”

She propped herself up so she could look at him properly. “Please check on her. There’s only so much she’ll tell me as her sister and my teasing may have dissuaded her from confiding certain things.”

A skeptical huff escaped him. “And why, for the love of Lucifer, would Hilda confide in me?”

“You’re her High Priest, she’s a member of your coven, it’s your duty to—"

Gently cutting her off, Faustus smiled. “I’m not asking why I should look out for your sister, Zels, I’m asking why she’d ever share her secrets with me. Even before the whole excommunication and reinstatement of her covenship, Hilda was never that invested in the church.”

Zelda shifted so she was straddling him. “Perhaps if I convince you...” she murmured, eyes hooded.

Though he’d already planned on helping and this didn’t change how Hilda would likely react to him, Faustus wasn’t about to stop Zelda... not when she was looking at him like that.

~~~

Swallowing, Faustus uncomfortably adjusted his collar before pushing into the greenhouse at the Spellman residence, knowing he’d find Hilda there.

Grumbling under his breath, Faustus moved further into the room; never let it be said he didn’t keep his word.

When he rounded the first row of plants, Faustus saw Hilda walking a little stiffly as she approached her work bench and set down an armful of different herbs. It was only when his attention focused on the ingredients she’d selected that his eyes widened in recognition and worry.

Striding forward he grasped her forearm and, ignoring her surprised shriek, Faustus looked her over. “Did he hurt you? Did the incubus break free and force itself—"

Recovering, hand still on her heart and breathing a little heavily, Hilda blinked at him. “What?”

Faustus nodded at the herbs on the table. “I know what those are for.”

He and Zelda consumed the resulting potion on more than one occasion, after they overindulged during sex. With them, though, it was consensual, they loved toying with that line between pleasure and pain. And if, sometimes, after all the adrenaline and endorphins filtered away, they noticed the pain was a bit uncomfortable, they’d take this special healing draught. He doubted Hilda, who Zelda told him was still a virgin, would decide to go so hard her first time; at least not willingly.

Flustered, a dark blush crept onto Hilda’s cheeks and neck and she dropped her eyes. “Father Blackwood!” She gasped, tone scandalized at his prying.

“Faustus, please,” he corrected and dipped his head to try and reestablish eye contact. “Zelda told me of your incubus, how strong and unpredictable it is. Did the single bracelet of Damascus steel not contain it? Did it hurt you? If so, I will go over there right now and rip that vile thing from the man’s body and—" he began, voice growing harsher.

An alarmed squeak emanated from Hilda. “No! No, please, Fath-, Faustus.” She clutched at him, eyes wide. “Cee was in complete control the whole time.”

Confused, Faustus shook his head. “Then why the,” he gestured to the potion ingredients before them.

Blush deepening, Hilda wet her lips and fiddled with one of the herbs to avoid looking at him. “Certain muscles were worked last night that I didn’t know I had, let alone knew were used during, during…"

“Sex.” Faustus finished for her baldly. “S-E-X, sex. So, it was consensual? You’re just a little sore, not because he forced you, was rough or because the demon surfaced?”

Touched by his concern, Hilda smiled at him, even if a bit baffled. “The demon didn’t make a single appearance; Cee was a perfect gentleman.” A giggle escaped the witch and a smile crept onto her face. “In fact, he laid out these flower petals and before—"

Holding up a hand to hurriedly cut her off, Faustus stepped away and straightened his coat. “Good.” He added, clearing his throat gruffly. “I shall leave you to your potion making, then.”

Embarrassment taking over once more when she realized who she’d been gushing to, Hilda nodded. “Thank you, Faustus.” Hilda’s soft voice caught him at the door. Her face was still crimson when he turned slightly to look at her, but she met his eyes straight on. “I’m sure, I’m sure checking in on me was my sister’s idea. I appreciate that you care enough for her to follow through with it and to threaten someone you thought might have hurt me.”

Unable to deny that he initially only checked on Hilda for Zelda’s sake, Faustus rolled his shoulders. “You’re a member of my coven, Hilda, it is my duty—" at the unimpressed arch of her brow though, Faustus redirected. “I do care for your sister, and that is why I came here today. However,” he fiddled with his cane, “my anger at the possibility of you being hurt by a mortal was real. And my offer for vengeance sincere, and stands, should you ever need it.” And even he was a little stunned by the truth in his statement; but she was part of his coven, and despite everyone’s skepticism, including some of his own, Faustus did protect those who were under his care. What kind of High Priest would he be otherwise?

When a surprised and sweet smile bloomed on Hilda’s face in response to his little speech, Faustus nodded curtly and cleared his throat once more before making for the door. Only, he stopped with a silent groan.

With a slight cringe, he turned back to Hilda. “Your sister will want to know how this visit went. I suspect she is unaware of this development in your relationship with the incubus?”

Coloring once more, Hilda bit her cheek and nodded. “I, I can tell her. Mention you checked in if that works for—"

“Perfect.” Faustus eagerly agreed, hurrying out the door before he could think of anything else or Hilda decided to share more of her experience.

While he’d been fine looking in on Hilda for Zelda, he certainly wasn’t going to relay any tales about losses of virginity and flower petals for Satan’s sake. Though sex was hardly a topic he shied from, this, sharing the status of his pseudo sister-in-law’s sexual relationship pushed even his nearly nonexistent line.

Shuddering, Faustus departed quickly with plans to immerse himself in something dark and dangerous, like curse breaking or demon banishing, to rid himself of the feeling that he just participated, even minutely, in ‘girl talk’.

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

S.T. REWRITE - S2:E7; Chapter Seven, The Lost Sister - [Pt. 2]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

In their search for answers, psychic visions draw Eleven and Y/n to a band of violent outcasts and an angry girl with a shadowy past.

||Reader's POV||

I hug my jacket tighter around my chest, my teeth chattering still from the cold air. Luckily the seats El and I picked ended up near the bus' heater. Though at least the chill is keeping me awake and alert. I remember drifting off on the futon at Becky's, the next thing I know El is shaking me awake and pulling me down the stairs. All I had time to grab was my jacket and slip on my shoes and we were out the door. Hell, I didn't even get to change out of my pajamas.

I tried asking her what happened and where the hell we were going, not to mention so late at night. She was much too spooked and truthfully I haven't seen her run that fast. Well, at least since last year. But no matter how much I tried to ask, she just kept silent, apart from a few words which I'm pretty sure were to shut me up.

"It's not safe."

So here we were, on a bus heading who knows where. I felt a pair of eyes on me and I looked cautiously to my side, several people were giving us strange even some sympathetic looks. I remember for what seems like the billionth time that I am in sweatpants and tee-shirt, and I hug my jacket tighter around my torso. I turned to look at El, and I can make out her disheartened reflection watching droplets of rain cascade down the foggy glass. I rest my head tiredly on the back of my seat and I attempt to break the silence.

"El?"

Her head rolls across the seat to face me, I can tell she is tired like me though I sense a great deal of it is emotional exhaustion as well as physical. A million questions run through my head but I only.find myself asking one.

"Are you okay?"

She sniffled but gave me no immediate answer. I could tell she was debating on whether or not she should lie. Finally, she speaks, her voice cracked and a little broken.

"No."

I wince, my a lump forming my throat feeling as if I am unable to help her. I extend my hand, as she did this afternoon, and she took it. I gave her palm a reassuring squeeze and I looked in her eyes.

"El, what happened? You can tell me," I reassure.

Her brown eyes fall to my hands, and I can tell she is trying to blink back tears.

"She called us in." She whispered, sniffling. "I'm sorry."

"Wait, what do you mean? Why are you sorry?" I ask gently.

"I heard her," she choked back. "She called for the policeman. And... And she gave them your name. I'm sorry Y/n."

"My name?" I gulped. "So, the police are gonna, know I'm...?"

She nodded, tearfully and I could see the remorse in her eyes.

Instinctively, I gave her hand another reassuring squeeze and forced a half-assed smile.

"It's okay, it's not entirely your fault El," I said. "Yeah, I'm not going to lie. That's not good, but I also knew what I was risking when I went with you. The truth is, things really haven't been going super well at home. Everyone's fighting - more than usual,"

El cracks a small smile at that, and I feel one spread across my face as well. But it quickly fades as I continue.

"Like I said before, Mike hasn't been himself since you left. And now Will is acting up, in fact, he's... completely different. He's sick, he's really sick and he's angrier than usual. The party is falling apart, and I've felt more alone these past few weeks than I have in a really long time. And on top of it all," I lower my voice even more. "I'm still finding stuff I didn't know I could do. I've been having trouble, controlling my powers."

El looked to me surprised, her eyebrows raised though I was relieved to see I had halted her crying. I nodded.

"The point is, you showing up has been just what I needed. And yes, it's really scary, but thanks to you I found out how I got here, where I came from. That's really good! I have you to thank for that."

We shared a weak smile, and there a beat of silence. I took a deep breath and she was the first to break the ice.

"I found her. The girl."

I perked up a bit, and I looked to El El hopefully.

"Really? That's great! So did you get a name? Maybe the girl's name or where we're going?"

The hope in El's face fell, and she shook her head. But her face scrunched up thoughtfully as if she was trying to remember something she might have missed.

"A city." She looked at me quizzically, and she spoke the next words and it was clear to me she must have been repeating a word she heard only in passing. "Shuh-cago?"

My eyes widened. "Chicago? We're going to Chicago?"

El shrugged her shoulders.

"Shuh-cago."

I took a deep breath, letting the information sink in as well as trying to tame the anxiety I knew was soon coming to settle in.

"Um, okay..." I sighed, my eyes falling to my lap and I noticed my leg has begun to bounce. "Well, are you sure? Is that what you heard, or maybe saw in the background somewhere?"

El nodded. I nodded as well, thinking about the road ahead.

"So you really think she'll help huh?" I ask.

She gives me a weak, but reassuring smile and soft squeezes my hand. "Yes."

I smile gratefully, but we fall into silence quickly after.

The familiar feeling bubbled up in my stomach again, though it is much more intense. Sure I had anxieties about leaving with El, but this succeeded that. At least I had the small chance of not getting caught, that I'd be back the next night and it could all be explained away by being at the Byers house. But this was quickly spiraling. This had already spiraled, and I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach with nerves. The moment the chief got her message than it was only a matter of time before my mom was notified, and oh no...

According to Dustin, she's going to the ends of the earth just to find Mews, I can't imagine the stress she'll inevitably be under when she finds out that some woman across town filed a report about me and it certainly doesn't help that I'm on a bus to Chicago.

I try to remind myself to take deep breaths, the last thing I need is my anxiety itself spiraling into something destructive. I still need to learn how to control my powers, though I'm a bit upset with myself for saying everything's okay when it's not.

I always had a problem with that. And yet, even though I meant what I had said to El about finding out where I came from, part of me is upset with myself for letting it go. Maybe I did it cause I felt bad for El, and she seemed sorry and she was in trouble. But then again, I was in trouble now too. Part of me is hoping Chicago is a dead end, and while I feel awful for feeling that way, I do. I find myself longing to be with Will again. The old Will. He always had a knack for knowing when I wasn't okay.

He always made me feel validated when I was upset, and he listened and then he'd do anything to get me to smile. But for now, I had to keep these thoughts to myself, for as long as I can at least though I don't know how long I'll last.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

I don't realize I have drifted off until I feel a tap on my shoulder. I blink away the sleep to the best of my ability and I find El gesturing towards the isle. Once again, I close my jacket tightly around my torso, the cold air reaching my neck and nipping at my ears. We had spilled out onto the busy streets among the several people leaving the bus with us. I looked around in an odd mix of awe and fear. Mom was never a city dweller, and the last big trip she took she came home with a daughter. So apart from programs on TV, this was the first I was seeing a big city.

El seemed to be experiencing it too, but my awe was quickly smothered when my eye level returned to the ground. We were lost in a sea of strange people, nobody seemed to know anyone and they all seemed angry.

I tried to remind myself of the things El told me earlier today.

"Y/n, we can defend ourselves, remember?"

She did have point, but then again if we were put in a situation where we were forced to use them, all the closer we going were to being caught. I look to El, to gauge her reaction and I find she's still very much lost in the towering city skyline and she a genuine smile on her face. For a moment I wish I can enjoy it as she does, but I am still in sweatpants and a tee shirt and I haven't the faintest idea when or if we'll find exactly where we're going.

Eagerly, she starts walking down the streets and I follow her. I'm thankful I was able to retrieve my shoes and jacket, but I still can't seem to drag my thoughts away from the fact that my teeth are chattering once more. The words I spoke earlier today pop into my mind only to mock me, "I guess I kept myself warm,". Another reason to learn how to control my powers, it sure wouldn't hurt-

I'm jolted from my thoughts when I feel a strong force struck my shoulder. I tumble back slightly, quickly catching my footing but my heart still spikes. I whirl around to see a large, glowering man sneer over his shoulder at me as retreats.

"Watch it, kid."

This time I fiddle with my jacket as an excuse to keep my hands busy, my heat creeping up in my chest as my tempter rises. I return my attention to El and our walk when I find her glaring at him. And if looks could kill - which hers quite easily could - he would be six feet under.

"Mouth-breather," She says menacingly, her eye line falls slightly and I panic.

I turn just in time to see the man stumble forward onto the concrete. Angrily, he sits up, looking around frantically and glaring at anyone who laughed at him. All worry washed away when I could barely make out the string of curses directed at his shoelaces as he hotly tied them.

El looked to me, suppressing a smile and she had a wildly mischievous look in her eye.

I felt myself crack a smile and my anger slowly melted away.

Okay, that was pretty funny.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

If I thought I was cold before, I was dead wrong. We've been walking for two hours, my feet are killing me and my sweatpants are clinging to my legs. About half an hour ago, a truck drove through a puddle and I caught the tail end of the splash when we hooked around a corner. To pass the time, I've been trying to dry them subtly with my hands against my legs, but it didn't get me very far, even with El's tips. I finally gave it a rest after a while, I wasn't getting very far and I didn't want to risk draining myself if the walk was much longer.

By now I've grown used to the odd and wandering looks we've gathered, especially me given my state. But the tension crept back in when El lead us down an incredibly questionable alley. We were definitely in the riskier parts of the city though I tried to hold my tongue and save questions until later. My instincts told me I needed to appear more confident than I was than I'd have at least a sliver less of a chance of being a target. El seemed to hold up that exterior, though even her confidence was waning slightly.

We were surrounded by many sluggish people, milling about one another and the alley was lit up by fire pits in steel barrels. The stench was horrid, it wreaked of booze, cigarettes, and urine. Subconsciously, El and I grew closer I realize cause I feel the ends of her hairbrush against me when I flinch back.

A frightening, cackling man had stepped towards my face as we walked by.

"They're dead. They're all dead!"

His hyena-like laughter bounces off the cement walls and echoes in my ears. I can practically taste his awful breath and I duck my head down avoiding eye contact as I pull El along forward with me.

I can sense her eagerness to leave the alley and hands still clenched tight, we broke out into a small jog and out of sight. We didn't stop until we reached what looked to be an abandoned underpass. Graffiti littered every wall, and we emerged from the darkened space to find an old warehouse. Like the underpass, there wasn't a wall that wasn't painted with spray paint and neon color and El stopped suddenly.

I glanced ahead of me at the building, the small door supplied with only one window that flickered with yellow light, and back at El, searching her eyes.

"El, is this it?" I ask.

"Yes."

She sets off towards the building and I quickly follow behind, attempting to prepare myself whatever we might find. Inside is not much different to the exterior, boxes, crates, barrels, and planks littered the interior and it was harder to find a surface that wasn't covered in graffiti. The entrance we stood in was part of a small alcove, and it was clear the further you stepped inside the ceiling extended. But what caught my eye were the four people huddled around another makeshift firepit.

One girl, who was perched on several cushions and lighting a cigarette began to giggle teasingly.

"You should do stand-up, Axe. There's a spot a few blocks away."

The group chuckled, and a tall lanky man with a large mohawk unlike anything I've seen before rolled his eyes with a smirk. Among them, a rather large and beefy man, who clearly seemed to be the muscle, and another young woman in cuffed jeans, gloves and a dark green flannel.

El called out to them and I panicked, though logically I knew we needed make ourselves known regardless.

"Hello?"

The group stopped and turned, their faces illuminated by the fire gifting to them a very chilling tone.

A sickening smirk curled along the tall lanky man, and he struts around the fire towards us.

"Well, well... What do we have here?"

The others rose from their spot and I looked anxiously between El and the others, though I somehow managed to keep a still face.

The others began stalking towards us and I could feel my heart rate pick up. The woman in the green jacket scoffed, looking us up and down and it seemed she couldn't tell which of us looked, stranger.

"What are those, overalls?" She asked finally.

The other young woman had stalked around us and she stopped at me. I tensed and she looked me up and down before jabbing a finger in my shoulder and nudging me roughly.

"And get a load of this one," she squeaked, blowing smoke into my face.

I coughed, swiping it away and they all laughed. She turned to me and faked a pout.

"What's the matter girlies? Thought your little slumber party could use a fun little adventure, in the big city, huh?"

The others chuckled softly, and I stifled an eye roll. Her mocking tone fell into a serious one shortly after.

"Well, you ain't gonna find it here, go on back to the farm now."

"We're looking for my sister."

My eyes flickered to El in surprise, but they quickly returned to the group. Once again, not wanting to give away too much but I do have to applaud El's quick thinking.

"Aw..." Cooed the man with mohawk mockingly. "Shirley Temple lost her sister. So sad."

"I saw her. Here."

She reached into her bag and pulls out the photograph from Becky's.

"Uh-uh," The large man said suddenly. "Hand out of your pocket. Slow."

El complied and the lanky man ripped the photograph from her hand.

"Give me that shit."

For the first time, he hesitated, shocked and caught off-guard and the woman in green stepped forward when she caught a glimpse. She ripped it from his grasp, just as he had done previously and gaped.

"Is that Kali?"

"Kali?" El asked.

Mohawk stepped forward, growing tense and took advantage of his height and towered over El, zeroing in on her. I tensed but I never left her side.

"How did you find us? Who else knows you're here?"

El backed up slightly and I spoke up urgently.

"No one knows we're here."

"And no one asked you, shithead." My face soured and he returned to El. "Is this true Shirley Temple? So, what then? Poof! You just show up like magic with that picture?"

"Stay calm." The woman in green warned. "They're just kids, alright?"

He turned on her quickly, snapping at her.

"Some kids that could get us all killed."

He returned his attention to El and pulled something from his pocket. My eyes fell to the object in his hand and I was as certain my eyes were wide as saucers as sure as I was that everyone could hear my heart thumping against my ribcage.

"If I have to ask again, Shirley, you'll start losing things." He unsheathed his knife and began pointing it at El's face. "Starting with those pretty little locks of yours. Yeah?"

I looked desperately between the man and his companions, each of them seemed uncomfortable with his actions in varying degrees. The woman in green stepped forward, extending her arm.

"Come on, Axe. Put down the knife." She warned.

The blade grew closer towards her face and he only grew angrier.

"How did you find us?"

"I saw her." She said, her voice came out rushed and shakey not that I blamed her.

He advanced further, the knife growing closer to her face and everyone's voices began to drown in the deafening roar of blood pumping in my ears. He was beside me now as El kept backing away.

"That's not an answer!" He roars.

"Axe!"

I throw aside my common sense and step towards them. Before anything can happen, he freezes and begins examining his hand frightfully. He steps backward, his blade-wielding arm extended as far away from his face and torso as possible and his breath becomes shaky as he speaks.

"Jesus. Jesus Christ!" He huffs.

He chucks the knife on the concrete behind us, the blade nearly nicking my legs. He looks up and down his torso, and his face goes pale. He frantically swipes at himself, several squeals of fear elicit from him and El and I share a confused look.

"Get off! Shit!"

He is running across the room, hunched over, and desperately swatting at his head, face and arms deranged. I have to step back to avoid his path as he maneuvers around me and his companions have to do the same.

"You're a terrible dancer, Axel."

Everyone including myself turns our heads towards the source of the British voice. On the stairs, leaning on the banister with a sly smirk was another young girl. Half of her head was shaved, the other half was tinted purple and like the others, she dressed in grunge, but oddly they didn't seem shabby or cheap.

The guy named Axel relaxed, only for a moment before it evolved into anger. He smacked his head angrily and gestured towards her as she came down the steps.

"I told you, Kali, stay out of my head." He spits.

"So we're threatening little girls now, are we?" She asks, striding towards us.

"They know about you." Axel defends.

The girl with the bow, the one mocked me, stepped forward with the photo El had and gestured to her.

"Farmgirl here had this."

The new girl, the one I can only assume to be the one we were looking for, grabbed the photo. She seemed to be hiding her shock, and El cautiously approaches her. She eyes El up and down suspiciously, her gaze flickering past her to me on occasion.

"Where did you get this?"

"Mama," El answers, taking the photograph back and placing it in her bag.

"Your mother gave this to you?"

"In her dream circle," El says.

I raise my brow, and as I suspect the others don't take to it, or her very easily.

"Dream circle," Axel scoffs, pacing the room. "I think she's a schizo or something."

I gape at him, unable to stop myself but he doesn't see me. I desperately want to say something but I know I have to be careful less I start something.

"Says she's looking for her sister."

"Yeah. Like I said, schizo."

I take a deep breath, clenching my fists. I'm reminded of the first night we met El. When we both overheard the boys saying those awful things about her. That she was from the nuthouse. It angers me that so many people out there are so quick to judge people they don't automatically understand. My glare follows him across the room and as he bends to pick up his knife. I smirk when I see the knife fly through the air and into El's waiting hand.

Mumbles of surprise bounce around the group, but I simply watch as El confidently folds the knife and hands it to the girl.

"I saw you. In the rainbow room."

Something in the girl's eye changes, she begins to stalk around El before she stops halfway to stand beside her.

"What is your name?"

"Jane."

I can't say I was expecting that, but yet I wait. I concentrate my energy on keeping my jaw clenched. I've been fighting my chattering teeth ever since we entered and the muscles in my jaw have grown weak. But in a weird way, I begin to forget it's there as I watch what is unfolding before me.

Kali grabs El's left wrist and pushes back her sleeve to reveal her tattoo. El reaches for Kali's left wrist and they compare before sharing a chilling look. El's eyes grow cloudy and I can her lips trembling.

"Sister." She whispers.

"Sister," Kali says.

The two embrace in a tearful hug I grow uncomfortable where I stand. I tuck my arms in further where they have been fused against my chest, and I shift on my feet my tempter growing short. I don't understand why I feel this way but I do. I want to be happy for El, but something feels off. Maybe I'm jealous because I thought me and El were close, she was the first real female friend I had and we both came from the same place. But I guess she found that with someone else. I never really was from there, not that I wish I was but at least I could someone to lean on with having powers.

And yet, that didn't seem to be what bothered me most. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I can't help but feel like things are only going to get more slippery.

Before I can dwell on it more, they break apart and Kali takes El's hands in her own giving them a squeeze before releasing. The two smile at one another and my eyes fall to my feet. The ends of my sweatpants are still soaked I can feel the water in my shoes. And yet the most chilling thing I felt at that moment was Kali's eyes on me.

"Jane, who is this?" She asks.

"Y/n. My friend."

I break my gaze away from my shoes and I give her a small wave, forcing a smile.

"Hi," I mumble, trembling.

She looks me up and down, her suspicious gaze creeping back up in her eyes. Her intimidation faltered when she allowed herself to register my odd outfit. The question seemed to have a bigger demand than her previous one, and she seems to dismiss a thought.

"Why are you in pajamas?"

"Long story," I mutter, my teeth chattering once more. "We had to up and leave unexpectedly and I didn't get a chance to change or grab any spare clothes."

Her brows furrowed suspiciously, and for a moment I worry. I can feel myself squirm under intimating gaze but then I feel a wave of relief when I see her crack a smile. She chuckles and looks to the tall woman in the green jacket.

"Funshine, take her upstairs and help her find some warm clothes. I'm gonna talk to Jane. Alone."

Her eyes fall on me, her amusement fizzled out into what I could have sworn looked like a warning glare as she spoke the last word. My eyes fall to El and she smiles happily at me, before looking excitedly to Kali unaware of the cold shoulder Kali was giving me. I tense, not wanting to be separated from El, but I try and comfort myself in the fact that Kali does seem to genuinely care for El. Though that was just as worrisome.

The larger man nodded, stepping forward and gestured to me. I looked to him surprised, my eyes flickering to Kali and she smiles.

"Don't worry, he's nothing but a big softie," Kali says, turning and leaving with El.

I look back at the man and he smiles warmly, I can feel myself relax and I even find myself smiling back at him.

"Don't worry, we'll get you some nice warm clothes."

Reluctantly, I follow. We walk side by side, falling in line behind El and Kali though they disappear around the corner and Funshine directs me to one of the makeshift bedrooms. My eyes fall to the fire pit in the corner and I eye it longingly. He gestures towards it and ushers me along.

"Go ahead, wait but the fire. I'll be right back with some warm clothes." He says, heading through the doorway.

I smile shyly, eagerly gravitating towards the fire.

"Thanks."

He left through the door and disappeared around the corner, and I stifled a smile. I could feel the heat washing over my body and I felt myself relax in the slightest. I only wish there was a faster way to dry my legs but before much longer, Funshine returns. He glides across the room with some clothes in his hands.

"Here, I gathered around stuff that I thought would fit you best." He tosses them on the bed next to me and begins to walk out. "I'll let you change."

Eagerly, I pick up the clothes and I watch him retreat. Out of the whole bunch, and my brief encounter with them, I trusted him the most and I couldn't hold my tongue any longer.

"Hey," I call out, growing nervous.

He stops suddenly, and turns around, giving me a curious look.

"Thank you," I mumble, smiling. "For the clothes."

Another friendly smile stretches across his face and once again he nods.

"You're certainly welcome."

+++

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