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amjustagirl · 4 years ago

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Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi's heart has always pointed north. He wonders if it's broken when it starts to point inexorably towards her.

Set in the aftermath of The Astrophile, in the same universe as Storm Chaser.

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi / f! reader

Genre: Fluff, angst, romance

Wordcount: 7.8k

Masterlist link here

A/N: Dedicated first and foremost to Ami @softsakusa, one of the first people to convince that my writing isn’t shit and that I should keep creating fics.

This fic is also for all the readers who wanted a happy ending for the reader in The Astrophile (which sets out the backstory of the reader, Iwaizumi and Oikawa), and also follows the events of Storm Chaser (which follows the turbulent relationship of Miya Atsumu and now wife - I named her Kaiyo in this fic to avoid confusion!).

Hope you like it - reblogs and comments are always dearly appreciated <3

It must be the worst meet cute of all time.

That is – if he’s using that phrase correctly. It keeps appearing in the god-awful English movies Bokuto and Miya keep playing during team movie nights that makes him want to tear his hair out.

But yes, he meets her at Miya Shino’s seventh birthday party, the birthday girl the apple of Miya Atsumu’s eye, the princess of his castle, the most perfect angel in the entire heavens - the list of pet names growing longer and longer the more the obnoxious setter prattles on about his daughter.

And apparently Miya Shino is a chip off the old block, and is as obsessed with volleyball as her father. Which means that he, one Sakusa Kiyoomi, is forced to turn up on a Saturday afternoon for a birthday party to teach a group of children roughly about the same height as his kneecaps how to play volleyball.

There are plenty of other MSBY players that Miya Atsumu could have rounded up to fritter away a Saturday afternoon. Hinata, for instance - the sunny, fiery headed opposite hitter a perennial favourite with young fans. Or Inunaki - the liberio has an amiable personality that he certainly wouldn’t mind snot nosed children hanging off his arms like a walking, talking monkey bar. But no, Hinata is apparently busy on a weekend meditation retreat, and Inunaki is at his sister’s wedding party, so both of them managed to escape this travesty of a birthday party.

That leaves him with Bokuto who’s practically a child himself, beaming, bumping balls at screaming children with one hand, the other hand lifting another child above his head. Meian’s here too but his own kid is somewhere in this gaggle of monsters anyway, so he’s here to carry out his parental duties – hopefully his presence might balance the sheer chaos he’s sure he’s about to face.

‘Omi-omi you made it!’ Atsumu greets him with a slap to the back.

Sakusa resists the urge to bare his teeth. Is this what hell is? Screeching gremlins underfoot, the nauseating smell of fried food permeating the air.

And it’s probably because he’s still in a horrified daze at the situation he’s put himself in (which Atsumu is either too dense to pick up on or already immune due to the series of similar expressions he pulls at him on a daily basis), Atsumu manages to snap a party hat on his head, before he prances off in victory.

Sakusa snarls, ripping off the red paper hat off his head.

Why on earth did he agree to this again?

‘Sakusa-san! Thank you so much for coming!’

His glare softens by a fraction.

Miya Kaiyo, Atsumu’s long suffering wife approaches him, careful not to touch him, waving at him instead. He appreciates her thoughtfulness, so he thaws a little, giving her a slight nod in greeting.

Right, she’s the reason why he’s here.

He’s always been fond of her - competent, patient, intelligent, far too good for her idiot of a husband. Approximately a year ago, he sought her professional help with his accounts. He graduated with a business degree from Chuo University, so he can tell there is obviously something fishy that his manager is pulling with his finances, but the accounting courses he took weren’t in depth to pinpoint the problem. Miya Kaiyo, on the other hand, a trained forensic accountant with a nose like a bloodhound for fraudulent accounts, nailed down the problem within a week. So when she asked him after a game whether he’d be free to attend her daughter's birthday party, he hadn’t been able to turn her down.

‘It was no problem’, he says stiffly, already itching to spray the whole place down with disinfectant. ‘I’m glad to be here.’

Kaiyo laughs at his obvious lie, tugging at his sleeve to seat him in a corner. ‘You don’t have to go play with the kids if you didn’t want to! I invited you so we could catch up, and besides, I did want to introduce you to someone.’

‘Hm.’

He doesn’t try to mask his reluctance this time. Kaiyo means well, he knows, but between her and his mother, he’s tired of having to fend off match making attempts. It’s not like he can’t get a date – he can and he has, it’s just difficult to find someone willing to put up with his prickly personality and busy schedule.

‘Well she’s not here yet, so you’ll have to wait. And while we’re waiting, tell me how’ve things been, Sakusa-san?’

Grateful that he’s not going to be forced into shepherding children into playing anything remotely resembling an actual volleyball match (he suspects he might have more luck teaching cats how to do the conga), he settles into his seat, mouth stretching into something resembling a smile. He lets her chatter about work, and they’re deep in a discussion about his plans post-volleyball (because he can feel the countdown on his career in his creaking bones, his aching sinews) when Atsumu swoops in on him again, like a vulture seeking easy prey.

‘What’cha doin’ with my wife, Omi-omi’, he slips a hand around Kaiyo’s waist mock possessively.

She swats at him. He ducks, raising his hands in surrender.

‘I enjoy talking to an actual adult sometimes, ‘Tsumu!’

‘Oh come on, I already have to share you with ‘Samu most of the time, now you’re leaving me for Omi-kun?!’

‘Dramatic ass.’

‘Please, you chose to marry me.’ He crows, flipping his hair. He looks ridiculous, he always does. Kaiyo seems to agree -

‘And I wonder why sometimes.’ She retorts, Atsumu squawking indignantly at her response, hair ruffling like an offended chick. But Kaiyo ruins the effect of her words by laughing, leaning over to affectionately peck her husband on the cheek.

Sakusa should be annoyed by this display of childishness, but for some inexplicable reason, a frisson of longing bubbles in his chest instead. It’s strange. Marriage or even serious relationships have never been something he’s actively sought. After all, it always seemed horrendously illogical to put all your eggs in one basket and hope nothing trips up – but his heart pays his mind no mind, and the strange sensation continues to trickle down his throat into his chest.

He makes up an excuse to slip to the bathroom for a tactical retreat from this madness.

Then he takes a breath.

Rinse. Lather hands with soap. Rinse. Repeat again .

Familiar motions, bred out of a desire to do things right, transformed into an unbreakable habit. Cold water, washing away soap bubbles.

Right. Now he’s ready for another plunge off the deep end .

He’s a foot past the threshold of the community hall where the party is being held when Miya Shino darts towards him. She’s very clearly her father’s daughter with his penchant for mischief because she dives between his legs, making him stumble in confusion. Then Meian Shugo’s eldest son Makoto barrels towards him, intent on reaching the ball held aloft in Shino’s hands.

Athletic reflexes be damned in the face of a pair of hell-spawn.

‘Shino!’. Kaiyo shouts.

‘Makoto!’ Meian thunders.

Sakusa flails, decidedly without grace, and in his attempt at not squashing the two little devils, he manages to do something even worse .

Much, much worse.

He manages to trip over his feet and bump right into the woman Miya Kaiyo wanted to introduce him to (this, he finds out later). It’s a lost cause – he’s six foot two of pure muscle, dwarfing her by a mile, and she’s carrying a huge box in her hand.

He ends up face planting directly into her chest.

His brain short circuits at the feeling of plush softness and vanilla and – ,

‘Woah - Omi-omi, never thought I’d have to defend the honour of my cousin in law’, Atsumu laughs.

The sudden flare of irritation at Atsumu’s words kickstarts his brain back into gear. Rearing back in alarm, he promptly topples over onto his butt.

‘Uncle ‘kusa, I’m sorry’ Shino screeches, distraught. Makoto merely snivels. Kaiyo is evidently the only one with working brain cells, because she rushes over to help them up.

The-woman-with-the-mysterious-box makes Kaiyo take the box first. It holds precious cargo - Shino’s birthday cake, he later finds out, but because she manages to cling on to it with admirable tenacity, it emerges more or less intact. Then she turns to him, still sprawled on the floor. He scoots away, still dazed.

She offers him a steady hand. ‘Hello’, she says. ‘It seems we’ve gotten off to rather a bad start.’

There is a hint of mirth in her voice, but her eyes are kind.

He takes her hand with a rare smile.

Miya Kaiyo grins behind the cake box. It turns out her daughter is a better matchmaker than either her or (heaven forbid) her husband.

It turns out that Miya Kaiyo wanted to introduce him to her cousin, newly moved to Osaka from Tokyo. She’s a sports journalist, used to cover volleyball even, but for some reason their paths never crossed. She too, is tired of her cousin’s well intentioned meddling, but asks him if he’d like to meet her for dinner one day ‘if only to get Kaiyo off her back, because she’s persistent’, and funnily enough, he agrees.

He doesn’t mind making a new friend, he reasons. She seems decent enough.

They go out for dinner on a Tuesday night. She doesn’t complain when he tells her that due to his diet planned by MSBY’s nutritionist, most restaurants are off limits. Instead, she asks intelligent questions about whether the sources of protein and fibre he’s relying on are varied enough, even suggesting alternatives like tempeh, a Southeast Asian soy product.

He appreciates that.

She doesn’t also fawn over the fact that he’s a professional athlete. That makes sense, considering she’s probably interviewed dozens, if not hundreds of individuals who are just like him. It’s nice - he’s tired of groupies who start dates off by staring at him starry eyed, but ending it with disappointment in their eyes when they discover that he’s just a guy who practices hitting balls enough to do it for a living. And best of all, she doesn’t mind that their conversation sometimes wanes into silence. She doesn’t seem to feel the need to fill empty spaces with inane drivel, nor expect him to entertain her like a circus animal.

He likes that.

So when the night ends, he asks her whether she’d like to have dinner with him again. ‘Just as friends’, he’s quick to clarify.

‘Sure’, she nods, and they bid each other goodnight.

They start having dinner every Tuesday night, subject to their erratic schedules.

He enjoys her company. She’s thoughtful, bringing him home made baked goods like zucchini cake (low sugar, of course), sneaking him chocolate scones for his cheat days after she discovers his hidden sweet tooth. She’s considerate too, never blinking an eye at his compulsive need to make sure everything is just in order, even if the waitress stands behind them aghast when he insists on using disinfectant to wipe down their table. She doesn’t even call him paranoid when he passes her a bottle of sanitizer.

Slowly, he finds himself confiding in her about things he’d maybe only tell his cousin, Motoya. Or at least, the things he would tell Motoya if the guy would only pick up his calls.

‘Sorry’, Motoya texts back after a couple of missed calls. ‘ Practice has been brutal recently.

In a remarkable display of restraint, Sakusa does not point out that EJP Raijin is below MSBY in this season’s rankings.

So he tells her instead about how he’s contemplating retirement, how he’s trying to chart out his next steps career wise. She surprises him by listening to him gravely, pointing out that he can lean on his business degree to possibly land an office job in event management or with sports associations, putting him in touch with one overly excited Kuroo Tetsuro. He tucks her suggestions away carefully at the back of his mind.

It’s nice to have a friend, he tells himself, his lips quirking ever so slightly when her hand grazes his as they walk down the street together.

He invites her to the monthly gatherings that the MSBY players take turns to host for their family and friends, making the excuse that he needs a human shield in any event hosted by Miya Atsumu. She agrees easily, perking up at the chance to spend a Sunday afternoon with her cousin and niece - ‘ and Kaiyo’ll need help, especially since she’s pregnant’, bringing far too many cupcakes topped with the lightest, fluffiest cream cheese frosting he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. Even Miya Osamu gives her a nod of respect after stuffing his face full of her cupcakes. He, unlike his twin, has good taste.

Her brow furls into a concerned frown when he quietly sneaks himself a second cupcake. ‘You don’t have to force yourself to eat it just to be polite! I made it, so I know it has so much sugar and butter it would make your nutritionist weep. If you want, I snuck some zucchini cake in my handbag for you instead.’

He stubbornly shovels a large bite into his mouth. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

She bursts into laughter, leaning forward to wipe away the smudge of frosting on the tip of his nose with her thumb.

Miya Kaiyo shoots him a knowing look across the room, waggling her eyebrows in an eerie imitation of her husband. He fights to keep his face blank, refusing to feed her satisfaction, but fails, a hot flush rising in his cheeks.

‘Traitor’ he mouths at her. Her smirk only deepens.

Fortunately, the gathering ends with no further mishaps, either to his physical well-being or his dignity. Makoto is packed off with Meian, the little boy whining for more time to play with Shino. Hinata and Bokuto prance off for some ridiculous buffet on the other side of town.

As for himself, he hangs back with her to help the Miyas put their house back in order, expelling an amused puff of a laugh from his nose when she forces the very pregnant Kaiyo to ‘stay still, for goodness sake!’ on the couch, dancing around the house with a mop, Shino trailing after her waving a feather duster with gusto. He refrains from telling the little girl that she’s more likely to spread the dust than to actually clear it – at least she’s not causing more havoc this way.

‘I can’t believe I could’ve ever taken this for granted, y’know’, Atsumu comments from behind him, mouth wide in a tender smile. ‘It’s the best feeling in the world to have a wife and kid who loves ya to the moon and back, welcoming ya home after a long day at work. They make everything worth it.’

He’s thrown for a loop at this rare display of emotional vulnerability from the usually obnoxious setter and for once, does not resort to hostility, choosing instead to acknowledge the blonde setter’s words with a tacticum nod.

The Miyas’ apartment is far too chaotic for his tastes, with colourful toys scattered on the floor, mismatched picture frames of the little family on the walls, but laughter hangs in the air, and light spills from the windows, illuminating the warmth and love and fondness in every look and word the Miyas gift each other.

His father gave him a compass when he was a child, as a present to celebrate his first match. His mother clucked her tongue because it’s a strange gift for a child - delicate, fiddly, its gold exterior tarnished with age. But his father chuckled and told him that he’s old enough to appreciate that the compass is his father’s, and his father’s father before that, an heirloom to remind their sons to work hard at everything they do, and to keep their hearts on course, pointing north.

And Sakusa thinks he’s done that. He’s worked and worked and worked at perfecting his skills in his chosen sport. He’s accepted his solo course, so laser focused on carving out a career in professional sports leaves little time or space for intimate relationships. Not to mention the fact that watching the disaster of Atsumu’s early years of marriage from the sidelines, made him swear off similar heartbreak for himself.

But there are times when he can’t help but feel a little lonely - when he has to struggle to find a date for MSBY events, when he has no one to celebrate the holidays with, when he goes home every day to his neat, cold apartment with space for only one occupant.

The compass in his heart creaks. It starts to turn a few degrees just off-course.

‘Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to get married?’ he asks her as he’s walking her home that night.

‘I did, once upon a time’, she shrugs carelessly. He misses the sudden strain in her smile. ‘Why do you ask?’

He stays silent for a while, the length of the quiet street giving him time to properly ferment his response. He considers the effects of adding splashes of colour to his dull life, weighs it against his long cultivated instinct to avoid the potential chaos of any emotional entanglements. He finds himself suddenly craving the sweetness of cream cheese frosting, and wonders how it’d be like to come home to light, fluffy cakes baked by her hands.

When they reach her apartment block, she tilts her head at him curiously, obviously awaiting his answer. He tugs his words together, strings his swirling thoughts into a decipherable sentence.

‘Because Atsumu and Kaiyo seem happy together. And I wondered if we’d be happy together too.’

He watches her puzzle over his words, her brow furling into a confused frown. ‘And I wasn’t proposing, by the way’, he feels the need to clarify.

She snorts. ‘I didn’t think so.’ With a directness that he very much appreciates, she looks at him squarely and asks - ‘Are you asking me out, Sakusa Kiyoomi?’

He meets her gaze. ‘Yes, I am. We’ve known each other for a decently long time for me to conclude our personalities are well matched, and we’re both mature adults who respect each other’s work schedules and commitments. And if you don’t mind that I can be overly blunt and quiet sometimes - ‘

‘ - which I don’t’, she interjects, with a chuckle.

‘I think we might be happy together’, he concludes, with a small smile that’s becoming more common in her presence.

He allows her the space to turn his proposition over in her mind.

‘Alright’, she finally says. ‘I guess we can give it a go’.

So much for Atsumu accusing him of having a heart made out of tin. Flesh and muscle works overtime to pump blood into his cheeks as she slots her fingers between his and gives his hand a squeeze.

Being in a relationship isn’t too different from what they had before.

They still keep to their standing date to meet every Tuesday (schedules permitting, of course). But now he doesn’t have to make up excuses to ask her out on outings that aren’t food related. At first he tries his best to adhere to dating norms, arranging for romantic dates at candlelit restaurants, buying her massive bouquets that make her sneeze.

‘It’s fine, Omi’, she tells him gently after they spend another uncomfortable evening in a dimly lit restaurant eating off plates too large for the laughably tiny food portions. ‘I’m happy just hanging out with you. You don’t have to go out of your way to impress me, I’m not holding on to any ridiculous expectations of you’. He stops after that, glad he doesn’t have to suffer another night trying to decipher which utensil to be used at which course, or having to put on starched formal wear to yet another stuffy restaurant.

She’s noticeably happier when they accompany each other on trips to the supermarket, each holding a stack of coupons to take advantage of the latest deals. She shields him from any overly zealous obaa-sans with gusto, throwing elbows and using her grocery basket as a makeshift battering ram before they crowd close enough to him to trigger his anxiety. He helps her reach for things on the top shelf ‘to prevent her from scaling the grocery shelves like an overgrown teenager’ , he snarks. He’s worried his attempt at teasing lands wrong, but she snorts and thanks him good naturedly anyways.

On the weekends, they develop a habit of meal prepping for the rest of the week at her apartment. His kitchen lacks the fancy mixers and blenders that she has, and in all honesty, his dark, spartan apartment lacks the sunlight and warmth that spills into her apartment from the windows, so it’s only logical that they should spend the bulk of their time there. It’s an oasis of calm for him, chopping vegetables and chicken into small cubes, sautéing them for the week ahead, while she bustles around whipping eggs and flour and milk together to form another delectable cake that they always end up sharing at the end of the day.

He starts to dread matches away from home a little more than he used to. While hotel rooms are as spartan as his own apartment, he doesn’t have the option of heading over to her apartment to bask in her quiet warmth. His meals come in styrofoam boxes instead of the glass tupperware she stacks on her kitchen counter, and he turns up his nose at store bought cakes that his teammates offer him, only craving for those baked in her oven. He even starts looking up to the stands for a glimpse of her, only to remember that she can’t be there to cheer the team on.

‘Cheer up, Omi-omi! We’ll have a home match next week’, Atsumu tells him jovially.

‘It doesn’t matter either way to me’, he mutters resentfully, but the setter only grins.

‘Trust me, it matters a great deal to have the girl ya love cheering ya on, y’know?’

He stalks off to the changing room, ignoring the peals of laughter from the blonde annoyance he leaves in his wake.

The tight coil of loneliness only loosens when he sees her waiting for him at the station when he returns. She ignores his protests to snag his suitcase away from him, the case looking comically large against her small frame, but she uses it effectively as a tank to force a path through the crowd, and drag him back to her apartment in no time.

‘You need a home cooked dinner to make up for all those industrially prepared food you must’ve been eating this entire week’, she tells him, bustling around the kitchen, only stilling when he takes her shoulders in his hands.

‘Are you happy?’ he asks, when he cups her face to carefully brush the dusting of flour on her cheek away.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ She laughs, the sound fond.

‘Just checking in’, he tells her, closing his eyes as she pulls him down towards her for a kiss.

All in all, it’s a happy, uncomplicated relationship. He likes it that way.

If his heart were a compass, he’d suspect it’s broken because instead of pointing north, it starts to inch inexorably towards her.

But there are strange quirks he notices about her that niggles at his brain.

She refuses point blank to check out the planetarium when she attends an event held at the adjacent Art Museum as his date, professing to have an irrational dislike for stars.

‘They’re just balls of burning gas and light ’ , he points out. ‘What could you possibly have against them?’

There’s a flicker of irritation in her eyes that he does not miss. ‘I know it’s stupid but just humour me, ok?’ Her tone verges on a snarl, before she storms away, ostensibly to the bathroom to freshen herself up.

She returns later with an apology for her behaviour. Though he’s confused, he respects her privacy and does not push for an answer.

He’s at her apartment preparing meals for the week ahead when the doorbell rings and an enormous bouquet of white lilies are deposited into her arms. She stares dumbly at the flowers, their sickly sweet scent permeating the air.

His brow furls. ‘Today isn’t your birthday, is it?’

His words jolt her out of her trance. ‘No’, she answers, before inexplicably storming to the living room and dumping the bouquet with a vengeance on the coffee table. Pollen flutters to the floor, delicate white petals crushed in her hands.

‘It’s nothing’, she tells him as he shoots her a questioning look.

When she disappears to the washroom, he peeks at the card. There’s no name on it, just a simple message - ‘consider it, please?’

He doesn’t question her about it when she returns to the kitchen. She doesn’t offer him any answers either.

He finds himself wondering about them.

It was refreshing at first to have a relationship free of any expectations. She never asks for more than he’s willing to give, seems happy enough to slot herself into the pockets of time he offers, only attends his games when he gives her tickets, doesn’t get upset with him when he inevitably forgets to text.

But therein lies the issue, doesn’t it?

If she truly likes him, wants to pursue a relationship seriously with him, shouldn’t she be demanding more than the crumbs of affection and attention he shows her? They’re both past the age of thirty, shouldn’t she be looking to get married and settle down, maybe spawn a demon child or two?

He’s tried raising it with her once, but she responded with confusion.

‘I don’t have any expectations of you, Omi’, she’d replied. ‘We both have busy lives, so whatever you’re willing to give, I’m happy to take’.

There’s technically nothing wrong about her answer. It’s wholly considerate and kind - very much her.

Still, it makes him wonder - if her heart were a compass, would it point towards him?

He manages to hold his tongue until she gets another delivery of flowers.

This time he opens the door when the doorbell rings, assaulted by the heady scent of lillies, pollen smeared on his sleeves. This time, there’s a name on the card.

Oikawa Tooru .

It takes a couple of seconds for him to realise why the name is so familiar. It’s the same name Hinata and Kageyama used to buzz about every Olympics - the famous Argentinian setter who started his career as a schoolboy from Miyagi, a prodigious setter who never made it to Nationals in high school, refused to give up and forged his way to success in a whole new land, continents away.

‘How do you know Oikawa’? He asks her. ‘And why does he keep sending your flowers?’

‘He’s just an old acquaintance,’ she admits. ‘He’s just sending the flowers to persuade me to attend his wedding.’

His forehead crinkles in confusion, and he tries his best not to leap to conclusions, but since she doesn’t seem to be forthcoming with further clarification, he presses her further.

‘And why won’t you attend his wedding?’

Her shoulders slouch in obvious reluctance as she turns away, focusing her attention on the mixing bowl. But Kiyoomi isn’t easily deterred, so he firmly takes the mixing bowl from her and sets it on the countertop. He raises an eyebrow at her, clearly seeking an answer.

She huffs a sigh through her nose. ‘Because he’s getting married to my ex-boyfriend, ok?’

He blinks. That was unexpected.

‘It happened half a decade ago. Ancient history. I’m over it.’ She mutters to the floor.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

‘Because it’s none of your business’, she snaps, grabbing the mixing bowl again, beating the batter with a vengeance.

‘You’re going to ruin the texture if you whisk it too hard’, he tugs the bowl away from her again. She refuses to relinquish her grip.

‘Leave me alone!’ she snarls, yanking the bowl back. Confused by her sudden fury, he lets go of the bowl, only for her to stumble back, eyes wide as she loses her balance, knocking her head against the countertop.

He drops down onto his knees, not even noticing the batter soaking into his pants, combing through her hair, scouring the back of her neck for any sign of injury. It’s only when he’s satisfied that her fall has resulted in nothing more than a bruise that should go away by tomorrow that he notices her tears soaking the front of his shirt.

‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’ he asks, wiping her tears away with a batter splattered thumb.

She hangs her head, body still shaking from her sobs. ‘I’ve already made such a mess of things – don’t want you to have to listen to my nonsense – am just bein’ stupid, that’s all - ’.

He patiently waits until her sobs dissolves into mere sniffles before speaking. ‘I want you to tell me what’s wrong. If you’re up to it.’

So through more broken sobs and hiccups, he listens to the tale of Iwaizumi Hajime, a boy who was her world, who only realised he was always in love with Oikawa Tooru, a fortnight before she and he were to wed. Her voice wavers as she tells him the full story of the white lilies, explains that her irrational dislike for stars stems from the reminder that she chose to give her world up to a boy-king burning brighter than the stars in the night sky combined.

He waits until her words run out, and she’s leaning against him, broken and pliant in a way that makes his heart ache.

‘I wish you told me about it earlier’, he tells her, tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ear. ‘That you would trust me enough to tell me about the things that hurt you in the past. And I wonder about the state of our relationship if you don’t even trust me enough for that’.

‘That’s unfair. You never asked - ‘

‘How could I ask about something I didn’t even know about?’ He takes hold of her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. Hurt and anger and shock simmer in her eyes, each swirl of emotion fighting for dominance.

‘I didn’t want to expect anything more from this relationship than you were willing to give’, she admits after a pause.

She’s scared of being hurt again. He doesn’t miss the subtext.

‘Shall I tell you what I want from you then? I have a list, if you’re willing to hear me out’ he asks, with a smile that’s growing more common the more time he spends around her.

She nods, but keeps her gaze stubbornly on the ground.

He takes his time to choose his words. He’s never been verbose - not like Atsumu or Bokuto or even easygoing Motoya, choosing to only say what is strictly necessary, using the precise amount of words, nothing more, nothing less. But this is a situation that requires more emotion rather than precision, so he inhales a shaky breath, letting it fuel the sentiment in his heart as he exhales.

‘First. I want you to trust that I’ll never hurt you like he did’, he says, and with a self-deprecating smile he adds - ‘I don’t have any childhood friends to be secretly in love with besides Motoya, and I’m hardly going to be pining after my flake of a cousin’.

That triggers the corners of her lips to tilt upwards, and encouraged, he carries on.

‘Second. I want you to be open with me about what you want - your dreams, your expectations of me. I want to hear them all because you’re important to me.’

That makes her flush pink, and she sneaks a glance up towards him.

‘Third. I want to wake up each morning with you by my side and come home to you every night. I want to watch you fight cranky old ladies in the supermarket in my honour, be the first person to taste test all your baking experiments - even the failed ones that are only fit to feed Atsumu. I want us to be happy together. Forever, if possible.’

He lifts her bodily into his lap, brushes his nose against her cheek. ‘Now that I’ve told you what I’m willing to give, is that too much for you to take?’ he murmurs against her lips.

Her blush blossoms into a deep scarlet, but her eyes are iridescent pools of startled delight. She doesn’t speak, sealing her answer instead with her lips.

His heart’s compass is irretrievably broken, the needle melted into place. It doesn’t point north any longer, no ��– it’s always going to point towards her.

They move in together after that.

He gives up his apartment, professing to prefer the warmth and light of hers. The Miyas help him move in even when he tries to refuse their help, Atsumu helping him to lug cardboard boxes up the stairs, Kaiyo helping him sort out his belongings, sorting them into his allocated cupboards.

When they’re done, they order pizza and she bakes a cake to celebrate. ‘An impromptu housewarming’ she says, toasting Miya Kaiyo with a slice of pepperoni pizza with a laugh.

Kiyoomi shares a slice of chocolate cake with Atsumu in complete defiance of their nutritionist’s advice, jostling forks over the very last bite. She and Kaiyo scold them teasingly, telling them to behave like they’re actually thirty and not teenagers on the cusp of adulthood. Atsumu pulls at Kaiyo’s ponytail in retaliation. He refuses to engage in similar tomfoolery, reddening instead when she reaches over to ruffle his curls.

‘This is nice’, he remarks to Atsumu later, when their significant others are out of earshot, gossiping and giggling about something or other.

‘It is, isn’t it’, Atsumu replies, a dopey smile on his face as he stares at his wife.

It truly is , Kiyoomi thinks, staring at her.

He takes over most of the cleaning, it clears his mind, he tells her. So to split the chores evenly, she insists on doing their laundry and cooking, and he doesn’t even nag her too much when she forgets to split the white and coloured clothes and stains some of his shirts once in a while.

Wedding invites printed on expensive cream paper and bouquets of white lilies start to litter their doorstep every day. He tries his best to dispose of them before they reach her sight, but every so often, he comes home too late, catches her wilt as she brushes white petals from their doorstep.

‘I don’t blame either of them’, she tells him, after he asks if she’d like him to call Iwaizumi and tell him to drown himself in a vat of batter, thank you very much.

‘You’re too kind to both of them’ he says plainly, as they share a pot of tea, his head pillowed in her lap. ‘I would’ve just set them both on fire and left them to rot.’

‘Hajime loved Tooru for almost all his life - I just wanted to see him happy in the end. Argh - I sound so stupid and sentimental like an old grandma, just laugh at me already’ she complains, hiding her burning cheeks in her hands.

‘You aren’t stupid for being kind.’ He hums, quiet and low. ‘It’s why I love you so.’

He relishes the soft light dawning in her eyes, captures her whispered affection with careful fingers, spins them into gold.

He has to turn off the stove to answer the door when some rude lout bangs on their front door far too early on a Sunday morning.

With his coldest sneer and thinking resentfully about his breakfast, Kiyoomi swings the door open, fully intent on looming over the disturbance with his full height, but takes a step back instead when he finds one Iwaizumi Hajime hanging off the door knob.

‘Hello’, Iwaizumi looks up at him confusedly.

‘Hi’, he nods a greeting back at his old Olympic team trainer. They stare at each other.

‘Eh - I think I’ve got the wrong house’, Iwaizumi scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Sorry about that, Sakusa-san.’

He’s about to close the door in Iwaizumi’s face when her voice chimes in, clear as a bell.

‘Who’s at the door, Omi?’

The shorter man shoots him a look of barely contained rage as he uses his bulk to push his way through the doorway towards her. Kiyoomi tries to stop him, protesting that he can’t barge into someone’s private property without an invitation like that, but it’s as futile an endeavour as trying to block the path of a raging storm.

Iwaizumi reaches her first, raising a hand as if to cup her face by instinct, before letting it fall back limply by his side. ‘You weren’t answering any of my messages or calls’, he says. ‘I was worried about you.’

She stares at him blankly for a moment. Then fire sparks in her eyes.

‘Well, as you can see, I’m completely fine’, she replies, jaw and fists clenched. ‘You don’t need to do a welfare check on me, we’re not involved anymore.’

The scorching pain in Iwaizumi’s eyes is evident, even from a distance away. ‘Yeah. Well. I thought we were friends. You didn’t even tell me you were dating again’. He shoves his hands in his pockets, tossing another heated glance in Kiyoomi’s way.

‘I didn’t think I needed to update my ex-fiance about my love life, especially not when he’s trying to drag me to attend his wedding that I already said I’m not going to attend’, she bites back.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth, then closes it with a resounding snap. ‘I’m sorry’, he says, with heartbreaking honesty. ‘I told Tooru that you probably didn’t want to hear from us, but he insisted and I got worried when I didn’t hear from you for months’.

Kiyoomi can see her glare soften into molten sympathy. The tension in the air crackles with electricity. He’s neither blind nor stupid – he can sense the years of longing and love not quite lost between them.

He thinks she loves him, Sakusa Kiyoomi – weird habits, cold disposition and all, but the doubt clogging up his arteries and veins is enough to make his heart seize – and if she’s going to break his heart, he’d much rather she not do it in front of Iwaizumi.

‘Hajime - ‘ she begins to say, and at this point he jumps in -

‘I’ll excuse myself so you both have the chance to catch up’, he says, waving aside her protests as he slips on his shoes. Even in his haste to leave the house, he clicks his tongue at the mess Iwaizumi left behind at their genkan , kneeling down to arrange their shoes, only standing up when he’s satisfied they’re neatly arranged back in place.

‘Omi, you don’t have to leave’, she says, holding the door open.

He shrugs his shoulders at her, nose and mouth already obscured by his usual face mask. ‘Let me know when you’d like me to come back’.

If she’d like him to come back. She doesn’t chase after him, after all.

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, but the golden sunshine feels more like a taunt rather than a balm to his mood. His stomach growls, making him long for the scrambled eggs he was in the middle of frying before he was so rudely interrupted, but his growing sense of nausea keeps him from seeking out an alternative meal.

Instead, he makes his way to the park, sits on a relatively clean bench. There are couples a-plenty, strolling around hand in hand, families picnicking merrily around him, compounding the growing chasm of loneliness in his chest. He tries to count the seconds by his breaths, tries not to let the minutes expand the insecurities crawling, inch by inch up his throat.

He sits alone. Poised, yet short of breath.

He wonders if Iwaizumi Hajime has finally figured out that stars, for all their brilliance, cannot compensate for their lack of human kindness. And if so, he wonders which direction her heart would point towards if it were a compass - whether it’s as broken as his, and whether it points towards Iwaizumi or him.

He waits.

Then his phone buzzes.

Ah.

She’s asking him to come home. He does not dare to overthink the meaning of that single word. But he does not hide that his steps back home are lighter than when he left, though the key in his hand shakes so hard it takes him three tries to fit it into the keyhole. He does not try to suffocate the seed of hope budding in the soft earth of his heart when he realises Iwaizumi’s shoes have vanished without a trace.

“Omi?”

She’s waiting for him, slipping warm arms around his waist, tangling her fingers in his curls, ignoring his complaints about letting himself wash his hands first.

‘Am I silly for missing you, even though it’s only been an hour?’

He refuses to be distracted by the affection in her voice.

‘But what about Iwaizumi?’ he frowns, hesitation still poisoning the well of thoughts in his mind.

Perhaps it’s a testament to how well they’ve grown to know each other that she doesn’t need to read the silent subtext of his statement. She smiles, bringing his palm flat against her chest, does not answer until his pulse matches the steady beat of her heart.

‘I love you , Omi’, she tells him. Her heartbeat does not quicken, her smile does not waver. ‘You told me not to long ago to always be upfront with you about what I want so I’m going to be honest with you now - Iwaizumi is only ever going to be my past, and I want you from now on’.

If her heart were a compass, the steady beat of her heart tells him, it would point only towards him.

‘That is – if you’ll have me’, she adds, a shadow of doubt suddenly appearing on her face.

‘Don’t be ridiculous’, he scoffs, burying his nose to breathe in the familiar scent of vanilla in her hair. ‘Who else would I rather have than you?’

Who else would he be lucky enough to call his home – a woman with a heart large enough to fit a whole ocean within its depths, with kindness in her eyes and mirth in her smiles.

She laughs in spite of the salt in her throat and water in her eyes, leaning on her toes in a vain attempt to reach his face. He lifts her into her arms, laughs when she squeals indignantly as her feet only find air, toppling them both onto the couch where he can seat her between his legs, press kisses to her cheeks.

She’ll tell him later that Iwaizumi came looking for her because he’s never outgrown his overprotective streak, and he’s truly happy for her - for them, because they’ve both moved on with their separate lives. And she ended up agreeing to attend his and Oikawa’s wedding on one condition – that an invitation is extended to him, Sakusa Kiyoomi, to attend with her as his date.

He’ll tell her later that he’s happy to attend the wedding with her, just not to expect him to smile in any wedding pictures. And more importantly, he’ll tell her in his plain way that the list of expectations he has of their relationship has expanded yet again.

He’ll lay out his dreams of a pair of matching golden rings to bind them to lifelong companionship, of hellspawn of their own and a dog, maybe two.

He’ll ask her if it’s too much for him to ask of her.

She’ll tell him that she’s willing to give him everything he asks for and more.

It’s Miya Shino’s ninth birthday party.

He’s retired from volleyball proper, and is thankful he insisted on getting a business degree from Chuo University before going pro, because it comes in handy working alongside Kuroo Tetsuro at the volleyball association.

Miya Atsumu insists on inviting him to the party, though he supposes he’s invited not by virtue of being a former teammate, but because he’s also Shino’s uncle by marriage now. The thought that he’s related to Miya Atsumu, however distant and most definitely not by blood, still fills him with dread.

The birthday girl is a little less imbued with her father’s chaotic energy this time, though she still squeals when her birthday cake is unveiled – though to be fair it’s less a cake, more a tower of cupcakes with cream cheese frosting spelling out her name.

‘Thank you Auntie!’ Shino cries, flinging her arms around her. Kiyoomi flinches at the sight of anyone, even his nine year old niece, coming in close contact with his extremely pregnant wife, but a sharp glare from her subdues any complaint he dares to make.

He fusses over her the minute he has the chance to corral her away from the clutches of Miya Shino. ‘Are your feet hurting? What about your back? I don’t know why you insist on walking so much when you know the doctor said you should be on bed rest soon’.

‘Stop fussing, Omi! The baby and I will be fine’, she replies, exasperated. ‘This is the last social event scheduled before I pop and I’m determined to enjoy it while I can.’ Then she scuttles off faster than he imagines her frame allows, leaving him floundering in her wake.

‘Just let her be’, Miya Atsumu laughs, slapping his back. Kiyoomi is on the verge of pointing out - pot, meet kettle, reminding Atsumu that the last time Kaiyo was pregnant, Atsumu didn’t stop fretting until she went into labour and delivered a healthy baby boy. But then he remembers the grief etched into Atsumu’s face when Kaiyo miscarried in the stands during a game, so he holds his tongue and rolls his eyes instead.

‘I’m just worried she’s pushing herself too hard’, he admits in a rare bout of vulnerability.

Atsumu smiles, genuine for once. ‘Those crazy women, eh? They’re always gonna drive us up the wall, but they’re worth every minute of it.’

He looks at her, belly swollen with their first child, peach blossoms blooming in her cheeks. His past self would never imagine that he’d find this much joy and contentment in being a husband and a father, but then again his past self was satisfied coming home alone day after day to a cold apartment. He knows better now - life is so better when he has her, sharing stories of their day of over steaming mugs of tea at their kitchen countertop, listening to her hum as she bakes treats for the weekend, warmth and laughter and love abound in their cosy apartment for two, soon to be three.

So feeling vaguely drunk though he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in the months since she whispered during their anniversary dinner that they were expecting, Kiyoomi laughs aloud.

Atsumu lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

‘She really, really is’, Kiyoomi says, breaking into an unguarded smile.

If you wanna know more about the backstory of the reader - check out The Astrophile, and if you wanna know more about Miya Atsumu’s relationship with his wife, check out Storm Chaser.

As always, reblogs and/or comments are so very appreciated <3

Taglist:

@snoozless @softsakusa @moondaius (yeon i’ll be shameless and tag you cos I know you’re an Omi stan!)

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inevitableconfusion · 4 years ago

Text

Thank you all so much for your response to part one - it’s been incredible!! This turned into an actual beast (I’m talking like 10 pages in microsoft word for just this part) so I have to split it up again. The final chapter will be up by the end of the week! We’re gonna end this thing on a happy note, you guys!!

All Left AU - fanfiction | part one | part two (here) | part three Creator of the au: @sabertoothwalrus (Here’s the post that started it all - cw: blood, gore)

Read on ao3

He wakes up on a Tuesday.

It starts out slowly, like waking up from a deep sleep that keeps trying to pull him back in. There are voices, quiet and calm, from somewhere near his feet. There’s a rhythmic beeping off to his left. Something tickles his nose, and it takes him a second to realize there’s a tube on his face. Beyond the tube, he smells antiseptic and soap, and recognition slowly sets in.

A hospital. He’s in a hospital. He takes a big breath, and lets out a groan.

A chair scrapes against the floor and footsteps hurry across the room. There’s a gentle hand on his cheek. “Adrien?”

His eyelids are heavy, but he manages to blink his eyes open, squinting against the fluorescent light. His sight is fuzzy at first, but there’s a familiar blue gaze above him, and everything starts coming back to him all at once. The fight. Hawkmoth. The wish.

“Ma-” he breaks into a coughing fit, voice scratchy and dry from disuse. Sabine appears with a glass of water and they help him sit up, tipping the rim gently against his lips. The water is cold and soothing, and he takes several long, grateful gulps until the glass is empty.

Before he can try to speak again, Tom comes back into the room with the doctor. “Mister Agreste, glad to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” he croaks and clears his throat. “How long was I out?”

“About a week.” He jolts. A week? “Miss Dupain-Cheng, could you please step into the hallway? I need to ask him a few questions while he’s awake.”

Marinette seems to hesitate, but the doctor reassures her that it will only be a few minutes, and she eventually nods before turning back to him. “I’ll be right outside, okay? As soon as he’s done, I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” he whispers. Her eyebrows scrunch up a bit and she hesitates again, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze. He squeezes back, and she turns and follows her parents out of the room. Everything feels a little colder as soon as she’s gone.

The doctor pulls over a laptop stand and slips some reading glasses over his nose. “Are you feeling any pain, Mr. Agreste?”

“No.” He doesn’t feel anything, actually. He looks down at his lap, where his left hand is fiddling with the hospital blanket, an IV taped against his wrist and an oxygen monitor clamped on his finger. He can see thick white bandages in the corner of his eye, peeking out from under the sleeve hanging off his right shoulder. “Just… a little sore.”

“That’s okay,” the doctor says, “soreness is to be expected. But if you start feeling lots of pain, tell me or the nurses and we can give you a stronger medication.” He pauses, taking his glasses off and looking Adrien in the eye for the first time since he entered the room. His expression is solemn and his voice is quiet, almost apologetic. “We tried our best to save your arm, but the damage was too extensive. The bone had been crushed in a couple of different areas and some of the nerves and blood vessels were pretty badly frayed –”

The words fade into the background as his mind flashes back to that day with excruciating clarity. The musty smell of the lair. His mother in a glass coffin. Hawkmoth charging at him with terrifying speed. Pain and more blood than he’s ever seen before, screaming, a flash of light as he de-transformed, his arm –

The doctor’s hand on his shin snaps him back to reality. The beeping of the heart monitor has picked up noticeably, so he closes his eyes and takes deep, shaky breaths until it slows down to a more acceptable pace. “Mr. Agreste, are you alright?”

He winces at the name. “Please, call me Adrien.” There’s a stinging behind his eyes and he can’t bring himself to look at the doctor, instead choosing to stare off to the side.

After a pause, the doctor slowly straightens back up. “I… I apologize, Adrien. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He doesn’t say anything in response; the sound of typing fills the room. A few inconsequential questions later, and the doctor leaves as quickly as he came in.

Marinette walks in as soon as the doctor is gone, just as she promised, nervously fiddling with something in her hands. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed, bites her lip for a second, and then holds out her hand to him. He takes a sharp breath. The silver ring shines beautifully even in the cold light of the hospital room. He can feel it calling out to his soul, an invisible siren song pulling him forward.

“I wanted to make sure you got this back. If… if you want it.”

He reaches out tentatively. The metal is surprisingly warm, cradled safely in the palm of her hand. He blinks back tears, curling his fingers around the miraculous. “Thank you, Marinette.”

She lets out the breath she was holding. “Here, I’ll…” she trails off, gently grabbing his hand so she can slip the ring on his finger. Her hands are shaking. Even after the ring is in place, her touch lingers, clearly lost in thought. It must be a painful memory for her, too.

He threads his fingers between hers and squeezes their palms together. Thank you. She offers a small, sad smile and squeezes back before letting go. Everything feels a little more right in the world.

She reaches up and touches her earring. “Plagg and Tikki… all of the kwamis have been dormant since… for the past two weeks. I don’t think they’re gone forever, but I don’t know when…”

She trails off and he frowns, his thumb tracing the underside of the silver band. Plagg is gone. Maybe not forever, but probably for a while, at least. He didn’t even get to say goodbye.

He curls his hand into a fist. “And… and fa – Hawkmoth?”

She takes a moment to speak, as if trying to figure out how to answer him. “He… he’s in a coma. Here in the hospital.” Another beat of silence. “Do you want to see hi-”

“No,” he cuts her off. He doesn’t want to see that man. He doesn’t want to see him ever again.

Marinette doesn’t say anything in response, but he knows she understands. Of all people, she would understand. She gently touches his hand, uncurling his fist into something looser, and he relaxes. He’s always found comfort in her touch – from both sides of her. Marinette. Ladybug. Two of the most important people in his life, now one.

“How many people know about our identities now?”

She frowns, and he notices for the first time just how exhausted she looks. Like she hasn’t slept the entire week since the fight. “Everyone.”

“What?” His stomach drops. Everyone?

“The… when the ambulance came, so did the police.” Her voice is thick and she grips his hand tighter. “I guess your father confessed when he called, because they knew, somehow. They just – they saw me, and then they saw you, and I didn’t – I couldn’t –” A tear slips down her cheek, but she blinks quickly and wipes it away. “And then the media caught wind, and it was just… chaos.” She closes her eyes, her voice a broken whisper. “There were so many people.”

Everyone. They all know who he is. Who they are. They all know what happened. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He feels so lost. But then, he feels the weight of the ring on his finger – solid, smooth, and real. She gave it back to him. And she still has her earrings.

That… that has to mean something, right?

He looks at her carefully. “So, what do we do?”

She sniffles and opens her eyes. Her expression is firm. Steady. Determined. And even through the tears, it’s just so Ladybug. “We face it, together.”

Adrien’s heart stutters. Together. He lifts his hand to cup her face, his thumb brushing over the soft skin under her eye. He swallows the lump in his throat. “For the record, I’m really glad it’s you.”

Her brows scrunch up and she takes a shaky breath. She lifts a hand to cover his, pressing it against her cheek. “I’m glad it’s you, too.”

He gives her a watery smile, feeling his own tears well up. “It’s you and me against the world, m’lady.”

“Always,” she whispers.

He feels his face crumble as everything comes crashing down. She throws her arms around him, pulling him closer, hugging him tighter, until there’s no space between them. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, finally letting out all of the emotions he’s been holding back.

He’s alive. She’s alive. They made it.

His father dies on a Thursday.

It doesn’t really come as a shock; he’s been waiting for the news since he first woke up two days ago. The doctors have been doing everything they can to keep him alive, but Adrien knew that nothing would help in the end. The wish saved his life, so it would take his father’s. The universe has to balance out, and nothing can change that.

What does come as a shock is information that he’s given directly after.

His head shoots up, eyes wide. “Nathalie is missing?” He hadn’t even thought to ask about Nathalie, given everything that’s been going on.

Officer Raincomprix pauses, then slowly closes his notepad. “We… have reason to believe that Miss Sancouer was working with Hawkmoth, under the name ‘Mayura’.”

“What?!” Marinette shrieks, leaping to her feet so quickly that her chair knocks over. “Why are we just being told this now?”

The officer holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, but since you can’t turn into Ladybug and Chat Noir right now, we could not risk having you try to go after her. It seems Ms. Sancoeur has fled the country, but we are doing everything we can to track her down and bring her back. Justice will prevail in the end!”

“She has a miraculous! We don’t know when they’re going to become active again, so the fact that she’s still out there means she’s still dangerous! And now that she knows our identities, don’t you think she’s going to come after us first?”

“Not to worry. By then, we’ll either have her locked up, or you’ll be Ladybug again. Either way, it wouldn’t be smart for her to try anything.”

“I am still Ladybug. And you have a duty to-”

“Wait!” Adrien shouts, interrupting them both. There’s a strange mix of cold emptiness and white-hot rage boiling up inside him. He feels his body shaking. “Wait. Did Gorilla know about this, too?”

Officer Raincomprix’s eyebrows furrow. “Who?”

“The Gorilla! My bodyguard!”

“Oh. No, he has been cleared of all involvement and released.”

Adrien rubs his eyes and then pinches the bridge of his nose, doing his best to hold off the sudden, unwelcome tears building up. “Okay. So, two out of the three people living in my house were secretly trying to hurt me for years. Got it. Cool.”

“Ad-”

“I need a moment,” he snaps, and then sighs and softens his tone. “Please.”

They are quiet for a few seconds, and the policeman offers his thanks for their time before leaving, closing the door with a soft click. Adrien still has his eyes closed, but he can feel Marinette’s concerned gaze on him.

“Are you okay?”

His shoulders sag, feeling heavier and heavier as the day goes on. He leans back against the pillows on his bed and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t feel like crying anymore, he just feels tired. “It’s… a lot to take in.” He rolls his head to the side and gives her an apologetic look.

Sometimes he’s thankful that she can read him so well. She offers a gentle smile and grabs his hand, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m gonna head home a little early today. See if you can get some rest before your therapy session, alright? I’m only a text away.”

She starts to pull away, but before she can get too far, he tugs her hand closer and kisses her knuckles. Thank you.

She stares for a bit too long, and he realizes belatedly that that was a very Chat Noir thing to do. Warmth crawls up his neck and over his cheeks, but there’s a fondness on her face that he’s not used to seeing. “See you tomorrow, kitty.”

Silence fills the room after she leaves, and it would be enough to drive him crazy if he had the energy to think. Instead, he lies back and closes his eyes.

Father is dead.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. Just as quickly as the thought comes, the memory of whatever nightmare he was having fades into nothing. He’s not sure how long he managed to sleep. A few minutes? A few hours?

A gentle knock on the door tells him it was the latter. It’s time for his therapy session. He’s not ready. He’s never ready.

The physical therapy they’ve been having him do every day has been tough. His muscles are sore from a week of being unconscious, and his right shoulder hurts with even the barest movement. He has to re-learn how to do everything with only one arm – going to the bathroom, carrying large items, writing with his non-dominant hand. Even the once-simple act of tying his shoes or buttoning a shirt has left him in frustrated tears a few times.

Yet, the emotional therapy is so much harder. It’s difficult to turn his jumble of thoughts into words, much less coherent ideas that he can then dissect and analyze. And every time the counselor tries to bring up his father, he completely shuts down. Progress is slow and mentally taxing, and tonight is no different.

He finishes his dinner in a daze and Louise – one of his nurses – comes in. She sets his empty plate to the side and starts unwrapping the bandages on his arm to check on the stitches. She tries to make small-talk, but Adrien only answers half-heartedly, and eventually the conversation peters out. He feels a little bad; she’s a very kind lady, but he just doesn’t have the energy to talk. All he wants to do now is sleep.

After re-wrapping the bandages, Louise pulls an envelope out of the pocket of her scrubs and wordlessly hands it to him. He takes it, tossing her a questioning glance. “It’s a get-well-soon letter.” She picks up the dinner tray and gives him a small smile. “We thought it might make you feel better.”

She walks out of the room and he stares down at the letter, debating with himself. The exhaustion wins out in the end and he sighs, setting the unopened letter on the bedside table. He’ll get to it tomorrow.

The funeral is on a Friday.

His Aunt Amelie has insisted on have at least a bare-bones ceremony, because even though no one wants to honor the man who’d terrorized Paris for the past three years, she still wants the people close to him to have the opportunity to say their proper goodbyes. And by people, she means him.

Adrien doesn’t want to go, but his counselor thinks it could be cathartic, an opportunity to get everything off his chest. The hospital releases him an hour before the funeral starts, and even in death, he realizes he’s still stuck under his father’s thumb.

When he walks into the lobby, Gorilla is sitting by the door, and he feels a flood of relief. The man stands as soon as he spots Adrien, and his stoic face melts into something softer before engulfing him in a hug.

Gorilla isn’t officially his bodyguard anymore. He isn’t being paid; he has no obligation to be here. He has the right to uproot his life and start fresh somewhere new. Adrien wouldn’t blame him if he did. And yet, here he is.

It… it means a lot.

They step out of the doors together and are immediately swarmed by the paparazzi, the sound of inaudibly shouted questions and incessant camera shutters filling the air. Thankfully, Gorilla manages to mostly block his body from view, and they’re in the car just a few steps later.

The funeral itself is nothing to marvel at. A small church that he’s never set foot in, a simple urn, a wreath of flowers next to a picture of his father. It’s the only photo he’s ever seen with his father smiling; a family portrait from when he was a child. A happy, loving family that’s long since disappeared. The pews are almost empty, since very few people were allowed to attend. Not that many wanted to attend, anyway. He sits alone at the back, eyes scanning over the rest of the guests as the organ music drones on and on. The priest is kneeling off to the side, dutifully entranced in prayer. His aunt and cousin are in the second row; Andre and Audrey Bourgeois in the middle section; Roger Raincomprix and Gorilla standing guard at the doors. And that’s it. The only people in the world who cared about his father, all gathered in one room. Not a teardrop in sight.

He slouches in his seat, very aware of how much he does not want to be here. But someone sits down next to him, and he jumps. There, wearing a simple black dress, blonde hair in a sleek updo, looking like she’s halfway to tears, is Chloe Bourgeois.

“Chloe?” he whispers, unable to hide his shock at her presence. He hasn’t seen Chloe in… months. At least three or four months, probably. Not since he’d confronted her about her increasingly cruel behavior, and she’d subsequently cut him out of her life.

But here she is, eyes locked on the dangling sleeve of his suit jacket. Without a word, she reaches out and touches the sleeve, slowly closing her hand around it, as if afraid to see if it was truly empty. It is empty, of course. The realization seems to hit her hard, and she clasps her other hand to her mouth to muffle a gasp. She looks up at him, mascara already starting to run down her cheeks. “Adrien, I’m so sorry.”

It’s a little weird. Chloe’s become almost a caricature of herself over the years, really leaning into her mean-girl attitude, especially after cutting Adrien out. So, it’s strange to see her be so… vulnerable now. The way she’s looking at him, it reminds him of the girl he used to know growing up; the girl who shared her teddy bear when he cried, who played with him when he was lonely, who always stood up for him whenever his father was angry. Something like hope sparks in his chest, seeing her now. Maybe, just maybe, his friend isn’t totally gone after all. Maybe she just needs a friend, too. Someone to pull the old her out of this new shell.

He feels the corner of his mouth lift a little. “I lost an arm, Chloe. I didn’t die.” She wipes away her tears, taking a moment to compose herself. “I thought you hated my father?”

“I didn’t come here for him,” she scoffs. “I came here to support you, Adrikins.”

That’s… actually touching. A small, fond smile tugs at his lips. “Thanks, Chlo. It means a lot that you’re here.”

She faces the front and rests her head on his shoulder – a brief, silent show of solidarity. He rests his head against hers in response, and when the organ music cuts out, they both sit up straight. The priest walks to the front and begins the service with a solemn “Thank you all for coming,” and Adrien has to fight not to scowl. He wouldn’t have come if he’d had the choice.

Marinette plops down at his other side, slightly out of breath. “Sorry I’m late, the police almost didn’t let me in.”

He ducks his head closer to her, feeling significantly more at-ease. “That’s okay. I’m glad you made it.”

She takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. But she stiffens when her eyes lock onto something over his shoulder, and he realizes with some apprehension that she’s caught sight of Chloe. The two girls are staring each other down, and the air that hangs between them is so thick that he’s almost choking on it. But the tension breaks when Chloe gives her a curt nod, and Marinette nods back in some sort of weird understanding, and they face the front again.

The sermon is as short and to-the-point as it can be, but it still feels like it drags on. Marinette holds his hand the entire time, and it’s the only thing that keeps him from disassociating. When the priest asks if anyone would like to come up and say a few words, Adrien stays silent.

Afterward, as people are leaving, the priest offers the urn to him. He tries to refuse, but Aunt Amelie suggests that he take the urn to the mansion and spread his father’s ashes in the garden, next to the statue of his mother. And well… it’s as good an idea as any.

The ride to the mansion is silent. It’s just him and Gorilla now, and his bodyguard was never much of a talker. Not that he feels like talking, anyway. Adrien looks down at the urn resting in his lap, and frowns. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to his father, aside from that day. He can’t even remember the last time his father had hugged him. And here he is, cradling his ashes gingerly, as if he – as if he cares.

Gorilla stays in the car while he steps out, choosing to walk around the exterior to get to the garden. He doesn’t dare step foot inside the mansion. The last time he was here… well, it wasn’t a good memory. He didn’t have a lot of good memories here, actually. At least not after his mother died.

And his mother wasn’t really gone, it turns out. She had been in the basement for years, frozen in some sort of awful cryo-sleep. She was always there, waiting in limbo; while father was torturing him, and his friends, and all of Paris; while his house – the place where he was supposed to feel safest – became a prison; while his only remaining parent cut his arm off… all in the name of bringing her back.

Adrien sets the urn on the grass and takes off the lid. It really is a beautiful urn. It’s a shame it holds such an evil man.

He picks up the urn with only a little difficulty and starts spreading the ashes as best as he can, taking care to keep them close to his mother’s statue so it won’t harm the other plants. Now – now he can be with his wife for eternity. It’s what he wanted, isn’t it? Never mind his son, never mind that he still had family – all that mattered was bringing his wife back from the dead.

All of the love Adrien had for his father, all this time… it was all one-sided. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. The empty urn drops onto the grass with a dull thud.

He’d done everything his father had asked. For years, he’d done everything – things he didn’t want to do – piano, fencing, Chinese lessons, homeschooling, modeling, all of it. He was left to grieve his mother alone, he was isolated in his home, he was kept from having friends and seeing other family; all while working sun up to sun down, until he was exhausted to the bone, and even then being pushed to do more. And despite it all, he tried his best to be the perfect well-behaved son that his father expected him to be. He – he’d tried so hard just to get a little praise, a little attention, a little love, but he never did.

His father had been so blinded by his goal of resurrecting his wife, that he failed to realize that he still had a son. He had his son, right there, hurting and in need of a father when it mattered most. And he hurt him further. Adrien wanted love, and all he ever got was pain, pain, pain.

No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough. He was never enough.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the tears drip onto his hand. He wipes roughly at his cheeks, but they just keep coming. He’s crying – why is he crying over this? Over this person, this person who caused him so much anguish? This person who was supposed to love him?

He feels stupid for crying. He feels angry.

Why?

The question he wanted to ask his father as he slipped out of consciousness. The question he will never truly know the answer to.

Why?

A wave of grief crashes over him, knocking him to his knees. He curls in on himself, ribs pressing into his legs so hard that he can barely breathe.

Why?

Because despite it all, despite everything, he couldn’t hate his father. He wanted to, god, he wanted to. He wanted to be able to move on, to carve out all memory of him and live the rest of his life in peace, to say he hated the man who had cut off his arm and ruined his life. Yet, he can’t. He can’t erase the memories of playing in the garden with his mother and father, laughing in the sunshine, his father smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world. He can’t shake off the ghost of his father’s arms, circling him in a hug when he got home from his first day at school. He can’t unsee the panic, the regret, the tears dripping from his father’s face after he de-transformed. His father was the only family he had left. Adrien had loved him so much, so unconditionally, for so long, that he – he didn’t know how to hate him.

Why didn’t you love me back?

Strong arms pull him off the ground and into a hug, and it just makes him cry harder. It’s like everything he’s been holding back, everything he’s been refusing to let himself feel, is all crashing out of him at once. The flood gates are open and there’s no turning back.

He’s angry, and he’s confused, and lonely, and sad, and relieved, and it’s just – it’s all too much.

“I was there, that day, before the ambulance came.”

It’s the first time Adrien has ever heard Gorilla speak, and it’s enough to startle him out of his thoughts. His voice is deep, but quiet.

“It took me a while to break into the room, but by the time I did, you were already unconscious. So was Gabriel, and Marinette was kneeling by your body. She looked so scared.”

Adrien pulls back and looks at Gorilla, sniffling and wiping at his eyes.

“She told me who she was,” he says, “and who you were, and who Gabriel was. She said that there was a wish – that, if you make a wish using two of the miraculous, it could save you. Your father knew this, and wouldn’t let Marinette make the wish herself. He was the only one who knew the incantation, and he refused to tell her unless she gave him the miraculous.”

What?

“She had no choice, so she gave them over. He made the wish, and then he collapsed.” Gorilla moves his giant hands to rest on Adrien’s shoulders. “Your father loved you. He was proud of you. I heard the way he talked about you when you weren’t around. He tried to do what was best for you, he just went about it the wrong way.” Gorilla pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “He wasn’t… a good man. But he did love you.”

Adrien’s gaze falls, a few fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. “I… I can’t forgive him.”

“You don’t have to. No one has to. What he did – especially what he did to you – was unforgiveable. But,” he tips up Adrien’s chin so he can look him in the eyes, “You can’t hold onto this anger forever. Your father couldn’t get over his grief, and that was what lead him down the wrong path. Negative emotions like this, they’re important to feel – they’re what make us human. But if we hold onto them for too long, they can turn us into monsters.”

A shiver runs up his spine. He doesn’t want to turn out like his father. He doesn’t want to be another monster that his father created. But he can’t… he doesn’t know how to move past this. Not when looking at his reflection, seeing his missing arm, is a daily reminder of what his father did to him. “How? How do I let it go?”

Gorilla pulls him into a gentle hug. “You do better. Be better than he was. Turn your anger around into something good. It’s okay if you don’t know how yet. You are the strongest person I know, Adrien. And you have all of us – your friends, and your family, and all of Paris – behind you, to help you. We’ll always be here, so don’t worry about facing this alone, because you are not alone.”

The words are a weight lifted off his chest, a warm fire melting the ice that has surrounded his heart since his mother died. You are not alone.

He closes his eyes and buries himself into Gorilla’s chest.

That night, he’s the one to bring up the topic of his father in therapy. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

#ml all left au #all left au #miraculous ladybug #ml #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #adrienette #angst #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years ago

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Wipeout

Day 23, Post #1 by @adenei

Title: Wipeout

Author: adenei

Pairing: Dean & Seamus BrOTP

Prompt: Brother from another Mother

Rating: T

TW: implied injuries from silly game show stunts, language

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

“You sure about this, mate?” Seamus is looking at the gigantic, slick obstacle course laid out in front of them.

Cushy gears are spinning every which way in the distance, while platforms are sprayed with foam and soap, as if the challenge of getting to the other side isn’t already made harder by the random blocks that push out when you least expect it. There’s no way they will ever make it across without falling into the water… or is that the secret point to the competition?

Seamus thinks about how he can finagle getting through the course by using discrete traces of magic, but he knows it’s implausible without carrying his wand in his hand.

Dean laughs, and Seamus can’t tell if there’s a nervous tint in it or not. “Yeah, mate. It can’t be that bad, right?”

Just as he says it, though, their attention is pulled back to the course, where a competitor takes a leap to the next platform, and only half her body makes it. Her head hits the platform as her torso crashes into the side, and the embedded springs send her body flying backwards as she tumbles to the water like a lifeless puppet.

“Bloody buggering hell, is she even alive?” Seamus mutters to Dean with wide eyes.

“Yeah, I reckon she’s fine. People wouldn’t sign up for this if they were risking death. The prize isn’t that significant. Plus, it makes for a good laugh on the telly.”

“Excuse me, we just need you to sign these waivers before you take your turn on the course,” an attendant approaches them with a clipboard and pen. He points to the ‘x’ where they need to sign as Seamus glares at him, becoming more and more skeptical about the course they are about to encounter.

“Waivers?”

“Just protocol,” Dean scribbles his name and holds out the pen for Seamus. “It’s not like anyone’s actually died from this.”

It’s not that Seamus is cautious when it comes to dangerous activities. Hell, he has a knack for pyrotechnics and blowing things up. But he was drunk when Dean suggested they apply for the popular game show. He’s pretty sure they only got the call because they’d filled out the applications in their drunken state, which probably made them better candidates for TV personalities.

Seamus repeats the mantra of ‘you only live once’ as he grabs the pen from Dean and signs under his name.

Let’s do this.

The pair pay close attention as other teams work their way through the first course. No one has made it to the end without falling in the water at least once, and as he’s hyping himself up, Seamus is confident he can do this without getting wet.

“Okay, we’ve got this. I think it’s best if we just keep moving, that way, those stupid pieces can’t get us since it looks like there’s no rhyme or reason to when they punch out.”

“Those giant balls are going to be the toughest, I think,” Dean observes as Seamus sniggers.

“Finnigan and Thomas, you’re up!” a man holding up a megaphone calls.

They’ve already given their interviews, so now it’s time to ascend to the top of the platform, where Dean will go first and Seamus will follow.

“Remember, we just have to make the top twelve to move on,” Dean reminds him.

“Easier than a niffler stealing gold.”

Dean takes the starting platform first, as Seamus waits on the step for further direction. When the horn sounds, Dean disappears from sight as he slides down the human pinball course. Seamus watches on the big screen that’s filming Dean’s run, and it looks smooth until his friend’s side bashes into one of the poles. He recovers quickly and finishes his descent, scrambling to his feet to run up to the knockout platform.

A wall of red boxing gloves punch out at random times, and Dean starts out strong, dodging the gloves as if he were dodging bludgers during a quidditch match. One catches his foot as he leaps for the platform, and Seamus sucks in a sharp inhale, thinking Dean’s about to fall into the water. Dean manages to grasp onto the platform, saving himself from an imminent fall and consequential deduction.

Next up are the big red bouncy balls, and Seamus bites his knuckles in anticipation. If either of them is going to fuck up, it’s right here. Dean wastes no time getting a running start before he takes a gigantic leap. His right foot hits the center of the first ball, and he springs off it to the second. The run is flawless as his left foot vaults him off the second, but when his right foot lands on the third ball, he’s off-center, causing his balance to shift, and he slips.

Seamus grinds his teeth as he watches Dean’s body hit the ball and propels forward. Somehow, Dean manages to land on the fourth ball, and he’s grasping at the smooth surface.

“Use your feet, use your feet!” Seamus shouts to anyone who’s listening.

If Dean had only kicked his legs back, he could have caught himself and saved the run, but instead, his body bounces off the fourth ball, and Seamus watches as he tumbles to the water, causing a giant splash as he lands in starfish formation on his back.

That’s gonna hurt tomorrow.

They take the one-minute deduction that’s applied to any competitor who falls in the water, and Seamus gets ready for his run. As soon as the horn sounds, he’s unaware of what’s happening. One second he’s standing, and the next, he’s luging down a slick mat, giant red pillars blocking his path no matter how he twists his body. His only thought is to keep his legs together, so he doesn’t get nutted by any of the obstacles. He has no sense of time as he scrambles to his feet and ascends to the punching platform, tearing across the thin beam as fast as his feet will let him.

Three-quarters of the way through, he manages to pump the brakes before a high glove takes out his head, but that doesn’t stop another from hitting him square in the chest with two steps to the platform. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Seamus does the only thing he can think of, his flailing arms reach out and somehow grab onto another protruding glove as the force of his body swings around. His feet hit the platform, and he lets go, collapsing onto the mat.

Cheers are coming from the stands at his miraculous save, which spur him on. Even though he feels like he’s been run over by the Hogwarts Express, he stands and shakes his arms out, staring down the red balls that took Dean out minutes ago. He follows in his best friend’s footsteps, getting a running start. The obstacle is completed in a flash; the only thing Seamus remembers is the feeling of flying without a broom and hitting the massive balls less than a second apart. He can’t believe he made it!

Now, it’s just the rope swing. Seamus is sure he can hear Dean screaming his head off as he grabs the rope and gains momentum with another running start. His hands slide down and burn from the rope as he’s flying in the air, but Seamus holds on for dear life, only letting go once both feet have touched down. He slams his hand down on the red buzzer before throwing his arms up, whooping in victory.

Seamus bends over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath before he’s ushered down the steps and onto the lawn where a correspondent is waiting. He barely makes it off the stairs when Dean barrels into him, tackling him to the ground in a bear hug.

“Wow, what a bromance we have here, folks!” Seamus can hear the correspondent say to the crowd, which cheers again.

The excitement is short-lived, though, because less than an hour later, they find themselves having to choose who will play on the Sweeper Crusher.

“You crushed the first round. You should do it,” Dean insists.

“No, mate, I think it should be you. Your balance is better than mine. Plus, you're way better at spotting things out of the corner of your eye.”

“But—”

“You made the team in sixth year, not me. It’s gotta be you, mate.”

It’s true. Seamus knows his balance is shit, and Dean poses the better shot of the two, and ultimately he agrees. Before he ascends the platform, they hug, and Seamus pats him on the back.

“You’ve got this mate, go kick some arse!”

As Dean takes his position on the small circular platform, Seamus watches the event unfurl. Dean is methodical in his wait to jump onto the rotating beam, and he has to be because his position just so happens to be where the bars overlap with the beam, making it ten times as hard to be successful. Annoyance bubbles up in Seamus at the unfairness of his partner’s position, but there’s nothing they can do.

In the end, Dean takes a leap, but it’s not enough to save him as the crusher bar sweeps him right off the beam and into the water. Seamus is upset, of course, but they drunkenly signed up for the game show for fun, and deep down, he never expected to win. He wouldn’t switch the experience for anything else in the world and would absolutely do it again if given the chance.

Dean climbs out of the water, head hanging low as he approaches.

“I’m sorry, mate.”

“Don’t be! If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t even be here! And it was bloody brilliant!” Dean grins as Seamus holds out his hand. They clap hands and pull the other in for a bro hug and pat on the back.

As they are ushered toward the competitor’s tent, Seamus asks the all-important question. “I could get used to being on the muggle telly. So, what game show should we sign up for next?”

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #hp canon pairings #canon fest platonic #submission #dean & seamus #deamus brotp #tw: minor injuries #tw: bad language

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lauwrite1225 · 4 years ago

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Somebody to die for.

Finan x OC; The Old Guard inspired Alternative Universe

Summary : Victoria’s life is rather simple until she has a car accident from which she ends up miraculously unscathed. A series of weird events animates her daily life, everything seemingly bringing her to a strange man. Until this very man knocks at her door.

Spotify Playlist • Masterlist

A/N : Happy Finan Friday my friends! Alright it's still thursday to most of yall, but it isn't in France anymore and I was to excited to post to wait the morning lmaoo. I had so many good feedbacks on chapter one, you all can’t imagine how happy it made me! So as you noticed, I like to change the moodboard for each chapter, I hve fun making this ahah, I hope you all don’t mind!

Warnings : blood and death

Chapter 2 : There’s a truth and it’s on our side

Victoria blinks several times at the man standing right in front of her. Her eyes go down and up his body, analysing every inch of him and when she realizes he is wearing the same sweatshirt as the man in the bookshop, she’s panic-stricken. He doesn’t even have the time to say a word as she closes the door in his face and presses her back against it. Did this psychopath follow her to her home? She doesn’t see any other explanation, or maybe it’s just the one making the most sense. Because even if it's the guy from the bookshop, it doesn’t explain why he is the one she’s been dreaming of for a month now. Christ, things couldn’t get weirder.

She gathers all the courage she has and shouts through the door. “Who the hell are you?”

She hears the man scoff, the sound attenuated by the door. “Ya wouldn’t trust me if I tell ya like this.”

Her fingers nervously drum on her thigh. “Are you… Are you the “time traveller”?” This question would probably make her sound crazy, but a stranger knocking at your door after following you from your work place is undoubtedly crazier. The thought makes her realize that keeping talking to him maybe isn’t in fact the best idea, and as the man hesitates to answer, she looks around for her phone.

“Hum… Yes kinda.” He replies and Vicky freezes. He doesn’t even deny, which confirms her assumption that he really is mad. “But I’m not really a time traveler.”

Victoria frowns. “What do you mean?”

“That’s hard to explain to a door.” He jokes but Vicky doesn’t laugh, so he answers in a more neutral tone. “I think you and I are the same.”

“The same?” She repeats, her eyes finally falling on her phone. She walks aways from the door to take it from the table and leans against the door again.

She starts to type the number of the police when he speaks. “It’s goin’ to sound really weird. But… I’ve seen ya in my dreams.” Victoria immediately pauses, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Her breath strangely accelerates as she considers his words.

“How can I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“Ya’ve been in a car accident. That’s the first dream I’ve got of ya.”

Victoria is breathless. She has spoken to no one about it, only giving lies, affirming her car has been stolen. She doesn’t know if his answer should reassure her or not, but she switches off her phone and slides it in her pocket before unlocking the door and opening it just slightly. “How do you know that?” She asks him, her voice between fear and curiosity.

The man’s gaze is soft as he rubs the back of his neck. “Told ya, I dreamt of it. Maybe we could talk inside? It's better if there’s no one to hear us.”

Vicky hesitates, staring alternatively between him and the inside of her flat, until she finally moves away. Every part of her mind is screaming at her how bad an idea it is to let this strange, very strange man in, but her intuitions and curiosity are thinking otherwise. She has spent the weirdest month of her life, and something is telling her he would have the answers.

“What’s your name?” She asks, closing the door behind him.

“Finan.” He smiles. “And ya’re Victoria?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I am.” She studies him from a decent distance, actually more like a safe one. He is every bit of the man she’s been dreaming of, tall, thick dark hair, a few scars on his face, strong shoulders and something she has grown to find endearing about him, his childish smile. She wonders if he knows she’s been dreaming about him as well, he would have probably already mentioned it if he did. “So, why do you think we are the same?” She asks, her arms crossed over her chest.

Finan looks around, as if to be sure that there is no one else listening. “I think you died during your accident.”

“What?” She exclaims, her eyes widening. “I wouldn’t be standing here if I was dead.” She answers, tilting her head at what seems to be obvious to her.

“That’s why I said you died.” He replies, insisting on the last word.

“So I came back to life?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the craziest shit I’ve ever heard.” She says in an awkwardly neutral tone.

Finan rolls his eyes. “Then you should have a wound, anything that would prove you’ve had a crash. T’was quite violent of what I remember.” He raises an eyebrow and Vicky finds nothing to answer. He is right, she is miraculously alive, but the blood she found in the car and on her clothes doesn’t match that reality.

“How do you know all of that?” She asks again.

He moves forward but she immediately steps back. “I told ya, I think we’re the same. I died several times before.”

Vicky’s face twists in disbelief. “I can’t believe that.” She says.

The man sighs, his shoulders falling heavily and looking up to the ceiling. “I guess I don’t have another choice than to make ya believe me.” He puts his hand in his pocket and removes a folding knife from it.

“What are you doing?” She panics, stepping back even more.

He raises his hands in sign of peace. “Calm down, I won’t hurt ya.” He promises.

However, he unfolds the knife and to Victoria’s surprise he doesn’t try to attack her, but brings it to his neck. Finan takes a deep breath and murmurs something before sinking the blade in his throat, grimacing at the pain that occurs. A scream of horror escapes her as he falls to the floor, blood coming out of the wound and his mouth. She rushes to his side, removing the knife and pressing her hand on his throat to stop the bleedings.

“No, no, no, no… Stay with me, please.” She freaks out while Finan is bleeding to death on the floor of her flat, gasping for air. He holds her gaze, and in contrast to the time she dreamt of his death, he seems calm. With her other hand, she tries to find his pulse, but there’s nothing. “No…” She whispers, breathless. “No, no, no! You can’t be dead!” She starts to shake his shoulders and as he remains inert, she grabs her phone in her pocket and starts to tap the emergency number, trying not to tremble too much.

But before she can press on the green button, Finan takes a deep breath as if he is coming out of the water. Surprised, she drops her phone and falls back. He coughs several times, spitting blood as he sits up. Victoria can’t keep her wide opened eyes from him, especially when she notices how the wound in his neck heals by itself in a minute until there’s nothing, not even a scar. He wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at the red puddle around him.

“Hum… Sorry for the mess.” He apologizes as his eyes meet hers.

But Vicky can’t care less. “You were dead, and you’re fucking alive.” She whispers, not believing what she just witnessed.

“D'ya trust me now?” He asks her.

Vicky opens her mouth, but no sound comes out of it. She rubs her face with both her hands, not caring about the blood still on them. None of this makes sense, but it is undeniably real. “How did you do that?” She questions him, removing her hands.

Finan's gaze darkens for a brief moment. “I wish I knew.” He stands up, stretching his arms and her mind still can't grasp the fact that a few minutes ago he was dead. He walks towards her but he keeps the same distance she has settled before. “But I'm sure the same happened to ya.”

Victoria looks up to him and there's some sort of joy sparking in his eyes to know she is like him and she wonders if until now, he has been the only one like this. She frowns, she knows nothing of him, but in a short time, he has revealed her every secret of what she could only call a superpower, and she feels like he deserves to know everything as well.

“I dreamt of you too.” she says softly and it's Finan's turn to stare at her with wide eyes.

He crouches in front of her. “Really?”

She shakes her head up and down vigorously. “I saw your death too. But you were wearing a leather armour, fighting in a clearing during the night.” Finan's face becomes as pale as a ghost as she explains her own dreams. “And then you're stabbed from behind, and I can feel all the pain, how the life is leaving your body.” She is quite surprised she succeeds to actually put words on it, thinking of it still giving her thrills. “I dreamt of other things, during other periods of time, but you’re always there.” She concludes, looking up from her bloody hands to him. “What does it mean?”

“I’ve no idea.”

They both say nothing for a moment, simply trying to understand all the information. Everything seems so surrealistic to Vicky but she can’t deny all of this somehow makes sense. She sighs, like it could clear her confused thoughts and looks at the amount of blood on her floor.

“Hm… I think I should clean that.” She says, pointing vaguely at the area.

Finan looks behind him, grimacing. “Aye, let me help ya with that.”

“Sounds fair after you killed yourself in my entrance.” She adds as she rises to her feet, Finan doing so as well, chuckling lightly.

She walks to a closet and comes back with a mop and a bucket. While she fills it with hot water and a little bit of cleaning soap, she discreetly observes Finan. It’s really strange to see him in a modern outfit after dreaming of him so many times in Middle Age clothes. She frowns, this thought bringing a new question.

“I have a question.” She declares, stepping towards him with the bucket while he grabs the mop she has leaned against a chair.

“Ask it.” He sinks the mop into the water and wrings it out while waiting for her question.

“When did you die?”

The corner of his mouth rises. “I told ya, I died many times.”

Vicky rolls her eyes. “I mean the first time.”

Finan pauses, stopping to clean her floor, his eyes darkening as earlier. “Sometime during the ninth century.” He answers finally.

She makes a strangled sort of noise. “The ninth century? You’re what? A thousand years old? You look barely thirty!”

“I guess I should take that as a compliment.” He chuckles but Victoria isn’t in the mood to share a laugh.

“Oh fuck me, you must be kidding me.” She sighs, sitting on the nearest chair. “Are you the only one like this?” She hesitates on a word that describes what she means but can't to a better one than : “Immortal?”

Finan shrugs. “As far as I know, there was just me until now.”

“So we are two.” She points her finger at her chest and then his. “Just you and I.” He nods, pinching his lips in a thin line while she shakes her head. “That's fucking insane.”

“You're tellin' me!” He exclaims exaggeratingly.

But again Victoria ignores his attempt of jokes to ask another question. “How did you find me?”

His cheeky smile fades and he leans on the handle of the mop. “Well, in my dreams I could see moments of your life and I just tried to put all the pieces together.”

“That's creepy.”

This time he is the one rolling his eyes. “Trust me lass, when you'll have kept living for a millennial, being creepy will be the least of your problems.”

“So it was you in the bookshop?” He nods. “And you followed me?”

“I did.” He admits, finished with cleaning the floor. “Alright, maybe it really is creepy.” Victoria raises her eyebrows, as if she's surprised by his affirmation. “But it never happened to me before, and I just… I just had an intuition.”

“Well, it's maybe the least weird thing you told me since you knocked at my door.” She sighs taking the bucket and the mop from his hands to empty it in the toilets. When she comes back after putting everything back into the closet she pays more attention to the blood staining Finan's sweatshirt and her own clothes. “I should change clothes.” She says, pulling the edge of one of her sleeves, already annoyed by the time it will take to clean it correctly. “I must have something for you.”

Finan raises, probably doubting any of her clothes could fit him as she is a head smaller than him.

“From my ex.” She answers, clearly having read his mind.

“Ah, yeah. Thank ya.”

She walks away to her bedroom, taking the first clothes she finds and changing, making a pile of the dirty ones. Then she pulls out of a drawer a sweater from her ex that she hasn't thrown away yet. Before coming back to the living room she stops in the bathroom to wash her hands and face from the dried blood. The water is enjoyable, the only thing constant during this day where all her truths are being riled. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, meeting her own green eyes.

“Maybe it's just a dream.” She says softly and brings her finger to her mouth. She bites in it, hard enough to break the skin. She hisses when she tastes a drop of blood on her tongue. It wasn't a dream.

Suddenly, knocks at her door startle her and she bursts out of the bathroom. Finan is still in the middle of the living room, looking between her and the door. He looks as panicked as her and Vicky points at the room she just walked out of.

“Hide in the bathroom.”

Finan doesn't object, grabbing the sweatshirt she hands him on his way. Once she has heard the door of the bathroom closing behind him she rushes to the front door and slowly opens.

“Becca? What are you doing here?” Victoria asks after recognizing her best friend.

Rebecca raises a surprised eyebrow. “You seem pleased to see me. I texted you I was coming.” She says, waving the hand with which she's holding her phone.

“Oh… I'm sorry, I didn't really check my phone.” Victoria rubs the back of her neck. “Anyway, what do you want?”

Rebecca narrows her eyes, warning her that she's sounding weird, so she straightens a little and plasters her best smile on her face.

“I forgot my gym bag here, yesterday. I just wanted to get it back.”

“Yeah, sure.” Victoria moves away from the door and Becca steps in, patiently waiting for her best friend to come back with the bag.

She searches in the living room but she becomes pale when she hears a noise from the bathroom. “Is there someone else here?” She hears Rebecca ask.

At the time she answers, she has found the bag and is walking back to her, quite nervous. “No.” She replies dryly and oh, how bad she is at lying, especially to Rebecca.

Her friend's face breaks into a mischievous smirk. “Are you hiding a boy?”

Vicky stares at her with wide eyes before scoffing. “Absolutely not!” She hands her the bag quite abruptly. “Here's your bag. Do you need anything else?”

The tan skinned woman studies her for a second, no doubt knowing she's lying and Vicky is sure will probably hear of it in the following days. “No, that's all.”

As soon as she's gone, Victoria heaves a sigh and turns around when the bathroom door opens.

Finan's head appears from the small opening. “Am I the boy she's talking about?”

“Obviously not, you're a thousand years old, old man.” She snaps, joining him.“The hell were you doing?” She pronounces her last words slower as she notices that he is standing bare chested in front of her, his skin covered with scars. She tries to keep her gaze on to his face, the blood now washed away from his beard and neck. “Doesn't matter. Get dressed.”

Vicky waits patiently in the living room for Finan to come back. When he comes back he’s wearing an uncomfortable smile, one of his thumbs jammed in his trousers pocket while he has his dirty sweatshirt in his other hand. There’s an awkward silence but Vicky couldn’t care less, sitting on a chair, her elbows resting on her thighs and her hands sliding into her hair. Finan comes closer to her and gently puts his hands on her shoulder, she doesn’t push him away, even if she wouldn’t usually allow such proximity with a stranger.

“Maybe I should let ya alone, so ya can process everythin’.” He says softly and when she lifts her head his gaze is as soft as his voice. She nods and he squeezes her shoulder before stepping to the fridge and writting something on a post-it glued on it. “That’s the hotel where I sleep, if ya need anythin’.”

“Thank you.”

He leaves right after, and somehow, Vicky hoped that as soon as he’d leave things would appear to be just a big joke. But she looks at the finger she bit earlier and there is no mark of her teeth, no wound. Her skin is as soft and healthy as usual.

A/N : This chapter’s dialogues are clearly the base of this fic, espacially the “a thousand yo??!!” sksks, or Finan killing himself, as @maggiescarborough told me : a real drama queen. Anyway, see you next week for the next chapter ;)

Tag : @obipoelover @for-bebbanburg @naps4bats @osferth @maggiescarborough @finansarms @dumbledoreisnotmyhubby

#The Last Kingdom #finan the agile #finan #fanfiction #tlk fanfiction #finan tlk #somebody to die for #Finan x OC #finan x ofc #the old guard

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bellamyblake · 4 years ago

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The ugly knitted red hat

That’s just some domestic Bellarke in the post season 4 verse where they have their own camp and are cute and sweet and all of that, basically fluff lol

After all these years, despite the peace, he still likes getting up early.

There’s some pleasure in it for him as much as Clarke hates it, to sneak out of the warm cacoon of their bed and put on his socks, then his pants and tie his boots.

He even tugs on the ugly red hat that she knitted for him a month ago when the weather was starting to get cold because she just hated running her fingers through his curls and touching the cold tips of his ears.

The hat was funny, had a weird shape, longer on the back and shorter on the front, she had attempted to make some funny criss cross pattern that O had tried teaching her when they had their “sister bonding time” by the camp fire but Clarke had proven to be a disaster in that as much as she was in the kitchen.

Still, it brought her peace, as she told him one night when he was pulling her head to his chest and kissing the top of her hair. It calmed her anxious hands, helped the tidal waves that thretened to consume her, quiet down.

And he had been proud of her for doing that, he had encouraged it and praised all her attempts-the ugly red hat, the bright green sweater she made for his birthday that had a longer left than right sleeve and barely any collar, the blue and red scarf she made him to keep his throat warm while he was standing guard at night but that barely wrapped once around him.

He loved the imperfection of it all because that’s what they’ve always been-imperfect yet beautiful.

And just like she loved his poor carpenting attempts and kept the three legged chair by the fire place or the sharp-edge chest by the bedside even though they only-half used them, so did he wear his hat and sweater and scarf with pride.

(Miller had the most fun out of it. But even he knew he had to stop teasing his friend when Clarke came by and brought them hot tea or soup before their nightshift at the gates).

So now he tucks on his uneven red hat and throws his jacket on, grabbing his axe from the place by the door and heading outside.

Technically, he knows that he should’ve chopped more woods for the fire a few days ago-fall was progressing and fast, bringing rain and an orange-red leaved path of prettiness to the door of their cabin but with it came harsher winds and colder nights.

Clarke had been pressing herself closer and closer to him every night at first, then started wearing not one but two of his shirts to bed and when last night she shoved her freezing fingers in between his legs, he had yelped, got up and said “That’s it! I’m starting the fire!”

They had been postponing it because there were such warm days that they spend them in the back yard taking care of the last of their tomatoes and beans with nothing but shirts and pants on, even barefoot here and there.

The house and it’s wooden boards would warm up and stay so through the night but yesterday had been the tipping point and though Clarke complained and tried to drag him back down to bed, she had simply melted away once he started the fire yet despite it all she still stole the blanket and left his back bare and somewhat cold.

Which is why maybe now that he picks up his axe and swings at the tree he has figured he’d chop off, he feels his back creak desperately and tug at him, making him hurt.

He ignores it of course as he’s used to the pain.

They’ve had so many injuries in just the past year since they settled down in their eighty acres-he broke a knee just a few months ago, Clarke split her head open last spring, then caught a bad cold with a lasting cough, after which he was stupid enough to go after an angry boar that practically ripped his entire right side apart and left him drowning in a pool of blood.

But every pain dulled, he found out, no matter if physical or emotional.

It took time, it took many tears and many heart breaks and many trembling hands holding each other at night when you woke up screaming and your voice got raw with terror and you could taste death but it passed...and it got duller.

It still hurt.

But it became a part of you, like a bone, like a scar or a bruise that never really faded and kept aching now and then with the changing of the weather.

He gets lost in his thoughts as he puts all his strenght in cutting off the tree-sweat thickles down his back and he throws away his jacket despite the harsh morning wind and the lack of sun.

Clarke would kill him if she saw him, he thinks. It’s a good thing she’s home then, sleeping under the covers.

He stops to catch his breath, leans on his tired knees and the axe-damn, there may be some truth to all of Clarke’s jokes-he was indeed getting older.

He closes his eyes and lets the sharp morning air fill his lungs so hard it stung his cheeks, made the hair on his back rise, his toes curl up-he liked the cold much more than the summer and he was glad it was finally back.

Once his heart goes back to normal he looks up at the sky for just a minute and thinks of his mother for some reason, wonders if she’d like that weather and decides that she will-she was used to the cold of their small living quarters and welcomed it like an old friend she got to say hello to every morning.

He picks up his axe and goes on with his work, using the time to go over the list of friends they’ve lost and asking himself that same question-would they like it out here? In the forest? In their new camp? In the gloomy fall day?

Jasper, he settles, wouldn’t be a big fan of it, he was too skinny so he’d be too cold and Bellamy would probably use Clarke’s ugly scarf to throw over his wanky shoulders.

Maya would enjoy it. She’d never spend much time out so he thinks she’d like the sharpness of the cold as much as he does.

Lincoln may prefer the summer, he thinks, he often did like going around without shirts or shoes, just feeling the earth under him so the chilliness may not be to his taste but he’d probably enjoy the camp fire and even volunteer to help Bellamy with the wood chopping.

They could’ve talked like brothers, Bellamy could’ve exchanged a mythology story for a grounder one and then they’d be stupid boys and compete about who’d carry more wood back home just to be idiots about something and get scolded by Octavia and Clarke.

He sighs, rubs his back that’s now completely wet and keeps on his work, going through his list-Atom, Charlotte, Roma and on and on, names he knew by heart now that he repeated in times of quiet peacefullness like this.

Finally the tree falls and he kneels on his bad leg resting his hand on top and whispering a quiet I’m sorry like he always did when he cut off a tree or killed an animal these days.

He still smiled sadly and rubbed his hand over the creasy bark.

“I knew you’d have taken it off, you stubborn old man!” he hears her angry yet still somewhat sleepy voice coming from behind him interrupting his apology.

He turns with a half smirk, knowing full well that a big one would piss her off even more.

She’s in her oversized home-worn sweat pants that were once upon a time his, a shirt and a sweater knitted by his sister with the picture of a two headed deer.

Her hair is in a messy bun, she has just one glove on her left hand and two cups of something in the other, her cheeks are red from the mix of cold and sleep and her eyes are that deep celurian blue like the ocean that he still hasn’t gotten to see yet but dreams of at least once a week.

And he has this sudden urge to kiss her.

So he drops his axe and strides to her while she keeps on with her speech.

“Do you know how cold it is, Bellamy? Let me tell you, it’s effing keep-your-jacket-on-cold especially when you’re chopping a goddamn tree and sweating your ass off and you go out there and you dare take it off when you know full damn well how sick you can get if you-”

But she doesn’t end her beautiful rant that he knows is provoked by simple love-she loves him and she cares and this is just another way of her saying it like he did when he massaged her feet after a long day in medbay or made her tea every night before bed or helped her braid her hair when she was annoyed but had too much patients to take care of.

All of it was love.

They were love.

He kisses her with all that he has and for a moment he thinks she’ll just pull away and keep scolding him but it must be too much for her to resist because she simply kisses him back and melts into him.

He smells her-in all her sleepy Clarke glory-her lavender shampoo, the pinecone soap, the bearness of sleep on her lips and cheeks.

Her fingers wrap around his neck, tuck at his curls, he smiles a little, groans somewhat but then picks her up which he knows is what she’s been wanting all along and carries them to the fallen tree where he carefully sits them down.

Finally, she pulls away and rests her forehead on his.

“If you think this will work as a distraction you’re goddamn wrong!”

He chuckles and she can’t help but smile too.

“I am a little right.”

“No, you’re not.” she huffs and pulls away, cupping his cheek and moving his sweaty curls from his forehead under his red hat. “You took off your jacket but kept this on?”

He wraps his hand around her wrist and pulls it to his lips, kissing the inside of it with gentleness she still gets surprised by sometimes.

“I’ll always keep it on.”

And she knows he doesn’t mean just the hat.

He means her love in his heart, her hand on his cheek, her lips pressed to his.

“Well you’re still an idiot-” she huffs and puts the cups by their feet before reaching for his jacket “Put this on before your ass froze.”

“What’s that?” he nods at the metalic cups while she settles down next to him and leans on his side, reaching down to pick them back up and hand one of them to his freezing fingers.

“A drink.” she says with a smile “I think we deserve one, wouldn’t you agree?”

He smells the familiar scent of Monty’s moonshine before he even brings it closer to his nose and laughs at her mishivious expression.

Then he reaches and covers her hand with his over his tired fucked up knee.

“We do, princess.” he rubs his thumb over her bony cold fingers desperate to wamr them up “We truly do.”

#bellarke fanfiction #bellarke #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #the 100 #fluff #domestic #canon divergence #my writing

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years ago

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Light Fingers (The Umbrella Academy)

Diego’s vigilantism brings him repeatedly across the path of a young cat burglar. But as he finds himself developing feelings for the thief, he begins to wonder if there’s more to her than meets the eye, and whether they’re really on opposite sides. And as their relationship deepens, it brings with it a plot involving his estranged adopted father, and threatens to destroy all of them.

CHAPTER 5: REVELATIONS

Word Count: 4471 Pairing: Diego Hargreeves x Reader; teased Eudora Patch x Reader Rating: M Content Warnings: fairly graphic description of injury, blood, language Cross-posted to AO3: here

Previous Chapter: Allegiances || Masterlist

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The first thing you were aware of was the high, tinny ringing. It was quite possibly the most annoying noise you had ever heard, and you were pretty sure it was coming from inside your own head so you couldn’t cover your ears and make it go away. Your eyelids felt heavy, like there was something keeping them from opening, and your mouth felt cottony. Your stomach roiled with nausea. The more of your body returned to your awareness the worse you felt.

“Ugh,” you groaned, voice cracking from disuse. As you forced your eyes to open, thankful that your power even in its most dormant form kept the light from burning them, you registered the meeting of concrete and grey-brown bricks wavering in your vision.

You tried to push yourself to a seated position and immediately felt resistance.

“Woah, hey, you shouldn’t move so fast,” Diego said, pressing lightly on your shoulder to hold you in place.

“Am I in your weird boiler room house?” you slurred. “How did I get here?”

You heard him chuckle. “Well after you passed out, I figured you could use some looking after…and then when you weren’t waking up…I was getting ready to take you to a hospital.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that sounded like you were worried about me,” you smirked, throwing back his own words at him.

“I was,” he said softly, almost as if he was talking to himself. “Of course I was.”

You found yourself at a loss for words, and not just because your head was still fuzzy and ringing (the feeling was fading some the longer you were awake).

“How are you feeling?”

“Like death slightly warmed over.”

He grimaced.

“Seriously, two questions: how long was I out for, and why does my leg still feel like it’s on fire?”

“It’s been a few hours. That’s why I was…”

“Worried?” you supplied as he floundered.

He nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. As for your leg, you did get shot. It was pretty bad. I stopped the bleeding but the bullet is…still in there.”

“What?!” you jolted up at that, ignoring the pain and spinning sensation, staring at Diego in shock.

“I didn’t want to do anything while you were unconscious! In case you’d prefer an actual doctor do it or something went…wrong…” you registered the tinge of fear in his voice and felt a little less mad at him for leaving a hunk of metal embedded in your calf muscle.

“Well…I’m awake now so if you think you can get it out safely…I trust you to,” you admitted softly, reaching out to rest your hand on top of his where it sat on your bedside.

It was then you registered that not only were you lying in his bed, but he was kneeling awkwardly beside it, and probably had been since before you woke up. Your heart fluttered at the thought that he had been watching over you, taking care of you.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. Definitely.” You shot him a grin that you hoped looked convincing and not as crazed as you felt in that moment.

He nodded, rising from his crouch and wincing in a way that, once again, suggested he had been in the position for a while, moving about the fairly small room gathering the first aid supplies he’d need. Your eyes traced him as he washed everything down with rubbing alcohol and soap and water, as he pulled on a pair of cheap rubber gloves, and returned to your side.

“You’re going to have to turn for me to get to the wound,” he said, gesturing. “And so I can put down a towel so you don’t bleed everywhere.”

You rolled your eyes, complying with his direction.

“I notice you don’t have any lidocaine or anything there in your little bullet treatment kit…” you observed, biting your lip nervously.

“No, sorry. I could go out and get some, but it’s late so I don’t know what’s open and the sooner we get the bullet out the better.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your voice rising an octave, betraying your fear.

He knelt back down, carefully unwinding the bandage. You couldn’t help but stare down at the inflamed skin, the horribly red, still sluggishly bleeding opening in your leg, stomach turning at the thought that it was an actual hole through skin and muscle, and you were lucky not bone and not anywhere more severe than your lower leg. Diego, noticing your expression, reached over to give your hand a quick squeeze before turning to the work.

You hissed, doing everything in your power not to flinch away as Diego rested his hands on your calf.

“I’m s-sorry,” he murmured, and you frowned, catching the slight stutter in his voice, something which you hadn’t noticed before.

“It’s okay. It’s…are you sure you can do this?”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah, I mean, I’ve dug bullets out of myself before so…”

“Okay, gonna revisit that later, but for now, I trust you. I still wish we had something to numb the pain first though…”

After that, things became a bit of a blur. You were pretty sure at some point you screamed. It felt like your leg was being rent open by the fiery claws of the devil. You must have passed out again, because the next thing you remembered was someone lightly tapping on your cheek and opening your eyes to see Diego’s face, eyes wide in panic and lip quivering, swimming into focus.

“Fuck me with a cactus, it would have been gentler,” you muttered, wincing. “At least tell me it’s over?”

He smiled, chuckling at your colorful phrasing. “Yeah, bullet’s out, pretty cleanly and I redressed the wound. Now you just need to rest and recover and keep it clean so it doesn’t get infected.”

“Well, thank you then, Doctor Hargreeves. I guess I owe you one, and should get out of your hair.” You shifted like you were going to try to get to your feet and he immediately reached out to stop you.

“You’re not…bothering me. And I’d rather know you were okay. Besides, there’s no way you can walk on that yet. Just…get some sleep.”

“You look almost as exhausted as I feel, and there’s not exactly another bed around…” you pointed out, watching him blush and look away with a slight flush of your own.

“I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s fine.”

“Diego…” you started to protest, but were cut off by a rapid knocking sound.

“Diego, you can’t keep avoiding me,” Patch called, from the other side of the boiler room door. “I know you were at the bank robbery so I need a statement, before someone else issues a warrant.”

“Really?” you groaned. “Terrible timing, Officer.”

“Relax, Eudora is…was…she’s fine. You’ll be fine,” Diego mumbled half-heartedly, moving to open the door and let her in.

You glared at his back as he did so, annoyed that he had managed to avoid the conversation entirely, and once again you two had danced, just out of each other’s reach. You shifted hastily and tugged at the quilt at the end of the bed to try and hide your injury without causing too much pain. Still, you whimpered softly, catching both their attention as she entered the little room.

“Y/N?! What the hell happened?” she said, rushing over to you.

“Heeey, Dora. Oh this?” you gestured down to your leg and the small spot of red seeping through the gauze. “Bank robbers. No respect,” you said with a forced chuckle and a shake of your head. You felt your head swim a little at the movement and began to regret expending the energy so quickly after the secondary trauma of Diego’s impromptu surgery. “Luckily it was just a little bullet and Diego here doesn’t make a bad triage nurse.”

“Wait you two know each other?” he asked, his tone maybe as much frightened as confused.

“While you were off the grid, we hung out. Dora’s great,” you said, flashing her a wink over his shoulder and giggling at his stunned expression, feeling strangely giddy.

“Y/N,” she sighed. “I think you need a hospital, not a little first aid from this idiot.”

“Nah, I’m fine. Why do you say that?”

“You just ‘winked’ with both eyes. And you look a little green around the gills.”

“Still knew I was winking though,” you smirked before frowning in puzzlement. “But I don’t have gills…”

You didn’t catch her response, or Diego’s as the darkness rushed back in to claim you and you slumped back into his bed.

Patch was headed for the payphone in the hall, probably to call an ambulance, while Diego hesitated, torn between stopping her and making sure Y/N was alright.

“Eudora, don’t,” he finally managed to get out. “She won’t appreciate it.”

“She won’t appreciate anything if she dies of blood loss,” Patch shot back, glaring at him. “Besides it’s just a hospital, what’s the problem?”

He sighed. None of this was his to tell. Y/N might never forgive him. But still, he had to try and make Eudora understand. He gestured for her to come sit beside him.

“Look. It’s not a serious wound. I’m pretty sure her exhaustion and slipping in and out of consciousness is from stress. I don’t think she’s ever…done something like that before.”

“Like what, Diego? Been in a bank robbery?”

“No,” he shook his head and his voice was soft as he continued, “stopped one.”

“I don’t understand.” Patch was frowning, that confused little furrow forming between her brows which Diego (and you) secretly found cute.

“You remember how I told you about my siblings and me?”

“Yeah your Umbrella School or whatever…”

“Academy.” He frowned at how quickly the correction, almost a defense, jumped out.

She rolled her eyes.

“Anyway, there were more kids that my father couldn’t get.”

“Are you saying Y/N has superpowers like you do?”

“Not just like mine but…yeah. She can control light or something. She had a more scientific explanation.” He shrugged.

“So the flares that stunned the robbers, and several hostages…?” There was something like awe on Patch’s face.

“Were her. When they turned a gun on that kid…she just reacted.”

“Shit.” Patch rocked back on her heels, pinching the bridge of her nose the way she always did when she was stressed, and Diego knew at least part of her was trying to figure out how that was going to screw with the reports, or if she was just going to conveniently leave it out. “But what does this have to do with taking her to the hospital?”

“She’s not…trusting doctors and hospitals is hard when you’ve got a big secret like this, especially when it contributes to the problem you need treated. Plus she’s stubborn; she won’t like being forced to accept help.”

She bit her lip. “I don’t like this at all. But if you’re sure…?”

He met her eye sincerely. “I am.”

She watched as Diego returned to his ministrations, checking your pulse and adjusting the bandages, which you had managed to rumple in your shifting about, such that the long gauze strips no longer fully covered the wound.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Patch mused. “And it’s obvious that you care a lot about Y/N.”

“You’re one to talk. You never let me call you ‘Dora.’”

She blushed, looking away. “It’s not like that. Not… really. Nothing like what’s between you and her.”

“There’s nothing…we’re n-not…” Diego suddenly found himself unable to look at either woman.

He had been in love with Eudora, once, and still felt strongly for her, even if the romantic connection between them had been severed and probably wouldn’t ever come back together. But there was something about Y/N that just felt right. She made him feel seen and understood and like he didn’t need to still be ‘Number Two of The Umbrella Academy,’ he could just be Diego. She made him smile, more freely than he could remember doing in years. He’d missed her terribly while he was away, while they weren’t speaking to one another, like there had been a piece of him missing. When he’d seen her collapse, he had felt like his heart stopped. But she also scared him. They were so different, so incompatible on paper. And he thought that having her just to lose her might actually kill him, so maybe it was better not to go there at all.

“Relax, Diego,” Patch said with a slight laugh, pulling his attention back to the room and her. “It wasn’t an accusation. I’m happy for you. And I like Y/N. She’ll keep you on your toes.”

He opened his mouth to deny once again that there was anything going on between the two of you, to assure her, but she shook her head and rolled her eyes affectionately. Still he blundered onward, changing tactics slightly but still determined to deny what he knew was real, what Patch could see with her own two eyes.

“She probably doesn’t even—“

Patch held up a hand to cut him off again. “Don’t give me that. Don’t use the excuse of not knowing what you could easily find out.”

“It’s not that simple, Eudora,” he sighed.

“Nothing about love ever is.” She stood up, brushing non-existent dirt off her pant legs. “I need to get back to work, but I hope you give what I said some thought at least. For both of your sakes.”

‘Love.’ The word echoed through Diego’s mind, but not in a way that felt intimidating or worrying. It felt more like suddenly having a name for the feeling he knew was there, like hearing someone else say it made it real. But that didn’t mean he wanted to say it out loud. Or did he?

The world swam slowly into existence for a third time, and you groaned, sick of the feeling as much as you were suffering any ill effects. Cautiously, you propped yourself up on your elbows, and the movement caught Diego’s attention. Almost immediately, he was up out of the chair he’d been sitting in and crouched by your side.

“How long was I out for?” you asked, hesitantly, ignoring the way your heart fluttered at his closeness and how quickly he’d jumped to your side.

“Do you mean since Patch made you swoon or in general?” he teased, smiling.

You rolled your eyes. “She did not make me swoon. Although if anyone’s swoon-worthy…but no, I mean how long have I been in the Bat Cave, total?”

“You’ve been in and out for…two days or so.”

“Two…shit!” you bolted upright, trying to get to your feet despite Diego fighting you on it. “I need to go, and hope I haven’t been fired yet.”

“You need to rest! And why does it matter to you so much if you lose your job?”

“What do you mean why does it matter? I need that job. You know for rent, and food, and generally being able to survive.”

He frowned, clearly confused. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s a reoccurring thing for you it seems. What exactly has you confused this time Hargreeves?”

“You’re a thief. You’ve stolen plenty. Why does a dead end job matter to you?”

“Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve tried to figure it out: why you work at the diner, why you’re always wearing the same faded sweatshirt and jeans when you’re not working. You’ve got all that money…”

“Is my sense of fashion actually being judged by a man who wears leather like it’s a uniform and not just an uncomfortable invitation to awkward sweat?”

“It is a uniform. And you’re avoiding the question.”

You rolled your eyes. “Self-imposed means it’s not a uniform. Just a…fashion?...choice.” You cocked your head to one side and intentionally exaggerated the question in your tone, making it clear to him what you thought of his pick of attire. He certainly wasn’t wearing it for comfort.

“You’re really going to insult me after I saved your life?”

“You really think I steal for myself?”

“Who else would you be stealing for?”

“Saving lives isn’t always just stabbing and punching bad guys.” Your eyes flickered away from his face, fixing on some invisible point over his shoulder.

“What?”

You shrugged. “I support myself with a day job and then at night, I take from rich assholes who really don’t need it, or deserve to hurt, and I give it to people that need.”

He fell silent, frowning and avoiding eye contact.

“Well, you don’t have to worry,” he said eventually, pointedly ignoring your revelation. “Patch called in sick for you.”

“A police officer calling me in sick? Great now they’re definitely going to think I’m a criminal and fire me.”

“You are a criminal.”

You glared at him, wishing you had something to throw, especially when your reaction made him chuckle.

“She told them you were a witness and were in protective custody. You should be good for a week.”

“So dramatic.” You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, I guess.”

“It was…her idea…” for some reason he wouldn’t meet your eyes again, and you were pretty sure he was lying to you.

“I don’t just mean the work thing,” you said, fiddling with your fingers. “You didn’t have to help me out. You could have left me in the bank, or dumped me on the EMTs.”

He shifted, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the mattress and twisting to face you, instead of kneeling beside you. Hesitantly, he reached out catching an errant strand of your hair between his fingers and twirling it distractingly. Only a stubbornness warring with yourself (and maybe a fear that if you moved too quickly you would pass out again) kept you from launching yourself forward to press your lips to his. You hated how his proximity and the subtle scent of him made your heart race, how he made you feel weak and dizzy in a way that was entirely separate from the blood loss.

As you sat there, not quite locking eyes, each watching each other, it dawned on you that you might actually love him. Strangely, it sent a sensation of calm flooding over you. It just made sense, so there was no point in fighting it, just deciding what to do with it.

“I saw your eyes when you were talking about what you thought they might do if someone found out you had powers,” he explained finally, reluctantly letting his hand drop back to his side. “I didn’t want to be the reason you were that scared.”

“Oh.” The word felt small and inadequate.

You reached out hesitantly, to rest your hand on his where it sat between you. He turned his up so that your palms were touching and laced his fingers through yours. You both sat there staring at your joined hands, each trying to figure out what it meant to yourselves and to each other.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there in the heavy, waiting silence. Finally Diego cleared his throat and pulled away, standing up.

“Are you hungry? I’m going to go out and get you some food, so you can get your strength back up,” he said awkwardly. “You should get some more rest.”

“Right, sure,” you frowned, biting back the questions dancing on your tongue. “Thanks…”

The next few days passed much the same way, with you trying to rest and recover, and Diego doing what he could to help you, including helping you change your bandages and giving you a literal hand when you started testing your weight on it finally. The thread of tension running between you was pulled taut and you waited for it to snap. Until, finally you couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Diego,” you started as you stood next to him, his forearm in a vice grip as you wobbled on your right foot and haltingly placed your left one on the cold concrete.

“Don’t start thanking me again, Y/N,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “I keep telling you it’s no big deal.”

“Diligently nursing me back to health from a gunshot wound is no big deal?” you asked with a raised eyebrow and a demanding sharpness to your tone.

“No. It lets me know you’re okay.” He tried to shrug without moving the arm you were using for balance, resulting in a very awkward gesture and you giggled at it. “I’d do the same for anyone I cared so much about.”

You hobbled yourself around to be facing him, face blushing hotly. “You care about me?”

“O-o-of…c-c-c…” he gaped and floundered and the stutter that you had quickly come to recognize as a sign of his nervousness or uncertainty in himself was sharp.

“Relax, Diego. I care about you to, I just…it’s nice to hear it confirmed that the feeling’s mutual,” you smiled and gave a little shrug.

He stared at you, eyes roving your face as if searching for something. Whatever it was, he must have found it, because the next thing you knew, his free hand was cupping your jaw, thumb trailing across your cheek. And then his lips were on yours and the time for thinking or knowing was past you.

Your grip tightened further on his arm and the other hand curled around his shoulders, dragging yourself closer as his tongue parted your lips in askance, diving in to tangle with yours when you opened so willingly in answer, a moan escaping you only to be swallowed in his kiss. His arm slipped your grip to wrap around your waist as he felt you buckle, whether under the strain on your leg or the intensity of the kiss was uncertain and irrelevant to you both. Slowly, he backed up toward the threadbare chair in the corner of the room, dropping back into it and pulling you down onto his lap. You tangled your hands into his close-cropped hair, carding and tugging gently at it, making him groan, and his hands ran ticklishly up and down your sides.

Reluctantly, you pulled back, panting for air through your kiss-bruised lips.

“What the fuck was that?” you asked, eyebrow raised and staring down at him.

“I think I’ve wanted to do that for six months now,” he murmured in response, gaze adoring as he met your eyes.

“I’ve certainly been waiting for you to. Maybe I should get shot more often.”

“Don’t even joke…”

“So what changed? Was it just about admitting that I cared too?”

“Yeah, I guess. Or, actually, I think it was something Eudora said when she was here. Something she made me see…I don’t know…” he shifted uncomfortably as if trying to get away from your vision and his voice had just enough of a hitch that you knew that his stutter would come out soon if you kept pushing.

So instead, you gently brushed your fingers along his jaw to turn his head back to you.

“Don’t worry about it, you don’t have to explain…I just…I’m glad we finally got here. Now kiss me again.”

He smirked, arms curling around your back to draw you downward. “If you insist.”

A few hours later, you both sat at his little table, picking at your takeout.

“So, you have to get back to work soon…” he started awkwardly.

“Yep. I mean, it was a nice week hiding out in the Bat Cave, but I knew I’d to get back to reality eventually.”

“What will you do about, you know, the other thing?”

“Why? So you know when to go back to failing to catch me?” you teased, cocking you head at him with a smirk.

“No. I just know you could be using your powers differently, so I thought…maybe after everything you might have changed your mind on it.”

You growled in frustration, dropping the cheap plastic fork you had been using to nose the vegetables around in your lo mein. “Not this again, Diego.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Well I really wish you wouldn’t. You can’t say you care about me and expect me to believe that, no matter how sweet you are, when you turn around and try to change me with every second breath.” You heard your voice crack, and fought back the accompanying tears of anger. You had thought, no hoped, that now that your feelings were out in the open, he would be more accepting.

“I’m not trying to change you! I just saw what you did at the bank—“

“What? Nearly kill myself? I spent two days slipping in and out of consciousness! I’m going to probably be limping for weeks. I am NEVER doing that again.”

“You can take direct action to save lives! Isn’t that worth a little risk?”

“Why don’t you ask your brother that?” You instantly regretted the words as they slipped off your tongue.

Immediately, it was like sheet-metal shutters slammed shut behind his eyes, those warm chocolate eyes that you loved so much now gone and stony.

“Shit. No, Diego, I…I didn’t mean that…or I kind of did, but I had no right…”

His jaw twitched but he didn’t speak.

“Fuck. I fucked everything up already. Shit. Please say something? Even if you want to tell me off, which I totally deserve…please?”

“We need to change the bandages on your leg.” His voice was flat. You had heard security alarms with more emotion.

“Oh. Right.” You sighed, twisting awkwardly to pull yourself out from under the table and give him access to the wound.

“Then I think you should go.”

You were silent for a moment, watching him closely as he rounded the table and carefully unwound the gauze from your leg.

“No,” you said softly. “I don’t think I should.”

He turned his head up to look at you, mouth agape.

“We keep doing this Diego. Every time there’s something between us, we end up snapping at each other and saying something that hurts the other person and shutting each other out. And I don’t want to do that again. I really like you, and I trust you and I want to be around you, like all the time, and that’s all new and confusing and…terrifying. But I don’t want to lose it.”

“What are you saying?”

“That we should, maybe, talk this out like adults this time?” you smiled sheepishly, hesitantly.

Silence rang over the room, but you felt gentle hands on your leg as he continued to inspect how your leg was healing.

“You’re…right. We should…talk,” he said finally, and you felt the relief settle over your body, tension dropping away.

“Glad you agree,” you said with a slight smile.

#this chapter really got away from me #and I already know the next one is going to too #but it was a lot of conversations that needed to happen #with wound-tending and other related bullshit to interconnect it all #I know nothing about injuries so...sorry?#Light Fingers #Diego Hargreeves x Reader #The Umbrella Academy fic #pre-canon #still haven't decided how far I want to take this Eudora x reader thing #I guess we'll all find out together

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cosmicbash · 4 years ago

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Hey, So I'm having a bad week and would really like an outed Kells and Em fic, it could be as angsty or fluffy as you want, I just need a happy ending. A little joy from a situation like that would be really nice right now, Thanks P.S. I've been reading your writing for a while and I think they're really great!! I hope you keep having Inspiration to do so!!!

Sorry I'm so late replying to this!! Ive had a shitty busy week myself and i feel horrible its taken me so long!!

I feel like instagram would be Em and Kelly's downfall. Just because the younger rapper is constantly on it, posting little snippets to interact with his fans, going Live, and of course posting pictures.

Slip ups are inevitable once he and Marshall start spending more and more time together.

Because Colson can't just cut back, when he does that fans start speculating. Questioning why exactly he's suddenly getting more secretive or searching through what he does share with a fine tooth comb to spot a new mystery girlfriend.

So Colson continues posting away on instagram and filming his lives, even when he and Marshall are together. Ignoring the headshakes and looks the older rapper shoots his way everytime he's on live laughing it up.

At first it's awkward, Marshall and him keep alternating who's going to duck into the bathroom or step out for coffee. But eventually they get used to it and comfortable enough that Colson can walk around their hotel room filming while Marshall naps on the couch.

The blonde even gets cheeky enough to start teasing his partner, like snapping photos of their shared brunches, or taking after sex selfies that always get Marshall hiding under the blankets or kicking him.

Really Colson should have seen it coming. You can only fly so close to the sun before you get burned afterall.

The mistakes start piling up soon enough.

Marshall accidentally yelling to ask him something when he's recording a live, Colson walking a bit too close to the couch and flashing the hoodie clad rappers back, the bottom of Marshall's AA necklace in the back of a breakfast shot, and more minor incidents that branch out from there.

At first Colson can just brush the unfamilar voice and thankfully covered up body as one of his assitants or friends. But as soon as that necklace peek gets out the internet does its thing and speculation over a possible collab strikes up.

The assumption being he gave everyone the glimpse on purpose.

Of course he's relieved the public isn't immediately jumping to the crazy possibility of them banging. Even though thats exactly what theyre doing. But him and Marshall AREN'T actually making any music together, and neither of them has publicly squashed their beef. Afterall, what better cover than pretending to still hate eachother?

But now that's all out the window. Colson's lack of an immediate excuse and rapid deletion of the photo just convincing the media their theories are correct.

Paul is of course furious, reaming both of them out over the phone about how they better get on a track together or figure out some new cover. And Diddy, well Diddy rarely comes off his self made throne to speak to Colson, let alone acknowledge most of his success, but the rapper actually does inquire to him about the whole spectacle. And Colson can't help but find himself wishing he had a guy like Paul who knew about them and could just simply yell at him because he still has no idea what to even say.

They settle on quiet ambiguous statements from their labels about how the two of them are working towards mending their beef and that a collaboration isn't exactly out of the question at this moment.

It works. For about a month or two, mostly due to them being apart yet again. The major hype dies down and Colson avoids any and all questions relating to Marshall in his lives and on twitter. The two of them are able to breathe a sigh of relief as temporary as it may be.

Until the next time they make time to see eachother. Colson's got a small charity event in Detroit that he plans on using as an excuse to linger around the city and steal some much needed time with his secret boyfriend.

Of course all eyes are on them yet again, questioning whether the young rapper might also be stopping in to work in some music with his rival.

With paparazzi tailing him more than ever it's impossible for him to just go to Marshall's place like he'd planned. Instead forcing him into renting a suite and wasting most of the day stressing over just how the hell he's supposed to sneak Marshall in with the bastards sitting outside the building like hawks. The other rapper isn't exactly helping either, just sending his usual cryptic texts telling Colson not worry about it but never expanding on what his plan is either.

By the time the blonde finally finishes his busy day and drags himself back to the room he has fully accepted that their rendezvous is not going to happen. Marshall had stopped texting him more than two hours ago and he wasn't about to act even more like a spoiled child by blowing the man's phone up. Colson's just given up. He can't even muster the energy to give the paparazzi outside his hotel more then an annoyed comment about how his life doesn't revolve around collaborations and the finger before slipping inside.

Marshall's presence in his hotel room, already stripped down to his night tee and briefs almost looks like a mirage. But when he shuts the door and crosses the room to bury his face in the other man's neck he smells like ivory soap and that woodsy beard oil the blonde bought him and Colson can't help but hug him closer.

He's so relieved to see him he doesn't even snark back at Marshall's muffled comment that he looks like shit.

The moment is sweet and Colson honestly should have realized it was just the calm before the storm but he's too caught up in complaining about the media and basking in his partner's soft agreements to care.

Before taking off to take his shower he hands Marshall over his phone, suggesting the brunette look through the mess his instragram comment section has become, all the questions and posts he's been tagged in over that little picture and their statements. Because why not? They would inevitably end up laying against eachother in bed scrolling through them all together anyway, at least this way Marshall can get a headstart.

And Marshall does actually swipe through them for a bit, spending more time admiring some of his partners pretty posts than he does reading the never ending stream of comments. The rapper rarely gets on the app himself except to post the occasional merch drop and promo. Social media isn't his forte, and it's not like he could follow Colson's account anyway. Navigating the app and searching for his boyfriends account was too much work when he could just asks for selfies over text.

Thats why when Marshall finishes his browsing and begins backing out of a post back to Colson's homepage he doesn't even care to pay much attention to what he's tapping. The flash of black and loading wheel that lights up the screen completely missed when he tosses it across the bed in lieu of playing around on his own phone.

The livestream he accidentally starts mainly films a blank ceiling through the rest of Colson's shower. The occasional creak and shift on the bed from Marshall's weight and blare of music from his own phones speakers all anyone tuning in can hear.

It doesn't take a brain surgeon for fans to realize the Live has been started unknowingly, but thats not going to stop any of them from filing in.

Maybe if Colson hadn't set his phone to silent the string of text messages might have alerted Marshall to his mistake. But the older rapper relaxes back on the bed less than a foot away blissfully unaware until Colson finally exits the bathroom.

Neither of them notice the phone when Marshall sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, his body briefly flickering past the frame. They don't see the explosion of comments flying past the screen while they talk and Colson shoves the other man back onto the bed again. Bouncing the phone high enough to almost flip it if fate didn't decide to just scoot it closer to their tangling bodies.

Colson's whole upper body and face is in frame from then on. His cheeks flushed and smile cocky while he straddles his unseen partner. Marshall's fingertips peeking onto the screen where they're tickling the skin covering his ribs.

Its not until after Marshall's sat back up and begun peppering kisses down the front of his throat that he finally catches sight of his half blanket covered phone. An amused accusation about the other rapper trying to sneakily film them prompting Marshall to scoff and reach out for it.

"Probably just the app, shits always opening up to the camera on my phone-"

The rush of comments speeding past the screen and the unmistakeable red dot next to LIVE has Marshall freezing. His wide eyed face fully on screen for 10 seconds before Colson finally pries the phone from his hands to see whats got him so spooked.

Instead of panic, anger is what rushes through Colson's veins. A slew of curses leaving his mouth, before he finally manages to end the live. Phone promptly flying out of his hand against the wall afterwards.

The blonde wants to scream and thrash around. And thats what he does, fingers tearimg at his hair in frustration.

It takes Marshall's fingers softly prying them down for Colson to finally open his eyes again. The utterly terrified look on his partner's face chasing away his residual rage. "Fuck Colson I'm sorry-" its not the first time he's heard Marshall apologize, but it is the first time the man has ever done it while looking so scared of his response.

All the months he'd spent dreaming about his rival making such an expression have nothing on the real thing. And that smug powerful feeling he'd imagined was completely absent now. Just an uncomfortable knot seizing up his chest in it's place.

"I'm not--" his own voice feels tight. Tears threatening to bubble up in his eyes while the reality of the whole situation continues to wash over him. "I'm not mad at you, alright?"

He's mad at the media, at his fans, the rap industry, everything that makes him feel like this little slip up and intimate moment of theirs going viral will ruin their lives.

Colson's sick of hiding who he is and who he's with. Its utter bullshit. Its 2019 for chrissakes, who gives a shit who's banging who? They both make bad ass music either way and liking dick shouldn't change that.

Pushing up off of Marshall, Colson moves to climb off the bed. His hopefully not smashed phone across the room his current focus. But the older rapper snags his wrist and wont let him take more than one step.

And thats when Colson realizes just why Marshall looks so terrified. The man's worried that this is it, that he's going to just leave.

Run away from their problems and abandon the relationship they've been cultivating. Just go full scorched earth.

And that hurts.

So instead the blonde softens his expression and climbs back into bed, onto the other man's lap to hug him tightly. "Fuck Marsh--" He's not about to let the media ruin another relationship. "I love you."

The responding hug is so tight it hurts but Colson doesn't stop. "I fucking love you."

They're falling back onto the bed, legs tangling and Colson's teeth grinding while he rubs his face along the older rapper's shoulder. "I love you"

He doesn't even know what else to say. Now that the words are out it's all his tongue can shape.

"Colson-" Marshall's warm palms are cupping his face, pulling him back so they can stare at eachother

"I love you-" that one hurts the most, maybe because they're eye to eye and just looking at Marshall's soft expression and the possibility of losing it makes him want to crumble. "Please-"

He chokes back a wet sound in the back of his throat before they kiss. Pressing as close as he can, practically trying to glue their mouths together permanently.

Marshall's afraid to lose him just as much. They're idiots for ever thinking it might be a possibilility.

The media can get blown, and so can the industry and their so called fans. The cats out of the bag now and theirs no turning back. If they don't like them together than tough shit. They've both dragged themselves up out of the pits before, this will be no different.

Except, this time they have eachother to lean on.

"I love you to you cornball."

(((Ffffff this sat in my drafts cuz I got distracted by work and life. Im so fucking sorry anon!!!)))

((Also! Thank you anon! For the compliments! Im glad you enjoy my works!))

#emgk #ehhh i dunno where this went #sorry if its not great #been real distracted and busy with work lately #but i hope you can still enjoy it #prompts #asks #i love asks

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shanastoryteller · 5 years ago

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Saw your post mentioning reading your favorite poems and I was wondering what they were? I've never really liked poems but I really liked that one by Emily Dickson you put in the front of that teen wolf fic so you probably have really good taste in poems, and I've been trying to find some to like.

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.Life is short, and I’ve shortened minein a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,a thousand deliciously ill-advised waysI’ll keep from my children. The world is at leastfifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservativeestimate, though I keep this from my children.For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,sunk in a lake. Life is short and the worldis at least half terrible, and for every kindstranger, there is one who would break you,though I keep this from my children. I am tryingto sell them the world. Any decent realtor,walking you through a real shithole, chirps onabout good bones: This place could be beautiful,right? You could make this place beautiful.

Because I could not stop for Death (479)

Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses’ HeadsWere toward Eternity –

this one is an old nursery rhyme:

One bright day in the middle of the night, Two dead boys got up to fight. They turned their backs and faced each other, Drew their swords and shot the other. One was blind and the other couldn’t see, So they chose a fool for their referee. A mute eyewitness screamed with fright.A cripple danced to see the sight. A deaf policeman heard the noise.He came and shot the two dead boys.A paralyzed donkey passing by,Kicked the copper in the eye, And knocked him through a rubber wall, Into a ditch and drowned them all.If you don’t believe this lie is true,Ask the blind man. He saw it too.

She swearsshe will nevergive birthto a daughter.Won’t evenplant a garden.— Adira Bennett

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

My mouth is a fire escape.The words coming outdon’t care that they are naked.There is something burning in here.

— Andrea Gibson

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weepI am not there; I do not sleep.I am a thousand winds that blow,I am the diamond glints on snow,I am the sun on ripened grain,I am the gentle autumn rain.When you awaken in the morning’s hushI am the swift uplifting rushOf quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

Never regret thy fall,O Icarus of the fearless flightFor the greatest tragedy of them allIs never to feel the burning light

— Oscar Wilde

Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POEIt was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

self-parodies & psalms for shit-scared twenty-somethings by gyzm

is perhaps my favorite poem and just gut punches me whenever i read it but they are a tumblr person who’s poem deserves more attention so please reblog/comment on their poem directly :)

most of what i’ve learned in the first half of my twenties is to embrace statistics i’m not smart enough to verify; theones about black holes and how much of the universe is justempty space: between atoms and from one planet to another.it makes it easier, to stare at my overcrowded sink and thinkthat to get from the floor of this filthy kitchen to the neareststar would take more lifetimes than i could borrow or steal.maybe there is a single withered raspberry molding beneath every single plate i own but in the scheme of things that’s insignificant, a non-event in the life of a non-event, and so canwait until tomorrow, when this hangover is gone.

please, god, don’t let me die before i turn thirty. i’ve heardthat that’s when it all comes together, and i know those’re allfish stories, probably, the lies of those who need to pretend justlike me, but hell, i choose to believe. because the thing is, god, if idie tomorrow, a few years from now, i can pretty much guarantee it’ll be in torn underpants, on a bad hair day, in a bra that doesn’t fitthe way i’d like it to; please, god, don’t let me die before i work outhow to drag myself out of bed in time to dry my hair every morning. i’vebeen promising myself for years i’d learn to get off the couch on monday nights and do laundry, god, okay, i don’t mind living in dirty jeans but i don’t want to die in them, i’m begging, i thank you, i’m sorry, amen.

there should be a page at the back of every baby book thatsays “baby’s first moment of cold realization that they are an gigantic shitheaded asshole.” it’s important, as milestones go. iknow it’s not as glamorous as a first word or a graduation but i’dargue that developmentally, it means at least as much — god knows i put more thought into the bleak portrait of myself at two a.m., staring haggard out from the filmy surface of my mirror, than i did in my ham-fisted infant attempts to say my father’s name. it would benice, is all, to have a warning, to flip through pages of childhood accomplishments and see that placeholder, at the end; to know that the future was coming, inevitably, to make dipshits of us all.

don’t put liquid soap in the dishwasher. don’t put your vibrator in the dishwasher. don’t forget that your mother is coming over until fifteen minutes before she shows up and put every scrap ofevidence that you are a disaster zone living underneath a veneerof overdone eye makeup and slapdash dreams of better tomorrowsin the dishwasher. don’t put your grandmother’s china, that vase you bought at the flea market, a bowl half-full of aged guacamole,in the dishwasher. on the mornings that will keep coming — when the shower does not seem like enough, when you can feel your long history of mistakes pockmarking your face and oozing out from beneath your armpits — don’t put yourself in the dishwasher.

the human body replaces skin cells so quickly that two weeks from now, every part of me will be brand new, and i will still feel as though i have spent my first quarter-century on this planet touching both too much and not enough. that feels profound atthis moment but the human body replaces humiliations fastereven than skin; two weeks from now i will remember saying this,stare at the ceiling above my bed and think: no one has ever been as big of an asshole as you are. there are billions of stars in our galaxy and billions of galaxies in our universe and my ceiling is the only clean part of my apartment. i know it’s a fish story, but c’mon, god, okay — i’m just asking to believe i’ll make it to thirty better dressed; less selfish.

#poem #a poem is just an undirected prayer #you know i read a short book of poems in middle school written from god's pov and one of them was about him/her being pissed that everyone #assumed they were a guy #and i've been thinking of it for 13 years but i have no idea what it was called or what the book was called #anon #asks

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likeaturledo · 6 years ago

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turtul au: soulmate edition (Leo)

Where everyone has their own distinct way of meeting their soulmates

at first Leo was confused as to why there were words written on his arm

“MY CHURROS”

he thought maybe it was one of his brothers pranking him again

writing on his arm with a sharpie

his first guess was mikey

it was always mikey

but unlike before when leo went to confront mikey he denied it

which was unmikey-like

so he asked raph

“dude, i could think of a million better pranks than sharpie”

“why would i even write that? what the heck are churros?”

donnie was an unlikely suspect

so leo just tried to wash it off

‘tried’

no matter what he tried it wouldn’t work

not water, no soap, he even tried detergent and dish washing soap

but the words just wouldn’t come off

so he just let it be

thinking that it would come off on its own

he really couldnt be bothered, it’s just marker right?

but it stayed on him for a long time

until april asked him about it

and he had to tell how it wouldn’t come off no matter what he did

april and casey looked at each other

“OMG I KNOW WHAT IT IS”

apperently the turtles didn’t have any idea how soulmates work

“It’s the first words your soulmate is going to say to you!”

“what?”

“usually people just get ‘hey’ or ‘watch where you’re going’ which is completely cliche”

“but your’s is weird bro, no offence”

‘full offence casey’ leo thought

but he was right

if this was his soulmate’s first words to him

shouldn’t it be “what are you?” or “don’t eat me!” or “AGHHHHH”

he didn’t even know what churros were until then

and everytime they’d go up top he would scan the restaurants

and usually they would be closed but he’d still look at them

and his brothers would make fun of him

mostly raph

“awww looking for your soulmate?”

“shut up raph”

and then there would be the fears

talking to him when he’d look at the words or just when he was meditating

‘it doesn’t matter if their first words isn’t scared or disgusted’

‘they’ll probably think of you that way’

so he does his best to ignore them

but he still thinks abt it

trying to rack up his brain for any possible scenario in which you would say that to him

until one night you get out of your apartment and towards a 24-hour convenience store

because you were starving

and craving churros

and stressed abt your soulmate bcs

“IM SO SORRY MISS”

and you thought maybe something bad would happen on your first meeting

like bumping into each other

no one likes their first meeting with their soulmate to be bad right?

you probably looked like a mess because it was 11 in the evening

and you were hungry and didn’t care if the cashier would look at you weird for buying cold churros in the middle of the night

he didn’t bcs you knew him

“hey stan”

“hey y/n”

but walking on the way home

you gotscared

bcs the trees looked like humans who had hands

and who wouldn’t be scared when lamp posts keep flickering

‘freaking cliche’ you thought

but you were still scared

so when the lights turned off for good you ran

you ran so fast you’d put usain bolt to shame

and you didn’t know where you were going

and you were so busy looking behind you for possible clown murderers you didn’t see yourself bumping into something

which might have caused a slight concussion

and made you dropped your churros

“MY CHURROS”

and what you thought was a lamp post turned around

and you were greeted by a giant turtle

‘woah his eyes-WAIT NO”

“MY CHURROS” you repeated “I JUST BOUGHT THAT”

“IM SO SORRY MISS”

thats when you both realized

‘OH SHIT WHAAAAAT’

leo didn’t realize he would be meeting his soulmate at 11:30 in the evening doing his rounds at the city

but then again they don’t really go out in the day

and you also didn’t think that would be your first meeting

you were right thinking you’d bump into each other though

altho you didn’t think it would be bcs you were running away from the dark

and you bumping into him

he was prepared for you to run away

or scream

or scream while running away

but

“MY CHURROS” third time saying it

bcs you were hungry

and craving

“i’m so sorry but i don’t really have anything on me...”

you breathed, kinda sad abt the churros but kinda excited that you ACTUALLY HAVE A SOULMATE NOW

SUCK IT OLDER SISTERS WHO FOUND THEIR SOULMATES FIRST

SUCK IT BFF WHOS BEEN TRYING TO SET YOU UP WITH GRADE A DOUCHES

“nah it’s fine, kinda my fault anyway...bumping into you...and stuff...”

cue awkward silence

you still ddin’t know abt the whole turtle stuff

but you felt terrible wanting to ask

BUT HIS EYES THO

WHO HAS THAT KIND OF PRETTY EYES

and leo kinda wanted to run away thinking you were too repulsed to say anything

SHES SO PRETTY WHAT THE HECKITY HECK WHAT DO I SAY WHAT DO I DO

‘i’m y/n’

‘i’m leo’

awkward silence pt.2

“JUST FRICKIN KISS ALREADY”

you heard from the roof

and leo kinda looked annoyed by it

“SHUT UP”

and you chuckled

which surprised him

cause you know siblings like ice cream knows sprinkles

‘brother?’

‘how’d you know?’

which you then proceeded to talk about siblings and family all the way to favorite music and movies

you went back to the convenience store with him

he didn’t want to go in at first bcs of...you know

but you reassured him that it would be fine

‘hey stan’

‘hey y/n’

the cashier just looked at you both and shrugged

“wha-”

“i’ve done worse here, this place is like a judgement-free zone!”

“i’ve also seen worse, hence, no cameras” -cashier said bored as he pointed to the cctv’s that were clearly not working “we just use it to scare off”

#tmnt #tmnt headcanons #tmnt aus #tmnt au #headcanons #au #aus #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt 2018 #rottmnt #requests #tmnt requests #tmnt soulmates #teenage mutant ninja turtles

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linguisticswithlester · 6 years ago

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Let Me Memorize Your Eyes

Chapter Ten: Ding.

Rating: NR

Chapter: 10 /?

Word Count: 2005

Warnings: Mentions of fire and burn scars

Notes: Hey!! I am soo sorry it has been so long since the last time I uploaded. I recently moved for school and it has taken a while to get used to everything. Culture shock set in towards the end of week two so that was great.Anyway, I am sorry this is a shorter chapter than I would have liked but, I wanted to post something before 2038. The next chapter will be a good one, I promise and HOPEFULLY up by monday,,, we'll see!

Chapter Summary: In a heated game of Mario Kart, Dan gets a text message.

[Read on AO3]

[Start at the Beginning]

For the past two weeks, Dan has been walking Phil back to his flat at then end of every night. It makes the days pass by slow and the nights go by unbearably fast but, Dan wouldn’t change it for anything. Their talks about life and passions; what they want out of their futures and what they hide from their past. It's all been slowly coming out of the boys but, everything they have been hiding from and keeping in the dark is all starting to come to the surface.

Dan hasn't felt this comfortable with someone in a long time. Carol felt safe but, she lost comfort along the way. Dan felt like he could tell Phil anything and everything; an old movie cliche but, it was true. Phil could make him laugh and smile; just about anything revolving around Phil could make Dan smile though. It was the happiest he has been in a long time and Dan didn’t want to screw it up.

Dan caught feelings for Phil and ever since he started walking him home, the feelings grew at an alarming rate. It felt like a rollercoaster; going up to the first drop was butterfly filled and then the drop takes your butterflies and makes them completely disappear but it takes everything else with it. Yet when the next drop comes, you just go with it; the anticipation and unknown still remains but, it's a hell of a lot of fun when it’s over.

Phil was one of a kind and Dan didn’t want to let him slip away; he laughed at stupid puns and made even dumber ones. He wore mismatched socks and never ties his shoelaces quite right. He had a fringe most days but, secretly wore a quiff when he thought no one would see. He dyes his hair black and it complements his pale skin. He covers his mouth with his hands when he starts to really laugh and he does this weird thing with his hands when he tries to put them in his pockets. Those things were endearing and Dan picked up on them everytime Phil did them. Dan couldn’t help his heart from fluttering when he sees that man smile or say something incredible inappropriate on accident.

Phil can get his heart racing from zero to a hundred and once it maxes out, it doesn’t go back down. Dan’s face is always flushed and now Becca has picked up on it. She knows they walk back home together but, Dan hasn’t told her anything else. Even though, she asks more about Phil than she does about Dan. She wants the gossip and Dan just doesn't want to give it up. Whatever it is that he has with Phil is something special and unique; it was Dan’s happy place and he didn't want to give it up even if they were just friends.

***

It was Saturday and Dan actually had the day off. They had managed to find a new hire at the shop, however, Dan had grown partial to the evening shift...or rather the man he got to walk home every night he worked it. But, the schedule did change and Dan didn’t have to work as much anymore.

He sat in his living room wearing his black Calvin Klein's with a switch remote in his hands racing other players in Mario Kart. He had a glass of tea balancing on the arm of his sofa that’s now gone cold as the races continued, one after another. His curly hair was pushed up in quiff fashion and his eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl.

“Get out of the fucking way!” Dan screamed at his TV set while waving his left hand in frustration. “Can people learn how to pl-”

Ding.

Dan was in such a rage that he almost didn’t hear his phone beep. He paused the game and looked around for his phone. He knew he was getting to invested into the game when it brought out actual rage so he grabbed his now not-so-hot tea and sat back into the sofa. Reaching over to his left, he swiped his phone that was laying face down on the spot next to him.

He had a text message.

It was from Phil.

Dan’s stomach dropped and his heart started to race a little faster. His face heated up and he knew that the red patch on his cheek would soon be a key feature to his face.

Phil (with one L): Hey Dan! I know we don’t talk much outside of the cafe but, i was just wondering if you wanted to go do something with me tonight? Maybe a movie? Or even dinner?

Ding.

Phil (with one L): I know it’s Saturday so you probably already have plans

Phil (with one L): so feel free to say no

Phil (with one L): (...)

Phil (with one L):

Dan’s face was decorated with a smile that only makes its appearance when Phil was involved. Phil just asked him to go out with him,,, well not like out, out but like just go with him to do something and Dan was ecstatic. Any thought of Mario Kart has completely vanished from train of thought and now all he saw was Phil.

Dan: hey phil! I would love

No, too strong.

Dan: hey phil! I would be

“So fucking excited actually,” Dan said out loud with a huff of breath twiddling his thumbs over the touch screen of his phone instead of texting it out.

Dan: that would be great i dont have any plans tonight so im all yours

Dan hit send and threw his phone towards the other end of the couch. His stomach was still hovering above his head when his phone beeped. He flung himself over to were his phone was laying and his palms grew sweaty. He picked his phone up and slowly turned it around to view the notification.

Carol: I saw this on the way to work this morning and it reminded me of you

Dan scrolled to see that she had sent him a picture of a Bowser action figure that was laying face down on on the sidewalk.

What the hell?

Dan typed out a quick reply about how that was actually him in his natural form and set his phone back down with the face of the phone resting on the couch.

Carol and him talk regularly. Things never went south and there wasn't a falling out; they remained friends and even became better at communication now that the pressures of a relationship were no longer present. However, she was not the person that he was looking for a response from at this moment.

Dan sat and tapped his foot, twiddled his thumbs, rocked back and forth, did whatever fidget that he could while sitting on the sofa and he still hadn’t gotten a reply back. It was going to drive him mad. Had Phil not liked his reply? Did phil find someone else to go with because Dan took to long thinking about what to say? Did Phil send it to Dan by accident? Maybe he really didn’t want Dan to go with him tonight; maybe it was a mistake.

Dan hopped up into a standing position and ran his hands through his curly hair. He decided that no matter what or even if Phil replied, he should actually get dressed for the day even if was past noon. He headed for his bathroom and looked in the mirror. He was a mess. His face was flushed and palms where clammy; he looked like a wreck. He turned his shower on and let the water heat up while he undressed which didn’t take very long because he wasn’t wearing much to begin with. He left his phone sitting in the lounge because he was the type of person that would check his phone a million times even while in the shower just to double check to make sure he didn’t miss the ding of a new message.

The hot water started to steam and the mirror was no longer a reliable source of reflection. Standing naked, Dan stepped into the shower. The water caressed his body in a gentle manner and his muscles started to relax at the pressure. He let the water cascade down his face, washing away his worry. He ran his hands over his arms and up to his shoulders only to find them in his hair. He opened his eyes and a white mist surrounded him, comforting him. He grabbed the bottle of soap and poured a decent amount onto his palms.

Reaching back up to his hair, he couldn’t help but see the scars that littered his body. His ribs, shoulders, arms; they all had the remains of severe burn marks. Red and painful at times, his body was a constant reminder of everything he lost and everything that fire took. A flash of red and orange appeared in his eyes; that morning replaying again and again. The screams and faces of those around and the fingers pointing towards the burning bakery. Hearing screams of panic as his grandpa was stuck inside the burning building and the smell of smoke as Dan hurled himself into the flames towards his mentor. Debris falling in flames while the fire took more of Dan’s heart as well as the room. Hitting him as he moved through the heat, the next thing that he remembers is blackness; a nothingness.

A white light waking him up only to tell him his grandfather didn't make it and the store was reduced to a pile of charcoal. His childhood and local hero was gone and Dan was stuck in a hospital bed; bound and wrapped for burns.

Staring out of the window that no longer held functionality, Dan was brought back to the present; his present. The shower that once held comfort and worth just felt empty and cold. He turned the water off and grabbed the towel that was sitting on the sink. Drying his scar littered body off, he headed to his bedroom to find something to wear. He settled for a black hoodie, ripped black jeans, and a pair of fuzzy socks. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he then remembered that he was waiting for a text from Phil. He jumped up and basically ran for the lounge; his hands glided across the walls as he sped through. Acting like a school-aged child, he dover for his phone. Scrolling through random notifications from tumblr and twitter; random texts from family, he had not gotten one from Phil. He leaned his head down and sighed.

The rest of the day, he kept himself busy. He did the laundry and cleaned his room, washed the dishes and put them away. Went to the store to get random things and organized his pantry. Still nothing; no ding or beep or flutter. Dan forgot how tiring having a crush was.

He sat down on the sofa and decided that he wasn't going to hear back from Phil tonight. He got on tumblr and starting rebloging; dogs, cats, text posts; memes, anything. Once Dan had forgotten about the text, he got one.

Ding.

Phil (with one L): Hey sorry about that, my meeting with the art gallery lasted longer than expected. How’s about we do both? Send me your address and I'll be there at 6!

Dan hastley typed up his address and could have screamed while doing so.

He spent the next 2 hours pacing back and forth and changing his outfit about 5 times only to go back to what he had on originally. He was getting more nervous with every passing second and his curls were getting more prominent the more he got anxious. He tried the internet hoping it would take his mind of things, and it did for a while until he heard his doorbell ring.

#lmmye #phan fic #phanfic #phan #dip and pip #dnp #artist/baker au #slow burn #strangers to friends #friends to lovers #happy ending #i promise #ao3 #fanfiction #alternate universe

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awesomegaydar-a · 6 years ago

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FIVE. TIMES. KISSED. PLEASE.

accepting // 5 times our muses kissed

ONE

there’s a cast shadow on the corridor wall of the dimly lit club under the neon lights to the bathroom; they flicker on and off ominously as santana holds trish walker’s waist and pins her against the wall next to a door with a sign that warns: EMPLOYEES ONLY. rules don’t apply to them, at least not to trish, and by proxy, it means santana can get away with just about anything she wants to. everyone wants to be in patsy’s good graces, she’s come to notice, like being best friends with the star of a bad tv show would earn them invisible and meaningless brownie points. trish doesn’t even care about them and that’s what no one knows, but trish cares about her.

she thinks so at least, because when santana laughs against her lips before kissing her, there’s a softness in which trish reciprocates the near vulgar display of affection that warms santana to her very core. or maybe its just the arousal talking. either way, santana’s been keeping an eye on her the entire night, which means she’s acceptably sober for the meantime, and they’re allowed to do this. she’s allowed to kiss her like she wants to get her off somewhere anyone could easily find them.

someone does, naturally.

hey, this section is off limits, didn’t you read the sign?

trish only has to break the kiss for a fraction of a second before the club employee mutters an apology under his breath. santana only hears about a quarter of his apology before her lips find trish’s in the dark again.

TWO

they’re not an item. they’re not really anything but best friends. santana doesn’t dare to ask questions about what they mean to each other, but she’s washing trish’s hair in the shower, still fully clothed except for the shows she took off before trish dragged her in there with her. santana insists on the water being cold, it’ll make trish come down from her haze a little quicker, and she’s already wiped the remnants of smudged mascara from her cheeks.

santana knows trish has a problem. she’s not an idiot. she’s seen the way trish abuses the bottle of xanax in her room like she couldn’t go a day without them. maybe that’s the entire problem though - she can’t because she hasn’t tried to. santana’s far too young to understand the extent of trish’s drug abuse and the long time consequences. somehow she always finds her before she takes a little TOO much, like 45 minutes ago, when she dragged her out of max’s grasp and nearly gave him a black eye before getting her in the back of a cab to her hotel room.

“your hair’s soft”. its not even the discussion they should be having right now. she thinks trish smiles, but she can’t really tell when she has her back turned.

the cold water washes the shampoo away when trish turns around. she’s naked, and its inevitable when santana’s eyes roam to her bare body. she almost feels guilty, but trish ducks to give her the chastest of kisses on the lips and it washes away with the soap down the drain.

THREE

“i wish i could stay”.

“i wish you would stay”.

trish cups santana’s cheeks while they sit crossed legged on her mattress, her fingertips feel loving and soft on santana’s skin. there is no argument, just gentle emotion, trish’s eyes filled with sincerity and the taste of her lips on santana’s tongue when they kiss. trish’s alarm marks 6:00AM and her alarm goes off –

and santana wakes up on her LA bed. she can smell the breakfast her mom is making in the kitchen. she’s only here for a couple of days, visiting before she takes on a new project with blaine in the recording studio, full of promises but a one in a million chance. she never expected to wake up from a dream that never happened, a dream about trish walker nonetheless. maybe its the thing she read on the news about her, about her expected stay in rehab. maybe its because she stayed up all night thinking about giving her a call, but knowing she probably would never want to see her again, because when she left, there was no tenderness - there were tears, screaming, and blame for things that were out of her control.

i’m sorry, trish.

fuck you, santana.

FOUR

she’s even more attractive a decade later, short hair and the autumn leaves falling on her blonde tussles. santana has been so used to california that, even if she was raised in new york city, its almost torturous to be out in the cold in the middle of the night. santana can hear the clear sound of trish’s laughter even through the sound of the rustling wind. she’s making fun of her, clearly, for almost climbing on her as they take a quiet stroll back to trish’s penthouse.

“its not that cold, santana!”

“go live in LA and die of heatstroke, then”.

“i resent that”.

they both laugh now. santana laughs so vividly she forgets she’s cold in the first place, and when she pulls trish towards her, she can see a light in her eyes that she thought had died a long time ago. she’s sober now, that she knows; trish doesn’t even drink, which in turn, has diminished her own drinking quite a bit, but it goes beyond the absence of that haze in her pupils.

trish is happy. santana’s happy.

santana gets on her tip toes and pulls trish in for a warm kiss under a lamp post by her apartment building. they do a great job at making out like teenagers in the middle of the sidewalk despite their height difference, or the distant whistle of a stranger in the background, or the fact that it starts to rain and santana’s gonna catch pneumonia.

their happiness is too important to interrupt it.

FIVE

“you’ve always had two left feet”.

trish’s poignant glare makes santana grin, dancing cautiously to the steps of the song they’re supposed to slow dance to in just a week and two days. people constantly talk about cold feet during weddings, the doubts that suddenly creep up on someone before they’re about to commit to them for the rest of their life, but santana has yet to experience any doubts. maybe its because she’s a monogamist at heart, even after all the girls before trish and her got back together, but maybe its because she can’t envision spending her life with anyone other than the girl in her arms.

“not all of us can be you, miss pop cultural sensation - seven grammys and a tony”.

“i’m just keeping it real, babe”.

truth is, trish’s dancing is just fine. she could waltz like an epileptic zombie and santana would think she’s still the most beautiful girl to walk the earth – with the softest lips, that trish presses against yours when she dips you on the makeshift dance floor. santana hangs tightly by her neck, knowing very well trish could hold her upright all day if that’s what she wanted.

santana laughs against her lips, pulls back to peck her lips before trish pulls them upright again.

“its eight by the way - eight grammys and two tonys”.

“i love you, you moron”.

#itsnotpatsy #♫| I KEEP IT REAL & I'M HILARIOUS (memes)#♫| VERSE: I’VE NEVER BEEN GOOD AT MATH BUT I KNOW THAT I’M ONLY A FRACTION OF MYSELF SINCE YOU LEFT (itsnotpatsy)#do you ever cry?

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stormecloudyy-blog · 7 years ago

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Amor Proibido viii

Well, here is part 8. I was having some problems because I did not want this to turn to shit. I have poured my heart and soul into this series so far... so I hope you like this part since it is probably what I have been building up to since I had the idea.

But the planets all aligned When you looked into my eyes And just like that The chemicals react - Aly and AJ

And I'm not tryna ruin your happiness But darling don't you know that I'm the only one for ya? -Shawn Mendes

The declaration of love causes the next big commotion to break out. Landon seems to have forgotten his nose is still bleeding and he backs up for a moment before he takes a full running leap at Shawn. He pushes his entire weight, causing Shawn to take a few steps back and stumble catch his balance.

“You fucking asshole!” Landon screams, pulling his fist back ready to hit Shawn in the face. “You fucking think you can come here on the most important day of my life and take away my fiance? I am not going to let some fucking little ass boy try and take away the bitch I have invested so much fucking time into. This is my fucking fiancee. She belongs to me, and I am not going to let you fuck up the shit I have worked for.”

His words catch me off guard, the utter venom and contempt pouring from each locution falling from his lip. His eyes are so dark, and he seems completely foreign from the man I thought I was going to be marrying. Landon has constantly be very self absorbed, but I have never heard such horrible utterances before.

Shawn reaches down since he has the height on Landon, grabbing his fist and twisting it around so he pushes Landon’s arm behind his back. His face turns red from the pressure he is exerting on Landon as he pushes back. “What the fuck did you call her?”

I walk over to the pair of them and try to get between them. “Both of you need to stop this. Everyone...” I gesture at every single person in the room staring at us, my family, friends, and co workers, just gaping open mouthed at this spectacle unfolding like we are living some fucked up soap opera. Okay, just me living it but still. “...is staring and this is not the way to handle this. We are adults, and we can have a nice conversation about this in private. Obviously this is not going to end the way we all thought it would, but we need to-”

Before I can finish speaking, Landon has gotten free from Shawn and gets right into my face. He smirks at me with the most contempt I have ever seen and hits me across the face with an open hand, causing my head to spin to the side for a moment. I cry out, placing my own hand on the red spot and trying to stop the tears from falling. Anger and embarassment flow through me. Landon has been intense with me at times, but never to the point where he would hit me in front of all of these people.

Thomas and Elena step in, my aunt completely freaking out because Landon hit me. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” she screams, looking at Landon before she pulls me against her and looks at my face to assess the damage. “You are the ugliest, nastiest person I have ever met. I warned Autumn to not marry you and now I can see why especially. You only know how to utilize ugly words and wreak havoc everywhere you go.”

Shawn is looking at me, like he wants to say something. He is just standing there, seemingly shocked and angry by Landon’s behavior. I can see him taking deep breaths so he doesn’t hit him again.

Thomas is apologizing profusely to everyone, acting like they are not whispering and staring open mouthed at all of the drama. He says, “We are dealing with some family problems at the time, so if you would all just step outside so they can have some privacy, there is plenty food and beverage for everyone to enjoy outside in the yard. We even have some great music lined up. Please everyone follow me,” he says with a dramatic flourish, thrusting open the doors to the patio and guiding everyone outside. He closes the door behind him with a click.

Elena holds up a hold before anyone else can speak. She looks at me then at Landon before stopping on Shawn. “You sure know how to walk into someone’s home and make an impression, Shawn.” He tries to speak, but she holds up her hand once more. “None of this is any of my business in a manner of speaking. Autumn is a grown woman. But you need to know you should probably handle your declarations of love a little bit more... carefully.” Her eyes bore daggers into Landon. “You... you need to get the hell out of my home. You will not disrespect Autumn ever again. I have dealt with you for long enough. I don’t give a flying shit about your broken nose. It is not my problem. Get out before I call the police and file charges on you for hitting Autumn.” She literally pushes Landon out of the door, slamming it in his face.

“And you...” she points at me. “Grow the fuck up. Clean up this mess and make sure you know what you are doing. I want you to be happy, but you circumnavigate your choices poorly.” She examines my face, feeling all red and swollen. “Make sure you put some ice on that.” She kisses my forehead before leaving me alone with Shawn.

Shawn steps close to me, placing his hand on my chin and looking at my face. He frowns, placing fingers tentatively against the area where Landon hit me. “I am really sorry he hit you. I didn’t mean to cause your fiance to...” he trails off, not sure what to say.

I burst out laughing, not sure how else to handle the flurry of emotion going through me. I am ready to cry and scream, also kind of scared what is going to happen when I have to go home to get all of my stuff. The laughing sounds crazy and deranged, like I have lost mind. Which I clearly have since I am not married and Shawn is standing here.

Shawn’s eyes widen, not sure how to react to me at all. He just stares at me for a long moment... eyes stopping when he sees the necklace resting around the my neck. “Autumn...?” he questions, fingers reaching out and gently touching the charm.

“Hey, you,” I say with a small smile. “I was wondering if you were actually going to show up like you said you would.”

“I told you I was going to be here,” He replies with the sweetest smile, despite the issues going on. “The press is going to have a field day with this, you know?” He reaches down to press his fingers along my collar bone and smirks at me.

“Everyone already knows about us, just so you know,” I retort, taking his hand and kissing his fingers one by one. I need to know he is real and isn’t going anywhere. My emotions are all over the place and I need something to calm me down.

He widens his eyes in mock horror and shakes his head at the very thought. “There is no way anyone knows about us, Autumn. No one would ever post any of this online at all. Not even the girl who was filming on her phone.” He leans over and kisses me gently, his lips lingering against mine as though he is still trying to accept he is really here and that he actually stopped my wedding like we are in some fake ass movie.

“Why are you so against there being an us?” Shawn questions me after kissing me once more. He reaches over and pulls me closer to him, circling his hands around my waist.

“Because you know the reasons, and I am not going to mention them right now,” I reply automatically, knowing there is nothing stand between us but still hesitant to just jump into something with Shawn right away.

“You know how I feel about the subject, and I am not going to let it go until you finally give it some kind of acknowledgement,” he sighs and gives me his best smile. He knows I am going to just give into him because he knows how to get under my skin, but it doesn’t mean I want to deal with the consequences right this minute.

I move closer to him and press my head against his chest. “This is a lot to deal with it, believe it or not. You literally just sabotaged my wedding.”

The moment I finish speaking, Shawn closes the space between our lips and kisses me with all of the force he had been holding back. Our mouths collide beautifully, his lips knowing just the right path to follow and how to get his tongue to probe against mine to elicit those sweet little moans I can’t help every time he kisses me like that. His hands slide up my shoulders and into her hair, tangling through it gently and deepening the kiss even more.

I suppress in the moans the best I can, but some still managed to fall from my lips. His tongue brushes along the bottom of my lip, followed by a gentle nibbling of his teeth. Without really thinking, I stand up and pull him along with me towards the upstairs of the house so we can be completely alone, away from all those people I see trying to peek through the window. Including my cousin still filming and snapping photos on her phone.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs against my lips, wanting to check if this was really what I want.

I stare up at him with an incredulous look, almost wanting to smack him for asking such a question. I just nod my consent and guide him towards the bathroom, keeping my ears open to make sure there are no sounds minus us. Shawn does the same, eagerly leading me into the bathroom and slamming the door close and locking the door with a flourish.

My heart hammers in my chest as I keep my gaze on him, not wanting to let on I am actually kind of nervous about what is going to happen.We have had sex before, but this is another level. He just came here and stopped my wedding. My entire family is downstairs waiting to see what is going to happen, and I am locked inside the bathroom of my childhood home with Shawn Mendes. He steps closer to me, placing his lips on me and brushing his fingers along the top of the dress where my chest peeks out just slightly. With a devilish grin, he reaches down and rips the fabric so I am standing there with the dress coming off my chest, exposing I wasn’t wearing a bra underneath. I let out a laugh as his eyes widen at the sight, never growing tired of how appreciative he seems every time he sees me unclothed.

“You are beautiful,” he tells me with a smile, his hands snaking to my waist and tearing off the rest of the dress so it is just a fluff pile at our feet. His hands cup over my breasts appreciatively for a moment before he follows suit, taking off his charcoal colored button down and tossing onto the growing pile of garments at our feet. I grin at his perfectly toned body, recalling the way it feels to run my fingers over those perfectly chiseled muscles as I had done many times before. He spins me around so I am looking up at him, his face plastered with the most cheesy grin I have ever seen.

“Are you going to heal the ache of jet lag I am suffering from?” he teases, his voice deep with want.

Nodding with vigor, I place my hands on the waist of his jeans and pulled them down quickly. He takes off the rest of his clothes and tosses them with my ruined dress, hands never leaving my body as I turn on the shower and wait for the water to be just right. Once it seems like it won’t be too cold or scalding, I pull him in with me and kiss him beneath the jet of the water. I can’t stop smiling and pressing my lips against his. Just Shawn actually being here is more than I can even have hoped for when I woke up this morning.

He slides an arm down to my hip and turns my around so he is backed against the wall while I stand in front of him. Pleased with himself, he begins to trail kisses down my neck and along my collarbone. His lips are gentle and know very well what they are doing, stopping to press featmy light kisses along my neck while nipping at the skin along my collarbone to leave marks. He keeps whispering about how much he wants my, reassuring my that I was always going to be the one he wanted more than some random plethora of pussy.

I roll my hips against his, skin glistening with water beads as I try to make him ache for me. Pressing myself against his member, I can feel him grow harder just from the brief contact of skin. It makes me even happier to know I can have such an impact over the infamous Shawn Mendes.

“Yes, oh my god…” he moans, growing harder as I slowly pumped my hand up and down his length. I keep my grip gentle but firm, increasing the pace to gauge more of a reaction from him.

I keep the pace steady, watching the way his eyes closed in pleasure from just my touch. Wanting to give him more, I am ready to drop down to my knees when he stops me. Shawn takes my hand away, instead snaking his own between my thighs and slipping two digits inside of my wet folds. He just slides them in and out for a minute to get me wetter before moving his thumb up to circle my clit, causing the sensitive flesh to swell even more. I bite my lip to hold in the screams, knowing it would get us caught if I dared to be too loud. Shawn continues his ministrations but also adjusted himself so he was standing behind me, fingering me to the point where I believe I am going to just completely lose myself before he had even entered me.

“Bend over and hands against the wall,” he whispers against my neck breathily, removing his fingers one by one and slowing his thumb over my clit. I do as I am told, placing my palms firmly against the wall of the shower and bending over so I am completely exposed to him. Shawn’s one hand firmly grips my waist while the other spread my legs a little wider. When he seems content with my position, he grips his length in his head and teased my entrance momentarily before slamming into me. “Good girl,” he coos.

“Holy...oh…” I whimper, still not used to his size after all of the times we have been together.

“You like that?”

“I do, yes...please...more,” I plead, wanting to feel him thrusting inside of me.

He rolls his hips against mine, letting my walls adjust to his length inside of me. I can feel how tight I am around him, but I still want all of him. After waiting a few moments, he places the rest of his girth inside of me and began to thrust. He starts out slow at first, rocking his hips against my own before deciding to quicken the movements.

He lets out a few curse words before finding his rhythm, moving quickly and efficiently to get deep inside. His long fingers trail along my waist and settle at my hips, holding tightly to keep me against him.

I hold onto the wall, pressing back against him to create more friction. “That feels...holy fucking god!” I cry out as he found the right spot, causing my to be unable to contain myself much longer.

“Be quiet!” he hisses at me, smacking my ass to try and keep my silent.

“But Shawn...I..” I scream again as he hit the spot, my eyes closing in pure pleasure and wanting to feel more of what he had to offer.

He stops thrusting and pulled out of me, spinning me around to look into my eyes. “I told you to shut up,” he admonishes in a low tone before pressing his lips against mine and pressing me back against the wall.

I stare at him, not sure what he is going to do when he lifted me with ease and entered me again, resuming the rocking of his hips as though it had not been momentarily interrupted by my inability to keep quiet. He moves faster and goes deeper, his eyes closed in concentration.

“I think I am going to cum,” he tells me, his movements growing messier as he inches closer to reaching his peak. I wrapped my legs around his waist, allowing him to get even deeper. He slams his hips against mine, finishing with a moan and my name on his lips. Taking a moment to ride out his orgasm, he pulls out and drops to his knees.

He places a hand on my ass to move me closer and spreads my thighs to allow him full access. With one hand gripping my hips and the other against my mouth to muffle my screams, Shawn hovers over my clit before licking and sucking roughly to help my reach my own peak. His tongue swirls around my clit, moving at various speeds.

I bite down on his fingers, doing my best to contain the moans threatening to emerge. His hand stays cupped around my mouth as he continued to use his mouth on me, never stopping the pace. He nibbles my clit and licks it gingerly, causing me to finally be able to feel the release in my walls. I let out a moan against his hand, feeling myself give into the pleasure as he eagerly licked it all up. I fall back against the wall, trying to catch my breath as he stands and licks his lips with the most deviant look in his eyes.

“Not bad,” he chuckles and turns down the water so it was just a light stream falling over us. I just stared at him with wide eyes, running my fingers through my damp hair and try to find the words to explain what had just gone down. I can feel my knees still shaking and the area between my legs was sore, but I was also feeling quite euphoric at the same time. It never fails to astound me the way Shawn can have such a variety of impacts on me just from the physicality of our relationship alone.

Rolling my eyes after I had managed to regain my composure for the most part, I reply, “I have had better.” It was a lie, but I didn’t want to boost his ego too much.

His face falls as he places a hand over his mouth to look at me, not speaking for a few moments. “You don’t mean that,” he informs me in hurt tone. “You just say things like that to push me away.”

I shrug my shoulders as though my heart wasn’t breaking at his words. “Whatever makes you feel better, Mendes.”

He takes his hand away from his mouth and really looked at me,“Stop this bullshit already.” He lifts my chin with his hand and stepped closer.

“I am not doing anything.” I refuse to look him in the eye.

He sighed and kissed my gently. “Why do you have to make everything so damn difficult, woman?”

“I don’t do that either.”

“Yes, you do. But I love you anyway.” He grins at me.

I hold my breath. “You ruined my wedding dress.”

“Good thing you aren’t getting married, then, isn’t it?”

Everyone has gone home. The ruined wedding dress sits pushed in the corner of the bathroom, an eyebrow raise from my aunt stating she will not be asking me any type of probing questions about how the dress ended up in tatters and why the bathroom was all steamy when she came inside to see what was going on. The pile of wedding gifts will have to be returned. Some of the food was sent home as leftovers, and the rest Shawn has been eating since he told me he won’t be leaving until he convinces me I should come spend some time with him in Toronto.

He picks up a fork and sticks it in the wedding cake. He takes a bite before saying, “I am not saying you have to quit your job. What would you do all day then? Never did I say give up your whole life for me. All I said was that I will not go back until you agree to come stay for a few days. I am sure your boss will give you off work once you tell him of the trauma you suffered at the hands of Landon.” He makes a face at mentioning the name. “And then you can just come see the city and then go back to work. That is literally how long distance relationships function, Autumn.”

I roll my eyes at him for the hundredth time. “We are not in a relationship, Shawn. We are not anything. You just showed up at my house and stopped my wedding and now you want to make all of these plans like this is the most normal thing in the world. There is a lot of fucked up shit that just went down. Do you not realize what would happen if I just decided to say fuck it all and be with you? Do you?!” I demand, placing my hands on the table to emphasize my point. “You would be seen as the guy who managed to snag an older woman and you would be applauded. I am going to be called a slut the world around because I cheated on my fiance with you, and then you showed up to stop my wedding. I am always going to seen as the villain in this story arc. No matter what.”

He snorts. “The more you deny it, the longer I am going to tell you we are. And who cares what anyone else thinks. You and I are adults. I love you. You love me. I get this whole thing is pretty fucked up, but at least we are going to be happy. Just like I told you when we met, all I want to do is be happy like everyone else. I don’t give a fuck about anything else. I am not perfect and neither are you. But I want to make this work. Because I want you.” He takes another bite of cake. “And I vote we do not get this kind of cake when we get married, it tastes kind of stale and too sweet.”

Incredulous, I stare at him as I try to process the words that just came out of his mouth. I don’t even respond. I just stare at him for a moment before I look over at the clock on the wall. “It is getting late, and there is no way I am going to be able to go home tonight to get the rest of my stuff. So is there anyway you would mind if I just maybe... like stayed with you in Toronto for a few days until the drama dies down?”

Shawn grins at me, standing up to walk over and pull me into his arms. “I would be okay if you stayed with me forever, Autumn.”

He presses his lips against mine in the most perfect kiss.

“I love you, Shawn Mendes... even if you are just a famous kid singer...” I tease.

“I love you too. You are the happiness I have been searching for.”

I kiss him back, never wanting to allow my heart to belong to anyone else but Shawn.

So this is what happiness feels like.

#shawn mendes #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes story #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes smut #smut #writing #mine #amor proibido

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artificialqueens · 7 years ago

Text

If not now, when? (Rajila) - Pichitinha

A/N: hi there! I’m an old veteran writing fanfiction but this is my very first try not only with this ship or drag queens but also with rpf, so criticize but be nice pls :) Anyhow, there’s a tremendous lack of Rajila fics and I took it upon myself to write a very cliche and used plot because why not. Hope you like it, I’m still debating whether or not to post it in AO3. PS. yes, the title is from the Incubus song, but I just like the title, it’s not a songfic to the song in any way, shape or form.

The first time they kissed wasn’t really a proper kiss. Season four had just finished airing and some of the girls from season 2, 3 and 4 were at a party to get to know each other better. Manila was still dating Sahara, unaware of what the future would bring really soon, and she was happy. They were all at Sharon’s place as she had just won the season and offered to host, and Manila and Sahara actually spent most of their time talking to Sharon and Alaska about their “drag couple"status instead of mingling with the others.

At some point of the night, as expected, almost all of them were wasted. With that, the idea of playing spin the bottle as if they were teenagers happened. And due to the alcohol levels, they all said yes.

So that is actually the first time she ever kissed Raja. A mere peck on the lips in a group circle, with Sahara sitting right next to her, laughing. That is also the first time she ever kissed Raven, Alaska and even Shangela. The difference is, for the other three, that is also the last time.

"I gotta get laid.” Karl says suddenly from his position on the couch where he had been so quiet and still for the past thirty minutes that Sutan had fully believed he was sleeping.

“Er…” He’s not really sure how to respond, if he’s being honest. It’s been some time since Sahara’s passing, but Karl’s emotions are still unpredictable - as they should be. One day he’ll be fine and out and smiling, the other he’ll need to lock the doors and close all the blinds and just cry by himself. It’s understandable and Sutan tries to help him no matter what he needs, it’s just difficult sometimes figuring out what that is.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive.” Karl says as if reading Sutan’s mind. “You know I miss Antoine in every way possible, every day. But I also… it’s been a while, you know. And I know people grieve in different ways and times and all that. And I know it’s horrible that I’m even thinking about sleeping with someone else. I shouldn’t even be thinking about sex right now. But I am. Because I miss him. I miss him so much, in every aspect of our relationship, including sex. And I just… I don’t know.”

As hard as it is for Sutan to figure out what to say, he tries. “I don’t think it’s insensitive. I think it’s normal. But I also think you’re still feeling angry about what happened. And I think this is a rash decision and that if you go out tonight looking for a random dude, you’ll be sorry tomorrow. So maybe you should wait until the need to do so doesn’t come together with this need to explain yourself, because that in itself is a sign that you’re not a 100% ok with this yet.”

Karl sits up to look at him. “That is weirdly eloquent.”

Sutan shrugs. “I try.”

“It’s really difficult, you know.” Manila sighs. “Like, really fucking difficult.”

“I know.”

They stay quiet for a few more minutes and this time Karl does fall asleep.

Sutan is glad he’ll rest for a bit, and he hopes that things will get easier for his friend sooner rather than later.

The second time they kiss they really do kiss for real, but it’s only that and it’s for show. They’re at a club with some other friends, and while they were mere audience that day, they were in full drag. They’re all dancing, and laughing, and drinking and the thought of finding trade isn’t really in any of their minds yet, the night way too young to go home so soon, even if for a fuck.

“You okay, Nila?” Raja asks when she sees her friend with yet another glass in her hands. Manila has always liked her alcohol - she actually usually drinks them all under the table, surprisingly - but she seems too out of herself this time.

To Raja’s extreme shock, her eyes water a little. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like it.”

Manila shakes her head. “No, no, you don’t get it. I’m fine. I feel fine. And that's… oh god. Am I bad for feeling fine? Is it too soon? God I am a horrible person.”

“Oh my god, Manila. You are not a horrible person, you are human. No one expects you to hurt forever, Sahara wouldn’t want that. You have your right to feel fine and to want to move on and actually do it, ok? So whether you want to leave today with someone or not, you can’t feel bad about it. You hear me?”

Manila just nods.

“Look, there’s a bunch of people over there looking at us. They seem to be fans. Do you want to go over? It always cheers you up.”

“Oh god, yes. I need some fan love.”

They tell their friends where they’re going and move over to the other side of the club. Sure enough they’re fans and they seem ecstatic to see the drag queens walking towards them. There are lots of pictures and shrieks and giggles and Raja and Manila are posing for their lives. At some point, maybe due to the adrenaline of meeting such devoted fans, maybe due to the alcohol, or maybe even due to the thrill of taking a step towards the unexpected, Manila asks Raja to kiss her. And maybe Raja has all of those feelings too, because she says yes without any hesitation. Their lips meet and, unlike last time, they actually move for a little in an innocent but strong kiss that makes their fans scream and shout before they eventually part ways.

They laugh and thank the fans then go back to their friends and actually comment on how good of a kisser the other one is, but it’s all in good fun and it’s normal and not awkward at all and soon they’re back to talking about the same shit they were talking before with the rest of the group, the kiss practically forgotten in the midst of the alcohol and all the memories of the night.

Raja leaves with a guy, Manila doesn’t, but it doesn’t really matter because that was just a regular night and the next day they’ll go back to their regular irregular lives and won’t really think about any of it.

“Ugh, I hate being a drag queen.” It’s five in the morning, they’re back at the hotel room they’re sharing after an exhausting show, and Raja all but throws herself on her bed after proclaiming those words.

“Right, miss America Drag Superstar. Gimme a break.”

“I’m tired.” She whines.

“You’re tired because you’re good, and you’re good because you love what you do.”

Raja smiles. “Please proceed with the compliments.”

Manila just throws her dress on Raja’s face.

Raja’s still laughing as she removes the other queen’s dress from her face, a little surprised it still smells like soap after so many hours of performing and, in Raja’s case, sweating.

“You were pretty amazing out there as well.” She compliments her best friend as she removes her makeup, Raja amazed that she has it in herself to actually move. Maybe she is getting old.

“I never said you were amazing, but thanks.” Manila replies with a smile.

It’s Raja’s turn to throw the dress. “Bitch.”

They fall into a comfortable silence as Manila pretty much completely de-drags herself and Raja lazies around in the bed. She finally gets up to change when she realizes she needs to use the washroom and that immediately reminds her body that she needs to untuck right now.

She returns from the bathroom, completely in Sutan’s skin and ready for bed, and notices Manila - Karl - is sitting on his bed looking at her direction as if waiting for him to appear.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?”

Sutan raises his eyebrows at the statement. Karl is way too drunk and yet at the same time he looks way too sober to be talking like this.

“I know. You’re mine.”

“No, I mean… you really are my best friend. None of this ‘I love you’ bullshit that a queen says to another after a fake hug. I mean, for real. Even if sometimes we might go through some time without speaking… you’re my best friend.”

“I know. And I also really mean it, you’re mine. Well, you know, you and David. But you get the gist.”

Karl laughs. “That’s nice to hear.”

Sutan can’t help but feel Karl is weird.

“Are you okay?”

Karl just nods and lays down on the bed. “It’s probably the weed.”

Sutan laughs with him, but sooner than he expected he hears Karl’s breathing normalizing and he knows he’s sleeping.

He lets his friend rhythmic sounds lure him to sleep as well, and soon enough it’s just a quiet hotel room again.

The third time they kiss they really do kiss for real, and it’s definitely not for show. Similar to last time, it also starts with a club night. This time though, they’re both themselves, no Raja or Manila gracefulness to cover for their drunken selves in regular T-shirts and denim pants.

They’re out with fellow queens, and if they paid attention they’d realize it’s practically the same bunch from the time they had that innocent peck together, but quite frankfully attention to the others is the last thing either of them is doing.

There’s something about the exact amount of alcohol they each had drunk combined with exactly how much weed they each had smoked that brought them to the edge, one step before the line, one after. They’ve always been playful, they’ve always been cute, they’ve always been handsy. But one thing that Sutan never had any issues doing and somehow can’t seem to today is to tear his eyes away from his friend’s face. It’s just his face, same as always, plain and clean without an inch of makeup, and still there’s something about the haze of numbness and relaxation in his eyes that fascinates him.

They’re standing together, side by side, and constantly touching has always been in their routine, but this absolute need to look into Sutan’s eyes - and the absolute fierce response he’s getting every time from the other man’s pupils - that in itself is making Karl’s knees weak. He never thought about Sutan that way - he’s not thinking it now either - but it had been a while since he last got any action with someone and the closeness they always shared seemed to be a little bit heavier today.

They’re dancing and laughing and hands are touching everywhere, but that’s normal, that’s what they do, not only with each other but with several of their friends as well. Today, however, it’s only between them, so much so that at some point they completely lose track of where everyone else is. It’s them and their nerves and their shivers and this constant need to be looking at each other. A gazing contest.

They step out of the dance floor, trying to look for their friends but not really because they can’t glance away from each other. They’re drunk enough but they still head for the bar, and then once they each have another drink in their hands they go to a corner to try to get some light to grab more weed from wherever it is that they stashed it. And maybe it’s the extra sip of alcohol, maybe it’s the extra drag of marijuana, maybe it’s the new light and the way their eyes shine differently underneath it, but Sutan all but drops everything he’s holding and moves his hands to Karl’s face, pressing his lips to the other man’s almost in desperation.

Karl responds immediately, also letting everything go and combing his fingers through Sutan’s extremely soft hair, an involuntary gasp leaving his throat. They’re kissing like there’ll never be another chance for them to do so, their lips desperate, their tongues trying for some action, their hands merely holding the other’s head close. Their bodies are not pressed together, their hands are not roaming and discovering, their lips never go anywhere other than the other’s lips themselves. It’s a heavy, fierce, strong kiss, but that’s all that is is.

Someone bumps into them at some point, breaking the space and time they had been locked in, and they part with heavy breathing, swollen lips and dilated pupils. Now more than ever they can’t seem to look away, not sure of what to do but not unsure either as they’re not really thinking about what’s next, only about now.

It feels like hours later when it’s probably just a few minutes that David approaches them with drinks in his hands and a happy smile, unaware of what was going on and too drunk and stoned to notice the atmosphere.

They accept the drink and the company and move back to where their friends are. Their gaze still searches for the other and their breathing never really goes back to normal, but they proceed with their night and try to have fun with their friends.

They leave separately and don’t really talk about any of it before leaving. None of them has company this time, though.

“So, how about ice cream?”

“Could be.” Sutan replies carelessly holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he tries to place a few stitches on a shirt. “Anything with chocolate, please.”

“Who knew that not only you eat but you also consume fat.”

“It’s the chocolate that gives me this smooth brown skin, honey.”

Karl laughs lightly along with Sutan, and they both pretend it’s as normal as it’s ever been. Karl is at the store picking up some wine for the both of them because they have a show together soon and they want to discuss details - and they don’t really do anything without the company of a good glass of wine - and he decides that some dessert would also be a good idea, and they talk about it the same way they talk about everything, that they’ve always talked about everything, and they’re both excellent at pretending that the other’s undertone is just as it’s always been.

It was easy to ignore - to forget even - their first little innocent middle school like kiss. It had even been easy to dismiss the kiss they decided to give the fans one day when they were feeling low. It is however extremely taxing to ignore the heated passion with which their lips had encountered the other day.

It’s been weeks and yet Sutan’s lips had been so strong that Karl can still feel a ghost of the sensation whenever he lets his guard down for more than a second. It’s not like he has feelings for his best friend - or maybe he does, he honestly doesn’t know - but the kiss. He had never kissed someone so passionately before without it escalating to a certain degree. Never a kiss had been just a kiss but also so much more at the same time. He thinks constantly about this, about how it felt, how foreign and yet familiar it was, about how he wants to do it again, mostly out of curiosity even. He wonders if that’s just how Sutan kisses, if that’s just his style, and if it is than it’s no wonder he’s known to mess around. He knows what he’s doing.

He shakes his thoughts away and clears his throat. “Huh, okay, so I’ll see you in about an hour, ok?”

“Sound good.” Sutan replies before getting his phone of his ear and ending the call.

He takes a deep breath and runs his hands over his face and through his hair. He’s still not entirely sure of what came over him that day to assault Karl like that, and he doesn’t even want to blame the booze or the weed because he’s damn well used to both, even their combination. He’s never been one for making stupid decisions while drunk - and even so, was it stupid? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that he can’t really stop thinking about it and he wants- what does he want, actually? He wants to take action, to do something, but he has no idea what, when, how. He’s so caught up in the kiss, the reasons behind it, the way if felt, the consequences of it, he can barely think of anything else and that is simply not acceptable. He feels like kissing Karl again. He thinks he should. He maybe even wants it. Or does he? Maybe the kiss was just really good and he wanted a repeat for that, not because it’s Karl. Or maybe it is because Karl. Maybe it’s even both. But whatever it is, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he has to get over what happened and he doesn’t know how.

So, as usual, they have a normal night with their wine and their talk and their laughter, and they never let it get weird, but they don’t talk about it either.

Karl ends up sleeping over and he takes the couch while Sutan retires in his bedroom, pretending that this isn’t the first time this has happened as they usually share a bed without any problems, and even though they both think about crossing that door, they merely turn over and close their eyes.

The fourth time they kiss, they throw caution off of the window and just do what they want to. And what they want to do is a lot.

There’s no club, there’s no music, no alcohol and no weed.

Karl called early in the evening and asked if Sutan had plans that night. He was adamant in his question and Sutan had been so surprised he replied quickly with a no without even thinking about it. “I’ll be there in fifteen” was all Karl replied with before hanging up, and Sutan was left for five of those fifteen minutes in sort of a shock.

He’s not used to serious, assertive Karl, and he knows that for him to act like that, he needed to talk about something serious. He paced around and grabbed a few things that might have been on the floor while he waited, but true to his words Karl is at his door exactly fifteen minutes later.

He marches in when Sutan opens the door, not even saying hello, and turns around to stare at the other man’s eyes with crossed arms once he reaches the living room.

“Is… everything ok?” Sutan asked, his voice much smaller than it ever is, and it sounds foreign even to his own ears.

Karl just laughs humorlessly and strides over in big steps. Once he reaches Sutan, there’s not much time for the taller man to react in anyway, because sooner than any reaction Karl’s lips touch his and once again his hands move to his hair.

He doesn’t even need a split second to understand what is happening, he gets it right away and moves to do his part sneaking his arms around the other man’s waist. This time their bodies glue together and this time they’re both very aware of what they’re doing, nothing at all in their systems to possibly inebriate them other than how amazing kissing each other feels like.

The only immediate thing in Karl’s mind as they practically attack each other’s mouths is closer. He’s holding onto him fiercely, trying as much as he possibly can to minimize any space between them, and Sutan seems to be doing the same thing with arms around his waist pulling him into himself at every single second. It’s still not enough. In desperation, he presses Sutan against the wall behind them, his arm hitting the furniture on the side which he completely does not care for because Sutan groans and it is everything Karl needed but did not know. All he cares is the man between him and the concrete and making sure that every single piece of body that could be touching, effectively is. He never thought he’d want Sutan this way, he’d always been happy with the amazing friendship they shared, but as their bodies continue to move against each other, fast lips and warm breaths, Karl simply doesn’t want to do anything else other than this forever.

For a second he thinks that that’s not how one should feel about their best friend. The next second that thought is gone because Sutan’s hands move down to his ass and squeeze it.

Sutan is used to being on the other side of the wall-pressing arrangement, but he’s not about to complain when Karl’s impending closeness suddenly frees his arms and he sees himself with two empty hands and a whole lot of Karl he can explore with them. Before he can even think his hands act on their own and travel to the one place he’s always dreamed about touching. As he squeezes his ass the shorter man sort of whimpers into his mouth and it’s such a delicious sound that his body isn’t sure how to react to it. It does it by thrusting his crotch.

That is when every single barrier that they might still have on breaks down. Karls hands move down from his hair and find their way under his shirt, touching, squeezing and scratching any inch of Sutan’s lean body they can possibly reach, and it’s when his fingers find his niples that Sutan moves his lips down Karl’s neck and presses kiss after kiss, bite after bite, making sure he leaves several marks, some that will fade in minutes and some that will take days.

Sutan isn’t sure where he’s breathing from anymore as he’s pretty sure there’s no air left in his lungs. That need vanishes from his mind, leaving in his brain only things related to Karl, like how his skin feels, how his moans sound, how his body seems to absolutely love doing what they’re doing.

Karl gets tired of the limited actions he has under Sutan’s shirt and moves his hands to its hem to remove it. Sutan tugs at his t-shirt when that happens and like a synchronized dance they each move to remove their own shirt in one second before crashing back together, making sure their chests touch and that the warmth of their lusted skin can be felt by the other.

It is then that Sutan decides he can’t take it anymore. His pants are impossibly tight but still what leaves him undeniably needy is how he can feel Karl’s bulge in his own pants. He pushes Karl just a little, trying to move them to the bedroom, but maybe the universe takes that as a sign because it’s at that exact second that Karl’s phone starts ringing terribly loud from the sofa where he left it and the atmosphere they had dissolves in an instant.

They pull apart, eyes hungry for more and completely intoxicated by what just happened, but the ringing brings Karl back to reality and he picks up the device. It’s his sister, Sutan can see it on the screen from where he’s standing, and he knows that they have a rule to only text unless it’s an emergency.

After a few spoken words with his sister Karl leaves in a hurry even though he assures him that everything is fine - Sutan isn’t sure if he’s strictly talking about the phone call - and Sutan is left with an empty apartment and a hard-on he doesn’t think will fully go away if he takes care of it by himself.

He lays down, pictures of Karl in his mind, tinglings from his touch in his body, and stays up all night.

Fuck.

It would have been easy to just pretend nothing ever happened and move on. They’re friends, they’re best friends, and they’re good at it.

Thing is, they’re apparently also very good at making out. Granted, they only did it once, but it was a huge success. It would have been a touchdown had they not been interrupted.

Sutan calls Karl the following afternoon and Karl’s heart expands in his chest when the first thing Sutan asks is if his sister is okay. He smiles through the million thoughts in his head and explains that yes, everything’s fine, his niece just had a little asthma scare and had to run to the hospital and his sister was scared because her husband is travelling. But his niece is fine and they’re already back at her house and everything is under control.

Sutan seems relieved at that, and Karl can’t help the butterflies in his stomach when it’s so clear how much Sutan cares. The older man sends his regards, demands Karl to call him if they need anything, and says that if and when he wants to talk, he’ll be waiting.

Karl thanks him and hangs up, clutching the phone in his hands and thinking back to the night before and how up until the phone call he’d torn between regretting profusely what happened and wishing it would have gone further. He thinks back to Sutan’s words, to how much he seems to care - which he does, Karl’s always known that, they’ve been friends for years and Sutan had helped him with stuff like this a million times. Karl can see several of them flashing before his eyes, the notion that he always had someone there for him just now hitting him. He hasn’t felt that secure in another’s person trust and reliability since Antoine.

He stays the night at his sister and only leaves the next day when he’s sure everything is fine. He’s tired, he hasn’t showered in two days, and he’s terribly hungry. Still, he drives aimlessly and isn’t at all surprised when he finds himself in front of Sutan’s house.

He knocks on his door, half hoping he’ll answer and half hoping he won’t, but the tightness in his chest dissolves when Sutan opens the door, and without saying anything, without asking if he has company or of he’s busy, he throws himself into Sutan’s arms and just hugs him.

The taller man hugs him back, using his foot to close the door behind them. They stay like that for what seems like an eternity, Karl just enjoying the company of the other man, his arms around him making him feel safe. He hasn’t forgotten the other night, but he doesn’t really think about that at the moment.

“Come on, let’s move to the couch.” Sutan suggests as he steps away from the embrace just a few inches. “You look exhausted.”.

Karl just nods and follows him to the living room. The TV is on some weird show on food network and they sit down practically cuddling. Karl almost tears up.

“It’s so stupid.” He says with a crying tone.

“It’s not stupid, babe.” Sutan replies easily. They’ve always used babe to talk to each other, so Karl tries not to think too much about it, even though he still does.

“She’s fine, she wasn’t ever in any real danger, my sister is just desperate. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Okay, first. Your sister is not desperate, she’s a mom. That’s what they’re supposed to do.” Sutan squeezes his arm then, as if preparing for what he wants to say next. “And maybe this isn’t just about your niece… maybe it’s a whole mix of emotions. From, you know, things.”

They stay quiet then, looking at the TV and pretending to pay attention at the chef trying to cook using aluminum foil utensils.

Karl clear his throat and sinks deeper into Sutan’s side. “I do have… a bunch of feelings. From, you know, things.”

Sutan’s heart misses a beat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stay quiet for a while, enjoying each other’s company and trying to figure out what to say next, how to say it. Sutan opens and closes his mouth at least fifteen times. By the time he’s determined to say something, even if it’s stupid, he turns to look at Karl’s face and search for his gaze.

What he meets is a sleeping man, snuggling to his arm and looking way too vulnerable.

He and Karl didn’t really fix anything, but with the warmth of the sort-of-philippine guy on his side and the sound of his rhythmic breathing, Sutan has no doubt that they will.

Sutan smiles in spite of himself, a goofy grin adorning his face. He sighs contently and turns his attention back to the TV.

They’ll talk when Karl wakes up.

The fifth time they kiss feels like the first and the thousandth and also all the others in between. They hadn’t really talked like they planned - it’s kind of hard to, when you wake up cuddling a guy and he’s looking at you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, his hand caressing your hair.

Looking up at Sutan with hazy eyes, sleep still heavy on his shoulder, Karl can only say one thing, “I think I like you.”

Sutan smiles down at him and furthers his hands into his soft locks, “I think I like you, too.”

There’s not much else that can follow that except a kiss. Sutan uses the hand he already has on his hair to bring their faces together and their lips meet as if this is the most natural thing in their lives, as if they were meant to be doing this for a long a time already.

Perhaps they were.

Karl brings him closer, Sutan’s weight sinking him a little bit further down the sofa and semi lying them down. This is much calmer, much less desperate than the last time, perhaps because there’s a certainty that they’ll get to see things through today, or maybe even because they are sure this won’t be the last time.

Sutan lips are much softer but somehow much more intense than they had been before. It feels like he’s trying to savour every piece he can touch with them: his lips, his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. Karl is not one to just let the other person take charge, but there’s just something in the way this feels, as if his whole body is breathing out a finally that renders him still with eyes closed as every sensation he thought this would cause and many more he hadn’t even imagined could exist overpower him.

When Sutan’s mouth goes back to his and slightly demands a bit more of an active participation from his side, it’s like Karl wakes up. He realizes where he is, what he’s doing, the opportunity that he hadn’t really know he wanted so much but really, really does. This is too golden of a moment for him to just lay down. Sutan’s mouth is fierce, his body is strong, his skin is soft and his erection is warm against his own. He has to do something, anything.

“Bed?” He asks hastily when he realizes that in the couch he can’t really turn them around. Even though Sutan seems more than happy to just stay where they are he nods his head and in an abrupt movement locks Karl’s legs on his torso and gets up.

“Woah. Who knew someone so old and so skinny could be so strong?” Karl jokes as he locks his arms on his shoulders and searches for his eyes.

Sutan scouls but there’s a small smile on his lips and a big one on his eyes. “Bitch.”

He throws Karl on the bed and follows suit covering his body with his. Karl locks his legs around his waist again and uses the momentum to turn them over. After a tiny moment of perplexity Sutan’s eyes just shine as he moves his arms up as if saying go ahead.

And go ahead he does.

His hands roam anywhere he can find under Sutan’s shirt, quickly tugging at it and forcing Sutan to sit and disregard it on the floor. He’s not particularly muscular but he’s lean and his skin is so damn smooth. Karl’s fingers practically skate over his torso and for a split second he wonders how his lips would feel there. Another second later he realizes that there’s nothing stopping him from experimenting and checking it himself right then and there.

He does it, then, lowering his head and kissing every inch of skin he possibly can, careful to avoid the most sensitive places as he first wants to explore for himself so that later on he can focus on the man breathing heavily below him. His hands continue to caress the skin his lips aren’t touching and when he decides to finally stop neglecting him and moves his lips to his niple, Sutan’s arms move and his hands lock in his hair.

“Shit.” His voice is sultry and shadowed by lust, and even though Karl chuckles he can feel a shrill run down his spine at the tone of the other man. He moves up then, eager to touch and kiss every inch and frustrated that he simply can’t kiss everywhere at once. His mouth finds Sutan’s in yet another desperate kiss and almost as if they rehearsed they both sigh into it. Sutan’s hands now find the hem of his shirt and tug at it indicating for Karl to remove it and he does so eagerly, desperate to discard all the fabric still between them.

Sutan sits up then and pulls him closer, their bare chests pressed together and their crotches perfectly aligned to cause them both to gasp. “As much as I love foreplay, I really need to speed this up.” Sutan’s voice is raspy and Karl’s glad for the words he’s saying because he feels the same way. Normally he’d be all in for a torturously long foreplay section, but he and Sutan still had a lot of pent-up excitement from their last little section and Karl knows that from his part he’s been thinking about it constantly since their kiss at the club weeks and weeks ago.

“Agreed. Get naked.”

They part their hips just enough to be able to strip down their pants and underwear, and while they’d seen each other naked several times before - privacy and drag queen touring don’t exactly go together - this is the first time they really look.

“I see why you’re always gloating.” Karl jokes.

“Oh, shut up.” Sutan replies with a laugh and takes this moment to throw Karl over on his side and tangle their legs. “You on the other hand don’t seem to gloat enough.”

Karl knows he’s joking in the same way he did, but he can’t stop the flush that rises to his cheeks. “Shut up.”

This is new to Sutan, the intimacy. He’s all about passion and intensity, but reserved to a briefing longevity. He had two long-term relationships before discovering himself completely and becoming who he is now, and after that moment every time he tried something of the sorts it ended up in disaster. He could never commit to it, he never felt like he should, like he wanted to. So to know the person he was about to sleep with, to already be familiar with their body without ever having had sex, to know what the different sounds they made meant on their first try, to be fully and truly invested in what they took out of this experience instead of always half focusing on himself was new and exciting and it sent shivers down his spine and butterflies down his stomach in a clear indication that his physical desire wasn’t the only thing acting up in there, not even the main one.

They’ve discussed sexual experiences and preferences many times before, some drunk and some not, so Sutan knows lots of things that Karl likes which are great to know the first time you’re about to have sex with someone. For example he knows they’re both vers, but Karl really likes bottoming whereas Sutan doesn’t really do it all that often if the person doesn’t feel right. And Karl might be the rightest person for that as Sutan actually gets extremely excited by the idea, but he’s usually a top and the man beneath him prefers bottoming so he intends on fucking him like he himself has never fucked anyone and in a way he’s hoping Karl has never been fucked either.

Sutan is brought back to reality when Karl’s hand touch him and Sutan feels a whole different kind of excitement. It runs through his entire body and he can’t help the curse that leaves his mouth at how natural it feels to have Karl’s hand around him and how wonderful it actually is. He tries to smoothly move them closer to the edge of the bed without separating, that way he can reach for a condom and lube inside his bedside table without breaking the contact that Karl’s hand makes with his member and Karl’s lips make with his chest.

He throws the lube and condom on the bed and pushes Karl along, his back hitting the mattress right beside the new thrown items, and before the man can say anything Sutan lowers down and takes him into his mouth. Karl just says fuck as his hands fly to Sutan’s hair and although the older man has always liked - and is always complimented on - giving blowjobs, he’s truly trying for his best one yet here, because if there’s one certainty in this whole situation is that Karl has to leave this bed one hundred percent satisfied.

Sutan always thought that Karl would be the type to be noisy in bed. Turns out he is. That is actually good as Sutan finds it fairly disappointing to give head to someone that doesn’t react and therefore doesn’t let you know how it’s going, so he loves the little noises the man above him makes and he is able to pick up his closeness based on his high pitched tone and the way he starts pulling his hair. He lets go then, Karl’s eyes opening up at the sudden lost of contact, his pupils blown wide in pleasure.

Karl rehearses saying something but Sutan’s fast and already has his fingers ready to work him up, and Karl just marvels at the feeling as the moment they’ve been waiting for practically weeks’ finally arriving. They’re both breathless and ready and at least on Karl’s part really really horny, so when Sutan finally eases himself into him, even if slowly, Karl breathes out in relief and interlocks his fingers on his hair as he pulls him a little bit closer.

They find their rhythm pretty quickly and Karl is delighted to learn that Sutan is also a very noisy lover. He usually prefers to be on all fours for this, but he is extremely thankful to be able to see Sutan’s face and to pull him closer from time to time even if the height difference makes it difficult for them to kiss properly. He hooks his legs around his waist and throws his head back as he’s now thrusting a whole lot deeper and reaching the spot he wanted him to.

He feels his orgasm building quickly and given Sutan’s sounds and erratic movements he’s pretty sure the other man is also close to his release. It’s quicker than they’d have prefered, but after all the waiting and longing they aren’t really surprised. They come one after the other, low but long grunts followed by a simple fuck and the other’s drag name, and soon they’re just evening their breaths. Sutan gets up dispose of the condom and Karl just takes a random shirt to clean himself.

Karl remains where he is, sort of lying sideways in the bed as opposed to the right direction, and when Sutan returns he just lies right next to him and they move towards each other, interlocking theirs limbs immediately and automatically sort of cuddling.

“So that was interesting.” Karl says searching for his gaze.

“It sure was.” Sutan replies easily, a light smile on his lips. “We can talk about it over lunch, are you hungry?”

“Starving”.

It is sort of expected that things get weird between you and your best friend when you’ve been dancing around the sexual tension for ages and then finally fuck. So obviously Karl finds it odd when things are as normal as ever, even more so than they used to be. After the sex they took a quick shower - which really was just a shower because Karl hadn’t eaten in forever and his brain finally caught up to that - and went out to eat and Karl only realized that they held hands the entire way over to the restaurant when he let go to pull his chair. It feels so easy and so natural that Karl wonders if they’re idiots for never thinking about it before.

From that moment on, everything goes on smoothly. For a week it’s like a honeymoon phase, they don’t really talk about it and therefore don’t really label it, but they spend every free minute together and hands are held, skin is touched, kisses are given and sex is had. Karl is happy at the arrangement, always one for commitment and relationships, and there’s no denying he feels very strongly about Sutan by the way his heart beats whenever he thinks about them being a them. He worries about Sutan sometimes, a few milliseconds whenever their gazes misalign, about how the other man had told him time and time before that he’s not really a relationship kind of guy. Still Sutan seems happy, maybe happier than Karl remembers seeing him before, and even though he’s definitely biased in that view he sticks with it.

It’s been a week and a half of that, of them and their bubble and whatever it is that they’re doing, when they put on their drags and go to a party at Raven’s house. It’s Jujubee’s birthday and Raven offered to host because her house is bigger and given the event a lot of their drag sisters are attending.

Raja and Manila leave the house together with clasped hands as they have been doing every day and it’s only when they reach Raven’s house that Manila is aware of that fact. She’s not sure on how to proceed, but Raja just keeps walking to the door as if this is perfectly normal, so she just takes a deep breath and follows.

They enter without ringing the doorbell and the house is already half full. Their hands are still clasped and they walk through everyone on the way saying hi until they reach the first drag queens they can find. It’s a mess of hugs and kisses and happy birthday to Juju who is with them at the moment, and who also seems to be the only one to notice their joined fingers.

“Ohhh, what is going on over here?” She motions to their joining point, which catches the attention of some of the closer queens like Raven and Trixie, but not the entire group.

Manila thinks for a second but she doesn’t know what the proper answer is. She opens her mouth but closes it immediately when Raja’s voice reaches her ear. “I think the kids call it ‘dating’.”

Jujubee squeals and Manila can faintly hear Raven and Trixie almost synchronized saying “oh my god, finally”, but all of that is lost in her head as Raja’s words buzz in. She turns to look at him, his persona in full Raja glory, and even though it’ll mess up their lipstick and they just got there, she kisses her.

That is enough for the rest of the group to turn their way and for conclusions to be drawn already. Manila doesn’t care. Raja’s hands are on her back and their lips are mashed together and they seem to both be on the same page.

“I think I’m actually in love with you.” Manila says as soon as they part scared she might lose courage if she waits, not really caring whether or not she’ll hear it back.

“I think I’m actually in love with you, too.” Raja replies with a smile, both their voices too low for everyone to hear, but their intensity enough for them to understand it was important.

Everyone cheers as they share one last quick kiss, Detox even yells “get a room”, and Manila’s heart is so light for the first time in so long that even through all of the laughter and voices she manages to reply with a grin.

“Maybe we will.”

fin

#rajila #pichitinha #raja gemini #manila luzon #smut #tw drinking #rpdr fanfiction #canon compliant

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