#the very same ones i used to yearn and wish for but feel so constricted by

[tender-horror]

when a friend plans their birthday to be at your place of employment so they still get to see you even when you have to work. when you train a new employee who tells you about her time train-hopping and living on a bus with a glass blowing studio built into it with her boyfriend who has a felony charge. when your favourite coworker has her last shift next week and you'll miss working with her so much but you talk about the future intersections of your lives together, prophesying the unknown time to come. when the boy you've been seeing for a month asks you to be his girlfriend last night, in the middle of watching the grand budapest hotel and you don't have an answer because you've never been asked that, really, not since high school, if ever. when you don't know what to do as a girlfriend, when you don't know what to do with a boyfriend. when your friend whose birthday it is kisses you on the lips at the bar as she leaves, and she tells you to let her know when you're ready, and your other friend hugs you soul-crushingly tight when he tells you he's leaving the country, maybe forever, at the end of july, and that all his final ceramic work of his bachelors degree blew up in the kiln. and he tells you you're so special and he's so happy to know you and in your head it's wild that your relationship has ended up the way it has, and you try not to let it go to your head. when the guy you've been seeing arrives at the bar after they've left, and it's just you and aforementioned favourite coworker and other coworkers and strangers, and you keep talking about the trip you're going to take together to new york in a few weeks, if your time-off request is approved, and he keeps calling it "our trip to new york". and you text your favourite coworker after she leaves to see what she thinks of him and she says he seems cool, he seems very sweet and somehow her approval means the world even if it doesn't really mean much. and you walk home with him, and he's so tired, and he falls asleep in your bed as you get up to walk to the living room in your apartment that you've lived in for almost a year and you're so awake so you open your laptop and start writing, and you hope he's asleep and not listening to the clicking and clacking of the keyboard as he lays among the pink and blue bedding.

[lyallblacklupin]

Hey. I don't know if you are still taking prompts... but if so, I may have a challenge for you. 😉

Remus has to stay in the hospital wing for longer than usual. Sirius is secretly dating Remus and can't stand being away even though Madame Pomfrey says no visitors.

Thank you for such a cute prompt. I hope I have written just like you wanted. <333 Happy Reading! Stay Magical!

Rating: Teens and Up Audience.

The night was befalling as the walls of Hospital Wing started darkening, and the torches around the room ignited flames automatically with a thud. The room is filled with utter silence of the unoccupied beds with Remus Lupin being an exception, laying exasperatedly awake with bandages wrapped around his left leg. His stomach growled but it was the least he cared about because of the aching on the tips of his fingers and toes as his chest was in a constant state of agitation. He wanted something. No, he was craving for someone. He couldn’t stop his brain from the race of unwanted thoughts.

What if he doesn’t want me anymore?

What if he has realized that I’m not worth dating?

What if he is better off with my absence?

Suddenly, his thoughts came to a halt when his senses heightened with someone’s fastidious and highly familiar presence. Remus didn’t even have to look to recognize because it was none other than Madam Pomfrey. He loved her but not momentarily—infact not from the past five days who had strictly banned any visitors since his and Sirius’ fight. Speaking of, he shut his eyes as the memory enrolled in his mind all over for the hundredth time.

“I could have killed you!”

“But you almost killed yourself!” Yelled the boy who Remus was in love with.

“That is the last thing to be worrying—“ But he was not finished when the boy lunged at him and yanked him by his fists clutching his hospital dress, bringing him eye to eye and nose to nose as he growled, “Don’t you ever fucking say that. If you don’t care a shit about yourself then at least care about me! Us! But you don’t! You don’t care about us! Fuck you, Lupin!”

Remus’ heart was hammering in his chest, the pain of his broken leg was long forgotten. The tears glistened in the boy’s hard eyes. And before he could lift him his hand to hold his jaw, to soften the clenched face, to wipe his hurt away, Madam Pomfrey burst inside with her raging thunder.

“Mr. Black! Hands off this instant! How dare you bully a patient like that!? And within the Hospital Wing!” And he loosened his grasp which left Remus with an empty feeling in his chest. Even if he was being held brutally, he didn’t care because he was held by the foremost person in his life. The person he would never wish to leave.

“He’s my—“ He tried but his voice was a whimper in comparison to Madam Pomfrey’s.

“A week’s detention Mr. Black for scaring my patient like that! None of your friends will ever visit the Hospital Wing! Now off you go before I take away the house points!”

He gave Remus one last look of misery, tears still swimming in his heaven-made silver eyes, and scurried away from the hospital.

Remus numbly watched Pomfrey re-bandage his wounds. He suddenly felt so despondent and lonely after rethinking everything. He had hurt his favorite person in the world. And all that person had done was the care and love him with his deepest sincerity. He also knew that his lycanthropy had always been on his mind that even led him to convince the rest of his friends to become Animagis just to protect Remus from hurting himself. And now Remus had done the very same thing by not allowing his pack to accompany him to the last full moon. His broken leg and severe wounds were the aftermaths of his isolated transformation

He didn’t want to admit that he regretted his decision because deep down inside he had been unbound from the usual fretfulness of hurting his friends. He’d been better off hurting himself than hurt them, especially Sirius Black.

Now, it had been five days and Remus had not seen him. Neither James nor Peter.

“Ma’am?” He didn’t realize he had called her before she looked at him in question while applying the salve on the half-healed wound. He hissed in pain but asked anyway, “When am I getting discharged from this bed and these walls?” The bitterness cut through his voice sharply which made Pomfrey look up in surprise.

“Well, Remus. I expect to call me Poppy instead of Ma’am after five years I’ve been treating you.” Remus suddenly felt hot with embarrassment, “And it will take few more days until your walk starts, and then you’ll be well enough to join your classes and friends.”

The way she spoke, Remus felt like he had centuries to wait. He flopped down on his bed again with disappointment, the hollowness in his chest created a bigger void. A Sirius Black void. He needed it to be filled by that very person. The longing was more than Remus expected, intense enough to cause burning in his eyes as his throat began to constrict gradually, tightening his chest. He held himself until his throat had turned thorny. He let out a shaky breath and tears spilled down his temple, founding their place in his already messy hair. He cried silently. He ached and ached until sleep drifted him away.

Even in his dreams, he saw dark hair rippling like the black sea, shiny grey eyes like silver orbs, and fair skin like snow accompanied with pink flushes on the dips of the body. And then he saw a hand reaching out to him and just as he tried to grasp it, the hand flew away with a burning brush on his arm. The sensation was warm enough to jerk him from his unconsciousness. Remus’ eyes opened up to the same ceilings of the hospital wings. The room was still inky blue. He saw his dinner tray on the nightstand in which the food had gotten cold and dry. He immediately touched his left arm where the same sensation was tingling his skin. Or maybe he just felt it in reality? But no one was there. Remus was alone and cold.

He tried closing his eyes again, feeling no appetite at all, but he sensed a faint noise of rustle. He ignored it before it came back again with a feeling of fingers brushing his arm again. He sat up abruptly, clutching his sheets to his chest. His eyes were scanning the room desperately when—

“Moony?” Remus screamed when he saw Sirius’ head appear in the mid-air. Sirius rush ahead to put his hand on his mouth, “Shh! Please! I don’t want to get more detentions, Moony!”

It was all too much to process; Sirius appearing like a genie with no body—before he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, and Sirius’ warm and sweaty hand on Remus’ mouth, and most importantly, Sirius was here in front of him after five fucking days. He removed his hand once Remus calmed down.

“Look, Moony, I’m sorry—“ He never got to the end of it because Remus shoved Sirius in his embrace. The embrace that was yearning for Sirius only. He thought he might have thrown away anyone if they had tried hugging him before his boyfriend. Remus squeezed him impossibly closer and tighter. He was clutching him like a lifeline. He had his face nuzzled in Sirius’ chest. His fragile arms were strongly wrapped around Sirius’ torso. He was relishing the scent, the touch, the love, and everything he had missed.

“Fuck, I missed you, Pads.” He grunted in his collarbone, “I was longing for you…”

“I’m here.” Sirius cooed in his ear, pressing a kiss beneath it, “And I’m not going.”

“You’ll have to,” He chuckled, traveling his hands to find Sirius’ and intertwined them both.

“Eventually, yes but don’t ruin the moment, Moony.” Remus was torn between tightening his embrace or pulling away to gaze at Sirius’ face but then he felt the other move away. They parted from their lingering hug, and Sirius delicately held Remus’ face and bent down to kiss him. Remus felt his body was set on fire. They kissed languidly at first until their desires amplified their passion. Sirius dug his knees on the bed while Remus complied by pulling him in his lap. Suddenly, his boyfriend gasped and jerked away.

“Remus! Your leg is broken and—I’m sorry!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s just my calf area. I was not hurt okay?” Remus shushed him, peppering kisses on Sirius’ hands. The other boy nodded but frown still sitting on his face. He sat against him on the bed and Remus didn’t leave his hand. He just wanted them to be touching like an assurance of never parting again. They sat in silence. The flaming torches on the walls had already died out.

“Why did it took you so long?” Remus asked sheepishly, running circles on the outside of Sirius’ palm to make him sure that he was not mad.

“It’s not like I didn’t try,” Sirius spoke softly, “Had to sneak out from James’ hell hound eyes. And the last two days were spent in getting caught by Mrs. Norris. That fucking cat.”

“I love cats, okay? Don’t insult them.” Sirius cocked his eyebrow at him, “Yeah but she is such a pain in the arse.” They giggled. Remus couldn’t avert his eyes from Sirius who was avoiding his gaze, “Last two days, huh? It’s actually been five days. Are you mad at me?”

“Moony, how can I be mad at you?” The gentleness in his voice was powerful enough to cause Remus to feel hot behind his cheeks, “But yes, I admit that I was angry. I thought you didn’t want to see me. I thought that you’d want some space. But then I couldn’t stay away from you for so long. Life has been terrible without you.”

“Life has been terrible without you too, Sirius. I missed you so much. I felt bad the second you left this room. I felt so sorry to hurt you like that—“

“Your pain is my pain, Remus,” Sirius said sternly. His eyes are hard as steel. “You can’t isolate yourself like that. I know you fear hurting us but Moony, can’t you see? You are already hurting us like that. James has been quiet lately and Peter…well, he is just following his pursuit. What I mean is, none of us can see you wounded in hospital for like a week because of us. That we weren’t able to protect you.”

“It’s not your responsibility—“

“It is. You are mine.” Sirius squeezed their already entwined hands. The words were like a gush of affection in Remus’ heart. He was suddenly out of arguments. He smiled at the boy before him who smiled back weakly, “And yes, it’s been only two months since we started dating, but you already feel like my responsibility now.”

Remus arched an eyebrow at his flustered expression, “Wow, that’s quite patriarchal with few amendments since a man is claiming his supremacy on the other man.”

“Wha—you dominate over me all the fucking time!” They broke out in fits of laughter but then immediately clapped their hands on each other’s mouths to keep it down. Funnily, the more they forced themselves to be quiet the more laughter bubbled out of them. Remus suddenly grabbed Sirius by his collar and crashed their lips together. Their giggles were turned muffled until they were silently devouring each other’s mouths. Sirius was now moving from his jawline to his neck, and Remus turned into mush as the warmth began pooling into him. He just wanted to stay like this forever.

Suddenly, they both froze when the sounds of approaching footsteps came from the hall. Sirius lunged down to the floor to grab the invisibility cloak, and suddenly the door swung open.

“Mister Lupin?” McGonagall?

“Professor McGonagall.” Remus’ voice shook.

“I am sorry for barging into the Hospital Wing just like that, but I wanted to ask if Mr. Black might have stopped by here?” Even in the dark room, Remus was able to see the grave creases on her forehead. He gulped and eyed down the floor to found Sirius was nowhere to be seen.

“Umm…No, Professor.” He stammered.

“Well, that lad is one hurricane, isn’t he?” She sighed, “I hope you are recovering well, Remus.” Her voice softened and a hint of a smile passed her face. He nodded and then she was out of the hospital.

After he had made sure that there were no sounds of any footsteps he said, “What did you do now?”

“I came during my detention with McGonagall.” Sirius peeked through the cloak, with his entire body invisible.

“Okay, you look very creepy like that.” He stood, brushing off the dust from his trousers, “Come here, now. I want to relish you till my heart is contented. You are getting more detentions anyway.” He opened his arms for Sirius who fell into them with the goofiest smile on his face.

“You are such a masochist, Moony.”

[thisisthehardestthing]

тоска, Tanaka x Reader, 18+

Written for The Smut Pile Server Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

тоска tus-ka: Russian, noun It is a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases, it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, lovesickness.

Russian Mafia AU: Tanaka Ryu x A Reader OC Rating: E for explicit Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death, Oral sex, Public Sex, Grinding, Cheating, Denied Orgasm, Manipulation, YEARNING Word count: 11,752 Part 1 | Part 2

GLOSSARY

This is my baby. I have spent so much time writing this. I won’t give too big of an intro. Please enjoy.

Special thanks to: @joyousandverywarlike​​​ for being my ride-or-die beta,  @pleasantanathema​​​ , @present-mel​​​​ and @linestrider​​​ for hosting this collab, and everyone in the server for being amazing friends. I would not have been able to write this without any of you, and I truly mean that.

1.2

Part 1 - Valentina

The room is all rich browns and leather, an oiled hardwood floor, mahogany furniture and taxidermied bears. Against the wall, watching over everything with a bored expression is Daichi "The Bulldog" Sawamurov, Mafia Boss of the Bashkortoskaya. His brown eyes inspect his nails as another grunt echoes in the room. Beside him, you, Valentina Sawamurova, stand tall, a well-manicured hand hooked onto his bicep. In a neat line with arms clasped behind their backs stand six bratji, 'brothers', the hitmen of the Security team. They all watch as a shaved-haired man beats the shit out of a pariah.

Tanaka "Khazak" Ryunoslav wipes his tattooed knuckles, alternating X and O’s, onto a white handkerchief pulled from his neatly pressed slacks, staining the fabric red with blood. It is not his. In a simple chair at the centre of the room, a man -no, he doesn't deserve to be called a man- a boy slumps forward. His head hangs low as blood seeps from his brow, nose, mouth. A tooth lays in his drenched lap. Shivers run down Tanaka's spine as he takes in the defeated form of one of his boyevika.

"Huh? Nothing to say for yourself, predatel?" he questions, bruised knuckles tugging the fallen head of his ex-comrade up to peer into their eyes, almost swollen shut.

"I did not betray the Bratva, I swear on my babu-" 

"You only swear on God and the Pakhan, traitor." Tanaka interrupts, releasing his grip so that the boy’s head falls back down in a large swing before lifting up with a painful groan. The Bulldog sighs, checks the time on a glinting gold Rolex. Your fingers slip from the bulging bicep to cross in front of your chest. He nods to you, keep watching, and you smile back, wide, catty, red lipstick violent against white teeth.

"Tanaka, enough. Finish him and dispose of the body. I am tired of his crying. Like a baby. Ha!"

"Da, Boss."

"Make sure his friends are sent a message, also."

"Of course."

Tanaka doesn't take his eyes off the trembling informant but acknowledges the Boss's departure with a casual wave. Most people wouldn't have the audacity to be so lax to the Head, but he isn't just anyone. He's the most trusted. More than you.

"Nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet!" the rat cries, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and splashing onto the floor as he struggles against the bonds. Filthy. Fuck, how Tanaka loves it. He holds his hand out and a more competent, loyal, brat hands him a gun. His fingers curl around the weighted metal of the handle with a sigh, cocking it, and without hesitation, pulls the trigger.

.

.

.

There are only a few seconds of silence after the bang, just enough for Tanaka to relish in the feeling of complete calm after the storm. The hole between the eyes spits blood onto his crisp white shirt, before the lifeless body is untied by his boyevika in the room and dragged out to be 'made an example of'. One by one, the men clean up. A mop, bleach, breaking down the chair for firewood later. No loose ends, including The Khazak's shirt as he unbuttons it to be burnt with the chair. All the while, you watch from the sidelines, against the wall, as the wife of the Boss should.

Your toes tap rhythmically against the floor, the clackclackclack of your stilettoes a steady beat for the men to work to, but your eyes are on Tanaka's back. So muscular, so supple, still shivering from the endorphins of taking a life. The twin pistols tattooed on either shoulder blade seem armed, willing to fire again. 

You watch as he drops down fluidly with crossed legs to sit on the floor in the very spot he killed the predatel with no remorse, taking deep lungfuls of air to relish in the feeling. He can feel your eyes on him, a smile threatening to spread across his lips as he turns his head over his shoulder to peer at your scrutinising gaze -which is very careful not to let your lust show. But he knows it's there. He can taste it on his heavy tongue.

One by one, the men walk from the room, leaving only the two of you in your husband's office. The oak door shuts.

"Tell me, Gadyuka, how was I?" Tanaka enquires, eyes closed and head straight so that you can see the back of his scalp move as he speaks. The shorn hair shimmies and waves with his words, washing over you in the vast expanse of the room. Your pseudonym, 'viper', poison in your veins.

"Same as always: bloody," you hum, pushing off the wall and walking in front of him to lean against the broad desk. "You enjoy making a mess, don't you, Ryu?" you use your nickname for him, not his name, or his pseudonym, but something more intimate. He barks out a laugh, chest shaking as he examines the backs of his knuckles with gleaming eyes.

"Blyat, you know damn well that I do."

Like a gunshot has just echoed once again, the silence in the room is deafening. Your gazes lock, his ocean-grey ones with your cat-like stare. From his position on the floor, he looks up at you. Your stocking-clad legs are inviting his hands to stroke up them, and he's lucky enough to see the hint of the garter strap under your short skirt. He licks his lips. You tap the desk behind you impatiently, nails clacking against the glossy hardwood.

"My husband is going away on business in a week."

"I know, I arranged security."

"You're not going with him?" you ask, eyebrow quirking, no longer tapping the table. Tanaka shakes his head, a coy smile pulling at the corner of his lips, dried blood cracking on his sharp jaw.

"Then where will you be, Khazak?"

The grin almost splits his face in half with his reply, "in your bed, Gadyuka."

His bluntness never fails to shock you, to send heat pooling between your thighs and your heart spasming beneath your ribs. You almost want to have him right there, on top of the ledgers and documents of the many businesses Daichi is in charge of. Tanaka places his strong hands on the floor, easily dragging his body to your feet where he sits once more, staring up with eyes cloudy like the spray of a hurricane. A palm wraps behind your right leg to pull it close to his lips, kissing the lycra, the apex of your kneecap. His touch ripples through your skin so that your chin tilts up, breaking the gravity of his eye contact.

"Careful, Ryunoslav, not here."

His teeth nip at the fabric.

"I can not wait a week to taste you, Val."

"The cameras-"

"Are off because of the interrogation. Only I have the code to enable them for this room."

Calloused palms drag up the backs of your thighs, the stocking tugging slightly as it catches, until they pass the band where they wrap around your thighs, secured with a garter. You almost beg him to feel higher, to grab the fold of your ass, instead, you bite your lip between your teeth in thought.

"Then we must be quick, get under the desk." 

You don't tell him how unusual it would be if you were found to sit in your husband's chair, but with lust swimming from your thighs to drown your mind, it's not important. 

Tanaka is always rowdier after a kill, high off adrenaline, energy flowing in his veins that wants to devour everything in its path. He prefers to devour you. To savour your taste with his head between your supple thighs, to feel you come undone around his quick-witted tongue. With you balancing so precariously on the edge of the leather office chair, he can barely contain his onslaught of touch, desperate to hear you moan in the sound-proofed room. He's tucked so tightly between your knees, his broad yet lean shoulders spreading you so that he sees the dampened lace beneath your skirt.

It never takes much to arouse you. He likes to think it's only him that can pull forth your wetness from your folds like the moon coaxing the tides. He doesn't waste time, doesn't stop to watch the string of slick connecting the fabric to your cunt as his thumbs pull it to the side. He licks a long stripe up your slit and moans into the taste like a man starved. It's times like these when you wish he had hair for you to grab on to, so you settle on gripping the edge of the mahogany desk until your knuckles pale and forearms burn.

His tongue dances between your folds, lapping up each new wave of wetness that touches the shore of the muscle, only nudging the bundle of nerves at the top with a slight jostle.

"Don't tease me, Ryu, not in here," you breathe out at him between his licks, to which he chuckles, head turning to muffle the laughter against your inner thigh.

"Prosti," he apologises, the grey in his eyes glimmering with childish glee, "I can't help it sometimes." 

But he doesn't give you a chance to reply before his lips attach once more to your throbbing skin, wrapping around your swollen clit to suck greedily. Finally, he hears you moan, the sound kissing his sensitive ears like cool ocean spray. It's not loud, more constricted, but it's for him, because of him.

You feel how he sucks you into him, swallowing your heat and lust and desire with his mouth, having it all flow back into your body to stir at the whirlpool between your legs and behind your eyelids. It's torrential, dizzying, you're dragged beneath the waves, chest heaving as if you're drowning, 

but then it stops 

and the sea dies down, leaving your battered body behind.

Tanaka pulls away, silently. His palms close your legs, knees knocking together, his thumbs teasing circles against the bone. You're aching from your denied orgasm, the pained moan in your throat cutting off as a knock sounds in the room.

"Come in," you clear your throat, repeating the command.

One of Daichi's body guard's strides into the room, a look of shock on his face at your seat before he masks it quickly. His long brown hair is tied up neatly into a bun, a slight stubble on his chin tells you he hasn't slept properly in a few days. You can feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, feel the static in your hair that you smooth down. Tanaka keeps tracing shapes into your thighs, keeping the fire in your gut from extinguishing.

"Yes?" you thank Saint Mary that your voice doesn't tremble, "what is it?"

"Mrs. Sawamurova," he nods a greeting, "The Boss says he will take you out for dinner tonight and has sent me to escort you back to the main estate in preparations."

"Of course, I look forward to it."

You kick away Tanaka's hands, standing at the same time to walk around the table and follow the guard you know as Alexei Asahi from your husband's office. It means leaving The Khazak under the desk, along with a piece of your dignity.

***

Dinner is the kind with clinking glasses and soft chatter. The lighting is dim, intimate, with a soft glow that bounces off the crystal and silverware. As usual, the two of you are seated in the middle of the restaurant, the surrounding tables strategically blocking the view of you and Daichi from all the windows and doors, as well as the bodies seated in them. You can never be too careful, even if your husband owns the restaurant -or the entire town. To your left, behind Daichi and closest to the door, sits Tanaka.

"You look beautiful tonight, darling," Daichi says, taking a bite of his steak.

You do. The black silk dress lays flat against your chest, the deep v tailored perfectly. The tie behind your neck falls softly to your waist. Against your skin is a gold pendant, a coin pressed with the Sawamarov crest. Sleeveless and backless, the dress shows your beautiful viper tattoo curling down your right arm as though protecting you. It’s jaw opens near your wrist to bite anyone you may touch. You hold your glass of wine, swirling it before you sip.

"Thank you, my love. You bought me this dress for our first date."

"And that engagement ring on our second."

You swallow down your guilt, thighs clenching together, the silk fabric teasingly softly against your still-ignited skin. You give him a pointed stare, leaning forward ever so slightly to whisper over the table.

"I wouldn't call that a second date. We never left each other after the first."

Daichi laughs heartily, waves for another bottle of wine, eyes shining with the memory of the very active week in a skiing lodge. He hopes he can recreate some of it tonight, knowing he's been neglecting you, ignoring your needs. He glances down at the subtle curve of the fabric around your slight breast, the hint of the peony tattoo peeking under the edge of your neckline, low on your sternum; it’s the only delicate thing about you.

Daichi watches as you excuse yourself to use the restroom, the way your hips sway beneath the silk as though you have a secret. He frowns when the door closes, checking his watch for the time and pouring a shot of vodka to swallow down. You do have a secret. The waiter takes away the plates, bringing a simple dessert to share with the wine, and when you sit back down with a happy sigh, The Bulldog tries to sniff it out. He taps the table with two fingers and the nearest bodyguards turn slightly away to give you both privacy.

“I was told you were seated at my desk.”

A bite of mousse passes between your red lips with a small smile, eyes penetrating his gaze and not faltering. 

“Can a wife not sit in her husband’s chair?”

“Nyet, you know this. Why?”

“Calm down, my love.”

He fixes his cuff links, leaning back in his chair so that the gold chain around his neck glints in the light. His strong brow shadows his darkening eyes, lips pressing into a thin line, and, true to his nickname, it seems as though his muscles inflate. It makes you melt to see him hard, pectorals and biceps wanting to burst through the fabric of his Armani shirt. The spoon clinks against the plate and you reach across the table, viper stretching to grab his hand and bring it to your lips with a soft kiss, red lipstick on his jewelled knuckles. As much as you want to flicker your gaze to the man behind your husband, you hold firm.

“It’s embarrassing, but I’ll tell you. Come closer so I can whisper,” you usher him in, and Daichi grunts but follows your suggestion. He has no reason to doubt you, yet his gut is telling him you were doing more than just resting your heeled feet. He watches your pink tongue lick your bottom lip, teeth cracking between them with a coy smile.

“As you know, it has been quite some time since we’ve, how should I put this, made love.”

“I know.”

“Had I known we were going to dine tonight, fuck tonight, I would not have.”

“Your point, Gadyuka.”

Your whisper turns into a low hum, right hand squeezing his and your left hand toying with the coin pendant around your neck. Butterflies swirl in your gut, but you kill them swiftly with venom. He can sniff out any insecurity.

“I was masturbating.”

“What?”

“I was masturbating. Touching myself. In your chair, by your desk, thinking of you. I was almost finished but then Alexei had knocked on the door and stopped it.”

The look on Daichi’s face can only be described as speechless, which he is not often. His mouth opens, eyes stormy as he pictures your flushed face. He remembers that glassy look your eyes adopt when you're close, far away in bliss. Your delicate palm touches his clean-shaven cheek, drawing his attention back to the restaurant, to you.

“How about we go home and finish what I started, huh?”

Daichi didn’t need to be told twice. Standing fluidly, everyone around him follows his movement. Your fur coat is draped over your shoulders, thick and warm, a crisp white. His hand is on the small of your back, leading you out of the restaurant with the haste of a man collecting a prize. The air is cold, snow shovelled aside as you climb into the car to feel heated lips pressing to your neck instantly. You laugh, locking your wrists behind his neck to capture his mouth with your own. Men are so easily convinced.

Part 2 - Tanaka

The frame rattles as Tanaka slams the door closed behind him. He tracks melting sludge onto the thin, rust-coloured welcome mat, the tip of his nose red with more than the kiss from the windchill. The heater of the cabin is turned on, the warmth a welcome refuge from the thick snow outside as he shrugs off his coat.

Tanaka doesn’t hide his thoughts and feelings. He’s the kind of guy that wears them on his sleeve, bares it all out there for everyone to see. When he’s angry, you can see the tips of his ears burn. When he’s thrilled, that shark-tooth grin spreads so wide across his face, his eyes close. And when he’s murderous, nothing and no one can stand in his way.

“Cyka blyat!” he shouts, punching the wall of his residence, missing the mirror by mere centimetres, his already bruised knuckles stinging with his rage. A slew of curse words tumbles from his lips, both from searing pain and soaring anger. The eyes on the back of his hands stare at him, judging.

Seeing Valentina out at dinner, looking so delectable, so sinful, Ryunoslav felt ravenous for just a taste of her skin. It was bad enough that he never got to feel her convulse on his tongue earlier, he had to watch her flirt with her husband. He knows the deal, that nothing can ever really happen between the two of them outside of sex, and if they were both to get caught, it would be his end. He understands, yet he can’t help his rising natural anger. The buzzing in his pants pocket pulls him from his internal struggle, and he relaxes his hands, feeling the half-moon indents in his palms hiss in relief.

“Da?" a pause, "I’m on my way.”

Daichi wants to see him; did they finish their ‘love-making’ so quickly? Tanaka catches his reflection in the mirror, massaging the centre of his furrowed brows to try dissipate some of his frustrations before grabbing his thick coat and making the five-minute trek to the main estate. He’s frozen to the bone by the time he arrives at the large mahogany doors, but his anger keeps his blood warm. He needs to be careful, to calm down.

***

The Boss is waiting for Tanaka in his oversized office, the door open ajar, letting a soft yellow light stream into the hallway. This one is different from where the interrogation took place that afternoon, yet it is decorated almost identically. A shiver runs down Ryunoslav’s neck as he remembers Valentina’s sumptuous taste, the supple skin of her thighs brushing against his jaw and the way her lips sighed his name. Fuck, he takes a deep breath, pacifying his licentious thoughts before rapping on the door with his knuckles. Daichi’s deep voice tells him to enter.

He sits there, behind the desk, the white shirt he wore to dinner wrinkled, half unbuttoned to show a burly chest. A gold chain with a coin and two wedding bands glints from the curled chest hair.

“Vodka?” Daichi asks, doe brown eyes glancing up, already pouring both him and his head of security a shot of the clear liquid.

“Spasiba,” Tanaka’s voice is a grumble, deep in his chest as he tries to warm his body but cool his temper.

The Bulldog leans back. They toast, downing the drink with a casual swallow. As per usual, Tanaka automatically refills the next round for the both of them, but it remains untouched. Instead, Daichi opens a ledger, fingers curling up the pages as he flips through the numbers and accounts.

“Sergei has told me we were underpaid last month.”

“Mm, I will talk with Yuuri to find out who.”

“Make sure you show them the repercussions.”

“Always.”

Tanaka cracks his knuckles, excited to teach yet another lesson in punctuality. Daichi eyes his most trusted brother, the way that cocky smirk appears at the thought of fists colliding with skin, but there’s something else underneath.

“Khazak, you’re angry,” Daichi concludes, reaching across the table for the vodka, motioning Ryunoslav to sit down across from him. The shorn-haired man shrugs, slinking into the leather seat, removing his black beenie to run his hand through the trimmed hair. He can’t lie to the Boss, but he can’t tell him the truth either.

“I am… frustrated.”

The pair cheers, the glasses clinking before thudding onto the leather ingrained into the top of the desk.

“Why?”

"Ha! Please, I do not know, Boss.”

Daichi lets out a hum, shifting forward in his chair so that the wheels creak beneath his weight.

“I think I know.”

Tanaka stays silent, keeping his stare level and curious with the Bulldog’s.

“You need a woman!” Daichi barks out, smacking the desk with a flat palm, laughing deeply so that it echoes in the quiet room and probably through the manor. Tanaka can’t help but join in with the infectious laughter, the vodka soothing his nerves, relaxing the tension in his jaw.

“You’re right. It’s been too long,” since I fucked your wife.

They pour another shot, the buzz of the first two beginning to hum pleasantly through their bodies.

“Next week I go to Georgia to see the business there. While I’m gone, bring a whore to your bed. You have my permission.”

“Thank you, Boss.” Tanaka says, his cock twitching at the thought of Valentina in his residence. She’s never been there longer than a few minutes, and never without Daichi in the ten years Ryunoslav has been working for the Sawamurov family, and the two he’s been fucking her. He can't help but fantasize about it.

They catch up in light-hearted talk, about the state of Russia and the business, that they don’t see her peer around the corner of the heavy door, black silk nightgown wrapped loosely around her frame to show the lace of lingerie beneath.

“Daichi, are you coming to bed?” Tanaka hears her say, Valentina’s voice caressing his sensitive ears, but it’s not for him. He turns around, both men shocked into sobriety when they see her leaning against the now open door. 

“Ah yes! Sorry, my love! We lost track of time.” Daichi says, pushing up from his seat. Tanaka swallows, watches as her gaze floats from her husband’s to his own. He can see the pale blue of new bruises around the column of her throat, where Daichi probably sucked into the skin. Tanaka can’t help his smirk. She always did like it rough, and it means he can leave his own over those later.

“Khazak,” she greets with a curt nod, fixing the dropped shoulder of the gown to make herself more modest. “Don’t keep him too late, okay?”

“Mrs. Sawamurova, as you wish.”

Daichi chuckles from behind the desk, walking around to clap Tanaka on the shoulder.

“I may be the Pakhan, but Gadyuka here always has the last say, huh? Good night, Ryunoslav. Don’t forget to talk to Yuuri. And don’t forget what I said you can do.”

“Da, spakoyne noche, Boss.”

With a two-finger wave, Daichi walks out of the room, his hand travelling to the small of Valentina’s back as he leads her back to the bedroom. Tanaka takes one final shot, pulling his hat low over his ears as he prepares to walk back to his house.

***

“He said what?” Nishinoya Yuuri exclaims, cackling inside Tanaka’s small living room. His shorter counterpart smacks the armrest of the chair, the sound against the leather cracking like a whip.

“I can entertain a whore this weekend.”

Yuuri can’t believe his ears, face red with laughter, the file of the business owner coming up with short change forgotten on his lap. His bleached bangs hang in his eyes and he pushes it up, wiping tears with a deep breath. 

Together, Ryunoslav and Yuuri make up the Elite Group within the Bashkortoskaya, Daichi’s most trusted men. Each one runs their own Brigade: Nishinoya the Support Group and, by default, oversees the entire Workforce, while Tanaka is head of Security and keeps everything running smoothly.

The Khazak’s sharp jaw pulses, cheeks red to resemble a heart as it beats in humility. He clenches and unclenches his jaw.

“In the years I’ve known you, you’ve never had a prostitute.”

"I've never needed one," Tanaka shrugs, stealing the manila folder to flip through the details. Simple enough. His men were already bringing the tinted black SUVs around for them to make a ‘house call’ to Ukai Keishin. He shrugs on his thick coat, the kind that’s easy to clean, and black leather gloves onto his hands, slipping knuckle dusters into his pocket. Just in case. He doubts he’ll need them. He waves Yuuri a goodbye as he hears the tyres crunch over the sleet of snow.

“Remember to pick up condoms while you’re out!” He hears his brother call out to him as the door closes and ice invades each inhale.

Tanaka grumbles under his breath, fiddling with the direction of the hot air coming through the car’s vents. Just what he needs is word getting around that he would be fucking someone while the Boss is gone. These kinds of things never stay quiet, and he knows it will reach Valentina’s ears within the day. He shivers to think how she will lash out at him if he actually invites one of Daichi’s prostitutes back to his bed. The girls at those establishments can’t even hold a candle to her beauty or skill.

Prostitution is a lucrative business and one of the main sources of income, other than drug smuggling and the many (legal and illegal) casinos and tech companies owned by the Sawamurov’s. Ukai's particular business—and why The Boss is so invested in it—is a front for a prostitution call-centre. According to performance, they should've made a profit for the month past. Usually, Tanaka wouldn't make an appearance personally, delegating the task to his experienced team members, who might even give the order to the security brigades that they run. However, he is glad to get out of the estate grounds and think of something other than Val’s voluptuous lips and the swell of her breasts from beneath that black lingerie last night.

***

The Sawamurov's reach controlled all of Bashkortostan, a republic within Russia nestled between the picturesque Ural mountain range and the Volga river. Tanaka watches as the trees surrounding the estate give way to highway and grassland before the small town of Belebey comes into view. It's all Daichi's, and in turn, all Val’s.

The town is quiet, the late morning sky a dark grey with clouds that make the winter more formidable. Tanaka wouldn't have it any other way. They pull up to the slightly rundown storefront, graffiti against the wall with crude swear words act as a greeting. He snorts, watching as the glossy black SUV's reflect in the windows as though looking into a parallel world. Inside he can see movement, a tall man in a white apron walking around the counter to open the door. Confident. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Ukai shouts out, arms crossed over his chest to protect his fingers from the stinging cold. Tanaka doesn't answer, tucking his chin into his scarf as he observes the man. He's older, bleached blonde with honey eyes that seem more solid, hardened. On his forearms are scars, his flannel shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal a tattoo of a web with a downwards facing spider: recovered drug addict.

"We've come to collect," one of the lackeys says in his boss's place.

Ukai steps aside to let them in, sighing deeply, flicking a cigarette to the moist ground, and leading them to a back room where there's a round table with a few wooden chairs. Papers litter the room, boxes of unpacked stock are piled in a corner. The place is a shithole.

"Can I get you anything? Vodka, cigarette?"

"Sit, Ukai." Tanaka speaks, gesturing to the nearest chair, unbuttoning his coat to drop it onto the table, his beanie and scarf piling on top of it. "We're here for business."

Ukai collapses down, slouching casually as he stares at the leader of the men. Ryunoslav drags a chair in front of the debtor, spinning it on a single leg so that he leans against the backrest as he sits with his legs spread out on either side. A sliver of gold chain catches the fluorescent lighting under his simple suit shirt, matching the multiple piercings in Ukai's right ear.

"You did not pay the full amount of February."

"Correct."

"Why?"

"I couldn't."

The man's blunt lie is shocking to Tanaka, refreshing from the usual quivering imbeciles, and he feels the need to suppress a smile that threatens to reveal itself. Instead, he keeps his tone cynical.

"Was the month not profitable, Ukai? Men get lonely in February, their beds cold."

Ukai shrugs, smoothing out the wrinkles in his apron, eyeing the handsome shaved hair man with intrigue. Tanaka feels a ripple down his spine. "For the whores? Yes, it was profitable. But my business was not."

"So you used the money for the Bashkortoskaya to save your ass from bills?" Tanaka begins to laugh, his wide mouth swallowing the sky as his chin tilts up. He stares straight at the man once more, "you should've paid us first."

"Ah, but then I wouldn't have had the pleasure of your visit. I am touched an Avtoritet will come to see me personally. You are better looking than I thought you would be, younger."

Tanaka raises an eyebrow at the flirtatious comment, a very open individual. He sees some of his subordinates shift uncomfortably in his peripheral, unsure of how to proceed. He drums his fingers on the back of the chair, the beat steady like his heart.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, I'm not one of your kind."

"And what kind is that?"

"Gay."

Ukai chuckles, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his apron pocket, offering one to Ryunoslav who instead takes the full box, holding it up for someone to confiscate. He stands, walking to inspect the stacked boxes around the room. Ukai swallows; he knows not to push his luck too far.

"Are you going to kill me if I don't pay?"

"Hm, nyet, not yet. Are these fresh?" Tanaka holds up a dozen eggs, the green carton sickly. He doesn't wait for the reply, tearing it open and tossing one to the ground with a resounding crunch, the yolk bleeding into the tile grates.

"Listen, Ukai," splat, "you will pay the balance," splat, "by the end of this week," Tanaka walks closer with each drop of the egg until he's next to the grocery store owner. Ukai sits upright, a cool gaze on Tanaka's tattooed hands as they stroke the shell of the brown eggs. The crosses and circles are targets, his hands the weapons.  

"Or your head, will look like these eggs." Tanaka drops the entire carton on the ground, the bright yellow spilling out and pooling beneath Tanaka's black boots. "Vy ponimayete?"

"Da, understood."

"Good. I hope I will not need to see you again."

On his way out of the store, Tanaka picks up a box of condoms from the aisle.

Part 3 - Valentina

Friday cannot come fast enough... so that you can throttle your lover. 

The double-pane french doors to the balcony shine with frost, the sky beyond dark and unforgiving, much like the irritation boiling inside you. It’s the last night; Daichi leaves on the first flight to Georgia tomorrow morning to meet with the Vashadze, your father and owners of half the Casinos under your combined empire. Your marriage three years ago was the biggest news since the raid on the Uhaluba club in Prague, 1995. Together, your families control prositution, drug smuggling, money laundering, the list goes on. Behind the scenes, of course. 

Up front, Daichi is a wealthy investor of tech: Facebook, Tesla, oil companies in the Middle East and Serbia, whereas your father is a top Politician and Minister in Georgia, maintaining his position with dirt he’s collected on those with darker tastes and kinks in the underworld.

“Supply snakes with a meal, and you’ll have them all by the fangs,” your father regularly told you over dinners since you were thirteen, when he began to show you the truth behind his wealth, once your mother passed away.

It’s how you got your nickname. It was the first thing you said to Daichi, before he took you out, before he became The Boss . You were eighteen when you laid eyes upon that hulking mass of muscle. He asked how you could be so beautiful, and you parroted your father’s words. He knew from that moment on that you were dangerous, poisonous, and he had to have you.

When you were twenty-one, you met Daichi again, this time in an underground gambling soiree. You were the host, of course. The felt green betting mats stood out in stark contrast against the white dress code and the dark wooden tables. You wore black. Translucent red dice swirled between your fingers expertly before you rolled snake eyes.

“Bad luck,” Daichi commented over your shoulder, spiced wood and tobacco tickling your nose. You sipped a vodka martini with a twist. There was always a twist with you.

“It’ll be fine, I own the club,” you shrugged, cashing out with the chips you owed and strolling back to the bar where another drink awaited you. Even now, you could remember Tanaka Ryunoslav hovering behind Daichi, drinking in the sight of your curves, the red of your lipstick and the wit of your tongue. A lot less subtle then than now. 

If you closed your eyes, you could very easily conjure the tapping of his heels, the eager look in the Young Khazak’s eyes at being surrounded by some of the most powerful men in Eastern Europe. You could even taste the vodka on his tongue that you sucked down your throat in a supply room all those years ago.

Back then, that bout of casual sex meant nothing. You married Daichi four years later, when your paths crossed once more at twenty-five, the turf wars between neighbouring families becoming too much to bear for Eastern Europe. You were lucky Daichi was--is so exceedingly handsome. Interesting. Smart. Powerful. However, so is your father. And you never wanted to marry your father.

“Darling?” Daichi’s voice calls you out of your pacing when he walks into the room, the silk of your dressing gown swooping around your feet as you stand still. “Everything alright?”

“Da, sorry, you know I get nervous when you fly,” you lie quickly, easily, turning your back on him to close the curtain and shut out the irritation of outside, the faint golden glow of Tanaka’s cabin sealed away. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Mm, yes, I know. Relax a little. When I am back we have that gala. Is your dress finished?”

You give him a pointed glance, turning down the bedsheets and unravelling the delicate bow of the robe to climb under the covers with bare skin.

“Weeks ago, Daichi. You were at the final fitting.”

He nods as if he remembers, but you know his mind is elsewhere, much like your body would rather be.

“Are you coming to bed early tonight?”

For several days, weeks, months, Daichi has been sneaking into your bed too late in the evening. Or early in the morning. The business is doing fine, there’s no cause for him to spend some nights not even at home. Some part of you--a small, small part--misses his thick muscles wrapped around your body.

“Later, there is something I have to do first.”

You merely hum, settling yourself down and dimming the lamp beside the bed until the room bathes in a soft glow. With your eyes closed, you don’t see him leave, the door clicking shut. Instead, you picture red, your empty bed, and across the snow, a cocky smile letting a too thin, sallow-skinned blank face past their threshold. He will have to have a hooker, Daichi will ask him all about it. Motherfucker. You turn the light off.

***

The Bulldog kisses your forehead when he wakes, sleeping behind you for a total of an hour. You’d woken up slightly when he clambered into the bed, smelling freshly of his cologne from a recent shower, at three in the morning.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispers into your ear, not staying to hear your ‘be safe’ in response, still mumbling from a fitful night’s sleep. 

However, you don’t drift off again, eyes suddenly open and staring into your nightstand where a cool glass of water rests. It’s still, silent and calm. You turn over to the right, seeing the empty space where Daichi’s body barely left a mark, his lamp still buzzing. It isn’t until you hear cars pull away in the driveway that you sit up, wiping the remnants of sleep delicately from your eyes to sigh. It’s going to be a long day.

Dumdumdum, three quick taps echo in the quiet, the door creaking open as a curious head peeks around the side. Ryunoslav smiles when he sees you perched in bed. His eyes drift from your face, down your neck and to your breasts, the skin pricking up under his sharp gaze. You could strike a match and it would erupt into flames.

“What are you doing here, Ryu?” you ask. It comes out more accusatory than you would’ve liked but he just grins, teeth ready to bite any jab you throw.

“I told you I’d come, didn’t I?”

For a raucous man, Tanaka moves stealthily across your floor, kicking off his boots before planting two large hands onto the edge of the mattress. You can feel it dip with his weight as he crawls, veiny forearms caging in your legs, trapping you. He sways side to side, spine rolling like a panther about to pounce. You kick his left hand out so he falls, crashing and rolling to the spot where Daichi laid with a laugh, peering up at you with fervent energy.

“His bed isn’t even cold yet.”

“Ha! He barely slept here, Val.”

“And you will?” Skepticism laces your words, the irritation of last night seeping into your thoughts once more. His smile finally drops.

“Nyet, of course not. You know that.” Tanaka twists around so that he’s cross-legged, facing you fully, eyes searching your own. “I’ll just fuck you.” You scoff.

His hands plant themselves on your thighs, the eyes tattooed on the back staring at the ceiling, observing the heavens. They travel gradually up to where the sheet lays scrunched around your waist, fingers pinching the edges.

“Give you more pleasure than he does before going back to my lonely bed. Without you.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’ll be lonely for much longer, Ryunoslav.”

Tanaka chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he pulls the duvet down to unveil you before him. His chest rises and falls so fluidly with his deep breaths, a movement so calm, yet he freezes when his eyes rake over your luscious figure.

“How the Boss does not have you under lock and key astounds me.”

Your hand slaps across his face, a fire burning from your palm down to your groin.

“I will not be someone’s pet.”

Lust overcomes Tanaka’s pupils, his lips curling up in ecstasy at your stern tone, his cheek pounding along with his heart.

“No, you will not.”

Then, his mouth captures yours. 

Hot, hungry, the spring in his spine expands so that his chest presses against yours, jaws stretching up. Desperate hands clutch at your neck, the fold of your hips, anything to pull himself tight to your body, anchored to your skin and bed. It’s sinful, even whores refuse to do something so intimate. You feel that heavy tongue drag against your bottom lip, asking your permission to enter. You welcome it, savoring the taste of Ryu’s desire, his burning passion. His hands drift to tug at the firm muscle of your ass, hauling you to kneel over his lap, supporting and kneading it to a rhythm that you’ve come to know so well.

Your fingers clumsily unbutton his pants, slipping under the fabric to feel your undoing. Tanaka moans into your mouth, growing harder, fiercer in his touch with each stroke up the length of his cock. He wastes no time, patience not his strongest virtue. You detach from the kiss with a heavy sigh, forehead pressing to his as you melt over his fingers. Both your hands press into his shoulders, stabilising your vibrating body from how he rolls your clit between his fingers. He’s too clothed, not enough of his skin available for you to stroke and scratch and bite. You claw at the back of his long-sleeved shirt, he rips it off.

With the shirt discarded over his boots, Ryu’s warm hands wrap around your waist, tilting you back until you lay open for him. His pants come off next, flung haphazardly to the floor so that he kneels before you shamelessly, eyes raking down your naked body. By now, he’s committed every curve, every artwork on your skin to memory that he can draw you with his eyes closed. The peony tattoo at the base of your sternum a siren’s call for his mouth to taste. The heat of his body is a furnace, flames licking your skin as he kisses down your chest, inhaling your intoxicating scent.

“Why don’t I finish what I started, huh?” he parrots the words you whispered to Daichi a week ago. Your gut clenches, your cunt tightening to know he heard that. You almost want to beg him to devour you, but that’s not who you are. Your hand strokes over his shorn hair, his eyes closing as your nails rake against his scalp. Savagely, you squeeze his jaw, fingers pursing his lips, the viper tattooed near your wrist ready to strike.

“So snarky. I can think of more important uses for your tongue, Ryunoslav.”

He grins, the round of his cheeks tensing in your clutches before he turns his head to nibble at your thumb, sucking it down.

“As you wish, Valentina.”

Tanaka kisses down your stomach to the apex of your mound, squirming until he nestles between your outstretched legs and his arms wrap themselves under your thighs, an iron grip on your hips. You brace yourself to feel that vacuum, that eternally deep suction that clings onto your soul and merges it with his, but all you can feel are soft exhales. He stares up at you, an indiscernible look on his face.

“Ryu?” you come onto your elbows. The very sight of the man between your legs is enough to make you shiver. He plants a kiss to your thigh.

“You know I will do anything for us, for you.”

“I know.”

“Even fuck a whore once if it means I get to stay with you for just another more day.”

You grit your teeth, knowing it’s true, and although he shouldn’t be saying such intimate things—that you can never truly be together—it’s what you needed to hear. You remain silent, watching him as he lowers his mouth to your seeping skin, licking languidly to taste you on his entire tongue. It’s flat, wet, heavy, pressing into you so solidly you fall back down, eyes closing as you capsize. Tanaka demands whimpers, his name, with his touch. He’s insatiable, greedy to feel you come undone completely, this time with no interruption.

Two fingers test your waters, slipping between the waves of your folds while his tongue drags you under. You know his ocean-grey eyes never stop watching as you writhe under his ministrations. You can barely move, clenching around his skilled hand as though keeping him anchored in place. You want him, need him. The first pulse of your walls spurs him on, stirring the storm in your groin, until you can barely contain your moans for him. Your orgasm batters against the shores of your body, powerful waves washing over you and dissolving all your stress and irritation, leaving you gasping and heavy, weighted down and sluggish.

“Fuck, baby,” Tanaka swears against your skin, still pumping his fingers against sopping skin to feel how you contract around him. The stimulation almost has you in tears and you grab his wrist to pull him away, closer to your lips. You swallow down your tang, the kiss passionate yet lazy as he ruts against your tingling clit, hands wrapped around your head to almost cradle you against him.

“You were very loud,” he chides, but you know he loves it, the danger. “You are lucky no one is in the house tonight.”

“Do you want me to keep quiet, Ryu?” you moan into his mouth, biting his lip against a particularly rough thrust.

“Never,” he grins, sitting back so that he can observe your glassy look, you pout at the sudden chill. There’s a moment of protest, his body too far away, before your eyes roll back and you’re stretched out, overflowing with the feeling of him, your vision black.

Part 4 - Tanaka

Ryunoslav wishes he could lay behind Valentina eternally, watch as she wakes and stretches, but he knows he can’t. He unfurls his lithe chest from her back, and stands to dress before sneaking back to his cabin. The cold air nips at his cheeks, but it would take a snowstorm and him being naked to freeze over the warmth radiating from inside his chest. Under the cover of dark, even at 6:00 am, Tanaka makes it back without being seen, like he always does.

He winces as he shrugs off his coat and scarf, the scrapes on his back from her nails stinging beautifully. His thoughts drift: what she must think when she wakes up in the mornings to find the bed empty, either without him or Daichi, and whether he’ll ever see her under his own covers, laughing while sipping a coffee on a summer morning. Ryu shakes his head to absolve those thoughts, it’s dangerous to linger on dreams for too long.

The box of condoms on his dining table stand out like a sore thumb, and he shoves it into the closest drawer, the eyes on his hands giving him a mocking stare. ‘What would your mother say?’ it blinks at him, pulling his mouth into a scowl. Turning the kettle on, he pulls up Sergei’s number on his phone.

“Khazak, it’s early.” Sergei’s morning gruff is thick, coughing lightly as he clears his throat.

“Dobre utra, Sergei, sorry, I know.”

“What is it you need?” Tanaka can almost picture the cool gaze, the pinched brows beneath silver hair that the bookkeeper has on whenever speaking to the head of security.

“Ukai, has all been fixed?”

“Uka– Ryunoslav, could this not wait until a more reasonable hour? Yes, it’s resolved. The guy wired the remaining amount last night. God knows where he got it from but I don’t care.”

Tanaka opens his mouth to speak, but Sergei cuts him off.

“I swear, call me this early again and I’ll hang you from your ears.”

The Khazak laughs, wishing the old ‘friend’ a good day as he hangs up. That clears up most of Tanaka’s schedule, and he falls onto his bed, groaning when the whistle of the kettle rings loud in the room. It’s too similar to the alarm bells in his mind when he thinks about the call he has to make later.

***

Ryunoslav shivers, peeling off the used condom to tie a knot in it. It wasn’t too bad. With the prostitute's ass in the air, he could almost picture it was her. He watches as she pulls up stockings and a dress, her only layers beneath a thick coat and hat. The prostitute looks over her shoulder with her hand resting on the door, appreciating the view. Tanaka sits on the edge of the bed, naked and bored.

“This was fun. Call me anytime,” she purrs with a wink, pleasantly fucked, before leaving. He grumbles, falling backwards so that air whooshes past his ears as the mattress creaks under his body.

She’s going to kill me, he thinks, picturing Val’s face with the disapproving glare that always seems to rile him up. A part of him wonders if he went through with it purely to piss her off, make her mad with jealousy, just like he can be.

***

Tanaka must’ve dozed off because he wakes to the sound of his front door being pounded, the clock next to it showing quarter to midnight. He swears, scrambling to toss the condom he left on his thigh into the open basket bin and pull on the nearest pair of pants. He has just finished tying the drawstring when the door swings open and Valentina strides in, arms crossed in front of her chest, white flakes of snow on the Hermès scarf wrapped around her hair.

He’s frozen, a deer in headlights, silent at seeing her standing in his doorway, both beautiful and deadly. He watches as analytical eyes scan the single-roomed cabin, finally taking it all in. For some reason, he feels shy, a blush creeping up his neck. He has always wanted her in here, but now that she is, he feels like it’s not good enough.

Tanaka follows her gaze: sweeping from the small kitchen, to the two person table and chair, in the corner are the leather armrests and a coffee table. Directly by Val’s right is a mirror and coat hook, the wooden-heated walls sparsely decorated with a map of old USSR and new Russia, along with a single lily in a simple frame. He sees her stare past him, to the arch that separates his bedroom, analysing the unmade bed. Tendrils of cold sweep by him from the still-open door. She does not move a muscle.

Valentina opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it, walking to the kitchen counter where a half-finished bottle of vodka sits. Tanaka’s door shuts with a click, and when he turns, she has already pulled out a shot glass. 

Has she been drinking? he thinks, rubbing the goosebumps up his arms, the callouses scraping some still-healing scabs. He gets his answer when she barely winces her swallow.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tanaka asks, approaching carefully, gesturing to the sofa; she’s a cornered viper. Val turnz, leaning against the marble top, coat still wrapped tightly around her body. Her lips purse, and he stills, knowing she’s either trying to put together a sentence or hold back uttering one. But Ryunoslav doesn’t know her to hold back often.

“Did you do it?” 

He didn’t expect the question to flow from her lips so calmly, hushed and smooth like an expert interrogator; the way he would speak. There’s no point in lying.

“Da,” Tanaka steps closer, reaching past Val’s head for a second shot glass. She makes no effort to hand him the bottle. “It’s just sex.” 

He almost recoils from the daggers in her stare, pupils shrinking into slits that can cut through him. I should not have said that, but if he lied, he wonders if she’d be just as furious. Valentina looks down and spots the discarded condom, sighing while twisting open the cap of the bottle to drink straight from the lip, past the point of using a glass.

“I thought of you.”

A faint flicker of relief, but then she laughs, curt and cold.

“I’m so flattered, Ryunoslav, thank you.”

He feels his heart tighten, forehead pounding, with more than guilt.

“Blyat, what the fuck else was I supposed to do?” he snorts, storm brewing in his eyes, fists clenching. His face is so close to hers, he can smell the alcohol on her breath. He can see her searching for answers within his own.

“I don’t know, but,” her eyes close, the small wrinkle between her brow dissolving with an inhale. The exhale has them open, blank, her lips in a neutral line. Somehow, this scares Ryunoslav even more. He feels his heart hammer beneath his ribs, either trying to escape or to jump into her palms. The bottle is no longer in them, but the belt of her coat, pulling it loose so that it unfurls from her chest. He see’s skin, a clavicle, ripe mounds of breasts. The flower tattoo peaks out from the shadow until it disappears and the top of underwear wraps around her waist. She’s not wearing the Family pendant. When the coat drops off her shoulders--the wool scrunching into a thick pile at her feet--he notices she is still wearing boots, but legs bare; she used the underground passage to get to his cabin.

“If you prefer to fuck a shlyukha, you just had to say so.” Valentina says, fingers trailing up the skin of her waist while keeping his gaze. Tanaka can’t respond, doesn’t want to, anything he says is fuel to her wildfire. “I can be a whore.”

She’s raging, the very air around her too thick for Tanaka to breathe easily, and when she takes a step forward, he imitates backward. He’s controlled by her until he collapses into his leather armchair and she towers over him, bare-breasted and deadly.

Valentina’s fingers tug at the knot of the scarf, slipping the silk through her fingers as she regards the man before her, twisting it into a tight coil until ready to spring, like her.

It’s those eyes, she realises. Stormy, grey, like a tumultuous ocean swallowing her body whole, ravaging and cleansing her all at once. She can’t stand to see them now. Tanaka doesn’t protest when she leans over him, unfurling the scarf to tie it around his head, blindfolding him. Ostensibly for control. She knows otherwise that his eyes will make her crumble down, dissolve into their depths.

Tanaka’s heart thumps, pressing against his ribcage furiously enough to shake his chest. Any argument cut off in his throat when he feels Valentina’s lips against it. His body begins to cover in a cold sweat, confused with the hurdling emotions inside: panic, guilt, anger, and underneath it all, arousal.

“Have you even showered yet,” she whispers against his skin, “or is this taste hers?” A hot tongue drags up the side of his neck until it touches the puff of his earlobe, teeth nipping. If Tanaka looks down past the tip of his nose, he can see her palms gripping the arms of the chair, the plush leather folding in. He can see the curve of her shoulder and the tail of the snake as she leans into him. And he can feel the warmth of her skin when she straddles him.

It’s not tight, her ass seated on the edge of his knees, but he feels heat anyway. It rolls off Valentina’s body in waves, washing over him so that he begins to pant. Nails rake up his chest, goosebumps pricking on his forearms which he keeps still, away from reaching out to wrap around her and bring their bodies together.

“Did she touch you like this?” Valentina’s hand wraps around his throat, the other drifting to the tent in Tanaka’s sweatpants. When she stops moving, he realises she expects a response.

“Nyet,” he grunts out, erection twitching beneath her palm, the vein in his neck swelling. 

A brisk exhale fans over his face, then he smells the peppercorn and vanilla of her skin as she lifts from his knees. She must be close, the static between his lips and her stomach electric. He bites his tongue to stop from tasting her skin. When she falls, her hand had shifted his erection from the loose constraints of his pants, free and standing to attention. There’s fire and rain, and Tanaka peers down to make out the black of Valentina’s underwear clinging to her slick folds, nestled against his groin. It provides slight relief, knowing she is aroused like him. 

She begins to roll her hips. On instinct, Tanaka shifts down into a slouch to bring her higher, to feel more friction. His fingers jump where they rest on the chair, fighting not to grab at her, palms sweating. For Valentina, this is easy. Men are so responsive, so easy to lead and dissuade, and fuck. They treat sex as though it is nothing.

It’s sex, Ryunoslav’s words echo in her hazy mind, her hands flying to his shoulders as though to bring her back to her actions. Focus on the movement, it tells her, and she grinds down onto him. She feels as he pants against her neck, her breasts moving to press against his chest so that he can feel all of her at once, reminded of what he missed. The jealousy in her heart pains her, knowing that it’s irrational to feel ownership over a man that is not truly her’s. But she feels it regardless. She wants him completely.

His neck is thick beneath her palm, veins beating steadily in time with the grinding of her hips. The line of her folds wrap around him, dragging up and down his length that when she looks down, she sees it weep. The tightening of his gut tells her even more and she grins almost wickedly.

“Does it feel good, Ryu?” she whispers against him, lips hovering teasingly above his own. Tanaka tries to close the gap. She’s near, yet so far away, unreachable in her anger.

“No, you don’t get to kiss me. Not when I’m your whore.”

He moans then, shamefully turned on by the hard edge of her voice and the soft skin wrapped around him, coaxing something out from within. 

“Val,” he utters her name under his breath, the fog in his mind not clearing as it builds higher, tighter. She can feel the storm brewing. His shoulders tense, forearms hovering as though-

“Do you want to touch me?” she bites at his ear, one of his most sensitive features. It takes Tanaka everything to hold back, his hips thrusting up desperately.

“Yes. God, yes.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Valentina watches as the gold, browns and pinks of her scarf wrinkle with his frown.

“You never said I could.”

She falters for a moment, taken aback by the worship and strain in his voice. This is why she covered his eyes, she never knew she had to gag him as well. Some of the ice in her heart begins to melt, dripping down her chest like the sweat on Ryunoslav’s forehead.

“Touch me.”

His hands are on her instantly. With her back under his calloused palms, he can feel every movement of her waist, her hips. He strokes up, her body memerised so thoroughly he can paint a replica of her in his mind. With the eyes tattooed on the back of his hands, he sees her. It was the last push he needed, the rain clouds in his mind bursting as he spills a storm over his abdomen, finding clarity. 

It’s wet, warm and cold simultaneously. He feels Valentina’s forehead fall to his shoulder, her spine shaking. There’s a sniff, the smallest of tears leaking into the dips of his muscled shoulders. With one hand, he presses her tightly, his ejaculation spreading messily between their bodies, the other rips the scarf from his eyes so he can drink in the sight of her, his nose nuzzled into her hair.

“Val...” he mumbles against her skin, fingers combing through the hair at her nape, lips finding contact with her neck, then temple. “Look at me, pazolvste.”

And when she does, the world stops. He tries to read the swirl of emotions in her eyes. Is it exhaustion? Arousal? Defeat? All three? Tanaka brushes sweaty strands from her neck, forehead, smoothing down the hair. Valentina glances at his lips, or her eyes drop, either way, with the next inhale, their lips meet.

Part 5 - Valentina

Tanaka tastes different. Tangy and bitter, the kind that makes you want to tear away, only to constantly come back for another sip, addicted. You’re sticky, the sweat from his chest and the spill of his seed spreading against your stomach, screaming at you to separate from him. Everything is telling you to stop.

But you can’t

And you never want to. His tongue swipes across the seam of your lips, and you happily oblige, too weary from the rollercoaster of emotions that had ripped through you to fight for dominance. Tanaka, however, doesn’t seem to mind, your tongues intertwining so seamlessly, you briefly wonder if you’ll ever separate them again.

He pulls apart to breathe, chest still heaving from his orgasm and your mind games. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, you realise what you’ve done, how full of blind rage and hurt you were. Tanaka registers the panic in your eyes, the way your mouth opens to say,

“I’m sorry.”

You’re suddenly smaller, eyes downcast to stare at his chest, tracing the outline of the Georgian cross tattooed over his heart, the eight point star on each shoulder beneath his collarbones, reminding you that you’re in a world of thieves. That you yourself are one, and you crossed a boundary tonight that you’ve never crossed before. In his residence. He lifts your chin with a steady finger, forcing you to stare into still, open waters.

“It’s okay.”

But it’s not, you’re not okay. Tanaka must’ve sensed the growing unease as you shift on his lap, knees still pressed tightly to his hips, his softened dick lazing against your groin.

“I would’ve stopped you if I didn’t want it,” his voice is a hushed whisper, washing over you.

“I should not have come here tonight.”

“I’m happy you did, Gadyuka.”

For some reason, you believe him, the tides in his eyes pulling you closer so that once again your lips melt into his and your heart drums in your throat. Ryunoslav unzips your boots, letting them drop unceremoniously to the floor. His hands find purchase beneath your rear, and he stands, lifting you so easily as he carries you through a small door and into the bathroom.

It smells like him: salty, humid, yet crisp, like cold mist when the seasons change. You reluctantly break apart when your feet touch the cool tile, and you look around while Ryu draws a bath. There’s no mirror over the sink--instead on the tiled wall opposite the shower--just a shelf with his electric razor, toothbrush and some creams. The thought that you’d like to shave his head flits across your mind, but you shake it out, turning to watch him fill a simple wooden bathtub with steaming water.

“Are you going to wash me like a child?” you ask, eyebrows raising to show your amusement. He chuckles, his eyes matching your teasing tone, the tension of before dissolving with the mist in the air.

“Nyet, unless you want me to,” he muses, eyes drifting across the splattered cotton against your skin. “You are dirty.”

You lick your teeth, taking in how he’s seated on the edge, sweatpants still haphazardly down his legs to show a hint of the tattoos and scars on the tops of his thighs, “so are you.”

He holds his arms out and you move to stand between his knees, warm hands trailing up your hamstrings, over the cups of your cheeks and peeling down your soiled black thong. You feel… calm, the rage and guilt subsiding to leave an empty stillness in its place, in your gut, where he rests his forehead and your fingers scrape his scalp.

You bathe first, Tanaka’s rough hands scraping away grime, before you switch and run your hands over his corded muscles. The moment is too intimate to speak, both of you barely even breathing as he wraps a towel around his waist and pulls a too long t-shirt over your head. It’s only when you’re out of the confines of the bathroom that he breaks the silence. 

“You’ll have to destroy the shirt when you leave,” Ryu observes, tugging at the shoulder seam so that the neckline centers on your body instead of dropping over one shoulder.

“Do you want me to leave?” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest, fingers drumming in a quick beat against your forearms.

“Never.”

Shrugging, you turn on your heel and stride to the messy bed, ignoring the way your stomach flips as it remembers who was the last woman to touch it--that it wasn’t you--and climb onto the mattress. For the first time, you see Tanaka completely taken by surprise. He’s close to asking you ‘why?’ but thinks against it, hurtling after you to pull you into his arms, against his chest.

This is unchartered waters, the bed a dinghy and in his room are endless possibilities. But that’s where it starts and ends. You drag your fingers lazily up his forearm, over a few scars, tracing the bouquet of lilies drawn in thick black lines that stand off his skin; prison tattoos seldom heal flat.

“What does this mean?” you stare up at him, curious as you’ve never had much time to talk with him before, to delve deeper past your lust for each other. Ryunoslav clears his throat.

“It’s for my home,” he mumbles, nose moving to your hair, his eyes clouding over as he watches your fingers. “And my mother.”

The way he explains the beauty of the wild lilies in his home village of Kazakhstan, the bouquet his mother would pluck and keep on their table, sends shivers down your spine. Why would he ever have run away? You learn he has a sister, Saeko, who left with him and fell into the life of the thieves before him, and instead, he went to prison.

In this little bubble, you feel inexplicably warm, cosy, like the world has fallen away. You tell him about your own mother, how her eyes were incredibly warm and the colour of amber, but she never smiled. About how you grew up in Georgia surrounded by powerful men and strived to be just as important one day. Ryunoslav smiled at that, kissing your wrist where the fangs of the snake bit into.

He tells you about the years he spent in and out of juvenile prison in Moscow, unfurling the duvet to explain that each cathedral dome tattooed upon his leg meant time served. He had four. The rose on his left bicep meant he turned 18 in prison.

“The Boss found me a month after,” he recalls, eyes far away, “I’m forever thankful. I was very sick from the tattoo and I would have died if he didn’t take me away.”

Daichi, a part of you whispers. With the thought of your husband, you tense up, shifting until you’re sitting with your hand pressed to Tanaka’s beating heart.

“Ryunoslav,” you call, looking past his head and into the grain of the wood. “What are we going to do?”

“Mm?”

Your eyes snap to his, a cold sweat tickling your spine. You’ve crossed lines tonight, and not by a little. You’ve run so far past it, you can’t even see it if you turn back.

“He’ll know.”

Tanaka straightens up too, attentive to your words but eyes calm with a lazy smile.

“He won’t.”

“He will. Ryunoslav, I can’t keep this a secret now.”

Beneath your palm, you can feel his heartbeat, slow, while your own pounds in your ears.

“You have to. He’ll kill us.”

You stay silent, mulling over the sincerity in Tanaka’s statement. He says it nonchalantly, like it’s the only fact that matters. You want to tell him that you love him. You don’t. Instead, you lay your head back to his chest to listen to that steady, strong drum beneath his ribs. After a few seconds, you inhale deeply.

“I think Daichi is having an affair.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” Tanaka says instantly, arms wrapping so tightly around you, as if you’ll vanish if he can’t feel you.

“Ryu-”

“Valentina, please. God knows we never get to be alone like this.” That brash, harsh tone you’re used to finally edges it’s way back into his voice. It should scare you, instead you huddle closer to him while he continues. “Even if he’s having an affair, aren’t we doing the same? Let us just be in this moment.”

Tanaka tucks you beneath his chin, the heartbeat in his jaw syncing with yours against his chest. You murmur a ‘fine’, mind still reeling from the evening's events and the intoxication of his lips.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep, but you know he didn’t at all. Ryunoslav shakes you awake, whispering that you have to go, that Daichi gets back in the late afternoon. When the coat is wrapped around you and your fingers hover over the door, you look at him as he frowns at you.

“We should not see each other for a few days,” he states. Although his voice is calm, his chest vibrates with nerves. You know it’s the last thing he wants. You agree anyway, with a slight nod of your head.

***

NEXT CHAPTER

Thank you for reading.

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@dee-madwriter , @pleasantanathema​​ , @lookslikeleese​​ , @linestrider​​ , @hisoknen​​ , @mindninjax​​ , @whats-her-quirk​​ , @messwriting​

[sweetjekyll]

Leave Your Pretty Dress On — KJI/Kai

pairing: Kim Jongin x Reader

genre: smut, one-shot, established relationship, Mafia AU inspired but it’s entirely smut without plot rating: 18+ . IF you are not of legal adult age, please do not under any circumstances read this work as it is not meant for underage readers. warnings: shameless smut, porn without plot (it could have the tiniest allusion to what could be a mafia au plot if you squint very hard), explicit sexual content, slight choking kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex (wrap it up kids!!), degradation kink, pet names, implied consumption of alcohol, drunk sex, consensual. (Please read carefully the warning tags in the masterlist and those at the beginning of each work to avoid any unpleasant misunderstandings.) count: 1.8k

Requested by anonymous: keyword “undress” + sentence “If we both stick to the story, they can’t prove anything.” from this writing game post.

Masterlist

A/N: to the anon who sent just the keyword and the dialogue, I hope you enjoy this surprise member very much! I couldn’t help myself when you told me to have fun with these two combos. I’ve never ever written smut like this before, so this is quite a step for me in terms of writing sexually explicit content. I edited this pic too, there’s just something so powerful about Jongin’s eyes here that makes me go crazy oof

To my dear readers: feedback is highly encouraged and important! as it gives me motivation to write with more passion, knowing that you like what you are reading. My askbox is always open for questions or to chat ❤

Enjoy! ❤

His breath was ragged and fanning hungrily over that sweet spot below your left ear, you could smell the scent of refined wine as Jongin covered your skin with dark love bites. Both of you were in such an inebriated state after a full bottle, yet your brain could still picture the deep burgundy color of the nectar you consumed, filling your flaring nostrils as you too struggled for a deep breath, shameless moans were rolling off your tongue while his whole body was pressed against your back.

“Jongin,” you drawled his name with such desperation in your voice it made his eyes snap open immediately and focus on your hazed expression. Your back arched as you further pressed your bottom to his hardened manhood, constricted by his tight clothes. His left hand quickly moved from your hip and he brought it up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him over your shoulder.

There it was: that look of utter devotion and unadulterated lust in your dilated pupils, illuminated by the lamp on his work-desk as he further pressed your legs against it, slightly parting them with his knees despite the skirt of your silk cocktail dress restraining your movements. His devilish smirk graced his face once more as Jongin attacked your parted lips with a sloppy kiss, uncaring of the way the once rich color of your rouge lipstick was smeared and faded around the corners of you mouth.

“My gorgeous goddess,” he mused in a deep, sultry tone after your swollen lips parted. “I’m so close… So close to taking everything that is rightfully mine.” Jongin purred in your ear as he rubbed his aching erection against your clothed ass, earning a delighted gasp from you.

“I don’t want them to take you away from me…” You softly confessed your worries to him, but he kissed your cheek reassuringly. He did it so lovingly that you almost forgot in your inebriated mind how much you wanted Jongin to just bend you over the desk and finally fuck you into oblivion.

“No one’s going to take me away from you.” Jongin felt a slight ache in his chest, almost as if something was about to melt in his ribcage, knowing you loved him despite all the cruel things he was capable of as a man with too much money and power in his hands. “If we both stick to the story, they can’t prove anything.”

A cunning smile finally graced that beautiful face of yours and you kissed him with such hunger and passion that your attention immediately shifted onto one thing only before you got lost in your drunken thoughts again. “Make love to me, but fuck me like a whore.”

“I’ll give you anything you wish for, Baby Doll.” The deep chocolate of Jongin’s eyes appeared to catch on fire under the only light illuminating the home studio, his golden skin was starting to glisten with sweat from anticipation of what he was about to do. He finally let go of your jaw and, with his right hand pressed against the exposed skin of your back, he pushed your chest towards the surface of the desk and then did quick work of hiking up the skirt of the dress. You whined as he barely grazed your butt cheeks with his slender fingers, goosebumps making you shiver in sweet yearning for him to just touch you where you most needed him. A loud smack echoed in the room along with a surprised moan from your lips, your body jolted forward on the desk while your hands gripped the edges of the desk. “I have barely touched you and you’re already a mess, Y/N.” Jongin chuckled as he massaged your right butt cheek to soothe away the sting caused by the palm of his hand. “How bad do you want me, sweetheart?” He asked you as he pressed his clothed hips to you once again and gave you other butt cheek the same treatment her twin received. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip when you whimpered, meanwhile Jongin reached up with his hands to get rid of the blazer of his suit and undid the tie around his neck, both discarded on the floor behind him.

“So bad, baby…” You whined while trying to get any sort of friction by rubbing your ass up and down his crotch. Jongin thrived off your need and desire for him, you knew that so well that you took as much pleasure in making him feel needed and special like no other man had ever been to you. Jongin loved being dominant in bed with you and you gladly fed his ego when you weren’t teasing him back like a spoiled brat, because you would rather die than give yourself like that to any other man who wasn’t him. “I want you so bad right now… I want you to grab my hair and fuck me like a bitch in heat.”

Jongin laughed softly in satisfaction and felt himself throb in his trousers, his body was desperate to finally be inside of you, yet he took his time working on undoing his belt, so torturously slow, until he finally pushed down the layers of fabrics which then pooled around his feet. His erection slapped against your skin making you look back at him over your shoulder, patiently waiting as his fingers hooked around the soaked fabric of your lingerie and pulled it to the side.

Your eyes met as he aligned himself with your dripping entrance and you held onto your breath. “God, I love it when you know exactly what you want me to do with you.” Your brain didn’t have enough time to elaborate his words, because as soon as he said that, he eased himself inside of you and took a fistful of your hair, making you look forward while your body arched painful against the flat surface of the desk. With a long, drawn out moan mixed with incomprehensible curses and chants of Jongin’s name rolling off your tongue, he immediately set a harsh pace as he pounded into you mercilessly, just like you asked. Your core was so slick and wet that your body immediately adjusted to his gifted size, your walls were clenching and constricting around his length he wasn’t sure he could hold on for much longer, not when he was still affected by the wine you had both consumed earlier.

He slowed his harsh thrusts until he came to a halt still buried deep inside of you. Sweat glazed your back and his face while both of your breathings were labored, but you still forced yourself to speak— no, beg. “Please, please baby don’t stop!”

Jongin found adorable the way you cried out for him to give you more. “Turn around, Baby Doll,” he instructed you as he bent to kiss between your shoulder blades, then you found yourself empty of his girth. You weren’t sure if you would be able to turn around on your heels as your knees were wobbling out of pleasure coursing through your veins, but Jongin’s hands never left your body as he helped you sit on the desk and then hastily made you wrap your legs around his waist.

“You’re still too clothed for my liking.” You growled as you slid your fingers between the two layers of fabric of his shirt and tore it open; the buttons that once used to hold the piece of clothing together bounced off the surface of the desk and onto the floor, rolling away as your hands roamed your lover’s body without a care for anything else but him.

Jongin slid the thin straps of your dress off your shoulders and down your arms, revealing your breasts to the cool air of the room. You shivered under his intense gaze but his attention was diverted to one of your perky nipples, which he took between his plump lips and licked with so much care that your head lulled back and your eyes closed, moaning soft praised and asking for more.

You bucked your hips and urged him to fill you up once again and he complied, leaving wet kisses and dark marks on your chest and neck until he reached your lips, kissing you with such fierceness you forgot how to breathe... or maybe it was he fact that his lips had been replaced by one of his hands, squeezing ever so softly as he fucked you on top of his desk like an animal in heat, raw and desperate for a sweet release.

“Such a good girl.” Jongin panted against your bruised lips, feeling you clench around him, chasing your high yet you hadn’t even touched yourself yet. “Are you going to cum on my cock and make a mess?” He whispered against your ear, nibbling on it just above your diamond earring.

“Y-Yes...” You stuttered out a breathless reply. “Yes, I’m so close—“ You met his lustful eyes once again and he placed his forehead against yours, completely focused on only you and nothing else.

“Then come for me, you little slut,” Jongin growled as he slowed down slightly just to push your back down against the hard surface of the desk, then he hooked his arms under your knees and resumed his pace from a new angle. “Scream my name so loud that even the guards outside of the house know exactly the only man you belong to.”

More curses followed from your pretty lips; there you were half undressed on a wooden desk as the love of your life made you feel so good and wanted like nobody else did. You slipped your fingers between your thighs and rubbed circles against your wet bundle of nerves, until you felt the knot tighten in your belly and then came the sweet release that rocked your body. You were chanting Jongin’s name like a mantra while your walls clenched around him, a devilish smile graced his sculpted face as he watched you unravel in his arms. Fast paced thrusts became sloppier as he helped you ride out your high, but he still hit all the way inside you with loud smacks. You were so beautiful in your fucked out state that he couldn’t help himself from spilling all of his juices inside you with a deep groan of your name, both your moans mixing like a sinful melody.

Jongin bent forward while keeping still inside of you, satisfied smiles on your hazy expressions and you snaked your arms around his shoulders, bringing him closer for a chaste kiss, as if you weren’t screaming profanities just moment before and begged him to go harder and faster. “You should wear this pretty dress more often,” he whispered against your lips as he ran his hands down your body, latching his fingers around the silk of your dress wrapped around your abdomen. “It drives me crazy.”

[etherealvibespls]

till the stars fall out of the sky

Hi. It's been almost two years but I hope you enjoy this short + messy krii7y piece :)

--

The thing about it being the end of the world is how little time there is to prepare. No matter how many people seem ready with their canned foods and underground bunkers, or even the discarded pamphlets scattered throughout the streets filled with government advice as if, maybe, those in power had an idea of what was to come, no one is actually prepared for what they’re faced with; the end of everything.

And it’s terrifying.

Smitty had so many plans. A few weeks ago those plans held some dread, had his heart skipping at just the mere idea of change, and yet now his heart only aches.

In front of him the website mocks him. The screen is dim to preserve the little battery he has left in his laptop, but the floor plan of the apartment is still too bright, painting a pointless fantasy for his eyes to gaze longingly at.

He should have moved by now, but his fear kept him back. Rooted him in what he’s familiar with.

Now it’s too late.

A quiet ding snaps him out of his haze and the second his eyes settle on the notification the knot in his chest loosens, smoothed out by the person miles and miles away.

John (10:02): so it turns out the world really is ending

Smitty snorts. To his embarrassment, there’s already a smile stretching across his face.

Smitty (10:03): you’re just now realizing?

John (10:03): i mean can you blame me? how was i supposed to know all those youtube videos were real? but today i actually left the house for the first time in like, two weeks and it looks like i’m in hell

John (10:04): at first i thought i was dead because what the fuck, right? the sky is fucking red, but then i saw someone walking their dog as if it were normal so now i’m assuming this is what everyone’s been talking about

Smitty (10:04): have i ever told you i hate you

John (10:05): uh hello? what the fuck

Smitty (10:05): i’ve been stressed out of my fucking mind and you’ve been clueless this entire time?? go fuck yourself john. like actually take that dildo you thought i forgot about and fuck. off.

John (10:06): HELLO ? you said you’d never bring that up

Smitty (10:07): the world is ending dickhead. i’m allowed to embarrass you one last time

Smitty bites at the inside of his cheek, suppressing the urge to laugh as he waits for his friend’s response. It takes longer for John to reply this time but he’s probably writing a paragraph that makes absolutely no sense and only serves to insult Smitty whichever way he can.

After a quiet minute, John finally responds.

John (10:08): don’t say that

Smitty blinks, not expecting such a short reply.

Smitty (10:08): don’t say what?

Half of him is still expecting this to lead into a snarky remark and he prepares for John’s little ha-ha, got you, but by John’s next message, it’s clear he’s no longer joking.

In an instant, the mood has not only shifted into something serious, but into pure heartbreak as well.

John (10:09): “one last time”

John (10:09): it makes it sound like you’ve already lost hope

Smitty (10:09): john…there’s nothing left for us. they’ve done all they can but there’s no fixing something so completely destroyed, and at some point you just have to accept that it’s over

John (10:10): this isn’t the end

A pause.

John (10:10): i still haven’t met you yet

Smitty releases a long, shaky breath. He’s tried so hard to not think of the mistake he made those weeks ago, yet it seems like there’s always something to remind him of it.

It’s possible John isn’t even mentioning it now, but Smitty is so consumed by guilt that his mind wanders there regardless. The end of the world hanging over everyone’s head has only made it worse, dug it up again and shoved it into his every waking thought, constantly reminding him of what could’ve been.

Mocking the opportunity he ruined.

Smitty (10:12): i’m sorry. i should be there.

John (10:12): you don’t have to keep apologizing, smit. you had your reasons

Smitty shakes his head in disbelief at the message, biting down hard on his lip the moment his eyes begin to burn, blinking back unshed tears.

He hates how nice John is. How even as they face down their last days on earth there isn’t a part of him that’s angry, or at the very least, disappointed.

Smitty (10:13): my reasons were selfish and stupid and it’s because of them that we have to message each other as the world literally crumbles around us

John (10:14): being alone does suck, and it would’ve been nice to have some company, but i still don’t blame you

It probably isn’t supposed to come across as tragic as it does, but Smitty’s shoulders sag with grief anyway.

Briefly his eyes flick over to the corner of his laptop, locking onto the battery life. His heart twists painfully, constricting tight as it flashes, down to its remaining minutes of life.

John (10:16): you know...i still look at it sometimes

John (10:16): it probably sounds so lame but sometimes i imagine how it would’ve been. i’m not a morning person but i think you could’ve made me one, and you hate staying up late but i think i could’ve shown you why sometimes i never fall asleep

John (10:17): i even imagine how it would’ve been decorated. like, from the pictures you’ve sent me of your place it looks so plain and i think about all the trips we’d have to go on before we could agree on some simple shit just for the living room. but i wouldn’t want you to feel bad about your taste or anything so i’d probably let you pick out a bunch of things anyway

Smitty presses his face into his shoulder for just a moment, overcome by so many emotions. A part of him can guess where this is going and his chest nearly caves in at the thought, knows why it’s happening now, of all times.

Smitty (10:19): ... i look at it everyday, imagining the same

Smitty (10:19): i was looking at it before you messaged earlier...can you believe it’s still available? how has no one else wanted it?

John (10:20): because it was always meant to be ours

Ours.

His gaze drifts back to the floor plan still on the screen, and not for the last time, he yearns. He thinks even after everything is said and done, his longing will ripple through the endless void of space.

Thinks heartache as great as his can never die, instead linger like a mournful ghost that will haunt even the brightest stars.

Smitty (10:21): i’m sorry i ruined it

John (10:22): i’m sorry i didn’t try harder

Smitty (10:22): john, none of this is your fault. it was my idea and i couldn’t even go through with it

Smitty (10:23): we had so many plans and i shattered them all because i was too scared to leave

John (10:24): but i wanted it more than i ever admitted, and instead of fighting to get you here i didn’t say anything

Smitty (10:24): i wanted this to happen more than you think, believe me. but we know how my thoughts can get, so i don’t think there was anything you could’ve said that would’ve change my mind

John (10:25): what about i love you?

Smitty startles, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t expect this. His stomach still does a silly little swoop, the butterflies that are always present when he talks with John suddenly coming to life, fluttering rapidly.

Smitty (10:25): john?

John (10:26): if the world is going to end no matter what, then fuck it right? i’ve been keeping my mouth shut for over two years and even if now is probably the worst time because i can’t see your face and my laptop is about to die, i can’t go out without telling you i’ve been in love with you for half the time i’ve known you

John (10:27): and the time before that i really, really, really liked you

Smitty chokes on his tears, stopped caring about holding them back the second he saw i love you.

Smitty (10:27): me too

Smitty (10:27): i think i’ve been in love with you since you first messaged me that stupid one-liner about artists

John (10:28): oh god, i forgot that was the first thing i sent you

John (10:28): in my defense i was extremely bored and your page was filled with memes, i thought you would’ve enjoyed it

Smitty (10:29): i fucking loved it

John (10:30): i regretted it the moment you sent me a pic of yourself for the first time, though

Smitty (10:30): what? why?

John (10:31): because you were prettiest person i’d ever seen and i hated that the first message i sent you was about dicks

Smitty laughs, the sound croaky and awful and usually he’d be embarrassed about the noise but he sits alone in his living room, completely consumed by the messages and the guy sending them.

Smitty (10:32): who would’ve known that would be the way into my heart

John (10:32): after about a week of talking to you i knew

John (10:33): i think that’s when i started falling in love

Smitty (10:33) god, i hate that we’re saying this now. i wish both of us said something sooner

John (10:34): yeah...it would’ve been nice to finally hold you, but i’m happy you finally know

John (10:34): and no matter what happens from now till...the end, i want you to know i love you

John (10:35): i always have, and i always will

i love you-

The screen flickers once before it fades to black, the battery completely drained. Smitty’s fingers hover over the keyboard, his pinky so close to hitting ‘enter’.

It takes longer than it should to register in his brain, and for a few minutes Smitty sits and stares at the screen. He blinks rapidly through his tears, can still see i love you every time he blinks but his heart beats wildly, aware of the inky darkness surrounding him and the deafening silence, no longer interrupted by the quiet dings of messages.

Like a dam finally unleashed, his tears fall at once and a sob racks through his body, forcefully pushed out of his quivering mouth. With his legs curled to his chest and his face buried in his bony knees, he cries out in anguish, fingers clutching his sweatpants like a lifeline.

He doesn’t move, stays curled in the corner of his couch long enough to see the last bits of sunrise fall over his furniture, and stays even longer to hear the shouts of panic outside his front door, aware but uncaring, of everything ending around him.

--------

Based off the prompt: “So the sky is still raining fire and meteors, and my laptop is running low on battery, but I wanted to say that I like you, a lot. Even though we haven’t ever talked in real life, if this is the end of the world then I’m really happy that I got to meet you.”

[spacedancer1701]

Only a Call Away (on Valentine’s Day)

A Star Trek Fic

Fandoms: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series (TOS), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (AOS) Pairing: McCoy x Original Female Character (Dr. Jennifer Hope) Characters: Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy, Jenny Hope Rating/Warnings: Explicit (M) Tags: Romance, Love, Smut and Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content Word Count: 2,798

Read it on AO3: Only a Call Away (on Valentine’s Day)      

Summary:

McCoy is away at a conference on Valentine's Day, but Hope won't let that stop them from having an unforgettable and very intimate evening nevertheless.

Or simply put: another (missing) Hope and McCoy smut scene.

(Although you don’t have to be familiar with my other Hope/McCoy stories to enjoy this little one-shot.)

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

Jenny cast a loving glance at the beautiful red roses on her desk, before leaving her office to get ready for the surprise she’d planned for Leonard. Today was Valentine’s Day on Earth, and the Enterprise was buzzing with people preparing for cosy dinners or poring over mysterious cards and messages.

Unfortunately, Leonard was away at a conference, hence the roses and a lovely card promising to make it up to her. So typical of the doctor. As if being away on Valentine’s Day had been his choice. Or his fault. But Jenny was going to make sure that it would be an unforgettable Valentine’s Day for both of them nevertheless.

Changing out of her uniform and stepping into the shower, she felt heat rise to her cheeks just thinking about what she had planned. She couldn't remember the last time seeing Leonard had made her nervous, but tonight, it certainly did. Because tonight, she intended to fulfil one of his secret desires. At least she hoped so.

And with him being so far away this Valentine’s Day, it was the perfect opportunity to get over herself and make this particular dream come true for him.

And with him being so far away this Valentine’s Day, it was the perfect opportunity to get over herself and make this particular dream come true for him.

And with him being so far away this Valentine’s Day, it was the perfect opportunity to get over herself and make this particular dream come true for him.

-x-x-x-x-x-

“Hi there, love,” McCoy smiled, sitting on the bed in his hotel room, his back comfortably propped against the headboard, as he transferred the call to the bigger screen on the wall, then did a classic double take. “Oh, wow, you look stunning! Are you expecting company?”

He was joking, of course, but couldn't deny actually feeling a tiny twinge of jealousy, seeing Hope wearing nothing but a flimsy see-through nightie without him there on Valentine’s Day. What if someone came to see her in their quarters? Had she even remembered to lock the door?

“All just for you, Leonard,” she laughed, giving a little twirl showing off her alluring body, before draping herself seductively across their bed. “It is Valentine’s Day after all.”

“Are you trying to kill me, love?” he groaned, desire and lust pooling in his groin at the incredible sight before him, his uniform pants suddenly seeming painfully tight.

“Actually, this is part of my Valentine’s gift to you,” she giggled, doing a teasing little shimmy into the camera.

The doctor couldn't suppress a low grunt, almost exploding with desire and the frustration of not being able to touch her. Hope knew exactly the effect she had on him, and she was obviously enjoying this.

“Why don’t you get a little more comfortable?” she suggested, innocently batting her eyelashes at him. “Maybe get rid of all those constricting clothes?”

“Stop the teasing, woman,” McCoy growled as he shrugged off his shirt and removed his pants, then settled back on the bed, satisfied to see the longing he felt mirrored in her eyes now, too.

“Do you remember when you were at this symposium a few months back?” Hope asked, her voice deep and sultry.

“How could I not?” he responded, a little damp patch forming on his briefs as he felt his manhood twitching excitedly at the memory. “It was the hottest night I’ve ever spent away from you.”

Hope gave him a smouldering look, her lips curling into a naughty little smile.

“Is that what this is about, love?” it suddenly hit him, a bout of intense yearning surging through him. “Would you like me to talk to you like that again? I knew you secretly loved it, even though you wouldn’t admit it, acting all coy and bashful. Did you think I wouldn’t notice how much it turned you on? Or that I’d forget how many times I made you come just with my words that night?”

“Not just your words, Leonard,” Hope added softly, her adorable blush and shy little smile setting his nether regions on fire. “You know exactly what your voice does to me.”

“My voice, you say?” McCoy drawled, savouring the way she closed her eyes, her body gently writhing on the bed. “So you wouldn’t mind listening to me for a while now?”

“I certainly wouldn’t,” she smirked, “but I was actually thinking of going first today. The other part of my Valentine’s gift, so to speak.”

-x-x-x-x-x-

“You mean, you…” the doctor left the sentence unfinished, his eyes growing wide and a soft moan escaping him as his hand moved down his body where Jenny couldn't see it anymore.

I’ve managed to surprise him all right, Jenny thought giddily, her own desire growing as she noticed his breathing pick up and his eyes flutter shut.

“Oh my God,” McCoy gasped, the longing and eagerness in his voice going straight to her core, “you sure?”

“Only if you’d like it, of course,” Jenny smiled, trying not to let her insecurity show.

“Like it?” he chuckled, opening his eyes again and looking at her with a tenderness that melted her heart. “Good God, girl! I’ve been dreaming about this ever since our very first night. Nothing hotter than you talking dirty!”

The doctor let out a groan that sent a wave of burning need from between Jenny’s legs up to her chest.

“Jesus, remember that café where we had breakfast the morning after?” McCoy went on breathlessly. “You said something like ‘make-up sex is supposed to be the best’, and that was all it took to make me want to rip your clothes off and take you again right there and then. It’s driving me crazy just thinking about it now.”

“Then you’d better buckle up,” Jenny grinned mischievously, “because I sure hope that with you as my teacher, my skills have improved a little since then.”

Up to that moment, she hadn’t been sure if her plan to surprise Leonard with dirty talk was really a good idea. Much as she loved to hear it from him, she’d always felt silly talking like that herself. It just didn’t come naturally to her. But seeing his eager reaction, she felt much more confident now.

-x-x-x-x-x-

McCoy squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips tightly together, frantically trying to quell his arousal before he lost control. Just hearing Hope talk about dirty talk did it for him, and he definitely didn’t want to tumble over the edge just yet. She’d just offered to do what he’d been fantasising about for the longest time, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to spoil her – and his – fun.

God, she was a never-ending well of surprises. The sweetest, hottest, most amazing woman a man could wish for. He’d felt so guilty and sad for abandoning her on Valentine’s Day, but Hope wouldn’t be Hope if she hadn’t found a way to turn what he considered a disappointment into a memorable occasion.

“Keep your eyes closed, Leonard,” her voice, soft and low, brought him back to the present. “Can you feel my lips on yours? Kissing down your chin, tracing your jawline, nibbling down your throat, your chest? Mmmmmmh, my fingers softly playing with the hair on your chest while my teeth and tongue gently tease your nipples? The left one first, then the right one?”

The doctor moaned and hummed, almost feeling her lips and teeth and tongue on his skin. Wondering when Hope had gone from someone too shy to talk dirty to someone nearly making him shoot his load at the first word.

“Feel me tenderly kiss my way further down your stomach, your belly…” she went on, her voice getting huskier as her own arousal seemed to increase along with his.

He had to reach down and firmly grip the base of his rock-hard member, which was straining painfully against his briefs, hoping to stave off his fast building orgasm.

“You’ll have to be my hands now, Leonard,” Hope told him, her melodic voice reaching him through a haze of unbridled lust and burning desire. “Help me strip you of your briefs, so that I can see you in your full glory and touch you the way I know you love.”

McCoy clasped his erection, almost bursting with need and desire, Hope’s voice edging him on and nearly driving him out of his mind.

“Feel my hands where you want them most, gently playing with your balls, firmly stroking up and down your shaft. Up and down, ever so slowly, while my tongue starts circling your crown. Lightly, exploringly. Mmmmmh… you’re oozing desire, and I love how you taste.”

“Easy, Jenny,” the doctor ground out. “I’m getting too close.”

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked abruptly, sounding a little embarrassed, and the doctor felt immediately bad for interrupting her while at the same time grateful to feel his arousal abate a little.

“I just need you to go easy, love,” he explained, trying to catch his breath. “Unfortunately, unlike you, I can’t come twenty times in half as many minutes, and I don’t want this to be over too soon.”

“I’m doing all right then?” Hope giggled happily, and he felt his heart swell with overwhelming tenderness at the joyful pride in her voice.

“All right is definitely not the term I’d use,” he chuckled. “More like phenomenal. Just like everything else you do.”

She was so incredibly sweet. He knew how shy she was when it came to dirty talk. Or rather sexy talk in her case – nothing dirty about it. While she would open herself up to him in every other way, give herself to him completely, she’d always been uncomfortable putting her feelings during sex, her wishes and desires, into words.

And yet, she’d done it for him today. Even though he knew she’d much rather do all those things to him than talk about them in such detail. The things she did to make him happy. He’d never understand why she’d chosen to love him of all people, but he thanked the powers that be every single day for being so blessed.

Hope had really just got into the swing of things when he’d stopped her, and he could hear her struggling to find the right words to get back to it now.

“Want me to take over?” he asked, taking pity on her, and almost laughed out loud at the sheer relief on her face, as she tried to casually nod and shrug.

No matter how much her ‘dirty talk’ had turned him on, it had nothing on the way his heart filled with love at simply watching Hope being Hope.

“All right, then,” McCoy smiled, “lie back down, close your eyes, and I’ll tell you what I’d like us to do next.”

-x-x-x-x-x-

“Okay,” Jenny agreed a little hesitantly.

She’d really wanted tonight to be all about him. But seeing as she’d brought him to the edge in practically no time, and feeling mighty proud about it, she understood that he wanted to draw out the experience as long as he could.

Besides, she couldn't deny feeling a little relieved to let him continue. What was so intensely stimulating coming from him, still sounded a little awkward coming out of her mouth.

“I wish you knew how much I love you, Jenny,” the doctor broke into her thoughts, and she could feel the warmth of his affection even across the distance. “Every time I think I couldn't love you more, you go and prove me wrong.”

“I feel exactly the same, Leonard,” she smiled, “and I can’t wait to have you back here and feel you for real.”

“Well, let’s make the most of it until then,” he replied softly, and she could practically hear the naughty grin spreading across his face without even looking up. “After what you just made me feel, let’s see, if I’ve still got it, too!”

Of course, he’d still got it, no doubt about that, Jenny thought fondly, feeling her panties growing damp just with the thrill of anticipation.

“Normally, I’d love to go down on you now,” McCoy drawled, and Jenny immediately felt her juices starting to flow and drench her panties, “savouring the taste of your wetness, exploring every little fold and crevice with my tongue, finding your little jewel and spending a looong time caressing it with just the tip of my tongue, nibbling on it, gently sucking on it with my lips, maybe carefully tease it a little with my teeth, before licking you to your first climax. The first of maaany.”

Jenny was rapidly losing all sense of time and space, her fingers frenziedly trying to put Leonard’s words into action, if only in a poor imitation of what the real thing would have felt like, the doctor’s erotic voice and the way he drew out his vowels exciting her no end.

“But,” McCoy continued softly, clearly enjoying teasing her, but audibly turned on immensely now, too, “I’m still teetering on the edge you’ve just put me on, and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can last. In fact, I’ll have to find some way to actively block out this memory after tonight, or I’ll have to spend the rest of the symposium in permanent arousal.”

That did it. The idea of her words having aroused him so helplessly sent her freefalling into her first, tremendous orgasm of the night, gasping and moaning, her body spasming in delicious release, Leonard’s flushed face, scrunched up as he tried not to follow her over the edge just yet, somewhere at the periphery of her lust-clouded vision.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Watching Hope tumbling over the edge like that was beyond words. There was no greater turn-on than knowing he had the power to ‘pleasure her to pieces’, an expression she had once used in an attempt to try and describe what his touch was doing to her, and which had struck him as exactly what he wanted to do.

McCoy was usually quite good at keeping his own arousal at bay to give Hope as much pleasure as possible. But after how she’d set him on fire earlier, his endurance was weakened, and his desire overwhelming. There was no way he could last much longer, he was already fit to burst.

So the doctor waited just long enough for Hope to recover a little, then asked, “What would you like me to do now, love? I’m pretty sure I’m going to join you the next time already.”

That elicited a wicked grin from her, the idea of having aroused him beyond control seeming quite a turn-on.

“If you were here, I think I’d really love to feel you inside me, now, Leonard,” she breathed, her cheeks glowing as she looked at him from lowered lids.

“And how exactly would you go about that?” he wanted to know, feeling a new pool of lust forming in his groin.

“I’d straddle you,” she replied softly, indulging his wish to coax some more dirty-talk out of her, “push my panties a little to the side, and slowly rub myself against your hardness while softly nibbling on your neck.”

Hearing her words, the doctor involuntarily started to grind his hips, the movement as well as his breathing growing erratic when Hope teasingly added, “You know, that little spot right behind your ear, that makes you break out in goose bumps and gets you mewling.”

Dear God, she’s good! McCoy thought, feeling the big O building at warp speed, powerless to delay his climax any longer.

“I’m so wet and ready for you,” Hope moaned, and seeing her fingering herself as frenziedly as he was jerking off now, was almost more than he could take.

“Nearly there,” the doctor gasped.

And when Hope whimpered, “Grab my hips, bury your face between my breasts, and let me ride you to the most spectacular orgasm you ever had,” her body arching and spasming as her own climax rippled through her, it only took one more thrust into his hand for him to explode into easily one of the most spectacular orgasms of his life, just as Hope had wanted him to.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Three days later, McCoy was finally back on the Enterprise, lying in bed and tenderly holding his darling Hope, fast asleep in his arms after reliving their Valentine’s fantasy for real.

The doctor was under no illusion that her talking dirty would become a regular thing between them. And that was all right. It just wasn’t her. Besides, it wasn’t important. Making love to her was beyond compare even without. But she’d indulge him again every now and then, he knew her that well. And those rare occasions would be infinitely sweet.

************ Disclaimer: Nothing of or associated with Star Trek is mine – it all belongs to Paramount / ViacomCBS (or whoever else is currently holding the rights). This is a work of fanfiction, no infringement intended.

[ffangirlingsince2001]

Stone Cold

anonymous asked:

(similar to frozen) Geralt x Reader where he has been mean to her lately because he's had a bad week. Reader was born with ice powers. He lashes out at them during a small argument turned into a fight. He tells her to leave. She runs to the moutains, builds a ice palce (her hair turns white from fully using her ice powers). A few hours later during the night, he tracks her scent to the mountains. He's worried at first but when he finds them, they tell them about their ice powers. He apologizes?

A/N: Sorry for the wait, I wasn’t sure how I wanted to write this and I hope the direction I chose is to your enjoyment!

Geralt x Reader

Warnings: angst, description of smut

He had never known someone so cold. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him or others, you did, so much so that it often felt forced, heavy with an attempt to seek recompense for something he was unaware of. It was just how you were. He had never felt someone with such cold skin. Even with the first handshake he had wanted to recoil, icy flesh a shock against his warm hand. You had laughed and apologized, explaining that your hands had that affect on everyone. He soon learned that’s just how they were.

It wasn’t just your hands either.

The first time you had laid together he had found it impossible to warm your skin. He had slid your dress from your shoulders, slow and tantalizing, lips leaving a trail across cold skin. His hands had found the apex of your thighs, and he was surprised to find that even at your center you were cold.

‘Are you cold?’ he had whispered, and you had shaken your head, eyes filled with a fire that didn’t match the rest of your body. You had moaned and screamed like the rest, nails raking down his back with each thrust. It had gone for hours, the ferocity of two cats in heat, but when you arched your back for the final time and he pulled himself from your body, dropping to your chest with a lover’s exhaustion you were still as cold as when you had begun. He didn’t mention it then, or anytime after that. He simply continued to hold you close, fighting to hide the shivers that yearned to run up his spine every time you snuggled against him.

You were so loving and tender, hands always gentle when they held him, but the tinge of winter was always present. It was hard to be warm when you were made of ice. He tried so hard, but it seemed that every time he dared to get close, a sliver of ice would lodge itself within his heart and something cold and deep within him would begin to creep up his throat. He would find himself shivering every time you brushed against him. And the cold seemed to linger, etching itself in his veins until he was shivering when she wasn’t even around. He’d even found himself shivering beneath layers of wool while wrapped in the warmth of a pub. He would feel the colds tendrils wrapping around his ribs, crawling into his tones like snakes constricting before a meal. He would pull away, go hunting and try to warm himself, but it never seemed to work. And then he would return, and something would happen, small and irrelevant most days, but not when he was cold and restless. And then, before he knew it he was yelling and you were crying.

That was the only emotion you ever seemed to show him. Sadness and frustration while he howled in anger, trying to melt whatever had wedged itself inside him. She would scream back, tears running down her face. Even feet apart there he could feel the chill.

They were always fighting, screaming until their throats raw. And it would only get colder, sometimes it even seemed that snow around them would fall faster and faster, whipping through your hair, catching against his cloak, pushing you further and further apart until the clearing was between you and the sound of your screams could barely be heard over the sound of the wind. It was so foggy, a dark echo across a tempest, he could barely hear you let alone understand you, but the final words he uttered in the argument were loud and clear.

“Just leave.”

The snow and the wind stopped for those two words, as if someone had held out their hand with a malicious grin and demanded that only ultimatums make it through the snowstorm. You stared at him, icy eyes filling with tears once more. You nodded slowly and took off into the woods, leaving a frustrated Geralt behind you. He slammed his fist into the nearest tree, and for the first time in months, screamed at something other than you.

Startled black birds sprung through the trees in grand contrast and he leaned against their home, taking a deep breath. Part of him screamed to run after you, to pull you into his arms no matter how frigid, but another part whispered how much warmer he could be if he simply let you disappear.

It was easy the first few days, he traveled into town and ordered a drink, reveling in the way that the liquor burned like an inferno as it settled in his gut. When he wrapped himself in blankets, he finally felt their warmth. And the women who accompanied him to the sheets were just as warm, hot and heavy as they rolled around in the darkness. The tips of his fingers were no longer numb, and his toes finally felt comfortable in his boots. He relished in the heat for days, basking in a warmth he had been pulled from, but soon the novelty disappeared, and he was left with a gaping hole far worse than the cold. It rested in his chest, ugly and black, aching for the thing he had forced away. He ignored it at first, telling himself it would go away with time, and he would be free to enjoy life as he once had, but it didn’t. Soon the warmth felt artificial, nothing in comparison to the smiles you sent him from your horse or the way you stared at him when his scars were on display. So, he began to listen, hunting for any news of strangely cold girl settling in a town.

When the town where he resided had nothing, he set out in the direction you had run, smelling for the familiar essence of pine and holly. It took two weeks before anything caught his attention. At first he was sure that his mind was playing tricks on him, taunting him as he grew delirious with loneliness. Then it grew stronger and stronger until he was sure that only the real thing could create something so beautiful.

He urged Roach forward, the clearing of the forest nearing. He prayed you were there, your cold hands and all, but as he stepped from the trees he was not greeted with a campsite or a town, but a palace so magnificent it seemed it had been carved from diamonds. It was not until he drew closer that he realized it was ice. He touched it with tentative fingers and admired the craftsmanship. Each line was precise, carved with the utmost skill. As the sun crept over the trees it lit into a magnificent white fire, glittering with energy. Spring was growing nearer and with the heat of sun, he wondered how the integrity of the structure did not falter. He wondered who had built such a thing, and then with searing hope, he wondered if you were inside, taken in by this magnificent architect.

He climbed the stairs, gripping the handrails as if his life depended on it, and finally with an unshakeable resolve knocked against the icy door. It creeped open and he slipped inside, tugging his cloak around his shoulders.

The beauty was not limited to the outside, and the structure only grew more wonderous as he drew closer to its center.

“Geralt?” came the familiar voice from above and his eyes snapped to yours. Although, he wasn’t really sure if it was you. Your eyes were the same and the sound of your gasp had not changed, but so much had. Your hair was white, like his, and your eyes were hard, a jarring change from the warmth they had once greeted him with.

“Y/N?” he asked, returning the question and you nodded, descending the staircase with a grace he had never witness from you before. “Is it really you? After all this time?”

“You make it sound like it has been years,” you laughed sadly. You reached the bottom of the staircase, but approached him no further, pulling away when he tried to advance.

“It might as well have been a thousand years.”

“Always so dramatic, from what I’ve heard you have been splendid.”

“I could never be anything but miserable without you.”

“I’m sure,” you whispered, eyes narrowing but not delving any further into his transgressions.

“Y/N-,”

“Why have you come, Geralt?”

“To apologize and return to your side.” You raised an eyebrow, suspicion lacing itself with the cold.

“I thought I was too cold for you. And now that you know, are you not sure?”

“Now that I know what?”

“What I am capable of,” you said, ushering to the walls that surrounded you. He followed your hand, admiring the construction once more before placing the pieces together inside his mind.

“You built this?”

“Built is such a crude word, Geralt. I created this. I drew life from the earth and poured every ounce of sadness, every ounce of anger into it in return until I was able to fashion the very thing that haunted me into something beautiful. You told me I was too cold, and it destroyed me. You took my identity and spat it in my face, but I did not allow that to stop me. And now you wish to join me once more when I have become one with myself?”

“I am so sorry,” he pleaded with you, but you only scoffed. As you spoke, the hope he had conjured was withering away like a flower beneath the first snowfall.

“I’m not. Had you not cast me aside I would not have found what I am capable of, but I also know that I do not need you, just as you clearly do not need me.”

“I do need you!”

“I’m sure your whores will suffice; they are a much warmer pocket to stuff yourself in.”

“They mean nothing.”

“And yet you used them to fill my absence.”

“I love you, I cannot live without you.”

“It’s funny you choose those words. That’s how I felt when you sent me away, aching to have me banished from your sight, but now I speak from experience, you will learn.”

“Y/N, please-,”

“Leave.”

“Not without you.”

“If you do not leave on your own, I will not hesitate to force you from my sight.”

“Then you will have to force me,” he declared and then the wind started, the same force as the day you had fought, but now it was pulling him towards the door, ice cutting at his skin as you watched with emotionless eyes while he was pulled from your home and tossed into the snow. He brushed himself off and caught you watching him from the window. He waited for you to speak, to call out to him, but you said nothing, letting the coldness of your gaze speak for itself.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave, praying that you would join him once more, but the days drew into weeks and still your fortress remained unmoved. It wasn’t until after the night when you had sent six feet of snow that he left, glancing over his shoulder as he left.

Once upon a time he had been sure you were made of ice, but now he knew he was wrong. Back then you had been a blazing fire of love. Your heart had kept him from catching frostbite when you wrapped your frozen hands around him. It was not until now that you had become what he believed you to be. And it was all his fault that you had become the terrifying heart of ice.

[hallothere]

Brave the Darkness

Previously titled “Blunt Force Ghost Trauma” but since no ghosts actually get served onscreen I changed it. Also because like Halros and the Very Bad Time it isn’t uhhh.... funny enough for that kind of title!

(warnings for Candaith Going Thru It but there’s no like blood or anything)

Somehow, the cold was coming from inside his bones. The chill was ice in his marrow. Radanir visibly shook next to him, as did some of the others. He was hard-pressed not to tremble. Halbarad, his companions, they would all have to stand strong together. They had been warned off once by the Oath-breakers in this cursed place. Candaith supposed these were not the sort of spirits to give a second warning. 

The frostbite within only sharpened as he continued further onto the Forsaken Road. With a glance over his shoulder, he wondered if Thurvi- his shadow in this lightless place- had ever felt such a chill in the Mountains of his homeland. The Guardian seldom spoke of the land of his birth, of the Dwarven city of Kechel, nor of Dwimorberg whose fell name lay like a shadow over their quest. Perhaps he hoped not to discourage his companions. Perhaps the dwarves did not venture near enough to these places to know them so well.

Candaith had become accustomed to the mask his friend had acquired in Lhanuch. The Grey Company’s enemies were Thurvi’s enemies as well-- and they knew his face. Though there were likely few Dwarves in Enedwaith, he sought to protect them with his anonymity. It was the same logic behind their ‘uniform’. Though a dwarf traveling with a bunch of Dunedain was going to stand out like a hobbit in Othrikar, Candaith appreciated every precaution. 

After all, his friend had kept the company from danger more than once. Though quiet, he was quick to action and sturdier than the rest of them. The last Candaith had seen of Thurvi before his summons, the dwarf had been preparing to head to Angmar with nothing but a large club and a scavenged shield. But the Grey Company’s odd companion out had returned from parts unknown with a dwarf-make axe of strange metal, and a shield with the unmistakable stylings of Khazad-dûm. 

It was only too bad there was no time to stop for a fire. If the Guardian could coax a spark from the bed of the Anduin, he would not be much surprised. Still, the Grey Company needed more than warmth to kindle their hopes. This was a desperate gamble, but one Candaith believed in. If they could gather this host of the dead on behalf of their Chieftain, if they could muster an army unhindered by death nor pain nor hunger-

Maybe it was not such a vain hope or a far-fetched plan! Surely the Oath-breakers tired of existing like this? Did they not long for peace? Candaith did. His kin yearned for it, as did the Eglain, the people he had spent so much time near. The heir of Isildur could bring it. He believed that. Surely the Dead- if not motivated by honor- could only see the release from their curse as gain! A swift, deathless army to bring peace to the world. An invincible host at Aragorn’s command…

“This seems to me a good sign, Thurvi!” he whispered, turning back to his companion. It was dimmer still here, but they could both carry on. “If the Oath-breakers will fulfill their oath to Isildur, we will command an army the like of which has never been seen in Middle-earth. Surely victory will not be far behind!” His comment was met with only a tight smile. This place weighed heavily on them all. 

But soon they would be free of it. Of this, he was certain. 

Another shade flickered into view before them. The Dead all appeared able to hide themselves from sight if they wished, and it was an effective intimidation tactic. Based on the temperature, this could be none other than Britou before them. Idly, he wondered if Dwarves were hardier to this fell atmosphere than Men. Candaith stopped and his Guardian friend came to stand beside him. 

If it was a show of force the Dead wanted, so be it. They acquitted themselves well, though Candaith found the glacial air sapped his strength and stiffened his limbs. He looked to Thurvi but could see no sign he was in any way affected. Britou was probing for weakness, but he would find none. There was strength in the Dunedain. Candaith would not fail his brothers. 

Back to back they fought on. Ghostly blades rang against their steel, but these Dead did not move with the same fell determination as others had. Doubt began to chip through the frost around Candaith’s heart. Was Britou toying with them? This test was little more than a farce for his amusement. What then? Did he desire proof? More learned foes than he had doubted the line of Kings remained unbroken. What would the Dead on the Forsaken Road know of the way Aragorn’s ancestors had endured?

They cared little for the living, that much was clear. They threw around insults, hurled belittling words without thought. The Dead had nothing but contempt for them. Indeed, with the bones of travelers and the plague of shades above ground, what evidence did they have that any of the Oath-breakers’ intentions were honest?

Hah. He was a fool for giving them the benefit of the doubt. But no longer! If they would not be swayed by words or arms, let them be swayed with power. 

“Hold!” He thrust his blade through yet another shade with a shout and commanded the attention of the leader of the Dead. Candaith was breathing hard. The doubt had wormed its way in deep, but he could not let it end like this. Greed was a powerful enough motivator for any Man, even those among the Dead. 

“I have the authority to command you and all your kind, Britou!” He straightened up, emboldened by a confidence he could not feel but must not let waver. "For I...I am the Heir of Isildur!"

He could feel Thurvi’s eyes upon him, as well as the attention of the Dead. The cold was like a rock in Candaith’s chest. As long as they were in peril, he could not falter, but every breath became heavier. It seemed the very air was hardening to stone and ice within him. 

Britou fell silent. For a long moment he stared, sizing Candaith up. Now was not the time for fear. More than ever, he was grateful for the mask. It was as much a shield as the one his Guardian wielded. Perhaps his and Thurvi’s uses for them were more alike than he had thought. 

"What evidence do you have that this be so?" 

Britou’s voice reverberated off the frozen walls. Now more than ever the cold pained him. Candaith tried not to wince as he drew the breath to answer. Taking a finger of his glove in his teeth, he slid it off without lowering his sword. "Only this: the Ring of Barahir, heirloom of Isildur's line!"

After all, they had been made for one purpose: to deceive the enemy. Why not use it now, as it had been intended, for their advantage? 

It was a long while still before Britou spoke again. “I see.” The cavern was still. “We will fulfill our oath at last, that the Heir may lift the curse. Tell your Men."

Candaith could not breathe a sigh of relief. The cold had taken him, and it was all he could do to nod, to turn around, to look for the relief that must be plain on Thurvi’s face. 

It was not there to greet him. Candaith saw only fear.

"But that is not the Ring of Barahir, and you are not the Heir of Isildur."

He did not have time to think. There was ice on his skin now, on his fingers. Cold pierced him. Thurvi was moving faster than Candaith had ever seen him go. There was a horrible rending of metal, and the ice splintered under his skin. Dust and rock rose up to meet him. 

There was a black and frozen pause. Trapped within a pincushion of ice, Candaith did not notice at first that he was being moved. He could clear little space in his lungs to cry out, and he could not coax his algid limbs to motion. Too many frosted shards had gathered themselves within him. They cut like glass, tore at his mind, and ate at his heart. He knew naught of what was transpiring, only that he had failed his kin. He had led them to this place of ruin, and now he was to join the miserable Dead. 

His whole body was jolted up and sideways. A single pauldron came into view. Thurvi! Candaith’s tears were surely frozen, but he felt the warmth of relief thaw them a little. It mingled with the heat of shame long enough to warm sensation back into him. There was new pain too. His back was taut and tearing as Thurvi hurried him away. With a final cry, his awareness too failed on the cursed road. 

Something was trying to crush him. A pressure bound him, constricted his thoughts. He could not will himself to move or to breathe. So Candaith struggled. The now-familiar cold had abated some, but it had not released its stranglehold on him. He had failed, but for now desperation overrode his shame. The others-- his brothers were nearby! If nothing else they needed a warning, they needed to know that no Dead would ride by their side save to run them down. 

Candatih fought to turn over. He had fallen flat before Britou in that frozen chamber, and now he must get up! He must get up or let his brothers be slaughtered for his reckless gambit--

“Fool! Be still, Candaith!” 

A hand, warm and living, reached him from the darkness. It held his shoulder with a gentle firmness that made him pause. There was no time for this! So far underground, they needed every moment to escape.

The crack of a log fire hoisted him up from the dark then flung him down into awareness. His waking senses hit him with force and the air was driven once more from his lungs. Suddenly Candaith discovered he could feel, only to wish desperately that he could not. What had once been solid ice had thawed, and his whole body burned in the spaces where it had been. He turned to push his face into whatever had been beneath his ear. Candaith was on the ground, and pain trampled him flat. 

The hand was joined by another on his other shoulder. He tried to smother a rising scream as the fire was stoked again by his squirming. 

“Candaith, listen to me.” The voice was familiar, but it was as full of uncertainty as he was. “We are out of there now, but you are lucky to be with us! Lie still if you can. If you are too stubborn to listen, it will be hard to bring you back to Lhanuch alive! We will give you…” Here the voice paused, and with more clarity came a growing certainty that Candaith had never heard Radanir more distressed. “We will give you something for the pain.”

“Radanir!” Halbarad’s voice cut through the fire and the relief was like a balm. More crushing a blow than the catastrophe he knew would have been the loss of their leader. Halbarad was the cord that held them together in Aragorn’s absence. They would follow him with the same loyalty and should he be lost grieve for him with the same sorrow. 

But Halbarad lived. It brought Candaith less comfort than he had hoped. 

“Hold him up. We must do something for the wound before we try moving again.” It was not at all what his leaden limbs wanted to hear. This time Candaith could not stifle a groan as Radanir hefted him like a sack of potatoes. 

“You could not… be more careful?” The words sounded strained to his own ears, but as his head was being rested over one of Radanir’s shoulders like a sickly infant’s, he would not get to see a reaction. 

That did not stop Radanir from having one. “And you could not stop from telling falsehoods to the undying shades of traitors!"

It brought down a deathly quiet. A popping ember rang as loud into the night as a thunderclap. Radanir had gone as stiff as a statue, and only after a long pause could Halbarad get things moving again. 

“It is a grave wound, but it might have been much worse.” Candaith could feel the sleeves of his tunic, but the back had been torn asunder. Now exposed to the night air, he wished for the blanket or cover that had seemed so smothering a moment ago. Halbarad was moving the fabric. Every pull jostled the nettles that had taken up residence in his limbs. He tried to push away, but Radanir held him up under his arms. 

“If we have to set you back down, there will be less firelight to work by.” The words were terse, but there was an undercurrent of concern nonetheless. Radanir was right, Candaith was a fool. It was becoming more and more obvious just how close he’d been to being a dead one. 

To his surprise, Thurvi stepped into his narrow field of vision. The dwarf offered out his hand. Weakly, Candaith took it.

“Distract him if you can, Thurvi.” Halbarad instructed. “We are lucky he is awake but we might have been luckier were he not- at least, not for this.”

Candaith was reluctant to meet the Guardian’s eye. It had been a rather poor performance on the Forsaken Road. He had shamed himself and shamed the entire Company. Only by a miracle was he out under the stars instead of rotting among the Dead. To his surprise, Thurvi did not attempt to make conversation just yet but began sliding up the metal mask that had long covered his face. 

Despite everything- or perhaps because of it- Candaith could not bite back a delirious laugh. “You have a line! Clear… right across your face from cheek to cheek, over the bridge of your nose-”

Halbarad chose that moment to strike. Something cold and stinging coursed down his open wounds. He gritted his teeth and tried to crush Thurvi’s hand and Radanir’s arm. The work had begun in earnest. Now, Halbarad would not stop until everything was dressed to his satisfaction. 

Thruvi pulled his hand down. Attention diverted, Candaith managed to look up. “Your cloak did not make it, I’m afraid.” The Guardian said in a solemn tone. “Alas, it was the first casualty. And my shield gave its life for yours. Cursed be the blades wielded against the craftsmanship of Khazad-dûm!”

Candaith could not laugh. Thurvi’s heart was not in the attempt at wounded pride. It was hardly the shield of his homeland, and besides that it called to attention a more glaring absence. 

Ignoring the agony behind him, he ground out a question. “The others…?” His mind flew to Linnor, his and Saeradan’s friend, to Calithil who he had last seen by Radanir’s side. Old Hodhon and Himeldir had been there as well, they who had been fraught with worry over Dagoras’ capture and thick as thieves again upon his return. 

Thurvi’s face was more exposed now than it had been underground. The mask was pushed into his hood on top of his head. Candaith did not know if his friend was old for a Dwarf, but he looked older than he had the last time his face was on display. 

“Scattered.” he said at last, “We lost all the torches as the Dead gave chase. You and I were tempting enough targets to allow the others space to run. If they were pursued to the road or to the bluffs, I do not know. We ran into Halbarad and then Radanir in the dark.”

Candaith tried to focus on the words instead of the pain. Whatever salve Halbarad had conjured burned as fiercely as his shame. Loath might he be to admit it under other circumstances, Radanir was right. Who was he to command the Oath-breakers? What right did he have to try!

There was little left of his strength. Candaith used it to first return Thurvi’s grip on his hand, and then to better support himself on Radanir’s arm. Neither he nor Halbarad had spoken again, and it was time for Candaith to acknowledge the disaster on all their minds. 

“I should never have-- I would give my life a thousand times... to be even the smallest help to Aragorn… That was all… all I-” Halbarad took his shoulders and started to tip him back. The movement clouded his vision so completely he could hardly be sure he was still awake. Numbness started to overpower him and Candaith did not have the strength to be alarmed by the empty wave. 

The void held him captive for a moment. But, vigilant Pain was quick to revive him as bandages met the raw edges of his wounds. He was slumped in a sitting position as Thurvi held him up and Halbarad finished wrapping the tender flesh. Candaith was given something bitter from a water flask, and then worked up the courage to try and speak again.

“I am… sorry-” he croaked from the ice-carved hollow in his chest. 

“If you are sorry, Candaith, I am doubly so.” Halbarad’s voice was thick with worry, and regret. “For had I not sought to make copies of the Ring of Barahir, had I been more focused on keeping us from danger, this never would have occurred.”

Halbarad finished tying off the bandages, and Candaith was surprised to find Radanir waiting there at his shoulder. He was without a cloak, as were the others, and did not waste time in guiding his dead-limbed companion to where the collected fabric was balled up into a makeshift bedroll. Far though they were from a suitable camp, he was going to see that Candaith had some small comfort. Not Thurvi, not Halbarad, but Radanir who was rightfully furious with him. 

Of all their companions, he was one of the least likely to shy away from saying what he meant. There was no quip too untimely, no sentiment best left unsaid. No doubt it was why he had taken on this task. Halbarad was too noble to scold a man on death’s porch if not it’s doorstep. And something about Thurvi’s tight-lipped expression had told him that the Guardian had seen the events transpire in an entirely different light.

Of one thing Candaith was sure: whatever reproach Radanir had ready for him would be well-deserved. Only, Candaith did not know if he could bear it. He had almost just gotten eight of their number killed in an ill-advised attempt to sway the Dead- the Dead who were known chiefly for their treachery! He feared the long night as he had been frightened of the long road underground. What if the others had not made it out? Their blood would be on his hands, and he would have to meet the rest of the Company alone with his shame.

No doubt his chief critic would be Radanir. Radanir who had been forced to flee with the others, who had stumbled across Thurvi in the dark, who must have been told the tale from the eyes of an observer- and the only one of them who could never have done the same in his place! 

Still he could not help but to look. Candaith turned his head to the side and found Radanir’s stare fixed on him. Guilt swept over him again before it was replaced by great confusion and worry. The firelight illuminated anger, yes, but also vivid fear that took a moment for Radanir to conceal. 

“I suppose I prefer you a living fool rather than a dead one.” The irritation in his tone was as empty as Candaith felt. “Still,” here an edge of something crept back in, “do not ever attempt such a thing again.”

As much as he wanted to assure Radanir that he would not dream of it- that he was shaken to find a lesson learned had nearly cost his and his kinsmen’s lives- Halbarad had designs of his own. Whatever herbs had been in the water were beginning to take effect. The pain of his wound was no distraction anymore. Already sensation was floating away. It felt as if he would dissolve if it began to rain, like dust on stonework. Candaith could no more keep his eyes open than he could leap up and begin the search for the rest of their group or to share the burden his decision placed on them. 

He could no longer see the light of the fire when Radanir’s hand came to rest carefully on his shoulder. Their companions were discussing something too quietly for him to hear. It would not be long now before Halbarad’s bitter potion forced him to rest. 

“That was a fear so cold I thought I would never be warm again.” Radanir’s voice was nearly lost to the cushioning effect of the medicine on his ears. “But I would prefer to never be rid of it than to lose even one of my brothers.”

The candor in Radanir’s words did not absolve him, but it was a balm to a hurt no healer could treat. Comforted beyond measure, Candaith could at last bear to face the night and any troubled dreams it could conjure.

[chelsfic]

I Think We Could Do It if We Tried - Guillermo x Nandor Fluffy One-shot

Summary: Guillermo comforts Nandor on his saddest night and revelations are made during bath time. (Takes place during S2 E2, Ghosts)

A/N: Some recovery fluff. P.S. I always associate this song with Nandermo thanks to this really sweet fancam.

Warnings: Fluff, Crack, First kiss, Yearning, Soft hours, Guillermo being compared to a horse, Nudity but no smut

---

"You know I'll do anything you ask me to But oh my God, I think I'm in love with you Standing here alone now, think that we can drive around I just wanna say how I love you with your hair down Baby, you don't got to fight, I'll be here til the end of time Wishing that you were mine, pull you in, it's alright" --"Sofia" by Clairo

Guillermo stands frozen in place, the phantom image of ghost Nandor and his steed still hangs in his field of vision like the imprint of a camera’s flash. His master looks stricken and utterly alone. He’s never seen him so vulnerable.

He approaches cautiously, ready for the cold rebuke that always comes whenever he attempts to connect with Nandor. Honestly, Guillermo doesn’t know why he keeps trying. He supposes it’s because every now and then, tonight for instance, the curtain parts and his master reveals a bit of the tender soul that he keeps so well guarded by bravado and arrogance.

“They’re at peace now, Master,” Guillermo says quietly, reaching out to pat Nandor’s arm. 

Nandor is silent for a beat, his face tensed with emotion and anxiety. Finally, he turns to his familiar and speaks in a lost, trembling voice.

“Hug?”

Guillermo feels the breath rush out of his lungs and his lips curl into a quick, here-and-gone grin. He darts his eyes to the camera crew before looking back at Nandor and schooling his features into bland subservience.

“Of course, master,” he answers, opening his arms and calmly wrapping them around the hulking vampire, as if this isn’t a partial fulfillment of his most dearly held wish. “It’s alright, master.”

Eleven years of service. Nearly eleven years of pining and secretly loving his master. And this is the first time they’ve ever hugged. Nandor holds Guillermo tight to his chest, as if clinging to a life preserver. He buries his face into his familiar’s soft, sweater-clad shoulder and his breath hitches silently, tugging at the human’s heart strings. Guillermo’s face is squished into Nandor’s broad chest, his glasses are askew and a wide, blissed out smile spreads over his lips. He locks his hands together at the small of Nandor’s back and breathes in the earthy...slightly off scent of his master. Oh, right...the ectoplasm. 

Guillermo doesn’t even care that his face is currently pressed up against dried ghost gloop. This is the best night of his life.  

“Guillermo?” Nandor’s voice is still so small and fragile.

“Yes, master?” 

“I’m covered in gunk. Will you draw me a bath?”

Oh.

--

Guillermo sits on the stool by the massive, claw foot tub, dipping a hand into the water to test the temperature. Hot but not scalding, just right for his sensitive master. He drops the glittery lavender bath bomb into the water and watches it fizz, releasing a pleasant, soothing aroma. 

“Ready?” Nandor asks from the doorway. Guillermo turns to see his master standing there in his long, red silk robe. His hair is down, falling around his face in natural waves and drawing Guillermo’s eyes downward to the triangle of exposed chest hair at the robe’s open collar. 

He takes a deep, steadying breath before answering, “Yes, master. I used the glitter bath bomb so you can look like Twilight after.”

Nandor grins and does a little happy two-step, “Yay! Good job, Guillermo!”

Guillermo’s heart swells at the praise and...just how adorable Nandor can be sometimes. This is how it happens. This is why he stays and cares for this man after years of neglect and disrespect. 

Nandor steps forward and waits expectantly. No matter how many times they do this, Guillermo will never be immune to seeing his master entirely nude. His hands shake slightly as he reaches to untie the loose knot holding the robe in place. Nandor shrugs the thin material off his shoulders and Guillermo’s heart hammers as it falls into his hands. He turns away with a brilliant blush, folding the robe and setting it on top of the toilet, completely missing the way Nandor’s eyes follow him with a glint of amusement. 

Nandor is still waiting next to the tub when Guillermo turns back around. His traitorous eyes roam up and down his master’s form. Nandor is impossibly tall and regal looking, even in the nude. His body is covered in a layer of soft, dark hair... his chest, his arms, his legs. If Guillermo looks close enough-- which, he has --there’s even a light layer of hair over the round globes of Nandor’s buttocks. Guillermo loves his master’s body. He loves that Nandor’s belly is soft and covered in a healthy layer of fat. He loves his thick, powerful thighs. He loves the broad expanse of his back and shoulders. Looking at Nandor, it’s easy to see him as the fierce, deadly warrior of his human life. Next to him Guillermo feels small and dull.

He walks over and takes Nandor’s hand, helping him balance as he steps into the water. Guillermo keeps his eyes carefully trained above the waist as Nandor sinks down into the steaming water. The vampire lets out a pleased sigh at the touch of the hot water on his cold skin.

“Shall I wash your hair first, master?” Guillermo asks, rolling up the sleeves of his white button down. His sweater is neatly folded with Nandor’s robe. 

“That would be nice,” Nandor hums, his eyes closed in relaxation. He grimaces as he adds, “It’s all...sticky.”

Guillermo drags the stool over and picks up a bottle of shampoo.

“Do you wanna dunk for me?” He suggests. He watches as Nandor takes an unnecessary breath before dipping beneath the surface of the water, coming up a second later with his hair plastered to his head and his lips sputtering as he releases the air from his lungs. 

Guillermo pours shampoo into his palm, lathering it up before sinking his fingers into Nandor’s hair and beginning the process of carefully massaging it through the long strands. Nandor groans and relaxes his neck, letting his familiar support his head in an act of casual trust that sends a tiny quiver through Guillermo’s soft heart. These quiet, intimate moments with his master are some of his most cherished memories. He purposely ignores how pathetic that makes him.

“Mmm,” Nandor groans, the sound doing uncomfortably fluttery things to Guillermo’s stomach. “That is very nice, Guillermo. You’re so gentle.”

Guillermo bites his lip and murmurs, “Thank you, master.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, Guillermo losing himself in the task of cleaning his master’s hair and Nandor falling into a trance under his human’s soft touch. The silence stretches until Nandor is disturbed by the sound of Guillermo trying to muffle a laugh. 

“What’s so funny, Guillermo?” he prods, turning slightly and dumping water over the side of the tub and into Guillermo’s lap. 

Guillermo’s used to being in the splash zone during Nandor’s baths and he barely reacts. Instead he gives in to his mirth and lets go of a clear little laugh that echoes oddly through the bathroom. 

“Here, I’ll show you,” Guillermo answers, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. 

He opens the camera app and flips it to selfie mode, leaning down until his face is next to Nandor’s and holding the phone at arm’s length to snap a picture. He shows it to Nandor and the vampire guffaws. On the screen Guillermo’s thousand watt smile is contrasted with Nandor’s look of blank confusion. His soapy hair is sculpted into a loose, goopy mohawk on top of his head.

“You have given me the punk hawk hair!” Nandor crows, reaching up and gingerly feeling his hair. He lets his hands drop back down beneath the surface of the water and he doesn’t look at Guillermo as he continues, “Thank you for that, Guillermo. I...needed to laugh tonight.”

Guillermo’s chest constricts but before he can answer, Nandor plunges down under the water, rinsing the shampoo from his hair before resurfacing. He turns to face Guillermo, his skin and hair glinting from the glitter bath bomb, “Do I look like Twilight , Guillermo?”

Guillermo nods with a fond smile and Nandor misquotes, “ Say it, Guillermo. Loudly .”

Guillermo laughs, “ Vampire! ”

Nandor giggles as his familiar moves on to conditioning his hair. 

“After all these years, a moving picture that finally is worthy of telling the tale of the vampires,” Nandor muses. 

Guillermo’s hands pause in Nandor’s hair and he squints his eyes in profound confusion before deciding to let that one go. It’s silent again for a few moments before Nandor suddenly addresses him in a more formal tone, “Guillermo...I want to say something to you. To put you on your ease…”

“...Yes, master?” Guillermo asks with a healthy dose of trepidation lacing his voice.

“I do not wish for you to be concerned after hearing the tale of my horse, John, and his demise. You know...because I ate him? Just because I ate John does not mean that I will eat you, Guillermo. I’ve grown ...I’ve changed ...I’m not the same maniac who used to go around lighting peasants on fire for fun.”

“I know that--” Guillermo starts to say and then a record scratch sounds in his brain, “--wait, are you comparing me to your horse?”

Nandor shrugs and casts a disbelieving glare over his shoulder, “Yes? You should take it as a compliment, Guillermo! I loved John--”

Nandor’s mouth snaps shut at once but the words are already out there, lingering in the humid air between them. Guillermo’s hands go still in Nandor’s hair for a split second as his mind stutters and reboots. He can see Nandor’s shoulders tightening up and can just imagine the anxious grimace he’s most likely wearing as he awaits Guillermo’s reaction. 

Guillermo starts working his fingers through his master’s hair once more, giving himself a moment to compose a response. He knows, by now, that Nandor will withdraw ten steps after moving forward one if Guillermo makes too big a deal out of this...almost confession.

He finishes lathering the conditioner and dips his hands into the water at his master’s back, rinsing them and coming away with glitter dusting his skin. He laughs, holding his hands up to Nandor and joking, “Look, master! I’m a vampire!”

Nandor’s shoulders relax and he grins in delight, “It is funny because, of course, you aren’t!”

Guillermo rolls his eyes, but the light fluttery feeling in his chest is there to stay. His master loves him. Maybe it’s not the same kind of love that Guillermo feels. Maybe Guillermo should really take a hard look at the fact that he’s gushing over being compared to a horse. But for now he’s going to hold onto this moment like a candle flame glowing in his chest. His master loves him .

Later, while Guillermo is helping him to towel dry, Nandor makes a seemingly off handed comment that causes Guillermo’s mouth to go dry.

“Guillermo,” Nandor’s gaze is caught on his familiar’s cheek and the streak of ectoplasm drying on his skin. “The bath is still warm. Why don’t you wash as well. It’s been a long night…”

“I…” the idea of bathing in the same water that has so recently engulfed his beloved master is...an overwhelming powerful thought. “Th-thank you, master. I will…”

Nandor nods, “Good...good. And, thank you, Guillermo. For helping me on my saddest night.”

Guillermo blushes, smiling up at Nandor with devotion shining from his brown eyes, “Of course, master. I’m always...I’ll always be here for you.”

A shadow passes over Nandor’s eyes at Guillermo’s words but he simply nods and turns to leave. 

Once the door closes shut behind him Guillermo takes a huge breath, turning to look at the murky water in the bath with a thrill that feels absolutely filthy. He’s going to bathe in Nandor’s...essence. Maybe he’ll smell like him afterwards? He turns the tap, adding some hot water to warm the bath back up and discarding his clothes in a little heap in the corner. Once he’s undressed, he turns off the water and steps cautiously over the rim of the tub, mindful of the pools of water on the tile floor from Nandor’s splashing. He’s just sinking down with a contented sigh when the door flies open and Nandor reappears.

“I have forgotten my...nail trimmers!” Nandor announces loudly, grabbing the first item he lays eyes on from the vanity.

“Oh, um…” Guillermo’s face is red hot and he slips down even further into the water, somehow incredibly shy about his nakedness despite having just spent an hour carefully cleaning his naked master. 

Nandor lingers in the doorway, letting cold air creep into the room and causing Guillermo to shiver. 

“Could you--um--shut the door, please? You’re letting in a draft…” Guillermo mutters. 

Nandor jumps and quickly slams the door shut with him still inside the bathroom. They stare at each other in dumb silence for a moment before Nandor finally clears his throat, his eyes darting all over the place but always returning to land on the little bit of his familiar’s exposed flesh he can see above the water line.

“Would you...I could...help you. With your hair. If you like…” the words are halting and awkward.

Guillermo is frozen, he dares not even take a breath lest he somehow shatter the moment. His mind supplies him with the line, Keep absolutely still...its vision’s based on movement…

“Sure,” he answers, his eyes sparkling with barely restrained glee. “That would be very nice of you, master.”

“Of course it would be,” Nandor scoffs, rolling his eyes and striding forward with purpose. “I’m being nice to you on purpose so you don’t worry about the whole me eating you thing, remember?”

Nandor plops down behind him and squirts about half the bottle of shampoo into his hand. 

“Oh, right. Thank you, master. I’m glad you’re not going to eat me,” Guillermo barely registers his own words, he’s too overwrought with the way this evening is going. Never in his wildest--

“You’re welcome,” Nandor answers and then places his hand atop Guillermo’s head, dunking him unceremoniously under the water.

Guillermo emerges a couple seconds later, gasping and sputtering, grabbing his glasses off his face and wiping at his eyes.

“Could you, uh--?” Guillermo hands his dripping spectacles to Nandor and the vampire takes them with his free hand and lovingly deposits them onto the side of the sink. 

Nandor begins to paw his hands over Guillermo’s head, roughly lathering the shampoo into his short curls and privately delighting in the feel of his familiar’s hair under his fingers. Guillermo holds still, nervous about how much the cloudy water is actually hiding from the vampire’s eyes. Nandor jerks his head roughly, scrubbing behind Guillermo’s ears and down the back of his neck as well.

“Uh--master? Could you try to be a little more gentle?”

Nandor’s hands freeze, hovering in the air over Guillermo’s head, “I have hurt you? I will be more careful…”

The fingers return to Guillermo’s hair, softly and slowly massaging his scalp. Guillermo sighs, “That’s much better, thank you.

Nandor hums in acknowledgment before remarking, “I think I was still thinking about my sweet John. I used to wash him like this. Of course...I could be much rougher with him. Because he was a horse…”

“Of course…” Guillermo murmurs, his eyes falling shut as he leans his head back into his master’s palms. “This is so nice…”

“Good, I’m glad,” Nandor replies. “You deserve it! So loyal. Making me feel better about eating my dead horse friend… You’re a good familiar, Guillermo…”

Nandor lapses into silence, but there’s a new quality to it. As if he’s leaving something unsaid. Guillermo doesn’t know how, but he senses Nandor’s hesitance as the vampire continues stroking his fingers carefully, lovingly through his hair.

“Master?” Guillermo ventures, heart in his throat. “Is there something else?”

Nandor sighs, “Only that...John died without ever knowing how I felt...I mean, he was a horse so probably he would not have understood, but still.”

“Oh…” Guillermo’s eyes drift up the ceiling and he compresses his lips into a thin line before asking, “What would you have said to him?”

“I’m going to dunk you again, Guillermo,” Nandor gives him a second’s warning this time before pressing down on his head. Once Guillermo comes back up for air, the vampire answers the question, “Well...I suppose I would have said...you know, something along the lines of how he was the very best horse in all of the land. And that I really appreciated everything he did for me even though sometimes it was hard for me to show it… And how… how sad I sometimes felt thinking about yo--John ever leaving me to go and let some other warrior ride around on him… And...you know, the stuff about loving him…”

Guillermo clears his throat, tears misting his eyes as he speaks, “W-wow, master. I’m sure--I’m sure John would have been very happy to hear you say those things. And...if he could talk he’d tell you that you never have to feel sad about him leaving you because he--he loves you, too.”

Nandor scrubs conditioner through Guillermo’s hair and is quiet for a while before sniffing loudly and scoffing, “Well...pretty stupid, if you think about it, Guillermo. If John could have talked he would have said something about how much he loved oats and maybe about wanting to make sex with the fillys.”

Guillermo sighs, and forces a laugh, “You’re right, master.”

When it comes time to drain the tub, Guillermo finds himself nervously reluctant. 

“You don’t have to help me dry off, master. I can handle it,” he blushes awfully and hugs his legs to his chest as Nandor stands to grab a fresh towel from the rack. 

“Please stand up, Guillermo. I am making a gesture, here,” Nandor answers, unperturbed. 

That is, until his familiar finally stands. Guillermo’s skin is hot and flushed from the bath. He’s studded liberally with sparkles from the bath bomb and Nandor’s eyes are drawn in at once. The familiar wraps his arms around himself, awkwardly trying to hide from his master’s seeking gaze. But Nandor steps forward and grabs Guillermo’s arms, pulling them out and away from his body so that he can look. Guillermo is perfectly soft, his body is all curves from the slope of his shoulders to his round belly and the wide, generous width of his hips. Nandor, feeling none of Guillermo’s shyness or reluctance, greedily drinks in the sight of the nest of curls between Guillermo’s legs and the soft, smooth length of his penis. His lips part to bare his fangs and his eyes light with hunger.

“Um...I’ll just…” Guillermo starts to scramble up and out of the tub and Nandor’s stupor is interrupted. 

He tightens his hold on his familiar’s arms to stabilize him.

“Watch out for the slippy bits, Guillermo!” Nandor cautions. “Colin Robinson says most human deaths in your age range are due to accidents. I don’t want you to slip and snap your neck on the floor. Very inconvenient for me.”

Guillermo is silent, he doesn’t really have the brain function to answer at this point. He’s never been so exposed in front of Nandor before and while part of him recognizes the obvious interest on his master’s face, another part of him is deeply self-conscious and pretty certain that Nandor is just thinking about biting him. 

Nandor begins toweling him off, and Guillermo tells himself that his master is certainly not letting his touch linger longer than necessary. This is just...a gesture. Once Guillermo is adequately dry, he takes the towel from Nandor and ties it around his waist with a sigh of relief. This is all...a lot.

“Thank you, master,” Guillermo finally says, preparing himself to be dismissed now that the moment is ending.

Nandor reaches over to the sink, plucking up Guillermo’s glasses and unfolding the arms, gently placing them on his familiar’s face with a little smile. 

“You’re welcome, Guillermo. And… what I said about John?” Nandor sounds uncertain, hesitant. “About appreciating him and...other things...”

“Yes?” Guillermo asks, slightly breathless. 

“I really meant it.”

Nandor steps forward and all at once he’s pulling Guillermo into his arms, stooping down and pressing his cool lips to his familiar’s warm, soft mouth. Guillermo squeaks in surprise, snapping his eyes shut and grabbing the flimsy silk fabric of Nandor’s robe as the vampire moves his lips over his, licking and suckling until Guillermo’s lips finally part, admitting his probing tongue. Nandor growls low in his chest, reaching one hand up to bury his fingers in Guillermo’s wet curls and letting the other rest over the small of his back. 

Kissing. Guillermo is kissing Nandor. Nandor is kissing Guillermo! In one night he’s gone from hugging for the very first time to being held in his master’s arms and thoroughly, passionately, deliciously kissed. When Nandor’s lips fall away from his, Guillermo takes the opportunity to gulp air into his lungs. His master leans his forehead against his, holding him in place for a moment as they breathe each other’s air. 

Finally, Nandor draws back, letting his hands fall away and asking, in a small voice, “Will you come tuck me into my coffin, Guillermo?”

Guillermo blinks, swallowing down the thousand and one questions currently crowding his brain. One step forward...please please please...no more steps back.

“Of course, master,” Guillermo answers. “I’ll always tuck you in at night. You know that.”

Nandor smiles, shyly locking eyes with Guillermo as he places his larger hand in his, pulling him along behind him on the way to his crypt.

Yeah... Guillermo muses with a dopey grin on his face as they pass by a gawping Laszlo in the hallway. Best night of my life.

[royalcordelia]

The Peace, The Storm (1/1)

(In which Gilbert discovers he missed a very vital piece of information sitting on his kitchen table. Spoilers for 3x09)

“Suddenly, he saw her there in her mother’s garden. Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair. The smell of the flowers she held in her hand and the pollen that fell from her fingertips. And suddenly [he] was only a man with a taste of nectar upon his lips.” - Hadestown

+++

The Island had funny ways of telling Gilbert that he was in its favor. It was subtle in its tender attentions, entangling over his heart when he was sailing in far off places and giving warmth when he returned to its shores. It was faithful to him the same way a friend was, nudging him in the direction the young girl he’d been wandering aimlessly for since his train had arrived from Charlottetown. 

Anne. Just the thought of her made his breath shudder in his chest. 

Soon, his mind was full of her and he wasn’t aware of where he was wandering. The only thing he knew was that walking meant that he could rest content with his memories for a few moments longer, and relive them until he eventually found the real thing. His eyes searched the scenery, discovering traces of her in the Queen Anne’s Lace and the fluttering butterflies that danced from blossom to blossom. 

He was so drunk off of the thought of her that he barely registered when she actually appeared before him, laying in a bed of grass on the same cliffside where he’d remembered her. It was her hair he saw first, tangled up in the long grass like a spreading flame, but then he noticed her arms spread out at her sides. Her fingers weaved like wind through the grass, slow and numb. A thick rush of longing constricted Gilbert’s throat, making it impossible to call out to her. Her spirit radiated out, heavy, but sweet like pollen. 

With greater ease than he anticipated, Gilbert called out her name. 

Something Gilbert couldn’t name overcame Anne’s expression, and she shot up to her elbow. Her gaze claimed him, yearning and yielding in its intensity. She wanted to run away, that much he could see, but something kept her fixed to the ground. The lashes of her eyes were red at the brims, and streaks of tears had marbled onto her cheeks. 

“Have you been crying?” he asked dumbly. She turned her face away, sunset orange hair failing to shield the tremor in her lip. 

With delicate movements, Gilbert situated himself at her side, sitting beside where she lay. How simple it would be to lay flush beside her and bury his face into her shoulder where her red hair was bundled. His fingers twitched at the thought of how soft her skin would be, how her presence would soothe him to his soul. 

To keep himself from doing this, he found his words. 

“I was sorry to hear about Ka’kwet. Marilla told me of your plans to write to The Globe. I could proofread your letter before you send it if you like.” Anne said nothing. Gilbert shifted. “I suppose you’d prefer that Miss Stacy read it.” 

Still, Anne was silent. Gilbert glanced over at her and found her fingers shaking and clutching at the grass for a lifeline. It wasn’t like her to sit so still, to isolate her pain to herself. 

“I’m sorry I was away when everything was happening,” he murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder. As if he had doused her with boiling water, Anne rushed to her feet and began to hasten along the cliffside path. 

“Anne?” he called out. Her pace only sped up, so he called again. “Anne!”

This time, her footsteps froze in the path. Against the greenery of the plains, she cut the silhouette of a woman, strong in her shoulders with her coppery hair spinning to gold in the breeze. Gilbert knew he should say something -  especially if he nearly suffocated every time she existed too closely to him. 

Then she was spinning around, and stomping up to him. Her arms were crossed protectively against her chest, but her glare shot right through him. She entered his space, shattering his sense of reality, sending him tumbling backwards. More tears trickled down her cheeks but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Don’t you have anything to say to me?” she demanded.

Gilbert gaped, shaking his head in utter confusion. 

“What- I-...Anne, what are you talking about?” 

Her teeth clenched together. Gilbert could feel her boring into him - begging, and begging, and begging. What for, though, he didn’t know. When he said nothing, the resolve in her disintegrated away, and Anne resigned. She stumbled backwards a step, nodding bitterly. 

“I want my pen back,” she stated coldly. Gilbert bristled. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad being at the receiving end of her ire if only he knew what he’d done to hurt her so badly. A few traitorous ideas entered the back of his mind, but he refused to entertain them. No, he thought, she couldn’t possibly...

“My apologies,” Gilbert said slowly. “I didn’t realize I still had it.” 

“You didn’t- ” Anne choked. “I’m fairly certain I mentioned it in the note I left you. You know, the one that I laid my entire heart out on. The one you blatantly ignored without even acknowledging it!” 

“Note? Anne, I never-” 

“Or maybe you just decided to stop reading it after the part where I told you I love you! Did you crumple it up and burn right then and there or did you tear it up and throw it with the kitchen scraps?” 

Gilbert was stunned into silence, but only for just long enough for him to gather his wits.

“What did you just say?” 

Anne’s glare lost its bite, melting away into a raw ache that Gilbert could feel. Another tear slid down her face, disappearing into the tall grass. She filled her lungs with the summer air, but her hands still shook. Gilbert wanted to grab them, but instead he gave her space to articulate her thoughts. Finally, she spoke in a soft tone.

“I said quite a bit, but I imagine the part you’re referring to is the part where I said that I’m dreadfully in love with you.” She wiped her hand across her cheek. “I tried to tell you sooner, but you were never home. That’s when I left you a note-” 

“-Anne,” Gilbert interrupted. “I didn’t receive any note.” 

Her brows knit together.

“I left it right on the table. Underneath the water pitcher.” 

Gilbert shook his head. He didn’t care about the logistics of how the note went missing. All that mattered was that there was one - a beautiful, handwritten note from Anne Shirley Cuthbert that contained the astonishing fact that she loved him. 

His breath was swept from him once again. Anne loved him. She had tried to tell him, but all she’d received was silence. 

The sea would be right to swallow him up for the things he put her through. 

“When I came to you that night-” he stammered.

“-I was drunk, and confused, and terrified,” she explained, tucking her arms closer to her. “How could I tell you to choose me when I have nothing to offer you.” 

It was at that moment that Gilbert realized that a man must speak things clearly to be understood. No more dancing around the truth, no more sending unspoken messages. Just the words as they appear in the dictionary, the truth as it exists in his heart. Yet, he barely needed any words at all to be clear. 

“I love you,” he confessed on a heartsick whisper. “All the things you offer me, they’re more precious than anything I could ever have in this world.” 

Anne’s eyes widened until they blended with the periwinkle sea behind her. A watery sob escaped her lips that was half-way a burst of relieved laughter. Her cheeks lifted in a lovelorn smile that sparkled in amazement. His own chest turning blissfully lighter, he continued.

“You should know that I’m not engaged to Winifred, and I never intend to be. Truth be told, I’m not certain I’m ready for marriage yet. One day I will be.” He paused. “I hope that won’t come as a disappointment to you.” 

“Disappointment? ” Anne cried. “You’ve just told me that you’re not engaged and that you love me and you think I’m disappointed?! Gilbert, I think there are so many places that we need to journey as individuals before we start a life together, and that doesn’t disappoint me at all. How glorious it is to have my feelings met and matched.” 

Venturing forward, Gilbert reached for her hands, which Anne gladly offered. His thumbs grazed the softness of her skin, sending a thrill up her arms. 

“What now?” Gilbert asked. 

“I humbly suggest an arrangement,” Anne offered, beaming up at him. 

“Of what sort?” 

“Courting has too many rules. I propose we take things at our own pace and follow our own rules. We can call ourselves what we wish and do what suits us. We’ll be free to do  grow as people until the day comes when we’re ready to come together.” 

Gilbert considered this, approving most of it. 

“I don’t want to be just friends, though.” 

Anne shook her head. “Me either.” 

“Then I accept your proposal, Anne,” Gilbert said with no mock formality. “And I give you mine.” 

Anne stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him and peering up to see what he would say. Instead, he pulled a pen from his pocket and held it out before her.

“Write to me. Rewrite me that note I never got to read, write me if we attend different schools, write me when you’re sad or elated. Write me when need a reminder that for me, it’s only you. I want to hear what you have to say, always.” 

Anne pulled one of her hands away from his waist to take the pen and hold it close to her chest. 

“I like the sound of that,” she said. 

Gilbert opened his mouth - whether to tease her, to praise her, to apologize, Anne didn’t know. Nor did she care. She rose to her toes and pressed her lips to his, lingering a few seconds longer than she originally intended. It was just long enough for Gilbert to take her face in her hands and return the kiss. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead on hers and shared her breath. 

“What did your note even say?” he wondered. Anne shrugged.

“Things you know now. If I were to write a revised one, it’d go like this…” Anne cleared her throat. “Dear Gilbert, thank you for coming back to me. I love you, Anne.” 

Gilbert brushed a piece of her hair away from her face with a smile.

“Mine would say: Dear Anne, thank you for not giving up on me. I love you too. Yours, Gilbert.” 

They settled back onto the grass, holding hands and telling their stories from the start. Gilbert’s began the day he met her in the forest, the day he trailed behind her and had unknowingly sewn himself into the fabric of her heart. Anne’s story jumped around in time as she struggled to put into words the feelings she’d always harbored for him. Behind them, the sky bathed them in magenta light. The island shared in the storytelling, turning their words into gold beneath its red soil. 

[svnfulmyg]

Molten Gold// JJK

Molten Gold Part 1

Summary: Loneliness is all you felt for a long time, until you began to see the side of your bodyguard who kept his heart close.

Genre: Royalty Au, Bodyguard Au, Angst.. a lot of it, Eventual Smut.

Author’s note: Yaayyyy! Finally writing my first story, beyond excited. Feedback is always appreciated!

Word Count: 5.4K.. 

A tense silence engulfs you, drowning out the bustling of the maids. His dark menacing eyes hold you in place, pouring iced water on you, chilling you to the bones. 

When did it come to this? 

“___,” Your husband exhales tiredly and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to grip whatever patience he had left for you. “Stop running away from the conversation. The need for an heir must be discussed, there are questions being asked.” 

Gods, you know. Of course you know what was to be expected, but you can not bring yourself to do it. How could he talk about this in front of people?

Damn him.

Yunho’s patience snaps, slamming a cup on the floor. You try not to flinch while the maids freeze and gasp at the sudden noise. The air turns frosty, each one of them waiting with a baited breath to see what their beloved king would do. Your eyes find his own, his holding nothing but contempt. Fist clenched, his chest heaving. 

You waited for the worst.

“Get her dressed, the party will be starting soon.” Yunho sneers, not waiting for a response as he makes his way to the door. 

Frustrated tears pool into your eyes, watching his back as he walks. He never spares you a glance, never bothering with the chaos he leaves behind. As his back disappears, a throat clears; your eyes snapping, looking for the source. Ready to let your anger pour and unleash, the need to get it out was overwhelming.

Your eyes meet the ones of your bodyguard’s, Jungkook’s. His big eyes solemn, as he holds your gaze, wishing he didn’t witness what has happened. His hair brushes into his eyes as he looks at you, expression unreadable; and before you can question him, he bows and walks briskly out the door. 

Not giving it much thought, you glance at your maid who looks at you with sympathy. You give her a sad smile of your own, wishing for the unreachable.

The ballroom is alive with music and lively chatter, many couples dancing and mingling. You glance at Yunho, a crowd around him hanging to his every word. The tangy taste of champagne slides down your throat, but it gives you no relief. 

You hate these occasions, where you have to pretend what you weren’t, that you weren’t in a loveless marriage. You much prefer being in your garden or in the library reading about the world, that you yearn to be in and explore. 

The king turns and cocks his head, taking you in before a wicked smile paints his lips. He holds out his hand, staring at you expectantly. A challenging gleam shines in his eyes, a twisted game playing in his head. 

“Come, darling.” He coos in a sickeningly sweet tone, and you grit your teeth together. He knows he hasn’t given you much of an option, and he’s thriving off of it. Leaving you no choices always gives him satisfaction, giving his sadistic side a thrill. But you were never one to take it without dishing it as well, so you plaster a smile, one as convincing as his own.

You daintily place your hand in his and he pulls you tightly against him. The crowd scrutinizes you, while the women look at you with slight distaste that isn’t blatantly obvious.

After all, you were their queen.

They immediately bow as your husband continues his conversation, and you give a pretty smile back. 

“Ah, Your Majesty, you look as beautiful as ever.” The man next to Yunho gives you a bow and a sweet smile, a genuine one finding its way to your lips.

“Mr. Jung, a pleasure to see you as always. I hope you and your wife are full of blessings.” He beams at you and continues to tell you about his wife, you envy the love and respect in his voice. Nevertheless, you keep a soft smile plastered on your lips. Not long after that your eyes eventually wander and catch the eyes of Jungkook’s, his unreadable as he nods at you.

You are shaken from your daze, and Mr. Jung looks slightly uncomfortably at your husband. A hand squeezes your waist in warning, you glance and Yunho and he gives you a tense smile. “Darling, Hoseok was telling us how his wife and him are expecting a child.” His hand is heavy on your waist, anchoring you to where you are now. Never forgetting where you are and the whispers and troubles that come with it.

“Congratulations! What a blessing for you both!” You give Mr. Jung a pearly smile and he bows, he looks at your husband nervously, waiting in a tense silence.

“Thank you, your Highness. Blessings to you both as well.” Yunho’s smile falters at Hoseok, before he pats the lord on the back and returns back to his facade. The air is thick, with the unsaid words. He hums and nods in gratitude.

No one spoke, what was left unsaid was louder than the chatter around you. Blood rushes to your head and your chest constricts, white specs clouds your vision. Your lungs no longer take in the oxygen, everything fading to the background. You need to leave.

Now.

Yunho looks down, coming to realize what was happening. He cocks his head, a vicious glint in his eyes. The iron grip on your waist turns tighter, it’s a warning to stay put. The walls begin to close and you find it hard to breathe, Gods why were they so cruel to you?

“You will have to bring your wife to see me, I would love to help her plan her baby shower. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the powder room.” You wheeze, they start to bow as you turn your body to bolt. A hand reaches out for yours, your husband stares at you with malice and disgust. 

You yank your hand away and briskly walk to the exit as fast as you can without making a scene. Your hands come to the wall a few feet outside the banquet hall and you lean into it; the air doesn’t seem to enter your lungs, leaving them burning, aching, shrinking. You kneel and start to count.

One, two, three.

You had to get as far away as possible.

It had been a while since you had a panic attack, they became less frequent, because over the years you’ve come to learn to live with them. The constant conversations and expectations of you to complete your duties were bringing them to the surface, it gave you no peace.

You get up panting, looking everywhere and nowhere. Somewhere to hide and escape from this dreaded place and circumstances. It didn’t matter where you went, you started sprinting down the hall. Fuck all, and fuck the heels on your feet.

“Your Highness, please!” A voice bellowed, slightly panicked, you didn’t give a damn who it was. You kept running aimlessly down the hall and didn’t stop for a single thing. A hand abruptly grabs yours, pulling you into a secluded hallway. Turning to face the person, you yank your hand away, ready to unleash the pent up frustration at the person who dared touch you. The desperation to leave far greater than the consequences of what your actions could’ve caused. None of it mattered to you, the panic clouded everything leaving the ends of your vision tinged in black spots. There was no going back to how things were, you had to face what you needed to let go.

Doe eyes met yours and his chest was heaving, dread etched all on his face as he caught his breath. “Please,” Jungkook motions are the chair near you, “take a seat, you need to calm down.”

You couldn’t believe this, your mind reeling, yearning. You shake your head violently, pulling your arm away from him before he reaches again more aggressively and desperately. You looked for options, anything. 

“I need fresh air, please.” Your chest heaved up and down, lungs still having a mind of its own and not allowing you to get a proper breath.  You look deeply into the eyes of your body guard’s, trying to plead with your eyes. Jungkook purses his lips, scrutinizes you as uncertainty swirls around him. You try to give him what you hope is a reassuring smile, which probably resembles a grimace. 

He sighs and glances at a balcony before looking into your eyes, authority and caution in his irises. “Alright your Highness, there’s a balcony. We can get fresh air there, you will be able to catch your breath there.” He gently grabs your elbow and leads you to the French doors opening them before pushing you both in quickly.

The breeze instantly hits, you immediately start to take deep breaths, thanking the air that is entering your lungs selfishly. He leans on the door, silently watching you, feeling some relief too. He feels like he can finally breathe himself and he watches you softly, and feeling at ease seeing you gain some composure. 

“Thank you..” you whisper into the winds and your eyes flutter close, he stares at you in awe. He feels the ends of his lips quirk up.

He can do this, he can let himself loosen up. While your eyes are closed and no one there to witness it. 

Just this once, Jungkook. Gods, did he love to torture himself, so selfish.

Just this once he wants to abandon his inner conscience and be selfish, what was wrong with being selfish? But he always feels guilt in the pit of his stomach when thinking of such a thing. He was never allowed the luxury of thinking of himself, for himself. Something many people took for granted and so carelessly did with it what they pleased.

But you, you were made of the same. You know the agony it is of not having something for one’s self. You know just as much of it as he does.

One of the same.

Coming back to the current situation, he hums and looks past you to take in the view, two stories up and overseeing a beautiful garden. The very garden he ran around as a kid, playing cops and robbers with the king. 

Of course he was the robber.

Soft whispers of the wind sing through his hair, tousling it and brushing it in his eyes. He pushes it back and tenses, coming to realize your eyes were trained on him. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine at the intensity of your gaze. You had an ability to turn him into putty, to do as you pleased with him, always.

He tried, of course he tried. He tried to not let your stare smoulder through his defenses, he tried so hard to forget you and your allures. But alas, he could not forget your eyes on his skin, no matter how much he wishes to the Gods. It was always impossible to forget, at least when it came to your heated gaze and fiery temper. He should know better, should know not to want something he can never have.

“It wasn’t a problem, your Highness. Are you feeling better?” 

You throw your head back and smile at the stars, unknowingly allowing Jungkook to drink in the column of your neck. He traces it before he moves his gaze back to the garden, his hand tightening around the railing. He pleaded for someone, to the Gods, wishing he had more self control than he had at the moment, his fingers flexing as he held himself back from reaching out to you.

“Yes, thank you Jungkook. This has made a world of a difference.” You give him a small shy smile, oblivious to his inner turmoil. He bows his head, keeping his eyes away from you.

For a moment you forget, the hostile environment revolving around you always, and why you so desperately needed this moment. 

Until it comes back.

The smiles fade from your lips, as does it on his. The air tense, heavy on your limbs. 

“You know,” you look sadly out to the horizon, longingly at the gate separating you from everything. You glance at the stars, whispering your secrets to them. “I feel at peace in this moment, but I yearn for more. To be as far from here as possible.” 

Jungkook stiffens, ice invading his limbs and spine as he stares at you wordlessly. His hand comes off the ledge and observes you wearily, he doesn’t say a word. 

He can’t be a part of this conversation, he is the king's most trusted knight. The one selected to look after the queen, an honor in itself. His loyalty to the king has never been questioned. 

But why is he questioning so many things today?

“I don’t believe it is a good thing to think like this, your highness..” He murmurs looking around, making sure no one is around the doors before he puts his steely gaze back on you. You meet his eyes, his so unreadable, so hard to understand. You tense and give him a cold smile, trying not to snarl at him.

“Forgive me, how foolish of me to think of that. Please take me to my room, and give me whereabouts to the king.” You spit out, leaving no room for denial. You pass him quickly, careful to not touch him as you open the door on your own accord. 

How foolish, ____. You think to yourself no longer able to face Jungkook, he will give you up the moment the king asks him to.

Jungkook looks at you solemnly and bows as he starts walking you to your chambers. A dark pit in his stomach, he searched for words to reassure you, but he can’t seem to say them. 

This whole night is leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He follows you silently to your chambers, feeling more out of place than he has ever. This wasn’t right, he had always felt at peace with what the king had thought, but this, this, it never felt right to him. Ever. It never felt right to him how close the king keeps you, sometimes to the point where it was overbearing. He watches as you pull the doors and enter without sparing him a glance. No goodbye and it ached him. He took his time as he walked back to the ballroom, he dreaded talking to the king, knowing full well of the simmering anger that grew in him.

The morning is quiet as you stay in bed, dreading having to get up to face people and the duties you have to endure. Of having to face him. Your maid, Lucia, comes in and gives you a beaming smile. “Good morning, your Majesty,” she bows to you and you groan, pulling the covers closer to your body. 

“Lucia,” you start to get up slowly and pinch her cheek, “for the last time, please call me ___. There is no one here so there is no need to be formal, and I would feel much more comfortable if you did.” Lucia smiles at you before nodding and motioning you to the bathroom to start your morning routine.

After you are dressed, you begin to make your way to the dining room where your husband is having his breakfast. You count the steps as you reach the room, one, two. Yunho is sitting at the end of the table, he doesn't bother looking at you when you take a seat next to him, he continues to sip his tea.

You don’t bother to greet him, there is never a need for fake friendliness. You tried, early in the marriage, naive to him who at the time was a prince. He was slightly less cold than who he was now, but he was not the type of man you wished you married. You gave it your all at first, your heart and soul, but he would budge and never tried to make something you were both forced into to work.

“___, I see you couldn’t bother to come back to the party.” He puts the cup down as he finally looks at you heavily. “No, no, no. You had to send Jungkook to relay and give a shit excuse.” He lets out a humorless chuckle. You see from the corner of your eye Jungkook tense, frozen.

You grit your teeth together, you always hated his condescending tone, he stared at you with as much distaste.You hum, not bothering to give him an answer, instead allowing the silence to stretch between you. You calmly bring the cup of tea to your lips, looking in defiance at him and raising a slow eyebrow.

He bellows out a laugh before pushing away from the table with hands. “You are not fit to be queen, I don't know what father saw in such a low lady as you.” He smirks cockily, walking away slowly; you slam your hands on the table as you get up to face him.

Red, everything was red, it bubbles through you and seeps into your limbs. It settles in your stomach. It felt as if the fires from hell settled themselves in your gut, you had had enough of his games.

“Do not bring your father into this, tainting such a good man’s name.” You spit aggressively and jut your chin to look him dead in the eye. He ticks and is coming full force into your space, he lowers his head and brings his face close to yours. There is no sound other than his heavy breathing, it fills the silence and surrounds you both. He continues to look at you menacingly, you refuse to look away from his gaze.

Yunho pulls away abruptly, running a hand through his perfectly combed hair. “You,” he looks at you with a quiet anger deep in him, resentment. “You are unfit to be the mother of my children, the heirs to this throne.” He mutters quietly and you flinch, reeling back and staring at him motionlessly. It steals the air from your lungs, and leaves you aching.

You push his body away before taking in the sadistic gleam in his eyes, he enjoys seeing you at your ends wit. You look behind him and see the despair in Jungkook’s face as he stands to the side hopelessly. 

Shame, embarrassment flood into you. How right is he? You wanted to crumble, but you couldn’t. You were queen, and you had your own will and fire. You couldn’t let yourself be beaten. No, he isn’t right. You raise your head to meet his gaze, and bare your teeth at him. No, he was the problem.

“On the contrary, your highness,” you mock, his eyes set on fire.”It is you who is unfit to be king.” He looks stunned, before it turns into blinding rage. You’ve heard the whispers, the gossip of how he came to have a claim to the throne, how unprepared he was for it. How much he failed his father and never could meet his expectations. He looks at you and growls, you smirk in victory. You were ready. You’re ready for this, no matter what the outcome is. Before he can do anything, Jungkook reaches you and slightly pushes you to the side.

“I will take the queen back to her chambers, your majesty.” He bows deeply to your husband and turns to you quickly. There are no emotions as he motions for you to continue walking. You shake your head, fire and fight still tinged in your blood. You wanted it, craved it. He grips your elbow firmly and drags you out the doors before you have time to react.

As you round the corridor, Jungkook turns to you halting his pace to tower over you in his full height. “Are you out of your mind?!” He bellows, chest heaving as he stares down at you as if you grew two heads. He scoffs in disbelief, running his hand over his face. “You can’t say things like that, your highness. Think of the consequences before speaking of such a thing.” He was panting by the end of his outburst, Gods, does she not understand?! 

The things that could happen? He wanted to shake the sense into her, it was dangerous, she failed to understand the problems this could lead to. 

He didn’t realize how close your faces were, you were looking at him through your lashes. Eyes steely on his own. Without a second thought, you turn, no longer listening to your bodyguard. There is no point trying to get him to understand, he would never see it any other but the way of his king’s. 

As you rounded the corner to your chambers, you turn to give Jungkook a look of warning. His steps falter, giving away his hesitation as he looks at you and around the halls. His eyebrows crease and he comes to a halt in front of you.

“Thank you, sir Jeon.” His spine straightens automatically at the sound of his formal title, he stares at you in disbelief as you look at him callously. “But I will be on my way from here, thank you.” You turn, not giving him a chance to refuse. You didn't want him seeing you grab a satchel for the necessary items to get as far away as you possibly could from here. He would've told the king right away if he saw your motives. 

Fuck all. You were going to leave right away, you have had enough. 

Walking into your room, you grab the essential and jewelry you could sell to get to a safe place. Finally, you were going to something you yearned and craved to do. Once you grab everything, you slowly open your door to peek out. No guards were stationed around your room, you glanced around in confusion. 

Odd.

However, you weren't going to waste the opportunity to slip by easier. You start down the hallways quietly, keeping your ears open for the slightest sound. Turning the hallway to get to the stable, you hear a giggle in front of you. You duck quickly and see a maid flirting with a knight, you put your hand over your mouth to keep from making any noise. They slip quietly into an empty room, and you allow yourself a sigh of relief. 

Gods, you are so close.

You could not give up, you had to keep trying. This was going to be the only opportunity you were going to be given. Finally getting to the door to enter the garden, you see the stables a couple of meters away. You can't be relieved as of yet, couldn't allow yourself to relax until you were galloping away from the castle. When you see there is no one at the stable, you sprint to the horses grabbing your favorite, Cloud. She is beautiful with her creamy white hair, and as sweet as they could come; she always knew when you were in need of comfort. She stomps her foot excitedly as she sees you make your way to grab your saddle and fetch her some water quickly. 

Once the saddle and leading rope are on and secured, you put your hand and she nuzzles her head into it. You bring your face close to hers and sigh softly. “Hi beautiful,” you whisper and she snorts nuzzling closer to you. “We’re leaving, my sweet. To a place where you and I can both roam and that is all we’ll need.” You promise her and slowly grab the rope as you lead her to the quieter part of the castle. The side entrance was not as heavily guarded as the others, it still had a few, but not many that could stop you if you play the cards right.

You can make it, __. You will.

You get on her back as the entrance comes into view, sliding your hood over your face as two guards notice you and scrutinize you from afar. “Halt, ma’am.” You come to a stall as they near, shielding your face. As soon as they are close enough, you tug on the leash and Cloud starts into a sprint forcing the guards to move out of the way. They scream and start to run after you before quickly giving up realizing they are not a match for the speed of your horse. You will Cloud to go faster, as you gallop across the bridge. 

You only have a few minutes before the guards reach the castle to announce the incident, and alert the king. It would only be a minute after that when they realize you are gone as well. You had to make the most out of the time you were given, you lightly whip the leash for Cloud to take off faster, you needed as much distance as you could before it was too late. You make a quick beeline to the woods once across and don't dare look back to hear the shouts of the soldiers getting ready to leave the castle.

Sunshine filters through the trees as you rush through the forest, you don't allow yourself to admire the scenery. Adrenaline still pumping through your veins, you couldn’t let up for a second because you know what will await you if you slip and ruin your chances. This was it.

Your only chance.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of riding you came to a halt in a river. You get off Cloud and she immediately starts drinking water, you pat her mane and smile wistfully at her. “Don't worry love, just a little longer and we’ll find our way far away from here.” You start to walk slowly into the forest and lean on a tree, basking in the warm sun. You feel a feeling you haven't felt in what feels like a long time. Blissful happiness, it warms your limbs and loosens you up.

You start to make your way back to Cloud when you hear rustling in the bushes, before you can start to panic Jungkook appears before you putting his hand over your mouth. You stare at him in disbelief before thrashing around against him. Like hell were you going to go without a fight.

He lets you go before looking around for any other soldiers, finally turning to look at you at his full height. He crosses his arms and gives you an unamused look. Why? Why did he have to come, and so quickly? You start to look for a way to get to your horse before he steps into your vision.

“You would think you would take the hint, but yet here you are. Here to mock me and take me back to the lion's den?” You sneer and get into a defensive position, and he tilts his head and stares you before a smirk paints his pink petal lips. 

He couldn't help but find your defensive position adorable, you were no real threat. And if this was a different circumstance, he would teach you how to properly defend and fight, hell might even be proud of it. But you were the queen, and he was a mere knight. 

And you had run away. He thought solemnly, and he knew the hell that was waiting upon your arrival back at the palace.

“You,” His back straightened at the tone of your voice. “You are no better than my jailers, doing their bidding. Does it give you a thrill? To be the one to find the defiant queen and hand her to the king for the slaughter?” The smirk is wiped off his lips, and he looks at you with an unreadable expression. A dark silence passes by as he takes in your words, shame filling him to the brim; he holds your eyes as he mulls them over.

He hums softly and looks at the sky, his black mane shields his eyes away from you. He looks at you before allowing his facade to fall. The facade he holds around everyone. The mask he has especially with you.

“You know, I could have stopped you before you stepped outside to the stables. Before you left your room or when you grabbed that satchel.” He whispers and you stare at him in disbelief, he knew this entire time? You watched him under cautious eyes, asking silently what his motives could be. “Yet, here you are, outside the palace roaming the land.” He continues to look at you like you were a wounded deer, ready to bolt when the opportunity shows itself. 

“Why?” You say in a raspy voice, not believing him for a moment. He was the king’s longest friend, his most trusted knight. It makes no sense to you why he would allow you to leave and not warn Yunho, you were wary of his intentions.

Call it weakness. Jungkook thought to himself, wanting you to roam and have some type of freedom that you so desperately need. Call me weak for you.

Gods, he wanted to yell it, he wanted to show you, he wanted everything that you had to give. But he couldn't have it, no matter what he shouted or showed through his actions. It wasn't his to claim, nothing was in this life.

Instead he swallowed his love and shrugged softly before looking away from you to look around for guards. He was tempted, to let you leave and to allow you the life that you wanted. But he knew, he knew what he would do if he allowed you to leave. You were right about one thing, you would have been hunted and presented to slaughter if this went on any longer. If he allowed you to leave. What awaited you would be nothing compared to what would happen if you actually escaped and started a life of your own. Call him selfish, he needed you safe over your dreams and longing. At least that way he would be able to watch over you and not have to stand and watch the inevitable. He would not do that, he couldn't bare it. 

You crumbled, looking at the ground wishing it would swallow you up and spit you on the other side of the earth. You couldn't take it anymore, this sad, grey life that you led. To be helpless against the whole world, against Yunho. You let go of the last bit of strength and looked at Jungkook with tear-filled eyes, his own eyes betray him, they show the agony he feels for you. The hopelessness of the situation, the imminent result of this.

“Please,” You whisper as tears drop from your eyes and look at him in the eye, your vision blurring. “Please, I can't go back to that cage. I will not say you saw me, and I didn't see you. Just give me that small chance to get the hell away.” You were desperate, you had never been so close, it was on your fingertips. Barely there.

He sucks in a breath and brings his hands to his face, the sorrow too evident in his eyes and face. He could not allow you to see it, for then you would know. And there were things he needed to keep to himself, he could not let you know where his heart was and how tightly you had it clutched in your dainty littles hands; how it was bleeding at this very moment. 

“I’m sorry,” his voice cracks at the end, enough to have you brought out of your moment of despair to look at him. “But I can't, and you know I could not. If I were to it would be worse, and I can't allow that. Please.” He took a slow step to you and held his hand out for yours, waiting and pleading with his eyes.

You stare at his eyes, they were like pools full of emotion. How had you never seen them? They were full of emotions swirling, asking to be let out. They were on full display for the world to see, for you to see. How had you never noticed them? So full that there was no possible way he could hide it.

You wordlessly take it and he brings you up to your feet.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Roguish Women Part 26

Summary: Kate Rosseau is an American who fled to Paris to escape her past life. Now she's dancing and playing the part of a courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. There she meets Tommy Shelby who thinks she can be useful in expanding his empire. But has he been blinded?

Part 26: Tommy won’t give up, so neither does Kate.

Warning for abuse

            It was stifling to have dirt in his throat again even with the cloth over his mouth he could feel the grime coating his lungs. The tight spot of the tunnel was hellish and made every nerve in Tommy’s body scream in panic. There wasn’t any time to decide whether it was just another opium-induced dream. He just had to keep digging.

            It happened in a split second. One moment everything was fine at the opening of Grace’s orphanage, then Ada asked where Karl was. The innocent question turned to panic when no one could seem to find the little boy. Then, a harrowing scream came from outside.

            “Mum!” Karl’s panicked cry was unmistakable.

            They had taken Tommy’s nephew. Now he was a puppet to them, forced to do what they said. There was no way Ada was losing her son, not after everything she’d suffered. And certainly not by Tommy’s fault. So, he drove to the tunnel being dug to the Russian’s vault.

            Midnight. They had to get it by midnight.

            All his muscles ached as he worked in the cramped, dank, tunnel. He was caked in mud but there was no time to wipe it from his face. No time to rest. No time to breathe.

 ~~~~~~~~~

            There was a knock at the door and Kate descended down the stairs to answer it. Santo was working so she had the flat to herself. Yet she wasn’t ready to open the door to a familiar face. Her jaw dropped.

            “You happy to see me or what?” The man gave her a signature lopsided smile.

            “Frankie…” She whispered. “What on Earth?” Trying to shake off her shock, she herded him into the apartment so no one would notice him standing there. “Are you fucking crazy?” She hissed as she shut the door. “You could be killed for coming around here!

            Frank Wallace was the no-nonsense leader of the Gustin Gang. About ten years older than her, he was a strong ally to Kate. Along with his brother, Steve, Frank ran South Boston with an iron fist. Only the strongest men, like Santo, ever tested his power.

            “Few of my boys are causing a bit of ruckus to tie up Santo’s men. They won’t ever catch me here.” He smiled confidently.

            Still, Kate was sick to her stomach to know he was there. “Why are you here? How did you even know where to find me I haven’t seen you-”

            “Since that fucker chased you out of the city.” Frank looked a bit disgusted that he was standing in Santo’s foyer. He appeared to have the same distaste for the décor, even if he didn’t have a good reason to hate it.

            “So, how’d you know I was back?”

            “Got a telegram from a Mr. Thomas Shelby, in London. Can you fucking believe that?” He grinned like a kid on Christmas day. “Bit more international than I thought, huh?”

            “Tommy sent you?” She whispered in shock. Sending Patrick was one thing, but contacting another gang leader?

            “Yeah, said something about forming an alliance. Said you’d know something about it. Maybe not, I dunno.” He shrugged.

            Kate’s throat started to constrict. Patrick hadn’t done anything to convince Tommy to stay in Birmingham where he belonged. “Frank, you need to get out of here now. He’s got eyes everywhere if he finds out you’ve been here…” She warned and pushed him to the door.

            “Santo? Katie, he don’t have anything over you!” He urged. “This fucking debt, s’bullshit! He wants the money you owe, I’ll give you the fucking money. Would’ve given it to you years ago if you’d just asked.”

            “It’s not about the money anymore.” The more Tommy pushed, even from afar, the more anxious she became. Tears welled in her eyes when she realized things were coming down to the wire. She needed to intervene before he did something stupid. “He’s threatening the man I love. He’s threatening the family who took care of me when I needed help the most. If I don’t do this then he’ll kill me.”

            Frank looked a little taken aback. He’d never seen Kate cry and never before had she admitted any personal feelings no matter how close they were. “Jesus, our Katie’s in love. Thought I’d never see the day.”

            She laughed weakly and wiped her eyes. “It’s complicated, and I don’t need you involved either. You’re just another person for Santo to threaten.”

            “Sweetheart, that fucker’s been threatening me for years. If he wants to bring this to blows, then he can come down and visit me. Now I’ve been offered an alliance with British people, that’s something to be pretty fucking pleased about. So, I’m gonna obliged this Mr. Shelby.”

            “And do what?” She asked.

            “To come and see you. Then wait for another telegram. I sent him an agreement; we’ll see if he’s onboard.”

            There was nothing she could say to stop Frank from taking advantage of a tempting business offer. Kate felt that the least she could do was get him out of enemy territory. “Then go wait for your telegram. But call me next time, don’t show up like you’re looking for a death wish.” She snapped and hurried him to the door. The longer he stood there, the more anxious she got.

            “Alright, alright!” He shooed off her concern. “I’ll call you next time, jeez.” He muttered and flashed her a smile before heading on his way.

            Kate looked across the street and noticed Patrick was sitting on the front stoop of the apartment they’d been housed in. He gave her a subtle nod.

            Frustrated with Tommy’s persistence, she shut the door and headed to the phone. On her way, she checked the time on the grandfather clock in the parlor. It was eleven in the morning that meant it wouldn’t be too late.

~~~~~~~~~ 

            Tommy held the telegram from Frank Wallace in his hand as he went downstairs to dinner. Ada and Karl were staying with him for a bit. After the harrowing kidnapping, they all needed a breather. Ada wanted to get out of the city, Karl wanted to play football on his uncle’s large lawns, and Tommy wanted to keep them close.

            Even though the threat of Father Hughes and the Russians was neutralized, he was still paranoid. He was starting to understand the kind of things that happened behind doors and in shadowy alleys. The type of men who were in power and what they could do.

            Mary intercepted Tommy at the foot of the stairs. “There’s a telephone call for you, Mr. Shelby.”

            “Where from?”

            “Boston.”

            Tommy frowned. He had only just spoken to Patrick over the phone. There was no reason for him to be calling again when he knew the plan that was in place. Unless something happened. Fear gripped him as he went to the telephone in his study to pick up the call.

            “Patrick?”

            “It’s not Patrick.”

            He didn’t know how hard it would be to hear her voice. The message through the telegram from Patrick was enough to make him weak. But hearing her voice, after so many months apart, it was like an ax being driven through his heart.

            “Kate…”

            “I need you to listen to me.”

            It was like his words were delayed, as if he was still back in that hospital bed, struggling to move. She completely paralyzed him. “Yea-I’m-I’m listening.”

            “Frank just stopped by. I don’t know what you’re planning with him but I need you to call off whatever it is.”

            Slowly, Tommy sat down at his desk, making sure the telephone wire didn’t snag on anything. “Kate-”       

            “Please just listen.” Her voice was shaky but she didn’t stop. “I know you’re not afraid of death. But just try to see it through my eyes. If anything was to happen to your family or you, I would never be able to forgive myself. You don’t know what you’re getting into and I need you to just let it be. I’m begging you, Tommy. Just forget it and move on.”

            It was the same argument she had tried to use before in the letter she left. But Tommy was steadfast. He could appreciate her concern, but he didn’t see anything going wrong. “Patrick’s told me a lot. He says he sees the marks on your face.”

            “That’s not what this is about…”

            “You’re sorely mistaken if you think I’m going to let him get away with what he’s done. He made it my business when he stepped foot in Small Heath. He’s going to die, Kate.”

            “Tommy, just listen to yourself! You don’t see what’s right in front of you! It’s the same thing with the Changrettas, I warned you and look what happened!” She cried, desperate to get him to understand. “You’re blind with anger and you know what happens to men who fight with their heart on their sleeve!”

            “This isn’t negotiable, Kate.” He considered a conversation with her very precious at that moment. He yearned to see her again but hearing her voice was enough. Still, that didn’t mean he was backing down, even if it killed him inside to waste that precious time arguing with her.

            Angry and frustrated, she burst into tears. “I don’t love you!” She shouted. The words grated as they left her mouth. Four words. Only four words and the statement was the most damning lie she’d ever told.

            Tommy was silent. He could hear her crying on the other end of the line. “You don’t mean that.” He said quietly.

            “Yes, I do. I don’t love you and I-I never want to see you again. So, don’t even try to come looking for me. I won’t be here waiting for you!” It was a desperate attempt. Foolish really, but Kate knew she needed to do everything she could to keep Tommy where he was. It was still agonizing and she sank to her knees, the phone held to her ear.

            “Kate, you don’t fucking mean that. I know you don’t. If you were here, you wouldn’t be able to look me in the eye and say it.”

            Her chest seized as she sobbed. She was so distraught that she didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind her. Suddenly, someone pressed on the receiver to end the call.

            Tommy frowned when the line went dead. “Kate? Kate!” But there was no one there.

            In Boston, Kate’s head whipped up to see Santo standing over her. Fear washed over her as he gave her a sickening smile.

            “Who was that on the phone, micina?”

            She swallowed and looked up at him, unaware of how much of the conversation he’d heard. “Um…no one.” She said in a weak voice.

            His eyes darkened and he grabbed a handful of her hair. “Y’know I could come up with such a long list of names for you, but liar always seems to top it.”

            Kate yelped as she tried to wriggle out of his grip. “Please, I told him to leave me alone!”

            “Yeah? Think I don’t know what’s going on? Why’d my men catch Frank Wallace on the edge of my territory, huh? Got a telegram in his pocket from guess who?”

            She clawed at his wrist but didn’t answer.

            “Guess!” He shouted at her.

            “I don’t know!” She wailed from the pain of her hair pulling at the roots.

            “Liar!” He pushed her into the sofa. “Liar, you fucking lie and lie. That’s all you do, isn’t it?”

            Kate tried to scramble to her feet as he walked back towards her with hell in his eyes. She looked to the stairs as her exits. She could go upstairs and lock herself in the room, she’d done that a few times to escape him. But the lock was starting to give and she worried he might break it down. She could try for the door but he was blocking her path.

            “What is he planning?” Santo cornered her by the fireplace.

            “I don’t know.” Survival mode was taking hold of her. But there were dwindling chances to escape. So, she would have to fight.

            “What is he planning!?” He yelled and grabbed her by the throat. “Tell me!”

            Kate answered with a knee to his groin.

            Instantly, he doubled over in pain and released his hold. “You bitch!”

            She made a dash for it but he hooked her leg, toppling her to the ground. Her wrist took the impact, making her cry out in pain.

            Santo staggered to his feet and loomed over her. “Get up.” He ordered. “Get the fuck up! You’ve really done it now, you whore. No one’s gonna recognize you when they pull you out of the water. Fitting huh? Getting dragged outta the Harbor like your father? They’ll toss you into a ditch and everyone will forget about you like the trash you are.”

            A tear slipped from Kate’s cheek and fell onto the hardwood floor. No way did she see herself going out like this. She just wanted to be free. She wanted to dance on stage again. She wanted to be weightless. She pressed her uninjured hand into the floor to push herself back up.

            “I tried to give you everything. All you had to do was one thing. One fucking thing, Kate!” He kicked her in the ribs, causing her to fall again. “But you couldn’t even do that. Lying whore that you are. Garbage just like your parents. I should’ve never wasted my time on you. I should’ve killed you a long time ago.”

            She would be weightless. Bodies float in water. She would be weightless in the ocean. Maybe the tide wouldn’t carry her back in. Maybe it would let her stay out there. Maybe it would let her dissolve into nothing but salt. She’d be weightless then. There would be no one to worry about then. Santo wouldn’t have a reason to go after the Peaky Blinders. Tommy wouldn’t have a reason to go after the Italians.

            Tommy…God, his eyes were as blue as the ocean. She swore she could remember every single time he looked at her. But the time that was burned into her memory was the time he said he loved her. What had she given him? The last thing she said to him was that she didn’t love him. That’s what she would be leaving him with.

            But that’s all she was to anyone. A missed opportunity. That’s all life ever was to her, a missed opportunity.

            “Get up!” Santo’s voice was going hoarse from how loud he was screaming at her. His face was red.

            Kate took a deep breath. She was going to tell Tommy Shelby she loved him. She was going to dance again. This was her opportunity. Her hand went to the knife on her thigh.

            “GET UP!”

            So she did.

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​ @biba3434​ @kimmietea​ @karmezii​ @enrapturedbythemoon​ @vampgirl1997​

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[thetranquilteal]

The Gift [AO3] by @thetranquilteal​

Jamie has spent almost every night of his deployment yearning to be with his wife and newborn child. When he is given the opportunity to be home for Brianna's first Christmas, however, he unexpectedly finds himself torn between the past, present and future. 

A modern day short story inspired by @thelallybrochlibrary Holiday Prompt: "Soldier Jamie returns from his deployment in time for Brianna’s first Christmas” submitted by @becc127.

Part I: Home For Christmas

Jamie looked down at the photograph resting in the palm of his hand. 

There sat his beautiful wife, their brand new wean resting in her arms. The stark contrast between Claire’s dark and unruly curls lightly brushing their daughter’s red tuft was only highlighted by Claire’s dark blouse and the cream coloured crochet blanket she had wrapped Brianna in. 

He chuckled to himself and raised his eyes as if to follow the sound carrying away with the wind into the mountains lit only by moonlight shining through sparse clouds.

He could still remember the moment Claire had announced her name over the phone.

“Brianna,” the mouthed to himself and smiled again. He had made a fuss at the time but it had been token, half-hearted at most, as he hadn't truly minded. How could he? After what had happened with Faith -

He shook his head quickly in an attempt to dispel the thought.

He loved Faith. A Dhia, he loved her. So much so that it hurt to think of her - their first, a daughter born too early, too silent and too still - let alone speak of her out loud and, truthfully, he could only deal with so much heartache on a dark night like this, where stars were dulled by lingering clouds and death curled around them like unwelcome hot breath. 

His hold on the photograph tightened as his throat constricted and heart thumped in his chest. 

It had been a standard patrol. Standard. There was a scoff bubbling up from within but he hadn’t enough energy to dispel it, instead opting to let it simmer in the barely controlled but well-concealed anger that had been plaguing him for hours. It was supposed to be standard, damn it! Instead, they had stumbled across an IED. 

Unmarked. Unexpected. Deadly.

Now, instead of continuing their assignment as planned, they would be departing at first light to escort Angus' body home. 

Christ, how he wished he could speak to Claire. Touch her. Feel her. Wrap his arms around and just hold her. 

During her time as a Combat Medical Technician, she had been on two tours of her own and had seen such violent harm up close and intimately more times than he would wish upon any soul. Unlike any other Tech here in this God-forsaken desert, however, she had the ability to heal a lot more than just physical wounds. She had hands that wove stories across the skin, lips that formed words to heal the soul, and a heart more loving than anyone - including he - could ever deserve.

From the very first, when she had come and laid a hand on him to reset a dislocated shoulder, he had known - she was everything. 

Everything he knew he wanted.

Everything he hadn’t known he needed. 

Leaving her, just weeks pregnant with their second bairn, to go on this tour had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and news of a happy and healthy daughter had provided incredible relief. For a moment in time, he was devoid of the burden that had been tying him down ever since he had step foot on the aircraft and the weightlessness had left him giddy with the feeling he could do anything - achieve anything.

But all too soon that feeling had been replaced with something new. A yearning, almost.

A calling. 

On nights he managed more than an hour or two of solid sleep, he would dream of Brianna. Shifting within her swaddle, asleep in her crib. Small fingers wrapped tight around one of Claire's. Crying out blindly in hunger only to be soothed by her mother’s scent shifting closer. 

The following day the images would linger, there in the background of his mind, as they cleaned their rifles and organised equipment, long after shifts changed and there were no words to fill the silence that fell down upon them, and every time they paused to take refuge from the hot sun beating down upon them. 

Despite their continued occurrence, he resisted speaking of them out loud, too afraid that the sound might interrupt the ethereal connection that existed between the two of them. That he might be left even more alone than he already was. 

The mere thought made him grit his teeth. 

In his youth loneliness hadn’t bothered him - if anything he had welcomed it. First, it was the solitude that came with working in the Highland fields as a teenager and, then, the freedom that came with being an entry-level soldier travelling between various stations and training grounds, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots or form any serious relationships outside of work.

Then he had met Claire. 

While, from that point onward, he had spent his days afield eagerly awaiting their next reunion, their intimate relationship had had very little impact on life in the Armed Forces. It was one that the two of them were used to and one that continued on even after they had wed. When Claire, pregnant and suffering from terrible morning sickness, was released from active duty, however, things changed. It was then he had come to truly understand what it meant to be ‘away’. Away from his wife. His family. His home. And now, another daughter. 

One that would be there when he returned. 

The thought gave him hope - a small flicker somewhere deep down beneath the bone-weary exhaustion and budding sense of desperation.

The sound of worn boots upon dusty gravel grew nearer and he turned slightly, more so due to a long instilled need to keep anything and everything within his line of vision than simple curiosity. 

He shifted again as Murtagh sat down next to him and waited. 

It wasn’t uncommon for the two to sit side by side in comfortable silence from time to time but he knew the man, both godfather and superior, had sought him out with purpose. 

"Received confirmation from Stuart - schedule remains unchanged,” Murtagh stated casually. “Dougal's putting together the last of the equipment. Thought it would be best to leave Rupert be fer now."

Jamie nodded his approval. While Rupert had not been severely injured by the blast, he remained in the medic station for a long while before making his way to Angus' cot to start packing his best friend's belongings and it had been second nature for the team to unofficially take the man off rotation, wordlessly absorbing any and all remaining jobs between them. 

"I should double-check the paperwork's been lodged," Jamie replied though he made no move to stand and Murtagh did the same, having obviously decided it was his own turn to wait. Minutes went by unchecked until he finally said aloud, “I always thought this job couldnae get any harder,” the words spontaneous and providing little to no detail for their use. 

Still, his Godfather understood.

“Tomorrow may be harder than most, aye," Murtagh brushed a hand over his bearded chin and then waved it towards Jamie’s own, "but at the end of it, you’ll be home. In time fer the bairn’s first Christmas, no less.”

"Christmas," Jamie echoed, mostly to himself, nodding his head slowly before looking back down at the photograph. “I'll be home for Christmas.”

When Murtagh put a hand on his shoulder and stood, he dipped his head in acknowledgement but continued looking a moment longer, before tucking it back into his chest pocket and rising himself. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck - a long practised method used to replace the battered armour he had worn for far, far too long but destined to wear a little while longer yet. 

He would be home for Christmas but until that day came, he reminded himself, he had a job to do. And a promise to keep.

A/N: For a lot of people, Christmas is not a time of joy but of sadness, anxiety and distress. There can be an overwhelming sense of pressure to be happy and this underlying notion that expressing anything different is not only inappropriate but harmful to those around us. It leaves many - like Jamie in this AU and myself in real life - conflicted, confused and, at times, hopeless and lost. This story is dedicated not only to all service-men, -women and their families but to all of those who struggle during the holiday season. Please know that I am thinking of you and hope that you, like Jamie towards the end of this story, are blessed with a sense of inner peace and many restful nights. A x

[needtherapy]

soaring, carried aloft on the wind…continued 12

A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.

The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.

In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.

He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.

Part 1: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 … HOME

It’s on AO3 here if that’s easier to read.

NOTES: Chapters 11 and 13 are explict. This one is not.

For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!

Chapter 12

Xichen feels guilty. Of course he feels guilty. He knows why the soldiers leave at night and return in the morning. He knows what the cavalry troops train to do, what the archers practice for, what Mingjue spends his days planning.

But he is part of the Beifeng now, whether he is content or miserable, and how can he resist being cherished? How can he reject the kindness and affection Mingjue shows him? Or, for that matter, the friendship that Huaisang and Qingyang have offered him. 

His life falls into a routine, and there is solace in knowing what tomorrow will bring.

Most of his days are spent studying Orera with Qingyang and working in the hospital tents. He plays songs of power—Tranquility or Rest—with injured or dying soldiers. It is a gift no one else in the Beifeng encampment has. Using his magic, depleting his gift day after day, makes Xichen feel like maybe he truly can belong here, and he is not just an ornament on a shelf.

Huaisang shows Xichen how Kitingi hunts, mostly for birds smaller than herself, and Xichen begins to grow accustomed to the tiny, fierce munaku, as much one of the Beifeng as Huaisang himself. 

It doesn’t take long before Kitingi begins to ride on Xichen’s shoulder, enjoying his higher vantage, and although her claws puncture holes in his clothes, and he usually has to heal small wounds, he can’t help feeling honored to be chosen. Unlike the other hunting birds, she has no jesses, and she is never hooded. She spends most of her time circling the sky, and he wonders why she never leaves. 

Xichen had thought her name would have significance, but Huaisang’s smile is a little abashed when he holds out her wing so Xichen can see the curving shape of it. 

“Kitingi are a kind of fan,” he says. “They can be weapons,” he adds defensively when Xichen laughs.

“Is your name a kind of fan as well?” Xichen teases, and laughs harder when Huaisang wryly admits that “Aurakat” means “falling leaves.” 

“It’s a metaphor about the inevitability of change,” he explains. “If my mother was trying to send my father a message, it didn’t work. I have a younger brother and sister.”

“I have often thought my name was a message from my mother, too,” Xichen says after a pause. He is always reluctant to casually discuss his family, but it is so hard to resist this extended hand of friendship.

Huaisang’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, but he doesn’t pry, and the not-asking gives Xichen courage to continue.

“My birth name,” Xichen clarifies. “Huan. It means to melt away. Her fears for her first child, I think.” Xichen shrugs. He doesn't truly know, and he wishes, he wishes he could have a chance to ask.

“You have another name? Why do your people have so many names?” 

Huaisang sounds shocked and exasperated, but Xichen knows that Huaisang is perfectly aware of his birth name. It is in their treaty. Regardless of how the Beifeng feel about names, Huaisang has always called Xichen by his formal name or title, a polite gesture Xichen appreciates. He wonders if Mingjue knows his other name too and decides he should tell him. He doesn’t know why it matters. It shouldn’t matter. Xichen isn’t sure if he would even feel comfortable with anyone calling him by his birth name anymore. And yet, it feels like something important he wants Mingjue to know.

Some days, Huaisang and Xichen visit the fighting arena, and despite his protestations, Huaisang is usually willing to spar. He’s no match for Xichen’s swordsmanship, but he is quick, albeit prone to defense. When Xichen asks, Huaisang demonstrates how kitingi fighting fans work in battle, after blushing when he admits he likes using them. Xichen doesn’t know why it would be embarrassing. Kitingi fans have tiny blades set into the spines, nearly invisible but deadly. Because the fans are shorter than a sword, it shifts the fighting style, adding sweeping throws, spins, and swift lunges so unlike the ipira sword fighting most of the Beifeng favor. It is absolutely spectacular to watch, and Huaisang flushes again when he sees Xichen’s admiration. A part of Xichen yearns to learn this beautiful and graceful dance someday, but it makes him wonder—someday the Beifeng army will go home, and when they do, what will happen to him? He has difficulty believing the warlord’s concubine will have the same freedom and respect there as he does here. 

It takes some convincing, but once Huaisang sees that Xichen’s first win over Mingjue wasn’t an aberration, he eventually relents to letting Xichen spar with other Beifeng soldiers in the group melee. It is the only time Xichen ever feels truly challenged in the sparring arena unless Mingjue joins them. In those cases, the bouts nearly always end in Xichen’s tent, no matter which of them wins the fight. Occasionally, they don’t even make it that far, and more than once, Mingjue pulls Xichen into the nearest empty tent.

Xichen suspects he should be embarrassed about how infatuated he is, but he discovers that the lightning that strikes him every time Mingjue touches him doesn’t diminish over time or with familiarity. 

Some days he only sees Mingjue briefly, enough for his fingers to tingle when Mingjue’s hand tightens around his, or his breath to make the smallest hiccup when Mingjue smiles at him.

Some days when he sees Mingjue, he is grim-faced and distracted, uncomfortably reminding Xichen that he is still a commander and this is still an army intent on conquering his country. 

Whatever guilt he feels is largely that he feels less and less guilt every day.

Xichen knows he should feel more compunction about his growing comfort with his new life, but he finds that actually, he prefers to not feel the tight grip of guilt and turmoil constricting his chest at every moment. He hadn’t realized—how could he, when it was all he had ever known—that his life had always been resting on a knife’s edge, watching his father for approval, constructing arguments to pacify the elders, waiting for the next clan skirmish, even carefully protecting his brother. Here, he does not have to be vigilant Lan heir or cautious older brother. He can be only Xichen.

And some days, the days Xichen likes best, are the ones where Mingjue stays after dinner. Sometimes he listens to Xichen play the guqin, sometimes Xichen reads aloud with Mingjue’s head pillowed on his lap, and sometimes Mingjue proves that Huaisang was right: there is no better way to learn a language than in bed.

There are a few things, though, that are easier to learn from Huaisang. Xichen is surprised at how willing Huaisang is to tell him about the Beifeng. In fact, he seems determined that Xichen should understand their politics, their social structures, even their military strategy. Xichen thinks it is mostly because Huaisang is angling for reciprocal information. It’s subtle, but for every question Huaisang answers about the Beifeng, including learning their name for themselves, Ikarahu, he eventually asks of Xichen. 

They talk of matters as complicated as inheritance and succession, as different as religious observance—Huaisang scoffs at the idea of gods, and Xichen tries not to be scandalized—and as inane as wedding customs. The Ikarahu are always wed outdoors, barefoot and unbraided, whereas Xichen’s clan requires only formal negotiations, and weddings are a rare luxury. The only thing they have in common is that both ceremonies—contracts, as Xichen thinks of them—are perfected by physical contact. A kiss, Huaisang insists, although Xichen points out that a handshake is also acceptable contact, and preferable if the parties have never met, as is often the case.

“You’re just not a romantic,” Huaisang complains.

Xichen laughs, but he believes Huaisang is right. He’s never had the luxury to be one.

Huaisang tells Xichen about the Ikarahu king, the ahukau, who turns out to be his and Mingjue’s father. It is a stunning revelation. Xichen knows the treaty. He had memorized every line of the contract he rewrote—a gift for the warlord’s pleasure are words he will never forget. He knows it was never mentioned that the Ikarahu warlord was also the crown prince of Ikara. 

Xichen tries to regain his bearings and reevaluate what this means for his future as he stammers through answers to Huaisang’s questions about how the child emperor rules the clans. Or, as Xichen says with a grimace, doesn’t. The clans either build alliances among themselves or fight among themselves, particularly the smaller ones, which Huaisang thinks is counterproductive. He unabashedly brags that the ahukau rules a united country of tribes along with a council made of randomly selected tribal elders.

“Your country is so barbaric,” he tells Xichen with a grin. 

It is humbling to realize that to Huaisang, it very likely is. The world hasn’t changed, he thinks ruefully. Just the view from where he’s standing.

After one particularly arduous day of healing and a disagreement about the role of women in war, Huaisang introduces Xichen to Ikarahu ale.

“Women are precious,” Xichen argues, sipping the sweet liquor. It’s not as tart as the wine he’s had, and he likes the way it coats his mouth. “They should not be risked in battle.”

Huaisang grunts. “You’ve clearly never tried to tell that to an Ikarahu woman. Women are glorious and should do whatever they want. Sometimes that’s wielding an ipira.” He downs a cup of ale in a single gulp and yells for more. 

Xichen drinks from his cup again, and it suddenly strikes him as extremely funny that an army encampment has taverns.

“Of course it does.” Huaisang looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Our soldiers have honor and pride, but they aren’t stupid. Alcohol, prompt pay, and warm socks are how you keep an army happy.”

“Don’t you worry about drunken fighting? Or…va...van...” Xichen can’t think of the word. “Property damage?”

“Not significantly,” Huaisang snorts, slamming coins down on the table when someone hands him a fresh bottle. “Ipira’orhew Ikira says no drunken fighting and his word is law. You wouldn’t believe how few of our people are willing to defy him, even drunk. Especially given...well...you’ve seen the consequences.”

“But there are thousands of people here. They can’t all be afraid of him,” Xichen says dreamily, finishing his cup, which Huaisang refills. “He’s sweet.”

Huaisang falls off his stool laughing. “Please, please let me tell him you said that. Let me tell everyone that Zewu-Jun thinks the crown prince is sweet.”

Xichen blushes and drinks to cover his embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to insult him.”

“Oh, you didn’t. Not at all. My father will be delighted. He has despaired of finding Etikuntiga a spouse. ‘He’s so picky,’” Huaisang says in a different, deeper voice, which Xichen assumes must be imitating his father.

Xichen’s face is burning, and he hides it in his hands. “It isn’t like that, and you know it.”

“It is like that, and you know it,” Huaisang retorts. 

“But...what about children? Mustn't your crown prince have children?” 

Huaisang howls with laughter, clutching his sides, and Xichen claps a hand over his mouth. Why can’t he stop saying the wrong thing?

Huaisang tips over to lay sprawled on the ground. “What about them? Pointless, in my opinion, but if you insist, you can always adopt.”

For a moment, Xichen is frozen by the idea of children, not just children as abstract descendants to inherit his position, but children that would be his, children he could tell stories to and teach the guqin to. Children who would know how he loved them, he thinks, and his eyes prick with tears.

Luckily, Huaisang doesn’t notice.

“Xichen, Etikuntiga isn't kipakau because he’s the oldest. We have nakau...well, we did...we do...” He gestures vaguely. “Well anyway, it’s because he’s the best. Not just the best in our family. The best among all the tribes. There was a—what would you call it—a tournament? He won as our father did before him. Leadership must be earned, not only born.”

He burps and takes another drink laying down, spilling some of the alcohol on himself. Xichen laughs, the sound alarmingly close to a giggle, and he clamps his lips shut.

“So yes, my family will be overjoyed that the treaty with the Cloud Recesses was a tremendous success, Ahora'ipa. We could almost go home now.”

He sounds so wistful, Xichen asks without thinking, finishing his cup. “Why don’t you? Why did you come here if you don’t want to stay?”

Huaisang doesn’t answer immediately, but then he raises a hand, beckoning to Xichen. “Come here, Zewu-Jun, and I will tell you a secret.”

Xichen doesn’t know why he obeys, but he does, laying on the ground next to Huaisang. It seems safer here anyway. There is less spinning.

Huaisang scoots over and whispers, “We used to have an older sister, too, Zewu-Jun. She shone like the summer sun, and I loved her. She is lost to us forever. What else should we do?” He blinks, and there are tears welling in his eyes.

“Anati, eina anha eko?” The sudden interjection of Mingjue’s voice sounds exasperated, and both Huaisang and Xichen startle. He kicks the bottom of Huaisang’s boot gently.

“Anakau! Onho outam!” Huaisang sounds delighted to see Mingjue, and he waves cheerfully, his sorrow already forgotten. “Edi eta uni auha oripa with my friend, Xichen!”

Huaisang hisses the word as though he is confessing to a crime, and Xichen wants to protest. He is past his majority and is allowed to drink alcohol if he wants to, and he decides he will, in fact, drink it again; the warm pliancy of his bones pleases him.

“Ingarau ek eko,” Mingjue points out, but he sounds affectionate rather than judgmental. 

“Yes, he is,” Huaisang says, deliberately misunderstanding. “Did you know his name was also Huan? He has too many names, don’t you think?”

Xichen punches Huaisang on the arm, but Huaisang just dissolves into helpless giggles. 

“Why did you tell him that?” Xichen complains. “I was going to tell him. It’s a private name. You don’t just tell people.” 

Mingjue looks at Xichen and raises his eyebrow, but he either doesn’t follow the words or decides not to comment. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Xichen says solemnly, staring up at Mingjue. Even from here, he looks pretty, Xichen thinks.

Mingjue waits until he sees Xichen isn’t moving and sighs. He lifts Xichen to a standing position and slowly releases him. Xichen stays upright, so Mingjue crouches down and gracefully pulls Huaisang onto his back with practiced ease. Huaisang wraps his arms around Mingjue’s neck like a baby, and Mingjue hoists his legs.

“Come?” Mingjue asks, beckoning for Xichen to follow him.

Xichen blinks at him. “I can walk.”

“Yes?” Mingjue seems skeptical.

Xichen holds out his hand. “I need help.”

With a grin, Mingjue cocks his elbow and Xichen takes it. It does make walking more tenable, and Xichen leans into Mingjue’s side. He smells like sweat, horses, and cedar trees, and Xichen inhales. He’d never liked the smell of horses before, but now it reminds him of friendship and hard work, callused hands and dimples, soft hair and kisses.

“You are pretty, and you smell nice,” he informs Mingjue, who chuckles, and Huaisang objects.

“Ekos! Do not flirt with my brother while I am in the room.”

“But Huaisang, we’re outside.” And anyway, Xichen thinks this rule is confusing. Hadn’t Huaisang told him it was a good thing that he liked Mingjue?

Huasiang just mumbles “no,” again, and falls asleep.

Mingjue takes Xichen to his tent first, setting Huaisang down on a cushion to help Xichen. He takes off Xichen’s clothes down to his undershirt and pants, unfastens the clip that holds his hair back and touches the ribbon on his forehead, frowning.

“This too?” he asks, and Xichen shakes his head, the motion making his body weave uncontrollably, and he sits down hard on the edge of the bed, grateful he didn’t miss and land on the floor.

“No,” he says, trying to remember why he doesn’t take it off. “It is for...it is for my wedding night. A sacred vow,” he laughs giddily, remembering, and Mingjue furrows his brow.

He starts to ask another question, but shakes his head. “I will ask anati. You sleep.”

Xichen lays down obediently and Mingjue tucks the blankets around him, brushing his lips across Xichen’s forehead.

“Stay?” Xichen asks, catching Mingjue’s hand and kissing the fingertips. 

Mingjue looks very much like he wants to agree, particularly after Xichen touches his lips to the pulse point on his wrist. With a very reluctant sigh, he retrieves his hand.

“No, Xichen,” he says, running his fingers through Xichen’s hair. “You drink much. And Aurakat sleeps.”

Oh. Xichen is disappointed, but of course, Huaisang needs to go back to...wherever it is Huaisang sleeps. Xichen realizes he has no idea if Huaisang has his own tent, or sleeps with a partner—or two. Are they truly friends after all? But then he remembers that Huaisang had told him a secret, and secrets seem like friendship.

“Are we friends?” he asks Mingjue drowsily, and Mingjue shakes his head.

“No, beloved. Ahora'ipa. More.”

More sounds nice, Xichen thinks before he falls asleep. He had never thought to have more.

Translation Notes:

nakau: older siblings (it’s gender neutral, includes both brothers and sisters)

Anati, eina anha eko? = Little brother, what are you doing?

Anakau! Onho outam! Edi eta uni auha oripa with my friend, Xichen! = Elder brother! Join us! I am drinking alcohol with my friend, Xichen!

Ingarau ek eko. = You are drunk.

Ekos! = No!

[oatsn-honey]

restless

masterlist

AO3

summary:  This time, Winry isn't the one waking him up from the dream. It's his own terrified screams that break his fitful slumber.

notes:  hey!! i'm somehow here with another fic, not too long after my last post!! :>>> it's not as long, but i hope u enjoy this little one-shot! <333

“They’re back,” He breathed while they were laying in bed one night. Lined up with the edge of the mattress, limbs nearly dangling off, his back was turned to her. 

Her brows creasing together in confusion, she stared at his shoulders. Despite her yearning to reach out for him, she refrained, knowing it would prompt him to stop speaking, doing more harm than good. “What’s ba--,” 

“The nightmares,” He finished finally twisting around to face her, the blankets rustling with the movement. Their gazes linked, blue meeting a quivering, guilt laden gold. His face, strange shadows splaying across his freckled skin in the moonlight, was disturbingly blank as he broke eye contact. A small part of her wished that he would allow himself to cry, just to show that vulnerability and trust to her, but she quickly squashed it down with scorn. His doubts were reasonable -- understandable, even -- and valid. And she accepted that they were drilled into his subconscious by years of pain and paranoia. She was simply appreciative of the shred of honesty. His lips pursed, he continued, “But, they never honestly stopped in the first place. They’ve just… gotten worse.” 

“Yeah,” She sighed, making a minute motion forward. “It’s almost every night now, huh?” He nodded, lips quirking awkwardly to one side. She swallowed harshly, voice quivering and hesitant, “What are they about? You’ve only mentioned a few...”

His hand, the one returned to him, emerged from the covers to rub at the corner of his eye. He settled, staring blankly at nothing through the cracks between his fingers. Finally, that serious frown managed to worm its way onto his face, and she quickly came to realize that she had, in one fell swoop, ruined any chance of delving further into the matter. “I don’t really feel like talking about it.”

She mustered a small, sad smile, and caved at last, slinking forward and near him. Pressing her body flush against his, she wrapped her arms firmly around his waist, pulling him close to her. He tucked his arms underneath her own, resting his head on her shoulder, holding onto her tightly. When she felt the small quivers running through his body, she tenderly whispered, “It’s alright, everything will be fine. You don’t have to tell me now. It’ll be okay, Ed.” She pressed her face into his hair, the golden tresses falling around her face. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! No, stop! I didn’t know, I’m sorry!” 

He woke up screaming again, bellows of terror echoing throughout the ominously dark room. Chest heaving, lungs constricted, stomach churning, he sat straight up, swallowing the wave of nausea that urged him to vomit.  Without Winry to shake him awake, frantically calling his name, Edward found that the dream had become more exceedingly horrendous. Too petrified to even close his eyes, he unsteadily swung his legs over the bed, the automail of his left feeling heavier than lead. Attempting to quell the rapid beating of his heart and the anxiety and fear shooting through his body, he shakily rose. 

The buzz of Winry’s machine lures him, and he finds himself wobbling out of the room and into the hallway. As the noise grows louder, his throat begins to feel tighter. Once, the clatter of her tools lulled him to sleep, but now it only served to grate at his mind, reminding him of all the strain he had made her withstand throughout the years, all that he forced onto others. The nightmare flashed in his vision, and with a stumble he took a moment to rest against the wall, panting heavily. 

Regaining control over his frantic breaths, he shuffled tiredly towards her workroom, immediately catching sight of the flying sparks, generated by the particular tool in her hand. The room was dark and hot, suffocating, with only a bright desk lamp shining down on her work. With the roaring of her machine, Winry didn’t hear him stop at the doorway. 

“Winry,” He introduced, leaning exhaustively against the doorframe. She clicked off the tool and the mechanical whir petered out. She swiveled in  her chair, facing him. Pushing her goggles past her hairline, she tilted her head at him. “You should go to bed.”

Giving him a look, she laughed wryly, “Could say the same thing to you, Elric.”

Expression falling, he sighed. There was a moment of silence, and a bone-deep tiredness radiated from both of them. “Winry, please, you need to rest. There’s no need to rush anymore -- you can take some time for yourse--”

Pushing against her brow, Winry spoke adamantly, exasperatedly, “Well, you aren’t, and never were, my only client, Ed, so you don’t have much to say in regards to whether or not I need to rush.” Her words stang, and he made an indignant rebuttal that she promptly interrupted, “ You aren’t my priority right this second, and there are people who need urgently need my automail. I’m not sure if your prideful attitude and confidence will allow you to see that fact, but it’s true.” She grunted, crossing her arms and drawing her lips into a thin line. 

In her heart, Winry fully knew that she was being unfair -- flitting her eyes up towards him, she could plainly see the bruise-like circles carved underneath his now dulled amber eyes. Heaving a burdensome sigh, she collapsed into her hands. “Sorry,” She whined, dragging a slim hand down her cheek, voice taut with emotions and sounding close to tears. Reprimanding herself, she was reminded of how utterly exhausted they both were. 

She bit her lip at the memory of jostling Edward awake, sobbing and frightened as she cried his name through the screams. “No, you’re right,” His defeated words broke her from the reprieve. Winry’s shoulders drooped and she felt like sobbing at his admission, knowing that he was too drained for even the thought of snapping back at her. 

Following a long, drawn-out pause, with her mind too jumbled to respond, he was left to uncomfortably shift his weight between his two very different feet. “I think… that I’m going to go.” He turned away, before stopping just outside the door. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Winry.” He disappeared down the hallway, his metal leg clanking along with his uneven steps. She could distinctly make out the limp. 

Choking back a shout of his name that was itching at her throat, she cried quietly. Swiveling in her chair, she hurriedly told herself to calm down, the panic pricking throughout her body contradicting the sentiment. “I’ve already made it bad enough.” 

She bashed the heel of her hand into her forehead, tears of humiliation and shame leaving wet trails on her cheeks. The mechanic rubbed at her temples, willing the worsening headache away. With a regretful exhale, she clenched her eyes shut, early drifting off to the stillness of the air and the hum of the old house. Blinking rapidly, she sat up, warding off the drowsiness.

She stood, swallowing her bout of anxiety, and dragged herself from the room and making her way down the creaky stairs. When she poked her head into the kitchen, Winry found a hot kettle of tea kept warm on the stove. A mug had been set out. After wringing her hands nervously, she poured herself some, wrapping her calloused hands tenderly around the warm glass. As she watched the dark liquid slosh around in the cup, the tea’s herbal scent wafted up to her, prompting her to take a tentative sip. The all-too familiar flavor of an oat flower, lavender, and lime-flower brew greeted her. The taste bit at Winry’s tongue, throwing her mistake right at her heart. This was the combination that was used in Xing -- to combat nightmares, anxiety, and depression.

 In a flash, Winry was reminded of the phone call she shared with Mei just a week previously. “The oat flower works to regulate circadian rhythms and synthesize natural melatonin. In Xing, lime-flower is used to treat anxiety and sleep disorders, and is effective against nightmares. It’s also used to assist retired soldiers, as it also functions as a mild sedative and antidepressant.” With the information invading her thoughts, her guilt increased tenfold. 

Shuffling out to the sitting room, she found Ed slumped against the couch’s armrest, a book situated on his crossed legs, his steaming mug cupped in his hands. Hoping to muffle any sound, Winry took a seat in the armchair opposite of him, nearly missing his small flinch at the sound of scrunching material. 

“Hey, I,” She started, thrown off by the urgent need to swallow thickly. He didn’t glance up at her, but Winry couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes drifted shut, only to snap open brief seconds later, frantically searching the page’s of his thick alchemic book for a familiar passage. Taking in a steadying breath, Winry began, “I’m sorry, Ed. It wasn’t fair of me to say that.” Voice teetering out again, she searched for the words she knew she still had left to say. 

Tired eyes looked up at her, meeting with her own, he sighed, closing the weathered book. She didn’t miss the way he neglected to move the bookmark. Placing his tea down on the side table, he responded despondently, “Win, I’m sorry too, I--”

“No, Ed!” Winry exclaimed, the liquid in her mug nearly sloshing over the edge. Exhaling forcefully, she attempted desperately to ring the tension from her face and voice. “No, Ed, you have nothing to apologize for. You did nothing wrong.”

“But, Winry,” He argued, only to be abruptly cut off once again.

“You were worried about me. You weren’t saying that my patient’s don’t have priority. You were just saying that I should have priority too, and I’m sorry that I didn’t understand.” Her body slumped, defeated. “I’m just so… tired,” A wry chuckle passed her lips, “But I guess that’s contradictory to me staying up.”

Edward leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Winry,” He sighed laboriously, placing his head in his hands, “No, I’m sorry for… putting you through so much.” She pursed her lips, eyebrows furrowing at his words. “You were right,” Winry made a sound of protest, but didn’t get a chance to make an outcry at his words, “I was, am, prideful. I didn’t ever consider that you had to take care of other people, or yourself, and I consistently worked you to death. Not to mention,” He paused briefly before continuing, “I was always coming back to you banged up, and would never even tell you why.”

“Edward…,” Her face fell, face drawn as she looked towards him; the way his hair cascaded down and brushed his legs. Leaning forward, her hand came to rest on his knees. 

“I never thought of how you felt, I didn’t consider your pain, Winry.” Looking up at her, his eyes were pooled with guilt and sorrow. 

“Ed,” Winry’s voice was taut with emotion, and she launched forward, wrapping muscular arms around him. He didn’t make a sound, simply placing his fingertips tenderly at her waist. “Please, stop, Ed. Please just stop blaming yourself for everything that happened. You were doing all you could to save your brother, and no one is upset at you for anything you did. Everyone’s, I’m, just glad that you both are back and safe.”

Leaning away rapidly, her hands rose to gently smack his cheeks -- his eyes widened ever-so-slightly. “Now!” She declared, “Cut it out! I love you, you big goof!”

Lips still pursed, his eyes softened, before he smiled gently. Her thumb caressed his cheek tenderly, “Seriously, Ed, I love you, and you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You deserve a break.” His arms wrapped more tightly around her waist, and she leaned in to embrace him again.

Suddenly, she found herself flipped over and onto the couch, Edward hovering over her,  laughing as his fingers danced lightly against her skin, tickling -- Winry began howling so forcefully that she couldn’t decide if it was even funny or not. Tears pricked at her eyes, only from joy instead of remorse. “Stop! Stop!” She found herself squealing between giggles.

“Nope!” He sang, amusement lacing his tone. Kissing her neck, his fingers tickled her sides, making her nearly sick to her stomach with glee. In a feat exhibiting her tenacity and strength (and ability to squirm away), she had overpowered him, reversing their roles. Now tickling him, she pulled a loud string of laughs (despite his lack of ticklishness), entertained by her hilarious assertion of pride and dominance.

In their playful match, she finally relinquished, leaning back and groaning exaggeratedly, “Fine,” She dragged out, “Enough is enough!” She leveled a teasing glare with him, “It’s a draw.” Smiling, Edward laughed silently, before bursting out with hearty chuckles. She whacked his arm, winking, before hopping off of the couch. She latched onto his hand, dragging him into their kitchen. 

Sitting him down at the table, Winry scampered off, hollering behind her, “Wait a moment!” She emerged moments later with an armful of old board games, housed in deteriorating boxes. Smirking, she slammed them down on the table. 

Edward gasped, launching from his seat to snatch a box from the pile. “Win! This is the game you, Al and I would play all the time as kids,” He shouted, eyes shining with something akin to childlike excitement, “We always had fights over it!” 

Winry yanked it from his hands, staring down at the faded box, “Oh my gosh! It is!” Sliding the rest of the games off of the table, hardly caring about the mess created, the mechanic began to prepare the board.

Sitting down urgently, nearly bouncing in her seat, Winry encouraged, “You first.” She offered him the dice. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” He smirked, rolling the dice (as Winry rolled her eyes), putting his turn into motion. Groaning at the low number, he moved his game piece dejectedly. She snickered, confidently grabbing the dice off of the table.

Not 15 minutes later, both were slumped over the table, game pieces strewn about the table and tiled floor. With their hands intertwined, reaching across and over the board, both began to nod off. 

“I won,” Winry heard, and Ed felt her hand tense in his in response. He laughed softly, tiredly, and she did the same.

“Sure,” She hummed, looking up at him through her eyelashes, only to find his eyes closed, breathing even. Sighing, body miraculously relaxing in the increasingly uncomfortable position (she told herself it was the power of exhaustion), Winry smiled gently.

Just as her consciousness fades, a delightful sound reaches her ears. “I love you, Winry. Thank you.” 

notes: hope u liked it!! this is actually my first fma fic i've ever posted, which is really surprising, considering it was my first fandom! funny enough, my first fanfic was fma and i wrote it in a little notebook that i carried around with me!

i'm so in love with these dorks,,,, and i hope y'all liked the way i wrote for them! at first i was like,,, "wait they wouldn't fight" and then i felt stupid. so

i hope u have accepted my strange gift of random tea knowledge haa

pls let me know what u think about this down below! tysm for reading!! <3333 (also, happy new year!!! hope u have a great 2020!! keep ur chin up!)

[hegemoneapple]

Basilisk Eyes: Chapter 13: Alohomora and Wingardium Leviosa

Crossposted: Basilisk Eyes by Hegemone | Completed: Chapter 13 out of 157 | T | AO3 | FFN | WATT | HPFF

Summary: As Harry Potter slays the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, blood and venom get in his eyes, mostly blinding him. While Harry learns to adapt, he makes some new friends. But this is more than a story of adaptation and friendship as there are threats... and Harry isn't the only one with a past that haunts him.

oO0OooO0OooO0OooO0Oo

A few days later, Harry woke up early—shivering in the early morning chill that filled the small space of his room; he had been sleeping with the window open all night long hoping that Hedwig would come back. He listened for her small noises on her perch, but the room was quiet except for a cricket chirping from beneath his wardrobe. He left it alone. 

He could smell the rain in the air. “It’s 5:43 am” sang the lyrical voice from his staff. He was glad to be up early before the sun made his room blindingly bright. 

Hermione must be writing a novel in response. She probably is spending all her time in the library researching. Hedwig would be weighted down and have a hard time making it back with all her scrolls. That was it. That was why it was taking so long. 

He wondered how Hermione was handling the end of term with no exams and the weeks of study that she missed while petrified? Knowing her, she was probably frantically interviewing the professors trying to catch up on everything she missed. He could imagine Ron rolling his eyes in exasperation.

He wished he had written more in his message. He had so much more he wanted to say to both Ron and Hermione.   

To distract himself from the yearning and the waiting, he worked on trying to make his staff work reasoning that it had to be more than a talking clock.

When he held it, it gave him the same sort of magical charge that his wand gave off. It wasn’t like electricity, which was more of a surface sensation of static, this was something that seemed to connect to his very core. His broom felt this way, too, but more subtly.

He held it and tried “Wingardium Leviosa,” but couldn’t detect anything flying around the room. He locked his wardrobe and tried “Alohomora” and nothing happened. He tried it on Hedwig’s cage and nothing happened. He tried it on his bedroom door, but this time the staff was touching the base of the door when he muttered the spell and he heard the lock pop open. It had to be in contact with the object! He tried the wardrobe and Hedwig’s cage again, but touching the staff to the doors this time and they sprang open! A small thrill raced through him.

He also realized that he was no longer groping around his room for his furniture as he moved through the space, but rather reaching out confidently and finding it where he expected it to be.  

He decided to try Wingardium Leviosa again while holding onto the table by his bed and nothing happened, but when he said it while holding on with one hand and touching it with the staff in the other hand, it floated up a couple inches off the floor and he was able to move it around the room easily. When he let go of it, it settled onto the floor with a low thud. He levitated it back to its normal spot.

What would happen if I touched the staff to something I want to read? He wondered.  He pulled out one of the leaflets from under his bed and tried it. Nothing. He thought about it really hard and felt the paper flutter under his grasp as if a breeze had caught it, but still nothing was revealed. He suddenly felt sapped. There must be a spell.

All the while he was trying these spells, there was a niggling feeling in the back of his brain. He half expected Ministry owls to come swooping in as they had last year when Dobby bombed the kitchen with Aunt Petunia’s masterpiece pudding.

He hoped that what the Healer had said about the restriction of underage magic being adjusted for him was really true, but when had any government, magical or otherwise taken care of things efficiently. He decided to stop. If the Dursleys got a message from the Ministry of Magic, they’d surely lock him in his room with no wands or staffs or Hedwig and he’d be stuck there for the rest of the summer with absolutely nothing to do; not even read. The thought made his heart constrict.

oO0OooO0OooO0OooO0Oo

The days passed very much like the days before. Harry did manage to take a shower and though Vernon pounded on the door, shouting at him to stop wasting water when he’d barely begun, it was still refreshing.

Harry was figuring out how to cook breakfast and not get burned (he used an oven mitt) while doing his best not to attract the ire of Uncle Vernon. Once Uncle Vernon was off to work, Aunt Petunia lined up jobs for Harry to do. In between, Harry took naps. He was still so tired. He noticed that he had to fasten his belt a notch tighter to keep his trousers up. He just didn’t have much of an appetite.

He spent a good portion of one morning cleaning out the fridge after he misjudged where the shelf was as he was putting away the orange juice container and the sticky substance splashed all over the shelves. After his initial dismay, he decided to approach it as a puzzle and tried to figure out what things were by touch and smell. He had to be careful to put things back in the right spot… no longer just to satisfy Petunia’s sense of order, but now because he needed to know that he was grabbing the jam and not the pickled herrings.

Some jobs were easier to do than others. He was banned from loading the wash after (according to Aunt Petunia) the disastrous effect of including a red sock in a load of whites. How was I supposed to know? Folding was fine, but sorting laundry was a lot tougher. Some of it he could figure out by touch—Aunt Petunia’s clothes were easy to tell apart from Uncle Vernon’s, but some items were totally perplexing. It took a lot longer as he had to figure out through touch if a shirt was inside out or not. Aunt Petunia was so rigid about how items were folded to fit into drawers.

Ironing was okay, just tedious, and sometimes painful if he drifted into a daydream and touched the hot iron. He had a burn on the pad of his index finger that was especially annoying now that he was completely dependent on his sense of touch.

If Aunt Petunia wasn’t close by, he could listen to a radio station that he actually liked, as long as he didn't stay too close to the radio because it would lose the signal and just emit static when he was next to it which made tuning it challenging. At first, he’d tune it to music radio stations, but it didn’t take long before he was captivated by the BBC news stories. Petunia bustled in and snapped the radio back to her favorite station that took popular songs and made them perversely instrumental. Harry gagged at the tunes.

He thought about Madam Pomfrey wanting him to spend the weeks at home so he could rest. He bet he would have gotten more rest if he had stayed at school than he was ever going to get at the Dursleys. He was surprised that his Aunt wasn’t happier to see him given that he lightened her chore load considerably. 

But when did anything she did ever make sense?

He made it through the days and then the evenings with the Dursleys, and finally was able to escape to his room. At the threshold, he listened to see if Hedwig had arrived while he was doing the dinner dishes. He was disappointed to be greeted by silence and found it hard to fall asleep—every nighttime sound made him still with anticipation, willing Hedwig to alight on his windowsill with a rustling message tied to her leg.