#they gaze up at the stars even if they dont do it to find constellations or map the night sky but just because it feels right | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cowboydisaster · 2 years ago

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The Fire In Your Eyes

part III: blackwater ii

originally posted on 1 march 2023

pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

word count: 10k

summary: disaster strikes while you're working a real estate scam with Arthur and Hosea. A job gone wrong leaves you with two options: flee or die.

a/n: chapter three!!! This is a big chapter, and a very important one! This is our last chapter in blackwater. Reader discretion is advised while reading this. Please look at the warnings and decide for yourself whether or not you want to read. As always, thank you to my beta reader @margowritesthings

warnings: gore, death, animal death, wounds, trauma, mentions of post traumatic stress, reader discretion highly advised.

SERIES MASTERPOST

The camp is quiet tonight, well this morning to be exact. Mostly everyone has gone to bed already. With the ferry job in Blackwater coming up, the gang has been working extra hard, counting for early mornings and earlier nights. The dark blue sky is littered with stars and constellations, and you lean back against the log on the ground to look up at them. They freckle the sky, and you gaze up at them in wonder. You’ve always been amazed by the stars. Your momma used to teach you about the constellations. She would lie on the grass with you, not unlike you are right now, hand intertwined with your own while the other pointed up at the stars. Sometimes your Pa would come out too, sit on the other side of you, sandwiching you between your parents when you were just a girl. Your favorite has always been Lupus, ever since childhood the constellation has stuck with you, watching over you like a guardian angel. The stars string together, making the perfect form of a howling wolf. It takes you a little bit, but after some familiar searching you finally find the collection of stars.

The warm campfire heats you despite the chill of the night, warming your bones and keeping you content even as wind rolls across the plains tousling your hair. You could lay here forever, watching the stars. It's quiet, peaceful. You crave time like this, time to get back to your roots and feel free. As you watch the constellation, you wish that you could throw back your head and howl with it. Your momma always called you her little star, and shit, it's no mystery as to why. You’re aflame, fiery and burning brighter than the sun, your personality shines, you’re bold and beautiful. A silent tear drips down your cheek, and you hastily wipe it away, watching as a white streak shoots across the dark night. A shooting star.

"Hey, momma…" You whisper up at the sky, laughing despite the tears in your eyes. You close them, thinking of a wish to ask of the star. What do you want? Of anything you could have, what should you wish for?

A throat clears beside you, and you startle, instinctually reaching for the wooden handle of your knife and unsheathing it half way.

"Hold your horses there, dont go pokin' holes in me just yet, I brought you a beer for chrissakes." Arthur chuckles, resting down beside you against the log. You slip your knife back into its sheath, muttering a small apology as you gratefully accept the glass bottle from his extended hand. He's already popped the cap for you, and you press the rim to your lips, savoring the unfortunately warm alcohol.

"So�� ya settling in alright?" Arthur asks, bringing one knee up to rest his elbow on. The firelight dances in his soft eyes, matching the fire in your own as he looks to you under the brim of his hat. He’s wearing a black stand collar shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans, and he must have just taken a bath in town. You notice the sweet smell of lavender on him, and his freshly trimmed beard. It makes you release a laugh under your breath, the thought of him using oils in a bath.

"Yeah.. I think so." You answer honestly, watching the burning logs in front of you.

"What’s your plan then? Should be well enough on your feet… you- you leavin'? Or-" Arthur looks down to his lap as he asks, not wanting to look into your eyes for fear of seeing your response. You sigh, thinking over what you should do and what you want to do. You don't want to go, not in the slightest, but you should.

"I don't know… Maybe I'll just stay a little longer. Not like I have anywhere else to go, or any family to go back to." You whisper, setting your beer on the dirt and pulling a few pieces of grass out from the ground to distract yourself from thinking. Arthur nods, bringing the neck of his bottle to his lips and swigging back some while contemplating your words.

Arthur doesn't want you to go, he can't place why- he doesn't want to label why, but he wants you to stay. Arthur knows what staying means, staying means risking your life every day, being on the run every day. It's no life you asked for, it's no life you deserve. He wants you to get away, to live a life with a husband and a family. Not to turn out like him. And at the same time he's so driven to be around you, to talk to you, be with you. It's a dilemma that frequents the pages of his journal.

"If you're leavin', you'll wanna be long gone before this ferry job comes round." Arthur whispers darkly.

You know he's right. If you're mixed up with the Van der Linde gang during the ferry robbery you'll never get the price off your head, not alive anyway.

"Yeah…" You mumble, biting your lip and pulling at the grass.

Arthur notices the shift in your mood, the uncomfortable feeling that's come over you from thinking about the situation. He wants to comfort you, tell you it'll be okay. But you both know he can't promise that.

"Ain't no need to rush a decision. Ferry job's a ways out yet. Just think on it." He says, resting his hand on your leg in a show of comfort. Immediately your eyes shoot to his hand, it rests a little above your knee, warm and comforting, a show of support. It's been a long time since someone has cared for you in the way Arthur has. And shit, you barely know him.

"Okay." You smile.

Arthur squeezes your knee gently before placing his hands on the dirt and standing up. He brushes some dirt and grass off his jeans before placing his hands on his belt and looking to you one last time.

“Think I’m gonna turn in for the night, you?” He asks, grabbing his bottle from the ground.

You could go to bed now, but the stars are so beautiful, and you have a lot to think about. You need to make a decision before the robbery, which is approaching all too quickly.

“Reckon I’ll stay out just a bit longer…” You whisper, laying down against the log again to look up at the sky. Arthur nods, tipping his hat to you lightly.

“G’night, miss.” He whispers, taking a few steps back before turning and heading towards his tent. He glances back at you a few times before he makes it there, watching as your eyes sparkle, just like the stars you’re watching.

You have nowhere to go, and no means of making money besides whoring. And you will not sell yourself to the sleazy rats that occupy the town. You have no quarrel with the women who choose that path, you understand their limited options in the workforce, but you can’t. And if you do go, you’ll have no one. Your Momma and Pa are gone, you’ve left your hometown on account of lawmen tracking you down, and you’ve lost your damn horse. The only people you have now are those who have welcomed you into the gang: Arthur, Hosea, Abigail, the girls and Jack.

So you’ll stay.

— — —

You snatch an apple off of Pearson’s table, crunching into it as you make your way over to the table. The fruit is sweet, a perfect breakfast that wakes you up and satisfies your early morning sweet tooth. Well, fairly early. You slept in a bit later than usual, until about 9am, and by the time you'd thrown on your outfit for the day , a white shirt and black pants, it’s about a quarter after. So far no one’s given you trouble for your little slip up, but you expect some hassle from Grimshaw later.

“Come sit, there's still some room, we saved you a seat so we didn’t have to sit by Uncle!” Jenny hollers from the table across camp. Seated at the little round table are Jenny, Abigail and Marybeth. With a small smile you head over, chuckling as Uncle yells something from his spot on the ground in front of the fire.

“Mornin’ ladies.” You offer, sitting down at the wooden table and resting your elbows on the top. Marybeth is invested in a book, with a cup of coffee that's sitting on the table. Jenny sits with her boots resting up on the tabletop, sharpening her knife, and you and Abigail share an amused glance at her behavior.

“We was just talkin’ about how Jenny’s getting pretty serious with Mr. Summers.” Abigail prods, raising her eyebrows a little and nudging you with her elbow. Jenny rolls her eyes, jokingly glaring at Abigail for a second before returning to sharpening her knife.

“And so what if we are? You gonna offer me some advice or somethin, with you bein’ married and all?” Jenny asks, looking across the center of camp to where John is talking with Arthur, Dutch and Hosea. Your eyes linger on the four men for a moment, as their conversation looks heated. Hopefully everythings alright. You’ve noticed the stress levels have been especially high in camp with the ferry coming soon. It's only a few nights away.

“We ain't married. Well not really anyways, not officially.” Abigail looks downtrodden by the fact, and you try to quickly change the subject to ease her heartache. You’ve seen the tension in their relationship, and heard her quiet cries at night when John sleeps by the fire instead of in their tent.

“You’re askin’ for marriage advice? Are you two tyin’ the knot?” You ask, to which Jenny quickly shushes you, clamping her hand over your mouth with wide eyes. Marybeth has shifted interest from her book to your conversation, fully leaning in with a big smile.

“Have you talked about it? My lord- marriage, what a dream!” Marybeth beams, leaning in towards the table with hopeful eyes.

“We did,” Jenny releases her hand from your mouth with a chuckle. She's blushing and you couldn’t be happier for her. “After this ferry robbery we’re heading down to Tumbleweed. There’s a minister down there who agreed to do it, he’s a rather progressive fella, doesn’t know about our career choice, of course. God, we’re gonna be married.”

Marybeth squeals at Jenny's admission, jumping out of her seat to engulf the blonde girl in a hug. You and Abigail share a glance, giggling at the girls. Jenny deserves marriage. It’s not something you’d imagined that she would see value in, but you can see the joy in her eyes. The way she looks at him, like he’s her whole world. Love isn’t something you’ve thought much about. You’ve always figured that if it happened, it happened. You’ve never sought it out, you’ve always been too busy surviving to worry about it. But what Jenny and Lenny have, you admire.

Amidst the quiet celebrations, a throat clears itself. You’d missed the approaching footsteps of Arthur, but you now turn to find him standing by your chair.

“Ladies,” Arthur greets, dipping his head lightly before turning his attention to you. The girls’ chatter quiets down to hushed whispers and giggles as Arthur buckles his gun belt over his waist while addressing you.

“Ride wit’ me?” He asks, a hair falling down into his face as he clasps the golden buckle. Arthur hasn’t asked you on a job with him since you’ve arrived. In fact, you haven’t left except to run errands since he’d brought you back just a few days ago. Your brows knit together as you sip at your coffee, setting it down on the table before standing up.

“Uh, sure, what’re we doin’?” You ask.

Arthur begins walking towards the hitching posts of camp, rolling his sleeves up in the warm sun. You follow after him, grabbing your hat from its nail in your tent on the way out and following him to the horses. As you approach the hitching posts, you watch as Arthur runs a brush over his mare, getting her coat in pristine condition and offering her little treats as he talks.

“Hosea and I’ve been cookin’ up this little real estate scam. Could use another person, and I dont trust many of these fools.” Arthur glances around the camp, eyeing Micah and Bill in particular, both have purple bruises blossoming along their cheeks from your fists, and Arthur chuckles for it.

“Just gotta keep this feller tied up for a while so Hosea can work his magic, I’ll explain on the way, c’mon.”

Arthur pulls two cigarettes out of his satchel, offering one out to you, which you gratefully take. As you grab the premium roll, your hand brushes lightly against his own, and you blush, noticing the warmth, and the sheen of sweat to his forearms,

“...Sorry.” You mumble, not understanding your flustered state. Arthur only chuckles at your blush, leaning down to strike a match against the bottom of his boot.

“Here.” He whispers, and you place the cigarette between your lips, leaning in towards his match. The end of your smoke catches and you inhale the tobacco, relishing in the subtle ease of your anxieties.

“Thanks.”

Arthur tosses the spent match onto the ground, stepping onto it for good measure before grabbing the saddle horn and hoisting himself onto Boadicea. Following his lead, you pat your unnamed buckskin before climbing up onto him. You miss your horse, the bond you shared, and you notice the way Arthur adjusts himself in his seat, taking any extra tension off the mare’s back. He keeps his reins loose, and his hands steady, giving the mare her head in a show of trust. As you both pick up a trot heading away from camp and towards Blackwater, you listen to the quiet affirmations that he whispers to Boadicea, the flies that he swats away from her ears and neck. He really loves his horse. Your heart warms at the sight.

“So this job…” You start, hoping to gain some insight on what the plan is. Arthur had mentioned real estate. You had seen in the paper that there’s a run down shack for sale with a decent bit of land, but you can’t imagine that this scam has anything to do with it. It’s called Beecher’s…. Something. But it’s run down and the ground is full of rocks. Only an idiot would ever use it for farmland, assuming that's what this is about. Arthur turns his head a little to the side in order to yell to you as you canter from Tall Trees towards the town.

“Yeah, there's a piece of land for sale round here called Beecher’s hope,” ah, Beecher’s Hope, that's it, “It’s goin’ up for auction. There's an oil man nearby who wants the rights to the land for a rig, but he don’t wanna pay full price for it. His names’ Cornwall. Now we ain’t actually met him, he just sends his errand boys out, but the money is good.” Arthur yells over the sound of pounding hooves.

“Okay, what’s that got to do with us? Could you explain this a little more before you drag me into town without a goddamn plan?!” You yell, pushing the buckskin faster to catch up with Boadicea.

“Calm yourself, woman. I got a plan. There’s another feller that wants the land just as bad as Cornwall, apparently he's in town just waitin’ to bid on this place. He’s Gavin Clifton, never heard of him, but Hosea says he’s big business out west, a direct competitor to Cornwall.”

“Okay? I'm still waitin’ to hear our part in this...” You say, more confused than you were two minutes ago.

“Cornwalls payin’ us to find Mr. Clifton and keep him from getting to this auction. It’s a win-win. We get paid, Cornwall gets his land and everyone goes home happy.”

“Except for Gavin Clifton.” You joke.

“Yeah, well at least he’ll be alive. He’s holed up in the saloon, been spending the night there while in town. We go in with masks, just hold him in his room till it's over, in and out.”

“Okay, can do.” You quip, slowing the buckskin to a trot as you head into town. They’ve fixed Blackwater up in the past few years, replacing dirt roads with pavers, and started putting up a town hall. Although the fresh coats of paint and hooves clicking against the road is nice, you miss the simplicity of how it used to be. They’ve brought electricity to Blackwater, and it's becoming far too ‘city-like’ for your tastes.

“Saloons’ right up here. Have your mask ready. We don’t wanna alarm anyone so we slip them up right before we get to his door.”

You mentally smack yourself for not realizing it until now, but you pat your satchel and remember that your best robbing neckerchief is tucked away right on your bedside table in camp. You curse under your breath as Arthur pulls Boadicea up to one of the iron hitching posts and tosses her reins over the keeper.

“Arthur-” You somewhat whisper, jumping down from the buckskin, not even hitching it and jogging after the outlaw. You grip his bicep in order to get him to face you. It’s not exactly a conversation you wanna yell out for everyone to hear. When he turns around, his eyes scan over you, as if he’s expecting an injury.

“I don’t have anythin’ to cover my face with.” You whisper, letting go of his arm, and letting your own fall to rest on your belt buckle.

“And here I thought you was a bigshot outlaw, miss?” Arthur jokes, immediately placating you when your face falls into a scowl. You can’t hold your frown for long, as Arthur’s smile causes your own to slip free, but you still swat him on the chest for the blow.

“I ain’t nothin’ of the sort, now give me somethin’, please.”

He flips up the leather flap to his satchel, reaching in and pulling out a plain black neck slip. You’re about to take it from his hand, but instead he lifts it up, carefully removing your hat. His finger brushes against your cheek as he brushes a stray hair behind your ear, before he carefully slides the neckerchief mask down over your head. He straightens the cloth so that it rests between your collarbones before he gently places your hat back on your head. You blush, unsure of why it felt so intimate.

“W-what was that?” You ask, readjusting your hat a little as Arthur rests another cigarette between his lips.

“Nothin, just gettin ya fixed up is all.” Arthur says, striking a match against the brick wall of the saloon before lighting his smoke. His relaxed eyebrows and inattentiveness to your shock prove that to him, that move was normal. You’re not used to being around gentlemen, let alone gentlemen that are also masked killers. It throws you for a loop, and you’re left reeling as he pushes the door open to the saloon. The glass swings back shut in your face. What in the hell has gotten into him? You settle your nerves for a few seconds before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The Blackwater Saloon, much like the rest of the town, resembles a wannabe city. The walls facing the road are made of glass, with gold printed words advertising the place, and the inside is fashioned with nice, sit-down tables and a room length bar. A few patrons sit around, some drunkards who are using the afternoon as an opportunity to get wasted, others who have stopped by for a decent meal. The poker table sits unused, chips lying around with no one to bet them, a shame, you think. You could make good use of those chips, outplaying every man in the bar, you’re sure.

You find Arthur, once again, leaning on the bar, just like in Tumbleweed just a week or so ago. This time he has no drink in hand, instead he’s chatting with the bartender, discussing the rental of a room. You step around the round tables, spurs clicking against the wooden floor as you make your way next to him at the bar.

“You got any real nice rooms? Big ones that someone might rent out for a week or so?” Arthur asks, subtly inquiring about Gavin Clifton’s whereabouts. Arthur doesn’t want to barge in on the wrong room, he needs to know exactly where Clifton is, and he’d be staying in a suite of course. Nothing but the best for a big oil man.

The bartender, a tall, skinny feller with light blonde hair and a mustache the size of Texas, puts down a few glasses that he had been wiping down. The glass clinks against the freshly waxed wooden bar as he puts them down, focusing on Arthur.

“Yeah, we got one. Real nice room, I’m afraid it's taken for the time being.” The bartender squints, eyeing Arthur up and down, focusing on the revolvers that hang from Arthur’s hips. Arthur is well dressed, and it's clear to anyone that he doesn’t work an honest job. The bartender gestures his hand at Arthur before picking up another wet glass and drying it down with his pearly white towel.

“Well whatchu need it for? If you’re lookin’ to pay for a woman there’s other rooms. There’s a girl works here often, and damn she's got a fine way of-” ‘

The bartender’s nasty grin is cut off as you reach across the bar, grabbing the man by the collar and pushing his head down against the bar with a slam.

“Just shut the hell up and tell us which room it is.” You growl into the ear that's not smashed against the wood. The bartender raises his hands as much as he can in the position, whimpering for release from your small, yet mighty fists.

“Room two-B, now please, Miss!” The bartender cries, and immediately you release your grip. He springs back up with wide eyes, glancing between you and Arthur as he rubs at the new ache in his neck. He points a finger at Arthur, looking shocked and afraid.

“Y-You better learn to control your wife mister!” The bartender yells.

You’re surprised to watch as Arthur’s smirk falls into a deadly glare. It’s threatening, scary if you didn’t know him. He takes a step towards the bar, and the tender steps back.

“You best watch your tongue, boy. I hear you talkin’ about any woman like that again I’ll put you in the ground.” Arthur growls. Even you are thrown off at this point. The bartender has the fear of god in his eyes as he nods coyly at Arthur. Gone is his earlier confidence and nonchalance, replaced by pure terror at Arthur’s threatening stance.

Without another word, Arthur heads in the direction of the stairs. You’re once again left reeling and catching up to him.

“Hey, you okay?” You whisper, jogging up the steps behind him.

“Yeah, just can’t stand fellers like that one. Goddamn fool.” He says, passing a few women for hire as he climbs the staircase with you. Trying to make light of the situation, you nudge Arthur with your elbow, chastising him lightly.

“All these women here, I’m surprised you didn’t take his offer.”

Arthur apparently doesn’t find your joke funny. He’s in such a sour mood today, and everything feels off as he turns a little to address you.

“Just cause I run with a bunch of degenerates don’t mean I’m one too. I ain’t never bought a woman, never seen a woman as something to be bought.” Arthur hisses, irritated as he walks up the rest of the stairs without you. You sigh, shaking your head a little as you follow after him, leaving some distance between the two of you.

As you reach the top, sliding your hand along the wooden railing that overlooks the bar down below, you pull your mask over your nose in time with Arthur. He approaches the door, labeled “2B” in fancy gold lettering.

“Mr. Clifton?” Arthur hollers, lightly knocking on the door. His other hand rests on the grip of his revolver, just in case.

“Uh, yes? Is this about the mouse? Please I told them I’d pay extra if you’d get this vermin out of my room. I paid good money for this place and I will not tolerate rodents.” The accent that reaches your ears through the doors is one of European descent. A British man, you assume, come to make his fortune in the West. Well, it worked. He struck oil, as they say. Arthur turns and glances to you with a hilarious look on his face of confusion, on account of the mouse dilemma, you assume.

“Yeah, we’re here about the goddamn mouse, now open up.” Arthur says, patience clearly growing thin with the man.

You can hear the room’s lock click before the door slowly opens, just a crack. Arthur pushes his hand against the wood, forcing the door open with a slam.

“Gavin! Good to meet you. Now me, you and the lady, we’re just gonna have a little chat the rest of the evening. Just until about..” Arthur stops, pulling out his golden pocket watch, not the platinum that rests on your nightstand from Tumbleweed, “what do you say? Eight o clock? That sound good, mister?”

Arthur’s acting is on point, threatening the man without ever speaking a word of violence. From an outside perspective it sounds like he’s just talking to an old friend. It’s played up and sarcastic, but hell, it's effective. The room is big, with a large red comforted bed in the middle of the room. Opposite of the bed is a set of glass doors, now covered with curtains, but if pulled back there’s a balcony overlooking the docks. The room has a small counter with various expensive liquors and a yellow sofa with an ottoman.

Clifton is a short, chubby man with little glasses resting over his beady eyes. His outfit is expensive, and his hair, what's left of it, is neatly combed to the side. He stumbles back, completely flustered, confused and afraid. The backs of his knees hit the king sized bed that rests in the center of the room, and he sits in exasperation on the mattress.

“I- I have someplace to be! I have to be at an auction in just thirty minutes! Listen, whatever you yokels want I can get you, but if you kill me, you’ll never escape the bounty hunters.”

Arthur chuckles at this, pulling his lasso out of his satchel and stretching the rope a little to check its tightness. You watch as he moves to the bed, tying Cliftons hands behind his back.

“Well y’know, I’ve been running from bounty hunters my whole life and they ain’t got me yet. But don’t you worry, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Unless I have to… am I gonna have to? Mr. Clifton? Arthur asks, once again playing up his charisma for the benefit of the job. Clifton shakes his head rapidly, sweating in fear as he looks between you and Arthur.

“No! No, you’re not going to-”

Clifton thumps against the bed as Arthur knocks him out with the butt of his pistol. His arm is so fast, you barely noticed it until Clifton was knocked out cold. Arthur holsters his gun, and you can see as his charismatic facade falls away. Gone is the witty, threatening, sarcastic outlaw, and returned to you is Arthur. He turns to you slowly, pulling his mask down around his neck.

“He ain’t wakin’ up for a bit. We can just wait here until Hosea gives us the go ahead. He’s gonna ride by when the auctions done, whistle up to the deck,” Arthur nods in the direction of the glass doors before walking over to it and opening it.. “I’ll leave one open so we can hear when he comes by, should be over just after dark. Once Cornwall has that property he’s gonna send us the money in the mail.”

You nod, glancing at Clifton’s unconscious body once more before sliding down the wall to rest on the wooden floor. After Arthur fixes the door, he comes over to your spot. He sits down against the wall beside you, careful not to poke you with his spurs as he does so.

“Here.”

Arthur pulls a little burlap sack out of his satchel and hands it out to you. Curiously, you peek inside of it. To your surprise, it's almonds, and you reach down into the sack to pull a few of the sweet nuts out. Arthur does the same, and for a few minutes you sit in silence, chewing on your snack and watching the waves on the lake through the open door. Watching the water piques your interest, and the question bubbles up before you’ve even thought about it.

“When’s the ferry supposed to come anyways?” You say somewhat quietly, as if your voice could break the serenity of the afternoon. The sun is just beginning to dip below the lake, casting the town, and Arthur in a beautiful golden halo. You find yourself staring, wondering if it’s the golden light that is making Arthur look so handsome right now, or if it’s just him. With a blush, you shake the thought out of your head. Arthur brings his fist to his mouth, dropping a few almonds into it before answering your question.

“About three days, I think. But ferries can be unpredictable. We’ve got one of our men, Javier, set up in a camp nearby watching for it. If he sees it, he comes and gets the rest.” Your eyebrows pull together as you try to recall Javier from camp, and you deduce that you haven’t met this particular man yet. Arthur’s demeanor shifts, you see the slouch in his shoulders, and the downcast look of his face. Slowly, he brings his eyes up to yours.

“You leavin’ before then?” Arthur asks almost sheepishly, as if he’s afraid of your answer.

You look down at your feet, watching the golden light reflect on your spurs.You don't even have to think about it. Earlier, you’d already decided to stay, but you can feel your reasoning change. Leaving the gang would not only leave you on the streets, it would leave you without family, and as you look up to meet Arthur’s gaze, you realize that you can't lose them- you can't lose him.

You’re terrified by what it means, and you shove the emotion deep down to answer his question.

“No… where would I go? You lot are all I have now. Jenny, Lenny, Abigail and the girls, John, Jack, you.”

Arthur brings his right knee up, digging his heel into the wood floor as he rests the back of his head against the wall.

"You know what you're gettin' yourself into then…?" Arthur whispers. You chuckle a bit, thinking of the gang. So far from who you've met, they're some of the kindest folks you've ever known.

"Arthur, I was a wanted woman long before I met you." You remind him.

"I know, but it's- it's different. We're a target. And sometimes we gotta do things that-" Arthur pauses, thinking over his words for a moment, "I just don't want you gettin' mixed up with us and then regrettin' it."

"Arthur, I won't regret it. Now if I went off on my own, gettin' taken advantage of and selling myself, instead of staying here with you lot? I'd regret that for the rest of my days." You counter, watching the gentle lapping of water at the bank of the river, and the kids that are kicking a ball around the deck. It's not that Arthur wants you to leave, he wants you to stay but he knows this life. He knows the pain of loss and fear and grief that running with them will grant you. If you stay and plan on running with the men, you'll have to kill. There will come a time when it's someone else's life or yours and by god he can't have you out if you're not ready to make that decision.

"The man you killed- why you're wanted. Tell me what happened." Arthur asks. At the mention you look down to your hands.

"Well my momma was real sick, she died when I was about fifteen. And then it was just me and Pa." You chuckle lightly, "and my daddy, well he didn't know anything about teenage girls."

Arthur laughs at the thought, surely you were a handful as a teenager.

"And he tried, he tried so hard to raise me good, but after momma he just couldn't. He drank. God- Arthur he drank so much that if he weren't killed he would surely be dead by now." A few tears fall down your cheeks and you hastily wipe them away, not wanting to be seen crying.

"And he spent all our money on liquor. Brandy was his preferred poison, but once he ran out of money he drank anything he could get his hands on. He was different. He was meaner and nasty, but deep down inside I knew he was just my daddy, and he was hurtin' just as much as I was."

Arthur watches the few tears that drip down your nose, and his heart breaks for you. He knows the feeling all too well, unfortunately.

"He started takin' out loans, and after the bank wouldn't give him any more he started goin' to loan sharks. Nasty men came by the house all the time, givin' and takin' money. They took all mommas jewelry, they took my things…"

Arthur's full attention is on you as you toy with a wrinkle on your jeans, distracting your body from the turmoil in your mind.

"And one day we had nothin' left to give. He gave it all away. And so this man came in, busted the door down and beat my Pa, right in front of me Arthur, like I wasn't even there to see. He wasn't movin' and I tried to get him up, I tried so hard, but he was gone."

The tears flow freely down your cheeks, and you don't try to stop them this time, letting them silently trail down your face as you recall the nightmare of a time.

"I knew how to track, and I took my daddy's gun that he had hidden away. I followed the man's horse, till I came up on a little camp that he must have just set up for one or two nights… and I- I killed him."

Arthur doesn't move a muscle, fixating on the pain on your face and wishing that he could take it from you. But the hurt runs deep, it won't go away, not ever, and he knows from experience.

"After it was done I found a note in his pocket… My daddy's debt was fifteen dollars. Just fifteen goddamn dollars for his life. I would have done anything to have had that money."

Arthur leans over, and much to your surprise, he envelops you in a hug. You tense up for a second, unsure, but instinct takes over and you melt into his touch. His arms are strong around you, respectful of course, as Arthur is nothing short of a gentleman. And as you shed quiet tears into his shirt you let out a held in breath. You needed this. It's been far too long since you've been embraced by another. You wrap your arms around Arthur's torso, sniffling lightly. You feel so small in his arms, wholly covered and protected by him. You’ve been watching out for yourself for so long, it feels nice to have someone to watch your back.

"I'm real sorry, I know how this-"

Arthur stops and tenses at the sound of whistles. Carefully he lets you go, and rushes towards the open door, placing his back against the wall so that he can peek outside without being seen. You follow his lead, glancing out and gasping at the sight. A large ferry is pulling alongside the docks, huge and white with shimmering gold rails in the streetlights. You can make out a few silhouettes of people along the docks, and you wonder if Javier has already alerted the gang of its arrival.

“Ferry’s here folks!” You hear a man call out from the dock, to which some claps and cheers sound out. The ferry is full of rich passengers, who’s pockets will soon be left empty thanks to the Van Der Linde Gang.

“Arthur, what do we do? Are they down there?” You ask, anxiety causing your heart to beat quickly as you scan the dock in search of familiar faces. He is doing the same, and you glance over, not missing the worry on his face. When he feels your eyes on him he attempts to comfort you with a small smile.

“It’ll be just fine. They’ve got this.” He whispers, but you can see that it’s a facade, you know he’s worried.

You both watch out the door for a while, a few passengers have started to straggle off the boat, and then you hear the first gunshot. Gasps and shrieks of fear from the boat cause your stomach to turn, and your knuckles turn white from the tension. You need to do something. Your friends are down there and you have a bad feeling about the whole situation. A few moments after the warning shot is fired, lawmen’s whistles begin to go off, and you watch as men with shiny gold deputy stars on their chests run onto the docks.

“Arthur I gotta go do something, we can’t just stay up here.” You plead, and he purses his lips as if greatly thinking over his options.

Arthur kneels down against the door, staying out of the way of any wandering eyes from the street and dock down below.

“Okay someone’s gotta warn Hosea. You know where the property is. Take Bo, she's faster than your buckskin. I'm gonna head back to camp and warn the others. They gotta start packin’, if this goes south we gotta get outta here fast.” He says, glancing to where Clifton is still knocked out on the bed.

“And him?” You ask, gesturing to the oil man.

“We leave him here, ropes ain’t tight he can get himself free when he wakes up. We got bigger

problems right now. Let’s go.”

With that he stands up, and moves to the door. You both rush down the steps, attempting not to look suspicious despite the rushed walk. The bar holds more patrons than it did earlier, and you can slip out easily enough by walking between the crowd of people. Arthur pushes the saloon door open ahead of you, holding it until you’re out before running to the hitching posts.

“Keep your head down, ride fast, and be careful. Don’t get hurt, alright?” Arthur asks before jumping onto the Buckskin and spurring him towards camp. You watch the dust that the horse kicks up before moving your attention to the docks. There’s a few lawmen on the docks, guns aimed at the ferry. They haven't shot yet, not wanting to miss and kill the passengers who are being robbed inside.

You’re frozen in a state of shock, as a shot goes off from inside the boat, and the front half of the ferry explodes into a fury of flames. You gasp, stepping backwards towards Boadicea, who you should be on and far away with right now, but you can’t force your muscles to move. There's so much yelling coming from the boat, and fiery pieces of debris fall down into the water, sizzling and steaming. Flames erupt over the front of the boat, along with fearful screams. The noise and sight of the explosion has spooked all of the horses nearby, and you watch as a few of the gang members' horses that were hitched on the dock run away.

“Shit, Shit, Shit.” You curse, knowing that you have to help them. Hosea is safe where he is, but who knows how bad the explosion was? You glance to Boadicea, petting her neck lightly.

“I'll be right back girl.” You promise before running towards the ferry. Your heart pounds in your ears as adrenaline pumps through your veins. There’s a handful of lawmen on the deck, and you sneak behind stacked crates to avoid them, pulling your revolver out of its holster just in case. In the windows of the ferry you see Dutch and Micah approaching the door, along with a man you presume to be Javier.

“They’re coming out, shoot to kill! The detectives should be here soon!” One of the lawmen, presumably the sheriff yells, and you stumble backwards at his statement, head going dizzy from all of it.

The detectives?

Dutch bursts the ferry door open, guns raised as he fires. There's a saddle bag hanging off of his shoulders, stuffed to the brim with cash and gold. Your eyes boggle at the thought of how much must be in it. Three lawmen go down from his shots, giving you the opportunity to run to the boat. You break for it, ducking from the haze of bullets and heading straight for the edge of the dock.

“We are getting out of here!” Dutch yells out, silencing a few more yelling lawmen with his guns.

You run past Dutch, through the door of the ferry and gasp at the sight. Many of the passengers are dead, both from the explosion and the guns of the Van Der Lindes. Your jaw falls slack and you look up in disgust at a chuckling Micah. He also has a full saddlebag over his shoulder, and a sickening grin on his face.

“Oh we’re just gettin’ started missy.” He chuckles, and you recoil at the sound. There’s a small group of passengers still in their seats, trembling in fear and ducking down. It makes you sick to see what they’ve done and for a moment you deeply regret coming back to help.

Javier follows Micah out of the door silently, and then you see Charles and Jenny, struggling with a body. Charles is groaning with pain, and you notice the bloody burn that covers his hand before you recognize the body he’s helping to carry.

“Oh my god.” You whisper, hands clasped over your mouth as they struggle to carry Davey out of the boat.

“We need to get out of here, right now Dutch!” Charles growls, angry, challenging Dutch’s decisions.

“Clearly!” Dutch yells, shooting down the last of the lawmen before making a run for the horses. You do the same, running to the saloon’s hitching post and grabbing Boadicea’s reins before jumping into the saddle. You grimace at the sound of Charles throwing Davey onto Micah’s horse.

“Where’s Sean? Mac?” Javier calls out, jumping onto Boaz.

“I don’t know, son, but we will come back for them.” Dutch hollers out.

Just as you’re about to spur Arthur’s mare, you hear the sound of pounding hooves. It's like a war chant, the rumbling of hooves slamming down the roads towards town. The ground shakes with their power and you canter towards the other gang members, terrified.

“They got the goddamn Pinkertons on us! Bastards!” Dutch practically screams, looking feral and as if any form of rationality has left him. You don’t even recognize him, and you try to ignore the blood that is staining his hands and once white shirt. You don’t know what happened on that ferry before you made it down, but it was something awful.

Everyone, including you, pulls out their weapons and starts firing. You watch a swarm of men in black suits gallop down the slope from the plains, brandishing carbines.

“Look at me, we’ll be okay honey. You stick with me, alright?” Jenny calls to you, and you nod your head, leaning off of Bo for a moment to squeeze Jenny’s hand. When she releases, you pull your revolvers out and start firing at the swarm.

Pinkertons fall, alongside their horses. Your stomach aches, your head is pounding from the adrenaline and the trauma. As everyone shoots, a hole opens up and you all spur your horses to break for camp.

“Everyone get goin’ now! Leave none of them breathing!” Dutch screams over the shots.

Shots continue to ring out as you push Boadicea past the church and towards home. You try not to think, kissing and begging the mare to keep running as you turn to take down as many Pinkertons as you can. You aim, taking down three men quickly. Their horses continue running, as if oblivious to their riders' deaths.

Jenny is galloping her horse beside you, and she curses as she fires the last round from her revolver.

“Goddamnit!” She yells, and you try to hold off the detectives as much as you can while she reloads.

Another shot rings out, just like the hundreds that are being thrown across the plains, but this one doesn’t miss. Warm, crimson blood splatters across your face and you gasp, watching as Jenny’s limp body slides down to the ground off of her horse,

“NO!” You shriek, sliding Boadicea into a stop and leaping down from her.

“Jenny- no, no, no… you’re okay, you’re alright.” You coo, pushing your hands over the wound in her chest. Tears fall from your eyes, landing on her body that is growing colder by the second. She weakly grabs your hand, looking up to you with teary eyes while shaking her head in protest. Bullets are whizzing above your head as you lean over your friend, begging a higher power to stop this nightmare.

“Get back please- don’t… don’t stay out here. Please get back, please tell,” Jenny chokes on a sob, red coughing up from her lips, “Please tell Lenny how much I love him.”

You nod, tears dripping from your eyes as the shots quiet. The Pinkertons have all been killed, and the gang stands around on sweating, steaming horses in shock. Everyone’s eyes are on you and Jenny in horror. Jenny’s grip on your hand grows weaker by the second, until it slips away from your own entirely. Your breath hitches as you look up to find her eyes glassy and unmoving, her chest has stopped rising. Everything is still, and you sob, shaking her shoulders and begging her to get back up. Her long blonde hair falls around her head, turning crimson from the blood that is soaked onto your hands. It’s everywhere, everything, all you see is red.

“No… no, Jenny p-please, we have to go please get up. No- no, no!” You scream into the wretched night, leaning your forehead against her arm and crying. You don’t even care that the gang is watching, your only concern is your friend. The once giggling girl who’s carefree, bubbly attitude shone around her like a halo. She was good, and now she's gone.

“Oh not sweet Jenny too… Goddamnit! Put her on your horse, we have to go right now!” Dutch yells, and you look at him with pure hatred. This is his fault, and you hate him with a burning passion at the moment, but you know he’s right, you have to go.

“I can’t- I’m not-” You cry, and Javier notices, jumping down from Boaz. He picks up Jenny carefully, and your eyes follow after him as he puts her body on the back of his horse, like she's a bounty, or a damn hunted animal. Everyone begins galloping back, save for you and Charles. He’s noticed that you’re frozen in shock in the dirt, and he won’t leave you here. You’ve not seen much of him, but if Arthur trusts him, then so do you. You’re frozen on your knees, and Charles slides down from Taima, beckoning you to leave with him from a few feet away. Boadicea is still standing at your back, seemingly uneasy and afraid. Her tail swishes, and her ears are pinned from fear and frustration, as if she wants to help you, wants to get you out of here.

“Hey, I know this is hard, but we need to get out of here, c’mon.” Charles insists, voice calm even in the chaos. You nod quietly, finally standing up and moving towards Boadicea. You pet her neck, wiping your tears before gripping onto the saddle horn.

“O-okay” you whisper, numbly.

A shot rips through the once quiet night, landing at your feet and you whip around to see one last Pinkerton hiding behind a lonely oak tree on the plain.

“Shit!” You curse, pulling out your revolver and taking aim. He’s in a spot that’s hard to aim at. His position behind the tree is perfect for him to pop in and out, firing shots without taking any.

You squeeze the trigger and the bullet whizzes past his head. The finely dressed man pops out from the tree, quickly shooting his weapon.

You gasp as a searing, burning pain shoots through your thigh. The force causes you to stumble backwards and fall onto your butt, and you grip at the shooting pain. Boadicea steps forward, putting her nose to the ground to nudge at you, as if checking if you’re alright. You cry out, pushing down on the wound to stop the blood that is gushing from it. Unbeknownst to you, the Pinkerton still has his sights on your head. Charles aims, shoots, and kills the Pinkerton…but he is a split second too late.

A squeal reaches your ears, and a loud boom as Boadicea rears, and then falls to the ground at your side.

“NO, no no. Please, not you too. No-” You sob, crawling over to her and ignoring the scorching, shredding pain in your thigh as you lean over the mare’s neck.

You pet her, watching her eyes grow weary and her breaths get weaker. Her legs kick out lightly, of course she’s still putting up a fight, even in death. Her chestnut coat is turning dark with blood, seeping from her neck and pooling on the ground. Your hands are the same shade of crimson, alongside your shirt and pants. Whether it’s your own, Jenny’s or Bo’s, you’re not sure. You stroke her neck, pulling the bit out of her mouth and sliding her bridle off amidst broken, strangled sobs. You’ve lost too much today. Not her too. Charles steps over, revolver in hand with one last bullet in the gun’s barrel. You know what has to be done, but god, you can’t watch, and you're not strong enough to do it yourself.

Charles' hand rests on your shoulder, and you whimper, turning your head around and covering your ears to soften the shot that will surely ring out in a moment. You squint your eyes shut, anticipation running through your body and causing your hands to tremble and shake over your ears.

The last gun that is fired tonight doesn’t end the life of a lawman, or a pinkerton. No, the last shot that pierces the silent night ends the quiet suffering of Arthur’s beloved Boadicea. When you open your eyes, she’s gone, put out of her misery by Charles’ smoking gun. Tears fall down your cheeks silently, as Charles helps you to your feet. You cry out, grasping at your thigh. It's bleeding heavily and you put pressure on it as you walk.

“Cmon, I'll put you on the back of Taima.” Charles whispers, calling the appaloosa over before picking you up by your waist and helping you onto the back of his horse. The outlaw mutters apologies as you grimace in pain.

The ride is silent, save for Taima’s hooves and your groans of pain as the galloping pulls at your gunshot wound uncomfortably. The reality of what’s just happened settles, but you can’t seem to rid yourself of the shock. In a way you’re grateful for it. The adrenaline makes the shot through your leg bearable, and keeps all the emotions you’re going to deal with at bay for now. You glance down to your left thigh, scowling as you get a good look at it for the first time. The wound is big and messy, the bastard shot you with a goddamn rifle.

You don’t even realize you’ve made it back to camp, mind still reeling with horrendous memories from the night. Some of the adrenaline has worn off and your thigh throbs in pain. It has bled down your leg, soaking your sock and boot in the sticky red liquid, along with Taima’s back leg. It hits you that you’re back when Charles dismounts. A flurry of people are rushing around camp, tearing apart what used to be your home. Tents are packed into wagons, but crates and pelts and belongings lie abandoned in the dirt. Your eyes follow the things that are being left behind. Jack's books, people’s pictures, clothes, your watch from Arthur in Tumbleweed, they all remain abandoned as everyone files into wagons and onto horses. Charles helps you down off of Taima, and you cry in pain when your feet hit the ground, sending a white hot stab of pain through your leg.

“Charles?!” A voice calls out- a familiar one. You see Arthur, dismounting your buckskin a few feet away. He looks panicked, probably on account of the blood that has soaked through all of your clothes. Unbeknownst to him, most of it isn’t yours.

“What happened?! Shit- are you alright?” Arthur runs over, gently placing his hands on your arms and scanning over your body. You can’t bring yourself to nod, to lie.

“No…” You choke on a cry as Arthur envelops you in the tightest hug you’ve ever been held in. Just for a moment, when his arms are wrapped around you, everything is okay. It’s over far too quickly, as someone across camp calls out to him for help.

“Hosea, I-” You whisper, remembering your original task. It hits you like a wall of bricks, you were supposed to warn him and you failed. Arthur nods, glancing down to your thigh.

“Don’t worry, I know. We got him. When you weren’t back I sent Uncle after him, he’s good for somethin’ at least.” Arthur says, glancing back to Grimshaw who is yelling after him.

“Now, look at me. We gotta go right now. You’re strong, I know you are. I need you to hold on to that strength just a little longer for me, okay?” you nod, bloodshot, teary eyes glancing up to lock onto Arthurs, “I'm gonna put you up in the wagon with the girls. They’ll get your leg fixed up in no time, here.” Arthur pulls his dark neckerchief from earlier over his head, and kneels into the mud.

“This is gonna hurt, I'm sorry but I gotta make it tight.” He says, wrapping the cloth around your thigh, careful not to touch you other than where he needs to. He ties the cloth just above your wound, pulling the neckerchief tight. You grip onto his strong shoulder, digging your nails into his shirt as the tight knot pulls uncomfortably at the wound. You groan at the pain, trying to push it away.

Once Arthur deems the makeshift tourniquet tight enough, he stands back up, ushering you towards the wagon. The girls are already inside. All but one… Abigail, Tilly, Marybeth and Karen are all huddling together, whispering to Jack who is crying into his little fists. His cheeks are red and raw from the salty tears that have traced down his puffy cheeks.

“Johns gone to scout ahead and clear the roads, took Micah with him” Abigail explains.

There’s no time for further explanation as Arthur’s hands grip onto your waist, carefully hoisting you up into the wooden wagon. He apologizes as you wince, settling you down before glancing behind him, as if looking for something.

Oh…

“Where…where’s Boadicea?” Arthur asks, looking to you like he already knows the answer but is just hoping for a different one.

Your face crumples into tears yet again, and you wipe them away while trying to look Arthur in the eyes.

“She didn’t-” you shake your head, “She didn’t make it. Arthur, I'm so sorry.” You hiccup.

A pain, old and deep, flashes across Arthur’s face for a moment as he bows his head, jaw clenched in pain as he hides the emotion behind his hat. He nods, fighting back something deep within himself before growling a bit, deep in his chest.

“Did she-” Arthur gestures towards Blackwater with his hand, and you don’t miss the tears that have welled in his eyes, although he refuses to let them fall, “She suffer?” He asks, looking up at you with an emotion so raw, that it has you crying. You shake your head, knowing that she didn’t. Charles stopped that from happening and you’re grateful that he was there.

Arthur nods, pushing down the emotion like he always does. He attempts to comfort you with a small smile, but it is broken and painful.

“You need anything’, anythin’ at all, have someone come and get me, okay?” Arthur whispers, before turning to head back towards Charles.

You scooch yourself back against the wood grain of the wagon, wishing that you could fall into the earth and be swallowed whole. Your typical hellfire attitude has been broken today, beaten down by the traumas that you’ve been handed. It will come back, and you’ll be okay. But now? You’re not.

Abigail leans over towards you, letting go of Jack with one arm to wrap it around you. You lean into her touch, closing your eyes as Tilly and Mrs. Grimshaw gather around you with Strauss’ medical kit.

They pull and prod at your leg, forcing the bullet out and sewing the flesh back together. When they dig the bullet out with sharp metal tongs, ripping and tearing through your skin, you cry out, screaming for all of the Van Der Linde gang to hear as they start the journey north. But no one complains. It’s preferable to the deafening silence.

The pain you feel is nothing compared to the constant ache of loss as you numbly stare at Jenny’s body that had been stacked on top of Davey’s in front of you for the trip north. They’ve been covered with a white sheet, but the all too familiar crimson has soaked through the material, staining it and forever ruining its purity.

It’s much like the blood that has soaked into your clothes, splattered across your skin. You could scrub it away for hours on end, but it will never really be gone. Not in the way you want it to. The memories from today are burned into your mind, like a sickening brand that you’ll carry with you for years.

Now, sitting in the back of the rocking wagon, stained with blood and tears, surrounded by the soft cries of your friends, the bodies of friends, you know why you’ve put up your walls. When Arthur rides past to check up on you, and the horse under him is a spotted appaloosa instead of the familiar, warm chestnut mare, you know why you haven’t allowed yourself the comfort of a family… because good people die.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x you #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic

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theheraldsrest · 2 years ago

Note

if you folks dont mind, could one of you write for an inquisitor that maybe romanced krem? i know hes not romanceable in game but man. i need more content for this ship, if possible. no pressure of course! have a wonderful day you two!

“Krem Romance Headcanons”

You got it, dude! From talking with others, I think a lot of people fell for Krem the first time he was properly introduced. Can’t blame them. This got long way too fast, oops.

-Lord Lex

-Absolutely fell hard when he first met you. He kept his cool though, only a flush on his face giving him away

-When you came to fight with them, he tried to show off a bit. Iron Bull was wondering why he kept getting hurt much more than usual

-Oh god, Bull. Chief tries to give him advice and tips on how to whoo a woman when Krem tells him about his crush. He regrets it.

-At Haven, he’ll try to strike up conversations with you more, coincidentally giving you a flower that he picked while gathering herbs

-At Skyhold, you caught him standing up on his chair looking around and, when spotting you, dropped to sit on the head of the chair. Told you it was just to keep an eye on things.

-He really wanted to ask you to dinner or to drinks, but was a little afraid of what you might say when he told you he was trans. Of course, he eventually did tell you and was so relieved to see you had no problems with it.

-It was actually when you got back from a mission that he asked, quite smoothly, if you’d like to get drinks with him. By smoothly I mean his hand missed the counter and he fell down to the ground.

-But you said yes. Holy shit, he’s way too excited and forgot he was on the ground. When you met back up with him at the front of the bar, he didn’t lead you inside but instead up the stairs next to it.

-On the roof of one of the towers, Krem had set up a blanket, some food, and drinks for you two. Tried to make it romantic and kept asking if this was alright.

-He never really leaves your side unless both of you have seperate things that need to get done. Will always offer you his hand and act like such a gentleman to you

-Dating Krem also means being around the Chargers more often and learning that all of them had been giving him advice. Yes, including Grim.

-You also learn that there are a lot more puns for Krem’s name thanks to Bull. If you use any of them when talking to Krem, you’ll see him flush before he tells you to hush.

-Whenever you're free or need to de-stress, he’ll take you up to the tower. Get you away from the hustle-bustle from down below and star gaze. Knows a lot of constellations, surprisingly.

-Great with cuddling. Finds all the pillows and blankets and makes a nest on your bed for you two to hide in. Holds you close in his lap while you two just talk or joke.

-Krem can cook and it’s pretty good. Whenever he makes something new, he tries to have you be the first to taste test it. Has also shown you his favorite recipes and how to make them.

-Every time you go on one of the major missions, Krem always gets worried for your safety but he knows you’re strong and capable. Plus, you got the Chief with you. Not sure if that makes it better or worse.

-Always finds you little trinkets when he travels so that he can give you a present when he gets back.

-When he leaves, he always takes your hand and places a gentle kiss to your knuckles, promising to come back safe for you. When he does come back, he picks you up in a hug.

-Boy will pick a fight with any noble that looks at you wrong. Imagine the mixed reactions with Krem Aclassi as the Inquisitor’s date to the Winter Palace.

-After the battle with Coreypheus, highly debates whether to sticking with the Chargers or by your side. Eventually decides on traveling, but knows that he'll always come back to you

-When you do lose your hand, he’s by your side offering his own to help you with anything. Even suggests getting an arm made by Dagna. He trusts her…Definitely.

#dai #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor #krem #krem aclassi #headcanon

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currently-hyperfixating · 4 years ago

Text

Dangnaronpa Imagines #2

prompt from my own state of being TM:

V3 boys (minus Ryoma) Who’s S/O Has Trouble Sleeping

Gonta Gokuhara:

this man lived with wild animals for 10 years

it took him a while to adjust to a sleep schedule that wasn't sunrise and sunset, but when he does go to sleep, hes out like a light

he will always stay up if you ask him to, though.

“Gonta gentleman, and gentlemen would never let S/O lie awake by themselves”

he tells you bug facts and talks about all the pretty bugs he saw that day

and if he does end up falling asleep before you, he’s always holding you so lovingly that you have no problem relaxing in his arms and drifting off

he will still wake up before you, letting you sleep just a little longer when he knows you had a rough night.

after the first sleepless night, he buys you lavender, a stuffed toy, and some comfy pyjamas

“Gonta talked to friends, and they helped Gonta get S/O some things to help you sleep”

K1-B0:

you consider this one of the many perks of dating a robot

all he needs to do to charge is plug himself in, he can stay up with you all night if needed

whilst he does prefer to power down when charging (it helps him to feel human) he is more than happy to stay awake with you

you probably talk about feelings and might end up teaching Keebo a new emotion

sometimes however you just like to cuddle him in silence while you try your hardest to sleep

he even got Miu to lighten some of his parts so that he’s not so heavy when leaning against you

he probably also uses heating/cooling elements to help you sleep

he would also research how to help with sleep

you come home one day to find your room smelling of lavender, a humidifier in the corner, and Keebo, with several newly installed sleep soundtracks

Kaito Momota:

if you cant sleep you bet your ass he’s taking you stargazing

thankfully you can usually get pretty clear skies from your back garden

so you lie with Kaito in the grass as he points out all his favourite constellations

sometimes he’ll see a planet in the distance and get really excited

he’s always wanted to go stargazing, but no ones ever awake late enough into the night

so even though you sometimes really want to sleep, he’s thankful that you’re able to stay up with him

often you’ll fall asleep outside and Kaito will have to carry you back in

dont want to go outside for whatever reason? no fear, Kaito has a lamp that shines all the stars in the galaxy on your bedroom ceiling.

it became a routine with you two, gazing at the stars until you fall asleep, only to wake up to sunlight through the blinds and a snoring Kaito holding you in his arms

Kokichi Oma:

this boy doesnt even know what sleep is

is more than happy to stay up with you

will insist that you two do dumb slumber party shit

“PILLOW FIIIGGGHHHTTTT!!!”

honestly, he’s really good at tiring you out to the point of exhaustion, so at least he helps you sleep that way

“awwe, S/O’s finally tired nowww? but I'm not tired yet! and I stayed up for you so you have to stay up for me”

you end up wrestling him into a hug to get him to calm down

after a few minutes of struggling he eventually quietens down

he cuddles right into you and practically melts in your arms

you know right away that he’s asleep

seeing him so peaceful makes you sleepy too

eventually you both drift off

Korekiyo Shinguji:

he’s been waiting for this moment

he has so many old rituals and beliefs surrounding sleep that he wants to try

you have to sit through many awkward evenings of different rituals and listen to all kinds of stories about why they were believed to be effective

some of them may have helped slightly, though it might have been placebo

or maybe it was just the idea of Kiyo being so happy to explore this part of history with you that calmed you into sleep

he does eventually discover that the more modern methods are the best

the sound of rain especially seems to help

you find him doing some kind of weird ritual one evening

“oh, dont mind me, dear. I'm merely performing a rain summoning ritual i found so you can sleep peacefully again tonight”

this man

he hadn’t even considered the concept of just playing recorded sounds from the internet

you let him finish his ritual, and whilst it doesnt rain that night, you are able to find a good playlist of rain sounds instead

Rantaro Amami:

he knows just the thing

one of his sisters always struggled to sleep, so to help her, he would read her favourite story

you try to insist that you arent a kid, but he convinces you to let him try

maybe he just wanted to read to someone again

you let him choose the book the first night, you both lie in bed while he reads out loud

you never fully noticed it before, but his voice is really comforting

hearing his soothing voice along with the soft turning of pages really calmed you down

you cant even make out what he’s saying any more

you just know that right now, you could probably sleep forever

it became a routine after that. every night Rantaro would read to you from a book, or tell you stories about his travels

you’re only letting him because he seems to enjoy it, of course. no other reason at all

Shuichi Saihara:

he’s not sure if you’ll enjoy it, but he knows something that always helps him

unsure of what he’s talking about, you agree to give it a try

one night, just as Shuichi is about to head off to meet his friends, he suddenly asks you to come with him

you always wondered what he got up to with Katio and Maki this late in the afternoon, so you jump at the opportunity

they seem, oddly happy to see you, saying that theres more than enough room for four people in their training group

wait, training? like, physical workouts?

unfortunately, yes, that is exactly whats happening

you, Shuichi, Kaito and Maki spend around an hour doing push-ups and crunches and jumping jacks, the kind of exercises you can do anywhere

when you finally get home, you’re both a wheezing, sweaty mess

you’re both still laughing with adrenaline, but the minute you lay down in bed, you feel tiredness overtake you

it’s gonna be a good nights sleep, you can feel it

who knew working out could actually be beneficial?

552 notes · View notes

schrijverr · 3 years ago

Text

A Phony Boyfriend

After moving into the dorms, class 1-A discovers that Bakugo is constantly on his phone. This leads to them discovering he has a boyfriend and going on a quest to find out as much as they can while Bakugo comes to terms with the fact that High School will be different than Middle School as well as his internalized homophobia.

On AO3.

Ships: Bakudeku

Warnings: mentions of past homophobia, internalized homophobia and fear of homophobia (no one is mean to them, dont worry)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since moving into the dorms they had learned a lot about the others that they had not realized before.

Sato could bake really well, Iida had a really strict and strange work out routine, Jiro always had music in when she cooked, Momo liked tea, especially fancy tea, and Bakugo was completely glued to his phone after school.

The last one was very surprising, since Bakugo had never seemed like a phone person, usually ignoring texts and calls and never having his phone in class.

However, since they lived with him it became apparent that he was prone to typing away on his phone and ignoring everyone else in the room. He was still strict to himself about phone usage during school hours, but after school was out, it was fair game.

Naturally this made them curious to what their explosive classmate was doing on his phone, so after a few weeks Hagekure cracked. She fell on the couch next to Bakugo and asked: “What you doing?”

“Nothing,” Bakugo grumbled.

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” she replied innocently.

Bakugo rolled his eyes and said: “Just messaging people and stuff,” before going back to ignoring her.

“Your parents?” she asked, she was gaining an audience and she wanted to deliver as the person who had been brave enough to ask what all had been wondering.

“No,” was Bakugo’s curt response.

Hagakure’s eyes lit up and she sat up in excitement and asked: “A girlfriend?”

Bakugo wrinkled his nose and again said: “No.”

At this point Mina joined the conversation, as a patented pansexual, she felt this shouldn’t be the end of the investigation. So she asked: “A boyfriend, maybe?”

The effect was instant. Bakugo’s stilled and he stopped typing as he avoided their gazes even more than before and a light blush spread across his cheeks. His scowl deepened and he growled: “Shut the fuck up.”

It didn’t work, because the two girls gasped as they exclaimed: “Oh my god!” and “You have a boyfriend?”

“I said shut up,” Bakugo yelled, blushing even harder.

“But that’s so cute,” Hagakure whined, “You have to tell us more.”

“Yeah, Bakugo, you can’t leave us hanging after a revelation like that,” Mina pouted.

“I can and I will, now leave me alone,” Bakugo said, getting up.

“You’re not even going to tell us his name?” she asked.

“No,” Bakugo stomped off, his fingers once again dancing over the keyboard.

The two pouted harder, but didn’t pester him more. They were beyond curious, but also weren’t about to pry in their classmate’s life if he was uncomfortable with it. Still that didn’t stop them from theorizing.

“What do you think is his type?” Mina asked first.

“Probably tough and mean,” Hagakure replied, “They probably do stuff like boxing together and yell at movies.”

“Yeah, or they throw rocks and stuff,” Mina added.

“First off, this is such a weird thing to talk about,” Kirishima interrupted, “Second off, you two have no clue what people do on dates.”

“Oh, and you do, Eijiro?” Mina asked, “Do tell what you think Bakugo and his mystery boyfriend do on their dates.”

“Probably normal stuff, like drinking coffee and talking,” Kirishima shrugged, “I never really thought about my friend’s dating life.”

“You’re not even a but curious?” Hagakure asked.

“Of course I am, I’m just not going to theorize about it,” Kirishima said.

“Boring,” Mina booed, “Kaminari, Sero, Jirowhat do you think?”

“I think Bakugo would be surprisingly romantic,” said Kaminari.

“And I think you finally lost the last of your brain cells, Kaminari,” Mina jeered.

“That does seem unlikely,” Hagakure agreed.

Sero thought about it, then said: “I think he’s more of grand and flashy stuff, like his quirk. Maybe he does the flowers and stuff.”

“Where are the explosions here!” Mina complained.

“I don’t think he’s exploding his boyfriend, Mina,” Jiro pointed out.

While downstairs they were arguing about whether or not Bakugo would use explosions to be romantic, Bakugo himself was in his bedroom, panicking and calling Izu. “It must suck that you didn’t get to tell them in your own time, Kacchan,” Izu said, “But they sound like they reacted well, right?”

“I mean, yes, but what if they think it’s gross?”

“Kacchan, don’t call us gross,” Izu said sternly, “I thought you were getting better with the internalized stuff.”

“I know, I know, just- Ugh!” Kacchan let out a cry of frustration.

“It’s okay, Kacchan, I love you.”

And wasn’t that a soothing balm on all the turmoil in his brain. He couldn't help, but smile as he returned the sentiment: “I love you too, Izu.” Apause. “I’m sorry about freaking out on you, I truly love you, but I just panicked, because the class has been really cool and it would suck if they turned out to- you know?”

“I know, Kacchan, I understand,” Izu said, “But they sounded like they were cool, don’t ruin it for yourself for the small chance that they do. You’re amazing, they just have to deal with it.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” Kacchan sighed.

“Damn, I didn’t know my own boyfriend hated me all the time,” Izu teased.

“Shut up, you shitty nerd.”

“Never, Kacchan.”

“Good.” It was quiet for a moment, then Kacchan said: “I’m probably overreacting. I know that Kirishima is cool. He has two moms, loves them to death.”

“There you go,” Izu encouraged, “I like Kirishima from what you told me, he’ll be on your side if anyone’s a dick about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, he is, the idiot,” Kacchan said fondly.

“I’m so glad you made friends.”

“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean? I can make friends.”

“Everyone at kindergarten was afraid of you, Kacchan.”

“You weren’t and I bet it wasn’t everyone.”

“Okay, okay, but you can be an acquired taste,” Izu conceded, “What I meant to say is that I’m glad you have people in your corner, Kacchan. You know. Now that I can’t be there with you all the time. Or hardly any time.”

Kacchan nodded, he knew how worried Izu could get about stuff and he knew what the underlying message was. He replied: “I miss you too, Izu.”

There was a small little content huff from the other side of the line, then Izu said: “I have to go eat now, Kacchan. Update me on if it goes well, okay? I love you.”

“Love you,” Kacchan said right before the line went dead. He looked at the clock and groaned, he really should be going down for dinner as well.

On a logical level, he knew most – if not all – of class 1-A would be cool about him being gay and having a boyfriend, but a small part worried that his friends would fall away and turn on him, like they’d done in Middle School.

So with slight apprehension, he made his way downstairs.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with some bustling about to make everyone dinner and to set the table, where some were trying to quickly finish some homework. It was normal, peaceful and Bakugo was dreading its end.

Kirishima noticed him first and waved: “Oi, Bakubro, can you help me with this Math problem, Mina is being mean about it.”

“I’m not mean, he’s just stupid,” Mina protested.

All had decided to drop the subject of the mystery boyfriend for now. Especially after they’d gotten a lecture from Iida about prying into people’s business and when Fumikage had said: “Dark, the mind can be, when demons of the past have not yet been dismissed.”

It made them realize that maybe Bakugo wasn’t comfortable with the revelation and it had made them feel terrible.

So, they didn’t say a thing.

Cautiously Bakugo made his way over to Kirishima, trying to see if this was a set up or if they had really blessed him with silence.

Kirishima was really struggling with a Math problem. Bakugo knew it wasn’t a set up both because Kirishima would be too honest for it and because it was a problem he had struggled with in the past and could never seem to get.

Beside him Mina was painting her nails. Bakugo saw that her thumb and pinky were black, but the other fingers were painted in the pan flag colors. A bit of relief, loosened in his chest.

Mina saw him looking and smiled, before winking and going back to work on her other hand, while Bakugo explained to Kirishima again that if a full circle was 360 degree, half a circle would be 180 degrees, so the triangle corner couldn't be more than a 180 degrees.

During dinner it was as peaceful as it would get and Bakugo felt himself relaxing.

He didn’t stick around to figure out if the peace would last, instead fleeing to the patio out front and leaning against the wall as he watched the stars. Silently he wished Izu could be there with him and point out the constellations.

His peace was in the end broken by Kirishima, who lowered himself next to Bakugo. He was quiet for a moment, then asked: “Is he treating you right?”

“What?” Bakugo couldn't help but be slightly confused.

“The boyfriend, is he good to you?” Kirishima asked.

“Are you going to defend my honor otherwise or something,” Bakugo rolled his eyes, immensely surprised when Kirishima’s response was: “Yes, if I have to.”

It touched Bakugo’s heart in a way he wasn’t ready to deal with so he just softly said: “He is. Good, I mean. He’s very good. The best, actually. Maybe a bit better than the best.”

That made Kirishima smile. He liked that his friend had someone in his corner, who wasn’t in the middle of the chaos that was their life and could support him. He nodded: “That’s good to hear, Bakubro. I’m happy for you.”

After that it was quiet.

Then, in the softest voice, which was so vulnerable that it broke Kirishima’s heart in little pieces while simultaneously it made him want to punch someone, Bakugo asked: “You are?”

“Yeah, of course, what else should I be?”

“I- I don’t know, disappointed? Angry?” Bakugo sounded helpless in his own confusion.

“Why?”

“That it’s a he.”

Kirishima hated how quickly Bakugo had the answer to that question, so he pulled Bakugo into a side hug and said: “I will never be angry or disappointed because of that. I swear it. And no one else will be either, and if they are they’ll deal with my fists and then with the principle.”

“Thank you,” Bakugo whispered.

“No problem,” Kirishima said back.

They sat there for a moment, then Kirishima confessed: “I’ve been send by the others, because I was least likely to get blown to bits. Uhm, most wanted to say sorry for prying and also that they support you.”

Bakugo chuckled at that. In the silence he had come to terms with the fact that High School might be different and an elated feeling had loosened in his chest. He grinned: “That’s good. Did they also send you to spy?”

Kirishima blushed and quickly said: “I wasn’t going to.”

“So yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, tell them thanks and also that it’s none of their business, but also that they will catch my hands if I hear them badmouthing him, because he’s an angel.”

“I will,” Kirishima rolled his eyes, then got up, “I’ll give you your time here. Don’t stay out too late.”

“Yes, mom,” Bakugo stuck out his tongue and got a similar gesture in return.

In the end no one saw Bakugo until the next morning, where he pretended nothing had ever happened. Though he did carry himself more lightly and Mina spotted a small rainbow key chain on his bag, which made her smile.

But since he wasn’t acknowledging it any further, neither were they. They would keep their silence until Bakugo was ready to talk about it.

However, they were also way too curious about the mysterious boy that had managed to captivate the most stand-off and anti-social person in their class. The one who had the hardest time befriending people.

He should be lucky they lasted two weeks.

After those two weeks they couldn't take it anymore. So, when Bakugo was once again typing away on his phone Mina exclaimed: “I can’t do this anymore, Bakugo you have to tell me more about your secret boyfriend. I demand to know as fellow queer in crime.”

“You demand to know as nosy asshole, raccoon,” Bakugo retorted.

“Then I demand to know as nosy asshole, just tell me something, anything,” she practically begged.

“Well, if you must know, we’re talking about All Might,” he told her.

“Is he a fan?” Mina would take any bit of information and she watched in wonder as something in Bakugo’s face turned gentle and a smile creeped up his face. He nodded: “The biggest one out there, the idiot.”

“Does he want to be a hero too?” she asked.

“Nah,” Bakugo said, “He wanted to, for a long time, but he’s actually on his way to become a nurse, specializing in hero incidents and support. Always talking about being my back up and making sure I don’t die from recklessness.”

Mina couldn't help but smile at the fond tone in Bakugo’s voice and she mentally adjusted the picture of rough-stone-throwing-hooligan to a softer yet strong teen, who carried an injured Bakugo through the streets.

“That’s so cute,” she squealed.

Bakugo rolled his eyes at her reaction, but secretly agreed. It was very cute how worked up Izu would get over his safety and how he fussed over every little injury while scolding him.

Still, he didn’t give her more information than that, because Izu had finally finished typing his half analysis, half rant over the latest All Might incident report. He was arguing that All Might was loosing power, which Bakugo thought was kinda stupid, so he had to go an tell him that.

With Mina not being completely shut down, the floodgates opened with Hagakure asking about Izu when they were sitting on the couch and Sero during lunch, while others also tried to get a bit of information out of him.

All curious about Izu.

Bakugo would never admit it to another breathing soul, except Izu, but he was touched that they cared so much. That they weren’t trying to ignore the gay part, but were actively trying to learn more about it.

“Then why don’t you say anything, Kacchan?” Izu asked after he had told him about it.

“Because I like having you for myself,” Kacchan pouted.

“Ahw, how sweet,” Izu smiled, he liked how Kacchan would say the most romantic things, just because he was honest at heart and meant it.

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, but Kacchan, it was super sweet, I like the idea of a secret romance, it’s very cute,” he smiled, “But I’m afraid you’ll have to do it by yourself, I showed my friends pictures of you and they follow me online.”

“So you do care about me,” Kacchan teased, knowing how much the other did.

“Of course, I do. You’re the greatest and I love you very much.”

“Love you too.”

“Did you manage to get permission to leave next weekend? Because I can make it home as well and mom promised she’ll make both curry and katsudon, if you come over,” Izu said.

“I still have to hear back from Aizawa-sensei,” he replied, “But I really want to. I need to ask auntie her recipe, mine hasn’t been turning out like hers.”

“You made curry?”

“Yeah, it was my turn to cook and I wanted curry,” Kacchan shrugged.

“That’s so funny to picture,” Izu giggled.

The sound of his boyfriend’s giggles made his heart lighter, but he still said: “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean, I’m a good cook!”

“I guess you’ll have to show me sometime.”

“I will, just you wait.”

“Looking forward to it.” There was a short lull in conversation, then Izu asked: “Have you been eating alright? Since you have to cook, are the others doing their part? A good diet is important, especially with all the physical stuff you have to do. We’re currently having a nutrition course and I’m worried about you.”

“I’m eating fine, Izu, promise,” Kacchan said, “There have been a few we had to ban from the kitchen, but we’re eating fine. I was about to grab a snack actually.”

“Good to hear. What are you grabbing?”

“I don’t know yet. And I’m not grabbing it just now, I’m still talking to you and that’s way more fun.”

“Why can’t you do both?”

“What?”

“I mean, I think I can survive it if you grab a snack while talking to me, Kacchan. I believe in your multitasking skills.”

“That’s not the concern, Izu,” Kacchan whined.

“Ahw, come on. Pretty please, Kacchan? I can help you pick a snack! I have my notes here, I know everything about ultimate snacking,” Izu was starting to get excited, “Just tell me what you’ve eaten and I’ll figure out what nutrients you missed today. They gave us charts.”

Kacchan knew the moment that hint of excitement crept into Izu’s voice, he would be sold. He just couldn't say no to that, so he relented: “Okay, okay,” before telling Izu what he wanted to know and going to the kitchen.

A few of his classmates that were still left at that hour looked up when he entered, some raising their brow at the phone squished between his shoulder and ear. To those he gave a middle finger, because he was too busy listening to Izu ramble to want to talk to them.

“So, what options do we have?” Izu’s voice rang in his ear.

“Got some leftover rice, pocky, umeboshi, some peaches and taiyaki,” he listed, “And like condiments and raw stuff, but I’m not cooking.”

As the only one of their friends here Kaminari was listening in and getting more confused by the second. Why would Bakugo be listing what they had in their kitchen of all things?

Kacchan waited as he listened, before saying: “Oh, really?”

His voice was genuine as if he was interested in the answer he received. He grabbed the rice and listened to whatever the person on the other side of the line was saying.

Then Kacchan said: “You’d do that for me?” a beat, “Wait, wait a second, idiot. I don’t have anything to write here. No, you don’t have to type it out, I can write,” then he hurried up the stairs with his bowl.

The next morning Kaminari asked what that was about and Bakugo shrugged: “Izu’s taking a course about nutrients, he made me an eating chart.”

“Izu?” Kaminari repeated, thinking it was a professional Bakugo went to to stay in shape. He didn’t think it improbably that Bakugo would call a professional idiot.

But then Bakugo blushed and cursed slightly and even Kaminari could put together who the name actually belonged to.

His eyes went wide with the realization.

Bakugo had been secretive about his boyfriend, telling everyone to stop being nosy dicks, which did not at all discourage anyone from trying to find out more, curiosity being fulled by mystery.

Kaminari did the smart thing and stopped talking, only mentioning it to the other during lunch, which surprisingly Bakugo did nothing with.

He didn’t mind that much, he was just scared that if ‘boyfriend’ actually became a person, people would freak out, but so far they all had been nice and Izu was encouraging him to get out of his shell and find confidence in who he was. He also felt like Izu deserved all the praise and not someone who he thought was ashamed of him.

Because he wasn’t.

Bakugo was incredibly proud of his boyfriend, who was not only a lovely and amazing person, but also very talented and deeply caring, while managing to be smart on top of it all.

So when during lunch Kaminari - albeit with an apologetic look - asked: “Izu pick that out for you?” he just sighed, before nodding.

Mina perked up immediately and looked between Bakugo and Kaminari, then back, before her eyes got big with excitement and she asked: “Izu is your boyfriend’s name?”

Deciding to just give in on that point, he explained: “Yeah, well, it’s- it’s a nickname, but it feels weird to say his full name.”

“And I’m guessing you’re not going to give us his full name so we can look him up,” she pouted, already scrolling through the location tag of Bakugo’s home to see if she could find a username with Izu in it.

“No,” Bakugo chuckled, “And you’re not finding him there either. He’s in Tokyo right now.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s becoming a nurse right?” Kirishima recalled.

“Isn’t there that really big nursing school in Tokyo?” Jiro commented, “I heard it’s very prestigious.”

“It is,” Bakugo bragged, “Izu got in top of his class.”

“That’s so cool,” Kaminari said, “Your eating schedule must be super good then.”

Bakugo nodded: “Yeah, he was already working on it. He picked me to focus on for the hero they would have to make a schedule for. He’s an idiot, but it’s sweet, I guess.”

“Ahww,” some of the others commented, before the conversation moved on from there.

He was in a good mood with his friends remembering stuff he’d told them and getting to brag about his boyfriend a bit. A boyfriend that he would probably see that weekend.

The very next day that was gone, he came into class with Aizawa, arguing with his teacher: “You have to let me go, sir. Why can’t I go? Please, you don’t understand.”

“I understand Bakugo, but whatever you have planned can wait another week,” Aizawa said.

“It can’t, it has to be this week.”

“Then I’m very sorry for you, but too many students are already leaving, there just isn’t a spot free. It happens,” Aizawa explained.

“But sir-”

“No, Bakugo, end of discussion,” Aizawa cut him off, leaving Bakugo frustrated and upset. He had his fist and jaw clenched and he was hunched in a fighting stand while simultaneously managing to look very small.

“Bakubro?” Kirishima asked tentatively, “What happened?”

He didn’t want to be this upset, but he had fucking missed Izu so much and he had been looking forwards to it and then it had been crushed right before his eyes. Much to his horror tears were beginning to gather in his eyes.

“Bro?” Kirishima asked again.

“I can’t go home this weekend,” he finally managed to get out, fighting off the tears, “Izu gets to go home too this weekend and we were going to spend it together. I- I just want to see him again, but the spots to go home for the weekend are already full.”

“Oh, Bakugo, that must suck so hard,” Mina sympathized.

Others had similar sentiments, no one had ever seen the explosive blond like that. Then help came from the most unlikely source, Todoroki. He said: “You can have my slot.”

“Really?” Bakugo asked, not even insulting the other boy.

Todorokithought of the awkward and painful family dinner he would have to attend, before nodding firmly: “Yeah, I have nothing important. It can be rescheduled easily.”

“Thank you, Icy-Hot,” Bakugo grinned, lighting up immediately.

Henodded back and that was the end of the conversation.

The weekend came and Bakugo practically ran out of the dorm Friday afternoon, yelling a quick goodbye and muttering something about train arrivals when he passed.

He was on time for the train, even managing to snatch up some flowers on his way to the station and before he knew it, he had an excited green haired boy in his arms again.

It all passed by much faster than Bakugo wanted and before he knew it he was walking back into UA with only memories of doing homework together, picnicking in the park they used to explore as kids, whispering till deep in the night and laughing together in the kitchen.

When he got back the others noticed how he carried himself slightly different and they tried to pry details out of during lunch. He told them nothing more besides: “It was fun.”

Until they were in the dorms and Bakugo walked up to Todoroki, obviously not wanting to, with something in his hands. He trusted out a little packed and said: “Izu would be mad if I didn’t give these to you. They’re a thank you for giving up your spot.”

“Oh, uhm, thank you…” Todoroki said, inspecting the packet.

“They’re cookies, dumbass. You’ve seen those before,” Bakugo snapped.

Mina jumped on his back and cooed: “Ahw, did Izu make cookies.”

“More, me and auntie,” Bakugo snorted, “Izu can do much, but he’s a disaster in the kitchen. He manged to burn water once, that was an experience.”

“I didn’t know you can bake,” Sero said.

“It’s not really I do often and auntie is better at it, I just know how not to burn stuff,” Bakugo shrugged.

“The opposite of your quirk,” Kaminari joked, getting some laughs.

“But you and Izu baked together?” Mina got them back on topic, “What else did you do?”

“None of your business, raccoon,” Bakugo informed her, finally getting her off his back.

She shrugged: “Worth a try.”

“Can I see the cookies, Todoroki?” Hagakure asked.

“Oh, sure,” Todoroki showed her the cookies and she giggled: “They’re All Might shaped.”

“Really?” other went to go see and the cookies were indeed in the shape of All Might’s head with pink icing on it.

“It was the only one we had,” Bakugo blushed, omitting that there had been heart shaped ones as well and he had a packet of those himself that Izu decorated, while he had decorated the ones Izu had taken with him to Tokyo.

After the others tricked Todoroki out of most of his cookies, they went to get started on all the homework they’d gotten today.

Everyone had been nothing but positive about his boyfriend, even his self appointed nemesis had given up his own weekend home for him to go see Izu. With all the nice reactions, Bakugo was pretty certain it wouldn’t be a repeat of Middle School and was commenting more and more about things related to Izu.

He commented that Izu would have loved seeing everyone training to upgrade their quirk, because he loved quirks in general, but especially weaknesses and how they could turn on the user and how to avoid that.

And he explained that katsudon was Izu’s favourite food when they asked him how he’d gotten so good at making it.

But all the good things couldn't stop the bad nights that still plagued him.

So when he had awoken from a nightmare, he called Izu awake, knowing that the other told him to not feel guilty about and to just do it.

In the end he found himself on the kitchen floor, feeling much calmer while Izu finished his story of what a classmate had done that day. When he was done it was quiet for a moment, then Kacchan softly said: “Thank you, Izu.”

“Of course, Kacchan. Try to sleep, okay?” Izu replied, “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Kacchan returned, before hanging up.

After he’d hung up, he noticed a form in the doorway. He looked up and saw Kirishima standing in the doorway in his pajama pants. He looked like a deer in headlight and said: “I haven’t been listening in, I just got here.”

“It’s fine,” Bakugo sighed, “free world.”

“Hey, are you okay?” Kirishima noticed the state Bakugo was in.

“No, I just like calling my boyfriend in the middle of the night while he needs his rest as well for fun,” he said sarcastically.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t worry, just tired,” Bakugo rubbed his eyes, regretting snapping at Kirishima, when the cheery boy was one of the last people to deserve it.

Kirishima sat down next to him and said: “It’s okay. I can’t imagine you’re here because you want to be.”

“Tell me about it,” Bakugo rolled his eyes, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Nah, I got thirsty,” Kirishima said, “Do you want to talk about what woke you up?”

“Not really, Izu already forced me to tell him that was enough for one night,” Bakugo told him, “I was gathering the energy to go back to sleep again.”

“Good that you’re at least talking to someone,” Kirishima said, “Here, I’m making us tea, then we’ll go back to bed together. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

They didn’t speak of the meeting the next morning nor after that, but Kirishima did take up the habit of asking Bakugo if he’d slept well, earning him an eyeroll and Bakugo telling he already had one mother hen in his life.

Though he did answer every time.

It was just life in the dorms. Everyone had gotten used to living with the others and slowly they were becoming more comfortable with each other and turning into a slightly dysfunctional and highly chaotic family.

Which meant that by the time Bakugo was comfortable calling Izu in the common area the others had no qualms about interrupting him.

He had called Izu more often, but usually walked out of the room after a few minutes. However that time period had become longer and longer and he had been talking to Izu for nearly 45 minutes already, mostly telling him about his own day and listening to Izu talk about his.

Right now the conversation had wondered to a recent villain take-down by The Lurkers and the strategy team up of Mt. Lady and Kamui Woods.

So, Mina walked over and whined: “This is boring, Bakugo. Here, gimme the phone,” as she grabbed for his phone.

He ducked and shouted: “Oi, raccoon, leave me the fuck alone.”

“But Bakugo, I wanna talk to Izu,” Mina pouted, grabbing for the phone again, “You’re being boring and it’s not fun to listen in if you’re talking about heroes. We already hear about heroes constantly.”

“You’re not talking to him, piss off,” Bakugo danced away from Mina’s hand, but she was on his tail and they were running around the table.

As they ran Izu’s confused voice came over the speaker: “Kacchan?”

“Sorry, Izu, I’m being chased!” Bakugo yelled.

“Are you okay?” Izu asked concerned.

“Yeah, just a raccoon on my tale.”

“I’m not a raccoon!”

“You mean Mina?” Izu laughed.

“Yes!” Bakugo yelpedright as he tripped onto the couch. Mina immediate took the chance and jumped to wrestle the phone out of his hands.

Success.

She ran off with her prize, holding the phone to her ear as she greeted: “Hi, Izu! I don’t know your full name, but I’m Mina, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Mina, I’m Izuku,” a light and friendly voice greeted her.

“Bakugo only ever gives us grains about you,” Mina said, “So, tell me more.”

“Oh, uhm, I- I don’t really know. I- uh, I like heroes, you were really cool at the sports festival, I was really rooting for you,” Izu answered, voice getting more steady once he got talking about her quirk, “I do hope you’re immune to your own acid or that would be a problem.”

“It’s not a problem, but it’s fun that your brain jumps to that with you becoming a hero nurse,” Mina said.

“Oh, haha, didn’t even realize that,” Izuku chuckled awkwardly.

At this point Bakugo had freed himself from Sero and Kaminari, who had aided Mina in her quest to talk to Izuku and was going after her again, while having the two boys on his own trail, who in turn had Kirishima after them to stop them from stopping Bakugo.

Mina set off running again, panting into the phone: “Your boyfriend is chasing me, help. What do I say to calm him down? You’re the Bakugo whisperer.”

Izuku laughed at that, before telling her to put him on speaker. She did and he called out: “Kacchan, Kacchan!”

“Nerd,” Bakugo yelled back, “Are you okay.”

“I’m fine, Kacchan,” Izuku shouted back, “It’s fun, come on, it’s not the end of the world. Pinky promise I won’t tell them about the ant incident.”

Bakugo stopped chasing Mina, much to her delight and surprise. He just walked over to her, no more threatening steps, and just said: “You promise?”

“I promise,” Izuku said, “You can put me on speaker and I can say hi to people. I heard so much about them, but never even said hi. Pretty please?”

“Okay, okay.”

Sero coughed: “Whipped,” and subsequently got an elbow in the side from Mina, who didn’t want this opportunity to get taken from her.

Bakugo took the phone back and walked to the couch, where he sat down. Mina, Hagaure, Kaminari, Sero and Kirishima all crouched around the phone and Jiro also made her way over from where she had been ignoring most of the chaos.

Izuku greeted everyone first: “Hi, I’m Midoriya Izuku, it’s nice to meet you all, whoever is there with Kacchan right now.”

Kaminari giggled: “Kacchan.”

“Shut up,” Bakugo blushed.

“I’m Kaminari Denki,” Kaminari ignored Bakugo.

“I m Kirishima Eijiro.” Kirishima said cheerily, “Hi!”

“Sero Hanta, nice to meet you.”

“And I’m Hagakure Toru, I’m so excited to hear from you.”

“Oh, and I’m Jiro Kyoka,” Jiro added.

“And I’m still here as well!” Mina said.

“Hello everyone,” there was clearly a smile in Midoriya’s voice, “I’ll try to remember all your names, some are familiar, so I think I’ll manage, but sorry if I mess up.”

“Of course, no problem,” Hagakure said.

“Do you have anything embarrassing about Bakugo we could use against him?” Kaminari asked.

“Probably,” Midoriya said, “Though, I don’t know if he’ll like metelling you. He can be a bit grumpy when I turn on him and I would like to keep my cuddle privileges.”

“I doubt you can loose them with how Bakugo raves on about you,” Kirishima said, hardening his side for the elbow he knew was coming.

“Ahw, he talks about me?” Midoriya said.

“It’s adorable,” Hagakure told him.

“That’s so nice to hear. He was really scared of opening up, it’s good that he’s comfortable around you all. You’re really good friends, even if he isn’t the best at telling you all,” Midoriya was audibly relieved and the ones around the phone were strangely proud of making that tone appear.

“And we’re glad he has you to talk to,” Kirishima added, “You sound really manly and cool, bro.”

“You guys done with your circle jerk,” Bakugo grouched.

“Don’t be mean, Kacchan,” Midoriya admonished.

“How did you two meet?” Mina asked, not minding a topic change.

“We’ve always known each other,” Midoriya said, “We lived in the same neighborhood and played in the same playground since we were little. High School is the first time we’ve been apart for so long ever.”

“Ahw, a childhood friends to lovers trope,” Hagakure gushed.

“Kind of, yeah,” Midoriya laughed.

“We still didn’t get the embarrassing stories,” Kaminari whined as Sero loudly agreed, much to Bakugo’s displeasure.

“Well, there was that time with the cold,” Midoriya mused.

“Izu, no,” Bakugo said horrified.

“Midoriya, please tell us!” the others cheered.

“Sorry, Kacchan, majority rules,” Midoriya said, a bit of little shit shining through, “So, Kacchan had a cold, but he came to school anyway, because he’s an idiot.”

“I take offense to that.”

“Than take offense, babe, it was stupid,” Midoriya shot back, “He had no voice at all left, Little Mermaid style, and was carrying around a notebook to communicate. He had a bit of a croak left, but he definitely shouldn’t be talking.”

They were all listening closely, except for Bakugo who was pouting and leaning back, but he wasn’t interrupting. He liked listening to Izu talk even if it was to embarrass him in front of his friends.

“But then some kids came up to me during recess,” Midoriya went on, “And they were calling me names, just being mean, not important.”

“It is important, they were dicks,” Bakugo groused.

“Yeah, Kacchan, I know, but it’s not now the point, don’t deflect,” Midoriya said, “So, Kacchan comes to save me, very sweet of him, my own prince in shining armor.”

Hagakure, Mina and Kirishima cooed at that.

“However, while it was very sweet, Kacchan had forgotten that he didn’t have a voice,” there was a bit laughter, “So, when he came running, yelling, there was no yelling, just a soft little long croak like so.”

Midoriya imitated a frog like croak, causing more laughter and giggles.

“And that wasn’t even the end, because the little croak didn’t stop him. He pushed them away and told them they were dick bags, but all that came out was bags,” Midoriya finished, “He was Mr. Bagsfor weeks.��

There were peels of laughter and chocked off repeated of ‘Mr. Bags’ while Bakugo pushed them away with a ‘shut up.’

“Tells us more, tell us more,” was chanted, but then a sort of loud alarm went of in the background.

Bakugo seized the phone and asked: “Are you okay, Izu?”

“I’m fine, Kacchan,” Midoriya didn’t sound shaken or scared, which calmed everyone, “It’s a training exercise. Some second years told me about it, it’s because you can’t count on normal hours when supporting heroes and they can need you at any moment. I have to go respond to the call. Talk to you later. It was nice to meet you all. Love you, Kacchan.”

“Love you too. Good luck,” Bakugo was just in time before Midoriya hung up.

It was quiet for a moment, then Kaminari chocked: “Kacchan,” and everyone lost it again.

“Oh, shut up, he started calling me that when we were like three,” Bakugo rolled his eyes, but he couldn't mind the laughter that much after talking with Izu and his friends being nice to his boyfriend after all the shit he had meeting new people.

“Midoriya is such a sweetheart,” Hagakure told him, “He’s such a pleasant person.”

“Yeah, not at all Mr. Stone Thrower, I imagined him to be,” Mina agreed.

“Stone thrower?” Bakugo frowned.

“You don’t wanna know,” Kirishima told him and Bakugo decided it would be better not to ask, so he just said: “Alright. But Izu isn’t that sweet. Well, he is, of course, but he can be a little shit. Didn’t you just hear him, be mean to me?”

“Ahw, little Kacchan has a boo-boo on his ego,” Kaminari managed before Bakugo jumped him.

“Don’t call me Kacchan,” he yelled.

“What else should we call you then,” Sero grinned from the couch, “Mr. Bags.”

“I hate you all!”

“But we’re really good friends, Bakubro,” Kirishima teased.

“Not you too. I’ll kill you,” Bakugo screamed, but no one could take his threats seriously after the sweet and kind voice of Midoriya had just told them how much Bakugo secretly cares about them and called him ‘Kacchan.’

Later Mina would pout and tell him she couldn't find Midoriya Izuku anywhere online and Bakugo would grin and shrug, not sharing that his boyfriend’s username was @AllMightssuperfan everywhere. Izu had been religious about online safety and had never shared his name on any of his accounts.

And the next time he was calling with Izu, multiple people told him to say hi, with Sero grinning: “Tell your nice half hi from me.”

He was glad that the others liked Izu. His boyfriend had had enough trouble with people being mean to him for no reason, but his friends had taken a liking to him almost instantly.

Though they seem to have a mental picture of Izu in which he was a sweetheart. This in itself wasn’t a lie, Izu was one of the kindest people Kacchan knew, but it wasn’t just kindness. The other could be ruthless if he was angry and was a bigger trouble magnet than Kacchan with a dose of little shit built in permanently.

Still, Bakugo was trying to think of a way to introduce his friends to his boyfriend, but with the safety measures surrounding UA that was more difficult than expected.

Luckily it soon happened by chance.

Class 1-A would be going to a training exercise in Tokyo, where they would learn to be mindful of property destruction and building safety.

The training exercise would have taught them how to spot when a building was about to fall, how certain walls and pillars were integral to the structure staying upright and how they could see if there were important electric wires or water lines in the ground.

However, it was Class 1-A and things never really went the way they wanted and planned, so naturally the class was attacked while at the training facility that lay between multiple schools in the area.

Though, since it was also Class 1-A they had enough experience to fight off the attack without any life-threatening injuries. So, they were only mildly scraped up and injured by the time they defeated the villains.

They were barely catching their breath when a form of green was running towards them, multiple people on their trail. As the person got closer they heard them yell: “Kacchaaaaan!!”

Bakugo whipped his head up and Kirishima, Mina and Jiro dredged themselves up into a protective stance at this newcomer, until Momo commented: “Huh, that’s the uniform of the nursing school nearby.”

That comment and name tickled something in the back of their minds, but they were tired and the pieces wouldn’t yet click.

The person was nearby and they saw it was a green haired boy with freckles and a face that was more prone to laughter even if it was frowning now. He shouldered past Kirishima and Mina, who were in his way more prominently, before kneeling next to Bakugo and grabbing the first aid kit that hung around his shoulder.

“Hey,” Kirishima said, though he didn’t stop the boy, seeing that he was friendly.

“Izu?” Bakugo said, horridly confused.

At that everyone turned and looked at the boy, wide eyes as finally it all added up. He had called Bakugo Kacchan and wore the uniform of a Tokyo nursing school. With Bakugo identifying him, it was easy to see that this was his boyfriend.

However, before any of the could react, Midoriya was scolding Bakugo: “You absolute, idiot. Do you know how worried I was? We got a warning there was a villain attack ongoing and then I heard yourexplosions and when I looked out the window I saw you fall. You know better than to go that high.”

“I’m sorry, Izu, but-”

“You can save your sorry, Kacchan,” Izu huffed, “Let me check you over first. Are there any spots you landed on or that ache?”

“My ribs,” Kacchan decided it was better to let his boyfriend fuss, feeling bad about worrying the already natural anxious boy.

The rest of the class stood in shocked silence at the interaction. Then the people following Midoriya arrived, apologizing to Aizawa as one explained: “Midoriya ran out before we could stop him, I apologize on his behalf as class president. We’re Class 1-A of Tokyo School of Nursing, nearby. We also came to help if needed, but we’re only first years.”

They showed their first aid kits and Aizawa said: “It’s fine, I suppose. Don’t cause any trouble. I’ll see if we can get police on sight and medical professionals with a license.”

“I’m sure a few of our teachers will be here soon, but we’ll see what we can do,” the class president bowed along with the other four students that had run after Midoriya, before setting to work, checking everyone over and tending to their wounds when possible.

Kirishima and Mina were being looked over, while gawking at Bakugo and Midoriya. Midoriya had checked over Bakugo’s ribs and bandaged them and was now cleaning the cuts on his face, while saying: “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Sorry, Izu,” Kacchan replied, “I don’t mean to get caught up in these things.”

“I know and I’m going to have to get used to this, aren’t I?” Izu sniffled, “I just saw you fall and I reacted before I even knew.”

“Hey, I’ll be more careful, promise,” Kacchan said.

“You better, I’m telling on you to auntie next time I see her, maybe I’ll even call her tonight and next time you’re over we’re not eating curry,” Izu’s jaw set, “I’m pissed at you for throwing your life so easily in the balance. I thought your whole thing was to learn to save people, include yourself in the definition of people.”

“I do that!” Kacchan squawked indignantly.

“Sure, whatever you say, Kacchan,” Izu obviously didn’t believe him, “That’s why you always died a dramatic death every time we played hero.”

“You were just as dramatic, weeping over my death,” Kacchan protested.

“Of course, my knight in shining armor disappeared,” Izu laughed, “Now, you need to watch those wounds. I don’t think they need stitches, but I would advise against touching them and make sure they don’t start to get infected. The moment they show signs of swelling, discoloration or heating up, you go tell someone.”

Kacchan listened closely to the instructions and Izu finished: “Also try not to put any strain on your ribs. No sudden movements, no jumping, no twisting. Rest them. You hear me, Kacchan, rest.”

“Yeah,” Kacchan nodded, before smirking, “But you forgot something.”

“What?” Izu frowned, going over the steps mentally, trying to figure out what he skipped and how Kacchan would even know that.

“You still have to kiss it better,” Kacchan informed him with a grin.

Izu sighed, but there was a small smile playing around his lips as he said: “That’s not very professional, now is it, Mr. Bakugo?”

“I think you can hardly call that scolding you just gave me professional, angel,” Kacchan shot back.

“Touche,” Izu agreed, before leaning in and kissing the scrapes on Kacchans knuckles and cheek, before kissing him on his lips and whispering, “I’m not kissing your ribs in public.”

At that Kacchan blinked the dazed, sappy look out of his eyes and remembered his class was right there and he wasn’t alone with his boyfriend. With the elation of seeing Izu wearing off and making way for embarrassment, he blushed heavily.

“Ahw, blush-y Kacchan, so cute,” Izu commented, not at all feeling bad for his boyfriend’s embarrassment.

Mina practically skipped forward when the student tending to the gash in her arm finally let her go. She stuck out her hand: “I’m Ashido Mina, we met on the phone, I believe.”

“Midoriya Izuku, you’d be correct,” Midoriya smiled, shaking her hand, “Kacchan really told me so much about you all, it’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

“And I’m Kirishima Eijiro,” Kirishima wanted to make contact, before either Bakugo or Aizawa dragged them away.

“Oh, hi!” Midoriya said, “Kacchan was right about the hair being dramatic, I like your costume. It fits really well.”

“Ah, thanks,” Kirishima blushed, “It’s Crimson Riot inspired.”

“You’re a fan?” Midoriya asked, “Good choice, he’s great. Him during All Mights Silver Age was unrivaled. Their team up was so cool.”

“I know right,” Kirishima was glad someone saw how right his opinion was.

“Enough boring bullshit,” Mina pushed him away, “I want to get your social media @ because I couldn't find you anywhere.”

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” Midoriya rubbed the back of his head, “It’s @AllMightssuperfan.”

She quickly typed something, before grinning: “Now I’m following you. I have to say it’s been a trip to meet you.”

“I can imagine thatno one thought this would be the meeting, yes,” Midoriya smiled.

Bakugo walked up behind him, not liking his boyfriend leaving him for his friends. He put his head on Midoriya’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around Midoriya’s waist, not letting up his scowl as he said: “You’re also an idiot for running towards an active attack.”

“It was already ending by the time I arrived,” Midoriya waved it away.

“I can still be mad about that,” Bakugo pouted.

“Suppose you can,” Midoriya shrugged, leaning his head against Bakugo’s, “I will try to be more careful, but just as your job is going to become running into danger, mine is going to be running after you.”

“Ahww,” Hagakure gushed, finally having made her way over to the other.

Midoriya looked confused for a moment at the sound of a new voice before he spotted the gloves, then he greeted: “You must be Hagakure Toru.”

“I am!”

“You’re not injured are you?” Midoriya frowned, “It would be hard to see if you’re hit.”

“Ah, yes, it would,” Hagakure said, “But don’t worry, I’m fine!”

“That’s good to hear,” Midoriya smiled, before he mused to himself, “There isn’t really much training about what to do when you can’t see the patient, say that she ever gets knocked unconscious.”

“Stop mumbling, Izu,” Bakugo snapped him out of it.

“Oh, sorry, I get caught up in my head,” Midoriya apologized.

But before he could get back to talking with Bakugo’s classmates a severe looking lady sternly called out: “Midoriya Izuku, come here right now.”

Midoriya stiffened, before whispering: “That’s my homeroom teacher. Sorry, gotta go,” the he hurried over to the lady.

She put her hands on her hips, before scolding: “What on earth were you thinking, running off in the middle of class like that? Towards a fight, no less. That was very dangerous young man and you will be punished accordingly.”

“Sorry, sensei,” Midoriya said softly, then he looked up defiantly, “But I still stand by my decision to run.”

“What?” the teacher exclaimed, along with a few bystanders.

Kirishima hissed into Bakugo’s ear: “What is he doing? He’s already in trouble.”

Bakugo smiled, looking a bit proud, then answered: “He might be an idiot, but he is an idiot with a heart. If he thinks he did the right thing, he will stand by it.”

“If we’re just going of response,” Midoriya indeed defended himself, “I was here first. Actual licensed medical professionals had to be called after the fact. You always press how importance time is and how it can save or costs life, sensei. We got extra experience and ensured that if there had been serious injuries, we could hold down the fort until an ambulance got here.”

The teacher hesitated, then her shoulders sagged slightly. She smiled gently then said: “I appreciate your fire, Midoriya. Still we’re responsible for you and this was a very dangerous thing to do. You could have been hurt as well.”

“I wouldn’t, Kacchan would have protected me,” Midoriya stated as if it was a fact, “But I understand, sensei. I will accept any punishment you see fit and I will try not to do it again.”

“That’s all I can ask,” the teacher said, she understood a bit better, having heard the nickname ‘Kacchan’ many times when her students could talk during her classes.

“Kacchan?” Aizawa asked, having joined the teacher to also scold the boy, “You mean Bakugo Katsuki?”

“Yes, I’m his boyfriend,” Midoriya smiled sweetly, making Bakugo blush when Aizawa looked his way and as his friends jeered.

“Well, then I think you’re quite right in your assessment of the Problem Child,” Aizawa said, “But it was still dangerous.”

“I understand, Eraser Head,” Midoriya bowed again, “Still, thank you for keeping him safe and not turning away our help.”

“And thank you for your help, despite the illogical reason behind it,” Aizawa said, “Now, I want to speak to your teacher, so enjoy the time with Bakugo, please do not do anything more stupid and stay in sight.”

Midoriya blushed, but said nothing, just bowing before rushing back to Bakugo.

“I would have protected you, would I?” Bakugo teased when he returned.

“Shut up, you would,” Midoriya pouted.

“Yeah, I would,” Bakugo said proudly.

“You actually talked back to Aizawa,” Kirishima said and Hagakure asked: “Weren’t you scared? He’s so intimidating at first.”

“It was terrifying, I don’t know why I did that,” Midoriya’s face was anxiety filled.

“Because you knew you were right,” Bakugo said, kissing his forehead, “You did well standing up for yourself. Hope you won’t be in too much trouble.”

Midoriya smiled at Bakugo’s encouragement. He waved the concern away: “Sensei is more bark than bite. She looks sterner than she is, she was just concerned after I ran out of class.”

“I can understand that,” Hagakure said.

“So manly,” Kirishima commented.

At that Midoriya giggled: “You actually do say it. I thought Kacchan was being dramatic about it. Sorry that sounded rude, I think it’s fun actually.”

“He talks about us?” Mina asked.

“Of course,” Midoriya sounded surprised at the question, “He talks about everyone in your class. It’s sometimes like I know all of you already. I’m very impressed with how far all of you’ve come in comparison to the start of the year. Kacchan tells me how hard you all work.”

Mina pulled him into a hug and said: “You’re so cute, Midoriya. I am so messaging you online, we need to be friends.”

“I’d love that,” Midoriya smiled.

Bakugo pulled Midoriya back and scowled: “Stop pulling on my boyfriend. I haven’t seen him in weeks, piss off.”

“Sharing is caring, Bakubro,” Kirishima teased.

“Sharing can go fuck itself,” Bakugo grouched and Midoriya snorted, before saying: “Missed you too, babe.”

They continued talking until Midoriya was called back to go to class. Kacchan and Izu drew out their goodbye for as long as they could manage until Izu had to stop waving and Kacchan disappeared out of sight.

Class 1-A mentally adjusted the image they had both of Bakugo and Midoriya.

Seeing Bakugo be himself completely, taking a scolding with understanding and demanding kisses from his boyfriend, added a layer to the grumpy boy they usually saw.

Midoriya had already undergone an entire transformation in the minds of most. From the stone throwing boyfriend they had imagined to gentle giant to the defiant yet kind person they had met today, who would do what was right, but still only lost that last bit of anxiousness when he was with Bakugo.

They were excited for him to graduate and hoped to see him have their backs again in the future.

A/N:

Idk if my idea for Midoriya really came through, but I imagine that hero agencies have personal medical staff to ensure that there will be medical aid if hospitals have a crisis or if the injuries aren’t big enough for injuries. These will be educated for quirk related injuries and since Izu is becoming one to support Kacchan, he will try and focus his assignments on his boyfriend, which is allowed after the sports festival.

I’m not keeping to canon bc I want them to actually meet Izu and I really wanted it to go like this, so a weird extra attack thingy it is. At first, I wanted to do something with the provisional hero license exam, but I felt it wouldn’t go well with the fic.

One thing, I really like it imagining how Bakugo would be if he didn’t have a festering resentment that grew for years, but instead actual support. And how Midoriya would be if he had a chance to develop confidence.

43 notes · View notes

missmorosis · 4 years ago

Text

Aang S/O Headcanons!

from my matchups hehe!! they may not be v good lsdjfksdf

here’s the zuko version!

here’s the sokka version!

here’s the suki version!

here’s the toph, ty lee, and katara version!

this bby loves to give you hugs hehe <3

you would get a lot of physical touch!!

aang WILL prioritize you, even if you didn’t ask

HE LOVES YOU SO SO MUCH!!!

he’ll give you lots of attention~

aang hugs aang hugs aang hugs

aang kisses aang kisses aang kisses

IF YOU WANT CUDDLES HE'LL GIVE YOU CUDDLES :D

he'll also cuddle you with appa snuggling with the both of you~

appa kinda feels like a giant pillow so its real comfy dndjdj

⋄✧⋄

he’ll listen to you and try his best to give you advice!!

he’ll totally put up with your drama if you’re dramatic :D

I MEAN

he ended the war?? which is- drama

he tried to solve any toph-katara drama as well LKJDFLKSJ

⋄✧⋄

it’s okay if you’re a quiet person!!

at first, he’ll prob think you just don’t wanna talk to him slkdjf

but when you open up, he’ll be like

😮💕

aang doesn’t mind that you’re an introvert!!

he’ll set up dates privately

somewhere with just the two of you, if you would like it!

like movie nights, or picnics, or just chilling together :D

⋄✧⋄

he wants to share a common interest with you!!

he’ll ask you to teach him your interests!

he’ll workout with you as well!!

like how he trained w/ katara hehe

he’ll learn more stuff with you!!

he just wants to do what you enjoy <3

this baby loves you smmmm

⋄✧⋄

you guys can listen to music together!!

HAVE YA SEEN HIM PLAY THE HORN THINGAMABOB IN THE HEADBAND EPISODE

He'll ✨vibe along✨ with you to all the music you blast hehe

He loves to dance with you!!

⋄✧⋄

if you like to sing, he’s GREAT

HE LOVES YOUR ANGELIC VOICE JSJSJE

"WOW THAT WAS SO GOOD!!"

"SING IT AGAIN!!"

Sing for him till your voice is all gone 😎

"Sorry” mwkdjeieiie

He goes to every single one of your shows!!

He's always super supportive

Will not hesitate to yell your name from the audience

WILL bring the entire gaang and make them cheer for you as well

"YAY ELLIEEEEEEE" *millions of claps*

He'll bring you flowers at the end of every single performance

No matter how big or small the performance was

No matter now major or minor your role is

He's just really proud of you 😭💖

⋄✧⋄

He won't be super protective

Aang wouldn't mind your guy friends

Frankly, he's just happy to have new friends cuz YOUR FRIENDS ARE HIS FRIENDS

He trusts you completely 💕

Now DONT ruin it and do something bad eididuud

⋄✧⋄

He wouldn't mind when you’re being rude accidentally

He totally understands that it happens

He loves you anyways, and he thinks that you're the ABSOLUTE SWEETEST

⋄✧⋄

Aang def loves how much you love others 😘

He appreciates all the effort you always put in!!

⋄✧⋄

AND ITS OKAY IF YOU'RE CHAOTIC

Please he deals with the gaaang dkdjdjkeejjdjd

He LOVES YOU SO MUCHHH AHHH

⋄✧⋄

You would feel super comfortable with aang

He would do anything to make you feel comfortable with him sljdflkasl

⋄✧⋄

He loves how goofy you are, and he’s real goofy with you as well :D

"LOOK, A PENCIL MUSTACHE"

"AHH BRB I NEED A PENCIL FOR MINE TOO!!"

⋄✧⋄

He can totally deal with your stubbornness- *cough the gaang*

⋄✧⋄

You can talk to anything about him and he would listen with his whole heart <3

⋄✧⋄

He'll calm you down if you ever get too aggressive

Hold you back from fights if he absolutely needs to sjdjjd

⋄✧⋄

you guys can listen to music together!!

HAVE YA SEEN HIM PLAY THE HORN THINGAMABOB IN THE HEADBAND EPISODE

He'll ✨vibe along✨ with you to all the music you blast hehe

He loves to dance with you!!

He'll listen to all the songs you recommend

He trusts you, and he trusts your music taste!! 💕

"Take a listen to this one."

You two would share earbuds and chill on the couch together

While listening to music, you would read or write

Aang would braid your hair

He loves doing it, and you love the feeling as well

He's actually quite good at it skjdjjd

You'll finish what you were writing with some really pretty hair and an accomplished feeling 😎

ITS A GREAT FEELING EJKEJE

⋄✧⋄

he’s very open with his emotions and I feel like he has great communication skills!

although he’s a great liar, he prefers to be honest with you 😌

⋄✧⋄

aang will never judge you!!

he’ll support you 100%, even if he doesn’t approve

he believes you know what you’re doing, and he’ll be with you every step of the way

he’ll voice his concerns if he doesn’t like what you’re doing, but he’ll support you :D

“I don’t know… but okay, as long as you stay safe.”

like how he did with Katara when she went after the man who k*lled her mom-

⋄✧⋄

he loves talking about everything to you, especially since he knows you won’t judge :D

in return, he listens to you and he’ll give you advice!!

compassionate baby always looking for the best and most positive solution!

⋄✧⋄

star-gazing with aang 🥺🥺

“Look at that star!! It’s so bright!”

“yeah! that’s (this star)”

you would tell him all you know

he would listen as best as he can!

“that star is part of this constellation!”

yall would look for the stars together

getting excited when you find a constellation 🥺

you guys can study astrology together!!

you two can share bracelets!!

wrapping the chakra bracelets around each other’s wrists :D

⋄✧⋄

he would steal your funny t-shirts, he thinks they’re hilarious and he loves them

he’ll show them all to Sokka/Katara, who also finds them funny 🥰

⋄✧⋄

he’ll express his love for you all the time, and you will never doubt that he loves you 💖

hope you enjoy these!!

#atla x you #atla x y/n #atla x reader #atla x yn #aang x reader #aang x you #aang x y/n #aang #atla

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ratisnotcrying · 3 years ago

Text

Juno Steel and how to pretend you’re fine

Summary: Juno hasn’t had a bad day in a long time. Okay, maybe he has, but not a bad-bad day, not a self-sacrifice-and-gun-fights bad day, not a what-if-I-crash-my-car bad day. He especially hadn’t had an I-need-to-hurt-myself-and-I-don’t-care-who-I-take-with-me kind of bad day.Except today. Today felt like all of those wrapped into one and multiplied by a thousand.

Prompt: “What if I just crash this car and make it all stop?” from prompt-dealer (i think)

Pairings: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel

Warnings: canon typical suicidal thoughts/ suicidal tendancies, mentions of car crashes, intrusive thoughts, previous minor character death

Word count: 1.6K

A/N: this is cross posted on ao3 - please lmk if i need to add any tags

~~~

Juno hasn’t had a bad day in a long time. Okay, maybe he has, but not a bad-bad day, not a self-sacrifice-and-gun-fights bad day, not a what-if-I-crash-my-car bad day. He especially hadn’t had an I-need-to-hurt-myself-and-I-don’t-care-who-I-take-with-me kind of bad day.

Except today. Today felt like all of those wrapped into one and multiplied by a thousand.

The old Juno would have given in. He would have entertained the idea for all of no time at all and then dived in head first with his eyes wide open. Juno-now (he wasn’t a new Juno, he was just… now, here) still entertained the idea, hell, he might even wonder why he wanted to do whatever it was. But he wouldn’t do it. Probably.

He definitely wouldn't hurt someone else, no matter what he did.

~~~

It had started after the last job, which had gone quite spectacularly wrong.

Juno and Peter hadn’t gone in expecting an easy job - stealing a painting off the wall of a crowded ballroom was obviously going to be difficult - but that had gone off without a hitch, had gone off easier than the last time they did such a heist. No, the real issue came when a different thief had tried to steal a vase and gotten caught. It wasn’t even a nice vase, definitely not nice enough to die over.

It had turned into a messy hostage situation, Juno’s HCPD training and his own career as professional hostage kicking in as he tried desperately to find a way to get everyone out.

You can’t save everyone, Juno.

Three civilians and the thief had wound up dead, and more injured than Juno’s guilt ridden brain could count, and by the time he and Peter were back on the Carte Blanche, Juno could barely speak for the shock of what had happened. Neither Buddy nor Peter said anything when Peter debriefed with no input from Juno.

Buddy did, however, decide to put off selling the painting for a little while, giving everyone some time to relax. This is where Juno’s bad day had started.

~~~

In the timeless limbo between jobs, it was easy to lose yourself: Rita in her streams with Jet; Buddy and Vespa in their wedding plans, and Peter and Juno in each other. Juno couldn’t help the feeling he was losing himself alone.

He knows he should have said something to Peter, or Rita, or even Vespa if he was desperate, but he was too busy trying to convince himself had it under control.

His mind had been racing in loose circles, chasing empty thoughts and half-memories of every time Juno had fucked up, every time he had let someone die, every time he had almost let someone die.

Benten. Yasmin. Alessandra.

His head felt heavy with it, weighing him down into a feeling he thought he had long forgotten, numbing him so he couldn’t feel his way out. All he could find in the mess was the handy how-to he had written himself.

How to pretend your fine when you absolutely, totally are - by Juno Steel

~~~

He had been doing a good job, if he did say so himself. Even if he and the rest of the ship knew that was a lie.

Rita had been hovering more, not smothering him, just letting him know she was there; Jet never mentioned when Juno came and sat silently with him for a few hours, handing him tools when he asked. Buddy had outright told him that if he wanted to talk then she would always have time, ‘always, darling, just say the word’. Even Vespa had been a little nicer - their typically aggressive banter becoming more like a strangely aggressive therapy.

And Peter. Peter was Juno’s anchor. He always was.

But he could only pretend for so long.

~~~

Tonight, Juno wanted to drive - being inside was not helping, and so, from one moment to the next, Juno found himself behind the wheel, Peter in the passenger seat. It was late and Juno couldn't remember what planet they were on anymore.

The car’s single head light shone dimly on the road in front of them and Juno stared blankly through the windshield, muscle memory alone stopping him from crashing.

He used to do this, he used to drive for hours, let his numbness fill the car till he forgot he was driving and drifted mentally, drifted physically…

He wanted to drift today. He wanted to feel weightless.

The repetitive splashing rounds of the wheels sent Juno spiralling again, an endless list of people he had failed circling through his mind over and over and over again and goddammit he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, he needed it to stop, even if just for a second.

“What if I just crash this car and make it all stop?”

~~~

Peter had noticed the shift in Juno immediately after the job. He had seen his smiles become more strained, his eyes were hazy and unfocussed, movements slowed - as if he was drifting away, moving through a time Peter wasn’t quite in.

He stayed close to Juno, and when Juno suggested a drive, Peter thought maybe this could be a good time to talk to him. But Juno had said nothing. They had been driving for hours. The suns had set and Juno didn’t seem to be heading home anytime soon, so Peter was about to speak, about to ask Juno what he could do.

“What if I just crash this car and make it all stop?”

Peter was silent for a second, not quite sure he had heard Juno properly. Juno didn’t even seem aware that he had spoken aloud, nor did he seem to remember Peter was even there. He’s almost certain that the car was speeding up.

“Juno, can you pull over please, love?”

The car swerved slightly, Juno startled at Peter’s voice, and Peter reached out and grabbed the wheel, pulling them back onto the road, “Juno, you need to pull over.”

The car slowed and, after what felt like a lifetime, came to a stop, a small cloud of dust flying up from under the wheels.

“I- I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I should be fine.” Juno’s hands were gripped tightly on the wheel in a way that could have only been painful.

“Why don’t we get some fresh air, and then we can talk?”

Slowly, even slower than in the past week, Juno climbed out of the car and sat with Peter on the bonnet, staring up at the sky.

“I should be fine,” he said again, “I’ve been fine and now… and now I'm not fine!” Juno choked on a sob. God, he hated being vulnerable.

Peter considered this for a moment, “I know this is going to sound cliche, dear, but you don’t have to be okay. You’re allowed to be sad and angry, and-”

“But I am always angry, Nureyev. Always. I am angry at myself because I keep letting people get hurt and get dead. I’m angry at my mom and I’m angry at every goddamn person I meet and I don’t even know why half the time. There’s just- there’s just rage, and I can control it, better than I could before, but I dont- I dont know if I want to anymore. I just want to let go.”

“Why can’t you let it out, Juno?”

“I’ve done that before. Blind rage is how you get got,” Juno very carefully didn’t look at Peter when he said, “Letting go is how… letting go is how I nearly got myself. I’ve come so close to leaving this place, finally getting some damned rest. I don’t know what kept me here.”

Peter tried not to be too shocked at the almost wistful tone Juno used - they could talk about that another day, for now Peter just prompted, “You’re still here?”

Juno laughed humourlessly, “Yeah, that’s because I always got stupid lucky, and one day that’s gonna bite me in the ass. It was always other people getting got, never me,” He laid back against the windscreen, legs kicking softly at the bumper, “God, I’ve killed so many people.”

“Did you, though? Did you kill them all or did you blame yourself for not being able to do the impossible? Did you blame yourself for not being able to save every single person you met - a task which, I might add, is quite impossible, love.”

He shook his head and kept staring at the stars, looking for answers in the constellations. Peter laid next to him.

It was a few minutes before Juno broke the silence, “Can we stay here a little while, before we go back?”

Peter would’ve stayed there all night if that’s what Juno needed.

“Would you tell me a story, Juno? Maybe about someone you saved?”

Reluctantly, Juno began to tell Peter about an eccentric real estate lawyer and her exploding, tuna-brick-loving cat, absently tracing patterns on the back of Peter’s hand.

They laid there for almost an hour, but the cool night was interrupted by Peter’s comms beeping twice, signifying a message.

Is everything okay darling? You’ve been gone a while.

As good as it can be right now. We’ll be back soon.

“Who’s that?” Juno mumbled sleepily, his gaze shifting to Peter.

“It was Buddy. Perhaps we should head back to the Carte Blanche.”

Juno nodded, sliding off the car but stopping short halfway to the driverside.

“Would you like me to drive, dear?.”

Juno looked like he wanted to protest, like he wanted to tell Peter that he wouldn’t actually crash, but instead he just nodded and tossed the keys over the car.

~~~

Peter knew that they would have to talk properly, they had to talk about Juno trusting him and the rest of their family; they would definitely have to talk about Juno’s allusions to his… more self destructive tendencies. For now, though, Juno dozing on his shoulder, the night road leading them home, would be enough to put both of their minds at rest for the night.

#the penumbra podcast #the penumbra spoilers #a bit #canon typical suicidal thoughts #intrusive thoughts #car crash #mention #car accident #junoverse #juno steel #peter nureyev #lmk if i need to tag anything else

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yeoldontknow · 5 years ago

Text

Colour Show (M)

Author’s Note: happy birthday to my heaven and heart, the music in the dark, the light of the universe, the glow of the stars - park chanyeol. this fic has gone through 4 title changes, 6 iterations in word count length, two plot changes, and about two years of insecurity and uncertainty from me. this is just a word for the wise: dont ever give up on your WIPs. they will always have a home, even if you think theyre a lost cause <3 | this work is entirely an act of fiction. it features subjects which may be uncomfortable to read, including but not limited to: non-traditional and indecent sexual acts, sex in public spaces, and themes of voyeurism. please do not read this story if any of these themes make you uncomfortable or you are under the age of 18. Creative Content Contributor: @chillingkoo who made this utterly stunning banner for my birthday because she is an angel ;~; Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: smut; public sex; DJ!au; romance; au Summary: While out at a night club, the DJ catches your eye. He’s confident, enraptured by the music he creates, and glows beneath the lights. With your eyes on him, the world begins to fade. But little do you know, he has his eye on you, too. Rating: NC-17 Warnings: explicit sex; public sex acts; mentions of drug use; masturbation; fingering (female receiving); themes of voyeurism; dirty talk; unprotected sex; creampie; explicit language Word Count: 10.5K

Hours in, the only thing you can truly feel is the heat.

Against your skin, it presses - all consuming and overwhelming and aggressive in its effort of making a home of you. Inside and out, even against the malleable tissue of your lungs, it lingers, the sweat of your body stinging as it rolls down your arms and your neck. Bodies are pressed together, your body against other bodies, foreign and comfortingly unfamiliar, their closeness helping you reach transcendence.

For one night, these men and women are your lovers - you see them as such, even if the technicality of semantics means it is not true. Symmetrically and asymmetrically, it does not matter, so long as you can touch them, feel them press against your core, teasing. All that matters in this moment, skin to skin contact with endless, nameless faces, their own flesh making you feel wet with life. Hand to the wall, a gentle chill spreads across your fingers, refreshing and rejuvenating the movements of your limbs. This kind of breeze is vital between the joints of your knuckles, just as is the vodka that slowly dries on your lips.

Hugging your body against the concrete, you stand with your eyes closed and lips parted, tongue dragging along the flesh to fight back your thirst. Your hips grind in time with the beat, smearing your shape and essence into the paint - you imagine the wall is breathing, imagine your sweat leaves stains and it swallows them whole, hungry for the taste of you to linger on its tongue. Beneath your clothes, your skin is slick, glistening beneath the lights, the glitter from your cheeks dotting the paint to birth constellations of ecstasy.

With anxious fingers, you tug at the fabric of your dress, the sheerness of the skirt sticking to you like a second skin. It’s been dampened, either by sweat or stray drops of vodka, clinging to your flesh ceaselessly. Wrinkling your nose for a moment at the feel of it beneath your fingers, you continue to roll it up, exposing the length of your thigh, rustling it back and forth to cool you.

Coursing through your veins is an energy, a live wire that seems to have been torn from your nerves and moved to live inside your blood, plugging into your sternum to dictate the rhythm of your heart. It’s the music that does this, the music and its hypnotic beat. From your position against the wall, you eye the platform upon which the DJ works, a lonely god and the maker of it all.

Even from this distance you can see the tips of his ears peeking out from under the headphones, the flush at his cheeks swallowing every light whole and turning him into something radiant and gold. It’s foolish to want him, foolish to eye him as though you are possessive, have been granted permission to be so, as though he might want you, and as though he is somehow yours.

From the moment you entered the building, you felt the music within your pulse, hauntingly familiar and hauntingly mimetic. Something about the way he looked, something about the way he spun records, something about the way he seemed to exhale the sound, made you needy. When you saw him, you realized it was not the music but he himself who lived inside you.

He was the one who built this version of your spirit, with practiced hands and a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He was the one who rearranged all your soft pieces until you decided you wanted him, you needed him, and little other than your sensual destruction would suffice.

He was the one that made you crave a great undoing, and for this you were delighted.

Snaking a hand beneath the hem of your dress, you ground your feet into the floor and press harder against the wall, keening against it with reckless abandon. In this kind of all consuming dark, the music drips down and deep into your soul, sugary sweet and not unlike syrup, and you release a small whimper of pleasure as your fingers scratch against your thighs. Heavy bass rolls around you, decides to make a home of your ribs, and the vibration against all these fragile corners makes wetness pool between your legs.

Biting your lip, you turn and open your eyes to watch the DJ, watch the way his hands fervently make the world, powerful and paradoxically delicate. Everything about the noise of him is synthetic, records spinning with knobs and computers, and yet he remains the most authentic thing about the space.

Around you, people have made themselves into the shapes of people they wish they could be, that they would like to be. Tonight, they have made armor of tight clothes and painted lips, but he exists beyond their orbit. Black shirt and jeans, he’s simple, hiding in plain sight and making sure that he is noticed.

He makes sure he is wanted.

And you want him. Oh, do you want him.

Watching him feels like kissing candy, sweetness without the purity, and you drag your tongue across your lips once more as your hands tease the line of your underwear. Briefly, your lip curls to reveal your teeth, a threat of wanting to all who dare approach you, before they clamp down, cheeks twisting your expression into a pleasurable sneer.

You’re wet, soaked just from the sight of him, but you can see his hands from this angle and that makes it easy to pretend it’s his fingers that slip under and drag along your slit. It’s his fingers that seek your heat and learn you, know you, become a master of you.

Again, you whimper at the touch, smile impishly and keep watching him, glad your sighs are being swallowed by the music. No one can hear you, no one is even paying attention to you, and it makes you feel like this space belongs to you.

Like this, this space and this man are yours.

Across the room, atop the stage platform, Chanyeol watches your display in his peripheral as he works. Pursing his lips, his tongue laps eagerly on the lollipop sucked between his teeth, imagining the sweet wetness on his tongue is yours. It takes concentration not to let his gaze wander up your legs and thighs, to where he can see the dark outline of your hand. He’s drawn to it, to your center, starts to think of it as a golden ring of purpose, and lets the blood rush to his groin as he imagines his fingers joining yours.

Thoughts race through his mind at a speed he’s not used to experiencing outside of a high, the adrenaline rush of wet lips and wet fingers enough to make anyone feel drunk.

He wonders how wet you are, wonders if your fingers are slick already or if you’re merely teasing. He wonders if you’re high, if you’re only this brave because the molly or the angel dust have made you feel limitless or if this is just another Saturday for you. Are you used to being hungry for skin and flesh, or is this all his? Are you hungry, just like him, for something a little more? Something a little more alive?

He’s got a lot of questions, and he grits his teeth on the lollipop stick to keep himself focused.

At this distance, he can see the way the light plays on your hair and skin, the smooth expanse of your chest glistening and glowing. Part of him feels envious of how liberated you are, remembers how he too used to come to clubs to get fucked and get high until he decided to make a home of it. Now, the thrill has started to fade, wet women and coke covered teeth too common to really seem dangerous. Now, he works through it, totally sober and drunk only on the bass he makes himself, gets hard beneath the narcissism of it all and doesn’t feel ashamed.

And, if he’s honest, you’re the first exciting thing he’s seen in months.

It’s when you bite your lip that he finally lets himself smile, doesn’t care if the expression is a give away because you’re too lost with yourself to really notice. He’s sure your fingers are in deep, to the knuckle judging by the way your hand seems to disappear and your eyes fall closed. This is when he calls you a chameleon, thinks the way you subtly take on the shades of the lights is something unnatural, something bewitching, a power you keep locked within your core. Turning up the treble, twisting the knob with the same affection as he’d curl his finger inside of you, he decides you were made for this: for the dark, for the sweat, for the music, and, thus, you were made for him.

Lots of women have fit this role, but tonight the bill is yours.

You look good like this, wanting and waiting and fucking your hand. Still, he thinks you’d look better on top of him.

A hand claps him on the back, sending his body arching forward slightly, though it does not interrupt his rhythm. Mostly, he finds he is upset he has been interrupted in his astute observation of your display, irritated that he has to look away.

‘It’s two, mate,’ a gruff voice shouts, pulling one of his headphones off. ‘My turn.’

Chanyeol simply nods, let’s the beat run and closes his laptop so Joel can take over. He doesn’t bother to pack up his things, knows his manager will take care of it, knows that his manager is probably used to this behavior - the detachment that follows him from one club to the next, and the way he seems to find himself a warm, pliant body the moment he steps off stage. He does not dwell on how his manager feels about this, about the bodies and the bumps of blow that seemingly line his bedroom, and he does not particularly care. Tonight, all he cares about is the warm flush on your chest and the way your body arches in time with the music.

Tonight, all he thinks about is how it will feel to have the whole length of his cock buried inside you, and little else.

Chanyeol takes his time approaching you, slows his steps and orbits around you like a lonely, hungry moon. Tucking the lollipop into the side of his cheek, he shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the opposite wall, having his fill while filling himself with thoughts. You appear to be his age, wearing the number like a badge of honour in the corner of your eye; old enough to be in command of your body, in command and beautifully aware, but still young enough to get off on the risk.

Greedily, his tongue swirls around the lollipop, lapping at the flavor with vigor, and he imagines his tongue pressed between your folds, sucking at you with the same intensity. With your head thrown back, your fingers probe at your center, doing what his tongue does not, ass pressing back against the wall in an almost violent swivel before you run a hand through your hair. Your fingertips hit someplace deep inside, some unfathomable depth buried in the center of your core, and your lips pull into an ecstatic smile, laugh swallowed whole by the roll of bass and the timbre of an electronic drum.

At the sight of you in pleasure, he feels lonely, a heady need taking over, creeping down his spine and pushing his shoulders back. He’s used to this, used to the way desire puts tension in his neck and makes the base of his spine start to ache. To prying eyes, hollow eyes that move over him slowly through the haze of cocaine, he’s animalistic in his advances towards you, but to him, he’s simply under your spell. There’s a strength and purpose to his steps he usually forgoes for a casual grin and an impish glint in his eyes, but then, he assumes, you’re different if only because you’re bold - if only you ignite in front of him like a match.

The lollipop falls slightly from his lips as he watches you pull your hand away from your core to smell your fingers. Lips parted with wanting he watches you, tongue wet and mind filled with visions of sucking at your clit with the fullness of his lips. Coloured lights move over the slick shimmer of your fingers, and he imagines you to be sugar sweet and bitter at the root.

Chanyeol doesn’t hasten his steps, rather he takes his time moving towards you, waiting to see if you’ll taste yourself for him. He expects that you will, is delighted when you do, and knows that he will likely taste just as good to you.

He bites down on the lollipop, chewing the candy as he tosses the stick to the floor. The lollipop dissolves, but it’s sweetness remains.

Acutely aware that you are being watched, the delicate hairs on your arm stand on end at the feeling of a body approaching, thick lidded eyes opening only slightly to see the tall shadow of a man come into view. You don’t pause for him - if you’re being removed from the premises, you at least want to come before you leave. But the stranger doesn’t speak, just looms over you with a lopsided grin, one that is neither accusatory nor satisfied, simply luxuriating in your show.

Recognizing his ears in the dim glimmer of the lights, you smirk, silently pleased that you have become a magnet, that you have somehow lured him from the pedestal your desire, and your pussy, placed him on. Drawn to one another, you angle yourself towards him, an open display of interest. Cocking your head to the side, you smile, but do not stop the motion of your fingers. You want to make sure he sees.

Somewhere in the distant haze of your kind, you wonder if he’s drugged, high on something other than music or blow, something hard enough to make his posture so sure and confident. It doesn’t take long before you realize he’s simply drunk on lust, much like you. There’s no bloodshot tint to his eyes, no lazy gaze that wanders from one warm body to the next. Even with his dilated pupils, you know he’s been blown wide open by longing, by a hardness at his center his jeans that begs to be touched.

‘I could see you all the way up there,’ he comments, gesturing vaguely towards the stage, though his gaze on you does not waver.

You smile, impish and glorified. ‘Good.’ He smiles back, welcomed by this response. ‘I wanted you to.’

He steps closer, aware now that your focus on him is a mirror of his focus on you, consensual, open, and welcoming. The lights from the club highlight his features, cutting mercurial shapes as they nestle beneath his cheekbones, but even in the dim lighting you can see him clearly. The glaze in his focus is neither empty nor wired, simply hungry, trapped in a state of perpetual craving, and you like the way the slick feel of it makes your skin feel like gold. You like this feeling, the way his eyes mean to unmake you, as though he is peeling back your skin to live inside your ribs.

You like this feeling, find that it turns you into a kind of phoenix, and so when he stands fully in front of you, illuminated and combating the shadows, tall and just as hot to the touch as you, you let your hands settle at his hips, cocking your head to the side coquettishly. In kind, his hands move to yours, swaying idly, assuming you mean to dance with him. He’s being polite, and you wish he would tighten his grip, let his fingers press bruises into the flesh with intent, but you remind yourself not to rush.

So often, you spoil the moment with your natural prosperity for impatience.

Still, the motion and movement of his hips is invigorating, encouraging in its closeness. Strengthening your grip, you press against him, grinding into him, slow and unblinking. On contact, he lowers his head, and you take this as an invitation, letting your lips fall to his ear, breathing hot and wet against the shell.

‘I liked your show,’ you murmur, hoping your voice carries above the heavy drum and bass, reaching right down to pull at the intimate pieces of him. ‘You made the beat sound alive.’

Tilting his head to the side, his lips and nose graze along your temple as he speaks, a heady combination of amusement and surprise lacing through his words. ‘I could say the same to you,’ he teases. ‘I’m surprised you were listening.’

The low rumble of his voice catches you slightly off guard, deeper and richer than you would have imagined it to be, powerful in a way that commands your attention. It drips, not unlike chocolate and honey, down your tongue, making a home in the center of your ribs, the warmth of it settling in your belly and making your thighs clench around nothing. You feel your breath hitch, lungs constricting at the gravel in the underbelly of his tone, the thickness and the vibration resonating suddenly making you feel parched.

‘I felt it,’ you say, curling your lips into a pout that gently touches the lobe of his ear. ‘Isn’t that more important?’

It’s an honest statement, one that makes him start without pulling away completely. Instead, his grip on your hips tightens, drawing flush against his groin, keeping you in place. Something about your words had an effect on him, enough for him to mumble a small growl of possessive vulnerability. This close, you can smell him, the music of his cologne delicately kissing the crevices of your tongue. Over time and through the night, it’s mixed with the natural scent of his sweat, enough to briefly make you lightheaded by the force of it, moaning at the intensity.

Pieces of you ache as you pull back slightly, regarding him with heavy lidded eyes; pieces that long to be touched and long to be near him, his mere presence making the air feel thick. Beneath his skin, you imagine the blood moving in his veins like wildfire, exhilarated by your words. It fascinates the way you don’t just merely see the corner of his mouth turn upward, devilish and playful in its slow reveal of his desires, but you feel it. All over you, you feel it.

The heat of his smile walks down your spine, building a wetness between your folds that makes you bit your lip. His own gaze wanders over your skin, over your cheeks, down your neck and shoulders, to where his hands linger at your hips. Matching his smile, coy and coquettish, the knowledge his gaze as lowered, as best it can, to the curve of your ass beneath the hem of your dress makes you feel emboldened. And so you grind against him, slowly, handling your hips to rub over the hardened bulge beneath his jeans.

Licking his lips in approval, a tight moan rumbling through his sternum like thunder, he lets his eyes wander back up to yours, lingering momentarily to admire the plump fullness of your lips.

Moving one hand from your hip, he comes to cup your cheek, easing your head to the side with a gentle and careful touch. It’s his turn to offer delicate attention to your ear, the touch of his lips barely there, whispers on the wind of primal desire. When his lips move, the softness of the skin sends shivers down your nerves, the strong, confident diction in his voice an erotic experience of its own.

‘There’s a lot I can make you feel,’ he breathes, hot and heavy and smirking at the way you seem to bend beneath his touch, malleable.

Proving that he means it, that he means everything he says, he pulls back just enough to keep his gaze trained on yours, serious and heated. As though waiting for your denial, he inches closer still, pressing a knee between your legs to part them. The tease of feeling him between your thighs forces a sigh from your lips, and he smiles, knowing. Leaning to drag his nose along the slope of your neck, the even exhale of his breath cascades down your spine and into your core, making your walls clench in arousal.

You don’t hide the way this makes you laugh, the sound loud enough to be heard over the drum and bass. ‘You’re terrible at pick up lines.’

It’s a half-hearted comment, a truth nestled between a lie. Yes, he is terrible at pick up lines, but he is exquisite in execution.

Unfazed by your teasing comment, he joins you in laughter, the deep richness making you terribly aware of the wetness between your thighs. ‘Most of the time, people can’t hear them. They just want to be handled.’

He hangs onto handled as if the word itself is a tactile experience, a physical contact that makes the world around you bend. It seems unfair he should hold so much of you, so much and so tightly, and so you glide your hands along the waistband of his jeans, toying with the hem of his shirt.

tilting your head just enough to let your lips graze his ear, you scratch your nails into the soft skin that lingers beyond his belt. It's soft, warm, supple, the sweetness of a man so unlike the way his hands clutch at your body. He whimpers slightly at the contact, lips parting to release a small, barely there sigh. Smiling to yourself, you continue your ministrations, hoping this will entice him enough to handle you.

Forming your lips into a pout, kissing at his ear as you speak, you whisper, ‘Then why are you taking your time?’

A dark chuckle rolls through his chest, his grip tightening possessively.

‘Because you’ve been greedy,’ he states, leaning back to regard you with a dark, hungry stare.

Stepping forward until you are pressed flush between him and the wall, he considers you, gaze dominant and commanding. With slow, teasing rolls of his hips, he guides the hardness of his erection into your mound. Eyes on your skin, he watches the flush of desire that blooms across your chest as he does this, mesmerized by the way it smears itself across your neck, contagious enough to make your skin burn hot. Something about his gaze pierces you, makes the nerves along your skin feel sensitive, stimulated to the edge of a precipice and lingering on anticipation.

‘And I’m selfish,' he finishes. 'I want to feel you first.’

He guides his hand between your bodies, the base of his palm massaging deftly at your core. With the sudden direct pressure, your hips roll up into his hand, a current of electricity wandering down into the base of your spine. Naturally, your legs part wide, feet sliding across the floor just enough to make room for him where you want him most.

‘Can I touch you?’ he mumbles, cocking his head to the side as he watches pleasure morph your expression. The force of his palm increases, echoing his sentiment of how badly he wishes to feel you first. 'Can I feel all of you, on the inside?'

Anyone else, anyone less magnetic or compelling as him, and you imagine you would have laughed at the turn of phrase. On a boy, such questions of permission would have made you laugh, aware that you were dealing with someone who did not know how to read a woman. On him, his politeness and quest for permission feels liberating, placing you in a position of control - leading your pleasure with the power you deserve.

Nodding, unable to form words, you simply hum, whining at the loss of his hand, lonely and needy for his touch. He keeps his eyes on yours as he lifts his hand to his mouth, sliding two fingers inside, all the way to the knuckle. Not once does he blink, hollowing his cheeks, gaze heated, as he sucks and sucks, gaze piercing. The sight of his lips, pulled down to a soft, full pout, mixed with the anticipation of the strong bone of his fingers, puts a wetness at your core that makes you feel as though you are dripping with eagerness for his touch. Hot to the touch and feeling volatile, you arch your back against, lifting slightly from the wall to let your breasts press against his chest.

Smirking at your impatience, he pulls his fingers from his mouth and eases his hand beneath your dress. With his thumb, he guides the waistband of your underwear to the side, teeth coming to bite his lip on contact and feeling how wet you are - how wet you made yourself for him during the course of his set, and how wet he will soon make you, teasing your folds apart to make room for his hand. Leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours, he guides his middle finger into your core, one long stroke against your walls that has you gasping.

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against him and ensuring you are caught beneath the umbrella of his warmth, stimulated and aware, now, by and of nothing but him. His finger continues its slow, deep caress, and you roll your hips into him, the solidness of his finger a bliss you had craved from the moment you saw him perform. Reaching your own arm between your bodies, you cup your hand and rub the base of your palm over the erection trapped beneath his jeans. Growling, he tilts his hand just enough to let his thumb press a slow circle against your clit, appreciative and teasing.

‘Tell me your name,' he whispers, the roll of his voice a live current that cascades down your neck.

Consumed and swallowed by him, you smile. ‘Y/N.’

Your name is a gasp on your lips of pleasure, his thumb pressing at your clit in time with the thrust of his finger. Clutching him a little tighter, you roll against him once more, desperate for the fullness of his touch.

Almost sweetly, he returns your smile, though the seduction of his intent nestles aptly between his words. ‘Isn’t it nice hearing the sound of your own name like that?’

‘Tell me yours,' you mumble, tongue rolling across your lip to moisten the flesh.

Distracted, his eyes trace the motion of your tongue and offering you the brief delight of witnessing the thickness of his eyelashes as red and blue lights swirl overhead. ‘Didn’t you see the show?’

Chuckling at the almost innocent egoism of the sentence, you make to speak before he curls his finger in your core, hitting a new angle that steals your breath. Furrowing your brow, you lick your lips once more, gathering the strength and focus to speak. ‘People don’t come to clubs for the DJ.’

He smirks at your coy teasing, presses his thumb against your clit in a firm circle while his index finger comes to settle between your folds, his fingers making a light v shape.

'Funny,' he mumbles, alluding to the obvious pun but does not say it. Instead, his focus settles on your features as he thrusts both fingers inside you, your moans coming in light bursts. 'My name is Chanyeol,' he clarifies. 'Do you want me to take you home?'

Biting your lip, cup his erection beneath your palm, pressing in time with his thrusts into your folds. ‘Are you a shy boy?’ you question, teasing though not altogether sincere. A pink flush rushes to the tip of his ear, and you pull your hand from his groin to let the tips of your finger gently caress the tip.

On contact, his eyes flutter shut, lips parting on a sigh. ‘Not really,’ he manages, eyes opening once more fixing you with an impassioned stare. ‘Do you want me to fuck you here?’

His free hand moves from your waist, knees bending to pin you against the wall, as he rests his hand against your throat. Like this, he tests your boundaries, watches you with an erotic, eager fascination as you bend and give over entirely to him, your walls starting to clench around his fingers, willing him to remain inside.

Feeling your skin flare and your gaze darken, possessive and possessed, you swallow thickly. ‘I want you to fuck me.’

Leaning down, Chanyeol captures your lips with a wet, light kiss, his tongue escaping behind the kiss to lap sweetly at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to let his breath tickle your cheeks. ‘Do you want everyone to see?’

The sugar from his kisses settle between the thin crevices of your lips, your tongue flicking out to gather them.

‘You’re used to being seen,' you counter breathlessly.

You grind into his fingers hands coming to grip at his shoulder blades as you feel your orgasm start to settle at the base of your spine, the coil in your belly threatening to tighten behind the fire he has put into your blood.

Humming in agreement, he adds a third finger, slipping inside you with ease, your wetness coating his palm. ‘Are you?’

Shivering and stimulated by the size and thickness of his strong fingers, you simply nod, clutching to him as your grind into him, desperate. Taking this as a sign of your oncoming orgasm, Chanyeol increases the pace of his thrusts, his thumb tapping at your clit in time with his fingers, forgiving and almost apologetic for keeping you on edge for so long. With the new, invigorated force of his thrusts, your moans come louder, his hand lingering softly at your throat as he bends down to swallow your sounds, kissing your lips deftly and with a deep intensity that provides encouragement.

Around his fingers, your walls clench, thighs tightening as your heart begins to battle against your chest, the burn of your orgasm making your thighs and legs sting with the effort of keeping upright. Sensing this, Chanyeol removes his hand and replaces it at your waist, his hold strong and comforting. Held tightly against him, his breath all over your skin, his fingers curling at your core, knuckles gliding roughly at your walls, the thickness of this penetration, you find yourself consumed by him.

Your head rolls onto his shoulder, wet gasps of breath panting into the skin, stimulated and driven to an edge of pleasure that makes your muscles ache.

'I'm -' you gasp. 'I'm going to come.'

The clenching of your walls comes without your control, the intensity of the pleasure unmaking your semblance of reality as he thrusts and thrusts his hand into you, a promise of something larger, thicker, and heavier.

Gently, he eases your head back, and you whimper, eyes squeezed closed as you rest against the wall, readying to let your orgasm take you.

'Eyes on me,' he commands, voice rough. The thunder clap of his words as your eyes opening, vision blurred by pleasure. He smiles. 'Eyes on me when you come.'

The heavy arousal on his voice is what sends you over the edge, your brow furrowing as you choke on a gasp from the force of it. The lights of the club paint his features into kaleidoscope of pleasure, his smile the focal point as sound drowns and the rush of your blood fills your ears. Shuddering, the waves of pleasure course through your muscles, walls clenching tightly around his fingers, the shudder of pleasure rattling your bones until your feel weightless, burned into nothingness by the force and prowess of his touch. Your back arches forward, sending your chest into his, still as you keep your gaze on his, seeing without seeing, the world little more than smears of ecstasy.

Chanyeol holds you tightly, clings to you - the only tangible form your nerves can discern. His grip on you is reassuring and unwavering, keeping you secure against him and the wall as your limbs struggle to regain their strength. Your walls continue to clench around his hand, the aftershocks of your orgasm still igniting along your skin.

'Beautiful,' he whispers, tucking your head against his shoulder and mumbling into your hair. 'I knew it would be beautiful.'

You cling to him, the air in your lungs little more than a burning ache as you struggle to catch your breath. Against his strong frame, your mind swirls with the tactile feel of him, the smell of his cologne clouding your senses until your world is comprised of nothing but him. Anchoring you against him, you feel safe, comforted, his fingers stilled inside you, ensuring you remain tethered to him.

He's careful as he pulls them out, delicate and fast enough that he does not cause you pain. The affection of this action catches you off guard, makes you nuzzle into his neck, your feet feeling the earth return once more as your bones reform beneath your skin. Not once does he relinquish his grip on you, almost greedy with his touch and holding you close until the strength in your hands returns, pressing into the muscles of his back and shoulders.

Slowly, the world recreates itself around you both. The heavy bass from the speakers, Chanyeol's breaths against your skin, the throng of people as they talk, yell, dance, clink glasses, the world a cacophonous resonance beyond his arms.

'Better?' he asks, kissing against your hair as he speaks. 'Can you stand?'

Nodding, you pull back from him, breathing heavily and feeling dazed. The smile on your lips makes your cheeks hurt, painful in the way it seems locked in place, and you’re unsure how long it has been pulling at the skin.

For a moment, you simply regard one another, Chanyeol flushed and warm, looking pink and heated even under the purple and blue lighting that hits him. He, too, breathes heavily, lifting the hand that had been inside you to his mouth, sucking the fingers once more. Eyes falling closed, he moans at the tastes, hollowing his cheeks to suck them clean. The sight of him pools new wetness between your thighs, whimpering at how sensitive yet needy you are.

When he pulls his fingers from his lips, he keeps his gaze on yours, heavy lidded and pupils dilated to a blackness that makes your breath hitch. Slowly, he drops to his knees, delicately grazing his fingers up the outside of your legs. Falling back against the wall, his barely there touches make you bite your lip, gazing down your body to him as he watches you with intent. His hands find the band of your underwear, thumbs dragging along the skin of your hips and making you tremble. Gripping the band, he guides them down your legs, nudging at your ankles to ease you out of them.

Licking your lips, you watch as he rises to a stand once more, his own mouth parted. For a brief moment, you see him not unlike a kitten, someone who has been so close to the strong scent of desire, they've opened their mouth just enough to swallow it whole. Bunching the cotton into a ball, he places it in his pocket, and cocks his head to the side, waiting, perhaps, for your words of protest.

It's a possessive thing to do, an action no one has ever done with you before, and while you aren't entirely certain what to make of it, you admit you are relieved the soaked fabric has been removed from your core. The light breezes that makes its way up your skit is refreshing, liberating, and, for this, you are grateful.

‘Come home with me.’

This, you realize, is not a question. Chanyeol keeps his eyes on you as he speaks, asking to be polite, just like always, but, this time, knowing that you will follow. Wordlessly, you regard him, eyes glassy and feeling yourself still drifting into the world that he has built, just for you. Reality clashes with the universe he has made, a universe of light and bliss and pleasure; a world that smells of wanting and delivers ecstasy, while the world as you know it lingers outside - beyond your reach.

Cold, is how you have come to see it, now. Empty of wonder without his hands to pull it from your bones.

‘I told you I’m selfish,' he continues when you offer him no reply. ‘I want all of you, and I want to be the only one who sees.’

It does not go unnoticed by you that, for two people so enraptured and aroused by sound, music, and sight, the drive to his house is altogether eerily quiet. But this, of course, does not mean the longing has dissipated.

Confined in the limited space of his car, the world seems to narrows, arousal and longing seeming to seep from the pores of your skin. The leather of the seat, initially, was cool to the touch, but the heat of your body has warmed it, made the flesh of your thighs feel moist with wanting. Your legs remain spread on the seat, aware that your wetness will drip onto the fabric, wanting him to miss you and smell you long after you have departed.

Chanyeol grips the wheel with a white knuckled determination, eyes trained on the road as you keep your eyes trained on him. Even over distance and time, the fullness of his erection has not reduced. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the road while your eyes study the tent in his jeans, wanting to feel the thick, veined heat of his cock pressed against your tongue, mouth and soul full of him. You wonder how he would feel, just as forceful and commanding as his hands; how he would sound, your shy and sweet boy, vocal and loud and yours, begging for release.

‘I can feel your eyes on me,' he announces, words clipped and voice thick, full of a gravel that makes him rasp.

At the sound, your walls clench around nothing, the ghost of the memory of his hand returning once more, aching for his cock, his tongue, his essence, to fill you. He, too, has parted his legs wide, making room for the heaviness of his cock and balls, uncomfortable while remaining steadfast in his urgency to get home.

‘Do you like it?’ you ask, enunciating the syllables of your words, ensuring he hears the wetness you hold in your mouth, reminding him the wetness you carry between your legs.

Almost imperceptibly, he nods, swallowing thickly as your eyes trace the motion of his Adam's Apple. ‘You’re making me so fucking hard.’

Impish and almost cruel, you spread your legs wider, knowing he will see the motion from the corner of his eyes. Legs spread, you lift the hem of your dress to reveal the fullness of your core, leaning back into the seat with a prideful grin.

‘God, I can fucking smell your cunt,' he mumbles, eraser ting his grip on the wheel to keep himself composed.

Cocking your head to the side, you let your hand fall between your legs, running your left index finger over your folds, gathering the wetness. Chanyeol's shoulders tense, aware of this motion, a grin of gleeful pride tugging at your cheeks as you lightly gather more. Carefully, you reach over, letting your finger glide along his bottom lip, smearing your juices over the skin.

A hungry growl rumbles through his chest, his tongue coming to lick at your fingers he sucks it into his mouth. The wet muscle laps circles over your finger, pulling a light, breathy moan from you as he licks it clean. When he releases it, your hand falls to your side, muscles feeling limp.

‘Fuck,’ he whispers, words drenched with lust, the full force of your wetness on his lips making him breathless. ‘The smell and taste of you is going to drive me crazy.’

A fire blossoms in the pit of your stomach, grounding you in the iron core of his words. It’s rare for you to want someone this way - enough to go home with them, enough to let the pleasure extend beyond a single moment of your own pleasure, enough to want to feel more of him. But it seems fair, you think, the resolute notion that he made you this way, used sound and vision to move you in a perpetual state of cosmic need.

He did this, and it’s only right that he finish it.

The stairs to his flat are crooked, framed by a dimly lit hallway where the shadows on the walls are impossibly tall, lingering seductively on the paint. You’re sure you’re making noise as you climb, awkward and fumbling against his body as you hold him or he holds you, or perhaps you hold each other, soaked and stained now with the essence of one another, and blended into one cosmic whole. You’re sure you are loud but you do not hear your footsteps, ears ringing from the sound of the music and the sound of his hot breath.

Chanyeol trips on the last step, both of you laughing at a level neither of you can discern but you watch the way his chest heaves as he laughs, watch the way his cheeks turn pink and feel yourself begin to float. Outside, dawn is kissing the sky, painting it gold and blue, but inside, against his door, Chanyeol paints the world in a kaleidoscopic myriad of beauty. It reverberates along your skin, vibrating down to your core and making your thighs clench with wanting. Like this, he is a bright spot, a sun trapped against the frail magic of bones, and the risk of being burned by his hot hands does not outweigh the burn of his tongue against yours.

The peephole for 6B is rusted, the wood tarnishing from age and neglect, but his door has been painted black, and even in your stupor you fight to suppress a laugh, recognizing his Rolling Stones reference.

This is usually where people apologize or make excuses - for the state of their flat, for the unexpected arrival of you in their lives; the implication that they always assumed they’d be lonely and longing, all of these things a lie but somehow reassuring in their simplicity. Excited, and therefore encouraging. But Chanyeol doesn’t apologize. You’re aware that he does not need to, that he wears your juices on his lips and fingers, yet you imagine that he doesn’t ever.

Chanyeol operates outside of expectation, and therefore likely never apologizes for the state he is in when he receives pleasure.

Upon entry, you are acutely aware that the flat is small, a studio, and it strikes you that this space could barely contain him. It's small, small enough that you cannot fathom the breadth and reach of him would have room here, the full length of his wingspan likely larger than the square footage of the space, but he turns you, pulls you to his chest and steals your lips in a hungry kiss, silencing any further thought in your mind. Languidly, he moves his mouth over yours, cupping your cheeks with hot hands, a fervor that makes his skin hot. In kind, you wrap your arms around his neck, fisting your hand in his hair, rough and hard and needy.

He’s gentle in the way he walks you backwards, does not move his lips from yours, simply moans over your tongue as he wastes no time in guiding you to the mattress and box spring in the back corner. Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, his hands move to your hips, pulling you firmly against him, the hardness of his erection pressing into your belly. Even through the fabric of your dress, the heat from his fingers radiates onto and into you, spreading like a fever through your blood. Chest flushed and tight, mind fogged and consumed by the flavor of his tongue as it glides over yours.

The backs of your calves bump against the mattress, staggering you into him just enough for the kiss to break, both of your sighing in discontent. Your vision blurs at the edges while Chanyeol regards you with half lidded eyes, lips pink and swollen. Arousal pools between your folds, dripping over to smear your thighs at the sight of him, trapped in a blissful state of arousal, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. His tongue comes to run across his lips, breathless in the effort of learning to breathe without your mouth on his, and you lean forward, capturing the pink muscle with your lips to offer a brief, gentle suck before pulling away.

Chanyeol raises himself to his full height, and for a moment you find yourself overcome, awed by the length and the power that is carried in the steel of his spine. He’s strong, rigid, and so impossibly soft - warm to the touch yet immalleable beneath your hands, the muscles in his arms and back solid enough for you to consider him your anchor in a storm. Emboldened, he lifts his hands from your hips and grips the hem of his shirt, pulling it over head. Eyes on yours, gaze unwavering, he drops the shirt to the floor, the red smears of desire burning beneath his skin. And, just as slowly, he moves his hands to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button with a hungry, euphoric stare.

You follow suit,fingers guiding the hem of your dress lightly over your thighs, revealing more and more of yourself to him, a thrill of provocative seduction racing over your synapses as you watch him swallow thickly, captivated by the slow reveal of your skin.

‘This is unfair,’ you murmur, whispering your dress just over your core, delaying the pull of the fabric overhead. ‘I’m wearing so much less than you.’

Chanyeol laughs, a deep rumble that would go unnoticed if your attention had not been entirely tuned to him. Rolling back his shoulders, he cocks his head to the side, considering your words and the state of you - already missing underwear, wet enough to want and need him again - guiding your shoes off with a smile.

‘The shoes count, right?’

You keep your voice innocent, soft and sweet and so unlike. you, a game that you have learned to play and know that he will continue willingly, if only because he has already felt you come around his fingers, unafraid of being witnessed and found.

‘Of course they do,’ he replies with a slight nod, his own voice a gentle caress that raises gooseflesh along your skin. ‘But you didn’t give me a chance to catch up.’

With that, he thumbs his zipper down and flays the jeans open, your gaze dropping to the muscles that lightly carve his hips and the soft patch of hair that leads down below his briefs. Mouth running dry, the muscles in your thighs tighten, body parched and starved for the graze of your teeth over his skin. Your grip around your dress tightens as he eases his jeans down his legs, your focus torn between the erection that springs to full attention and the length of his legs, strong and powerful, hands already imagining the feel his ass beneath your palm.

Chanyeol steps out of his jeans, kicking off his own shoes in the process, thumbing the band of his briefs as he regards you, lips falling into an expectant pout.

‘I believe it’s your turn.’

Running your tongue over your teeth, you smile, eyes locked on the fire that lingers in his gaze, pulling the dress over head. He hisses at the sight of you, no underwear and the lace of your bra sheer enough for the delicate circles of your nipples to be seen. Slipping his hand beneath his briefs, he nods in encouragement, gripping his cock and easing it over his length, pumping himself as he watches. Emboldened and unshy, you let your dress fall to your feet, reaching behind your back to unclasp your bra.

You’ve done this before - countless times with men and boys and people who never really understood how to handle you. But something about Chanyeol’s possessive, unwavering stare makes you feel comforted, secure, empowered. He pumps his cock slowly, admiring you with a focus that speaks of learning, of witnessing the person before you, rather than rendering the curve and shape of their body to a mere tool of pleasure. With his eyes on you, the colours of the world seem to come into full focus, brightened by being the center of his attention.

Your spine straightens, desire laces itself around places you did not think to associate with wanting - your hips; your breasts, aching for the firmness of his touch; your neck, desperate to be held; the backs of your knees, imagining the gentleness of his caress as he wraps you around the sharp angles of his body. These new aspects of your warning and of your body restructure your perception of yourself, your womanhood. With Chanyeol’s eyes on you, you feel important, sacred, and you chuckle to yourself, a muted, almost reticent, sound he does not seem to notice, bemused that it is in the quiet, morning grey of his apartment that you should feel so alive.

As your bra joins your dress on the floor, he nods to the bed, hand still stroking his cock without urgency.

‘Get on the bed,’ he commands, gently. ‘Show me how you touch yourself.’

Again, something about this feels unfair, his words slithering through your ribs and into your core, still wet and tingling with the memory of his hand. ‘What about you?’

Almost too sweetly for an encounter such as this, he speaks, the weight of his words a contrast that pulls at your nerves. ‘I’ll get mine when I’m inside you.’

You’re aware the smile you offer him is lewd, wet lipped and tongue heavy as your body instinctively puts the sensation of his cock between your walls. Clenching around nothing, you moan at the thought, emboldened and enticed, finding yourself altogether too impatient to take your time.

Easing yourself back on the bad, you keep your eyes on him as you move, settling on the center of the mattress and spreading your legs wide. Resting on your elbows and cocking your head to the side, you let your left hand fall your core, the pads of your middle and index finger almost leisurely in the tender way they spread your wetness over your slip. Biting his lip at the sight, Chanyeol uses his free hand to guide his briefs down over his hips, pulling his cock free as he pumps himself, enticed by your display.

The sight of his hardened length makes you feel empty, hollow and hungry and restless, a keening whine escaping from the back of your throat as you slip your fingers between your folds, wanting something as solid as his cock to keep your satisfied. You take your time easing your fingers in and out, pressing your knuckles against your walls and spreading your folds apart for him to watch, and he matches your pace, running his thumb over the purpled head of his cock as he watches your core spread.

No one has ever asked this of you, asked to see the way you make yourself in pleasure and cared enough to remain poised in the act of witnessing. Neck red and ears burning, Chanyeol works at keeping his composure, and so to do your nails drag along the black cotton of his sheets, keeping yourself calm and keeping yourself from calling his name. No one has ever asked to learn you this way, not with such intensity, the glistening of precum on his tip enough to reassure you that he yearns for you, just as badly as you yearn for him.

Picking up your pace, you press the base of your palm against your clit, applying pressure without offering too much stimulation, wanting his hand, his fingers, his mouth to be the thing that bring you over the edge. Head rolling back, you feel your fingers get coated with more juices, imagining the way his mouth would feel at your neck, the way his breath would feel on your breasts. Biting your lip, your skin begins to feel taught, nerve endings starting to flare in anticipation of his biting kisses.

With the ringing of your ears beginning to dim, you hear the way he gasps between the slick sounds of your juices, his breath coming in uneven exhales and your own exhales pulling soft whimpers from the center of your core. Like this, his apartment becomes alive with both of you, the quiet loudness of these sounds enough for you to drown, your hips rolling into your hand, desperate to be full of something far longer than the delicate smallness of your fingers.

Without warning, the speed of his strokes increases in pace, his grip tightening as he watches the way your pleasure builds and builds at your core and along your neck, nipples hard and pink and painfully ignored. The threads of your orgasm pull at you, tightening within your thighs, your toes clenching and unclenching against his sheets as your own pace begins to increase. It remains distant and far off, a promise demanding to be kept, and you close your eyes, focusing on the erratic, electric shiver it offers you.

‘Stop,’ comes Chanyeol’s voice, tight enough to break.

When you look at him, he stands at the foot of his bed, hand off his cock though it remains beautifully hard, eyes full of lust. He crawls onto the bed, a prowl that has you staring him onward and into you, your legs instinctively widening to welcome him home. Wrapping each arm under your thighs, he pulls you to him, keeps his eyes on yours as he uses his nose to guide your hand away, lowering his face until he is close enough to press a kiss to the center of your slit.

It’s the only warning you have before his tongue glides into your core, the hot wetness of it tearing a moan from the marrow of your bones. His fingers tease slow circles at the sensitive skin of your groin, his tongue curling inside you and making sweat build at the base of your neck. Falling back on the bed, you feel your back arch as he hums against you, letting the low baritone of his voice vibrate into you, rattling loose a pained, needy cry that echoes off the walls. Pulling his tongue from your core, he removes one of his arms and eases two fingers inside you, stretching you wider than he had at the club, his lips wrapping around your clit at offering a powerful suck.

Crying out, your hand falls to his head, your hips rolling up to ride against his mouth messily, carding your fingers through his hair. The same way the dawn between to peek, gold and purple through the window beside the bed, so too does your orgasm, your hips feeling tight and your toes curling into the sheets once more. Your hand falls to your breast, massaging what you can, aching to be consumed and pressed and full, clenching around his fingers.

Feeling the force of your walls around his knuckles, he swiftly removes his fingers and lowers his mouth back, letting his tongue return to your core, drinking you down with an eagerness that makes you feel soaked. You’re dripping - with him and into him, thighs smeared and sheets stained - dissolving beneath the intensity he delivers to every choice he makes, this time your pleasure being his sole focus. His fingers press at your clit and you tremble, shaking and feeling yourself begin to be unmade. Somehow, he has learned your cosmology, learned its genetic make up and learned how to shatter it, his tongue and hand at your core enough to burn you to ash.

Feeling your orgasm build, no longer threads of a promise but the scorched tattoo of desire within your veins, you swallow thickly and gather your voice. ‘Cock,’ you announce, a whimper mixed with a moan.

Pulling back, Chanyeol stills his fingers and regards you, black eyed and wet lipped, licking you from his lips as he awaits further command. The sight of him, so consumed by you, painted by you, makes you gasp, a thirsty sound that makes you feel impossibly small.

‘Cock,’ you repeat. ‘I want you inside me. I want to come around you.’

Nodding, he swallows you down and moves up your body, nestling between your legs until his chest is pressed against yours. Breathing deep, he lets his hand caress your cheek before he tilts your head back against the pillow and captures your lips in a heated kiss, his tongue tracing the curved inside of your mouth, ensuring your taste yourself on his tongue. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you grind up into him, his cock trapped between you as you suck at his tongue, drinking what you can while your fingers etch their prints into the soft silk of his skin.

Reaching between you, he grips his cock and positions it at your entrance, tiling his head back enough to watch you with concern. Furrowing his brow, he runs the tip over your slit, a whimper of frustration splintering between your ribs, a pathetic sound that you don’t bother to hide. Chanyeol eases himself inside you, slowly, taking his time to make sure you feel the full length of him, allowing himself to fill you completely as he watches the way the pleasure of this stretch morphs and contorts your features.

Buried to the hilt, he remains there, keeping still and letting you adjust while he angles himself down, cupping your breast in his hand and sucking your nipple between his teeth. The sudden stimulation as you clenching around him, your eyes widening at the sudden eroticism of the action, and he releases the nub, his eyes squeezing shut.

‘Fuck,’ he chokes out. ‘You’re so tight, if you keep doing that I won’t be able to last.’

Smirking, you roll your hips upward, encouraging him to move, kept on edge for along you fear you may come apart on impact, clenching as you do so. Both of Chanyeol’s hands come to your hips, stilling your actions with a fierce stare that moves directly into your core, hot and severe and so desperately sensual.

‘Is that how you like it?’ he whispers, regarding you with an impish smile.

He does not wait for your reply, simply guides his hips back, pulling himself out before thrusting back into you in one swift motion. Choking out a moan, your fingers press into his skin, nails scratching hard enough to leave marks as he sets a brutal, unforgiving pace. Burying his face in your shoulder, he pours his moans into your skin, your own moans the shattered, broken gasps of intense pleasure, his piercing thrusts deep enough to send the mattress roughly back into the wall.

The smell and feel of him makes you feel dazed, your focus narrowing to only him - the wetness of his breath, the force of his thrusts, the press of his thumbs into your hips, enough to leave bruises that will leave you aching for him for days. Legs shaking, your eyes begin to water, your concept of reality starting to dissolve into nothing but the feel of him inside you, the almost painful way he drives himself into you, pleasure burning beneath your skin, mind numb with nothing but the desire to come.

Widening your legs to take him in deeper, you angle your head back and feel him press against your spot, mouth opening on a silent gasp. In this single moment of ecstasy, you watch the dawn fully break through his window, the first golden beams of morning light spilling over his skin, and for a moment, you feel as though you are fucking the sun, holding fire and gold and magic in your hands, eyes watering as tears of lust and love and pleasure build in your eyes.

‘Can I come in you?’ he asks, biting at your skin after he speaks, his thrusts unrelating in the pace they keep. ‘Can I come - I want to come inside you.’

His words smear into nothingness, reaching through the haze of your fogged mind, high and drunk and alive on the pleasure each snap of his hips delivers. The way he asks, the way he blooms, the way he knows how to keep you wired on nothing but him, for a moment you feel not unlike the moon learning how to collide with the stars, seeking their light.

Tightening your legs around his waist you nod furiously against his skin. ‘Come in me,’ you affirm, breathless and lost in space and time and pleasure. ‘Come in me.’

Once more, he moves his hands between your bodies, finding your clit with ease as he swirls his fingers in messy circles, tapping in patternless coordination. Gasping for breath, the universe blooms behind your eyes, your orgasm a colour show that brightens the sun, the dawn, the sky. Chanyeol comes alive beneath you, your thighs trembling as you feel wetness spill from you, smearing him and yourself, drenched by the force of your pleasure. Against his chest, you tremble, shattering by the force of his touch and his thrusts.

Inside you, Chanyeol spills, his thrusts shuddering with a violence that feels sinful, the heat of his come spilling into you, warming you, much like the beams of the sun in the morning haze. He moans as he comes, long and thunderous, a storm that breaks against your skin, cosmic and unyielding in its force. Your name echoes off your bones, off the clouds, into the distance as he thrusts and thrusts, slowing with each move of his hips until he stills inside you, panting for breath as you cling to him, feeling vulnerable and so impossibly alive.

You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, breathing with one another, stroking his hair as he kisses at your neck. Over time, your breaths align, breathing together in a unison that feels harmonious, musical in its cadences. Chanyeol softens inside you, mumbles a soft curse as he pulls out, rolling onto his back not before he pulls you to his chest, keeping the same even rhythm of your breath as you watch the day bleed and break, dawn turning into early morning much too soon for your liking.

Eyes feeling heavy, you feel yourself begin to doze when he inhales sharply, taking the opportunity to speak.

‘I’m gonna think about your face when you come for a week,’ he announces, still gazing up at the ceiling as his fingers stroke idly down his spine.

Smiling, you glance up at him, lifting your hand to trace along the hard edge of his jaw. ‘If you take my number, you won’t have to only think about it.’

Taking his turn to glance down at you, you smile at one another, letting the morning and the light carry you. And, in your hands, you hold the sun, the morning, and the music, the waves of the universe vibrating, lovingly, beneath your fingers.

#chanyeol smut #chanyeol x reader #exosnet #kpopwonderlandtag #exo smut #chanyeol romance #chanyeol fanfic #chanyeol au #chanyeol fanfiction #chanyeol scenario #exo romance #exo au #exo scenario #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #park chanyeol #tw: public sex kink #tw: voyeurism #chanvember 2019!

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cowboysuggest · 4 years ago

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tips for going on a date w/ my cowgirlfriend? ??

This is an old ask, but i can answer this now as it is a bit harder to go on dates now with covid. But if you live together/are quarantining together, theres plenty of things to do for a date at home!

Of course theres the obvious answers of ordering food or cooking together, to share a meal and maybe hold hands while doing so. Gaze into your loved ones eyes and feed them a forkfull of whatever it is you decided on for the meal.

The most important part of a date though, especially with it being at home or at a park/ not in a public setting, is establishing its a date and setting that time aside for you two only. Saying "lets have a date night tonight/tomorrow/whenever" or "feel like having a picnic date?" Even if its in your own backyard and not a park or anything crazy, you can still have a wonderfully fun time together. Dress eachother up! Choose your partners outfit and let them choose yours. Have a nice picnic and enjoy the sun. Watch clouds together and hold hands, using your free one to point out shapes in the sky.

You can also set up a movie night! This pairs well with dinners, and a night walk inbetween dinner and the show. Even just a walk around the block, its like a setting transition. The quiet, peaceful walk will prep the mood for a nice night snuggled together watching the film of your choice.

My favorite kinds of dates though are hiking. Outdoors. Running around somewhere ive never been and taking note of all the plants, rocks, animals around me. Feeling the wind. Shouting off of cliffs into echoey, tree-filled canyons down below. Or maybe your canyons dont have trees, or maybe even you dont have canyons at all. Just shouting things to the wind, just to be carried away. Shout your love for just eachother and the world directly around you to hear, just for the words to be carried off by the wind and soon forgotten by all but the couple who put them out there. Hikes pair great with picnics.

Stargazing is ALSO a great date, finding constellations with some kind of book/guide. Bonus points for a high grade lazer pointer to point at the stars with! The annual Meteor Shower called the Perseids is happening right now (summer) and peak August 11th and 12th! Just in case you want to make plans for getting away from all the city light pollution and see the lights across the sky together. (Last year there was a full moon but this year the view should be much better with more meteors per hour!)

Most of all, be honest, be open, be trusting, and show your love. No matter what you come up with, if you put the time and effort into showing your partner you care, they will feel your love and how much you care.

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slutsofren · 5 years ago

Text

Paint Me Red

Summary: Being a struggling artist in a city filled of aspiring artists has always been rough, you were privileged enough to have a semblance of steady income thanks to the promotional work your manager, Poe Dameron, does for you. For the past however many weeks, you've become consumed with the works of an anonymous poet, one who has captivated their own cult following. Their works have inspired countless paintings of yours and in turn, you catch the eye of one Kylo Ren.

Tags: Kylo Ren reader insert / modern au / painter reader / poet Kylo / eventual romance / maybe smut idk / Kylo has Trauma but you dont have to “fix him”

Read on AO3 here!

Chapter 1: Gallery (below the cut)

You kept looking at the painting. No matter how many times you re-painted, reinterpreted this poem, your hands just couldn’t find a consistent translation between the words and your paint. You dropped the brush and leaned back in the chair, hanging your head as far back as you could and let out a loud groan.

“Why does this have to be so complicated ,” you exclaimed to nobody in particular. It’s been a month since you cooped yourself in this studio, a whole month! It felt like you’ve accomplished nothing but waste canvas and paint this entire time. All along the floor laid waste to the discarded abstract portraits you had produced and hated. Nearly a fraction had been left unfinished due to it just not working out.

You mumbled and grumbled while you stood and relocated to the workspace of the studio, where a computer and books had been thrown about. The computer woke, nearly blinding your eyes. What time is it anyways, you wondered. The sun had set some time ago, you knew just as much when you could barely see your work and were forced to lose focus to turn on a light. That distraction had really set you back.

A quick glance to your watch informed you that no, the sun didn’t just set a while back- it set well over six hours ago. The time had been creeping to two in the morning already, no wonder your eyes were straining so hard. When your computer unlocked and you opened your music app to play some background audio, you grabbed the leatherbound book that was inspiring your work.

Nobody knew who the author was, only that they released two-hundred and fifty black leather bound books with gold foiling titled “Mine” every couple of years. You were close friends to some editors down in San Diego, the same publisher that worked with this anonymous author and they were always kind enough to secure you a copy.

They wrote like it was the last thing they’d ever write, as if pain circulated through their veins. They wrote of being lost, being hurt, feeling such intense anger with no human outlet, and of being ignored and tossed away.

Sometimes they wrote like they’d be dead before the poem had ended.

Much of this resonated with you. Ever since you moved to Los Angeles, this magnificent city of wanna-be actors and musicians, seeing lights that inspired yet mocked the pedestrians down below, you’ve felt like you were dead yourself. When you moved here, all you ever wanted to be was a painter. It didn’t always matter what you painted, you loved a variety of styles and eras, as long as commissions paid the bills and your personal pieces sold at galleries, you were satisfied.

But sometimes being satisfied wasn’t enough.

You took the black book and opened to the poem you had been hyper-fixating on for the last couple of months since it was released. You interpreted it in as many ways as you could style your hair on any given day. This one spoke to you the moment you read it, it broke your heart, mended it, then threw it away all at once. To you, this particular poem breathed new life into your soul.

You read each line over and over, admired how this poet seemed to write effortlessly, as if it’s just how they speak. Gosh, what you would do just to meet and have a conversation, to understand the mysterious writer’s genius.

And so you kept painting, never seeing each unfinished canvas as a failure but rather an entirely different interpretation. You couldn’t let this get you down, you just had to keep working- keep picking up the paint and let loose.

As the days blended together, your manager, Poe Dameron waltzed into your workspace without a care in the world. You turned down the music that you had playing in the background while you worked.

He picked up one of your unfinished works, “I got you a gallery space, set for two weeks from now in Pasadena. Sponsored by the Norton Simon Museum.” The way these words rolled off his tongue was so nonchalant, you didn’t believe it.

You let out a choke, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you got a space, now give me something to tide them over with- oh, that looks nice can I take that one,” he grabs another unfinished painting. “Anyways, don’t worry about promoting it, they are all over it. They’re just calling it Artist Spotlight but they’re going to need a theme name.”

Your eyes drifted over your amazing manager, he worked just as tirelessly as you did with each and every one of his clients. It was no wonder he was married already, with a charming smile like his and the luscious hair to match made him a total darling.

“Let’s call it, Paint Me Red .”

“You got it, girl,” he walked over to you and gave a chaste kiss on your cheek and left with his silent goodbye. Although you were nothing more than his client, you loved him very much. He always gave you a rough time when you needed it but was always a person you could rely on to tell you the truth when you needed it.

To sum it up, Poe Damereon was a guy you paid to berate you like a protective older brother and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Those two weeks passed and you worked even more tirelessly. The artist in you was seldom satisfied by your creations but your manager reaffirmed even your “trash” paintings were more beautiful than the best modern oil paintings for which you found yourself taking the most comfort in.

It was difficult to remove yourself from this mindset but as your gallery expanded with each rise of a new day, you became prouder of not just what you painted but of yourself. This was going to be a showcase that you were to be proud of.

Your night came which brought nerves like no other. Los Angeles had a rough art community to grow and develop but this was the place for you. You arrived at the gallery, dressed as professional yet as fierce as you could in a shimmery silver gown that bared your shoulders in a skinny strap that had a plunging neckline. You wanted to wow your crowd with your paintings and yourself.

You poured your heart out over this collection- you wanted, more than ever, to receive a warm reception and maybe a little bit of praise in the meantime. It didn’t make you vain, it made you human.

The director of the art studio welcomed you with a glass of champagne and let you wander the space before it opened to the public. Your heart swelled with emotion as you glanced over all these white walls that supported your artwork. Abstracts, sharp lines on some, a couple that resembled portraits of a human-like void. Anything and everything of what could be taken of that single poem.

Over some small amount of time, guests began to fill the building, allowing others to finally view what you’ve worked tirelessly over these past however many weeks, well, months really. As the newness of this exhibit of yours wore off, you began to get antsy, started to bite on the inside of your cheek.

You felt eyes on you as you hid your face behind the fourth glass of champagne you managed to snag. The more nervous you felt, the hotter the room got. This is beginning to be way too much- oh stars, you can’t breathe- it feels like you’re dying, like you’re-

“Are these yours,” a dark voice asked behind you. You stood up straight and turned slowly, trying to get your mind away from whatever was happening to you.

“I- yes they are.”

This tall, handsome stranger looked at the painting that was next to you, something that mildly resembled Everts’ Studies in Desperation series. It was one of your darker interpretations, something filled with a little more hatred and angst than the rest.

“They’re very nice, what inspired you?”

Your mouth opened agaped and quickly shut, you didn’t want to look like a fish now. You opened up your bag and pulled out your trusty copy of Mine and showed the stranger. “This poet, their selections have always called to me but, Red, Mine would repeat in my head nearly nonstop until I picked up a brush and painted what it spoke to me.”

He grabbed the book from your hand and flipped through it slowly, sometimes reading the short notes you had written on some of the pages, like “I love this one,” or even, “I’ve felt like this before”. As he took his time going through the leatherbound poetry, you took this moment just to admire just how handsome the man before you is.

He stood tall and confident, long black hair that looked soft enough that you had to refrain from running your fingers through; his face was littered with constellation-like moles that truly gave his presence some warmth and beauty despite the deep angry red scar that cut threw them like a blade. The large crooked nose stood just as prominent as his ears but, by the stars, he made it work. All of these features suit his being so well, almost as if he was your own personal Adonis, you wanted to paint his beauty.

His long lashes finally looked up from your bookmarked page of Red, Mine where you had written very simply, “This one,” and a heart. He closed the black book with a small thud, almost entirely muted by the sounds of your audience mingling.

“You really liked that one,” he questioned as he handed the object back to you. You took it from him and gestured around you.

“All of these paintings represent how this one poem has made me feel. Loss, hope, anger, hurt, fear,” you paused while you looked at the man before you and held his gaze, “But most of all, this particular poem has made me feel accepted. Like I’m not alone. Almost like, it’s my turn to be strong, it’s silly-”

“No, by all means, no, it’s not silly,” he interrupted you. His eyes had grown wide and you realized he put his hand out to almost hold your shoulder but quickly retreated to put his hands in the pockets of his suit’s pants. His jaw flexed for a brief moment and he looked to his feet. “I have their collection too. It’s a good read from time to time.”

Your lips turned up in a small grin, “Yeah, they are. I’m glad to have met another Anonymous Poet enthusiast.”

He looked up at you and cleared his throat, “What’s something you’d say to them if you ever could?”

“Hmm,” you wondered, “That I love their work, I’d love to sit down and talk, wonder what they think- what their thought process is. Maybe thank them for helping me cope and tell them that I don’t think I’d be alive without their words. Heck, I’d even work up the courage and ask if they like my interpretations of their poetry. I’m not sure, what would you say?”

He looked at you almost like you had shot him, “I think I’d simply say that I’m sorry they went through whatever they did to get them where they are. That they’re stronger now.”

Before you had a chance to respond, Poe came and placed his hand on your arm and called your name, “Hey, girl. Time for your speech and then people can start buying your art.”

You looked back at your strange new friend and he gave you a small encouraging smile, “It was nice meeting you.”

As Poe began to drag you away you piped up, “I didn’t catch your name!”

“Kylo- Kylo Ren.”

You gave him a small wave before you turned your back on him and approached the stage. Poe did the honors of introducing you, calling your vision “illuminating and awe-inspiring”. Finally it was your turn.

You approached the glass podium with only a mild case of anxiety shaking within your bones. The lights, however warmly hued they were to temper against the constant rotation of art still seemed like a spotlight on you. You cleared your throat.

“Hi- hello,” you introduced yourself, mentioning you're the creator, “Thank you all very much for being here and supporting me tonight. This entire exhibit is decorated with a wide variety of my illustrations in both dedication of and inspired by the Anonymous Poet, creator of Red, Mine the poem. It is only fitting that I should read the very words that seemed to have possessed my mind these past couple months, you think?”

The audience gave a chuckle. You looked up and around, feeling hints of anxiety nipping at the silhouette of your being. Across the room, leaning against the small bar table, you spotted Mr. Ren and when he noticed you staring, he raised his glass of champagne. Urging you to continue.

It was almost as if his steady gaze and warm features guided your confidence to hold steadfast and ready, your courage multiplied and tingles at the tips of your body, sparking new found strength.This small gesture kept those dark hounds at bay in your mind.

You cleared your throat and began, “Red, Mine

This is how the story goes

It has never changed, never been altered

It didn’t make much difference

The twin suns are rising in the west now,

The world changed from when you knew me last

This is how the story goes

This life of mine would be snuffed in green lights

Then you were there to guide me

Truth is, you could never be thanked

I would never be forgiven

This is how the story goes

I snuffed the little lights that had mocked me

Tore down the buildings that confined me

I ran

I never stopped running

This is how the story goes

I found solace in red

This green and blue would have ended my life

The both of you tried and failed

I will live on bathed in black and red

This is how the story goes

This fire red consumed me

I consumed red

Now it’s your turn to run.”

At the beat of the last syllable, you could hear a warm applause, a gracious signal of congratulations. Your smile kissed the corners of your lips and your heart swelled with warmth. This was exactly where you were meant to be in life and you couldn’t be prouder of yourself.

Your speech wrapped up with the ceremonious thank yous and appreciation to all who came as well as the Norton Simon Museum for sponsoring the showcase. Not to mention the big fat check you got on their behalf.

Poe lent you a hand as you descended the platform, “Alright, now go mingle and sell some art!”

You gave him a warm kiss on the cheek and another wave of thanks. One hand took yet another glass of champagne as the other held your clutch tightly. Your heels clinked against the tile of the gallery as you floated in and out of conversation, selling your artwork and trying to network and make new professional relationships.

It was rather obvious that leaving early would be considered rude but your feet hurt as much as your eyes. All you wanted was your warm bed and soft music to lull you to sleep. You spotted Poe across the room speaking with a pale gentleman, donned in a navy blue suit and matching tie, his orange hair was just as slicked back as his authoritative presence. You watched as they shook hands and the stranger departed, leaving the building entirely without a glance back.

Poe caught your eye and his jaw dropped, just nearly bolting into a fast pace walk, attempting to keep whatever semblance of professionalism as he could without knocking any of the patrons over as he bee-lined straight to you.

“You will not believe what I’m about to tell you,” his brown eyes lit up.

You gave him a hesitant look, clearly it was good news but usually Poe Dameron was in a good mood usually meant him ending in some kind of trouble. “Then don’t tell me?”

Your manager gave you a deadpanned look and pulled out his clipboard, “Every single piece was sold before you even walked off the stage.” He handed you the order sheet and sure enough, each and every painting was bought by the same person, leaving only AP as the buyer’s name.

“AP?”

“Initials for a little someone called the Anonymous Poet,” with those words you instantly felt faint. There was no way, no goddamn way.

“Was that him? Poe, was that really him,” your voice faltered. Your hand rose to cover your open mouth, eyes wide.

He did nothing but shrug and give you a sly smile, admiring your shocked expression, “The man I talked to was not, rest assured, but clearly your muse admires you and your work.” Poe gave you a small squeeze on your shoulder, feeling your oncoming emotional whirlwind. “If you faint on me now, you won’t hear the best part,” he teased.

“What is it, tell me,” you rushed the words out as fast as you could, the heat licking at your skin as your anticipation mixed with anxiety.

Poe reached into his pocket and retrieved a sleek black business card and flashed it at you. “Expect an email within the next few days, your muse wants to talk with you.”

You felt Poe’s warm hands grasping your shoulders as you fell. After all, Poe did say to wait until after he gave you good news.

#asher's writing #paint me red #kylo ren #kylo x y/n #kylo x reader #kylo x you #kylo ren reader insert #star wars sequel trilogy #star wars smut #star wars reader insert #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren/you

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blake-belladonna-defence-force · 5 years ago

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Okay I know I ask for alot of these but you're writing is so good that I cant help myself. So I hope you dont mind... Anyways I thought this would be a hit humorous, Blake is talking to Ilia (this can be whenever in canon or in one of your aus) and catching her up on what's happened in her life, and she (may or may not have) gone on a bit of rant about Yang and Ilia's just like "dayummmmm girl, calm down with that crush of yours"

Fun!

Also, I don’t mind getting multiple requests from the same people 😊 so you’re good, mate.

Set before they leave the island to go to Haven. Blake and Ilia basically climb a tree and hang out... you know... as girls do.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Blake smiled softly at her old friend as she leaned against the tree trunk, reclining against the high branch that she and Ilia had decided to sit upon.

“Been a while since we could just hang out. Just the two of us.” Ilia said quietly, shyly.

With her parents planning and training the civilians of Kuo Kuana, Blake, Ilia and Sun had been asked to assist with getting the new Faunus Militia up to scratch before they had to leave for Haven. It was nice to be able to spend some time talking with her old friend for a change.

“It is.” Blake agreed quietly, looking up at the night sky, one knee drawn up with her arm draped over while the other dangled off the branch. The stars were beautiful.

She felt her chest twist painfully as she gazed at them, reminded of the countless star gazing sessions that she and Yang had had, giggling quietly on the rooftop of the dorms and making up names for the constellations that they found.

“Are you okay?” Ilia asked softly, fiddling with her hands nervously. “You seen a little… down.”

“Oh.” Blake sniffed, wiping at her eyes and smiling shakily at Ilia. “I’m sorry. I just… I was remembering somebody.”

“From your team?”

“My partner, to be exact.” Blake rested her head against the tree and sighed sadly, pain and guilt tearing into her heart. “Yang Xiao Long.”

“You sound… very fond of her.” Ilia said carefully, treading gently as she leaned on the branch and gave Blake her full attention. “Do you want to talk about her?”

“Where would I even begin?” Blake laughed softly, meeting Ilia’s eyes with a bitter smile. “She’s…Gods. I can’t even describe her, Ilia. She’s just… incredible. She’s beautiful and charming, vibrant. Just being near her always made me feel lighter, happier, safer. I didn’t even know that I could still feel happy or safe until I met her.”

“Wow.” Ilia said softly, smiling kindly at Blake. “Sounds special.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Blake murmured, ears flicking anxiously. “She’s the strongest person that I’ve ever met; mentally and physically. She’s kind and compassionate. She’s so smart, Ilia. Like, her mind is just incredible.” Blake felt her throat close up. “She was always so… genuine. She was always there for me. She was… the best choice that I’ve ever made.”

Blake looked up when Ilia didn’t say anything and saw her shaking her head and giving her a small, fond and almost sad smile.

“Blake… you love her.” Ilia said, voice achingly soft as she looked at Blake. Blake looked away shamefully.

“And look where it got her.”

“If she’s half of what you said she is, I can tell you right now that she wouldn’t blame you.” Ilia said gently, smiling. “After everything with Haven is over, you should track her down. I’ll help you.”

“But-“

“Blake.” Ilia interrupted her firmly. “You deserve a chance at happiness. If that lies with her, then you need to take it. You didn’t even talk about Adam like that.” Ilia cocked her head with a small smile. “I think that’s a sign of how good for you she is. To have become so important to you…”

“I- yeah.” Blake shuddered, blinking back tears before looking up at the stars. “She’s more than he could ever be. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted. That I’ve ever needed.”

“Then fight for her.” Ilia said emphatically, grabbing Blake’s hand and squeezing firmly. “Go to her. Talk to her. Don’t let this moment slip you by.”

“I- I don’t know if I’m brave enough.” Blake whispered, curling in on herself.

“Of course you are.” Ilia scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You left the White Fang for a better life. You fought back against your enemies every chance that you got and reconciled with your family, you gave me another chance and now, you’re practically leading the charge to take back the White Fang and save Haven.” Ilia grinned at her proudly. “If you can do all of that, then you can get the girl. A chief needs her queen, after all.”

“Ilia!” Blake laughed, sniffling and blushing furiously. This was all mildly embarrassing. “You’re ridiculous! There’s no way of knowing if she feels the same way about me or if she even wants anything to do with me.”

“Only one way to find out, Blake.”

“You’re right.” Blake sighed, before glancing at her old friend. “So… how do I find her?”

After Haven, Blake would go to Yang. Apologise and try to earn her forgiveness if she allowed her to. She now knew what life without her partner was like and it was a much darker time. She had to try. She had to.

Yang deserved to have somebody fight for her. And by the Gods, Blake was going to fight.

#yang xiao long #blake belladonna #bumbleby #rwby #fanfic

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sirrriusblack · 5 years ago

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Romantic prompt. Almost strangers,sit together in class one day because one of them forgot the texbook(everyone thinks this person loves to study,but they just wanted to get away from the people they usually sat with for a bit). Weekend. The one who borrowed the book last time is now cold and borrows the other one's jacket. Goes on for about a week. Everyone ships them. (They get together). Happy ending. The part in bracket are just suggestions. Ps- please dont do snily

Snily? As if I would. (I mean sorry to anyone who ships them but...)

Anyway thanks for the prompt @just-a-teen-fangirl I think you meant it in an AU but I’m sorry if I got that wrong. Also I was going to tryyyy not to do wolfstar but I mean, I have impulse control issues ummm. Maybe one day :)

tw for vague mentions of child abuse

* * *

Sirius heard someone clear their throat behind him. He turned around in the chair he’d been lounging in to find a tall, curly-haired boy with a scar running across his face standing behind him, looking more than a little awkward. He was wearing a black hoodie and blue jeans and was holding an exercise book and a graffitied pencil case in his right hand.

“Hey, uh, sorry to bother but I forgot my textbook and I was wondering if I could use yours maybe?” the boy asked, fiddling with the zip on his pencil case. Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Like, use it with you, maybe. Share it, you know.” He coughed, clearly not meaning to have rambled so much. Sirius bit his lip to keep from smirking. He recognised the boy; he’d spent more of the class admiring those brown curls from across the room than actually doing work, but they’d never really interacted. Sirius didn’t interact much with anyone though. At least not beyond the fake grins and small talk he made at parties and the like. Not beyond talking to James. But James wasn’t in his science class, so Sirius had taken to sitting alone, finding it more appealing than the other option; making new friends, having to explain his backstory, the scars, why he lived with James, what happened to his brother. And no one really bothered to approach him either. Until today. The boy’s name started with ‘R’, but that was all Sirius could remember. He had a group of friends he hung out with, Marlene, Lily and another short, blond kid. He only knew the girls’ names because James never shut up about how gorgeous Lily was, and nudged him and pointed to her every time she passed. And everyone knew Marlene. Everyone wanted to hang out with her. Or snog her. Or both. Sirius glanced over to the boy’s group of friends and back to him again.

“None of your friends have a textbook?” he asked, turning back to face the front of the room where the teacher was still writing the lesson plan on the board. Sirius sighed.

“Uh, no?” he said and Sirius immediately knew he was lying. He pointedly looked to Lily, who was leaning over the textbook. Sirius hummed. “Okay, fine, I didn’t ask any of them to borrow theirs because they’d think something was wrong if I left my textbook at home, and that’s cool or whatever but I really can’t be bothered with that shit and I—” Sirius cut him off, scared of how much he liked the boy’s rambling.

“Okay, you can sit down.” Sirius said, turning back to the front again. The boy cleared his throat and sat down in the seat next to him, opening his books and pulling a pen from his pencil case. He quickly glanced at Lily, Marlene and the other kid before he flashed a tight smile at Sirius. Sirius smirked back. He wasn’t sure whether to cringe or laugh at this situation.

“I’m Remus, by the way, in case you didn’t know,” he said, running his hands through his curls. Sirius didn’t want to to shiver, didn’t want to be so affected how bloody gorgeous this guy was. Remus. The name fit.

“Sirius,” he said in return, reaching his hand out. Remus shook it hesitantly and Sirius cursed himself for letting his childhood etiquette habits show to a very not fancy high school kid. He shook his head. Remus was looking at Sirius with a strange expression on his face. He didn’t like it. Or maybe he did. “How’d you get the scar?” he asked, knowing exactly how rude it was to ask. Knowing exactly how it would take Remus by surprise, probably push him away, make him regret sitting with Sirius. But Remus didn’t seem bothered. He laughed.

“No one’s ever asked that straight to my face.”

“Why?” Sirius could see something in his eyes, a gleam of amusement, of something more maybe.

“Probably ‘cause it’s considered kind of rude,” he explained, smiling. Sirius shrugged.

“Good morning everybody, today we’ll be continuing on from last lesson with the questions in the textbook. You may read the passage again, and look back on your notes from the experiment as well.” Sirius huffed in annoyance.

“Why does she even write what we’re doing on the board if she tells us anyway?” Sirius muttered, looking over to Remus, who wasn’t paying any attention but was instead drawing something on a blank page in his book. It was a night sky, and even though he only had one black pen, it was amazing. Sirius looked closer at what part Remus was working on; a constellation. His constellation. Canis Major. Sirius huffed a laugh. He wasn’t paying attention at all. “I guess that’s why.” Remus’ head snapped to Sirius.

“What?” he asked, oblivious. Sirius smirked.

“Nothing,” he said, turning away from the other boy to tie up his hair. He threaded his pencil through it for extra support and swore he saw Remus shudder. Shit.

“So, how’d you get the scar?” Sirius asked again, wanting an excuse to get away from the class more than anything. It was Friday, and Sirius wanted nothing more than to get to the Potter’s and lie in bed for all eternity. Remus just went back to his drawing and smirked.

“How’d you get that bruise on your eye?” he asked in return. Sirius laughed bitterly, thinking of last month, how his mother had smacked him across the face with her wine bottle. The bruise was just barely gone now, a faint brown and purple.

“Fair enough,” Sirius said, dropping the subject and leaned closer to look over the Remus’ shoulder. “You like drawing?” he motioned to the book, the constellation and the stars glittering across the page.

“Uh, yeah. Since I was little.” Remus looked up at him, and Sirius couldn’t help but notice how close they were sitting. He looked into Remus’ amber eyes, at all the varying colours. Sirius sucked in his breath as he looked down, and his gaze fell onto Remus’ lips, soft and—

“Boys! A little less staring and a little more working, please.” Sirius felt his cheeks heat as he leaned back and mumbled a quick ‘sorry, miss’ under his breath. Remus cleared his throat and ran his hands through his hair, no doubt cringing at all the heads turned their way. A quick glance between Remus and his friends’ shit eating grins had Remus’ cheeks reddening more. Suffice to say, the boys spent the rest of the lesson in near silence, sharing the textbook between them and ignoring every brush of their hands.

When their class ended, Remus mumbled a quick ‘thanks’ before he packed up his stuff and walked back over to his friends. Sirius’ stomach was tied in a knot, and he hated it. He hated that this random guy, with his random scar and his random hotness was having this effect on him. Yet when he saw Remus begin to walk out the door, Sirius couldn’t help but run after him.

“Hey, uh, Remus!” he called out, causing the curly haired boy to turn, confused. Something in Remus’ eyes shifted as he beheld Sirius. He muttered something to Lily and walked over, his hands fiddling with the zip on his pencil case again. Students streamed around them; they were boulders in a river, disrupting the water’s path.

“Hey,” Remus said, unsure. Sirius felt sick, nervous even, as he struggled to find something to say.

“Uh, sorry, stupid question, are you going to Dorcas’ party on the weekend?” Sirius asked. It was all he could think of. Remus’ eyes widened.

“I’m not sure, maybe...” he trailed off.

“Oh, okay... Well I hope you do.” Sirius smiled quite awkwardly and walked away, cursing himself, before Remus could reply.

* * *

“Shit,” Sirius groaned smoothing his hair over with the palm of his hand. James swung into the room, his hand gripping the doorway.

“What is it now?” James asked. He’d been waiting for Sirius for twenty minutes.

“I can’t get my hair to work. I’m not going, oh my gosh, I look like a fucking idiot.” Sirius was pacing the bathroom, much to James’ amusement when Mr Potter walked in, a jar in his hand.

“Language, kiddo, and here.” He threw the jar and walked out while Sirius was still scrambling to catch it. James cracked up laughing.

Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion: Two drops tames even the most bothersome barnet.

Sirius glared at James, and opened the jar, pouring three drops into his hand. “Thanks, Mr Potter!” he called out, finally satisfied with his hair. James turned to Sirius while they walked toward the front door.

“Why do you even care? You never usually do.” Sirius thought about those brown curls, that smug smirk and the intensity in those burning amber eyes. He thought about the constellation Remus’d been drawing in his book and the way he’d locked eyes with Sirius, like they could tell each other anything, like they could burn forever, together and in love. Sirius shook his head. He barely knew the guy. Shit.

“I don’t know, James.” Sirius’ voice was quiet and soft and he hated it. He cleared his throat and smirked. “Guess I just felt like dressing up, aye?” Neither James nor Sirius believed that.

* * *

Sirius hated to admit that he was looking for Remus before he even got to the party. Him and James were walking up the street and Sirius was watching every person surrounding the house or the street for that head of brown curls. He didn’t find him. James’ house was around the corner, less than five minutes, so the walk here had been quick and the boys hadn’t talked all that much. But James had noticed that something was happening with Sirius.

“What’s happening, mate?” he asked, hazel eyes piercing into Sirius.

“What?” Sirius asked, craning his neck higher to look at someone that could be Remus. It wasn’t. When Sirius turned back to James, his eyes were wide.

“Who are you looking for, and why are you dressed up? You hate parties.” It was mostly true, Sirius didn’t like parties all that much. When he walked into a room and the smell of alcohol hit him sometimes he’d be back in that place, back with his mother, her breath reeking of wine as she screamed at him, screamed slurs and threw glasses and all Sirius could do was sit there and take it, or his brother would have to instead. So no, he didn’t really like parties very much. But he didn’t hate parties. He told James as much but only got dissatisfied look in return. “Who are you looking for?” he asked again, following Sirius’ line of sight.

“Uh, no one, some guy from science, I need to ask him a question.” James cracked a smile.

“The guy from science with the golden brown curls and the glittering scars and the eyes of amber glass?” James asked, amusement dancing in his eyes. Sirius shoved him and opened his mouth to speak, to deny it, as he heard a voice behind him.

“James, I had no idea you felt that way about Remus.” Sirius lost his shit. He spun around, quicker than he thought he’d ever moved. Lily was standing behind them, an amused smirk dancing on her face as she poked fun at James. Remus was standing behind her, his face flushed pink despite the grin creeping onto his face. They all stood there in silence for a moment. Remus was wearing a burgundy t-shirt and a pair of black jeans, and was holding a glass bottle of some sort of alcohol. Sirius looked at Remus, at the utter lack of effort he’d put into his outfit and he almost laughed. Of course he hadn’t put in any effort, there was no way Remus actually liked him, no way he’d spent ages before the party choosing what he’d wear, fixing his hair. Shit. What was Sirius thinking? A song came on over the massive collection of speakers and James grinned.

“Care for a dance, Lilypad?” he asked reaching his hand out. Lily looked between James and Remus, conflicted, before she smirked and took James’ hand.

“Of course, James.” She seemed to direct the answer toward Remus, and the boy’s eyes widened. Even James was surprised. Both Sirius and Remus watched, shocked, as Lily followed James and started walking. Never in a million years had Sirius ever imagined that happening. He snuck a glance at Remus who, in return, was watching him. Both of the boys blushed.

“Golden brown curls?”

“Look, James was exaggerating.”

They both spoke at the same time which only led to more blushing and smiles. Remus crossed his arms. “So you were still talking about me?”

“What?”

“You said James was exaggerating. Which means you’ve still talked about me, right?” he asked, looking somewhere between amused and hopeful. Sirius didn’t see the hopeful. He opened his mouth, ready to deny it, but, he’d backed himself into a corner.

“I—I mean... yes?” Sirius admitted, his insides twisting in every direction. Remus nodded.

“Follow me,” he said, starting to walk towards the house. On the porch, there was a bench swing and surprisingly, it was empty. Remus sat and looked up at Sirius, waiting for him to take the space next to him. They sat for a moment, watching the chaos on the front lawn and listening to the music around them. Sirius looked over to Remus and swore.

“You’re shivering like crazy,” he said. Remus tucked his knees to his chest, bottle in his hand.

“Yeah I, uh, forgot my jacket.”

“First the book, now your jacket,” he said, taking his leather jacket off. “You’ve got the memory of gold fish,” he finished, handing the jacket over. Remus raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to refuse but Sirius gave him a stern look, and he took it, chuckling.

“Thanks.” Sirius nodded in return. He’d admit—to himself at least—that James hadn’t been exaggerating. Sirius could get very... talkative when he was tired and the previous night he had been very tired. So, yes, he had said all of that. But Remus didn’t need to know. On cue, Remus took a swig of his drink and opened his mouth.

“I like you,” He blurted out. Sirius nearly shat himself.

“What?” he spat. Remus looked mortified and he ran his hands trough his tangled hair. If Sirius wasn’t stressing so much, he probably would have admired it.

“Um, uh, I’m sorry... I shouldn’t have said that. Never mind. I’m going to go get another drink.” He stood up, ready to make his way to the kitchen, ready to bolt straight out of there.

“Wait!” Sirius stood up and grabbed ahold of Remus’ arm, unintentionally triggering something in Remus. His soft, amber eyes turned hard, glazed.

“No, don’t!” He shouted, snatching his arm away and backing up slowly. Sirius stumbles back a bit too.

“Shit, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to...” He didn’t finish, didn’t know quite how to, But Remus’ eyes slowly softened again and his shoulders slackened.

“No, it’s not—I just” Sirius cut him off, glancing at the scar on Remus’ face, thinking of his own scars, littering his body.

“You don’t have to explain. Just... don’t go, please?” He hated the idea of this, hated how much he wanted Remus to stay, hated how much he liked this boy, hated how he barely knew him. Remus nodded and sat back down on the swinging bench. “Did you mean it—what you said?” Sirius didn’t need to explain. Remus hesitated, but still nodded. He didn’t look at Sirius, didn’t want to see his reaction, probably, in case it wasn’t what he wanted. Sirius reaches out again, slower this time, and placed his hand next to Remus’s— not quite touching.

“I like you too,” he whispered, ensuring that only they could hear, ensuring that this moment was theirs, and theirs only. Sirius hated the feeling of vulnerability, of uncertainty, but when he saw Remus grin, a mess of teeth and lips and absolute divine gorgeousness, his mind was clear of every doubt. Remus moves his pinkie on top of Sirius’, and both boys blushed, and grinned.

“Can I kiss you?” Remus whispered, still keeping the moment between them. It was like the whole party, the whole world, disappeared at that question. Sirius nodded. Remus moved closer and closed his eyes, still smiling. Fuck. Sirius closed the gap between them and fisted his hands into Remus’ jacket. When they broke apart, Remus huffed a laugh. “You want your jacket back?” Sirius had forgotten that it was his, and at this particular moment, he didn’t want it.

“Nah. You look hot in leather.” Remus’ next laugh was muffled behind the other boy’s lips, but Sirius could have sworn he’d never heard a better sound.

#wolfstar #wolfstar au #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #thank you hglb!#:)#my writing #thanks for the prompt :)#tw: child abuse

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